I knew Barbara. She was also a real beauty, and my first friend in the building. Everyone knew her. Once a go-go dancer with Joey Dee and the Star Lighters at the Peppermint Lounge, she was now married to Peter Anders. His friend wrote the song Barbara Ann sung by The Regents and later covered by The Beach Boys about her.
Ba ba ba ba Barbara Ann
Ba ba ba ba Barbara Ann
Oh Barbara Ann, take my hand
Barbara Ann
You got me rockin’ and a-rollin’ Rockin’ and a-reelin’
Barbara Ann ba ba
Ba Barbara Ann
I didn’t know, however, that Barbara had a sister, or that I had drawn Barbara’s sister walking through a field of flowers years before ever seeing her in person. Once Charli was inside, I knew I had her; entering my apartment was like entering Svengali World. I Svengalied her. I don’t think Charli knew that at the time, though. If you asked her then, this moment of destiny had more to do with being thirsty and needing a rest.
Either way, the figure standing before me was more beautiful than any work of art. I could feel the heat of her spirit warming the air between us. She had on this miniskirt—a mini-miniskirt. I was in a fog the whole time. What could she be thinking? Probably something like, “Who the hell is this guy in white robes and sandals, smelling like patchouli oil?”
Way too soon, the moment passed. I walked her to the back steps. As this stunning blonde walked up the stairs, I watched her go. I am almost sure she wasn’t wearing underwear. I stared at those thin, long legs. Six-foot legs! She was really special.
After finding my Afghan woman I wasn’t going to lose her. I knew from the start, and I found out later so did Charli, that deep down we were meant for each other.
In Charli’s Words
That summer during the citywide elevator strike I would stop by the Chatsworth after work and climb the twelve flights of stairs up to my sister Barbara’s apartment, always complaining how exhausting it was. Barbara suggested I stop at her friend Frank’s apartment on the sixth floor to rest. I think her real motive was that I meet Frank, not knowing it was the same guy I’d purposely ignored at Terrie’s apartment a few days prior. Although I would never let him know, I did think he was cute. So the next time I visited Barbara I stopped at Frank’s apartment and ended up doing that several times.
We got to know each other as friends, or so it seemed to me. I would tell myself he was not my type.
I never thought of being lovers, although I must admit deep down I did feel a warm feeling when I was with him. Now looking back I’m not sure about Frank’s motives. He is and always was very cunning. I felt a bit like a spider in his web.
Coming from Great Neck, I had never been exposed to anyone like him or anywhere like his apartment, which I somehow thought was painted dark brown and very cool, just like the amazing music he would play on his tape recorder. I began to learn about his life, and slowly but surely his world felt less like a foreign land. My sister had always been the wild one, leaving home immediately after high school and becoming a twist dancer at Joey Dee’s Peppermint Lounge, a really crazy, famous place. She was considered extreme in my very straight, middle-class family. I decided to spend that summer with Barbara until I could find my own apartment. Time went by and I finally found a place on Horatio Street in Greenwich Village. I did not see Frank again for a while. Barbara moved to California with her husband, Peter, and her little daughter Petra.
Months later Barbara came back to New York to see the Mohammed Ali–Joe Frazier fight even though she was eight months pregnant. As I said, she was not a typical sister. But I was happy to have her stay at my apartment. She was always Frank’s friend first so she invited him over. He had never been at my place. I came home from work and both he and my boyfriend were there with Barbara. I didn’t know what to do. Frank had brought me a gift. I was used to real gifts, but Frank brought me a brown paper lunch bag with a piece of Bazooka bubble gum and one black-and-white little photo of him from one of the machines that gives you four pictures for a dollar. It cracked me up. Was he trying to impress me?
Well, it worked. I took a look at him, his long hair, jeans, motorcycle, crazy life. I’d always liked blue blazers, Gucci shoes, and limousines. Then I looked at my boyfriend, and back at Frank. I went over to my boyfriend and said to him, “We’re breaking up. You have to go now.” He was shocked.
