Broward Community College - Silver Sands Yearbook (Fort Lauderdale, FL)

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ryone else keeps coming and coming I coming and that's exactly what it s: ONE FREAKING GLORIOUS iSSlVE COMMUNAL FOUR HOUR NE ORGASMH!!! TRANSITION While the audience went bananas, Dead left the stage to be replaced hin the hour by the Band. They were equally well recieved but ir set marked a noticeable change in prevailing level of consciousness. lf there had been any evidence of civilized behavior during the afternoon, it was soon to disappear. The Band was interrupted on three different occasions. The first distraction came when four skydivers, carrying orange smoke flares descended from the heavens, much to the delight of the festival goers. They unknowingly cheered the death of one of the parachutists as his flare went haywire. He had burned to death before hitting the ground. The other distractions also came from the sky: rainstorms forced the Band .ffl off stage on two different occasions. When they finally finished their set, a moist darkness had enveloped the crowd and the concert site, previously a grassy knoll, had turned into a reeking stench pot of tons of garbage and mud nearly a foot deep. Those who didn't return to their campsites to dry off, were more than ready to get down to itg get down in the slime and boogie with the Allman Brothers. Enthusiasm bordering hysteria greeted the group who immediately proceeded to lay it on thick, one well known song after another, for nearly three and a half hours. Those who manage to elbow their way to the front of the stage at concerts are traditionally a loose bunch of folks. But the hundreds who shuffled for boogieing room in the two foot deep puddles surrounding the base of the stage . . . whew!!??!! Half-naked bodies writhing rhythmetically, ceaselessly, violently, ecstatically determined to displace every pound of mud beneath their feet. Legs pumping furiously, arms flinging everywhere, wild eyes popping out of mud splashed faces . . . women with shaved heads . . . naked men grabbing at invisable objects in the blackness of night . . . drunks pissing in the same puddles everyone else is dancing in . . .and while the down freaks collapsed into the wetness of mother earth, dope was still being consumed in quantities unparalleled in the annals of drugdom. The Allman's took a hardly noticed ten minute break. Then more rain, more mud and more music. They eventually finished their set nearly five hours after they took to the stage. And then, to seemingly drain everyone of any iota of energy not already expended, all three groups came back out and jammed for over an hour. The amps were finally unplugged at 3:30 Sunday morning. Summer Jam had run its course. I was anxious to leave. lt was pointless to hitch within a ten mile radius of the glen. First off, it was a good deal quicker to walk. A town which normally houses a population of 3000 just isn't equipped to handle a 600,000 commuting crazies. Secondly, the majority of the vehicles were already packed beyond a reasonable capacity, inside 5 well as out - hoods, roofs, bumpers, any place a body could hang on.

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RUSH'SH'SH'SH'SH'SH 'SH' lt was like dropping a lit match on top of an ant hill. No more calm . . . just the absence of everything except rushing, climaxing, busting-outvall-over energy triggered by Jerry Garcia and his waiting insanity. ZAP. The Grateful Dead and the human swamp were moving, No one could escape it - ZAP ZAP -- brains exploding everywhere - sheer energy, as if a tidal wave of pure pleasure had suddenly wveetly smothered the masses. ZAP ZAP ZAP -- People going nuts, Jumping up and down, up and down. The sweat was pumping out like rivers. The glistening bodies were nearly on top of each other now . . . 300,000 of them writhing as if possessed. And they were possessed, driven without control by Garcia's sounds, swaying them up and down, side to side . . . you knew when it was coming Jerry would sort of be playing along regular and then he'd get this grin on his bushy face and this mad twinkle in his eyes and he'd slide up to the edge of the stage and pointing his guitar like a machine gun, fire off these seemingly endless riffs of pure ecstasy and ZAP, the crowd would go absolutely nuts. Screaming and yelling, hootin' and hollerin' and just generally having a completely fantastic time . . . and Garcia would keep doing it to you and you couldnit help but think, My God, how does he do it? and you keep moving up and down and all around more . identity you're no longer you any you've completely lost your you're just another part of monsterous mass of moving flesh. the' w You're so emersed in scene you barely notice the fifteen old nubile in front of you taking off clothes. There she is completely obliv to the whole world except the music she's jumping up and down and so you, but, Christ, how are you suppi to stay plugged into the sound vi these beautiful bouncing buttocks prancing around, about six inches f you but still you flow . . . still yo wvept up and away, higher and highe that insane music coming and coming

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- -1:-,,, - So I decided to hoof it for a while. lVIy head was at the point where if I had to cope with one more bizarre assault, I would undoubtedly be shoved over that fine line of sanity, doomed to spend the rest of my metaphysical existence in never-never land with Alice and Peter Pan and all their nutty friends. But it didn't matter, because I felt great . . . reassured that there were a lot of other human beings around who could also sincerely identify with the concepts of genuine peace and love. Whereas Woodstock was a veritable workshop on human development, alternative lifestyles and putting them together with a spirit of brotherhood, Summer Jam was an escapists' party. Conquering the first mountain was a relief. Not only was my head exhausted, my body was screaming for food and sleep, but the instant peace and if f--'IIAQV V. 1 ,sf ft . ' . 5 I. A A. .j,51'?y3.fJPL'- 1'1- , .fy ja l t., QQQQQ1 I . e I .ein ' -. sf.- R if ' , ':'ift7'i2, 3i.1-fit' . -' iig- 1.1 ,ai ,gli-ggi ' .-54.5. 1 J photo by Craig Trexler photo by Kevin Deland quiet accompanying the back road I had chosen gave me a chance to digest some of the mental input I had been wallowing in for the past sixty-six hours. The first reaction goes something like . . . oh wow, far out, another Woodstock, bigger though, lots of good music, a couple of days in the country, that was O.K., that was pretty neat . . . can't wait to tell my friends back home, . . . shucks, 600,000 freaks, another Woodstock .... But it wasn't another Woodstock. It didn't even come close. When I left Bethel, New York, site of Woodstock, in 1969, less than 160 miles east of Watkins Glen, I was covered with mud, had not eaten anything to speak of in five days, had nearly no sleep, and was facing a 1500 mile non-stop journey back to Florida in an overcrowded '57 V.W. van that probably wouIdn't make it past Virginia. There was plenty of dope at a the festivals, but at least at Woodst the emphasis was on intensifying positive . . . stressing the terrific amo of good vibes already present with the of marijuana and relatively cl psychedelics. On the other hand most popular combination of drugs Watkins Glen was alcohol and barbitu . . . downs. It was like they were af to feel anything. The numbers only m it worse. It was an overwhel majority approving a lifestyle wher drug induced peace was the only kin high worth attaining. Pro dope . thumbs down to significant hu relationships. I guess the difference was sim really. The people at Woodstock America's hope, while Summer Jam a gathering of American's lost child text and color photos by Kevin Del 1