DISGRACELAND - The Rolling Stones at Altamont: Bikers, Blood, and the End of the '60s

Episode Date: December 3, 2019

The Rolling Stones, the most dangerous band on the planet, envisioned their free concert at the Altamont speedway outside San Francisco as the triumphant capstone to their 1969 tour: a west coast Woodstock, and a celebration of free love and hippiedom. But the festival, thrown together in under seventy two hours and with security managed by Hell’s Angels paid in beer, was fated for a tragic and violent end... just like the ‘60s themselves. For a full list of contributors, see the show notes at ⁠disgracelandpod.com.⁠ This episode was originally published on December 3, 2019. To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠disgracelandpod.com/membership⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠GET THE NEWSLETTER⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Instagram⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠YouTube⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠X⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ (formerly Twitter)  ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠Facebook Fan Group⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠TikTokSee omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. Disgrace and is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about the Rolling Stones free concert at Altamont are insane. The Hells Angels, one of the most lawless and violent organizations in America at the time, were hired to run security. The free concert, which was expected to draw a crowd of upwards of 100,000 or more people, was arranged in only 36 hours.

Minutes after arriving at the concert site, Mick Jagger was cold-cocked, punched in the face by an angry fan, who, like many in attendance, was likely tripping his brains out on the bad acid that was going around. Altamont was intended to be the West Coast answer to Woodstock, all peace, love, and good vibes, proof that the baby boomers could organize themselves free of authority and shine as an example of a kinder, gentler generation and a better way of life. In reality, Altamont was the opposite. It exposed the lie of the 60s, punctuated the end of an era, and shown a light on who the Rolling Stones really were.

Not idealistic peacinks, but rather the most dangerous band on the planet. A band that made great music, some of the greatest music ever made as a matter of fact. That music you heard at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Melostone Samba BK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to nah-na-h-h-h-h-h-hiss-em goodbye by Steam. And why would I play you that specific slice of fake Motown exit cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on December 6, 1969. And that was the day that the Rolling Stone showed up at Dick Carter's Altamont Speedway

to headline the supposed festival of peace and love, but instead ended up driving the final nail into the car. coffin of the hippie movement. On this episode, The Mello Samba, Exit Shees, Hell's Angels, and the Rolling Stones. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace in it. Johnny, do I look like your old lady? No?

Look at me. Do I look like your old lady? Why are you fucking me like this? Why you bending me over in the middle of FBI headquarters at 26 Federal Plaza, in front of all my coworkers, who I vouched for you with, and fucking me? Why, Johnny? You a punk or what?

John Joseph Miller, accused killer and former Hells Angels motorcycle club member turned FBI informant, looked up at his FBI handler, special agent Mark Young, and in a low, near-growing, unfiltered two-pack-a-day voice said, I ain't no punk. Then give me something I can use, for fuck's sake! These were the words Agent Young spat back into Johnny's face. Young tapped his foot without rhythm or reason. His coffee and camel-filtered breath was merciless.

The interrogation had been going on for days. Johnny was giving up everything he had on his hell's angels as part of his immunity deal. So every day, for the past week, he sat in his tiny, sweaty coffee and cigarette-stinking office getting grilled by agents. Some were cool and most were not. Agent Young was pretty fucking far from cool, as a matter of fact. He kept tapping his foot rapidly in his breath. kept on stinking up the giant. All right, all right, Johnny said. Fucking Jagger, Mick, Sonny tried rubbing him out.

Agent Young stopped tapping his foot and stared straight at Johnny. I'm listening. It was Altamont, man, fucking Altamont. And Jagger blamed the angels, Meredith Hunter. Plus the stones never paid Sonny. And they never paid Al's legal fees either. Sonny couldn't let that slide. Mick should have kept this big lips shut. Sonny wanted him dead and bad. Agent Young did his best to suppress his enthusiasm. He wanted to hear more, but he also wanted Johnny to feel like he had to earn it.

He looked at Johnny. Yeah, so? The Hells Angels had decided they were going to murder Mick Jagger, but it wasn't going to be easy. Mick was renting Andy Warhol's place out in the Hamptons, out on Montauk. The plan was to make it look like an accident, sort of. A home invasion gone wrong. But Warhol had his compound security.

security wire tight. So the angels came up with what they thought was an ingenious plan. They'd avoid any gated or flat-footed security out in front of Andy's ocean-front property by entering from the back, from where his backyard abutted the ocean. They're going to get to Mick by boat, sneak up onto the grounds, break into the house Charles Manson, creepy-crawley-style, find Mick passed out and slit his throne. The local Hells Angels tasked to carry out the hit, loaded up a small boat with assorted weaponry, pistols, automatic weapons, knives, explosives. They even had hand grenades. And on the right night, they set off in their tiny little boat from the East River of all places.

