Glad All Over: Last night was a classic case of a sad evening turning into a glorious one. It started when, after working at the paper, I headed to B.B. King's to see former
Dave Clark Five singer
Mike Smith play his first New York City gig in about 35 years or so.
When I first heard about the gig a few months ago, my reaction was, "I'm there!" But thinking about it, I became conflicted about attending. I'm not a huge DC5 fan, but I do love their hits. On top of that mid-level enthusiasm, it's hard for me to attend oldies concerts these days, because they remind me of that incredible summer of 2001, when I did publicity for concerts by Dave Davies, Mark Lindsay, the Troggs, and others at the World Trade Center. (You can read my recollections of that season in an article I wrote for Fufkin.com.) As I was explaining to Perry earlier today, it's like trying to go to concerts after you experienced so many incredible shows up close on the beaches of Normandy in 1939.
I arrived at B.B. King's as soon as I was done with my Post shift, but I still missed Smith's first few songs. The tables were full, so I had to stand near the back, which was a drag.
Smith was performing "The Girl Can't Help It" when I arrived. He followed with more covers: "Blue Monday" and "Great Balls of Fire." Although his performance was passable, his voice was hoarse, and the band was a typical "classic rock"-type aggregation. I soon found myself thinking, "If I leave now, I'll have paid ten dollars a song. . . .If I leave now, I'll have paid five dollars a song," etc.
I was also feeling lonely. Although I am blessed with friends who share my interests, many of whom had asked me if I were going to the show, I wasn't able to meet up with any beforehand because of my having to come straight from work. Plus I just felt lonely period, and frumpy to boot, having not thought about getting Modded up for the concert when I was running off to work. In my t-shirt, jeans, and unstyled hair, I could have stepped out of of the cover art of that "As Seen on TV" compilation Freedom Rock.
Just as I was thinking the thoughts of loneliness alternationg with "four dollars a song," my friend Kate materialized at my elbow, and I instantly felt better thanks to her good vibes. We watched Smith together as he finally went into his DC5 catalogue, and then she pointed out that another longtime friend of mine, Michael Lynch, was sitting at a table next to the stage—easily recognizable because he was mouthing all the words! It was great to see Michael so happy and so into it.
Michael caught us staring at him and walked over to ask if I'd like to share his table. (Kate already had a seat saved for her by her friend Doug Mayer of the delightfully named Contrarians.) What an improvement! Now I could sit down and see Mike Smith's face without having to look at the video screens. Michael was amply repaying me for the time I brought him onto the side of the World Trade Center stage to witness the Troggs. By the time Smith, no longer hoarse, launched into a spot-on rendition of "Try Too Hard," I was transported.
A momentary lapse back into '50s covers with "Lawdy Miss Clawdy" gave me the opportunity to take a bathroom break. During the final strains of Smith's next song, "Because," I managed to squeeze my way back through the crowd, only to find Michael standing up and beckoning me towards the side of the stage. "I think we may be needed," he said. He had already asked me if I would dance with him should the opportunity arise (to which I'd responded with a resounding yes—I love dancing with him), so I assumed that was what he meant.
Right then, Mike Smith asked if he could have a few people from the audience join him onstage for his next number, "Bits and Pieces." I didn't know it at the time, but a friend of Michael's who'd seen Smith in Boston had tipped him off to this part of the show.
Michael waved and shouted, trying to get Smith's attention, and I pointed to Michael and yelled, "Pick him!" But Mike Smith passed us by in favor of a woman in the front row.
Then Smith looked our way again. Michael said to me, "Tell him to pick us!" I hadn't thought of that, maybe because I thought I looked pretty schlubby and didn't want to call attention to myself. I'm also a recovering exhibitionist and am consciously trying to see what it's like to not clamor for attention. But Michael said to get Smith to pick us, so I waved and shouted and—
—lo and behold, he picked us! We ran onstage, Smith gave me a kiss on the cheek [no kiss for Michael], and handed each of us a tambourine. With Michael and me standing on either side of the bass player, the band launched into the stomping beat of "Bits and Pieces." I could not believe what was happening.
