my motto's always been when it's right, it's right

A little while ago, I posted a photo on Instagram that referenced the 70s pop band Starland Vocal Band. Let me tell you a little story about The Starland Vocal Band. It's a story you could have gone the rest of your life without hearing, but here you are, so make the best of it.

The Starland Vocal Band are a prime example of the denigrating term "one hit wonder." In the early 1970s, the husband and wife songwriting team of Bill Danoff and Taffy Nivert collaborated with country music superstar John Denver to pen Take Me Home Country Roads, a song that was eventually named the official state song of West Virginia (narrowly beating out I'm My Own Grandpa by just a few votes). Danoff and Nivert recorded two albums of their own compositions under the name "Fat City," as well as two more using the name "Bill & Taffy." All four albums — released between 1969 and 1974 — attracted little to no attention.

As America was celebrating its Bicentennial, Danoff and Nivert formed the Starland Vocal Band and released their debut album. Now a foursome with the addition of keyboardist-singer Jon Carroll and his soon-to-be girlfriend Margot Chapman, the breezy popsters unleashed the seductively-sweet Afternoon Delight on the Top 40 airwaves. With its light melody, honeyed harmonies and cryptic but obvious euphemisms, Afternoon Delight was a ubiquitous hit across the country, peaking at Number One on the Billboard charts just days after the United States wished itself a Happy 200th Birthday.

Riding the wave of its popularity, the Starland Vocal Band seemed to be poised for greatness. They were given their own variety show on CBS that ran for six weeks as a summer replacement series in 1977. The show, a typical 70s romp with corny comedy and musical numbers, featured comedian Mark Russell and a writing staff that included April Kelly (of later Boy Meets World fame) and a young David Letterman. 

When the Grammy Awards rolled around, the group had garnered four nominations, including the coveted Record of the Year and Song of the Year. On the night of the award ceremony, they won Best New Artist, much to everyone's surprise — especially the heavily-favored Boston, whose debut had moved a whopping 31 million units. They also took home a Grammy for Best Vocal Arrangement for their aforementioned harmonies.

Winning two Grammy Awards had a decidedly opposite effect on the fledgling quartet. Their follow-up album "Rear View Mirror" never broke the Top 100 and their next five singles never even charted. Then things within the band went south. They all decided to go their separate ways in 1981. Carroll and Chapman, who became a couple and married during the band's formation, divorced in 1982. Danoff and Nivert followed suit soon after. Afternoon Delight, at one time a popular hit among the bubblegum set, did a complete 180, becoming a reviled earworm and showing up on "most hated songs" lists compiled by critics and music listeners alike. However, in recent years, the song has been featured prominently on the soundtracks of a number of popular movies.

I was 15 when Afternoon Delight was a radio staple. I liked it. It was a dirty song about having sex in the afternoon. What 15 year-old didn't giggle at the very thought? What 15 year-old didn't stifle laughter when they caught their mom singing "Rubbin' sticks and stones together makes the sparks ignite" as she was making dinner? The song was cute. The band was cute. What was there not to like?  Yeah, yeah... I know. 1976 also brought the world heavy hitters like Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear The Reaper and Led Zeppelin's Nobody's Fault But Mine, as well as Blitzkrieg Bop from the Ramones, a bunch of hardened punks who could easily wipe the floor with the Starland Vocal Band. But, I liked the song, no matter what peer pressure dictated.

Now I am 62. I have a subscription to Sirius XM Satellite Radio. With just over a gazillion channels catering to every possible musical niche taste, I find myself listening to the "70s Gold" channel, where favorites from my formative years stream on a daily basis. While I do change the station when certain songs begin, I am surprised by which songs and which bands prompt that action. As soon as I hear the opening strains of any — any! — Who song, I mash that touchscreen button as quickly as I can. I have also caught myself changing the channel away from Van Morrison, Rod Stewart, Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band (If I went the rest of my life without hearing another Bob Seger song, that would not be horrible) and The Doobie Brothers. I will, however, stick around for the completion of songs by Chicago (a band I never liked), Led Zeppelin (another band I never liked) and any number of bubblegum-y, pop hits and so-called "one hit wonders." I hear Afternoon Delight at least once a week during the forty minute commute on my way home from work. I still like it. It makes me think of fun times and just how stupid and carefree the 70s were for me.

