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This is exactly right.
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Double Elvis the Hulu Original Series Furious is now streaming on Hulu and Hulu on Disney. Starring Emmy Rossum as Alice Black, Furious follows a rookie FBI agent on the
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hunt for Catherine, played by Lola Petticrew,
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a mysterious and calculating female serial killer. While Alice upholds justice, Catherine kills for it. Tara writes the rich and powerful men of New York in her pursuit of vengeance with secrets that change everything, Alice
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discovers there's a thin line between hunter and prey.
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Watch the Hulu Original Series Furious, now
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streaming on Hulu and Hulu on Disney
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plus for bundle subscribers Terms apply. Goodbye.
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Hey guys, time to dust off your detective skills while unwinding in the Caribbean on Virgin Voyages. 2nd True Crime Voyages Back by popular demand, this five night adults only escape sets sail March 20, 2027 Grand Turk in the beach Club at Bimini. The difference between this year and last will be that I will be on the cruise this year along with Zeth, and he and I will be taping a live version of Disgrace Land along with podcast hosts from Exactly Right's Buried Bones Podcast of the Year award winners Wisecrack and other fan favorites. Get on this cruise with us guys and enjoy live podcast recordings, behind the scenes storytelling, exclusive meet and greets, and immersive true crime programming throughout this one of a kind voyage. Head over to www.virgin voy.com truecrime to secure your spot.
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I'm Nancy Glass, host of the Burden of Guilt Season 3 podcast. This is a story about a horrendous situation that destroyed two families. It's a scorched earth war that shows just how far someone will go to get what they want, Cindy said.
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I had to choose between the truth and my family. And I had to choose the truth.
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Listen to Season 3 A Burden of Guilt on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
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Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Woodstock are insane. Three days of Peace, Love, music in two deaths, extortion on stage, maximum rock and roll violence, too many drug overdoses to count, near mass electrocution and a lot of dumb luck. The iconic music festival is known as the generation defining moment when the baby boomers demonstrated to the world the power of peace, love and communalism. But was that really what went down at Old Man Jasger's farm on the third weekend of August in 1969? Or were those of us who didn't attend either because we weren't yet born, were too old, too young, or too preoccupied with the responsibilities of Life to just not be interested? Or we sold a vision of Woodstock that was as mythical and unrealistic as the hippie dream baby boomers have been peddling ever since. The idealized notion of the vaunted 60s came to be Woodstock the Movie. The documentary film, released a year after the festival in 1970, quickly established itself as the document of record on Woodstock the event. The movie paints a romanticized picture and has come to define the festival in our collective cultural memory. Perhaps more strongly than the recollections of those who are actually there, either as fans, performers or organizers of the festival. So what actually happened at Woodstock? Was it the hippie utopia depicted in the documentary? Or in all actuality, was the real Woodstock more like a disaster movie? One thing's for sure, great music was made at Woodstock. Jimi Hendrix, the who, Sly and the Family Stone, Santana, Richie Havens and Joe Cocker, to name a few. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show. That wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called bone bonedaddy o mk2. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Aquarius, Let the Sun Shine in by the Fifth Dimension. And why would I play you that specific slice of Moon in the Seventh House cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on April 19, 1969. And that was the day Michael Lang and his Woodstock Ventures company began running its first advertisements promoting a music festival in upstate New York. A festival that would not only define a generation, but go on to influence and shape multiple generations to come. On this, a special two part episode. Dumb Luck, Hypocritical Hippies. The dawning of the age of Aquarius and Woodstock a disaster movie. I'm Jake Brennan and this is disgrace. All right man, everybody cool out. Put the guns down. 23 year old first time concert promoter Michael Lang was in the unenviable position of trying to diffuse the heavily armed gun drawn tension between a handful of Florida's redneck cops and some blue collar Brinks truck guards. The cops weren't listening. All four of them had their standard issue pistols drawn and each had the unmistakable look of eagerness on their faces. They were spoiling an old fashioned showdown. 1968, Miami, Florida. Only 35 years removed from prohibition, the two older Brinks truck drivers, ex cops themselves, remembered the era of bootlegging and rum running fondly. Beefs were settled easy just like this in back rooms with bullets. No grand juries, no hero prosecutors. The Brinks guards were outnumbered but equally ready for a shootout. Who's the only way they aim their guns Right back at the redneck cops on the line. Professional pride and thousands of dollars in off duty pay. For the Brinks guards professional pride in not being held up by some closet KKK wingnuts hiding behind badges. And for the cops off duty pay. A lot of it. They were hired by and owed the money from the long haired doe eyed 23 year old hippie trying to squash this impending massacre. Michael Lang was experienced in little beyond bullshitting his way through life up until that point. It turned out to be the perfect skill for the moment. He told the cops there was no need to be so heavy and they were going to get paid. And the cops