LIGHT MY FIRE

The Peace and Love of 30 Years Ago Go Up in Smoke at Woodstock '99

ROME, N.Y., July 26—Woodstock '99, a sprawling three-day festival marking
the '60s counterculture's epic celebration of peace and love, ended badly.

During the Red Hot Chili Peppers set Sunday night, concertgoers lit fires,
vandalized the food trucks, set a vending area on fire and pulled down one
of the sound towers near the East Stage.

Initially the fires seemed to be just another of the dozens of spontaneous
celebrations occurring offstage, starting small as concertgoers ignited
scraps of cardboard, pizza boxes and plastic bottles. They grew into
bonafide conflagrations when sections of the wooden "Peace Fence," erected
by promoters to keep gatecrashers out, were added to the flames. A vending
tent was torched and people began looting, taking T-shirts and distributing
them throughout the crowd. Twelve tractor-trailers were set ablaze, their
contents of soda and merchandise stolen. Police in riot gear arrived to
protect the vendors' remaining property.

Even as the potential for serious injury increased, a festive atmosphere
prevailed. At one point, a merry prankster's voice came over the
loudspeaker: "Please pick up all garbage and throw it into the fire." Soon
after came another announcement: "Woodstock is now under martial law.
Anyone here who has a good time will be shot. Anybody with a Woodstock
MasterCard will be spared"--a reference to the commemorative credit card
being peddled during the festival.

Police were vastly outnumbered by the thousands in attendance, and not all
the concertgoers were pleased by the turn of events. "I hate it. I don't
want Woodstock to be remembered for this. Up until now, this was
peaceful--no fights," said James Baker, 20.

Even before the fires, the festival seemed characterized by belligerence.
If the essence of the 1969 original could be distilled into a single
gesture--the two-fingered peace sign--Woodstock '99 might be best
represented by a raised middle finger.

The thousands of people amassed Saturday to hear Detroit metal rapper Kid
Rock greeted him with his customary one-finger salute. During Everclear's
set, frontman Art Alexakis sent out "a big [expletive] you to the people
who tried to make this a commercial venture." But Limp Bizkit vocalist Fred
Durst best summed up the spirit of Woodstock '99: "This is 1999 . . . .
Stick those Birkenstocks up your [expletive]."

Still, there was more to Woodstock '99 than expletives and ashes. The
festival, which drew more than 200,000 people to a former air base now
known as Griffiss Park, offered a wide range of music: the testosterone
hip-hop of DMX, the girlie folk of Jewel, the neo-swing of Brian Setzer,
the electronic wizardry of the Chemical Brothers and Fatboy Slim.

There was also a wide array of drugs to choose from. "Basically, you have
all the food groups represented here," said one emergency medical
technician. "Marijuana, acid, mushrooms, crystal meth. Ecstasy seems to be
very big. And hallucinogens--a lot of hallucinogens."

Maybe searching for a larger meaning behind Woodstock '99 is an impossible
endeavor. The purpose of this installment of the Woodstock festival was not
as clear as it was back in '69, when the original, rightfully famous
festival at Max Yasgur's farm helped define a generation.

Maybe the meaning of Woodstock is like notions of integrity, God or good
manners, concepts that mean different things to different people. The
Woodstock '99 experience was largely shaped by what drugs you consumed,
what music you listened to, whether you moshed or raved, where you slept,
whom you slept with or whether you slept at all. Most people seemed to get
what they were looking for, whether it was music, mushrooms or just a good
time.

"This is not about peace or anything like that," said Vincent Sainato, 24.
"It's one big party."

"We're not here to recapture the spirit. We're not here to redo what they
did in '94," said Charlie Saunier, 23, a student at Clemson University.
"We're here to make our own mark in the millennium. In a society where all
you hear about is murder and death, here's all these people that can get
along and have a good time."

Backstage on Friday night, two members of the Los Angeles hard-rock band
Buckcherry talked about the meaning--or lack thereof.

"We're really glad to be part of a historic event," deadpanned guitarist
Keith Nelson, who clearly didn't mean it. "Seriously--Woodstock is a really
good excuse to have a party."

Vocalist Joshua Todd corrected him. "It's just somewhere to sell some
acid," he scoffed.

Robbie Bellon, a 21-year-old from Brooklyn, N.Y., took in the all-night
rave early Sunday morning. "What does Woodstock '99 tell the world about
us? It says we all wanna be naked all the time. It says we're drug addicts.
Half of these people are wired," he said.

His friend Nick Terzis, 23, was enjoying a slightly different experience.
"I got hit in the head during Metallica's set," he said. "It hurt for a
second, but that was it. Then I noticed all these people were staring at me
and taking pictures of me. So I had to go to first aid, and I missed the
last four songs. But people were really helpful, handing me towels,
spraying me with water. That says a lot about the crowd."

