Woodstock

I didn't go because I was eleven years old. If I'd been twenty I wouldn't have gone either. I've never liked live concerts and been to one rock concert in my life, when I was fifteen. The James Gang in Providence, Rhode Island. The opening act was a burlesque stripper named Tempest Storm. Old school, even in the early 1970s. Pasties, a g-string. 

Tempest Storm.

As I write this, a local college radio station is playing the concert in real time on the fiftieth anniversary of the concert, which had some impact on those who went but much more when the documentary film of it was released in 1970. 
I met, that summer, a man who'd gone. I was in Acoaxit, Massachusetts, and the man was named Doug Lash. He had a sister named Wendy. Young as I was, I appreciated her beauty and liked the way both of them had long, appealing eyelashes, fitting their surname. I only knew he went because he was talking to others his age and I was nearby. 
He's the only person I know who went, as far as I know.  

Young people getting clean at Woodstock Festival in Bethel, New York, 1969.