Rolling Stones: Altamont

SAN FRANCISCO — Well, friends, we have finally experienced the 100% bummer, the new standard for bad trips. The Rolling Stones Free Concert — the last party of 1969 — a re-affirmation of the spirit of Woodstock and a meeting of the Tribes.

Garbage.

If there was any point at all to the Stones concert, it was this: all the good vibrations in the world ain’t gonna cut it if nothing else is together. By the time the Stones came on it was too late for even Mick Jagger to cool things down.

If there is anyone to blame, it’s neither the Stones nor the people who worked through the night to get the concert on. Sorry — I know it’s nice to have a villain. But in this case, it all comes down to planning.

If 300,000 people are going to gather together in peace, certain conditions have to be met: adequate access and parking, adequate sanitary facilities, adequate sound and sightlines. A route to the backstage area has to be kept open so bands and equipment can be moved in, and injuries and freakouts can be moved out. There has to be room for people to move around, or claustrophobia (especially on acid) can turn into hysteria.

None of these necessities can be provided without careful planning. The production crew was well-aware of all this, but circumstances beyond their control (a last-minute switch in location) forced their hand. They d#d. their best, trying to accomplish in 20 hours a job that should have taken a week. Their best wasn’t good enough.

Word that the concert was actually going to come down hit the street on Tuesday, December 2nd. The Stones’ road crew was in San Francisco, and the concert would happen on Saturday, if a site could be found. Their first choice was the Polo Field in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park. It would have been an ideal site; only a few weeks before, 200,000 people had gathered there for an End-The-War Rally, and everything went perfectly. A 20-foot-high stage allowed everyone to see, and a superb sound-system sent words and music to the far reaches of the crowd.

But you need a permit to put on a concert in the park, and the Stones’ production crew knew they were unlikely to get one; the Park Commission frowns on rock music these days. In any case, an application was never even filed. Instead, it was announced on Wednesday that the concert would take place at the Sears Point Raceway, some 30 miles north of San Francisco.

Work crews were dispatched immediately. “The only trouble is that time is so short,” said Chip Monck, head of the production crew. “At minimum, this is a 15-day trip.” But with three days, and a lot of energy, it might get together. KSAN-FM, the underground rock station in San Francisco, broadcast almost-hourly bulletins calling for workmen, material and food to be brought to site. Around-the-clock activity (and, probably, a lot of dope) would save the day.

Then less than 48 hours before the concert was to begin, disaster. The $6,000 rental fee which had been agreed on (and which, incidentally, was coming out of the Stones’ pockets) went by the boards. Filmways Corp., which owns the Raceway, was suddenly asking for $200,000. Needless to say, this was out of the question. A frantic search for an alternate site produced Alta Monte Speedway, near Tracy, but the time pressure was crushing. No more than 30 hours remained, in which the stage and sound equipment already set up at Sears Point had to be taken down, moved to Alta Monte, and set up again.

The site-change, was announced on KSAN Friday morning, along with a desperate plea for people to avoid the area so as not to impede the work. The concert would still go on as planned, the announcement said, starting at 11 AM and running until dark. With the Stones would be the Jefferson Airplane, the Grateful Dead, Ali Akbar Khan, and other groups to-be-announced. Keep off the site until Saturday morning! The doors will not open until 7 AM! Over-night camping will not be permitted! If you haven’t got a gig, stay away!

Nonetheless, the traffic started Friday evening. Memories of the Woodstock traffic jam impelled many, fearful of never reaching the site at all, to start early. Almost every freak within 500 miles of San Francisco was planning to go.

We got up at 3 in the morning and were on the road by 4:30, but the Freeway was already full of traffic. Nearly every car we passed was full of beards and long hair. An incredible lemming exodus in the direction of Tracy. By 5:30 we were within 15 miles of the site, and traffic was at a dead stop. We cut around the jam, found a 2-lane blacktop that seemed to go in the right direction, and by 6:00 we were parked. As it turned out, we were only a mile away from the Speedway itself.

