SHARING THE SHOWS
“You seem especially excited this morning,” Chris commented as I was bouncing from room to room in my apartment, doing some last-minute packing and tidying. A fellow educator, she was taking a week out of her summer to explore DC and New York. Well, of course, I was. It was finally July 28, nearly five months after I’d gotten my Phish tickets in the Madison Square Garden (MSG) lottery. That excitement continued toward the point we were at Union Station, and then on the Amtrak to New York City, and then through the subways as we headed to our Airbnb to Astoria (which was the site of several scenes filmed for that 1979 George Burns classic, Going in Style). After checking into our Airbnb, Chris and I indulged in some New York pizza (a requirement for a Big Apple visit) before hopping onto the N train to Manhattan. We parted ways; she to her Manhattan bus tour, me to meet John at Tir Na Nog. When I saw the name, I thought it was Pho or Thai, but the language is Gaelic, and the food is that of an Irish pub. We shared a plate of wings while I caffeinated with a Diet Coke, and I bought us a couple of street dogs, a requirement for when I visit New York. Once in the Garden, I was able to pass the stub John texted me as a real ticket, so we were able to hang for the first few songs. The “Wave of Hope” jam that opened the show was the highlight for me; the rest of the show was good, but that jam – wow! What a skingasm. Other goosebump-inducers included “Plasma,” “More,” “My Soul,” “Ruby Waves,” and “Mountains in the Mist.” Eventually, the real owner of the seat exiled me from the row, and as I grooved in the aisle, the security guard gave a point that read “Back in your seat, peon!” Not wanting to cause a ruckus for the other fans, I just made way back to my regular seat, which had a good view. I gave my blog page to a cool dude named Norman and a nice couple, Erin and Jon. I also met some old friends, Fred and Judy, and a new one, Evan. John and I met up after the show, and while we hoped to get some post-show pizza, the line was way too long for my liking. I settled for a hot dog and a pretzel (the latter which my dumb ass dropped) from a street vendor. We parted ways, and the subway ride back was fun. The N train, which goes directly to Astoria, was out between Times Square and Queensboro Plaza, so I had the fun of transferring from the 7 to the N. I felt like one of those boppers in The Warriors (another 1979 icon), as they tried to navigate their way back from the Bronx’s Van Cortlandt Park to Brooklyn’s Coney Island. That being said, it was fun to come out to play-ee-yayyy! One funny observation: the dude next to me drinking a beer, the can of which was couched in a paper bag. The lady on the other side of me laughed, as I chuckled. Once back in Astoria, I got another slice at Champion’s, and headed back to the Airbnb. Even with all the activity, sleep was elusive, what with the oppressive humidity and hard mattress. All this to say, the Airbnb will still get a five-star review. Saturday, July 29, 2023 “You’re not supposed to sleep much on tour,” I said as we got ready to go to our respective destinations, me to go swimming, Chris to hit the Museum of Modern Art. “Who says?” Chris responded. “Me.” Most people who follow these bands would agree with my statement. Despite my sleep-deprived state, I rode a series of subways to Sunset Park, Brooklyn to meet with Laura and her friend Lisa. Laura has the hook-ups on all the New York City pools, and a swim was much-welcome. After walking around Sunset Park and indulging in some tacos, we parted ways. I caught a power nap and made my way back to MSG. I devoured a street chicken gyro before heading in. I caught up with John before making my way up to my seat. I talked with my neighbors Jon and Erin, who, as it turns out, live in Foggy Bottom. The first set was pretty tame, which was to be expected. In my experience, Saturday shows bring out the popular tunes (“Get Back on the Train,” “Down with Disease,” and “Bug” being prime examples). But “The Dogs” was a nice surprise, and that “Moonage Daydream” closer was intense. I tried to sit with John during the second set, but the rightful owner of the seat sent me back to the 200s. But I was happy with that; the father and son had decided Phish wasn’t the best bonding experience for them, so I had more room to dance. And there were some tight jams. “Fuego” isn’t a tune I care for, but the jam around that had me in a place of ecstasy. So did the one around “2001,” which helped hook me into the shows back in 1999. “Wingsuit” was calming, and the “Santos” closer was Muah! I took off after Santos to avoid the logjam going down the escalator. Plus I’d be getting up early to show Chris Katz’s Deli (“I’ll have what she’s having”). And “Farmhouse” and “First Tube” aren’t favorites of mine, so no harm, no foul. On the ride back, Pete texted me a couple of cool articles around the MSG residency as I listened to last weekend’s Star Lake show, one he was at. The music piped through my headphones as I walked back, and I capped off the night with a pair of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups and a Gatorade Zero as I watched Five-Star Chef, a culinary show Chris recommended. After the show ended, I was out like a light. Sunday, July 30, 2023 Corned beef and pastrami, a knish, pickles, and a Diet Doc Brown’s Cream Soda: I call it a breakfast of champions when you’re introducing your friend to Katz’s Deli, and she’s hustling to get to Ellis Island. John called it a quadruple bypass special, and I definitely felt some heartburn. After we parted ways, I powernapped and watched Five-Star Chef before flaneuring around Chinatown and Little Italy, where I did dessert for dinner. A small chocolate chip ice cream from the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory (thanks for the rec, John) and a chocolate cannoli from Ferrara Bakery and Café (see below). From there, I met up with John and his friend Roy at MSG, where I learned about a theory going around about a theme for the MSG shows. Seven shows, seven letters from A