Giving Peace a Chance

Not everyone came to party. Omed--who uses only one name--lives at Basin
Farm in Bellows Falls, Vt. He rode the "Peacemaker Bus" here along with
other members of his religious community, known as the Twelve Tribes. "We
live out the word of the Son of God. The result of living out His life is
that there's a place people can live and love each other in a practical way.

"We came here to share the hope that we have with others. The crowd that's
here has been degraded a lot in their conscience. They've chosen to live a
life that doesn't represent the character of God."

Omed, 31, and his fellow community members worked in a cafe near the West
Stage, but they did not enjoy all of the music. When the shock rappers
Insane Clown Posse performed, he said, "every word was a cuss word. It was
almost degrading to listen to. They've strayed so far from their humanity.
But we got through it. We kept our peace."

The tent set up by the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals featured
videotapes of farmers assaulting a lame sow with a cinder block. Then there
were Defenders of Wildlife. Defenders of Mumia Abu Jamal. Defenders of pot
smoking. Fight racism! Boycott Home Depot! Drown the Debt!

David Bryden, 31, the community director of Jubilee 2000, an organization
devoted to erasing Third World debt, came from Mount Rainier, Md. "Most of
the kids who come by the booth are really supportive and sympathetic," he
said. "But a few of them are like, 'Oh, just bomb those poor countries!'

"But I think these kids are more active than they're given credit for. The
issues of personal freedom that are natural for them to be concerned with
are censorship and medical marijuana. In the '60s, there was a focus, there
was a war. Just because there isn't a national focus for activism of that
kind doesn't mean that activism doesn't happen."

Hundreds of vendors hustled more tangible things--tie-dyed T-shirts, natch,
but also tie-dyed tuxedos. Jewelry. An array of hemp products. Clove
cigarettes. Rolling papers. So many bumper stickers: "Save the Planet. Kill
Yourself." "I Killed Kenny." "A Fool and His Money are Soon Partying."

Festival-goers could also acquire a Woodstock commemorative MasterCard--3.9
percent APR financing, no annual fee. Lewis Lux, 23, of Eugene, Ore.,
filled out an application. "This is capitalism at its finest," he said. Lux
has never had a credit card before. "I don't know if I'll use it. Maybe
just for emergencies. Maybe I'll keep it for a souvenir."

Next to the MasterCard booth was a colorful array of bongs.

On A Drumroll

Perhaps the most classically Woodstockian aspect of the festival was
"Drumstock '99," a drummers' circle that began spontaneously at around 1:30
a.m. Saturday about halfway between the East and West stages. By midday
Saturday, more than a dozen metal trash cans had been co-opted by a ragtag
group that banged and thumped with fists, sticks, rocks, plastic
bottles--whatever participants could get their hands on. "Some guys just
turned over a trash can and started banging on it. Some people joined in,
and it just kept going," said Dave Murphy.

At times the ruckus sounded like the amplified pattering of raindrops.
Other times, the steady beats suggested a gaggle of jackhammers. Several
hundred people were gathered around, jerking convulsively to the deafening
rhythms.

Saturday afternoon, Kris Keyes, a muscular member of the band Gargantua
Soul, whose body was painted a fluorescent orange, jumped on top of one of
the cans and danced. He thrusted his pelvis to the rhythm, his head thrown
back, arms lifted. His Mohawk was dyed yellow. Blue flames were painted on
his face and along one arm. The drummers banged harder, louder. He danced
for maybe five minutes, then jumped on his skateboard and headed toward the
West Stage. As he skated off, he removed his bright orange earplugs.

Craig Richard, a 29-year-old PhD researcher from Philadelphia, drummed for
several hours dressed in a Santa Claus suit. To him, the beats sounded like
"cardiac fibrillation."

Why Santa?

"Santa is the ultimate benefactor," he explained, "the ultimate symbol of
free love and giving from the heart."

Bosom Buddies Woodstock was not a Utopia. Despite the presence of such
hip-hop acts as Jamiroquai, DMX and Wyclef Jean, the festival-goers were
overwhelmingly white. Many in the crowd complained that the event and the
food were too expensive. By Saturday, the Woodstock wall erected to keep
concert crashers out was decorated with graffiti critical of the event:
"$150 TOO MUCH," "THE FOOD REVOLUTION. END OF PROFIT$TOCK," "PEACE, LOVE
AND COMMERCIALISM."

"People are a little upset about the prices of food and stuff," said Kevin
Huston, a 20-year-old welder from Nebraska. Tickets cost $150 plus a hefty
service charge. A small bottle of water sold for $4.

"I haven't seen too many blacks or Hispanics here at all, but that may be
because of the choice of the music. It may also be a money thing," Sean
Saunders, 22, who came with a group of friends from New Jersey.

