I'll still sing you love songs

When I was eighteen, the legal drinking age in New Jersey was eighteen. Yeah, I lived in Pennsylvania, but the Garden State was just a short drive over a 10￠ toll bridge and I was rolling in cheap beer and dive bars... legally. And South Jersey was filled with dive bars, most of which offered moderate entertainment at no additional charge. The entertainment to which I am referring was cover bands. Cover bands were an interesting entity. They were comprised of wanna-be "rock stars" who figured the only way to get their "big break" was to play exact, note-for-note recreations of the top hits of the day, along with a generous portion of classic, timeless tunes from the annals of (what is now known as) "classic rock." On any given weekend evening one of a dozen different area "cover bands" could be seen and heard at such alcohol-soaked venues as Dr. Jekyll's, Cherries or the ever-popular Penalty Box, a huge establishment with a dozen bars, all serviced by guys in referee's uniforms. Today, they would be mistaken for employees of Foot Locker, but in the late 70s, in Pennsauken, New Jersey, those jerseys meant someone was headed your way with a big, frothy pitcher of Rolling Rock. All of these places featured a rotating bill of the area's most beloved cover bands, each playing the same popular and familiar songs and some even specializing in the songs of one particular band. Witness did a full set of the music of Jethro Tull. Wintergreen did a set of The Beatles. Crystal Ship, as mentioned sarcastically in the Dead Milkmen's epic "Bitchin Camaro," presented their take on songs by The Doors. There was even an all-female band  — Rapture — that offered the best of Blondie. Of course, no group of cover bands would be complete without one who performed songs by The Grateful Dead. As a matter of fact, there were a couple in the greater Philadelphia area. There was Mr. Charlie and a few others — all trying their darndest to sound like Jerry Garcia and his tie-dyed pals. And for the price of a couple of beers, it was a pretty good few hours of entertainment until the real Grateful Dead made it to town. But everyone knew that these bands were just a bunch of guys playing songs by bands they liked for the enjoyment of drunk folks who also liked those songs.

But something happened.

Somewhere between 1977 and now, "cover bands" became "tribute bands" and the rules changed. These bands now play legitimate venues — the same stages that host actual, original bands. There's The Musical Box, a Canadian ensemble that recreates the heyday of Genesis. They have been together, touring internationally, for over thirty years. There is the unimaginatively named Australian Pink Floyd that offer a sonic and sensory experience surrounding the music of  — you guessed it! — Pink Floyd. In the Philadelphia area (and I assume other comparable-sized cities) several venues regularly present tributes to U2, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, Queen, ABBA and, of course, tribute staples like Neil Diamond and Elvis.

I know I am in the overwhelming minority, but tribute bands make me very uncomfortable. More specifically, the people who go to see tribute bands make me uncomfortable. In past years, Mrs. Pincus and I were given free tickets to see a Neil Diamond tribute show. I emphasize "FREE TICKETS" because there is no way I would ever, ever pay for tickets to a tribute show. The show was fine. The guy had a good voice and did a pretty good Neil Diamond impression... but the audience! Oh, sweet Caroline! It was embarrassing. These folks thought they were at a Neil Diamond concert. Afterwards, they were clamoring to pose for photos with the singer, who, up close, didn't really look like Neil Diamond. But the audience members — in their sparkly shirts — all acted as though he was the real thing.

I was a very avid and devoted Queen fan when I was in high school. While I still appreciate their musical catalog, my tastes have waned since the passing of charismatic lead singer Freddie Mercury and the subsequent cringe-worthy statements from the previously-silent Brian May. Again, my wife and I were given FREE TICKETS to a Queen tribute show. My wife, a non-Queen fan, was non-plussed about attending and I, a one-time Queen fan, felt the same. The majority of the audience (mostly around my age) felt otherwise. As the lights dimmed and one guy screamed "FREDDIE'S IN THE HOUSE!," I knew I was not going to enjoy this. Queen has a large musical catalog and a plethora of popular songs from which a "tribute band" can choose. Why they selected a version of "Ave Maria" as the centerpiece of the their show still has me scratching my head. But, once again, the audience ate this up.

