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Watkins Glen is a beautiful town in upstate New
York, located amidst rolling hills, majestic farmland
and incredible gorges. Residing in the "Fingerlakes
Region", it is not far from Cornell University.
It is also the home of Watkins Glen International,
one of America's premier racing facilities, which
has sponsored road racing of nearly every class for
over 50 years.
Over 30 years ago, The Glen decided to host an
outdoor concert in one of its many huge fields. Three
wildly popular bands – The Band, The Grateful
Dead, and the Allman Brothers – were signed on
to do a "Summer Jam". 150,000 tickets were
sold.
However, rumors spread that it was a “free”
concert, and over 600,000 young people showed up.
Even though most did not hold tickets, they could
not be turned away.
It was the summer of 1973; I was struggling through
a turbulent adolescence and thrilled to find myself
spending most of that hot summer in the company of
Laurie and Debi. Both were much more outgoing than
me and always seemed to be looking for an adventure.
On the shy side, I quietly felt at times like a tagalong,
albeit a happy one to be included in all their plans.
Both of my friends had just graduated from the middle-class
high school of our Long Island suburb, Plainview,
Laurie planning to attend community college in the
fall and Debi working in an electronics factory.
I was a rising high school senior.
Laurie (AKA "Mama Pfeff"), popular and daring,
had beautiful blond hair and such a pretty face and
body that she sparkled. Debi "Red" (nicknamed
because of her thick mane of carrot-colored hair)
was equally beguiling and popular, though a bit more
streetwise, having hung out with the 'greasers' before
she migrated over to the friends Laurie and I had
been hanging out with since 1971.
These friends, somewhat eclectic and much mellower
than greasers, had taken on the moniker of "Jones
Beach Bums" because of the fact that there were
always some of us who met daily at Jones Beach during
the summers of our high school years. Categorized
as freaks (post-hippies), mostly grungy, long-haired
and always without money, we were however joyous and
loving, attracting teenagers from all over the island
to become part of our ever-growing "anti"
clique. And while always open to newcomers, we were
still a close-knit group, enthusiastically loyal to
each other, meeting anywhere and everywhere we could
find, our bond strengthening with each passing year.
As the "Bums" grew, smaller groups inevitably
formed, and I was excited that Debi and Laurie drew
me into their intimate subset that summer. Always
the follower, I usually went along with whatever they
suggested, with or without the rest of the Bums. Although
there were occasions that I didn’t join them
in an escapade, such as the times they decided to
experiment with dropping acid (following the lead
of a few other Bums). But even though I was intimidated
in some situations, I was relieved that they continued
to give me the opportunity to participate in their
quests for fun and excitement.
In the summer of '73, rumors were rampant amongst
the Jones Beach Bums regarding the upcoming Watkins
Glen Festival. Most of us were frustrated by the fact
that we'd been too young for Woodstock. It was our
dream that “Summer Jam” would be our
Woodstock, that it was going to be our chance to party
and have as much fun as the lucky Woodstockians seemed
to have, and that maybe it would be even better!
While it was advertised as only one day (not three)
and only 3 bands (not many), no one believed that
was the truth. We all truly believed there were going
to be surprise visits by just about every band in
the world, so it had to last longer than one
day. Everyone I knew wanted to be a part of it...all
of us were totally convinced that it would surpass
Woodstock as the greatest concert ever.
So even though I was not a big fan of hard rock,
Debi and Laurie didn't have any trouble convincing
me to join them on this particular adventure. However,
I preferred music that I could personally sing, such
as Neil Young, Cat Stevens, Joni Mitchell, etc. As
a matter of fact, I totally idolized Joni Mitchell,
and it was my great hope and desire that this deep,
incredible singer/songwriter would be one of the surprise
guests at the festival. (After all, she had shown
up unexpectedly at Woodstock.)
Transportation to the festival was an issue, but
Debi and Laurie assured me that they would find
us all a ride. And true to form, not long after we
bought our $10 tickets they told me that they had
secured us places in a van with a group of other Beach
Bums. I was so excited! Confident that I would be
driven to the festival and then surrounded by many
good friends, I even talked my beleaguered parents
into buying me a bright orange, inexpensive sleeping
bag for the journey.
My parents did not have much energy left to monitor
my activities. With three younger children in my family
(ages 13, 8 & 2) they were very distracted, and
were by this time somewhat worn out with my ever-increasing
Beach Bum activities. They reluctantly accepted my
plans with minimal protest.
