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"The Road to Woodstock":
The Stories Behind Rock History

Posted Jun 25, 2009 8:30 AM

It was billed as three days of peace and music, but the Woodstock Music and Art Fair was really the culmination of months of planning, begging, borrowing and countless hours of hard work. To mark the 40th anniversary of that historic concert, the man at the heart of it all, Michael Lang — the producer who co-created Woodstock — peels back the curtain and reveals the stories and the passion behind one of rock's most powerful moments.

Lang and Holly George-Warren deliver The Road to Woodstock on June 30, but here they give RollingStone.com a first look at some of its revelations. Lang recounts his first meeting with Max Yasgur, the dairy farmer who invited a nation of music-hungry kids to his upstate New York farm. He recalls how he courted Bob Dylan, and why the legend didn't make it to the Woodstock stage that weekend. He also explains how he avoided losing the Grateful Dead and the Who at the 11th hour, and describes the moment that Sly and the Family Stone elevated the festival to another plane.

Read on for these and more personal stories from the man who took Woodstock from vision to rock history.

NEXT: Finding Yasgur's Farm

Finding Yasgur's Farm

A few miles from Elliot's, we drove along 17B through magnificent farmlands — it's absolutely beautiful farm country with open fields everywhere. We took a right turn off 17B onto Hurd Road. About a quarter mile up, we broached the top of a hill and there it was.

"STOP THE CAR!" I shouted, barely able to believe my eyes. It was the field of my dreams — what I had hoped for from the first. It was not lost on me that we had left Wallkill to arrive in Bethel — "the House of God." I left the car and walked into this perfect green bowl. There at its base was a rise just waiting for our stage. The others joined me. Mel, Ticia, and I exchanged looks of wonder. "Who does all this land belong to?" I asked Abraham.

"Max Yasgur," he replied. "He's the biggest dairy farmer in the county. He owns ten farms, and two thousand acres. I can call him and see if he's interested in renting to you."

"Yes, let's do that," I said. I had to work hard at staying calm. I didn't want to appear too excited to this guy. We passed a sign that said HAPPY AVENUE, and drove until we got to a pay phone and Abraham reached Max. We drove on to his home — a simple white farmhouse — and met Miriam and Max Yasgur, a handsome couple in their late forties.

"These people are interested in renting some of your land, Max, to put on a music festival," Abraham explained.

Max had a sharply intelligent face and looked me in the eye. "You're the people who lost your site in Wallkill, aren't you?" I was preparing for the worst when he added, "I think that you young folks were done a grave injustice over there. Yes, I'll show you my land — we might be able to strike a deal for your music fair."

Max got in the car with us and Morris told him we'd seen the field off of Hurd Road and would like to start there. As we drove, Max pointed out some of the land he owned. My heart was beating so fast I hoped no one could hear it. We arrived back at the field and I told Ticia and Mel to wait in the car and keep Morris occupied while Max and I took a walk into what had become home in my mind.

"Max, can we talk about this field?" I asked. "This is the perfect place for us. It's the right size and shape and has great sight lines and great vibes." Something about the way Max carried himself told me to be completely candid with him: "It feels like we're meant to be here." I wanted to seal the deal right there in the field. We walked over the rise above the bowl.

"How much land would you say you'd need?" he asked.

"Well, in addition to this field and whatever you have surrounding it, we need another six hundred acres, including land for camping and parking," I told him.

"I still have a crop of alfalfa growing here and crops in several other fields as well," Max said. "How soon do you think you'd need them?"

"Would now be too soon?" I asked, with a smile.

Max laughed and pulled a pencil from the protector in his shirt pocket. He wet the tip of the pencil with his tongue and started to scribble numbers on a pad. A sharp guy, he figured how much he was going to lose in his crop and how much it would cost him to reseed the field. When he came up with a number for the bowl, it seemed a fair price and I said yes immediately. We agreed that he would calculate the other fields in much the same manner, taking into consideration whether or not he could harvest crops before we needed to prepare the ground. It was going to be a hefty sum, but I knew that this land was our Woodstock — and Max was our savior.