A few weeks ago, Mrs. P and I went to a Flyers game on the occasion of "Grateful Dead Night." This was the Philadelphia hockey team's attempt at filling their venue in the midst of a dreadful season. The event, however, was postponed, due to an Eagles game at the stadium right next door. Because of the inconvenience, we were given tickets to the rescheduled game later in the year, featuring a pre-game performance by local Grateful Dead tribute band Splintered Sunlight. Last Sunday we arrived on the new date, three hours before puck, drop to see Splintered Sunlight, along with a large group of over-sixty, tie-dye clad "hippies" who were sure — nay, positive! — they were going to see the actual Grateful Dead.

Splintered Sunlight have gained a decent fanbase in the Philadelphia area and have a standing monthly gig at a local venue. Bottom line... they play Dead songs. And Deadheads like to hear Dead songs. I am not a Deadhead. I don't mind hearing Dead songs, but I like to hear other songs too. I am married to a Deadhead. She likes to hear Dead songs. A lot. All the time. She likes to hear other songs, but not as much as she likes to hear Dead songs.

Jerry Garcia, the venerable leader of the Grateful Dead, died in 1995. I don't believe that news has reached a lot of Deadheads. When they hear Grateful Dead songs, some of them think the spirit of Jerry is still strong and is being channeled through the members of Grateful Dead tribute bands... or at least that's how it appears to me. This crowd — in the seating area of a multipurpose arena in South Philadelphia, three hours before a hockey game — believed instead that they were actually among the swaying bodies at San Francisco's Fillmore circa 1968. Some of them, I believe, have not bathed since then.

For two hours, these faithful, if delusional, fans swirled and swayed and twirled to the mid-tempo beats of... oh, I don't know.... all the songs sounded the same to me. They were having a good old time, singing along and pantomiming the lyrics. I was having a time. I could hear clips of conversation around me, referencing "Jerry this" and "Bob that" as though those two were actually on the stage. (They were not.) There was hugging and dancing and, at one point, a balloon bounced its way across the tops of patron's heads, just like at a real Dead show, maaaaaaan! It was a sight.

Honestly, I don't mean to be mean. I'm joking. I really am. It was an interesting experience... that I would not care to experience again. And it was a far cry from the dive bars of South Jersey. Well, maybe not that far a cry,

I still don't like "tribute bands," but I got a blog post out of the experience.

This guy had a good time, though, and that's what's important.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

ice ice baby

I have been to two professional hockey games in my life. The first one was in 1975. My father, who was (at the time) a main office executive for a chain of east coast of supermarkets, was given tickets to a Sunday afternoon Flyers game. In 1975, the Philadelphia Flyers were pretty hot stuff. They were the defending Stanley Cup Champions and they were the sworn enemy of every other team in the NHL. Tagged with the notorious (though fitting) moniker "Broad Street Bullies," the Flyers were a living punchline for the popular joke "I went to a fight the other day and a hockey game broke out." Because the Flyers were so popular, I watched with feigned interest when my brother would tune the game in at home. I had a Flyers T-shirt, but everyone in Philadelphia in 1975 had a Flyers T-shirt, too. But, I was not a sports fan by any stretch of the imagination, so I can't imagine why my father chose to take me instead of my more sports-leaning older brother, but he did and we went. I remember it was really, really cold inside the Spectrum, the one-time state-of-the-art multi-purpose venue where the Flyers played their home games. I had been to the Spectrum a handful of times prior to the Flyers game. I saw Alice Cooper's "Welcome to my Nightmare" concert a year earlier. I saw the folky pop group America play their greatest hits there and I saw Elton John give a high-energy performance... but I don't remember it being so cold at any of those events. Granted, there wasn't 17,000 square feet of ice at any of them, so that could have played into it. Watching the game, I remember being unable to keep track of the puck as it was fired all over the ice. I also remember having absolutely no idea what exactly was going on. I was there to see a fight. Just like everyone who goes to an air show doesn't really want to see planes fly. If they did, they would just go to the airport and sit all day. You go to an air show to see a crash... and, in 1975, you went to a hockey game to see a fight. On this particular Sunday, the Flyers did not disappoint. Somewhere during the first period, Dave Schultz, the Flyers' infamous left wing (nicknamed "The Hammer" and for good reason) got into a melee with Detroit Red Wings' center Dennis Polonich. After a few minutes of a stoppage of play to allow Schultz to pummel the living shit out of Polonich, the ice was cleared, Schultz entered the penalty box (a very familiar spot for him) and maintenance crews came out to scrape an amount of Polonich's blood off the ice. I don't remember the score, but I remember that.

