The most iconic images of the ’60s and ’70s are the photos and films of outdoor concerts and festivals, Woodstock being the biggest and best known. It’s burned into the world’s consciousness.
Hundreds and sometimes thousands of young, happy, good-looking partygoers frolicking in the grassy, sunlit area in front of a big stage where fantastic bands churn out the songs that echo through history. Peace. Love. Dove. Etc.
The only problem? For the most part, it’s total BS. The people and media who have concocted this fantasy would make a musical comedy out of the Holocaust if they thought they could make a buck or two on it.
After Woodstock made such a big splash, imitators continued setting up these events all through the ’70s. Suddenly, the outdoor rock concert was big, big, big.
Unfortunately, these “happenings” were put together by little cadres of stoned-out 20-year-olds with no experience who were basically incapable of organizing a Scrabble game. They generally went broke in the end, and many of the events were miserable disasters.
Quite a few of them came from families where Daddy was on Wall Street, and the sons wanted to show Pops that they could put together big scams too!
In the case of the original Woodstock festival, way too many people showed up, and there were no plans to deal with it. Bathroom facilities were about 10% of what was needed, food ran out quickly, medical care was scarce and sketchy, and thousands of people sat in the rain and mud for much of the three-day event.
People had parked their vehicles miles away, and the road was so jammed that there was little chance of escape. Fun, fun, fun.
And on top of it, hordes of people without tickets, frustrated by not being able to get in, just smashed the temporary fencing and poured in. Decades later, many compared it to three days at Eagle Pass, Texas.
And for the next several years, other young hippie “entrepreneurs” around the country tried to replicate the sparkling success of the magical Woodstock festival.
About five years later, I found myself, for the first (and last) time, a victim of this insanity.
In West Palm Beach, a miniature two-day version of this madness had been planned, featuring a number of famous rock groups, including Eric Clapton, Joe Walsh’s band and the Who, at the Palm Beach International Speedway, along with a number of mostly local opening bands.
Starchild’s manager at the time, Angie B., had lined us up for a job on the second day, warming up for one of the other big bands. Unfortunately, at the last minute, they canceled the second day and … no gig.
Having that night suddenly open, several of us decided we would use the stage passes we had already been given to at least get in and see the all-day, all-night concert for free.
We arrived midafternoon. Once we parked, we walked toward the large stage area and a fairly large crowd spread across the open area in front of it.
Before we left, we had no idea that it had rained earlier and that the people were not standing on grass. They were standing not on, but in … mud. As we got closer, so were we. The ooze squished over our shoes … a brown, nondescript mess. Jim the drummer’s girlfriend lost her mind.
We were all wearing pretty expensive clothes and shoes, but Susan was wearing a bright white outfit with matching high-heeled shoes. She probably needed therapy for years.
Somehow, Jim got her calmed down enough to continue with us as we tried to get closer to the stage. It was a sea of people scrunched together tightly. Some were standing … many were sitting on piles of paper garbage from earlier in the day.
Several young guys were sitting together, passing a bottle of wine. One had passed out, and his friends propped his head on a pile of beer cans to keep him from drowning in the mud. The sky was gray and full of dark clouds, and lightning lit the sky on and off. Then it would rain for a few minutes as the sun went down.
There was zero shelter anywhere to be seen.
But the bands played on while we stood there stiffly for three hours, fighting a losing battle to keep the mud and gunk off us as much as possible and trying to ignore the stench of thousands of folks and their accumulated garbage floating in the mud.
And it was getting dark.
We had come mainly to see Clapton, but a song and a half into his set, we finally had had enough. The audience area was in sort of a valley — the lowest spot.
Working our way up the hill, I noticed that a row of portable toilets lined the top.
And in the rain, I saw that they were overflowing. With the help of the rain, the contents were flowing down into the audience area, becoming one with the mud. Nobody seemed to notice.
I don’t know about the others, but when I got home, I took my shoes and clothes off and took them out to the garbage can.
With gloves on.
To this day, I have never had the meanness — or bravery — to tell Susan.
Thom Caraccio ([email protected]) is a retired musician and retired motion picture scenic artist living in West Palm Beach, Florida who hails from Columbus. He graduated from S.D. Lee High in 1968 and still considers Columbus his real hometown.
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