“Maybe so, but you couldn’t pay me a million dollars to do that! Would you do it?”
With a faraway stare, she answered, “I’m so upset, there’s no telling what I’d do.”
Although the concert had just started, one thing about Woodstock was abundantly clear. People from every walk of life—no matter the color of their skin, or their gender—were free to do whatever they wanted. Free to smoke pot. Free to have long hair. Free to wear whatever wild clothing they wished. The girls were even free to take off their shirts! Everyone seemed to be claiming the right to live life on their own terms, amid one diverse, like-minded community. Everyone seemed to be filled with the same spirit of love. And of peace. And of hope.
If only for the weekend.
As the percussionist tapped out the beat to “Freedom,” I sensed a release of my own. I stood straight up, holding my arms high in the air.Yes, Richie Havens, this is it. I, too, am free. At last.
Once Richie had left the stage for good, the announcer returned. “We apologize for the noise of the choppity-choppity. But, uh, it seems there are a few cars blocking the road. So we’re flying everybody in. I almost made the worst pun in the world about high musicians, but we’ll skip that.”
5:50 p.m.
Ten minutes later, a very old Middle Eastern man, with long curly salt-and-pepper hair and a bushy white beard, walked onto the stage wearing a bright-orange robe. He was flanked by two American men in white robes who helped him up to a small platform, where he sat cross-legged on top of a decorative Indian blanket. Several others in long robes knelt on either side of him, like he was a god or someone worthy of worship.
The old man put his hands together in prayer, bowing toward the audience. “My beloved brothers and sisters, I am overwhelmed with joy to see the entire youth of America gathered here in the name of the fine art of music.”
He was a gentle, soft-spoken man who squeaked his words. “Through that sacred art of music, let us find peace that will pervade all over the world. The entire world is going to watch this. The entire world is going to know what American youth can do for humanity. So every one of you should be responsible for the success of this festival.”
The audience stood and cheered.
“Before I conclude my talk, I would like you all to join me and our group here in repeating a very simple chant ... We are going to use three seed words, or the mystic words, to formulate the chants. And if you all join wholeheartedly, after the chant we are going to have at least one whole minute of absolute silence. Not even the cameras will click at that time. And in that silent period, that one minute of silence, you are going to feel the great, great power of that sound and the wonderful peace that it can bring in you and into the whole world. Let us have asample of that now.Hariis one word.Omis another word. The first chant will have these two words,Hari Om... The second line will be ‘Hari Om, Hari Om, Hari Hari Om.’”
It seemed like the whole Woodstock Nation chanted the “Hari Om” together. And a surprising minute of silence followed.
I leaned into Livy. “That was different.”
“Maybe for you, but so calming for me. Especially with my boyfriend missing.” She sat up straight, crossing her legs like the worshippers who had just left the stage. She stretched her arms out to the side, flat palms facing skyward. Her thumbs and pointers formed a circle. Eyes closed. Chin lifted. She looked ridiculous. “He was utterly wonderful. Don’t you think?”
I thought he was utterly weird. He’d given the strangest speech I’d ever heard. But I still said, “Utterly wonderful.”
Maybe it was my tone of voice, but Livy dropped her hands into her lap and glared at me. “Suzannah.He’s the guru. He’s blessing us.”
“I know that,Olivia.”
Instead of returning to her guru pose, she reached for her purse. “I’m getting high,” she said, sliding out a joint. Johnny had pulled a lighter out of his pocket before the thing ever reached her lips. She took two long puffs, then handed it to him. After two puffs of his own, he offered it to Leon, who took one long puff, then passed it to Slim, who passed it to Dave.
Pretty soon the joint disappeared down the row, never to return. I sort of wished Livy had passed it to me. After hearing Richie Havens sing about freedom, my inhibitions were thawing.
6:10 p.m.
Chip Monck appeared at the lip of the stage with an important announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you please. There are a number of reasons that we’ve run down, I think, why we’ve requested you not be on the scaffolding. Can we please have your cooperation andask you to get down? The fact that people behind you also wish to see is, I think, perhaps a point of major consideration.”
All heads turned.
It was his next announcement that gave me a thunderous jolt. “To get back to the warning that I’ve received—you may take it with however many grains of salt you wish—that the brown acid that is circulating around us is not specifically too good. It is suggested that you do stay away from that. It’s your own trip, so be my guest. But please be advised that there is a warning on that one. Okay?”
“O-kay,” I muttered, feeling my muscles leap underneath my skin. Within seconds I conjured up a ghastly image of Ron using LSD. Could Livy be right? It seemed like he would have told me he was using it in one of his letters. Before he slept with that girl, he told me everything.
Woodstock
Day One
Friday, August 15, 1969
6:15 p.m.
Thoughts of Ron using drugs and how long it had been since I’d heard from him gave me a sense of melancholy. My mind had strayed easily, probably because of the band onstage. I didn’t care for their music.
