Unfinished Business: June 20, 2011

This bit of Unfinished Business entails a bit of explanation; more so than I hope future installments will require. I will attempt to be succinct.

A Good Will Gesture.
As you likely know, we lost the great Clarence Clemons (left, top), the former saxophonist for Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band last June. I was surprised at how hard I took it. I was even more surprised at how difficult it was for me to verbalize my feelings as to why. I really shouldn’t have been so shocked, though; I’ve had difficulty in plumbing the depths of my affinity for Springsteen’s music for longer than I’ve been writing this blog.

As I’m sure he is to a lot of his fans, Springsteen has always been a borderline spiritual figure to me, not that I think the dude is god or anything, but for the extraordinary quality of his music; for what he stands for, both as a musician and as a human being; the honesty that flows from his lyrics; the raw passion that exudes from every musical pore of his being. It’s hard to summon up the words to describe the feeling that his work conveys to me — and for the longest time I tried, but couldn’t. I just couldn’t seem to do my own emotions the justice they deserved. That fact alone has hindered me from really saying much at all about him in this space; a place I originally intended to be my personal forum on the music and artists I love.

I’ve collected a lot of fond and funny memories over the years, relating to my Springsteen fandom that I’d always thought might make excellent blog fodder. However, before now I’d never managed to find the inspiration to break through that wall; to find the words that adequately described the feeling his music delivers to me. In another aborted post that I started nearly a year ago, I tried, but it simply wouldn’t come together as I’d hoped.

Then last June, Clarence died on the day before Father’s Day. I was devastated. Springsteen’s longtime friend, confidante, and musical partner in crime was a huge part of my affinity for Bruce’s music overall; his wasn’t simply an instrumental contribution that could be replaced by another sax player. To me, he was a major part of Springsteen’s musical appeal. Again, I wanted to render some kind of significant tribute; something significant to me if to no one else. A straightforward bio/career acknowledgement just wouldn’t do. It had to be more. I stumbled, struggled, and came up with nothing over two days.

Then I received a passively 'Willful’ assist from a guy I had the pleasure of meeting at a wedding I attended in 2008, who has since become one of my favorite personal bloggers. Will Stegemann (@betheboy on Twitter) offered a fun, yet poignant tribute to Clemons the day after his June 18, 2011 passing. His post shed the perfect amount of light on the dim confusion of my self-agitated bundle of emotion regarding Springsteen and the loss of Clemons.

Without spoiling the plot, the story delivers a tribute to Clemons as seen through the eyes of a sub-adolescent, as Will was at the time of his introduction to The Boss’s music. Will’s account of his own childlike sensibilities regarding his Dad’s favorite rock ‘n roll band helped to connect the dots of my over-complicated internal analysis of the place Springsteen’s work occupies in my own life. It allowed me stop thrashing about, mentally, and to look at things simply; identifying my relationship to the artist on the most basic of levels. Had I not read Will’s blog that day, there’s little doubt I’d still be wrestling with the concept even now.

Epiphanies aside, I still got hung up in parsing it all out, so the story sat unfinished for months until this week, when I finally decided to wrap it all up.

Melodramatic much? Oh, absolutely! But I embrace my inner drama queen; it’s a big part of what makes me who I am and I have no intentions to change.

I would hope, however, that after all this, you still have the intention to read this back-dated post, started on June 20, 2011, but finished just today:

Here’s to You, Big Man

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finis

Prejudiced Against Prejudice (Part 2 of 2)

The Hoosier hayseed as I was on my first day of 8th grade, I might have qualified for the subject of one of Norm Peterson’s (George Wendt in the 80s hit comedy Cheers) favorite quips.

Milkbone Underwear
This is another story I’ve related before — the one about my first day of school in California in September of 1969. We had literally just rolled into town two days prior, on Saturday afternoon, arriving in Long Beach at the conclusion of our cross-country journey from Middletown, Indiana. It was the first Monday morning of 8th grade; I didn’t know a soul and probably hadn’t made direct eye contact with anyone until the memorable moment that occurred while I was sitting in my first class.

There I was, arriving on the scene at Leland Stanford Junior High; a thirteen year-old boy who could have easily passed for ten, sporting a bowl-type haircut, a rather loud short-sleeve madras print shirt (top button buttoned, of course), and a pair of yellow-gold polyester pin-striped Sears Tuff-Skin bell-bottom trousers that gave way to about 3-4 inches of black socks and exposed ankle.

I might as well have been wearing a big ol’ bull’s eye on my back.

Norm Peterson of the classic TeeVee comedy Cheers might well have described my circumstance as, “livin’ in a dog-eat-dog world — and AJ’s wearin’ Milkbone underwear.”

On that early September Monday morning, after locating my 8th Grade homeroom in the 800 building, I took a seat on the far right-hand row of desks, about two or three seats from the front of class. I stared straight ahead as we all awaited the appearance of our homeroom teacher.

The class was abuzz in muffled conversation as excited adolescents described to one another what they’d been up to since June. I heard a few giggles coming from behind; I had an idea but didn’t want to turn around to see if they were being directed at me. It wouldn’t be too much longer before I’d find out.

“Hey…” a voice from the desk behind me whispered, accompanied by a pair of bony taps between my shoulder blades.

“Hey, kid…”

I sheepishly turned to my peer back over my shoulder, where a pair of maniacal blue-black eyes flashed back at me. They were attached to a freckle-faced boy with wildly mussed, long and stringy hair, featuring a grin that would have left Alice’s Cheshire Cat with an inferiority complex.

He didn’t appear to be much bigger than me, but more than made up for his lack of size with attitude. He wore an oversized plaid Pendleton flannel shirt, which I would later learn to associate as the uniform of the ‘hard guys’ as I referred to them; boys whom you definitely wanted to be on the right side of, socially.

Long before my first social studies class, I would be faced with my first social test in this brave, new world.

“Hey, kid,” my leering classmate continued, “Are you…a GEEK?” The peanut gallery behind him and in the row to my left erupted in laughter.

“No. No, I’m not,” I replied, as I turned back around, mortified, once again face-forward in my seat.

Fitting in — in a hurry
The good news is, I can now look back on that first day of school and laugh — almost hysterically. I would indeed find my way around in the social jungle that was junior High school, and before the year was out, I’d have the hard guys in their Pendletons coming to my defense on the thankfully seldom occasions in which I was picked on by other boys around campus.

By the end of the school year I would run for student council (for a term beginning the first semester of the following year) and would win. My personality blossomed and so did my grades. I went from C’s and D’s in Indiana to A’s and B’s in my new home — appropriately for me — nicknamed, The Golden State.

I opened up as a person in the 8th grade. I was transformed from a shy, introverted, often angry little boy into a socially confident, semi-gregarious, um…little boy.

I may not have been one of the ‘cool kids,’ but I was close.

Fortunately, I was a quick study. I learned from day one how to adapt; I lost the accent, unbuttoned that top shirt collar button and never fastened it again. Even later, in the 1980s, when the buttoned-down collar-look became fashionable, I resisted adopting it for the longest time; and for nothing more than that very silly connotation of geekdom that was still branded into the hide of my childhood psyche.

Funny thing though, in looking back on it all with the retrospection of now having lived in the south for 20 years, I realize how insidious that kind of thinking can be — and how needlessly damaging. Why did it matter that I spoke with a regional accent? Why did it matter that I wore ‘floods’ because my parents couldn’t afford to replace my pants before I out grew them? Why did it matter that the label on the back of my jeans said Tuffskins or Towncraft instead of Levis?

And why THE HELL did I, only months later, actively begin deriding and judging other kids for committing the same social sins that I had been guilty of?

Goin’ To, Music City, Music City, Here I come...
When we made the decision to move to Nashville, in my mind, it was for one reason and one reason only: to continue my career in the music business. The more-affordable cost of living and allegedly better environment in which to raise our two children were Michelle’s reasons, not mine.

I’d be lying to say that I was at all looking forward to the culture shock I knew was waiting for me. I did not want to leave California, but nonetheless, deep-down inside, I knew that it was something we needed to do as a family. So I went willingly, but with plenty of trepidation.

My social training told me that I was going to a very strange place; one that I was conditioned to look upon with disdain. You see, I had been this way before, but in reverse.

Given how I’d gotten to California in the first place, you’d think I would have known better. Sheesh — talk about reprogramming!

I guess I didn’t really know how prejudiced I was until I got here.

