The Jazz Bus: Country Music Comes To Long Island
It has been years since we had a true full time country music station in this area. Long Island never seemed to be a hot bed for “country” activity. Bands seem to shun the area mostly getting as close as the PNC Arena in Jersey or the casinos of the tri state. So additionally for this area live country music was a rarity just like a radio station. Taking it back to the 70’s I do remember WHN-AM and most recently WYNY as country outlets, both too short lived. Clubs like Max’s Kansas City featured Waylon Jennings in 1973, a show still considered a breakthrough in our area, followed by acts appearing at The Lone Star (later uptown as Lone Star RoadHouse) but on Long Island only a few small places catered to the true fan.
Demographic studies done by radio land execs proved that the Country music fan is not what some believe; a missing tooth or two, hard drinking, driving a rusted pickup, trailer park heartbreaker. No, today’s fan is primarily a married, home owner, with two cars and a mortgage: a suburbanite. The group lately has been slightly skewed toward the female variety, aka the CONSUMER, and a great loyal audience base. That same study indicates that if a country music station built upon this estimated fan base that station will surpass the listener base of say WPLJ, one of the most listened to stations in the tristate area.
It’s here, the station anyway, MY COUNTRY 96.1 (WJVC) broadcasting out of Center Moriches. Only problem for me (Far West Suffolk County) is the signal is either too weak or non-existent at certain times of the day. However, the ease of the internet allows me the opportunity to pick 96.1 up on my computer, (LICOUNTRY.COM) where I spend way too much time anyway.
Country music is the new Rock, simple. Well at least it is for us “older rockers” who wish to see great musicianship, live. Recently in my travels to NYC (Madison Square Garden) I saw Brad, Keith, Sugarland, Kenny, et. al. and compared those great shows with the musicianship of Eric, Jeff, Jimmy, Alvin. Sacrilegious some would say.
July 3, LI DUCKS Stadium, The Country Music Fest sponsored by the aforementioned MY COUNTRY 96.1. Arriving a few minutes before the starting time of 6P.M. we found the parking lot almost filled to capacity. Walking toward the stadium one could see a sea of cowboy hats, cowboy boots, and of course the obligatory “Daisy Dukes”. With recorded music soaring in the arena spontaneous line dancing sprung up and we didn’t even start LIVE yet. After a few announcements the show was off and running. Six bands in 3 hours, downtime minimal due to each band using the same equipment, twenty five minute sets, BINGO, fireworks at 9. A wonderful night of music was had by all. Amazingly but somewhat expected ,the “buzz” in the exits was all positive; Great show, great sightlines, good sound, video screens a plus, all the concessions were opened all night, bathrooms spotless… you get the idea. Another “surprise” show will be announced soon. I’m in. jazzbus@gmail.com
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Stick Ball Anyone?
The Jazz Bus: Stick Ball Anyone?
Recently I took a drive through the neighborhood. With school closed for the summer I knew I needed to drive cautiously as I would probably see plenty of kids riding bikes, playing in the streets, jumping rope, just having the time of their lives. What I saw was streets that were eerie, emptier than Dodge City’s Main Street during a noon showdown. Coincidentally, Cat Stevens, “Where Do the Children Play?” was on the radio. His mantra rolled around in my head for a bit. Then it came to me. The roads are basically unsafe. No one stops at the big red STOP sign any longer. Today, the octagonal sign is rather a mere suggestion that the driver slows a bit, from sixty to say a reasonable forty MPH, looking to and fro before speeding up again while driving unimpeded through the intersection. Oh, and all the while on their cell phone and smoking a cigarette with the other hand. My bride tells me I am getting grouchier because I yell and complain when I see things that do not make sense. OK, I am grouchy but rightfully so this time. This makes no sense.
Here’s how it happened: Traveling from Tanner Park on Wilson Avenue I slow as I pass the bait store knowing there is a STOP sign directly ahead at the intersection of Montauk Highway. Out of the corner of my eye a landscaping truck complete with an attached loaded equipment trailer goes through their STOP sign on the service road to my left thereby cutting me off. Luckily I was alone in the car and the only one subjected to possible whiplash. The passenger of the landscaping truck, the one without a seat belt on with his feet on the dashboard grinned widely at our predicament. When I regained my senses I beeped my horn so that they would know I was alright. The driver of the truck rolled down his window and gave me some form of sign language acknowledging that they were okay too. Relived that their entire crew of five in that small truck’s cab as well as the three men perched back in the trailer were safe and sound, I jotted down the phone number painted boldly on the side of their truck. Concerned as I was for their safety I made sure I called that number about every half hour or so from when I got home (about 2 a.m.) .Unfortunately the boss/owner never picked up. I tried again late last night and will again tomorrow.
So today I traveled to another busy intersection, one off the beaten path, parked my car for about fifteen minutes and observed. Yup, just what I thought. I must have missed the legislation issued that a red STOP sign now means NOTHING. Just an octagonal inconvenience placed on the side of the road, a true distraction for the driver. So I propose: no new STOP signs to be made or old ones repaired or restored. Just DRIVE AT YOUR OWN RISK signs like for swimming when there is no lifeguard at the beach.