Still dark, and quite cold, the night was filled with music coming from numerous portable radios and phonographs. Right near me, Dylan’s Desolation Row was playing very loud. The fields were covered with sleeping bodies, camp fires and pot parties. Obviously, the no-camping rule had been universally ignored. We found a large fire, smiled at the circle of freaks that surround it, and sat down to warm our feet and hands. Good vibes. When it began to get light we set off down the road, in the direction of the Speedway.

By 6:45 we were standing on a rolling hillside, looking down on an incredible sight:, a giant, oval racetrack with people streaming across it like ants. Cars are parked everywhere, and traffic is at a complete standstill. People are sleeping and waking up, smoking grass, dancing, making breakfast and generally freaking around. The stage is set up in a big, natural bowl on the far side of the track, and already the area directly around it is jammed with what looks like 5,000 people. We thread our way through the mass, into a frenetic storm of activity.

The crowd has already reached saturation density, but the sky is getting bright, the pot smoke is heavy, and people are too stoned to get hassled. Yet. Large scaffolds have been set up with lights, amplifiers, speakers and movie cameras on them. A constant scurry of technicians swarm up and down, setting, adjusting, checking.

The area around the stage is roped-off. Here the technical activity is at its heaviest. “There are two and two 290 drivers on the 203 horns that are'going to be driven off separate amplifiers,” is the way the rap goes. “That’s in addition to all the shit you’re doing. Now, this side over here hasn’t even been started. OK, are you ready? Can we do the horns now? How are you doin’ for blocks of wood? Hold on'the blocks of wood,’till we get the horn up there. That’s all the horns there are.”

Unfortunately, trucks with equipment are trapped on the outer fringes of the crowd, which now stretches halfway up the-hill. Sam begs the audience to make way, but without result. Some cat gets up on stageand sings a dispersal mantra. Nothing doing. Finally, outraged, yet another cat starts yelling, “Fuck you, fuck you!” at the crowd. Inches at a time, the trucks creep closer to the stage. The crowd closes in behind them, instantly.

The sun comes up at 7:45, and cheers ring out. A helicopter, the first of the day, soars and hovers low over the crowd. By now, the stage has been completely cut off by jhe audience, who are already sitting in place. They have been here all night, and defend their territory with unrelenting savagery. The roped-off area surrounding the stage is still off-limits to the audience, but photographers and reporters mill around in it, chased now and again by an English cat named Sam Cutler, the Stones’ road manager. The area is supposed to be completely clear, he repeats at three-minute intervals, but the press just shift position. In truth, there is nowhere for them to go; outside the ropes the early-birds press closely, and refuse passage to anyone. It’s their territory, and trespassing is not allowed.

Now it is getting warmer. A giant yellow and green hot-air balloon carries two passengers up into the morning air, where they hover at the end of a rope. Reporters and cameramen are harried from pillar to post. “Get outside the ropes!” “I can’t, you schmuck, there’s no room!” ‘Then get over there out of the way.” Over there, another cat orders “Get outside the ropes,” and on and on.

By 10:00 the crowd extends over the entire bowl, locked in by ever-increasing new arrivals. You can?t move your feet, and you can’t get out. The stage area remains more-or-less inviolate, but the pressing audience begins to bulge the ropes. Monitors eject the unlucky few who get pushed too far forward. It’s like a game: if you get shoved past the rope you have to go all the.'way to the back and start over.

Hells Angles abound, and backstage things are getting pretty tense. Almost everybody is tripping on one thing of another. The area reserved for the musicians and production crew is now nearly as crowded as the bowl outside. The Angels are in charge of keeping things clear, but they’re drunk on beer and short of patience; if you’re in the way, you’re as likely to get bashed as to get moved. A fight breaks out backstage, and the Angels really jump on some cat. He is carried away on a stretcher, over the heads of the crowd.

Finally, around 11:00, Santana manages to get on stage and the concert begins. It becomes obvious, at once, that the majority of the crowd is too far away to hear anything. The audience shoves closer, and the roped-off area is captured. Now the only access to the stage is from behind, and that grows tighter minute by minute. Soon the crowd has taken over the stage itself, leaving an area barely big enough for the band.