through G. Friday night’s encore was “Good Times, Bad Times,” and Saturday’s was a double: “Farmhouse” and “First Tube.” By logic, tonight would be three songs starting with “E.” “Esther, Everything’s Right, and Eleanor Rigby?” I surmised. A young lady nearby the row suggested “Emotional Rescue,” a much better choice. The first set consisted of classics: “AC/DC Bag,” “My Friend, My Friend,” “Bathtub Gin,” “Theme From the Bottom,” “Llama,” “Tube,” and “Golgi Appartus.” Other than the amazing “Gin” jam, I was underwhelmed. Upon giving Cam my opinion of that set, and hearing his take (“they played all the classics!”), I realized that the older stuff may be a bit played out for me upon hearing them at countless shows. I just want to hear the newer, more obscure stuff. The second set promised that very thing. “Sigma Oasis” opened. I dig that tune, and the album of the same name, which helped me get through those early days of lockdown. “Life Saving Gun” was a new one to me, and “No Men in No Man’s Land” is beginning to grow on me, particularly as it was accompanied by an intense jam. We mellowed out for “Lonely Trip” and “Frankie Says,” and the intensity gradually climbed for “Gotta Jiboo” and “Light,” one of my favorites. The encore consisted of a vibrant “Suzy Greenberg” and Jimi Hendrix’s “Izabella,” and this is where I think the theme comes in. For Friday night’s encore, we saw the word “Times” twice in “GTBT.” Saturday night was alliterative with the letter “F.” Tonight had two female names for their encores. It could be a coincidence, but I’ll be curious to see what the boys’ll do for the remaining four nights. On the way back, I talked to a cool guy named Cam, who liked my “Weather Report” shirt and subsequently informed me of a jazz fusion group with that name. I checked out their song “Birdland” this morning as I indulged in a cheese omelet from the Tasty Diner, a true New York diner, and I dug it. Thanks, Cam! I always love good recommendations. I also met another cool guy named Kevin French, who jumped into the seat next to me after the couple left (I love badass solos). He drove up all the way from South Philly to introduce his friend to Phish. And another groovy guy named John, who lives just up the street from me in Kensington, Maryland. My energy is now depleted as I type this at Penn Station. But I do love a good Amtrak. And thanks to my chosen profession, I’ll get up whenever the hell I feel like tomorrow. Last summer, I did seven shows, seven nights in a row. This year, three proved to be good enough, even as I struggle to escape the post-concert depression that inevitably accompanies the transition back to reality from Phishland. But the shows will stay with me as I plan my courses for the fall.
Notes I prefer city shows, particularly ones where I can ride the subway. The trip there is a show in itself. I get bored with venues like Bristow, and I could give less of a fuck about Deer Creek or the Gorge. I love learning new things from people. “Weather Report” from Cam, Five-Star Chef from Chris (which I just finished prior to writing this blog), and the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory from John. During setbreak on Sunday night, I overheard a conversation between two friends. One was saying, “Austin is nice if you’re not a middle-aged single man. It’s got stuff for families, but I just think it’s boring.” I was surprised to hear that about Austin (assuming it’s Austin, Texas and not some suburb or small town), but it got me thinking about how grateful I am to be living in DC. I recently became an organizer for a new Childfree group I wrote about the last two posts, and in the first week and a half, we already have 121 members. I’ve definitely found my Childfree Singles tribe, not like in Hampton Roads or El Paso. Yep, I’m stoked to have gotten tenure and to be settling in DC. Now to ramp down even more to save money on shows so it can go toward buying property. With all the carbs and cholesterol I'm taking in, it's a good thing dancing burns off calories, and I'm glad I'm a runner. Here's a picture of the nice view of the East River I took in this morning as the Philly show from 7/25/23 filled my ears.
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The Grateful Allman Band Experience - Pearl Street Warehouse - Washington, DC - July 22, 20237/23/2023 It had been over a month since I’d really gotten down to some live music (Dead & Co with John). Danger Bird with Stephanie was awesome, but it wasn’t a “dancing” event. And once my feet got kickin’, I realized how much I needed it. Over the past few weeks, I’ve started exploring my area (including trips to Fredrick, MD and Leesburg, VA) and writing a ton. I’ve also become an organizer for a meetup for childfree folks (we need our space in a nuclear family-centric world). But the music was on pause (was saving the energy for next weekend’s Phish shows). I figured I’d organize a gathering to go to this particular show. Solo shows are fun, but they can also be fun with cool people. After a lazy Saturday spent binge-watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, I took the Metro down to the Waterfront, where I met up with my new friend Rolf. He told me about his outdoor poetry Meetups, which were inspired by the gatherings of the Dead Poets Society from that titular whimsical Robin Williams classic, which was my favorite movie when I was sixteen (call me a curmudgeon, but now that I’ve been in the classroom a bunch of years, the teacher in me can’t help but point out the problems in Mr. Keating’s pedagogical strategies. That being said, I love the idea, and I’ll look forward to sharing some of my nonfiction. We also met up with Kelly and Mario, a cool couple on the page, and while the place got a bit too crowded for them, I’m still glad to have made their acquaintance and look forward to seeing them at future Meetups. Kelly and Rolf also gave me the downlow on real estate options in Southwest DC if I choose to look there (it’s a lovely area). The opener was a group called the Moran Tripp Band, which also played Dead and Allman tunes, as