into the Capitol studios and do some demos and see if we could sign them.
Though Train’s trippy sound and political lyrics weren’t Artie’s thing, he trusted me. I thought their music could fit the new, free-form FM radio stations, which favored heavier rock albums, unlike AM radio’s pop-singles fare—which had been Artie’s world. Train, needless to say, was overjoyed by this turn of events.
DON KEIDER: Michael really came through for us with the Capitol deal. Right after that, we showed up at our place to rehearse one night and it was completely empty. Someone had broken in. They took a B-3, my vibes, two sets of drums, all the guitars and amps. All of our personal stuff—clothes and everything—was gone. The place was even swept out! But the money had just come through from Capitol, and Artie and Michael gave us the okay to go ahead and buy what we needed. So I got a dynamite set of drums and anotherset of vibes, and all of our stuff was replaced, and Capitol gave us a real dynamite sound system.
Artie arranged for Train to cut demos in Capitol’s studio to see if the label would sign the band. Train gigged around town—eventually at Bill Graham’s Fillmore East, which had opened in March on Second Avenue, and at the Electric Circus on St. Mark’s Place. They got booked on some amazing jazz bills with John Cage, Cecil Taylor, Charlie Mingus, Ornette Coleman, Don Cherry, and Jack DeJohnette. (Capitol ultimately rejected the demos the band recorded, and Train signed with Vanguard, which released the group’s sole album, Costumed Cuties, in 1970.)
I spent more and more time in the city with Artie and his wife, Linda, hanging out at their apartment on Fifty-sixth Street, off Sutton Place, shooting pool, smoking pot, and talking into the wee hours. It seemed as if Artie and I had known each other all our lives. He and Linda were soul mates—they lived in one of the newer, very posh high-rises with their little girl, Jamie. Eventually he would lend me his company car, a Buick, to more easily make trips back and forth to Woodstock. Sonya didn’t like the city, so I always came down by myself and returned home every night. Later, as I became completely wrapped up in the festival planning and production, Sonya and I gradually drifted apart.
ARTIE KORNFELD: Michael, Linda, and I became like Butch Cassidy, Etta Place, and the Sundance Kid. He was my first hippie friend. We used to smoke a J and we’d look out over the city from the thirty-sixth floor. We’d sit up until three or four in the morning shooting pool. He called me Krombine and I called him Clang. One night he said, “Artie, you’ve already been doing this for years—and you’re jaded.” I said, “What do you mean I’m jaded?” and he said, “Well,you sign acts, you go in the studio, and do that kind of stuff, but you don’t go to clubs anymore like you used to—you don’t go and hear the new acts unless you have to.”
I told Artie about the Soundouts in Woodstock and my festival in Miami. For weeks we talked about creating a version of the Soundouts as a summer concert series. Then during one of our midnight musings, the concept of a Woodstock festival evolved: “Let’s really do something big! Let’s invite everyone and put it all together out in the country where people can camp!” Artie’s excitement propelled the idea forward. We also discussed the possibility of a studio/retreat at the Tapooz property on Yerry Hill Road, and he loved the idea. We decided to pursue both projects.
My friend who ran the Juggler, Jim Young, was involved in real estate, so in December we started looking together for possible festival sites. I paid him a small retainer to help me find a spot, and we visited several properties in Ulster County. There was a seventy-acre open field down on Route 212, east of Woodstock, which at one time was going to become a golf course. In an area called Krumville we found an old racetrack for midget cars and
Though Train’s trippy sound and political lyrics weren’t Artie’s thing, he trusted me. I thought their music could fit the new, free-form FM radio stations, which favored heavier rock albums, unlike AM radio’s pop-singles fare—which had been Artie’s world. Train, needless to say, was overjoyed by this turn of events.
DON KEIDER: Michael really came through for us with the Capitol deal. Right after that, we showed up at our place to rehearse one night and it was completely empty. Someone had broken in. They took a B-3, my vibes, two sets of drums, all the guitars and amps. All of our personal stuff—clothes and everything—was gone. The place was even swept out! But the money had just come through from Capitol, and Artie and Michael gave us the okay to go ahead and buy what we needed. So I got a dynamite set of drums and anotherset of vibes, and all of our stuff was replaced, and Capitol gave us a real dynamite sound system.
Artie arranged for Train to cut demos in Capitol’s studio to see if the label would sign the band. Train gigged around town—eventually at Bill Graham’s Fillmore East, which had opened in March on Second Avenue, and at the Electric Circus on St. Mark’s Place. They got booked on some amazing jazz bills with John Cage, Cecil Taylor, Charlie Mingus, Ornette Coleman, Don Cherry, and Jack DeJohnette. (Capitol ultimately rejected the demos the band recorded, and Train signed with Vanguard, which released the group’s sole album, Costumed Cuties, in 1970.)
I spent more and more time in the city with Artie and his wife, Linda, hanging out at their apartment on Fifty-sixth Street, off Sutton Place, shooting pool, smoking pot, and talking into the wee hours. It seemed as if Artie and I had known each other all our lives. He and Linda were soul mates—they lived in one of the newer, very posh high-rises with their little girl, Jamie. Eventually he would lend me his company car, a Buick, to more easily make trips back and forth to Woodstock. Sonya didn’t like the city, so I always came down by myself and returned home every night. Later, as I became completely wrapped up in the festival planning and production, Sonya and I gradually drifted apart.
ARTIE KORNFELD: Michael, Linda, and I became like Butch Cassidy, Etta Place, and the Sundance Kid. He was my first hippie friend. We used to smoke a J and we’d look out over the city from the thirty-sixth floor. We’d sit up until three or four in the morning shooting pool. He called me Krombine and I called him Clang. One night he said, “Artie, you’ve already been doing this for years—and you’re jaded.” I said, “What do you mean I’m jaded?” and he said, “Well,you sign acts, you go in the studio, and do that kind of stuff, but you don’t go to clubs anymore like you used to—you don’t go and hear the new acts unless you have to.”
I told Artie about the Soundouts in Woodstock and my festival in Miami. For weeks we talked about creating a version of the Soundouts as a summer concert series. Then during one of our midnight musings, the concept of a Woodstock festival evolved: “Let’s really do something big! Let’s invite everyone and put it all together out in the country where people can camp!” Artie’s excitement propelled the idea forward. We also discussed the possibility of a studio/retreat at the Tapooz property on Yerry Hill Road, and he loved the idea. We decided to pursue both projects.
My friend who ran the Juggler, Jim Young, was involved in real estate, so in December we started looking together for possible festival sites. I paid him a small retainer to help me find a spot, and we visited several properties in Ulster County. There was a seventy-acre open field down on Route 212, east of Woodstock, which at one time was going to become a golf course. In an area called Krumville we found an old racetrack for midget cars and
Similar Books
