Most of us think of the original Woodstock festival in terms much like the ones Joni Mitchell used in her song, "Woodstock."

We think of it as a time of innocence and brotherhood, when the happy pilgrims of the Aquarian Age were "half a million strong/And everywhere was a song and a celebration." We think of it as a cultural cleansing, when "bomber jet planes" turned into "butterflies above our nation," and millions understood how important it was to "get ourselves back to the garden." In short, we imagine Woodstock as one of the defining events of the rock era, a single moment in which an entire generation's hopes and dreams were crystallized in a single, mud-soaked utopian instant.

There are no such hopes for Woodstock the Sequel, though. It will be far more environmentally friendly than the original event, thanks to better planning, tougher regulations and enforced car-pooling. It should also be considerably less chaotic, what with 1,000 security guards (plus assorted local police) on hand to see that no one crashes the gate or declares a "free festival" this time around.

But a "defining event"? Not likely. At best, Woodstock '94 will be little more than a first-rate rock festival, with top-notch talent in an elaborately entertaining environment. It ought to be great entertainment, but as far as cultural significance goes, there's no reason to expect that this event will be any more resonant than any of the US Festivals (remember them?) were. It's just a concert, after all.

Of course, that's all the original Woodstock was meant to be. All Michael Lang and Joel Rosenman wanted to do when they mounted that concert at Max Yasgur's farm in Bethel, N.Y.,.was put on the biggest rock concert anyone had ever seen. No one gave a thought to what it might mean to the baby boomers as a generation, much less to the nation as a whole.

Nor would they have, had things not gone legendarily wrong. Grossly underestimating both the event's appeal and its logistical necessities, Lang and Rosenman were totally unprepared for the crowd that converged on the festival site. Highways were blocked and fences were down; there was a shortage of food and sanitary facilities; performers had a hard time getting in, and an even tougher time getting paid. On top of which, the weather was miserable.

In short, Woodstock was a disaster. But instead of turning ugly, the way Altamont would a few months later, the gathering at Yasgur's farm seemed a sort of benign calamity, one that pointed not to the folly of its participants but to their optimism and amity.

In short, the festival seemed to confirm all the most basic premises of hippy idealism. There were no rules, and there was no conflict. People did drugs freely, made love freely, listened to music freely, and everything was just fine. Folks were helpful and cooperative, regardless of whether they were freaks or squares. It was as if everything promised by the Summer of Love suddenly and unexpectedly came true.

Or so we were told, anyway. The news media, which previously had cast a baleful eye toward hippiedom's great unwashed, was positively rapturous about Woodstock. It was, Max Lerner wrote, "a turning point in the consciousness generations have of each other and of themselves," and the press made sure everyone was aware of what a momentous event had occurred.

This was the Woodstock Joni Mitchell immortalized. Mitchell, remember, wasn't at the festival herself; unlike Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young (who later recorded "Woodstock"), who rented a helicopter to get to the concert site, Mitchell spent the weekend in Manhattan, following events vicariously. She didn't see the crowd, "half a million strong," until the movie came out.

Yet it's no accident that her version of Woodstock rings so true to most Americans, because what she wrote was the myth, not the reality. Talk to people who were there, and for every story of good vibes and great music, you'll hear two about how wet and miserable it was, how unbearable the traffic got, or how smelly the unbathed became by Monday morning. Utopia it wasn't.

Nor was it an especially memorable musical event. Sure, some of the acts were great, particularly Jimi Hendrix, Santana, Creedence Clearwater Revival and Sly & the Family Stone. But many more were bad, inconsequential, or both. The Grateful Dead, in fact, are still embarrassed at how poorly they played there.

Somehow, though, all that was beside the point. People flocked to the movie and bought the album, not for their entertainment value, but because of the way those talismans manifested the Woodstock myth. Seeing the movie or hearing the album helped reinforce the belief that Woodstock was a great and good thing -- and these were people who desperately wanted to believe in pop culture's greatness and goodness.

Why? In large part because Woodstock was one of the few bright moments in a very bleak time. Compared to the madness of the Manson Family murders in California (Sharon Tate had been murdered just a week before) or the inhumanity of the My Lai massacre in Viet Nam, the gentle muddle at Max Yasgur's farm seemed positively miraculous. Not only did the rock and roll audience prove larger than even its members suspected, but it also managed to be every bit as good-hearted and pacific as its bards insisted.

No wonder, then, that people wanted to believe. After all, it was infinitely nicer to think "All you need is love" was a real possibility than it was to shrug it off as just another song lyric.

But that was then and this is now, and little of that sort of optimism remains. No one expects this new Woodstock (which will be held in Saugerties, N.Y., not Woodstock itself) to epitomize the power of peace and love, because we as a nation no longer believe in that sort of thing. As far as most Americans are concerned, "the Age of Aquarius" is just a silly lyric from a very corny musical.

Maybe that's why Woodstock mania has yet to take the country by storm. When Woodstock '94 was in the planning stages, the promoters were concerned that more people would turn up than the concert site could handle; now, five days before the festival starts, they're afraid they won't even have a full house. (At press time, just 150,000 of the 250,000 available tickets had been sold.) Meanwhile, a reunion concert at Yasgur's farm was canceled -- at a reported $2 million loss -- after selling a paltry 1,657 tickets.

Given the combination of media hype and saturation advertising, you'd think young America would be as eager to attend this Woodstock as their elders were 25 years ago. Instead, much of the talk about this festival focuses on its big-business connections and cynical efforts to sell today's teens on second-hand peace and love. (One ad campaign was sneeringly described on the Internet as an appeal to "Woodstockapaloozers.")

Meanwhile, there have also been complaints from those who still espouse the ideals of the original festival. Some decry the overt commercialism of Woodstock '94, with its Pepsi-sponsored brochures and wide web of corporate tie-ins; others complain about its obsession with crowd control and security, complaining that it will be less like a concert than a prison camp. Even Neil Young, who performed with Crosby, Stills and Nash at the original concert, has come out against the festival, denouncing it as "Wood$tock."

In a way, though, this mixture of skepticism and anger, hype and indifference is fitting. For just as the original Woodstock Nation seemed to mirror the faith and ebullience of youth in the late '60s, it seems only fair that the audience for Woodstock '94 should reflect the cynical factionalism of modern America.

How all that will play out, of course, remains to be seen. But to paraphrase Blue Oyster Cult, one thing is certain: It won't be the garden of Eden, and this definitely ain't the summer of love.