This is a terrible association to make, but I make it nonetheless.
Listen to the way that Serena Ryder says the very first word of "Stompa."
"PEE-pull."
My college roommate Billy used to do this imitation of Charlton Heston, at the end of "Soylent Green," when he is shouting "Soylent Green is PEE-pull!!!"
And the way they all (Serena, Charlton, Billy) pronounce "people" with an emphasis on the "PEE" sound the same to me.
So as a result, whenever I hear "Stompa," I hear the lyrics in Charlton Heston's voice.
Sorry, Serena.
Hear Serena Ryder on Youtube.
"Soylent Green Is PEE-pull!" (wait for the end of the clip) on Youtube.
Showing posts with label Umass. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Umass. Show all posts
Friday, April 11, 2014
Monday, November 18, 2013
Prince "Cindy C"
There it was. A little piece of legend wrapped in plastic. And I didn't have the money to buy it.
I headed back to my college dorm, knowing who I had to talk to.
"You aren't going to believe what I saw downtown."
"What?" he said. He was the kind of guy who believed he was cool, so he acted cool, nonchalant. But I knew his interest was piqued.
"The fucking BLACK album!"
He knew what I was talking about, immediately. And he knew what it meant.
I'd gone straight to him, because he was a fan of Prince, like me.
And we'd talked about the mythical Black Album before.
Word was that just weeks before its intended release, it was pulled from production. Few copies existed. Some stories said that Prince thought the record was too dark. Other stories had it that the record label had found it too vulgar.
Whatever the reason, it was not in stores. Until now.
Trolling through the import LPs at a downtown Amherst record shop, I found it. Like the Spinal Tap record that shares its name (and predates it by several years), the record was as black as black could be, with only a small sticker to indicate that this was a Prince release.
It was an "import" suggesting that it had been released in Europe. But more likely it was a bootleg.
And it cost $30.
I didn't have thirty dollars. But I knew someone who would want the record as badly as I did.
"And there's only one copy," I told him.
We made our way back downtown, post-haste, ready to split the cost of owning a rare and profane piece of art.
Neither of us actually owned a record player.
But a guy down the hall did.
He let us sit in his room and listen, so long as we did it one at a time, using headphones so he could keep studying. I got to go first.
I'd heard a few things about the contents of the record. Like, there was a dirty tune about his lust for Cindy Crawford. And that it was funkier than anything he'd released recently. And that he was dabbling in rap. And he'd done all kinds of crazy things to electronically alter his voice.
Like in the song "Bob George," where he talks (rhythmically) to a woman he suspects is cheating on him, with Prince.
I listened as the beats flew by and his voice was amped up, lyrics tumbling by at an over-caffeinated pace. I could hear him saying some nasty shit, but a lot of it was too altered and garbled for me to pick out.
As side one was drawing to an unrelenting close, my co-owner stuck his head in the door.
"How's it sound?" he asked coolly, but with an undertone of eagerness.
"Great," I enthused. "But he's doing some crazy stuff with his voice. And its short too. Side One is about to end and I've only been listening for 10 minutes."
My friend looked at the turntable, and, trying to remain cool and nonchalant, while injecting a slight tone of both disdain and glee, said:
"You don't play an LP at 45. You're listening at the wrong speed."
I headed back to my college dorm, knowing who I had to talk to.
"You aren't going to believe what I saw downtown."
"What?" he said. He was the kind of guy who believed he was cool, so he acted cool, nonchalant. But I knew his interest was piqued.
"The fucking BLACK album!"
He knew what I was talking about, immediately. And he knew what it meant.
I'd gone straight to him, because he was a fan of Prince, like me.
And we'd talked about the mythical Black Album before.
Word was that just weeks before its intended release, it was pulled from production. Few copies existed. Some stories said that Prince thought the record was too dark. Other stories had it that the record label had found it too vulgar.
Whatever the reason, it was not in stores. Until now.
Trolling through the import LPs at a downtown Amherst record shop, I found it. Like the Spinal Tap record that shares its name (and predates it by several years), the record was as black as black could be, with only a small sticker to indicate that this was a Prince release.
It was an "import" suggesting that it had been released in Europe. But more likely it was a bootleg.
And it cost $30.
I didn't have thirty dollars. But I knew someone who would want the record as badly as I did.
"And there's only one copy," I told him.
We made our way back downtown, post-haste, ready to split the cost of owning a rare and profane piece of art.
Neither of us actually owned a record player.
But a guy down the hall did.
He let us sit in his room and listen, so long as we did it one at a time, using headphones so he could keep studying. I got to go first.
I'd heard a few things about the contents of the record. Like, there was a dirty tune about his lust for Cindy Crawford. And that it was funkier than anything he'd released recently. And that he was dabbling in rap. And he'd done all kinds of crazy things to electronically alter his voice.
Like in the song "Bob George," where he talks (rhythmically) to a woman he suspects is cheating on him, with Prince.
I listened as the beats flew by and his voice was amped up, lyrics tumbling by at an over-caffeinated pace. I could hear him saying some nasty shit, but a lot of it was too altered and garbled for me to pick out.
As side one was drawing to an unrelenting close, my co-owner stuck his head in the door.
"How's it sound?" he asked coolly, but with an undertone of eagerness.
"Great," I enthused. "But he's doing some crazy stuff with his voice. And its short too. Side One is about to end and I've only been listening for 10 minutes."
My friend looked at the turntable, and, trying to remain cool and nonchalant, while injecting a slight tone of both disdain and glee, said:
"You don't play an LP at 45. You're listening at the wrong speed."
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Rolling Stones "Bitch"
I remember standing outside the dorm building, looking up at McNamara Hall, trying to find out where the music was coming from.
It was cold, but I was happier to be standing alone in the cold, than headed upstairs toward confrontation.
I was an R.A. at UMass Amherst, 1989, and it was my night on duty.
R.A.s were there to answer questions, help folks out, intervene when necessary and keep the peace. Mostly, I just told my residents "Don't smoke dope in the hallway, and I won't hassle you."
But some students just had to be confrontational.
What other reason could there be for the level of noise that was coming from somewhere in the 8 story building? There was no possible way that someone was actually IN the room where the music was. It was insufferably loud.
The other R.A. on duty and I were in the 1st floor office, when we got complaints. She was a take-charge type, and was ready to march up the stairs and find the source.
I headed out into the courtyard, to see if I could pinpoint it from that vantage.
It was early evening, and most all the rooms on that side of the building had lights on. Except one. And notably, that room's window was open.
Yes, very sneaky, Idiots. No one will be able to figure out it's you playing the stereo at 11, if the lights are off.
Pretty much on schedule, the music stopped. The light came on.
This happened in just about the amount of time it would have taken my partner to walk up to the 5th floor, knock on the door, and tell these geniuses to turn the music the fuck down.
I stood there for a second, waiting to see if I could hear anything, or see any shadows or action.
Pretty much on schedule, the music came back on.
This happened in just about the amount of time it would have taken my partner to yell at the residents for a few minutes, tell them they were going to get written up, and leave. Likely, she was about halfway down the hall away from the room, when I saw a stereo speaker hoisted into the window.
The volume went straight up to FULL, and across the courtyard and echoing against the surrounding buildings was "Bitch" by the Rolling Stones.
As offensive as it was, I had to give them some kind of credit for not being afraid of inevitable confrontation and penalty.
The song lasted for a good 30 seconds. No doubt my partner had wheeled right around and double-timed it back to the room.
I had to give her credit too, for not being afraid to going charging into the face of the most truculent opposition.
The music stopped. I waited out the in cold. Nothing else happened.
Both parties had satisfied their level of confrontation.
And I, ever one to avoid a tangle, waited outside a few minutes more, just in case . . .
Hear the song on Youtube.
It was cold, but I was happier to be standing alone in the cold, than headed upstairs toward confrontation.
I was an R.A. at UMass Amherst, 1989, and it was my night on duty.
R.A.s were there to answer questions, help folks out, intervene when necessary and keep the peace. Mostly, I just told my residents "Don't smoke dope in the hallway, and I won't hassle you."
But some students just had to be confrontational.
What other reason could there be for the level of noise that was coming from somewhere in the 8 story building? There was no possible way that someone was actually IN the room where the music was. It was insufferably loud.
The other R.A. on duty and I were in the 1st floor office, when we got complaints. She was a take-charge type, and was ready to march up the stairs and find the source.
I headed out into the courtyard, to see if I could pinpoint it from that vantage.
It was early evening, and most all the rooms on that side of the building had lights on. Except one. And notably, that room's window was open.
Yes, very sneaky, Idiots. No one will be able to figure out it's you playing the stereo at 11, if the lights are off.
Pretty much on schedule, the music stopped. The light came on.
This happened in just about the amount of time it would have taken my partner to walk up to the 5th floor, knock on the door, and tell these geniuses to turn the music the fuck down.
I stood there for a second, waiting to see if I could hear anything, or see any shadows or action.
Pretty much on schedule, the music came back on.
This happened in just about the amount of time it would have taken my partner to yell at the residents for a few minutes, tell them they were going to get written up, and leave. Likely, she was about halfway down the hall away from the room, when I saw a stereo speaker hoisted into the window.
The volume went straight up to FULL, and across the courtyard and echoing against the surrounding buildings was "Bitch" by the Rolling Stones.
As offensive as it was, I had to give them some kind of credit for not being afraid of inevitable confrontation and penalty.
The song lasted for a good 30 seconds. No doubt my partner had wheeled right around and double-timed it back to the room.
I had to give her credit too, for not being afraid to going charging into the face of the most truculent opposition.
The music stopped. I waited out the in cold. Nothing else happened.
Both parties had satisfied their level of confrontation.
