Woodstock Suburb

By CHRISTOPHER JOHN FARLEY

Well, it turns out everything didn't go exactly according to plan. Despite the chain-link fence surrounding the 840-acre site, despite the 550 state troopers, the metal detectors, the confiscation of drugs and alcohol and the roaming private security force with the Orwellian name "Peace Patrol," a bit of the anarchy of the original Woodstock crept into its successor 25 years later. Several hundred people crashed the gates. The transportation system broke down early on, stranding huge numbers of fans and making the roads impassable. The audience pitched tents all over the grounds, despite pleas from the stage to do so only in designated areas. Perhaps most telling, the overcrowding made it impossible for workers to empty the 2,800 Port-O-Sans. If there was one thing about Woodstock '94 that was going to distinguish it from the original, it was that the Port-O-Sans would work.

Like the first festival, Woodstock '94 did not actually take place in Woodstock. It was held over three days last weekend in Saugerties, New York, and attracted about 255,000 people, half the number who made up Woodstock Nation in Bethel, an hour's drive away. The crowd was overwhelmingly white and middle-class. The bands, 50 of them, were more diverse and included everyone from sexy female rappers Salt N Pepa and trippy alternative rockers Blind Melon to punk-funksters Red Hot Chili Peppers and even soul crooner Joe Cocker, who reprised his Woodstock '69 classic With a Little Help from My Friends.

Rock has expanded since 1969 -- as these bands indicate, there are now many thriving subgenres -- but like sports heroes, the performers have gotten smaller. There were no young musicians at Woodstock '94 who compared in sheer potency to Pete Townshend or Jimi Hendrix or Janis Joplin. Still, some turned in rousing sets. Rapper B-Real of Cypress Hill flouted authority, smoking a marijuana joint onstage and then throwing himself into the crowd to surf on the hands of his fans. Guitarist-singer Melissa Etheridge offered a punchy, joyous version of her pop-rock hit Come to My Window. And the Irish rock group the Cranberries won over the crowd with their moody, introspective sound. "We expected ((the turnout)) to be large, but it was still a bit of a surprise," says Cranberries guitarist Noel Hogan. "Once we got onstage, it was just a vast sea of heads."

The first Woodstock became a symbol of communalism by accident. Says John Scher, an executive with Polygram Records, which invested in Woodstock '94: "There's this myth that Woodstock was a free festival. It wasn't a free concert at all, and it wasn't intended to be a free concert." On that weekend in '69, the kids broke down the fences; the promoters couldn't stop the influx, so they gave in to the inevitable and announced that the show was free. It was a huge money loser for its backers.

This time around, the financial stakes were higher. To stage the first concert, promoters spent $3 million; Woodstock '94 cost more than $30 million. Tickets to the original were $18; this time they were $135 and had to be purchased in pairs. In 1969 there weren't even official T shirts; in 1994 there will be an official CD-ROM. The Eco-Village, ostensibly devoted to educating the public about the environment, resembled a strip mall where you could buy clothes, camping gear and even Woodstock air ($2 a bottle). The promoters will reap an estimated $5 million to $8 million from pay-per-view fees: the concert was broadcast in 27 countries.

Corporate sponsors included Pepsi, which paid $2 million to be the concert's official soft drink; Apple Computer; and Haagen-Dazs. A Haagen-Dazs spokesman explained why his company wanted to be linked to the festival: "This is a progressive event dedicated to the idea that people can have it all. Peace on earth, great music, high tech, great family life that blends perfectly with our message -- reward, indulgence and nutritional balancing." Also Vanilla Swiss Almond.

In an action that bespoke little peace and love, the organizers of Woodstock '94 lodged an $80 million lawsuit against rivals who tried to hold an event called Bethel '94. That festival was to take place on the original Woodstock site and was to include such performers as Melanie and Country Joe MacDonald, who appeared in 1969. The suit was settled out of court. Although Bethel '94 was later officially canceled, 12,000 people gathered there spontaneously, and Woodstock veterans like Arlo Guthrie stopped by to give free, impromptu performances.

The naked capitalism of Woodstock '94 ran counter to the professed ideals of many of the musicians who played there. The roster included such "alternative" groups as Red Hot Chili Peppers, Porno for Pyros and Candlebox, which are supposed to be anti-commercialism. Some top alternative acts, such as Pearl Jam, rejected invitations to appear at Saugerties, as did rocker Neil Young, another of those who played the first Woodstock. The morals vs. money debate raged among fans. "I refuse to participate in something I believe is nothing more than making money off people's lust for the past," said graduate student Tony Novosel, 41, in a message sent over the Internet. But commercialism wasn't a problem for Woodstock '94 attendee Suzanne Poretta, 24: "For three days of music, camping and parking space, $135 is not bad. But this no-alcohol thing I can't handle."

The promoters of Woodstock '94, and some of the musicians, say the commercialism can actually help support idealism. "((Woodstock)) is really corporate," admits bassist Mike Dirnt of the Berkeley punk band Green Day. "But that's one of the reasons we're playing. It's helping us make up a lot of the money we've lost touring, being out there keeping our ticket prices low." The best-paid acts received $250,000, and all will receive a share of ancillary royalties. Promoter Scher of Polygram Records says he turned down sponsorship offers from such companies as Marlboro, Coors, Budweiser and Seagram's. "This is 1994. This is not 1969. What everything costs is hundreds of times what it cost in 1969," he says. "Had we taken the beer sponsorships and liquor and tobacco ads that were offered us, we probably could have lowered the ticket price to $25."

Despite these arguments, cynics, pundits and alternative-music ideologues were predicting Woodstock '94 would be a corporatized simulacrum of the original festival. A '60s myth would be used to sucker the 16- to 30-year-old demographic. Woodstock '94 was seen as the ultimate musical sellout, the sort of thing that made Kurt Cobain leave this world riding on a shotgun blast. MTV, which televised some of the festival and launched a home-shopping show during it, ran an ad for its coverage with the slogan, "All you have to do to change the world is change the channel."

But the totalitarian, exploitative horror show didn't quite materialize. Over the three days, there was some chaos, but the fans got along, remaining friendly and happy. Huge mosh pits formed in which audience members danced and slammed into each other in pools of mud. The music was good, and most people didn't seem to let the involvement of Haagen-Dazs ruin it for them. In the movie world, the sequel tends to earn about 60% of what the original does. Less than a cultural milestone but more than a concert, Woodstock '94 was the typical sequel -- calculated, but about 60% as good as the real thing.

With reporting by David E. Thigpen/Saugerties