An Evening with the Waterboys (somewhere near Best Buy)

While we still get out and see our share of shows, LPD and I realized there have been a number of subtle changes to the experience over the years. For instance, more often than not, the shows we get tickets for tend to be billed as "An Evening with [insert band name here]," as if we were taking in a PBS figure skating exhibition. Case in point: We headed out to "An Evening with the Waterboys" at the Berklee Performance Center to rock out to the Celtic anthems of our youth.

On the drive into town, we noted another subtle change, this time in the way the city's skyline looks from the south. As we exited 93, we marveled at how the Belvedere building resembles a massive Stormtrooper's head eclipsing the Pru tower. Captivated by this sight, we nearly rearended a Lexus on the off-ramp.

The show may be billed differently these days but preshow is just as important as it's always been. Heading up Mass Ave, we exchanged ETA calls with the rest of the concert crew. Jen & Matt were already at Match, our preshow destination, ordering up some miniburgers (that tasted like hotdogs.) LPD and I were looking for a parking space when we got the call from Mike, et al who’d just entered the city limits.

“Where are you guys?”
“We’re just passing Best Buy on Newbury St.”
“What? Best Buy! Where is that?”
“It’s the old Tower Records.”
"The Virgin Megastore.”
“Right.”
“That’s a Best Buy, now? Jesus.”

Indeed there was something unsettling about this behemoth of a Best Buy on the corner of Newbury and Mass Ave., kind of like a Walmart on the Boston Common. Which is why we took a photo of it; we were not sure it would actually show up on film. Not so subtle changes on this city block. Less than a year ago, we'd meet at “Blue Cat” by the Virgin Megastore. Now it's “Match” by the Best Buy. This is exactly why we insist on referring to places and landmarks by their most familiar incarnations, like Harborlights and Great Woods. Tower Records, etc.

One thing that has not changed: Some people turn into self-absorbed jerks when it comes to securing a parking spot. LPD and I swung down the Newbury extension where we ran into a sidestreet traffic jam caused by some idiot who was parked in the middle of the road, on his cellphone, waiting to get into the Harvard Club’s parking garage. He just sat there blocking the street as eight, nine, ten cars backed up, all the while ignoring the chorus of horns and hand gestures rising behind him. We sat there for eight full minutes, all too aware the only thing separating us from our pre-show cocktails was this ignorant butthead. Thunderclouds appeared over LPD’s head in the passenger seat. She jumped out of the car with tiny fists of fury and marched up to the driver, pointing out the traffic jam born of his own rudeness. Still on the phone, the driver swung in an inch or so to let the caravan of cars edge past him. Everyone booed as we passed by (including a Condi Rice look-a-like with steam coming out of her ears behind the wheel of a Suburban). LPD shook her fist out the window, “You IDIOT!”


(Don't mess with Mama)

We rounded the corner onto Comm Ave and the clouds lifted. A light from above, a divine streetlight, glowed down upon a metered parking spot right by the Elliot Hotel. The gift of time, returned to us.


At last, we joined everyone at Match, Burgers & Martinis, where this group of seasoned concert veterans couldn't find out if there was an opening band or not. It suddenly dawned on us all at once that “An Evening with the Waterboys” was likely just that. We quickly settled up, bolted over to Berklee and slid into our seats, 30 minutes tardy.

If that wasn’t bad enough, Mike Scott appeared to be dedicating songs to the Burmese government.

“OH. This is not good.”

Nothing brings down a show faster than the details of the military junta offensive against civilians in Eastern Burma.

Wait, isn't it Myanmar? I thought it was Myanmar.
Does it matter?

