Barefoot in Babylon

by Bob Spitz

  While the women distributed the food, Muskrat, an aptly nicknamed hippie from New York, read the front page of the Sunday New York Times to the “hippest brunch set this side of Fifth Avenue.” The feature news item was about how 300,000 people at a “folk-rock fair camp out in a sea of mud.”

  Not everything at the festival, however, was taking place with such storybook results. The rest rooms were disgusting, and hygienic conditions continued to deteriorate despite the regular application of chemicals and disinfectants. A good many of the kids avoided using the toilets altogether and relieved themselves in the corn field. Much to the consternation of local residents, their back yards served as clandestine comfort stations, and one hippie went so far as to tell an irate homeowner that he had fertilized the man’s flower beds. “You oughta be lucky I don’t send you a bill for it, asshole,” the boy yelled over his shoulder as he was chased from the yard. Gas stations and restaurants were overrun with mud-drenched teenagers who waited in line to use their facilities, and many of them opted to shut down for the day and to take a financial loss.

  On the whole, however, area merchants found the patrons of the Aquarian Exposition the “most polite, most behaved . . . and the best-mannered customers” they had ever seen. A Monticello restaurant owner confessed to a reporter, “I sure have changed my opinion of these kids since I have had the opportunity to come into contact with them . . . they are so polite.” And a housewife from Liberty covered the kids’ activities on a turf she claimed to know better than most: the local supermarkets. “They are so quiet—not like the vacationers—and don’t push their grocery carts into your back to get you out of their way.” She recounted an incident on Friday afternoon when one of the shoppers in her aisle dropped a bag of groceries. Within ten seconds, the shopper was surrounded by hippies who offered to help the woman pick up her belongings. “This response would never come from the ordinary shopper I have seen.”

  Medical and drug-related problems continued to mount. Dr. Abruzzi estimated that his clinics had treated as many as 3,000 people since the festival got underway. At his request, the Sullivan County sheriff had put out an emergency alert Saturday night for additional medical assistance. “Immediate precedence” messages were relayed to Aerospace Command Headquarters in Colorado Springs and to the Pentagon for authorization of U.S. Army Air Force task force pilots to fly rescue missions over the festival site. Two Army UH-1D (Huey) helicopters, the type used for evacuating the wounded in Vietnam, were dispatched from Stewart Air Force Base in Newburgh to airlift emergency food supplies and to transport the injured to an army emergency medical aid facility that had been set up in Monticello.

  Sunday morning at 6:35, an eighteen-year-old Marine home on leave, identified as Richard Beiler of Holbrook, Long Island, died of an apparent overdose of heroin, making him the second festival casualty. Three other men, all under the age of twenty-five, were listed in critical condition at a hospital in Middletown.

  One of them, a student from New Jersey, was found unconscious in the middle of the night and carried to Bill Abruzzi’s trailer where he was diagnosed as a victim of an overdose and “close to death.” Abruzzi ordered the boy to be immediately flown to Horton Hospital in Middletown; closer medical centers, he said, lacked the intensive care facilities such as an artificial kidney machine necessary to save his patient’s life.

  At 2:30 A.M., a helicopter, which had been requested by Abruzzi to evacuate the boy to Horton, attempted to land behind the stage but missed the pad the first time around. On the copter’s following attempt, it set down next to the hospital tent and the student was placed on board, ahead of a patient with a ruptured appendix and another with a broken ankle.

  “Just forget about everyone else, and get this kid to Horton,” Abruzzi told the pilot. “He doesn’t have much time.”

  “I can’t,” the pilot shouted above the whirring of the propeller. “Not enough fuel. I can take him as far as Monticello.”

  “Monticello won’t do. This man is near death and in fourth degree cardiac failure. How soon can you get another helicopter here?”

  The pilot emphatically shook his head. “Forget it. The entire fleet’s short on fuel and there’s no one at the airport to pump gas.”

  Tri-Co’s radio operators finally located another helicopter idling at Grossinger’s. It landed at Yasgur’s farm within ten minutes of the call, and the boy was rushed in the nick of time to Horton, where a team of specialists determined that he was suffering from alcohol poisoning. By noon, after having undergone a stomach pump and dialysis treatment, the patient was resting in satisfactory condition and he was expected to recover in time to be sent home on Tuesday.

