SHARING THE SHOWS
My stupid ass left my pad at Bistro du Jour last night, so I’m writing this blog from memory. Here goes… Mark came up, but this time, he stayed at the Days Inn up the street from me. Hey, I’ll take a hotel room with a bed over my couch any day if I’m a guest at my own place. And I don’t have to abide by the rules of the cat. Maggie would've followed suit, but she's ill, so this post is dedicated to her. I wish you well, friend! He gave me this lovely gift, and anybody who knows me knows that’s an accurate description :) We rode the Metro down to the Waterfront, walked around, and met Pete, Andrea, Mike, and Daryl at the restaurant. Stories were told: travel in snow, the history of Calvert County, Maryland, shows past. And Mark taught me a new word: portmanteau, a word made by blending two words. Example: cremains: a cremated body which functions as remains.
Mark and I got in at about twenty to eight and made our way toward the front. I usually stay in the back, but since I’m now on the one show per month plan, I was feeling much more energized, so I figured why not be as close as possible. One unique thing about JRAD is how they mash up songs. I’ve hyperlinked the setlist, but for me, the highlight was the Viola Lee Blues/China Cat Sunflower mash-up the boys did. They also teased “Let it Grow” and Talking Heads’s “This Must Be The Place.” Other highlights included “Shakedown Street,” “Throwing Stones,” “Cats Under the Stars,” and “Cumberland Blues,” which is becoming a new favorite, particularly after Daniel Donato encored with it last month at the Pearl Street Warehouse. I even liked their version of “They Love Each Other,” which is my least favorite Dead song; this one had an upbeat rhythm to it. Because I don’t have notes to refer to, and I’m fighting the back end of a cold, this blog is short. But at least there’s an appetizing picture of my preshow mussels at the top. And they were easy to scoop from the shells, so I didn’t have to use my muscles to get my mussels! Hahahhaha…eh?
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Daniel Donato's Cosmic Country - Pearl Street Warehouse - Washington, DC - October 14, 202310/15/2023 Note: This post is dedicated to the loved ones of Adam Katz, a kid who was beaten to death by guards during a Grateful Dead concert at the Meadowlands Sports Complex in East Rutherford, New Jersey, on October 14, 1989. The guards were never prosecuted, and a civil suit was not successful.
Pete had sent me this article, and I wrote the date in my calendar. Security has gotten better, but in a world where police brutality is overlooked, we still have a problem with officials in authority abusing their power. But, we have to enjoy the little things in life, and that’s where this show came in. For the next twelve months, I’ve committed to no more than one show per month so I can save up money for my future home purchase, as well as expand my horizons. October 2023: Daniel Donato’s Cosmic Country at Pearl Street Warehouse. I had a nice surprise as I got on the subway: my friend, Emily, who’s moved back into northwest DC. She was headed to see Evita at the Shakespeare Theatre Company, a completely different dynamic than Donato. But it has me excited for Jesus Christ Superstar, which I’m attending with my friend Kasi instead of Dark Star Orchestra next Saturday (expanding my horizons). I got to Pearl Street Warehouse at 8:05, and the band was already into a jam. It was a sold-out show, and I’d never seen it this packed before; I was in the back of the venue, near the bar, for most of the first set. I didn’t know any of the songs, but that didn’t stop me from jamming out. I find that a few weeks without a show really recharges that battery. I could feel influences from the Grateful Dead and The Band, and I kept expecting them to bust out “Panama Red,” that old tune by New Riders of the Purple Sage. They teased “Cumberland Blues,” so it was a nice fit that they encored with it. Now, the people: I ran into Steve and Dave, friends of Pete’s, during setbreak, and we talked our show histories: Phish, Widespread Panic, The Allman Brothers, The Grateful Dead (which I didn’t get into until after Jerry died, so I can never fully be a part of those conversations. I also talked to a young lady named Roxanne who traveled from Hanover, Pennsylvania. She was incredulous that I prefer the back of the venue (more room to dance IMHO) and no longer buy merch at shows (I have enough of it already). I guess some weariness is starting to come with my age and new circumstances. I do believe I enjoyed this show more because three weeks had gone by since my last show. When I started this blog back in 2018, I would have joked that it felt like forever (hence the title). But, at this point, I think one show per month is enough. In a sense, it’s been somewhat of a grieving process, letting go of a past concertcentric self. But, I think in the long run, this growth can be a good thing. First: Happy Unmarried and Single Americans Week! The Singlehood Activist that’s been active this week appreciated that pic you see at the top. The third week of September is devoted to recognize us single folk; believe it or not, it started in Ohio in the 1980s, by the Buckeye Singles Council. I’ve used my Facebook and Twitter platforms to educating others about singles-related issues, had an outing at Medium Rare with some cool folks from my favorite Facebook group, Community of Single People, and I even added a Meetup to my usual monthly rotation on the Childfree Singles of the DMV Group.
