Livin’ in New York City Post 30: Going Up The Country. My Summer 2024 Trip to the Land of Woodstock

Driving up the Hudson River valley, I saw the bright sun craft a glare on the tops of the Catskill Mountains as I barreled along Interstate 87, the radio blasting the songs of Jim Croce. “‘Cause I know I gotta get out of here/I’m so alone/Don’t you know that I gotta get out of here/’Cause New York’s not my home.” I’m not sure that I could wholly agree with that sentiment. I love New York City. It is a home that I have spent the past two years carving out for myself, fleeing my home state of Illinois in order to find solace in the arts and the world of film. However, in my heart, I am still very much the young kid that came from Farmer City. As much as I love the city and its multitude of opportunities, I need time away from New York to recharge my batteries. Since the last time I had left the city was when I flew back to my home state for Christmas, I was in urgent need of a sojourn out of Brooklyn.

The intense heat reflected off of concrete sidewalks. The constant reliance on public transport. The perpetual sense of motion I was experiencing had made me feel completely shot, just going through the motions. Even with eight full hours of sleep, I still didn’t feel fully rested. I felt beat up as I felt the elements of my new life in New York feel like they were losing their luster. The music sounded too loud or too quiet. The movies were leaving no impact. The buildings I once marveled at became just another thing to walk past while maneuvering around a large group of tourists that never understood the walking formation that even the animals on Noah’s ark had mastered. On top of all that, the muggy season had started. Every trip to the grocery store would have me drenched in sweat. I would need to change shirts and shower multiple times per day to keep fresh. The air felt so heavy, like each breath had to be taken while a small weight was being pressed on my chest. I was in need of a temporary change. Something that would take me back to the earthy roots of my mind while reinvigorating my appreciation for the strange place I called home. Fortunately, I had spent months planning such a change. When America’s day of independence arrived, I would be 90 miles away from the city, upstate in a town whose very name inspires images of counterculture, youth, art and life: Woodstock. 

The idea to travel to this small town nestled in the Catskill Mountains had been germinating in my mind for quite some time. Even before I moved to New York, I knew that going to Woodstock would be in the cards for me. Due to the town’s continued association with the Woodstock Music and Arts Festival of 1969 (which did not occur in Woodstock but in Bethel which is 60 miles away), notable residents like Bob Dylan, The Band, Van Morrison, Janis Joplin and its continued association with music, film and the arts at large, going to this town was inevitable. 

Upon moving to the city in 2022, there was a problem that would hinder any possibility of being able to freely travel outside the city limits: I had sold my car to my cousin. Overall, I don’t regret this decision because the money I had gained was very valuable in my early days in town and, to be honest, having a car in New York is a pain. The simple act of finding a parking spot is an exercise of slowly going insane. But if you want to get out of the city, public transit becomes the most logical option. The only trouble is that no trains go up there and that the bus ride up to Woodstock is a good three-and-a-half hours. The only true option to go up to Woodstock in a timely fashion was also the most expensive: I would have to rent a car to travel. Since rental car companies are notorious for increasing prices for drivers under the age of 25, I decided that I would begin saving money for the inevitable trip. To celebrate my three year anniversary of living in New York in 2025, I would travel up to the town of Woodstock and spend a few days living in the place associated with counterculture, art, music and peace.

But, as John Lennon put it, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.” After a few months of putting money aside for the inevitable trip upstate, I got an email from Rolling Stone magazine announcing Willie Nelson’s Outlaw Country Revue tour. Having attended a show from the Outlaw Tour last year at Forest Hills Stadium last year, I had a pretty good idea of what to expect: a massive four hour block of music from various talents culminating in the payoff of Willie Nelson and his family band. But nothing could prepare me for the magnitude of this article from Rolling Stone. Joining Willie on this tour would be Celisse, Robert Plant & Allison Krauss and Bob Dylan. What a line up! 

While I had never heard of Celisse, a quick listen to her available music convinced me that she would be a solid opener with a good combination of blues, pop and excellent guitar work. Robert Plant, of course, has captivated generations as the frontman of Led Zeppelin and is easily one of the best lead vocalists in the history of rock. However, in recent years, Plant has continuously been immersing himself in the traditions of folk and Americana alongside accomplished singer Allison Krauss. While Plant and the other members of Zeppelin have always utilized folk in their songs (including on half of “Led Zeppelin IV”), it’s quite remarkable to see Plant join up with a singer from a younger generation and have them work so well together. Allison Kraus has been a strong presence of Americana, country and folk for quite some time but she appeared on my radar thanks to her work on film soundtracks like “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” Her vocals on “Down to the River to Pray” are magical and her collaborations with Gillian Welch and Emmylou Harris are just as magnetic. Having Krauss and Plant together reminds me a lot of how Brandi Carlile and Joni Mitchell have started to work together. It’s a heartwarming bridge between generations and has made for some good music. 

And then there’s Bob Dylan. I don’t think I really need to go into detail why Bob is such a good addition to the lineup. Between the fact that he’s responsible for inspiring Willie Nelson to create the Farm Aid concert and his continuous work in the genres of folk, country and gospel alongside his rock ventures, Bob Dylan pretty much belongs everywhere. So here it is: Celisse, Robert Plant & Allison Krauss, Bob Dylan and Willie Nelson are performing together for the summer. The only question I had in my mind was when would New York City be on the list of tour dates? The answer was never. The closest tour date would be on July 6 at the Bethel Woods Center for the Arts in Bethel, NY which just so happens to be located right next to the site of the 1969 Woodstock Music and Arts Fair which has since become immortalized in American popular culture. With the Saturday concert being a part of an elongated July 4th weekend, I quickly realized on that cold March day that I had an excellent, albeit expensive, opportunity at my feet. I could take multiple days off, rent a car and, before attending the concert in Bethel, spend some time up in Woodstock. Without a second thought, I bought a ticket for the July 6th concert 90 miles away with no idea how I was going to get there. 

The longer I thought about the trip, the more I was building it up in my mind. This wouldn’t be just any trip. It would be an affirmation of the American Dream which I was in sore need of. After all, the political turbulence of this time is eerily similar to the climate of the 1960s and 70s which inspired so much of the music that I would be chasing. However, rather than addressing the war in Vietnam and other social issues as he had done in his early music, Bob Dylan sought escape in the town of Woodstock following his 1966 motorcycle accident, living life as a family man and making albums that felt more like they were tapping into the roots of American music. If you listen to “John Wesley Harding”, “Nashville Skyline” and “New Morning”, it presents a very different experience than “Bringing It All Back Home” or “Blonde on Blonde”. An escape is also what I sought, but just a temporary one. At the time, it seemed like we were in for a rehash of the 2020 election which was already stressful enough but, on top of that, the continuing atrocities of the Israel-Hamas war were continuously filling me with a sense of outrage and despair. How could I feel good as an American when our tax dollars are funding bombs that are killing Palestinian children? How can I feel good as a Chrisitan when the nation where Christ healed the sick and fed the hungry has been wrought with war and genocide? 

If there was anyone who could give us some wisdom, it would be the Baby Boomers. After all, they grew up in such turbulent times. They watched the Civil Rights Movement, the Vietnam War, multiple assassinations, the lies of Richard Nixon and other social movements unfold. However, when you look at the current state of the Baby Boomer generation, it’s a fucking disgrace. 

A generation that had gone from reviling the likes of Nixon and George Wallace had turned over. They voted for Reagan and drank the Kool-Aid of American populism, full of useless, mentally crippled ultimatums like America: Love It or Leave It. They turned a blind eye to the crimes of Guantanamo in the name of patriotism and had placed into power the personification of callused cruelty wearing a mask of orange death. 

What’s even more tragic is that so many who grew up in such turbulent times like the 1960s fail to see the parallels between then and now. Their eyes have been splashed with the booze of nostalgia. The movements of my generation are being lambasted by those who marched to similar beats of similar drums. Are those that march saying “Black Lives Matter” different from those singing “We Shall Overcome?” Are those that march demanding a ceasefire in Palestine different from those who rallied against the Vietnam War? We needed the support of Baby Boomers but many had turned their backs on their activist youth. They had kept the Bob Dylan albums but failed to listen to the lyrics. “Your old road is rapidly agin’, please get out of the new one if you can’t lend your hand.” 

