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
Friday, April 8, 2011
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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