style="font-size:15px;"> The "Fried Hockey Boogie"--our big wall-blaster which we never play the same way twice--we renamed that version "The Woodstock Boogie."
I'll get some argument on this, I expect, but we got a bigger ovation than any band there, at least any band I heard there. "Goin' Up the Country'' became the theme song, the Woodstock anthem.
Me and the boys boogieing at Woodstock, 1969
It was an historic performance which was never even used in the film as it was first released, because of goddamn record company politics. It was in the original director's cut of the film--and it was put back in a special long version released 25 years later. But before the first release, when it was decided that the film was too long, they cut Canned Heat and Jefferson Airplane. We were a United Artists act and the Warner Bros. film people preferred to mangle a Woodstock high point rather than eliminate some performers with Warner record deals. They only played our song "Goin' Up the Country" behind the opening credits.
Okay, we were a little raw, a little unpolished. But that was the spirit of the hour, wasn't it? And the crowd loved us. Our performance, especially "Goin' Up The Country," raw as it was, became the defining moment of the festival--the moment that TV advertisers would pick, decades later, when they wanted to evoke the whole weekend--hell, the whole era--in only a few classic seconds. "Goin' Up The Country" and a mass of American kids in tie-dye and hip huggers says "the 60s" the way Ingrid Bergman, Humphrey Bogart and "As Time Goes By" says "World War Two."
The best part of Woodstock was that Diane was still there, waiting for me back stage when we finished playing.
The worst part was that the Blind Owl had seen too clearly what a challenge she would be.
We had a little time after the show, and we walked around, into the crowd.
It was amazing, the sexual energy, girls walking around with their boobs hanging out, pretending it was just the normal thing for them to do, guys swimming in this muddy
little swimming hole with their dicks dangling down, next to them girls washing their hair and soaping their breasts. Couples making love in sleeping bags. One couple was on top of the bag.
An incredible sense of freedom combined with an incredible sense of order. Total liberty with no sense of chaos or danger. A magic combination, gone too soon, a memory that a whole generation chased for decades to come.
Diane and I walked through the crowd and we were infected with all this energy. Diane acted at first as if she didn't really notice the naked guys or the screwing couples, but that didn't last long. We were inflamed. We started kissing, with her back up against the fence near the stage.
I talked her into coming with me backstage again, where the rest of the band was getting something to eat in a food tent the organizers had set up. As we walked in, there was an outburst of voices in Spanish:
"Caray, cabròn, còmo estas?"
"Orale, mano, que onda?"
It was Santana's band, who had gotten there earlier. Santana, a fellow Mexican, his timbale player Chepito Arias, who's from South America someplace, a whole bunch of Latino cuates, we had a reunion in Spanish in the middle of this mammoth American festival. It was one of the early signs that rock n' roll was becoming a global language.
While we were eating, Skip (who started out as such a button-down, shorthaired business guy with the William Morris Agency) was taking another step on his colorful road to ruin.
His problem: getting the band out of Woodstock was going to be harder than getting it in. The helicopters were taking out only medical cases and the stage was surrounded by people and cars, shoulder to shoulder, fender to fender, for miles in all directions. It would have been nice to stay and party and all, but we had a gig the next day in Atlantic City.
So how the hell do we get out of here?
Skip reappeared while we were eating.
"C'mon you guys. I've got a car."
"What fuckin' car, man?" The Bear asked. "You gotta get a grip on that acid, man. We came in some kind of airplane, remember?''
"That black limousine there. Get in it."
"Whose is it?"
"Fuck if I know. I swiped it. It was sitting out there with the keys in the ignition so I took it. Now let's get the hell out of here before anyone stops us."
The Bear with a fan that jumped onstage during the performance
The band thought this was just great. Our manager was becoming one of the guys. The acid has kicked in and he's committing grand theft auto.
I hustled Diane and Linda into the limo too. Somewhere in there, Felix Pappalardi from Mountain had joined us and we started off down the exit road behind the stage, packed solid with parked cars. We rode up to each one in our stolen limo, followed by the roadies in the equipment truck, and called for volunteers.
"Hey man, we're the Canned Heat. We've gotta get outta here. Help us move this car, okay?"
The crowd was glad to give us a hand. One by one, they helped us push cars off the road and onto the grass. Sometimes a big crowd of us actually picked up the cars and moved them. It was a long night--about 8 when we started, and midnight before we got to a clear road.
In Middletown, New York, we stopped at a Holiday Inn, claimed we were another band that had reservations and took their rooms. The hallway was a long, narrow party, filled with musicians spilling over from the festival, passing joints and bottles up and down like a bucket brigade.
Linda went to the bar for some beers. Janis Joplin was hitting the Southern Comfort with her band at one table and Ravi Shankar was at another, drinking tea or whatever sitar players drink. Linda came back with the beers and went off to shower in Alan's room, figuring she'd be safe there. She was right about that too.
Diane was having a great time. I was whispering in her ear that we should go up to my room.
She gave me this long, quiet look.
"We won't do anything I don't want to? You promise?''
"What is it you don't want to do?''
"I'm not sure any more. That's the scary part.''
"I promise. Just stay with me.''
In my room, I slipped her out of her shorts, jumped out of my clothes and we curled under the covers. I was rubbing against her. I made my move.
"Don't.''
I held back. We kissed some more. I had a hard-on that would have gone through a plate of armor.
"Don't. No. Just stop there.''
When I started to pull back, she kissed me again. Hard. It was agony.
I got my hand between her legs. She recoiled and curled up in a ball.