were as skeptical. This concert of Michaels, the Gulfstream Festival with a lineup that included Jimi Hendrix, the Mothers of Invention, Chuck Berry, John Lee Hooker and that fucking lunatic Arthur Brown was a complete in total shitshow rain. It blew in hard for two of the three scheduled festival days. There was no plan for the rain, just cancellation. Kids didn't show, kids didn't fork over their cash. Two days of financial loss for Michael and his festival investors and the cops were no dummies. They knew the only way they were going to get paid for their services as hired security was to head off the Briggs truck at the passenger I. E Upon arrival to collect what there was of the festival cash from the one day gate as the Brinks guards were bringing said cash to a local bank. Whereupon the receipts would be tallied and Michael and his investors would no doubt get paid first if at all and determine which performers and vendors were to get paid next, if any. That the cops were going to take theirs off the top like politicians before Michael could charm his way out of paying them. The cops have been putting up with and witnessing Michael's all weekend. When the hit the fan this kid shined. Michael Lang was a natural producer. He was blessed with easy charm and innate confidence and was able to smile his way through most any crisis widening his eyes and grinning through the chaos in a manner that said to everyone around him be cool. I got this. Where it came from Michael didn't know. He always had it. It got him to this point. Got his parents back in Brooklyn to buy him his first car and let him skip out on college and got them to finance his first business endeavor down here in Florida. Head shop owner. That was the first thing before this new trip, this new foray into the growing music industry as a festival producer. But the Head Shop didn't go so well. More trouble with local cops. The sledgehammers came in hard to the little shop's glass and the redneck cops wielded them mercilessly, bringing the giant hammers down and into everything inside the one of a kind headshot destroying black light, posted walls, glass, water pipes, lava lamps, dream catchers, the latest in fringe fashion. And for what? Because fuck the hippies and fuck Michael Lang. Who the fuck did this New York transplant think he was, coming down to Dade county and opening up a head shop and doing it loudly? Michael's head shop, called the Head Shop, was the first of its kind in Florida, and it was a big fucking deal. Its opening was an occasion. So much so that the local students organized a little happening. A live rock band and other festivities. Michael Lang, barely out of high school in Brooklyn, had settled himself 1300 miles away into the asshole of America and become a local celebrity. But again, from the local cops perspective, fuck these hippies and fuck Michael Lang. They destroyed his head shop the night of its grand opening, in full view of all in attendance. And they didn't care who knew about it. They rationalized the violent destruction by claiming Michael didn't have the proper business permit to open such an establishment. And of course he didn't. Afterward, Michael, not one to accept defeat, was determined to snatch his own little piece of this new 60s utopia in a different way. Music festival culture was on the rise in America. Monterey Pop on the West Coast a year earlier in 1967 was a hit. The Grateful Dead were staging beautifully free musical happenings in the middle of their home city of San Francisco to fantastic results. And each year it seemed some artist or another was producing a can't miss much talked about performance at either the Newport Folk or Newport Jazz festivals. From Dylan going electric in 65 at folk to Nina Simone mesmerizing at jazz fest in 67. It was now 1968. Kids were getting turned on all over, and the festival scene was in large part responsible for flicking the switch. Michael couldn't sing, Michael couldn't play. Michael couldn't write. But Michael believed. He believed in the moment. He believed, believed in the hippie idealism. He believed in his generation. And he believed that he had what it took to organize and sell a music festival. Why not forget about the head Shop? That was small time. There was glory in the greater good, glory in the power of the people. Michael Lang could be the one who brought the people together through music. That's what the Gulf Stream Festival was all about. He believed in it. So what if it didn't work? He'd live and learn. He believed in himself and used that belief to quell the simmering violence surrounding him at the moment. Assuring the cops that were going to get paid right then and there and assuring the Brinks guards they weren't subverting their professional duty. Forget what their manifest said. Michael was the producer. He was responsible for the money and these hard working cops needed to get paid. Especially before that hippie Jimmy Hendrix or that man act violating Chuck Berry. The Brinks guards were made to understand. The cops were made whole and Michael Lang was about to make an entirely different scene. One where the cops weren't so heavy. One where the arts were better appreciated. One where musicians were flocking or a young man like Michael could make something out of nothing. One where that hippie utopia dream wasn't so far out. Where it was possible not play is Woodstock, New York.
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I'm Nancy Glass, host of the Burden of Guilt Season 3 podcast. This is a story about a horrendous situation that destroyed two families. It started more than seven years ago when Cindy and Kenny were two 40 somethings who had just gotten engaged. Days later they walked into a scorched earth war they never saw coming.
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Turn around and place your hands behind your back. The cops came into my house and threw me in jail.
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And to Cindy's surprise, her fiance Kenny was charged with abusing one of her children.
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I never once doubted Kenny and I always doubted the accusation.
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On season three of Burden of Guilt, you'll hear a story about the lengths someone will go to in order to get what they want.
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This case has got to be one of the most despicable.