Unfortunately something happened, and just two days
before we were to leave on our journey Debi and
Laurie discovered that our ride to Watkins Glen had
fallen through. If we still wanted to go to the festival,
our only option for transportation was the magic thumb.
I was disappointed that we lost the ride, but the
thought of hitchhiking to an unfamiliar town in upstate
New York didn't faze me at all. Hitching was something
the three of us often did because our friends (and
our various meeting places) were all over Long Island.
And to be perfectly honest, we considered it fun...not
to mention a great way to meet cute guys. The only
change we made to our plans (besides lying to our
parents, as knowledge of the hitchhiking would have
definitely put them over the edge) was to leave for
the festival a day earlier.
Since the festival was scheduled for Saturday, we
started our journey on Thursday. Did I have a clue
as to how to get to Watkins Glen, what route to take,
where exactly it was? Nope, Debi and Laurie
were always in charge of those kind of details, and
I trusted their leadership.
Around noon, I told my mom that 'our ride' was picking
us up at Laurie's house. Then I walked over to the
Old Country Road Exit of the Seaford Oyster Bay Expressway,
where I met up with Laurie and Debi. Giddy with
excitement, our thumbs went up and our spirits went
soaring.
For enhanced visualization, see http://www.jonesbeachbums.com/1973_page.htm
Three girls, a mere 17 and 18 years old in skimpy
outfits, standing on an entrance ramp of a highway
carrying sleeping bags and backpacks would be a alarming
sight in today's world. But in the early 70's (at
least on Long Island) that was pretty common.
I don't know if the world has changed, or we are now
just much more aware of the dangers.
Our first two rides were brief and took us to the
NYC limits, which was not a good place for the three
of us to be, even back then. It was the area where
if a car broke down and was deserted, in 5 minutes
it would be stripped of everything. In 5 minutes flat
it would become an automobile skeleton.
We all knew – though it was unspoken –
that vultures were close by.
I may have had no idea how to get to Watkins Glen,
but I did know it was over 5 hours from Plainview.
In one hour we had progressed about 20 minutes, and
then found ourselves standing in a dubious spot, to
say the least.
That was the first time it struck me that maybe I
should have placed the Watkins Glen trip in the same
category as an acid trip.
But as luck would have it, in a short amount of time
a third car pulled over to pick us up. It roared,
clanked and sputtered, was painted psychedelic colors,
and inside were 3 guys. Two of them were young, while
the third appeared much older. Also, in the backseat
was a large, panting, drooling dog of indeterminable
breed.
Besides the bizarre paint job, the car was old and
could not accelerate above 50 mph. It had bad shocks,
no padding on the ceiling, the driver-side window
was broken and taped, and the radio was missing. Nevertheless,
we were thrilled when we were told that they were
on their way to the Watkins Glen Festival too. We
put our paraphernalia in the trunk and climbed into
their car.
The interior reeked of beer. Dozens of empty beer
cans littered the car floor, amidst a partial case
of unopened ones.
The oldest one deserves the most detailed description.
He seemed ancient to me, but who really knows? I was
only 17, so everyone over 25 looked old. Also, drinking
and drug-taking can age a body prematurely, and he
did not hide the fact that he loved drinking and drug-taking.
He was tall, ropey, and had very weathered, grizzled
skin. His hair was thick, wavy, shoulder-length, and
a beautiful golden color. His mane would have been
a wonderful asset on a different body.
On him, though, it was totally wasted. Because in
addition to the aged skin, he never smiled, and had
small, ice blue and very mean-looking eyes. Except
for an occasional whoop or holler, he mumbled and
growled rather than spoke, and was very hard to understand.
Still, in a short amount of time he managed to make
it crystal clear to us that he felt superior to everyone
in the car, including his two buddies. This was because
– he repeated it over and over till we were sick
of it – he had been at Woodstock, and we hadn't.
(News flash! I just saw Debi and Laurie at a reunion,
and Debi remembers their names - even the dog!)
The oldest, somewhat withered one was called "Sunshine"...I'm
sure partly due to his hair, and partly due to his
drug of choice.
The second in command was overweight, with stringy,
long black hair, probably around 19, whom had the
interesting name of "Ripple". The youngest
guy was 17 like me, though he looked even younger,
and he was actually very cute, in a grungy elfish
sort of way. "Spirit" seemed to fit him
(though I doubt it was his mother's choice). And interestingly,
for some reason the dog's name was "Cocaine".