Important world issues should be discussed in a proper forum; we just didn't think that forum should necessarily be here on this "Evening with the Waterboys" where people have come to distract themselves from the world's horrors. Luckily Mike Scott, a natural storyteller, lightened up and carried the show higher and higher with each song and anecdote, far, far away from Myanmar and back to Mass Ave. A headbanging fiddler and a keyboardist who resembled Ozzy Osbourne backed him up with much fervor. It was so evident that these guys love what they do, they love the music and to perform and their energy was infectious. They even did some straight-up dance numbers, busting into irish jigs during “When will we be Married” and “Raggle Taggle Gypsy." Scott also performed a spastic jazzercise beneath some strobe lights during one lyric-free jam. You know you’ve seen a good show when you don’t recognize half the songs but you’re blown away by all of it and can’t wait to go home and download the new tunes immediately. (New downloads: “Love will Shoot you Down” “She Tried to Hold me” and "Sustain” -- all very good but so much better live.) Of course, the old favorites, sublime: “Whole of the Moon,” “Killing my Heart,” “The Pan Within.” They ripped through two encores, including “Fishermen’s Blues” and a swing-out cover of Johnny Mercer’s “Accentuate the Positive.” You could tell the band didn’t want to leave the stage, and the crowd didn’t want them to either.

Alas, the houselights inevitably came up and we spilled out onto the sidewalk, giddy in our exceeded expectations, recapping among the throngs. Rare is the show these days that can turn a bunch of jaded old fools into born again rookies. This one did just that.

LPD and I even got the water giggles on our (very silly) ride home. Absolutely giddy over our "Evening with the Waterboys," we headed back to the burbs, blaring Kanye West:


“LPD, you can be my Black Kate Moss tonight.”
"Aight."

Good times, all!

Crowded House @ Pavillion

(Neil & Nick)

I fell in love with Crowded House in the summer of 86. Their tape took up residence in my Sony Walkman in July and stayed for the better part of the year before cracking in half from overplay. It was one of the first albums I'd ever heard where I felt every song applied to everything going on around me at the time.

So when I heard they were coming to Boston, I knew I was going to go. Of course I was. I didn’t make any plans, get tickets or find out if anyone wanted to come with me but there was no question. So, the day of the show, I made plans, got tickets and found pals to come with. KT signed on immediately, especially since we'd missed each other at the Police last week. Code Red, horrified that she didn't know they were in town, said "Yes, please" to Crowded House -- with an ocean breeze -- at the Pavillion.

THE PRESHOW, HILARIOUS

(KT: “Yeah, that’s right. I’m 40.”)

We squeezed into a jam-packed LTK where we were carded two different times by three different bartenders. We thought the fact that we were going to Crowded House was ID enough, but graciously accepted the compliment.

We spent the remainder of preshow doubled over laughing at Code Red’s tales of “The Men eHarmony Thinks I’m Compatible With.” It’s not that they were unattractive, it was more their curious choice of photos. For instance, when searching for a soul mate, why you would you ever (ever) upload a photo of yourself in a full-on shoot-the-duck position, flashing the peace sign? Hobbies of some of the men Code Red is compatible with: “Banging around Boston”and “medieval reenactment.” We don’t know what either of those mean.

THE SHOW, SUBLIME

We ran into fellow throwbacks T-Bag and Dawnie inside. (Of course they were going to go). There were a lot of sing-a-longs and sway-dancing. The set list had almost everything you'd want to hear. I was hoping they'd mix it up and play that transcendent Hunters & Collectors tune "Throw Your Arms Around Me" as they have in the past but it was not to be. They did play Distant Sun, however -- an absolute favorite that has made many an appearance on a myriad of mixes over the years. I taped the entire song and was psyched to have my own personal video to watch when the spirit moved me. Unfortunately, the video settings were on "time lapse," courtesy of Carrie who had been shooting footage of Vito whining beside the fridge earlier in the day.

Now all my videos are completely psychedelic. I figured I'd upload them anyway because they're kind of cool looking. Here they are, please don't have a seizure.

