4.  "FOR SASHA"

UIm, Germany, August 1978.

It was a bright, sunny day, and fifty-five thousand people, mostly kids, were sitting, standing, and lying down as far as the eye could see. I arrived at the festival grounds in a Mercedes and was taken to my little trailer, where I met Frank Zappa, whom I'd known only from the poster of him sitting on the toilet with his drawers down. We chatted amiably. I went and sat on the trailer step, in the roped-off area, and tried to tune my guitar over the sound of Zappa.

Today was an experiment. I would appear in a rock show, between Zappa and Genesis; I would do forty-five minutes as the sun was setting. Unbeknownst to me, Fritz was placing bets with the other promoters backstage, they betting that I'd be booed off stage, he telling them to go fugg zemselves, that I was ze shtarr.

But this was a rock and roll show, where people came to get high, neck, dance, "get into the music," get drunk, and pass out. What could I sing to them? I could do some Beatles, some Dylan, Simon and Garfunkel. "Where Have All the Flowers Gone" in German ... My hands were icy and my bones were cold. This appearance could be a major disaster.

Fritz tried to buoy my confidence.

"Zey vil LOFF you, mein schmetterling," he said. He put his big arms around me, and then held me away and furrowed his brow and peered like a madman into my face. His glasses were lopsided and he had a chunk of German noodle nestling in his beard.

"Yah," he said tenderly, "zees ash-holes hasn't seen nossing yet."

Heart slamming, knees shaking, breath coming much too short, I trekked with Fritz, Jeanne, and Andy across the lawn. Zappa was bounding offstage, exhilarated, following a third encore. The crowd was standing, giddy from an orgy of sound. Deeper into panic I went. I would be alone with my six strings and two vocal chords.

The sun was slipping down toward the horizon as we mounted the stage and stood back in the rafters, hidden by stacks of sound equipment. A black curtain was lowered in front of the drum sets, keyboards, and amplifiers which cluttered the stage. Respectful but curious stage personnel cast glances in my direction as they dashed to and fro reorganizing the stage for Genesis, who would follow me. Out in the audience I could see drunken GI's and a lot of glassy-eyed kids who thought they were at Woodstock. It was time to go on. I put myself in the hands of God.

It was a skinny stage, between the black curtain and the microphone, skinny and unfamiliar. The crowd was busy; still mesmerized by Zappa, they welcomed me with polite applause. I said good afternoon and wasn't it a lovely day for rock and roll. At the words "rock and roll," a cheer came up. At least I could communicate with key words and phrases.

The first song flopped because it was unknown. I don't even remember what it was. I cut it short and talked about the sixties (cheers), Woodstock (cheers), and young people (small cheers; not key words). Then I sang "Joe Hill." Something began to happen. A chord was struck deep in the hearts of the older people, and the younger ones, the ones who had been ten years old the summer of Woodstock, sensed this. A drunken GI fell backward into somebody's arms. Someone else shushed him. Groups of people on the sides began to chant "Sitzen, sitzen!" -- Sit down, sit down -- to the rolling crowd in front.

"Yes," I said in language teacher diction. "If you can sitzen, everybody can see." They sat in disorder and disarray and on top of each other, shouting and shushing and grumbling, but they sat.

"Sing, Joan!" someone cried out, and I said, "This is a song by Bob Dylan." Another great cheer went up, and I sang "Love Is Just a Four-Letter Word." They didn't really know the song but they clapped along in rhythm, and their eyes and attention  began to focus in. It was the right time for "Sagt Mir Wo Die Blumen Sind" ("Where Have All the Flowers Gone"), and they roared approval and sang along. I noticed tears welling up in the eyes of many. Why? For the years they missed? For the "flower children" in America about whom they had romanticized and whom they imitated? For the memories that belonged to their parents and aunts and uncles, but not to them? Perhaps.

I sang "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." The sound system was the finest in the world. My voice carried across the sea of bodies and seemed to bounce off the sun and echo back. Across the river, maybe a quarter of a kilometer away, I noticed hundreds of people standing at the riverbank, listening. I faced them, raised my hand high in the air, and shouted, "One verse for the people way over there!" They waved and gave a big cheer, tiny by the time it reached us) but all the kids craned their necks to see them, and waved and cheered back. I faced the riverbank and sang a verse. There were more tears now, and people were clasping hands and holding their arms in the air.

"Chone! Chone Betz! Sing 'We Shall Overcome!'" Now I felt my  own tears starting and I glanced offstage and saw Jeanne and Fritz  smiling and swallowing and nodding me on.

I sang a few more songs and then closed with "We Shall Overcome."  The kids rose to their feet, clasped hands with each other, arms high in the air, and we sang and wept in our own special  German sunset service. I bowed and said dankeschon and left the stage to a deafening roar of applause. Fritz was red-eyed and shaking his head. Jeanne's beautiful doe eyes were red-rimmed too, as she took the guitar from me.

Then a new noise was added to the roaring and stamping of the crowd: the sound of beer cans landing on the stage.

"Gott im Himmel!" shouted Fritz. "Ziss iss vat zey do ven zey vant you to come BECK!" and he stood proudly extending his arm to indicate the beer cans which were clattering off the curtains and flying in every direction.

"Schmetterling, vat about an encore, yah?"

Fritz walked through the hailstorm of flying beer cans to tell them that I was coming back as soon as it was safe. The cans stopped. I sang "Blowin' in the Wind," and the dream went on. I watched the tears, cheers, and beautiful red cheeks and smiles. Most of the drinking had stopped during my set, and the rowdy behavior had stopped completely. I bowed again at the end of the song, but as I left, I felt that the party was only beginning. The beer cans flew, and the chants started, and the stamping and yelling and whistling continued.

I gave seven encores before Fritz finally announced that there would be no more, and everyone must get ready for "Chenesis." We walked back across the field in a daze. Frank congratulated me, and I smiled numbly. It was time for some German sausage and chips.

The next day the papers said that I had stolen the show. I was recognized more than usual at the airport, and the man at security brought out news clips he'd cut out, of the day, the bands, the kids, and the lady with the guitar who had stayed onstage for an hour. I hugged Fritz, brushed some breadcrumbs from his grey V-neck, and boarded the plane.

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