What cool guys, we probably thought at the time.
All three were equally unwashed, loud and rather
obnoxious, possibly due to the constant beer drinking,
although - despite their names - there was no evidence
of any illegal drugs.
Laurie, Debi and I exchanged many wide-eyed glances
while sitting quietly in the bouncy, sputtering car,
getting drooled on by Cocaine, often bumping our heads
on the unpadded ceiling, and listening to their raucous
and irritating merriment. We couldn't speak much to
each other, and we did our best to maintain a friendly
atmosphere with these three guys, who despite the
noise seemed harmless enough.
At least an hour of drinking, yipping and yaying passed,
and then they settled down into small talk, finally
admitting they weren't going straight to the festival.
They were making a "slight" detour in order
to have an indoor place to spend the night. The oldest
guy had a friend – a topless dancer, in fact
– who lived in Rochester, and that's where they
were headed at the moment.
But Rochester was 6 hours away from NYC, and
almost 2 hours from Watkins Glen! They assured us,
however, that first thing on Friday morning they were
going straight to the festival. "So," they
asked us, "Do you wanna go to Rochester with
us - our friend will have room for you too - or should
we just drop you off somewhere?"
After a quick pow-wow (consisting mainly of looks
and telepathic thoughts) we decided to go to Rochester
with them, as none of us were in the mood for hitching
anymore.
It seemed the lesser of two evils...and truth be known,
by our advanced ages of 17 and 18 we had already spent
quite a bit of time around drunk and obnoxious boys.
We had even driven with drunken drivers on more than
a few occasions. So at that point, these three did
not seem very menacing to us, particularly the younger
two, with the oldest appearing relatively harmless
due to his apparent loss of brain cells.
Whether or not staying with them was the wrong decision,
we will never know. A fourth ride could have been
worse.
Three times that day we got pulled over by police
and thoroughly searched. It most definitely was due
to the sight of the car. (Purple and yellow stripes
stand out in my memory.) In those days, not only were
teenage hitchhikers common, but cops were not concerned
about them driving around with weird-looking guys
obviously drinking beer. They were only looking for
drugs. And luckily, we didn't have any.
But each time we got pulled over and searched, we
had to open the trunk and allow the cops to go through
all of our stuff. Which, by the way, was not only
time-consuming and awkward, but also particularly
embarrassing to Debi and Laurie, who were both having
their periods, and therefore had a good supply of
tampax in their backpacks.
Eventually it got dark, and the searches ceased.
But still, Rochester seemed very far away. Of course,
the car couldn't go over 50, and all the searches
and pee breaks and beer refill stops we made hadn't
helped. However, it eventually dawned on us that the
true problem was they didn't know how to get to their
friend's house. A few times they would give up and
make frustrated calls at phone booths, but they never
wrote anything down, and seemed to forget the directions
as soon as they got back on the road.
Often during this time I considered whether or not
we should rethink our decision and continue onward
towards Watkins Glen by ourselves. But around dusk,
I was in the front seat with Laurie – Sunshine driving
– and when I turned around to glance at Debi,
I was horrified to see her making out with Spirit,
the youngest and sort of cute one.
Alas, Debi had joined in the drinking, and I realized
our group telepathy was broken. I turned back around
with a sinking feeling, and tried harder to help Sunshine
figure out the way to Rochester.
But I was no help at all with directions. In fact,
no one seemed to be, so on and on we drove...all over
upstate NY, or so it seemed. It was interminable,
but the three of us hitchers could hardly complain.
8:00, 9:00, 10:00 P.M....around then I turned around
to check on Debi, and noticed the entire back seat
– Debi, Ripple, Spirit, even the annoying mutt
– had passed out, sound asleep.
Soon after that, Sunshine suddenly announced he couldn't
drive anymore, and he pulled the car over to the side
of the road. "I'm done with driving," he
said, "so one of you better take over."
Well, it was up to Laurie, the only one of us with
a license. (I hadn't even taken Driver's Ed yet.)
With a frightened look on her face, she got behind
the wheel, I moved into the middle, Sunshine next to me
by the window - growling, and uttering things that
were hard to understand but did not sound reassuring
at all.
The situation was tense, but then it got worse when
a thunderstorm broke out. Rain pelted the car in sheets,
and the old tattered windshield wipers barely allowed
Laurie to see the road in the dark. As the rain dripped
all over her through the broken window, she struggled
to keep the car driving straight.