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Listen to season three A Burden of Guilt on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
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On Boxing Day 2018, Joy Morgan was last seen at her secretive church. Six weeks later, she's reported missing. I'm Charlie Brinkhurst Cuff and after years of investigating Joy's case, I need to know what really happened to Joy. This is the Missing Sister, the true story of a woman betrayed by those she trusted most. Listen to the missing sister on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts or wherever you get your podcasts.
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I'm Stephanie Young. The hit podcast Love Trapped is back with new updates in the case of Laura owens.
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This is CR2025 State vs Laura Owens. I think she really believes that she still has an out. I'm quite confident that they're up to something.
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We're following the case live as the criminal charges finally come to a conclusion.
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Trust us when we tell you, as the victims of Laura Owens, she will not stop.
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Listen to Love trapped on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
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Michael Lang took his home turf of New York back like a hurricane. He landed on the coast, the island to Manhattan, before making his way inland upstate to Woodstock. In Manhattan, as always, he was a man on the make. The first thing Michael Lang needed to make was money. He had a group he was managing, Train, and they were awful. Didn't matter, they were hip like him. Michael wormed his way into Capitol Records and somehow found the perfect mark. Artie Kornfeld, Captain Capital's East Coast Director of Contemporary Music. Artie was a bit older than Michael. He came up through the Brill building system, penning songs for the Shirells and the Angels, co writing a cut with Jan Berry, who would later go on to comprise one half of Jan and Dean. And Jan later introduced Artie to genius songwriter Beach Boy Brian Wilson. Yet despite this impressive experience, Artie Kornfeld, by the time the late 60s rolled around, was decidedly on hip, and he was working a plum gig at the music industry's most unhip label, Capitol Records. Capital had the Beatles in America on their label, but as far as music industry hipsters were concerned, Capital was lamesville, empowered by the steady selling blandness of the Four Freshmen and the Letterman. Artie may have been unhip, but he made a practice of keeping his ear to the ground for the next big thing. Then one day, his secretary buzzed the kid with the next big thing into his office. It was Michael Lang, the tie dyed cherub, spewing Mac's hippie dippy bullshit about how Artie just had to sign the band he managed to train. Artie listened to the band's demo. It was totally lacking in anything resembling talent, but Michael had something. What it was Artie Kornfeld didn't know. But he wanted in on it. It. He needed it. He was flailing and disinterested in his gig at Capital. Michael offered a view into the future. On a hunch that was conflicted at best. Artie agreed to have Capital bankroll the development of Train and cut Michael a check for ten grand. Michael had his money and his mark. A friendship was struck. Michael had other ideas. Out of sight. Artie was all ears. Michael casually choked up some grass right there in Artie's office and passed the joint across the desk to his new Rabb. Artie freaked out by this highly unprofessional move. Tried not to appear uptight. Grabbed the joint and puffed on it like it was part of his daily routine. It wasn't. Michael had his talents in the executive. He leaned back in the chair across from Artie's desk and proceeded to delight the uptight music executive with stories from his recent foray into the music business in Florida. Tales of smugglers and thieves, sledgehammers slamming cops and Jimi Hendrix on acid and Chuck Berry on fire. Fire. Speedways and rednecks. Mexican standoffs with Brinks. Truck drivers and closeted KKK members. Real outlaws. And the result? Experience. It was a heavy scene. Michael had a better idea. He'd relocated away from Florida. Away from Manhattan. Upstate to Woodstock, New York. Artie never heard of it. Artie's stoned face said one thing. Tell me more. Bob Dylan was living up there. So was his band. The band. Tim hardened too. More musicians were making their way. It was a bucolic retreat for rock royalty, a return to nature. Woodstock's wooded natural environment made for a natural escape from the city just 100 miles south. It was only a matter of time before the entirety of the east coast rock elite found their way there. Michael wanted to make it real. Formalize it. Make a real retreat. An actual place, a venue, a lodge, a resort. A fucking utopian paradise, man. Where top notch talent could steal away from the pressures of the industry to chill naturally. Music would be made. Perhaps there was a way to capture that music and to then capitalize on the recordings. Artie took the bait immediately. He was perfectly positioned in his position at Capital to help. He'd steer talent capital and non capital. Artie had connections. He knew Brian Wilson, for fuck's sake. Michael just nodded and smiled. Far out. Sure. Okay, man, if you say so. The best cons lead their mercs to water. They don't force them to drink. And now Artie was lapping it up like a drunk sailor on leave. Siphoning confidence men's swill from Michael Lang's saloon. If they were going to make this Woodstock retreat thing work, they'd need real money. Artie couldn't cover the cost of investing in a retreat with a state of the art recording facility. Capital could, but they'd it up. Dig it. Artie knew of these dudes in Midtown. They were squares but they were young and lay this one on for size, man. They were actually advertising how much bread they had in the New York fucking Times right there in print. Check it out. Michael's smile grew wider When Artie showed him the classified item from the paper of record and there it was in print, Michael could hardly believe it. Young men with unlimited capital. These two trust fund squares were so desperate to get in on the 60s counterculture business vibes that Michael Lang so effortlessly oozed and that Artie Kornfeld so desperately