I wanted to take a post to honor the life of Professor James Valiant and extend my sympathies and condolences to his family and friends, as well as my York College peers who share grief in his passing.
Professor Valiant was indeed one of a kind. I'll never forget seeing him for the first time during my freshman year Opera Theatre workshop and considering him pretty imposing. A straight-postured bearded man who entered stealthily from stage right of Wolf Hall, smiled without showing any teeth and nodded slightly upon being introduced, and largely never said a word unless spoken to. When he did speak, I was a bit taken aback by how truly soft spoken he was. Having spent a great deal of my social/academic hours (especially at that point in my life) amongst music and theatre enthusiasts, a social circle which at times, no offense, seemed to center around competitions for attention and as a result, was anything but quiet and conservative, Professor Valiant seemed to clash with that perhaps unwarranted generalization. However, his demeanor was not that of a timid man, but of a confident and self-assured one. His reserved demeanor did nothing but add more weight to the thoughts and opinions he did express.
Professor Valiant was anything but an overly serious man as well. He was, as you would expect, a very clever guy, who every now and again would catch you off guard with a little pun or observation of some sort that would (at least in my case) send you into a fit of laughter. I think his wordplays were more situational than anything else and would be tough to relay via this blog, but I will share one time when I walked in on a conversation he was having with other students regarding his weekend and he said something to the effect of "one of my friends got married and I'm still trying to piece together the weekend. Yesterday I wasn't exactly up for the piano." His polite way of saying that he got totally smashed on Saturday was incredible and made him all the more relatable to his students. Not the drinking aspect, obviously, but his openness and willingness to share of himself. I feel like this is almost cliche to say about the deceased, but Professor Valiant was a man who truly seemed to have a joy for life and the wisdom to know when to work hard and when to sit back and enjoy it a bit.
His talent leaves me at a loss for words as a painist, vocalist, and overall performer. His turn as Elijah in the oratorio by the same name was moving to say the least, and his abilities as a pianist and organist were incredible to see and hear. The thing I believe I'll remember most about Professor Valiant is his willingness to teach and share with anyone who would care to learn.
To be fair, Doctors Woodfield and Muzzo were also beyond generous with their time and efforts with me as a musician and I'm left in awe of the fact that they continue to bring that passion for teaching and improvement to York College with them everyday, but as a non-music major with quite simply a passion for music, I always kind of considered my advancement in music kind of secondary to those within the major. That's not to say that I didn't bust my hump in my musical endeavors and milk all the knowledge I could out of these great professors during class time, but I kind of figured that the out of class time would be reserved for those paying for the music space and trying to make a future living out of it. When professor Valiant complimented my voice freshman year and asked if I wanted to work with him on some things, I quickly said I was a writing major, essentially giving him cause to help out someone else. He aptly replied, "so what?" and we went to work later on that week and a couple more times over the course of my time at York as performances with Rhapsody and otherwise came up. His desire to go above and beyond to help me made me want to go above and beyond and meet his (again Muzzo and Woodfield included) expectations. That kind of attitude is contagious and was everything you could want out an instructor and to a degree, mentor.
Professor Valiant's personality was so unique that Dennis and I took to forming a scale of ruggedness with his name at the top. Other notable names on the list he beat out were Kimbo Slice, Grimace, Popeye the Sailor Man, and the inscrutable Chuck Norris. When we told him about this list, he laughed heartily and gave the same humble nod I'd seen on the first day I'd met him.
In short, I know of few others as classy, talented, and professional as Mr. James Valiant and his impact on my life, as brief as our interaction was, will never be forgotten. In truth, I considered Professor Valiant a role model, which I feel are harder to find at 21 after you've found your own opinions and voice in the world, but I think that's just further testimony for the quality of Mr. Valiant's character. His passion for life, sense of humor, open heart, and ability to leave the stage on the stage and be a listener off of it are qualities I try to live by every day. Professor Valiant personified, in my opinion, how a man should conduct himself and I'm honored to have known him and grieve with the rest of my classmates and peers.
Song of the Day: God Bless The Child-Blood Sweat and Tears
Jazz Song of the Day: Spanish Fantasy Part III-Chick Corea
Friday, October 5, 2012
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Love's Humble Veneration
As I'm sure most who care enough to read this blog already know, my grandmother passed away a couple of weeks ago. Much like I did when my grandfather passed, I wanted to pay tribute to her likely in the one way I know how, by devoting a blog post to her memory. I had the honor of performing her eulogy and, for once, I think I said it best the first time. The following is a loose translation of the words I spoke for her largely off the cuff. I thank my friends and family for their support and once again it was my privilege to speak on behalf of the memory of Evelyn Policastro.
My grandparents had always been people of routine. That is to say that even when I was very young my grandparents always seemed old(er) in their actions and lifestyle. A great deal of their life hinged upon shopping at various stores like Caldor and Kohl's, where my grandfather would alternate between waiting for my grandmother in the car and waiting for her in the store where he would chat up most any salesgirl who would listen in his own "youthful" way. My grandparents went to bed at eight and woke as early as four in the morning. They would eat their meals at the same set times everyday and unless they were on vacation, had a doctor's appointment, or were visiting the family, they never strayed from this routine.
I've always felt that this routine spoke volumes about their character and their relationship with one another. The fact that they could relive such repetition each day and still find joy in life and each other is something I can't help but be envious of in a strange way. As kids (speaking for Noelle and myself) we never grew weary of our grandparents' monotony and always considered it a real treat and almost vacation to be with them. Again, I feel that speaks volumes about the special dynamic my grandparents had and the warm atmosphere they built around themselves.
Anyway, I bring this up in order to set the stage for what will always be my favorite memory of my grandmother. As the preceding paragraphs dictate, I'm sure, my grandparents were never, even in my youth, very physically active people. With the exception of what I would only call "flashes" of memories of playing ping pong with my grandfather back before I even started school, and admittedly frequent walks around the Manorville area, my grandparents were largely, albeit pleasantly, sedentary people. Until one fine summer's day when we found a bird laying in the street.
There I was, no more than 10 years old in the back seat of my grandfather's car, likely en route to another shopping session when my grandfather noticed a bird laying right in the middle of the street. Somehow I was elected the vehicle resident orthologist and was told to go see if it was alright. Now, even at 10, I was no idiot and said there was no way I was touching that thing with my bare hands. As if she'd been prepping for this moment her whole life, my grandmother swoops in with a glove from the front seat (this being the only car I know of where the term "glove box" was taken literally) and now it seems I have nowhere else to store my short straw and have to bite the bullet and check on the bird. My grandfather was kind enough to step out of the car with me, but didn't go much further as I approached the bird cautiously, with my only intent to move it out of the road and harms way. After much stalling and what I'm sure was less minutes than my imagination would have me believe, I reached out and touched the bird. My touch was apparently quite healing as the now mended fowl sprung to life and flew out of my reach like a shot.
What should have been a fitting end to an uplifting, underwhelming story took a strange turn indeed when the bird flew directly into the open car window and fluttered about the automobile with my grandmother now flailing wildly inside it. Moments ticked by with the bird not leaving and at last in was my grandmother who flew the coop, opening the car door and sprinting down the street faster than I had ever seen her move. This sudden burst of passionate athleticism was enough to send my grandfather and I into stitches and I can't think of a time where he's ever laughed harder. The incident left such an impact on me that I recall it wasn't until the next day when it registered how bizarre it was the bird flew in the car at all. I was more focused on my grandmother's aftermath for quite some time.
Beyond that my memories of my grandmother were, while no less meaningful, largely stereotypical, I guess. The spoilings of great food at all times, being slipped two bucks for no reason at all every two or three visits and a friendly face, heart, and ear of love and support, and so on. My grandmother was always one who put her family before herself. This characteristic combined with her intense interest in things in my life that I considered pretty mundane is something I will always admire. Many of our phone conversations consisted of her asking what I was up to and me casually replying that I was going to play basketball or to rehearsal or something, and by the end of our talk a always was left feeling pretty amped about what I considered so pedestrial just minutes before. Yeah, I am going to play basketball/rehearse and it should be a lot of fun. She was, in a sense, an instrument of perspective that helped keep life's simple pleasures in scope. For that I couldn't be more grateful.
Being a victim of dementia, it was tough to watch her mind decline over the weeks and months, especially as the end grew closer. Further elaboration on that would do nothing but dreg up the wrong kind of emotions and tarnish the legacy I'm trying to honor, but I will say that I take great comfort in that even as her health declined, she never lost her childlike wonder for life and intense love for her family. I can't help but consider that a blessing of some sort and I'm relieved she's no longer in pain.
My family faces many changes going forward as a whole and as individuals. I have mixed feelings about these changes, which I think is okay. I'll always take solace in the fact that even if it was only for a little while, my grandmother brought out the best in my family and brought out the best in me. I thank her and love her for that.