For what seemed like a long time the only sounds
we heard were the rain, the wipers, the thunder, and
Sunshine mumbling and growling. Laurie's fingers got whiter
and whiter as she gripped the vibrating steering wheel,
and the pounding of my heart increased in speed and
intensity as the words Sunshine were mumbling became more
coherent. Much to my dismay, I discovered that due
to some unfortunate experiences throughout his life
Sunshine hated women, including his mother, that he wanted
revenge, and worst of all that he considered the three
of us to be just like all the women he had known.
And now hated.
At that point I really regretted our decision to
go to Rochester with them.
Trying to come up with some way of distracting him
from his venomous thoughts, wishing the radio worked,
I suddenly remembered his bragging about being at
Woodstock. "Hey, Sunshine," I said, "I
bet you like Joni Mitchell, huh? You know what? I
could sing some of her songs if you'd like."
He stopped talking, a confused look on his face,
so at first I thought he didn't understand me. But
then he stared down at me and said, "Yeah, I
do...sing!"
I immediately launched into the first one that came
to my mind, "California" (sitting on
a park in Paris, France, reading the news and it sure
looked bad...) He was quiet the whole time. A
short silence ensued when I was done, after which
he ordered me to sing another. Then another.
For the next three hours, I sang continuously...as
soon as one song was over, another would be demanded.
As I sang I glanced at Laurie, and could see relief
on her face. She must have been worried about my stamina,
though, because at one point during my vocals she
touched my leg and murmured, "You're doing great,
Shari. Keep it up. Please.”
She needn't have worried about me, though, as I had
no trouble going for hours without stopping. I knew
every word and every nuance to all the Joni Mitchell
songs in existence at that time. Music and singing
was my passion, usually reserved for times alone in
my bedroom. Although I often sang at at the beach
and sometimes at a Beach Bum party, I never sang Joni
Mitchell in public because her music was too difficult
to play on a guitar.
So despite the bizarre conditions, with Joni Mitchell’s
deep and melodic words effortlessly pouring out of
my throat I became very relaxed, and it must have
gone on for a long time because I was able to sing
my entire Joni Mitchell repertoire. It was when I
was about to start over that salvation finally came.
12 1/2 hours from the time they picked us up, we
arrived at the topless dancer's apartment in Rochester.
Debi, Ripple and Spirit were woken up, and we carried
our stuff inside the woman's run-down dwelling. She
didn't seem to mind, which was surprising to me since
it was after 2 AM.
As we walked in I remember feeling totally drained
and exhausted and having just two thoughts:
1) I don't care what anyone else does, I'm crashing
in my sleeping bag immediately.
2) That woman does not look like a topless dancer.
No more than two minutes after crossing her threshold,
I was in a dead sleep in the corner, formalities be
damned. So I did not participate in the situation
my two friends found themselves in next.
As a result, the following part is secondhand:
Apparently, after they settled down in the living
room (with me sleeping in the corner, the dancer back
in bed), Laurie and Debi partook in a little pot
smoking (copped from the dancer) with Sunshine, Spirit
and Ripple, having no choice since our "hosts"
had suddenly become aggressive, insisting upon it.
Then, when the five of them had gotten high, Debi
and Laurie were informed that it was time to have
sex, and have it now.
At this point – they told me later – they
were horrified at the thought, but kept their cools,
and apologetically explained that having sex was impossible,
since both of them had their periods (which of course,
was true). At first they were not believed; there
was some outrage, cussing, maybe even some yelling
and grabbing. But apparently the sight of the large
stash of tampax came to the rescue, supplying enough
evidence to convince them that Debi and Laurie were
telling the truth.
They then supposedly said, "But what about her?",
pointing to my inert body in the corner. They said
there was no way I could be having a period too, and
there was no tampax evidence in my backpack.
And they were going to wake me up.
My good friends came to my rescue, though, and managed
to talk them out of doing that. Debi and Laurie
somehow convinced them that I was really, truly out
of commission also. I'm not sure how they accomplished
this...but possibly by this time the drinking, smoking
and early morning hour had finally taken its toll,
as a very short time later the partying ended and
they all fell asleep too.
Anyway, all I do know for sure is that I was indeed
left unmolested.