well as a few I didn’t recognize. They included: Ain’t Wastin’ Time No More (Allman Brothers) Mr. Charlie (Grateful Dead) Dreams (Allman Brothers) In Memory of Elizabeth Reed (Allman Brothers) Franklin’s Tower (Grateful Dead) Althea (Grateful Dead) It was a nice primer for the main act. During the setbreak, Rolf and I talked more about writing and about the childfree life and our struggles to navigate this family-centric world we’re a part of. It’s challenging, but I know I wouldn’t want to be a parent (which brings challenges I wouldn’t want). I had talked to my friend Lucas about this the week prior; if I were forced to be a father, I’d probably be a good one because I am conscientious and meet the responsibilities I’m supposed to (and I tend to go beyond as well). But I wouldn’t be happy, which, in my view, is what’s most important. The show was phenomenal. The band’s organizational strategy appears to be: one to three Dead songs, then Allmans, then Band songs, then back to Dead, then the cycle continues. Here’s the setlist with some of my notes: Brown-Eyed Woman (Grateful Dead) Touch of Grey (Grateful Dead) Statesboro Blues (Allman Brothers) Southbound (Allman Brothers) Midnight Rider (Allman Brothers) – They had teased it in “Statesboro Blues” and “Southbound,” and upon the third tease, I said, “This better be Midnight Rider,” to which the young dude in front of me chuckled and laughed. Ophelia (The Band) – I do like Widespread Panic’s live versions better. Jemimah Surrender (The Band) China Cat Sunflower (Grateful Dead) I Know You Rider (Grateful Dead) Wasted Words (Allman Brothers) The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down (The Band) One More Saturday Night (Grateful Dead) Jessica (Allman Brothers) At about 11:00, the set ended, and the singer encouraged the audience, “Don’t go anywhere! We have more tunes coming up for you!” I hadn’t slept well the night before, and while I danced hard, fist-bumped with strangers, and talked to a few folks, I was drained, so I headed home. The subway ride was packed with drunken Nationals fans, celebrating their 10-1 win over San Francisco (I wasn't too happy about that, as my Mets have been just below the surface this season). The night was capped with the finishing of an episode of Maisel and a few scoops of chocolate Wildgood Ice Cream, a nice plant-based delicacy (thanks to my fellow childfree friend, Laura, for the fantastic recommendation), as I drifted into unconsciousness, Chester planted firmly on my lap. Overall observations:
Now I’m even more psyched for Phish than I was last night (if that was even possible). For all the shows I’ve been to, I don’t recall ever seeing music on the Fourth. And with recent political moves by SCOTUS (Roe v. Wade, affirmative action, loan forgiveness), I haven’t been feeling patriotic in the least. But I’m only hurting myself by staying in. So when Pete informed me of free music, the answer was an obvious, resounding yes. He’d told me about Danger Bird, a Neil Young tribute based in the DMV. And it was free. Typically, I’d have no problem going to this show solo. But, now that I’ve been tenured after 13 years of being a nomad, I’ve decided it’s time to “dig in” to what this area has to offer. And that includes the diverse array of people, with which can come plenty of opportunities for meaningful connections, more so than that of Hampton Roads. As a person who identifies as Childfree by Choice, I face stigma from a world that’s largely centered toward family and procreation. And one of the nice things about the DMV is that no matter who you are, you can find people like you. I recently became an organizer for this group (shout-out to my good friend, Lori, founder of this group and organizer extraordinaire for giving me that opportunity), and I recently went “event-happy,” designing a bunch of them including this one. I mean, seeing music and meeting good childfree folks? Why the hell not? The event ended up consisting of two of us, Steph and myself. After a day of lazing around the apartment, I took the Metro to the Waterfront, where I was greeted by Steph. We had good conversation on the way down (writing, books, la lengua de español), and after a brief walk on the waterfront, we made our way inside. To put it mildly, Danger Bird was fucking amazing. The singer sounds exactly like Neil Young, in his singing AND speaking voices. Songs included classics like “Heart of Gold,” “Old Man,” “Southern Man,” “Like a Hurricane,” “Walk On,” “Mr. Soul,” “Alabama,” “Rocking in the Free World,” and a bunch of others I hadn’t heard. Steph, who isn’t familiar with Neil Young’s repertoire, had heard one I hadn’t, and I spaced on writing the lyrics in my notepad. Side note: she recommended Frank Ocean and Childish Gambino. Despite my proclivity for jam bands, I always love hearing new artists in other genres, and I dug the mystical hip-hop vibe from Childish Gambino. So thank you, Steph! The song that really brought back memories of “Downtown,” off his 1995 Mirror Ball album. This was the first Neil Young album I ever owned, largely due to me falling for “Peace and Love” when I heard it on Q104.3, the classic rock station I had my car radio permanently tuned to when I was seventeen. The second set ended at 8:30; at that point, Steph and I were hankering for some fireworks. Of course, most of the Waterfront was densely populated, but Steph’s sharp thinking got us to a quieter spot at the end of the pier, where we had the best view in the city (at least from my vantage point). Steph and I continued our conversation, and we talked about our life and work goals (which include writing). The dialectic continued as we navigated through the crowd going back to the Metro, which was the most packed I’d ever seen it. A plus: a free ride! Another reason to support public transportation. The Metro was packed wall-to-wall, which brought back memories of me riding the New York City subway during rush hour. When I transferred at Gallery Place, the workers were yelling for people to move toward the far end of the platform if going on the train. It was that chaotic.