  Another crisis that loomed on the horizon was food. No one knew how long the current supply would last or if indeed it would keep in the stifling heat. In addition, the state police were predicting that it might be necessary for them to detain a large portion of the audience at the site for several days in order to clear the roadblock. That would certainly create a food shortage, especially since trucks couldn’t get into the area to replenish their stock.

  Mel Lawrence and four assistants got on the phones early Sunday morning and called the Catskills resort hotels to appeal for food. The first helicopter carrying 1,300 pounds of food hovered over the site at 11:00 A.M. and requested landing directions. In order to keep the heliport clear for medical emergencies, Lawrence instructed it to set down on the grass to the right of his trailer. Utilizing the “buddy system,” he organized a circle of teen-agers and had them join hands so that the helicopter had a target in which to land. Fifteen volunteers unloaded the plane, separating its cargo into perishables (which were immediately consumed), and items that could be saved for future use. Lawrence looked at some of the packages that came off the helicopter with curiosity. Four packets of Kool-Aid, two jars of Mother’s gefilte fish, eleven boxes of lime Jell-O, a sixteen-ounce can of julienned carrots—he couldn’t understand how anyone in his right mind could expect them to provide nourishment for half a million people in a muddy pasture with supplies like those. “Get a load of this,” a girl said, holding up a carton of one-pound boxes of Mueller’s spaghetti.

  The tomato sauce came on the next helicopter.

  The emergency menu became more practical, however, and, by midafternoon, the outlook was much brighter. The Women’s Auxiliary of the Monticello Jewish Community Center prepared over 30,000 meat, cheese, and peanut butter-and-jelly sandwiches, which, in the spirit of the event, were handed out by twelve sisters from the Convent of St. Thomas. Dr. Rudiger of the Rutherford School had spent most of the morning rounding up donations from the big hotels. After borrowing a truck from the Concord, he followed a path cleared for him by the state police and drove 1,000 dozen eggs, 300 pounds of fried chicken, and 500 pounds of fresh vegetables into the campgrounds where it was whisked off to the Free Kitchen. Max donated cheese, milk, and butter, another neighbor contributed several hundred loaves of bread, Food For Love gave away thousands of uncooked hot dogs, and before long, anybody who wanted something to eat was able to tap one of the many food sources around the grounds.

  • • •

  Joe Cocker opened Sunday’s show around 2:00. For most people at the festival, it was the first opportunity they had to see Cocker perform, and his epileptic contortions provided an entertaining diversion to the frantic, husky vocals that kept the crowd on its feet throughout most of the show.

  Lawrence watched Cocker’s opening number from below the side of the stage. Mel was startled by the singer’s striking similarity to Ray Charles’s style of blues, breathlessly squeezing out the last few syllables of a refrain while sliding right into the next line with a surging, yet short-winded, growl. But, while Cocker’s vocal inflections paid tribute to his American mentor, the visual show was an invention all his own. Cocker arched his shoulders and pumped the microphone with his chest in time to the bass runs. Occasionally he stumbled backward,
dipped, then sprang toward the mike to deliver the next swell of sound with an almost animalistic intensity. Cocker’s own inimitable trademark, however, was the way he accompanied his backup group, the Grease Band, on an imaginary guitar. He would spasmodically slap at its invisible strings while twisting his pretzel-like body into rhythmically responsive contortions. Each song seemed to be a totally enervating experience for the tortured Cocker, yet he bounced back with the resilience of a prizefighter conditioned to go the distance.

  Ten feet away, Artie Kornfeld humped a motorcycle in time to “Delta Lady,” and wept uncontrollably into the bend of his arm. “This is just great! Outta sight! Oh man, look what we’ve done, look what we’ve done. This is forever,” Artie wailed. He collapsed over the handlebars, sobbing, as Mel cut around him and headed up the hill toward his trailer.

  The director of operations hadn’t slept since Friday. “I feel the way Cocker looks,” he thought, and decided to sneak off somewhere for an hour of uninterrupted peace and quiet. On his way past concessions, Lawrence picked up a young staff member with whom he had been intimate and invited her to accompany him to a room at the Howard Johnson’s Motel in Newburgh, which he had reserved in case such an opportunity presented itself. After calling around the site to make sure everything was functioning as smoothly as could be expected, he took a helicopter ride to their hideaway, enjoyed the luxury of a hot shower, and settled into some serious lovemaking.