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Now Playing: Sweet Baby James

Police @ Fenway

The Police at Fenway. While we've been looking forward to it for months, expectations were tepid. But it turned out to be an amazing show, an event, an all around good time. Few shows are memorable these days so this was a welcome surprise. Standout tunes: Truth Hits Everybody, Bed's Too Big Without You, King of Pain, Synchronicity II -- pure adrenaline. On the way home, the post show rehash: "Wasn't crazy about the versions of 'Walking in your Footsteps' and 'So Lonely.' 'Next to You' wasn't as energetic as I'd hoped." Then we realized: We just saw The Police, at Fenway, in the summer, on a Sunday night, in the 10th row. We're in dire need of shutting up and soaking in the fantastic reality of the evening.

Before the show, we met at P and Maria's for a cookout and were supposed to meet up with KT at the Foundation Lounge but deep into the pre-show dilly dally, we totally ran out of time. Boo. We pulled into Pete's secret squirrel alley parking spot and then ended up at Tequila Rain (again), the perpetual last resort.

I took some videos of the show, figuring that'd be better than still photos. Wrong. Taking video while dancing/wobbling on way-high shoes is a bad idea. I'm afraid if I post the vids, someone will have a seziure ala Japanese-Pokemon.

PRE-SHOW DILLY DALLY:


( I love my pants)

My bellies. Seratonin skyrocketing.













Southie, al fresco

Jimmy and I look like we're on a bus.

Oh, hello, Peter.










Miss a turn on Route 1?

Sporting a blousy white linen shirt, goatee, and wee bit of a mullet, Norty channels guy-from-Saugus-chic...and completely pulls it off.







Buh.

Empty Dunkin Dugout










Humid.





THE AFTERMATH: Went back to P & Maria's for a foolish indulgence in pork products after midnight. Late night sausages. Another bad idea.

An email from James Monday morning via Billy Dee: "From the Inside Track: 'Spotted: Police guitarist Andy Summers dining at Davio’s and chatting up fellow patron and vintage rocker Peter Wolf.' I'm surprised they were able to keep him off the stage." The man who ruins everything.

The Rookie Cops of Suburbia

Caroline and I pulled into the parking lot for swimming lessons yesterday afternoon blaring and singing Loudon Wainwright: “That’s my daughter in the water…” which was the designated riding-to-swimming-lessons theme song this week.

Another woman who was arriving at the same time with her kids smiled at us and asked me what song we were singing and whether it was a children's song.

The instant I told her the song was from the movie “Knocked Up,”I knew I'd made a mistake.

(Tiny frown of disapproval) “See, that’s why I never put the radio on in the car. Every song is about sex,” she said. "It's all Wiggles all the time for us."

I was going to tell her that we were actually listening to my iPod and the song we were singing was not about sex but I opted out of the conversation saying we were running late.

I also didn’t want Caroline to suddenly bust into one of her favorite songs on the radio these days: “You and Your Hand” by Pink. I was in no mood to be judged by someone wearing a Vera Bradley backpack.

Most parents have no problems admitting they’re completely clueless. Then there are the rookie cops of suburbia like Vera here. They’re probably just as paralyzed by parental insecurity as everyone else but can’t bear to admit it. They pounce on any opportunity to share their rules with you. In 10 years, I guarantee this lady will be burning Leaves of Grass in a barrel bonfire outside her kids’ high school.

Still, these run-ins, which thankfully are few and far between, usually make me second guess myself (which is the rookie cop’s intent). But this time, I didn't feel conflicted, I felt smug. This woman clearly has zero recollection of her own childhood.

Little kids don’t process song lyrics the way we do. They have absolutely no interest in what the song means. They just enjoy the music.

For instance, Caroline actually thinks the name of the Pink song is “You and Your Hair,” but even if she knew the right lyrics, she still would have absolutely no idea what they mean and I’m under no obligation to explain such things to a four year old. That’s all ahead of us. In my experience, making taboo of something she isn’t capable of understanding yet only raises more questions.

Also, when in our lifetime have there not been songs about sex on the radio?

