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ONE CAN NOT LIVE ON PEANUT BUTTER AND WINE ALONE: ADVENTURES AT A CANCELED ROCK FESTIVAL copyright 1996-2006 Robb Strycharz part 16 SATURDAY, JULY 11, 1970 continued It was about now that the town had awakened to the invasion and began to organize a counter attack. It started with one of Podink's finest. He was checking out cars as he walked up the main street towards the Bus. When he got to us he moseyed on over. "You boys are going to have to park that thing somewhere else." Just where we could park it he didn't say... or more probably likely didn't care. We turned the Bus around and headed back towards Lincoln Road. Fortunately, there was a dirt parking lot just down the road, so we pulled in. In doing so we were obeying the letter of the law but maybe not its spirit. Would we, with our out-of-state plates be towed from this private lot? At least Lincoln Road was only about 500 feet away. So this was it. It was off into the unknown again. Having no idea of where we were going or what we might face we had to pack all the gear we thought we might need for as long as we thought we might need it. Thus, the pillowcase I was using for an impromptu backpack couldn't have picked a worse time to burst a seam and split wide open. As everything I carried poured out I was greeted with rolling eyes, peppered with incredulous stares and a few nods of disgust. Greg was already well known for "pulling a Conliffe" but there was still no official name for my series of blunders. As for the mess, it was not big deal. I merely unrolled my army blanket and dumped everything into the center. I resisted the temptation to look for a long stick to make it a hobo's bundle... though ultimately doing so might have made things more manageable. As we left the parking lot and began walking back up the main street towards Lincoln Road we could already see in the writhing mass of humanity ahead, the chaos that await us. The main body of the invading MOA had begun to arrive in full force. The narrow Lincoln Road was even more chaotic. It was totally clogged, not just with cars, but bag and backpack toting Freaks hoofing it on foot. Cars unlucky enough to be already on the road were stuck. They could not turn back. They could only hope to continue creeping forward a foot or two at a time. Occasionally a desperate driver would make a determined dash to take advantage of an open space that randomly appeared before his car. Nervous Freaks played it safe, parting before it, fearing they might get hit. In the meantime they themselves took full advantage of the random spaces created between cars. All's fair in love, war, and... mass migrations. As I said, Lincoln Road was an extremely narrow street. lined with an abundance of old trees. The lower section, closest to the main road was lined with old tightly packed houses. As in Gonkers, again the town's folk peered out from behind their blinds, stared out their windows, or sat on their porches gawking at the Freakish spectacle. They had to wonder what the Age of Woodstock had wrought. At least the good people of Gonkers had been forewarned about the summer-long series of festivals. They had time to think about the hordes of Hippies that would descend upon their town, enough time for those opposed to organize an all too effective opposition. But here in poor Podink, they, nor the town itself, had any prior warning. Our invasion was a classic blitzkrieg. We were the shock troops of the Counter Culture... and we were definitely in their face. Given the rampant, mass confusion this was the worse place for my army blanket hobo pack prototype to spring leaks. Every few minutes I'd feel something hit the back of my leg or I'd hear a heavy metallic clang behind me as a can of peaches, or some such, hit the pavement. (We can all regret it wasn't I who carried the apple butter.) I'd have to stop, put my "pack" down, grab (or chase) the now dented can, and try to figure out just how the hell it had managed its escape from what I believed had been a rather ingenious makeshift pack. Obviously there was a fatal flaw in my concept... there was no way I could maintain a hold on all 24+ feet of blanket's edges without the weight of my load causing some section to slip from my grip. As soon as it did, gravity immediately pounced at the opportunity provided and surreptitiously sucked something out of the newly created hole. It was one thing to recognize the concept as fatally flawed, it was another to be able to improv a quick solution. My next design, while quite functional, would be hideously grotesque. Lincoln Road was not just narrow but soon turned steeply upwards... like we needed a hill to climb. Now items escaping from my pack posed additional challenges. A can did not just fall... it got away. One amused, but helpful, Freak stopped a can of peaches with his foot as it rolled down the hill. A few more feet and it would have disappeared beneath an old Ford Mustang. As we neared the crest of the hill the sounds of music could be heard drifting in on the hot summer breeze. It provided us all a welcoming beacon and a taste of things to come. Like the night before, we assumed the bulk of the people knew best where to go, so we followed the flow. That meant leaving the road and crossing a large overgrown field to the hotel's long main access road. The music we'd been hearing was now easily identifiable. It was the Beatles' "Paperback Writer"... and it never sounded that good back in '66. By '70 I was barely still a Beatles fan... the fact they had already disbanded that March was regrettable but not that big a deal. But, the high energy of that old classic perfectly captured the electricity we felt being generated all around us. "Paperback Writer" was nominated for inclusion as part of the ELT collection of meaningful music. The music was obviously still distant, blaring from a high-powered PA system someplace the other side of a row of small cottages. They were tightly packed into a shady grove. Maybe it was the other way around, the trees just grow up around the cottages. It must have been just before noon when we officially arrived at the Summit Hotel. Like the New Prospect Hotel, only seemingly older, the Summit was another large complex with about 15 bungalows and other buildings of various sizes spread out over untold overgrown acreage. The paved, but rutted, access road led towards the main building. Soon a white four-story wooden structure, came into view. The Summit Hotel complex was not just old but seemingly in dire need of repair. Unlike the New Prospect, the somewhat decrepit Summit could have been named the Has-been Hotel. It may have been out of business for some years before having been bought up by enterprising Freaks who saw the Bach to Rock series, especially if it turned out to be an annual event, as a source of guaranteed business. Maybe all they intended to do was serve a rapidly growing niche market: non-traditional, counter culture, big city Freaks with money and a hankerin' for such dubious delicacies as macrobiotic food and free soda. Around the grounds groups of us less affluent types were already beginning to stake out prime camping spots. By following the music we were soon able to find the center of all the activity. There was another smaller field, just about 500' north of the main hotel. It was just as overgrown, with foot high grass, as the rest of the grounds. Already set up was a flatbed truck loaded with amps. Next to it were some other trucks... a large panel trucks with more amps on its roof and a red van with a camera crew atop its roof. Somebody had obviously been busy preparing the site. As the music played on, the field itself was just beginning to fill. Despite our fears we were somewhat late we did have our choice of places to crash. We wisely picked a place not only in close proximity to the stage, but one that had an unobstructed view of the midday sun. The grass may have begun the day a foot high but it was quickly being beaten down by a thousand feet then again by the weight of half that many bodies crashed out on blankets. The hotel grounds were being transformed before our eyes. After some minor settling-in refinements to our encampment we got down to the serious business of smoking a few joints and working on the rapidly warming bottles of Bali Hai... and we waited. The People's Party was sure to start soon. Let the entertainment begin! Around us, both in the field and in its outskirts small tents and other less sophisticated shelters began to spring up like mushrooms. Some of these new arrivals were not using their brains at all: they were setting up camp in the shady groves. Fools! What could they ever hope to see of the stage with all those trees in the way? Elsewhere, just behind the fray, the traveling food vendors. After frantically trying to keep pace with the hopefully hungry hordes that left Gonkers, they began to set up shop at the Summit... at least once they were satisfied they found a potentially profitable place on one of the main arteries. And the crowd kept growing. Wow, it all had promise! We might be in on the ground floor of something Big!
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