“But—does this mean—”
Jimi took back the joint from Michael’s now-shaking fingers. “Don’t think too hard about anything tonight, my friend. You’re at the biggest party in history with your brother and your lady, you’ve got backstage passes, and the evening is young. All this means is that everything will make sense in time, brother. Everything will make sense in time. Right, Gabriel? Your job is to bring the truth home. You’ve already done it for me. Can you swear you’ll do the same for Michael and David if you have to?”
Michael looked confused, but the combination of marijuana, rock-star aura, and three days of Woodstock was hitting him so hard that he actually smiled, reached out, and put his arm around me.
I looked him right in the eye and said, “I promise, no matter how long it takes. If you hold on to the guitar for me, and if you can’t tell him yourself, I will make sure that David knows about your draft letter one day.”
We shook hands on it, and an electric chill ran through me.
49 BYE-BYES
SUNDAY, AUGUST 17, 1969
Jimi left the trailer to find his band, and Michael and I found our way back to David and our dates. When he saw us, David shouted, “Hey, you missed the greatest guitar solo! There was this English blues band, and they walked right past us when they came offstage. The guitar guy gave Tina his pick—look!”
Tina was jumping up and down with excitement. Debbie kind of rolled her eyes, but then she said, “The band actually was pretty great, I have to say. And guess who’s coming on next? The Band!”
“What band?”
“The Band!”
“What band?”
“Theeeeeeee Band. You know, the guys who sing the song that goes, ‘I pulled into Nazareth, I was feelin’ about half past dead?’ They used to be Bob Dylan’s backup band?”
“Oh, uh, yeah. Sure, I’ve heard of those guys. I just didn’t know what you meant.” I really did know what she was talking about, but it had been a long day, to say the least.
“Anyway, I love them! I hope they play that song. Come sit next to me and tell me all about Jimi Hendrix! Was he as groovy as he looks?”
For a second I almost teased her by pretending to be jealous, but the experience I had just been through was too intense for that, so I said, “Yeah, he really was.”
We stood right behind the amplifiers and watched the Band, then somehow ended up lying down on the grass right next to the trailer we had visited backstage for the next two groups, a blues guy named Johnny Winter and a jazzy soul ensemble called Blood, Sweat and Tears. At some point, Jimi Hendrix’s management people invited us into the trailer for a late-night buffet feast. I don’t know where they managed to get it in the middle of the chaos and darkness, but they had sandwiches, juice, canned soda, and even a fruit tray.
As soon as I took one bite of a turkey sandwich, waves of complete starvation rolled over me, and I gulped down two heaping plates of food like a wolf. I would have been embarrassed in front of the girls, but when I looked up from my fork shoveling, I saw that they were doing the same thing.
“Wow,” Tina said around a mouthful of something leafy, “I don’t think I’ve had anything to eat since that cup of granola this morning!” None of the rest of us had, either, but amazingly, I hadn’t thought of food once all day.
A guy in a Woodstock staff jacket was standing next to me, and he said, “Only four more bands, man. I can’t believe it. I thought this whole thing was gonna fall apart a long time ago, but we’ve gotten this far. Are you having a good time, buddy?”
That was a hard question to answer. I looked around at Debbie, Tina, David, Willow, and Michael, and said, “I am having an unforgettable time.”
He grinned. “That’s what I like to hear. Now I have to split. I don’t want to miss the next group. They’re called Crosby, Stills, and Nash, but they just added a new guy … Neil Young from Buffalo Springfield. This is gonna be, like, their first major gig together with the new lineup. Can you imagine playing your first gig with half a million kids watching? It’s gonna be a trip! See ya!”
I loved Crosby, Stills, and Nash, so I convinced everybody to finish up their food and come back up the ramp to the stage with me. We crouched down between the amps so we could peek out at the band from the side. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. Looking up, I expected to see a Woodstock security person who would tell me we had to get away from the stage. Instead, I found a grinning John Sebastian, who said, “Why are you kids hiding down there, man? Stand up! The view is better, and that way, I can introduce you to some people.”
We all jumped to attention and found ourselves facing a lineup of astounding rock royalty. Debbie gripped my arm so hard I thought it might fall off, and hissed in my ear, “Do you know who these people are?”
I did.
For the next hour or so, we stood shoulder to shoulder with John Sebastian, Jimi Hendrix, the guys from Blood, Sweat and Tears, the Band, and Grace Slick from Jefferson Airplane as they all watched in awe. Nobody said much, although at one point, Jerry Garcia from the Grateful Dead offered me a joint. I declined. I wanted to remember every instant of this.
Sometime after five in the morning, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young came offstage. When the long ovation died down, and all the congratulations from the rock legends around us ended, we were left in a strangely quiet moment. Debbie pulled me into a little hidden alcove between walls of amplifiers and turned to me. “Gabriel,” she said, “you know that whole bubble theory of Tina’s?”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I’m trying hard to stick to it. But I just have to say one thing. If I had to meet any one boy in this bubble, I could never have met anyone else as right as you.”