As if things couldn’t become any more frustrating, any more anxiety inducing, we were approaching an election that feels more contentious than the last in the year of our lord 2024. At the time, before President Biden announced his departure from a reelection campaign, it felt like 1968 with a rematch of Richard Nixon and Hubert Humphrey from beyond the grave with the Democratic National Convention taking place again in Chicago. I was in a massive ball of stress that needed to be relieved. I was seeking the American Dream. The idea of being able to go out on the road to find America in the stylings of Jack Kerouac, Patti Smith, Woody Guthrie, Ernest Hemingway and Simon & Garfunkel. I wanted the road with my hands on a wheel and the wind flowing through my hair as my music blasted. Come to think of it, an escape wasn’t what I was interested in at all. I wanted to go to the homeland of some of my favorite music, to take what I saw and to bring it back to New York and the world at large. I was seeking inspiration. I was seeking deliverance. I was seeking answers. But most of all, I was seeking adventure. From the first time I listened to musicians like The Beatles, Bob Dylan and The Band to my recent taking up of Transcendental Meditation, the idea of Woodstock had been calling to me for a long time. Now, I had taken it upon myself to get to this town. One way or another. 

With the spring melting away into the summer, I quickly began my in-depth research. As a traveler, I am certainly up for not making plans and just doing whatever comes into my mind on the turn of a dime. However, I need to know a thing or two about the place I’m visiting, especially in regards to the musical history that I was intent to experience firsthand. Within weeks of my trip, I had already booked a basement AirBnb just outside the town limits of Woodstock, along with a cabin at an artist’s collective for my one-night stay in Bethel. The only tricky part was the car. With the Independence Day weekend coinciding with my trip, it would be notoriously difficult to secure a rental car. Fortunately, I was able to procure a Chevy Malibu from Avis. Not only did I have a discount as a result of my lifetime membership in The National Society of Leadership and Success (an organization responsible for giving me a $3,000 scholarship my junior year in college) but the nearest Avis location was in Long Island City. 

It was a perfect plan. On the afternoon of July 3, I would go to work with my suitcase in hand, walk to the Avis location when my shift had concluded, pick up the car and drive back to the L.I.C. Corner Café to acquire my luggage. Then, off to Woodstock. With my bosses and coworkers admirers of the hippie spirit and the American Dream that I sought, I was able to trade my shifts no problem. But since I had just turned 24, I knew that Avis would stick me for all I was worth and that’s what they did. Out of all the expenses for this trip, the car was far more expensive than both of my AirBnb rentals combined. But did that really matter? Isn’t the fact that you can solve all of your problems with the right amount of money part of the American Dream? 

During my quest to accumulate as much knowledge about Woodstock and Bethel as possible (subjects I was already well-versed in), I was recommended a book by a performer at the Music Inn, an older man named Duff. With long silver hair and the mischievous charm of a court jester secretly plotting to take the throne, Duff has seen it all, including several Grateful Dead shows. When he heard I was going up the country to Woodstock, he leapt at the chance to tell me about the book “Small Town Talk” by Barney Hoskyns. An accomplished music critic and writer of many books, including an excellent biography of The Band, Hoskyns crafted an amazing book based on testimonies from many music big-shots and local residents to paint a comprehensive portrait of Woodstock as it became a Mecca for hippiedom and counterculture. There were plenty of good stories about my favorite artists but there was also this feeling of community fostered within the pages. You felt like a kid reading old newspapers on microfilm at the local library, uncovering lost treasures about your hometown. Best of all, there was a map of Woodstock with all of the places of interest (of interest to me anyway) marked. This would certainly make my exploration easier. 

July came and with it a sweltering air that felt like it was pushing me to leave the city I called home. “What are you waiting for?”, it cried. “Get out. Get the car. Leave.” It took all of my fading strength to avoid opening my window and screaming into the streets, “I just need a few more fucking days!” I thought the days would get easier as my vacation approached but it was just the opposite. But I knew it would pass once I got on the road. I was wrong. 

The morning of July 3, I woke up with an energy I hadn’t felt in weeks. I felt heightened, ready to serve a million cups of coffee. The sun was bright, warm to the touch. The scents of
New York were as perfume and the wind fluttered gently on my newly shaven face (I had shorn my beard in favor of a mustache and sideburns in tribute to the style of facial hair Robbie Robertson had while he lived in Woodstock with The Band). Hauling a suitcase, guitar and camera bag, my commute made me feel as I first did when I moved to the city, surrounded by oddities and fascinating sights to take in. It almost made me sad that I was leaving, almost being the key word. The day at work was calm, almost too calm. I made coffee concoctions of all kinds and listened to the music that I would soon feel on a whole other level. Before I knew it, I was done with my shift, leaving my friend Andrew to close up shop while I got the car. 

Back in a flash, I loaded up the trunk with all of the excitement I had when I left for college or when I first moved to New York. I got behind the wheel and I drove off. Having not been behind the wheel in seven months, not since I was home for Christmas, I took my time getting used to the car before jumping into the deep end. To get onto the interstate that would take me up the Hudson, I would have to drive on FDR Drive, a fast lane of traffic that exists on the borders of Manhattan. Before that, I would have to survive the trip from Queens to Manhattan which meant I would be crossing the Queensboro Bridge. So, within 15 minutes of being back in a car, I would have to travel on one of the most iconic bridges of New York and on one of the busiest roads in the country. Despite such overwhelming circumstances, I had to keep a cool head. I uncharacteristically had the radio turned off and kept my sharp focus on the road, the cars and an occasional break dancer spinning on the sidewalk. When I crossed the bridge, I let out a sigh of relief. When I made it to FDR, I was screaming with delight. When I made it onto the highway, I felt like I could take on the whole world, just me, my car and the open road. I finally turned on the radio, quickly found a station that clicked with my taste and let the magic of Jim Croce, Muddy Waters and Joni Mitchell guide me. 

Within the first half hour I was driving, I realized how much I had forgotten what New York state looked like. This state is full of forests and mountains, tall trees and flowing rivers. Even though I had visited upstate New York once before (a family trip to Cooperstown in 2021 that included stops in Cleveland, Niagara Falls and Gettysburg). Surrounded by the mountains I forgot, I immediately fell back in love with driving. I had deeply missed the feeling of the wind, roar of an engine and the knowledge that I was in charge of my destiny. I decided where I went, how fast I was going and was free of the “show time” guys that plague the subway. On a side note, I am not saying that I don’t like the people that do flips and tricks to music on subway cars. It’s actually quite impressive. However, I cannot stand how self-effacing they are when they start off every show by saying “it’s probably going to be bad.” We all know how this is going to go. You’re going to pull off some incredible Spider-Man acrobatics and we’ll applaud so why try to pull the wool over our eyes when we can see behind the curtain? 

As the late afternoon set in, I found myself getting the most bizarre case of deja vu. Like I had been on these roads before, leading me upstate to the Catskills. This feeling intensified until I got off the interstate and, at last, made my way to the small town that I spent years dreaming about. As the rolling hills greeted me, I made my way, all the while looking at the signs on the side of the road, counting down the miles until I was in Woodstock. Leading into Woodstock, and towards my AirBnb, I saw the stretch of road that had been christened Levon Helm Memorial Boulevard in honor of the late singer/drummer of The Band. Instinctively, I turned on the radio to see what was on one of the local frequencies and, when I turned the dial to Woodstock’s rock station, I was greeted by an all too fitting song: the live version of “Don’t Do It” by The Band from the famed Last Waltz concert. It was as if everything was falling perfectly into place as I pulled into the driveway of my lodgings. 

While the trip was a bit draining for me, I couldn’t let that get to me. My weariness from the road was far outweighed by my excitement. Despite being in a constant state of exploration in New York City, I had long gotten used to the feeling of living in the big city and being accustomed to the cacophony of noise and horns and shouts. I was, once again, a stranger in a strange land and all too eager to wander aimlessly. It’s a fresh feeling. You have no idea what to expect and this filled me with an exuberance I wanted to share. 

Making my way into town, I was quick to find a local treasure: a bar, kitchen and live music venue called The Colony. Located right next to the town cemetery, The Colony was aglow with activity as a bluegrass/country band played for a group of attentive tourists and locals on the outdoor stage. After having a fish sandwich, I drank a couple of beers and began to talk to some of the older locals who seemed to enjoy my passion for the history of Woodstock. When I turned around, I saw a bunch of little kids just running around and playing in the back of the massive yard that was part of The Colony and I remember seeing one boy, who couldn’t have been older than four, just running around naked with no sense of shame or any cares. I couldn’t help but be reminded of a scene from the “Woodstock” documentary where footage of kids, some of them naked, with their parents is juxtaposed with John Sebastian singing “Younger Generation”. As I turned my gaze back to the band, I heard them playing Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” and I felt right at home. 