wanted to draft off of that they were incredibly soliciting in public ideas that they could capitalize. It was the truth already assured, Michael. They'd already done it with some other lucky fools who convinced the two young squares to invest in their music studio. And it worked. They created Media Sound Studios, and at the time, it was one of the most successful professional recording studios in Manhattan. Artie knew a guy, a lawyer. The lawyer knew the two other guys, the squares with the money, and their names were John Roberts and Joel Rosen. Artie got his guy, the lawyer, to arrange a meeting between Roberts and Rosamund with Michael and Artie. Roberts and Rosamund were not impressed. Essentially, Michael and Artie's idea was for another music studio. What did they need another music studio for? They already had Media Sound, and it was a success. But still, as successful as the young entrepreneurs were. Roberts was 23 and Rosamund 26. They were not skilled in the art of saying no. They'd come to their money the old fashioned way. They were born into it. In Rosamund's case, his uncle hooked him up with his successful law firm right out of Yale. For Roberts, the inheritance was very literal. He had come into millions from his grandfather's pharmaceutical fortune at the age of eight, and as such, the two possessed none of the merciless instincts necessary to hang on to their money. Merciless instincts that experienced businessmen developed at a younger age while making their fortunes on their own. While they had less to lose, Roberts and Rosenman had a lot to lose. Frustrated with the drudgery of the law job, Rosenman had quit to join Roberts in a business venture as investors in what they had no clue. They were brand new at it. Their New York Times classified ad was basically an invitation to creative collaborators. And despite their best intentions, their inexperience would lead both of them to being easily loosened from their purse strings. Nevertheless, fools they weren't. Despite not saying no to a business venture neither was particularly inspired by, they instead asked Michael and Artie to produce a budget and a P and L for their idea. Michael Lang, who'd barely graduated from high school and dropped out of NYU, told the Yale Law and UPenn graduates he'd have a full budget back to them in a couple days. They didn't believe him and it wouldn't be the first time. Still, two days later, Michael Lang appeared with numbers. And they told a fantastic story. One of untold riches from the creation of his utopian Woodstock musicians retreat again. Roberts and Rosenman could hardly believe it, but one line item in Michael's budget caught their eye. There was mention in the budget of a press party, a party to announce the opening of their retreat. A party that the biggest, most impressive musicians on the planet would perform to put Woodstock on the map and to lure in other musicians from beyond the east coast. Musicians from all over the world. They'd of course have the locals, Bob Dylan and the Band perform. Tim Harden too. Artie pledged to put in his best effort to convince Dylan's friend, international folk pop star Donovan, to fly over from the UK to perform as well. Now this, this party, this was something Robertson Rosamund could get behind. Forget about an uninspiring music studio, a music festival, now that was something they could get into. Monterey Pop was a hit and Newport Folk, despite being small, brought in 20 grand a day. Michael sensed their shift in interest and did what his instincts told him. He followed his gut. Sure, the festival could be the thing. The thing could be anything as far as Michael was concerned, as long as there was a thing and that he was situated well to profit from it. Robertson Rosa men could finance a festival. And they were all in agreement. It was about the festival in Woodstock now, not the retreat. Michael Lang went in for the kill. He briefly shed his hippie dreamer facade and revealed his true self, piping up to his new partners that there was no time to waste. They needed a new budget, a new plan, a lineup, a location, a staff and quick start. He told them emphatically, quote, it's important we get rolling as soon as possible. This thing will sneak up on us before we know it and timing is going to be real crucial to pulling it off before anyone else moves in on our action. Every in creation is going to want a piece for himself and we got to be prepared to steamroll over. Woodstock was officially in the works. We'll be right back after this word.
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I'm Nancy Glass, host of the Burden of Guilt season three podcast. This is a story about a horrendous situation that destroyed two families. It started more than seven years ago when Cindy and Kenny were two 40 somethings who had just gotten engaged. Days later, they walked into a scorched earth war they never saw coming.
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Turn around and place your hands behind your back. The Cops came into my house and threw me in jail.
- [25:19]
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And to Cindy's surprise, her fiance Kenny was charged with abusing one of her children.
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I never once doubted Kenny, and I always doubted the accusation.
- [25:30]
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On season three of Burden of Guilt, you'll hear a story about the lengths someone will go to in order to get what they want.
- [25:38]
A
This case has got to be one of the most despicable.
- [25:41]
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Listen to to season three of Burden of Guilt on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts or wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Stephanie Young. The hit podcast Love Trapped is back with new updates in the case of Laura owens.
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This is CR2025 State vs Laura Owens. I think she really believes that she still has an out. I'm quite confident that they're up to something.
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We're following the case live as the criminal charges finally come to a conclusion.
- [26:13]
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Trust us when we tell you as the victims of Laura Owens, she will not stop.
- [26:17]
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Listen to Love trapped on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.
