I wrote this personal account in
2017. As we approach the fiftieth anniversary of Altamont on
December 6, 2019 I wanted to re-publish the story. I haven't changed it,
but did add a section at the end about my good friend Alfred.
Everybody knows about Woodstock. Three days of Peace, Love, and Music that was the joyous climax to the 'sixties. Not as many know about the Altamont Free Festival in California, Woodstock's evil twin, that came to represent the death of the 'sixties. You can guess which one I went to, this is my story.
Disclaimer: the photos are unattributed shots I found online. I didn't have a camera.
I couldn't figure
out how it all turned out so bad. This was supposed to be Woodstock
West! It was supposed to be a bit of Heaven here on Earth, and it
turned into Hell. And stayed that way for an uncomfortably long
time.
It all sounded so
good when I first heard about it. The time was about the first of
December,1969. I was living on the streets in San Francisco, and the
word went out through Haight Ashbury and all the hippie community
that there was going to be a free concert that would rival Woodstock,
which had happened 3 ½ months earlier. Put on in Golden Gate Park
by The Rolling Stones and featuring The Grateful Dead, Santana,
Jefferson Airplane, Crosby Stills Nash & Young. That sounded like
the place to be!
But before I tell
the story I need to tell how I came to be there and what my situation
was. I ran away from home in Asheville, NC on Labor Day weekend of
'69, when I was 17 years old. Long story. I was a geeky, awkward,
bullied teenager. Didn't fit in anywhere. But I had discovered
flower children and the hippies from TV and magazines and record
albums, and realized that I was supposed to be one. But believe it
or not the '60s didn't happen in Asheville until the'70s. Since I
couldn't find any hippies to join I decided I'd have to go out to
California where the flower children were. So instead of starting my
senior year of high school I loaded up my old Corvair and headed for
the West Coast.
After abandoning
the car in the Mojave Desert I began a six month career of
hitchhiking and riding freight trains up and down the Coast. I was
broke most of the time except for the month I spent picking apples
in Washington State. When I wasn't on the road I lived on the
streets of various cities, especially San Francisco. It was a wild
time! Although the hippie movement hadn't even started back home in
Asheville, on the West Coast it was getting kind of burned out and
ragged. Haight Ashbury, the home of the flower children, was being
taken over by junkies and speed freaks. It had become a dangerous
area, especially after dark. Some of the old timers were left, but
many had fled to small villages along the coast away from the city.
So it wasn't the
Utopia I had imagined, and I had some growing up to do. (I remember
overhearing someone say about me: “He ain't ready for this world
yet!”) But by the time I heard about the concert I had survived
for 3 months, and although I had just turned 18 I felt like I had
aged at least 3 years.
The idea for a
free concert originated with The Grateful Dead, who had been doing
concerts in the Park for years. They suggested the idea to The
Rolling Stones, who eventually took over the planning and direction
of the event. The preparations, and the eventual concert, turned
into total chaos. Of course I didn't know all the details at the
time, just rumors on the street and confusing announcements on the
radio. The concert was supposed to be in Golden Gate Park, a
beautiful location. But the permits were refused, so it couldn't
happen there. Then we heard it was going to be at the Sears Point
Raceway north of town. The stage and facilities were all being set
up. Then that fell through. It was two days before the event and
they didn't have a location. There was gloom and despair, nobody
thought it could be pulled back together that quickly.
But the next day
when I was in a Volkswagen with some hippies who had given me a ride
it was announced on the radio that the concert was being moved to the
Altamont Speedway and was still going to happen the next day.
Alrighty then! It was on, and I was excited!
I wanted to get
on the road right away, so I headed over to Alfred's to pick up my
backpack. Alfred was one of the most unique characters I ever met,
and will require a story of his own. For now I'll just say that he
had an art gallery / apartment where he sometimes let homeless
hippies crash for a few days. He had become a trusted friend, which
was rare as gold for me at that time. I got my stuff and told Alfred
about the concert. He just shook his head and said to be careful. I
glanced at a map long enough to figure out what highway went in the
right direction and got going.
I walked 2 or 3
miles to the nearest freeway ramp. When I arrived in the
mid-afternoon there were already about 20 people lined up trying to
catch a ride. The law in California was kind of crazy. It was
illegal to walk on the freeway itself, you had to stay at the bottom
of the ramp. Hitchhiking was illegal. If you stuck out your thumb
you'd get arrested. But if you stood there with your hands at your
side and looked hopeful the cops would (usually) leave you alone. So
I stood there smiling at the cars as they went by. Some people were
getting rides but more were coming to take their place. After about
3 hours I was getting discouraged, but a VW van stopped, the side
door opened, I hopped in, and we took off. On my way!