When I got home at 10:30, I plopped down on the couch and nodded off as Chester took his spot on my stomach. I was back up at around midnight, at which point Chester jumped off and followed me to the bed. Hell of a Fourth, and it’s even better when meeting cool folks like Steph. More to come! Grateful Dead Meetup at the Movies - Village East by Angelika - New York, NY - June 24, 20236/25/2023 I’d just been to Dead & Company; did I REALLY need to see an old Dead show in a MOVIE THEATER?
No, but my Dead FOMO had hit me at the prospect of seeing Dead & Co, and it had continued to the movie. And it was a daytime show, which would give me enough time to relax in the evening. I hadn’t been flaneuring around New York City in a while, so I thought I’d head down. I love people-watching on the trains; I was intrigued by an elderly local recommending restaurant to someone who appeared to be from Eastern Europe. Once in the city, my stomach started to rumble. I got to the neighborhood about 30 minutes before showtime, and the appearance of Tompkins Square Bagels on my map, right across from the theater, was inciting my craving for tuna on a New York bagel. I was greeted by a 20-minute line, consisting mostly of the 20somethings who’d likely been imbibing the night prior. I was able to get to the theater with three minutes to spare, and I saw a lovely sight. Five other people in the theater, all of whom appeared to be traveling solo. Solo outings aren’t celebrated nearly as much as they should be (IMHO), so I was psyched to see it. I did the “head nod” with a dude in a Dead hat. Three more solo flyers entered after me, along with a pair of friends. The show was great, and I drop the setlist here. When I’m at a live show, I’m into the music, but a movie (sans dancing) forced me to look closely at the show. Close-ups of Jerry and Bobby’s hands flying on the guitar and Phil’s on the bass. Jerry and Bruce Hornsby smiling at each other during an intense “Shakedown Street” jam. I wonder what the subverbal conversation was there. The graphics were interesting too; I present to you this video of “One More Saturday Night.” Scroll to 1:24 in. You can tell the video was edited in the 1990s; I was on my college television station in that decade, and the graphics looked like they were imported manually from a character generator. It brought me back. I didn’t have Maggie, Gary, Mark, Johnny, or Drew there, and I didn’t feel like being the only one to get up and dance, so the boogeying didn’t happen like it used to in Virginia. But I did tap my feet a lot, especially during “Wang Dang Doodle,” “Foolish Heart,” and “When I Paint My Masterpiece.” As we exited the theater, I heard the sound of an ambulance siren. Back to the real world, I thought. But it was nice to escape for a few hours, and the music provides just that. So, as I’ve said on previous posts, I’m not that enamored with Dead and Company. But it’s interesting how even as an adult, I can be influenced by peers. Stephen, Donny, and Kathy all posted about the Bristow show, and Pete gave me the scoop. He also did so with the Philly show. Shana posted pics of that one. Charles talked about Atlanta, Jaclyn about SPAC. Shawn, Bruce, and Heath: SPAC as well. I’m planning on staying in New York another week, and it was an easy train ride away from Citi Field. Tix weren’t that expensive. John was game. It was the last tour. Okay, fine, I was in. The fact that I have a soft spot for Flushing due to a childhood spending going to Mets games may have also been contributed to my decision. It would also be the perfect venue to wear my Dead/Mets combo T-shirt. I met John at Times Square, and we hopped that 7 express out to Citi Field. One of my favorite things about riding the subway to shows is seeing all the other heads on the train, so we’re already creating community before we get to the stadium, and we don’t have to navigate around other cars to do so. There was a nice couple from South Carolina who got their hotel in Manhattan to explore the city. During the show, John and I remarked on how these hotels really knew how to take advantage, jacking up prices during tourist season. Building on the theme of capitalism’s dark side, I hadn’t really walked Shakedown in a good while, and for the most part, nothing changed. Of course, now, the vendors will be happy to provide a QR code to gouge you through Venmo. Oh, and there was that super-nice salesperson who shouted, “Nitrous! Will take PayPal or CashApp!” So convenient. All cynicism aside, there were some cool shirts and signs, which I happily post for you here: We were able to get tickets for $50 each, way below the resale prices on Ticketbastard. Props to John for his negotiating sales. I’m not particular about where I sit, so long as I can hear them playin’ in the band. Like John said, “When you can fist-bump with the pilots, you know you’re in the nosebleeds.” Dinner was also nostalgic, having spent much of my money earned delivering papers on Nathan’s hot dogs and crinkle-cut fries at the Nanuet Mall. The show was tight, and here’s the setlist. It was a tight set. John did catch them messing up several lyrics, and I even spotted a missing verse in “Uncle John’s Band.” But they’ve been at it for fifty-eight years; I guess they’ve earned the right to revise their songs. Highlights for me included an INCREDIBLE jam on “St. Stephen” (favorite songs of Maggie’s and John’s), “U.S. Blues,” a tight bluesy “It Hurts Me Too,” and “Althea.”