Recusing myself from The Colony, I went for a stroll as the sun began to set. The main road that cuts through Woodstock is called Tinker Street and that name has a whimsical sound to it. As the sunlight began to fade, I walked up and down the street, observing the different stores and restaurants that had all closed for the day. With the exception of a few others taking an evening walk, I was in a state of relative solitude as I internally laid out my plans for the next few days all along this street. Passing by the Tinker Street Cinema, I saw that the new A24 film “MaXXXine” would be playing so I knew I had to catch a show there. Walking over a bridge, I saw a doe eating some grass not 15 feet in front of me. Our eyes connected and she slowly walked away and found another doe. Then those two found another and, before I knew it, I had four does in front of me, receding into the night while the sun set behind the Catskill Mountains that loomed over this town. 

With night having fallen, I made the walk back to my car but not before I passed one of the few places that was still open: a bar called Station. Seeing the name instantly called me back to the song “In a Station” from The Band’s debut album “Music From Big Pink”. So, of course, I had to go inside. Out of all the bars that I’ve been in, I’d count Station as one of my favorites. It just had this laid back quality to it with all manner of old-timey booths, tables and antiques dotting the walls. The beer was good and from many great upstate breweries, there were a few pool tables to get a decent game on and there was this life-sized art collage of televisions, instruments and other pieces of Americana. It’s a good thing that it was roped off because it would have been very tempting to sit in one of the armchairs among the display, pick up a guitar and start strumming. 

Months later, when I recounted my travels to friends, one of them informed me that Station used to have live music almost every night until the past summer (a few weeks before I arrived in town) on that very stage, surrounded by Americana. However, some of the neighbors, many of them New Yorkers who can afford summer homes in Woodstock, complained enough to get the music taken away. To those people, I have a simple statement: go fuck yourself. Why on Earth would you move to Woodstock if you didn’t want to hear music? The very streets of this town are sown with it. I’m also going to make a safe bet and assume that the music being played wasn’t exactly Swedish black metal with shreds so loud that it could melt flesh. It was probably classic bluegrass, country, rock and Americana to fit with the town tradition. If that’s not your cup of tea, then Woodstock probably isn’t the place for you. Furthermore, I would like to prescribe that you drown yourself in the Hudson River. Just make sure to leave your cozy summer home to me in the will so I can put it to good use. 

In spite of no live music at this particular bar, I was still content to be surrounded by relics of yesteryear while I had a nice foamy pilsner that clung to my mustache with each sip. After one drink and the walk back to my car, I drove back to the AirBnb with the music blaring but my eyes laser focused on the road. Growing up in Illinois, I was used to everything being flat and all the roads being straight lines. However, upstate New York is a very different story. So many of the roads wind and weave and you really have to keep your focus, especially if you’re not used to this kind of driving. I had drunk a little but I was basically sober and made every turn perfectly. Nevertheless, times I spent driving in that part of the state had given me an understanding as to how Bob Dylan almost died in a motorcycle accident in Woodstock in 1966 and how guys like Levon Helm, Rick Danko and Richard Manuel could have wrecked so many cars when they were living there in the late 60s and early 70s. If you have to watch yourself while you’re sober, can you imagine doing this drunk? I had never considered driving drunk before my Woodstock trip and I sure don’t plan on it now. 

The next day marked 248 years since America declared its independence as I awoke to meditate. Following my 20 minute session, I looked intently at the woods that surrounded my AirBnb. Since taking up meditation, I have found looking outside my window or eating fruit to be two things I have fixated upon when I’m coming out of it. With a clearer mind, taking in my surroundings becomes more pleasurable. After taking that time to just be one with myself, I grabbed my guitar, hopped in my car and drove to Woodstock for some breakfast. To me, the most important thing about the day was to be spontaneous. Sure, I had a few things planned out but I had plenty of time to go wherever I wanted and to stumble upon some hidden treasures. One of them was where I had my first meal: Allison Restaurant (not too far off from the name of the restaurant Arlo Guthrie sang of). Going for a classic meal of scrambled eggs, bacon, hash browns and toast, I sat as the morning crowd began to trickle in. In particular, I found it amusing to see a group of old men, friends for decades no doubt, who took up a massive table and began discussing their past exploits of the week. Too often they reminded me of my grandfather and his friends' daily group meeting over coffee, dubbed “The Brain Bank” by my grandmother. I guess there’s a group like this in every diner in America, sharing memories over coffee and flapjacks. 

After breakfast, I walked up Tinker Street for a bit. Most of the shops wouldn’t open for another hour so I parked myself in the town square: a small pavilion dedicated to the late Michael Lang, who created the Woodstock festival so many of us hold dear. Across from me was a building I remembered from studying photos of Woodstock. Once a bakery, photographer Elliott Landey took a picture of Bob Dylan, his son Jesse and a few of Bob’s friends all standing in front of it. Aside from taking photos of Bob doing errands, Elliott Landey’s photography has defined the Woodstock generation with his in-depth work surrounding Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, The Band, Bob Dylan, Van Morrison and the Woodstock festival. Among his most famous images include the album covers of The Band’s self-titled 1969 album, “Nashville Skyline” by Bob Dylan and “Moondance” by Van Morrison. It wouldn’t be the last time I would see a setting of one of Landey’s photographs in person. Now, the building is a candy store, serving high-quality chocolates, and here I was strumming my guitar across the way from it. 

I spent the next hour playing a bunch of folk standards and a few rock classics as well as chatting up a few of the early birds walking up and down Tinker Street. Some were locals and others were fellow travelers like myself. After all, if they came to a hippie town, they might as well see one in action. At one point, I noticed that, despite being a center for much of the music that defined the 60s and 70s, Woodstock didn’t have a single marijuana dispensary. Needing to satisfy my curiosity, I asked an older couple who had been in the area for a long time where I could get some pot. They told me to “make a friend.” As nice as that answer sounded, there is still some room for improvement in this little town. What also struck me about the town was how untouched it felt by corporate America. Woodstock doesn’t have an Arby’s or a Burger King or a Wal-Mart or a Target. There are no Golden Arches to be found in town and the only big brand that I could see on Tinker Street was a Walgreens. Everything was small businesses and family-owned restaurants. The shops also felt so personal and engaging. While the town’s reputation as a hippie community certainly has helped Woodstock’s commerce, there weren’t any stores that I thought were too kitschy or felt disingenuous in how they profited off of the music of days gone by. 

In these stores, I probably spent more money than I should have. Actually, there’s no probably about it. I definitely spent more than I should have but I think this vacation gave me a bit of freedom with my budget. Most of the things I bought felt sensible to me like a black pork pie hat that I remember looking sharp on Rick Danko. Wouldn’t you know it, it had the same effect on me. I also purchased a large print of the photo Elliott Landey shot of The Band for their second album cover and it was signed by Landey as well. When I mentioned to the business owner how much I loved all of the Landey photos she had on display, she said that Landey remains a local resident of Woodstock and is still just as busy with his camera. In fact, Landey shot a few photos of this woman and her daughter for free. Imagine being photographed by the same man who snapped the picture of Bob Dylan that greets you when you play his “Girl From The North Country” duet with Johnny Cash? 

As midday approached, I drove a bit further into Woodstock back to the same parking lot I was in the night before. Guitar in tow once again, I walked up to the cemetery to find the men who brought me to this town in the first place. While I wasn’t sure where exactly they were buried, I knew that it would be easy to spot. Sure enough, I caught a glimpse of a few Canadian flags sticking up out of the ground. A few maple leaves in a sea of stars and stripes. Walking towards those flags, I found myself at the grave of Rick Danko: the bassist of The Band whose versatility made him an unstoppable musical giant. His fiddle playing made songs like “Rag Mama Rag” and “Daniel and the Sacred Harp” while his more sporadic vocal style made him a standout singer on “Long Black Veil”, “Stage Fright”, “The Unfaithful Servant” and the fourth verse of “The Weight” (my favorite verse). Now I was the one standing over his grave, having a black hat instead of a veil. Sitting down next to his grave, I gave him my thanks for the music and played a few songs for him. I’m not sure how I did but the fact that Danko didn’t ask God to smite me is a good sign. After I sang my songs, I left my guitar pick on the gravestone along with the other pieces of paraphernalia that other fans had left behind. 

Down one of the paths, about 50 feet away, was where I found Levon Helm: the drummer of The Band. Like his fellow bandmates, Levon was remarkable with his ability to trade off on instruments, especially with the mandolin. As the only American in the group, Levon had this Southern drawl that made his vocals essential for songs like “The Weight”, “Ophelia” and “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down”. To be in his presence was an honor, especially since I would be attending a show at his home that night. Like with Rick, I thanked him for all of the music he made, both with The Band and as a solo artist, and played a few more songs for him before leaving my pick behind. I was always going to have a good time in Woodstock, but being in that cemetery to pay my respects to two musicians I truly love was what this trip was all about. 