The plan was to slip out north, past Rikers Island, into the Long Island Sound and out to Montauk. They barely made it past Rikers without getting made. From there, the water got very choppy, and by the time they made it into the sound, a full-on storm it hit. It got bad, fast. The boat was a 19-foot whaler with a weight capacity of 2,500 pounds that was currently carrying a small arsenal of weapons, five burly angels in their weight in beer. The vessel was in dubious shape and the best of conditions, never mind in a full-on storm with a drunk landsman captaining it.

Nothing on the boat had been fastened down. None of the angels had any boating experience. The storm picked up with intense speed. The conflicting currents swirled the chop and, you know, the conflicting currents swirled the chop and the full-on waves. The angels held on tight with one hand each gripping their cans of schlitz with their others. Instead of navigating through the chop at a cautious speed, the angel at the helm gunned it, tried powering through the storm. In the driving rain, 70-mile-per-hour winds, the eventual 8-10, 12-foot waves, the tiny boat and inexperienced angels were no match.

They capsized. Somehow, they made it back to land safely, and Jagger lived on, of course. After that, I'm not sure what happened. Miller continued. I heard Mick freaked out when he heard about the attempt on his life, and that he sent some heavies of his own down to the third street clubhouse to try and intimidate the angels, but that didn't work out too good for Mick's guys. Then I heard something about Mick and 50,000 of his dollars, eventually making its way into club coffers, though that I cannot verify 100%. Of course you can't. What the fuck is this? Storytime with Johnny? That's it. That's all you got. The angels tried to kill Mick Jagger, but what? Got the leather's wet?

Leropunk. 1969, summer, August 15th through 18th. Upstate New York. Woodstock music and art fair. Three days of peace, love, and 60s idealism. Bethel, New York, to be exact. Old man, Yasker's farm, to be precise. Woodstock, if you could get past the money mass of hippie humanity,

was in its way beautiful, beautiful, verdant, Northeast farmland, lush, green, and inviting. Fast forward four months to December 1969 in Northern California. The Rolling Stones free concert at Altamont. One day of music, six bands, unlimited ballin, acid, speed, and jug red wine. The Stones gift to the people.

Livermore, California, Altamont Speedway, compared to Woodstock, was grim and gross. A stark landscape of hulking, rusted cars from a generation ago. rotting on the hillside, overlooking the youthful attendees with the judgmental eyes of scornful elders. The crumbling racetrack in the bowl-shaped valley was surrounded by hills and stained with motor oil. The dry, crabby grass was littered with trash, broken glass, car parts, and crash debris.

Somehow, this had become the location of the ill-conceived and poorly planned festival that was supposed to mark the Stone's triumph of America and close out the peace and love 60s with the stone's front and center in a cinematically glorious grand finale, but ended up being one of the darkest, most violent mega concerts in the history of rock and roll. The limo bumped along the dusty road, 60 miles outside of the San Francisco city limits. Keith Richards was growing impatient. Man, how far away is this place? Nick Jagger seated across from his glitter twin and slouched down into the velvet impulsory, exhausted, closed his eyes to signal his annoyance and answered Keith.

He can't hear you. Keith tapped on the glass partition that divided the limo driver from the two of them. Hello, are we lost? The driver either ignored Keith or was deaf. Keith sat back, tugged at his shark-toothed earring, shook his head. And they'd been in the car for more than two hours. And before that, they'd been on a plane. At least tomorrow, there'd be a helicopter to take them to the show

and back again to San Francisco, where they were staying to round out the final leg of their The free concert at Altamont would be the grand finale, the icing on the cake of their long stateside tour during which they'd finished a new record, somehow avoided venereal disease, alienated critics, further developed their drug habits and generally out rockstarred even themselves, cutting a zigzag swath of Genghis Kong-style destruction through the heart of America. Keith arched his head to peer out the window into the blackness of early morning. no sun, just dust and darkness. They were ascended, climbing the dusty northern California hills.