The weather wasn’t quite as warm as I had thought it would be. Decked out in my T-shirt and shorts, standing in gusty winds got a bit uncomfortable during the second sun. On the one hand, I thought, shoulda brought my hoodie! On the other, it’s been colder. John and I parted at Times Square, and I had the privilege of seeing all the Cure fans decked out in black, courtesy of their show at MSG, and as I crossed Eighth Avenue to get to Penn Station, I heard a car blasting “Boys Don’t Cry,” one of two Cure songs I’m familiar with (the other being “Friday I’m in Love,” the latter of which does hit me if I’m in the right frame of mind). The trains home carried a nice mix of Deadheads and Cure fans. I heard a pair of friends talk about ticket prices as I drifted in and out of consciousness. I got back to the house at about 2 a.m., which brings me back to my early 20s, when I’d go to New York City shows, take the six-minute drive from the Suffern train station to my Mom’s house, and hit the pillow. I’m a little tired out at the moment, but I’m about to meet my friend Elizabeth in Ridgewood for lunch, so I was forced back into the real world. But, related to my last post, Elizabeth was a mentor to me when I started my teaching career as an adjunct for Bergen Community College. A whopping $2,100 per course, but that experience, and Elizabeth, helped propel me to the place I’m at now. And, like I also said in my last post, I wouldn’t have gotten to that place without these shows. Even though I’m cutting down on them (i.e., doing one of the Citi Field shows instead of both), they’ll continue to be a part of my life. Nothing left to do now but smile, smile, smile. As I type this, I’m listening to the Lettuce show on December 31, 2017 at the Brooklyn Bowl. This show permeated the speakers in my office on the evening October 31, 2018, ten months after the show.
That night’s a significant one. I had been spending the last month organizing the prior four years of the work I’d done as a college professor in Virginia into a huge binder and writing a narrative explaining why all that work entitled me to a promotion from Assistant Professor to Associate Professor. I didn’t think I was even close to qualifying, so my first draft of the portfolio (which was required) was a sloppy binder with about eight pages. My chairperson at the time didn’t accept this and insisted that I put in a real effort. I had done the work; why not reap the reward? After a lot of hesitation, I decided I had nothing to lose. That night, I had finally organized it the way I wanted, and it was time to place little sticky notes with typed page numbers on the sheet protectors that housed my work. A real pain in the butt, but the powers that be required it. It was 10 at night, I had spent a few weekends and late nights prior printing out documents, organizing them, collecting letters of recommendation, and fighting the onslaught of anxiety. And that’s where music comes in. The transition from the cocoon of graduate school to the tenure-track was a challenge. Expectations were lofty, and I wasn’t quite used to the conservative, genteel nature of the South. But I had made some new friends who were into the music that I had listened to before I decided to stop going to “those shows” and become an academic. About two months into my newfound residency in Virginia, a neighbor I knew as “Plumber Dave” invited me to an Allman Brothers tribute band called Skydog at a nearby bar/grill called Hoss’s Deli. Just like with my chair, after some hesitation, he kept doing the “come on” until I relented. I’m glad I did. It was there that I met the folks who would be my friends/show buddies for the next several years: Maggie, Mark, Gary, and through Mark, I met Drew. And through the shows, I’ve met others (Pete, John, Charles, Mark, Jaclyn, Bob, Amy, Shana, and well, lots of other good people). It was slow going. There were some sporadic trips I took with Mark: DSO at the Paramount, Widespread Panic at the Altria, Andres Osborne at the Jefferson. Then, during my second year at Hampton, I took weekly trips with Maggie and her/our friend Russell to see Blind and Dirty at various venues in Williamsburg. Then another Panic show with Drew and Mark. Then another. Then another. Then there was Phish in Philly with Drew and Scott. Then String Cheese with Mark, Drew, and Maggie in Portsmouth. That was the night my car got towed from the parking lot at Mark’s apartment complex. Bummed was what I was, but singing “Contact” helped. Then more local shows. Then Phish’s four-night run at Madison Square Garden to close out 2016 (hence where the title of this blog comes from). And then, well, more shows. By day, I lived the academic life. Teaching, leading teams and committees, developing my research interest in Singles Studies. I planned lessons, researched, wrote, and did all that paperwork they don’t show on television, and it could be stressful. But I often had the music from the likes of the Grateful Dead and all its offshoots and tributes (Dead & Company, JRAD, DSO), Phish, Widespread Panic, String Cheese Incident, and countless other acts/genres, playing as I worked. And by night, I was grooving out. And going to those shows would help me get a perspective on life. Hearing the music, dancing, joking around with friends (“Special Guest!”), high-fiving and fist-bumping strangers, all those things would help me stay in balance. As Mark Hannah stated to a young Jordan Belfort upon his entry into the world of high finance in The Wolf of Wall Street, “You gotta stay relaxed.” Music’s done that for me, much healthier than the strategies employed by the brokers in that flick. And low and behold, on May 1, 2019, I got the letter congratulating me on my promotion. The Lettuce show helped me get through that late night. Cut to 2021. I’d gotten promoted, but tenure was pretty impossible to come by. Luckily, I’d gotten a wonderful opportunity at my current school in Washington, DC. I’d go in at the rank of Associate Professor and I’d have a shortened tenure clock (I’d go up for it after two years, whereas most would need to put in four). I had a successful first year, but I had moved during lockdown. It was hard to build personal connections, and I’d grown burned out from teaching to video screens. I was in love with my current school, so my stress around tenure was way higher than that during my time in Virginia. The car accident I had at the B Chord (10/11/20) had also caused some trauma around driving, so my anxiety