And I, ever one to avoid a tangle, waited outside a few minutes more, just in case . . .
Hear the song on Youtube.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Ozzy Osborne "Crazy Train"
Billy can play the intro to "Crazy Train."
How do I know?
Because I heard him do it. A million times. For hours on end. Over and over.
One of the things I do not miss about college, or being young, or having roommates, is the proximity to other people's noises.
And when you lived next door to a musician, you lived next door to whatever they were learning.
Billy was learning the incredible, indelible opening riff to "Crazy Train." And like any aspiring guitarist, he wanted to get it down, know it cold. So he just kept playing it.
The riff that starts at :23 and goes to :36 (on the Youtube video below), is only a dozen or so seconds long.
But if you really want your fingers to learn how to fly through it, so it becomes muscle memory, then you just have to play it over and over and over. A 12 second riff that lasts for an hour.
This process is maddening if you happen to live next door.
At first, it's really cool to hear the song being worked out. But after a bit, it becomes annoying. Then distracting. Then infuriating. Then it completely takes over your life to the point where you can't concentrate enough to read the side of a cereal box and even if you put a stack of pillows over your head you can faintly hear its muffled line and the notes poke your brain like tiny daggers launched from a pea shooter.
Maddening.
But not for the artist.
The process is necessary for the artist.
The devotion to practice and the discipline to commit to getting it right override all other sensibilities.
The amazing thing about Billy is that he could apply this mindset to everything he wished to do.
He's recorded an album, playing all the instruments.
He oversees the layout and design of a whole family of magazines.
He paints.
He sculpts.
He makes mosaics.
He silk screens.
He makes ceramics.
And he does it with a single-mindedness that makes his prolific nature seem effortless.
I used to want to write. Write stories. Maybe a novel. Whatever.
But I could never muster the discipline that Billy had.
I admired it. I envied it. But I was never able to replicate it.
For years, I held onto the excuse that my creative powers were being fully directed toward my job at mvyradio, leaving little time or energy to be creative elsewhere.
I started this blog. And I thought of Billy.
I began to write several days a week. Then 5 days a week. Then 7. I went a whole year without missing a day. And these days, I actually find it easier to write a post every day, than I did a few years ago, to write a post a couple of times a week. Working with a single-mindedness has made being prolific feel effortless.
I thank Billy, in part, for helping me get here. Even if I had to come via his Crazy Train.
See a fraction of what Billy can do, at his Big Dead Gerbil website. I have a Big Dead Gerbil ceramic as a pencil holder on my desk. You can also find some pretty amazing silk screen prints and hilarious t-shirts.
Before you do any Christmas shopping online with big companies, consider supporting individual artists and small entrepreneurs. Amazon isn’t going to miss your 50 bucks, but a purchase from an artisan will help them enormously. This week I’ll be posting links to a few of my talented friends and family.
Hear the song on Youtube.
How do I know?
Because I heard him do it. A million times. For hours on end. Over and over.
One of the things I do not miss about college, or being young, or having roommates, is the proximity to other people's noises.
And when you lived next door to a musician, you lived next door to whatever they were learning.
Billy was learning the incredible, indelible opening riff to "Crazy Train." And like any aspiring guitarist, he wanted to get it down, know it cold. So he just kept playing it.
The riff that starts at :23 and goes to :36 (on the Youtube video below), is only a dozen or so seconds long.
But if you really want your fingers to learn how to fly through it, so it becomes muscle memory, then you just have to play it over and over and over. A 12 second riff that lasts for an hour.
This process is maddening if you happen to live next door.
At first, it's really cool to hear the song being worked out. But after a bit, it becomes annoying. Then distracting. Then infuriating. Then it completely takes over your life to the point where you can't concentrate enough to read the side of a cereal box and even if you put a stack of pillows over your head you can faintly hear its muffled line and the notes poke your brain like tiny daggers launched from a pea shooter.
Maddening.
But not for the artist.
The process is necessary for the artist.
The devotion to practice and the discipline to commit to getting it right override all other sensibilities.
The amazing thing about Billy is that he could apply this mindset to everything he wished to do.
He's recorded an album, playing all the instruments.
He oversees the layout and design of a whole family of magazines.
He paints.
He sculpts.
He makes mosaics.
He silk screens.
He makes ceramics.
And he does it with a single-mindedness that makes his prolific nature seem effortless.
I used to want to write. Write stories. Maybe a novel. Whatever.
But I could never muster the discipline that Billy had.
I admired it. I envied it. But I was never able to replicate it.
For years, I held onto the excuse that my creative powers were being fully directed toward my job at mvyradio, leaving little time or energy to be creative elsewhere.
I started this blog. And I thought of Billy.
I began to write several days a week. Then 5 days a week. Then 7. I went a whole year without missing a day. And these days, I actually find it easier to write a post every day, than I did a few years ago, to write a post a couple of times a week. Working with a single-mindedness has made being prolific feel effortless.
I thank Billy, in part, for helping me get here. Even if I had to come via his Crazy Train.
See a fraction of what Billy can do, at his Big Dead Gerbil website. I have a Big Dead Gerbil ceramic as a pencil holder on my desk. You can also find some pretty amazing silk screen prints and hilarious t-shirts.
Before you do any Christmas shopping online with big companies, consider supporting individual artists and small entrepreneurs. Amazon isn’t going to miss your 50 bucks, but a purchase from an artisan will help them enormously. This week I’ll be posting links to a few of my talented friends and family.
Hear the song on Youtube.
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
R.E.M. "It's The End Of The World As We Know It"
Have you ever wondered what the lyrics were to some song, so you Googled it and you ended up on one of those sites that posts song lyrics?
Did you see this in the news last week?
Live Universe, a web group that maintains some "lyric" sites, lost a lawsuit and now owes $6.6 million in damages, for posting lyrics without permission.
So that seems like the end of finding lyrics on the web as we know it . . .
Reading that story, I drifted back to the days before the internet made everything so accessible.
In college (late 80s), I lived with a bunch of guys who could play instruments. And the newest friend in our midst was a Georgia-transplant who loved R.E.M.
I can remember one night early in the school year, where we decided we should learn how to sing and play "It's The End Of The World As We Know It."
The song is lyric-dense, and Michael Stipe was (and mostly still is) averse to making his lyrics available.
And that meant we had to figure them out for ourselves.
We sat in the lounge area with a pen and a notebook (there were no laptops). And I held my tape recorder.
All night long (and no doubt with beer in cans), we played and stopped and rewound and played and replayed and guessed and did our best to phonetically figure out what the hell he was saying on that cassette.
It was a moment where we gelled as a group. Something that bound us together for our college years. A moment that wouldn't have happened if someone had just said "R.E.M. lyrics? Let me Google that . . . here they are."
It's not the worst thing in the world to not have everything, all the time, at your fingertips.
Hear the song on Youtube.
Did you see this in the news last week?
Live Universe, a web group that maintains some "lyric" sites, lost a lawsuit and now owes $6.6 million in damages, for posting lyrics without permission.
So that seems like the end of finding lyrics on the web as we know it . . .
Reading that story, I drifted back to the days before the internet made everything so accessible.
In college (late 80s), I lived with a bunch of guys who could play instruments. And the newest friend in our midst was a Georgia-transplant who loved R.E.M.
I can remember one night early in the school year, where we decided we should learn how to sing and play "It's The End Of The World As We Know It."
The song is lyric-dense, and Michael Stipe was (and mostly still is) averse to making his lyrics available.
And that meant we had to figure them out for ourselves.
We sat in the lounge area with a pen and a notebook (there were no laptops). And I held my tape recorder.
All night long (and no doubt with beer in cans), we played and stopped and rewound and played and replayed and guessed and did our best to phonetically figure out what the hell he was saying on that cassette.
It was a moment where we gelled as a group. Something that bound us together for our college years. A moment that wouldn't have happened if someone had just said "R.E.M. lyrics? Let me Google that . . . here they are."
It's not the worst thing in the world to not have everything, all the time, at your fingertips.
Hear the song on Youtube.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
The Replacements "Answering Machine"
If you could boil down the essence of this daily blog to just one post, this would be it. This is a post about one song that appeared in my life at one point, and changed the course of who I was and who I'd become.
Fall 1987. I had just entered college. It was a moment I'd been waiting for, for years.
There is a wonderful kind of stability in growing up and staying in the same town from kindergarten through High School.
There is also a horrible kind of rigidity that comes from that same thing. You are who they say you are, and once they say who you are, it's pretty hard to change it.
College promises a fresh start. Nobody knows who you were, so there is nothing projected onto the template of who people think you should be.
I can't say that I was looking to create a whole new persona or shed some adolescent horribleness. I just wanted the freedom to explore, and to have that be (socially) okay.
So when I was invited to a Punk Rock show at the Student Union Ballroom, I said yes.
Shockingly, at age 18, I had never been to a concert before. I was a music fan, for sure, but had never been to a show.
Similarly, growing up in suburban outliers territory, my music tastes were pretty pedestrian. The environment offered little in the way of accessible musical adventure.
I was curious to see what it would be like to go beyond Led Zeppelin and U2 and AC/DC, to see if I would like it.
Skipping ahead, let me tell you a little about the show.
The UMass Student Union Ballroom was dark, loud and rocking. I guess I'd seen "slam dancing" on TV (this was years before they called it "moshing"), but it was a thrilling experience to see it just a few feet in front of me.
The band was either drunk or crazy or both, and I was surprised and bemused that they seemed to want to taunt the audience throughout the show. Between songs they'd ask "Any requests?" and hardcore fans would shout out their favorite song, only to have the band say, "Never heard of it," and crank into something else.