On the way home from picking up dinner, I took this picture of my dashboard at a stoplight....

...and later posted it on social media. It received 10 "likes" and several comments, including one person who felt it was his internet-policing duty to tell me the song was about fornication. But, another of my connections — one who I don't know personally, but who "gets" my slightly skewed sense of humor — noted very astutely...

I couldn't have said it better myself.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* * * * * * * * * 

If  you like the Starland Vocal Band as much as I do, why not get a t-shirt and show the world!

You can order one RIGHT HERE! 

happy together

I have to admit. The only reason I wanted to go to this show in the first place was my overwhelming desire to hear a 65-year old Susan Cowsill scream "...and spaghetti'd" in the closest approximation of her 10-year old self. Everything else was a bonus.

To be honest, concerts like these make me cringe and I have unabashedly railed against them for years. Every time I see an ad or promo for an upcoming show featuring the remnants of a once popular band from thirty (or longer) years ago, I will rhetorically question "Who goes to these shows?" Within the past few weeks, a bunch of creaky old men who were once the high-and-mighty Rolling Stones packed —packed, I tell you! — Lincoln Financial Field (the home of the Philadelphia Eagles). With tickets going for around a hundred bucks a pop, I still scratch my head and wonder: "Who goes to see The Rolling Stones in 2024?" The answer, apparently, is 67,000 people... in Philadelphia, at least. By the way, The Rolling Stones are down to two original members, although guitarist Ron Wood has been with them for nearly fifty years.

There are other bands currently waging tours — some even farewell tours. It's your last chance to catch 70s pop rockers Foreigner as they cross the country, waving "goodbye" to their legions (I guess?) of fans. But, be warned. The current incarnation of Foreigner is just singer Mick Jones and a band of guys who never played on a Foreigner album. It is my understanding that, due to health concerns, Mick Jones has missed the majority of dates on this tour. So, with ticket prices ranging from $40 to $95, this is essentially a Foreigner cover band. And, speaking of cover bands, Dead & Company, the Grateful Dead-ish collective who sort-of called it quits last summer, are back and trudging through a residency at Las Vegas's newest showplace The Sphere, much to the delight and obliviousness of Deadheads still holding on to the hope that Jerry Garcia will make a surprise appearance. (Spoiler alert: He won't.) Dead & Company guitarist John Mayer was 12 when the last Grateful Dead studio album was released.

That said, back in March, I bought to tickets to a show that goes against everything I stand for musically and is a reflection of everything I spent two paragraphs making fun of. And guess what? I don't care. The Happy Together Tour has been entertaining time-challenged music lovers for going on — get this — forty years! The line-up has varied over the years, but the concept has not. Headlined by 60s popsters The Turtles, The Happy Together Tour has featured a rotating collection of bands spanning the early 60s up to the middle 70s. The six bands included on each tour has something for every musical taste — providing that your musical tastes never evolved past the Nixon Administration. (For those of you too young to get that joke, Nixon was a President of the United states in the 1970s.) There are doo-wop holdovers, radio-friendly bubblegum one (or two)-hit wonders, pseudo-psychedelic hippies and a little bit of something in-between these specific genres. The two-hour-plus show allows for four songs from each group and a slightly extended set from The Turtles to cap things off.

This past Wednesday, Mrs. P (a somewhat reluctant Mrs. P) and I drove over to the nearby Keswick Theater to redeem our tickets and see what this thing was all about.