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Hello, it's me, Anna Sinfield from the Girlfriends, the number one hit true crime show that puts women right in the center of their own stories. I'm back with more one off interviews with some truly kick ass women on the Girlfriend's spotlight. I want to introduce you to Sylvia. I'm going to climb this. And then there's Fusaka. Let's see how we can stop killing and save lives. Leila dared to ask the question, is badness hereditary? And finally we'll meet Rosamund. If it were wasn't for the air where Ella lived, she wouldn't have died on that fatal night. You'll even get to meet my mom in that one, who I can always count on to keep my feet on the ground. I'm not too intimidated by her.
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What are you talking about?
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Listen to the Girlfriend Spotlight on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts or wherever you get your podcast. From the beginning, finding and keeping a location to hold a festival to accommodate what Michael expected to be 100,000 concertgoers comfortably with clear sight lines and easy access from the highway was an issue. They settled on Wallkill, 40 miles south of Woodstock, a small agricultural town where they leased a farm for their new company, Woodstock Ventures. The farm wasn't ideal, but it would make for an okay outdoor concert venue. When Roberts and Rosiman first gave the zoning board the soft sell on their quote unquote folk festival, things seemed golden. But as soon as their advance team 20 hippies and growing arrived on site and began major landscaping and construction projects. War was on with the locals. The phone in the barn they were using as an office rang constantly with death threats. We don't want you filthy pigs in Wallkill. If you don't clear out, you're gonna die. At heated hours, long town meetings, the crowds from the community shouted threats and insults. The zoning board railroaded the festival with impossible ordinances. And the hippies were all but run out of town with pitchforks. With one month to spare before the show they were advertising was to happen on August 8th, 9th and 10th of 1969, they now needed another location. Unbelievably, they found one in Bethel, New York, 40 miles from Woodstock in a slightly different direction. Max Yasgar's dairy farm by the hamlet of White Lake. Max was a pillar of the community, well known all over the area who had read in the papers about the festival being run out of Wall Kill and thought it was a shame. But best of all, he had the perfect land. Way better than than the Wall Kill site. Sloping fields and meadows that rolled down into a natural amphitheater to where they could set up the stage with a picture perfect lake in the background. Prior to the setting on Yaska's farm for what was being called Woodstock Music and Arts Fair at Aquarian Exposition, three days of peace and music. Michael Lang had staffed up. He brought in professionals from the burgeoning live touring rock concert industry to head up operations, operations, lighting, sound, security, medical, what amounted to a large paid staff and a small army of volunteers. And they all followed Michael's lead. Michael lang, the now 24 year old failed festival producer, failed rock manager, failed head shop owner, was in charge of what was being planned to be one of the biggest attended three day rock concerts of all time. Michael's confidence led the way, as did his edict of peace and love. This was to be a new kind of festival. One that reinforced Michael's belief in his generation's hippie utopia. One that made good on the promise of the Summer of Love. One that was about communalism, not commercialism. A notion that Michael's business partners and backers of the Woodstock Aquarian Exposition were not made aware of at the onset of their joint venture. To them, and understandably so because it was their money, commercialism was the point, and for Michael, making money was once a sincere motivation as well. But as the date of the festival neared and costs skyrocketed approaching $3 million over the originally planned for $500,000 total budget that Michael originally sold his investors on. It was glory that now consumed Michael. Making money was increasingly proving to be impossible. Despite advanced ticket sales sales. There were just too many challenges, too many holes to continually sprung prior to the show. Holes that needed to be plugged and could only be plugged by Roberts and Rossimon's Michaels investors. Cash There was the cost of the artists. Talent fees on the whole were massive. They had already booked Jimi Hendrix at an absurd fee for the time of $18,000. The who were somehow duped into taking less than Hendrix for $12,500. Janis Joplin was signed on to make $7,500, as was the band. The Grateful Dead made a mere $2,500. Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young $5,000, Ravi Shankar $4,500. And of course there were fees for relative unknowns. Joe Cocker at $1,375 in Santana at a mere 750 bucks. And the headaches didn't stop with the talent. There were new headaches and new costs associated with each crisis du jour. Leading up to the festival. There was a stage to build from scratch, sound and light towers to construct. They needed to secure the perimeter of Jasgar's 600 acre farm with a fence the size and scope of which made for a massive, near impossible undertaking. In the end the patchwork of flimsy chain link was constructed and there was the matter of concessions. How were they going to feed all of the concertgoers? And who was going to feed them? Somehow it was decided that this task should be outsourced to a group known as the Hog Firm. Headed by a former beat poet and follower of Ken Kesey's Merry Pranksters, Hugh Romney. The Hog Farm was an off the grid commune and traveling psychedelic performance art group. They were the farthest out of far out. Completely unemployable. Not that they wanted jobs but with specific skills. Provision of food, but also non aggressive security, medical care and most of all how to deal with overdoses and bad acid trips. For Michael Lang's purposes they were perfect. But their anti capitalist lifestyle