It was a great experience, and I'm always proud to say that the first concert I ever went to was The Replacements.
But the concert isn't what this post is about. This post is about the night before.
Keith was a guy I knew from home. He went to High School in the next town over so we had some mutual friends. Even though I was ready to say goodbye to the past and embrace a new tomorrow, it was nice to be with with a familiar face.
We were hanging out in his room, the night before the show.
I didn't know a thing about The Replacements, this band that I'd never heard of, that'd we'd be seeing the following night, so I asked for some details. He pulled out a stack of vinyl.
As he put on a record, I flipped through his LPs. There were some names that I'd read in Rolling Stone, but mostly, the pile was this world of unfamiliar bands.
We were listening to a record called "Let It Be" which was louder and looser and more ragged than anything I had in my collection. I wasn't sure if it was good---I had no point of reference for what made a Punk Rock band "good." But I was getting into the spirit of it.
Every few minutes, someone would walk by Keith's open dorm-room door, poke their head in and say, "Listening to The Replacments, huh? Are you going to the show tomorrow? Cool, see you there."
Girls. Good looking girls. Slightly offbeat, interesting-looking, good looking girls were sticking their heads in the door and saying "Replacements? See you at the show tomorrow."
Girls like that, like bands like this?
I felt like I had just been given a password to a club that I had previously not known existed.
We'd flipped the album to the second side, which was winding down. I heard a strange mechanical voice.
"Is that in the song?"
Keith heard it too.
We turned up the volume. There was a voice mixed into the song.
"Play it again." Keith moved the needle back and started the song over.
We each put an ear up to a speaker.
"If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need help, if you need help, if you need help . . . "
And that's it. That's the moment. That's the image.
I don't think I radically changed that second or anything. Change (growth, really) was incremental, evolutionary, over many years.
But I feel like that is the moment I became a music fan, a music listener, and a person who lived his life through music.
How many days and nights have I put my ears closer to the speakers, because I wanted to know what a song was really saying? How many joyful moments have I had in the act of discovery, with other friends who love music? How many records have I bought, played, loved and woven directly into the very fabric of my emotional being? How many artists have I been turned on to, and quickly turned around and shared?
I used to joke that I wanted a career where I could be paid to simply be me. I kind of got there. Playing songs in darkened rooms as a DJ on the radio today, is a direct descendant of that moment in a UMass dorm room.
Without that moment, I can easily imagine I wouldn't have the musical tastes I have, the job I have, or for that matter, the life I have.
I'm thankful that I said Yes to that show, that I was open to opening my world up, and that 25 years later I'm still putting my ears to the speaker, every day.
Hear the song on Youtube.
For an interesting in experiment, you can read this issue of The Skyway from 1996, which is an online Replacements Fan Club. I wrote to them 15 years ago. So you can hear this same story, told in the voice of a 27 year old, instead of a 43 year old.
Fall 1987. I had just entered college. It was a moment I'd been waiting for, for years.
There is a wonderful kind of stability in growing up and staying in the same town from kindergarten through High School.
There is also a horrible kind of rigidity that comes from that same thing. You are who they say you are, and once they say who you are, it's pretty hard to change it.
College promises a fresh start. Nobody knows who you were, so there is nothing projected onto the template of who people think you should be.
I can't say that I was looking to create a whole new persona or shed some adolescent horribleness. I just wanted the freedom to explore, and to have that be (socially) okay.
So when I was invited to a Punk Rock show at the Student Union Ballroom, I said yes.
Shockingly, at age 18, I had never been to a concert before. I was a music fan, for sure, but had never been to a show.
Similarly, growing up in suburban outliers territory, my music tastes were pretty pedestrian. The environment offered little in the way of accessible musical adventure.
I was curious to see what it would be like to go beyond Led Zeppelin and U2 and AC/DC, to see if I would like it.
Skipping ahead, let me tell you a little about the show.
The UMass Student Union Ballroom was dark, loud and rocking. I guess I'd seen "slam dancing" on TV (this was years before they called it "moshing"), but it was a thrilling experience to see it just a few feet in front of me.
The band was either drunk or crazy or both, and I was surprised and bemused that they seemed to want to taunt the audience throughout the show. Between songs they'd ask "Any requests?" and hardcore fans would shout out their favorite song, only to have the band say, "Never heard of it," and crank into something else.
It was a great experience, and I'm always proud to say that the first concert I ever went to was The Replacements.
But the concert isn't what this post is about. This post is about the night before.
Keith was a guy I knew from home. He went to High School in the next town over so we had some mutual friends. Even though I was ready to say goodbye to the past and embrace a new tomorrow, it was nice to be with with a familiar face.
We were hanging out in his room, the night before the show.
I didn't know a thing about The Replacements, this band that I'd never heard of, that'd we'd be seeing the following night, so I asked for some details. He pulled out a stack of vinyl.
As he put on a record, I flipped through his LPs. There were some names that I'd read in Rolling Stone, but mostly, the pile was this world of unfamiliar bands.
We were listening to a record called "Let It Be" which was louder and looser and more ragged than anything I had in my collection. I wasn't sure if it was good---I had no point of reference for what made a Punk Rock band "good." But I was getting into the spirit of it.
Every few minutes, someone would walk by Keith's open dorm-room door, poke their head in and say, "Listening to The Replacments, huh? Are you going to the show tomorrow? Cool, see you there."
Girls. Good looking girls. Slightly offbeat, interesting-looking, good looking girls were sticking their heads in the door and saying "Replacements? See you at the show tomorrow."
Girls like that, like bands like this?
I felt like I had just been given a password to a club that I had previously not known existed.
We'd flipped the album to the second side, which was winding down. I heard a strange mechanical voice.
"Is that in the song?"
Keith heard it too.
We turned up the volume. There was a voice mixed into the song.
"Play it again." Keith moved the needle back and started the song over.
We each put an ear up to a speaker.
"If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again. If you need help, if you need help, if you need help . . . "
And that's it. That's the moment. That's the image.
I don't think I radically changed that second or anything. Change (growth, really) was incremental, evolutionary, over many years.
But I feel like that is the moment I became a music fan, a music listener, and a person who lived his life through music.
How many days and nights have I put my ears closer to the speakers, because I wanted to know what a song was really saying? How many joyful moments have I had in the act of discovery, with other friends who love music? How many records have I bought, played, loved and woven directly into the very fabric of my emotional being? How many artists have I been turned on to, and quickly turned around and shared?
I used to joke that I wanted a career where I could be paid to simply be me. I kind of got there. Playing songs in darkened rooms as a DJ on the radio today, is a direct descendant of that moment in a UMass dorm room.
Without that moment, I can easily imagine I wouldn't have the musical tastes I have, the job I have, or for that matter, the life I have.
I'm thankful that I said Yes to that show, that I was open to opening my world up, and that 25 years later I'm still putting my ears to the speaker, every day.
Hear the song on Youtube.
For an interesting in experiment, you can read this issue of The Skyway from 1996, which is an online Replacements Fan Club. I wrote to them 15 years ago. So you can hear this same story, told in the voice of a 27 year old, instead of a 43 year old.
Friday, August 24, 2012
Stevie Ray Vaughan "Cold Shot"
This isn't so much a story about the day Stevie Ray Vaughan died (which happened 22 years ago, this Monday).
This is a story that takes place on the day Stevie Ray Vaughan died. So as the story reaches it's culmination, you can imagine SRV songs being played in the background.
But before we get to the culmination, let's go back, to the Spring of 1990, to the end of the semester at UMass.
I had just met this amazing girl. I'd known her from around for a while, but we had both recently become single again and we had connected. Really connected. Hearts pounding.
But the semester was winding down, and I didn't know what the summer would bring.
Meaning both, I didn't know if we would be able to maintain something as we returned to our hometowns, and I really didn't know what I was going to do with my summer.
This was the summer between my Junior and Senior year, and I was aware that I should probably be doing something to prepare for a career. But hadn't spent any time planning anything.
Somewhere late in the game, I lined up a TV production internship in my hometown, but to make it official, I had to get one of the Professors in the Communications department to sponsor me.
I looked down the list of Professors. There were many I liked. Several I respected. And a few I was totally impressed/slightly afraid of. But none of them were likely to deal with me, so late in the game.
No, if I was going to slip one under the wire, I knew who I had to go to.
There was this tenured professor, who must've been a few seconds away from retirement. I'd had him for a couple of introductory classes. He was very nice, but clearly he was some combination of a) noticeably kinda senile, b) somewhat flaky and c) not really giving too much of a shit.
"I only give two grades for internships," he absently told me, while signing off on my paperwork. "And all I ask is that you write me a 3 page paper on your experience. Turn that in on time, and you get an 'A.' Don't turn it in, and you get an 'F.'"
Seemed simple enough.
Okay, quick summer montage . . . I work a ton of hours at the local cable company doing TV production and learning valuable skills . . . to make some cash I work the graveyard shift at a local gas station . . . I fall head over heels in love with the girl, and any waking second that I'm not working or sleeping, I get in the car to go visit her.
August. The Finns take a vacation.
With this being my last summer "off," before entering the Real World, my folks decided we should take one more family trip, to Disney World.
In the planning stages, this sounded great. But now, I was devastated that I'd go for a week without seeing my girl.
I visited her the night before we were supposed to leave for Orlando. Before our tearful goodbye, I asked her to do me a favor.
(Remember that this is 1990, before email, before cell phones)
I gave her my 3 page paper, outlining all the terrific things I had learned on my internship. She was headed back to UMass in a couple of days. It seemed much safer for her to drop the paper with my professor, than for me to trust the US Postal Service to get it there on time. She agreed.