First off, my wife and I brought the age range waaaaaaay down. As I looked around, I covertly whispered to Mrs. Pincus: "Are we as old as these people?" Without even glancing up, she said: "Well, you are." I was fascinated! Mesmerized! Did I actually grow up listening to the same music as these people?  As folks filed in — slowly, very slowly — my wife spotted a fellow she recognized in the row in front of us. It was a funeral director from a prominent Philadelphia mortuary, Coincidentally, she had just run in to this guy at a funeral just a week or so ago. It was somewhat comforting knowing that he was in attendance... y'know.... just in case. And by the looks of the crowd, well, I wouldn't have been surprised if his services were employed on this evening.

Soon the lights lowered and the disembodied voice of national DJ Shadoe Stevens announced the evening's first guest — The Cowsills. The Cowsills enjoyed a surge of popularity for a few fleeting years in the fun-loving, carefree 1960s. With radio-ready hits like "The Rain, The Park and Other Things" (you know... "I love the flower girl..."), the politically-incorrect "Indian Lake" and their scrubbed-clean take on the counter-culture anthem "Hair," The Cowsills were the inspiration for TV's Partridge Family. Little Susan is now 65 and has had an pretty successful music career of her own. She performed and toured with Dwight Twilley as well as her own band The Continental Drifters with then-husband Peter Holsapple, late of the db's. She is a staple on the rich New Orleans music scene and can often be seen singing in one of the many clubs in the famed French Quarter. But, tonight she and her older brothers Bob and Paul are flashing back to a time when flower power was "a thing" and peace signs were flashed unironically. Original members Bill and Barry, along with Mom Barbara, have all passed away, The remaining siblings ripped through their hits, including an extended version of the Love, American Style theme song (ask your parents) and quickly cleared the stage for the next act.

Here's where thing started to get a little weird. Joey Molland was announced with a rundown of titles made popular by Beatles protégés Badfinger. A lanky fellow with long, gray tresses took the stage and launched into a barrage of familiar tunes, none of which were originally sung by this guy. The crowd didn't care. They knew the songs and they knew the words and they understood that this is the greatest music ever put to record and runs circles around anything thing that Justin Timberwolf or Billie Irish does. Joey is the last surviving member of the classic Badfinger line-up. In 1983, original bassist and song writer Tom Evans took his own life. The night before, he had a vicious, friendship-ending argument with Joey Molland over royalties from Badfinger's song "Without You," a tune covered by dozens of artists. Although he played on the original recording, Joey had absolutely nothing to do with the song's composition, yet he felt he was entitled to monetary compensation. Joey did not perform "Without You" in his set of four Badfinger songs.

After Joey and before a brief intermission, three guys in iridescent suits sang a quartet of familiar doo-wop-y songs though smiling faces. Identifying themselves as The Vogues, the trio consists of no original members. Tenor Royce Taylor joined the group in 1991, twenty-three years after the group's last charting hit. His bandmate, Troy Elich, joined the group in 2023. Their set evoked a lot of "Oh, I didn't know this was them" murmurs throughout the dimly-lit audience. But, they sang "Five O'Clock World" and everyone was happy.

When the place refilled after intermission, 60s hitmakers The Association reignited the crowd with an airy rendition of "Windy." Between songs, they cracked a few age-related, self-deprecating jokes before lighting up the place with "Never My Love," "Cherish" and an impossibly-accurate reading of "Along Comes Mary." They also reminded everyone that they kicked off the legendary Monterey Pop Festival in 1967. Well, not everyone. There are just two original members of The Association currently touring. Some audience members needed to be reminded of the impact the Monterey Pop Festival had on the 60s music scene. Later, those same folks needed to be reminded where they parked their cars.

Jay & The Americans were next welcomed to the stage. There is a Jay, but he's not that "Jay". He's not even that other "Jay." But he is a "Jay." Actually, those other, more famous "Jays" weren't really "Jay" either... but I digress. The Americans boast two original members from their hit-making heyday. Their current lead singer has a similar soaring vocal style as his predecessors. He was able to successfully recreate songs like "Cara Mia" and "This Magic Moment" (which may or may not be the same song) in such a way as to please the auditory limitations of the evening's audience. They ended with... maybe "This Magic Moment" again... I'm not sure.