I remember a time when kids played in the street from sun up to sundown without fear. The bumper sticker needs to be revised, DRIVE CAREFULLY-SCHOOL IS CLOSED.jazzbus@gmail.com
Recently I took a drive through the neighborhood. With school closed for the summer I knew I needed to drive cautiously as I would probably see plenty of kids riding bikes, playing in the streets, jumping rope, just having the time of their lives. What I saw was streets that were eerie, emptier than Dodge City’s Main Street during a noon showdown. Coincidentally, Cat Stevens, “Where Do the Children Play?” was on the radio. His mantra rolled around in my head for a bit. Then it came to me. The roads are basically unsafe. No one stops at the big red STOP sign any longer. Today, the octagonal sign is rather a mere suggestion that the driver slows a bit, from sixty to say a reasonable forty MPH, looking to and fro before speeding up again while driving unimpeded through the intersection. Oh, and all the while on their cell phone and smoking a cigarette with the other hand. My bride tells me I am getting grouchier because I yell and complain when I see things that do not make sense. OK, I am grouchy but rightfully so this time. This makes no sense.
Here’s how it happened: Traveling from Tanner Park on Wilson Avenue I slow as I pass the bait store knowing there is a STOP sign directly ahead at the intersection of Montauk Highway. Out of the corner of my eye a landscaping truck complete with an attached loaded equipment trailer goes through their STOP sign on the service road to my left thereby cutting me off. Luckily I was alone in the car and the only one subjected to possible whiplash. The passenger of the landscaping truck, the one without a seat belt on with his feet on the dashboard grinned widely at our predicament. When I regained my senses I beeped my horn so that they would know I was alright. The driver of the truck rolled down his window and gave me some form of sign language acknowledging that they were okay too. Relived that their entire crew of five in that small truck’s cab as well as the three men perched back in the trailer were safe and sound, I jotted down the phone number painted boldly on the side of their truck. Concerned as I was for their safety I made sure I called that number about every half hour or so from when I got home (about 2 a.m.) .Unfortunately the boss/owner never picked up. I tried again late last night and will again tomorrow.
So today I traveled to another busy intersection, one off the beaten path, parked my car for about fifteen minutes and observed. Yup, just what I thought. I must have missed the legislation issued that a red STOP sign now means NOTHING. Just an octagonal inconvenience placed on the side of the road, a true distraction for the driver. So I propose: no new STOP signs to be made or old ones repaired or restored. Just DRIVE AT YOUR OWN RISK signs like for swimming when there is no lifeguard at the beach.
I remember a time when kids played in the street from sun up to sundown without fear. The bumper sticker needs to be revised, DRIVE CAREFULLY-SCHOOL IS CLOSED.jazzbus@gmail.com
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Mama Told Me Not To Come...
The Jazz Bus: Mama, told me not to come…
A few months ago Randy Newman and his piano thoroughly entertained a very sparse crowd for two magnificent sets of music from his long, storied catalogue. A lone spotlight led the man of the evening to the grand piano which was slightly off center of the C.W. Post College’s Tilles Center stage. A quick bow to acknowledge the few in the house and IT’S MONEY THAT I LOVE led the way. Off and running, the first few selections seemed somewhat rushed and pedestrian, without spirit. Prior to the fourth number Mr. Newman who seemed perplexed addressed the audience, telling his first of many humorous anecdotes. Complete with an impressive 19 Academy Award nominated songs ( 1 Oscar) ,five Grammy’s ,three Emmy’s to his credits, and a few gold records songs thrown in , this man with an acerbic tongue commented on how and why the “ rich people dressed as empty seats” so as not to be seen as a fan of his. A few nervous laughs from the crowd, a sip of water for the pause he needed for it to sink in and both he and the collective we seemed a bit more relaxed. With SHORT PEOPLE he had the audience in the palm of his hands, by POLITICAL SCIENCE which ended the first set, he had us standing.
During the second set which featured many songs from HARPS AND ANGELS he commented about the children in the audience and stated with tongue planted firmly in cheek, “if I knew you were going to bring them, I would have played the Toy Story stuff early so you could go home”. He then described his reminisces of the Dick Cavett’s interview of Lester Maddox which prompted Newman to pen the song “Rednecks”, a funny song better understood after the story was revealed. The 33 song double set offered on our night was in anticipation of the May 1 release of RANDY NEWMAN SONGBOOK #2, “picking up from where #1 didn’t go”. A shout of “We Love You” from one member of the audience was met quickly with (the profanity removed) “Next time bring some X-ing friends”. Ah, a night to remember…Jazzbus@gmail.com
A few months ago Randy Newman and his piano thoroughly entertained a very sparse crowd for two magnificent sets of music from his long, storied catalogue. A lone spotlight led the man of the evening to the grand piano which was slightly off center of the C.W. Post College’s Tilles Center stage. A quick bow to acknowledge the few in the house and IT’S MONEY THAT I LOVE led the way. Off and running, the first few selections seemed somewhat rushed and pedestrian, without spirit. Prior to the fourth number Mr. Newman who seemed perplexed addressed the audience, telling his first of many humorous anecdotes. Complete with an impressive 19 Academy Award nominated songs ( 1 Oscar) ,five Grammy’s ,three Emmy’s to his credits, and a few gold records songs thrown in , this man with an acerbic tongue commented on how and why the “ rich people dressed as empty seats” so as not to be seen as a fan of his. A few nervous laughs from the crowd, a sip of water for the pause he needed for it to sink in and both he and the collective we seemed a bit more relaxed. With SHORT PEOPLE he had the audience in the palm of his hands, by POLITICAL SCIENCE which ended the first set, he had us standing.