On the way out of the cemetery, I was walking along the main trail when I saw a wooden peace symbol on a stake in the sea of American flags. Curious, I went to investigate the sign when I discovered the grave of Michael Lang. While Lang’s impact on Woodstock is immense given his founding of the Woodstock music festival that borrowed the town’s name, I had completely forgotten that he was buried in Woodstock following his death in 2022. Once again, I paid my respects to the man who helped create an important historic event that will live forever. 

Continuing my journey of visiting the graves of musicians and music-adjacent persons, I drove ten minutes west from the center of Woodstock until I made it to Bearsville and pulled into the parking lot of the Bearsville Center. Founded by Albert Grossman, the former manager of Bob Dylan, The Band, Janis Joplin, Gordon Lightfoot and Peter, Paul and Mary, the complex is currently home to a theater that hosts live music as well as a recording studio. Among the great albums recorded at the studio are “Cahoots” by The Band, “Wave” by the Patti Smith Group, “Grace” by Jeff Buckley, “Bat Out of Hell” by Meatloaf and the soundtrack album for “Hedwig and the Angry Inch”. With such rich musical and cinematic history, of course I had to go see it. The center also boasts a Mexican restaurant, a bar and a garden next to a creek and I was sure to check out everything the center had to offer. While I was having a Corona, I got a little cheeky and I decided to ask the bartender “Where’s Albert?” Without batting an eye, he said “Go down the sidewalk and take a left at the last building. He’ll be surrounded by a fence and plants.” You see, after his death in 1986 while on a private flight over the Atlantic Ocean en route to London, Albert Grossman had his funeral in Woodstock and was buried behind the Bearsville Theater. So, if you get a job at any part of the Bearsville Center, it’s logical to assume that this grave is part of orientation. Truly, how many of us in the service industry or in show business get to work at a place where there’s a famous dead man on display? It’s not enough. 

Taking the directions of my bartender, I walked to the gravesite of Albert Grossman and paid my respects, except I wasn’t sure how to do it. Despite having a massive amount of talent under his management and being very protective of his artists, Grossman was known to be shrewd and was an asshole to anyone who crossed him. He requested larger commissions from his artists than other managers and even alienated Bob Dylan into dropping him as a manager when Bob discovered that Albert Grossman had 50% of Bob’s song publishing rights. However, he was also quite committed to the success of his artists and arguably helped the rapid rise of his biggest clients. When Bob Dylan wrote “Blowin’ in the Wind” for his second album, Grossman was quick to get the song to Peter, Paul and Mary to record which started this massive wave of other artists recording Bob’s song. While Bob’s second album put him on the map because of its own merits, it does beg the question: how many people discovered Bob Dylan in 1963 because of all those covers of “Blowin’ in the Wind”? Since I was unsure of whether to salute Albert or give him the finger, I decided to do both. I felt it was a fitting way to pay my respects, especially since, at his funeral, Mary Travers of Peter, Paul and Mary said “He wasn’t a very nice man, but I loved him dearly.” 

But all of those sights were merely build-up for the big attraction. Yes it had been nice to pay my respects to Levon and Rick and Albert but I had traveled many a mile up to Woodstock for one place in particular and it was high time that I made my way over there. I got in my car and drove through the winding roads of the countryside. The kind of roads where you must keep your wits about you because around any turn could be an oncoming Jeep Cherokee ready to smash you to pieces. But there is also relaxation to be found with the right music and the right scenery and I had both. The trees and the glimpses of deer enriched my drive scored to The Band’s debut album “Music From Big Pink” which was fitting since I was driving to the titular house where that heavenly music was composed. As the chorus of “The Weight” boldly played, I found myself looking on the pink house that I had dreamed of seeing for years. 

After the electric tours of the mid-1960s, a weary Bob Dylan nearly died in a motorcycle wreck outside of Woodstock in 1966, requiring him to wear a neck brace and to retreat from his wild public life which had been plagued by endless hammering by his fans and the press, a sea of amphetamines and continued bullying for wanting to move beyond his traditional folk roots. His accident was the ultimate reset button, an opportunity to explore a more traditional way of living while continuing to push himself into new musical directions. He settled down with his first wife Sara in Woodstock and began to grow a family in this little town. Dylan would also take a more relaxed approach with more acoustic-driven albums like “John Wesley Harding” and “Nashville Skyline”. But what of his backing band, a rockabilly band who had previously been touring the South and Canada trying to make a record deal? What of The Hawks?

After lazing around New York City for weeks, wondering if Bob would even want to go back to touring after his accident, Albert Grossman gave The Hawks a call and told them to come up to Woodstock. They’d be closer to Bob, away from the city and able to work on music in a place where rent would be exceptionally lower. So, the group made their way upstate and most of them settled in a house with uniquely pink siding. Of course, by that time they had dropped their name of The Hawks and, after much trial-and-error, had found a name that seemed perfectly unpretentious: The Band. But while Woodstock offered a lot of peace and quiet, there weren’t many studios down the road where The Band could make and record demo tapes. So, they put a lot of their musical equipment in the basement of the pink house and set up a tape recorder to make decent-enough copies of new songs, folk standards and whatever bits of nonsense they could stitch together. Before the boxes could even be completely unpacked, Bob Dylan got in on the action. Every day, Levon Helm, Rick Danko, Garth Hudson and Richard Manuel would get out of bed while Bob and Robbie would drive in from their homes (Robbie and Bob were the only married men at the time). Bob would often sit at a typewriter and would burn out lyrics and ideas like ticker-tape (as Joan Baez would say) and they’d all go down to the basement to work on these songs. Eventually, these recordings, which were sent to record labels to entice people to sign The Band, would become beloved bootlegs before official releases would cement “The Basement Tapes” into musical legend. Now, nearly 60 years after they moved in, I was standing in front of the legendary Big Pink. 

When it comes to famous musical homes, most of them are these grand places with luxurious names like The Dakota, The Chelsea Hotel, Friar Park, Abbey Road, Graceland, Shangri-La, Muscle Shoals, Electric Lady and so on. But Big Pink is much more straight-forward and, aside from the color, the house is most unassuming. But that just makes it more special. Those who know its power come from all over to see it but we are few. Millions clamour to see The King’s home outside of Memphis but how many of us music-lovers would travel 90 miles north of New York City to see this pink house? Me. As I looked at the house where some of my favorite music (including my favorite song ever made) was written, I couldn’t help but cry. But unlike other significant houses, where their legacy dies with the owners and they wind up being remodeled by shallow yuppies or are torn down for worse-looking, worse-feeling structures, Big Pink is here to stay. The current owner of the house is a massive fan of The Band and rents the home out on VRBO for $700 a night. It may be a steep price and well out of my range but it does help ensure that the people who do stay in Big Pink know about the home’s historical significance. Fortunately, no one was staying in Big Pink that day because I would have hated to have imposed on anyone's Independence Day weekend getaway. I took my time to look at the house, to hear the voices and the instruments and to take in the same Catskill Mountain air that greeted Garth Hudson as he fixed a screen door or Levon Helm as he threw a football around with Hamlet, Bob Dylan’s black dog that he gave the Rick Danko as a gift. I took it all in, snapped a few pictures to immortalize my visit and departed for more adventures. But I could have stayed for much longer to look at that house.

After a quick dinner, I found myself heading just north of Woodstock as the sun set on America’s birthday. After permanently settling in the area, Levon Helm had set up a recording studio/live music space in a barn on his property where he and his musical pals would put together shows called The Midnight Rambles. Since Levon’s death, the space has only grown more important to the community with shows multiple nights per week and one just happened to be on Independence Day. How could I call myself a fan of The Band if I didn’t get tickets for a show in Levon’s Barn? After pulling up to the secluded property, I made my way to the barn with a hundred or so others that were there to catch the band Deer Tick’s performance. Blending rock and folk together, the band was a fiery blast of fun to cap off the day but I remember much more how intimate it was in that barn. The place could only hold a small audience (in sharp contrast with the concert I would attend a few days later) and we all just felt so close in that barn. I’ve heard stories of these kinds of parties back home but never saw any for myself. So, in a sense, attending that show in Woodstock, NY brought me a bit closer to Farmer City. 