I looked again at Frank and I knew he was perfect, not because of the outside but in that moment I saw him totally for the first time and I fell in love with the inside. I just knew he was a good man. After that Frank and I became inseparable and our lives together have been an adventure in every way.
The other day, my Frank asked me about our first date. I laughed.
“What first date? You never asked me on a single date that I can remember.”
I have no memory of how Charli and I met again after the elevator strike. I just assumed she would go out with me. Barbara must have put in a good word. Whatever it was, we had a mutual attraction to each other. We both could feel it. Her character was my dream; prior to meeting me, she would always say that guys like me had been her nightmare. Still, somehow she accepted me. We disagree not only on how our first date came about but on how, a few months later, we decided to get married, too.
Anyway, on what I believe to be our first date, we took off on my motorcycle to a French restaurant in the Village, with Charli’s mini-skirted long legs dangling to either side. After dinner I took her back to her apartment. When she opened the door, I saw all the walls had been freshly painted.
“Why’s everything brown?” I asked.
She smiled and looked at her walls. “I liked your apartment so much I wanted to get the same feel.”
“Huh.” That was strange to me. My walls weren’t brown. Now that I think about it, it seems my Afghan woman’s memory is open to question. Maybe I’m the one who’s right about our first date after all.
CHAPTER 4
Woodstock
Just before I met my Charli, a nation within a nation rose from the earth—drenched in mud, springing forth on waves of pot, psychedelics, and long hair—against the war, tied forever together as one living breathing mass of hippiness. Never one to miss an opportunity, I thrust myself into the middle of it, a hippie in hippie land. Out of the soaking rain emerged a parade of people casted to be a part of my life forever. It all started when I met Artie and Linda Kornfeld. I was introduced to them by Charles and Harvey Estrin, better known as Harvey and Charlie Tuna. The Tunas lived on the other side of the Chatsworth. Charlie Tuna was a very savvy, honest, and spiritual man. Back then, while everyone else grew long hair, mustaches, and beards, Tuna shaved everything off his shiny head except a thick, black, Gurdjieff-type mustache.
Still in my early twenties, I was interested in learning more about who we are and where we are going as a human race. Tuna gave me several books to read on that subject and I instantly became a follower and student of the philosophers Gurdjieff and Ouspensky.
At this point I had a full-time job as an assistant art director at the MPA Agency, a full-service advertising and promotion agency in Manhattan. I got along great with one of the chief executives, Marshal May. He, like Mr. Vega at Brentwood High School, took me under his wing. As I have come to learn, independent things happen in my life that later become connected. Marshal belonged to an organization—a school of higher learning—that was an extension of the master, teacher, writer, and philosopher George Gurdjieff and his student and master philosopher Peter Ouspensky. Ouspensky wrote the most fascinating book I’ve read to this day, The Psychology of Man’s Possible Evolution.
The school held classes and workshops dedicated to studying questions like: What does the evolution of man mean? What are the necessary conditions for this to happen? Marshal saw I was interested in such exploration and suggested I join the school. He set up a meeting with a woman named Mrs. Benson, so she could evaluate whether I was worthy of being accepted. Marshal alread
y said he would sponsor me. I walked over to the Upper West Side to meet her at the institute.
As I entered the room, I could feel the intensity she projected. Without saying a word she directed me to sit across from her at the small table. Our bodies were three feet apart. I was shaking as she began her inquisition, her face no more than six inches from mine. “The first thing you must do,” she began. But before she continued I nervously took out a cigarette and lit it. Looking directly in my eyes with total disdain she barked out, “How dare you! Without asking me?”
Thinking she meant she wanted one as well, I sheepishly answered, “Oh, I’m sorry. Would you like a cigarette?” She went off. “No. That is not what I meant. How dare you break our concentration? I am trying to see who you are, and you decided to stop that process; look what you did! Instead of looking at me with undivided attention, you look away, grab a cigarette, look for a match, light your cigarette, take a puff, and blow it in my face. All while I am trying to communicate with you. You must always remain awake and aware. Do you understand?”