didn't prevent them from having expenses. Far from it. At Romney's first meeting with Woodstock Ventures he negotiated eight grand in pay for the Hog Farm and the buses and charter plane necessary to get the hardcore hippies from their New Mexico land to Woodstock alone would triple that bill. The Hog Farm weren't the only ones who had their hands out. So too did the notorious Abby Hoffman. In 1969 Abby Hoffman was a raging bull of the anti establishment New Left an avowed anti capitalist, he was a master media prankster and thorn in the mainstream side. But he was most infamous as one of the Chicago 7, constantly making, mocking the judge in the court at his blockbuster trial over the riot at the Democratic national convention in 1968, making him an enemy to conventional Americans everywhere. But to the counterculture. Abby Hoffman was a hero and his word mattered. Michael Lang needed Abby Hoffman. Hoffman got press in the same underground papers that Lang needed to promote Woodstock. The radical papers that called businessmen including, including concert promoters, capitalist pigs, the Boston Avatar, the Berkeley Barb, the New York Rat. Their readers were part of Michael's audience. But it was going to be a tough sell, just based on the fact that Michael was selling anything. And the papers would have knives drawn. But the good graces of Abby Hoffman would go a long way to legitimizing Woodstock with the counterculture. And now Abby Hoffman was predictably looking for one thing. A handout. Michael Lang answered the phone at the Woodstock offices in downtown New York. He immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the line. He was dreading this moment. It was Abby Hoffman, he said. Dulang. Dulang. Hello? Michael inquired. You know who this is, Michael? I think I do, yes. You're the man I've been gunning for. You got any idea what I want, Michael? No, Hoffman. I want money. Bread and plenty of it.
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Or else.
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Michael almost laughed out loud at the dime store comic villain antics of the one and only Abbie Hoffman. But Michael Lange was too smart to do that. He knew that despite his ridiculousness that Abbie Hoffman was not to be taken lightly. Michael asked Hoffman why he should give him money and Hoffman told him it was for the privilege of being able to hold his festival hassle free. Michael and his partners stood to make Michael millions. And Hoffman in the New Left needed to profit off of said millions. Call it the hippie black hand, call it mob political economics, call it charity, call it the cost of doing business, call it whatever the hell you wanted. In the end it was what it was. Extortion by a so called anti capitalist who is now demanding $50,000 in cash immediately. Or else come showtime, Hoffman and his band of radical new leftists would spike the Woodstock Festival's walk water supply with acid. What a guy. What a credit to society piece of. Hoffman told Michael it was high time he started contributing to the cause, I. E. Him and his overdue legal bills from the Chicago 7 trial. But Abbie Hoffman wasn't a cold hearted businessman. When Michael bucked the cost, Hoffman told Him he could get in on the hippie installment plan, pay month to month. Michael Lang told Abby Hoffman, you pay him ten grand and throw in some free tickets. Abby Hoffman took the offer and the extortion of Woodstock was complete. Michael Lang took it in stride. Roberts, Michael's main financier, the man who ultimately paid Abby Hoffman, took it as a sign of more ominous things to come. This couldn't be happening. Get them out. John Roberts didn't understand why there were 35000 kids without tickets inside the festival grounds one day before the concert had even begun. If the kids weren't forced to leave, and then at showtime to re enter with the tickets they'd either already purchased, which very few had, or to buy tickets at the gate. If this very element, part of the concert planning, couldn't be executed, then tens of thousands of dollars would be lost at a time when it had become increasingly clear that he and Rosiman were going to lose their shirts financially and needed every penny they could get to stave off bankruptcy. But Michael told Roberts the kids weren't going anywhere. Michael told Roberts to relax. Michael told Roberts to get in on the groove that was going round to stop being so uptight that everything would work out. And they were about to launch something that money couldn't buy. A movement. But that wasn't good enough for John Roberts. Movements didn't pay the bills. Unless you're Abby Hoffman or part of the extortionist radical left. In one day their money problems would be solved. The festival was going to be a hit. They were expecting 250000 people now. Word was out all over the country there was a happening going on in upstate New York. Hendrix, Janice, the Dead, the band. Dylan was rumored to be making a surprise appearance. Sly and the Family Stone, Jefferson Airplane. It was all happening, man. Get there. Universal love, nature, can you dig it? Lay back and groove it was going to be alright. Michael Lang and his original partner Artie Kornfeld, had long since dismissed the notion of profiting from ticket sales. In their bones they felt like that was now a lost cause. Their covering expenses were too great to overcome. They of course, didn't share this with their other partners, their investors. They instead turned their eyes to ancillary ways of deriving cash from what was to be a successful festival. From the sale of the film rights and soundtrack, which were, up to this point, hastily and naively being negotiated. The documentary director, Michael Wadley, was interested and willing to leave all the profits to Woodstock Ventures if they covered the film's budget. But tired of being hosed on cost everywhere else, Roberts refused. Wadley covered his own budget for his own big chunk of the distribution rights. By the time Wadley and his dozens of film crew descended on site, including a young, relatively unknown Martin Scorsese on the second unit camera crew and in the editing room, it was clear the film rights would be worth major money. But it was too