Song of the Day: I Can't Quit Her-Blood Sweat and Tears
Jazz Song of the Day: Mexican Hip Dance-Horace Silver
My grandparents had always been people of routine. That is to say that even when I was very young my grandparents always seemed old(er) in their actions and lifestyle. A great deal of their life hinged upon shopping at various stores like Caldor and Kohl's, where my grandfather would alternate between waiting for my grandmother in the car and waiting for her in the store where he would chat up most any salesgirl who would listen in his own "youthful" way. My grandparents went to bed at eight and woke as early as four in the morning. They would eat their meals at the same set times everyday and unless they were on vacation, had a doctor's appointment, or were visiting the family, they never strayed from this routine.
I've always felt that this routine spoke volumes about their character and their relationship with one another. The fact that they could relive such repetition each day and still find joy in life and each other is something I can't help but be envious of in a strange way. As kids (speaking for Noelle and myself) we never grew weary of our grandparents' monotony and always considered it a real treat and almost vacation to be with them. Again, I feel that speaks volumes about the special dynamic my grandparents had and the warm atmosphere they built around themselves.
Anyway, I bring this up in order to set the stage for what will always be my favorite memory of my grandmother. As the preceding paragraphs dictate, I'm sure, my grandparents were never, even in my youth, very physically active people. With the exception of what I would only call "flashes" of memories of playing ping pong with my grandfather back before I even started school, and admittedly frequent walks around the Manorville area, my grandparents were largely, albeit pleasantly, sedentary people. Until one fine summer's day when we found a bird laying in the street.
There I was, no more than 10 years old in the back seat of my grandfather's car, likely en route to another shopping session when my grandfather noticed a bird laying right in the middle of the street. Somehow I was elected the vehicle resident orthologist and was told to go see if it was alright. Now, even at 10, I was no idiot and said there was no way I was touching that thing with my bare hands. As if she'd been prepping for this moment her whole life, my grandmother swoops in with a glove from the front seat (this being the only car I know of where the term "glove box" was taken literally) and now it seems I have nowhere else to store my short straw and have to bite the bullet and check on the bird. My grandfather was kind enough to step out of the car with me, but didn't go much further as I approached the bird cautiously, with my only intent to move it out of the road and harms way. After much stalling and what I'm sure was less minutes than my imagination would have me believe, I reached out and touched the bird. My touch was apparently quite healing as the now mended fowl sprung to life and flew out of my reach like a shot.
What should have been a fitting end to an uplifting, underwhelming story took a strange turn indeed when the bird flew directly into the open car window and fluttered about the automobile with my grandmother now flailing wildly inside it. Moments ticked by with the bird not leaving and at last in was my grandmother who flew the coop, opening the car door and sprinting down the street faster than I had ever seen her move. This sudden burst of passionate athleticism was enough to send my grandfather and I into stitches and I can't think of a time where he's ever laughed harder. The incident left such an impact on me that I recall it wasn't until the next day when it registered how bizarre it was the bird flew in the car at all. I was more focused on my grandmother's aftermath for quite some time.
Beyond that my memories of my grandmother were, while no less meaningful, largely stereotypical, I guess. The spoilings of great food at all times, being slipped two bucks for no reason at all every two or three visits and a friendly face, heart, and ear of love and support, and so on. My grandmother was always one who put her family before herself. This characteristic combined with her intense interest in things in my life that I considered pretty mundane is something I will always admire. Many of our phone conversations consisted of her asking what I was up to and me casually replying that I was going to play basketball or to rehearsal or something, and by the end of our talk a always was left feeling pretty amped about what I considered so pedestrial just minutes before. Yeah, I am going to play basketball/rehearse and it should be a lot of fun. She was, in a sense, an instrument of perspective that helped keep life's simple pleasures in scope. For that I couldn't be more grateful.
Being a victim of dementia, it was tough to watch her mind decline over the weeks and months, especially as the end grew closer. Further elaboration on that would do nothing but dreg up the wrong kind of emotions and tarnish the legacy I'm trying to honor, but I will say that I take great comfort in that even as her health declined, she never lost her childlike wonder for life and intense love for her family. I can't help but consider that a blessing of some sort and I'm relieved she's no longer in pain.
My family faces many changes going forward as a whole and as individuals. I have mixed feelings about these changes, which I think is okay. I'll always take solace in the fact that even if it was only for a little while, my grandmother brought out the best in my family and brought out the best in me. I thank her and love her for that.
Song of the Day: I Can't Quit Her-Blood Sweat and Tears
Jazz Song of the Day: Mexican Hip Dance-Horace Silver
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Nobody Smokes Games Anymore
The one and only Stilts providing the impetus for this title as I see him for the first time in months and he promptly critiques my cigar choice (a very rare dabbling of mine). It was nice to see him, too.
Just to get it out of the way for family members and concerned friends who were unaware I enjoy cigars, I want to quantify just how rare these occasions are. I've smoked a cigar a total of four times in my life, including the time referenced above. Once casually playing poker, once at Lake George, once on the porch of the 727 to celebrate graduation, and now this Counting Crows show, so we're not talking "I only smoke on the weekends in social settings, so I don't have a problem," we're genuinely talking about special occasions, of which this concert fit the bill. If you don't believe me, you ought to see me hold one; I'm definitely not the smoothest with it.
Anyway, this past weekend sent me on what I would consider my equivalent of a modest vacation as I hopped to the sometimes aptly named "Dirty Jersey" to visit a couple of buds and more importantly, see the Counting Crows. Initially, I had only planned to set up camp at the Madden house, courtesy of Where Did You Get That Corn's own, Dennis Madden, see the show, get some sleep and hit the trail on Monday morning to the island so long they had to name it after an adjective. However, chance would have it that both Denny (different person than Dennis) and I had off on Monday and seeing as how he was a comparatively short 45 minutes away, I decided to visit with him as well.
With construction going on atop the George Washington Bridge, I decided to take my life in my hands take the BQE towards Jersey, and I couldn't be more pleased with the decision. On a clear day the BQE affords some of the most beautiful views I've ever seen. I don't want to get overly sentimental about it, for fear of over paraphrasing Sufjan Stevens, but it really is a kind of like a time capsule of America where you see kind of the past and present of innovation and Americana come together on one really busted up and borderline poorly planned roadway. There's a pretty obvious metaphor there, but me recycling it won't make it original. I recommend the journey to anyone.
That feat of urban scenery aside, the rest of the trip to Dennis' was pretty uneventful. I pulled up and we went about our tradition of PJ Wellahan's (spelling likely wrong) before loitering around his slice of suburbia and hopping the Patco to America's capital of something unpleasant, Camden New Jersey and the conversely beautiful SBC concert venue. Kevin, Brett, and his sister, Caitlin, were in attendance taking in the whole of the xpn fest, which the Crows were closing out that evening. Great to see Kevin again, with a great tan, and of course, Brett, with his less flattering sun-induced freckles. (That'll show him.) Sadly, the confines of their work schedules, combined with a rather lukewarm interest sent the pair to the exits before the Crows took the stage, but nonetheless, great to see them for a spell.
Now to talk about the show. The show, quite simply, was a revelation. In hindsight (all two seconds of it) that word choice might be a little over dramitic (In this blog? Imagine that.) but that's really what it was. It opened my eyes to facets of the Counting Crows' music, and also my biases as a concert goer. In terms of their music, I went in expecting a sound not to be found on their albums. Youtube clips and relatively passionate fandom had led me to expect a sound only kind of based on the groundwork of their studio sessions. A sound that kind of took on the form of almost a spoken word reading where the band provides the background of familiar chords and rhythms so that Adam Duritz can kind of take the sound and song wherever he wants to go. To an extent, I was right, as I've never seen a performer interact with the words he was saying a passionately as Duritz (though, to be fair, most frontmen are also playing a guitar that prevents truly "cutting loose" for lack of a better term), but I was floored by the true musicianship behind him. Don't get me wrong, all you have to do is listen to the albums to know the band is talented, but the amount of solos and improvisation taking place on stage was a real surprise and well...revelation. The best way I can categorize it, is to say remember when I was upset Incubus played rote tracks of their greatest hits? That's what I expected from CC and was totally thrown a curveball of musicianship from vocals to bass. Very pleasantly surprised in that regard.
The Counting Crows also provided something I've never encountered as a concert goer. I realized that I am a concert attendee of extremes. With Wilco being perhaps the only exception, I've either gone to shows where you either sit down and shut up (Bela Fleck, Edgar Meyer, Bon Iver) or you dance all night like an absolute fiend until they kick you out, or Keller Williams plays so long that you concede defeat and hobble out of the venue exhausted (Incubus, Phish, DMB, etc.) Sure, all those high energy groups have cool down numbers here and there to keep the crowd and themselves fresh (except Oasis, I recall that being an hour and a half of face melting with no training wheels for those ill prepared), but largely the band comes out, jazzes you up, pumps the breaks a few times to avoid the burn out and finishes with a flourish. The Counting Crows are the first group I've seen where people are just as excited to here the ballads as the jams, A Long December being the classic example. My point is, while the band's energy was undoubtedly high, the show was filled with dynamic shifts that kind of served to temper the intensity in the crowd. You'd get a couple of upbeat numbers and then the band would pull the plug and play a slower song the crowd would be just as happy to hear. As a result, a lot of the show left people just kind of standing and watching the group. (Novel idea, I know.) The result of that is a very disinterested looking audience when in fact the opposite was true.