She looked incredibly pretty, lit only by the eerie, smoky blue light that made its way backstage. I was so tired and emotionally overloaded that I almost just told her everything then, but I only said, “Debbie, thank you. If I had met you anywhere else, at any other time, I would never—”
She put one finger on my lips and murmured, “Shh. We are still in the bubble.” Then she pulled me back to where the rest of our group was standing. Willow announced that she was too tired to stay on her feet any longer, so we made our way back down the wooden ramp to the pavilion backstage and sat in a little circle under a tent that had been set up to keep bands’ equipment dry. It was really nice to be all together, under a roof, just as the first traces of daylight were beginning to seep into the sky.
Somehow, when we all arranged ourselves, I ended up next to Willow, and everyone else got involved in separate conversations. She put her arm around me, drew me in, and said, “So, do you have any last advice for me, my angel Gabriel?”
“What do you mean?”
“Before you fly back up to the starry skies, silly!” She grinned, but I felt she was only half-joking.
“Um, eat your vegetables? Floss regularly?”
Willow laughed, but then she frowned and stared deeply into my eyes. “I mean … about Michael. Is there something else you came to tell me?”
Hoo boy. I had just been told, emphatically and repeatedly, by the most legendary rock star ever: nothing I said or did was going to save my uncle. On the other hand, now the most beautiful, sad, magical amazing hippie love goddess in the universe was making goo-goo eyes at me and imploring me to open up and tell her what to do.
And, no matter what I had been told, there was something else: Uncle Mike deserved every possible shot. So did Willow. So did my father. Even if it meant that, by saving his happiness, I would be making sure he never became my father.
I looked at Willow, took a deep breath, and plunged in. “Listen, there is one other thing. If Michael’s plan doesn’t work … you know, about the draft? If he passes the army physical … you have to promise me something. You have to swear you won’t let Michael be alone on the night of October seventeenth.”
“October seventeenth? Why that night? And how do you know?”
I thought about what
Jimi had said, about not ruining whatever happiness my brother and Willow had left. “Please, Willow, I can’t tell you. Just swear. October seventeenth. I don’t care what you have to do. I don’t care what you have to tell him. I don’t care if you have to lie. Just don’t let him be alone that night. Not even for a minute. I don’t care if you have to physically drag him and David to Canada yourself. Just don’t let Michael be alone. Will you swear?”
Willow bit her lip, locked eyes with me, and said, “October seventeenth. I swear.”
I hadn’t known I was holding my breath, but I felt my chest deflate then. Jimi had said that nothing I could do would change what was going to happen, but at least now I would know I had given it my best shot. Or I would never be born, in which case I’d be the world’s first nonexistent hero. One or the other.
Willow kissed me on the cheek and whispered, “I will never forget you, Gabriel. Fly safe, okay?” I nodded, suddenly too choked up to speak, and she gave my shoulder one final squeeze before crawling over to sit between Michael and David.
I wiggled sideways a bit and found myself between Tina and Debbie. “What was that about?” Debbie asked.
“Nothing,” I said. Then I reconsidered. It didn’t seem right to minimize something so huge. “Everything. I was talking to her about Michael. He’s so amazing. I feel so lucky that I met him. And David. And Willow.”
“And anyone else?” she asked.
I pulled her head to my shoulder, where it fit perfectly into that little area between my neck and my chin. I spoke into her hair. “And you.”
A few minutes later, Debbie got up to stretch her legs, and Tina leaned over to me. “Jones,” she hissed.
“What?”
“Jones! Debbie’s last name is Jones. If you want to look her up when we’re all back in the world. Debbie Jones, Astoria High School, Astoria, Queens. Do you want her telephone number? It’s—”
“Wait, Tina! What about the bubble? Wasn’t that whole thing your idea?”
“Well, yeah, but I didn’t think Debbie was going to find true love here. Now do you want her number or not?”
Geez, there was no safe answer to this one. Obviously, I was never going to call, and I didn’t want to make Debbie think I would when I was already going to be long gone. “Well,” I said, “I know this sounds lame, but I’m not going to be able to call from where I’m going.”
Tina’s eyes widened. “You mean—you escaped from prison to come here?”
For a moment, I thought she was going to start screaming in panic, or hit me over the head with a purse, or something. Instead, she squealed, “That’s so romantic!” and hugged me. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I swear I won’t rat you out to the fuzz or anything. Your secret is safe with me.”
“Wait, I’m not exactly an escaped convict or anything. I just can’t—”
“Say no more, Gabriel.”
What was I supposed to do? I said no more. Debbie came back, and her head snuggled back under mine. The music washed everything else away, leaving only the bubble around us, for just a little while longer.
We sat there, our heads drooping until we were all kind of leaning on each other, through the entire sets by the next two groups, the Paul Butterfield Blues Band and Sha Na Na. In fact, we might have nodded off completely and slept through Jimi Hendrix’s closing set, but thankfully, Tina saved us.
At around eight in the morning, our whole group was basically in a daze, listening to the distant 1950s doo-wop of Sha Na Na, when all of a sudden, Tina started saying over and over, “Guys, I really have to pee!”
Nobody responded for what felt like forever, but finally, David said something like, “Jus’ give me a few minutes, Mom.”
Then Michael said, “Mom’s not here, David. We’re at a concert.”