I heard the story the next morning as I stood with
Debi in the dancer's dark, dingy kitchen. We were
frying two eggs that the dancer had generously given
us, along with one piece of bread. It was our first
food since early afternoon the day before. Apparently
drinking constantly can dull one's appetite, as our
three hosts had never stopped to eat, they only stopped
to pee and buy more beer. Debi told me the part
that I missed in whispered snatches, and emphasized
the obvious fact that we should get away from these
guys first chance we got. I wholeheartedly agreed.
But, we were still not very close to Watkins Glen,
even after more than 14 hours of traveling! So after
thanking the homely topless dancer, we piled into
that weird-looking car once again. And an uneventful
three hours later, we arrived at a huge traffic jam
a few miles from the entrance to the Glen.
What a godsend for us! With traffic at a standstill,
walking was clearly the best way to get in, so we
were easily able to rationalize our escape from the
car. Over their objections, we grabbed our stuff and
scrambled out, promising to meet up with them later.
We never saw Sunshine, Ripple or Spirit again (or
their mangy dog).
Such exuberance we felt for having escaped that situation
unscathed! Not to mention high about the fact that
there we were, Debi, Laurie and Shari, on our way
to participate in the next Woodstock! We couldn't
wait to find our Beach Bum friends. We figured there
would be about 50, and all we had to do was look for
the Beach Bum flag. Another contingent of Bums had
promised to bring it and hold it high so we could
find each other, as we knew it was going to be very
crowded.
Little did we realize that over 600,000 young people
eventually assembled for this festival, so finding
a group of 50 – flag or no flag – was like
looking for that pesky needle. The Watkins Glen racetrack
was over 3 miles long, and there were many enormous
fields surrounding it. Summer Jam personnel tried
to check for tickets, but it was an impossible task,
so sometime early on Friday they gave up and allowed
the ticketless hordes to enter unchallenged. The fields
became deluged with youth – a large percentage
just kids like us – most of them probably also
expecting another Woodstock.
Yearning to find our friends, all of Friday we scanned
faces, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of faces,
searching constantly for the red and white flag. I
think we were unusual in our quest, since ours was
a generation who saw kindred spirits everywhere and
new friends were made very easily. "Love the
One You're With" we were often reminded. All
it took was youth, the right clothes, and the right
hair length to know we had come across brothers and
sisters.
However the three of us became increasingly frustrated.
It was only the Bums we wanted to be with –
at least as a starting point. Only after we found
our "family" would we be ready to
meet new people.
We were unrealistically optimistic and didn't give
up on our quest until dusk, and only then because
it became difficult to see. By that time we felt quite
forlorn. Yes, frolicking and partying were going on
all around us, but giving up on finding our family
of friends was difficult.
Yet sometime that evening we did, at which time we
latched onto a group of kids from Pennsylvania. We
must not have connected with any of them because not
a single face or name remains in my memory. I think
they were all too drunk and/or stoned to be particularly
appealing, and I wouldn't be surprised if they were
partying so hard that they barely took notice of us
either, despite the fact that we were three cute unattached
young females.
The day had been thrilling and interesting and all
that, but it had also been frustrating and tiring,
too. Electing to participate in only a small amount
of partying, again I was the first one to curl up
in my sleeping bag, bedding down on the periphery
of the Pennsylvania delegation, right out in the open
(as there was no shelter), hoping Debi & Laurie
wouldn't wander away and leave me.
Sometime in the middle of the night, when all had
pretty much quieted down and I was sleeping soundly
(as only a teenager can do in a thin sleeping bag
on hard ground), I became aware of a body next to
me. One of the young guys from Pennsylvania had unzipped
my bag and taken the liberty of joining me. He was
totally wrecked, which turned out to be a good thing
because it rendered him unable to do anything but
grope ineffectively, and to scream, "Fuck! Fuck!
Fuck!"
I woke dazed and confused, as it slowly dawned on
me that I was being attacked by a retard. I couldn't
see his face, and wondered what was going on, and
why he was screaming "Fuck!". It did eventually
become clear to me, but it was obvious he was too
wasted to be threatening, and I was able to literally
kick him out of my sleeping bag. I could hear him
rolling away, flailing on the dry grass, continuing
to scream for a while longer until he finally passed
out.
I actually found it humorous, and chuckling was able
to fall back asleep shortly after. Good thing, because
that night turned out to be the better of the two
nights I spent at the Glen.
In the morning the sky was clear, the sun was shining,
and everyone around was preparing to walk over to
the area where the show was to take place. Once again
hopeful we were going to find our friends, we followed
the throng to the immense field in front of the stage
– only to discover with a shock that the place
was already completely jam-packed, and from where
we were standing we could barely see the stage.
