Woodstock

Bad press, bad weather, bad trips, technical problems, human error, divine intervention--none of these pressures was enough to snuff the spirit of the crowd that had assembled for three days of peace and music. The most common feeling among all parties--producers, musicians, audience, town, and nation--was the sense of history in the making.

It was the largest group of young people ever gathered, and the greatest roster of musicians ever assembled, and it became the defining moment of a generation. Initial media response tended toward panic, reporting the disastrous aspects of the event. But when riots failed to flare up, the media recanted, reporting that Woodstock was a peaceful event, a mass epiphany of good will and communal sharing. On Sunday, Max Yasgur, the dairy farmer who rented his 600 acres to the festival, took the stage and complimented the crowd, observing how the festival proved that "half a million kids can get together and have three days of fun and music, and have nothing BUT fun and music." Of course, most of these kids were having a lot more than that, but the conspicuous absence Yasgur alluded to was violence. Rock festivals had become increasingly frequent since Monterey Pop in 1967, and each one was bigger and more riotous than the last. The assassinations of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Robert Kennedy also added a feeling of dread to any large gathering. When Woodstock promised nothing but disaster, then passed without a single act of violence, the relief that swept over the watching nation was almost intoxicating; it seemed like a miracle. The relief among the public and the evanescent bliss of the kids led to fanatical pronouncements of the dawning of the Age of Aquarius.