Our BettersnRobert Stephen Spitz: Barefoot innBabylon; Viking Press; New York.nTony Sanchez: Up and Down withnthe Rolling Stones; Morrow QuillnPaperbacks; New York.nby John O’SullivannA famous slogan of the late 60’snboasted that a million people had gatherednfor love, peace and music at thenWoodstock pop festival and yet nobodynhad been killed. Until I read these twonbooks, that had never struck me as anparticularly impressive claim. How often,nafter all, is anyone murdered at anchamber recital or raped at an oratorio.-^nAnd if riots occasionally burst forth innthe opera house, the principal woundsnare usually to the soprano’s amournpropre. Yet Mr. Spitz and Mr. Sanchez,nbetween them, persuade me that death’snbrief and accidental appearance atnWoodstock (a 17-year-old boy was runnover by a tractor) was indeed an achievementnof sorts. It represented an improvementnon the pop norm which, as representednhere, seems to consist of earlyndeath, suicide, dishonesty and corruptionnaccompanied by moral selfcongratulation.nIt is the financial vices which providenthe staple of Mr. Spitz’s book—a solidlynresearched corporate history of Woodstock.nMr. Spitz, however, has somewhatnobscured its sober virtues undernthe gaudy trappings of the “New Journalism.”nHe reports the privatenthoughts of all who were involved innorganizing the festival and reconstructsnlong conversations at which he was notnpresent. Accordingly, the narrativenshifts disconcertingly between truth innthe most literal sense (i.e. how manynportable toilets were hired to accommodatenprogressive bottoms) and poeticnMr. O’SulUvan is editor 0/PolicynReview.nor imaginative “truth” (i.e. in his reportnof one of those conversations he, himself,ndid not witness, “… the vacantnsmile on Howard’s face had the lifelessnquality of a wooden puppet.”) Did it indeed.’nAnd if Howard had been someonenof whom Mr. Spitz had a more favorablengeneral opinion, might he notnhave been allowed a more charmingnsmile? Such devices make the intelligentnreader distrustful, which would be anpity here since much that Mr. Spitz recordsnruns counter to his prejudices andnso testifies to his honest intentions.nThis history, unfashionably, has bothna plot and a moral. The plot is borrowednfrom Restoration comedy and describesnhow two innocent young squires, justndown from an Ivy League university andndazzled by the world of fashion, are flatterednand swindled out of their inheritancenby plausible rogues and dandiesnand end up poorer but wiser. It requires,nof course, some imagination on the partnof any normal person to see, for instance,nMr. Hugh Romney—the leadernof a commune called (too truthfully) thenHog Farm, who traveled “dressed in anwhite nightgown and a Donald Ducknaviator’s cap”—as the glass of fashionnand the mold of form. Yet those werenthe days when revolution and squalornwere all the rage, indeed outward signsnof inner cleanliness. Figures like Mr.nRomney were, accordingly, virtual BeaunBrummells from whom a raised eyebrownmeant social death.nCertainly Mr. John Roberts and Mr.nJoel Rosenmann—the Squire Truehartnand Mr. Decent of this comedy—werennervously impressed by the pretensionsnof Pop and Hippiedom and longed to benaccepted into that milieu. It seemednsomehow purer, more noble and lessncompromised than their own wretchednrespectability. They were thus inducednto put up a large fortune to finance thenpop festival: compelled by their diffidencentowards anyone wearing beadsnand a kaftan to watch colleagues andnnnhangers-on squander vast portions onnhigh living and pet projects, they werenfinally cheated out of any prospect of financialnsalvation when, through a mixturenof whim and incompetence, thenaudience was admitted to the festivalnfree of charge.nAlas for love and peace, the moralnthat emerges from Mr. Spitz’s narrativenis that the more untarnished someone’snhippie credentials are, the more likelynhe is to be a crook. Mr. Abbie Hoffman,nwho for some years had thrown excrementnat us with the highest motives, isnshown here to be a common extortionistnunder all the blather. He demandednf50,000-and finally settled for $10,-n000—in return for promising not tondisrupt the festival, a pledge which, innthe end, he did not scrupulously observe:nBefore Lang could react, Abbie dashednacross the stage …. ‘This festival isnmeaningless as long as John Sinclair’snrotting in prison,’ Abbie screamed …nblasted Townshend with a torrent ofnobscenities and ran screaming up thenside of the hill….nAnd Mr. Hoffman is merely the mostnthoroughgoing idealist. Except for somenof the organizing technicians, whosenprofessionalism demands respect, therenare few honest and fewer likeable peoplenin the Woodstock saga. Mr. MichaelnLang, for instance, the festival’s primenmover and presiding genius, is a modelnof lighthearted financial irresponsibilitynthroughout. He forbids any attempt toncollect tickets or even voluntary contributionsnfrom the audience on thengrounds that “they’re like groovin’ onnthe vibes and you want to hit them withnsomething like that! Don’t be ridiculous.”nBut contrast this lofty attitude to hisnpartners’ solvency with the ruthless defensenhe mounts when his own financialninterests are threatened. Along withnArte Kornfeld—together they are then^m^mm^K^mmmV!nSeptember/October 1980n