Baron Wolman gig last night at Proud Camden gallery.
Some of his photographs of Woodstock.
The most unusual shot is so subtle that some people might miss it.
The photo shows a man sitting at the back of the stage behind the speaker cabinets, holding a drum stick. He’s a good looking guy with curly hair, smiling.
Behind him Santana are playing the best show of their lives to a crowd of 500,000 people.
The subject of the photo looks like a musician but he’s not. It’s Baron Wolman and the photographer is Bill Graham, the legendary promoter at the Fillmore.
Just before that, Baron had taken a photo of Bill.
Last night I realised that I’ve only met one man who went to Woodstock as a fan.
A big American called Kevin.
Everyone else I’ve met was working there.
I knew Ten Years After in 1967 because their manager Chris Wright suggested we share a flat and I agreed because Bayswater was a lot nearer my office in Soho than Battersea, from where I’d been catching a bus across the river at silly o’clock in the morning. Chick Churchill used to make my girlfriend laugh so much. Patsy had never encountered anyone like Chick before. I’ve interviewed Joe Cocker, and knew his Grease Band, and met the Grateful Dead, who played but were not in the movie.
At a previous Proud show talked to a film-maker who worked as a cameraman at Woodstock and he said promoter Michael Lang was expecting a crowd of about 20,000.
Nobody knew. Nobody had a clue, before that weekend in 1969, how big the market was for a festival.
Bumped into Isaac, a mate from the gym, one of those moments where both parties ask, “What are you doing here?” Isaac said, “I know Alex Proud.”
A couple Miran and I met asked for our emails, which we supplied.
Recorded music had been playing and we heard Time of The Season and then Lola and Miran said, “Only two songs about transvestites – Lola and Walk On The Wild Side.”
Afterwards we strolled out of the Stables and it was still light and a warm summer evening and we walked along a route we’ve taken many times, going past the Roundhouse, and then, as we walked up Adelaide Road to where we usually park, I realised that we’d gone about 200 yards in an easy silence, not saying anything at all.
But we talked in the car and as we rolled down Cricklewood Broadway he played a track from Zeppelin’s fifth album and I nearly loved it.