That sank into my consciousness, and somewhere in my dazed mind, I remembered seeing footage of Sha Na Na fading into a shot of Jimi Hendrix walking onto the stage. My eyes snapped open, and I started rocking the shoulders of Debbie, who was on my right, and David, who was on my left.
“Everybody, we have to get up!” I said. “Jimi’s about to play!”
“And I have to pee!” Tina added.
We scrambled, and by the time Sha Na Na finished their encore, we were all standing by the ramp with Jimi Hendrix and his bandmates. They were all amped up, jittery, and visibly nervous, except Jimi, who just looked lost in thought. He took my arm, leaned his head toward mine so that only I could hear him, and said, “So you were serious about this set? I’m really going to make history today?”
“Absolutely,” I replied.
He smiled for a split second, but then frowned. “And you meant everything else you told me? I mean, my father is really going to, you know, be there for me when … when my train comes along?”
I looked away, then met Jimi’s eyes again. “You still have time, you know. Can’t you just, I don’t know, be really careful? If you let me tell you what to watch out for, you could—”
“Gabriel, I’m gone already. Please just answer my question. Is my daddy going to help see me home?”
My eyes teared up. “Yes,” I managed to say. “Yes, he is.”
“All right,” Jimi said. Then he turned to his band, put his arms around the shoulders of two of them, and said, “Boys, let’s go make some noise!” They all passed around a bottle of red wine as they made their way up the ramp.
We followed the band, but when they went onstage, we circled around the front and jumped down into a little pit area right in front so that we could look up at Jimi as he played. Throughout his set, he kept looking at us, too.
I can’t even describe the next two hours, except to say this: I had the best seat at Woodstock. I was with the band. I was with Debbie in our bubble for one more little moment. I was with my uncle Mike for the first and maybe the last time. Plus, I realized, I had spent an entire long weekend with my father—and actually liked him. A lot. Remarkably, his fifteen-year-old self even seemed to like me.
I just hoped I could find a way to keep that going if and when I got back to my “real” life.
Jimi’s set at Woodstock was the longest live gig he ever played, but it still seemed to flash by in an instant. Before I was nearly ready, he played the first notes of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” “Listen to this,” I said to nobody in particular. I didn’t have to say anything; the whole place just kind of froze. Watching Jimi Hendrix play that song was like watching someone weave history. When he got to the “bombs bursting in air” part, he somehow made his guitar sound like the Vietnam War. He even threw a phrase from the traditional military funeral song “Taps” in there right before the ending, and you could absolutely feel the mourning spread through the crowd and outward to who-knew-where. But then he finished off the melody with a classical flourish and a rising burst of triumph, so you couldn’t help getting a swell of hope for the future, too.
Then he segued right into his biggest hit, “Purple Haze,” and again I realized I had been holding my breath without knowing it. The crowd cheered. Jimi looked at me and smiled. Maybe he had been holding his breath, too.
Fifteen minutes later, Woodstock was over. When Jimi and his band finished playing their encore, Michael and I grabbed everyone else’s hands and made them rush backstage with us. I was afraid that somehow Jimi might get whisked past us by his managers, and then I would be stuck in 1969 forever, but he made his way straight to me. “You were right, Gabriel. I could feel the power running through the guitar when I played the ‘Banner.’ Almost like it was playing itself, man! Now, let’s plug this thing into an amp and get you home. I … I’m pretty wasted. I really have to crash, you know?”
His eyes were incredibly bloodshot. I knew he had been up all night, and I had seen him smoking pot and drinking wine. Plus, who knew what else he had been taking? Thinking about all his talent, and how little time he had left, I just wanted to stand there and cry or something. I must have stood there too long, because he said, “Let’s go
, Gabriel! We have to do this—before the band splits without me.”
Yeah, we had shared some moments, but the guy was still a mega rock star.
Behind his band’s amplifiers, there were a few other amps left over from other bands that were still plugged in. Jimi gestured to my father and my uncle, who were chatting with Jimi’s drummer and rhythm guitarist. “I’ll tell them you—let’s see. I’ll say you got a ride out with my manager in a helicopter. All right?”
I wanted to say good-bye properly to Debbie, Tina, Willow, David, and—especially—Michael. But really, nothing I could say was going to make any sense. No matter what I said, the Woodstock bubble was about to pop. My eyes stung as David peered at us between the amplifiers and shouted, “Hey, Mr. Hendrix, can we get a quick picture with you and the guitar?”
Jimi plugged the Strat into one of the amps and said to me, “Now or never, brother. Don’t worry, I’ll give Michael the guitar, and you’ll go tell your father what really went down with his brother.”
“My uncle’s still going to die, right?”
Jimi said, “It’s history, man. I’m history.”
“So did I make any difference here?”
“You made a difference for me. Now you have to go back home and make a difference for your own self, you know what I’m saying? Come on, now. Play my chord.”
And with that, the most famous rock guitarist in history handed me the most famous guitar in history.
I looked over the amps at my father and my uncle one last time. Then I got down on my knees and played that chord.
VOODOO CHILD (SLIGHT RETURN)
Are You Experienced? Page 17