was at a peak, so much that I had been prescribed a medication to help me sleep. It did the job 98% of the time, but the groggy feeling I had the next day sucked. I’d learned about a local Dead cover band called Better Off Dead playing at the Pearl Street Warehouse one Saturday night (7/28/21). Once they started playing and I began grooving, a familiar feeling of bliss permeated my body. I hadn’t felt this since before the accident. I met a cool guy named John that night, and chatted casually with other Deadheads. The subway ride home was fun. And that night, I slept very well without the medication. Over the next several months, the shows came back. I met Pete on 10/1/21 at Masala Art, an Indian restaurant near the Anthem. He and I have done several shows in the past year and a half, and he’s turned me onto some good acts. As I went to more shows, my work stayed solid, but my anxiety around tenure decreased. This past January, going to shows was starting to feel like a job, so I underwent a 40-day fast from shows, which was wonderful for my spirit. I have some shows planned, but I’m being more judicious about them. So what’s the point? On June 8, 2023, the Board of Trustees at my school announced that I had gotten tenure. I’d been grinding away for the past several years toward this goal, and it happened. And while many people stereotype Deadheads, Phishheads, and fans of other jam bands as lazy, drug-addled burnouts, that stereotype couldn’t be further from the truth in my case. I worked my ass off for tenure (a rare feat in higher education these days), and the music has provided the soundtrack. So now what? I hope to stay in DC for years and years, and while I imagine my life will change quite a bit (I have been cutting down on the shows, and I plan to buy a home in the near future), I don’t see the music going away. It’s helped me get to where I am so far (knock on wood), so the way I see it, why mess with a good thing? And it’s not just the music; it’s the people. Everybody I mentioned here has played a role in helping me get to tenure. And it’s been great. On a deeper level, there’s some existential anxiety. I’ve been a nomad for the past thirteen years, as many of us in higher education are. So while I’ve developed connections to the areas I’ve lived in, I’ve always felt as if I’m eventually going to exit. Now, I’m committed to the DMV, and it’s a scary thing to think about. But I know I’ll roll with it, and the music and the friendships will be there as I do. Why’d I suggest this again?
That was the thought going through my foggy brain as I had finished another annual round of scoring AP essays in humid yet sunny Tampa. All I wanted to do was eat some mass-produced slop, courtesy of the College Board, and watch cat videos on YouTube. But I had bought the ticket and proposed the idea to Charlie and Jaclyn, so I was committed. The slop Charlie and I consumed consisted of brisket, pulled pork, mac and cheese, and green beans (it was actually decent). We met up with Jaclyn outside of the Tampa Convention Center and made our way to Jannus Live. I had been to downtown St. Petersburg once before, when I soloed to the Dali Museum a couple of days before my first year scoring AP exams. I don’t remember it being this lively; the partiers were out in full force, which motivated me. The venue was just as colorful, and in general, people were happier than I’m used to in the DC scene. I had a nice chat with a young lady named Brittany, who was following Lettuce around Florida with a group of dudes. And another guy named Nicko, owner of Nicko’s Pizza & Subs in St. Petersburg. If I’m there again, I’ll definitely consume some pre- or post-show pie. I also saw a cool variety of T-shirts. I tallied a Black Sabbath, a Godsmack, a “Grateful Dude,” a “World’s Greatest Cat Dad” (though I think I could give that one a run for his money), and one that read “Bronx Party Animals,” which is, ironically, a California-based punk band. And now the show. Three bands graced the stage. The first, Makua Rothman, had an upbeat jazz rock feel, and man did I dance out all that energy from the grading. A highlight was their cover of the Eagles’ classic, “Hotel California.” Jaclyn insisted on busting “Hotel Marriott Tampa” as that’s the hotel all three of us were in (Charlie and I in one room, Jaclyn in another, so get your head out of the gutter!). The moment reminded me of my old fraternity; at the end of a night of mass consumption of fermented hops, we’d all scream “Living it up at the hotel Theta Gamma” as that tune played on our house’s loudspeakers. The next group was a band called Steel Pulse; I hadn’t heard of them, but when I pulled them up on my Spotify app, I learned they’d been around since the 1970s, and they very much had a 70s era reggae sound, much like Bob Marley. And, to my surprise, John indicated he’d seen them and Bob had some of their LPs. Of course, Pete knew who they were too. I’m glad to know that I can always learn more about music history and grateful for people from whom I can learn. By that point, it had gotten crowded, and I migrated toward the back, where it’s typically less crowded, hence, more room to dance. I was also near the water cooler, which was a plus. Lettuce came on at 10:40; to be honest, I’m getting tired of bands that start after 10 p.m. and just go on and on (i.e. the Drive-By Truckers show back in April). That being said, they still rocked, I still danced, and they seemed to be wrapping it up at 11:30ish, right when the ticket said they would. We had to navigate through a windy hill of a parking garage trying to find an elevator to Charlie’s car, but we eventually made it, and we had a nice view of the water on parts of the drive home. After getting back to the room, I indulged in a (non-slop) brownie I had snagged from the Convention Center. As I write this, I’m sitting in the same exact seat as I did when I wrote about the show that capped last year’s reading. The spot: Bay Coffee & Tea Company at Tampa International Airport. The show: Uncle John’s Band with Charles, Jaclyn, Mark, and Kevin. I didn’t see them this year, which is totally fine, given my attempts to cut down on shows and the fact that as much as I love Dead cover bands, they are a dime a dozen. And I had plenty of other low-key good times: dessert with Liddy and Sage one night, dinner with Joey another night, two meals with Mark, flaneuring around Ybor City and Sparkman’s Wharf, and of course, some much-needed alone time. Scoring essays from 8 to 