Notes From Woodstock

On the fortieth anniversary of the most famous music concert ever, the little town of Woodstock is back in the headlines again.

I live in Woodstock. I moved here when I was nine. I was twelve in 1969 - no way were my parents going to let me go to the concert fifty miles away. But I saw this town when it was clear why the festival organizers wanted to keep the name anyway.

Woodstock was a young town then. It had been an arts colony long before the hippies claimed it, but in 1969 the streets were crowded with long haired, friendly stoners. Music drifted into the street from the Joyous Lake on one end of town and the Cafe Espresso on the other. There was always the smell of leather from the weirdly named leather shop in the center of town. The biggest names in rock could be found jamming a the Espresso or grabbing a pizza at the Millstream Motel.

My first job, just a couple of years later, was to sit in the little rough-lumber shack that served as the Chamber of Commerce information booth at the main intersection into town in front of the Woodstock Playhouse and point down the road to the highway.

"It wasn't here," I told carload after carload of people who wanted to see Max Yasgur's farm. "It wasn't here."

But people came anyway. There was a good vibe in Woodstock and the artists will tell you there always has been. They say it's the mountains.

I left when I went to college and didn't come back to live until thirty years later.

Woodstock 2009 is a changed place, just as the world has changed since then. The music business blossomed here, then withered. The hippies grew up and either burned out or assimilated. The leather shop is gone, replaced by a chic clothing store. The Espresso is a photo gallery. The Lake is a tee shirt and head shop. The musicians who stayed kept pretty much to themselves.

Woodstock has become an old town. Its young people huddle together on the stone steps in front of the empty storefront that was once Just Alan's; the first hip, urban gift shop in town. They show up at the convenient store, their red-rimmed eyes and wobbly gaits making the six packs in their hands seem like overkill. By ten at night, the streets are usually empty.

The older residents, some of whom have been here since before the concert, remember how it used to be and wonder what happened. They miss the music. They miss the life. The laid back attitude is still here, but it's not what it was. It's a quiet country town with a few eccentrics and a weekend tourist trade.

Live music venues are trying to make a comeback in town this year. The winter will determine how many of them survive.

But there's a problem here that I don't think is unique to my town and I saw a demonstration of it tonight.

Woodstock, being Woodstock, always holds it fourth of July fireworks in August. I don't know why. But it's a great show and we go every year. This year I got some insight into at least one difference between the Woodstock I grew up in and the one I live in now.

As the sky lit up with a million lights and the booms echoed off the mountains, kids near us were yelling.

"I love PCP!" "I smoke meth!" "Meth is better than heroin!"

When the crowds flooded the sidewalk back to town, a few of the kids, clearly high, were harassing people as they passed. I won't repeat some of the things they said, but one thing that struck me was this one: "I'm just feeling really violent right now, you know? I want to hurt somebody."

And there's the difference.

I believed, back in the Woodstock of 1969, that the proliferation of drugs was an attempt to realize the connection between us all, an attempt to transcend reality to see something bigger, something even more real. I wasn't doing drugs. I was looking in from the outside. And the people who were doing drugs didn't scare me.

There were angry, troubled people, too, of course. But they were the exception among the hippies I saw every day in town. Most of them were sweet, gentle people who would look you in the eyes and try to have long, earnest conversations about things they thought were really important. They were silly sometimes, but they were kind.

Today's young drug users seem to be angry. They take drugs not to find answers, but to escape. And when they're high, they're even angrier.

I'm not blaming the kids. I'm realizing how the world has changed. We've all become angrier. That weekend of peace and love forty years ago was such a short, sweet interlude. And after that was Kent State, Watergate, so many years of disappointments, disillusionment and disgust culminating in Dick Cheney.

It takes real resilience to hold on to dreams when reality can be so ugly.

Americans - We Love Our Excess

I concluded last night that we truly are an excessive people, we Americans. I don't say that critically, although it is also one of our worst faults. Last night I loved us for it.

KB took me to Albany, New York, last night to witness the annual fourth of July fireworks. I've seen them before - one year from the fire escape outside my downtown apartment, once from the off-ramp near the epicenter at the Empire State Plaza, once from a distant hillside with my then-baby son.

I've never seen them from right on the Plaza.

In recent years, we've restricted ourselves to the local fireworks, which I think are pretty impressive. But this year KB's son and his young family were visiting and it seemed a perfect place to meet.

We arrived around six. The place wasn't too crowded and we wandered, bought something to eat and waited while we watched the crowds grow. It was a gathering of babies and young children and the arrival of KB's two young grandchildren instantly inserted us into that set - grownups with kids. As the sun set, we found a spot in the center of it all and little K2 was hoisted on his dad's shoulders. They live in a small town down south and neither mom nor K2 had ever seen a big city fireworks display. The baby just doesn't care - nor did she change her mind as the show began.

The whole display, sponsored by the local supermarket chain, takes place across the street from the capitol, where our senators have been refusing to work for almost a month. I looked to see if any of them were there with their noses pressed against the window. The governor hasn't been able to do much, but he has demanded they keep coming to chambers.

So it began - a carefully choreographed show combining music, ground lights and massive, sky-splitting displays. It really was amazing. I found myself grinning and looked over to see K2 doing the same. They even timed it so when The Who sang, "Love...rain on me..." a heart appeared in the sky followed by a shower of silver sparkles. Pretty impressive.

It went on forever and got progressively louder...and then we heard the opening notes of "The Stars and Stripes Forever."

"This," I yelled into KB's ear, "is going to be manic."

It was. I think it is not only possible but likely that they used as many fireworks during that finale as they did in the entire rest of the very generously lighted display. A series of fireworks were all exploded at once, creating a massive cloud of smoke, light and noise that seemed to swell out toward the crowd and cover us all. I covered my ears and yelled. KB was grinning like a kid. K2's eyes were blue saucers. The baby sucked on her bottle. Then they did it all over again.

When it was over, there was a collective exhale from the crowd and loud applause. And I had to love Americans in that moment.

Where else in the world do crowds of people all over the nation gather once a year to watch pretty lights and hear loud noises? We are kind of silly that way but it may be the thing I like best about us. I'm sure all nations have their own brand of foolishness.

I think if we could all meet on that ground, that place where we're all just big, goofy kids, we'd find our common humanity is a lot bigger than our cultural differences.