Sadly, because people are flakes, it ended up being just me and Rolf. But we also have good intellectual discourse. We disagree about singles-related issues (I believe not everybody is meant to be partnered, and singlism is a real problem), but we’re capable of having a productive discussion on the issue. And we do agree on the Childfree by Choice thing, which is most important. We enjoyed some fine Indian cuisine at Masala Art, which is where I first met Pete pre-Trey. For an appetizer, we split some garlic chili Naan, and I tried Bhelpuri for the first time. After we parted ways, I headed to the Pearl Street Warehouse for my third round with the Allman Others Band. The place was close to empty, but the group started at 8:02, exactly two minutes after the start band. I like when groups start at the time they say they’re going to (two minutes is not a big deal in my book). The setlist included: Set One Don’t Want You No More Ain’t My Cross to Bear Statesboro Blues In Memory of Elizabeth Reed Tell the Truth (Eric Clapton) One Way Out Melissa Blue Sky Hoochie Coochie Man Come and Go Blues Southbound (which the singer dedicated to all the native New Yorkers in the room, me included) Woman Across the River Ramblin’ Man (which started with an a capella rendering of the song’s main chorus) Set Two Wasted Words Midnight Rider Jessica Ain’t Wastin’ Time No More (which the singer described as a protest song) Let it Rain (another Clapton tune) Black Hearted Woman (dedicated to the bassist’s first girlfriend) Revival (my favorite of the Allmans’s repertoire, which had me spinning round and round, baby, right round, like a record) Whipping Post Soulshine The show ended right at 11:02, which also made me happy. Jaime Lee Curtis’s call for earlier concerts really spoke to me. The Green and Red Lines were populated by Nationals fans despondent over their loss to the Atlanta Braves. At this point, I have to route for the Nats to lose; they’re competing with my Mets to stay out of last place. It’s kinda sad when that’s the goal you’re rooting for, but that’s where we are. I did drag for parts of the night, but I’m glad I made it. This was Show 5 of 5 in two weeks. At this point, I’m ready to do some other things. As I become more and more engrossed in my Singlehood Crusade (including some new projects), I’m starting to not feel as much of a need for shows, and to be honest, parts of the scene are a bit couples-centric. That’s not to say I won’t continue to rock out, but I’ll start to treat it like chocolate cake: best in small doses. My next one is in three weeks; it should be a nice breather. From that point, I’m on the one show per month plan. November: JRAD with Pete, Maggie, and possibly some other assorted folk I know. December: Allman Betts Family Revival with Pete. For my single brethren reading this page, keep on rockin’ your singlehood, whether it’s for now or forever (thanks, Peter McGraw, for the line). Through my own impulsivity, I’d set up a gauntlet of five shows in two weeks. What was I thinking? was the refrain going through my brain. But I’d committed. And I’d never seen Jerry Tripsters, a Jerry Garcia Band (JGB) cover before, despite having heard about them. And I had this Saturday night free.
