The giant Appletiser can did a slow trade - the softest beverage being consumed must have been the Cousins; for the rest, the tequila bottles joined the black sambuca and vodka bottles as ashtrays on the fringes of the lawns whither the smokers were banished.
Carnivorous Cow rolled back on the grass mat and looked up at the sky. The grey was gathering on the horizon, too. No matter - leather only shrunk once it was off the cow. She passed her plastic cup along for a refill.
Shawn Phillips tuned up his acoustic guitar and the collective heartstrings resonated. A brand new song, never before performed, from a cheat sheet. The applause was polite, appreciative, encouraging. A song which dissed George Bush got a more vocal response. He didn't need a cheat sheet for that, prompting murmurings about *which* George Bush might be the subject. When one's career spans four decades, there's no safety in assumption.
Album names forgotten - no matter; some lyrics forgotten - who cares; few of the audience could remember their names by that stage. A song for his wife - and the announcement of imminent fatherhood, at 63 - got an enthusiastic response. The greying virility felt vindicated, stood taller and prouder. The heavens opened and the wet stuff descended. A few younger people packed up their picnics and fled. The aged hippies didn't even notice - and were rewarded with the familiar strains of Casey Deiss. Gurgling through mouthfuls of sambuca and rain, the audience sang along.
Grass mats became ponchos, rugs became anoraks, and shivering couples cuddled around their bottles. Some people decided that skin was better than cotton, and stripped off wet layers. By now everyone was family, even the teenage boy who didn't want to be there, and when the audience was blessed and wished love and clarity, it somehow didn't seem out of place. The mud splatters were accidental rather than all-encompassing, and topless was as far as anyone was inclined to do for the cameras, but more than one group was mumbling nostalgically about "the spirit of Woodstock".
"Wooooooooooooooooooooooooo- man," trilled some inebriate as the crowd meandered to the parking lot, drawing giggles rather than glares, and strangers hugged goodbye on parting at the gates. The lost flower children climbed dripping into their citi golfs and mazda stings.... and slowly headed for the stressed, adrenalin-charged queue of exiting cars, their love and clarity dying in the chorus of hooters and revving engines.
The 70s was over.