On the Broadwalk: A Memoir by Martin Sherman follows the acclaimed playwright’s life from 1930s New Jersey where he was born into a Jewish immigrant family all the way to 1970s Broadway at the premiere of his play starring Richard Gere, Bent.
Along the way, he do a whisper-stop tour of Los Angeles, London, Woodstock, rub shoulders with celebrity royalty such as Meryl Streep, the Bee Gees and Joan Benz, all while tackling his struggles with his sexuality, the death of his mother who died tragically young and trying to make it in the theatre circuit.
All with humour (sorry, I don’t know if I could have a memoir on this blog if it was too dark and depressing). Plus, with this book being foreworded by Sir Ian McKellen (Gandalf! Magneto! West End! Broadway!) with praise from Stephen Fry, Alan Cumming, High Jackman, Vanessa Redgrave and Ruby Wax, this might be one for you that want to peek behind the scene of stage shows.
Now, before I throw the extract at you (with the book’s trailer), I want to say a huge thank you to Justin and Nathan at Inkandescent for asking (then allowing) me to share this extract with you. And, if you want more info on this title, you can check it out at inkandescent.co.uk or via uk.bookshop.org (affiliate link)!
I was Zelig—the chameleon-like character Woody Allen created, who ends up sitting anonymously with important people and attending important events. Zelig reappeared with a vengeance later that summer. Zelig went to Woodstock.
Bill, his best friend Beverly, and I, had no intention of missing what promised to be a spectacular music festival. We purchased our tickets early. We boarded a bus to Bethel, New York at five o’clock on a Friday evening. We were laden with backpacks, tents and sleeping bags, which were as familiar to us as grenades. Our spirits were high. It was a two-hour bus ride, but by midnight, the bus was still stood bumper to bumper in traffic. The road was filled with freaks journeying to Woodstock. The bus driver said we’d have a better chance walking; the festival site was only a mile away. Once off the bus, we realized he was lying; it was still a trek, at least fifteen miles. We were surrounded by cars, many of them abandoned, and buses, many of them stalled, and hundreds of smiling people passing food and wine and joints. Everyone talked to everyone else. An open truck came by and waved us onto it. It was occupied by a commune, who were already stoned out of their gourd. They shared their dope. We were getting high, not only on the pot, but on the people, on the fresh country air, on the sky and on the stars—which certainly I had not encountered since Greece and which a fair amount of city folk on that road had never really seen before. More people hopped on the truck. By the time we got to Woodstock, as Joni Mitchell would later have it, we were stardust.
We got off the truck at a crossroads and walked across some alfalfa fields. People were settling down, the space was already crowded; Bill, Beverly and I walked a bit further and found an empty meadow. It was very dark, but somehow we managed to put up our tents; well, actually, Beverly put up our tents; Bill and I talked a good hippy game, but we were nonetheless spoiled Broadway babies. We climbed into our individual tepees and said goodnight to each other. The adventure was beginning. The night was still. Silent. Magic. Suddenly, there was a thunderous noise. An almighty racket. We clambered out of our tents. Bright lights criss-crossed the field. We had pitched our canvas on the helicopter landing site.
We relocated to a more sensible position. Beverly repitched. Bill and I actually built a fire. Back into the sleeping bags, which neither Bill nor I could adjust to; only Beverly slept. The sun was bright in the morning. We ventured into the open. We couldn’t believe our eyes. There had been hundreds of people on the road the night before. Now there were thousands of young, incredible looking human beings wherever we looked. I wrote on a scrap of paper, ‘looking like refugees, fleeing a bombed city, but beautiful’. And they kept pouring in.
Bill and I went off to search for water. Water was dispensed, at that point, from one tank and you had to add chlorine to make it safe. It was then we realized that nothing had been properly planned, that no one had expected this surge of humanity, and that there were basically no facilities. There were relatively few toilets. There were no showers. And only a few concessions selling overpriced food that they were soon out of. People kept arriving. It was impossible to conceive of more people, but here they came—more people. An exhibitionist couple had constructed a huge bubble tent. It was see-through. They made continual love. For two days. They seemed to be the only individuals in Woodstock who remained clean and energized. Perhaps they were holograms. There was a muddy lake; if you wanted to cool off you had no choice but to bathe in it; to dip in the dirt to clean off the dirt. Multitudes disrobed and bathed naked. And multitudes, vulnerable in their nakedness, were kind to each other, and thoughtful, and generous. There were no troublemakers. Just the youth of America, hoping to change the world and proving that, for a few moments at least, love and peace were not empty rhetoric.