Once peaked, they began their descent. It was a steep decline, and Keith could feel his stomach drop. Out here on this morning, they were completely alone. The 1969 Stones tour, like all of their tours, was a kind of high-flying by the seat of their pants situation. Some things like the major arena concerts they'd been giving in the Ed Sullivan show were planned. Other things like which hotels, which cars,

and where a giant last-minute free concert could be held were not. While on the road, Mixed personal assistant Joe Bergman said of the free concert, it's going to happen. Don't worry. We've always done everything at the last minute, and it works. Sure, it works until it doesn't. The Cadillac Fleetwood certainly designed for more elegant journeys than this, climbed a final hill,

and then coasted down the other side, into the dark, dusty valley. And there, from behind tinted windows, Mick and Keith got their first look at the scene. And there was little to no organization. 50,000 fans, a fraction of the amount that would arrive by Showtime, filled with pre-show excitement, mostly teenagers, set up and makeshift campsites in the dark,

huddled around smoky fires to keep warm, all there, almost a full day early for the concert. Dogs roamed freely, scrounging for food, Barking indiscriminately, hungry, cold babies trembled and cried. Cars and vans were parked everywhere and every which way. Along the edges of the hills lay those rusted out bodies of junk cars silhouetted in the hellish glare of the bonfire that had sprung up dangerously close to the production scaffolding. A menacing skeleton that reached up into the filthy charcoal-smudged early morning sky.

It was clear from the jump. Altamont was no woodstock. Keith looked on in a stomach. astonishment. What were they about to embark upon? Just what in the fuck was life in 1969? And who in the hell were the Rolling Stones? Keith mumbled something about entering the mouth of hell. Mick banged on the partition, signaling the driver to stop. He looked at Keith and said, it's time. Keith grabbed his coat, a well-worn leather great coat that in another life had been the property of one of Hitler's Nazi officers. Keith slipped it on, exited the limo behind his frontman,

and the two of them strolled out into the coming days' battlefield. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. Mick and Keith began slowly making their way through the grounds in search of whatever the Speedway Clubhouse might be. They stepped carefully over sleeping bodies, blankets, shards of metal, and couples who'd had too much weed or wine or acid or all of the above. It was surprisingly cold, and the early festival goers weary of venturing too far off of the grounds,

and into the domain of the mountain lions and coyotes, began tearing apart the little available festival fencing there was for firewood. The light from the flames guided Mick and Keith. Murmurs from the weary and stoned fans started burbling up. Soon a small crowd had filled in behind them as they made their way toward the belly of the speedway. A boy, couldn't have been older than 14, hurried himself from the back and aligned himself to Keith's right.

Keith now had a walking stick in his left hand. The boy had a late. joint, a pinner. He said nothing to Keith, just pulled on the grass and passed it to his hero at his left. The two of them, in steady motion, Keith grabbed the joint, puffed and passed it to Mick to his left. The boy said nothing, just kept walking. Keith did the same. The three of them, the boy included, cool as fuck. The darkness was a mood unto itself, the sinister glow of the campfires, the acid-induced tracers from their sparks, the bitter red Jaguon. The smell of grass and the murmuring makeshiv entourage made the moment all the more intense.

It was as if all of them, Mick Keith, the fans, as if they'd all gathered there for the same reason, but deep down felt that something else was going to happen. Mick soldiered on, through the gnawing feeling in his gut. A stone, sweet little 16 looked up from the blanket she was sitting on as Mick passed, held her armow in a fay attempt to touch him and said, Are you real? Mick tried ignoring her. But she had a point. Was he real? Was any of this real? What, if anything, was going to happen?

Would it all work out as planned, or as it was unplanned? And who needed plans anyways? Woodstock went off largely without a hitch, and so would Altamont. It was a new day. The band and the festival organizers could organize themselves. Kids could police themselves. Just lay it on nice and mellow, and don't drop some heavy authority trip onto everyone and crush the vibe. And that was the beauty of the 60s, wasn't it? Just like. it happened. But this lack of planning everyone would soon discover much to their dismay meant a lack of toilets, a lack of running water, a lack of food, a lack of medical care, and most importantly, a lack of real security. But it would all just work out so long as everyone

cooled out and worked together, right? Which was sort of how this festival came to be. For every problem, there was a solution. Things were just working out. Stone's ticket prices are too expensive, Ralph J. Gleason slagging off the band too harshly in the press? No problem. Throw a free concert as a give back for the fans. Do it in San Francisco, opposite side of the country of Woodstock. Your own Woodstock. Fuck you very much, Mr. Gleason. Call up the Grateful Dead for advice. They've been throwing free shows in Golden Gate Park for years. Do it there. Oh, you're in the Rolling Stones, which in 1969 is like saying you're in Satan's army. And unlike the dead, you've got no yank with the Parks Department in San France. So a permit for a party at