I was disappointed not to get "Cowboys" or "Round Here" but "Another Horsedreamer's Blues" and Rain King" were absolute showstoppers and hearing "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby" and "Ghost Train" back to back was a heck of a consolation. My only lament is that the group waited until the very end of the show to truly blow the roof off the place and give the audience license to groove. With "Rain King" and "Hanginaround" to close out the main set, I made up for about an hour and 15 minutes worth of immobility and likely danced the length of half the lawn, but just like that, they were gone. I guess the goal of every show is to leave the them wanting more, but I feel like the Crows did that to the point of annoyance. Suffice to say they really peaked in the late going.
The true end of the show came with a genuinely classy mention of a local charity fighting to put an end to physical abuse of women and empower victims and then a pretty genuine appeal for those in attendance to vote and take pride in their nation and be the change and whatnot. Those moments always seem to strike funny chords with me. I mean, far be it for me to say that musicians shouldn't hype their causes and what they think is important, but it's hard for musicians and celebrities not to come off a little preachy when they, in their comfortable lifestyle, stand atop a very literal pulpit (or podium, I guess is a better word) and appeal to the masses to change the world. With that said, I think Adam seemed pretty darn sincere and when the concert closed with "This Land Is Your Land" I won't exactly call it moving, but it wasn't as trite as it could have been. I see a lot of similarities in our stage presence and even writing style. He seems to have a good heart and head on his shoulders. A great show from a group I'd jump at the chance to see again.
The visit with Denny was equally memorable and quite a gift to tack on to a great Sunday, but largely untypable, just because on paper all we did was go to BWW (really into acronyms today), where Denny was reminded of the day of the week, and shoot some hoops on both wet and dry areas of a basketball court, but I share a unique friendship with both Denny and Dennis, where we can do next to nothing and still leave with memories that will last a lifetime. Happy to spend that time with them and I look forward to them and other Jersey, PA, and Maryland friends making the journey to NY for a good time. *cough*
Song of the Day: Dear God (Sincerely M.O.F.)-Monsters Of Folk
Jazz Song of the Day: Oop-Bop-Sh'bam-Dizzy Gillespie
Just to get it out of the way for family members and concerned friends who were unaware I enjoy cigars, I want to quantify just how rare these occasions are. I've smoked a cigar a total of four times in my life, including the time referenced above. Once casually playing poker, once at Lake George, once on the porch of the 727 to celebrate graduation, and now this Counting Crows show, so we're not talking "I only smoke on the weekends in social settings, so I don't have a problem," we're genuinely talking about special occasions, of which this concert fit the bill. If you don't believe me, you ought to see me hold one; I'm definitely not the smoothest with it.
Anyway, this past weekend sent me on what I would consider my equivalent of a modest vacation as I hopped to the sometimes aptly named "Dirty Jersey" to visit a couple of buds and more importantly, see the Counting Crows. Initially, I had only planned to set up camp at the Madden house, courtesy of Where Did You Get That Corn's own, Dennis Madden, see the show, get some sleep and hit the trail on Monday morning to the island so long they had to name it after an adjective. However, chance would have it that both Denny (different person than Dennis) and I had off on Monday and seeing as how he was a comparatively short 45 minutes away, I decided to visit with him as well.
With construction going on atop the George Washington Bridge, I decided to take my life in my hands take the BQE towards Jersey, and I couldn't be more pleased with the decision. On a clear day the BQE affords some of the most beautiful views I've ever seen. I don't want to get overly sentimental about it, for fear of over paraphrasing Sufjan Stevens, but it really is a kind of like a time capsule of America where you see kind of the past and present of innovation and Americana come together on one really busted up and borderline poorly planned roadway. There's a pretty obvious metaphor there, but me recycling it won't make it original. I recommend the journey to anyone.
That feat of urban scenery aside, the rest of the trip to Dennis' was pretty uneventful. I pulled up and we went about our tradition of PJ Wellahan's (spelling likely wrong) before loitering around his slice of suburbia and hopping the Patco to America's capital of something unpleasant, Camden New Jersey and the conversely beautiful SBC concert venue. Kevin, Brett, and his sister, Caitlin, were in attendance taking in the whole of the xpn fest, which the Crows were closing out that evening. Great to see Kevin again, with a great tan, and of course, Brett, with his less flattering sun-induced freckles. (That'll show him.) Sadly, the confines of their work schedules, combined with a rather lukewarm interest sent the pair to the exits before the Crows took the stage, but nonetheless, great to see them for a spell.
Now to talk about the show. The show, quite simply, was a revelation. In hindsight (all two seconds of it) that word choice might be a little over dramitic (In this blog? Imagine that.) but that's really what it was. It opened my eyes to facets of the Counting Crows' music, and also my biases as a concert goer. In terms of their music, I went in expecting a sound not to be found on their albums. Youtube clips and relatively passionate fandom had led me to expect a sound only kind of based on the groundwork of their studio sessions. A sound that kind of took on the form of almost a spoken word reading where the band provides the background of familiar chords and rhythms so that Adam Duritz can kind of take the sound and song wherever he wants to go. To an extent, I was right, as I've never seen a performer interact with the words he was saying a passionately as Duritz (though, to be fair, most frontmen are also playing a guitar that prevents truly "cutting loose" for lack of a better term), but I was floored by the true musicianship behind him. Don't get me wrong, all you have to do is listen to the albums to know the band is talented, but the amount of solos and improvisation taking place on stage was a real surprise and well...revelation. The best way I can categorize it, is to say remember when I was upset Incubus played rote tracks of their greatest hits? That's what I expected from CC and was totally thrown a curveball of musicianship from vocals to bass. Very pleasantly surprised in that regard.
The Counting Crows also provided something I've never encountered as a concert goer. I realized that I am a concert attendee of extremes. With Wilco being perhaps the only exception, I've either gone to shows where you either sit down and shut up (Bela Fleck, Edgar Meyer, Bon Iver) or you dance all night like an absolute fiend until they kick you out, or Keller Williams plays so long that you concede defeat and hobble out of the venue exhausted (Incubus, Phish, DMB, etc.) Sure, all those high energy groups have cool down numbers here and there to keep the crowd and themselves fresh (except Oasis, I recall that being an hour and a half of face melting with no training wheels for those ill prepared), but largely the band comes out, jazzes you up, pumps the breaks a few times to avoid the burn out and finishes with a flourish. The Counting Crows are the first group I've seen where people are just as excited to here the ballads as the jams, A Long December being the classic example. My point is, while the band's energy was undoubtedly high, the show was filled with dynamic shifts that kind of served to temper the intensity in the crowd. You'd get a couple of upbeat numbers and then the band would pull the plug and play a slower song the crowd would be just as happy to hear. As a result, a lot of the show left people just kind of standing and watching the group. (Novel idea, I know.) The result of that is a very disinterested looking audience when in fact the opposite was true.
I was disappointed not to get "Cowboys" or "Round Here" but "Another Horsedreamer's Blues" and Rain King" were absolute showstoppers and hearing "Mrs. Potter's Lullaby" and "Ghost Train" back to back was a heck of a consolation. My only lament is that the group waited until the very end of the show to truly blow the roof off the place and give the audience license to groove. With "Rain King" and "Hanginaround" to close out the main set, I made up for about an hour and 15 minutes worth of immobility and likely danced the length of half the lawn, but just like that, they were gone. I guess the goal of every show is to leave the them wanting more, but I feel like the Crows did that to the point of annoyance. Suffice to say they really peaked in the late going.
The true end of the show came with a genuinely classy mention of a local charity fighting to put an end to physical abuse of women and empower victims and then a pretty genuine appeal for those in attendance to vote and take pride in their nation and be the change and whatnot. Those moments always seem to strike funny chords with me. I mean, far be it for me to say that musicians shouldn't hype their causes and what they think is important, but it's hard for musicians and celebrities not to come off a little preachy when they, in their comfortable lifestyle, stand atop a very literal pulpit (or podium, I guess is a better word) and appeal to the masses to change the world. With that said, I think Adam seemed pretty darn sincere and when the concert closed with "This Land Is Your Land" I won't exactly call it moving, but it wasn't as trite as it could have been. I see a lot of similarities in our stage presence and even writing style. He seems to have a good heart and head on his shoulders. A great show from a group I'd jump at the chance to see again.
The visit with Denny was equally memorable and quite a gift to tack on to a great Sunday, but largely untypable, just because on paper all we did was go to BWW (really into acronyms today), where Denny was reminded of the day of the week, and shoot some hoops on both wet and dry areas of a basketball court, but I share a unique friendship with both Denny and Dennis, where we can do next to nothing and still leave with memories that will last a lifetime. Happy to spend that time with them and I look forward to them and other Jersey, PA, and Maryland friends making the journey to NY for a good time. *cough*
Song of the Day: Dear God (Sincerely M.O.F.)-Monsters Of Folk
Jazz Song of the Day: Oop-Bop-Sh'bam-Dizzy Gillespie
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
The Phourth: An Appeal to the Vanity of Ben Kraus
Rule number one of writing is to know your audience. Well, no, I guess rule number one of writing is to have a point and hope that one hand kind of washes the other (the point leads to the audience... you probably knew what I meant; you're smart people.
