My friendship with Woodstock MC
It is 50 years this weekend since the legendary Woodstock concert attracted 400,000 fans to a dairy farm in New York State. As a music writer, Vicki Anderson got to know one of the men who ran the show.
You will probably know Chip Monck as the guy who uttered the now infamous words about the ‘‘brown acid’’ circulating among the 400,000 attendees at Woodstock in 1969.
Monck was the master of ceremonies of the historic event.
This week marks the 50th anniversary of the three days of music which crowned the peace and love hippy movement of the 1960s.
Establishment v antiestablishment, it was billed as ‘‘an Aquarian Exposition: 3 Days of Peace & Music’’ and was held from August 15 to 18, 1969, at Max Yasgur’s 600-acre (240-hectare) dairy farm in Bethel, New York.
What Monck actually said was: ‘‘You may take it with however many grains of salt you wish . . . the brown acid that is circulating around us is not specifically too good. It is suggested that you do stay away from that.’’
In what I now know to be typically eloquent and polite Monck style, he added: ‘‘Of course, it is your own trip so be my guest but please be advised there is a warning on that one, OK?’’
It is one of the best-known drug references from the era.
But Monck is much more than a oneliner or footnote.
He is easily a couple of solid chapters in musical history.
The legendary event helped set the stage for the festival industry.
In the chaotic and technically challenging
environment of Woodstock, Monck was in charge of lighting and was also the master of ceremonies charged with speaking to a crowd. We first crossed paths a decade ago when I interviewed Edward ‘‘Chip’’ Monck about a Rolling Stones documentary he was involved with.
After chatting for hours about his many musical adventures, I was somewhat shocked to discover that this man, front and centre for some of music history’s most legendary events, was living relatively quietly in Australia. He was born in Wellesley, Massachusetts, in 1939 and has spent a lifetime lighting up pivotal musical moments.
Over the years we have become friends. He has included me in group emails to his friends – some of whom are famous – but what I like most about his missives is they are always full of intelligent ideas and wit.
He still has music in his heart, and cares passionately about the future of the live music industry and those souls who make music.
Even at 80, he is still working behind the scenes, caring about and making sure everything is running smoothly for other people.
This week, Monck made time to chat to me along with many high-flying music journalists around the world.
Before he did so, he sent me a loosely written CV, understated in typical Monck fashion. It includes such remarkable one-line entries as: ‘‘1963. Independence of Kenya; 1967 Monterey Pop; 1968 Miami Pop; 1969 Fillmore East, Woodstock, Altamont; 1969-1973 Stones . . . 1971 Grand Funk Shea, Bangladesh; 1973 Hollywood Bowl – Hendrix, Byrds, Mamas/Papas, Procol Harum; . . . 1974 Rocky Horror; 1976 Neil Young, Japan; 1977-1980 Bette Midler.’’
Other entries reference Pope John Paul and, from 1962-63, Kwame Nkrumah and Martin Luther King Jr, ‘‘establishing The Organisation of African Unity’’.
That is just a small slice of Monck’s CV but you get my drift.
Let me tell you a few of my favourite Monck stories.
In 1959, he ‘‘rebuilt, lit correctly and production-managed’’ The Village Gate, a legendary nightclub at the corner of Thompson and Bleecker St in Greenwich Village, New York.
Here he stage-directed everyone from Nina Simone, Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, Dizzy Gillespie, John Coltrane, Charles Mingus, Miles Davis and many other names in folk and jazz who passed through the 450-seat venue.
The Gate was built into the ground floor and basement of The Mills Hotel, which Monck describes as ‘‘a flophouse’’.
Dylan wrote songs in Monck’s basement apartment at the start of his career, notably
which saw him crawling on crooked highways and stumbling on misty mountains, in September 1962.
‘‘I met Robert and I invited him to the Gate.
‘‘He walked around and I told him I had an apartment he could use if he needed some quiet time.’’
In Monck’s apartment was a typewriter.
‘‘It seemed to please him greatly. ‘‘For the six hours I was working at the Gate he would type his work and then go away.’’
Monck would come home after a busy shift to find Dylan’s screwedup balls of paper in the bin.
He would empty the ashtrays and tidy up after him, ironing the screwed-up lyric sheets flat on an ironing board and keeping them: ‘‘I felt they were exceptional,’’ he explains.
Sadly, these treasures were lost many years later. He stored them under his barn in Bridgehampton and was on tour when the property changed hands. The barn was removed and the papers vanished.
The thing that should tell you all you need to know about Monck is that he isn’t upset about the loss for monetary reasons.