My friend Sarah fell ill, so our plans of dancing, making pet noises, and laughing at our own jokes for extended periods of time fell through. She did “miracle” her ticket to Rolf, whom you remember from last week’s Uncle Jesse show. I love Saturdays; I spent the day reading student journals, finalizing lesson plans I’d been putting off all week, reading, and conceptualizing my book on how discourse in cinema perpetuates singles. After that, I took a huge power nap, and yet I still woke up tired. So I pounded a 20-ounce Cherry Coke Zero on the Metro ride to Pearl Street Warehouse. Sometimes you hear a song that gives you such goosebumps (or a “skingasm” as we call in the jamband scene) that you have to play it over and over again. “Eventually,” off the new String Cheese Incident album, was that song. I had in my headphones, playing on repeat, as I walked to the venue. But my musical reverie was interrupted by Kathy; we spotted each other and chatted, as I made a pit stop at Colada to give Rolf his miracle. Once inside, I chatted with Lisa, a fellow Deadhead educator. We discussed our beginning-of-school year adventures between songs and agreed that we teachers need these shows to keep us centered. And Richard was there with his harmonica. I wasn’t all that familiar with JGB’s repertoire until I saw Dark Star Orchestra (DSO) cover a JGB show in Baltimore (3/31/18) when guitarist Rob Eaton couldn’t play with them. It turned me onto them. Some songs played by the Tripsters included:
During setbreak, Rolf and I had a nice intellectual dialectic about the political writings of George Orwell; Down and Out in Paris and London is now on my queue. I also got to talk about my work in Singles Studies and explained why singlism is a societal problem. Of course, “Second That Emotion” interrupted that discourse, and I was there for music. I started to fade at around 11, but told myself I was gonna hang on until 11:30. During that half hour, Kathy, Lisa, and Rolf had tapped out. But Richard was still blowing on that harp, and I was determined to crawl toward that finish line. And they stopped right at 11:30. My orange Dead/Mets tie-dye made me stick out like sore thumb (pardon the cliché) among all the well-dressed club-hoppers pervading the Waterfront. But sometimes it feels good being on the outside; I’ve always prided myself on going against the norm. On the Metro ride, I had a good chat with a dude named Ben, a realtor in the area. I had seen him wearing a Bruce Springsteen shirt at the venue; apparently, he’d been at the Patti Smith show at the Anthem and wanted to do a twofer. I dig that. We talked music and real estate, the latter of which has been a slight obsession of mine recently. As for the former, he’d been to a bunch of shows in New York, as well as that Gathering of the Vibes festival I attended in upstate New York back in 2001 and 2002, during which I had a transcendental experience that led me into education. Solo travel rocks. Once home, I flipped on an episode of Only Murders in the Building, which my friend and colleague Elizabeth delivered a presentation on at the Northeast Modern Language Association last year. I’m looking for the pro-singlehood angle, and all I can say is that Mabel annoys the hell out of me. Perhaps material for my book. We shall see. Show four of five complete. What the hell was I thinking?
That phrase ran through my mind as I drifted in and out of consciousness on the Amtrak from Newport News back to DC. When Henry emailed me in June about the Greta Van Fleet (GVF) show, I was in “summer mode” and feeling impulsive, so I bought a seat next to him and his friend Franco. The following week, as I was in Tampa drudging through those essays during the Advanced Placement reading, String Cheese Incident was finally playing a reasonable distance from DC, the night before, so Pete, Maggie, and I would make it happen. I had just gotten tenure and thought, Ehhhh, I haven’t taken a single sick day yet! I can get away with it! As I joked with John, “I was such a different person back then.” Translation: back-to-back shows. I had been up since 5 that morning (with a couple of quick power naps), and I had taken the afternoon off from work to recover from the trip. My personal battery was at about 8%; when I mentioned the last 24 hours to Franco, he asked, “How are you even awake?” The answer: I pounded a 12-oz Diet Coke followed by a 20-oz Diet Coke to get my energy level up. Rolf’s nickname for me, Diehard, seems to have some truth to it. I wasn’t too familiar with GVF before Henry suggested it. Drew had told me about their music, but after Henry’s