The first thing I
saw was an old hippie sitting cross-legged in the floor rolling a
joint. He looked up and said: “This is some Vietnamese Black, I
think you'll like it.” I had only smoked a couple of times but had
acquired a taste for it. After this one was passed around the van a
few times I was on my way indeed! The 3 or 4 people in the van were
friendly. The were going to Altamont to work in the medical tent
during the concert. So all I had to do was sit back and enjoy the 50
mile ride!
It was well after
dark when we got to the gate at the Altamont Speedway. The crowd
wasn't supposed to get in until the next morning, but since the guys
had come to work they were let through. I just kept my mouth shut
and rode in with them. After they got parked they wished me well and
I was on my own again.
I started out
just wandering around the site. It was pretty desolate. The concert
wasn't going to be in the Speedway itself but in a huge bowl-shaped
area next to it. Short, withered grass, and no trees. There were a
few other people who had gotten in early but I mostly had the place
to myself. The only lights were where a crew was working to set up
the stage. They had taken it down that morning at the previous
location, hauled it over to the new site, and were working through
the night trying to put everything together. Stage, sound system,
scaffolding towers for speakers and lights. Situated at the bottom
of the bowl, the stage was only 39 inches high. I guess that's all
they had time to throw together, but it would cause huge problems the
next day. But it looked good enough at the time. I walked down to
watch the crew for awhile. I remember leaning with my elbows on the
stage thinking: “All I have to do is stay right here and this will
be my spot for the concert!” But a still, small voice in my head
said: “It my get a little hectic down here. Maybe I should get
back a little farther.” For once I listened to that voice, and it
was one of the best decisions I ever made! I picked a spot near one
of the light towers that seemed a safe distance away and rolled out
my sleeping bag. Alfred, who didn't usually feed his hippie guests,
had given me a pack of precooked hot dogs. I ate a couple of those,
which tasted wonderful, and lay down to try and get some sleep. I
was thankful for my sleeping bag, it got down into the upper 30s that
night! I woke up a couple of times, watched the stage crew, munched
on a hot dog, and slept some more.
The next morning
the flood gates opened and a stream of people started coming down the
hill into the bowl. The stream became a river, and the bowl began to
fill. I never saw so many people! The peace rally I marched in the
month before had about 100,000, but it wasn't like this! By the time
it was done the crowd at Altamont was estimated to be 300,000. I
couldn't count, but there seemed to be plenty!
They would find a
spot, spread out a blanket to sit on, and get out their picnic
supplies. Food, wine, drugs... For those who didn't have enough
drugs there were dealers wandering through the crowd hawking their
wares like peanut vendors: “Pot! LSD! Speed!” Some carried
signs with what they were selling. Not a cop in sight. I didn't
need to buy anything. There were plenty of joints and jugs of wine
being passed around. I watched one guy sitting near me with a bag of
pot and a pack of papers. He'd roll a joint, light it & take a
big hit, then hand it off to a neighbor. Then do another one! So I
got as high as I'd ever been just from taking a puff or a drink of
what was passed to me. I was too naive to realize it at the time,
but I was lucky I didn't get dosed. A lot of the wine, or orange
juice, or whatever being passed around was spiked with LSD. That was
bad enough, but some of the acid being sold and used was bad quality,
or mixed with methamphetamine, which is a bad combination. Even
veteran acid-heads were having bad trips, and the medical tents were
getting busy.
I realize that
all the drug use, including mine, is a controversial subject. But
this was the hippie culture during the 'sixties, and it was just part
of the way things were. Some people took LSD and became enlightened.
Some took heroin and became addicted. Too many died. So I'm not
trying to glorify what was going on, or my part in it. Just honest
history.
Around noon the
first band came on. I got distracted somehow and didn't catch their
name. They started out a little ragged, and I wasn't paying much
attention. But they got better and I started listening. I didn't
recognize them so I asked a guy next to me. “Oh, that's Santana.”
It was the first time I had heard the name, but I didn't forget! So
far I, and the crowd around me, were having a good time. But that
was about to change.
About a half hour
into Santana's set they had to stop the music because of a fight in
front of the stage. It was to be the first of many. I couldn't see
clearly from my location, but some of the poor event planning was
having it's effect. For stage security the Stones had hired the
Hell's Angels. For $500 worth of beer! What could possibly go
wrong? Fueled by bad drugs and alcohol some of the crowd were
getting out of control. Pushing to the front & creating a
disturbance or getting on the stage. The Angels responded as you
would expect, punching, beating people with pool cues, and their
trademark move – throwing people to the ground and stomping them.
I first realized what was going on when I heard a thunderous roar.