The Finns had a fine time in Florida, and it WAS the last chance for my parents and two siblings and I to all vacation together. But I missed my girlfriend terribly.
After touching down at Logan, we headed up Route 1 to home, WBCN had the news: Stevie Ray Vaughan had died in a helicopter crash.
We listened to Stevie Ray songs for the ride home.
The first thing I did upon arriving home, was call out to UMass to talk to my girl.
After a bit of chit-chat I asked, "What did my professor say?"
"Oh my God . . ."
There was a long period of what seemed like silence. Then I realized that she was crying.
She had forgotten to turn in my paper. It was due 2 days ago.
My internship was for course credit. Not just the weight of a single class, but for the weight of four classes. I tried in my head to figure out what the equivalent of a full semester's worth of "F"s would do to my already weak GPA. Probably something I would never recover from, academically.
But you know what? After about 5 minutes, I didn't care. I just wanted to see her.
I got in the car at the crack of dawn and raced to see her. Stevie Ray Vaughan played on the radio as a barreled down Route 2.
It was a tearful and joyful reunion. She had hardly slept, so upset at missing my deadline. She'd gone down to my professor's office in the middle of the night and slid my paper under his door.
I took the stoic approach. What was done, was done. Nothing to do about it. "Well, you're going to have to support me, when I can't get a job," I told her.
Flash-forward to a month later. My grades come. I may have acted stoic, but in the moment, I felt ill, my heart pounded. I opened the envelope.
"A."
I got an "A."
What would the equivalent of a full semester's worth of "A"s would do to my GPA? Well, hopefully make me moderately employable.
And, the post-script . . .
In my wise years, I have learned to leave well enough alone, but in 1990, I couldn't.
How did I get an "A"? How did he not notice that the paper was days late?
I couldn't resist. I went to my professor's office, and asked for my graded paper back. (Again, this was in the days before real computers, so I didn't have a digital copy of the paper; he had the only copy)
"Uh . . .hmmm . . ." he shuffled through disheveled stacks of books and folders and papers on his desk. "Where is . . . hmm . . . uh . . ."
"Well thank you for the 'A'" I said.
"Hmm . . . yes, if I gave you an 'A' I must've read it, right? . . . hmm . . . but I don't see it here. Well . . . " He just trailed off, and gave me a look that said, "Is there anything else?"
I don't know if he ever got the paper, or read the paper, and I guess it didn't matter.
My academic career, much like SRV at the end of this video, was magically resurrected.
Hear the song on Youtube.
This is a story that takes place on the day Stevie Ray Vaughan died. So as the story reaches it's culmination, you can imagine SRV songs being played in the background.
But before we get to the culmination, let's go back, to the Spring of 1990, to the end of the semester at UMass.
I had just met this amazing girl. I'd known her from around for a while, but we had both recently become single again and we had connected. Really connected. Hearts pounding.
But the semester was winding down, and I didn't know what the summer would bring.
Meaning both, I didn't know if we would be able to maintain something as we returned to our hometowns, and I really didn't know what I was going to do with my summer.
This was the summer between my Junior and Senior year, and I was aware that I should probably be doing something to prepare for a career. But hadn't spent any time planning anything.
Somewhere late in the game, I lined up a TV production internship in my hometown, but to make it official, I had to get one of the Professors in the Communications department to sponsor me.
I looked down the list of Professors. There were many I liked. Several I respected. And a few I was totally impressed/slightly afraid of. But none of them were likely to deal with me, so late in the game.
No, if I was going to slip one under the wire, I knew who I had to go to.
There was this tenured professor, who must've been a few seconds away from retirement. I'd had him for a couple of introductory classes. He was very nice, but clearly he was some combination of a) noticeably kinda senile, b) somewhat flaky and c) not really giving too much of a shit.
"I only give two grades for internships," he absently told me, while signing off on my paperwork. "And all I ask is that you write me a 3 page paper on your experience. Turn that in on time, and you get an 'A.' Don't turn it in, and you get an 'F.'"
Seemed simple enough.
Okay, quick summer montage . . . I work a ton of hours at the local cable company doing TV production and learning valuable skills . . . to make some cash I work the graveyard shift at a local gas station . . . I fall head over heels in love with the girl, and any waking second that I'm not working or sleeping, I get in the car to go visit her.
August. The Finns take a vacation.
With this being my last summer "off," before entering the Real World, my folks decided we should take one more family trip, to Disney World.
In the planning stages, this sounded great. But now, I was devastated that I'd go for a week without seeing my girl.
I visited her the night before we were supposed to leave for Orlando. Before our tearful goodbye, I asked her to do me a favor.
(Remember that this is 1990, before email, before cell phones)
I gave her my 3 page paper, outlining all the terrific things I had learned on my internship. She was headed back to UMass in a couple of days. It seemed much safer for her to drop the paper with my professor, than for me to trust the US Postal Service to get it there on time. She agreed.
The Finns had a fine time in Florida, and it WAS the last chance for my parents and two siblings and I to all vacation together. But I missed my girlfriend terribly.
After touching down at Logan, we headed up Route 1 to home, WBCN had the news: Stevie Ray Vaughan had died in a helicopter crash.
We listened to Stevie Ray songs for the ride home.
The first thing I did upon arriving home, was call out to UMass to talk to my girl.
After a bit of chit-chat I asked, "What did my professor say?"
"Oh my God . . ."
There was a long period of what seemed like silence. Then I realized that she was crying.
She had forgotten to turn in my paper. It was due 2 days ago.
My internship was for course credit. Not just the weight of a single class, but for the weight of four classes. I tried in my head to figure out what the equivalent of a full semester's worth of "F"s would do to my already weak GPA. Probably something I would never recover from, academically.
But you know what? After about 5 minutes, I didn't care. I just wanted to see her.
I got in the car at the crack of dawn and raced to see her. Stevie Ray Vaughan played on the radio as a barreled down Route 2.
It was a tearful and joyful reunion. She had hardly slept, so upset at missing my deadline. She'd gone down to my professor's office in the middle of the night and slid my paper under his door.
I took the stoic approach. What was done, was done. Nothing to do about it. "Well, you're going to have to support me, when I can't get a job," I told her.
Flash-forward to a month later. My grades come. I may have acted stoic, but in the moment, I felt ill, my heart pounded. I opened the envelope.
"A."
I got an "A."
What would the equivalent of a full semester's worth of "A"s would do to my GPA? Well, hopefully make me moderately employable.
And, the post-script . . .
In my wise years, I have learned to leave well enough alone, but in 1990, I couldn't.
How did I get an "A"? How did he not notice that the paper was days late?
I couldn't resist. I went to my professor's office, and asked for my graded paper back. (Again, this was in the days before real computers, so I didn't have a digital copy of the paper; he had the only copy)
"Uh . . .hmmm . . ." he shuffled through disheveled stacks of books and folders and papers on his desk. "Where is . . . hmm . . . uh . . ."
"Well thank you for the 'A'" I said.
"Hmm . . . yes, if I gave you an 'A' I must've read it, right? . . . hmm . . . but I don't see it here. Well . . . " He just trailed off, and gave me a look that said, "Is there anything else?"
I don't know if he ever got the paper, or read the paper, and I guess it didn't matter.
My academic career, much like SRV at the end of this video, was magically resurrected.
Hear the song on Youtube.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Neneh Cherry "Buffalo Stance"
Every year on my birthday, when I look at Musical Notes, I'm reminded that Neneh Cherry and I share a birthday (today!).
There were these two Freshman girls who lived in the dorm-room next to my Junior year girlfriend, the year this song was popular.
When they'd see me coming, they'd shout "PeeJay! Who-whose that . . ." instead of ("DJ!") like Cherry does at the beginning of the song (at the :25 mark on the video below).
Being as far away as one could possibly be, from being a cool street-walking gigolo, I was flattered by the cool-by-association compliment.
It was like every day was my birthday.
Hear the song on Youtube.
There were these two Freshman girls who lived in the dorm-room next to my Junior year girlfriend, the year this song was popular.
When they'd see me coming, they'd shout "PeeJay! Who-whose that . . ." instead of ("DJ!") like Cherry does at the beginning of the song (at the :25 mark on the video below).
Being as far away as one could possibly be, from being a cool street-walking gigolo, I was flattered by the cool-by-association compliment.
It was like every day was my birthday.
Hear the song on Youtube.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Malvina Reynolds "Little Boxes"
We were going to write a song. It seemed about time.
I lived in a suite/dorm at UMass, with several guys who were actual musicians (as opposed to me, who wished he could play something). At least they let me sing.
We'd perfected a number of cover tunes (or, more accurately, beat them to death and had grown bored with our repertoire), and we were ready to try our hand at writing a song.
We were pitching ideas.
"We should write a song about a box," said Brett.
While Billy was the most proficient player, and Kurt has impeccable musical taste, it was Brett---the one who'd been playing guitar for only a few months---who had this loopy, brilliant and quirky creativity.
"What do you mean, a box?"
"You know. Like a cardboard box. On the side of the road. We should write a song about that."
I don't know what Kurt or Billy were thinking, because I don't think they responded either. I didn't say it out loud, but I thought it was the stupidest idea I'd ever heard.
As we let the conversation drift to the next idea, I thought to myself, Could there be a dumber subject to create a more boring song, than "a box"?
Tonight at 9pm, may I present to you an hour's worth of brilliant folks who had the same dumb idea.
On our free-form hour called The Hot Seat, listen in for a hour of songs about boxes by Tom Waits, The Decemberists, The Blues Brothers and Nirvana, as well as multiple versions of Malvina Reynolds "Little Boxes."
And let the record show that after passing up the box idea, our brain trust settled on the utterly original, non-stupid-or-trite topic of writing a song about breaking up with a girl.