The vibrations get worse. Another fight. It’s hard to tell exactly what’s happening, because it’s purely impossible to get out front from the backstage area. I end up hiding from Sam next to a large equipment truck, and never get back in front of the stage. I’m lucky; those who are out front are stuck there for hours. There’s not an inch of ground available to step on, and if you try to move people push you down to get you out of their way. Santana finishes their set, and the Airplane replaces them. Backstage, the sound is really crappy because the audience has knocked out the stage-monitors. Sam begs them to move back, but of course no one does.

. In the middle of the Airplane’s set? the music suddently stops. Grace Slick screams, “No! Oh, no! Oh, stop them, stop them!” An Angel, for reason or reasons unknown, has hit Marty Balin and knocked him out. An altercation develops, another Angel goes for Paul Kantner, but he is finally grabbed and restrained. Balin comes to, and in attempt to cool things the Airplane goes into Somebody to Love.

Backstage, where most of the press has taken refuge; you cant’ see and you can’t hear. Also, the Angels are getting drunker and the vibrations are getting really bad. Like a fugue, the word “bummer” filters through the crush. I can’t take it any more, and we fight opr way out through the mob. The long way around, over the racetrack, and we find ourselves on the fringe of the audience, way in back.

From what seems to be miles away, the stage nearly invisible, the music of the Flying Burrito Brothers wafts faintly through the air. It’s only 2 in the afternoon. Helicopters fly constantly over the crowd, picking up the injured and flying them to Livermore, completely drowning out the music in the process. Nonetheless, there is room to stretch out and the vibrations are a lot better. People share food and weed, laugh, and try to see the stage with field-glasses.

We shift forward a. bit, filling the holes left by those who split. The sound improves as the afternoon gets later, and by the time Crosby, Stills and Nash come on it’s adequate, if a little thin. This is in back. Up front, where the sound is better, we can see fights breaking out around the Hells Angels. People are fucking with their bikes, which are parked in front of the stage, and the Angels take preventative action.

The stage is completely swamped with people. The sound system gets trampled and knocked over, and Sam Cutler makes yet another plea for people to move “just four steps backwards.” There is some response, but when the music begins again the crowd surges forward even closer than before.

Crosby, Stills and Nash are done at 3:45. Then, with the air growing chiller by the moment, and darkness coming on, the wait begins. 4:00. 4:15. 4:30. Fires are built to keep warm. We are told the Stones won’t come out until the stage is cleared. “Off the stage!” chants the crowd. Fat chance. “Off the fucking stage!” chants the crowd. By 4:45 the stage is still a mass of people. Shouts of “Quit fucking around!’’ come from the audience. It’s cold and miserable. Who cares, anymore? But all the shit will have been pointless if we don’t hear the Stones, so the waiting goes on. The Hells Angels make some progress in the stage-clearing: they throw people into the audience. Now we’re told the Stones won’t come out until the fires are put out. 5:00. The audience is really getting pissed off.

Finally, with the sky black and the night growing colder by the minute, the Stones fight their way to the center of the stage. It’s 5:15. They open with Jumping Jack Flash, but they don’t really seem to be into it. Jagger tries to clear an area around him to dance. Carol is a little better, but the bad vibes are too heavy now. Sympathy For the Devil cuts off in the middle as a fight breaks out on stage. Someone has tried to climb up, and the Angels jump him.

“Brothers and Sisters,” shouts Jagger, “come on now! That means everybody just cool out! We can cool out everybody! Everybody be cool now, come on.” He turns to the side of the stage, where the fight has run out of steam. “How are we doing over there? All right? Can we still collect ourselves? I don’t know what happened, 1 couldn’t see, but I hope you’re all right. Are you all right? OK, let’s just give ourselves another half a minute before we get our breath back. Everyone just cool down. Is there anyone there who’s hurt? OK, I think we’re cool, we can groove. We always have something very funny happen when we start that number.”

Sympathy starts again, but the tension is taking its toll, the Stones are uptight, and it falls flat. Another figure tries to make it up onto the stage, and the Angels toss him back into the crowd. Now we enter the world of uncertainty, since there are some who see the figure pull a gun. In any case, an Angel leaps down on him from the stage.

“Why are we fighting?” asks Jagger. “Why are we fighting? We don’t want to fight at all. Who wants to fight, who is it? Every other scence has been cool. We gotta stop right now. You know, if we can’t, there’s no point...” The fight gets worse. “Either those cats cool it, man, or we don’t play. If he doesn’t stop it, man ... keep it cool! Hey, if you don’t cool it you ain’t gonna hear no music!”