There was a solid line of Hell's Angels riding their Harleys down
through the tight packed crowd to the front of the stage. People had
to scramble out of the way or get run down. I was really glad I
hadn't kept my spot at the stage, but the mood of the concert was
ruined. This whole thing was supposed to be about peace, love, and
harmony, but instead was becoming about anger, violence, and fear.
The Jefferson
Airplane came on, but the fights were getting worse. The stage
announcer tried to calm things down, Grace Slick of the Airplane kept
trying to sooth the crowd, but things were out of control.
Especially the Hell's Angels. One of them punched Marty Balin, the
lead singer of Jefferson Airplane, in the face and knocked him out.
Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young tried to play, but their hearts
weren't in it. It was like playing background music for a riot!
When The Grateful Dead arrived for their set and saw how bad things
were they got back in their helicopter and left. I don't blame them!
I would have left too if I'd had a way. The concert location was in
the middle of nowhere, and the highway was closed for miles, choked
with abandoned cars. I was there for the duration, and had to ride
it out the best I could.
One thing I
couldn't ride out was the need to visit a porta john. The only ones
I saw were on the top of the hill on the far side of the crowd. It
was a major ordeal to get through that many people. I finally got
there, but the ordeal had just begun. Because of the poor planning
and last minute site change all facilities were either in short
supply or missing altogether. There were only a couple of medical
tents and a handful of personnel. Between the bad drugs and the
beatings they were overwhelmed. (I feel sorry for those guys that
had brought me there who came to work in a medical tent!) There was
no food and no water. And there were only 100 porta johns for
300,000 people. That works out to 3000 people per john! The lines
were longer than I could wait. When I got to the front it was
frantic with people pushing and crowding, including me! The john I
made it into already had 2 or 3 guys inside, and no room to close the
door. I won't describe how it looked or smelled. It didn't matter,
I did what I had to do and got the heck out of there! Back across
the sea of people, and somehow found my place, with my pack and
sleeping bag still there. Whew!
The Rolling
Stones didn't come on stage until after dark. I think it was
supposed to look more dramatic on the film that was being made.
(Later released as the movie Gimme Shelter)
During the day I had
been far enough back in the crowd to be reasonably safe. I could see
the crowd swirling around in front of the stage when fights broke
out, but it didn't reach back to where I was. So I was unprepared
for what happened next. When the Stones came on everybody stood up
and crowded towards the stage. I had no choice then, it was either
move with the crowd or be trampled where I sat. It didn't stop until
everyone was pressed so tightly together there was no more room.
Bodies were pushed against me on all sides, and it wasn't a friendly
feeling! It was too dark to see, but I could tell the fights were
still going on. Those swirls in the crowd I had seen earlier were
somehow being transmitted through the tightly packed mass of bodies.
We would get shoved back or pulled to the side, and all I could do
was move with it and try to keep on my feet. It felt like falling in
that surging mass could be fatal!
I was scared.
The day had long since stopped being fun, now it was terrifying! It
felt evil. I don't know how much of that was my imagination, but
part of the image and songs of the Rolling Stones was summoning and
glorifying the dark spirits. The “bad boys” of rock doing things
for shock value, like the song “Sympathy for the Devil”. Except
this time the evil came when summoned and they had no idea how to
make it go away. There are scenes in Gimme Shelter where Mick Jagger
looks as scared as I was!.
While they were
playing a young black man named Meridith Hunter, the same age as me,
got involved in the fighting. He pulled out a gun. Instantly a
Hell's Angel pulled a knife and stabbed him 5 times. Then he got
stomped. He died soon after. It was all caught on film and is in
the movie. Of course I didn't know it at the time, but learned about
it later. Like the guy that had drowned that afternoon. I just knew
bad things were happening, and I wanted it all to stop. It went on
and on, but finally it was over. The Stones made a mad dash for
their helicopter and got the Hell out of there. The crowd started to
spread apart, and I could move again. I felt like I had survived a
battle, exhausted and glad to be alive!
I don't remember
if I was able to grab my stuff and hang onto it during the crush
(unlikely), or if I went back and found it in the dark (also
unlikely!). But somehow I ended up having it. Next I had to decide
what to do. As much as I wanted to leave, I knew better than to get
into a mob of messed up people in a miles long traffic jam. So I
just wandered around through the garbage waiting for things to calm
down and the crowd to leave. Finally I found a spot that was fairly
clear and quiet, and spread out my sleeping bag. I lay down, ate the
last of my hot dogs, and fell into a fitful sleep. A lot of people
had the same idea, there were bodies scattered all around. Once
again I was luckier than I knew. During the night a drug crazed man
stole a car and went speeding through the fields. He hit a group
sitting by a campfire, killing two and injuring two more. He faded
into the crowd and was never identified. So altogether four people
died, and many injured. I feel that I was protected, and am thankful
for it!