Genius!
The Hot Seat airs at 9pm ET. Stream it at mvyradio.
Hear the song on Youtube.
I lived in a suite/dorm at UMass, with several guys who were actual musicians (as opposed to me, who wished he could play something). At least they let me sing.
We'd perfected a number of cover tunes (or, more accurately, beat them to death and had grown bored with our repertoire), and we were ready to try our hand at writing a song.
We were pitching ideas.
"We should write a song about a box," said Brett.
While Billy was the most proficient player, and Kurt has impeccable musical taste, it was Brett---the one who'd been playing guitar for only a few months---who had this loopy, brilliant and quirky creativity.
"What do you mean, a box?"
"You know. Like a cardboard box. On the side of the road. We should write a song about that."
I don't know what Kurt or Billy were thinking, because I don't think they responded either. I didn't say it out loud, but I thought it was the stupidest idea I'd ever heard.
As we let the conversation drift to the next idea, I thought to myself, Could there be a dumber subject to create a more boring song, than "a box"?
Tonight at 9pm, may I present to you an hour's worth of brilliant folks who had the same dumb idea.
On our free-form hour called The Hot Seat, listen in for a hour of songs about boxes by Tom Waits, The Decemberists, The Blues Brothers and Nirvana, as well as multiple versions of Malvina Reynolds "Little Boxes."
And let the record show that after passing up the box idea, our brain trust settled on the utterly original, non-stupid-or-trite topic of writing a song about breaking up with a girl.
Genius!
The Hot Seat airs at 9pm ET. Stream it at mvyradio.
Hear the song on Youtube.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Throwing Muses "Counting Backward"
For full enjoyment of the entry, play this audio now, and let it run while you read the post . . ..
I have one, simple memory that comes to mind, anytime I hear any Throwing Muses song.
It was another UMass Spring concert. I can't remember who was on the bill that year, but the student production company was always pretty good about putting together an eclectic mix of 4 artists, that would appeal to various campus demographics. That's how De La Soul and Bob Dylan appeared on the same bill.
There was usually a hip, indie rock act (in those pre-"alternative" days, we called them "college" bands), like Violent Femmes or something.
This particular year, Throwing Muses filled that slot.
My friend Kurt was a fan. And I trusted his musical taste enough that I made sure I was shoulder to shoulder with him, near the front of the stage.
I can't remember who preceded the Muses' set, but whoever it was, had cleared the stage, and the roadies and student crew, were readying the stage for Kristen Hersh and company.
Per usual, there was a 20 minute or so delay between bands. It was early in the day, so the crowd on the lawn was not yet packed, not yet rowdy (and not yet drunk).
A relaxed murmur filled the air, as friends chatted casually. As Kurt and I did the same.
I don't think I fully registered, the first 5 or 6 times I heard it, but somewhere along the line, I picked up on a noise from behind me.
I looked at Kurt. He heard it too.
Turning around, I saw a scruffy, bearded, grad-student aged guy, one fist in the air, saying, "muses."
Not "MUSES!!!" Not "MUSES." Not even "Muses."
It was more on the level of how you might say, "here" when the professor took roll call in a particularly dull class.
"muses."
Twenty or so seconds would go by, and then he'd say it again.
"muses."
Not shouting, not fanatical. Just loud enough to be heard over the crowd murmur. Just frequently enough that you knew it was the only thing on the guys mind.
"muses . . ."
(25 seconds)
"muses . . ."
It was the most lackadaisical show of intense devotion I've ever heard.
And to this day, I can't hear the music, without wanting to not-quite-shout "muses."
If you want to, try it out yourself this weekend in Woods Hole, when Kristen Hersh performs and reads from her book.
Hear the song on Youtube.
I have one, simple memory that comes to mind, anytime I hear any Throwing Muses song.
It was another UMass Spring concert. I can't remember who was on the bill that year, but the student production company was always pretty good about putting together an eclectic mix of 4 artists, that would appeal to various campus demographics. That's how De La Soul and Bob Dylan appeared on the same bill.
There was usually a hip, indie rock act (in those pre-"alternative" days, we called them "college" bands), like Violent Femmes or something.
This particular year, Throwing Muses filled that slot.
My friend Kurt was a fan. And I trusted his musical taste enough that I made sure I was shoulder to shoulder with him, near the front of the stage.
I can't remember who preceded the Muses' set, but whoever it was, had cleared the stage, and the roadies and student crew, were readying the stage for Kristen Hersh and company.
Per usual, there was a 20 minute or so delay between bands. It was early in the day, so the crowd on the lawn was not yet packed, not yet rowdy (and not yet drunk).
A relaxed murmur filled the air, as friends chatted casually. As Kurt and I did the same.
I don't think I fully registered, the first 5 or 6 times I heard it, but somewhere along the line, I picked up on a noise from behind me.
I looked at Kurt. He heard it too.
Turning around, I saw a scruffy, bearded, grad-student aged guy, one fist in the air, saying, "muses."
Not "MUSES!!!" Not "MUSES." Not even "Muses."
It was more on the level of how you might say, "here" when the professor took roll call in a particularly dull class.
"muses."
Twenty or so seconds would go by, and then he'd say it again.
"muses."
Not shouting, not fanatical. Just loud enough to be heard over the crowd murmur. Just frequently enough that you knew it was the only thing on the guys mind.
"muses . . ."
(25 seconds)
"muses . . ."
It was the most lackadaisical show of intense devotion I've ever heard.
And to this day, I can't hear the music, without wanting to not-quite-shout "muses."
If you want to, try it out yourself this weekend in Woods Hole, when Kristen Hersh performs and reads from her book.
Hear the song on Youtube.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Frank Sinatra "My Way"
You'd be pretty surprised, if you started to catalog all the musical cues you didn't even know you knew.
You know to stand, when "Here Comes The Bride" starts.
You know there's a change of scenery and time, when the "Law & Order" Chung-CHUNG hits.
Those are pretty universal, but you can also make specific ones for the world you live in.
And if the world you live in is populated by hordes of drunk college kids, then you need to make the cues as clear as possible.
One of my best high school friends went to college right up the road from me, and it wasn't unusual for me to get a call on a Friday afternoon, saying "We're having a party tonight, c'mon up."
He lived with a bunch of good-looking, heavy-drinking, very fun and very funny guys, piled into a place that looked (and smelled) like you'd expect from a houseful of college boys. A fathers-lock-up-your-daughters kind of place.
The parties were always great, just bordering on out-of-control. They attracted the big crowds and the good-looking girls (which was the intention), but also the kind of meat-head dudes who didn't have any hesitation about getting too drunk and too rough in someone else's house.
But my boys had a plan.
When the night had reached its apex . . . when nothing good could come from letting the party go any further . . . or when the beer had run out . . . they had a plan.
The stereo would be turned to full, ear-splitting, could-be-used-as-psychological-torture levels, and "My Way" by Frank Sinatra, was started up.
And the boys would stand at the front door, with hockey sticks, singing the song, fraternally, at the top of their lungs.
Regular party-goers knew that they had until the end of the song to vacate the premises. Or they would be cleared forcibly, with hockey sticks.
It was a very, very cheerful Get-The-Fuck-Out.
And it worked!
See Frank sing it at Madison Square Garden on Youtube.
You know to stand, when "Here Comes The Bride" starts.
You know there's a change of scenery and time, when the "Law & Order" Chung-CHUNG hits.
Those are pretty universal, but you can also make specific ones for the world you live in.
And if the world you live in is populated by hordes of drunk college kids, then you need to make the cues as clear as possible.
One of my best high school friends went to college right up the road from me, and it wasn't unusual for me to get a call on a Friday afternoon, saying "We're having a party tonight, c'mon up."
He lived with a bunch of good-looking, heavy-drinking, very fun and very funny guys, piled into a place that looked (and smelled) like you'd expect from a houseful of college boys. A fathers-lock-up-your-daughters kind of place.
The parties were always great, just bordering on out-of-control. They attracted the big crowds and the good-looking girls (which was the intention), but also the kind of meat-head dudes who didn't have any hesitation about getting too drunk and too rough in someone else's house.
But my boys had a plan.
When the night had reached its apex . . . when nothing good could come from letting the party go any further . . . or when the beer had run out . . . they had a plan.
The stereo would be turned to full, ear-splitting, could-be-used-as-psychological-torture levels, and "My Way" by Frank Sinatra, was started up.
And the boys would stand at the front door, with hockey sticks, singing the song, fraternally, at the top of their lungs.
Regular party-goers knew that they had until the end of the song to vacate the premises. Or they would be cleared forcibly, with hockey sticks.
It was a very, very cheerful Get-The-Fuck-Out.
And it worked!
See Frank sing it at Madison Square Garden on Youtube.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
John Hiatt "Drive South"
I wrote a long time back that I would be doing occasional "Seminal Moments" entries, about the handful of songs that aren't just memories, but marked major changes in my life.
I haven't done one in a while.
Admittedly, it's because the prospect of trying to distill these watershed events, into a blog entry, is pretty damn intimidating.
But I've been staring at the list for months now. Time to write these.
I had just turned 21. Had a new girlfriend I was deeply in love with. We went record shopping.
One of the great things about her, was that while we shared a lot of musical favorites, she was introducing me to all kinds of artists that I knew a little about, but hadn't delved into yet.
In a record store in downtown Amherst, I bought my first John Hiatt record, "Slow Turning" on her recommendation.
I'd read a lot about Hiatt in Rolling Stone, but he wasn't the kind of guy who got a lot of radio airplay in 1990, so I didn't really know the music.
We listened to that record a lot during our senior year of UMass, with the specter of "The Real World" looming, getting ever closer.