We went to the meadow where the concert itself was to take place and merged into a massive crowd. The stage was large enough to be seen by everybody. It was surrounded by huge light
towers. A few freaked-out kids kept climbing them. We were surrounded by friendly people who shared what little food they had, which was a blessing, as we were all starved by then. Richie Havens was the first act. As he sang, the helicopters started coming. We didn’t realize that they were flying in medical supplies, doctors and food. Rumours were circulating about the amount of people crowding in. Ravi Shankar was playing a haunting Indian melody when the rain started. A couple near us had a huge plastic bag and many of us dived beneath it. The rain continued during the next few acts. Somehow we located blankets. They didn’t help. We were all wet and miserable.
There were constant announcements from the stage about lost people, festival goers needing medicine and warnings about certain kinds of lethal acid being sold. Bill, Beverly and I were famished; we made our way to a concession that had a few rancid hot dogs left. The food stalls were sinking into the mud. There was no place for garbage. Refuse was strewn over the ground. It looked like an ideal setting for The Black Death. We returned to the meadow in time for more rain and Arlo Guthrie, who was sweet, and then Joan Baez, who failed to make the rain go away but enabled us to forget it existed. Everyone stood and sang ‘We Shall Overcome’ with her, and by everyone, I mean half a million people—in essence the third-largest city in New York State. She saved the evening. We returned to our tents and crawled into our sleeping bags. About two hours later, the real rain started.
Cold, ugly rain seeped into our tents, our sleeping bags, our exhausted bodies. The mud beneath us felt like quicksand. In the morning, there was grey. And pushers, sitting on top of cars, shouting out their wares—acid, mescaline, heroin—like in a Middle Eastern marketplace. Most people were just too dirty and tired to take a trip; they were happy enough with their pot. We may not have brought food with us, but we all had supplies of grass. And everyone shared. Being constantly high helped negate the persistently clinging muck. If someone had a bad trip they were cared for by the Hog Farm, a commune, that literally administered to the thousands of stoned, dishevelled temporary refugees from straight society. They handed out free food—weird vegetable concoctions that were nonetheless manna from heaven. The Hog Farm was run by Wavy Gravy—a totally eccentric, toothless savant, who had once been known as Hugh Romney and needless to say, went to Boston University with me. He was a poet then and I satirized him in a revue sketch, which he took with grace. Now, nine years later, Hugh Romney and Joan Baez were our heroes.
Our spirits were decidedly schizophrenic. Bill would sigh and smile and say, ‘I’m so happy, it’s so wonderful, everyone is so beautiful,’ and in the next breath scream, ‘Get me out of here!’ We returned to the lake for another filthy naked bath and then to the meadow where the music was starting again. One superb act followed another. This was why we were there. It was mud-caked nirvana. Evening arrived. It was becoming cold. We had brought our sleeping bags this time and damp as they were, we crawled into them. Some people built fires. Some shot flares into the sky. We didn’t know that, in the real world, a million more people had been turned away on the road and the governor had declared us a disaster area. We listened to music, curled in our uncomfortable sleeping bags. It was magic hearing Grateful Dead that way. Credence Clearwater Revival came on stage and the whole meadow woke up. And jumped out of their blankets and sleeping bags and started to dance. Followed by Janis Joplin, in great voice, and then Sly and the Family Stone, who whipped half a million exhausted people into a frenzy and then The Who, who sealed the deal with the most accomplished musicianship of the evening. It was now six a.m. We had been listening to music, much of it extraordinary, for sixteen straight hours! As we returned to our tents, the Jefferson Airplane were still playing. We looked at ourselves. We were beyond description. We fell to the still damp ground, knowing that Woodstock had been an experience somewhat between Fillmore East and Auschwitz.