Waking up the next day, I had a quick bite of breakfast at a diner before driving up the rambling hills and mountains that enclosed Woodstock. I had spent a great deal of time on Tinker Street and patronizing the shops, boutiques and restaurants. Now, I wanted to get back to nature. New York City may have beautiful places to be immersed in foliage and fauna (Central Park, Prospect Park and the multitudes of beaches come to mind) but you can still hear the whizzing of cars. The honking of horns. The noise of pedestrians. Now I found myself in the countryside where all I could hear were birds chirping and the rustling of leaves. During my research of Woodstock and its surrounding areas, I discovered a hiking trail of the mighty Overlook Mountain that everyone recommended, especially since there’s an abandoned hotel near the top of the trail. Much like a similarly named hotel in “The Shining”, the Overlook Mountain House was a luxury hotel chosen for seclusion over practicality and it went strong for over forty years from 1833 to 1875 until a fire destroyed it, triggering a reconstruction that resulted in a new hotel lasting from 1875 until 1923. Despite a colorful history, nature seemed intent on keeping this bit of land for itself, tolerating visitors but never permanent residents.

Wanting to see this hotel for myself and to completely be free of the shackles of society, I took the drive to the parking lot at the edge of the trail where, across the road, lies a massive Buddhist Temple. Unfortunately, the temple was hosting a retreat so I couldn’t go inside for my morning meditation. But that wasn’t the biggest draw at the beginning of this journey up the mountain. Right next door to the temple was this small, unassuming mountain church called the Church of the Holy Transfiguration of Christ-on-the-Mount. I had planned on visiting it from the minute I crossed into town because, as a fan of The Band, it is a must-visit location since both Robbie Robertson and Rick Danko married their first wives in that church. When I walked in, I had a hard time wrapping my whole head around how small this hand-built church was. It made the small country church I attended in Farmer City look like Notre Dame Cathedral. But it was that humility that immediately endeared the place to me. I meditated there. I prayed there. I even sang alone in that church, forgoing a traditional hymn for the all-too-fitting “I Shall Be Released”. After I attended to my business, I walked across the road to the parking lot for the trek up the mountain.

One thing that the guides had failed to inform me was how hard it is climbing a mountain. Granted, all I was doing was putting one foot in front of the other on a trail but it was far more challenging than anything I was expecting. The Overlook trail is incredibly steep and, as you climb, you feel like both Sisyphus and the rock, especially if you’re an uninitiated explorer who spent the first 22 years of his life surrounded by plains and flat corn fields. The sweat poured out of me while I was carefully rationing my water consumption. I was tempted to pour all the water onto my face, risking drowning myself if it meant I’d be cool while doing it. I had found a walking stick that made things a tad easier but it was grueling nonetheless to keep going forward up this damn mountain. As far as I’m concerned, Rip Van Winkle got everything that was coming to him in Washington Irving’s classic story. He should have known damn better than to traverse the Catskills. Some places were not meant for men, the same lesson the people who tried so hard to make the Overlook Mountain House should have paid attention to. 30 minutes passed. Then another 30. I kept pushing on, taking a rare break if I found a log or boulder large enough to rest on. They were very few. My thoughts grew shorter. They eventually became one-word blurbs. “Breathe.” “Drink.” “Breathe.” “Walk.” “Walk.” Occasionally, they’d be slightly longer forms of profane encouragement. “Walk you fuck!” “Keep going you weak son-of-a-bitch!” So, I kept going. Until, at last, I saw a stone too finely cut for it to have occurred by natural erosion. I was at the hotel.

With sweat stinging my eyes, I approached the ruins as I marveled at the construction. The fires and the natural progression of time had completely removed the floors. Most artifacts and decorations had long perished from this place, leaving only the outer shell, some pipes and a few grand staircases. It was sturdy enough for a visit but my wits had to be present. I was alone in this hotel with only the ghosts for company, if there were any at all. But I also was so close to the top. I only had a bit more distance to trek uphill. Amazed at my constitution and luck, I started laughing. Perhaps it was best I made this whole journey alone otherwise my companions would have thought me mad. They would have called upon any rangers or law enforcement to have me committed to the nearest psychiatric institute. All for being happy at my fortune. I felt the stone walls, climbed the stairs and took it all in as I caught whatever breath I could. But I still had to move. I had one last mission. Then I could walk downhill, make it to town and never have to climb another mountain for the rest of this trip. 

Five minutes after leaving the hotel, my pace grew stronger as I found myself staring at a watchtower originally built to scout potential forest fires. Now, it’s mainly used for visitors who wish to gaze over land largely untouched by the greed of man. To see dense forests and to hear the calls of its inhabitants. I stood out over that great landscape and marveled at the clouds that were moving past me at eye level. I have never been as tall as clouds before. After I made my way down the tower and felt the mountain beneath my feet, I took an American flag and draped myself in it like the great Hunter S. Thompson. I was feeling the fulfillment of this journey and its goals: to find some kind of sliver of the American Dream despite all efforts by the powerful, the narcissists, the wealthy and previous generations to kick my generation to the curb with a smile on their face and a butcher’s knife in their hand. I felt their failure that day as I put up my flag and prepared the descent. 

On the trail, I felt the soothing grace of going downhill. Its ease made the grueling ascent feel all the more rewarding, even as the amount of water in my bottle grew meager. As quickly as the thought of more water entered my head, I felt the first rain drops on my head followed by a tirade of water from the heavens, as if God wanted to give me the biggest baptism nature had ever seen. It worked. I felt reborn with energy I had long since forgotten since I started my trek a couple of hours prior. I was moving faster downhill as the rain clung itself to me. Feeling the tightness of my shirt, I removed it and used whatever dry qualities it had left to wipe what sweat remained off of my face. As I made my trek down, I saw the parking lot and knew it was all over. After having this realization, the rain stopped too and wouldn’t return for the rest of my trip. As if it was just for me. While I couldn’t see myself climbing another mountain anytime soon (mainly due to their scarcity in New York City), I felt changed by the two-and-a-half hours I spent on Overlook. Like how, despite all of my successes and failures, I will return to this Earth like everyone else. The mountain will remain as will the descendents of the animals I encountered but our activities, like that hotel, will become encircled by the planet that gave us life. There’s something scary yet comforting in that thought. Like Moses on Sinai or Jesus in the desert, I had entered and left feeling the might of God. I saw his kingdom in one of its purest forms: solitary for myself yet abundant for all other forms of life. Wanting to pass on something to the next person who journeyed to this place, I left my walking stick next to the entrance of the trail, in hopes that it would aid the next person who dared to make the climb. 

Shirtless, I removed my shoes and socks to avoid slipping on the accelerator and rolled all my windows down to dry me off somewhat as I drove back to the AirBnb to shower and change for my last night in Woodstock. The warm wind in my face felt like the gentle touch of a woman’s hand while my music soothed me, bringing all the breath back into my lungs that I lost on the mountain. The car and I took no hurry on those mountain roads until we met the familiar sight of Tinker Street. Despite this only being my third day in Woodstock, I felt as if I had been here for an eternity that I didn’t want to pass. 

Quickly cleaning up, I took advantage of the freedom I felt even though I was staying in someone else’s home, driving someone else’s car and paying for both. I took a drive with only the map in “Small Town Talk” as a guide as I sought the last physical structures I’d yet to encounter that tied into the musical history I loved so much. I found where Bob Dylan and his family stayed during their time in Woodstock, where Robbie Robertson and his new bride resided apart from the rest of the boys in The Band and I even found where Van Morrison was living at the time he was composing the albums “Tupelo Honey” and “Moondance”, both of which contain some of my favorite songs like “Old, Old Woodstock” (a tribute to the town), “Tupelo Honey”, “Crazy Love” and “Into the Mystic”. What all of these places had in common were just how secluded they were and how hard they were to find even with a map. Of course, this made sense to me. After all, if you were as famous as Bob, you’d want that kind of privacy for the sake of your wife and kids who never signed on for a life of fame and the rules of famiosity. 

Driving along a stretch of country road, I came across a barren junction with no signs and no marks. Yet, it is one of the most significant patches of land in Woodstock. I pulled off to the side of the road and walked to where Bob Dylan had his nearly fatal motorcycle accident in 1966 following his infamous electric tour with the members of The Band as his backing group. It may seem morbid to visit this kind of spot but, if not for that day and that accident, Bob Dylan wouldn’t have stopped touring. He wouldn’t have kicked the amphetamines he was riddling his system with to keep up with the demands of touring. He wouldn’t have retreated to Woodstock to be a family man with Sara and their growing litter of kids. The rest of the Band wouldn’t have followed him to Woodstock and set up shop in Big Pink. Woodstock wouldn’t have become as synonymous with popular rock music as it is now. Bob wouldn’t have put out albums that went back to the roots of American music with “Nashville Skyline” and “John Wesley Harding”. There’s a million what-if questions you could ask yourself centered on this accident but only one thing is certain. Bob wrecked his motorcycle in 1966 on the same ground where I was standing in 2024 and it made all the difference to him. 