What were we going to do when we graduated? And what would become of us?
Hiatt knew.
A few weeks after graduation, I had my Toyota Tercel idling in my parents' driveway packed to the gills with everything I owned (which really wasn't that much).
Her sister lived in South Florida, so that's where she was going. She had asked me if I'd go with her. It seemed like as good a place as any to start Real Life. And, at the time, I couldn't imagine Real Life without her.
I remember watching my parents waving goodbye from the front porch, doing their best imitation of stoic souls, knowing they would go in the house and cry for an hour.
Part of me wanted to cry too. But it was overwhelmed by feelings of elation, freedom, promise and young love.
I put Hiatt on the car stereo, and sang along with Hiatt as I headed onto Route 95 for the next several hundred miles:
"C'mon Baby, Drive South, with the one you love."
Hear the song on Youtube.
I haven't done one in a while.
Admittedly, it's because the prospect of trying to distill these watershed events, into a blog entry, is pretty damn intimidating.
But I've been staring at the list for months now. Time to write these.
I had just turned 21. Had a new girlfriend I was deeply in love with. We went record shopping.
One of the great things about her, was that while we shared a lot of musical favorites, she was introducing me to all kinds of artists that I knew a little about, but hadn't delved into yet.
In a record store in downtown Amherst, I bought my first John Hiatt record, "Slow Turning" on her recommendation.
I'd read a lot about Hiatt in Rolling Stone, but he wasn't the kind of guy who got a lot of radio airplay in 1990, so I didn't really know the music.
We listened to that record a lot during our senior year of UMass, with the specter of "The Real World" looming, getting ever closer.
What were we going to do when we graduated? And what would become of us?
Hiatt knew.
A few weeks after graduation, I had my Toyota Tercel idling in my parents' driveway packed to the gills with everything I owned (which really wasn't that much).
Her sister lived in South Florida, so that's where she was going. She had asked me if I'd go with her. It seemed like as good a place as any to start Real Life. And, at the time, I couldn't imagine Real Life without her.
I remember watching my parents waving goodbye from the front porch, doing their best imitation of stoic souls, knowing they would go in the house and cry for an hour.
Part of me wanted to cry too. But it was overwhelmed by feelings of elation, freedom, promise and young love.
I put Hiatt on the car stereo, and sang along with Hiatt as I headed onto Route 95 for the next several hundred miles:
"C'mon Baby, Drive South, with the one you love."
Hear the song on Youtube.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Tizzy "Cut Down Fight"
When I think about her, I hear this little giggle of hers, faintly coming through the speakers.
Before a show, she’d be getting her drum kit in order. Doing whatever drummers do to “tune up.”
And because she’d finally been coaxed into singing some back up, she had a vocal mic. But pre-show, it was pushed up high, away from where she was sitting, so when she laughed, it came out over the PA, but it seemed very far away.
The giggle was a nervous thing. Pre-show jitters. It was high-pitched and girlish.
It was kind of unexpected, in that she was not girly at all. She was not a frilly pink thing. Nor was she a bubble or a ditz. The giggle might’ve led you to think she was someone else, but no, she was sharp, smart, thoughful.
You only need to talk to her for about 30 seconds to realize that.
And neither the girlish giggle, nor her adult clear-headedness would have led to you expect what would happen next.
She’d count off the first song, and I swear to you, that when she wanted to, the only person I have ever seen hit the drums hard, or faster, was Dave Grohl.
The nervousness vanished, so did the gentleness, and Teri’s internal confidence, came out.
She could be an inventive drummer, keeping the beat without being boring. And she could rattle the whole damn stage, with pop punk power.
I loved watching other musicians see her perform for the first time, because her ability was so unexpected, and so overwhelming, that you could see their minds being blown, as her kit shook the room.
I got some unexpected news today.
Our friend Martin sent me an email with no details, only saying that he, like me, had lost touch with Teri these last few years.
The attached obituary was a complete shock.
41. Breast cancer. Gone.
She was my definition of cool.
Teri loved lots of very challenging, hip, indie rock music. Bands I never heard of, and often, who’s beat I could not catch. She also really loved Duran Duran and The Partridge Family.
You'd expect the too-cool-for-school indie rocker to eschew the pop drivel, or the Top 40 lover to not have the taste for the complex and fuzzy. The thing that made Teri cool is that she loved both, sincerely, un-ironically and without embarrassment or pretension.
If I learned one thing from her it was this. Like what you like. Don’t apologize for it. Don't wear it as a badge. Just enjoy it. Sincerely and un-ironically. Without embarrassment or pretension.
We had been college housemates at UMass in the early 90s. Collaborated on TV/Film projects. And became great friends.
She was an amazing letter writer. And in the post-college decade, as other, lesser friends drifted away, an envelope in the mailbox from Teri was still a sure thing.
But in the last few years, as she got married and I got married---and my days became more about my job and my family and building a life---I stopped writing, and she stopped writing.
I assumed that she was out there, in Western Massachusetts, doing the things she always did, making music, writing and producing TV and video pieces.
I came home and dug my out Tizzy discs to hear her playing (and occasional singing) again. And later, I’ll go in the garage and try to find that one picture I have of her (with me and my cat Milktoast) on the lawn of my rented Virginia farmhouse from that time Tizzy did an East Coast tour and played my town.
And I’ve been searching around the internet, looking at old record reviews, blog posts and interviews.
I don’t know what I’m expecting to find in all this looking and listening.
Answers? Peace? Relief from the guilt of not being there?
I don’t know. I’ll dig into that in the days and nights to come, I guess.
In the meantime, I’ll focus on the pride I take in having known, and learned from, someone special, and concentrate on sending those feelings to the people (like her husband, her sisters, her folks) who need answers and peace and relief right now, much more than I do.
Here's a Tizzy track called "Cut Down Fight," which features Teri rocking the drums and singing back up.
Before a show, she’d be getting her drum kit in order. Doing whatever drummers do to “tune up.”
And because she’d finally been coaxed into singing some back up, she had a vocal mic. But pre-show, it was pushed up high, away from where she was sitting, so when she laughed, it came out over the PA, but it seemed very far away.
The giggle was a nervous thing. Pre-show jitters. It was high-pitched and girlish.
It was kind of unexpected, in that she was not girly at all. She was not a frilly pink thing. Nor was she a bubble or a ditz. The giggle might’ve led you to think she was someone else, but no, she was sharp, smart, thoughful.
You only need to talk to her for about 30 seconds to realize that.
And neither the girlish giggle, nor her adult clear-headedness would have led to you expect what would happen next.
She’d count off the first song, and I swear to you, that when she wanted to, the only person I have ever seen hit the drums hard, or faster, was Dave Grohl.
The nervousness vanished, so did the gentleness, and Teri’s internal confidence, came out.
She could be an inventive drummer, keeping the beat without being boring. And she could rattle the whole damn stage, with pop punk power.
I loved watching other musicians see her perform for the first time, because her ability was so unexpected, and so overwhelming, that you could see their minds being blown, as her kit shook the room.
I got some unexpected news today.
Our friend Martin sent me an email with no details, only saying that he, like me, had lost touch with Teri these last few years.
The attached obituary was a complete shock.
41. Breast cancer. Gone.
She was my definition of cool.
Teri loved lots of very challenging, hip, indie rock music. Bands I never heard of, and often, who’s beat I could not catch. She also really loved Duran Duran and The Partridge Family.
You'd expect the too-cool-for-school indie rocker to eschew the pop drivel, or the Top 40 lover to not have the taste for the complex and fuzzy. The thing that made Teri cool is that she loved both, sincerely, un-ironically and without embarrassment or pretension.
If I learned one thing from her it was this. Like what you like. Don’t apologize for it. Don't wear it as a badge. Just enjoy it. Sincerely and un-ironically. Without embarrassment or pretension.
We had been college housemates at UMass in the early 90s. Collaborated on TV/Film projects. And became great friends.
She was an amazing letter writer. And in the post-college decade, as other, lesser friends drifted away, an envelope in the mailbox from Teri was still a sure thing.
But in the last few years, as she got married and I got married---and my days became more about my job and my family and building a life---I stopped writing, and she stopped writing.
I assumed that she was out there, in Western Massachusetts, doing the things she always did, making music, writing and producing TV and video pieces.
I came home and dug my out Tizzy discs to hear her playing (and occasional singing) again. And later, I’ll go in the garage and try to find that one picture I have of her (with me and my cat Milktoast) on the lawn of my rented Virginia farmhouse from that time Tizzy did an East Coast tour and played my town.
And I’ve been searching around the internet, looking at old record reviews, blog posts and interviews.
I don’t know what I’m expecting to find in all this looking and listening.
Answers? Peace? Relief from the guilt of not being there?
I don’t know. I’ll dig into that in the days and nights to come, I guess.
In the meantime, I’ll focus on the pride I take in having known, and learned from, someone special, and concentrate on sending those feelings to the people (like her husband, her sisters, her folks) who need answers and peace and relief right now, much more than I do.
Here's a Tizzy track called "Cut Down Fight," which features Teri rocking the drums and singing back up.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Bob Dylan "Lay Lady Lay"
It must've been one of the strangest double bills Bob Dylan had ever been on.
It was a late 80s Spring Concert at UMass Amherst, where they always booked several bands---a little something for everybody. So you often go a big name act, a rapper, an alternative outfit and a folkie. Or something like that.
(To my mother's delight, they always held the show on Mother's Day, and me and my sister always opted to be concert-goers instead of gracious children)
This particular year, the headliners were Bob Dylan and De La Soul.
I was a HUGE De La Soul fan at the time. "3 Feet High And Rising" is still one of my favorite albums. So I was front and center for them.