As the night drew to its climax, what was left of The Turtles ambled out to the stage. The Turtles, best known for their sunshine-y, kind of humorous, ditties are down to one original member... and he's not even the lead singer. Also known as "Flo & Eddie," the duo that was the core of The Turtles, sang with Frank Zappa, T-Rex and Bruce Springsteen. They even provided songs for children's programming like Care Bears and Strawberry Shortcake. In 2018, Howard Kaylan (the "Eddie" of "Flo &...") was told by a doctor to stop touring in the wake of heart surgery. Mark Volman (the "Flo" of "...& Eddie) recruited Archies (yep, the cartoon band) vocalist Ron Dante to join The Turtles, as Volman had only provided backing vocals, limited percussion and wacky stage antics. Regardless of who was singing lead, this version of The Turtles wowed the crowd with "Elenore," "You Know She'd Rather Be With Me" and "It Ain't Me Babe," including a horribly-accurate Bob Dylan impersonation by Mark Volman in a raucous "bite the hand that feeds you" moment. Ron Dante was afforded a solo on "Sugar Sugar," with nary a mention of his other musical accomplishments over the decades. (He sang lead for The Cuff Links, provided lead vocals for various television show theme songs and produced the first nine Barry Manilow albums.) Of course, the set's coda was the title song of the tour — "Happy Together." The bouncy "bah-bah-bah"-driven tune brought the aged audience to its feet, happily joining in on the simple chorus upon instruction from the stage. And then, in a moment reminiscent of the final act of Disney's Enchanted Tiki Room or every M. Night Shyamalan movie, Volman and Dante invited the evening's performers back to the stage — one by one — to sing a few bars of one of the songs they sang in their set.... even though we were all here and it just happened an hour ago or less! The Cowsill siblings repeated the chorus of "The Rain The Park and Other Things," as Dante announced "THE COWSILLS!" Yeah! We know! We here here for them! That was us, remember? Each band came out in order of previous appearance, offered the Cliff Notes version of their big hit, and then segued back into "Happy Together." It was odd, to say the least. It was fun, to say the most.

The lights came up. The audience rose, some grabbing their canes or walkers or oxygen tanks, and shuffled out to the exit aisles. Mrs. Pincus, who admittedly had some trepidation about attending this event, was pleased. She had fun.

And I got a blog post out of it. As well as something else checked off my list.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I would've liked to know you, but I was just a kid

I was driving home from work yesterday. I was listening to my favorite radio station, as I do most every evening on my commute home. It is a commercial-free public radio station that plays an eclectic mix of new and old, popular and obscure and features music from all sorts of genres. A little before 5 PM, the drive-time DJ played "Right On Time," a 2021 release from Grammy Award-winning singer-songwriter Brandi Carlile. When the song ended, I heard the opening notes to a song I had not heard in years, perhaps decades. It was one of those moments where I knew I knew the song and quickly tried to rush ahead — in my mind — to a chorus or familiar part of the song to identify it. As the singer sang, the lyrics came to me as though I had just heard the song a minute earlier. Suddenly, it hit me and I instantly smiled like I had bumped into an old friend. (To be honest, bumping into an old friend wouldn't always evoke a smile from me.) The song was "Holiday Inn," a not-played-so-much album track from Elton John's 1971 release Madman Across the Water. 

I was immediately transported back to the tenth year of my life. Even at a young age, I was an avid music fan. When I was six or seven, my Uncle Sidney gave me a stack of 45s that he pulled from one of the many jukeboxes that he serviced. (I think that was his job, but, as much as I love my Uncle Sidney, what he did for a living was decidedly sketchy.) Among the records — its grooves well-worn from countless plays in some unknown bar or diner — were many Beatles songs, all sporting the familiar yellow and orange swirl label from Capitol Records. Despite the pops and scratches, I played those records over and over, first on my little Close-N-Play phonograph, the worst possible invention geared towards music aficionados and vinylphiles. Later, my parents broke down and purchased a real stereo for our family room, featuring an AM-FM radio and a built-in 8-track player. Soon, I was buying 45s on my own, with The Archies' "Sugar Sugar" and the Fifth Dimension's take on "Aquarius" as the first entries in a years-long collection of recorded music.

