August 19, 2018

Four days and 49 years ago, a festival dropped in on upstate New York.

Depending on who tells the story, somewhere between 400 thousand and half a million people turned up to watch three days of music, get a little high (a little?!) and wallow in the mud in a summer that had seen, just a few weeks earlier, Chappaquiddick and then a man walk on the moon for the very first time. Later that year—a year in which Richard Nixon was serving his first term as president, the New York Mets would win the World Series.  That’s the sort of crazy year it was…

Back to Upstate: 400k, 500k, what’s a hundred thousand when you’re all there for the same reason?

The venue was moved at the last possible moment to a field outside the town of Bethel—not far from Woodstock, but far enough away from “civilization” to manage any crowds that might come. The farmer’s field where the show was held turned into a giant mud pit after steady rains had plagued the area for days leading up to the event. But those who were there didn’t seem to care, or perhaps they just didn’t notice.

The promoters, who had a grand plan to sell tickets to the event, realized they could either build security fences and ticket booths or a stage in time for the show. Expecting around two hundred thousand people and promising town officials no more than 50-thousand, they went for the stage.  They lost a lot of money since no one could control the crowd access.

Cars piled up along the shoulders of the thruway and clogged the country roads leading to the concert and people hitched or walked their way into the farm. No toilets, no tents, not much food; one water hole, and a series of concerts that many of those who were there will most likely tell you was one of the best things they ever did in their lives—if they can remember.

I was ten, and no, I wasn’t there. But Jimi Hendrix, the Grateful Dead, Jefferson Starship (then Airplane), Creedence Clearwater, Joe Cocker, and a host of others were, with half a million there for the experience.

I always felt compelled to visit Woodstock—maybe because of what I’d heard about it, or maybe because I’m a hippie at heart.  Anyway, I’ve been there twice now. To the town itself, but I think Woodstock is more of a state of mind than a physical place.

The first time I just passed through on my way back up to Montreal—left Long Island early enough to make a stop for breakfast before heading up the thruway towards Canada. What I found was a tiny town that looked like it was lost in a time warp, but almost facetiously so. The shops offered tie-dyed clothing and Jamaican flags and trinkets–some adorned with more peace signs that I’d seen in decades and others with a very recognizable five-bladed leaf (and no, I’m not talking about the Maple Leaf). I strolled the one main street, found a shop with bagels, downed one with poppy seeds and melted cheddar on top along with a coffee and got back out to the highway and on my way.

I have searched my files and cannot find my images from either of my two trips; they were taken with an actual camera (can you imagine?!) and as such, are temporarily MIA. I pulled a few from the printed edition of the blog, but they’re not great quality and I know there were SO many more….When/if they are rediscovered, I’ll add them in. In the meantime–credit where credit is due–thanks Shep Webb, for the use of your photos!

The second time, it was more intentional.  I was more intentional.

I’m not sure how I heard about the Midnight Ramble (remember that Stones song?), but I knew they existed.  Started by The Band’s Levon Helm as a way to offset costs for his cancer treatments, Helm invited musicians to drop in to his farm, to play with him in his “barn”, in which he’d created an amazing stage and studio. He opened up the Rambles and invited people to come to watch.

I really wanted to do this.  So in the summer of 2010, I dragged my 18-year-old along for the trip. I’m pretty sure he didn’t know much about any of this—about Woodstock, the people and the time. The trip he knew about, and by then he’d gotten used to his mother’s off-beat and off-the-beaten path wanderings.

The Woodstock I saw that summer, when I had time to really look around, was certainly a bit different than that pit-stop Woodstock of a couple of years earlier.  Maybe because it was summer and, after growing up in a resort town, I know how different the places look and feel “in season”.  Maybe it was because we had a few days in a rented carriage house with a screened porch, a hot tub built into the deck and a creek running through the woods behind the house that it felt different. It certainly was a pretty place.

The people were pretty too–not that they weren’t in the off season…maybe the summer people were just a little showier about it. I have a rather vivid memory of coming out of the grocery store as an older guy in jeans and a t-shirt (and wearing both well, I might add, the kind of guy who easily makes eye contact) stepped out of his two seater sports car and greeted us with a smile and a hello—and he was just one of that kind of confident, good looking people who populated the town (it was also at a time when I had just started realizing that I wasn’t invisible—it was as much about how I carried myself than it was about how others saw me); I also clearly remember a decent looking but surly shopkeeper, decked out in what appeared to be the “traditional hippie costume” (you know, tie-dyed t-shirt, one dangly earring, long curly hair, a little slouchy or tired or bored or pissed—I’m not sure which)  who definitely had that “ugh, tourists” attitude about him. 

What a difference some direct eye contact and smile makes, huh?  It also doesn’t hurt when it’s warm and bright instead of steely grey and post autumn-colors mid-fall.