5 really does tire one out. So going back to my original question: why’d I suggest this? Because scoring essays from 8 to 5 really does tire one out, and music gives me a perspective on why I do this. And it’s thanks to this music that on June 8, 2023, I was awarded tenure at my university, a rare feat these days. I spent many hours planning lessons, researching, writing (including my book, How to be a Happy Bachelor), and doing the tedious work of putting together my promotion and tenure packets at Hampton and UDC, respectively. The sounds of Phish, the Grateful Dead, Widespread Panic, String Cheese Incident, Rush, Led Zeppelin, and countless other musicians permeated the air as I grinded away toward this goal. In fact, I remember spending one late night in my Hampton office putting the finishing touches on my promotion portfolio (i.e. sticky notes with page numbers) as a Lettuce show played on my laptop. This blog also propelled me into the writing habit that made my book, and several other articles, possible. In turn, tenure happened. I’ll pivot from my humble brag and remark that it’s amazing how things connect. At this point, I’m ready for a two-day nap. Good night, and cheers! Normalize daytime shows!!! I echo Jaime Lee Curtis’s sentiment when she advocates that concerts start during the day. I got annoyed toward the end of the Drive-By Truckers show I attended with Pete a couple of weeks ago. They didn’t start until 10:15 at night, and as midnight passed, they kept teasing an end, but they just kept going. No more of those for me. I also need downtime between the point the show ends and the time I hit my pillow, so I like earlier shows (particularly when they start on time). This was a 3 p.m. show and an outdoor one. During my concert fast, I decided I was going to become reacquainted with the New York Mets (although I haven’t been engaged in their recent play outside of Pete Alonso’s home run fest). I traveled up to New York for my summer sojourn with the family, and I went to a street festival in Nyack, where I saw a combination Dead/Mets T-shirt. My impulses kicked in, and I ponied up the $20. As the shirt laid on my closet shelf, I found my “Dead jones” slowly re-emerging, and when I heard about a cover band playing a show right down the street from my brother’s house, I decided I needed a shot – stat. I took the drive from my Mom’s house in Suffern to my brother’s place in Wanaque, New Jersey, which does not feel like New Jersey when you go in. Rather than beaches, toxic waste dumps, and Bon Jovi, that town feels more like a Johnny Cash song. At one point, I jogged down Ringwood Avenue, the main street there, and I counted four flags that read “Let’s Go Brandon.” I thought, where were those things during the toilet paper shortage?
I helped my brother take some boxes down from his attic to prepare for a garage sale, and we got ice cream at this spot called The Ice Cream Train in Pompton Lakes, which has a nice downtown, but it could be so much more vibrant, a la Nyack or Ridgewood. But it does have the vibes of Cash’s “Cisco Clifton’s Filling Station.” I pulled into the parking lot at 3:04, expecting the band to just be starting to get set up, but I was greeted by “Eyes of the World” the instant I exited the car. The band was set up against the back wall of the patio, and the place was packed with stealies. Groups sat at tables enjoying libations, and a handful of folks grooved. I got myself a Diet Pepsi, and the rushed tones of the bartenders indicated they’re not used to this type of a crowd on a Sunday afternoon. They comped me my soda, but I gave them a tip anyway (having worked for tips once, I empathize). At first, it can be uncomfortable going to a venue in an area I don’t live in (and where nobody knows me), but my shirt invited some conversation. A dude (also named Craig) said it should read “Steal Your Bass” as opposed to “Base.” I thought it was cute. It turns out he lives in Bradenton part of the year, and he recommended some places and bands for when I have a gay old time in Tampa for the AP Reading in a couple of weeks. Bands include Antelope, a Phish tribute, and Unlimited Devotion, another Dead cover. Venues were The Ale and the Witch in St. Petersburg and The Blueberry Patch in Gulfport. Notes for the future. I did find it amusing when he told me, “Phish has a song called The Squirming Coil.” The setlist was standard, but groovy: Eyes of the World Halfstep (with harmonica) Jack-a-Roe Dear Prudence (The Beatles) Teach Your Children (Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young) Blue Sky (Allman Brothers Band; the bongos had me reminiscing about drum circles I used to be a part of) Ramble on Rose Sugaree (with harmonica) Casey Jones As the set ended, so did my Dead jones. “We’ll be back soon,” the lead singer announced. “We have nothing much to say each other up here so we’ll be short.” I had been socializing the entire weekend (Doug and Laura in Hoboken; Stephanie, Jeremy, Derrick, Brian, and Shayna at Derrick at Stephanie’s barbecue in River Vale; Jeremy earlier), so I was ready for some alone time. Now I’m going to get vulnerable for a second, so if you’re one those of people who doesn’t think it’s masculine for a guy to do so, read no further. Actually, that’s probably not you, because I tend to not be friendly with those types. On 10/11/20, two months after I moved to DC, I had an accident after the YMSB show at the (now closed) B Chord Brewing Company, where my car was totaled. Nobody was hurt, but it shook me up pretty badly and had me traumatized for a while. Since I now go to shows near Metro stations in the DMV, it’s been over two and a half years since I’ve driven to see live music, so the concept of driving to a show is foreign to me at this point (and a subway ride is much more calming for me after the music). Until today. It felt empowering to finally drive to see music, even if it was just one set (and having Dead and Company’s 5/19/23 show playing helped my state as well). #exposuretherapyrocks During my concert fast, I found I could be more well-rounded, but this show was also a nice way to re-integrate music into my life, but in a healthier, more moderate way. My next planned one is Lettuce on 6/16 in St. Petersburg, and I think I’ll be okay until then. #moderationalsorocks What is it about being a solo concertgoer that makes people think you’re a resident of the venue? Seriously, before I even got to my seat, I had two people come up to me and ask me where something was.