Growing up, we’d go to the Cape every year with a bunch of my parents’ friends and their kids. When we were about 6 or 7 years old, we played “Solid Gold,” and put on lip-syncing shows for the adults. My favorite song to perform was Alicia Bridge’s “I Love the Nightlife.”

Here’s a sampling of lyrics:

I want to go where the people dance
I want some action,
I want to live
Action, I got so much to give
I want to give it
I want to get some too

(Only now can I appreciate how hilarious this must have been for all the parents parked in lawn chairs drinking Schlitz.)

I don’t recall, at seven years old, analyzing what the song meant but I probably thought it was about dancing or staying up late to watch the Love Boat -- not trolling the clubs for anonymous sex.

My friend Heather’s song was Donna Summer’s “Bad Girls.” In her six-year-old mind, she was singing about mean girls in Fayva shoes, not about prostitutes.

My brother’s song was “I was Made for Loving you” by Kiss which starts: "Tonight I wanna give it all to you. In the darkness, theres so much I wanna do." Knowing six-year-old P, he probably thought it was about camping.

So, I'm not concerned that my kids are being tainted by pop music. My only concern is them belting out certain songs in public places ala the "He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus" epidemic of 2006. Lucky for us, the "clean" versions on the radio and iTunes automatically omit words like“dickhead" and "motherfucker."

Aloha and Mahalo

(At 76 years old, Don Ho was still a hit with the ladies)

Just when we'd thought we’d heard the word "ho" enough for one week, we learn beloved Hawaiian crooner Don Ho has headed off to that big luau in the sky. I never really got what his deal was. In my world, he wasn't quite as famous for his "Tiny Bubbles" lounge act as he was for his guest appearances on 70s TV shows like Charlie's Angels, Fantasy Island and Sanford & Son. His most memorable cameo, however, was on the Brady Bunch's three-part episode in Hawaii. I only remember it in flashes: The Tabu Tiki thingy, Cindy's & Bobby's encounter with Mr. Ho where they ask him if he knows how to play the ukelele (as the laugh track goes wild), Bobby somehow ends up sitting on said ukelele, and then the entire family sits in a circle on some beach where they take turns blowing into a conch shell. And wasn't Vincent Price involved somehow? It seems surreal now. Anyway, farewell Don Ho. I'm sure a heavenly pig roast is being held in your honor as we speak.

BEATLEJUICE: What to do now?

(Brad Delp, lead singer of the bands Boston and Beatlejuice, was found dead in his New Hampshire home on Friday.)



Tears. While I was never a big fan of Boston, I always loved going to see Beatlejuice at Johnny D's in Davis Square -- a venue the band has played numerous times since forming in 1996. I was on Johnny D's Web site just last week because I was in need of a fix. B-Juice -- one of the best Beatles cover bands of all time -- was actually scheduled to play there tonight. Sadness.

"We're really kind of walking around in a daze," Johnny D's booking agent, Dana Westove told the Globe last night.

Each of its more than 50 appearances was sold out and we were among them many times. Whenever we saw them, we transformed Johnny D's into a scene straight out of Jesus Camp. Total worship, wholly deserved.

According to the Globe:

Though some fans were initially drawn by Mr. Delp's Boston fame, they came back for the group's ebullient performances, in which he always dedicated "All You Need Is Love" to the lovers in the audience.

"Not only was the band really sharp, but Brad had this uncanny way of becoming John Lennon, and Paul McCartney and Harrison too," said Westover, who called Mr. Delp 'a dear friend' to the club. He planned to have a tribute to him at the venue last night.

"I think everyone who hears this news today, the first thing they think is, 'Oh my God, he was such a nice guy.' " Westover said. He was "one of the most congenial guys I ever met."

I love that observation. The music industry -- actually, any industry today -- is so packed with egos and self-important assholes. I think Brad Delp is being paid the highest compliment being recognized as not only a rock star, but a decent, down-to-earth person.

What to do now?

