In the summer of ’69, I attended the most memorable concert of my generation with my (gay) boyfriend. When I returned in 1994 with my (then) girlfriend, things had changed.
“Want to go to Woodstock with me?” my boyfriend Joe asked.
“Yes!” I screamed at his offer. I was a 20-year-old student at a conservative Catholic women’s college in New Jersey. Joe was my guide into the radical 60s.
We’d met at the Jersey Shore when my sorority rented a house in Belmar, a party town. Joe was four years older than me, already out of school. He had a job, his own apartment, a motorcycle and long hair. My father disliked him. It didn’t help when my mother found my birth control pills in my dresser.
Joe was over six feet tall, with black hair and dark eyes, kinda hairy and a bit chubby, a bear — not my type at all. He had wire-rimmed glasses, like his idol, John Lennon, and wore vests with fringe. Since Joe was the music editor for The Aquarian, a popular underground newspaper, we became regulars at the Fillmore East. Nothing could have kept us two rockers from the three-day music festival in the lower Catskills.
That was so long ago, Joe and I were both still straight. Years later, in the 1970s, we came out — first him, then me. (No wonder the sex wasn’t so hot.)
I’ll never forget how early Thursday morning, August 14, 1969, Joe picked me up at the Jersey Shore. Then we drove to East Brunswick to connect with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend. They followed us in their car.
Joe drove his black Kharman Ghia convertible, a two seater with a tiny trunk. The tents and backpacks with sleeping bags were in the bigger car in our little caravan upstate. Joe’s Italian mother, a great cook, packed enough food in the cooler to last for days. Good thing because the local stores and restaurants sold out. We never expected to be trapped on this big muddy field with roads blocked, the Thruway shut down.
“Hippies Mired in a Sea of Mud,” read the Daily News headline. No wonder my parents were worried.
When we arrived that evening, vehicles were lined up for miles along Route 17B, the road that led to the site in the town of White Lake. We ditched the two cars along the roadside, slipped on our backpacks, grabbed the cooler and tents, and followed the crowds to Yasgur’s farm. No one asked for our tickets.
On Friday, we had plans to meet our friends, Terry and Leslie, who drove up separately. Terry had been drafted into the army, which meant going to Viet Nam. He was scheduled to leave that Monday.
As Joe and I trudged up a ridge toward the information booths, I remembered the fun times the four of us had at the Jersey Shore, where they’d played matchmaker for me and Joe. What if Terry didn’t come back? Cresting the hill, Joe and I saw the mobbed tables and hundreds of people waiting to use the pay phones. I didn’t call my parents, as promised. I felt rebellious.
It was so crowded we could not make out anyone. We found a spot to watch the music, which provided a decent view when Richie Havens opened the festival with his rousing version of “Freedom.” I was excited as I viewed the freaky crowds. At my religious college, I’d felt like a weirdo, but here were tons of kids like me with wild hair, dancing free form, love beads flying. That night it drizzled and then poured while we huddled together. We lit matches during Melanie’s performance, and laughed with Arlo Guthrie. Drenched, we retreated to the tent.
On Saturday morning, Joe and I slid down a muddy road and we bumped directly into Terry and Leslie. We hugged and made plans to meet later.
Saturday afternoon, we all sat together, singing along to Country Joe’s “Fixing to Die Rag.” I could not imagine what was going through Terry’s head as we sang along, Be the first one on your block to have your boy come home in a box. One two, three, what are we fighting for? Don’t ask me. I don’t give a damn. Next stop is Viet Nam.
It was rainy and slippery, and we were soaked all the time, even in the tents. Our sleeping bags got soggy and I didn’t sleep much. But who wanted to rest while the super groups of rock were playing all night? Everything was behind schedule with the show stopping when thunderstorms and torrential rains hit.
I drank red wine and bummed cigarettes, smoking more when I hung out with Joe. Nobody from our crowd had pot. Joe thought his brother was bringing half an ounce, but his brother thought Joe had it. At first I was pissed. Then I realized it didn’t matter. The crowd passed joints around during the music. We knew better than to take any of the acid.
Santana’s jam on “Soul Sacrifice” was explosive. I was dancing and air drumming along to the band’s hot Latin percussionists as Carlos Santana’s guitar riffs cut through the air. Joe bounced in his grassy seat, but I jumped into an impromptu conga line snaking around our section.
Around midnight, trying to stay awake, Joe and I got up and boogied to Credence Clearwater Revival. After their set, we retreated to our leaky tent, exhausted. We could still hear the music, so we hung out near the flap, drinking wine and listening. Janis Joplin whipped herself into a frenzy on “Piece of My Heart” and “Ball and Chain.” I loved Janis and wanted to be watching, but we’d been out in the rain and mud for 12 hours.
I slipped on my last dry T-shirt and passed out. We were too tired to do more than kiss good night. The next morning, we crawled from the tent, dirty and thirsty, when the Jefferson Airplane jolted us to life, Grace Slick ripping into a fantastic set with “Somebody to Love” and “White Rabbit.”
We left Sunday afternoon, with no dry clothes left. I was wearing Joe’s bell bottoms, rolled up. He had brought more outfits than me. The concert was still going on. I wanted to stay longer, but he had to work Monday and it was a long hike back to the car. I left the Woodstock Festival feeling incredibly high and elated.
We turned on the FM radio as we got closer to the city and heard that a million people had attended the festival. Something inside me shifted. I felt powerful. Together Joe and I had been part of history.