late to renegotiate the deal. Michael had his own plan to make money, though, via what would be a robust drug trade at the festival. His aim was to utilize an old Florida connection to monopolize the sale of drugs at the concert by flooding the market with product and thus ensuring a massive windfall of cash. However, his and his Florida partner's drugs were intercepted off the coast by the National Guard, and the scheme never came to be. A freer trading of illicit substances quickly took root at the festival, mainly grass acid and heroin. Michael's partner, Artie Kornfeld, ever since planning for the festival had begun, used his new anti establishment endeavor as the excuse he needed to go way off the established path with psychedelic experimentation, virtually making himself useless to Michael. Artie was unrecognizable from the executive Michael had met in his buttoned up Capitol Records office. These days, Artie was on another planet. And at Woodstock. On that final day of planning, that day before the show officially started, neither Artie Kornfeld or Michael Lang or anyone else for that matter, needed to go far to score. In the woods adjoining the festival grounds, a black market came together quickly. An au naturel hippie narcotics bazaar where one could leisurely stroll and compare prices on grass, dope and lsd. Enterprising drug dealers even had had signs. Le drugstore, read one. Pharmacy, now open, read another, and WE will not be undersold. The signs were painted in hippie dayglo paint and propped up against trees. It was a bridge too far even for Michael. The festival's producer had the signs removed, but security allowed the dealers to stay. There was no fending off the dealers. There were just too many of them. It's better to keep them centrally located and somewhat under control. Michael emerged from the pharmacy in the forest. It was late August 14, 1969, the night before the big show. All this planning was well worth it. Michael could feel it. And there'd never be anything like this attempted before. The buzz on the street was immense. The underground press had done their job, anointing the festival with the hipness it required. The mainstream press had done its job, swirling up a constant drumbeat of action around the event and the of week, weeks and days leading up to the show. Kids all over the country were well aware of what was about to go down in woodstock on that third weekend in August of 1969. They were coming. Michael could feel it. Hell, they'd already arrived. There were already 35, 000 kids here the night before the show even began. And there they were, scattered on sleeping bags and makeshift campsites all over Max Yaska's farm, bedding down for the night in anticipation of what was to be one of the biggest, biggest and most consequential events of their lives. And he, Michael Lang, built this for them. When all was said and done, who knew what the possibilities would be for him? For his generation, maybe revolution was possible, or at the very least, a reprioritization of values. Maybe this was the way to do it, through spontaneous community, not commercialism. And maybe he, Michael Lang, was just the guy to lead this flock. It was heavy to think about. Michael hit his pillow that night before the show with adrenaline and hope surging through him. Tomorrow will be a day unlike any other. When he awoke, he was greeted by the one thing a festival producer dreads the constant beat of chaos. The crowd of 35,000 had nearly doubled to 65,000. The phones in the production trails rang off the hook. State cops were choking traffic out on Route 17, issuing indiscriminate stops and searches for drug seizures and seized drugs. They did 150 arrests for LSD, marijuana, heroin, amphetamines and other suspicious substances. Pipes, bongs, bowls, syringes, spoons, wraps. All manner of drug paraphernalia was cause for arrest. Two troopers stationed themselves like vengeful Roman guards at the beginning the of of the main road going into the festival site and poached joint toking hippies into cuffs and off to the station. It further stalled traffic. Another local police captain, so concerned with the illicit flow of drugs into the festival site from the caravan of hippies, had his officers literally dig a trench across one of the main dirt accessways. It took less than two hours for all traffic to stop. Not to a crawl, to a standstill. Concert goers simply abandoned their cars, grabbed their camping gear and hoofed it to Yasgur's farm. There was no denying them. Most were young, most were respectful. But because of the sheer number of them, local wear and tear was unavoidable. As the peace and love generation paraded through the small towns surrounding Yasgar's farm by the thousands. They trounced through Yards urinated in public past reefer, out in the open. Some small town locals reacted in horror. Others, however, opened their arms and treated the young men and women with long hair and strange smelling cigarettes with the respect they would their own children. It was a scene unlike anything anyone, anywhere had ever witnessed. Back at the festival grounds. Quickly, 65,000 became 85,000. The production team anticipated a need to triple the order for first aid supplies, if they could even get them on site in time. The concertgoers were going to have to rely on cold mush and other concoctions. Auctions from the Hog Farm's free kitchen for food. Such was the lack of traditional food supplies and concessions in the face of what was turning out to be a much bigger crowd than anticipated. As the problems mounted, word trickled in that there was easily another hundred thousand kids on foot hoofing it to the concert with realistic expectations of 250,000 more arriving on the second day. Good news for the festival organizers, but not really. The private police force Michael's head of security had hired was now demanding more pay. In effect extorting festival organizers at the last minute, knowing full well that their financial demands would be met. Because what was Michael Lang going to do? Not police a quarter million drugged out hippies? Fuck it, pay him whatever they want. The extortionist cops were in. Michael heard the violence of the Rolling Stones single from last