Golden Gate Park, it ain't happening. No sweat. Move the show to Sears Point Raceway, but the owner of that location wants in on the rights to the movie you've hired, the mazels to produce, so fuck that guy. What about Altamont, the Speedway up in Livermore? That guy, the owner of Altamont Speedway, he doesn't even want a fee. He just wants his name attached to the festival branding, so everyone remember him as in the Rolling Stones at Dick Carter's Altamont Speedway, which, of course, no one does, because, of course, you have no intention of following through on the promise, because you're the rolling fucking stones and can kind of do whatever the hell you want, but really because in the high flying move fast and break everything world you inhabit in 1969, there just isn't

the headspace to keep track of details like this. But it's cool because hey man, just like I can Tina say, it's going to work out fine. Look, you could already see it coming together in the early morning darkness, sort of. Dirty, disheveled, peasant-looking hippie children followed Mick and Keith, a pair of debauched kings across an apocalyptic wasteland toward a high-metal. gate that Mick thought looked rather promising and it was locked. And they called out for someone to let them in. And they waited. They shivered. Finally, somebody pushed the chain link metal outward and they were allowed to pass into the intersanktum of the speedway. Altamont, December 6, 1969. The location had been chosen just 36 hours earlier. 36 hours. Who changes plans this

big so close to start time? In today's day and age, in the region, the region, and react Twitter lamb that might make sense, but this was 50 years ago. The band changed the location after the Stones decided that this year's point location wasn't going to work, mainly because of the movie rights beef. However, in reality, that location had everything Dick Carter's Altamont Speedway did not. Such basic necessities as the capacity to hold a massive crowd with its available working staff, running water, toilets, etc. But alas, it was not to be. Here and the now, Mick looked on as the crew and the crew, Altamont assembled the stage, it was a mere four feet tall, its security barrier, a thin piece of

twine for an expected audience of 100,000 hippie planning at its best that would prove to be the centerpiece for the coming disaster. Keith and Mick found the band's trailer behind the stage, Keith chilled, thought about sleeping, did some cocaine instead, then thought about the coming day. He was excited to see the set of his friend and Cosmic Soul Brother in Arms, Graham Parsons, later that afternoon. Grams Band, the Flying Burrito Brothers, was opening up the show, along with Crosby Stills, Nash, and Young, the Jefferson Airplane, Santana, and the dead. And Keith was dug in, ready for the day to present itself.

Mick was not, and he was anxious, all nervous energy. It was now daylight and the morning sun was up. The northern California condors were circling, and Mick could hear the press and some fans gathered outside the trailer. He peeked his head out of the door and stood in the doorway, surveying the backstage scene, the small scrum of journalists and hangers-on. How was he feeling about the Altamont show? Someone shouted.

Mick was feeling downright chatty. I think the concert's just an excuse. The scrum pulled in tighter around Mick in the doorway of the trailer, boxing him in, hanging on his every word. He had their full attention, it went on. It's just an excuse for everyone to come and have a good time. It's just an excuse to get together and talk to each other and sleep with each other and bawl each other and get really stoned and have a nice night out and a good day.

It's not like just getting up there and seeing the Grateful Airplane and the Rolling Dead. Back at the stage, away from the trailer where Mick was preaching to the press, day was breaking. The setup was just about finished and Joe Bergman and Sam Cutler were feeling pretty pleased with themselves. But Rock Scully, the 24-year-old manager of the Grateful Dead, a hippie mover and shaker who'd done so much LSD that his pupils were pretext. permanently dilated, took in the scene and thought to himself, you know, this could be a real shit show. He was looking forward to the arrival of the Hells Angels. At least then, Skelly thought, there'd be some sense of order to what was quickly turning out to be madness.