During the second set which featured many songs from HARPS AND ANGELS he commented about the children in the audience and stated with tongue planted firmly in cheek, “if I knew you were going to bring them, I would have played the Toy Story stuff early so you could go home”. He then described his reminisces of the Dick Cavett’s interview of Lester Maddox which prompted Newman to pen the song “Rednecks”, a funny song better understood after the story was revealed. The 33 song double set offered on our night was in anticipation of the May 1 release of RANDY NEWMAN SONGBOOK #2, “picking up from where #1 didn’t go”. A shout of “We Love You” from one member of the audience was met quickly with (the profanity removed) “Next time bring some X-ing friends”. Ah, a night to remember…Jazzbus@gmail.com
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Tribute Bands
The Jazz Bus: Tribute Bands
Imagine going to OLD TIMERS DAY at Yankee Stadium, 2011, and hearing, “Now batting Number 7, Mickey Mantle” and seeing Mickey Mantle walk to the plate. Well, not exactly The Mick but an “exciting recreation” of The Mick. Wait, nobody can swing like the Mick, nor run as fast. Who is this guy? Bummer, huh? Yea. That’s what I think about so called “Tribute” bands. Why bother when it’s all been done before, only better.
These thoughts were pounding through what’s left of my brain as we, The Bride and I, boarded the LIRR for our sojourn into Manhattan to see RAIN: A Tribute To The Beatles. What was I thinking getting these tickets on the advice of a friend who reviewing the show stated “I felt like I was back at Shea Stadium”? I had only hoped she did not mean watching The Mets (50 wins 112 loses) because I assumed she meant 1965 and The Fab Four.
Sunday morning on the westbound train is a bit different from the Saturday 3 a.m. eastbound to which I am more accustomed. The Sunday clientele is a bit more refined, dignified , soft spoken, and lacks that vulgarity so freely used on the other train; in other words these “commuters” were quite sober, especially today as all alcohol was banned for “the courtesy of those attending The Puerto Rican Day Parade”. Our day was thoughtfully planned; a visit to Strawberry Fields, a matinee on Broadway ,dinner after the show and a stroll through The Village . What more could I ask for?
First, the weather when we left Copiague was not cooperating, over cast, and a bit chilly. The train ride, a local, made all its appointed stops, and I felt the tinge of a stomach bug coming on. Arriving to the throngs of Penn Station we immediately looked to aide my pangs, but what resembled a pretzel was harder than rock candy. A cab ride resembling the Cyclone at Coney Island deposited us at our destination where we spent a few moments deciding where to go. The sun was shining but a trip to Strawberry Fields was out so we had a “diet coke” in a pub.
The show was a pleasant surprise. No plot, no story except the progression of the Beatles music. The first act better for me than the second one. The characters all “resembled” the Fab Four, the sound recreation great, and being partial to percussionists I thought “the drummer”, as they used no reference to the “characters” they played, was note and pitch perfect. I could have done without the numerous requests to “stand up and dance” or “wave your hands” (Hey Jude), or flash the peace sign (John circa 71).
After the show another exciting ride at 150 MPH downtown to The White Horse where we dined al fresco, a true street show unto itself, followed by a nice evening stroll through Sheridan Square and The Village, exploring some of the old haunts. Standing on West Fourth watching the basketballers in The Cage I thought back to times past, the music, the travels, and friends…I guess that is what tribute bands are meant to do. jazzbus@gmail.com
Imagine going to OLD TIMERS DAY at Yankee Stadium, 2011, and hearing, “Now batting Number 7, Mickey Mantle” and seeing Mickey Mantle walk to the plate. Well, not exactly The Mick but an “exciting recreation” of The Mick. Wait, nobody can swing like the Mick, nor run as fast. Who is this guy? Bummer, huh? Yea. That’s what I think about so called “Tribute” bands. Why bother when it’s all been done before, only better.
These thoughts were pounding through what’s left of my brain as we, The Bride and I, boarded the LIRR for our sojourn into Manhattan to see RAIN: A Tribute To The Beatles. What was I thinking getting these tickets on the advice of a friend who reviewing the show stated “I felt like I was back at Shea Stadium”? I had only hoped she did not mean watching The Mets (50 wins 112 loses) because I assumed she meant 1965 and The Fab Four.