Click here to read Steve Morse's moving piece on Delp.

Lemonheads

LPD, WMD, the Haleys, [a little more than a] Cameo, James, me and other creaky throwbacks schlepped our old, haggard selves to the Paradise last night to see the Lemonheads, one of our favorite 90s bands.

On the ride into town, James and I wondered aloud what the crowd was going to be like. Would it be younger? Older? A mix of the two? We decided the club would likely be packed with aging hipsters with crows feet because “Kids today don’t know what good music is. Kids today listen to crap like Fall Out Boy. That isn’t even music. It’s just noise. NOISE!” I abruptly shut up after my 1995 self reached across the years and smacked me in the forehead with a meatball sub for sounding like a crotchety old hag.

As always, we congregated at T’s Pub pre-show where we raised a glass to our Tuesday night gathering. My jumbo hot dog intimidated everyone at the table. We talked about how the Paradise is still the best place to see a show. But then T-Bag sealed our fate:“Yeah, you know what sucks, though?” He spoke of that giant, obstructive-view pole that is in the middle of the floor at center stage. “Yes,” we agreed. “That pole does suck.” So, of course we got stuck directly behind it at the show.

We caught the tail end of the opener's set. He was ok but his lyrics sounded like they were written by a German Shepherd.

The Lemonheads were a blast, however. And after several plastic cups of Paradise Pinot, I even danced a little. Evan Dando was always good for a Big Star or Replacements cover at his solo shows so I was a bit bummed not to hear one.

Much to Jimmy’s dismay, there was no sloppy post show at T. Anthony’s involving greasy slices of pizza pie and playing the jukebox until they kick you out. On the corner of Comm. and Babcock, we all bid each other good night and fell back through the cracks from whence we came.

The PO-LICE

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are The Police and we're back."

So said Sting as they kicked off the Grammy's this evening. Woo hoo! Then they launched into "Roxanne" and got 80s throwbacks like myself juiced up in a large way. I hate the Grammy's but I absolutely LOVE The Police -- I have since sixth grade when I would spend hundreds of hours trying to record "Spirits in the Material World" off WHTT 103 FM without some cheeseball DJ talking over the music.

In what is perhaps the worst kept secret in Boston, the band is rumored to have scheduled two shows at Fenway Park (Jul 28-29) this summer. I am already writhing with anxiety over getting tickets. We may have to sell our house but it'll be worth it.

Mix Tapes for the Emotionally Warped

I just read the best book -- “Love is a Mix Tape” by Rob Sheffield. LPD gave it to me last weekend and I read it in a day. My children were dirty and hungry for many hours. Sheffield, a journalist for Rolling Stone, wrote the book about his wife, a fellow music junkie who died suddenly in 1997. He relives their short time together via their mix tapes, showing how you can tie any great memory to a song. While it's a poignant, often hilarious memoir, it is also an ode to the lost art of the mix tape and the people who make them.

Sheffield writes how making mix tapes "allows emotionally-warped people to communicate by bombarding each other with pitiful cultural artifacts that in a saner world would be forgotten before they happened." Totally. I am a life-long member of this emotionally-warped society, where members are compelled to document their lives by compiling mixes of songs and assigning them strange names -- usually random nods to what's going on in their lives at the time. We emotionally-warped souls still make mixes (now "playlists") but it's not such a big deal anymore -- it takes like 10 minutes on the laptop. It's non-labor-intensive. There is zero romance in an iTunes playlist. Before, making a mix tape was a true labor of love. It could take hours to get it right. If a song was out of order, you'd have to start all over again. There was a certain ceremony to it.

Junkies like LPD and I try to keep that ceremony alive. We make a point of getting together to make the mix CD for the annual Nantucket trip. We both understand the nuances of proper song placement (i.e., Def Leppard must come before -- not after -- Justin Timberlake.) and are constantly rearranging songs until it's worthy of kitchen dancing. Takes about 10 minutes.

