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1970 - Isle of Wight, England
It was the third concert on the Isle of Wight. Six hundred thousand people showed up. I was there. It was Jimi Hendrix's last concert. It was utter mayhem , which suited me and the most of the rest of the revelers just fine. Sleeping in the fields surrounding the stage concert area, taking every drug then known to man, spending three days in rock-and-roll heaven. Those were the days.
The only drawback that marred an otherwise splendid hippie experience was the presence of European Hell's Angels. They were extremely violent, attacking concert-goers without anyone to restrain them. Self-appointed police they stole food, tents, belongings and beat the crap out of anyone who even walked near their packs. Caked in mud and smelling like the week old socks and jock straps they were a menace around whom most steered clear, if that was possible.
2010 Holiday Inn Old Street London
Here I am back in London 40 years later traveling for my business staying in a moderate 3 star hotel near the London downtown business district. I have been here almost three weeks and have watched as tourists and groups have come and gone. Children with the parents, groups of students traveling by bus, old folks who have come to spend a few days in London sightseeing. Americans. French, Germans, Spanish; they have all rolled in and out wearing their sweat suits and Piccadilly Circus tee shirts.
And then yesterday arrived another group, the Hell's Angels. When I arrived back from work at around 7:00 pm my gut wrenched at the sight of about fifty or more Hell's Angels in the lobby. At first I almost did an about face and ran screaming down the street, recalling the fear that struck me when I was 16 years old and tripping on LSD witnessing Hell's Angels beat the heads in of some hapless hippies trying to listen to the music. Then I realized that these Angels were clean and quiet and well behaved, just like the other groups. Besides the leather coats emblazoned with their recognizable and well known logo, these Angels were...well....angels. They were queued up each waiting his or her turn to register at the front desk. There was no smell of urine and body odor, no raucous screaming and shouting, no belligerent treatment of guests. Children and tourists strolled around in between the Angels and were not harassed.
Lights were out by 10:00 pm and the night was as quiet as a bird sanctuary. And the next morning in the restaurant where the hotel served complimentary Continental breakfasts for all registered guests the room was filled with these model citizens. Over my toast and coffee I took an examining look at each and every one. Gray hair, bulging bellies, clean tee shirts; they sipped their coffees and teas and carefully applied strawberry jam to their croissants, reading from various pages of the English newspapers. From Strawberry Fields to strawberry jam I thought. Politely waiting their turn at the counter these surely could not be the very same Hell's Angels who wrecked havoc forty years ago on a small island off the south coast of England. The Isle of Wight concerts were banned largely as a result of the violence and mayhem perpetrated by the Hell's Angels. Now they were soft spoken, clean and pleasant. It's the geriatric version aged forty years and, I suppose, wanting the same things everyone else wants: a quiet Continental breakfast, a cordial interaction with the locals and a day of sightseeing in London. As the song says, "Turn, Turn, Turn". There truly is a season for everything.
