The time warp

There is a soft spot in my heart for Woodstock. The original festival—not the town. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually ever been to Woodstock, NY; I hear it’s nice. But the 1969 festival is a reminder of Sullivan County and home.

Sometimes it’s a detail I throw in when describing to a new friend where I’m from.

“About 20 minutes from Bethel, the site of the original Woodstock concert.”

“Ahhhh.” Recognition.

I remember the first time I visited the monument; it had just been freshly re-painted and I gazed at the long list of performers, recognizing only a few of them.

Soon after I received the double album as a present from my father, I remember sitting on the faded tan carpet of his living room listening to it over and over again. I saw the movie once as well, ages ago, but didn’t really remember it.

“Do you mind moving down a seat?” the woman said, snapping me back to reality. She was nicely dressed, and spoke loudly with a New Jersey accent. As it turns out she wasn’t talking to me, but instead to a guy sitting two seats down. I’m at a screening of the four-hour director’s cut of the 1970 Woodstock documentary at Lincoln Center, which is about to be released on DVD.

“We’re six, and there’s only five seats on the end,” she continues.

“I do mind actually.” the fellow says, as nicely as he can muster.

“Are you kidding?” the woman asks.

“No, I got here an hour ago and I want to sit here.” Then, “You should have gotten here earlier.”

The woman grumbles back to her seat and as she passes me, sees that I have witnessed the injustice perpetrated on her, looks at me and says, “Can you believe this guy?” Not knowing exactly on whose side of the argument I fall, and not really wanting to show support for either party, I do a sort of half-shrug, nod/shake of my head.

The lights dim and a pleasant looking guy welcomes the crowd and begins to introduce the special guests: Michael Lang, the original promoter of the festival; Michael Wadleigh, the director of the film; the studio executive of Warner Brothers; and two of the producers of the festival. As each of their names is called, they walk from one side of the stage to the other, slowing briefly in the middle and turning to face the audience, smiling or nodding, with a slight wave or a peace sign. One after another across the stage.

Next comes the musicians: the drummer from Sha Na Na, the bassist from Creedence, the keyboardist from The Greatful Dead; most have long graying hair, many of them in their mid-to-late 60s.

They were dressed well, with perfectly faded jeans, flowing shirts and leather jackets. Some wore well fitting suits, some had bandanas. They all seemed happy to be there.

Michael Shrieve, the original drummer of Santana, tells the story of seeing the film for the first time with the rest of the band on 57th Street in 1970.

“We never used to get recognized,” he says. “And we were waiting in line with the rest of the people who wanted to see the film. All standing together. And then the showing before us got out, and everyone was walking out and saw us and started clapping. It was a great moment.” I could see the excitement in his eyes.

“Watching the movie when we showed up on screen, I remember thinking, ‘‘That’s me!’”

The movie opens with picturesque shots of the rolling hills of Sullivan County. Crosby, Stills and Nash’s “A Long Time Gone” bursts from the speakers. We are transported back in time to 1969. Michael Lang is young again, riding his motorcycle across Max Yasgur’s farm. He stops to talk to a news crew before hopping on his bike and taking off again.

A sea of young faces grows and grows until there are too many to even count. They don’t look that different from me and my friends.

I catch a Times-Herald Record cover in the background of one of the interviews and a mention of WVOS.

I don’t know the original film well enough to know exactly what has been added. And I was skeptical of being able to sit through a four-hour movie. But I found it totally captivating. The Lincoln Center crowd was completely engaged; sipping their complimentary Stella beer, they applauded after every musical act and sang along.

I’m not usually one to clap at movies and didn’t for much of the film. But when a 19-year-old Michael Shrieve showed up on screen with a highly featured, crazy drum solo in “Soul Sacrifice.” I clapped loudly, knowing he was sitting a few rows behind me and would probably appreciate it.

- Zac Stuart-Pontier