We couldn’t sleep. Grace Slick never seemed to stop singing. People crawled out of their tents. I walked to an information tent and discovered that buses were not allowed in and it might not be possible to return to New York for several days. I saw a temporary hospital nearby; people were being carried in. Bill and Beverly and I went to the Hog Farm for vegetable soup and realized that we would have to leave now if we wanted to get home. We collected our things and started walking up the road. The road was filled with stragglers leaving, still sharing whatever they had to eat, drink or smoke. We could hear Joe Cocker on the stage in the distance. We walked five miles and were picked up by a truck. We sat in the open back of the vehicle, not knowing where it was going. Suddenly, the sky opened up, and there was an ice-cold torrential downpour. The three of us laughed so hard we almost fell off the truck.
Bill, his best friend Beverly, and I, had no intention of missing what promised to be a spectacular music festival. We purchased our tickets early. We boarded a bus to Bethel, New York at five o’clock on a Friday evening. We were laden with backpacks, tents and sleeping bags, which were as familiar to us as grenades. Our spirits were high. It was a two-hour bus ride, but by midnight, the bus was still stood bumper to bumper in traffic. The road was filled with freaks journeying to Woodstock. The bus driver said we’d have a better chance walking; the festival site was only a mile away. Once off the bus, we realized he was lying; it was still a trek, at least fifteen miles. We were surrounded by cars, many of them abandoned, and buses, many of them stalled, and hundreds of smiling people passing food and wine and joints. Everyone talked to everyone else. An open truck came by and waved us onto it. It was occupied by a commune, who were already stoned out of their gourd. They shared their dope. We were getting high, not only on the pot, but on the people, on the fresh country air, on the sky and on the stars—which certainly I had not encountered since Greece and which a fair amount of city folk on that road had never really seen before. More people hopped on the truck. By the time we got to Woodstock, as Joni Mitchell would later have it, we were stardust.
We got off the truck at a crossroads and walked across some alfalfa fields. People were settling down, the space was already crowded; Bill, Beverly and I walked a bit further and found an empty meadow. It was very dark, but somehow we managed to put up our tents; well, actually, Beverly put up our tents; Bill and I talked a good hippy game, but we were nonetheless spoiled Broadway babies. We climbed into our individual tepees and said goodnight to each other. The adventure was beginning. The night was still. Silent. Magic. Suddenly, there was a thunderous noise. An almighty racket. We clambered out of our tents. Bright lights criss-crossed the field. We had pitched our canvas on the helicopter landing site.
We relocated to a more sensible position. Beverly repitched. Bill and I actually built a fire. Back into the sleeping bags, which neither Bill nor I could adjust to; only Beverly slept. The sun was bright in the morning. We ventured into the open. We couldn’t believe our eyes. There had been hundreds of people on the road the night before. Now there were thousands of young, incredible looking human beings wherever we looked. I wrote on a scrap of paper, ‘looking like refugees, fleeing a bombed city, but beautiful’. And they kept pouring in.
Bill and I went off to search for water. Water was dispensed, at that point, from one tank and you had to add chlorine to make it safe. It was then we realized that nothing had been properly planned, that no one had expected this surge of humanity, and that there were basically no facilities. There were relatively few toilets. There were no showers. And only a few concessions selling overpriced food that they were soon out of. People kept arriving. It was impossible to conceive of more people, but here they came—more people. An exhibitionist couple had constructed a huge bubble tent. It was see-through. They made continual love. For two days. They seemed to be the only individuals in Woodstock who remained clean and energized. Perhaps they were holograms. There was a muddy lake; if you wanted to cool off you had no choice but to bathe in it; to dip in the dirt to clean off the dirt. Multitudes disrobed and bathed naked. And multitudes, vulnerable in their nakedness, were kind to each other, and thoughtful, and generous. There were no troublemakers. Just the youth of America, hoping to change the world and proving that, for a few moments at least, love and peace were not empty rhetoric.