  • • •

  The sharp, whiplike crack sounded for the third time before Lawrence reacted to it. After a fourth outburst, he threw the covers off the bed, scampered over to the window, and peeked through the blinds.

  “Oh—fuckin’-A!” he winced.

  “What is it, Mel?” his companion asked, sitting up in bed.

  “Honey—you wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Just get dressed as fast as you know how. We’re gettin’ out of here.”

  John Morris saw it at the same moment and shuddered. It had come upon them suddenly, two fingerlike, black storm clouds reaching over the sea of heads with alarming velocity. From the stage, it resembled a giant pinwheel hurtling toward the crowd. The clouds spun across the pink sky and left splotches of tumultuous paste on the spectral horizon. In less than ten minutes, that complexion bled into a solid screen of charcoal gray, then faded to black. The crowd shuddered in unison.

  Joe Cocker grabbed the bottle of beer at his feet, tucked it under his arm, and fled to safety. There was no time for apologies or long, drawn-out goodbyes. He disappeared into the service elevator with the rest of the Grease Band close on his heels.

  “Hit the power!” someone screamed from behind a bunker of amplifiers.

  The stormtroopers, armed with their balled-up plastic slipcovers and cans of surface shield, galloped across the stage for the second time that weekend. One could almost sense their sophistication this time around, their nimble proficiency. Only those close enough to get a good look at the crew’s faces realized the full meaning of the term ‘stagefright.’ If the storm hit before they had a chance to complete their missions, those in the vicinity stood a better than average chance of being electrocuted.

  “Hey! No fuckin’ around, man—cut that power!” By now, the eighty or so privileged guests and technicians who had, only an hour before, lined the rear of the bandstand, were squared away in the tents and trailers behind the stage. “There’s a master beneath the performers’ elevator. Shut it off and get the hell outta here!”

  “No!” The sharp directive billowed across the open field like an expatiate shock wave. It was so sudden, so spontaneous, he wasn’t sure that it had come from his throat. “Leave the power on. Just leave the power on and get outta here.”

  Staring frantically into the face of destruction, everyone left on the stage stopped what they were doing and turned toward the commanding voice.

  At the foot of the stage, John Morris faced the crowd, paralyzed, bathed in perspiration, and confronted their inevitable destiny. His white knuckles were wrapped around the live microphone held two inches away from his lips; his short legs, spread slightly apart, were locked in fear.

  “Go. Go ahead,” he told them without looking over his shoulder. “I can handle it.” The rapid movement behind him warned him of the crew’s departure. At his feet, Michael Wadleigh was perched on his elbows supporting a minicam, capturing the whole wretched scene. The gentle whirring of the hulking metal machine was an ironic, sweet lullaby in direct contrast to the jangling panorama before him. The drama of misery, he thought. An indelible print of human blunder.

  The winds took over. Rising out of the east, they swept into the natural amphitheatre and played havoc with the temporary plywood architecture. Garbage swirled through the air. To Morris’s utter horror, the latticework towers holding the massive sound speakers began to sway out over the crowd. A follow-spotlight tumbled off one of the raised stands and disappeared in the audience.

  “Would you please get away from the towers!” he cried into the microphone. “Please! Clear away before someone gets hurt!” Morris detected a note of hysteria in his voice and knew he had to somehow gain control of himself. At that point, he felt like the director of the most realistic disaster film in history; the least he could do, he decided, was to give it a touch of dignity. Collecting his runaway passion, he said in a more controlled tone: “Let’s keep it nice and cool. Just sit down and be cool.” Thunder drowned out the remainder of his soothing words.

  “It looks like we’re gonna get a little bit of rain so you’d better cover up. If it does—if we should have a slight power problem, just cool it out. We’ll sit here with you. You’ll be okay.”

  Thunder blasted a last-second warning before the heavens gave way. The rain, like skeins of metal pellets, stung everything in its line of fire.

