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.
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