When I lived in Brighton, I learned that normal people don't do this sort of thing. One of my roommates, who did not share the mix tape gene, watched with complete bewilderment one afternoon as I became unhinged because I couldn’t find a Coolio cassingle. I needed to have “Sumpin’ New” as the third song on the tape or it’d be all wrong. I now realize how insane that must have seemed to her.

I once refused to go on a second date with someone because he put three Bare Naked Ladies songs on a mix tape. I found that gratuitous. (I’d also just met Jimmy. Buh.)

Screw the eyes. Songs on a mix tape are the true windows to someone's soul. They are a testament to what's going on inside. At one time, the state of my music -- albums, tapes, CDs -- was directly related to my state of mind: Scattered all over the floor, out of their cases, and in complete disarray. Those days, I would make up to three different tapes a day…and just walk it off.

I still make my anxiety mixes and walk with my Pod, but my neuroses are no longer in plain sight. They’re tucked away, filed neatly into music folders and arranged alphabetically. Best of all, there is a user-friendly sorting feature so I can find a shitty b-side or an obscure Aimee Mann song that I can’t remember the name of (Sugarcoated)with just a few clicks.

So while I love my Pod – saves time, preserves sanity – it’s just not all that romantic. You'll have to take my emotionally-warped word for it: Anytime you make a mix, date it, and assign it a name, it becomes a part of your personal history -- and it’s more vivid than a journal. It’s your soundtrack.

Here is a wee sampling of mine from the past 20 years:

Now I know how Joan of Arc Felt (Jul 1986): Named after a lyric from the Smiths’ song "Big Mouth Strikes Again." I’d just bought the Queen is Dead and made the tape for a trip to Nantasket Beach with my only friend with a drivers license. Standout tune: “Live to Tell” by Madonna.

Don’t Kill the Tunes (Sept 1987): Named after an incident on City Hall Plaza. Some friends and I were listening to a tiny pink boombox after one of those free WBCN concerts. When we decided to go home, some filthy burnout sitting nearby (that we hadn’t even seen) screamed out, “Aw, man. Don’t kill the tunes.” You definitely had to be there. It was hilarious - I almost weed my Guess jeans. Standout tune: “All Going Out Together” by Big Dipper.

Fresh for '89, Sucka (Feb 1989): This is quite possibly the stupidest name for a mix tape in the history of mix tapes. I don't know what I was thinking. I was probably drunk and listening to Neneh Cherry (huh, sucka). Standout tune: “Future 40s” by Syd Straw

Poetry in Motion/Polka-dot Lotion (Oct 1989): Named after a misheard Beastie Boys’ lyric. I made this one for an "Around the World" party in Scanlon Hall. Standout tune: “Pure” by The Lightning Seeds

Wonga (Apr 1990): Named after the favorite childhood word of a hypnotized WSC student at the Frank Santos X-Rated Hypnotist Show that came to campus. I made it for Spring Weekend. Standout tune: “My Finest Hour” by The Sundays.

Spoons and Tunafish (Nov 1992): A mix that Brownguy made when we lived on Shephard Way. Named after Barb Brown’s household tip of how to remove the smell of tunafish from your hands: Wash your hands with with spoons! Standout tune: Brownguy’s unexpected voiceover -- “How ‘bout something with a change of pace” -- that leads into “Jive Talkin’” by the Bee Gees.

We Will Aways Go Dancing (Nov 1995): A mix that LPD made for my burrthday. Named after a favorite line in the movie “Singles” and a mantra that all of us burrds live by. Standout tune: “Someone I Once Knew” by Paul Westerberg. Also known as: “Hey Steve, Someone who was Boo.”

Fuck you, Bertha (Jul 1996): The tape as a talisman. Named to ward off Hurricane Bertha who was barreling up the coast, threatening to wash out our Vineyard vacation. It worked. Standout tune: “Natural One” by Folk Implosion.