NEXT: Landing Hendrix

Landing Hendrix

For what I thought would be the midnight close of Sunday night, it had to be Hendrix. Jimi had played my Miami festival for $5,000. Now, a year later, Hendrix had become the highest-paid rock musician in the world. He'd just earned $150,000 at Madison Square Garden. My favored-nations policy for booking the bigger acts had a cap of $15,000. This was not going to fly with Jimi's manager, Michael Jeffrey. Michael lived in Woodstock, and Jimi was renting a house in nearby West Shokan. So far, I'd gotten Jeffrey down to $50,000 — but that was still more than I could pay. I knew from Jimi that he wanted to play; he'd occasionally drop by and jam unannounced at Steve Paul's Scene and other clubs. So I went to see his agent Ron Terry. With a very deep tan and wearing white patent-leather shoes, Ron seemed like he could not wait to get back to the beach. I explained to him our favored-nations cap of $15,000, but he wouldn't go for it — he'd been instructed by Michael Jeffrey to make a deal, but for more. (Michael, it turned out, was fixated on Jimi being the highest-paid performer at the festival.)

There was another problem with the Hendrix booking. Jeffrey and Terry required headline billing for Jimi, which meant he would be listed first on all radio and print ads, with his name bigger than any other act, and that he had to close the show. This headliner system had been sacred ground in the industry up until then, but for Woodstock I developed a different approach. I had decided that all artists would be treated equally — on ads and posters, they would be listed alphabetically and would share the same typeface. This was important, I thought, because of the large number of big-name acts, as well as the tone it would set in general.

I really wanted Jimi, but I could not breach the favored-nations clause or change the billing policy. So, I offered Terry a solution: $30,000 to play two sets. Jimi would open the festival with an acoustic set and close with his band. We could draw up two contracts for $15,000 per set. Terry wasn't sure if this would work, so I asked him to get Jeffrey on the phone. Michael and I talked, and after I threw in $2,000 for expenses, he agreed.

NEXT: Courting Dylan

Courting Dylan

I still hoped to add a few more surprises to the show, particularly some artists living in Woodstock. Paul Butterfield agreed to perform with his Blues Band on Sunday night. Fred Neil had moved up from Coconut Grove. His song "Everybody's Talkin'" was the theme song for Midnight Cowboy (and would soon become a huge hit for Nilsson). This made him even more reclusive than he already was, but he said he'd play Friday night. We added him to the press release listing the lineup. Then, a couple of days before the show, he said he wasn't going to make it.

Bob Dacy — whom I'd known in the Grove and now ran Woodstock's Sled Hill Café — arranged a meeting for me with Bob Dylan at his home. Dylan's songs were important in my life, as they were in the lives of countless others. I just thought I'd tell him that we'd all love to see him there, unannounced, of course. His wife, Sara, made lunch and we all talked about what I had planned. I explained the reasons why I hadn't made an offer to have him officially on the show. I knew he was uncomfortable with the mantle of "prophet" that he'd been tagged with by the press. He'd rarely played in public since 1966. Bob was the most important artist of our generation, and because of my respect for his artistry, I underestimated the side of him that is about business. Maybe if I'd offered his booking agent a large enough fee, he'd have played — like he would at the Isle of Wight festival not long after Woodstock. In any case, during the two hours we hung out, he was cordial and said that maybe he'd stop by.

Later that week, Al Aronowitz wrote in the New York Post:

The day before, it had rained so hard the mud was deep enough to give you a good headstart to China... The owners of the Woodstock Music and Art Fair were busy acting like people who had a half a million dollars to spend. Meanwhile an hour and a half away, where Woodstock really is, Bob Dylan was coping with rumors that he was going to make a surprise appearance at the festival. "I may if I feel like it," he said. "I've been invited, so I know it'll be okay to show up.... My opinion of that festival is not any different from anyone else's. I think everyone is probably going to have a good time, but I wouldn't blame them if they didn't."

A few days after the festival, I was crossing Tinker Street in Woodstock and happened upon Bob, riding in an open jeep with Bernard Paturel from Café Espresso. As they drove by, I waved and gave a sort of "sorry you didn't make it" shrug. With a grin, Bob tipped his hat and nodded back with what I took as a "me too." (Twenty-five years later, Bob would finally take the Woodstock stage.)

NEXT: Negotiating with the Dead & the Who

Negotiating with The Dead & The Who

"If we don't get the cash, we're not going on!"

It's late Saturday afternoon and the Grateful Dead's road manager, Jon McIntire, and the Who's John Wolff have cornered me by my production trailer. Emotions are heating up. It's the road manager's job to get paid before the band hits the stage.

"Look, we'll give you a check," I tell them. "The check will be good after the weekend. Everybody's in the same boat — there is no cash on the site. The gates are down, it's a free concert, you know what we're up against—"

"That's not good enough — it's got to be cash or else no music," Wolff repeats. We owe them the second half of their fees: the Dead $3,375 and the Who $6,250. I don 't know how we could get the money in time for them to go on.

"We're in a real bind for cash," I repeat, "but I will give you a check now and you can go to the bank Monday morning and cash it, and I promise it will be good."