Anyway, time for the long awaited Independence Day Phish Concert post. Phish shows are kind of like an entire world in and of itself and it was a real pleasure to take in the experience with Deanna, Sean Taylor, Ben, and Jeremy, who was kind enough to leave his free orchestra level seats to take in the last bit of the concert with us.
I'm nowhere near as qualified to breakdown the music of Phish as I am Dave Matthews Band, but there are certainly some notes I'd love to make. The band was beyond tight. I mean, it's almost like they define what it is to be on the same page musically. To have such a jam/free sound still come off so clean every single time is almost frightening. They crammed 33 tracks into the night and, for my money, didn't miss a beat on one of them.
What I really love about Phish shows is obviously the music, but I can honestly say that something bigger than the tunes goes on at their shows. Don't worry, I'm not talking about some hippie mysticism of a higher power or anything, but simply put, I've never seen a more interactive show with more people uniformly, yet uniquely, invested in what occurred on stage. You can imagine, I'm sure, at a show like that you're going to run into some characters in varying states of sobriety, but in the middle of all this seemingly randomness, there's a literal pulse to the people and vibe there that really makes everybody everything.
I know I've taken that last paragraph could have easily been taken from the greatest passages of Thomas Wolfe, but electric kool-aid aside, I've never witnessed such a positive version of a mob mentality in my life. The closest comparison being Boston Garden during the Lakers/Celtics playoff game when Leon Powe received an ovation I'll never forget.
At this show you have a ocean of tie-dye, Americana, and homemade Phish shirts (including an incredible Harry Hood one made by Deanna), a man holding an American flag with a peace sign embroidered on it, waving it the majority of the show. I'm not even sure he had a seat. You have Sean Taylor and I finally in matching neon green headbands. You have fans of all shapes, colors, and sizes singing along and (to quote Wolfe more directly) "grooving on their thing" chanting at the right parts and the glow sticks, balloons, and beach balls being flung into the air at musical climaxes. I equate the experience to people who go see "Rocky Horror" and chant and shout certain things during the movie or production. It's kind of a way for experienced phans to make the show their own. It's a cult and underground following in its truest form, depending on how deep you are in the pudding. (Should be the last reference, minus a potential nod to day-glo) And all the while, the band just sustains this experience with tunes and lights almost casually, as if they are just a vessel for this ultimate display of humanity.
Proof of this nearly inexplicable synergy came near the end of the show; actually, during the final number before the encore (Slave To The Traffic Light, for anyone curious) when the cloudy (though truly beautiful) night finally gave way and displayed an awe-inspiring yellow moon casting its glow on the venue. When this occurred, the whole crowd literally erupted with joy. The moment seemed so scripted that I actually leaned over to Deanna and asked if I missed something on stage while I was distracted by the moon. When she confirmed that everyone was riffing on the moon, I got some pretty intense chills.
Another cool moment was when strictly by coincidence, the only time I saw fireworks out on the water during the whole show was during a barber shop quartet rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner". I mean, you can't script that kind of stuff.
Don't get me wrong, if had to listen for one band for the rest of my life, it's still Dave. They're my favorite and have molded me into who I am as much as a facet of pop culture can. And, not that anyone asked, but if I had to listen to someone's tunes for 24 hours with no breaks, it'd be Paul Simon, but for my money, for all the GREAT acts out there, if I had to pick one band to see live for the rest of my life, I'd see Phish. I'm honored and humbled to have shared the experience with my friends.
The lone downside of the experience is, once again, I was left hanging in my quest for "Punch You In The Eye" (my favorite song of theirs), but other than that the band was top notch. The set was great and I encourage you to look it up. For me to have three highlights is really the understatement of the year, but...
1. "Avenu Malkanu" sandwiched between renditions of "The Man Who Stepped Into Yesterday" was easily one of the most beautiful things I've heard live. I was kind of overwhelmed and it was a really prophound (see what I did there?) moment that was the apex of the night three songs in. Incredible.
2. My first witnessing of a "tucking" during the first cover of "Purple Rain" since '99. We partied like it (Prince nod), and a vacuum solo to boot. For once Youtube is mightier than the metaphorical pen. Dig for yourself.
3. "Harry Hood" took the second set to a whole new space.
But again, the whole show delivered and had me, and consequently everyone, engaged from Tweezer to Tweezer.
Until next time, this is Tom on behalf of Friar Tuck.
Song of the Day: Jailhouse-Sublime (Summer is here and so is summer camp)
Jazz Song of the Day: The Chief-Billy Harper
Anyway, time for the long awaited Independence Day Phish Concert post. Phish shows are kind of like an entire world in and of itself and it was a real pleasure to take in the experience with Deanna, Sean Taylor, Ben, and Jeremy, who was kind enough to leave his free orchestra level seats to take in the last bit of the concert with us.
I'm nowhere near as qualified to breakdown the music of Phish as I am Dave Matthews Band, but there are certainly some notes I'd love to make. The band was beyond tight. I mean, it's almost like they define what it is to be on the same page musically. To have such a jam/free sound still come off so clean every single time is almost frightening. They crammed 33 tracks into the night and, for my money, didn't miss a beat on one of them.
What I really love about Phish shows is obviously the music, but I can honestly say that something bigger than the tunes goes on at their shows. Don't worry, I'm not talking about some hippie mysticism of a higher power or anything, but simply put, I've never seen a more interactive show with more people uniformly, yet uniquely, invested in what occurred on stage. You can imagine, I'm sure, at a show like that you're going to run into some characters in varying states of sobriety, but in the middle of all this seemingly randomness, there's a literal pulse to the people and vibe there that really makes everybody everything.
I know I've taken that last paragraph could have easily been taken from the greatest passages of Thomas Wolfe, but electric kool-aid aside, I've never witnessed such a positive version of a mob mentality in my life. The closest comparison being Boston Garden during the Lakers/Celtics playoff game when Leon Powe received an ovation I'll never forget.
At this show you have a ocean of tie-dye, Americana, and homemade Phish shirts (including an incredible Harry Hood one made by Deanna), a man holding an American flag with a peace sign embroidered on it, waving it the majority of the show. I'm not even sure he had a seat. You have Sean Taylor and I finally in matching neon green headbands. You have fans of all shapes, colors, and sizes singing along and (to quote Wolfe more directly) "grooving on their thing" chanting at the right parts and the glow sticks, balloons, and beach balls being flung into the air at musical climaxes. I equate the experience to people who go see "Rocky Horror" and chant and shout certain things during the movie or production. It's kind of a way for experienced phans to make the show their own. It's a cult and underground following in its truest form, depending on how deep you are in the pudding. (Should be the last reference, minus a potential nod to day-glo) And all the while, the band just sustains this experience with tunes and lights almost casually, as if they are just a vessel for this ultimate display of humanity.
Proof of this nearly inexplicable synergy came near the end of the show; actually, during the final number before the encore (Slave To The Traffic Light, for anyone curious) when the cloudy (though truly beautiful) night finally gave way and displayed an awe-inspiring yellow moon casting its glow on the venue. When this occurred, the whole crowd literally erupted with joy. The moment seemed so scripted that I actually leaned over to Deanna and asked if I missed something on stage while I was distracted by the moon. When she confirmed that everyone was riffing on the moon, I got some pretty intense chills.
Another cool moment was when strictly by coincidence, the only time I saw fireworks out on the water during the whole show was during a barber shop quartet rendition of "The Star Spangled Banner". I mean, you can't script that kind of stuff.
Don't get me wrong, if had to listen for one band for the rest of my life, it's still Dave. They're my favorite and have molded me into who I am as much as a facet of pop culture can. And, not that anyone asked, but if I had to listen to someone's tunes for 24 hours with no breaks, it'd be Paul Simon, but for my money, for all the GREAT acts out there, if I had to pick one band to see live for the rest of my life, I'd see Phish. I'm honored and humbled to have shared the experience with my friends.
The lone downside of the experience is, once again, I was left hanging in my quest for "Punch You In The Eye" (my favorite song of theirs), but other than that the band was top notch. The set was great and I encourage you to look it up. For me to have three highlights is really the understatement of the year, but...
1. "Avenu Malkanu" sandwiched between renditions of "The Man Who Stepped Into Yesterday" was easily one of the most beautiful things I've heard live. I was kind of overwhelmed and it was a really prophound (see what I did there?) moment that was the apex of the night three songs in. Incredible.
2. My first witnessing of a "tucking" during the first cover of "Purple Rain" since '99. We partied like it (Prince nod), and a vacuum solo to boot. For once Youtube is mightier than the metaphorical pen. Dig for yourself.
3. "Harry Hood" took the second set to a whole new space.
But again, the whole show delivered and had me, and consequently everyone, engaged from Tweezer to Tweezer.