Sunday morning on the westbound train is a bit different from the Saturday 3 a.m. eastbound to which I am more accustomed. The Sunday clientele is a bit more refined, dignified , soft spoken, and lacks that vulgarity so freely used on the other train; in other words these “commuters” were quite sober, especially today as all alcohol was banned for “the courtesy of those attending The Puerto Rican Day Parade”. Our day was thoughtfully planned; a visit to Strawberry Fields, a matinee on Broadway ,dinner after the show and a stroll through The Village . What more could I ask for?
First, the weather when we left Copiague was not cooperating, over cast, and a bit chilly. The train ride, a local, made all its appointed stops, and I felt the tinge of a stomach bug coming on. Arriving to the throngs of Penn Station we immediately looked to aide my pangs, but what resembled a pretzel was harder than rock candy. A cab ride resembling the Cyclone at Coney Island deposited us at our destination where we spent a few moments deciding where to go. The sun was shining but a trip to Strawberry Fields was out so we had a “diet coke” in a pub.
The show was a pleasant surprise. No plot, no story except the progression of the Beatles music. The first act better for me than the second one. The characters all “resembled” the Fab Four, the sound recreation great, and being partial to percussionists I thought “the drummer”, as they used no reference to the “characters” they played, was note and pitch perfect. I could have done without the numerous requests to “stand up and dance” or “wave your hands” (Hey Jude), or flash the peace sign (John circa 71).
After the show another exciting ride at 150 MPH downtown to The White Horse where we dined al fresco, a true street show unto itself, followed by a nice evening stroll through Sheridan Square and The Village, exploring some of the old haunts. Standing on West Fourth watching the basketballers in The Cage I thought back to times past, the music, the travels, and friends…I guess that is what tribute bands are meant to do. jazzbus@gmail.com
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Retirement??? No Way
The Jazz Bus: Retirement??
Retirement you say ,to which I respond, “No way”. While I may not have a “9 to 5 “ or respond to the alarm clock every morn ,I do rise from my slumber , eat breakfast and “go to work”, whatever that may mean for that particular day. Yes, I left the “rat race” but under no circumstances am I “retired” because that’s what old people do (no offense meant). Daily I do what I want, when I want, or whatever the bride, now referred to as “my supervisor”, has planned for me. Currently I am an unpaid worker in the home improvement business. What started out as a simple request, “Honey, Can WE paint the bathroom vanity?” lost its partnership of “we” and became “my new job”. Simply put the vanity painting led to a desire for new hinges and handles, then a new vanity top and sink which when installed by me led to minor plumbing repairs followed by major leakages under the sink . My apprenticeship in Electrical work started as the newly painted vanity needed new lighting which led to the dreaded ordering of new wallpaper to cover the barely noticeable space where the old fixture had vacated. The Supervisor pondered “ a beach theme and Wayne Scotting the lower walls” to which I silently responded, “What?” followed by “Who the heck is Wayne Scotting ?”; I only hoped he was a subcontractor, but alas, I now have a complete understanding of what “wainscoting” is, how to cut it, and put it up.
Not satisfied “we” added chair rails, and of course the obligatory corner molding all which needed to be mitered to perfection which takes painstaking patience, for which I am not known. Now come the towel racks, toilet paper roll holder and assorted wall items which morphed into buying new towels and rugs to match the new wallpaper. What started as a one hour trip to pick up some paint, off white was the color, led to a few hours standing in the Paint Section deciding which white because they have 42 selections of off white. Who knew? , not me. Each day about 5 pm The Boss calls it a day, she is tired from making all these decisions and she allows me to wash up to become “The Chef”, as well as the much needed mixologist, two for ones . So in the past few weeks this “retired soul” was a plumber, electrician, carpenter, all around handy-man, chef, bartender, waiter, and any other job out there; A worker who no longer has a union to protect him from work place abuses. And I don’t get weekends off.
So the question posed was “Where have you been?” and “who are you?” can now be easily answered. Check Home Depot, Lowe’s, F and D Supply, any plumbing supply house, or maybe the lighting store on Route 110 and look for the guy who is not smiling, the one walking a few steps behind the hyper excited woman who has a handful of color swatches. So, Ralph, NO, I didn’t go on vacation or retire, just got a new boss and NO TIME OFF to write. (Someone help me, please) Kindred spirits can write me…but don’t expect a reply as The Boss is watching. Jazzbus@gmail.com
Retirement you say ,to which I respond, “No way”. While I may not have a “9 to 5 “ or respond to the alarm clock every morn ,I do rise from my slumber , eat breakfast and “go to work”, whatever that may mean for that particular day. Yes, I left the “rat race” but under no circumstances am I “retired” because that’s what old people do (no offense meant). Daily I do what I want, when I want, or whatever the bride, now referred to as “my supervisor”, has planned for me. Currently I am an unpaid worker in the home improvement business. What started out as a simple request, “Honey, Can WE paint the bathroom vanity?” lost its partnership of “we” and became “my new job”. Simply put the vanity painting led to a desire for new hinges and handles, then a new vanity top and sink which when installed by me led to minor plumbing repairs followed by major leakages under the sink . My apprenticeship in Electrical work started as the newly painted vanity needed new lighting which led to the dreaded ordering of new wallpaper to cover the barely noticeable space where the old fixture had vacated. The Supervisor pondered “ a beach theme and Wayne Scotting the lower walls” to which I silently responded, “What?” followed by “Who the heck is Wayne Scotting ?”; I only hoped he was a subcontractor, but alas, I now have a complete understanding of what “wainscoting” is, how to cut it, and put it up.