Again, I’m not talking about racial prejudice. I was raised to be colorblind. I can honestly say that race has never ever been an issue with me. However I’m ashamed to say that the same kind of social prejudice that was used against me as a thirteen year old coming into that brave ‘cool’ world of Southern California was something that I in turn would incorporate into my own worldview for many, many years.

I can clearly remember my biggest reticence to moving to Nashville was my perception of leaving the world of ‘enlightenment’ and plunging myself headlong into the land that intelligence forgot — or so I’d been told. I mean, everybody knows that Hee-Haw was the first reality show on TeeVee, right? People in Nashville really do walk around in overalls, wearing straw hats and hanging out in cornfields all day, telling each other silly jokes, don’t they?

And surely the only music they play in that town are those twangy Country songs about somebody’s long-lost hound dog with perhaps an occasional Johnny Cash tune thrown in for good measure.

These were the things that I was more-or-less convinced were either true or pretty close to the same. And as ridiculous as that is, to some degree, it’s at least the flavor of Nashville’s perception in other parts of this country. I know it was pretty much my pervading impression, despite the fact that deep down I knew how silly it was for me to acknowledge such bullshit.

But what if it was?

Imagine my surprise when I arrived here only to find that most everyone I met actually had teeth and lived in houses with indoor plumbing!

I’m obviously exaggerating here just a bit, but in my experience, the spirit of my little jibe was pretty accurate. People believe what they’re told — and sold; and this stereotype of Nashville and the deep south in general is one that hopefully in recent years has finally begun to die down. However, it never ceases to amaze me — largely via comments I read and hear associated with the assumptions of hockey fans from other NHL cities — that this derisive image still seems to abound in people’s minds, despite loads of evidence to the contrary.

Social stereotypes work in every bit the same way that racial ones do. Prejudice is the quintessential definition of ignorance because it not only presumes things that aren’t necessarily so, it promotes those beliefs as fuel for fear.

If political correctness is ‘correct,’ then it’s correct for everyone. No one person or group has a monopoly on the truth or the right to infringe upon another person’s political conviction, short of that conviction denying one’s inalienable right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”

And while the aforementioned credo of the Declaration of Independence is said to be of broad interpretation, we know as well as its authors did some 235 years ago just how narrow it is in spirit. We can wrangle all we want about political ramifications surrounding the notion, but that’s all it is: wrangling; rhetoric; words whose intent is ultimately purposed to attain or maintain control in a political context, even when real politics aren’t even involved.

It’s the same for the ridiculous notion of social superiority based on geography, dialect (or the lack thereof), relative income, or other trappings of social status.

Nope, ya really can’t mess this one up, folks. It’s obvious that the preamble of the Declaration is all about respect — one human being for another; nothing more and nothing less. It’s the giving of respect that generates freedom, not the other way around; true, it’s a two-way street, but if it doesn’t start with me, it may as well not even exist.

It’s up to us to turn the other cheek; it’s up to us to respect others before demanding that they respect us; not to exclude and castigate them for being different, unless there’s real evidence that that difference is destructive and not merely a departure from prevailing opinion.

Apart from that, true freedom is a myth; and the pursuit of happiness is nothing more than another device we use to get our own way.


* * * * *

finis

Prejudiced Against Prejudice (Part 1 of 2)

TeeVee producer J.J. Abrams is along those who have made it cool to be a geek these days, but it wasn’t always that way.

I know this sounds like a broken record, but…
I may not post very often, but I write all the time — really; although you’d never know that from my online output. The problem is, I do write often but I rarely finish what I start.

My more-than-occasional penchant for distraction applies to reading books as well. I’ve mentioned it before, but I honestly believe I’m at least mildly ADD, which might account for the fact that the only novel in my entire life I’ve ever read from cover-to-cover was The Good Earth, which I was forced to do a book report on in the seventh grade. It took me for freakin’ ev-ar. Truth be told I probably read it three times based on the number of instances in which I’d catch myself daydreaming and then, ten pages later, have no comprehension whatsoever of I’d just read. I’d have to go back and re-read the section and typically repeat the same situation in the next chapter or on the next page.

It’s a problem I’ve had for as long as I can remember and in the case of the colossal headache that was The Good Earth, it was sufficient to ruin me on book reading, period. That’s silly, I know, but really, that was it. Any subsequent books I was ever assigned in school I merely skimmed through and hoped for the best when it came to proving that I knew what they were about.

In recent years I’ve attempted to read books for pleasure, but nearly every time they’d end up sitting on a shelf, their bindings barely cracked. The most ridiculous example of this to date is my copy of Tom Brocaw’s wonderful work on my parent’s peer group called, The Greatest Generation. I wanted so badly to have it that I dropped numerous hints to Michelle suggesting it would make an excellent Dad’s Day gift; then once it was mine I read the forward and then proceeded to park it on a shelf for a month before even thinking about picking it up again. In the more than seven years since, I’ve read a grand total of two chapters of that book I supposedly wanted so desperately. And the worst part is that I really enjoyed those two chapters! I just couldn’t get myself to sit back down and finish the rest.

In subsequent years I have managed to successfully complete a few very short books (i.e.: 75 pages or less), but the number of those occasions I can count on one hand.

But here’s the weirdest thing of all in reference to my apparent reading hang-up: I’ve always loved to read the Sunday paper each week, and stranger still, I read and have read voraciously on the Internet for years. There just seems to be something — and I’d love for someone to clue me in on what that something is — that makes reading onscreen easier for me than focusing on a printed page for more than 15-20 seconds before losing concentration, my mind wandering, etc.

I just seem to have the hardest time staying on task when it comes to reading a freaking book — or making a freaking point, apparently — as my lack of book-reading prowess is not even remotely related to the subject of this post.

The only reason I mention it here is only because the subject of this post somehow sprang up in the midst of another post I was writing in the spring of 2008, which strangely enough, was about a concert I’d attended that April.

The more I expounded upon that maverick thought the longer the post grew and more off-track of its original subject it became. So I basically cut the post in half and set the off-kilter portion aside to re-visit as a separate story subject at another time; it‘s taken me three years, but here it is.

I believe that now, three years later, particularly in light of the fact that we elected of our first African-American President in U.S. History, the subject is as germane as it ever will be.

If your guess is now that my story has to do with prejudice, you’d be right.

But if you’re assuming that it’s racial prejudice I’m referring to, well, AHHHHHHNTTT! Sorry; no cookie for you.

There’s another kind of prejudice in our society that doesn’t merely single out differences in race as its target, but is just as damaging for what it does to our social sensibilities, in my opinion. It’s just as wrong as racial prejudice but far more subtle; and chances are, regardless of the color your skin, you’ve probably been not only a victim of it, but a perpetrator as well.

The ‘P-word’ comes in all flavors
As I’ve mentioned numerous times previously in concert-related blog entries, I feel extremely lucky to be where I am right now, especially with regard to the music scene here in Nashville. However Music City has been more than simply a place to indulge my musical appetites; it’s been a great teacher as well, particularly in light of where I came from.

Now before I get started, allow me to assure those of you SoCal’ers whose neck hair is already standing on end, this isn’t going to be an L.A. bash-fest. I believe my record is clear concerning the consummate love I have for my former homeland. This is about me, and the observations of my own change in attitude over the past 15-20 years; the way I saw things when I lived in SoCal, versus the way I see them now, just shy of twenty years after my family and I relocated to Nashville. It’s about what being away from life in the fishbowl has taught me about the rest of the ocean.

The only person I actually plan to bash here is myself, along with, to a lesser degree, the society and local worldview I grew up with from late adolescence in the early 70s through mid-adulthood in the late 80s/early 90s.

It’s the ooonly way to fly
Upon relocating to Nashville from L.A. over Christmas Break in 1991, nearly everything I thought I knew of my new home turned out largely to be lies and all-out prejudice — not the racial kind, but much more a cultural bigotry that ultimately required removing myself from its source to truly have its ugliness revealed. I certainly couldn’t have seen it for what it was while being indoctrinated in it as a teenager; my social programming was subtle, as is usually the case with any sort of learned behavior.

As is the case with most any great locale, Southern California not only exudes pride in being a great place to live, but in the 70s and 80s at least, local society there would have you believe that it was the only place to be.

However it went beyond mere regional partisanship; it wasn’t just about the way you looked, it was also about the way you spoke. Californians are proud of their lack of any kind of readily detectable regional accent, as opposed to those typically found in other parts of the country. In school, if you ‘talked funny’ you were definitely branded as ‘different.’ Even among adults, regional accents were often ridiculed in private conversation. This was particularly true of southern accents. It was almost as if folks believed that anyone who spoke with a southern accent was somehow lower on the evolutionary scale than ‘normal’ people.