Until next time, this is Tom on behalf of Friar Tuck.
Song of the Day: Jailhouse-Sublime (Summer is here and so is summer camp)
Jazz Song of the Day: The Chief-Billy Harper
Saturday, July 7, 2012
You Picked The Wrong Place To Sit
This past week brought about my third visit Gamehendge as Phish visited the sandy shores of Jones Beach and, somewhat surprisingly, left the "Round Room" off the set list. I can't wait to get into the show, but I have a couple notes that I want to bring up before we take that journey.
The one and only Wong and his enigmatic hair returned for a weekend of Long Island leisure. Unfortunately, my work schedule didn't allow me to really spend all that much time with him and as, a result, I'm left with merely whispers of some stories to be added to the annals of Wong lore and a glimpse of some illuminating photos that seem to paint the picture of the occasion quite aptly. As much as it seems I did indeed miss out on the party, that's not to say we didn't have our own fun on the Friday night he came through.
Now, excusing the abrupt shift in the discussion, this Wong visit came with it's own very small, but nonetheless momentous accomplishment. A milestone that I don't want to blow out of perportion, but is worth mentioning. I, Tom Policastro, went to see the film "Ted". Now, some of you are thinking, "big deal, you and millions of other people", but we're talking about a man (at this point), a 23 year old man who is terrified of Chucky, freaked out to no end by Furbies, literally sprinted out of the room at the end of one of the "Santa Clause" sequels when Martin Short brings these giant grinning toy soldiers to life, had to have American Girl dolls removed from the guest room of a friends house before going to sleep and finally, a man who STRUGGLED (but did, for the record) to make it through all of "Toy Story 3". The difference between the third and the first two being that the toys had never been evil before. I mean, Prospector Pete wasn't exactly a moral compass for our nation's youth, but there's a difference between I'm going to chase you down to keep you here and a little toy internment camp with a bruiser baby, and screeching monkey watch...monkey. Seriously, the shit is ominous.
Anyway, with all that said, let's not make all that big of a deal out of it. It was a stoner comedy with all too familiar voice of Peter Griffin, so I knew what I was getting into and wasn't exactly biting my fingernails. I'll admit that I got really tense when I first knew Ted was going to come to life. I was a little concerned that if they made it creepy as an attempt at comedy, the joke would be lost on me and I'd wind up clinging to Becky and Wong (who drew the task of sitting next to me) like saran wrap. I am relieved to say that the scariest part of the movie was a truly disturbing performance from Giovanni Ribisi and I can't recommend that hilarious film enough. Although, I did cast some eyes about when Mark Whalberg and the bear were fighting as if to say "this is my nightmare."
After the film, Matty, Becky, Wong, Roo, and I retired to Matty's to relax a bit. I think stories that start out with "so, we were drinking" are rarely half as interesting to a listening or reading audience as they seem to those who lived it, so I'll be brief, but it's worth mentioning that we played quarters and I had the brilliant idea of initiating the rule that if you got passed by the shot glass three times in a row you had to take a shot of tequila. Wong sat between myself and Matt Matura. Suffice to say Wong picked the wrong chair to settle in.
Now, a quick work story before I let you go. I feel like I leave everyday with a story worth telling for better or worse. Most are more quick oral stories not worth the time it would take to type them, but every now and again you get something blog worthy. I give you the following. I'm at the register going through the tediousness of ringing groceries when I hear a rather shrill "Ah dammit, Jerry you always do that when I'm leaning on the cart." She was referring to herself resting propped up on the shopping cart and "Jerry" subconsciously pulling the cart forward to move up on the line and essentially pulling the rug out from under her and sending her forward, kind of like when you have those dreams when you're falling. There's no real danger of falling, but the sensation is there. I see before me a couple consisting of a rather large man and a rather small woman. Jerry seems unmoved by his wife's lament and in response to his indifference she absolutely rams him with the cart. At this point, my shirt flies up over my mouth to cover my smile as I bite my tongue bloody to keep from laughing. Jerry doesn't flinch at the blow and with my smile veiled, though eyes probably saying it all, I go about ringing them up. One of the first items I ring up for is some meat, which the woman asks whether in came up as $3.99. Jerry is blocking her from seeing the screen for herself and his face is stone as she asks him what the price is repeatedly. It is at this point I realize that Jerry either has the absolute best sense of humor in the world or is completely miserable at home. I finally jump in myself and tell her the price of the meat and she thanks me. That alone would have been enough for me to hang my hat on as the moment of the day, but then, in an unprecedented stroke of fate, he pulls the cart forward again and, again, sends her forward. If looks could kill that whole grocery store would be in the obits section. At that point, I lost it and again pulled up my shirt with chuckles clearly escaping. After the order they both thanked me with smiles and the woman gave a look as if to say "do you see what I have to deal with?" That gave me the sense that the preceding ordeal was kind of the dynamic of their relationship, rather than there being any real trouble in paradise and gave me the real freedom to kick back and laugh at the situation. Jerry's my hero and I'm suddenly looking forward to my next relationship (the poor, poor girl).
Great to see Wong and be in, (albeit in a rather menial position) a workplace where I revel in moments like the preceeding and socialize with a great cast of characters everyday. I've learned that you can't put a price on that. Look for a post tomorrow about the Phish show.
Song of the Day: Bittersweet Motel-Phish
Jazz Song of the Day: Cheek To Cheek-Ella Fitzgerald
The one and only Wong and his enigmatic hair returned for a weekend of Long Island leisure. Unfortunately, my work schedule didn't allow me to really spend all that much time with him and as, a result, I'm left with merely whispers of some stories to be added to the annals of Wong lore and a glimpse of some illuminating photos that seem to paint the picture of the occasion quite aptly. As much as it seems I did indeed miss out on the party, that's not to say we didn't have our own fun on the Friday night he came through.
Now, excusing the abrupt shift in the discussion, this Wong visit came with it's own very small, but nonetheless momentous accomplishment. A milestone that I don't want to blow out of perportion, but is worth mentioning. I, Tom Policastro, went to see the film "Ted". Now, some of you are thinking, "big deal, you and millions of other people", but we're talking about a man (at this point), a 23 year old man who is terrified of Chucky, freaked out to no end by Furbies, literally sprinted out of the room at the end of one of the "Santa Clause" sequels when Martin Short brings these giant grinning toy soldiers to life, had to have American Girl dolls removed from the guest room of a friends house before going to sleep and finally, a man who STRUGGLED (but did, for the record) to make it through all of "Toy Story 3". The difference between the third and the first two being that the toys had never been evil before. I mean, Prospector Pete wasn't exactly a moral compass for our nation's youth, but there's a difference between I'm going to chase you down to keep you here and a little toy internment camp with a bruiser baby, and screeching monkey watch...monkey. Seriously, the shit is ominous.
Anyway, with all that said, let's not make all that big of a deal out of it. It was a stoner comedy with all too familiar voice of Peter Griffin, so I knew what I was getting into and wasn't exactly biting my fingernails. I'll admit that I got really tense when I first knew Ted was going to come to life. I was a little concerned that if they made it creepy as an attempt at comedy, the joke would be lost on me and I'd wind up clinging to Becky and Wong (who drew the task of sitting next to me) like saran wrap. I am relieved to say that the scariest part of the movie was a truly disturbing performance from Giovanni Ribisi and I can't recommend that hilarious film enough. Although, I did cast some eyes about when Mark Whalberg and the bear were fighting as if to say "this is my nightmare."
After the film, Matty, Becky, Wong, Roo, and I retired to Matty's to relax a bit. I think stories that start out with "so, we were drinking" are rarely half as interesting to a listening or reading audience as they seem to those who lived it, so I'll be brief, but it's worth mentioning that we played quarters and I had the brilliant idea of initiating the rule that if you got passed by the shot glass three times in a row you had to take a shot of tequila. Wong sat between myself and Matt Matura. Suffice to say Wong picked the wrong chair to settle in.
Now, a quick work story before I let you go. I feel like I leave everyday with a story worth telling for better or worse. Most are more quick oral stories not worth the time it would take to type them, but every now and again you get something blog worthy. I give you the following. I'm at the register going through the tediousness of ringing groceries when I hear a rather shrill "Ah dammit, Jerry you always do that when I'm leaning on the cart." She was referring to herself resting propped up on the shopping cart and "Jerry" subconsciously pulling the cart forward to move up on the line and essentially pulling the rug out from under her and sending her forward, kind of like when you have those dreams when you're falling. There's no real danger of falling, but the sensation is there. I see before me a couple consisting of a rather large man and a rather small woman. Jerry seems unmoved by his wife's lament and in response to his indifference she absolutely rams him with the cart. At this point, my shirt flies up over my mouth to cover my smile as I bite my tongue bloody to keep from laughing. Jerry doesn't flinch at the blow and with my smile veiled, though eyes probably saying it all, I go about ringing them up. One of the first items I ring up for is some meat, which the woman asks whether in came up as $3.99. Jerry is blocking her from seeing the screen for herself and his face is stone as she asks him what the price is repeatedly. It is at this point I realize that Jerry either has the absolute best sense of humor in the world or is completely miserable at home. I finally jump in myself and tell her the price of the meat and she thanks me. That alone would have been enough for me to hang my hat on as the moment of the day, but then, in an unprecedented stroke of fate, he pulls the cart forward again and, again, sends her forward. If looks could kill that whole grocery store would be in the obits section. At that point, I lost it and again pulled up my shirt with chuckles clearly escaping. After the order they both thanked me with smiles and the woman gave a look as if to say "do you see what I have to deal with?" That gave me the sense that the preceding ordeal was kind of the dynamic of their relationship, rather than there being any real trouble in paradise and gave me the real freedom to kick back and laugh at the situation. Jerry's my hero and I'm suddenly looking forward to my next relationship (the poor, poor girl).
