Report
I Went Back In Time To Cover Woodstock But The Phone Booth Only Goes Back Twenty Five Years
Band Photo: Metallica (?)
It’s a question everyone gets asked. “If you could go back in time and see anyone, who would it be?” Well, being a metal site, we were eager to be at the event that inspired countless bands, stories and legends, Woodstock! So when a bearded, funny but antitheist man appeared outside the Metal Underground office with an offer to take one of us back in time to rock, I had no hesitation about pushing other staff members out of the way to witness some true icons, screaming “Woodstock!” Little did I know however, just how limited the fuel was and so, clad in tie dye, a bandana and with fifty sheets of acid sewn into my denim jacket, I was somewhat taken aback when instead of hearing the dulcet tones of Richie Havens, I was confronted by The Offspring with plastic baseball bats.
Realising that something was very wrong, I backed into another tent where two rapping clowns, confused by the workings of magnets, kicked beach balls with $100 bills stuck to them into the crowd. Still thinking it was the late sixties, I was bowled over by the giving away of such a large sum of money and figured that with a hundred bucks, I could eat like a king at the hot dog stand and sure enough, after having my head stamped into the ground by men with names like Kush Kronik, I was able to spot a note the face painted muggers missed. My head spinning, I made my way to enjoy an assortment of animal parts in a bun, only to find my plan had backfired spectacularly. My eyes stinging from the array of advertising boards, I handed over the $100 to the vendor and was perplexed when only $95 was handed back.
Following an argument with staff and a sound beating by security, I crawled my way to a suspiciously empty wheelchair to rest and maybe move my way back to catch Joan Baez. Head in hands, I assumed her band was tuning up as I listened to the rattling of symbols and odd guitar riff, before a much angrier voice growled, “Are you ready!?” With that, a wave of people began jumping in unison, with one catching the back of my wheelchair. I curled up in the foetal position, hoping to at least save my glasses, while an overweight security guard screamed, “You know the rule! Once you get hurt, move out and let someone else in!” Something was not right at the summer of love but no matter what mayhem unfolded, it would surely be worth it to say I witnessed the iconic Hendrix solo at the end of the festival.
The next day proved to be even worse. Sensing the LSD, I was attacked by fans of the Tragically Hip and had my jacket stolen, though given the ever increasing heat, they may have done me a favour. While I thought I was thirty years too early to hear “Smooth,” instead a man in a fur coat waltzed on to the stage and screamed that he was a kid. He then encouraged the crowd to throw water bottles at the stage, which wouldn’t have been a problem had none of them been filled with piss… and the people throwing them were facing away from the stage at me…. and laughing. Drenched in urine and eager to get back to the imminent apocalypse of 2024, it dawned on me that if Santana was here, I may have heard “Smooth” after all, because this was 1999.
Without thinking, I flew into a panic and hurriedly darted my eyes around. Jincos, Sugar Ray shirts and crumpled leaflets regarding the Y2K bug all but confirmed my fear, before I heard someone behind me excitedly talking about the trailer for Star Wars: Episode I. I grabbed his collar, but perplexed by my warning of “Jar Jar Binks!” he threw a punch which sent me flying into a muddy puddle. Knocked out and presumed dead by security, I woke the next morning on a pile of passed out concert goers and the debris of wrecked stalls. Climbing my way out, it was obvious that I wasn’t going anywhere until this nightmare of a festival was over. Knowing nowhere was safe, I made my way to one of the portable toilets and locked myself inside, hoping to be left alone until the night was over. The scheme seemed to work until I felt myself being raised in the air, upon which I assumed I’d just died of heatstroke. It soon became clear that I wasn’t ascending to Heaven, as the sound of Creed became louder. After a long journey which ended in a thud, I emerged to find I’d been thrown in front of the East Stage just as the Red Hot Chili Pepeers were taking to the stage.
And that’s when things got bad.
Ollie Hynes has been a writer for Metal Underground.com since 2007 and a metal fan since 2001, going as far as to travel to other countries and continents for metal gigs.