"Only if it's a certified check," they insist.

It dawns on me how to get these guys to let their acts play. Deep down, I know the Dead won't pose a problem; their friends are here, they'll play no matter what. Jerry Garcia has already been jamming at the free stage. The Who, on the other hand, might be looking for an excuse not to perform. They still seem pissed off that they agreed to play what will turn out to be the most important show of their career. Since Pete Townshend arrived, he's been scowling at everyone and keeping to himself. This peace-and-love thing isn't for him.

I look straight at Wolff. "If that's your decision, I'll go out and make the announcement that the Who won't be performing because we have no cash."

The Who are important musically and are one of the best live acts around, so this is a bit of a gamble. I know I'd never make that announcement. But, with all the changes in lineups and the unscheduled acts, the audience probably won't even notice if they don't play.

Wolff and McIntire exchange glances. "Forget it!" Wolff says before they stomp off. That's the last I'll hear from them until Monday, I think. ...

I later found out that after they left my trailer, they cornered John Morris with the same threat. As John was the one who'd pushed the Who to agree to Woodstock, he felt obligated to get them paid. He knew that he had absolutely no shot with me, so — going off the reservation once again — he called over to Joel at the telephone building. He convinced him that the Who and the Dead wouldn't play without cash, spicing the demand with the image of a rioting mob enraged by the no-show.

Joel set out to solve what he didn't realize was a trumped-up dilemma. He called Charlie Prince, manager of the White Lake bank where we'd opened an account, and told him the situation. Shuttled by helicopter, Charlie let himself into the bank, locked up on a Saturday night, searched for some blank cashier's checks, and filled them out for us. That's how much some of the townspeople believed in us.

NEXT: Hugh Romney: A Star is Born

Hugh Romney: a Star is Born

Between sets, Hugh Romney ended up onstage making announcements, becoming an audience favorite in the process.

HUGH ROMNEY: I was working pretty much full- time with the drug talkdown situation, busy moving from one situation to the next. How I ended up getting onstage was that I had some announcements to give Chip to make, and I was also on his case because he'd made this announcement about avoiding the "blue acid." Chip said, "Come on up and do it yourself." He had no problem letting me talk on the microphone, and the only times I ever went up there were when I had something to say toward the collective consciousness. Later, when the rains came and they were announcing it was a disaster area, I said, "There's a little bit of heaven in every disaster area!"

Hugh calmed people's fears about the "bad acid." "It's not poison," he said from the stage, "it's just poorly manufactured."

NEXT: Santana's Searing Set

Santana's Searing Set

Santana was up next, and I was really looking forward to their performance. I hoped they would boost the energy level of the day. Hardly anyone had seen them on the East Coast, though they'd been playing around the Bay Area for a couple of years.

CARLOS SANTANA: We got to Woodstock at eleven in the morning. We'd heard it was a disaster area. They flew us in on a helicopter. We hung around with Jerry Garcia and we found out that we didn't have to go on until eight at night. They told us just to cool out and take it easy.

One thing led to another. I wanted to take some mescaline. Just at the point that I was peaking, this guy came over and said, "Look, if you don't go on right now, you guys are not going to play." I went out there and I saw this ocean as far as I could see. An ocean of flesh and hair and teeth and hands. I just played. I prayed that the Lord would keep me in tune and in time. I had played loaded before, but not to that big of a crowd. Because it was like plugging into a whole bunch of hearts — and all those people at the same time. But we managed. It was incredible. I'll never forget the way the music sounded, bouncing up against a field of bodies. For the band as a whole, it was great.

GREGG ROLIE, SANTANA VOCALIST/ KEYBOARDIST: We played to each other. Carlos's back was usually to the audience because we played like jazz players. And 500,000 people happened to be there. You can see the first ten or twenty thousand; after that, it's all just hair and teeth. So there was nothing to be afraid of. If I had known what it was all about and what Woodstock ended up meaning, I probably would have been frightened to death.

With its monster rhythm section, Santana was the first group that really got everyone up and dancing. I flashed on my parents' nightclub where people did the mambo on Saturday nights. Carlos Santana had merged that Latin sound with rock and roll and it was phenomenal. On "Soul Sacrifice," Michael Shrieve played one of most amazing drum solos I have ever heard, with the percussionists joining in and Carlos's soaring guitar building everything to a crescendo. The audience went nuts — it was obvious another star was being born.