In total shock I put out the cigarette.
“Please forgive me. I will never forget that lesson.” And I never did.
I was on my way to becoming awake and aware. Mrs. Benson went on with her thought. “What I was about to say is you must cut your hair and shave off your beard in order to evolve. In the early stages of growth you cannot stick out like a sore thumb by bringing attention to yourself. That will get in your way and may cause wrong impressions as to who and what you are.” I am still working on this. Studying and reading Gurdjieff and Ouspensky revealed to me the root of my goal in life: to constantly be awake and aware and to continue to evolve as a human being. But I have come to realize man’s evolution comes with a price. To evolve, man must work hard, be tenacious, and be dedicated. It doesn’t happen overnight.
Ouspensky spoke of three stages to man’s evolution. Stage one is sex, stage two is money, and stage three is power—power to be in control. Most people get stuck in one stage or the other. Many never get out of the sex stage, believing everything evolves around it. Although I like sex and money, I’m striving for power, the power to control each stage and live a more awakened life. And I especially believe that power can be yours when you have the ball.
One day, Tuna stopped by my place.
“Hey man, you want to help me with this?” “What is it?”
He showed me a 45-rpm vinyl record entitled Stickball. I put it on my record player. As the disc spun, a haunting voice filled the air: “Mrs. Bruno, can Tony come out and play?” I was taken back to my childhood, to the innocent times of stickball and playing in the street, and … was that a church hymn in the background? Gregorian chants?
“Far out.”
I was about to tell Tuna it sounded a little boring, but I didn’t have time to get the words out before Tony Bruno’s lyrics took a hard left.
Love was love.
Love between two people is out of sight. But let me say this
Love between five people, now that’s heavy. That could be a groove.
That’s when it changed. A spiritual orgasm. Stickball was an X-rated, irreverent recording amid hymnal background singers. Tony screams it out:
The world is built on sucking.
Now suck me, now suck me, now suck me. Whip some skull on me, bitch.
“That’s wild!” I’d never heard anything like it.
“Right on. It’s going to be the first street-distributed record. You want to help?” The ball was in the air. “Sure. I’ll do it.”
Tuna and I went around to mom-and-pop record stores handing out Stickball on consignment, picking up the cash later. After a few days of hanging out, we got to talking. Tuna opened another door and threw up the next ball.
“I’m working on a music festival with two groovy guys. You’ll like them. They’re originally from Brooklyn, fellow Brooklynites, as we say. Artie Kornfeld and Michael Lang. Maybe you can help. You want to meet them?”
I didn’t need to answer; Tuna knew me well enough by then. We drove over on my black street scrambler motorcycle to a new, very modern high-rise apartment building on East 56th Street and went up to the 62nd floor.
Artie met us at the door. His intense yet friendly dark brown eyes stood out, framed by his long curly hair and almost pubic hair–like beard. He was smiling before he knew who I was. He was barefoot and wearing a sleeveless shirt.
“Hey, man.” He sounded genuinely happy.
Tuna answered. ”Artie, this is Frank Yandolino, the guy I told you about.” “Far out. Come in.”
By the look in those eyes, I knew he was special. We embraced in a hippie power hug. I didn’t know that it represented the beginning of our long working and very personal relationship. How could I? I was staring at the beauty behind him with her own sparkling eyes.
I have no recollection of how long Artie and I hugged, but I remember I kept trying to look at this girl wearing cut-off shorts and a shirt tied up under her breasts, until he finally let go and motioned to her.
“This is my wife, Linda.”
“Hi Frank, nice to meet you.”
“Hi Linda.” She looked directly into my eyes, and I’m sure my mind. She smiled. “Far out.”
The hug that followed that introduction was much more enjoyable. Contrary to rumors that exist to this day, I did not have sex with her, then or ever, at least not physically.
