Judy Blue Eyes, Somebody to Love, With a Little Help from my Friends — I’ve been singing those and other songs over and over, to memorize the harmonies for a concert our vocal group is giving, honoring the 50^th anniversary of Woodstock.

I’m the only one in the group who was actually at Woodstock. In 1969, I was a young reporter living in N.Y., covering the city for the Boston Globe. My husband was a disc jockey on the primo FM rock station in the city. They’d been running ads for a three-day festival of peace and music in Bethel, NY, 50 miles from Woodstock, the town where Bob Dylan, the Band, and lots of musicians were living.

There’d already been other festivals that year. The Atlantic City Pop Festival, two weeks before Woodstock, featured many of the same musicians and drew about 70,000 people to a racetrack. Other festivals took place in Atlanta, Denver and Seattle. But unlike the other festivals, Woodstock would have no assigned seats, no lodging. People would “camp out on the land.”

No one we knew expected this festival to be a big deal. The Friday night it began, my husband had invited friends for dinner and I was cooking. At 9 p.m., though, I got a call from Myra Friedman, who did publicity for Janis Joplin and the Band, and was at Woodstock with them. “You’ve got to get up here!” she shouted. “It’s fantastic. Unbelievable. Never seen anything like it.”

How could I get there? I asked. We’d heard that all the roads leading to the festival were blocked, with kids abandoning their cars to hike 10 or 15 miles to the site, carrying sleeping bags, guitars and food.

Myra said, “You can drive to Liberty—that road is clear. Come to the Holiday Inn, where all the performers are staying, and we’ll get you over to the festival.”

At 8 the next morning, I jumped into my black VW Beetle, picked up a friend, Kathy Wenning, and drove up the expressway to the Holiday Inn in Liberty. So far so good. In the bar, I saw Janis Joplin, wearing a purple shirt and black satin pants, drinking Southern Comfort and yelling, “Hiya honey,” to friends.

When the next caravan formed, Myra jumped into my Beetle and we maneuvered into the middle of the limo line. If anyone waved or shouted at us to get away, Myra yelled back at them. We took off with sirens blaring and red lights flashing. It was comical: police cars, limo, limo, small black Beetle, limo, limo. We drove across fields, over dirt roads and private driveways, and then we had to drive through the masses of people crushed together in the open crater. The crowds parted like the Red Sea, but I was terrified I’d hit someone.

Close to the stage, they were packed so tightly you had to push hard to make your way through human walls. As you moved farther back from the stage, the crowd began to thin, and at the very back, there were campsites, tents, psychedelic buses and domes. The Hog Farm Commune from New Mexico had set up a soup kitchen where they offered free food.  Wavy Gravy, head of the Hog Farm, said, “We’re all feeding each other.  We must be in heaven, man!”

Shortly after dark on Friday, a volunteer took the stage and said, “The organizers didn’t plan for this many people! We have shortages of food, water, and latrines. So it’s up to us. Look around-–the people around you are your brothers and sisters. So treat every person here like they really are your brothers and sisters. Share, take care of each other. That’s the way we’ll get through this.”

The couple in this iconic photo are still together, 50 years later

A medical tent was set up with volunteer doctors. Kids freaking out on acid would come in yelling, “I’ve ben poisoned!” and other kids would talk them down. When they recovered, they were asked to stay and do the same for the next people freaking out. Dr. William Abruzzi, the medical director, said, at the end of the festival, that his staff did not treat “one single knife wound or black eye or laceration that was inflicted by another human being.” No one saw a single fight.

Nature, however, did not cooperate. There was lightning that threatened the electrical equipment and two torrential rain storms, which turned the crater into a sea of mud. But most of the people rolled with it. They took off their wet clothes and washed themselves off in the lake.

I suspect that one of the reasons for the collective high—the shared sense of joy and generosity—was that the drug of choice was marijuana, not alcohol. A local farmer said, “If marijuana makes people this gentle, it should be distributed free by the government.”

There was no tension with police. Arlo Guthrie said he’d had a good time “rappin’ with the fuzz,” and the County Sheriff, Louis Ratner, said, “I never met a nicer bunch of kids in my life. When our cars got stuck in the mud, they helped push us out. I think a lot of police here are looking at their attitudes.”

On the stage Saturday night, a stellar lineup of heavy bands followed one another: Canned Heat, Santana, Grateful

I crawled into one of the tipis and collapsed. When I awoke, the sun was up and Grace Slick, dressed all in white with fringes from her shoulders to her toes, was greeting the crowd, “This is maniac morning music. Believe me: This is the New Dawn!”

Stay tuned for Part 2: “The Children of Mainstream America,” to be posted soon. To make sure you see it, sign up for Sara’s blog.

Come to our FREE HOUSE CONCERT in Boulder, Friday, June 7, at 7 pm.  Email leap@saradavidson.com  and I’ll send you the address.

We’re also going to perform this for charitable groups, senior homes…. if interested in having us sing for you, email leap@saradavidson.com