email, I listened to their album, From the Fires, and I was hooked. The Led Zeppelin influence is obvious; in fact, if anybody did a parody of Zeppelin, GVF might fit the bill. I thought of this clip. They are awesome in their own way, and judging by the young crowd, they seem to be Led Zeppelin for Generation Z. And I love the fact that this brand of music transcends generations. I even saw older rock fans there, wearing T-shirts for iconic groups like Guns n’ Roses and Sepultura. Case in point: Henry, much younger than me, was also flying solo to Get the Led Out, the Zeppelin tribute, back in May. In the five years I’ve been writing Not Enough Concerts, I’ve given out this site, and Henry was the first person to respond, and from there, this union was born. During the break between Surf Curse, the opener, and GVF, we discussed our takes on Roger Waters’s performance style and Pink Floyd in general. Rock never dies. I couldn’t identify any of the songs by titles, but the show did rock just the same. Most of the crowd up in the nosebleeds sat, but Henry, Franco, and I moved around, banged our heads, sang along, and eventually, Section 416 followed suit. During the encore, a bunch of red and blue lights lit up among the crowd. It took me a minute to figure out how: people had the lights on their phones turned on. Back in the 1990s, we used cigarette lighters (the first memory that comes to mind was when Holly touched her lighter to the fire coming out of mine when Rusted Root played at SUNY Plattsburgh, our alma mater, back in 1998. How times have changed. The caffeine wore off as I laid down on my couch; Chester wasn’t happy about his Dad being gone for so long, so he sat on me a good while as I drifted off to sleep. This post is dedicated to Joseph Lionel Wynne, who passed away on September 10, 2012.
I’ve been waiting for the day String Cheese Incident would come to DC, or at least DC-adjacent on a night when I could actually make it. The show they played in Charlottesville last year was the day before a school event I had to make, so that would have been tough. But, having gotten tenure this year, Richmond on a Sunday night was doable, and I could always give an online lesson to students this year (I’m grateful at a place that’s flexible about that, within reason). When I got the news between my gay old time spent scoring exams in Tampa, I figured, let’s make a weekend out of it. So I took an Amtrak to Newport News, where I slept on Maggie’s couch. I spent the afternoon hiking with Maggie on the Noland Trail, an old favorite of mine. After a power nap on her couch, we made it to More Than Greek to meet up with Pete for our pre-show meal. I enjoyed some pita and hummus, and I ordered lamb for the first time in, well, I don’t know when. Virginia Credit Union Live has a mellow vibe, and it’s easy to get into and out of. I learned this back in 2019 when I saw Dark Star Orchestra with Maggie, Johnny Mac, Gary, Mark, Drew, Shannon, and Sandy. The pit and the seats were relatively empty, so we sat and chatted for a bit with our observations of the sparsely populated area. The band started at 7:30 as the venue filled up. As Pete put it, every SCI show feels like their best one. Even with Phish and Widespread Panic, some shows are better than others. But it always feels like SCI is on their game; they’re just so intensely passionate. And tonight was no exception. Favorites for me included “Got What He Wanted,” “Joyful Sound,” “Let’s Go Outside” (which mashed up with The Who’s “Eminence Front”), “Song in my Head,” and their debut of “Ain’t I Been Good to You” off their new album, Lend Me a Hand. Oftentimes, the people I see make the show. In addition to hanging out with Maggie (my old Hampton Roads life) and Pete (my new DC life), it was nice to see some familiar faces I hadn’t seen in a minute: Ashley, Lydia, Tom. And a cool one, Matt, who I see at DC shows. And as Maggie and I rode home, we had our usual deep philosophical question about human nature and relationships. I crashed out on Maggie’s couch a bit past midnight, and was up at 5:30 to catch an early train. As I alternate between typing on my laptop, staring out the window at the farmland of Suffolk, Virginia, and shutting my eyes, all with the 12/29/17 SCI show in my headphones, I wonder what I was thinking when I decided to do String Cheese and Greta Van Fleet back-to-back nights. But I’ll go into the reasoning in the next blog. In the meantime, I’m signing off to give my brain a nice lull. It needs it. I have a serious question: whatever happened to predictability? The milkman. The paperboy. Evening TV.
