The tale has been told many times of how, at Altamont, among three
hundred thousand fans, the Hell's Angels, serving as semiofficial guards,
killed a young fan, black, who had a white date and the temerity to
offend the Angels (by getting too close to them, or their motorcycles,
or the stage), and then, at some point, pulled a gun—all the while
Mick Jagger was singing "Under My Thumb." I heard about the
killing that night, on the radio, having left before the Stones took
the stage. But by the time I left, in the late afternoon, Altamont already
felt like death. Let it sound mystical, I wasn't the only one who felt
oppressed by the general ambience; a leading Berkeley activist told
me he had dropped acid at Altamont and had received the insight that
"everyone was dead." It wasn't just the Angels, shoving people
around on and near the stage, who were angels of death. Behind the stage,
hordes of Aquarians were interfering with doctors trying to help people
climb down from bad acid trips. On the remote hillside where I sat,
stoned fans were crawling over one another to get a bit closer to the
groovy music. Afterward everyone was appalled and filled with righteous
indignation. But exactly who or what was at fault? On a practical plane,
there were movie-rights squabbles; greed had played its part in preventing
adequate preparations. But the effect was to burst the bubble of youth
culture's illusions about itself. The Rolling Stones were scarcely the
first countercultural heroes to grant cachet to the Hell's Angels. We
had witnessed the famous collectivity of a generation cracking into
thousands of shards. Center stage turned out to be another drug. The
suburban fans who blithely blocked one another's views and turned their
backs on the bad-trippers were no cultural revolutionaries. Who could
any longer harbor the illusion that these hundreds of thousands of spoiled
star-hungry children of the Lonely Crowd were the harbingers of a good
society?