As the sun lowered on my final day, I had one last meal in the town I had become so enamored with and decided to take in some modern culture in a place that couldn’t be more synonymous with the symbols of classic Americana and rock-and-roll that made Woodstock so famous. While Woodstock is a small town, it’s pretty clear that there’s plenty to do on any given night, certainly more activity than my hometown could offer. Music is obviously a strong part of the town’s heritage but the world of cinema also has a strong hold on the town. Woodstock has been the home of some pretty important people in film like “When We Were Kings” director Leon Gast, Lee Marvin, and Ethan Hawke and Uma Thurman when the pair were married (they even named their son Levon). In addition, the town hosts the Woodstock Film Festival which gives a strong voice to emerging filmmakers along with more established indie artists and has become one of the strongest film festivals in America programming over 100 films per year across multiple cinemas in Woodstock and the surrounding towns. Since its founding in 2000, the Woodstock Film Festival has had some pretty big titles in its history while they were making the festival circuit including “Anora”, “Speak”, “I’m Not There”, “Up in the Air”, “Parasite” and “The Banshees of Inisherin”. 

While the festival wasn’t due to happen until October, one of Woodstock’s crown jewels and its only movie theater, the Tinker Street Cinema, was still very much open for business and was screening a new film called “MaXXXine” from filmmaker Ti West as the third and final film in his “X” trilogy made with famed independent studio/distribution company A24. Since I was dying to catch this film as soon as I could, I combined this love for indie cinema with my love of indie theaters and went to Tinker Street to catch a movie and rest in a dark auditorium away from the summer heat. Not only did I enjoy the film, but I also felt so honored to be in this cinema and feel its history surround me. Originally a Methodist Church, the congregation moved to a much larger church with the church being converted into a cinema in 1961. It quickly gained a strong attendance because of its excellent programming, showing strong films of quality in the emerging New Hollywood alongside weirder films, and hasn’t left the hearts of Woodstock residents since. Many famous faces have been to the cinema either to see films or to participate in the Woodstock Film Festival but its most famous visitor is undoubtedly the great Jimi Hendrix, who rented out the theater to rehearse prior to his appearance at the Woodstock music festival in 1969. Here I was watching a film where Hendrix was working out how to play his version of The Star Spangled Banner to close out the iconic cultural touchstone of the 1960s. 

When I finished the film, I went walking along Tinker Street as the fresh evening still felt warm with comforting July breezes. I had spent three days in a town I had long since fantasized about. While my trip wasn’t over by a long shot, my time in Woodstock was and I just wanted to soak in the last bits of the town before I departed in the morning. I walked past The Colony and heard some of the live music before walking next door to pay my last respects to Rick Danko and Levon Helm, the cemetery completely deserted. After a drink at Station and sitting in the town square, I took the car back to the AirBnb, ending my time in America’s most famous hippie town. 

The next morning, I had to leave at a reasonably early time because I would be driving all over the area with no easy way via an interstate to get from one location to another. However, there was still enough time to go through the woods between Woodstock and Saugerties to see Big Pink once more. After a quick visit, I went back through Woodstock, drove along Tinker Street as I said goodbye to all the sights along the way, went past Bearsville and drove for another 20 minutes to the Phoenicia Diner. When I was talking to my coworkers at the LIC Corner Café about my trip to Woodstock, I asked if anyone had any suggestions in the area and my friend Sam told me about the Phoenicia Diner which had grown a strong reputation over its decades of business as one of the best/most famous diners in the country. 

Never one to turn down a suggestion from a friend and a fan of classic Americana, I went to the diner for some breakfast and felt immediately at ease when I entered the restaurant. To me, being in this place felt like being in the famed Double R Diner from “Twin Peaks” with a classic feeling of a traditional American restaurant. Ordering an English breakfast with a strong cup of black coffee, it all just felt so comforting and a part of this American Dream I was searching for. After this sidequest, I had another to attend to in Kingston, which was 30 minutes away. 

You see, a few weeks prior, comedian John Oliver on his comedic news show “Last Week Tonight” was doing a story on Red Lobster’s filing for bankruptcy and how he bought the equipment of a closed restaurant in Kingston to make his own restaurant where only the famed Cheddar Bay Biscuits would be sold. However, a bakery called Deising’s Bakery and Restaurant was frustrated at Oliver’s purchase because they thought that a local business should have the equipment and had even posted a message on the door of the closed Red Lobster to see if the now closed location wanted to sell a certain kind of oven for baked goods. But not only did the closed Red Lobster, of which John Olvier now owned the cooking equipment, not have this oven but Oliver offered to make a deal on next week’s episode. He offered to purchase that oven for Deising’s as well as make a sizable donation of Kingston’s local food bank if they took one of their signature items, a cake bear (which is exactly what it sounds like), and put John Oliver’s face on it to sell to the public. Not only did Deising’s oblige Oliver’s outlandish request but they also put all proceeds from the sale of these John Oliver cake bears to the food bank. I wanted that bear and, as John Oliver requested, to eat it ass first. It would be part of a long-running joke whose punchline that I wanted to belong to. But when I got to the bakery, they had already sold out of their John Oliver cake bears and it wasn’t even noon. But what was I supposed to do? Be upset that a bunch of people helped contribute to a worthy cause like feeding the poor? So I bought a black-and-white cookie instead and it was pretty damn good. I couldn’t focus too much on my losses. I had to make the drive to Bethel for the concert whose inception inspired this whole trip in the first place.

After nearly two hours on the road, listening to the many artists that contributed to the famed rock festival that took place on those grounds 55 years prior, I made it to Bethel Woods Center for the Arts which lies on the very land where dairy farmer Max Yasgur invited half a million hippies to engage in three (eventually four) days of peace, love and music. While the concert wasn’t due to start for several more hours, I wanted to take the time to explore the museum that exists on the grounds. Much of what I saw in the museum was information I already knew which should be no surprise given how many books and documentaries I have ingested that are related to this period of cultural history in America. But what impressed me was not only the attention to detail but also how many of the attendees were older hippies, some of which even attended the original Woodstock, who had returned to this hallowed ground to enjoy music from some of their biggest idols. 

When I was in the gift shop following my journey through the museum, I was helping a woman read the price tag on a shirt when I got to talking with her and her husband. Their names were Ira and Maxine Stone and they were at Woodstock only they didn’t drive there like the other 500,000 attendees. They were flown in via helicopter because they were members of Bert Sommer’s backing band. A folk artist and part of the original Los Angeles cast of “Hair”, Sommer performed at Woodstock shortly after the release of his debut album and was the third artist to perform after Richie Havens and Sweetwater, even gaining the festival’s first standing ovation for his performance of Simon and Garfunkel’s song “America”. After chatting with these living legends who saw one of the most iconic moments of 20th Century America, they gave me a guitar pick they made to commemorate their involvement in Woodstock amd we both wished each other to have fun at the concert that night. 

After leaving the museum, I quickly went to my car, got my guitar and played “The Weight” in the same field where Rick Danko, Levon Helm, Garth Hudson, Richard Manuel and Robbie Robertson had played the same song at the festival. Last Christmas, my parents had given me a peace symbol necklace with a piece of wood from the stage of the original Woodstock stage that one of the former workers has and has been making jewelry out of. As I played that song, I swore to God it was practically going. Feeling the summer heat, it was time to go check in to my new AirBnb just a few minutes drive from the music venue. As part of an artistic community called Ladybug Land, the cabin where I would be staying used to be a chicken coop but you never would have guessed it after staying there. After meeting with the owners of the property, who were very much into the bohemian style of living, I could tell that these were definitely my kind of people living on a beautiful country estate not too far from where Woodstock took place. To make things even better, they told me that they would also be attending the concert. I felt a bit bad that I would only be staying for one night and couldn’t learn more about this little community but I had to quickly change and get back to Bethel Woods for the concert. 

When I returned to Bethel Woods, the parking lots were already swelling up from all of the people. Plenty of Baby Boomers had shown up to support the heroes of their youth but I was also witnessing people from younger generations, including my own, that were there to experience this music live, perhaps for the first time. Walking amid the snack bars and merch stands, both of which I made visits to, I found the lawn where I would be seated to enjoy the show while others would be closer to the action but confined to chairs. As I sat and removed my shoes to feel the cool grass on my skin, I found myself in the company of a group of young people who were visiting friends nearby but who were originally from California. Falling in with them, we sat back and watched as the concert unfolded.