Not satisfied “we” added chair rails, and of course the obligatory corner molding all which needed to be mitered to perfection which takes painstaking patience, for which I am not known. Now come the towel racks, toilet paper roll holder and assorted wall items which morphed into buying new towels and rugs to match the new wallpaper. What started as a one hour trip to pick up some paint, off white was the color, led to a few hours standing in the Paint Section deciding which white because they have 42 selections of off white. Who knew? , not me. Each day about 5 pm The Boss calls it a day, she is tired from making all these decisions and she allows me to wash up to become “The Chef”, as well as the much needed mixologist, two for ones . So in the past few weeks this “retired soul” was a plumber, electrician, carpenter, all around handy-man, chef, bartender, waiter, and any other job out there; A worker who no longer has a union to protect him from work place abuses. And I don’t get weekends off.
So the question posed was “Where have you been?” and “who are you?” can now be easily answered. Check Home Depot, Lowe’s, F and D Supply, any plumbing supply house, or maybe the lighting store on Route 110 and look for the guy who is not smiling, the one walking a few steps behind the hyper excited woman who has a handful of color swatches. So, Ralph, NO, I didn’t go on vacation or retire, just got a new boss and NO TIME OFF to write. (Someone help me, please) Kindred spirits can write me…but don’t expect a reply as The Boss is watching. Jazzbus@gmail.com
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
The Thrill of a LIVE Time
The Jazz Bus: The Thrill of a Live Time
As a young boy I remember traveling with my parents to the sleepy town of Bay Shore, Long Island where the nearest Sears and Roebuck was located. This journey was probably an appliance shopping trip. Since that time many moons ago my acquaintance with that town was restricted to traveling through it on Montauk Highway, and wondering how that quaint town had changed as drastically as it did. My negative opinion changed the other night.
First up, a friend gave me a copy of the newest cd by Alejandro Escovedo STREET SONGS OF LOVE. I loved it and needless to say it stayed on heavy rotation in my iTunes while becoming a 2011 Top Three pick for me. Then, A few weeks ago the Boulton Center in Bay Shore announced that Escovedo and The Sensitive Boys, his current power three piece ensemble, would be performing. Two quick phone calls and a few e-mail later, WE THREE had first row center, all done with my computer and home printer. Surprisingly each ticket came through with a “$2 off” coupon for a beer joint THE CORTLAND, which was conveniently located next to the theatre. Not wanting to waste the paper it was printed on I felt obligated to invite my compatriots to spend a few more moments in Bay Shore before the show. Almost too good to be true, I thought.
Not having to take the LIRR, we drove on a beautiful Friday evening east on Montauk Highway, all in my new “adult” car and arriving at our destination parked in the well lit municipal lot behind the theatre. A short walk thru a small park like area had us standing on Main Street viewing the hustle and bustle of what is now downtown Bay Shore. Beautifully done. The stores magnificent, the streets spotless and well, not the town I remember as a kid or more recently.
The beer joint was just that, a narrow bar with three tables at the far end. After Bert asked for a “Johnny Walker Black with a twist”, and the barmaid shook her head, I knew I was getting closer to Beer Nirvana. The tap beers were mostly from local micro brews, and served at a perfect temperature. After two, or right maybe three, we left the establishment for the theater.
A spacious extremely clean place with plenty of staff to lead you to your seats, the 8 p.m. show started a few minutes after the appointed hour, and the band rocked for close to two hours performing most of the new collection with some other nuggets (The Rolling Stones MISS YOU,)thrown in for good measure. Live music always pleases me and this one was truly a thrill. The only throwback was what to do after the show as it was only 10 p.m., an ending time to which I am quite unaccustomed. Ah, THE CORTLAND had a TV, the hockey game was on, and our “$2 off” coupon was still in effect. Another perfect way to wind down. jazzbus@gmail.com
As a young boy I remember traveling with my parents to the sleepy town of Bay Shore, Long Island where the nearest Sears and Roebuck was located. This journey was probably an appliance shopping trip. Since that time many moons ago my acquaintance with that town was restricted to traveling through it on Montauk Highway, and wondering how that quaint town had changed as drastically as it did. My negative opinion changed the other night.