Ignoring the protocol that we should sit down where
we were, we squeezed and fought our way forward. For
about an hour we worked our way towards the stage,
pissing people off left and right. I was aware that
most of the people we stepped through thought we were
quite rude, but we didn't care...all that was important
was finding a familiar face – or at the very
least, getting better seats.
Youth was not only our greatest joy, it was also our
best excuse.
Onward we persevered, stepping on blankets and hands,
causing more than one muttered curse to be flung our
way, but not a single fellow Beach Bum was to be seen.
When we got close to the stage we gave up for the
last time, and managed to carve out a tiny spot in
which to settle down.
At first the people in that area were annoyed at
us for invading their already small territory, but
eventually they accepted us and even became friendly,
as the air was highly charged. The excitement was
tangible – everyone's spirits were soaring, even
those who weren't taking any of the drugs that were
plentiful and being passed around like candy. Yes,
the crowd was determined it was going to be just like
Woodstock, and drugs were everywhere to be seen and
shared.
However, the music did not begin until noon, and
it was extremely hot. In addition, water was in short
supply. We hadn't thought to bring any – all
we brought were little jars of baby food, and not
nearly enough to satisfy our hunger and thirst. At
one point I felt like I was being tortured, hot and
sweaty and thirsty with no room to stretch out my
cramped limbs.
The highlight of that particular interminable time
period was when I decided to stand up and take a look
back to where we had walked from. It was the most
amazing vista – a humongous sea of people. 600,000
hot, thirsty, anticipatory and joyous people. It was
breathtaking and awe-inspiring, and I will never forget
that sight.
When the Grateful Dead finally began to play, everyone
stood up to dance, giving at least the illusion
of more space. Everyone was smiling, grooving...how
blissful it was to be young and free, part of this
once-in-a-lifetime event, personally entertained by
the best bands of our time! But the Grateful Dead
played for five straight hours; they just went on
and on...eventually we all sat down, our minds reluctantly
diverted to the more mundane problems of our bodies.
I noticed medics squeezing their way through the
crowd. There were many people passing out, probably
from lack of water and food and too much heat and
drugs. And then I saw a welcome sight – gallons
of water making their way through the crowd, hand
over hand. I remember grasping one and deeply sucking
on it. I was so thirsty and grateful I didn't even
think about all the strange lips that had just been
around that jug opening.
Temporarily rehydrated, it was still so hot, and
the concert didn't seem that enjoyable to me. All
three groups had apparently planned to perform true
“jams”: they were certainly not the entertaining
shows we have since grown accustomed to. For example,
the drummer for the Grateful Dead actually did a two-hour
solo, the group playing for five hours before
giving up the stage for The Band. The music just went
on and on and on, while we sweltered.
Then, a seeming miracle took place during the The
Band's 3-hour performance - halfway through their
set, clouds appeared and gathered, the sky darkened,
and a drenching rain began, as if orchestrated simply
to cool off the steaming bodies of the suffering festival
goers. "Wow, and just like Woodstock!” we
all cheered. It lasted for about 30 minutes.
But during this time I did a very stupid thing -
I magnanimously suggested to my friends that we use
my orange sleeping bag as an umbrella, thinking it
waterproof. "Let's be cozy!" I said, opening
it up and holding it over our bodies and heads. Halfway
through the rain storm I realized it was not waterproof,
since it was getting soaked, and rolled it back up.
Then our bodies got wet too. But I was not terribly
concerned, since it felt so nice to be cool, and I
assumed the sun would come out again. Unfortunately
the sun never reappeared, and I stayed damp.
After the Band finished playing, it became time for
the climax of the concert, the Allman Brothers. Once
again everyone jumped to their feet in a renewed frenzy.
However, I couldn't shake the chill that had seeped
into my bones from my damp clothing. Not having a
great love for hard rock, the music failed to distract
me, and I spent the rest of the festival enveloped
and shivering inside a large piece of clear plastic
that had belatedly made it's way over to us (in the
same way as the jugs of water).
All during that time I was downright bored and miserable,
and I wondered what was wrong with me. Everyone else
was stoned, tripping, loving the music or a combination
of all three. But I just sat inside the slimy piece
of plastic in an effort to conserve my body heat,
nodding on and off for the four long hours the Allman
Brothers played their music.