Great to see Wong and be in, (albeit in a rather menial position) a workplace where I revel in moments like the preceeding and socialize with a great cast of characters everyday. I've learned that you can't put a price on that. Look for a post tomorrow about the Phish show.
Song of the Day: Bittersweet Motel-Phish
Jazz Song of the Day: Cheek To Cheek-Ella Fitzgerald
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Who Keeps Quoting 'Take The 'A' Train' in the Back of the Venue?
A much overdue, but no less heartfelt, recap of the Dave Matthews Band show of last week. As you'll soon read, if you didn't already live/swim through it, it poured throughout the whole concert and among the many consequences of being soaked to the bone, I was left with a cold which made writing, even about such a great occasion, unpleasant. Weekdays filled with illness and a weekend filled with adolescents in semi-formal wear and father appreciating has pushed this post to the here and now. Let's get to it.
Clearly, this show had some big shoes to fill when held up to the Randall's Island experience. For Rich the show was about redemption for a hat, and time, nearly soiled by ketchup and errant footsteps. For Jamie, it was about a first time chance to see DMB and making it a night to remember forever. For me, it was about secretly hoping that history repeated itself and that I was quick enough to outrun Rich should it come down to it. We drove separately for a reason, you know?
As mentioned above, the weather did not cooperate with the festive potential of being in the parking lot before the show. The tone in the lot was naturally pretty subdued. A pleasant subdued, but subdued. The usual crowding about cars with DMB favorites playing, a few tents, and a whole bunch of rain ponchos were present, of course. A few people were even venturing some drinking games, but largely everyone huddled in their cars or under their open trunks. I was pretty cool with the atmosphere because I'm actually not really a big believer in the traditional pre-concert buzz. With the notable exception of seeing 311 at the very same Jones Beach venue many years ago, I'm more of a couple-beers-tons-of-water-pregamer. The only real bummer is that usually you (at least I) try to mill around a bit and get to know your neighbors some, play some frisbee or some tunes etc. The rain didn't exactly make that impossible, but it made it much more desirable to kind of fall into apathy and wait for the gates to open.
Rich, Jamie, and I were, in a sense, saved from our own good time by one of Rich's co-workers at Patch.com (your source for all things local and newsworthy where, contrary to what some may say, they attend every event on which they report) who was kind enough to invite the three of us over to their gathering a few spaces over. The spread they had there was one of a kind. Panninis (spelling?), sandwiches, and sushi all ordered from delis and restaurants in our area. They were more than willing to share anything and everything they had. I resisted the urge to weep openly and pig out and limited myself to a sandwich slice, some sushi (which is growing on me), and a Bluepoint IPA that I couldn't help but sip even though I had been fighting the very same cold that came back with a vengence the very next day.
In addition to being fed well, this was kind of my first occasion to spend a long period of time with an older generation of Dave fans. I admit I didn't pick their brains as much as I wish I had, but I didn't want to be the stranger who tried to dominate the conversation. With that said, I did talk to them a bit and it was great to hear about some of their experiences with the band both recently and "back in the day". One of the guys had a collection of a few live albums released about the same time as "Remember Two Things". I was pretty darn jealous, as you will not find these albums in your local FYE and you probably won't hear some of those older songs (Blue Water, for example) ever again. It was a real highlight for me just to look through those records. It was like opening up a scrapbook from a time you're too young to remember, but know all about it through secondhand stories.
With a full stomach and being out in the elements anyway, I ventured across the lot to meet with some friends from Miller Place, a couple of whom were experiencing their first Dave show. What an awesome feeling. As with a lot of bands (and I guess any) seeing them live is a whole new experience to hearing even a recording of a live show. I don't doubt they enjoyed the heck out of it and I hope they're as hooked as I am.
Anyway, the only real story to tell from the lot, other than unrivalled generosity, is an unfortunate situation that drew from me a rather piteous laugh. Rich's co-worker was beyond stoked that Fitz and the Tantrums (a name whose cleverness dawned on me later than I'd care to admit). I didn't listen in on the whole conversation, but apparently he was getting deep into those guys (a pretty interesting modern Hall and Oates sound, in my opinion) before he even knew they were opening the show he was attending. Fitz being there was kind of the whipped cream on the sundae for him and I'm not exaggerating by much when I say he was as excited to see them as Dave. Well, time goes by and... goes by and... you get the idea, and everyone is still in the parking lot. I lean over to Rich and mention that he's probably going to miss the opening act. Apparently, no one in his party was ready to leave the good time yet and he wound up missing out of the show he lucked out in getting the chance to see (for free, if you think about it). I wish I had a better follow up on his reaction, but I can only imagine he felt pretty bad, at least in hindsight. When I realized what happened to him, I took it harder than I probably should have. Poor guy.
The show itself was simply great. The set list, on paper, is kind of out of a dream. For the audience's part, the venue doesn't have a lawn setting, so there were only pockets of people standing up in true DMB show fashion. That's always a struggle in that venue. I remember being, quite possibly, the only two people standing at the Who show I went to see the Beard, but I also remember everyone seeming to be on their feet for Phish at the same venue years later. Anyway, the sit down venue made the crowd energy scattered, but definitely present. However, the venue coupled with the constant drenching did make the energy tough to keep up. The band, Jamie, Rich, and I did our part, though, and the band played high energy numbers while the three of us kept moving in the nosebleeds.
The band kind of has a whole new sound. I mean, the sound always seems to be tweaked with every new tour, especially as new faces enter (Tim, Jeff, Rashawn) and old ones leave (Butch and sadly, Roi), but this is the first incarnation of the band that I would almost say is a whole new band covering Dave songs.
The elements of improvisation are definitely still there. Jeff and Rashawn traded fours on Grey Street, Jeff killed You Never Know, and Boyd and Tim were, as always, ever present while Carter smiled above them like some omnipotent bus driver with a recently emptied bathroom, but the songs were almost condensed for the most part. For example, #41 was played without a single horn solo, and there was no reference from Dave or crowd alike to #36 during Everyday. That alone signals a change in philosophy, in my mind. The band has really taken to heart the idea of a horn "section" as they were present in nearly every song and the band kind of has a sound that's easier to define at this point. It's kind of a rock band with horns and a violin that can jam out when they want. This feels like a natural evolution that you had to expect at some point (Phish kind of does the same thing right now), but this band has become a beast that has a whole new sound and as a result, genuinely sounds tighter than ever. My notes are not meant to be a negative, and the difference between DMB of 2011 and DMB of 2012 is not night and day by any means, but the band has clearly underwent some changes in mentality, I'd like to think for the better, but no Jeff on #41 (as incredible as Tim was) was as close to a disappointment that this band has given me live.
I mean, musically, I feel like I could scribe a whole new post. This section may bore some, so I'll be brief and if you want to hear more, you can definitely ask.
1. Seven into Minarets into Grey Street to START. Good Lord, you knew that band was going to try to make up for the nasty weather and keep them engaged in a big way. I was shocked to hear Minarets live; a first for me to witness and even hear. I only have the studio cut and an acoustic version on my pod. With those three songs, I considered my ticket worth the price. Grey Street, Sweet, and the never played Trouble With You were the only songs I was dying for. Thrilled I got one out of the deal. Real edge to the sound.
2. Mercy was the only track from the anticipated album they played and a great cool down after Cornbread. This is one song I'm glad they didn't cut short and the band riffed enough to stretch it to about the 6 minute mark. A lot of layers to the song that I feel I dug more in the rain. Dave pulled a Neil Young going from guitar to piano mid-song. Really tight unified sound. Gives you a sense where the band is heading, and I like it.
3. Don't Drink the Water mid-show, not unheard of, but a first for me. Cool.
4. Everyday- pretty straight-forward. Boyd definitely did his thing, don't get me wrong, but Dave was kind of full speed ahead and I didn't hear the crowd engaging in any "Honey, honey". Likely the most underwhelming, but solid versions of the song I've heard. Last time they played this song in the New York area, Vusi Mahlasela came out and sang some. Maybe I got my hopes up and that's influencing my opinion. I should note that this is the first song where I really started picking up on the new condensed sound I was talking about.
5. Stay or Leave-Another perfectly timed mellow song. Hit the spot. I love when they give you a song you didn't even know you craved so bad.
