The Woodstock Music Festival (pictured above) was known for its counterculture, which is absent in today’s music festivals, which focus more on revenue than inclusivity (Scott Penner/Creative commons).
In August of 1969, Bethel, N.Y. erupted with the spirit of Woodstock Music Festival. Despite a grocery list of logistic, fiscal and legal challenges, Max Yasgur’s unassuming dairy farm became the chosen site for “Three Days of Peace & Music” that would rock American culture.
There was a kind of innocence to the whole event. Sure, this was during the Vietnam War, and sure, the festival was largely an excuse to do drugs in a field with hundreds of thousands of people, but those concertgoers believed in their rag-tag expression of peace and love through music. They saw the potential for music to alter their culture, something we grossly lack as a society today. It is a sad truth that present-day music festivals are ultimately glorified cash-grabs lacking Woodstock 1969’s grand aspirations.
Take Coachella for example—this ultra-hip music festival, marketed as the summer place to be for young bohemian types, takes place in Indio, Calif. on the grounds of the Empire Polo Club. With a myriad of celebrities among its attendees, Coachella comes in with high marks for elitism. There is a clear divide between Instagram influencers with VIP access and the lay people who must clamor through muddy fields to catch even a glimpse of their favorite artists.
Additionally, there is great disparity between the cost barrier to attend Woodstock ’69 versus present-day Coachella; an advance-sale ticket to Woodstock cost $18, which equals $125 in 2019, according to The Bureau of Labor Statistics.
In contrast, an advance-sale for a one-weekend general access ticket to Coachella 2020 costs $399 “plus fees,” according to their website. Attendance at Woodstock far exceeded expectations, so event organizers called it a wash and let stragglers into the venue for free—it is highly unlikely that this would be tolerated at Coachella.
Of course, Woodstock provided a cultural experience that greatly exceeded any reasonable monetary value—a mix of top-tier talent, good vibes and great attendance empowered the festival gods to converge in a perfect storm of rock music and debauchery. Though Max Yasgur was alienated by Bethel townsfolk for letting the hippies run amuck, and his land was decimated, Yasgur publicly stated that he never once regretted hosting the festival on his farm.
Beyond the realm of music legend, Yasgur’s farm holds a place in our collective consciousness as a reminder of a time before big business was inexplicably linked with big festivals. The original Woodstock was bankrolled by John P. Roberts, heir to the Polident/Poli-Grip fortune, who only made back one-third of what he spent on the festival. Though it is true that Roberts and fellow organizers Michael Lang and Artie Kornfeld came from privilege, their backgrounds are hardly those of the trust-fund babies dotting the scene at Coachella today.
In 2019, free love isn’t free—this is late stage capitalism, where a buck only takes you as far as you can throw it. There are no delusions about our culture or economic state in America, but maybe it is possible for our love of music to replace the mere love of money in our current festival climate.
That being said, there seems to be an appetite among young Americans to access the spirit of the 1960s counterculture. In Trumansburg, N.Y. there is the annual Finger Lakes GrassRoots Festival of Music and Dance. Though you won’t see well-renowned musical artists like Ariana Grande or Lana Del Rey take the stage, the festival is full of the spirit that a bigger, more expensive venue might lack.
In the meantime, and in moments when you feel that the music blasting through your headphones mutes out the bustling world around you, I hope you feel a kindred spirit with those present at Woodstock ’69 and wonder if we could all gather again someday for that fabled “Three Days of Peace & Music.”In August of 1969, Bethel, N.Y. erupted with the spirit of Woodstock Music Festival. Despite a grocery list of logistic, fiscal and legal challenges, Max Yasgur’s unassuming dairy farm became the chosen site for “Three Days of Peace & Music” that would rock American culture.
There was a kind of innocence to the whole event. Sure, this was during the Vietnam War, and sure, the festival was largely an excuse to do drugs in a field with hundreds of thousands of people, but those concertgoers believed in their rag-tag expression of peace and love through music. They saw the potential for music to alter their culture, something we grossly lack as a society today. It is a sad truth that present-day music festivals are ultimately glorified cash-grabs lacking Woodstock 1969’s grand aspirations.
Take Coachella for example—this ultra-hip music festival, marketed as the summer place to be for young bohemian types, takes place in Indio, Calif. on the grounds of the Empire Polo Club. With a myriad of celebrities among its attendees, Coachella comes in with high marks for elitism. There is a clear divide between Instagram influencers with VIP access and the lay people who must clamor through muddy fields to catch even a glimpse of their favorite artists.
Additionally, there is great disparity between the cost barrier to attend Woodstock ’69 versus present-day Coachella; an advance-sale ticket to Woodstock cost $18, which equals $125 in 2019, according to The Bureau of Labor Statistics.
In contrast, an advance-sale for a one-weekend general access ticket to Coachella 2020 costs $399 “plus fees,” according to their website. Attendance at Woodstock far exceeded expectations, so event organizers called it a wash and let stragglers into the venue for free—it is highly unlikely that this would be tolerated at Coachella.
Of course, Woodstock provided a cultural experience that greatly exceeded any reasonable monetary value—a mix of top-tier talent, good vibes and great attendance empowered the festival gods to converge in a perfect storm of rock music and debauchery. Though Max Yasgur was alienated by Bethel townsfolk for letting the hippies run amuck, and his land was decimated, Yasgur publicly stated that he never once regretted hosting the festival on his farm.
Beyond the realm of music legend, Yasgur’s farm holds a place in our collective consciousness as a reminder of a time before big business was inexplicably linked with big festivals. The original Woodstock was bankrolled by John P. Roberts, heir to the Polident/Poli-Grip fortune, who only made back one-third of what he spent on the festival. Though it is true that Roberts and fellow organizers Michael Lang and Artie Kornfeld came from privilege, their backgrounds are hardly those of the trust-fund babies dotting the scene at Coachella today.
In 2019, free love isn’t free—this is late stage capitalism, where a buck only takes you as far as you can throw it. There are no delusions about our culture or economic state in America, but maybe it is possible for our love of music to replace the mere love of money in our current festival climate.
That being said, there seems to be an appetite among young Americans to access the spirit of the 1960s counterculture. In Trumansburg, N.Y. there is the annual Finger Lakes GrassRoots Festival of Music and Dance. Though you won’t see well-renowned musical artists like Ariana Grande or Lana Del Rey take the stage, the festival is full of the spirit that a bigger, more expensive venue might lack.
In the meantime, and in moments when you feel that the music blasting through your headphones mutes out the bustling world around you, I hope you feel a kindred spirit with those present at Woodstock ’69 and wonder if we could all gather again someday for that fabled “Three Days of Peace & Music.”
Hayley Jones is an English major junior who loves folk music and wants to learn how to play the harmonica.