I must have been quite a sight, a small lump in the
middle of a huge, gyrating crowd. Every now and then
Debi and Laurie would interrupt their dancing to
check on me and show their concern. They would say,
"Shari? Are you still alive? You haven't suffocated,
in there, have you? Get up, silly, you're missing
the best part!"
But I stayed put huddled in my little piece of plastic,
too tired to care about music anymore...and the Allman
Bros also played on and on, for four long hours. Towards
the end some of the crowd began dispersing in exhaustion,
but Debi and Laurie wanted to be there until the
final note, which did not happen until close to 3
A.M.
Then it was finally over - after only one day, with
no surprise guests! Not only that, but we were once
again painfully aware that we were bereft of our friends,
and had not connected with a single other person.
In addition, the night – overcast and starless
– had become genuinely chilly.
When the music stopped, the partying was completely
over. Everyone was spent, and the hordes of depleted
people still left in the music field moved back into
the sleeping fields. Some set up tents, while others
just laid their sleeping bags out in the open, as
we had done the night before. However, because of
the temperature drop, sleeping out in the open was
not as desirable as it had been the night before.
So we walked around talking to people, and managed
to cajole our way into a group's large tent, picking
them to focus on because they were from Long Island
and we hoped for a ride the next day.
Two of us had nice, dry sleeping bags; they pulled
them out and were asleep in minutes. But one of us
had only a sodden sleeping bag, and it didn't offer
the tiniest bit of comfort. I rolled it out and lay
on top of it, trembling in my halter-top and damp
jeans, wishing I hadn't discarded the plastic, with
no one awake to talk to. I shivered so hard my teeth
were chattering. All night long I lay there, thinking
that I had never been so cold in my life, that my
misery was constantly finding new heights, and swearing
that I would never, ever again take being warm for
granted, not ever again. I kept imagining getting
back home and taking a hot shower or a hot bath, and
oh what heaven that would be. I just couldn't wait,
but I had no choice, it seemed I had to wait forever,
and suffer the whole time. How come I never realized
that nothing on earth felt as good as being dry and
warm? There was no point in crying or moaning, I just
had to lay there, thinking I would remember this torturous
night for the rest of my life.
And sure enough, I still do - vividly.
I remember lying there as the seconds ticked by,
wondering how time could move so slowly. It felt as
if I would feel miserably cold forever...I
tried to entertain myself by thinking about the day's
events, but that didn't help at all, since it was
also depressing to realize that I hadn't enjoyed the
concert like everyone else seemed to. I liked rock
and roll music, but I guess I didn't like it enough
to ignore the discomforts of the day.
What to do to make the night go by, what to do...then
a thought occurred to me. There was music that I loved.
Next to Joni Mitchell, I loved an amazing new rock
opera. It was so interesting and moving and melodic
and rhythmic that I must have listened to it on my
record player hundreds of times, and I knew
and loved every note and word. So starting with the
very first note of the electric guitar in the overture..."neir,
neir, neir, neirrr, neir, neir, neir, neir neir neirrrrrrr...."
I listened to the whole soundtrack of Jesus Christ
Superstar, hearing every single note in my mind, relishing
each one. When I got to the end, I listened to it
all over again. Andrew Lloyd Weber and Tim Rice have
no idea how much they helped get me through that night
with my sanity intact.
Sunday finally dawned, the sky cleared, and to my
delight it became blistering hot again. The sleepless
night receded in my thoughts, and the people in the
tent woke up, the owners informing us that they had
no extra room in their van. They could not give us
a ride anywhere, much less to Long Island, as we had
hoped. Once again the three of us were alone.
Alone in that sea of thousands! Cars lined up for
miles trying to leave the Glen. Instead of hitchhiking,
we decided to walk from car to car asking for a ride
directly to Long Island, preferably one with cute
guys. In about 10 minutes we came to a van that met
those requirements. There were two nice-looking young
guys in the front seat.
Unfortunately, the driver and owner of the car -
whose name was Bernie - did not feel inclined to give
us a ride. While he was obviously in a bad mood for
some reason, we were relieved to discover that his
friend Rob was not, so the four of us lobbied Bernie
until he grumpily relented. We climbed happily into
his nice, clean van, while he firmly stated he would
not go out of his way for us, that he would drop us
off at the closest expressway to his house in Garden
City, about 20 minutes from Plainview.
Relieved to have a ride for the vast majority of
the distance, we accepted, not minding his scowling
proclamation. Well, at least at first we didn't mind.
