Every so often I’ll fire up Sonos and tap on Four Way Street and I’m at Woodstock, especially if I just had a hit of a joint. It doesn’t matter that I wasn’t actually there. Joni, who penned “Woodstock,” the quintessential masterpiece ABOUT the festival, wasn’t there either. She was a vessel. She was stardust. She was golden. She channeled a movement. Everything they were writing was a reflection of whatever was going on sociopolitically at the time. That’s what it was about.