3,000 hit club

Wow! What a week. Excitement palpable in the tri-state area as Derek Jeter closes in and then masterfully surpasses the 3,000 hit plateau. A great honor for a great ballplayer, a great teammate, a great Yankee and, presumably, a really great guy. Takes me back to the night that Ron Swoboda crushed number 3,000! It was drizzly, as I remember, some late September chilly weather keeping most of the crowd at home. I went to the game with my neighbor George, his boy Elroy and we lounged in the comfort of the Spacely Sprockets luxury box. More remarkable than the rarified air of numbers with commas and all that was the fact that it took 'Rocky' almost 45 full seasons in the bigs to reach this milestone! Averaging almost 70 hits a season and a victim of the pre-bionic platoon system Swoboda, much of his upper body now replaced by robotics, seemed calm and collected during batting practice. "I think I can play a lot longer" the burly right-fielder quipped during a pre-game interview with Lindsey Nelson III. The game lumbered on and in the bottom of the seventh, Swoboda disconnected himself from the dugout charger, took a few tentative swings, and strode to the plate, a green LED flashing barely visible beneath the snow white home uniform. The Rawlings-MacGregor Pitch It machine silently delivered pitch after pitch. The crowd grew quiet, the only audible sound the whirring of the despised mechanical contraption located in the center of the diamond. The machine seemed to hitch and shudder. "Bring back human hurlers!" bellowed one of the faithful. "Yeah, and then we'll be back to counting pitches all night" I muttered underneath my breath while she studied the lines on my face. I must admit I looked a little uneasy when the 'pitcher' finally delivered. Swoboda glared, the spheroid flew, and with a resounding "pop" of polycarbonate bat meeting naugahyde ball -- history was made.

Congratulations Derek! Welcome aboard!

Older than that now

Older than that now. Older then than now.

I just watched "No One Gets Out Alive" on Ovation. (They are going pop music-crazy this week – right now I am recording Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison, a documentary that promises to put the concert in "its historical perspective" which mean what I do not know.) "Alive" is a one hour tribute to Jim Morrison replete with the necrophiliogical ramblings of Ray Manzarek who has made a cottage industry out of semi-inept keyboard playing alongside a died-too-soon rock legend.

So here is the deal – why is it that departed rock stars, some departed rock stars, have a certain age impinged on them. Meaning they never look their true age. Morrison should, through my eyes, look like the twenty something punk that he was. Janis too – should look all of her twenty two years. Pigpen – a young man drinking himself to death. But they don't, they just don't. They look older, not wiser, older.

True, some of this could be due to the ravages of the excesses that bought them an early seat in Rock and Roll Heaven. Much like the coroner who examined Charlie "Yardbird" Parker and determined the thirty-four year old to between fifty and sixty.

Lennon – older than the above, to be sure, less ravaged too, but he will always appear to me to be my elder. Cobain – there's the rub, there's the 'some'. To me he does look like a twenty seven year old. Is it because I never wore Nirvana Boots or sported a Nirvana Haircut? So is it my infatuation that colors my perception?

A twenty-two year old ordering a caramel whatchamcallit looks like . . . well, whatever she looks like it is nothing like the woman belting "Piece of My Heart" at Monterey.

The exact moment I became my parent(s).

I thought I had done pretty good, you know? Rap, Hip-hop, Lady Gaga . . . all good, just not for me. But last night, the inevitable -- air guitar from the gold medal podium?!? Thank you Shaun White, I am an old fart! Friends and family probably became aware of this long before me, but here I sit.
And . . . medals that don't look like medals, flowers that don't look like flowers, sports that don't look like sports?!? Maybe that's it: an Olympics that doesn't want to look like an Olympics.
See -- just because something is difficult and (reasonably) fun to watch, that doesn't make it a sport. And if it does sneak around back and become a sport, that doesn't make it an Olympic sport -- dig?
At Duffy's Tavern we had a very simple, albeit workable definition of a 'sport' -- can I bet on it?
Yes = sport, no = attraction, event, whatever.
So caveat emptor, if you will: what time someone's wife would call / show up / cruise by and abscond with the car and when, precisely, China Hogan would slide off his barstool -- while all wagerable events, are by no means sports (although Hogan possessed a style and elan that even Shaun would admire!)
So there you have it: An Old Fart Enjoys (somewhat) Vancouver 2010.

