I was 18 in 1969. My friend Neil and I were planning to go see Led Zeppelin down the shore in Asbury Park, New Jersey, that weekend, but the constant advertisements on WNEW-FM with the names of all our favorite bands in one weekend on one stage helped us change our minds.
So we bought two three-day passes at The Last Straw, a head shop in Bloomfield, for $17.50 each. My mother made sandwiches. We loaded up my 1964 Chevy Nova with two canteens of water, clothing, pot, soap, towels, a tent, books, Monopoly, toothpaste (we forgot toothbrushes) and sleeping bags.
We had no idea what we were in for. We also had no idea that everything we brought would stay in the car for the next four days untouched.
I’ve always said Woodstock was the best and worst weekend of my life.
Forty-eight years later, Goldmine Editor Pat Prince persuaded me to write a book about it.
CAMARADERIE
There was a palpable sense of camaraderie. We were all in this together. We knew the world was watching. That long-haired dude next to you was your brother. He had the same politics, liked the same music, and shared his stash. That bare-breasted girl within reach was nurturing, philosophical, friendly, gorgeous and — despite it being hard to believe after the sh*t shows of Woodstock ’94 and ’99 — we treated them with respect.