This past Sunday, I went to my second professional hockey game,  putting a 48-year gap between the two games I attended. A lot had changed since I witnessed my first hockey game. First of all, the venue was the Wells Fargo Center, a new state-of-the art venue that is the current home to the Philadelphia Flyers. The Spectrum was demolished in 2011. The Flyers have retired the uniform numbers of several of the former players, some of whom I saw play in '75. Despite not being a hockey fan, I knew the names of every member of the 1975 team, as well as the coaching staff. Honestly, I couldn't name a single player on the current roster. Or any roster for the past ten years. (Okay, maybe Claude Giroux, who may or may not still be playing. Don't answer, because I don't care.) Why, you may ask, would I go to a hockey game? Well, I suppose, it's because my wife is a Dead Head.

While surfing around the internet, as one does, Mrs. Pincus discovered that the Philadelphia Flyers were having "Grateful Dead Night" at their game on January 8. We had attended a Phillies game last summer when they honored an upcoming concert by Dead and Company, the current incarnation of former members of the venerable 60s jam band still hanging on to a dream. Between innings, Grateful Dead songs were played over the stadium PA system... until they weren't (somewhere around the fourth inning).  Costumed characters of the iconic "Dancing Bears" frolicked with the Phillie Phanatic as sort of an afterthought. Mrs. P thought it would be fun to see what the Flyers would do "Grateful Dead-wise," so she bought tickets. A pre-game concert by local Dead cover band Splintered Sunlight was announced, as well as special "Dead" themed T-shirts for a limited number of special ticket holders. We bought those "special tickets" and they weren't cheap! A few days before the game, we got an email explaining that due to a pre-game conflict with the Philadelphia Eagles (who play right next door at Lincoln Financial Field and are playing much better than the Flyers are), the pre-game concert with Splintered Sunlight would be rescheduled for a Sunday in March. However, because the Flyers are playing so poorly this year and having difficulty getting people to fill the 20-thousand-plus seats in the Wells Fargo Center, we would be given (read: for free!) tickets to that game in March... in addition to the tickets we already held! 

To be honest, we were just looking for an excuse to see the inside of the Wells Fargo Center. Neither my wife nor I had been inside to see an event, except for a post-season sale of sports team merchandise held on the floor of the facility. We really had no intention of staying for the entire game. We are not hockey fans and don't expect to be hockey fans in the future. Our main goal was to check out the place, get something to eat and, possibly get a glimpse of Gritty, the most reviled mascot in the NHL and the second most popular mascot in the city. I had scanned the food offerings available at the Wells Fargo Center. Most were decidedly "meat-heavy." I am a vegetarian and my wife follows a strictly Kosher diet, so we had to look very closely at what was to be had for two people with specific dietary requirements. Surprisingly, there was quite a selection. Several concessions offered Beyond Burgers, the hit trend in meatless hamburgers. One stand had falafel (although it was closed for this particular game). A stand selling tacos and such had a mushroom and kale version that looked tempting but, we settled on something called a "Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteak." New this season, the Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteak was touted as a vegetarian-friendly alternative to the Philadelphia staple. Instead of thin strips of steak, a mixture of cauliflower and spices was the main ingredient, complimented by caramelized onions and harissa (a peppery condiment from the Middle East) Cheez Whiz. Now, before you stick your tongue out in disgust, remember, not everyone is you. Not everyone likes what you like. I happen to love cauliflower and I have actually had a similar sandwich at a little hole-in-the-wall steak and hoagie shop in Atlantic City.