Richie Havens 11/28/09

Had the pleasure of hearing a true folk legend and an icon of perhaps what used to be this past Saturday. Had mixed feelings about attending another ‘legends’ show being hugely disappointed in Dan Hicks and his Mail-it-in Licks. But, in the midst of the hoopla surrounding Woodstock 40 years gone and what this might mean to me, the interviews with Havens were always brisk, coherent (Slick, Crosby, Kornfield . . . take note!), and humorous. So, I went.
First, the venue -- Sanctuary Concerts (sanctuaryconcerts.org) are held, by and large, at a wonderful church in Chatham, NJ. They have been bounced around a bit, but have settled in nicely here. The evenings are down home (donated baked goods, coffee and tea at the breaks), comfortable and well staffed by volunteers who respect both the music and the site.
Richie’s guitarist Walter Parks, a worthy talent in his own right, opened and did a kind of dreamy, almost ethereal half hour of tunes. A guitarist’s guitarist to be sure, he had chops but the set lacked focus and could have been a touch livelier. We were all still in late stage tryptophan withdrawal. Parks has some swamp/roots/boogie leanings and more of that would have been on point. That or Mr. Coffee’s at the head of each pew. His band Swamp Cabbage is worth checking out.
Havens set was a pure delight. As close to magical as I am willing to concede. Opened with All Along the Watchtower and that was preceded by a wonderful shaggy dog story of a first meeting with Mr. Zimmerman as well as his difficulty committing the lyrics to memory. Havens called it “100 different movies”. Some originals from the new disc (the eerily titled “No One Left to Crown”) and beyond were handled superbly. It was here that Parks genius was the most disarming, backing up the Havens open tuning chord forms with non-stop fills, trills and accents.
Watching Havens mix story and song, both audience and performer being well aware of who had who, was like hearing old family stories recounted after a robustly satisfying meal. Heard a few before? Sure enough, but I would go back tonight for a second helping. The Village folk scene, Van Ronk, Odetta, Seeger, stickball in Brooklyn and even the Man of Steel were all on the menu. Havens led the audience through the Superman opening: “Look, up in the sky . . .” riffed on the disengagement going from DC to TV versions of Superman (“Why wasn’t his hair blue?”) and the not so apparently flawed “Truth, Justice, and the American Way.” (Shouldn’t the third principle be already self-contained in the first two?) Richie smiled slyly, letting that incongruous fact sink in.
Huge time pay off with the encore. After finishing the set with a little ditty entitled “Freedom” (he might find a niche with this one), followed by a big time karate kick (dude is close to 70, no?) Richie launched into a medley of Maggie’s Farm and Won’t Get Fooled Again. Emotionally charged, thematically similar, doing exactly what an encore is supposed to do they were both well played, lifting the crowd up in more ways than one.
Would you wait almost an hour to get a CD signed? We did (Christmas gifts) and had a wonderful visit with a legend in his own time. (Everyone signs CD’s right? Only mine says “friends forever” . . . I was totally blissed.) Havens had spoke of the New York City Board of Ed owing him perhaps thousands in confiscated comics over the years, I laughingly told him I would do what I could with my current employer, offering him 10 cents on the dollar, for now. He laughed long and loud at the prospect. We took a picture and off into the night.

Bloomberg cracks down on aimless walking and "strolling" in NYC.

Citing numerous productivity losses and noticing a distinct lack of sidewalk space, Mayor Bloomberg issued the following edicts:-- all pedestrians must have at least two of the following: water/coffee (any spillable liquid), cell phone or approved electronics, yoga mat, ethnic food item, dog(s) or baby carriage-- if unable, unwilling or simply uninterested in yoga, you must at least carry the purple mat or a note from a physician citing what the heck is wrong with you-- likewise coffee and water – walking police (WP’s) can not assume an enlarged prostate given your gender or age, you must carry documentation!-- baby or pet carriages: must have a ‘street’ value of at least $1500, an unpronounceable, vaguely Scandinavian name and be equipped with the requisite cup holders-- someone texting always has the right of way-- someone blue-toothing may or may not ‘be talking to you’ – Be Alert!-- those simply ‘going for a walk’ or ‘taking some air' will need a note from a licensed therapist.Speaking either to reporters or someone on the phone the mayor continued: "While we are extremely proud to host the New York City Marathon, we can not and will not condone a reckless and aimless use of our thoroughfares and sidewalks by a few meanderers."

The Emperor Has No Clothes Tour
The Dead -- 2009


. . . Or the “Our 401k’s Tanked Too Tour” (rather unwieldy but a great merch tie in!) “Stanford Costs A Lot More than I Thought Tour”. It’s dizzying, the possibilities. So this is it, the end of the line. The five stages of grief took fourteen years to play out but here we are – acceptance. The Grateful Dead is over, done. Gone but certainly not forgotten. First, a disclaimer – I don’t review concerts or shows or bands for a living or even for a laugh. Second, I have seen the Grateful Dead well over 200 times, seen many (most) of their post-Jerry line ups and heard them all from the original Phil Lesh and Friends through The Other Ones, The Dead, Ratdog and even Dark Star Orchestra (whose only affiliation is that they blow all the aforementioned away in terms of recreating a Grateful Dead-like experience – you have to get around the Weir/simulacrum guy however, his stage presence is too dead-on, tics intended).