His van was wonderful! It was the exact opposite of
the car we had arrived in – spacious, clean,
new, no animals, and both Rob and Bernie were well-groomed
and seemingly normal.
Bernie, however, continued to scowl at us, and soon
there was a high level of tension in the car. The
fact that it took 3 full hours just to get out of
Watkins Glen Raceway did not help. He did not like
traffic...and he also made it clear he did not like
freeloaders.
Once again, we found ourselves exchanging concerned
looks. And though the traffic improved after we finally
got out of the Glen, it continued to be very heavy
on the New York Thruway, making it likely that we
were not going to get back to Long Island until late
evening. The knowledge that we'd eventually have to
hitchhike from Garden City to Plainview, exhausted
and in the dark, was not pleasant to think about.
But think about it I did...if only I could think of
a way to make Bernie like us...
Unfortunately Debi and Laurie were not helpful
- very offended by Bernie's seemingly misogynistic
behavior, they decided to return his animosity, which
only made the already uncomfortable atmosphere even
worse.
Seeing that diplomacy was needed, as soon as Rob took
over driving and switched seats with Bernie, I leaned
forward and started chatting with the owner of the
car and the one in charge. I asked him questions about
himself, complimented the van, tried anything to stroke
his ego, desperate to improve his mood. It seemed
like a lost cause, since at first he wouldn't even
turn around to look at me. But I didn't give up...and
after about 20 minutes he finally started to respond
to me and to talk.
Twenty more minutes passed...then, tiring of twisting
his body around to chat with me, Bernie decided to
move into the back of the van with us, ignoring the
glares of my friends. I then spent the seven remaining
hours of the trip with Bernie talking nonstop to me,
as Rob drove and Debi and Laurie napped. To my dismay,
though, Bernie's long monologue slowly descended into
a streaming consciousness of worries, depression,
anger, darkness, resentment, fears, problems...on
and on and on. I hardly said a word during it, as
I could tell only nods of sympathy were needed...though
once again, I felt the discomfort of time passing
slowly and painfully. What a struggle it was to keep
a sympathetic look on my face and not give away my
discomfort, but I thought to myself I should now be
getting used to endurance tests! And at least I might
be rewarded for this one, at least I might soften
his hard heart...so, I gritted my teeth and listened,
changing positions often to ease the cramps in my
legs (there were no seats in the flat bottom of the
back of his van).
It got dark, and we got closer to Long Island. I continued
to listen to Bernie's deepest darkest secrets, never
relinquishing hope that his catharsis would give him
a change of heart, and that he would not leave us
stranded in Garden City.
And...Bernie did have a change of heart. When
we got near Garden City, his diatribe came to an abrupt
end as I heard him direct Rob to take each of us to
our front doors in Plainview: "and Rob, take
the one with the long dark hair home first".
The surprise I felt that after all my hours of sympathetic
listening he didn't even care to know my first name
was dwarfed by a flood of relief and triumph...and
sure enough, a short time later I was released from
the van, I crossed the threshold of my wonderful,
cozy little home into the arms of my relieved parents,
and the highly anticipated adventure that had transmogrified
into a grueling ordeal had finally ended.
It wasn't the kind of adventure I had expected, hoped
for, or enjoyed...and, interestingly, it wasn't the
last time I found myself out in the world in bizarre
and unusual environments. But I have never forgotten
the lessons learned from my trip to the Watkins Glen
Festival in 1973...
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Later that same summer, Debi and Laurie heard about
another rock festival - this one being held near Washington
DC - and they asked me if I wanted to hitch to that
one with them also. Other Bums would be going to this
one too, and they said since it was sure to be a much
smaller festival we would be more likely to find our
Beach Bum friends this time.
I quickly said no thanks. One of the lessons I had
learned was that outdoor rock festivals were "not
my thing", and I wasn't tempted in the slightest.
Unperturbed, they went without me, after which I heard
all the details enthusiastically described, the bottom
line being that it had been a great (albeit quite
muddy) time. They did indeed meet up with a handful
of other Bums this time...but at the end of the retelling,
they admitted that this festival hadn't been nearly
as much fun as "Summer Jam at Watkins Glen"...
-------------------
“Summer Jam” at the Watkins
Glen Racetrack has gone down in history as the largest
rock festival of all time.
But because of the rambling, non-memorable
performances, it is also largely forgotten.
Images
of "Summer Jam"
Epilogue
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