Someone (an Angel?) grabs the mike from Jagger and yells “Fuck you!” But by now the fight has topped, and Jagger takes the mike again. “We need a doctor down here, now!” he announces. “Look, can you let the doctor get through, please? We’re trying to get to someone who’s hurt.”

The doctor gets through, and departs with the (gunman?) on a stretcher. The Stones play some instrumental blues, Chuck Berry style, and everyone knows why. But it helps anyway, like blues always do. When the band finishes, Jagger says, “That’s to cool out with,” and it feels like maybe it has cooled out. Stray Cat Blues is next, and the Stones begin to relax, letting the music pull everything together.

Love In Vain, which follows, gets everybody sitting down. Jagger says, “There was one good idea which came out of that number. The only way that you’re going to keep yourselves cool is to sit down. If you can make it, I think you’ll find it’s better.” Everyone wriggles around and tries to find a place to sit. Jagger watches nervously. “Now, boys and girls, are you sitting comfortably? When we get to the end, and we all want to go absolutely crazy, and jump on each other, then we’ll stand up again. I mean, we can’t seem to keep together, standing up.” Laughter spreads through the crowd, but nobody is really fooled. Jagger is scared.

Under My Thumb is broken off by the worst fight yet. A body goes flying across the stage, directly at Jagger, who jumps out of the way. “We’re splitting!” he yells. “We’re splitting if those cats don’t stop! I want them out of the way! I don’t like doing it to them, but...” He stops, as the crowd enevlops him. Long moments of silence, and then his voice again, pleading: “Please relax and sit down. If you sit down and move back we can continue and we will continue. We need a doctocas sdon as possible, please.”

Finally the crush eases. Sam Cutler takes the mike, and says, “Please listen to me just for one second, all

right? First of all, everyone is going to get to the side of the stage who’s on it now, aside from the Stones.' Please, everyone. We need a doctor and an ambulance, right away. Let’s just sit down and keep cool and relax. Come on, we can get it together.”

The crowd lets up, just a taste, and it’s Under My Thumb yet again. This time they finish it, but tense and ragged. A new song, one they’ve never played before, says Jagger: Brown Sugar. It goes better, and this time the tension seems to be relaxing for real. Midnight Rambler is better yet, and the old Stones’ magic gets some people to dancing. Many are streaming for the exit road, however, stumbling over bodies in sleeping bags and wandering blindly through the dark.

Jagger downs a glass of something and says, “One more drink to you all,” ahd they go into a driving Live With Me. There’s a minor hassle on stage in the middle, but it fails to stop the song and the fight gets cleared away. This time it’s five Angels and a chick.

The Stones are rolling now, and the music is strong enough to hold things together. Gimmie Shelter, Little Queenie, and Satisfaction are all really fine, and the crowd is cool now. But it’s cold and late, and the Rolling Stones are somehow beside the point. The damage has already been done.

Honky-Tonk Woman is the next-to-closing song, and Jagger sings, “I laid a divorcee right here in Tracy,” to loud laughter. Then it’s Street Fighting Man, and it’s over.

According to KSAN radio, there were several stabbings during the concert. And five people were killed. Thousands of people walked miles back to their cars only to discover that the heat had towed them to Livermore, twenty miles away. The tired, hassled, bum-tripped and bloodied multitude made their way home. Some said they had a groovy time. Others muttered imprecations. All in all, it was one hell of a party.

Now it begins to sort itself out. Slowly. 24 hours have passed, and yet (for instance) no one is really sure if that cat had a gun or not. If he did have a gun, then that throws a different light on the Angel who jumped him, doesn’t it? Or does it? Was it a bear or a Russian?

The role of the Hells Angels has already been brought into serious question. Who hired them, and what were their instructions? There is already a tendency to put the blame for the bummer largely on their shoulders — a tendency which, in the ligh of certain information at my disposal (impressed?), is unwarranted.

We’ll try to get it all sorted out in Part 2. Be sure to tune in. Michael Goodwin

Michael Goodwin