MICHAEL SHRIEVE, SANTANA DRUMMER: The size of the crowd was so big, it was like standing on the beach and looking at the ocean, and you see the water and the horizon and sky. It was a sea of people as far as you could see. We were like a little street gang there making music together and hoping that it went over. But when I look at the drum solo I took, it drives me crazy because of some choices that I made, in terms of stopping the groove and going really soft. But for the audience it worked. It was very tribal.

NEXT: CCR's Machine Delivers

CCR's Machine Delivers

With the Dead scrambling offstage around 10 P.M., we tried to quickly get ready for Creedence Clearwater Revival. I think the Dead's experience made Creedence nervous too, but they didn't show it. They were practically a hit machine by then, and they played with conviction and intensity: "Born on the Bayou," "Green River," "Bad Moon Rising," "Proud Mary," "I Put a Spell on You." On and on, with John Fogerty's bluesy voice, guitar leads, and masterful harmonica playing, and a great finale of "Suzie Q."

STU COOK, CREEDENCE CLEARWATER REVIVAL BASSIST: You couldn't see anything. We had some technical problems. After the first song, we weren't sure there was anybody there. It was quiet. But some guy, way the hell out there, yelled, "We're with you!" Okay, I guess that's who the concert's for. And on and on we played, and we had no idea what we were involved in. Later, it started to dawn on us just what had happened, and we thought we'd never ever see anything like that again.

JOCKO MARCELLINO, SHA NA NA DRUMMER: I had taken some mind-altering stuff and it wasn't FDA-approved, I'll tell ya. I thought, "I've got to be alone," and there were 500,000 people! So I wandered up to the top of the hill to try to get it together. Creedence was rockin' "Born on the Bayou." And hearing that put me back in the groove.

JOHN SEBASTIAN: Creedence Clearwater delivered a set that was every bit as important and delicious as any other performer at Woodstock. I think they may not have had any other serious competition besides Sly Stone and Jimi Hendrix. It was so tight and so wonderfully strong, particularly in my psychedelicized state. But Fogerty came off that stage and said, "Well, you guys really screwed that one up."

NEXT: Janis Joplin Testifies

Janis Joplin Testifies

Janis Joplin and her new band, a kind of Stax/ Volt Revue with horns, were next. I was a little disappointed in their performance. Of course Janis's voice was as amazing as ever, but she kept turning around to give direction to the musicians, who'd played with her only a couple of times. At one point, she let Snooky Flowers, a funky R & B vocalist, take the lead on Otis Redding's "I Can't Turn You Loose" — and kicking off her shoes, she seemed happy dancing and strutting around barefoot. Her devastating testifying on "Try ( Just a Little Bit Harder)" and "Work Me Lord" crushed the audience, and they begged her not to stop. At the end of her long set, after a gut- wrenching "Piece of My Heart" and "Ball and Chain," I almost expected everyone to just collapse in a heap.

ELLEN SANDER: Janis Joplin danced with them as if they were one, they shouted back at her, they wouldn't let her off until they'd drained off every drop of her energy.

NEXT: Sly & the Family Stone's Electric Revival

Sly and the Family Stone's
Electric Revival

Everyone was primed for Sly and the Family Stone — who were ready to put on a SHOW. They were decked out in fantastic outfits — Sly in white fringe, Sister Rose in her platinum wig and fringed go-go dress, and bassist Larry Graham in a feathered hat with matching suit. Their performance was beyond phenomenal — "M'Lady," "Sing a Simple Song," "You Can Make It If You Try," "Everyday People." During the spectacular finale, "Dance to the Music"/"Music Lover"/"I Want to Take You Higher," Sly took us all to a psychedelic church as he and five hundred thousand people did a feverish call-and-response like a preacher and his congregation in a revival down South.

CARLOS SANTANA: I got to witness the peak of the festival, which was Sly Stone. I don't think he ever played that good again — steam was literally coming out of his Afro.

ELLEN SANDER: Grace Slick and Janis Joplin were dancing together, their eyes tight shut and their fists clenched and their bodies whipping around. "Higher!" Sly shouted into the crowd. "Higher!" they boomed back with the force of half a million voices at their loudest. He threw up his arms in a peace sign, a billow of fringe unfurled around them, and the audience responded, shouting "Higher" in unison and raising their arms and fingers into the air, joyously, desperately, arms and hands and fingers raised in peace signs, heads and voices crying out into the night, crying the anguished plea of the sixties, "Higher, higher!"

NEXT: The Who Cement Their Place in Rock History

The Who Cement Their Place
in Rock History

It was three thirty in the morning and the Who were about to go on, so I said, "Look, Abbie, whoever you saw is gone, so let's just go watch some music and chill out for a few minutes."

