June 21, 1971
I got into the single-engine Cessna seaplane at New Orleans Lakefront airport in what turned out to be a surreal Alice in Wonderland trip.
As the ABC news desk in New York came up with the story, I was not one to argue with their judgment. As the “go to” reporter in Louisiana, I was more than happy to take their money, free air travel, bask in the national glory of being on network news and have Harry Reasoner say your name. I thought I would have a private air tour of what was supposed to be the largest rock concert since Woodstock – the Celebration of Life on the grounds of Cypress Point Plantation near McCrea, Louisiana.
It was billed as the “Louisiana Woodstock” which is why it probably showed up on the radar at the ABC news desk. It was on a prominence of land, Cypress Point, next to the Atchafalaya River, hence a seaplane had been chartered for me.
The pilot was laid back with a Tom Selleck moustache and baseball cap. He appeared 35-ish, possibly more, and maybe that’s why he wasn’t flying for Uncle Sam in Vietnam.
We headed north-northwest from New Orleans in the early morning hours for an hour and some change. From the air we could see a mini-migration of “long-haired, dope-group anarchists” as Governor John McKeithen labelled them in trying to stop the music festival, heading toward the site, like ants to the promised picnic. Our introductory aerial tour showed the stage taking shape as an altar with bell towers rising at either end for speakers and lights.
In just our flyover we could see the worshippers increasing in numbers by the dusty trails of their migration. We put our pontoons on the fast flowing Atchafalaya River and made our way to the rocky bank and applause from the “long-haired, dope-group anarchists”, already cooling off in the wet but deadly current.
This was just the beginning of the Celebration of Life. It was supposed to begin on the 21st and run through the 28th, but with legal hassles it was delayed for three days. Still the faithful came on time in search of whatever they thought they would find. That would include sex, drugs and music.
My three-man ABC crew from Atlanta and I left pilot Tom Selleck with the plane and made our way inland in search of the stories of sex, drugs and music and we found plenty of the first two. Nudity was everywhere, the good, the bad and the ugly. It was then somebody from ABC suggested we film a whole reel of outtakes of bare-breasted hippie chicks specifically for the editors in New York – the thought being that we would interest them enough to be sent back for the remainder of week.
We came upon a pup tent with a pair of outstretched legs, feet facing upwards and another pair inside them feet facing downwards. Of course we shot the scene including the soundtrack when a man passed by and shouted to the tent dwellers: “Hey baby, they’re shooting your mouse” loud enough to make the sound track. It made no difference to their rhythm and we moved to film more nudity and couplings. Then we packaged the film and labelled it; For Editor’s Eyes Only.
Down to the assignment – we filmed the build-up of the site and interviewed the people about why they came and what they thought of the place, and surreptitiously filmed drug deals. Everywhere we went there was like a smog enveloping the site. Not heavy, but a little mist that was not pertinent to the day, which was hot sunshine and in the high 90’s. I recognized the smell; marijuana, and lots of it.†
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Later, I do remember returning to my Tchoupitoulas Street house and finding a thunderstorm had blown over my banana plants and half my weeping willow tree, creating a scene of devastation that caused my drug-addled brain no worries. I just took in the damage as though it were art exhibit, noting the abstraction of the banana branches piled just so, sprinkled with a dusting of willow leaves, leaving me to frame the individual scene with my L shaped hands. It was the toke that kept on giving.
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When I awoke on Saturday the marijuana residue was still a fog on my brain, and I had to do a newscast that night. Which I did and still can’t explain how.
By Sunday, the effects still had not lifted and there were two newscasts still to do. Which I did, with nobody calling in saying I looked high. I made a note to myself about weed – never again, after the events from November 13,1970.
Eight months or so later, I remembered that marijuana smell.
When it was time to head back to civilization, we came upon a sight that unsettled even us – there was our pilot surrounded by a half dozen nude women on the pontoon of our aircraft, much the same way we envisioned Hugh Hefner living in the Playboy mansion. Despite our reservations he assured us he was able to fly, that no “maryjane” had passed his lips. It wasn’t the spliffs we were worried about, it was the prevalent atmosphere of marijuana already smoked that carried a trip of its own.
Having taken flying lessons when I was 16, I promised to watch over his flying, like this was some answer to our problem. I left out the part where I only took six lessons, well short of the hours needed to get a private pilot’s license, but it seemed to placate my ABC News crew, the alternative being they would to have to find their own way back to civilization.
† [MCCREA, LOUISIANA / ROCK FESTIVAL #15985
ABC Evening News for Monday, Jun 21, 1971 View other clips in this broadcast →
Material supplied by VTNA may be used for educational analysis or research only. Any editing, reproduction, publication, rebroadcast, public showing or public display may be prohibited by copyright laws. (Studio) Thousands of young people waiting for local government decision on whether rock music festival can be held. REPORTER: Harry Reasoner. (McCrea, LA) Film shows young people camping near site of planned festival; food and sanitation becoming problem; national guard on standby in case festival called off. REPORTER: Louis de la Foret (WVVE-TV). Reporter(s): Reasoner, Harry. Duration: 00:02:10.
Chet Flippo Rolling Stone July 22 1971: There was dope, and it was plentiful. You had only to walk to the intersection of Cocaine Row and Smack Street (as the makeshift signs proclaimed) to find dealers hawking an estimated 30 varieties of mindbender, only two of which could be smoked. Plastic syringes, at $1 apiece, were selling briskly. I know the smell of weed well. Back in 1970 in New Orleans I had been at a party on Friday after work where I had been invited to take a toke on a bong which reportedly had “some good shit.” I did, repeatedly, until my mind turned to marshmallow which is a good thing if you are partaking weed.