Since moving to New York, I have seen a lot of live music. I’ve been to bars where jazz bands and folkies play their tunes for a drunk crowd. I’ve attended the gigs of many of my friends who are infinitely talented in their musicianship. I’ve run into buskers on the subway platforms playing Leonard Cohen on the cello. And I’ve seen many legends in some of the most famous venues in the world like Billy Joel, Patti Smith, The Rolling Stones, Neil Young, Mavis Staples and several members of The Grateful Dead. But this concert in the backwoods of New York might be the greatest concert I’ve ever seen in my life. The combination of setting, personas and music all felt perfect and brought to complete fruition the purpose of this journey.

Starting off things in Willie Nelson’s traveling show of outlaws and entertainers was Celisse,  an R&B guitarist who got the show in full gear with her rambunctious and infectious set. At one point, during a lengthy guitar solo, she walked off the stage and walked completely around the main amphitheater before walking back onto the other side of the stage and all while playing guitar. As the opening act of absolute legends, Celisse understood the assignment. It’s impossible to upstage the other acts on the bill so go as big as you possibly can and that’s exactly what she did. With a guitar and impressive vocals, she took the crowd by the throat and said “Look at me!” How could we not?

After Celisse’s set came the duo of Robert Plant and Allison Krauss who took things in a different yet welcomed direction with their combination of the blues rock that defined Plant’s time with Led Zeppelin and the bluegrass that Krauss has thrived in but has also clearly influenced her musical partner. Together, their voices melded beautifully through their set of originals, covers of known harmony legends like The Everly Brothers and, of course, some Zeppelin to round things out. Their version of “Rock and Roll”, which had flavors of bluegrass and country not present in the original track from “Led Zeppelin IV”, got us all up and moving. For many of us, this was the closest thing we would get to seeing Led Zeppelin live and it was truly heavenly (not to be confused with a certain famous song that they did not play). But my favorite song from their set was “The Battle of Evermore” which still sounds epic all of these years later. Despite being hard rockers, Zeppelin were also big nerds for fantasy, especially Tolkien, and incorporated that into their songs. With Krauss providing exceptional vocals, it all culminated in a showstopping combination of rock, literature and the roots of music.

But now came the legend himself Bob Dylan. Out of all the acts, this was my most anticipated. Not only because of how devoted I am to Bob’s music but also because with all of the other artists, I had a general idea of what to expect. With Bob, you just don’t know until he starts playing. He’s changed set lists and arrangements so many times that you can never be too sure what songs he’ll play or how he’ll play them. The last time I saw him in November of 2023, he stuck mainly to songs from his latest album “Rough and Rowdy Ways” which was just fine with me since I think that album is one of his best of recent years and I’d even stack it alongside records like “Desire”, “Blood on the Tracks” and “Time Out of Mind”. But with this tour with Wilie, it seemed like Bob was going for more of his well known hits along with a few surprises. 

When Bob did emerge, along with a spectacular band that included the legendary Jim Keltner on drums, we were all going nuts. It’s Bob Dylan playing on the same ground that Woodstock happened, how could you not be losing your mind? I had spent the last few days walking over the same ground Dyaln trod during his days living the country life in Woodstock and now my path had led me to the man once again as he approached the piano and launched into a rousing performance of “Highway 61 Revisited”. While it’s hard to imagine the song without the silly Acme whistle that Dylan used, this new version had the right energy to get things going. It was bouncy and fun and Dylan’s way of showing the crowd that he might be old but he knows how to show people a good time. After that blast from the past, Bob kept things more modern, playing songs that, at their earliest, were from the late 80s with quite a few tracks from his Grammy Award-winning album “Time Out of Mind” aligned with some fun covers like Chuck Berry’s “Little Queenie”. As much as we associate Bob with the guitar and the harmonica (neither of which Bob played that night), he is a wonderful piano player and his boogie-woogie style of playing on “Little Queenie” snapped us from the spell Bob had put on us and got us dancing like it was a sock hop. Fitting, since most of us weren’t wearing shoes to feel the deeper connection between our feet and this holy land. 

For much of the show, listening to Bob was meditative. You felt the rush of joy from this music as well as the energy of the people around you. We had been treated to some hard rocking sets but Bob’s was different. It was more methodical but it could break into a faster pace if Bob willed it. Listening to his cover of the Grateful Dead’s “Stella Blue” (which felt like a nod to the touring they did together in the late 1980s) felt like being put under but you were still aware of your surroundings and what was happening. But you couldn’t control what you were doing. Instead, you sat and you contemplated the situation you were in. Here I was 90 miles away from the city I chose as my home, sitting in a place I only knew from books and films, listening to one of my favorite musicians sing of dreams and the passage of time. 

But just when it seemed like this set would be an intense slow burn through Dylan’s later career, he took us back to the 60s and 70s with his final three songs that I count among my favorites: “Ballad of a Thin Man”, “Simple Twist of Fate” and “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight”. Suddenly, we weren’t in Bethel in 2024, we were in some small concert hall in 1975, watching a scarf-clad Bob with white make-up on his face singing on the Rolling Thunder Revue. The ominous piano playing of “Ballad of a Thin Man”, the tenderness of “Simple Twist of Fate” and the show-stopping quality of “I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight” all melded to a satisfying conclusion. If anyone was expecting Bob to play nothing but his greatest hits from decades ago, that was never going to happen. Granted, he did give us a few but this set was more holistic which was what I was more interested in. I don’t want to see Bob trying to act like it’s 1965. I’d rather see Bob remember 1965 while playing in 2024. For any other show, this would be the finale. The end all. But this was Willie’s show and we still had one hour of music left.

Having seen Willie and the family before, I knew what songs would be played and how they would be played. Sure enough, Willie did what Willie does: play some of the greatest songs ever written with a phenomenal band and a strong passion that won’t quit. This man is in his 90s and yet his skills as a guitarist have never diminished. If anything, they’ve improved. But unlike the previous show I saw, Willie was joined by his son Lukas and their duets were truly remarkable. While it was bizarre to see a clean-shaven Lukas with a shorter haircut, hearing the voices of father and son was like listening to Willie Nelson having a duet with a younger version of himself. 

Given how important Willie Nelson’s music is to my family, I had plenty of moments where I got teary with songs like “Mamas Don’t Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys”, “Good Hearted Woman”, “Help Me Make It Through The Night” and “Georgia On My Mind” being the biggest offenders. But Willie was also intent on stirring things up and, when he and the band played the fast songs, I was glad that I purchased a lawn seat. Everyone who was sitting on that grass had gotten up and were furiously dancing. At one point, I saw a man who was quite obviously a peace-loving hippie dancing with a guy whose t-shirt read “America: Love It or Leave It.” If it weren’t for the music, I would have taken a moment to pause and contemplate the oddity of this situation. But that’s the power of music. 

Towards the end, Willie took us down to church with a blending of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken” and “I’ll Fly Away” that had me and my fellow hippies from California moving like we were attendees of the church presided over by James Brown in “The Blues Brothers”. As we danced on the hill that led down to the main amphitheater, we were struggling to keep our balance on the sloped surface but we were having so much fun that we didn’t much care. As the gospel got stronger, I heard one man yell out “I am too drunk to dance on this hill!” Fair enough, but we were doing it anyway. Some things are worth the risk. After a few more songs, Willie and the boys ended things with “I Saw the Light” and the concert was over. Whether it lasted for five hours or a glorious lifetime was hard to say but we had no choice but to collect ourselves and to make our way back to our vehicles for the long trip that was getting out of the parking lot. 

After an hour of waiting, I was finally able to make it back to my cabin and use the outdoor shower. As I cleaned off all the sweat and grime that had accumulated from dancing to the hours of music, I looked straight up at the night sky and saw all the stars and planets that life in the city blots out. The music was still in my head but it was joined by the sounds of flowing water, rustling leaves and the occasional call of a bird. Before the owners of the cabin were even home from the concert, I had already retired, ready for one last day of travel before settling down back in my apartment in Brooklyn. 

While I was able to visit the museum at Bethel Woods and take in a lot of the history surrounding Woodstock and the cultural movement that made such an event possible, I hadn’t seen the actual field where the main stage was. I hadn’t the time the day before with all the running around I was doing and, even if I had, it would have been swarmed with people getting a glimpse of the field before the concert. So, I got up early and left the cozy cabin to drive back to Bethel Woods before my long trip back to the city. On the fifth morning of my vacation, I pulled into Bethel Woods and made the walk along the road that led to the field. There were some tourists there but it was far more quiet than it would have been a day prior. 

