“I still kick myself for not waiting around for Hendrix.”
“He was something else,” I say.
“I was born in the wrong era,” Adelaide exclaims, with a cute stomp of her foot. “I would have stayed till the end. I’d have helped with the cleanup and been one of those guys forming the peace symbol out of the trash.” She’d been fascinated by that photograph in the museum.
A man pokes his head inside my dressing room. “Miss Withers. You’re up.”
John steps aside, leans over to kiss my cheek. “Great seeing you, baby. See you after the show?”
“You better! Great seeing you too, John.”
When I moved to California, back in the latter part of 1970, John was a frequent visitor around Laurel Canyon. It’s still hard to believe I had the privilege of living around and learning from some of the best musicians who ever lived and that I’m lucky enough to call the incomparable Joni Mitchell my friend.
Leon was the one who encouraged me to go. After receiving a student loan and a small scholarship, I tried college again for another year—a state school in New York close enough to him and Ron for frequent visits—but my soul never stopped panting for the chance to sing professionally. My Hog Farm debut had reawakened my dream.
I have plenty of regrets—not finishing college is one of them—but overall, my life has been pretty darn euphoric. Fame isnotthe reason; plenty of demons there. It’s my family that has made my heart full.
The sound of our heels clicking against the concrete floor echoes off the walls as Adelaide and I make our way down the long hall. She slips her hand inside mine.She’s so proud of me,I think as the two of us follow the stage manager.
He holds open the stage door while Adelaide and I move into the darkness. “Watch your step,” he says, shining his penlight on the floor to guide our path. We weave through road cases and monitors, steppingover fat cables snaked across the floor. As soon as we reach the left wing of the stage, Adelaide tucks inside. She knows right where to stand.
“Break a leg, Grammy,” she whispers as I follow the penlight toward the front.
My band members are already at their instruments. I wave to them before picking up my guitar. Two spotlights cast a blue haze on the lip of the stage. As soon as I step inside the beam, I hear the roar of the audience. Chills race across my flesh. After all these years the applause still takes me by surprise, as does the voice of the announcer. “Ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming Miss. Suzannah. Withers.”
I’m sorry Chip Monck couldn’t be here. From what I understand, he lives in Australia now and couldn’t make it. Stepping up to the microphone, I gaze into the audience. “Hello, Woodstock! Man, I am happy to be here!”
A guy in the audience shouts, “We’re happy too, Suzannah!”
I give him a wave. “Thank you! Most of you probably don’t know, but I played my first gig right here at Yasgur’s dairy farm on the Hog Farm’s free stage. It was the first time I’d ever sung in front of a live audience, and I almost wet my pants.”
Loud whistles and cheers follow.
“But I gotta say. I wouldn’t be here tonight if it weren’t for the love and encouragement I received from a man I met right here, fifty years ago.” I smile to myself at the remembrance of Leon, our Woodstock weekend, and the blissful year we spent together before I left for California. The cross he gave me dangles from my neck.
“This first song I’m gonna play tonight is very special to me. I got the inspiration for it right here, at this magical place we know as Woodstock. It’s called ‘If Not for You.’”
The audience goes berserk. Their cheers echo inside of me while I think back to the day I received my record deal. Six long years after I wrote the song in the fall of 1969, it climbed to number six on the Billboard chart. I look back at Bernie, my electric guitar player. Oncehe gives me the nod, I glance down at my white acoustic Martin guitar and pluck the tender opening.
So much time spent looking for myself
Trying to find out who I am
All that led me here to you
In this moment where we stand
Until now—I’ve been searching for my truth
Could it be—I have found it here in you?
chorus
With so many still longing for
The wonder of it all
In your eyes I found living proof
