Go to Woodstock? Uh....no

Thought about it, dreamed about it, left it there

As I remember it, the cast was endlessly entertaining. My Speech class at Nashua High School, my sophomore year, was one of those loosely run classes that you looked forward to every day because the volatile makeup of the class wouldn’t allow for calm and quiet.

The unofficial attraction of the class was our leading revolutionary Jay Markarian, a big-nosed, big-mouthed, always animated type, sparkly brown eyes blazing underneath a thick tuft of black hair cleaved precisely down the middle, the wings flying off in each direction. He was a fist-in-the-air kind of kid who would, periodically, step to the front of the room, lean forward on the rostrum with both arms and blurt “I’m gonna tell you how I got busted” to our great, raucous delight.

Though we were supposed to write different speeches every time it was our turn, Jay never strayed from his favorite topic and even though we’d heard the story many times and in many variations, we loved it. The idea that we were getting away with something, defying authority, well, that was to be savored.

The Who were spectacular in their pre-dawn Woodstock appearance.

And of course, some of that, maybe a lot of that, had to do with drugs, mostly weed at the time. There were those who advocated, used, sang its praises, looked skeptically at those who saw them as renegade would-be freaks. Free love, free dope, free from society’s demands for short hair and good manners. There was that faction in my high school.

In many ways, though, the most interesting person in that Speech class was a smaller, always-up-to-something character named Richard Theriault, who sported a caterpillar mustache like a courtier from Versailles and one of swooping bushes of hair that made him look exactly like one of the Three Musketeers. If he’d had shown up in a cape and wide-brimmed bolero hat, it wouldn’t have been all that surprising.

He had a funny way of carrying his books, too, not down at his side like almost all of us, his were carried as if he was about to make a presentation somewhere, a quick, scurrying walk, as if he were late for an appointment, always leaning in to talk to whomever he was counseling with at the moment. Devious. A devilish air about him, that little mustache twitching, eyes darting.

It was at the end of class, near the end of the year, that he began talking about this music festival, supposed to be up somewhere in New York. He was going, he said, they were going to get a van and, he scanned the faces standing in the hall, those beady eyes looking for converts until he met mine.

“Come with us,” he said. “It’ll be far out, man.” Or something like that. The jargon of the day.

Now, I didn’t know the guy. Didn’t really know Markarian, either. But the idea of going to a music festival somewhere, where there would be GIRLS, music and, well, GIRLS, well, it was, at the least, a cool idea, something worth imagining. I could easily imagine some tie-dyed temptress, one of those bead-wearing free-love girls, just crooking a finger at me, sly smile on her face, seduction in her eye.

And all of this with Creedence Clearwater, The Who, a new group called The Band, Crosby, Stills and Nash - and Young as it turned out, Joe Cocker, Jimi Hendrix, so many more, three full days of fun and music. Wow.

No Beatles or Stones, ok. But it was going be up near Woodstock, up near where Bob Dylan was hiding out. He might show up. DYLAN. Can you imagine? That would be UNREAL. Bob Dylan comes out of semi-retirement to play for the masses.

Back then, the idea of going to a genuine concert, me, a 16-year-old, non-drinking, non-smoking, only-been-kissed-once virgin, heading into an untamed whirlpool of staying out all night, doing who-knows-what-with-who-knows-whom, well, it was intoxicating but NO WAY was I really going to actually go. I wasn’t that brave. Not then, anyway.

That was 55 years ago today, as a matter of fact. Woodstock. Three Days Of Peace And Love. The whole deal.

No, Bob didn’t show up, as it turned out, maybe the first sign that NO, HE WASN’T EVER GOING TO DO WHAT WE WANTED. Neither did The Beatles or Stones.

But the remarkable three-hour-plus film of the three-day extravaganza showed me what I missed. Alvin Lee of Ten Years After absolutely sizzling on guitar on “I’m Going Home,” Joe Cocker awkwardly miming playing bass guitar, singing from deep in his soul on “With A Little Help From My Friends,” “Stephen Stills announcing “We’re scared shitless” from the stage, looking out on nearly half-a-million upturned faces before launching into the perfect harmonies of Crosby, Still and Nash, Neil Young joining them on stage a bit later. The Dead, Joplin, Hendrix, Baez. Santana.

The moment I truly wish I’d seen live was, of course, The Who, appearing in the wee hours of Sunday morning, Pete Townshend in his white Esso suit, the blonde ringlets of Roger Daltrey, bare-chested in his long fringed vest, exploding through their set, concluding with their ambitious rock opera “Tommy” just as the sun rose over Woodstock Nation.

Fortunately, the film captured much of their performance and others. But not The Band, who were just getting started, or Creedence Clearwater Revival, who delivered a strong middle of the night performance but one that leader John Fogerty didn’t think was up to snuff (it was, we later found out) so he held it out of the movie.

Of course, I saw the movie as soon as it came out, bought the three-album set and often would play it up in my room late into the night, imagining what that trip might have been like, might it have changed my life? Was watching some clips this morning, too. It made me wonder what if?

I wasn’t going to cave on drugs, that was certain. But what if I drank something spiked with acid? They did that kind of thing in those days. Pete Townshend of The Who spit out a spiked drink just before he took the stage, he said. We didn’t know so many things back then. Maybe that was a good thing.

Was Woodstock one of those moments that yeah, seemed like you had to be there for? Well, yeah. But the long lines, no water or food, the rain, the muck, the thousands upon thousands of people jamming Max Yasgur’s farm, have ultimately gotten on my nerves, made me wish I’d never left my little New Hampshire home. So…I know I missed something spectacular but that’s OK.

Reading about the festival from those who were there, Townshend, Fogerty, Daltrey, Robertson, as much as I might have liked some of what I heard, once-in-a-lifetime performances, I got to see it on film, edited. Nobody blowing smoke in my face, standing in mud, hearing the calls over the loudspeaker over somebody taking some bad acid.

Though I don’t remember ever talking to him again, I do remember Richard Theriault, his Three Musketeer look and the temptation of that half-assed offer all those years ago. I don’t know even if he went, like he said. I did. In my mind. It was a lot safer.