do you think you're going?" he asked.
"To report the news," a cameraman said.
"Fuck you, we're going to make the news," Bear roared, hurling the guy through the door.
He glared at the others. "We are the Canned Heat. It is more important that we get there than you, so we're taking this helicopter."
And we did. The Bear was a force of nature, like a tidal wave. Trying to stop him was like trying to stop an armored division. His hobby was breaking down doors. Really. He was always so happy when one of us got locked out of a hotel room on the road, or some dopey stage manager forgot the keys to our dressing room.
"Here, just let me take care of this," he'd growl, and there'd be this big happy flash of white teeth in his thick, black beard.
He didn't kick the door in, with a straight-ahead blow from the sole of his shoe, the way real cops do these days. He'd back up and run at the door, shoulder-first, like the heroes did in 1940s movies, and just crash through. He was always in a good mood after he got to break down a door.
The first sight of Woodstock from the air finally woke me up: A small city of a half million people. Tents and sleeping bags and blankets made little patches of blue and yellow and red on the green grass of the rolling hills for as far as I could see, from horizon to horizon.
I looked at Skip. He and The Bear were taking hits of LSD.
"Okay, man, it's cool,'' I said, "Dragging me out of that room. Look at the crowd."
I was overwhelmed that we were going to play for so many people.
As the helicopter came in, Skip stuck his brand new camera at arm's length out the door and blindly clicked off one shot. He sold the picture later for the cover of Ravi Shankar's Woodstock album.
"Holy shit," he yelled. "Look."
Down below us, we could see a familiar truck moving slowly through the crowd, casting long shadows in the late afternoon sun. It was our roadies, who had left New York with the equipment at three that morning.
The roadies. The goddamn roadies. How the hell did they do that? I read a lot of military history and I always think of the roadies as the infantrymen of rock: the grunts, the beat-up, unsung heroes that you never appreciate until your life depends on them and they come through for you, sort of like Gunga Din in the poem.
When we arrived, the Incredible String Band, the hippie group that played acoustic Medieval or Renaissance type music, was up on the stage. They had a name and all, but the audience could barely hear them. Their type of music was totally out of place. Gentle notes for Robin Hood in some English meadow. They just didn't have the power to turn on all those tripped-out young Americans watching the sun go down on Max's farm.
Skip was delighted with the timing. He had this thing about playing festivals at sunset. "If you start out with the sun going down around you and finish playing in the dark, it does something to the crowd. They think it's magic or something, man."
We did that at Monterey and Newport Beach and he was right. Those festival appearances boosted the band's rep right to the top.
Alan's parents met us behind the stage. They seemed oddly out of place, like running into your grandparents in a hot tub.
But dawdling along behind them, in cutoff denim shorts and a blue T-shirt knotted under her breasts was one of the most beautiful girls I had ever seen. She was just slightly shorter than me, with long dark blonde hair, slightly Slavic cat's-eyes, of a deep blue color. She had the cutest damn legs and the kind of finely chiseled Anglo-Saxon features you see in parts of New England.
She was about 19, a nursing student in Boston. She and her friend Linda, a spectacular-chested brunette who was a friend of Alan's sister Sharon, had set off for Woodstock the day before in a band-new Mustang that belonged to Linda's mother. Abandoning the car in Bethel because they couldn't get any farther in the traffic jam, they walked five miles into the festival and hooked up with Sharon.
I said hello to Linda, who I had met once before with Sharon Wilson. But no matter how terrific the view of Linda's chest was, I just couldn't take my eyes off her shy friend, whose name was Diane.
The Incredible String Band was limping along toward what passed for a finale in their music. Skip was trying to push us up the steps to the stage, yelling "The sun is setting, you guys, c'mon. This is going to be perfect.''
Just looking at this girl made me nervous as hell, but I had to make a try.
"Come on up with us,'' I said.
She laughed. "Why? What can I do up there? You guys have to play.''
In the late afternoon sun, it looked like her head was surrounded by a ball of flames and I hadn't even taken any drugs except one little joint.
"I've got a job for you. Come on."
We were climbing the stairs to the stage. She wasn't coming. Shit.
Alan, right in front of me, said over his shoulder: "Forget it, bandito. Dead end street, man.''
"No way, man. I am inspired. She is beautiful.''
"She's a virgin. And I bet she stays one. I know her. We used to play in the same sandbox.''
"I want to play in her sandbox,'' I said.
I liked Alan too much to add what I was thinking: I don't take advice on my love life from the only rock star in the world who is too uncool to get laid anywhere.
In the chaos backstage, we ran into people we knew, Jefferson Airplane, Janis Joplin, Big Brother and the Holding Company. Chip Monck, the emcee, asked Skip when we wanted to go on, since we had just gotten there and the roadies were just opening up the truck.
"We'll go next," Skip said, looking at the sun. We all sort of flinched, except maybe The Bear, because by now the acid was kicking in. Also, he still felt pretty good over throwing all those guys off the helicopter.
"I'll go get our check," Skip said. "I also have to talk to some guy about a contract--film rights and shit. You guys get out there and kick ass."
We had no idea that we were about to play the single most famous gig of our lives, for the biggest paycheck the band had seen up to that point, and right there behind the stage, shouting over the music, our manager was hammering out a contract for our part in one of the most famous, lucrative music movies of all time. Movie rights, something we had no experience with. He wound up making a deal that was followed by all the bands that appeared in the movie and on the sound track album.
And he was on acid.
We were high up above the crowd, on the highest stage I've ever seen, three stories. As we were setting up, a voice said softly behind me: "Okay, so what's my job?"
Fucking great. Diane had gotten up there with us. She and Linda.
"Oh, hey, terrific. Thanks for coming. This is easy but it's important. Here, take my watch and my wallet. And go get anything valuable from the other guys, watches, rings, money, stuff like that, and guard it for us, okay?"
"Okay. But why?"
"You ever seen us play?"
"I've got some of your records."
"We really get it on when we play. We get into the music pretty good. Sometimes watches fly off into the crowd, guys lose their wallets. I break drumsticks if I'm wearing rings."
"You really need me to do this?"
Well, actually a roadie would usually hold our stuff, but it sounded like she wanted to be needed and I was ready to do anything to keep her around.
"Yeah. We probably can't play if you don't. They'd have to call off this whole incredible scene. All these people would have to go home and it would be all your fault."
She smiled. It was a beautiful smile.
"Okay. Here I go. Little Miss Responsible." She and Linda started collecting stuff from the guys and found a place to stand