This week everyone sang about the anniversary of the first Woodstock, those 3 days of peace and love in upstate New York that had nothing to do with Mel Brooks or heart-shaped spas.
I admit that that wild weekend in August 1969 was a watershed moment for the decade, with the debut of “The Munsters” in 1964 and Tupperware’s arrival in Europe in 1960. However, for others like me, who grew up in the self-serving Atari coffee cup era, Michael J. Fox and Garfield, Woodstock is just some other lifeless access in our history books (like Teapot Dome with some lost, blurry tits). In addition, they could not even convince Tommy James and the Shondells to show up at this dog’s house. What kind of drug-soaked hippie festival did they want to host there?
Honestly, if you need to talk to me about a corporate music festival disguised as some kind of vital cultural event for the younger generation, you better make sure you talk about Woodstock ’94 (which is quietly celebrating its 20th anniversary today). in the shadow of his older and more established brother). What I cared about was the huge amount of cash and the unnecessary nostalgia.
The memories are still as bright as ever. Well, it turns out I was watching the liberating, mustachioed antics of Jackyl’s lead singer, Jesse James Dupree, on Woodstock ’94’s Pay-Per-View special. Please don’t tell me that this band’s rendition of Headed for Destruction doesn’t strike a chord with you or your loved ones, because this performance was aimed at every American citizen the moment Jesse took the stage in his striking white tuxedo and giant hat with the American flag. And you imagine Steven Tyler knew how to wear ostentatious headdresses.
Of course, what most people don’t forget about Woodstock 1994 (aside from MTV’s bad politics and the inexplicable presence of Roguish Armament AND Huffamoose) is garbage. Ah, the mud. He was on the floor, in the crowd, in the bands, in the drinking water, pouring from journalists’ microphones and dripping spectacularly from Calvert DeForest’s ear canal. Some Woodstock ’94 attendees scoffed at the mud, like Les Claypool of Primus (his name is HYPOCRITE), but most found joy in the excess of watery mud.
Green Day has organized a massive exposure stunt around this theme. Nine Inch Nails used it as a prop to accentuate their dirty and creepy commercial sounds. In fact, the dust of Woodstock 1994 played a big role in defining the festival as the most unhealthy occasion since the first Woodstock (or Rick James’ first week in prison).
Speaking of other people who weren’t there during those extra two days of peace and love (and delicious Pepsi, the choice of a new generation), many big-name artists were inexplicably absent from the Woodstock ’94 roster. Pearl Jam or Soundgarden or the Beastie Boys or Smashing Pumpkins or even that damn Dr. Dre?What were those sons of bitches doing this weekend?Bringing Lollapalooza? Playing Sega Genesis? Are you participating in any other comedic activities from the early 90s?
The election revolution had reached critical mass and we were given Billy Corgan’s Blind Melon: weak sauce, bro. Thank God, Rollins Band and Cypress Hill were there to iron out the serious credibility problems hanging over this multimillion-dollar agricultural landfill.
On a similar subject, I think Woodstock ’94 hosted one of Metallica’s last “classic” performances, which is one of the last shows before Metallica hired a professional stylist, released the slide guitars, and sometimes started behaving like the rich. they knew they were.
Someone will erect a monument to Saugerties, to James Hetfield’s old hair, the once mighty, heavy mane of steel that commanded an army of dirty young Americans to swing in a pure, unadulterated way. Future generations will be aware that at one time, the biggest thrash band didn’t. He doesn’t look like a GQ renegade.
There’s no denying that Woodstock ’94 was a bit silly in its concept and execution. Still, it may have been much worse. I cite the rumor that Kiss donated a huge amount of cash to reunite their original line-up and name (this when Kiss was still without makeup, not knowing that no one wanted to see a bunch of grizzled old men dressed in leather). be a mandate).
I can’t believe a more transparent attempt to increase ticket prices while avoiding what little spirit of the original festival remains. Oh wait, yes I can. How about we look to reunite Nirvana with a new singer less than six months after Kurt Cobain’s death? Apparently, the other people behind W’94 also tried to expose this dastardly plan.
Let’s warn for a minute. It’s August 1994. Who could update Kurt Cobain in a reconstituted Nirvana?The list is short. Old bastard. Régis Philbin. That boy from “Squirt TV”. I’m not kidding. Kurt was one of a million boys, and no one may ever fill his tattered Converse shoes again. . . not even Gene Simmons.
If the original Woodstock was a snapshot of generational sand shifting, Woodstock ’94 was a snapshot of a loosely organized kinship circle gathering where a group of remote relatives you’re not sure you recognize show up at the open bar. Rock concerts had become commonplace years before this unnecessary sequel, and an air of “Does this mean anything?”He hovered over the process like a stale fart.
For me and almost everyone I knew, the answer to that question was a resounding “no, not at all. ” We were the Beavis & Butt-head generation. Sarcasm and eye rolls trumped focus and seriousness. Our sand replacement time was. . . I don’t know. Maybe Letterman’s move to CBS?
However, I don’t openly reject Woodstock 2: The Quest for More Money. There were some red-hot performances. This gave the United States something to talk about for a week or two. I can’t directly relate it to any misfortune or pain I experienced that year. WS ’94 probably wouldn’t have been as significant or explosive as Woodstock ’69, but in fact it was a lot cooler than Woodstock ’99 (two days of beer pong, rioting, and sexual assault). I shudder at Limp Bizkit’s tinged memories of that soulless pile of shit.
This feature first appeared on Classic Rock’s online page in August 2014, adapted from a blog post by James Greene Jr. published in 2009. Used with permission.
James Greene, Jr. is a freelance publisher who has contributed to Crawdaddy!, New York Press, Splitsider, PopMatters, Spin, and Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader. He is the author of This Music Leaves Stains: The Complete Story of the Misfits and Brave Punk World: The International Rock Underground from Red Alert to Z-Off.
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