We wended our way through a knot of typical Philadelphia traffic, parked and walked excitedly towards the Wells Fargo Center. Once inside, we passed through the obligatory metal detectors (where Mrs. P found a quarter on the floor!) and started our trek around the brightly lit concourse. Our seats were on the top level of the arena, but we were in no rush to get to them. We were having a better time seeing the sights, the excited fans and taking in the whole electric atmosphere. Near a free-standing souvenir stand (where Flyers sweatshirts were selling upward of a hundred bucks, a small table was set up with an array of Flyers logo items. My wife approached and asked the young man about the items. He smiled and began explaining all about purchasing Flyers season tickets. My wife politely listened to his pitch, nodding on and off as he ran down the various options and price points. I stood by silently. "Are you interested in purchasing season tickets?," he asked. My wife convincingly replied, "Sure!" She was not interested in purchasing season tickets. She was, however, interested in obtaining some of the Flyers promotional items displayed on the tabletop. As Mrs. P filled out an electronic form on an iPad, the young man turned to me and asked where our seats were tonight. I just pointed skyward. "Top section," I said with a sheepish frown. He dug into the pocket of his sport jacket and said, "How'd you like to sit closer?" He handed me two tickets for seats just behind the goal, in, what we would soon discover, one of the coldest sections in the place. Now, upgraded, we were off to find that faux steak sandwich.

Actual.

We located First Line Steaks behind Section 110, just a section over from our new, upgraded seats. We approached the counter and ordered two Za’atar Cauliflower Cheesesteaks and two bottles of water. I was not convinced that the fellow behind the counter actually worked there. He stared at us expressionless as we ordered. We had to repeat our order several times before he fully grasped what we wanted, my wife confirming, "That's cauliflower, right? No meat." He did not acknowledge. He asked if we wanted onions, to which we both replied in the affirmative. He returned from the order pick-up counter with two cheesesteaks. Two of meatiest meat-filled cheesesteaks I have ever seen. It may have even still been "moo-ing." We looked suspiciously at the sandwiches. 

"These are cauliflower?," we asked in unison. 

He stared at us and said, "Cheesesteaks." 

"Yes," Mrs. P continued, "I understand. We wanted the cauliflower sandwiches."

I examined the sandwiches a bit closer and determined that they were filled with meat, with not a trace of cauliflower anywhere. "This is meat." I said, coming to an informed conclusion and pointing to the evidence.

"Huh?," shrugged the fellow behind the counter.

"Meat!," I repeated, slightly raising my voice. Mrs. Pincus, a bit calmer, added, "We wanted the cauliflower sandwich." She pointed to the illuminated menu above our heads, but I don't believe this guy could read. He went back to the pick-up window and had a few words with the man at the preparation area. He nodded towards us and may have even given us a confident wink. He scooped a big serving of what was definitely cauliflower into a long roll. With a shiny pair of tongs, he added long strips of browned onions and topped it all off with a ladle full of orange cheese sauce from a different dispenser than the other guys were using. The fellow behind the counter took the two original meat cheesesteaks and deposited them in a nearby trash can. 

"Oh!," sighed Mrs. Pincus, "That's a shame."

"Huh?," shrugged the fellow behind the counter.

Cauliflower.

My wife pointed in the direction of the now-discarded steak sandwiches. "What a shame you had to throw those away.," she clarified

"Oh," shrugged the fellow behind the counter. (This fellow shrugged a lot!) He pushed our two cauliflower sandwiches towards us and plopped two $5.25 bottles of water right behind them. We found our way to our seats and I passed out the fistful of napkins I grabbed, as I knew this would be a messy undertaking. I was right, but — boy! — was it good. Yes, my friends, it was actually very good. 

Soon the lights dimmed and starting players were announced. Gritty made his first appearance to a mixture of cheers and boos. The players skated around the ice. The Zambonis smoothed out the playing surface while two scantily-clad young ladies — wielding snow shovels — scooped up loose ice crystals, mostly for show. A horn blew and the game began.

And, within seconds, I lost interest. I didn't recognize a single name on either team's roster. The action moved way too fast for me to keep tack of who had control of the puck. I don't know anything about hockey, but I could tell — I just had a feeling — that the poor Flyers were definitely being out-played. Gritty came to visit our section, messing with some fans, relaxing in an empty seat (there were a lot to choose from) and posing for pictures. But, it wasn't enough to keep us there for the whole game. We left midway through the last inning..... I mean period. And not a single mention of the Grateful Dead was made by anyone in an official Flyers capacity.

We have one more game to go.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com