summer, Street Fighting man in his head, and made the call. The call he didn't want to make for his own heavies, his own rock and roll ss, black shirted thugs, heavily armed hippie Gestapo there to patrol indiscriminately inconspicuous police. The police, and they were not cheap. Roberts and Rosen saw a bankruptcy court on the horizon. Michael saw more and more kids streaming into the site from over the hill. And the meager chain link fence surrounding Jaska's farm was no match for the encroaching mass. It was easily discarded. Kids flooded the site without paying for tickets and there was no way of ejecting them and collecting their money. Doing so would most certainly have led to a riot. There was only one thing to do. Declare the show a free festival. Roberts and Roseman, Michael's investors, were sunk. There was nothing they could do. Michael was right. There was no way of turning back the crowd. Any. Any attempt at doing so would lead to more chaos and perhaps even violence. Which would make the unwinnable financial situation they were in catastrophic. It's cool, Michael told him. It's all happening. You're about to be part of history. Don't be so uptight. Of course, Roberts and Rosiman didn't see it that way, but there was nothing they could do. So they did what the rest of their team was doing at that moment before the festival began. Brace themselves for the next crisis, for the next fire that needed putting out. It came in the form of a telephone call. With hours before showtime and 175,000 kids now dutifully waiting to be entertained on Max Yaska's farm, with traffic completely stopped for miles around them and with hundreds of thousands more making their way toward them with scant medical supplies, compromised security, a small armed hippie Gestapo, and New Age food supply in the form of Hog Farm mush, and with words split, spreading like wildfire not only throughout New York state, but all over the country, that something of mammoth, potentially dangerous proportions was happening in upstate. The governor's office called Nelson Rockefeller, State aid informed the Woodstock Ventures employee who answered the phone in the command trailer that the state had officially declared the Woodstock festival site in Bethel and surrounding White Lake area a state of emergency. The governor had acted, activated the National Guard, and was prepared to move the troops into the site on word from festival organizers, who on the other end of the line were flabbergasted, shocked for all the chaos that had quickly engulfed them. It was relative peace, all things considered. Richie Havens had been forced on stage to open the show and was delivering, enrapturing the crowd of now nearly 200,000 with nothing but his acoustic guitar, his big voice voice, his heavy heart and his tremendous soul, stomping his way through an improvised vision of utopia that alchemized the hearts and minds of thousands into one, if only for a brief moment. Regardless, the moment was real. And the moment had an effect. Despite the reports the governor's office was getting from the surrounding area, here at the festival, cool things were out of sight. No need to send in the fucking National Guard, man. And the governor's office thought otherwise and ignored the hippie dippy mumbo jumbo from the other end of the line. Technocratically speaking. Just what were festival organizers plans? To help the Guard airlift all those kids out of there. Airlift them out of here. No one needed to go anywhere. Everything was cool. Didn't they get it? This was a new day, a new way. Kids were grooving on each other. Peace and love were going to carry the day. There was no violence, no chaos, no need to send in the Guard, and no need to worry. Except there was need to worry outside the Festival Command Center Trailer after the governor's aid had been assured no government assistance was needed. After the call had ended, a festival worker bounded toward the stage to do something she didn't think possible just five minutes earlier. Enjoy yourself. Take in the scene. Listen to some music. The programming lineup was completely disrupted due to the fact that the arrival of artists was totally thrown off by the surrounding traffic jam. Artists were being helicoptered in, and Richie Havens only went on first because somebody saw him chilling out backstage with a guitar and forced him up there before the crowd got restless. Word was Sweetwater was going on next. The festival worker was excited to see Sweetwater perform, but she'd forgotten her smokes. She headed back to the trailer to grab them. When she got to the trailer's metal steps and placed her foot on the first step, she was jolted back onto the ground. Shocked, she tried again. Another electric shock. She smartly gave up on trying to fight her way through electrocution for a pack of cigarettes. She flagged down the festival's master electrician to let him know about the problem. Some sort of charge being picked up by the metal steps. We're keeping an eye on it, she was informed. The electrician was aware of the problem. Seems there was a natural wear to the main electric feeder cable running just below the festival grounds. Every now and then a light surge escaped and an annoying but ultimately unharmful current transferred above ground, in this case to the trailer's metal steps. The electrician told her there was nothing to worry about so long as the ground stayed dry. If the ground were to get wet, swampy, muddy, and that master cable was to fray any further underground, well, the potential for serious destruction was possible. But that was a lot of what ifs. Sure, it was a lot to worry about, but like most things at Woodstock, it was all being held together on a little wing, a hippie prayer and the power of Michael Lang's infectious confidence. Hey, could be worse, the electrician said. At least it's not gonna rain. I'm Jake Brennan in this episode of Disgraceland Is to be continued. It. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the Show Notes page at Disgraceland. If you're listening, as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com Membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on YouTube@YouTube.com Disgracelandpod Rocka Rolla He's a bad, bad man.