Thoughts On Altamont

Altamont was the best thing that ever happened to the Rolling Stones. Getting busted with naked Marianne Faithful was good, but it didn’t have legs and wasn’t even that scandalous any longer in 1969–all the Rock Stars got busted, man–and the teens down front, the shimmying and swaying teens down front, looked up at Mick and Keith and Charlie and the other two and said, “You keep singing about the Devil. Prove it.”

That’s a terrible paragraph. 

Altamont was a success. Think of what might have happened: stampedes, riots, zombie attack. No one got cholera! There were literally no bathroom facilities. Someone should have gotten cholera, but no one did and that is a win for the good guys. Yes, four people died, but two people died at Woodstock and no one blames Mick Jagger for that.

You are missing the point. You are, in fact, missing every point. 

Musically, Altamont was not the Rolling Stones’ best showing.

Jesus.

Everyone involved in the Altamont Speedway Free Concert was the stupidest fucking human on the face of the earth. I am aware of the logical impossibility inherent in my statement, and yet I stand by it.

I’ll allow this thesis.

The Grateful Dead were stupid and naive. And entirely complicit: Altamont does not happen without the Dead. They smoothed the way into San Francisco for the Stones, they made all the important introductions, they vouched. Do you know who the soundman at Altamont was? Bear. Do you know who his assistant was? Healy. Altamont doesn’t happen without the Dead. Buuuuuut…

Rock Scully was the worst of ’em all. “The Angels are men of honor,” Rock told the Stones when he visited London in the summer of ’69. The Hells Angels had made an appearance at the Hyde Park show, the free one where Mick wore his poodle frock and recited Shelley, except they were the weird, bland, foreign version of Hells Angels. Some of them rode their scooters to the gig, and others took the bus in. Most motorcycle gangs call themselves “social clubs,” but the London Angels actually were a social club. Any random rugby side could’ve beaten the shit out of them. But the lads wore their jackets with the colorful patches and whatnot, so they got their pictures in the papers. The Stones would have had a good opinion of the “Hells Angels” from their experience.

“The Angels are men of honor,” Rock told the Stones. And then he told the Angels, “We’ll buy you $500 worth of beer if you watch the stage.” This was the worst deal in the history of deals, maybe ever.

Michael Lang was stupid and can-do, and that is a fearful combo. Most folks are stupid and lazy, and that is good for humanity as a whole, but some special sparrows get up real early and work real hard all day, and they’re complete nitwits; those fuckers are dangerous, and Michael Lang was one of ’em, him and those Shirley Temple curls.

The concert was originally planned for Golden Gate Park. This would have been ideal: amenities, logistics, access, public transportation, plus the SFPD could ride through on a phalanx of horses and clear them dirty hippies out after the show was over. The Diggers would distribute food and water, the Hog Farm would handle bad trips and broken ankles, the Mime Troupe would pretend to do stuff. Multiple stages to eliminate between-band downtime. The Airplane, Santana, the Dead, and the Stones–the motherfucking Stones, man–for free in the park! Nice day out, sounds like.

This plan was immediately torpedoed from within via incompetence and macho bullshit. The local planning committee had taken care to go through the City Council to get the permits, because the mayor at the time was a hippie-hatin’ cowboy, but there was a hold-up and so the Stones took charge and–despite the express warnings of the planning committee–called the mayor right up. Golden Gate Park was no longer happening.

A new site was found–this is less than a week before the show, remember, an event that was expected to draw hundreds of thousands of kids–at Sears Point Speedway. This is Sears Point Speedway:

See the embankment on the right? You put the stage there. Push in some dirt with a ‘dozer to level out a platform and lay your scaffolding and plywood on top of that; boom: stage. Ten or twelve feet above the crowd. See all those access roads? This is what’s called an easily policeable property. The location was secured and the production was installed.

Then the deal fell through because–again I remind you–everyone involved with this debacle was the stupidest fucking man on the planet. (I chose my noun with care. No women were included in the decision chain on this one. Altamont was entirely comprised of drugged-up egotists waggling their cocks at one another, metaphorically or literally.) It is Thursday, December 4th. The concert is scheduled for the 6th. “The show must go on” is a maxim, not a suicide pact; the saying isn’t legally binding.

But this is for Rock and Roll, man. It’s for the Stones, maaaaaan. It’s for the kids, maaaaaaaaaaaaaan. If Mick Jagger says it’s safe to surf this beach…well, you know how that one goes.