  “Wrap yourself up, gang. That’s it—open up your newspapers.” It wasn’t working. He could see it reflected in their faces, the crazy smiles plastered from ear to ear. He could feel it in their movement. Their dreams of peace and love were being engulfed by mud. “Hey!” he shouted, trying any device to boost their spirits. “If you think really hard enough, maybe we can stop this rain!” The undulating applause was a nervous release of the crowd’s frustration.

  The thunder boomed again. “That’s it!” he repeated. “We’ve got to ride this out.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he focused on the towers again as they leaned out over the crowd and then sprang back like ladders in a Chester Conklin comedy. “Okay—everybody sit down. Let’s go.” Scores of kids crawled through the scaffolding holding up the sound towers; others were wrapped in its monkey-bar frame playing daredevil games and laughing. “Please come down off those towers, gentlemen. Everybody just sit down. Right. Sit down.”

  It seemed hopeless. The towers shook like knobby, stick knees. He gazed up at their support platforms and watched as thousands of pounds of speakers shifted with each movement. It was only a matter of time before they either toppled off or the towers snapped. It would be utter chaos. Hundreds could be hurt, killed. Idiocy. Fault—whose fault? Mine? Maybe. “Keep your eyes on those towers!” He wondered if that was his voice; he couldn’t be sure anymore.

  “No rain, no rain, no rain, no rain. No rain, no rain, no rain, no rain.”

  It had begun softly from off to the left of the stage and swelled to all ends of the arena. The crowd chanted between claps of thunder.

  “No rain, no rain, no rain, no rain. No rain, no rain, no rain, no rain.”

  It reminded Morris of the fearless band of men who sang on the deck of the Titanic in A Night to Remember as the ship went down. “Keep thinkin’ it!” he encouraged them. “Hey—get off those towers.”

  Just then, Morris felt a tremendous shove from behind, his legs buckled, and he grabbed onto the microphone stand to keep from falling. “What the . . . !” He whirled around. There was no one behind him. That’s weird, he
thought. Was he losing his coordination? He couldn’t cave in—not now. He had to control himself. He had to remain strong for all those kids. He wiped his brow and stood up, but it happened again. No! he cried to himself. It wasn’t possible! It just could not be possible! But it was. The stage foundation had loosened in the mud and was sliding down the steep enbankment.

  He stumbled to his feet and stared out into the crowd—200,000; 300,000; 400,000. The numbers had lost their significance. It was really happening. Not just to him, but to all of them. There, huddled together awaiting—what? A catastrophe? Who knew anymore. It was his own personal nightmare.

  His eyes swept the scene again and came to rest on two young kids swinging each other gleefully in the mud. In back of them, a myriad of teen-agers had joined hands and were dancing a hora. Others skated through the mud in front of the photographers’ pit. Could this really be happening? he wondered as the stage moved another two inches downhill.

  “Dear God,” he prayed silently, “what have we done?”

  • • •

  Nobody in the large medical tent behind the stage saw the storm coming before it struck. Blinded by the moon-shaped canvas flaps hanging down from the bigtop, they were taken completely by surprise and the team of doctors and nurses were shaken with unrelenting force. Pharmaceutical supplies toppled off carts into pools of mud. Cots were caught by the crosswind and blown clear across the service road. Patients who had been lying on the ground remained where they were, oblivious of the downpour; for many, their wills had been broken long before the rain began.

  Rikki Sanderson, Abruzzi’s chief nurse, held onto the wobbly center pole of the tent while her staff of nurses and paramedicals scrambled to protect the bandages. If their supplies became wet, they’d no longer be considered sterile. That would be the clincher—especially after what the storm would do to the audience. They’d need every last piece of gauze they could get their hands on.

  The wind kicked up its strong arm once again and pulled at the canvas covering with all its might. Sanderson maintained her grip and resisted the traction, defying the inevitable. There were sick children in that tent, victims of this carnival of horrors, and she’d be damned if she’d allow them to be emotionally hurt any more than they already had been. She looked at the thirty-five kids doused with mud and thought, “This is what war must be like.” It was a detestable situation. She reached up to wipe the rain from her face and realized she was crying. Was this the way it was meant to be? she cried. “We’ve got to stick together,” she called to a tentful of patients, most of them her children’s age. “We’ve got to fight this!”