Grand Parsons hopped on the back at the chopper and wrapped his arms around the torso of a burly hell his angel named Tiny. Tiny, quickly, too quickly, yanked the throttle. And when he did, the Harley Davidson shot forward with a short blast, and Graham's head shot back and banged with great force into the bike's steel cissy bar behind him. His skull hurt. Whoa. Oh man. For a second, Graham saw stars. He told himself to stay cool as he felt the eggs start to swell. As Tiny peeled out on the Interstate 580, Graham blinked his eyes open and squinted through the dust being spit up by the chopper. He held on for his life,

gripping Tiny's chest, which was clad in his leather biker vest, the one with the red Hell's Angels top rocker emblazoned across the back and the bottom rocker letters, C-A-L-I-F-O-R-N-I-A, bending below the immediately recognizable Deathhead logo

and small square MC patch. He knew he should have worn a helmet, but Tiny didn't have an extra brain bucket. His old lady had split and took it with her, So Graham took his chances as he hopped on the back of Tiny's chopper out on Interstate 580 and spun off in the morning sunshine for Altamont Speedway. With his dome exposed and his shiny shoulder-length caramel hair flowing in the northern California wind, Graham looked good today. He knew it. And he had to. It was a big day.

It's not every day that you and your band get to open for the Rolling Stones, the biggest, baddest rock and roll band on the planet. But despite his confidence in his attire, embroidered halter-taught, snake-skinned vest, silk bell bottoms that fit perfect in a tight puka shell necklace, Graham was rattled. His head hurt. Even with the short notice for the Stone's free concert, radio stations across the country plugged it relentlessly. And they called to the people, and the people came. Naturally, there was a massive congestion on the freeway. And there were simply too many travelers, too many cars for the road to hold, and so the highway became a parking lot.

Graham and his band were set to perform in support of their excellent debut. the gilded palace of sin, which was, by definition, a country album, but had effortlessly crossed over to a mainstream rock and roll audience. They were on their way up and they could feel it in their bones, but on that particular December morning, in the hills of Almeda County, they weren't going nowhere. They had literally driven themselves off the road and into a ditch. Graham was incensed. He wasn't going to miss this. He might have had a bird, Chris Hillman, and his band. But there was a bona fide rowing stone, his man crushed, Keith Richards, waiting for him backstage if he could only get himself through the four-mile sea of people.

So he flagged down the Hell's Angel as soon as he saw him, deftly maneuvering through the traffic toward where Graham and company were broke down. Graham had pleaded his case. He was a musician. He was with the Rolling Stones. He needed to get to the stage on time. Tiny agreed. But how would the rest of the band get to the stage?

There were only minutes to spare. Oh, they'll figure it out, Graham said. And just like that, he let his band do that. on the roadside. He and Tiny were on a mission. The Hells Angels were doing security for the promise of $500 in beer so they could come and go as they pleased, and their bikes made it possible to work their way through the mass of hippie humanity with little resistance. They arrived at the edge of the concert grounds, and there were people everywhere. Something had to give if Graham was going to make it to the stage on time. Tiny moved his chopper from the highway up the hill to the entrance of the

speedway. Once atop the rise, a vista unfolded before them, peppered with sun-stroked hippies setting up camp en masse. The Altamont Pass was in full display, dusty, hazed, its grass burnt by the sun and patrolled by rattlesnakes, and for a moment it was beautiful in that only in California kind of way. Nestled next to the Diablo Mountain rage on this day, Altamont looked as good a place as any for the devil to set up shop. So tiny accelerated. down the hill. Graham held on tight. Tiny maneuvered the chopper around the stone hippies frolicking. It was just beginning to feel the effects of the powerful speed-laced Osley Purple LSD that began circulating through the crowd earlier that day. Graham was impressed with the

way Tiny handled the powerful machine. Aside from the bumpy start, which was really more Graham's fault, the ride into the concert, though filled with fits and starts, was wildly efficient and wildly exhilarating. Altamont Speedway was littered with stone hippies, lying on blankets, smoking weed, copping fields, blitzing out on acid, playing frisbee, talking jive, talking revolution. Tiny punched it. He drove over blankets, threw picnic baskets, and styrofoam coolers, all along the way kicking dust up into the faces of everyone they passed. As I got closer to the stage, the mass of people thickened. The roar of the chopper, part of the remaining audience members who were crammed at the foot of the stage. Graham's heart pulsed with excitement.

Keith would be close. He could feel it. Keith would see Graham's band to be blown away. And then they'd go cop dope and party into the morning. And after that, who knows what? Maybe Keith would produce Graham's next record. Maybe Keith would even ask Graham to join the stones. Wow, Graham thought. Finally, Tiny pulled his massive motorcycle up to a stop and parked it literally right in front of the stage. Graham hopped off and without so much as the thanks. Thank you for Tiny, he was off. Tiny shook his head and cracked a beer. Fucking hippies.