Maybe it’s a countenance I’ve developed from solo traveling. After a week of grading, trying to help students alleviate that widespread panic that characterizes the end of the semester, and meeting after meeting (as if we’re not busy enough), I needed some music therapy – stat. I had booked a solo seat in a row of two with the intention of meeting another solo traveler, and at the very least, making a friend for the night, if not for longer. But since not enough tickets were purchased, the balcony shut down, and we moved to the bottom, so I was in a full row. I did get my wish, though, and ending up chatting with Henry, a nice fellow from New Zealand, who informed me of a group called the Pink Floyd Experience, a Floyd tribute that plays in Australia and New Zealand. Nick Mason did ruin Floyd tributes for me, but both of those countries are on my bucket list, so if they’re playing there while I’m there, I’m in. Get the Led Out wasn’t what I expected. They had six members, including a keyboard player, and the lead singer, Paul Sinclair dressed in spandex pants and a bandana, which evoked images of glam rockers like Dee Snider and Vince Neil. He did address the confusion in the second set, when he essentially stated they didn’t want to try to BE Zeppelin, but their goal approach it from the view of band members. I could respect that, and I dug it for what it was. That being said, I still dig Zoso more; they’re grittier and more authentic. But I’m glad I had the experience. I’ve linked the setlist here. They played pretty much what one would expect, with a few twists, and my mind flashed back to when I had the CD of Encomium: A Tribute to Led Zeppelin, where I was introduced to some of their tunes. In fact, I like a few of the following covers better than the originals: “Dancing Days” – Stone Temple Pilots “D’yer Maker” – Sheryl Crow “Hey Hey What I Can Do” – Hootie and the Blowfish As a child of the 90s, these artists hit centers of my brain in ways even some of my current favorites don’t. So it would be natural I would appreciate those versions. And I’m making a connection as I write this: Sinclair began playing music in the 80s, so he’s more than likely influenced by the glam rockers of that time period, which factors into his playing. So who am I to judge? It’s interesting how one can come to new understandings through writing. And now a Dad joke to conclude: on the way out of the show, a security guard told a lady she had to throw her empty beer can away before leaving. The lady said, "We can get the led out, but we can't take the can out!" Her friend said, "You made a funny." I was amused. Read on if you’re wondering why a crumpled-up cup is the main photo for this post. I’d been looking forward to this evening for quite a while, particularly over the past week. And the last week of classes typically consists of a lot of “widespread panic” among students. But after a day of commenting on student final paper drafts, I was ready for some live music, an antidote to civilization. I met up with Pete at El Rey, a Mexican restaurant/bar, and the moment I walked in, I recognized it as the place Nicole and I met before my Lennon Claypool Delirium show (4/19/19). The service was fast, and my nachos were appropriately packed and greasy. I could have done without the loud group of 20somethings two tables over, but it was a good meal, and I hadn’t seen Pete in a while, so we caught up. He showed me his pictures from the Skull & Roses festival, as well as some West Coast hiking, including Joshua Tree National Park. I was living vicariously through him at that moment (damn work and Chester responsibilities). And after all those images I’ve built up in your head, here are some nachos: We got on line at about 7:20, where the conversation segued into the corporatization of live music venues: Northwell Health at Jones Beach, Wells Fargo Arena, the E! Centre. Gag. At least Hampton Coliseum and Madison Square Garden have their names intact.
We got in and continued the talk in the downstairs section before going up to see the opener, Lydia Loveless. I didn’t know anything about her and thought her name sounded like a folk rock artist, but she was more like angry country alternative. Her voice sounded inspired by Shania Twain and Alanis Morissette, true badass feminist rockers. Drive-By Truckers (DBT) came on promptly at 10:15; I don’t like that they started so late (what can I say? I’ve started to recognize my “early bird” tendencies). But the show was great. The room was packed, though Pete and I managed to find a spacious corner with enough room to move around. Pete and I assisted someone who was about to fall down before security escorted to them to (hopefully) receive medical attention. Other conversations/observations: some drunk dude whispered “I wanna dip out and get a cigarette but I don’t know if I can go for ten minutes.” Spoiler alert: he got his smoke in; I could smell the aroma. Security is tight about the cups we use for the free water. Someone got scolded for pouring the water into a beer cup; it’s supposed to go into a small one. I felt like I was engaged in subterfuge every time I poured my water into that big cup I got for my Diet Coke. I can’t identify most of DBT’s songs, but I heard “Marry Me” and “Steve McQueen.” Their lyrics are very left-leaning, which is quite badass given they’re from Georgia and spent time in Alabama. Southern Rock with a blue twist. I dig. By 12:15, the crowd thinned out and I could dance more easily, but I was spent and was thinking, Wrap it up! But the folks who stayed were into it. From what Pete told me, they went until about 12:40, and it was intense. They even got more political than usual (“Fuck fear!” Patterson Hood yelled. It was nice being at a show after the 48-day fast. Once home, I crashed out pretty easily while Chester claimed my stomach. All in all, a nice night. |
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April 2024
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