Four decades and two years ago, to the week, a small town in upstate New York became the site of a music festival that was to change the lives of many people in the English-speaking world and beyond. On August 15, 1969 the town of Woodstock situated in the foothills of the Catskill was supposed to play host to a three-day music festival billed by the organisers as an “Aquarian Exposition: Three days of peace and music”. For some reason, perhaps daunted by the possibility of thousands of anti-war protestors and hippies taking over the idyllic town, the local authorities decided that they would not play host just before the event was to take place. Impervious to such worldly concerns, the organisers soon found an alternate venue: Max Yasgur’s Farm situated a little further from the small town.
Then they arrived in droves with their tie-and-dye shirts, long hair, flared trousers and free love. They came with the rain and played in the mud as their bards sang about the need for peace. The concert was supposed to be a commercial venture, though the number of people who gatecrashed the event outnumbered those who actually bought tickets. It turned into a festival of music that most of us, born much later, still refer to as the iconic episode that changed the face of western music. Joe Cocker shared the stage with The Who, while Jimi Hendrix coaxed his electric guitar into a state of ecstasy that sent people mad. Joan Baez shared the stage with sitar player Ravi Shankar, while the Grateful Dead shared psychedelic sounds with Jefferson Airplane. They actually made a film about the whole thing, one that I watched with friends (all from the Northeast) in a small hall in Bombay in 1993. I am almost embarrassed to recall how we dressed in tie-and-dye t-shirts and ragged jeans, wore bandanas in an effort to recreate the spirit of the time that we had just missed.
Last week, our hosts drove us to Woodstock and much to everyone’s relief; my colourful t-shirts were well in my past. It felt like being transported to a section of Thamel in Kathmandu, where hippy fashion and memorabilia still find regular patrons. With the American economy taking a dive, the shops seemed like a sad reminder of a past where such colourful digressions were allowed. There seemed to be a time when America’s wealth and economy were omniscient, driving its citizens into the arms of other, poorer worlds and peoples, where they asked questions about the meaning of life and their place in it. That wealth is not obvious today and if anything, Americans are more stressed out about jobs and rising prices. Hence Woodstock seems like a throwback to an era that exists in other places and other worlds.
In a particularly obtuse moment, it seemed as though life had flown out of Woodstock. There was nothing remotely inspiring to connect the slightly upscale village, with what had happened in 1969. The presence of hippy memorabilia only heightened the distance between America’s political and social past and its monochrome, almost listless present where the conservative right wing is becoming more vociferous. For the last few months, Americans have had little to cheer about, as their jobs look precariously placed on the abyss of an economic recession. Instead of the spirit of Aquarius and fraternal love that was being preached from the muddied pools of Woodstock, one is more likely to encounter sullen anger amongst people in all walks of life.
Then, from out of nowhere, a character stepped out of a Kerouac novel, onto the kerb where I was standing and apropos nothing in particular said: “Himalayan crystal salts! That’s what you should have. It keeps you young and ageless…look at me, not a day over 40”. Truth be told, he looked ravaged by the winds of the earth and the salt of the sea. However, at that precise moment, he could have been returning from a session with Jerry Garcia. Maybe, just maybe, America’s Aquarian spirits – like my accidental salt imbiber – will be able to bail the nation out of its current colourless morass.
Then they arrived in droves with their tie-and-dye shirts, long hair, flared trousers and free love. They came with the rain and played in the mud as their bards sang about the need for peace. The concert was supposed to be a commercial venture, though the number of people who gatecrashed the event outnumbered those who actually bought tickets. It turned into a festival of music that most of us, born much later, still refer to as the iconic episode that changed the face of western music. Joe Cocker shared the stage with The Who, while Jimi Hendrix coaxed his electric guitar into a state of ecstasy that sent people mad. Joan Baez shared the stage with sitar player Ravi Shankar, while the Grateful Dead shared psychedelic sounds with Jefferson Airplane. They actually made a film about the whole thing, one that I watched with friends (all from the Northeast) in a small hall in Bombay in 1993. I am almost embarrassed to recall how we dressed in tie-and-dye t-shirts and ragged jeans, wore bandanas in an effort to recreate the spirit of the time that we had just missed.
Last week, our hosts drove us to Woodstock and much to everyone’s relief; my colourful t-shirts were well in my past. It felt like being transported to a section of Thamel in Kathmandu, where hippy fashion and memorabilia still find regular patrons. With the American economy taking a dive, the shops seemed like a sad reminder of a past where such colourful digressions were allowed. There seemed to be a time when America’s wealth and economy were omniscient, driving its citizens into the arms of other, poorer worlds and peoples, where they asked questions about the meaning of life and their place in it. That wealth is not obvious today and if anything, Americans are more stressed out about jobs and rising prices. Hence Woodstock seems like a throwback to an era that exists in other places and other worlds.
In a particularly obtuse moment, it seemed as though life had flown out of Woodstock. There was nothing remotely inspiring to connect the slightly upscale village, with what had happened in 1969. The presence of hippy memorabilia only heightened the distance between America’s political and social past and its monochrome, almost listless present where the conservative right wing is becoming more vociferous. For the last few months, Americans have had little to cheer about, as their jobs look precariously placed on the abyss of an economic recession. Instead of the spirit of Aquarius and fraternal love that was being preached from the muddied pools of Woodstock, one is more likely to encounter sullen anger amongst people in all walks of life.
Then, from out of nowhere, a character stepped out of a Kerouac novel, onto the kerb where I was standing and apropos nothing in particular said: “Himalayan crystal salts! That’s what you should have. It keeps you young and ageless…look at me, not a day over 40”. Truth be told, he looked ravaged by the winds of the earth and the salt of the sea. However, at that precise moment, he could have been returning from a session with Jerry Garcia. Maybe, just maybe, America’s Aquarian spirits – like my accidental salt imbiber – will be able to bail the nation out of its current colourless morass.
Sanjay (Xonzoi) Barbora
xonzoi.barbora@gmail.com