“WHOAH…” you might be saying, “Isn’t that just a LITTLE judgmental on yourpart, AJ?” Perhaps; but it absolutely was, by implication, the indoctrination I was given throughout my late adolescence-to-early adulthood, an age period in our development as societal beings in which I’m convinced we are the most subject to suggestion, outside influence and ultimately, prejudicial opinion.

Welcome to FauxCal
Having spent the first thirteen years of my life in semi-rural Indiana, and accordingly having also carried with me a fairly strong regional dialect when we arrived in Southern California in 1969, I quickly learned the importance of losing that accent as fast as possible.

Indiana isn’t Tennessee, of course, but in the late 60s, pretty much anything that was linked to the south or rural midwest was cast in the light of ignorance and intolerance by those ‘enlightened’ members of the too-cool-for-the-room set in SoCal. It largely had to do to with south’s pronounced resistance to the Civil Rights movement of the 60s and early 70s, an extremely hot-button topic of the day. And being the ‘melting pot’ that L.A. had become, they prided themselves on being better than all those erstwhile confederate bigots down there in the south.

Oh yeah…there’s no racial prejudice in Southern California. Um…hello? Ever heard of the Watts riots of ’65? Rodney King? Yeah, everybody just gets along, right? Whatevs.

The fact is that there’s plenty of racial prejudice just about everywhere in America, and it comes in many different flavors. La-La land may have it better-hidden than other locales, but just like that old spaghetti sauce commercial used to say, “It’s in there.”

The good news is I honestly believe that racial prejudice as a social constant is on the way out in this country. A new, much more ‘colorblind’ generation is growing up and assuming more and more influence in the rethinking of race relations in the United States of America.

President Barack Obama is the proof of that puddin.

So will we — could we eventually become a nation of true racial equality? I hope so. I don’t know if it will happen in my lifetime, but I definitely see it in the offing for my children’s generation and beyond.

However that other kind of prejudice — the social kind — that’s the one that troubles me even more at this point; that’s the one I still consider just as dangerous, just as wrong, and just as insidious as ever.

Oh, and it’s not just about accents and making fun of hicks either.

It permeates everything; it raises ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ to an art form — one that I particularly allowed myself to be sucked into.

While the locals patted themselves on the back because they lived in stucco crackerboxes instead of the kind that have wheels and attract tornadoes, I gathered their cloaks at my feet and stood by, silently nodding my head in agreement. I drank the Kool-Aide alright; even though I knew in my heart that the punch was tainted.

Hey, I just wanted to be one of the cool kids, yo.

But country wasn’t cool, and country sensibilities were even less so. ‘Hick’ was every bit as derogatory a four-letter epithet as anything else one could be called back then. And after someone asked me if I actually was one on my first day of 8th grade, soon after our arrival in Long Beach, I was pretty damned sure that was not the way to go.


Next: Milkbone Underwear

A Temporary Interruption

When real-life gets real...
Sorry ’bout that folks. Actually, I’m sorry about a couple of things. First I’m sorry it’s taking longer to wrap up the second part of my previous post, and second, I’m sorry I feel the need to explain that in the first place.

Just bein’ honest.

I’m really racing the clock to get caught up on a big project at work before being off half of next week for my daughter Amy’s wedding down in The ATL, so I’m kinda taxed for time, not to mention the fact that Part 2 of my Toad story really hit a rut this week that will be explained when I can finally post it. Hopefully again, it will be worth the wait.

Additionally, mucking up the waters time-wise, a big story that hit the national news yesterday (Wednesday) will be the subject of my following post — in fact, right on its heels. That one will be an important one for me, and extremely germane to how the subject matter of this blog has played out over the years.

I still have several other stories in queue, including another music-related one I forgot to mention earlier that I believe you’ll enjoy.

However, I just wanted to break the silence here briefly before some of you begin wondering if the boy who cried ‘BLOG’ was back up to his flaky old tricks. :)

BTW, if you’re not already, I invite you to follow/friend me on Twitter, Facebook, or Google+. I’ll be announcing all blog updates via all three of those social media channels. Or you can subscribe to my RSS feed and stay up to date on my posts that way.

Type atcha soon...

AJ

Reincarnation Song (Part 1 of 2)

Mercy Lounge = House of Toad. Their reincarnation is complete. Saturday August 13, 2011, the continuously popular 90s Alternative/Modern Rock band, Toad The Wet Sprocket made their triumphal return to Music City; performing together in Nashville for the first time since 1997 and rocking a packed Mercy Lounge. From left, bassist Dean Dinning, drummer Randy Guss, lead vocalist/guitarist Glen Phillips, and lead guitarist/vocalist Todd Nichols did not disappoint; delighting the sold-out, standing room crowd. (Photo: Nancy Neil/www.toadthewetsprocket.com)

I Will Not Take These Things for Granted
As Toad the Wet Sprocket took the stage a week ago Saturday night at Nashville’s Mercy Lounge, lead singer Glen Phillips strode to the microphone with a grin on his face as wide as the Pacific Ocean. The group’s primary singer/songwriter was drinking in the sold-out, standing room crowd’s rabid applause as if it was a tall glass of lemonade on a hot summer’s day. The band was playing their 70th out of 74 appearances on the first leg of of a blistering initial tour to mark their full-fledged return to the contemporary music scene.

“I am SO happy to be an artist, playing Nashville, Tennessee WITHOUT a current song on the charts,” he announced, to further hoops and applause from the adoring masses. Phillips knew this group of fans was there for the right reasons. He and the band have nothing new to sell yet, really — and certainly nothing to prove. Each and every member of the audience knew why they were there; they were already completely sold.

Over the next three glorious hours, what ensued was much less a concert than it was choir practice, as the vast majority of diehard fans in attendance sang every word to every song with such fervor, that even from my position within the mass of humanity pulsing just a few feet from the stage, the sound of Phillips’ voice was nearly indistinguishable from that of the crowd’s.

If you remember the last time I reviewed a Glen Phillips show, you’ll know why I captured this song: Stupid, from Toad’s 1994 release, Dulcinea.

The band hails from Santa Barbara, California, a place far enough removed from L.A. to hardly be considered Southern California proper, but close enough to engender all of what we consider magical about life on the left coast. The surf community has always been a big part of the city’s mystique, and for me, as with most people I’d imagine, the beach is an integral part of anything that’s SB-related.

For my wife, Michelle and me, Santa Barbara is one of our favorite spots on earth. She attended college at University of California, Santa Barbara, and that time in her life is a part of her youth that can never be replaced. It’s also where we spent on our wedding night — in a little motel right on the beach, of course — en route to a two-week honeymoon trip up and down the west coast; thereby instilling in it for me a sense of romantic nostalgia that’s equally irreplaceable.

However, I take this little detour not to proclaim my affinity for Toad as merely based on where four former San Marcos High buddies grew up, forming a band in their teens that would become one of, if not the most endearing and successful of the Alternative Folk/Modern Rock era.

No, my appreciation for their music goes much deeper than that; the Santa Barbara connection is just an added bonus.

The reason I mention the beach and Toad in the same breath is in part because that’s where their music takes me, emotionally. The freedom; the soul-piercing clarity of thought; the sense that you can be one among a crowd of people, yet feel that the sole intended recipient of each song’s message is you and you alone.

Oh…and there IS one other reason… Glen Phillips came in looking as if he’d actually just come from the beach.

Crowing Although standing three feet from the stage definitely has its advantages, I’m beginning to realize that some of those advantages are better applied to a man considerably younger age than myself. This was the first ‘stand-up’ show I had been to in at least two years and as I indicated a month ago, sadly, I can no longer ignore the effects of Father Time on this ol’ bod ‘o mine.

Dude, I was sore!
Nonetheless I had a great time, and being so close as to get a shot of Glen’s set list (left) — and knowing that being situated in the second row of people standing in front of the stage, that there was no way in hell that the couple directly in front of me wouldn’t nab it first — was the next best thing to receiving it as a souvenir myself.

The 23-song set included all eleven tunes from their newly re-recorded greatest hits album, All You Want, released this past April, on the band's original, self-financed label, Abe’s Records, through which they also originally produced their initial project, Bread & Circus, before being picked up by Columbia Records that same year. The set also included a number of additional early Toad hits (from B&C, Pale, and their breakthrough release, Fear), which Glen openly dedicated to those diehard fans who had indeed been with them from the beginning.

