The Great Woodstock Story - Part 1

Here I begin the long and winding tale of my adventures at Woodstock ‘99. Almost seven years later and I remember it as if it were yesterday. Or, at least, two weeks ago. Join me, won’t you?

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This story begins a few weeks before Woodstock took place. It begins on a long and winding road, I-75 South in fact, where two friends are on their way to Atlanta to have a good time. Matter of fact, I don’t recall any other reason to go other than the fact that we were bored and wanted to see some of the sights down there, go to some of the clubs, and possibly get into trouble.

We found all three, and a bit more trouble than we bargained for.

Arriving in Atlanta around dusk, we immediately became aware that the hotel was not, in fact, where the directions told us it was. Roaming around the dark, wet streets, we began to worry if we’d ever find it.

For the purposes of anonymity, we’ll call my friend David.

“Where the hell…” we mutter as we go down one-way street after one-way street. Finally, up ahead, we see the Days Inn sign. No expense spared for this one, I tell you.

Inside the hotel room we had the usual ‘arriving at the hotel’ ritual everyone seems to go through: You plop your bags down, you mention something about being exhausted from the trip, and you flop on the bed like a fish. It was then we realized we needed to find some place to party. To the phone book we went.

“Hmm…this place looks cool. DJ, dance floor, drinks…hey, ladies night is tonight. Score!”

Anxiously we call the place, asking the most important question: Were under 21 allowed? I had turned 18 six months prior, and I was anxious to ‘go clubbin’ and see the night life. Particularly a place as large and diverse as Atlanta. Knoxville was outrageously boring for those not old enough to drink. Surely in Atlanta the goodness would be non-stop!

The answer was no. We call up the next place, which looked just as good.

The answer was no.

So we begin to cut our losses a bit, and go down to those that look ‘decent.’

The answer was no.

Finally we lost what dignity (and choice) we had in the matter and began going through them alphabetically, lighting up the phones at almost every club in Atlanta. Briefly we thought of trying to sneak me in, or holding on to the veiled hope that bouncers will accept bribes from lowly 18 year olds aching to shake their thing with older females. But we faced reality and were determined to find a suitable place. Well, any place really.

And for each and every one of them, the answer was no. Until we reached the S’s. The club was named Sphinx or something similar. Finally finding that long-lost mecca of party goodness after almost an hour of calls, we damn near tripped over ourselves making our way out to the car. I’m feeling lousy for making the club-finding ordeal such a hassle, but excited we were finally on our way. David and I were on the road in no time.

Making our way to the club I felt ridiculously nerdy. Suddenly my collared, striped polo and blue jean shorts were not only unwelcome, they were unsightly. What was I thinking?

As we walked to the club, David offered some quick advice: “Dude, untuck your shirt.”

“Oh, yeah, thanks.” I felt perhaps 1% less dorky. The outside of the place was standard club fare, a cinder block building with a neon sign and the all-black bouncer waiting at the door with unnecessary sunglasses. We couldn’t see anyone inside, and otherwise the place was deserted. But we could hear the music thumping its way into the street, and we happily gave the guy $10 to get inside. My ‘NO DRINKS’ hand stamp glowed brightly in the black light-lit darkness.

It took me a few moments to realize that this place was…different. It began when I saw a girl dressed completely in leather. The shiny material hung to her perfect if not under-fed frame.

It was when I saw a very similar outfit on a man that I realized this was no Knoxville club. When I saw the leash it finally dawned on me it was an S&M club. Oh boy. My white polo stripes beamed in the black lights and I began to feel immensely uncomfortable. I couldn’t help but gawk—what exactly was this place? And where are those people going over there…

I felt a tug at my shirt . “C’mon dude,” David said, indicating the main room nearby.

We walked into the space. It had a dance floor surrounded by patrons with a second story overlooking it. David and I made our way through the crowd, me trying to bob my head to the beat and take in as many tattooed and pierced human beings as possible while simultaneously licking my thumb and furiously rubbing the hand stamp I was given earlier. After a few minutes of constant friction it seemed to have disappeared.

“I’m going to get a beer,” I told David proudly as he took a drink of his own.

“Good luck,” he said.

Making my way to the bar I ordered a Corona with lime, the only ‘cool beer combination’ I knew. The skinny and leather-clad female bartender handed me the drink. I tipped her handsomely, euphoric that I had purchased my first drink in a club. It tasted all the sweeter as I felt older while walking around the rest of the club, my white, gangly socks sticking out of my shoes, lighting the way in front of me.

I roamed around for awhile, drinking another beer or three, with a few attempts at stepping on the dance floor that never came to fruition. Then I decided to check out the second floor.

Looking over the crowd was great. The voyeur in me seemed not only compelled but appreciated in such an environment. Wow, look at all those hot chicks…

Then, an announcement that to look toward the stage. The music stopped its Oon-cha Oon-cha Oon-cha and began something more dramatic, like a goth film score. It was then I noticed at the end of the dance floor was a stage. Flanking it were two people, obviously boyfriend and girlfriend, dressed only in their underwear. Behind them were two more, a heavily pierced and tattooed man with a robed assistant. These two led the couple on stage.

The crowd cheered the group’s arrival. It appeared that the whole night had been leading up to this. I checked my watch. It was about 3AM.

It was also then that I noticed the girlfriend was crying. The boyfriend was trying to calm her fears, nodding and smiling and talking to her. No one could hear anything but the film score.

Then I saw the forearm-long needles with hooks on the ends dangling from the fingers of the assistant. The girl’s crying increased. I tensed up. Suddenly with a huge smile and a wave of the steel needles from the pierced master of ceremonies, the show began.

What happens next? And how does this relate to my Woodstock trip, anyway? Find out tomorrow!

Read Part 2.

As the day grows dim
I hear you sing a golden hymn