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

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.

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.

To Kill a Mockingbird, Toilet Paper and Post-Its

James and I have officially become regional theatre enthusiasts after seeing "To Kill a Mockingbird" at the Company Theatre in Norwell. It was much better than the production I saw in Boston a few years ago. In fact, it was so good, I feel compelled to become a member of the theatre and sell raffle tickets for cured meat outside of Hannaford's.

Still, the best part of the evening was revisiting Harper Lee's book, which is inarguably one of the best books ever written. It's been required reading in schools for so many years, I'm surprised it has not changed the world. But after several post-cocktails at 53 South, we've come to the conclusion that it's an "out-of-sight, out-of-mind thing." I think we need to condense the book into digestible, in-your-face chunks of wisdom -- decorative Post-Its, word of the day turlette paper, etc. -- so we can enjoy daily reminders of the world according to Atticus Finch -- a world where good and evil coexist but where putting yourself in someone else's shoes before offering up judgment makes all the difference. Too often, human nature in the real world involves the unmitigated trashing of someone else's perspective -- I'm not just talking about other people's politics or idealogy, but other people's parenting styles, their opinions on pop culture, their grammar, or even their choice of lipgloss. Instead, "self awareness" is often projected outward:"Whatever is wrong with you only makes me look better. " Finch's philosophy: "You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view . . . until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.” Daily affirmations like these may not bring about the demise of evil, but maybe they could -- at the very least -- bring about the demise of pettiness.

Jon Stewart @ Wang Center

Thanks to one of WMD's and Peete's pals, Annie and I were in the house at the Wang Center last weekend, in an audience that Jon Stewart addressed as "my poor sweet little blue staters...you godless sodomites." Fellow godless sodomites Cameo and the Brownman were also present and in the fray.

Stewart covered all of the bases, commenting on everything from the Middle East to gay marriage. For instance, Stewart said he was against gay marriage at first because he didn't want to have to leave his wife for a dude: "I assumed gay marriage was going to be mandatory because why would anyone else care." He discussed the "bizarre wardrobe idiosyncrasies" of religion: "The Pope is just one hat choice away from being the Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan." It wasn't all politics, however. Stewart also recreated his two-year-old son's very Ben Cyr-ish dance moves that he busted on a Manhattan street after correctly identifying a tiger. He ended the show with a hilarious play-by-play about his dog having gastrointestinal issues in the middle of the night.

ALL of it was funny and much of it was inspiring.

While I've always liked Jon Stewart, I became a true devotee after watching him verbally disembowel Tucker Carlson on CNN in 2004. You know Tucker Carlson -- that pasty, bowtie-wearing frat boy who looks a little -- how you say -- date-rapey? Stewart chastised Carlson and his show "Crossfire" for doing a disservice to public discourse by participating in "partisan hackery." When Carlson tried to compare his interviewing style with that of Stewart's, Stewart said, "The lead in to my show is puppets making crank calls. You're on CNN. What's the matter with you?" Then he called Tucker a dick. Awesome. Clearly, CNN agreed with Stewart as "Crossfire" was cancelled shortly thereafter. Unfortunately, Tucker has since landed at MSNBC. While he's lost his bowtie and has made his acquaintance with a tanning booth, he's still a total dick.

Speaking of which, some Harvard grad wrote an op-ed in the Globe earlier this year about how Jon Stewart is harmful because he turns away smart, independent thinkers from a life in politics by making government seem uncool and clownish. (I would argue that the government makes itself appear uncool and clownish and Stewart is merely pointing this out) I don't know if the guy who wrote the op-ed is completely humorless or has no sense of irony but he certainly doesn't get it. He contends that young people who watch "The Daily Show" are more likely to shun public life and go work in the private sector. However, he provides no evidence, statistics or sources to support his hypothesis aside from a fictional composite example. Speaking for myself -- although I am certainly not a "young person" -- watching shows like "The Daily Show" or "The Colbert Report" has not made me care less about the world. Watching these shows has never given me the urge to go work at Goldman Sachs, nor has it given me the urge to go into politics. But that's because neither of these occupations is in my blood. What really makes me feel turned off and completely powerless is the actual. real. news. The real news makes me want to smoke a brick of hash and apologize to my kids for bringing them into this mess. I credit people like Jon Stewart for rousing me from my apathy. Jon Stewart has not made politics and government repulsive to me, but palatable. He turned me into a voter. He did not do this with scare tactics or condescension, but by being engaging, funny and intelligent, and often through clips like this one.

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.

MIJ FEST

Some Booties, a little Splish Splash and a pair of footless tights were the necessary ingredients for an evening out with Ms. Ofelia Cox (aka Mij)...and LP and I delivered. We joined Ms. Ofelia and her sparkly entourage at the cabaret show at Jacques where we found ourselves surrounded by a steady stream of "kinda big" queens; none were immune to Mij's tractor beam of radiance.





(photo (left): Finding it impossible to stray from the fray, LP and I enthusiastically stuffed some cash-money down some shored up bosoms.


(photo (right): Mij is in awe of LP's chiseled calves.





At the end of the show, Mij acquired a keg-shaped stalker who couldn't take the hint so we had to flee the premises.

We hailed a cab to Machine where we were hoping to meet up with Ernie and the boys for some dancing. I could not and cannot stop calling the place "La Machine" which is not a nightclub at all but a food processor with a walnut chopping feature.


We hopped into a van-sized cab where an Armenian cabbie swiveled behind the wheel to Egyptian techno music. He tried to involve us in his little chair dance. "Ladies! Clap your hands. One-two-three," clap-clap-clap. "Again!" clap-clap-clap. We realized he was so busy clapping and looking over his shoulder at us that he forgot about driving. We almost crashed. Miraculously, we arrived at Machine in tact but it was very late, we'd missed Ernie and the vibe was off.



So, after an impromptu photo shoot in the club's purely decorative "ladies' room," we headed back to K Street for a nightcap that rolled on until 4 a.m. Luckily, I had the privilege of "sleeping in" until 9:30 a.m. in the Dell'Olio guest room. Good times. Until next time, Ofelia.

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.