As told by someone who really knows.
By Jeff Hall
There has been a lot of buzz lately about the 50th anniversary of Woodstock.
I know someone who not only was actually at Woodstock – but he was one of the chief organizers. His name is John Morris. He lives in Malibu.
John Morris and several members of the original Woodstock team gathered at the Grammy Museum in Downtown Los Angeles the other night to preview a documentary movie, “Creating Woodstock”, produced by Mick Richards and Eric Morris.
John Morris, in his thirties at the time of the festival, was head of production, in charge of booking the bands and running the stage.
The field at Max Yasgur’s farm was already filled with 50,000 people the day before the event.
This was before a perimeter fence, along with the ticket booths, could be completed.
A hard choice had to be made: Finish the fence or finish the stage?
Stage it was.
It was Morris’s voice that famously called out to the crowd that the concert was now free.
“It was just stating the obvious,” said Morris.
The rest, as they say, is history: Richie Havens, Jimi Hendrix, Crosby Stills and Nash, Joan Baez, The Who, Arlo Guthrie, Santana – the list goes on and on.
For three days, 500,000 people somehow survived traffic jams, rain, wind, sun – and each other.
“We suddenly found ourselves in the city running business, not the concert running business,” said one of the organizers.
Distributing food and water to the huddled masses became a massive challenge – but everyone pitched in and somehow it all came together – aided by John Morris talking to the crowd, spreading good vibes – keeping everyone mellow.
Readily available marijuana probably didn’t hurt.
What many don’t realize is that it was a group of very young, very inexperienced individuals who organized Woodstock. Two trust fund babies in their twenties, John Roberts and Joel Rosenman, along with Michael Lang and Artie Kornfield, thought it would be cool to put on a big, outdoor concert – the likes of which the world had never seen.
The original location, 50 miles away, got nixed by city fathers. Things seemed hopeless, but a few days later, Max Yasgur, who was following the news of the concert’s trials and tribulations, called to invite the organizers to check out his farm. It was an immediate “yes.”
Those building the stage and setting up the electricity, sound and lights had to get paid extra in order to finish on time. When the event started, helicopters had to be rented so the bands wouldn’t get stuck in traffic.
The festival’s losses ran around $3 million, but the two financial backers swore they would make everyone whole. Proceeds from the original “Woodstock” film allowed organizers to eventually retire all debts. It took ten years, but they did it.
For several years now, some friends and I have relived all this through John Morris. He always has yet another story to tell.
Our parents had D-Day; we had Woodstock.
Our parents had Dwight Eisenhower; we’ve got John Morris.
I remember that summer. I was 17, living in Palo Alto, California. I was getting ready to enter my senior year in high school. Two childhood friends, Peter and Greg Moore, were visiting from Massachusetts that summer. Their parents and my parents had been lifelong friends, as well. Peter and Greg – “the twins” had a friend, Brad Hockmeyer, with them.
The three of them told me I simply HAD to jump in the car with them and make the six-day drive from Palo Alto to Bethel in Upstate New York for the most amazing concert that would ever take place in the history of humankind — Woodstock.
As they rattled off all the band names, I realized I had seen them all before. Growing up in Palo Alto in the late sixties gave my friends and me regular access to the Filmore and other San Francisco concert halls. The “Summer of Love” (1967 in Haight-Ashbury), was still fresh in my memory.
Many bands that got their starts in the Bay Area actually played at my high school – before they got discovered. If memory serves, Jefferson Airplane and Santana both played at my school’s gym.
So I thought anyone who would drive six days just to see a rock concert had to be a little crazy, and I passed. A week later, when I saw what was unfolding on the news, I was kicking myself.
But, because I know John Morris, I’ve been able to hear all the tales, from all different angles – the drugs, the sex, the money – or lack thereof – and of course, the music.