A child’s voice came from down the hall. A second later, a cherub of a little girl appeared. She had her father’s curly hair and just like her mom had a twinkle in her big green eyes that I haven’t seen since.
Linda, as if proudly introducing her to the world, said, “This is our daughter, Jamie.” “Hi, Jamie Jell-O. I’m Frank.”
I put my hand out. Her tiny little fingers gripped mine. “Frank the Bank,” she answered.
Linda and I became instant friends, but not as instantly as their little two-year-old Jamie and I did. Linda was the other half, or maybe three-quarters, of the Kornfelds, who I took to affectionately calling the Kornstalks. She sometimes called Artie “Arthur” whenever she wanted to make a point or get his attention. Otherwise they called each other “Kid” and sometimes “Babe.” They were kindred spirits that at times transformed into oil and water.
Something big was in the air at the Kornstalks. Artie, along with Michael Lang, was building on an idea—a three-day music festival. I came in and out, adding some input here and there, but I spent much of that time with Linda. We listened to the group Traffic and rode my motorcycle around NYC, tripping through Harlem, as Artie busied himself creating Woodstock.
Artie and Michael claim to be the fathers who thought up the idea of Woodstock and found the perfect site for the festival. In my opinion, however, Linda Kornfeld is the mother of Woodstock; she started it all. She once told me her version of the story.
“Artie was vice president of rock music working for Capital Records. I thought it would be far out to have all the artists he signed at Capital come to a picnic in the woods. He and Michael worked on the idea, yin and yang, and the rest just kept growing.”
Linda may have opened the door, but the Woodstock festival broke it down and the idea went viral. In those days, that was about as fast as the Pony Express, but because of that it developed as a real grassroots movement, a tremendous wave rolling toward the shore, deeper than today’s flash-in-the-pan Internet sensations.
Those first meetings were primarily about what the 1969 festival should be, could be, and would be. It was never clearly defined, and the first original poster simply said:
WOODSTOCK MUSIC & ART FAIR PRESENTS: AN AQUARIAN EXPOSITION
Wallkill, New York—August 15, 16, 17
Weeks before that announced date, the site was moved due to permit and legal problems. Everything was trucked to the famous Yasgur Farm. It then was re-billed as:
WOODSTOCK MUSIC & ART FAIR PRESENTS:
AN AQUARIAN EXPOSITION White Lake, NY
3 DAYS OF PEACE AND MUSIC August 15, 16, 17
The fact is the Woodstock ’69 music festival was never held in the town of Woodstock, New York. The name stuck just because the press thought referring to the festival by the nearby town would simplify any confusion. I can’t say I blame them. What’s an aquarian exposition supposed to be, anyway?
Kornfeld was in charge of promotions and getting people to come to the festival. Lang was in charge of producing and putting on the event. But after Linda’s suggestion the concept grew wings, and from there it started happening without them. It certainly didn’t happen as claimed by one of the two organizers who, to this day, claims it was his spectacular promotional and marketing genius that brought the Woodstock Nation together. In truth, no one person can take sole credit for the spectacle that changed the world.
The Woodstock Nation, fueled by its own energy, spread daily until it divided the country. The hard hats spoke out in favor of the Vietnam War, claiming to be anti-drug and anti-sex, yet were secretly perverted. The Hippies joined the fight on the anti-war side as supporters of peace, free love, any way and anywhere, and as revelers in drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. The rift had started in the ’50s when those same hard hats tried to take away our rock ‘n’ roll by banning it on the radio and in record shops. That didn’t work, though; it just energized the cause, making way for the four Horsemen of Rock—two long-haired hippies, Artie and Michael, and two straight businessmen, John Roberts and Joel Rosenman. Yet right from the beginning there was no unity among them. They did not even share the same motives, and it’s still an active disagreement to this day. One says Woodstock was about peace and love; another says it was a political protest against our involvement in the Vietnam War. In truth, the media helped convolute the message by adding spin and shock value with headlines like “Nude Bathers, Pot Smoking Rebels.”
Frank & Charli Page 4