Missa Smissa (Jan 1998): James and I made this tape for his friend in San Diego whom he oddly refers to as “Missa Smissa.” The guy’s last name is Smith, so I guess it's more creative than Smitty. We liked the tape so much we copied (dubbed?) it and listened to it all the way up to Sunday River. It’s still one of my favorite mixes and one of the last mix "tapes" we ever made. Standout tune: “Radiation Vibe” by Fountains of Wayne.

From here on, it's all burned CDs and iPod playlists.

High Fidelity: A Travesty

I am convinced that the producer of this new show must have drugged Nick Horby, thrown a potato sack over his head and is currently hiding him in his basement. Otherwise, I cannot imagine how Hornby could have allowed this travesty to occur. "High Fidelity," his fantastic book and movie, have been turned into a gooey Broadway musical. This is even more rancid because the show doesn't include any of the songs mentioned in the book but a warped original score of twangy, country-fried tunes. A snippet of the song "Desert Island Top Five" is currently featured in the show's radio ad -- that snippet alone will likely repel Hornby's audience. But I suppose the musical will appeal to a whole nutha genre -- which may be the point. Soon, a whole new generation of suckers will be organizing their mp3s chronologically and compartmentalizing their sad little lives into top fives -- just as we did so many years ago. "High Fidelity" opens at the Colonial Theatre in Boston tomorrow night and runs through October 22nd before making its Broadway debut in December. Confession: I kind of want to see it -- purely out of curiousity -- but I don't think I could live with myself.

You Say It's Your Birthday

Paul McCartney wrote the tune "When I'm Sixty Four" at a time when your 64th birthday marked the year you started plowing into farmers' markets with your Buick LeSabre and taking out a few pedestrians.

Today, Sir Paul turns 64 and his life resembles that of someone half his age. He's not "losing his hair" or "knitting by the fireside," but playing to sold-out stadiums worldwide. He married -- and is now divorcing -- Heather Mills who is in her 30s. Instead of bouncing grandchildren "Vera, Chuck and Dave" on his knee, he's caring for a two-year-old daughter named Beatrice. On top of all this, he still devotes time to a number of humanitarian causes, including breast cancer research in honor of Linda, the woman he'd hoped to putter away with in old age. Happy Birthday, Paul. You don't look a day over 32 -- on paper, at least.

I believe the theme song for our generation's sextegenarians will be another song from Sgt. Pepper's, "Getting Better." (except for the part about beating one's woman, of course). If not, I propose "Big Balls" by AC/DC.

Radioheads

Few bands aside from Radiohead could incite chaos in the Seaport on a cloudy Monday night. Throngs of fans -- cleverly deemed "Radioheads" -- swarmed Northern Avenue employing the "I need a miracle" strategy perfected by Deadheads in their search for single tickets. And while most came up empty, they nonetheless remained out on the street to have a listen. Cameo and I got lucky and scored this impossible ticket, taking up residence in the cheap seats on the Concourse. These ended up being the best seats in the house from our perspective. Two words: Table service. And even more important, we could move freely -- something that became a necessity and an act of self preservation when a tall dude in an impossibly tight leather jacket began swiveling in front of us. He desperately needed to take a few classes from the Ben Cyr house of dance. The set list was a breezy balance of old and new songs but I got my money's worth simply hearing "Fake Plastic Trees" live for the first time in years. Read review from first show.

(Thom Yorke was a dancing fool and uncharacteristically giggly during last night's performance. Good times.)

DSO and a Bunch of 9th Graders

The pack of dirty hippies included Pete, Mike D., James N., my cousin Mike M., his girlfriend Kim, James and me. The occasion that brought us to Avalon on a Wednesday night was the Dark Star Orchestra a truly smashing Grateful Dead cover band that even non-Deadheads like myself can get into.