I banged my tambourine and sang along (though I was unable to reach the mike) for the first verse and then realized, "What am I doing?" So I took off my cap and my outer shirt and, in my flimsy t-shirt and flared hip-hugger jeans, I FRUGGED to one of the most fruggable songs in the world.
The crowd didn't quite know what to expect when I took off my outer shirt. But when the bass player gave me an amused look as he saw me doing the Pony, I knew I'd done the right thing. Then I ponied over to Michael Lynch and we danced together. Onstage. While Mike Smith boomed "Bits and Pieces" only a few feet away. We even danced our signature dance, the Lynch (flashing one another sign-language 'L's). What a feeling.
After the song ended, Mike Smith asked each of us our name and hometown. Michael got a big response when he said he was from Long Island. Then we scrambled offstage and I felt the most wonderful adrenaline high, coupled with the realization that I FRUGGED ONSTAGE WHLE MIKE SMITH PLAYED "BITS AND PIECES." How cool is THAT?!
After Michael and I watched Smith do his last song, "Glad All Over," plus an encore, "Any Way You Want It" (the latter with Steven Van Zandt), Michael pointed out to me that, while we don't see each other very often, when we do, we always do something spectacular. And it's really true. We've had a lot of experiences enjoying legendary '60s acts at concerts—last time, back in August, it was the Hollies and the surprisingly good Joe Butler-led Lovin' Spoonful. Besides the fun of meeting the artists, we have the joy of our shared passion for what remains such a unique and special era of pop music. At times like this, I am so thankful for Michael, and for all my friends who are kindred spirits.
Photo by Bruce Alexander.
1:43 AM
Friday, March 14, 2003
Foxhole News: While working at the paper tonight, I passed by an editor on the stairs. With the exception of my boss, the editors there are mysterious and fearsome creatures to me, toiling as they do under the weight of deadline pressure and other responsibilities, so I usually don't try to engage them in conversation. This one, however, gave me a how're-you-doing, so I answered "fine" and and asked him the same. His response, said with the appropriate world-weariness: "Oh, managing, managing . . . waiting for the war."
8:51 PM
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The Happy Waitress Special, Continued: Heard from Chris Butler with regard to yesterday's Dawn Patrol entry: big thanks . . . and feel free to tell the world the song is called "The Candy"!
To which I'd like to add that the tune is in the fine tradition of all the great double-entendre "Candy" songs over the years, from the Four Seasons' "Candy Girl" to the Strangeloves' "I Want Candy," to the 1910 Fruitgum Co.'s "1910 Cotton Candy Castle," to Gary Lewis & The Playboys' "Sugar Coated Candy Love," and, of course, Aqua's "Candyman" (so beloved by WFMU's Bill Kelly).
12:21 AM
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Wednesday, March 12, 2003
The Happy Waitress Special: My beloved friend and neighbor Chris Butler, fresh from an exhilarating London gig on a bill with Warmfuzz recording artists (including Bob Kelly), e-mailed me a few days ago asking if he could play me a new tune. The last time he made such a request of my pure-pop-friendly ears, it was to play me the everlasting "Sure Wish That He Wasn't Here" by Kilopop—which I loved so much that I covered it when I played Maxwell's—so I wasn't about to pass up this opportunity to hear his latest three-minute effort.
I walked the 200 yards or so to his apartment yesterday before trivializing and he played me the song. I won't name it, as I forgot to ask his permission to mention it on The Dawn Patrol, and so I also can't share the name of the big-league act for whom it's intended, but I can tell you that it's GREAT. I can't believe Chris's versatility—how he can write experimental tunes like the ones he performs with his current band, the Cranks, and then turn around and write a gorgeous, sparkling gem that ranks with the best of the Divinyls crossed with ABBA on a very good day. I actually grabbed a piece of paper, wrote "3/11/03 Chris Butler played me [song title] at his apartment" on it, and got him to sign his name as a witness, so I could tell people after it was a hit that I heard it first.