We went to the meadow where the concert itself was to take place and merged into a massive crowd. The stage was large enough to be seen by everybody. It was surrounded by huge light
towers. A few freaked-out kids kept climbing them. We were surrounded by friendly people who shared what little food they had, which was a blessing, as we were all starved by then. Richie Havens was the first act. As he sang, the helicopters started coming. We didn’t realize that they were flying in medical supplies, doctors and food. Rumours were circulating about the amount of people crowding in. Ravi Shankar was playing a haunting Indian melody when the rain started. A couple near us had a huge plastic bag and many of us dived beneath it. The rain continued during the next few acts. Somehow we located blankets. They didn’t help. We were all wet and miserable.
There were constant announcements from the stage about lost people, festival goers needing medicine and warnings about certain kinds of lethal acid being sold. Bill, Beverly and I were famished; we made our way to a concession that had a few rancid hot dogs left. The food stalls were sinking into the mud. There was no place for garbage. Refuse was strewn over the ground. It looked like an ideal setting for The Black Death. We returned to the meadow in time for more rain and Arlo Guthrie, who was sweet, and then Joan Baez, who failed to make the rain go away but enabled us to forget it existed. Everyone stood and sang ‘We Shall Overcome’ with her, and by everyone, I mean half a million people—in essence the third-largest city in New York State. She saved the evening. We returned to our tents and crawled into our sleeping bags. About two hours later, the real rain started.
Cold, ugly rain seeped into our tents, our sleeping bags, our exhausted bodies. The mud beneath us felt like quicksand. In the morning, there was grey. And pushers, sitting on top of cars, shouting out their wares—acid, mescaline, heroin—like in a Middle Eastern marketplace. Most people were just too dirty and tired to take a trip; they were happy enough with their pot. We may not have brought food with us, but we all had supplies of grass. And everyone shared. Being constantly high helped negate the persistently clinging muck. If someone had a bad trip they were cared for by the Hog Farm, a commune, that literally administered to the thousands of stoned, dishevelled temporary refugees from straight society. They handed out free food—weird vegetable concoctions that were nonetheless manna from heaven. The Hog Farm was run by Wavy Gravy—a totally eccentric, toothless savant, who had once been known as Hugh Romney and needless to say, went to Boston University with me. He was a poet then and I satirized him in a revue sketch, which he took with grace. Now, nine years later, Hugh Romney and Joan Baez were our heroes.
Our spirits were decidedly schizophrenic. Bill would sigh and smile and say, ‘I’m so happy, it’s so wonderful, everyone is so beautiful,’ and in the next breath scream, ‘Get me out of here!’ We returned to the lake for another filthy naked bath and then to the meadow where the music was starting again. One superb act followed another. This was why we were there. It was mud-caked nirvana. Evening arrived. It was becoming cold. We had brought our sleeping bags this time and damp as they were, we crawled into them. Some people built fires. Some shot flares into the sky. We didn’t know that, in the real world, a million more people had been turned away on the road and the governor had declared us a disaster area. We listened to music, curled in our uncomfortable sleeping bags. It was magic hearing Grateful Dead that way. Credence Clearwater Revival came on stage and the whole meadow woke up. And jumped out of their blankets and sleeping bags and started to dance. Followed by Janis Joplin, in great voice, and then Sly and the Family Stone, who whipped half a million exhausted people into a frenzy and then The Who, who sealed the deal with the most accomplished musicianship of the evening. It was now six a.m. We had been listening to music, much of it extraordinary, for sixteen straight hours! As we returned to our tents, the Jefferson Airplane were still playing. We looked at ourselves. We were beyond description. We fell to the still damp ground, knowing that Woodstock had been an experience somewhat between Fillmore East and Auschwitz.
We couldn’t sleep. Grace Slick never seemed to stop singing. People crawled out of their tents. I walked to an information tent and discovered that buses were not allowed in and it might not be possible to return to New York for several days. I saw a temporary hospital nearby; people were being carried in. Bill and Beverly and I went to the Hog Farm for vegetable soup and realized that we would have to leave now if we wanted to get home. We collected our things and started walking up the road. The road was filled with stragglers leaving, still sharing whatever they had to eat, drink or smoke. We could hear Joe Cocker on the stage in the distance. We walked five miles and were picked up by a truck. We sat in the open back of the vehicle, not knowing where it was going. Suddenly, the sky opened up, and there was an ice-cold torrential downpour. The three of us laughed so hard we almost fell off the truck.
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