The next morning
it had calmed down.
The other overnighters were finding their way
out, and as I mingled in with them I had no trouble finding a ride
back to San Francisco. The trip was pretty subdued, I think everyone
was out of the partying mood. When they dropped me of I was in an
unfamiliar neighborhood. A commercial area with concrete buildings
and warehouses, deserted on a Sunday morning. It was a long walk
back into downtown, and I felt very spaced out and alone. It was a
lot like the lyrics to the Kris Kristofferson song:
Then
I headed back for home and somewhere far away a lonely bell was
ringin'
And it echoed through the canyons like the disappearing dreams of yesterday
On the Sunday morning sidewalks, wishin' Lord, that I was stoned
'Cause there's something in a Sunday, makes a body feel alone
And there's nothin' short of dyin', half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin' city side walks, Sunday mornin' comin' down
And it echoed through the canyons like the disappearing dreams of yesterday
On the Sunday morning sidewalks, wishin' Lord, that I was stoned
'Cause there's something in a Sunday, makes a body feel alone
And there's nothin' short of dyin', half as lonesome as the sound
On the sleepin' city side walks, Sunday mornin' comin' down
So
that's my story and my experience. I know it had a big effect on me,
and I think it did on the culture as well. The death of innocence,
and a hard dose of reality. But we seem to be on this earth to
experience good and evil, and I had a role to play as a witness. It
was almost 50 years ago, and I've seen a lot since then, both good
and bad. But I haven't forgotten.
There
is plenty of information about Altamont for anyone interested. To
start with watch the 15 minute video at this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yQzNtYsf5D4
It contains video from the movie Gimme Shelter, and the story told in captions is fairly accurate. I was surprised to discover a book about Altamont that just came out last year. Altamont: The Rolling Stones, the Hell's Angels, and the Inside Story of Rock's Darkest Day by Joel Selvin.
https://www.amazon.com/Altamont-Rolling-Stones-Angels-Darkest/dp/0062444255
(Of course I bought a copy!) Very well researched and written, it is the definitive work on the event. It brought back memories and I learned much that I hadn't known for all these years.
As I am sharing this story again I want
to add a new section about my friend Alfred.
I was living on the streets of San
Francisco. Wandering through Haight-Ashbury one afternoon I met a
man walking a beautiful German Shepherd dog. I stopped to pet the
dog and ended up talking to the man, whose name was Alfred. We had a
good conversation, he was one of the more interesting people I ever
met. And he seemed trustworthy enough that I accepted his invitation
to go and see his art gallery, the kind of thing experience had
taught me to be wary of! But he never gave me reason to regret my
trust.
The art gallery was a storefront shop
filled with an odd mixture of stuff. Artwork, some in process. A few
antiques, and a selection of dusty thrift store treasures. Quirky,
but I'm sure there was a reason for all of it. Alfred was also
writing a book, but the only detail he would give was that it was
about God and sex.
Behind the gallery was an apartment
where Alfred and his dog lived. The living room had a couple of
couches and a cot or two that he said were for homeless hippies to
have a place to sleep for a few days. (Only a few days because he
was always meeting new kids who needed help.) A black man in his mid
thirties, Alfred was no hippie. But he seemed fascinated by them,
enjoyed their company, and liked helping them out. I never did see
any ulterior motive, after staying a few days 2 or3 different times
and stopping by for visits all I ever saw was a very interesting and
decent man.
After I first posted the Altamont story
I managed to find him online and sent him the link to my account that
featured him. These are two gracious, but not surprising, responses.
“Steve, your story is a heart-felt
odyssey of truth: mankind always has and will forever do so, struggle
between two forces on Earth, one highly visible, the other not so
much. We search for a nearness to frame, wealth and lust on the one
hand and on the other we search for pure, true, unselfish love, not
of this world. You have grown wiser in your old age. Thank you for
mentioning my name in life's narrow pathway to Goodness. Pray for me,
as I will for you. Your God-given brother, Alfred.”
“Stephen, keep writing. I'll be 85
in November (2017). So far I've never been sick and never had a
headache in my life. I still don't partake of whiskey, smoke, or go
near drugs. I guess I'll just explode one day and will be gone. A
nice way to go! Hang on to your faith in God. If not search it out
and find it. Alfred”
He has some paintings on eBay. I love
the title of this one:
And he did write his book:
“My novel, The Shroud of Turin, a
Novel - signed by me as A.J. V. Hurston - received 5 stars on eBay,
when they used the star-rating system. It s now also on Amazon, under
my full name, Alfred John Vincent Hurston.”