WOODSTOCK REVISITED

Click and type in a question or comment

I am probably one of maybe 150 people (still alive) that witnessed the entire event, (2 weeks before and 2 weeks after the event,I was working electric/utilities for "Woodstock Ventures" on(Chris Langhart's "Stage Crew"
I have so many (memories),stories It is hard to start..
Please contact : 775-354-3256
Thank you, James McNulty

was 12 3/4 years old when that weekend happened. both of my older sisters were full blown hippies as were their boyfriends. our next door neighbor charlie went to woodstock. he told us when he came home that the last bit of his journey to the actual concert site he rode in on a cow that be "borrowed" from a pasture.

my mom would not let my older sister dinky go.

a friend of mine went up with a guy he knew who owned a pizza truck. they had their truck apparently right in the crowd somehow. they sold out all their pizza then the owner of the pizza truck swapped the truck out right for hashish.

myself i tunred into a hippie. was hard not to with two older sisters that were hippies and their wild and crazy boyfriends. was a good time back then.

i was a wee bit to young to make woodstock. but i did get to attend watkins glen in 73. not the same but hey i did get to listen to the Allman Brothers, The Band and the goold ole Grateful Dead.

my hippie years continued for quite some time.


whoops, here's Bill's site
Jersey Shore Nightbeat: Atlantic City Pop Fest Revisited

Check out Bill Kelly's site and tell your story about Atlantic City Pop Festical.

I was a part of the love generation, but unfortunate because of the Vietnam war, I was unable to attend Woodstock. But I was there in spirit, and I enjoyed it just as much as the ones that were there. Peace and Love ~ Robert Rohloff

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Unbelievable as this may sound, I found my diary from the summer of 1969. This is what I wrote: Imagine, if you can imagine, colonizing the moon. Only the elite, the intelligent and the chosen. O.C. July 25, 1969. A job with timeless, wasted energy. Brainless is appropriate. More than anything or more than nothingness. You really didn't know they were so tight.

Baltimore
August, 1969, Monday
Spontaneous? Yes, I followed a whim. Woodstock was passing reality. Atlantic city of my life is gone. The race track's reality is gone.

"25,000 marched today on what seemed to be the largest anti-war peace rally in history. Newsmen were on hand to..." "Here it comes. Here comes the rain."

Once perched on a tombstone overlooking Jimmy Morrison's grave in Paris, ayoung man asked me "were you at Woodstock?" Why that was relevant to him I know not, but since we were all paying tribute to one of our gods, and he was obviously much younger than myself, I took pity on him and told him a little about it. I remember that we actually made it through the gates with the car. I remember that my Mom had packed the trunk within a centimeter of it's life. We fed lots of folk with those gourmet tidbits all weekend, so thanks, Mom, again, for that thought. I remember the guy on the first road in, under the tree handing out sunshine samples. Long hair, no shirt, jeans, and a baggie filled with with little orange cylinders. I remember the longest line in the world at the pay phone, as I waited to call home and let them know we were still alive.
I remember hearing the announcements in between acts. Most of all, I remember staying on that hill, in front of the stage while band after incredible band played on through the night. And I remember Gracie Slick, walking out onto the stage the next morning with the sun, as the daisies fell all around us, and the mud meant nothing. The wet meant nothing. Time was frozen, space was irrelevant, and college was way far away. And I remember that the local paper in Philly did a story on us , with my girlfriend Gracie Rossi's picture in the paper, holding some records, like an emblem of Upper Darby's finest.
They had no clue. ~ Michele Hax

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What I remember specifically is perching on an abandoned Maxwell House coffee can; sleeping curled into fetal position on a piece of shared cardboard that slid around in the oozing mud; the forcefulness of an omnipresent anti-war sentiment; the army helicopters circling overhead; and the dangerous paranoia and anger they generated. Was the government going to spy on us, threaten us, disband us, or gas us? I remember the cheers that arose when the announcer told us they were bringing us food, water, and medical supplies, and that someone on board had flashed a peace sign.
I remember the joyful, even jubilant, atmosphere that followed, crawling up a muddy hillside by grabbing outstretched hands, standing in long lines to use the foul-smelling portable toilets, being hungry, wet, tired, and thirsty. Through it all, I remember the music and how it bound us together. One after another, musicians and groups played the songs that we already loved or would grow to love. They were our anthem, our identity, and the demarcation line from that of our parents. These were our troubadours, the truth-tellers, the rebels we admired and emulated.
I remember walking through the chilled night air at 4 A.M., retracing our steps until we reached the car and crawled inside to sleep. I remember the trip home; our tongues wagging with tales; our recognition that we had all gone through something so extraordinary that going back to our everyday lives would not erase it. Our country was in turmoil, but 450,000 contemporaries came together to celebrate life, music, and joy and had the phenomenal experience of realizing that we were one. What I remember most is the sense that my generation could make a difference—that the world would soon become ours to ruin or to save. ~~ Susan Reynolds