The re-recorded greatest hits album (available for just $12/Digital or $15/CD at ToadTheWetSprocket.com — (get it NOW!). It is the band’s rightful effort to re-acquire the licensing rights to the songs from their Columbia Records catalog still held by their former record company.

Setlist Amplification
And just in case you can’t figure out the Toad Code of song title shorthand and chord/key designations, or perhaps you counted the songs in the photo and suddenly realized that ol’ AJ’s math isn’t quite right, here’s the set list in its entirety, including the album on which the tunes first appeared (and yes, there is indeed an extra tune the boys slipped in that wasn’t on the set list):

1. Something’s Always Wrong (Fear – 1991)
2. Whatever I Fear (Coil – 1997)
3. Crowing (Dulcinea – 1994)
4. Fly From Heaven (Dulcinea – 1994)
5. Good Intentions (In Light Syrup – 1995)
6. Stupid (Dulcinea – 1994)
7. Inside (Dulcinea – 1994)
8. Windmills (Dulcinea – 1994)
9. Is It For Me? (Fear – 1991)
10. The Moment (NEW! Yet Unnamed Album – 2012)
11. Friendly Fire (NEW! Yet Unnamed Album – 2012)
12. Way Away (Bread & Circus – 1989)
13. I Will Not Take These Things for Granted (Fear – 1991)
14. Come Back Down (Pale – 1990)
15. Nightingale Song (Fear – 1991)
16. All I Want (Fear – 1991)
17. Crazy Life (Coil – 1997)
18. Finally Fading (Glen Phillips solo release: Winter Pays for Summer – 2005)
19. Brother (In Light Syrup – 1995)
20. Fall Down (Dulcinea – 1994)
Encores
21. Come Down (Coil – 1997)
22. Ziggy Stardust (David Bowie: The Rise & Fall of Ziggy Stardust & Spiders From Mars – 1972)
23. Walk on the Ocean (Fear – 1991)

Bootleg Medley
Still don’t believe me? As I touted this piece in my previous blog entry, this post is a truly multimedia effort, And given the fact the Toad has always encouraged fans to record live shows if they’re so inclined (Glen has referred to the band as having a very “taper-friendly” policy), I decided to bring my hand-held digital voice recorder to the show. I was originally only going to use it to record snippets of each song so that I’d be sure to have an accurate account of the setlist. However, once I realized that I could actually get a photo of said list, i decided to do a mini bootleg of the entire show.
However, be forewarned, this audio ain’t exactly archival quality. Remember that thing I said earlier about this affair being akin to one really huge choir practice? Well, as you can imagine, when everyone in the house is belting out every Toad lyric in as high a volume as they can muster, in whatever divers pitch their little vocal muscles can squeeze into a sound, abetted by liberal amounts of feel-no-pain-inducing liquid refreshment, and I'm sure you get the picture.

But to be honest, after listening to and formatting this recording, I was surprised at how little major interference there is in the thing. You can certainly hear the guy standing directly behind me who unfortunately couldn't carry a tune in a wheelbarrow (yes I know the expression is ‘carry a tune in a bucket,’ but that’s how bad this dude was — trust me) but I'm here to tell ya, you won’t hear him nearly as well as I did (yikes).

Also, in addition to some decent-sized chunks of songs, I was fortunate to capture several choice bits of Phillips’ interaction with the crowd that I think you’ll enjoy. My favorite comes at the very beginning of Crowing (track #3), in which Glen offers a very entertaining lesson in physics, much to the chagrin of one very LOUD member of the audience. :)

The audio is mashed-up in medley format and condenses more than two hours of the concert down to 50 minutes, 9 seconds. However, I did decide to record in their entirety the two new Toad songs that will appear on their upcoming album due out next year. Thankfully, they're pretty much the only ones that the crowd shut up for, so they actually sound pretty good.

Note however, that the inline audio player below is flash-based, so you won't easily be able to directly download the MP3 file for offline listening. However, if you’d like a copy of my ‘mini-bootleg’ for yourself, feel free to leave me a Contact message (located in the navigation bar in the AYBABTU header) with your email address and I’ll be happy to send you the direct download link. It’s a fairly large file (58.7 MB), but shouldn't be too much difficulty for anyone with a good Internet connection to download . Enjoy.

And...PLAY STONEHENGE!

Toad the Wet Sprocket  |  Sat. 08-13-11  |  Mercy Lounge  |  Nashville, TN

ShowPics
And of course, it would’t be multimedia without still photos, so from the Flickr Photostream below you can click through to my Flickr account and view the set of images I’ve uploaded from the show.

More to come
With all the added stuff, this post is getting long. You’ve probably got enough to keep you occupied for awhile with the audio, video and pics from this great Toad experience, so I’ll just let you play around with that for now. I’ve got lots more to say about Glen and the boys but I think I’m gonna save it for a followup entry a little later. Type atcha then.


Next: Stories I Tell

Oh, Have I Got A Lot to Tell YOU...

Seriously Ready to Burst
Gotta do it. Wanna do it. Prolly shouldn't do it, but The Boy Who Cried ‘BLOG’ is back, making promises again — well, maybe not promise promises, but promises of intent, leave us say. I’m planning to crank up the ‘ol personal blog jalopy again real soon and against my better judgment I once again feel compelled to tell you about it instead of just doing it and keeping my big yap shut. It’s just that I’m so freaking excited about getting back to my first love that I simply can’t not talk a little bit about it with you first.

I have been all kinds ‘a busy this summer. Between my new(ish) job (which I began in January) and my daughter Amy's impending nuptials in just less than two weeks (August 29th) — and all the commensurate madness that accompanies such an event — needless to say, I haven’t had much time to think, let alone keep up two blogs.

And yeah, I’ll confess, I have been writing fairly consistently on my hockey blog, what with the continuous activity of the Nashville Predators’ deepest run in the Stanley Cup Playoffs in their history this past spring, followed by the surprisingly contentious re-signing of star defenseman, Shea Weber, there’s been a lot of compelling goings-on in that part of my life, and I’ve had to choose one blog over the other. Wish it didn’t have to be that way; perhaps it won’t always be; however I’m not making any promises about that right now.

On the other hand, I AM promising to myself and to you, that my backlog of AYBABTU posts will be seen to here in the next few weeks, and I am SO looking forward to it, I cannot express how much.

First on the docket will be a return to the original subject matter of this blog, a concert/lifestyle review on my recent experience seeing one of my all-time fave bands, the recently re-united, Toad The Wet Sprocket. Glen Phillips and the boys played before a sold-out Mercy Lounge crowd here in Nashville last Saturday night and it was magical! This will be my first (full-fledged) multimedia review, as I have both audio and video content to share. That should be coming sometime later this week.

Next, and possibly before, depending on how long the Toad story takes, will be the first in about a half-dozen partially written-but-never-finished posts from earlier this year and during my full-time work hiatus of 2010. Most of these stories are very close to completion but I really don’t know exactly how long they’ll each take to finish; so let’s just tease them as ‘coming soon.’

The story topics will range from:

• My time spent in a very exclusive entertainment industry focus group that you probably hear references to on a weekly basis
  
• Thoughts on the extremely disturbing way the radio industry works today, and how it’s changed in recent years
  
• How blogging saved my life
  
• Why the ‘Evil Empire’ is alive and well right here in the state of Tennessee
  
• My thoughts on the end of a TeeVee institution

And there are a few others I’m still toying with that may or may not see the light of day. Some may be even too nerdy for me to stomach seeing in print. We’ll see.

Nonetheless, I wanted to commit myself here online to getting these stories finished and out, at least in part before Amy’s big day, ‘cuz I KNOW I’ll be writing about THAT!

So anyway, keep your eyes peeled for the next few days. I’m hopeful this will be the jump-start I need to get back on an at least one-post-per-week schedule. Wish me (and my schedule) luck.

Type at’cha soon.


*     *     *     *     *


finis

Double Nickels

Run, rabbit run
Dig that hole, forget the sun
And when at last the work is done
Don't sit down
It's time to dig another one

For long you live and high you fly
But only if you ride the tide
And balanced on the biggest wave
You race towards an early grave

^{Breathe  |  Pink Floyd  |  Dark Side of the Moon  |  © 1973 Roger Waters}

The Daily Grind
It’s a complex dance, yet one so familiar and well-practiced that we rarely stop to even give it the briefest of consideration in our work-a-day world.