At the beginning of 1971, I purchased my first album. It was Tapestry by Carole King, a stellar collection of songs that deservedly swept the Grammys that year. I was still buying 45s, though, as album prices at the time, were still pretty steep for the income of a ten year-old. I bought two 45s one day after saving up enough money and "Tiny Dancer" and "Levon" by this new singer named Elton John were now part of my blossoming collection. I had heard those songs on the radio and I was hooked. They stood out from the other offerings on the AM airwaves. That is something that I have always looked for in music, songs that don't sound like everything else. Among the girl group holdovers and Motown smoothness, Elton John's plaintive voice was fresh and new and unfamiliar. Sure, in 1971, there were songs by the Rolling Stones and The Doors and Sly and the Family Stone... but I was TEN! I was still mesmerized by The Funky Phantom, reeling from the cancelation of The Banana Splits and unaware that The Jackson Five were real people and not just cartoons. So, listening to Elton John was a revelation for little Josh.

In November 1971, my brother — four years my senior — came home with a copy of Madman Across the Water, the actual album that, not only contained the non-radio edited versions of "Tiny Dancer" and "Levon", but a slew of other songs by the fledgling Mr. John... including the epic title song clocking in at nearly six minutes! Twice the length of the poppy little ditties blasting out of my transistor radio. That album got a ton of play in the Pincus household, even by my mom — a proud rock and roller who, at sixty years old, attended a Culture Club concert with a bunch of eighteen year-olds, co-workers at the clothing store where she was employed. The songs — just nine of them — were all wonderfully crafted pieces of music. They ran the gamut from angry rockers like "Rotten Peaches" to illustrative (though historically inaccurate) stories like "Indian Sunset." And, of course, "Holiday Inn," a Bernie Taupin-penned ode to the lonely life of a rock star on the road. Madman Across the Water was the beginning of my love and admiration of Elton John.

Over the next few years, Elton John was pumping out albums like a man possessed. Between 1971 and 1976, Elton John released eight albums, including two double albums. Some years saw the release of two albums. And these were all chock full of hits and album cuts that should have been hits. This was Elton John at his most prolific and most successful. In addition to chart-topping album sales (six consecutive Number One albums), Elton toured extensively, selling out venues worldwide. As funds were short for me, I relied on my brother to keep our house stocked with the latest Elton John releases. I remember having to scrape together nine bucks to purchase a ticket to see Elton John on an upcoming Philadelphia stop on his current tour. On July 6, 1976, I got to see the spectacular Mr. John at the Philadelphia Spectrum, as he toured in support of what would become my favorite of his albums -  Rock of the Westies. (Yeah? Fight me!) He was terrific and even warranted the higher-than-usual ticket price.

 

Later that very same year, my love of Elton John came crashing down hard. I purchased my first Elton John album on my own. It was the overly-ambitious — and rightly panned — Blue Moves, a two-record set that would forever be compared to Goodbye Yellow Brick Road. Rolling Stone magazine, a publication I find both self-righteous and irrelevant, described the 1976 effort as "[containing] nowhere near enough good songs to justify the extended length." For once, I agreed with something I read in Rolling Stone. Oh, I didn't just give up on Blue Moves. Not by any stretch. I listened to it... again and again. I gave it every chance. I wanted to like it. I desperately wanted to like. But, in my opinion as a loyal and devout Elton John fan, it stunk! The lead single "Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word" sounded like a cheap attempt at recreating "Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me" and "Someone Saved My Life Tonight." It seemed very formulaic and rushed. And... honestly... I can't remember any other song from the album. I was done. I washed my hands of Elton John. Luckily, I had discovered Queen a few years earlier and they would only disappoint me when Freddie Mercury died and Brian May wouldn't shut his goddamn mouth. Elton John released 20 more albums after Blue Moves. I can't name one.