So Rock and Michael Lang take a helicopter out to some boondock in the San Joaquin Valley to take a look at a racetrack. Now, at this point it should be noted that Michael Lang had no particular ties to either the Stones or to San Francisco, nor had his presence been solicited by either party. Fucker just showed up. The racetrack they are going to is called Altamont, and it is owned by a fellow named Dick Carter. He is broke and desperate and, as befits a character in this story, an utter moron. He has heard on the radio all about the Stones’ free show, and all the troubles finding a location those young men have been having. Dick’s not a Rock and Roll guy, prefers Buck Owens, but he can smell a way out of the hole. Publicity. Spread the name far and wide. Make it so everyone knows Altamont. Calls up the Stones and offers them his track for free. Didn’t know ’em. Fucker just cold-called. Stupidity converges and entwines just as does destiny. Rock and Michael Lang are in the helicopter and they’re over the site and look down and this is what it looked like:

Michael Lang, cherubic Michael, he smiled and his dimples were deep enough to bury your dead in.

“We can do the show here.”

Rock Scully twitched skeletonishly.

“That’s William Blake’s engraving of Lucifer. I think that’s a bad sign, man.”

“We can do it, Rock. It’s for Mick.”

“Where would we even put the stage?”

“Allah will provide.”

This was the man who had produced Woodstock, or at least taken the credit for it, and so Rock agreed. The show must go on.

(That photo is, of course, not Altamont Speedway, but suffice it to say that it’s the worst possible location. Access was inadequate, the facilities were non-existent, and the layout was the opposite of Sears Point; instead of the stage being at the highest point in the venue, it would be at the bottom of an enormous natural basin, which history buffs will recognize as the exact same kind of geography where Custer became famous.)

Melvin Belli was stupid and pompous, but he looked like he was having fun.

Sam Cutler was stupid and reckless and got dumped by the Stones before the sun had risen. Remember what I said about Rock? Well, Cutler might have done that stuff. We’ll never know. Cutler sure got blamed for it, even though…

The Hells Angels were stupid and brutal and all the violence was their fault. It’s tough to blame anyone but the guys who brought pool cues to the party. They knew what they were doing. “Being reasonable” is always an option. Jesus said that, I think.

The Rolling Stones were stupid and arrogant. ’69 was their first modern tour of America. They hadn’t been since ’66, when they played 30-minute sets through tiny amps to shrieking crowds of teeny-boppers, but Rock and Roll was Art now, maaaaaan, and tours were headline news. The Stones broke sales records everywhere, partially because their tickets were around twice as much as any other band’s. Naturally, the Rock Press was besides itself. Rolling Stone called them Capitalists. Mick Jagger! They called him a Capitalist! Bill Graham ranted about them on the radio, about those damn foreigners coming over here and stealing all our blowjobs and cocaine. Ralph Gleason declared them the un-heppest of cats.

And the Stones, don’t forget, were not at Woodstock.

This was not good. The Rolling Stones could not be seen as caring about something as non-cool as money. This was 1969, and Rock Stars did it for the music, or the fans, or the movement, even, but not for the money. A gesture had to be made. Someone suggested lowering the ticket prices, and he was fired immediately. Someone else suggested a free show, and then Mick said, “How about a free show?” and everyone said, “Good idea, Mick,” and wheels became enmotionated.

Mick Taylor had been in the band fifteen minutes–Ian Stewart was still calling him “Nick”–and so did not have the authority to stop the train. No one has ever given two fucks and a shit about Bill Wyman’s opinion about anything, no one ever, not once, and so neither did he have any ability to direct events. If Charlie Watts had refused to play, the show would have been canceled, but Charlie would never do that. Keith Richards is a five-year-old who thinks everything is an adventure, so he wasn’t the one to stop the onrushing disaster. Only Mick Jagger could have.

But he didn’t, and something weird happened when they started playing Sympathy. Something weird always happened when they played that number.

Meredith Hunter was stupid and yes this comes off as victim-shaming but don’t bring a pistol to a concert? And, if you’re a black guy with a blonde girlfriend in 1969, don’t stand next to the Hells Angels. They’re incredibly fucking racist. Again: the Angels are responsible for their own actions, and Hunter did not cause his death. But he didn’t do a lot to prevent it, either.

Chip Monck is stupid and has a stupid fucking name and everyone’s stupid.