And I was curious to hear Bob Dylan. I knew a bunch of his songs, and I knew he was a legend and all, but I was still years away from any kind of "Dylan Phase."
I was going to have to sit through Dylan, it turned out. De La Soul was scheduled to be the second-to-last act of the day, just before Dylan, but word was being passed that De La's tour bus had been delayed, so Dylan would go on first.
Again, I knew a few Dylan songs, and I know it sounds cliche to say this, but I swear to you, I have no idea what Mr. Dylan said over the course of the next hour. I managed to make out that he was singing "Lay Lady Lay," by virtue of the word of the chorus, but the melody and tempo were virtually unrecognizable.
Dylan wrapped up his set, and I got ready to bounce to De La Soul.
Unfortunately, the MC announced that De La Soul had been detained by the State Police, on suspicion of transporting drugs on their tour bus.
But Mr. Dylan has graciously offered to play an extra long set.
And with that, Dylan came out and said the only recognizable words of the day:
"Zaazz zu zaaaa, Mother's Day!"
Okay, only some of the words were recognizable. But we appreciated his gracious effort!
The station has two Bob Dylan Channels up for his 70th birthday. One is all Dylan songs, and the other is all Dylan covers. And we're asking for your votes, to help put together the Top 70 Bob Dylan songs. Find it all on our website.
See the video on Youtube.
It was a late 80s Spring Concert at UMass Amherst, where they always booked several bands---a little something for everybody. So you often go a big name act, a rapper, an alternative outfit and a folkie. Or something like that.
(To my mother's delight, they always held the show on Mother's Day, and me and my sister always opted to be concert-goers instead of gracious children)
This particular year, the headliners were Bob Dylan and De La Soul.
I was a HUGE De La Soul fan at the time. "3 Feet High And Rising" is still one of my favorite albums. So I was front and center for them.
And I was curious to hear Bob Dylan. I knew a bunch of his songs, and I knew he was a legend and all, but I was still years away from any kind of "Dylan Phase."
I was going to have to sit through Dylan, it turned out. De La Soul was scheduled to be the second-to-last act of the day, just before Dylan, but word was being passed that De La's tour bus had been delayed, so Dylan would go on first.
Again, I knew a few Dylan songs, and I know it sounds cliche to say this, but I swear to you, I have no idea what Mr. Dylan said over the course of the next hour. I managed to make out that he was singing "Lay Lady Lay," by virtue of the word of the chorus, but the melody and tempo were virtually unrecognizable.
Dylan wrapped up his set, and I got ready to bounce to De La Soul.
Unfortunately, the MC announced that De La Soul had been detained by the State Police, on suspicion of transporting drugs on their tour bus.
But Mr. Dylan has graciously offered to play an extra long set.
And with that, Dylan came out and said the only recognizable words of the day:
"Zaazz zu zaaaa, Mother's Day!"
Okay, only some of the words were recognizable. But we appreciated his gracious effort!
The station has two Bob Dylan Channels up for his 70th birthday. One is all Dylan songs, and the other is all Dylan covers. And we're asking for your votes, to help put together the Top 70 Bob Dylan songs. Find it all on our website.
See the video on Youtube.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
The B52s "Butterbean"
Here's another Weekend Post:
This song is so insanely stupid, but wonderful. It's like one of those 80s Chevy Chase comedies that wasn't very good the first time you saw it, but by the 5th time you've seen it, it's the funniest thing ever and you're quoting it non-stop. We loved this one in the UMass dorms. Makes me smile, just thinking about how drunk we must've been.
Weekend posts are a chance to revisit songs that have happy memories, not of anything in particular, other than just hearing the tunes.
Many of these songs were tracks that I played during my 90s stint as an Alternative/Modern Rock radio show. They're tunes that I hardly hear these days, but are wonderful to revisit.
Click on the "Weekend Posts" label below, to see other posts like this.
This song is so insanely stupid, but wonderful. It's like one of those 80s Chevy Chase comedies that wasn't very good the first time you saw it, but by the 5th time you've seen it, it's the funniest thing ever and you're quoting it non-stop. We loved this one in the UMass dorms. Makes me smile, just thinking about how drunk we must've been.
Weekend posts are a chance to revisit songs that have happy memories, not of anything in particular, other than just hearing the tunes.
Many of these songs were tracks that I played during my 90s stint as an Alternative/Modern Rock radio show. They're tunes that I hardly hear these days, but are wonderful to revisit.
Click on the "Weekend Posts" label below, to see other posts like this.
Monday, January 24, 2011
The Cure "Love Cats"
I had a bass guitar for about 5 minutes, during the college years. Mostly because all the guys I hung out with were musicians.
It was Kurt who suggested the bass guitar as an instrument. He could play a several different instruments (including the bass), and he thought the bass needed the least amount of ramp up to get to a point of being competent, so I could join in with the folks who already knew how to play.
What I quickly discovered is that while the bass is easier to pick up than, say, the guitar or the piano, it's also one of the least interesting instruments to play, and learn, if you're just by yourself.
Piano and guitar work great as solo instruments, and you can be entertaining and entertained while practicing. But plunking out basslines on your own could be pretty boring.
Or so I complained.
Kurt thought differently.
He picked up his own bass, and laid down the bassline to "Lovecats" as an example of a cool bass melody to practice.
Though it really isn't that difficult, I never did "ramp up" to the level that I could do "Lovecats" like Kurt did, but when I hear the song, I'm always reminded that Least Complicated doesn't necessarily need to be Least Interesting.
It was Kurt who suggested the bass guitar as an instrument. He could play a several different instruments (including the bass), and he thought the bass needed the least amount of ramp up to get to a point of being competent, so I could join in with the folks who already knew how to play.
What I quickly discovered is that while the bass is easier to pick up than, say, the guitar or the piano, it's also one of the least interesting instruments to play, and learn, if you're just by yourself.
Piano and guitar work great as solo instruments, and you can be entertaining and entertained while practicing. But plunking out basslines on your own could be pretty boring.
Or so I complained.
Kurt thought differently.
He picked up his own bass, and laid down the bassline to "Lovecats" as an example of a cool bass melody to practice.
Though it really isn't that difficult, I never did "ramp up" to the level that I could do "Lovecats" like Kurt did, but when I hear the song, I'm always reminded that Least Complicated doesn't necessarily need to be Least Interesting.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
New Kids On The Block "The Right Stuff"
Don't dish it out, if you can't take it, right?
After post about Adam Duritz in a bunny suit and Michael Stipe as Frank-N-Furter, it seems only fair to post a picture of myself.
Please enjoy is 1990-ish Halloween picture of me and my college roommates as New Kids On The Block.
That's me, in the middle back. Billy, on the left, is supposed to be Donnie, "The Tough One." Martin, front right, is Joey, "The Cute One." Ken, the Norwegian, is supposed to be the brother who never really talked.
Not sure where we all got the vests. None of us were the vest owning types. But you can see on our lapels, some stickers that came out of a NKOTB bubble gum pack. We're each wearing a picture of the New Kid we're supposed to represent, and our posture is a mimic of the picture.
Except for Kurt (in day-glo). Always ahead of his time, he didn't really want to be a New Kid, so he reimagined the group, as if Flavor Flav had replaced one of the boys. Yes, that's a digial alarm clock around his neck.
This was in our Railroad Street apartment, off-campus at UMass, where, no doubt, we had a party, got stupidly drunk, danced like idiots, and never had it better than when we were being silly, together.
After post about Adam Duritz in a bunny suit and Michael Stipe as Frank-N-Furter, it seems only fair to post a picture of myself.
Please enjoy is 1990-ish Halloween picture of me and my college roommates as New Kids On The Block.
Not sure where we all got the vests. None of us were the vest owning types. But you can see on our lapels, some stickers that came out of a NKOTB bubble gum pack. We're each wearing a picture of the New Kid we're supposed to represent, and our posture is a mimic of the picture.
Except for Kurt (in day-glo). Always ahead of his time, he didn't really want to be a New Kid, so he reimagined the group, as if Flavor Flav had replaced one of the boys. Yes, that's a digial alarm clock around his neck.
This was in our Railroad Street apartment, off-campus at UMass, where, no doubt, we had a party, got stupidly drunk, danced like idiots, and never had it better than when we were being silly, together.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
R.E.M. "So, Central Rain"
My friend Ross posts about music, on this cool Facebook page called "Mythic Radio." On Tuesday, he wrote about R.E.M.'s "So. Central Rain" and asked "Who else remembers EXACTLY where they were when they first heard" the song. And as part of the post, he put up an early R.E.M. appearance on David Letterman, when the song was so new it didn't even have a name yet.
I can't say that I exactly remember where I was when I first heard the song, but I know where I was, the first time I saw that Letterman performance. I was living a few floors below Ross.
UMass, 1988. The beginning of sophomore year in McNamara Hall.
I'd already established a small group of friends on the first floor of the dorm, but we were all intrigued by our new neighbor. Brett was a transfer student from Georgia, and he had a way about him. A bit odd, quietly brilliant, perceptively sensitive, and whole lot of hilarious, when he wanted to be.
He, like several of the others in the group, played guitar. And introduced us to indie bands that hadn't crossed our path yet.
Being from Georgia, he was an R.E.M. fan.
I already owned a copy of "Document," but Brett filled in the backstory of the previous R.E.M. albums. It was he who told me about the famous Letterman appearance. And it was in our common/TV area, that I first saw it, on a warbly videotape. Probably a tape of a tape.
The musicians in the group set about learning several R.E.M. tunes, that were performed and perfected, incessantly.
If the noise got to be a little much, or a little late, a Resident Assistant would stick his or her head in, and tell us to keep it down.