Given how large the original Woodstock was with four days of music and half a million attendees, it’s impossible for all of the land to be preserved given the existence of Bethel Woods which keeps the legacy of live music alive. However, the main field where the stage was and where thousands sat closely to see the likes of Creedence Clearwater Revival, Sly and the Family Stone, The Band, Janis Joplin and Joan Baez has been left alone with only a stone outline and a nearby plaque commemorating the festival while a peace sign can be seen mowed on the grass. As I walked down to see the stage area, I could feel the peace medallion growing stronger until I was on the same ground that absolute legends had stood on. Not just musicians either. When the documentary film “Woodstock” was being shot as the festival was happening, one of the people working on location to get this film made was a young film student named Martin Scorsese who, of course, went on to become one of the most significant artists of the past several decades. Unwilling to leave the field just yet, I meditated for twenty minutes. When I opened my eyes, I saw a few musicians who, like me, were there to pay their respects, only they brought their guitars. I stayed behind for another 15 minutes to listen to them as they played classic songs of the counterculture like “Blowin’ in the Wind”. 

Back on the road, I made the drive back to New York all the while playing songs from the original Woodstock festival. As I was leaving Bethel to find the interstate that would take me home, I remember turning up the radio and rolling down the windows as Canned Heat blasted with the song “Going Up The Country”. “I'm going up the country/Baby, don't you wanna go?/I'm going up the country/Baby, don't you wanna go?/I'm going to some place/Where I've never been before.” After a few final hours on the road, I came through New Jersey to the George Washington Bridge before traveling along the highway that surround Manhattan before finally arriving in Queens where I dropped off my rental car, called a cab and took myself back to my apartment. 

I went on this journey to find something that resembled the American Dream and I think I found it. I found community in film, music and art. I found the peace of the beautiful country landscape mixed with the cultural activity that keeps us young either in body or in heart. Having grown up in a small town, I fell in love with Woodstock because, in my mind, this was a small town as it should be. A thriving community rich with culture and music with more openness and the energy of love that the cultural movements of the 1960s were all about. 

Woodstock may be a very real place but it still feels like an anomaly. The fact is that most small towns aren’t like Woodstock even though they have that potential. Farmer City is definitely not like Woodstock. That’s one of the reasons why I left. I wanted to live in a place where something was happening. Where you and your friends could get some guitars and find a gig at a local bar or where you could be able to see a multitude of great films on the big screen without having to drive at least 30 minutes. It’s hard to imagine Farmer City having as many flags for peace and love and tolerance as what I saw along Tinker Street. 

Since my trip to Woodstock, I have felt even more of America losing those qualities which I value. Garth Hudson died, completely placing The Band in rock-and-roll heaven. Peter Yarrow of Peter, Paul and Mary has also passed on. David Lynch, Kris Kristofferson, Phil Lesh, Gena Rowlands, Gene Hackman. Who do we have left? Instead of continuing to choose love, we elected a man that stands for everything my trip was against. With Donald Trump back in power, the actions he has taken have had an extra layer of cruelty sprinkled into each step he has taken. It’s not enough to have won but to also be cold and to forgo “the sin of empathy” as I have been hearing more and more. If empathy is a sin, then I forsake heaven. The whole point of my trip, the reason why I went to Woodstock was to seek new voices and to meet people with different perspectives while all coming together because of our mutual love for music we thought could change the world. 

I suppose that this new reality of 2025 and its daily dose of lashings is the American Dream fully realized: false promises traded in for true beatings. But then I remember something that Woody Guthrie said. “I hate a song that makes you think that you are not any good. I hate a song that makes you think that you are just born to lose. Bound to lose. No good to nobody. No good for nothing. Because you are too old or too young or too fat or too slim or too ugly or too this or too that. Songs that run you down or poke fun at you on account of your bad luck or hard travelling. I am out to fight those songs to my very last breath of air and my last drop of blood. I am out to sing songs that will prove to you that this is your world and that if it has hit you pretty hard and knocked you for a dozen loops, no matter what color, what size you are, how you are built, I am out to sing the songs that make you take pride in yourself and in your work. And the songs that I sing are made up for the most part by all sorts of folks just about like you.” 

I had wanted to reclaim a kind of America from a Baby Boomer generation that I thought, as a whole, had squandered the gifts of their forefathers and had descended into a narcissistic view that not only was their generation the best but that other generations would be stripped of the same gifts the true “Greatest Generation” had left behind. But the fact is that this music, this culture, this world of bohemia and film and music doesn’t belong to me. But it also doesn’t belong to the original owners either. It was made for you and me as Woody Guthrie would put it. All that matters is if you listen to it and actually listen to the words. 

Come mothers and fathers

Throughout the land

And don't criticize

What you can't understand

Your sons and your daughters

Are beyond your command

Your old road is rapidly agin'

Please get out of the new one

If you can't lend your hand

For the times they are a-changin'

The Times They Are A-Changin’: Bob Dylan

Why must every generation think they're folks are square?

And no matter where they're heads are, they know mom's ain’t there.

Cause' I swore when I was small, that I'd remember when,

I knew what's wrong with them, that I was smaller than.

Younger Generation: John Sebastian

I was once like you are now and I know that it's not easy

To be calm when you've found something going on

But take your time, think a lot

Think of everything you've got

For you will still be here tomorrow but your dreams may not

Father and Son: Cat Stevens

This song was written in New York City

Of rich men, preachers and slaves

Yes, if Jesus was to preach like he preached in Galilee,

You would lay Jesus Christ in his grave.

Jesus Christ: Woody Guthrie

For the ones who had a notion

A notion deep inside

That it ain't no sin to be glad you're alive

Badlands: Bruce Springsteen

Welcome to a new kind of tension

All across the alien nation

Where everything isn't meant to be okay

In television dreams of tomorrow

We're not the ones who're meant to follow

For that's enough to argue

American Idiot: Green Day

Got to give us what we want

Gotta give us what we need

Our freedom of speech is freedom or death

We got to fight the powers that be

Fight The Power: Public Enemy

What is a gun to a man that surrenders?

What's it gonna take for someone to defend her?

If we all agree that we're equal as people

Then why can't we see what is evil?

I can't breathe

You're taking my life from me

I can't breathe

Will anyone fight for me?

I Can’t Breathe: H.E.R.

Imagine all the people

Living life in peace

You

You may say I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only one

I hope someday you'll join us

And the world will be as one

Imagine: John Lennon

We Shall Overcome

We Shall Overcome

We Shall Overcome, someday

Deep in my heart

I do believe

We Shall Overcome, someday

We Shall Overcome: Traditional

Around the same time I was in Woodstock, my parents and grandparents were on vacation in Alaska and my parents were definitely in the minority when it came to age. Most of the people on this trip were either the same age as my grandparents or older. The big thing my parents heard from the older folks was don’t wait until you’re too old to go on these trips. But the trouble is that when you’re young and want to travel you don’t have much money. So you either have to save or hustle for funds or, even worse, you put aside your dreams to get a better paying job. How many artists have become stockbrokers so they could travel to Rome only to become too immersed and to spend the money on Bugattis and expensive cheap suits and cocaine inflated with flour? If there’s anything to take away from my trip is that you should take those risks while you still can because fuck it. The way the world is going right now, tomorrow is definitely not guaranteed. Right now, I only have an obligation to myself and to the people in my life to foster a safe environment for us to live our lives as freely as possible.

 One of my favorite Bob Dylan quotes is where he says that “life isn’t about finding yourself, life is about creating yourself.” That I strongly agree with. I believe in the reincarnation of one’s self and this can happen many times in a lifetime, even multiple times per year. In just five days, I had emerged from the Catskill Mountains not only feeling refreshed, but transformed by what I encountered. I had been to the promised land which is also what I believe New York City and even Farmer City. It’s all good land if we can take a look around and make it what we want it to be. I hope that one day I can go back to Farmer City and find a bar where they have live music every night or see a lone poet on the sidewalk spouting his verse. Until then, I’ll be continuing to share what happens in New York. Because what goes on here doesn’t just stay in the five boroughs. It goes to the rest of the world. If there’s anything I would want to relay to my hometown, it’s that the pieces are there to take your small world and make it a little bit bigger. I just hope I get to see it happen like I did in Woodstock. So, I keep playing the music, watching the films and looking for my own ways to contribute positively to this strange place. It’s the least I can do.