Those are the lyrics that came to mind when I first saw Rolf’s Meetup, a band called Uncle Jesse, which was playing at the Perch, a rather pristine outdoor venue with some nice views of the towering skyscrapers of Tysons Corner. I had seen Free Flowing Musical Experience (FFME) back in 2022, which I paid nil for, so I was happy for the price. After a long subway ride, I made way up to the Perch, where I saw Rolf, decked out in his red shirt and porkpie hat, gettin’ down to some “Kryptonite,” which brought me back to my early 20s. We were supposed to have six people show, but, people are flaky… Anyway, Rolf is good company. We philosophized about our musical choices; while they’re different, we can respect and appreciate them. Life as a single childfree person in a nuptial- and procreation-centered world also came up (it was a Childfree Singles Meetup, after all), as did this assclown named Matt Walsh, who thinks childfree single women are the destruction of society. We got to playing cornhole – my third game ever. And it was shown, as Rolf managed to dominate by a score of 21 to 2. Side note: I didn’t know anything about cornhole until I moved to Newport News. I went to a barbecue about a month after I moved there. When someone asked me if I wanted to play cornhole, I thought it was something pornographic. The rest of the night consisted of us grooving to the band, and the singer, Adriana, noticed Rolf’s kickass dance moves. While I couldn’t name all of the songs, I was able to note the following: “Semi Charmed Life” – Third-Eye Blind “Enter Sandman” – Metallica “You Belong With Me” – Taylor Swift[1] “I Feel Like a Woman” – Shania Twain “Cher” – I Believe “What’s Going On” – 4 Non-Blondes “I Want It That Way” – Backstreet Boys “All The Small Things” – Blink 182 “Zombie” – The Cranberries “My Own Worst Enemy” – Lit “Unwritten” – Natasha Bedingfield “Seven Nation Army” – White Stripes While it’s not the music that graces my headphones on a consistent basis, it was nice to be transported to my angsty teen and early 20s years, back when I was a hormone-fueled partier who thought he knew everything. And Adriana had energy, even walking into the crowd! Actually, I still think I’m pretty smart, but I try to be more humble about it these days. That said, I do try to educate others against the stigma on being single and childfree, which is one of the reasons I started this group in the first place. It was a pretty quiet ride back; I made sure to stop by the Wegmans on the first floor of that building to get some crackers to snack on during that ride back (and Rolf picked up some interesting-flavored sodas, which we drank, uhhh, when we left the venue. Jethro Tull - Wolf Trap National Park for the Performing Arts - Vienna, VA - August 24, 20238/25/2023 I was beginning to feel like the only person in the Washington, DC area who’d never been to Wolf Trap. Pete, Kasi, and Stephanie lauded it as a venue. Maggie and I had discussed seeing Tedeschi Trucks there earlier this summer, but scheduling conflicts got in the way, so we settled on Jethro Tull. I had seen them at Jones Beach in 2008, and the sound of Ian Anderson’s flute had the whole crowd in a trance. I’d see them again. Maggie had come up from Newport News for the show, and of course, my couch would be her home for a couple of days. After the widespread panic (haha) that characterized this typically hectic first week of classes, I was ready for some live music. My love of DC for its public transportation options continues to increase. To get to Wolf Trap, Maggie and I would ride the Silver Line out to McLean, VA and catch a shuttle bus (only $3) to the venue. Granted, parking is free, but it is limited, and commuter traffic in this area sucks. So why not save oneself the hassle? There is a Wegman’s near the shuttle, which is a perfect place for dinner. I craved something from the Burger Bar, but as we passed the Asian section, both of our eyes gravitated toward the sushi. I got my favorite, the Philadelphia Roll, along with the Spicy King Salmon Roll. Wegman’s sushi proved to be a bad idea, as it upset both of our stomachs (but hey, points for presentation, right?). That being said, the show itself was a remarkable experience. On the train ride, we spoke with a lovely woman named Valerie, a professor of Spanish from North Carolina. A married woman, she came up solo for this show, which I always encourage people to do. IMHO, it’s a mark of true badassery. The venue itself is a work of bucolic beauty. At this point, I’ll let the pictures do the talking: We found a spot on a small grassy knoll toward the top of the lawn (the bottom part filled quite rapidly). Before the set began, Ian Anderson requested that we not take pictures or videos. Since I was top up, I could have taken some, but I do believe in karma. So I have no pictures of the band to offer. But I do have a setlist.