For each of its live shows, the band picks an old Dead show from yesteryear and replicates it. However, they don't announce which show it is until the very end so throughout the entire performance you hear the constant buzzy murmuring of Deadheads trying to guess which year it's from based on the subtlest of nuances -- be it Donna's presence on stage or Touch of Grey's absence from the setlist. Last night's set was a goodie -- except for those endless jams that can only be appreciated if you're on the kind of hallucinogens that make you believe you're dancing inside a giant rhododendrun.



Instead of hallucinations, we experienced the harsh reality that we're too old to be out late on a school night. To compensate, we let our inner 14 year olds take over for the evening. It started off innocently enough on the ride into town. James started harrassing Stevie B who was stuck at work, promising him he'd call him after each song and write down the setlist for him on his hand -- a common concert practice in 1985. Then, when I noted James' giddiness over meeting my cousin's new girlfriend, I assigned him the 8th grade label: "Girlcrazy." He retorted with the most scathing insult dished out by any 9th grader in the 80s: "You're wicked conceited." I could almost see his purple polo shirt and rope chain materialize before my very eyes.



At the show, in true 14 year old fashion, we proceeded to snap goofy pictures of each other and drink super-fruity drinks like Mike D's very manly mangorita. It's too bad Avalon doesn't make Pearl Harbors and Woo Woos. What a bunch of gleppers. Good times, though.



And as everyone (except me) guessed, the setlist was indeed a show from the late 80s:

August, 4, 1989 at the Cal-Expo Amphitheatre, Sacramento, CA.

Here is the setlist, especially for you, Stevie B:

Set 1:Bertha> Greatest, Althea, Mama Tried> Mexicali, Good Times,Built To Last, Queen Jane, Jack A Roe, Cassidy, Deal
Set 2:Truckin> Wang Dang Doodle> Crazy Fingers> Cumberland> Eyes> Drumz>Wheel> Miracle> Stella Blue> Sugar Magnolia
Encore: Baby Blue
Filler: On The Road Again

B-Mania

(photo: Pre-show at Orleans with Davis Square riff-raff Tom & Dawnie.)

It's hard not to get fired up for a night out these days, but when the night out involves anything remotely connected to the Beatles, things tend to get a bit bashy. It's a niche joy - like Beatlejuice at Johnny D's, "Breakfast with the Beatles" on Saturday mornings, or wine-fueled sing-a-longs in LP's kitchen. And Beatlemania at the Somerville Theatre on Saturday night fit such niche.

When I first caught this tribute show back in 1987, my friends and I were the youngest people there. Now, 19 years later it was refreshing to note we were still the youngest people in the house. It was a little botox for the soul for us, the oldest people at The Dise.

There was a different vibe to this show, however. It was less loungey, more Star Trek Conventionish with an audience comprised of burnouts and gray-haired hippies shouting out requests at inappropriate moments.

Also, a local group home wheeled in about 10 wheelchair-bound patients and parked them directly in front of the stage, which unfortunately for them, was about as fun as sitting in the first row at the movies. They all looked bullshit. Sitting to my right was Mark, who had an unexpectedly high-pitched voice, sort of like Gil Onwochei from WSC (pow!) minus the bling and jheri curl. He smelled like dry cleaning chemicals.

The band played three sets: 1) Moptop era with songs from Meet the Beatles through Revolver. 2) The Sgt. Pepper/Magical Mystery Tour acid trip phase with the flashy homoerotic duds, and 3) Abbey Road/Let it Be where they all look like different versions of Charles Manson.


As a rule, the band sticks very closely to the script, but that did not stop one gravelly-voiced homeless woman from screaming out "Hey Jude" after every song.

The band ended up playing the song as an encore, right after the lady left the building. Still, while the ambiance was a little rough around the edges, the music was like butter. Huge Highlight: Gorgeous rendition of "It's Only Love," which is one of my all-time favorite Beatles tunes, and "I am the Walrus," which sent my seat-neighbor Mark into a chair frenzy.


<< The dude who played George Harrison flashed his googly-eyed pervy mug at the ladies all night long.