First up, a friend gave me a copy of the newest cd by Alejandro Escovedo STREET SONGS OF LOVE. I loved it and needless to say it stayed on heavy rotation in my iTunes while becoming a 2011 Top Three pick for me. Then, A few weeks ago the Boulton Center in Bay Shore announced that Escovedo and The Sensitive Boys, his current power three piece ensemble, would be performing. Two quick phone calls and a few e-mail later, WE THREE had first row center, all done with my computer and home printer. Surprisingly each ticket came through with a “$2 off” coupon for a beer joint THE CORTLAND, which was conveniently located next to the theatre. Not wanting to waste the paper it was printed on I felt obligated to invite my compatriots to spend a few more moments in Bay Shore before the show. Almost too good to be true, I thought.
Not having to take the LIRR, we drove on a beautiful Friday evening east on Montauk Highway, all in my new “adult” car and arriving at our destination parked in the well lit municipal lot behind the theatre. A short walk thru a small park like area had us standing on Main Street viewing the hustle and bustle of what is now downtown Bay Shore. Beautifully done. The stores magnificent, the streets spotless and well, not the town I remember as a kid or more recently.
The beer joint was just that, a narrow bar with three tables at the far end. After Bert asked for a “Johnny Walker Black with a twist”, and the barmaid shook her head, I knew I was getting closer to Beer Nirvana. The tap beers were mostly from local micro brews, and served at a perfect temperature. After two, or right maybe three, we left the establishment for the theater.
A spacious extremely clean place with plenty of staff to lead you to your seats, the 8 p.m. show started a few minutes after the appointed hour, and the band rocked for close to two hours performing most of the new collection with some other nuggets (The Rolling Stones MISS YOU,)thrown in for good measure. Live music always pleases me and this one was truly a thrill. The only throwback was what to do after the show as it was only 10 p.m., an ending time to which I am quite unaccustomed. Ah, THE CORTLAND had a TV, the hockey game was on, and our “$2 off” coupon was still in effect. Another perfect way to wind down. jazzbus@gmail.com
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Hot as Heck
It is only June, the Ninth to be exact, and it is already hot, hotter than I can remember this early in the month. Summer is officially two weeks away, and that is only the start of it. What will it be like in the Dog Days of Summer???
My musical escapes for the next few weeks will be in air conditioned clubs,etc: Alejandro Escovedo at a great little venue, followed by RAIN: A Beatles Tribute on Broadway (more to come about that since I do not enjoy tribute bands),followed by Mike Stern Power Trio at Iridium (the band features Esperalda Spaulding, the Grammy Award winner on bass and vocals, should be way cool as the say.
My musical escapes for the next few weeks will be in air conditioned clubs,etc: Alejandro Escovedo at a great little venue, followed by RAIN: A Beatles Tribute on Broadway (more to come about that since I do not enjoy tribute bands),followed by Mike Stern Power Trio at Iridium (the band features Esperalda Spaulding, the Grammy Award winner on bass and vocals, should be way cool as the say.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Okay, The Allman Brothers Band...
The Jazz Bus: A 40 Year Affair
On a cold Saturday evening, March 13, 1971to be exact, I travelled to the Fillmore East for just an ordinary time out with a few friends. Having arrived at the lower east side theater a bit later than I expected to, my friends who were patiently waiting for me were nowhere to be found. Having been stranded in order for them to get warm and something to eat before the midnight show, I wondered what to do. The 8pm set had already started so only a few people were standing under the marquee. Quite disappointed that I had missed my friends I lit up my ever present Marlboro wondering planning my next move when I noticed a guy walking about offering a “spare” ticket. I raised my hand and he handed it to me, free of charge. Thanking him, I finished my smoke and since it was bitter outside, I knew I could beat the cold by checking into the warm theatre for some of the early show. The second featured band was already tuning up as I arrived at my “free” seat. The house lights dimmed, and out of the dark came the immortal opening phrase of what became the greatest live rock recording ever made, “Okay, The Allman Brothers Band”…Statesboro Blues was not even thirty seconds in and I was sold. Mesmerized by twin lead guitars, a heavy bass, two drummers, a Hammond B-3 organ, and when the vocals kicked in it started my forty year affair with The Allman Brothers Band.
After the first show, standing outside I could not contain my frenzy telling all who would listen how great they were. My now present and fully fed friends just shrugged my proclamations off their cold shoulders. Excitedly I entered the late show, anticipating seeing “The Brothers “again. The opening band finished a short but decent set, then a “bomb scare” forced us to face the cold again. Outside, smoking a cigarette I notice the hour was getting late, and many, many ticketholders, including members of my party headed out into the night leaving the show behind. Me, I would not be deterred. Finally, comfy in my seat again, the house lights dimmed and “Johnny Winter And” was introduced. I sat in anticipation while my remaining friend enjoyed the band he had come to see. After a very brief set, a voice announced something to the effect of sticking around for The Allman Brothers, who recording live, would make it worth our while. And that they did. Over 4 hours later, with a cold but beautiful sunrise in the Manhattan sky I exited the theatre, I bided farewell to my lone friend who braved with me until the end. He walked north as I walked along Sixth Street toward The Village thinking how great that band was.