Another wall sign read, "Keep Corporate Hands Off Our Music," an odd
sentiment given that most of the acts that performed are signed to major
labels. "Some people, like one of the bigger female artists who played
Sunday, are complaining about how commercial this is," said Buckcherry's
Nelson. "But they're cashing their checks, right?"

Nudity was very big at Woodstock, which made the event a Utopia for some
people but not for others.

The crowd was peppered with cardboard signs urging women to bare their
breasts. By Saturday evening, Rachel Odessky and Julie Bonner, both 20, had
had enough of such exhortations--and of the women who obliged them. "I
think it's less about free expression and more about getting attention,"
said Odessky. "The guys' behavior is bugging me. . . . It's like everyone's
regressing."

Odessky shrugged. "I guess everyone is rebelling, but in a different way.
Back then, people were rebelling for social problems. Now we're . . . " she
paused, trying to come up with the right words.

"Trashing the place," said her friend, Mike Francavillo, 19.

"Yeah, I guess that's about right," she said.

Rage Against . . . What?

Saturday night on the East Stage, what many considered the centerpiece of
the festival began with metal heavies Limp Bizkit, Rage Against the Machine
and Metallica. Halfway through Limp Bizkit's set, the music stopped.
Medical personnel ran into the massive crowd and returned with injured
fans. The moshers had torn down a barrier around a sound tower, injuring
people in the process. Medics told journalists they were treating spinal
injuries and fractured ribs before their supervisors herded the press away.

At the following morning's news conference, a reporter from MTV compared
the medical tent during Limp Bizkit's set to "a Vietnam triage unit" and
criticized what she accurately described as a "violent atmosphere."

"If you indeed work for MTV," snarled promoter John Scher, "you should be
more sensitive to the sociological issues around groups like Limp Bizkit."

Whatever that means. When he was finished chewing her out, the assembled
press applauded him. Music journalists can be such sycophants.

Let It Rain

While Metallica thrashed in the East, a different vibe took hold more than
a mile away on the West Stage. During the Chemical Brothers deejay set,
dancers scampered around, arms flailing. Huge video screens depicted a
stained-glass-styled image of Jesus and two apostles. A powerful gust of
wind came out of nowhere, and the iconic images froze on the screen. A soft
rain poured down for two minutes, and everyone glistened. They raised their
arms, heads tipped back. And then the rain stopped. After the Chemical
Brothers set, exhausted but happy dancers trudged toward the Emerging
Artists Stage. A thin young man rode a bike in that direction. He was
naked, save for the orange traffic cone on his head.

A Long, Strange Trip

Dan Burleson, 20, took a bus here from Minot, N.D. He had a long ride, but
it was worth the trip. "It's a once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing," he said.
"I can say I've been to Woodstock."

He wasn't disappointed, and yet . . .

"It's a great show, but it doesn't represent freedom like it once did. A
lot of the meaning was lost. I guess the '60s was about trying to make a
difference. The '90s is just about trying to get away.

"We're trying to get away from the way things are in our society.
Everything is just going down. The '90s have metal-detector-at-the-door
type stuff. When your president can barely hold standards, that's pretty
bad. It seems like all the values in our society don't really mean anything
now."

Burleson said the festival lacked a spirit of unity. "Different things
separate people now. In the '60s, it was war and race. Now the college kids
here are walking around with fat wallets. I came here with barely anything.
But I guess that gives me something to grab for."

But he's still not sure what that is. Right now, he works in a hotel,
booking room reservations by telephone. He hasn't gone to college. He's not
sure if he will. "I guess I'm Generation X. I don't know where I'm going,
but I'm here."

"Outcast" is tattooed on his stomach. But when Korn played its thudding,
heavy blend of metal and rap on Friday night, Burleson felt different for a
little while. The outcast feeling went away. "It was really great. All the
people were into it at the same time. It made me feel happy."

The Cops By 2 o'clock this morning, Griffiss Park was an otherworldly
phantasmagoria of flames set to a cacophony of drumming and chanting, all
under a pall of acrid smoke. State police had secured the western half of
the concert grounds; several hundred troopers with batons and rubber gloves
stood in a massive phalanx, keeping the remaining festival-goers out.
Nearby, scores of attendees defiantly continued "Drumstock" despite taunts
from police at the fringes of the crowd. "Why don't you just go home? Go
home!" an officer shouted.

"Right now," said 24-year-old Patrick Hurst of Harrisburg, Va., "it's kind
of tense with the police line and everybody drumming. I don't know what's
going to happen."

Police Lt. Robert Patnaude knew what he wanted to happen. "We want to get
them away from the propane tanks in the vending area," he said. "Hopefully
they'll just pound those drums till they fall asleep."