Gotta go to work.

The biblical account of Adam and Eve explains that it’s The Curse in action; the realization of God’s decree in Genesis 3:19, upon Adam and Eve’s expulsion from The Garden:

By the sweat of your face
You will eat bread,
Till you return to the ground,
Because from it you were taken;
For you are dust,
And to dust you shall return.

^{New American Standard Bible}

Some of us live to work, but all of us in one form or another, work to live.

For most in modern society, whether you’re a member of the nine-to-five, swing shift, or graveyard crowd, we all put in our time — figuratively or literally — punching the clock. We scratch out our existence; some of us working for The Man, and others of us, being The Man.

But while such harsh metaphors of employment are hardly the reality for most of us blessed to live here in 21st century America, the concept has, and always will be, relative.

And even as Roger Waters’ brilliantly poignant lyrics to the nature of our everyday existence speak to the more-or-less metaphysical aspect of the treadmill we call subsistence, yet another rock group, the 80s hair band, Loverboy ironically distills the concept to a much more immediate, corporeal, single statement (although they probably didn’t intend it that way):

Everybody’s workin’ for the weekend.

And indeed we are.

Ever consider the paradox in how many of us view our jobs? Every Monday morning we wish it was Friday, and every Sunday night we wish the weekend was just one day longer. Finally, one day we wake up and realize that every work week we pray will pass quickly is five less days we have left in our lives to enjoy; to experience; to celebrate who we are and why we’re here.

Kinda sobering, ain’t it?

Workin’ Fool
I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds in assuming that most people think as I do on the subject, but if you don’t, I’m sorry, however, I’m actually quite happy for you at the same time.

It’s just that after 33 years of official membership in the working class, supporting myself and my family, and being inexorably connected to the mass vibe of America’s commerce machine, I believe I’m qualified to go out on a limb and say that, given the chance, the vast majority of Americans would opt out of their usual existence if they could. In other words, we work because we have to, not because we want to.

Of course there are exceptions to the rule. Some people do indeed love their jobs and hopefully, not everyone hates what they have to do to earn a buck. I, for example have always loved the fact that I’ve basically made a career out of doing what I’ve always wanted to do. That’s a real advantage in the quality of life department for yours truly and something I am indeed grateful for.

But even I know that the notion of the truism, “Find the job you truly love and you’ll never ‘work’ a day in your life,” is little more than type-A-personality bullshit. Most of us are far too lazy and much too selfish to ever choose spending 40-60 hours per week making someone else rich over logging that same amount of ‘me time’ in its place

Than being said, just because I’m not stuck digging ditches for a living — not that there’s anything wrong with that, necessarily, mind you — don't think for a minute that if I ever won the lottery (or some other nonsensical pipedream that’ll never happen), that I’d miss the work-a-day grind for a millisecond.

No way, Jose.

I’m of an age in which I’ve accomplished more than enough to make me feel as though my life has been worthwhile. And while I might not be counting the days until retirement (mainly because it’s been a long time since I took math in school and I’ve sorta forgotten how to count that high), I am definitely looking forward to it when that time finally does arrive.

I still can’t drive…55
So why the even-more-intense-than-usual navel gazing post today, you ask? Well, today is my birthday, and for the first time I can honestly say, I’m not all that ‘happy’ about it.

I’m none too thrilled about the speed at which time is passing. I’m not jazzed that longing for time to think and to write and to do the things that I want to do is now, essentially tantamount to hitting the fast-forward button on my lifespan; skipping over the ‘now’ in favor of the ‘later,’ when life will be simpler; when I no longer have to run the treadmill; when I’ll likely be too old to really enjoy it.

And I guess what really bugs me is that I’ve finally reached the point in which I’ve become the person I always used to make fun of; the one who insists on re-celebrating his or her 29th birthday every year; the one who wants time to stop instead of embracing old age gracefully.

For me, this is the big one. Fifty was a piece ‘a cake; my life almost literally began at Forty; I was still trustworthy when I hit the big Three-OH.

But 55? Please. Somebody cue Sammy Hagar.

This is the day I officially hit the backside of the hill; this is the year in which all that follow it begin to accompany exponentially fewer chances that I’ll live to see another one.

I knew this day would come; I just thought I’d be more prepared; I always figured that I’d feel the part a little more — you know, like that I actually feeling 55?

Instead, it’s like someone went back to 1991 and threw me into some damned time machine; then dropped me off here in 2011 and announced, “Congratulations, AJ, you’ve hit double-nickels. You now have 22.9 years left to live — if you’re lucky. So sorry that the last 20 years have been a blur; the next 20 will go even faster.”

My Forties: The Good Ol’ Days?
I can clearly remember thinking about Y2K back in the 70s and 80s, realizing that I’d be the ‘ancient’ age of 43 when we finally hit the turn of the century. “Wow,” I thought. “I’ll be so old by then. I wonder how I’ll feel...” (as I imagined myself all wrinkly, with gray hair and liver spots).

Hell, the first five years of the New Millennium were among the best years of my life! Outside of my early 20s, there were no better ‘good ol’ days’ than my early-to-mid 40s. I felt a lot of things back then, but never, ever, did I feel old.

And to be honest, I still don’t; and that’s the problem — the calendar tells me otherwise.

Of course, I’m being more than a little melodramatic here. Again, everything is relative and particularly in our culture, hitting your mid-fifties is hardly tantamount to loitering at death’s door. Nonetheless, to ignore reality at this point in life and continue thinking that I’ll simply go on, unaffected by time’s incessant march is the most absolute of follies.

However, I’m not looking for a pity-party on my birthday. After all, there’s nothing magical — or fatal — about the age 55. It’s just that it’s such a major mile-marker on the road of my life that I just feel the need to acknowledge finally coming to realize that feeling like I’m still 32 doesn’t mean that I am.

My American Dream
Nonetheless, contrary to my heretofore sparkling optimism, this really isn’t a woe is me kinda post. It’s actually a celebration; a celebration of simple reality despite my not-so-simple way of dealing with it. I am actually much happier and satisfied with how my life has turned out than that twenty-something kid who used to wonder about Y2K ever imagined he would be.

Have all of my dreams come true? Hardly; but a lot of them did. And don’t get me wrong, I haven’t stopped dreaming. It’s just that now, my goals are more practical, and a lot less costly — both physically and spiritually. I’ve made a lot of mistakes; my greatest ongoing dream is to never make them again.

At this point, I figure I yam what I yam, financially; I’m firmly ensconced in the middle class and that’s more than okay with me. There are no Mercedes in my future — not that I have ever really wanted to own one. I have no more dragons to slay; no more mountains to climb. And to be perfectly honest, I never really had many to begin with. I’ve always been much more about keeping my life simple; about being happy, and humble, and most of all, realistic.

I’ve never made a lot of money, but I’ve been rich for quite awhile.

My American Dream is my wife, Michelle, my kids, Shawn and Amy, and the aforementioned fact that I accomplished my dream career; twice. I may not be the best at what I do, but that’s okay too; something else I did years ago filled that oftentimes silly compulsion that we Americans seem to feel is our birthright.

I was a collegiate national champion in my sport of choice, gymnastics. I performed a skill on the rings that, in the opinion of a few people who would know, has never been performed in the same way by anyone else in history. And that, right there, was more than most people would require to feel as though they’ve accomplished something.

But before you wag your head and say, “Oye, there goes AJ bragging about gymnastics again,” let me stop you and say that you’re missing the point. I don’t walk around the house, wearing my gymnastics medals nor is it the first thing I bring up in conversation with the man on the street. I don’t need to employ athletic accomplishment as a crutch to make me feel special, but there’s no denying that it does. I don’t live on past glories, but I am still fulfilled by them in a most wonderfully contented way.

However, that’s nothing compared to how rich and how blessed I feel to be married to Michelle, now for 32 and a half years and for having successfully raised two incredible, beautiful, and talented children. Buddy, that’s worthy of bragging about, right there. Michelle is the game-changer in my life; she is the reason you should ALL be bummed out that you’re not me.

Comparatively speaking, my rusty gold gym medal doesn’t hold a candle to that accomplishment.

The cynics among you may dog me for being so easily satisfied; for not pushing myself more, but you can’t touch how truly happy I am to have what I have and to have done what I have done. I may not have all the toys that often mark the success of men my age, but I also don’t have the bills, and the heartburn, and the pressure that follows them around like a pet.

