Despite doubts regarding the legal weight of Lewis’ maneuver, authorities didn't have the manpower to stop that weekend’s expected crowd of 10,000Īs it turned out, that estimate was way off ― and way low.īy the preceding Wednesday, 3,000 visitors already had set up camp, sparking a multicolored sea of tents that a Journal Star reporter unflatteringly likened to "a Hollywood panorama of a medieval army encampment." State’s Attorney Welch, citing Lewis' lack of sanitation plans, won an injunction prohibiting the concert.īut Lewis concocted a legal twist to bypass the legal roadblock: he no longer would be promoting a concert but hosting a cattle auction ― which just happened to include the accompaniment of music, courtesy of the same 30-some bands. Upon getting wind of the festival plans, authorities feared littering, drug use and other concert fallout. Meantime, much publicity came free, if not favorable. One newspaper ad beckoned, "Let's come together in peace Memorial Day 1970." As excitement grew, rumors began circulating that the Beatles might reunite at the festival (they didn’t). Up-and-comers included central Illinois talent: REO Speedwagon and Dan Fogelberg. King, the Amboy Dukes and Country Joe and the Fish. Azoff helped round up 30-some rock, blues and folk acts, including heavyweights like Paul Butterfield Blues Band, Canned Heat, B.B. His promoters included the no-name Irving Azoff, who eventually rose to top mogul in the music industry. At a cost of $20,000, Lewis pulled out corn and replaced it with grass around the staging area. With tickets set at a then-steep $15 ― $100 today ― Lewis plowed money into the event. He envisioned a concert on his family's 200-acre farm just outside town and adjacent to Kickapoo Creek, less than 10 miles south of Bloomington. To outsiders, counter-culture assemblages seemed suddenly perilous.īut where others saw danger, L. In 1969, mass music festivals carried an intimidating reputation, thanks to the overflow of Woodstock and the mayhem of Altamont. "They were a good bunch of kids," said Merle Shannon, a Heyworth police officer in 1970 and later the village mayor. "It was a mess, an absolute mess," Paul Welch, the state's attorney of McLean County in 1970, told this newspaper years later. Later this year, perhaps, he hopes to reschedule some sort of commemoration.įor now, at a safe social distance, we'll bask in the recollections of the Kickapoo Creek Music Festival, the legacy of which has varied over time and by voice. Raycraft, who has been crafting and re-editing his “Incident at Kickapoo Creek” rockumentary for three decades, had planned three days of celebration to mark the half-century anniversary: a Friday street party, a Saturday film screening and a Sunday panel discussion. It all happened under protest by law enforcement, yet remarkably without any arrests or serious injury. That amazing Memorial Day Weekend 1970 saw as many as 60,000 visitors ― music fans, flower children, pot dealers, skinny-dippers, curiosity-seekers, undercover policemen, concessions dealers, uptight reporters, and security-detail bikers ― converge just outside Heyworth, population 1,441. With a pandemic raging and the state’s stay-at-home order still in place, there is no way to properly gather to commemorate the biggest concert in central Illinois’ history. That’s not out of oversight, but necessity. HEYWORTH ― In an absurd irony, the 50th anniversary of the Kickapoo Creek Music Festival will pass without any celebration.
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