So here I am forty years in, almost to the day, March 12, 2011 uptown not downtown, at the Beacon Theater as the house lights dim, and that same (recorded) voice proudly states “Okay, The Allman Brothers Band”, and with some different band members, but the same quality of sound, this Allman Brothers Band recreated their “At Fillmore East” set list. Who said “you can’t go home”? I closed my eyes and did.jazzbus@gmail.com
On a cold Saturday evening, March 13, 1971to be exact, I travelled to the Fillmore East for just an ordinary time out with a few friends. Having arrived at the lower east side theater a bit later than I expected to, my friends who were patiently waiting for me were nowhere to be found. Having been stranded in order for them to get warm and something to eat before the midnight show, I wondered what to do. The 8pm set had already started so only a few people were standing under the marquee. Quite disappointed that I had missed my friends I lit up my ever present Marlboro wondering planning my next move when I noticed a guy walking about offering a “spare” ticket. I raised my hand and he handed it to me, free of charge. Thanking him, I finished my smoke and since it was bitter outside, I knew I could beat the cold by checking into the warm theatre for some of the early show. The second featured band was already tuning up as I arrived at my “free” seat. The house lights dimmed, and out of the dark came the immortal opening phrase of what became the greatest live rock recording ever made, “Okay, The Allman Brothers Band”…Statesboro Blues was not even thirty seconds in and I was sold. Mesmerized by twin lead guitars, a heavy bass, two drummers, a Hammond B-3 organ, and when the vocals kicked in it started my forty year affair with The Allman Brothers Band.
After the first show, standing outside I could not contain my frenzy telling all who would listen how great they were. My now present and fully fed friends just shrugged my proclamations off their cold shoulders. Excitedly I entered the late show, anticipating seeing “The Brothers “again. The opening band finished a short but decent set, then a “bomb scare” forced us to face the cold again. Outside, smoking a cigarette I notice the hour was getting late, and many, many ticketholders, including members of my party headed out into the night leaving the show behind. Me, I would not be deterred. Finally, comfy in my seat again, the house lights dimmed and “Johnny Winter And” was introduced. I sat in anticipation while my remaining friend enjoyed the band he had come to see. After a very brief set, a voice announced something to the effect of sticking around for The Allman Brothers, who recording live, would make it worth our while. And that they did. Over 4 hours later, with a cold but beautiful sunrise in the Manhattan sky I exited the theatre, I bided farewell to my lone friend who braved with me until the end. He walked north as I walked along Sixth Street toward The Village thinking how great that band was.
So here I am forty years in, almost to the day, March 12, 2011 uptown not downtown, at the Beacon Theater as the house lights dim, and that same (recorded) voice proudly states “Okay, The Allman Brothers Band”, and with some different band members, but the same quality of sound, this Allman Brothers Band recreated their “At Fillmore East” set list. Who said “you can’t go home”? I closed my eyes and did.jazzbus@gmail.com
Sunday, April 3, 2011
It's A Home, not a house
The Jazz Bus: Childhood Memories
I grew up in a small cape style house on a quiet street off of Hawkins Boulevard in Copiague. Having arrived from Brooklyn as an infant, that house was all I ever knew until I established my own place. Being the oldest I flew that nest first by establishing my own place across town. My brother left for an upstate college, got a job there, met a girl, married, bought a house of his own. My Sis only lives a few miles away from “the nest” .Unfortunately, my parents are no longer with us and with no true reason to return to the nest the time has come for their children to sell our home.
The major task at hand for the next few days would be empting sixty years of mementoes from the house. I started by taking the pictures off the walls. My hands started to shake and Hesitation abounds with each photo as a special moment captured in time brought everything back to life again. Then the voices, sounds, and scents of the many years began to replay in my head: My brothers laughter and all his Supremes 45’s being played on dad’s Victrola; my sister telling on me for teasing her; my mom’s always great advice; my dad’s ashtray on the kitchen table filled with the Camel cigarettes he smoked while he waited for me to arrive home so we could discuss one of my many indiscretions. Later I uncovered my long discarded bike in the shed, the motorcycle “trophy” given to me by my dad after my second spill, a Little League team picture taken behind Scudder Avenue School, my sister’s dolls, my brother’s art portfolio, and my mother’s wedding dress. With each item the task at hand became more unbearable. Pots, pans, dishes, flatware, cups, clothes, furniture, on and on it went. Christmas ornaments, books, records, and finally the photo albums. I was alone when I found the box of special photos and childhood mementoes that my parents secretly saved for us to find at this moment in time. Report cards, progress reports, news articles, and special birthday/ anniversary cards we made for them when we were kids. Tear stained they became as I could not control myself, calling out to them aloud and thanking them for having put these items in my hands today. Yea, I didn’t remember sending them, drawing them, or even making the Honor Roll, but I had to thank them for saving these truly precious memories.