My introduction to Jethro Tull came when I copied a CD of Original Masters, their greatest hits compilation, onto a cassette, which I played repeatedly in my rusty 1982 Toyota Corolla as I drove to and from school, work, and hanging out with friends during my senior year of high school. From there, I did rip a few CDs onto my laptop, but for the most part, I wouldn’t be able to identify most of their songs by title. I did get “Aqualung,” “Sweet Dreams,” and “Locomotive Breath.” Ian (Valerie, a lifelong Tull fan, refers to him by first name, so I’ll do the same) did help us out by identifying most of the titles for us, particularly when they came off their new album. One highlight: before “Hunt by Numbers,” he mentioned he loved “pussycats” as opposed to dogs. I’m a cat person, and under my breath, I mumbled, “Hellwoooooo Chester.” I associate all cats and cute animals with my cat/son Chester. Jethro Tull is definitely not a band one dances to, but during the second set, Maggie and I stood on the blacktop. I found myself grooving to “The Zealot Gene” and “Dark Ages.” There’s just something about that flute. Maggie and I actually had a Siskel and Ebert-like disagreement on the act. We both loved the Nordic influence of his flute; Maggie doesn’t really dig Anderson’s voice. While I acknowledge it’s not what it used to be, I still love the sophisticated aura of his Scottish accent. And he does make me want to pick up a flute. The shuttle ride back was quiet, and we chatted some more on the Metro ride home. Once back, I hit that bed with a thud. A show is a great way to cap the first week of classes. It’s also a necessary tool to manage the stress of the semester, even with tenure. So there will be quite a few more coming over the next nine months. Pete had been telling me about Rays of Violet, a Grateful Dead tribute based out of Frederick, Maryland. I’m generally not motivated to go that far north to see music when I have so much of it at my fingertips here in the nation’s capital. But they were playing close enough that I was willing to take that Metro ride to Shady Grove, at the tail end of the Red Line, where Pete would pick me up.
Montgomery Village is described on Wikipedia as a “planned suburban community.” And the lush scenery gives just that vibe, complete with a person-made like. After Pete and I frantically navigated our way to a parking spot, we walked down a beautiful path toward the G.W. Bowie Music Pavilion. It sounds grand, but it was a tiny, hilly grove with a small stage. But it was enough to house the band, who was starting with “Cold Rain and Snow” as Pete and I arrived. We walked with Kathy on the way in, and ran into Pete’s friend Steve (whom I met at Jazz is Dead) and their friend George. All I can say is Pete was on point with his assessment of the band. One of my criteria for judging a band is their song selection. Many limit themselves to the obvious tunes: “Casey Jones,” “Uncle John’s Band,” “Shakedown Street,” “Touch of Grey.” Rays of Violet got into deeper cuts like “It Hurts Me Too,” “Cumberland Blues,” “He’s Gone,” (Johnny Mac’s fav), “Dancing in the Streets” (that jam was the highlight for me), and an “Around and Around” encore. Some cool random people at the show: the dude who brings his harmonica to the shows and plays out with the band from the audience, a guy named Elmo, George sharing his popcorn. I took a couple of band stickers and gave a tip, along with a note that said, “Come to DC!” Maybe someday; they’d do well at the Pearl Street Warehouse. And I hope they do. That 90-minute set was a tease. As I sat on the Metro going home, I stared out the window (we get a nice view of the highways and houses from Shady Grove to a little north of the Grosvenor-Strathmore stop). I enjoyed the serenity of this peaceful ride and thought, I’m so happy to live here. Hopefully many more years to come. So much for tampering down on the shows. Five days after that three-day Phish extravaganza, I’m at the Hamilton, getting psyched for Jazz is Dead. When I told my friend Steph about it, she said “Jazz is not dead!” And it’s not. It’s much very much alive, and this group puts a nice Grateful Dead spin on it. We’re currently in the “Days Between,” which lasts from August 1 (Jerry’s birthday) to August 9 (the day Jerry died). I’m thinking at least one Dead-related show during that time period will now be an annual tradition, as they have so many in the DMV. Last year, I did a twofer: Born Cross-Eyed on the 1st, Englishtown Project with Pete on the 7th. This year, I’d cut in half with just the one. Pete gets the photo credit for the ad below, placed above the urinal when he went for Keller Williams, but sadly, removed just for me. I got to the Hamilton at about 7:50, and I swear I saw the back of Pete’s head at a table near the dance floor. Then I heard Pete yelling at name from my right, saying “You walked by me!” Is my vision getting all screwy in my middle age?