I have fought the good fight; I have kept the faith, and I’m not finshed yet.

I am 55 and I am content.

It may all be downhill from here, but at least I know I’ll enjoy the ride.

*     *     *     *     *

finis

Here’s to you, Big Man

Former Bruce Springsteen And The E Street Band member, Rock Sax legend, Clarence Clemons, seen here performing last November, died June 18, 2011 from stroke complications (AP/Rhona Wise).

A WILLful Assist
This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been inspired by something that Will Stegemann wrote. You may know him as @BeTheBoy on Twitter, who, coupled with his equally brilliant and lovely spouse, TeeVee industry writer Nina Bargiel (@slackmistress), comprise a one-two punch of avant garde creative goodness that’s sometimes hard to describe, but always a party for the imagination.

And while I really dig both Nina’s edgy hipness and faster-than-your-own-neurons-can-fire wit, Will’s stories just have a way of ‘getting to me,’ particularly when he writes about his late father, who passed away in 2009.

Will seems to use his blog as a vehicle similar in style and purpose to my own; he doesn’t appear to seek engagement with an audience so much as with himself, particularly on subjects of family and his childhood memories. And whether or not that’s actually the case, it is how his posts speak to me.

Yesterday was of course, Father’s Day, and I was hit with a double-dose of BethePoignancy. Will posted a wonderfully-woven tribute to both his late father and the renowned Rock Saxman, Clarence Clemons, who died Saturday from complications of a stroke suffered last week. Clemons’ was a that loss I felt deeply but initially struggled to find a way to accurately express when I first heard the news late Saturday morning. He was 69 years old, a fact that alone was staggering to me. It didn’t seem possible that he could have even been in his sixties, let alone pushing seventy — which in and of itself is a testimony to the passion with which he lived and played music.

All in the Family
A number of aspects to Will’s story touched me profoundly, not the least of which was his experience of first encountering Springsteen’s music as a child in the 1980s, when he internalized his Pop’s everyday-affinity for the Boss’s sound to the extent of play-imagining the E Street Band as stand-ins for his own flesh and blood.

I was particularly tickled by Will’s reference to a live version of Springsteen’s Rosalita that was a particular favorite on his Dad’s car stereo cassette deck. It just so happens that the song was recorded at a club show in 1978 that I myself had desperately tried to attend, but was unable to get my hands on what few actual publicly-accessible tickets were available. I ended up having to settle for listening to the show being broadcast live on the radio, on now-defunct Los Angeles FM Rock station, KMET (I’ll relate the sad story of my own ‘Sunset Boulevard Freeze-Out’ at another time).

However, I mostly wanted to give a tip of the cap to Mister Stegemann for so accurately highlighting the concept of Springsteen’s band as a family, and as such, a pseudo-extended family that of all of the Boss’s fans can relate to — even through the eyes of a kid. It’s a most fitting metaphor and something that has escaped my ability to properly process over the years, as I’ve sought to find a meaningful framework on which to hang the feelings I’ve always had for Springsteen and Clemons in particular. To me, the two have always been a family; a nearly inseparable entity. And while Bruce’s solo work has always been great, I’ve never felt it matched the impact of that achieved together with he and his musical siblings: Clemons and the E Street Band.

Will’s post caused me to ponder just how much that connective vibe of Bruce Springsteen’s persona and early music resonated with me as a 19 year-old in the mid-70s, a point in time when Will’s life was just beginning.

I became cognizant of Springsteen’s music, late one August evening in 1975, hearing Born To Run on the radio for the first time, and as such, being immediately introduced to the soprano sax of Clemons (a.k.a., The Big Man), busting through the airwaves as a part of the E Street Band’s signature sound. For me it was a wonderful new discovery. However, compared to Will’s father, I was merely an AJ-come-lately.

Having grown up on Long Island, NY, Will’s dad (who was just two years older than me) had the unique perspective of being in the same geographic area as the Asbury Park, NJ phenomenon, perhaps knowing of him or actually being a fan before Springsteen hit the big time. Stegmann’s Pop had been a well-seasoned fan for years and went on to raise his kids with an appreciation for The Boss as well. Will’s blog post, Riding With The Big Man is required reading, whether you were an avid fan of Clemons or were only marginally acquainted with his contribution to the sound of the artist who quite frankly was The Beatles of his generation.

As part of my previously mentioned aborted blog post on Springsteen several months ago, I began to write about my initial encounter with The Boss’s music, of which Clarence Clemons’ dynamic presence played a huge part. I’d like to relate that anecdote right now, in The Big Man’s honor.

My World: Rocked
Like so many others, I was blown away by the sound of Born To Run, Springsteen’s third album — but the one that truly made him a household name when it hit the airwaves in the summer of ’75. For me it was one of the truly seminal musical moments of my lifetime; the kind of deal that makes it impossible to forget the first time you experienced something so different, so powerful, that you simply had to stop and say, “Wow! WHO. WAS. THAT?!”

And that’s quite literally what happened, late one night in August 1975, within a few days of when the album was first released. At the time I was three months into my first experience of living away from my parents’ house; sharing a two-bedroom apartment with a pair of roommates in a highly-questionable neighborhood in North Long Beach, California.

On the night in question, I was lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, but the chronic insomnia that was my constant companion during my teen and early-adult years wouldn’t allow me to. As usual, my clock radio was tuned to 95.5 KLOS in Los Angeles, and as also was my habit, I was listening to music while waiting for the Sandman to show up. Since it usually took more than an hour for me to fall asleep each night, I always figured that I might as well spend the time enjoying one of my favorite pastimes: listening to music. It never occurred to me that perhaps my indulging that fave pastime also had plenty to do with why I’d always had trouble falling asleep in the first place…but I digress.

Anyway, I remember just lying there, like so many other nights; staring at the ceiling. I had to get up at 3:00am to go to work at the grocery store the next morning; I remember feeling particularly anxious that I might sleep through my alarm if I didn’t grab some shuteye soon.

Then it happened. My little clock radio nearly jumped off the nightstand — or so it seemed.

The introductory signature blast of Max Weinberg’s booming drum beat, along with The Big Man’s foundational sax note, and Springsteen’s guttural, biting lead guitar riff sent a chill down my spine. Born To Run was rocking my world.

“Who IS that?” I thought.

Initially, I turned my head and stared at the radio, reaching in to turn the volume up and continuing to lean closer and closer until, by Clemons’ bruising mid-song staccato sax bridge, I was completely perpendicular, with my feet on the floor, seated at the side of my bed, fully engaged in a sound like none I’d ever before heard.

There was NO way I was getting to sleep now.

I’m not sure if the DeeJay ever gave the artist’s name after the song was finished, because I remember having made it a point to listen extra hard to the radio the next day, in hopes that I might hear it again and learn the identity of that awesome new band that played it.

I also remember that the part I liked best of all was the sax.

It was without a doubt, the most memorable moment from the five months I spent in that dingy old apartment on 56th and Orange, in an area bordering North Long Beach and South Central Los Angeles. We were located just a couple of blocks north of the gang-infested Carmelitos Projects and a few blocks south of the Compton city limits. It wasn’t a real fun place to be, but it served its purpose for the brief time that I was there. I roomed with a buddy I’d known since junior high school and another acquaintance from my church group, but at that point I probably would have shacked up with Freddy Krueger for the chance to get away from the Nightmare on Lave Avenue that was my existence at the time living at home with step mom Maxine.

I am most happy to say that my love affair with Springsteen and Clemons has lasted considerably longer.

A Window into the Soul
It’s abundantly easy to canonize the departed, especially artists, the output of whose professional lives have touched you in a manner such as that of something as accessible as popular music. It’s like falling in love with a painter, based entirely upon his body of work; never mind that in real life he was a pretentious jerk, who kicked his dog, beat his wife, and ignored his children in private — or even in public. All we know is how awesome his works of art made us feel.

By all accounts, Clemons was a genuinely good guy, and while I could be wrong, I rather doubt we’ll see any ‘Daddy Dearest’-type tell-all accounts from either his four sons or five ex-wives. Does that mean his closets were completely skeleton-free? No, but then, whose is?


One thing is certain; the bond between Clemons and Springsteen defined their music; which in turn defined my love for it from the moment I heard that first note. Even without having heard a note, you could see it in the cover photograph from Born To Run (above).

