On July 20th, 1969, the world watched as the United States did something that seemed impossible—we landed a man on the moon. It was the birthday of my little brother, Kevin, who’s no longer with us. I was serving in the U.S. Navy, stationed at a small communications base in Todendorf, Germany, not far from the Danish border. That moon landing was more than just a scientific milestone. For me—and for millions of people—it marked the end of one war and the beginning of something radically hopeful.
After World War I, Germany was occupied by the French. After World War II, they were occupied by the Americans. Germans resented being second-class citizens in their own land. I know; I lived it. German parents warned their children not to associate with us. German girls who dated American servicemen faced sharp social backlash. There were three bars near our base and the neighboring German army camp—each one was a nightly battleground of bruises and booze, Americans and Germans clashing like ghosts of wars we never fought.
Then the moon changed everything.
The man behind the Saturn V rocket that carried the Apollo 11 crew to the moon was a German scientist named Wernher von Braun—formerly of the Nazi regime, yes, but now repurposed for peace. America and Germany, once locked in mortal combat, had collaborated to do the impossible. On July 20, 1969, two old enemies became pioneers—the hostilities of World War II ended, and something shifted. Almost overnight, we went from occupiers to honored guests. German fathers who once wouldn’t let their daughters near us were now shaking our hands and offering schnapps as we drank toasts to the American/German achievement. Things just got really good, really fast.
It helped that the Summer of Love was going strong —and not just in San Francisco. Europe was catching the fever. The British Invasion had brought music across the Atlantic to America earlier in the decade, but now American artists were reclaiming center stage. Multi-day concerts like Woodstock were turning music into a communal ritual. Europe wanted its own Woodstock.
England hosted the now-legendary Isle of Wight Festival in late August 1970. Hendrix. The Doors. The Who. Sly & the Family Stone. Joni Mitchell. Over half a million people filled the cliffs of Afton Down and tore down the fences in protest. It was glorious madness.
Germany followed suit.
That September, the Love and Peace Festival was held on the island of Fehmarn, near the town of Putgarten. It was a short drive from our base—maybe 20 or 30 kilometers. A few of us rock n rollers who were known for public drinking and private hash smoking got our tickets early. It was going to be our Woodstock. We had no tent, no gear—just youthful optimism and a plan to get as high as possible and see Jimi Hendrix.
Friday, September 4th, 1970: we arrived cold and wet. The rain came in sheets. We pushed in close to the stage and parked ourselves in the open, surrounded by tents and strangers. The picture of Jimi performing shows the crowd and the tents. We had no cover, no shelter, just mud and music. The crowd thickened. The lights faded. We sat shivering and soaked, waiting for Jimi Hendrix, who we were told would perform that night.
A stage announcement told us otherwise—he wouldn’t go on due to the weather. He was “rescheduled” for Saturday afternoon. (Years later I found out that this was all a lie. He wasn’t actually scheduled to perform until Sunday. He was performing two shows in Munich that Friday and Saturday.)
Disappointed but too cold and stoned to argue, we sat dejected in the mud. Finally at three A.M. we were roused out of our sluggishness by Mungo Jerry singing his happy little ditty, In the Summertime. Listening to bubble gum music while we sat shivering in the mud was the last straw. We trudged through the mud, “found” a hole in the fence, located our car, and went back to base where we took long hot showers and then slept.
By late morning, we were back in the muddy field, but with raincoats and a few supplies this time. The lineup that day included The Faces with Rod Stewart and Canned Heat, among other acts, but the crowd was tired. The mud was deeper, and the promises fewer.
Another announcement: Hendrix had been moved to Saturday night. We stayed. More bands played. More rain came.
Later: Another rain delay was announced. Jimi Hendrix would play Sunday morning instead.
We were miserable. Wet. Angry. Doubting.
And then came Sly and the Family Stone came onto the stage.
Sly emerged in the cold and the drizzle, standing there like a priest before a congregation in despair.
“Is anybody out there gettin’ wet?” We all groaned back at him. “Could you be any wetter?” he inquired. “No!” we yelled back at him.
“Well, if you’re already soaking wet and you can’t get any wetter” he shouted, “you’ve got nothing to lose. Get up, and dance to the funky music.”
The band exploded into “Dance to the Music,” and the crowd surged into life. We stomped, shimmied, and slipped in the muck, grinning like lunatics. For a moment, we weren’t miserable. We were in it—just as much as anyone in Max Yasgur’s field a year earlier. That was our Woodstock.
SLY & THE FAMILY STONE – DANCE TO THE MUSIC.LIVE TV PERFORMANCE 1969
Unfortunately, their set eventually ended, and we catapulted back to grim reality. We didn’t go back to base, though. We slept in the mud. We weren’t taking any chances on missing Hendrix.
Sunday morning: more announcements. Hendrix wasn’t coming out until the sun did. In for a penny, in for a pound. We waited.
And then, the sun appeared. And the moment we’d waited for arrived:
“Ladies and gentlemen, The Jimi Hendrix Experience.”
The crowd booed. They had waited in the mud for two days, and they took out their frustration on the band.
Six hundred thousand cold, wet, burned-out souls let out the anger that had grown larger with each stage announcement that Jimi wasn’t going to play in the rain. But, now, Jimi just stood there in the sunshine, took it all in, and casually said:
“We don’t give a fuck if you boo. Just boo in key. Give us a second to tune up.”
He struck a single, sharp chord. It echoed like a thunderclap across the island.
And then the spell began.
What followed was unlike anything I’d ever seen. Jimi’s hands weren’t playing guitar—they were conjuring it. Notes bent like light in a prism. Sounds came from corners of the sky I didn’t even know existed. The audience fell into a trance. When Jimi Hendrix ended his set and walked offstage with a simple “Thank you,” there was silence.
Actual silence. No one clapped. We were all dazed, slack-jawed, staring at the stage. Did we just see what we just saw, or are we tripping? When we realize that what we saw was real, the dam broke, and we roared and cheered for 10 minutes. Then 600,000 people got up to leave.
A voice from the stage: “Wait, wait! We still have six more bands! Procol Harum is next!”
No one cared. No one could follow what we had just seen. We walked away in silence, with mud on our boots and stars in our eyes.
Four days later, we got the news that Jimi Hendrix was gone, found dead in London. And now, this week, Sly Stone has joined him.
They’re headlining tonight in Rock ‘n’ Roll Heaven. And you better believe that when I hear them play, I’ll be getting up and dancing to the funky music.
Peace and Love, and all of the above,
Earl
earlthepearl137 