6. After #41 I was literally wondering if Jeff was under the weather or something. You Never Know quashed that theory and Jeff totally went nuts. A real old fashioned jam session. The crowd was never more involved, in my opinion. To an unbiased listener, probably the best track of the night overall. My favorite was Grey Street and Minarets followed by this track, but I'm far from unbiased.
7. Crush-Awesome sound and always great to hear Fonz open that up on the bass. Again, more of a horn section with Boyd taking the lead, for better or worse. A song that showed how much you can take Carter's brilliance on the skins for granted. Awesome, though. Proof that "condensed" is not synonymous with "bad".
8. Rapunzel-Might be my favorite live track of theirs of all time. Love how the wheels fall off the jam for that darker section only to come back and party hard in the end. This is one song where there are never any words for. Hear it. Love it. Get more of it.
9. Great encore with Granny to lead off. Always have a soft spot for this song since the first time I heard it on Listener Supported. Band cut right to the chase. Great song and great rendition. Watchtower (which some fans who take themselves too seriously said was the saving grace of the show) really was a great way to cap the night. Fonz quoted Tool's Schism in his intro solo... enough said. The energy is always high for that. Love having Tim there to really be that bridge between Hendrix did and what Dave does with it. Dylan wrote a hell of a song.
On a non-musical note, I have started putting pen to pad on the sequel to Horseplay. Really excited about it and I think the first three of the series are going to come pretty naturally and hopefully quickly. The four others I have outlined, we'll see, but bottom line, it's great to be working with these characters again and this may well be the first anticipated release of my writing career.
Song of the Day: She Love Me So-Anthony Green
Jazz Song of the Day: The Power of Water-Orchestre National de Jazz
Clearly, this show had some big shoes to fill when held up to the Randall's Island experience. For Rich the show was about redemption for a hat, and time, nearly soiled by ketchup and errant footsteps. For Jamie, it was about a first time chance to see DMB and making it a night to remember forever. For me, it was about secretly hoping that history repeated itself and that I was quick enough to outrun Rich should it come down to it. We drove separately for a reason, you know?
As mentioned above, the weather did not cooperate with the festive potential of being in the parking lot before the show. The tone in the lot was naturally pretty subdued. A pleasant subdued, but subdued. The usual crowding about cars with DMB favorites playing, a few tents, and a whole bunch of rain ponchos were present, of course. A few people were even venturing some drinking games, but largely everyone huddled in their cars or under their open trunks. I was pretty cool with the atmosphere because I'm actually not really a big believer in the traditional pre-concert buzz. With the notable exception of seeing 311 at the very same Jones Beach venue many years ago, I'm more of a couple-beers-tons-of-water-pregamer. The only real bummer is that usually you (at least I) try to mill around a bit and get to know your neighbors some, play some frisbee or some tunes etc. The rain didn't exactly make that impossible, but it made it much more desirable to kind of fall into apathy and wait for the gates to open.
Rich, Jamie, and I were, in a sense, saved from our own good time by one of Rich's co-workers at Patch.com (your source for all things local and newsworthy where, contrary to what some may say, they attend every event on which they report) who was kind enough to invite the three of us over to their gathering a few spaces over. The spread they had there was one of a kind. Panninis (spelling?), sandwiches, and sushi all ordered from delis and restaurants in our area. They were more than willing to share anything and everything they had. I resisted the urge to weep openly and pig out and limited myself to a sandwich slice, some sushi (which is growing on me), and a Bluepoint IPA that I couldn't help but sip even though I had been fighting the very same cold that came back with a vengence the very next day.
In addition to being fed well, this was kind of my first occasion to spend a long period of time with an older generation of Dave fans. I admit I didn't pick their brains as much as I wish I had, but I didn't want to be the stranger who tried to dominate the conversation. With that said, I did talk to them a bit and it was great to hear about some of their experiences with the band both recently and "back in the day". One of the guys had a collection of a few live albums released about the same time as "Remember Two Things". I was pretty darn jealous, as you will not find these albums in your local FYE and you probably won't hear some of those older songs (Blue Water, for example) ever again. It was a real highlight for me just to look through those records. It was like opening up a scrapbook from a time you're too young to remember, but know all about it through secondhand stories.
With a full stomach and being out in the elements anyway, I ventured across the lot to meet with some friends from Miller Place, a couple of whom were experiencing their first Dave show. What an awesome feeling. As with a lot of bands (and I guess any) seeing them live is a whole new experience to hearing even a recording of a live show. I don't doubt they enjoyed the heck out of it and I hope they're as hooked as I am.
Anyway, the only real story to tell from the lot, other than unrivalled generosity, is an unfortunate situation that drew from me a rather piteous laugh. Rich's co-worker was beyond stoked that Fitz and the Tantrums (a name whose cleverness dawned on me later than I'd care to admit). I didn't listen in on the whole conversation, but apparently he was getting deep into those guys (a pretty interesting modern Hall and Oates sound, in my opinion) before he even knew they were opening the show he was attending. Fitz being there was kind of the whipped cream on the sundae for him and I'm not exaggerating by much when I say he was as excited to see them as Dave. Well, time goes by and... goes by and... you get the idea, and everyone is still in the parking lot. I lean over to Rich and mention that he's probably going to miss the opening act. Apparently, no one in his party was ready to leave the good time yet and he wound up missing out of the show he lucked out in getting the chance to see (for free, if you think about it). I wish I had a better follow up on his reaction, but I can only imagine he felt pretty bad, at least in hindsight. When I realized what happened to him, I took it harder than I probably should have. Poor guy.
The show itself was simply great. The set list, on paper, is kind of out of a dream. For the audience's part, the venue doesn't have a lawn setting, so there were only pockets of people standing up in true DMB show fashion. That's always a struggle in that venue. I remember being, quite possibly, the only two people standing at the Who show I went to see the Beard, but I also remember everyone seeming to be on their feet for Phish at the same venue years later. Anyway, the sit down venue made the crowd energy scattered, but definitely present. However, the venue coupled with the constant drenching did make the energy tough to keep up. The band, Jamie, Rich, and I did our part, though, and the band played high energy numbers while the three of us kept moving in the nosebleeds.
The band kind of has a whole new sound. I mean, the sound always seems to be tweaked with every new tour, especially as new faces enter (Tim, Jeff, Rashawn) and old ones leave (Butch and sadly, Roi), but this is the first incarnation of the band that I would almost say is a whole new band covering Dave songs.
The elements of improvisation are definitely still there. Jeff and Rashawn traded fours on Grey Street, Jeff killed You Never Know, and Boyd and Tim were, as always, ever present while Carter smiled above them like some omnipotent bus driver with a recently emptied bathroom, but the songs were almost condensed for the most part. For example, #41 was played without a single horn solo, and there was no reference from Dave or crowd alike to #36 during Everyday. That alone signals a change in philosophy, in my mind. The band has really taken to heart the idea of a horn "section" as they were present in nearly every song and the band kind of has a sound that's easier to define at this point. It's kind of a rock band with horns and a violin that can jam out when they want. This feels like a natural evolution that you had to expect at some point (Phish kind of does the same thing right now), but this band has become a beast that has a whole new sound and as a result, genuinely sounds tighter than ever. My notes are not meant to be a negative, and the difference between DMB of 2011 and DMB of 2012 is not night and day by any means, but the band has clearly underwent some changes in mentality, I'd like to think for the better, but no Jeff on #41 (as incredible as Tim was) was as close to a disappointment that this band has given me live.
I mean, musically, I feel like I could scribe a whole new post. This section may bore some, so I'll be brief and if you want to hear more, you can definitely ask.
1. Seven into Minarets into Grey Street to START. Good Lord, you knew that band was going to try to make up for the nasty weather and keep them engaged in a big way. I was shocked to hear Minarets live; a first for me to witness and even hear. I only have the studio cut and an acoustic version on my pod. With those three songs, I considered my ticket worth the price. Grey Street, Sweet, and the never played Trouble With You were the only songs I was dying for. Thrilled I got one out of the deal. Real edge to the sound.
2. Mercy was the only track from the anticipated album they played and a great cool down after Cornbread. This is one song I'm glad they didn't cut short and the band riffed enough to stretch it to about the 6 minute mark. A lot of layers to the song that I feel I dug more in the rain. Dave pulled a Neil Young going from guitar to piano mid-song. Really tight unified sound. Gives you a sense where the band is heading, and I like it.
3. Don't Drink the Water mid-show, not unheard of, but a first for me. Cool.
4. Everyday- pretty straight-forward. Boyd definitely did his thing, don't get me wrong, but Dave was kind of full speed ahead and I didn't hear the crowd engaging in any "Honey, honey". Likely the most underwhelming, but solid versions of the song I've heard. Last time they played this song in the New York area, Vusi Mahlasela came out and sang some. Maybe I got my hopes up and that's influencing my opinion. I should note that this is the first song where I really started picking up on the new condensed sound I was talking about.
5. Stay or Leave-Another perfectly timed mellow song. Hit the spot. I love when they give you a song you didn't even know you craved so bad.