In a Huffington Post article, posted soon after Clemons’ death, entitled, Why Clarence Clemons Matters to Race Relations, Ben Mankiewicz offers a poignant rendering of the classic image, featuring Clemons & Springsteen:

“Iconic is a wildly overused word, but the cover photo of Born to Run — Bruce Springsteen grinning and leaning on Clarence Clemons' broad shoulder — is a powerful and memorable picture, one that meets the standard for iconic rock n’ roll images. And its status is rooted in the beautiful story that picture tells.

You’ve got this enormously talented, giant black man -- literally “The Big Man” -- saxophone between pursed lips, essentially supporting Springsteen. The look on Bruce’s face is honest and authentic, a genuine moment captured in a photo shoot. There's a giddiness in Bruce's smile: “I'm working with my friend,” he seems to be saying, “and our music has never been better.”

The photo made an instant impact on me, long before their music did.”

Actually, for me the events were reversed. It wasn’t until weeks after I first heard BTR that I actually saw the album cover, but I too was mesmerized by the volumes that photographer Eric Meola’s image spoke in just a glance.

The combination of how the music and the imagery made me feel was nearly indescribable; the feelings of joy, inclusion, friendship; a shared passion for life; an unbridled excitement about the future’s unlimited potential.

Thirty-six years later, my feeling of loss is nearly as indescribable, as no doubt is Springsteen’s. In eulogizing his friend via a statement posted to his website yesterday, Springsteen confirmed with insightful eloquence what I already knew, yet couldn’t express:

“He carried within him a love of people that made them want to love him.

“He created a wondrous and extended family.”

Here’s to you, Big Man, our big brother. Thank you, so very, very much. Rest well.


*    *    *    *    *    

finis

Still Scratching My Seven Year Itch (Day 6 of 6)

It's Tuesday, May 24, 2011, Day Six of my six-day blogaversary celebration for AYBABTU. Today actually IS the site’s seventh blogaversary, and as such I thought I’d change things up just a bit. Up to now I’ve been reposting of some of my more obscure, yet favorite stories over the life of this blog, however, today’s entry isn’t exactly all that obscure.

On the afternoon of Thursday August 6, 2009, I received the shocking news via a news alert email I opened at work. Filmmaker John Hughes had sustained a fatal heart attack at only 59 years of age. Hughes was best known for the coming of age film, ‘The Breakfast Club’, a touchstone classic for millions of GenXers. And while I wasn’t attached to his most famous work, Hughes’s demise hit me in way that was nearly as painful. I loved his work as well, not necessarily for the subject matter of his films, but for their essence and the way they made me feel.

Combine Hughes’s death with that of what seemed like half of Hollywood that horrendous final year of the new millennium’s first decade, and what you get is a fairly good representation of how all of 2009 went for me. At that point I was three months out from losing my job at The Company; already feeling the sand beginning to give way beneath my feet. I remember that day having that sickening sense that the loss I was feeling wasn’t an isolated happenstance; it was a wave that was ready to break over my head.

It’s a moment in time I wish not to forget, but rather, to celebrate.

It was was one of those periods of melancholy in my life that somehow have the opposite effect on me than they seem to on other people. No, I’m not a masochist, but just the same, I don’t run from pain either; I embrace it, because the sun will indeed come up tomorrow. When it does, the pain will subside, but I find that the memories of times you’ve had to really fight just to get through is always the best reminder that you are indeed alive.

That’s why this story is special to me, although that has little to do with its relative lack of obscurity.

There have been and continue to be, blog posts that receive more hits from the search engines on a cumulative basis, but no other post that I ever wrote received more traffic in the week that it was first posted than this one. And I can’t take credit for that either. A person I mention in the follow-up to this post, a young woman who had maintained a penpal relationship with Hughes over the years since ‘Breakfast Club,’ received a great deal of attention for her own blog’s reaction to his death, and was kind enough to link to my story, greatly enhancing its ‘Google juice.’

So whether you are a fan of John Hughes or just want to get a better handle on why I’m so weird, here is final installment in my blogaversary reposts series for this year.

Happy Birthday, AYBABTU.

Enjoy...

SATURDAY, AUGUST 08, 2009

He Made Us Comfortable in Someone Else’s Skin

What a lousy year…
I’m really not in the mood to write today, but I feel I must. I need to do so in order to pay tribute on at least a somewhat timely basis to the passing of yet another luminary in our culture whose life has come to a premature end; a man whose movies defined a generation in a way that may never be duplicated: reknowned 1980s writer/director/producer, John Hughes.


_{Photo courtesy Cinetext/Allstar}

Over the past three months I’ve started and stopped at least four stories regarding the notable lives that 2009 has claimed; the list is staggering. It seems that each time I try to express my regret for one of the individuals who has passed, another one drops off and I’m once again crippled by grief and have to set it aside.

On June 25th we experienced the double-whammy of losing both Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson within mere hours of one another. And though these were the two who captured the attention of the TeeVee news magazines for weeks, there were others who preceded them. Giants of significance to me, in the personal, entertainment, pop culture, and political arenas; names like Ed McMahon, my Father In-Law, David Carradine, Dan Miller, Chuck Daly, Dom Deluise, Jack Kemp, Bea Arthur, Mark ‘The Bird’ Fidrych, Paul Harvey, James Whitmore, Andrew Wyeth, and the great Ricardo Montalbán.

But the Grim Reaper wasn’t finished in June; he kept right on going, and has in just the past six weeks claimed the additional lives of Walter Cronkite, Robert McNamara, Steve McNair, and Karl Malden.

Now if you’re looking at that list and either scratching your head because there’s a bunch of names there you either don’t recognize — or in whose passing you weren’t quite moved enough to really feel bad about, well, no worries here. Chances are you’re not 53 years old, have split your lifetime between LA and Nashville, and/or are married to the daughter of a late, former Apollo 11 Moon Mission engineer.

You Just Never Know
We all have our own individual list of people that have touched our lives; its not the same for everyone, just as we also wield our own sphere of influence that touches the lives of others.

Sometimes that influence is through incidental contact; other times it’s quite intentional. Sometimes it’s a part of our job; other times it’s none of our freaking business. Sometimes our influence is a good thing; other times it’s the worst thing that we could possibly do to another person.

There’s one constant in all of this however, and that is that we never know.

We never know how just a look from us can change another person’s day; how an encouraging word can either make or break a child; how the conscious decision to NOT let our ill mood affect our response can make all the difference in the outcome of an inter-personal situation.

We never know how years of direct exposure to another soul can either mold that person’s character for good, or cast an irrevocable die of pain upon their life.

We just never know.

My all-time personal favorite quote — the single greatest influence I have ever received from a poet, is displayed in the masthead of my blog. It’s not from a poem, but is from the heart of a wise and inspired poetess, Maya Angelou:

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

This has become my mantra; something I attempt to use to govern my actions; to make each and every contact with another person a positive one, because…you never know.

A Hughe(s) Loss
John Hughes probably had a clue, but I doubt he ever knew just how influential his movies were, or how much he would be missed when he left us this past Thursday.

I sure as hell didn’t know how it would affect me.

And the thing is, at the time I heard the news, I really didn’t know why I was so shaken.

Perhaps it was just the straw-that-broke-the camel’s-back of this god-forsaken ‘another one bites the dust’ kind-of-year.

Perhaps it was the fact that just a few days earlier I had actually done a Google search on Hughes to try and find out what he was up to. I hadn’t heard anything about him making movies in what seemed like forever. Was he ill or just laying low? Why had he dropped out of the limelight? Why had he not directed a single feature film since the early 90s?

And then came Thursday...and he was gone.

The irony was simply too sharp. I really had to swallow hard as I read aloud to my co-workers the news of John Hughes death from the press release I received via email late Thursday afternoon.

I felt as though someone had punched me in the gut.

The man was 59 years old — just six years my senior. I had no idea. I’d always assumed him to be was much older than that. I’d never even seen a picture of him prior to that news release.

I guess I knew a different John Hughes. The filmmaker I admired was perhaps different than the one whose movies you connected with as a teenager. I was well beyond my teens in the 1980s, but instead was traveling through my late twenties and into my thirties by the time Hughes’ films exploded upon the scene.


Hughes’ original Brats: (clockwise from left) Ally Sheedy, Judd Nelson, Anthony Michael Hall, Emilio Estevez, and Molly Ringwald
_{Photo courtesy WashingtonPost.com}

I was, by MY generation’s directive, almost ready to join the ranks of ‘those not to be trusted’ when The Breakfast Club hit the theaters in 1985.

