Its all about the bread, man A very entertaining look at naive hippiedom. The glimpses and interviews with the not-so-well-groomed attendees are often hilarious (unintentionally) and sometimes heartbreaking (A man admits to regularly giving his 3 year old son acid and marijuana) The hippyspeak is also very enjoyable. The word "money" is never used--its always "bread, man" etc. The hippies feel that they have an entitlement to free music, (It was only $3 to get in. Boy, hippies were cheap) ,while the promoters claim that they are just trying to break even. Meanwhile some of the artists (Never "musician" or "bands", always the "artists") are not being paid. Tiny Tim wisely demands to be paid up front in cash. The diverging interest set up an interesting backdrop for the music- like when one promoter states that not so many port-o-johns are needed because its a well known fact that everyone gets constipated on vacation. This guy has never been to Mexico. With some exceptions, the music is of the plodding, indulgent, extended jams variety. Thank goodness, punk rock came around and ended people like Emerson Lake and Palmer from doodling on the synthesizer for ten minute stretches. Mix in a hook, ok? Their performance in particular reminded me of Spinal Tap as their pyrotechnics accidentally catches the entire stage on fire. Meanwhile the emcee asks the crowd if there are any fireman out there. We did like Ian Anderson's codpiece, though.