And just where was Keith? Graham searched, but he was nowhere to be found, which meant neither was any heroin. Graham took some acid and pulled hard on a bottle of Jack Daniels. And then, showtime. Somehow fully assembled, the Flying Burrito Brothers jumped on stage and, under the California Sunshine,

dove into a speed-laced LSD-inspired version of the iconic truck-driving. tune that Dave Dudley had made famous a few years before, six days in the road. They sounded great, and the crowd loved it, those of them who could hear and see it anyways. And for a minute there, during the Burrito Brothers set, it seemed like Altamont was preceding his plan. Good music, good vibes. After the set, Graham, leveled by the mix of bourbon, LSD, Speed, and post-show adrenaline,

passed out backstage while digging on the Hippie Dippy Festival vibes. He would awaken a couple hours later To an entirely different reality We'll be right back After this word, word, word People, who's fighting and what for? People, why are we fighting? McJagger spat into the microphone

To the crowd at Altamont. He stared out into the blackness. It was a soulless, evil void On the other side of the chaotic stage McJagger now stood on trying to wrangle 300,000 people, a group that included stone college kids trying to maintain their cool on bad acid trips,

festival organizers out of their depth, Woodstock alums, most of whom were in it for the moment, the best of them in it for the movement, and all of them, when you got right down to it, knew fuck all about organizing anything, never mind 300,000 people. In the sea of blackness that Jagger looked out into, there was also a critical lack of attendant medical personnel

to handle those freaking out on the bad acid being passed around. And perhaps most disturbing, the crowd was being policed by drunk, menacing, pissed off hell's angels, many of whom were also freaking out on bad acid and seemingly more concerned with the safety of their bikes than they were the safety of festival goers or the band. The angels, for all their bluster, did not have the situation under control. They were blitzed, if not more blitzed than the crowd. Everybody was out of their element. and there was nothing that the very few police on the site could do about it.

In the darkness, the cops were outnumbered. There was a complete and total lack of authority at Altamont, so much so that the man who made his living railing against and avoiding authority at every turn, Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead refused to even play. When he and his bandmates landed by Chopper at the festival site earlier that day and heard of the chaos, heard that their friend Marty Ballin from Jefferson Airplane

was beaten on stage by an angel, apparently because he had called an angel a punk, which was akin to calling him a homosexual, which was basically like signing his own death warrant. And when Jerry heard this, he knew better. Fuck Altaamont. The dead split. 100 Hell's Angels, 300,000 concert goers. The Hells Angels throughout the day try to maintain control in their way with their pool cues and fists, drunk.

Some of them tripping out and amped on speed-laced acid. The biker gang lawless to its core, lashing. out at not only the quote-unquote troublemakers in the crowd, but also at defenseless members of the audience, going so far as to severely beat a man who was naked and out of his mind on LSD. The angels pummeled him with their pool cues, knocking out every single one of his teeth in the process. It made for an utter drag to say the least. By the time the stones hit the stage, it was only a matter of time. Doom was just a shot away. Night had fallen. The stones, per usual, late from getting up on stage and the crowd was a mess, anxious, blitzed on drugs and alcohol,

scared out of their minds and beyond excited to see the biggest band of the planet. The crowd moved in toward the stage. In doing so, some rubbed up against and or knocked over the Hells Angels' bikes, many of whom, like Grand Parsons' buddy Tiny, had parked their bikes right in front of the stage, and why shouldn't they have? It's not like anybody planned for them to do otherwise. The stage was where they were needed. The stage was where the action was. To a serious biker, to a hell's angel, their motorcycle is often everything he has. Literally, we're talking about real outlaws here. Angels didn't have retirement accounts or shit, even regular bank accounts. Most lived hand to mouth and invested everything they made into their bikes. To an angel, his bikes quite literally is life,

or at the very least a mechanical extension of the man himself. So it didn't matter what the reason was. If somebody was going to fuck with their bikes by accident, on purpose, whatever the reason, they were going to be made to stop. And the instrument of resistance at Altamond for the Angels was the pool cue. With every bike that got fucked with, somebody got cloked. It was brutal. It was all coming to a head as the Stones took the stage. It took a couple songs, but by the time the band rolled in the sympathy for the devil, they were sounding great. It wasn't hard. The Stones had been bringing it live for the better part of a year to stages all across America. Their handle on their live set was wired tight. And the set was pretty much the same thing they played just a week before in Boston.

