Woodstock, 1969.

You walk into Monday morning. The festival is over. The grass is mud. Four hundred thousand people are gone. Around thirty thousand remain, scattered in the field that became history. The first chord cuts through the dawn. A figure is on stage and he is taking his time. For ninety minutes, you are at Bethel in the cold light at six in the morning, inside the closing performance of a decade, inside the moment a national anthem became a question.