Ross was an R.A. and was known to be tough, but for some reason (simpatico musical tastes?), he never busted us.
On the flip side was Holly the R.A., who was as sweet as could be, and had a soft, maternal spot for our group. But perhaps because she was our friend, she felt, at least on that one particular night, like she couldn't let us slide.
The gang was running through "It's The End Of The World As We Know It" for probably the Four Hundredth time in two hours. Holly had already asked us a couple of times to keep it down, which we probably honored for about 2 seconds, before cranking things back up.
This final time she came in, all her reserve of resolve pooled, and she did what she had to do. She shut us down for the night.
It's no fun being the bad guy, but Holly played the heavy, and then left us to think about the position we'd put her in.
And here's what I think of, when I hear "So. Central Rain."
About 20 minutes later, at Brett's urging, I was sent to the front door of the R.A. office where Holly had retreated. I instructed her to look out her back door.
Positioned there were the rest of the guys, Brett strumming his acoustic guitar, all of them singing, quietly, just the chorus to the song:
"We're sorry. Sorry. Sorry . . . "
It was quietly brilliant, hilarious, sensitive and odd. And very very memorable.
I can't say that I exactly remember where I was when I first heard the song, but I know where I was, the first time I saw that Letterman performance. I was living a few floors below Ross.
UMass, 1988. The beginning of sophomore year in McNamara Hall.
I'd already established a small group of friends on the first floor of the dorm, but we were all intrigued by our new neighbor. Brett was a transfer student from Georgia, and he had a way about him. A bit odd, quietly brilliant, perceptively sensitive, and whole lot of hilarious, when he wanted to be.
He, like several of the others in the group, played guitar. And introduced us to indie bands that hadn't crossed our path yet.
Being from Georgia, he was an R.E.M. fan.
I already owned a copy of "Document," but Brett filled in the backstory of the previous R.E.M. albums. It was he who told me about the famous Letterman appearance. And it was in our common/TV area, that I first saw it, on a warbly videotape. Probably a tape of a tape.
The musicians in the group set about learning several R.E.M. tunes, that were performed and perfected, incessantly.
If the noise got to be a little much, or a little late, a Resident Assistant would stick his or her head in, and tell us to keep it down.
Ross was an R.A. and was known to be tough, but for some reason (simpatico musical tastes?), he never busted us.
On the flip side was Holly the R.A., who was as sweet as could be, and had a soft, maternal spot for our group. But perhaps because she was our friend, she felt, at least on that one particular night, like she couldn't let us slide.
The gang was running through "It's The End Of The World As We Know It" for probably the Four Hundredth time in two hours. Holly had already asked us a couple of times to keep it down, which we probably honored for about 2 seconds, before cranking things back up.
This final time she came in, all her reserve of resolve pooled, and she did what she had to do. She shut us down for the night.
It's no fun being the bad guy, but Holly played the heavy, and then left us to think about the position we'd put her in.
And here's what I think of, when I hear "So. Central Rain."
About 20 minutes later, at Brett's urging, I was sent to the front door of the R.A. office where Holly had retreated. I instructed her to look out her back door.
Positioned there were the rest of the guys, Brett strumming his acoustic guitar, all of them singing, quietly, just the chorus to the song:
"We're sorry. Sorry. Sorry . . . "
It was quietly brilliant, hilarious, sensitive and odd. And very very memorable.
Friday, June 18, 2010
The B-52s “Planet Claire”
They can’t all be happy memories, right?
Not that this is a sad one. Just an uneasy one.
I think unease comes from the mix of emotions and images.
This song takes me to a very specific place and time: Freshman year of college.
It’s a pretty incredible time. You experience this explosion of freedom, new friends, new situations, new possibilities. A giddiness accompanies nearly every situation.
Every Friday that fall, I’d meet up in the dorm room of one particular friend, before hitting a party or whatever. We’d meet in this particular friend’s room, because he was always the last to be ready to go out.
If we planned to go out at 9, let’s say, then I and the other guys would show up at, you know, 9ish. And he’s just be getting out of the shower.
He’d roll into the room, wrapped in a towel, and put on this favorite record, The B-52s debut album. And then he’d get dressed.
So if you ask me what I feel when I hear this song, I’ll tell you that it immediately conjures up feelings of excitement and anticipation, knowing that in an hour or so, we’d be drinking and mingling and talking to pretty, pretty co-eds.
But if you ask me what I see when I hear this song, well, my mind’s eye, unfortunately, goes straight to my friend, dropping the towel, dancing and dressing while singing “Planet Claire.”
And there’s the unease. The emotion and the image don’t match, and my brain can’t reconcile the two.
Best to hit forward on the disc player. Everyone is dressed by track #2.
Not that this is a sad one. Just an uneasy one.
I think unease comes from the mix of emotions and images.
This song takes me to a very specific place and time: Freshman year of college.
It’s a pretty incredible time. You experience this explosion of freedom, new friends, new situations, new possibilities. A giddiness accompanies nearly every situation.
Every Friday that fall, I’d meet up in the dorm room of one particular friend, before hitting a party or whatever. We’d meet in this particular friend’s room, because he was always the last to be ready to go out.
If we planned to go out at 9, let’s say, then I and the other guys would show up at, you know, 9ish. And he’s just be getting out of the shower.
He’d roll into the room, wrapped in a towel, and put on this favorite record, The B-52s debut album. And then he’d get dressed.
So if you ask me what I feel when I hear this song, I’ll tell you that it immediately conjures up feelings of excitement and anticipation, knowing that in an hour or so, we’d be drinking and mingling and talking to pretty, pretty co-eds.
But if you ask me what I see when I hear this song, well, my mind’s eye, unfortunately, goes straight to my friend, dropping the towel, dancing and dressing while singing “Planet Claire.”
And there’s the unease. The emotion and the image don’t match, and my brain can’t reconcile the two.
Best to hit forward on the disc player. Everyone is dressed by track #2.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Grateful Dead “Uncle John’s Band”
I was not a Deadhead growing up. I had the vaguest knowledge of “Casey Jones” and “Touch Of Grey” and a few other radio regulars. But the whole Dead culture was something I was not tuned in to. Or perhaps, in my suburban existence, was shelter from.
College.
I had a girlfriend, and while she wasn’t a Deadhead, many of her friends were, and they were my introduction to the music and the culture and the attitude.
One hot Fourth Of July weekend, we were all invited out to a western Massachusetts backyard barbecue, by one of the gang, who promised that the food would be great, there was a pool, and a bunch of her friends had a great Dead cover band that would play in her backyard, into the night.
I remember sitting in a kiddie pool, drinking a beer, excited as I watched the dudes set up.
“When’s the band going to start?” I asked.
“It’s gonna be great!” said my hostess.
The band broke for lunch. Yes, the hamburgers were delicious.
“When’s the band going to start?” I asked.
“Oh, they’ll start soon!”
The band tuned up.
And tuned up.
And tuned up.
I played frisbee, barefoot on the grass.
“When’s the band going to start?” I asked out loud, but to no one in particular.
With dusk gathering, after much tuning up, the band took a stab at “Uncle John’s Band,” which was cool, because it was my girlfriend’s favorite.
After the one song “sound check,” they took a break to fill their beers.
The lonely amps sat in the corner of the yard, unattended, as the band filled and refilled their cups. I asked my hostess, “Are they going to play anymore?
She said, “You worry too much.”
And that was my introduction to Dead culture and attitude. There are those in life that soak up the sun, and the kiddie pool, and the beer, and the hamburgers, and their bare feet on the grass, and their college girlfriend, and their tribe that has migrated from a classroom to a backyard in Western Mass . . . and there are those in life that wait for the band to start.
If you’re a Deadhead, or a Friend of a Deadhead, this week on mvyradio, we’re offering a “Friend of the Devil, Friend of mvyradio” t-shirt for a donation. You can support the station, and show your pride in the tribe. And for more Dead, check out Shakedown Stream.
College.
I had a girlfriend, and while she wasn’t a Deadhead, many of her friends were, and they were my introduction to the music and the culture and the attitude.
One hot Fourth Of July weekend, we were all invited out to a western Massachusetts backyard barbecue, by one of the gang, who promised that the food would be great, there was a pool, and a bunch of her friends had a great Dead cover band that would play in her backyard, into the night.
I remember sitting in a kiddie pool, drinking a beer, excited as I watched the dudes set up.
“When’s the band going to start?” I asked.
“It’s gonna be great!” said my hostess.
The band broke for lunch. Yes, the hamburgers were delicious.
“When’s the band going to start?” I asked.
“Oh, they’ll start soon!”
The band tuned up.
And tuned up.
And tuned up.
I played frisbee, barefoot on the grass.
“When’s the band going to start?” I asked out loud, but to no one in particular.
With dusk gathering, after much tuning up, the band took a stab at “Uncle John’s Band,” which was cool, because it was my girlfriend’s favorite.
After the one song “sound check,” they took a break to fill their beers.
The lonely amps sat in the corner of the yard, unattended, as the band filled and refilled their cups. I asked my hostess, “Are they going to play anymore?
She said, “You worry too much.”
And that was my introduction to Dead culture and attitude. There are those in life that soak up the sun, and the kiddie pool, and the beer, and the hamburgers, and their bare feet on the grass, and their college girlfriend, and their tribe that has migrated from a classroom to a backyard in Western Mass . . . and there are those in life that wait for the band to start.
If you’re a Deadhead, or a Friend of a Deadhead, this week on mvyradio, we’re offering a “Friend of the Devil, Friend of mvyradio” t-shirt for a donation. You can support the station, and show your pride in the tribe. And for more Dead, check out Shakedown Stream.
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