11:40 PM
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Tuesday, March 11, 2003
Private on Patrol: I realize that, if I'm wondering why I'm not getting as much feedback as I used to about The Dawn Patrol*, one obvious reason is that there has been a severe lack of Juicy Personal Details of late. Not having a trademarked boyfriend accounts for most of that—it's hard to publicize a romantic possibility when you're not sure if he'd even allow a service mark to be appended to his name. Still, I'll think of something personal and maybe even temperature-raising to write about soon, even if I have to reach back to the night I kissed Leslie Nielsen or something. (Jon Bon Jovi and Peter Noone were also in the room, but, at that moment, I didn't care.)
*I have gotten several warm and supportive responses to my "Lost Patrol" entry, the latest from Peter of the Anderson Council.
1:22 AM
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Flesh in the Pen: A few hours ago, I attended a meeting of the always-edifying New York City Chesterton Society where member John Martin quoted an intriguing Chesterton line I hadn't heard before. It was about the importance of ideas having substance, along the lines that, if an idea cannot be made flesh, it is a bad idea.
I looked up the quote when I got home and liked it so much that I'll share it with you in context. Here it is, from G.K. Chesterton's "A Miscellany of Men":
Whenever you hear much of things being unutterable and indefinable and impalpable and unnamable and subtly indescribable, then elevate your aristocratic nose towards heaven and snuff up the smell of decay. It is perfectly true that there is something in all good things that is beyond all speech or figure of speech. But it is also true that there is in all good things a perpetual desire for expression and concrete embodiment; and though the attempt to embody it is always inadequate, the attempt is always made. If the idea does not seek to be the word, the chances are that it is an evil idea. If the word is not made flesh it is a bad word.
1:02 AM
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Saturday, March 8, 2003
All Hans on Patrol: Before I write anything else, I want to say thanks so much to Caren, Jon, Janet, and Kevin for letting me know that they look forward to reading The Dawn Patrol and miss it when I don't blog.
I just picked up my favorite bathroom reading, the complete fairy tales and stories of Hans Christian Andersen, and reread "The Shepherdess and the Chimney Sweep" for the first time in a while. Now, if Andersen had only inspired Steve Marriott to write the words, "I am a little tin soldier who wants to jump into your fire," it's already dayenu in my book, but he also wrote this other great story about about dolls—porcelain ones, in this case. The tale has one especially brilliant line about its title characters, which really jumped out at me:
They had much in common: both were young, both were made of the same clay, both were breakable.
6:42 PM
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Friday, March 7, 2003
His Dad Has Me (Down)Beat: Had a great conversation today with Fitz Gitler, who was recommended to me by Baggot Inn booker/Bubble leader Dave Foster after I put out an all-points request for a Quark tutor. At one point, Fitz, a magazine-design/production pro who's worked for The New Yorker and others, mentioned that his father was a writer, Ira Gitler.
I'm embarrassed that I didn't say right away, "The Ira Gitler?" But I did ask what kind of writer, and so was impressed when Fitz responded, "Liner notes."
What a coincidence, I said, my being the queen of liner notes and all (80 at last count). But Fitz just laughed good-naturedly. "I don't mean to brag," he said, "but if you look up my father at allmusic.com . . ."
I did, and, sure enough, the elder Mr. Gitler, a jazz critic for Down Beat and others, has written hundreds of liner notes. (Follow that link for his bio and click on "Show More" to see the full list.) My own listing seems positively puny by comparison.
The Lost Patrol: Nobody seems to have missed The Dawn Patrol during its weeklong hiatus. Please, if you enjoy reading this, write and bug me if I'm not posting often enough. I enjoy doing this Weblog very much and like knowing that people are reading it, be they friends or strangers.
3:19 PM
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It is indeed my real hair, the shade a super-caffeinated blend of L'Oreal's "Espresso" and "Hot Java." And I'm highly complimented by the Pallenberg comparison, even though I've never had any sympathy for the devil [Peter Cook in "Bedazzled" notwithstanding].
I love the cover photo, those four fresh-faced lads ranging in age from borderline-20 to 22, smiling innocently and cheerfully, as if to say. . .