He agreed and we headed back up to the stage to sit with musicians from various groups who'd gathered to watch. Abbie kept fidgeting next to me. He couldn't stop talking. "I've really gotta say something about John Sinclair! He's rotting in prison for smoking a joint!" Sinclair, the manager of the radical Detroit rock band the MC5 and the founder of the White Panther Party, was set up by the cops and sentenced to ten years in prison for the possession of two joints.

"Okay, Abbie," I tried to reason with him, "there will be a chance later on, between sets or something."

But he persisted. "No, I really gotta say something! Now!"

"Abbie, the Who is on," I reminded him — they were about halfway through performing Tommy in its entirety, so I don't know how he failed to notice. "You can't make a speech in the middle of their set — let them finish! Chill out!"

Just after "Pinball Wizard," Abbie leaped up before I could grab him and rushed to Townshend's mic, while Pete had his back turned and was adjusting his amp. Abbie started earnestly beseeching the audience to think about John Sinclair, who needed our help. He was in his element, berating everyone for having a good time. "Hey, all you people out there having fun while John Sinclair is being held a political prisoner . . ." WHAM! Townshend, turning back to the audience and seeing Abbie at his mic, whacked him in the head with his guitar.

Abbie stumbled, then jumped to the photographer's pit, dashed over the fence, and vanished into the crowd below. A pretty dramatic exit. That was the last I saw of him that weekend.

HENRY DILTZ: I was right in front of the Who, on the lip of the stage. There was Roger Daltrey, with his fringes flying. Abbie Hoffman ran onto the stage and Pete Townshend took his guitar and held it straight out, perfectly, with the neck toward the guy, just like a bayonet, and went klunk. I thought he killed him.

Early in the set, Townshend had already kicked Michael Wadleigh in the chest while the director crouched in front of him with his camera. Now Townshend was over the top with fury. "The next fucking person who walks across this stage is going to get fucking killed!" he yelled as he retuned his Gibson SG. The audience at first thought he was joking and started laughing and clapping. "You can laugh," he said coldly, "but I mean it!"

PETE TOWNSHEND: My response was reflexive rather than considered. What Abbie was saying was politically correct in many ways. The people at Woodstock really were a bunch of hypocrites claiming a cosmic revolution simply because they took over a field, broke down some fences, imbibed bad acid, and then tried to run out without paying the bands. All while John Sinclair rotted in jail after a trumped-up drug bust.

The Who continued with their exhilarating performance of Tommy, and just as the sun rose, they played raucous rock and roll classics from their days as mods: "Summertime Blues," "Shakin' All Over," and "My Generation." They were astonishing. Later, I couldn't believe the band thought they were subpar and that the audience didn't get into Tommy.

PETE TOWNSHEND: Tommy wasn't getting to anyone. By [the end of the set], I was about awake, we were just listening to the music when all of a sudden, bang! The fucking sun comes up! It was just incredible. I really felt we didn't deserve it, in a way. We put out such bad vibes — and as we finished it was daytime. We walked off, got in the car, and went back to the hotel. It was fucking fantastic.

BILL GRAHAM: The Who were brilliant. Townshend is like a locomotive when he gets going. He's like a naked black stallion. When he starts, look out.

ROGER DALTREY: We did a two-and-a-half-hour set . . . It made our career. We were a huge cult band, but Woodstock cemented us to the historical map of rock and roll.

NEXT: Jefferson Airplane's Psychedelic Lullaby

Jefferson Airplane's
Psychedelic Lullaby

The Jefferson Airplane did their best to follow the Who, but anything after that would have been anticlimactic. The sun was shining, though, and the Airplane, who'd been partying for twenty-four hours, made the most of it. Joining them on keyboards was Nicky Hopkins, who'd played with the Stones and had been slated to play Woodstock with the Jeff Beck Group. "You've heard the heavy groups," Grace Slick said from the stage, "now welcome to Morning Maniac Music." Grace's beauty took my breath away. She, Marty Balin, Jorma Kaukonen, and Paul Kantner alternated lead vocals. "Somebody to Love," "Volunteers," "White Rabbit" — they did their big hits and also longer, psychedelic jams.

GRACE SLICK: We'd been up all night and I sang the goddamned songs with my eyes closed, sort of half asleep and half singing. We probably could have played better if we'd been more awake, but part of the charm of rock and roll is that sometimes you're ragged.

They were exhausted, as were we all. Our newly created city was cast off into some crazy dreams by their trippy morning lullaby. The perfect way to begin to day three.

"The Road to Woodstock":The Stories Behind Rock History

"The Road to Woodstock":
The Stories Behind Rock History