6. After #41 I was literally wondering if Jeff was under the weather or something. You Never Know quashed that theory and Jeff totally went nuts. A real old fashioned jam session. The crowd was never more involved, in my opinion. To an unbiased listener, probably the best track of the night overall. My favorite was Grey Street and Minarets followed by this track, but I'm far from unbiased.
7. Crush-Awesome sound and always great to hear Fonz open that up on the bass. Again, more of a horn section with Boyd taking the lead, for better or worse. A song that showed how much you can take Carter's brilliance on the skins for granted. Awesome, though. Proof that "condensed" is not synonymous with "bad".
8. Rapunzel-Might be my favorite live track of theirs of all time. Love how the wheels fall off the jam for that darker section only to come back and party hard in the end. This is one song where there are never any words for. Hear it. Love it. Get more of it.
9. Great encore with Granny to lead off. Always have a soft spot for this song since the first time I heard it on Listener Supported. Band cut right to the chase. Great song and great rendition. Watchtower (which some fans who take themselves too seriously said was the saving grace of the show) really was a great way to cap the night. Fonz quoted Tool's Schism in his intro solo... enough said. The energy is always high for that. Love having Tim there to really be that bridge between Hendrix did and what Dave does with it. Dylan wrote a hell of a song.
On a non-musical note, I have started putting pen to pad on the sequel to Horseplay. Really excited about it and I think the first three of the series are going to come pretty naturally and hopefully quickly. The four others I have outlined, we'll see, but bottom line, it's great to be working with these characters again and this may well be the first anticipated release of my writing career.
Song of the Day: She Love Me So-Anthony Green
Jazz Song of the Day: The Power of Water-Orchestre National de Jazz
Monday, June 11, 2012
Still Waiting on Eric
What follows is the blog post before the blog. While I've been writing my whole life, I must say that this is the first life event that I've ever experienced and felt the urge to chronicle using the written word to ensure that each memory was trapped in amber for eternety. This monumental event was my second Dave Matthews Band show ever and as I prepare to embark on my eighth show on Tuesday, I felt it appropriate to share this initial account on Yesternow to show where it all just about began. I'll be attending the show tomorrow with Rich, who was with me at this show and had a tough day, all the more reason to share this with you now.
My only note of warning is that tenth-grade Poli wrote this. Tenth-grade Poli's word choice in some spots are borderline embarrassing in some spots. No, I didn't fancy myself half as big of a hippie as this piece suggests, I guess I just kind of got caught up in the moment and I'd like to believe I've since found a happy medium between "far out" and "good day, sir". The conventions of writing, I think, were also quite lost on me then, not that they're all that found now. With that said, it'd be a crime to toil with the writing and I hope you enjoy this time capsle. As always, this is dedicated to Rich and Grebe, who made this day very special.
As a side note, we actually got pretty lost on the way home. It's a amazing how back then I kind of left that out, but if this happened today I'd probably talk mostly about the drive home with the concert being a footnote. Once again, see you Wednesday.
Song of the Day: Grey Street-Dave Matthews Band
Jazz Song of the Day: Zona Mona-Flecktones (Not jazz, don't whine)
My only note of warning is that tenth-grade Poli wrote this. Tenth-grade Poli's word choice in some spots are borderline embarrassing in some spots. No, I didn't fancy myself half as big of a hippie as this piece suggests, I guess I just kind of got caught up in the moment and I'd like to believe I've since found a happy medium between "far out" and "good day, sir". The conventions of writing, I think, were also quite lost on me then, not that they're all that found now. With that said, it'd be a crime to toil with the writing and I hope you enjoy this time capsle. As always, this is dedicated to Rich and Grebe, who made this day very special.
My smile grows even
wider as we stroll towards Randall’s Island. We vibe with some ladies from New
Jersey while haggard looking dudes sell cheap looking water for a dollar. Each
shout has a rhythm and ring to it. As though they hear the music that we can’t
hear yet. We slide inside and see the stage. The fire dancer has started the
party without our trio as we find a shady spot to settle and wait for the
magic. We take in the scene, a whole lot of food vendors are charging five
shells for water, and even be and I explain to Rich the finer points of the jam
band flow. Meantime Grebe and I do battle over Phish and Dave Matthews Band for
jam band supremacy. Rich feels uncomfortable in his Yankee ensemble when
surrounded by a sea of unkempt hair, hemp, sandals and tie dye. He does not
stray far from me as Tea Leaf Green hits the stage and slams our senses with a
far out blend of Phish like riffs with a country twang. The rumble of the
crowd’s roar pales in comparison to the rumble of our stomachs as we cave in and
buy some ten dollar gyros and cop a squat on our blanket. Some jerk glides over
to a muscular Guido looking guy and asks to purchase some “gardening
supplements”. When the man refuses, the jerk’s crew literally throw stones at
the man’s girlfriend. I kid you not. The man erupted and a verbal and shoving
fight ensues inches away from our awe struck faces. Security is lost in the
haze of the music that plays. My eyes stray from the ensuing brawl to catch a
glimpse of Grebe, eyes wide, twitching nervously as he hovered over his gyro as
though he were an eagle protecting its young. I laughed at this marvel, and
even harder as the fools were escorted from the concert area. We saw two
friends playing catch with a football. I have to be honest; one friend was not
too great at the sport. He would stand straight armed and tense as the ball
floated down towards him. He stood rapt with the gaze of a dog waiting for food
to be dropped from the dinner table. However, often times the ball would bounce
off his hands as though they were bricks. We shared a chuckle at his expense,
not something I’m proud of. However, then we saw a blue moon as the 19 year old
managed to snag the ball out of the air and proceed to do a corny dance the
likes of which even I had never seen before. After he stopped seizing he threw
the ball back flimsily to his friend and repeated the process each time Lady
Luck smiled upon him. We didn’t feel bad about laughing at him anymore.
The Yonder Mountain String Band was a pleasant surprise.
I had never heard of them but their quick honky tonk instrumentals including a distorted
upright bass was a new spin on a style of music I was still relatively new to.
The closest thing to describe them would be sounds likened to a fuller Grateful
Dead, with no horns or vocals. Regrettably, I caught a few Zs as Slightly
Stoopid performed. But before my snooze I lent my ears to their first song. It
was fly no doubt, but the loud screaming and frequent use of swear words seemed
to almost interfere with the laidback atmosphere of the concert. Their
enthusiasm for their music was to be admired though and I considered it to be a
positive experience. I was roused by the roar of the crowd as Government Mule
blazed the stage. I’ve always been so so on Warren Hayes, digging his riffs but
not so much on his vocals. His live show was no different as each song sounded
the same to me. The monotony was interrupted however, by quite simply a drunken
middle aged man chasing after a beach ball as if it were his true love and he
could not understand why she was bouncing away from him. Then the real magic
began as Bela Fleck and the Flecktones sent a wave of relaxation to the
audience with amazingly chill tones that featured the bass styling’s of Mr.
Victor Lamonte Wooten. Best bassist ever. Enough said. There was a teen next to
us who partied a little too hard a little too soon. He spilled his heart, soul,
and a little bit of hot dog on the lawn. The crowd in the vicinity then fell
silent. (It was eerie, a wonder I’ve never witnessed until that day, and have
not experienced since) as a portly woman unknowingly wandered into the pink
puddle. At the point of contact the crowd said OOOO! In unison, ourselves
included, almost as though it were instinct. The woman scampered off, with a
look of horror on her face. My soul sways to the strum of the banjo and thump
of the bassline until I hear another thump next to me. This one makes a squishy
noise. Rich jerks his body as though he were in shock and shaking loose the
cobwebs. My eyes are drawn to Rich’s brand new white hat purchased the day
before. A hat which he had gone to great lengths to protect for the day. A hat which
now had a large red glob on it. We had been ketchup bombed. Rich grew angry to
say the least as his face changed its color to a hue more like that of his
hat’s new stain. Another bomb flew to our left and Rich put his hat down on the
blanket to keep it safe. Within moments his plan backfired as the hat was
stepped upon by a long haired lanky penguin looking teen who muttered a half
hearted apology as he marched forwards towards the stage. I froze in the shock
of what has just occurred. Rich is now enraged and spikes his hat in
frustration while uttering words under his breath I dare not repeat on this
page. I couldn’t understand or hear half of them anyway as I was cackling
mercilessly at the fact that Rich’s hat went from brand new to completely
ruined in a matter of thirty seconds. Grebe chuckled as well as he tried to
calm and console the angry beast. Rich’s temper was cooled as DMB hit the stage
and pleased us with melodies and rhythms the likes of which cannot be justly
explained. I sent my sober eyes to the skies to see the smoke rise and the
stage in a haze. But sight didn’t matter, only the music that formed itself
into one of the most beautiful experiences of my life.
As a side note, we actually got pretty lost on the way home. It's a amazing how back then I kind of left that out, but if this happened today I'd probably talk mostly about the drive home with the concert being a footnote. Once again, see you Wednesday.
Song of the Day: Grey Street-Dave Matthews Band
Jazz Song of the Day: Zona Mona-Flecktones (Not jazz, don't whine)
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