The crowd was feeling it, perhaps a little too much. And the angels began mixing it up with the audience right in front of the stage. Before the song even got to the chorus, the stones were forced to stop to cool out the crowd. Then they dove back into the verse. The stage was utter chaos. The band played on. The Stone's crew started pulling random, unused amplifiers to build a makeshift barrier at the front of the stage. Hell's Angels patrolled the stage like SS officers, pointing out transgressors in the crowd to grab, expel, beat on, or worse. One angel blitzed on bad acid in satanic fields, felt his face melt off his skull right there on stage in front of 300,000. Sunny Barger, head of the Hell's Angels Oakland chapter, an apparent ringleader for this demonic rock and roll circus, saw what was going on, grabbed his brother and threw him off stage to avoid any further embarrassment.

Sonny, with his leather and denim, his semi-high and tight quaff with its greaser DA rubbing up against his collar and knee mustache, then looked over at Mick Jagger. Sonny sized up the Faye English frontman with utter menace and pure disdain. Jagger, in his red and black jumpsuit, Sunny didn't see what all the hype was about. Fucking pajama boy as far as he was concerned. Mick was clueless, a German shepherd, apparently one with serious music industry juice, waltzed across the stage right in front of him as Mick hit the chorus. One chick got naked and started rubbing your body over everyone you could encounter in the first few rows,

bombing out everyone in the process. Scuffles in the audience between the angels and the attendees intensified. The whole crowd tussled and shook in one giant satanic sway. Mick could tell what was going on. He pushed himself into overdrive, channeling Tina Turner's best dance moves in an effort to win over the audience, used his sex appeal to overcome the violence. It didn't work. The violence was too deeply rooted into the dusty Altamont soil by that point.

Keith hit the solo. An angel grabbed Mick, whispered something in his ear. Mick tried shaking it off, looked out into the darkness. What the fuck had they done? This was not what he signed up for. Keith Solo devolved into a lot. weak jam. The music stopped. Shit. There was a group of angels huddled around someone on the ground in front of the stage. Chaos. Mick on the mic. Who's fighting and for what for? Why are we fighting?

Heath then lost it, pointed to the crowd, signaling out a burly angel about twice the size, seizing the mic and yelling into it. Look, that cat there. If he doesn't stop it, man. Mick then made a final plea and someone jumped on the mic to call for medical assistance down. by the front of the stage. More scuffling in the audience. Peace signs. See Kyle's. A sharp-dressed young man

in a lime green suit and wide-brimed hat. A black-packed Garrett and Billy the Kid. Holding it down in the wild west of Alchemart Madness. The crowd swayed some more. Bodies stacked up against each other, moved in a tense, violent, slow dance. The band then moved to control the one thing they still could. The music.

Charlie Wath kicked into Under My Thumb. Keith picked up the beat. with his ever-present slack, Mick Taylor and Bill Wyman caught on quick, and the lot of them fell into an easy groove aimed at mellowing out the audience. For a minute there, it seemed to be working. Even Sunny Barger appeared to be enjoying himself.

But the crowd was still, a duplicitous calm before the storm, the bloodshot eye of Altamont's crossfire hurricane. In front of the stage opened up, a woman screamed. The black kid in the lime green suit was pushed into the sudden openness of the moment. makeshift dance floor, something metallic and shiny in his left hand. Then, an angel tore across the

crowd, leaped into the air and came down hard at the blade of his six-inch hunting knife, stabbing the kid in the neck, the force of it all knocked the kid into the darkness, from which he never returned. The darkness consumed him. He was 18 years old and dead in the dusty Altamont ground. And that shiny thing in his hand? A long-barrowed 22 Smith & Wesson revolver. unloaded. The kid, Meredith Hunter, he'd brought it for protection, warned by his older sister that the hicks up in and around Altamont played by their own racist rules,

and that if he were to attend the show, he'd best take precautions. Meredith's sister knew that the peace and love and togetherness of the 60s was far from universal and didn't necessarily extend itself to blacks, so that's what the pistol in his hand was about. It was supposed to be a warning should anyone try to fuck with him. Apparently they had, and apparently they weren't dissuaded by the peace. And now, he was dead, because peace and love was a joke. And it was all bullshit, peace and love.

The 60s, Altamont, and everyone involved, peace signs, flower power, tie-dye, all the anti-establishment, hippie-dippy-dippy counterculture nonsense that flowed so casually from everyone who made the scene at Altamont. Jagger had proclaimed that Altamont was to be a microcosmic society, which sets examples for the rest of America as to how one can behave at large gatherings. Give me a fucking break. When you got right down to it, it was all a lie. LSD induced idealism hijacked by Madison Avenue ad execs and mainlined into the psyche of the masses.

Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, the rest of the Rolling Stones, they didn't believe in this jive. It was all just the moment. And the stones weren't the only ones who were full of shit. The hell's angels were just as guilty. Sonny Barger and his crew had legitimate beasts when it was. it came to Altamont, sure, but to excuse them and their behavior out of some misguided notion that they were wronged in some way, either by fans fucking with their bikes or by the band for not paying them, is too simple. And to claim that the angels were just doing their job as disingenuous.

Just as the Stones didn't really care about their fans, the Hells Angels didn't really care about securing the festival. Everyone, it seemed, involved with Altamont, was full of shit in one way or another. Even the fans who were there under the false pretense of peace and love in a better way to organize themselves socially, utter bullshit. Peace and love was code for getting fucked up and laid. Altamont exposed the lie of the 60s because Altamont was the time in place where the 60s pushed the limits of freedom the furthest. All the mishandling and disorganization was swept aside by the belief that it would all just kind of work out fine, man. It didn't work that way because the world doesn't work that way. The world is dark, cold, and mean. Try as you may, but if you fuck up, you'll get

no sympathy from the devil. Those in the establishment know this, which is why they've established themselves in the first place. It's why organized societies exist so we don't fucking kill each other. It's why anarchy doesn't work, because it's fucking anarchy, which was exactly the vibe after Meredith Hunter went down and the stones ended their set. Anarchy, chaos. The band hurried from the stage and a mad fury for their helicopter. The empire was crumbling, and there was no telling how the night might end. Fear was palpable. Keith used the head of his telecaster to cut his way through the backstage crowd. The sound of the helicopter's spinning blades guided him. A young kid, his eyes black, all pupils, Satan spawned himself, jumped in front of Keith, his mouth,

motoring a mile a minute about the superhighway he and his friends were building. Keith kept moving. His telly outstretched like a bayonet, forcing the young hippie to walk backward while he yammered on. be great, man. We're going to do it. Really, it's going to be the first super highway, man. We're going to build it. Never built one before, but we're going to build one on our own to show what we can do without grown-ups. It's all happening, man. You should give us some money to help out. Abby Hoffman said you would. Keith now, with the rest of the band and their entourage barreling up fast behind him, pressed the tellingth of the young boy's chest as he moved. His eyes off toward the chopper, but his snagletooth snarl directed straight at his mark. The kid got the picture

and get the hell out of the way. They were now passing their trailer, the one that Graham Parsons was still passed out in. His guitar player, the Barreto Brothers, Bernie Layden, rusted him up and made the case in no uncertain terms that they didn't get out of there now, with the stones, in their helicopter. Then they'd possibly never get out,

and who knows what the hell would happen. The hell's angels were on a rampage, janked on cheap beer, speed and acid, bad vibes, all around. Graham, you got to move. Graham shook it off, stood with his head still pounding, and got immediately swept up in the movement and energy of the rest of the exiting entourage. People all around them were yelling, screaming, road crew, angels, fans, hangers on.

The mood was beyond dark. The look on the face of Charlie Watts said it all. Shit was bad. And there was a dead kid in the middle of the speedway. Woodstock of the west, my ass. Altamont was more like a Hayes holiday. And the 60s were over, man. Tonight sealed it.

Peace and love died on the dance floor that night next to an 18-year-old named Meredith Hunter. Before Graham knew it, he was jammed into the Stone's helicopter next to the beautiful Mamas and Pappas singer Michelle Phillips. She roused something in Graham quick. The same thing she roused in most men, lust. Graham couldn't control himself. And without warning her conceit and perhaps trying to spin the wheel one last time on the free love decade, Graham took his chances and tried jamming his tongue down Michelle's throat. And remarkably, she played it cool.

She squirmed in her seat, smiled, and made light of the situation every time Graham. Graham made another move until he eventually got the picture. Just as he'd arrived, Graham Parsons was exiting Altamont by chopper. A very different kind of chopper, but a chopper nonetheless. This one filled with Rolling Stones, rock star hangers-on, and groupies. As the helicopter made its descent into San Francisco, and the decade came to a close, Graham's head finally stopped aching, and the Rolling Stones, after driving the final nail into the coffin of the 60s, had returned to reality.

not under the flag of peace and love, but as the most dangerous band on the planet. A more disgraceful, but a more befitting crown for the stones, if there ever was one. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page

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