This latest incarnation is an abomination from the word go. For me it started with the ticket prices – an otherworldly figure of $115 for a show – one Dead show! I saw this deal for a mere $50 (along with the Allman Brothers) at an Obama fund-raiser in Penn State back in the fall. Shoulda quit while I was ahead. That was fun. Low key, no frills and fewer expectations. A stripped down stage, primitive lighting, no merchandise and general admission seating all brought me back to the college bound tours of the 1970’s. Any way – fast forward to now. The Dead Reunion Tour (can anyone photo-shop three sleeping ‘dancing bears’ or maybe a yawning Steal Your Face?) I missed the Taxi Tour ’09 (you had to get to 3 separate venues in Manhattan – get it?) probably due to the fact that I don’t visit Dead.net 3 times a day. But I did hear it and I chalked it up to a kind of open rehearsal thing. The ensuing tour has had more musical low spots and more questionable song selection than I care to deal with.

First, the line up, Warren Haynes is no Jack Kennedy or whatever the cliché du jour is. He is a formidable guitar player who has found a wonderful niche in Government Mule (if you’re looking for four and a half hours of inventive covers, high decibel rock and roll, cool set lists and mind numbing guitar work, check them out.) But fellows – he just don’t work in this line up. At best he is a one trick pony, way guilty of overexposure and shackled here by some monumental expectations. Phil and Bobby (how long do we continue to call a 60 year old ‘Bobby’?) – Shame on you. Write a freaking song and stop turning this into a 60’s cover band. For a hundred bucks I can’t get a new tune?!? I love Lesh – been there, got the sticker, but he just can not sing! Evocative, emotion laden – maybe, but spare me this experience on a regular basis. Weir singing Bird Song, Ramble On Rose and on and on is quite possibly criminal.

I was at the Continental Izod Men’s Warehouse Arena the other night and I must admit I lost control of my expectations. Branford Marsalis had played the night before (he was sound checking Crazy Fingers when we arrived). That was the only imprimatur that I needed. Good enough for Branford, good enough for me. People were raving about the night before, top ten Branford show or something – comparing it to 9/10/91. When people rave about this band and begin to rank the shows I think of that clever t-shirt that lists songs, venues and concerts -- 2300 or so . . . So the best show by any band since 1995 would have to be 2300 + 1 or some such. You can, by now, see where I am going with this. The first set was . . . excruciating. I can think of no better word. The Crazy Fingers was inspired and lofty but the rest: slow, slower, slowest. Days Between? There are days indeed; Touch of Grey and Casey Jones for those greatest hits aficionados among us; Deal (see above.) The second set fared no better although someone on Dead.net called it ‘magnificent’. Now by whose standards I am not quite sure. The ‘mini-reviews’ are located between the download link (should you want to actually own one of these gems) and the merchandise. You can amazingly get a link to Nightfall of Diamonds on the same page; an official 1989 release from the same venue, nineteen bucks and around eight for postage – hmmm, so I coulda bought five 10/16/89’s for the price of one 4/29/09 -- you do the math.

You know, I really didn’t want to do this. Trash the band I love and its surviving members. Tear apart the last thing (hopefully) that they might bring to the table musically. But I do feel that someone has to tell ya the truth, as I see it. The emperor is old and naked – anyone got a tie dyed sheet?

Allen Toussaint at Joe's Pub -- 2/15/09

Wonderful show at a wonderful venue! Prolific songwriter, roots New Orleans piano, soulful vocals, engaging, witty, humble . . . all that in a charming setting. (claustrophobics need not apply). A gentleman and New Orleans ambassador of music, Mr. Toussaint basically laid it down for all to see. Toussaint remarked that it was a “blessing of Katrina” that got him on the road and back in New York City for this weekly series (2 shows remain: 2/22 & 3/1). An hour and forty five minutes of song, story, recollections, “mister, throw me something” and an up close look at his new Grammy! Mid-way through the show he unveiled his prize possession much to the delight of an already appreciative crowd. Joe's Pub is a small, distinctively New York hideaway – better than expected food, great service and an abiding respect for the music are all hallmarks of Joe Papp’s club. He started off with an instrumental warm up that may indeed have had over 50 references, homage’s and teases. He explained that he would be performing songs he wrote, songs he didn’t but wished he had, and, songs he didn’t and was glad of. In the first two categories lay the high points. The only song, to my recollection not penned by Toussaint was a poignant rendition of Marty Robbins’ El Paso. Musical incongruities aside – it was probably the biggest reach of the afternoon, and it worked. He followed that with a little story about a musicologist’s opinion that “Get out My Life Woman” was perhaps his most recorded song, not to let it go at that, Toussaint opined that his favorite version was by “Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead”.
I would like to tell you that that brought down the house, but perhaps it was only my small table . . . I thanked him afterwards for the wonderful El Paso, and the props for Jerry, mentioning that I was a huge fan – and it seemed that he was too. He said he’s see us at Jazz Fest, and whether we meet again or not – for an afternoon in New York City I was charmed and enthralled by both a musical giant and a gentleman of the people.