Whenever my loinspawn ask about Woodstock, I always think of Trevor. He was my best friend in those days, and he seemed to have the skinny on everything. It was he who first told me about an exotic “music and arts festival” scheduled on the far-off East Coast in August. It sounded a world and a lifetime away as I busied myself stapling homemade zine fliers into a post outside Boccherini’s Coffee and Tea House in our hometown of Albany, Oregon.
“All the bands are gonna be there,” he goshed between hits from his latte bong. Personally, I couldn’t see how anything could possibly top Body Count at Lollapalooza, but there was something in his voice that gave me pause. Besides, he assured me, “Adam Curry says it’s a phenomenon most unprecedented in the annals of music history.”
Intrigued all afternoon, I turned on my TV when I got home. There it was: Woodstock. How about that? My generation had finally wedded art and commerce with rock ‘n’ roll. You’d think someone would have discovered the connection earlier, but the ’80s had been too airless and crass, the ’70s were an oblivious case of the doped-up alley shakes, and the ’60s were utterly hopeless, as a reinvigorated Republican party dominated the decade under the aegis of Jerry Rubin.
The event was backed by Woodstock Ventures, Inc., a weapons manufacturer that came to prominence in the Reagan era. Captained by 74-year-old CEO Michael Lang, the bloated arms dealer was keen to tap the youth market in 1994. “Generation X? I think they’re amazing,” Lang told Fortune. “They’ve accomplished in smaller numbers what their parents’ generation was too lazy and stupid to even attempt. As for our involvement, we didn’t do much, honestly. A couple promoters in their early twenties came to us, jester hats in hand, and we just threw cash at ’em while brooding in our self-imposed prisons of dark-souled avarice.”
It’s hard to explain to my kids just how different America was 15 years ago. It was a time of great change, an era of personal prosperity and hope. We had an awesome President and a thriving economy, and the only people who weren’t happy were assholes. “But weren’t you bored without cell phones and the Internet?” asks my son, Popquiz Hotshot Frye, 11. “No,” I chuckle. “Back then, girls wore baby-doll dresses.” “That’s how you met mom, right?” adds my daughter, Shannonhoon Beegirl Frye, 13. “That’s right, sweetie,” I reply sweetly. “Nobody drunkenly dropped her purse in a baby-doll quite like your mom.”
But all that was in an unforeseen future. All I could think about then were three fun-filled days in Saugerties, New York. It sounded like a memorable blast. But in the end I couldn’t go because I had to catch up on all the Conans I’d taped. Priorities. Trevor seemed relieved, as he’d begun pulling double shifts at the food-processing plant to pay for the tickets. As it turned out, only his girlfriend Pinta was available for the cross-country trek. Now, there was a storybook romance. They were so into each other that one night they hit the tattoo parlor downtown, where he got Buddy Holly etched into his upper right arm and she got Mary Tyler Moore inked into her left. In close quarters their tattoos kissed and made beautiful Rivers Cuomo music together. Now Trevor was telling me he planned to propose to Pinta right after The Cranberries’ set, when the moment would be just so. “I hope we get to make love in mud,” he sighed.
Radio bands bent under the weight of the impending event. There were the usual interviews with disconsolate ’60s icons. “I can’t believe we didn’t think of it,” ached John Sebastian. “It’s such a no-brainer. Jesus Christ, we dropped the ball.” “That’s what I meant when I said, ‘We blew it,'” explained Peter Fonda, referring to his memorably dismissive epitaph in 1969’s Easy Rider, then celebrating its 25th anniversary. “We were just a bunch of blind, capitalist pricks, and all we cared about was keeping Nixon in the White House.” Crosby, Stills & Nash recorded a jingle for McDonald’s, which played with increasing frequency as the festival drew near. “By the time we got to Woodstock,” their sweet harmonies enthused, “we were half a billion served.”
The promotional machine was in permanent overdrive. Since I couldn’t attend, I had my choice of myriad pay-per-view packages, all of which I purchased, along with four new televisions so I didn’t miss a single Flea bass plunk. I also bought the T-shirts, a couple hats, and the official Woodstock game for my Super Nintendo (the object was to help Henry Rollins beat the shit out of everyone in Candlebox). Trent Reznor went door-to-door to talk about Nine Inch Nails’ performance scheduled for Saturday, August 13, and Perry Farrell recruited his Porno for Pyros bandmates through a cross-promotional tie-in with MTV’s The Real World. So by the time the concerts finally aired, I was totally Woodstocked out, spending most of my days sweet-talking girls at the 7-Eleven down the street. I managed to catch a few performances when I wasn’t schooling company on F-Zero or napping, which was pretty much my entire schedule at the age of 21.
They say if you remember Woodstock, you weren’t actually there. I think that’s true. At least it was for me — and Trevor, funnily enough. The week before the festival he fortified his air-conditioned minivan with girlfriend, Bugles, Mountain Dew, and Pearl Jam bootlegs and got as far as Portland, Oregon, before he realized he was going the wrong way. So he just said, “Fuck it” and stayed. He and Pinta have been there ever since. They have two children of their own now and operate a microbrewery specializing in hemp-based elixirs. They still listen to The Cranberries while making out on the couch.
As for me, I’m fully domesticated. Two kids, loving wife, home mortgaged up the ass, and a St. Bernard named DJ Muggs. We’ve all gone our separate ways, Generation X, but I still have fond memories of that ancient summer, when the music raged and we all shrugged our shoulders as one.