So there we were, carriage house hot-tub bound, with a talking GPS that cracked us up every time she said the word “Chestnut” (our place was off that street), and tickets to a Ramble in hand.

At that time, on occasion, the guests at the Rambles were not announced until show time; now, I believe if you check the website (and you should), you’ll find that headliners are announced.  For example, Jackson Browne played two sold out shows the two nights before we got there.

In our case, it wouldn’t have mattered who the guests were because this was the only night we were open to go; when the web page said “special guests”, we figured we’d just take our chances.

So we didn’t know who the guest musician(s) would be and we also didn’t know that it was appropriate to bring something to share before the concert; that’s the main reason we were at the grocery store—buying a tub of pre-made chocolate chip cookie dough (little did we know, but should have figured, they would be the hit of the food table that night).

It’s a pretty simple process, once you have a ticket: you drive to the farm, which is just a short hop north of the village, check in and park in a field.  Everyone is invited to wander around a bit—there’s a large pond just down from the field and buildings, and we watched a young golden retriever jump into the water time and again to fetch a stick thrown by some boys, the geese and ducks a safe distance off shore, keeping half an eye on the action while going butt-up to the bottom to grab the grass growing just under the surface. I’m certain if you turned your back and just focused on the pond and the woods around it, you would feel a million miles away from everyone.

The barn, we would soon see, was this beautiful wood structure that had a recording studio attached to the house where Helm lived.  The inside was all light timber and beams and it felt rustic and contemporary at the same time; the place maybe holds a hundred people or slightly more, folding chairs on the floor and additional seats in the loft, with some space for standing room. I’m pretty sure the seating can be moved to allow for a bigger studio space. Intimate yet spacious at the same time and acoustically excellent for a show. I understand that is actually a rebuilt barn, after the first one burned down in a fire a decade or so earlier, but this is the one that stands today.

Note here: no photos allowed of the Ramble itself, and if I have pix of the compound, they’re in the MIA batch

So, just before show time,  everyone queues up to head inside, and there’s an interesting range of chatter (my then 18 year old will probably never forget the stoned 30-somethings in front of us discussing a “pizza monster”, and I guarantee you, if he’s reading this, he’s laughing out loud right now); there was talk of classic cars and city things and a couple of locals chatting about the farm stand that didn’t open this year and what-happened-to-Harry…it was fun to listen.

The talk turned to who the headliner might be and there was all sorts of speculation. Some people said Willie Nelson was in the area, while others suggested a Stone or two might be around. There was a rumble that Sting was playing nearby.  Someone else said they had heard it was Phil Lesh from the Grateful Dead. Andy googled them all to see where they were, whether they were possibilities, while we were waiting.

Holy shit.  The dude at the grocery store… was Phil Lesh. I was pretty sure.

And it was.  He and his sons played the first set. They were later joined by Levon (I should have mentioned that this was just two years before Helm died from the cancer he had battled—we were some of the lucky ones who got to see him there, live and alive), his daughter Amy and a whole slew of people (including Donald Fagen from Steely Dan, who was/is a regular at the Rambles).  And in a super weird twist, at one point during Lesh’s set with his sons, we looked down and saw Jane Fonda, all dressed in white carrying a little white dog (turned out she was in Woodstock filming a movie and had done a film years earlier with Helm and so dropped by to say hi). I read that Amy Madigan was there too–maybe on the same film–but she obviously wasn’t as obvious as someone who was wearing all white…just sayin’.

Here’s a link to some coverage, where someone managed to snap a photo….

Kind of a surreal night.

The next few days were spent exploring and absorbing the area—from scoping out watering holes filled with cool (ok, cold) clear running streams that were filled back then with people just looking to cool off and clean up, to a race down the Thruway to Harriman to the massive outlet mall and a leisurely drive back up route 9, through Poughkeepsie and past Hyde Park and the CIA (that’s the Culinary Institute of America in case you were thinking it was the other) and on through perfect little towns and hamlets and a stop at Del’s for an ice cream before heading back across the river to Woodstock.

We looked for Max Yasgur’s farm (It turns out the farm is closest to Bethel, NY—which is about 60 miles away from Woodstock) and we looked for other concerts or evening events we could attend but didn’t find either (by then it was Sunday and Monday night); besides I’m not sure much would have topped our visit to the Midnight Ramble.

Would I go to Woodstock again? Yep, for sure. I have a feeling it’s one of those places that just draws the words or notes or colors out of a creative person. I can see myself in that carriage house for a month or more, watching the leaves turn, writing a bit, relaxing in the hot tub on a crisp, cold night while sipping a colder, crisper glass of white wine, listening to the bubbling of the creek…and the sounds of the woods.

All to say, if you want to peek into history highlighted with good music, Woodstock–and the Ramble–is something you should do. And take a kid along with you–I think even Andy remembers it as something important, something that we did, together.