The Great Woodstock Story - Part 9

In this continuing series I detail my adventures at Woodstock ‘99.

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7 and Part 8 to catch up.

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“Tits! Tits! Tits! Tits! Tits!”

From the path near Harold and Angela’s campsite came the chanting of drunk and stoned college guys. Whenever a female walked in between the two groups of males lining that section of the path, they would heckle endlessly until they got a nipple or two, cheer wildly at their success, then immediately follow up with:

“Bush! Bush! Bush! Bush! Bush!”

Sometimes they got their extra something, sometimes not. When the girls were too modest (or smart) to succumb to the pressure, a huge “Awww…” would break out, then another female would be spotted, and the ritual would begin again.

Personally, I was too exhausted from the night to bother. I had seen plenty of naked (or at least half-naked) women and Limp, Rage and Metallica had worn me out.

Imagine a sea of people. Vast waves of raw humanity. Screaming, yelling, cheering. A hundred thousand souls. More than I had ever seen before. People everywhere you looked. There was no ground, only flesh. No soil only bones. I had lost myself in their energy. I was dehydrated and overwhelmed and loving it.

The performer of the weekend, the performance of the entire weekend was Limp Bizkit’s “Break Stuff.” Call me crazy, but it certainly was the highlight. Fred Durst decided that for one of their most powerful songs, he wanted to be in the crowd. So he would need a vessel.

On queue, the crowd quickly destroyed the plywood wall that surrounded MTV’s communication/camera tower in the middle of the field in front of the stage. Dozens of fans held up the six foot square board that he stood on, jumped on, and rocked out on while the crowd went out of its mind.

This was the show people had paid to see. This was the music of the time. This was the concert we had wanted all weekend long. Everything else was a preamble.

Worse, everything afterwards was a let down.

Don’t get me wrong, Rage Against the Machine was incredible, but even they never reached the mind-blowing heights and crowd-stirring victory that Limp Bizkit achieved. Metallica may have been amazing, I’m not sure. After a half dozen songs I didn’t recognize, I headed back to camp. I was tired, sunburnt, broke, and ready for sleep.

From across the field came the thump thump thump of the Saturday night rave, hosted by Fatboy Slim. How I wanted to go. How I didn’t want to expend any more energy.

Falling asleep to the distant catcalls of college drunkards, I awoke to sunburn pain and resolve. It was time to leave Woodstock.

My goodbye with Harold and Angela was short and sweet. We had made it. They were headed off to watch a few more performances, but I knew my time had come. Other than Red Hot Chili Peppers, that were performing at 9PM, which might as well have been two years away, there were no notable acts I wanted to catch. We exchanged email addresses which I lost, hugs which were returned, and promises that went unkept.

For what it’s worth, I hope they’re both happy and doing well. Their kindness will never be forgotten.

Finally, I was ready to head home. I was excited to be leaving. The time had come. My journey was almost complete. I knew just what I wanted when I got out to the Real World, too—a big, huge, nasty, funky, dripping with cheese and mayo burger. I was starving for real food, not the regurgitated and overpriced garbage I had been eating sparsely throughout the long hot days.

I could taste it already. I passed through the now-abandoned front gates. In front of me was a sea of vehicles, much like the sea of humanity still inside the Air Force base. A forest of Toyotas, Chevys, and Fords covered the rolling hills in front of me.

The only question now was: Where in the hell did I park?

Update: Read Part 10.

Tomorrow: The incredible drive home.

And dad would dream of all the different ways to die Each one a little more than he could dare to try