I met his friends Steve, Mike, and Andrea; Andrea and I talked Dead and Company and the New York City landscape surrounding Citi Field. I had paid for the upper-level bar, so I was shuffling my spot around for much of the first set. And it was odd seeing Deadheads seated for a show, but that is the norm for jazz. I was a bit bummed out about the dance floor being closed, but as I was reminded, Deadheads can make a dance floor out of anything. They opened with “Halfstep” and went into “Eyes of the World.” The drummer went heavy on the cymbals, as is a feature of jazz, and there was some heavy bass that reminded me of a bass line from a song called “Life is a Traffic Jam,” which played over the closing credits of the film Gridlock’d, a very little-known flick but one of my favs. There was a tease of “Shakedown Street” that ultimately led to “China Doll.” That song led to an interesting exchange between Pete and I. He remembers hearing it live before its official release on From the Mars Hotel in 1974; he thought it would be on Wake of the Flood. I heard it on 1981’s acoustic album Reckoning, which I bought during a spree one summer day in 1999. I was just getting into the Grateful Dead (four years after Jerry’s death), and on a lunch break from my job selling suitcases in the Palisades Mall, I went to FYE and bought Reckoning, Shakedown Street, Skull and Roses, Live/Dead, and Go to Heaven. I’m sure they destroyed the heads on my CD player after a few hundred spins. It got me thinking about how his generation and mine went about discovering this beautiful music. No right or wrong ways, of course, but it’s funny to think about. I (and most everyone else) had been seated up through the end of “China Doll,” and I could see one of the waitresses giving me the side-eye as I sat on one of the steps below the table (not having paid for that section, I felt like I was at the children’s table in the restaurant). But that changed when “Franklin’s Tower” came on. One person started dancing, so I made my way toward the walkway near the area closest to the front, and did the same. A few others followed, and we filled in their instrumental set with the words “Roll away the dew.” During setbreak, I learned Steve had catered at a venue called Singer’s in Spring Valley, New York, just a five-minute drive from where I grew up (and where two of my cousins got married, one of which ended in disaster). I also met a dude named Brett, who was taking photographs of the show and is Steve Kimock’s housepainter. The second set consisted of more dancing. “China Cat” opened, followed by “Cumberland Blues” (I sang “A lot of poor men make a five-dollar bill, keep him happy all the time, some other fella’s makin’ nothin’ at all, and you can hear him cryyyyyyyy…”) The band then shuffled nicely between “Uncle John’s Band” and “Terrapin Station.” They closed with a song from the Mahavishnu Project neither Pete nor I could identify. But sometimes, a mystery can keep one on their toes. The band ended at 11; once again, I dig shows that end early. We ran into Pete’s friend Pam, a pot attorney who’s also friendly with Lisa, whom I met at the Last Rewind. She was in Williamsburg; I mentioned I used to live in Newport News, to which she responded, “I’m sorry.” Yeah, me too, but it was a step I had to take to get to DC. On the Metro home, I talked to a pair of friends named Marcy and Larry (whom I mistakenly assumed were a couple; check your assumptions, Craig). I could tell when they hugged before exiting at separate stops. But we chatted casually about bands we’d seen at the Hamilton. I was too hyped up to sleep, so I watched the season finale of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, and afterwards, wrote up this post. Tomorrow’s a busy day with me checking in my friend, Tommy, who’s staying with me for the Beyonce show at FedEx Field. From there, I head up to Baltimore to see my Mets take on the Orioles with The 7 Line Army, totally different scene from tonight. But, as my therapist says, self-complexity is a good thing. Good night, everybody! |
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