The Woodstock Festival ended 43 years ago today. For a year or so afterwards, everything was so cool, so groovy, so possible.
Woodstock was a feeling, an attitude, a nation. Then it became a ghost, a legend, maybe even a joke.
When did it die? Five months later when a Hells Angel stabbed someone at the Stones concert at Altamont? When Hendrix, Joplin and Morrison added their names to the celebrity death roll? When the Vietnam War ended and there was no longer a unifying cause? When glam rock, disco and prog rock snuck onto the scene? Or was it already dying while Hendrix played his plaintiff guitar instrumental as people picked through the mud and the garbage to find shoes to wear home?
In the end, it was just a music festival, I guess. A few nice ideas, but no substance. But it could have been so much more.
One thing is for sure: we’re no longer all feeding each other.