Today the house has been completely emptied. First time in all these years. Most items are in storage so at a more convienent t time The Family can get together to decide who takes what. Walking through the old address one last time gave me a sense of satisfaction and a huge smile appeared across my face, Not that I had cleaned it out but rather for those two loving people from Brooklyn who raised a happy family in Copiague by taking a small house, a wooden structure, and turning it into a home, our home. They must have been proud as to what they accomplished. I imagine them smiling down upon us. Jazzbus@gmail.com
I grew up in a small cape style house on a quiet street off of Hawkins Boulevard in Copiague. Having arrived from Brooklyn as an infant, that house was all I ever knew until I established my own place. Being the oldest I flew that nest first by establishing my own place across town. My brother left for an upstate college, got a job there, met a girl, married, bought a house of his own. My Sis only lives a few miles away from “the nest” .Unfortunately, my parents are no longer with us and with no true reason to return to the nest the time has come for their children to sell our home.
The major task at hand for the next few days would be empting sixty years of mementoes from the house. I started by taking the pictures off the walls. My hands started to shake and Hesitation abounds with each photo as a special moment captured in time brought everything back to life again. Then the voices, sounds, and scents of the many years began to replay in my head: My brothers laughter and all his Supremes 45’s being played on dad’s Victrola; my sister telling on me for teasing her; my mom’s always great advice; my dad’s ashtray on the kitchen table filled with the Camel cigarettes he smoked while he waited for me to arrive home so we could discuss one of my many indiscretions. Later I uncovered my long discarded bike in the shed, the motorcycle “trophy” given to me by my dad after my second spill, a Little League team picture taken behind Scudder Avenue School, my sister’s dolls, my brother’s art portfolio, and my mother’s wedding dress. With each item the task at hand became more unbearable. Pots, pans, dishes, flatware, cups, clothes, furniture, on and on it went. Christmas ornaments, books, records, and finally the photo albums. I was alone when I found the box of special photos and childhood mementoes that my parents secretly saved for us to find at this moment in time. Report cards, progress reports, news articles, and special birthday/ anniversary cards we made for them when we were kids. Tear stained they became as I could not control myself, calling out to them aloud and thanking them for having put these items in my hands today. Yea, I didn’t remember sending them, drawing them, or even making the Honor Roll, but I had to thank them for saving these truly precious memories.
Today the house has been completely emptied. First time in all these years. Most items are in storage so at a more convienent t time The Family can get together to decide who takes what. Walking through the old address one last time gave me a sense of satisfaction and a huge smile appeared across my face, Not that I had cleaned it out but rather for those two loving people from Brooklyn who raised a happy family in Copiague by taking a small house, a wooden structure, and turning it into a home, our home. They must have been proud as to what they accomplished. I imagine them smiling down upon us. Jazzbus@gmail.com
Three Months Gone In A Blink Of An Eye
Last posting for me was the week of Christmas, now it is the first week of April. Much has changed in my personal landscape since last I pushed the button for this blog. Oh, there were times when I could have written something, anything but... well I was not necessarily in a "good place" to do so. Let me explain...
The last week of 2010 and the very first week of 2011 my bride and I were confronted with some alarming news. Her dad who has been a strong long time survivor of emphasyma and battling prostate cancer was diagnosed with bone cancer. When the call came we packed the car, got the dogs medicines, caged the parrot, balanced the check book and drove through the night arriving the next day to my in-laws home. We had only left a few months before to spend the holidays with our grandkids but returning south and now taking one look at my father in law I knew something was seriously different. Within two weeks time of our arrival I knew all his doctors names, the new meds he was taking, and saw that he was rapidly deterioting. Painful as it is to watch, it had to be more times over painful for him to expierience. Soon he was admitted to the hospital, then a rehabilation home, then back to the hospital and finally, hospice.
His children arrived as did some friends to spend his final hours with him. Every so gently he slipped in to the long night. Arrangements were made, and when it was all said and done two full months had passed. It was now the end of February. As is life nothing comes singularly but usually in lumps of things, Deaths in threes, bad news, etc etc... So was the month of March.
Things are slowly getting back to what could never be considered "normal" but are more tolerable, therefore a moment to post this blog. Until next time, jazzbus@gmail.com
The last week of 2010 and the very first week of 2011 my bride and I were confronted with some alarming news. Her dad who has been a strong long time survivor of emphasyma and battling prostate cancer was diagnosed with bone cancer. When the call came we packed the car, got the dogs medicines, caged the parrot, balanced the check book and drove through the night arriving the next day to my in-laws home. We had only left a few months before to spend the holidays with our grandkids but returning south and now taking one look at my father in law I knew something was seriously different. Within two weeks time of our arrival I knew all his doctors names, the new meds he was taking, and saw that he was rapidly deterioting. Painful as it is to watch, it had to be more times over painful for him to expierience. Soon he was admitted to the hospital, then a rehabilation home, then back to the hospital and finally, hospice.
His children arrived as did some friends to spend his final hours with him. Every so gently he slipped in to the long night. Arrangements were made, and when it was all said and done two full months had passed. It was now the end of February. As is life nothing comes singularly but usually in lumps of things, Deaths in threes, bad news, etc etc... So was the month of March.
Things are slowly getting back to what could never be considered "normal" but are more tolerable, therefore a moment to post this blog. Until next time, jazzbus@gmail.com
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