In the Mud
A Woodstock Experience
by
Joe Andriano
Originally written in 1994 to
celebrate the 25th anniversary of the concert.
Tweaked in 2009 to celebrate the 40th.
Tweaked one last time in 2019 to celebrate the 50th
Dedicated in 2021 to my late good friend Van Moroukian
--Pause it right there, quick!
Back it up! That was me!
--Where? What? That?
That blur, that blot?
That could be anybody.
--I tell you it's me
I remember where we sat,
right there in the mud.
I'm in the movie!
I remember it well:
the six-mile hike
from where we parked
on grass that would soon be mud,
I still see the girl in her granny-dress, her wire-rims
and her grin, sitting on the road, pleasantly stoned,
giving us the V with her fingers, it meant peace then.
My friend Van and I were the only
citizens of Woodstock Nation who had left our dope at home,
having obeyed the organizers' admonitions
Three Days of Peace and Music--without
Dope.
There was, of course, dope galore,
so we bought from some kid wandering through the throng
what we thought was weed until we smoked it. I think
it was catnip and birdseed, and I thank you now,
whoever you may be, I'm glad I saw it all straight
walking the six miles, overtaking Volkswagen buses steaming
and stalled, walking up to a farmer who was gawking at the girls
"Sir can you sell me a sandwich?" He was impressed
with my politeness (There were almost half a million
polite hippies) and he sold us fishy shrimp salad sandwiches
we quickly devoured hoping we wouldn't later be
stuck in line for the Portolet with the runs.
We walked and we walked and knew we were nearing
the concert when Richie Havens' welcome bellow came
echoing off the low dark clouds already gathering, but the rain
held off and we arrived--Richie still playing,
improvising as other bands were late.
At the gate we were told our tickets were unneeded,
we could send them in later for a refund.
We found a spot not too far down
from the rim
of the huge grassy stadium-bowl, so far from
the stage that the people there
were specks,
yet the songs resounded for miles.
We dropped our backpacks and spread
out our sleeping bags,
and the announcers got on to warn us all against polluted acid--but that's
in the movie.
Late that night, soothed by Arlo's amazing grace
and Joan's swing low sweet chariot, I tried to doze in the drizzle,
in the clam my sleeping bag had
become, with the image still strong
in my mind of a hundred thousand matches lit all around the
darkened stage, and echoes too of all the voices, chanting
the victory of youth of peace over violence.
I lay on my back in my bag, drifting off to sleep at last,
when I felt a sudden thump in my gut.
I cried out as a naked man running amok
trod over me where I lay, and clambering away
he screamed "Where am I? Where the hell am I?"
"The bad acid," said Van. "Are you all right?"
"It feels like I just caught a football in the gut."
The wind knocked out of me at
Woodstock by a tripping hippie,
the drizzle now felt good
on my greasy Unwashed face.
Saturday afternoon, after Country Joe
regaled us with the Fish cheer the fixin' to die rag
and Santana rocked us with fried neckbones,
John Sebastian tried to sing
rainbows
all over our blues but it didn't work--
we were miserably saturated and spent.
Yes, I must confess, we left early,
we abandoned our sleeping bags,
leaving them for Max's tractors,
we could not even begin to think
how to schlep the soaking things.
And when we returned to the car,
I realized they were right
who called White Lake
a sudden city:
Van cried out,
"My hubcaps are gone!"
A year or two later, we stupidly
traded in our tickets for the refund.
I don't even want to know
how much they'd be worth now.
But I took away more than the mark
of a maniac's foot. The hippies' high-water--
I was part of it all,
if only a droplet so small.