Oh, and did I mention, I what an ASS I was back then, too?

In the mid-80s I used to bristle at Generation X, as they recently had been dubbed. The kids born after the mid-60s; those malcontents who listened to Punk Rock, dyed their hair chartreuse, and spent their time yakking about ‘No Nukes.’ These were the age and experience group that John Hughes’ films were directed to the most.

I realized at the time that this must have been how my parent’s generation felt about me and my mates in the 60s, when the first so-called ‘generation gap’ formed.

I was aware of The Breakfast Club, although not necessarily cognizant of Hughes per se. What I did know, however, was the ‘Brat Pack’ — this group of up-and-coming actors, and how they were being hyped as ‘the next big thing’ in Hollywood. The Breakfast Club was ostensibly the birth of the Brat Pack, as noted in the 1985 New York magazine cover story which popularized the phrase.

Yeah, they were brats alright, I thought. Kids these days.

I just rolled my eyes.

But as has so often in my life been demonstrated, I later realized that I needed to stop assuming things that weren’t necessarily true. I mean, you know what they say about ASSuming…

So I went to a different ‘Brat Pack’ movie that came out that same year: St. Elmo’s Fire. It wasn’t a John Hughes film, but its ensemble cast featured three of the Breakfast Club’s five principles, including Emilio Estevez, Ally Sheedy and Judd Nelson.

I loved it.

But enough about brats; back to John Hughes.

An Overdue Present
I may have given the Brat Pack a second chance in 1985, but would continue to be late to the John Hughes love-fest for another five years, until a screaming kid would force us to take him to a movie about another screaming kid: Macaulay Culkin in his portrayal of the precocious Kevin McCallister, in Hughes’ comedic masterpiece, Home Alone.

Our kids were ages eight and six in December, 1990, and Home Alone was all the rage among most of the young parents we knew. So after much cajoling from our son Shawn, we treated the kids to the now-classic Chrismastime flick — which they loved.

However it was I who received the long-overdue present at the movie theater that day: the gift of John Hughes.

There are two movies from the Early 90s that simply enrapture me, not necessarily for their production values, or even their story lines alone, but rather the aesthetics created by the combination of those two elements that infuse the mind of the viewer.

One film, about which I’ve written fairly often in previous stories, is City Slickers — both for it’s breathtaking cinematography of the West and its humorous-yet-gripping truths about a man saying goodbye to his youth.

Home Alone is the other, and probably for exact opposite reason. Oh it’s funny, silly, and all of those things that one would expect from a plot about a young boy who believes he’s made his family disappear, but there was something more in it for me.

Home Alone reconnected me to my childhood — not that I ever spent any time fending off burglars by greasing up the basement steps or pretending I was a gangster joyously filling my enemies full’a lead.

What I got out of the movie — and the numerous other John Hughes films I would subsequently rent and devour over the years that followed, was pure John Hughes; a guy who was a child of the Midwest, just like me; a child of the 50s and 60s, just like me; and a filmmaker who poured out just the right amount of that part of his life into every movie he made.

I don’t really know how else to define it, but the ‘feeling’ of Kevin McCallister’s neighborhood in suburban Chicago is exactly how it ‘felt’ in similar settings throughout the Midwest I grew up in. The flavor was unmistakable to me. And amid all the movie’s laughs and high-jinx was the poignancy of this connective tissue that bound it all together.

This wasn’t just a movie about a kid in suburban America, it was a movie about me. And I’m certain that the way Hughes affected me in Home Alone is the same way so many GenXers felt about The Breakfast Club.

He made us feel connected.

John Hughes didn’t just make movies about teens; he made movies about the human spirit — weaving characters into whom we could lose ourselves and identify; seeing our lives through their eyes for just a little while, and then returning us to reality a little more enlightened; a little more encouraged to go out and make the world our own. He had a remarkable ability to speak to the heart, whether in laughter or in angst, making us comfortable in someone else’s skin.

And he will be missed.


Next: John Hughes — addendum

Still Scratching My Seven Year Itch (Day 5 of 6)

It's Monday, May 23, 2011, Day Five of my six-day pre-blogaversary celebration for AYBABTU, reposting of some of my somewhat more obscure, yet favorite stories over the seven-year life of this space.

I’m beginning to see a pattern here. It would seem that many of my favorite posts are thoughtful, rather sad tributes to people in my life who have died. Yesterday it was Johnny Carson, today it’s my step-mom Maxine, and tomorrow it will be filmmaker John Hughes. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself...

The one thing I wanted toast about today’s repost is how much I wish I’d taken Latin in school; it’s a fascinating language for me, largely because so much of our English words are based on Latin derivatives. And being the latter-day etymologist I’ve become in my old age, I could poke around a Latin/English translation website for hours – which is what it appears I DID in coming up with the title for this post.

However again, I don’t want to get too far off-track here, except to say that I now realize that when I wrote the story on June 1, 2010, I goofed a bit in my self-translation of the title phrase Secundum Memor, which is Latin for, In Accordance With Remembering.

The problem is that in actual Latin usage the words are transposed. It should be phrased, Memor Secundum, with the preposition secundum following its object instead of the other way around as had mashed it up via an online translator. Oh those crazy Romans; maybe I need to get to know their language a little better if I want to use it.

But all levity aside, this is another serious post, and one that’s especially close to my heart, as its subject is the woman with whom I shared a turbulent, emotional relationship in my youth. However, there was perhaps no person I more wished to be accepted by than my step-mother, and thankfully, in the end, I was. Enjoy...

TUESDAY, JUNE 01, 2010

Secundum Memor

For me, Memorial Day is always at least a day late
My father served in the army during WW II, but luckily for my family, didn’t see any time on the battlefield. He’s still with us today; a hale and hearty 86-goin’-on-87 year-old.

None of my aunts and uncles lost their lives fighting for our country either.
I didn’t have any friends or relatives who died in Viet Nam (that I know of, anyway), save for a high school buddy of my late brother David, Glenn Bailey, for whom I always say a prayer each time the calendar rolls around to the final Monday in May.

I don’t believe either of my kids have had friends who’ve lost their lives in Iraq or Afghanistan; nor have any of our family friends with children in current military service dealt with the anguish of such a fate.

Even my most famous soldier-relative, WW I’s most decorated, Sergeant Alvin C. York, who defied incredible odds and employed legendary valor, managed to come through his tour of duty in The Great War with life intact.
So, that being said, Memorial Day, apart from a general reverence on behalf all of the men and women who fought to secure my freedom, had never been all that personal a day of remembrance for me.

That is, until ten years ago today.

June 1, 2000 was the day my step-mom, Maxine was laid to rest.
She died that Memorial Day weekend from a viral infection, which suddenly overtook her body during recovery from a previous surgery. It was shocking; unexpected; devastating. She was 78 years old, but had always been in good health. However that began to change following a second knee replacement in 1999 and a subsequent series of complications, including removal of a benign tumor and a staph infection, which she was recovering from at the time that the secondary viral infection took over and ended her life.

The stormy relationship Maxine and I shared is well-documented, yet the loss I still feel each June 1st has never abated; and I doubt, ever will.

For the vast majority of my adult life, I was on wonderful terms with the woman who raised me; who taught me responsibility, and “the principle of the thing.” But it hadn’t always been so.

The lessons she delivered were hard and unrelenting; the same way that she had learned them, growing up during The Great Depression. I had every reason to rebel; every reason to hate her, but I endured, and eventually won her favor.

The years seemed to mellow her, but I’m not certain of that. All I know for sure is that her stance toward me changed after I became an adult. She often made it a point to let me know that finally, I had “done good” after years of not-so-subtly suggesting that I never would.

I learned the definition of forgiveness through my step-mother; not by her example, but rather by God’s provision of my opportunity to grant it unto her, despite all the reasons I had not to.

Ten years later, now with adult children of my own, with whom many of the same issues of will that my Mom and I battled having come and gone, I see things through different eyes; even more so now than I did ten years ago, when I stood at the podium of Forest Lawn’s Church of Our Fathers, delivering her eulogy.

There are always two sides to every story; dual points of view, both seemingly ‘right’ in the eyes of those who hold them. Whether it was hers or whether it was mine that was the correct one is immaterial.

What is important, and what is that part of the substance of my character gleaned from my relationship with Maxine, is that there is good in every situation, no matter how dark or daunting. A battle of wills does not always declare a victor, nor does it always brand a loser.

Maxine taught me that there is more than one way to love.

Thanks, Mom.


finis