But hearing "Holiday Inn" coming from my car speakers was like entering a time machine. And those four minutes and seventeen seconds were nice. Really, really nice.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

seen the doctor

I have suffered from a condition for over forty years. but I was finally able to get an appointment to see the doctor. 

One Sunday evening, just before I started high school, I discovered something unusual while listening to the radio. As a fourteen-year old, well versed and totally immersed in the world of Top 40 Radio, I stumbled upon some strange sounds emanating from a station just a little up the FM dial from WIFI-92, a Philadelphia Top 40 station masquerading as a cool FM station. It was on 94 WYSP, an album-oriented rock station my older brother listened to, that I heard the quirky DJ with the even quirkier voice, introduce "Transfusion" by one Nervous Norvus. This tune, one I had never heard before (I would later find out it was originally released in 1956, five years before I was born.), was an echo-y, sinister-sounding recitation with vague musical accompaniment, filled with the gut-wrenching sounds of a car crash and lyrics coolly describing the aftermath of reckless driving habits with rhymes like "Pour the crimson in me, Jimson." It was awesome. Next was another gem of weirdness called "Fish Heads," a nonsensical ditty chock-full of non-sequiturs, performed by Barnes and Barnes (Brothers Art and Artie, later revealed to be songwriter Robert Haimer and actor/singer Bill Mumy, best known as "Will Robinson" on TVs "Lost in Space"). For two hours, I sat transfixed as the DJ — Dr. Demento, as he called himself — assaulted the airwaves with the likes of "I Want My Baby Back" by Jimmie Cross, "The Battle of Kookamonga" by Homer and Jethro and "Leader of the Laundromat" by The Detergents (another group fronted by prolific vocalist Ron Dante, the voice of The Archies, The Cuff Links and producer of the first nine Barry Manilow albums). He even played "Monster Mash" and it wan't anywhere near Halloween. Later in the program, I heard Spike Jones and his City Slickers, a band with whom I was familiar from a stack of thick 78s my mom used to play. Much to my amazement. Dr. Demento also spun tunes by Allan Sherman, a singer of song parodies I also knew from my parents' record collection. 

I was dizzy with excitement, hopeful that this was not just a one-time broadcast. When the show concluded (with a Top Ten countdown that crowned "They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haa!" by Napoleon XIV [the stage name of Philadelphia singer/songwriter/producer Jerry Samuels] as this week's "Number One Most Demented Song"), the good Doctor invited listeners to tune in each and every week for more demented songs. As I listened to the crackly tones of "Cheerio, Cherry Lips, Cheerio," the closing theme originally recorded in 1929, I knew I'd be in the exact same spot the following week — and for many, many weeks to come. 

Eventually, WYSP stopped carrying the syndicated broadcasts of the "Dr. Demento Show." It was around the time my musical tastes began to expand. However, I still kept a soft spot for novelty records. I was a big fan of They Might Be Giants, who — let's face it — are just a good old-fashioned novelty act with wide appeal. I bought early albums by Barenaked Ladies, a group of Canadian popsters who mixed songs like "Be My Yoko Ono" among their dreamy ballads and upbeat rockers. And, of course, I loved Weird Al Yankovic, himself a Dr. Demento discovery.

When my son was growing up, we listened — as a family — to a call-in show for kids on Philadelphia public radio station WXPN. The host, a jovial and endearing woman named Kathy O'Connell, carried the Dr. Demento torch as she peppered her show with tracks by Weird Al, Allan Sherman and her personal favorite, TV pioneer Soupy Sales — introducing a new generation to these timeless "classics" of a bygone era. I was so excited to hear these songs again to share them with my young son, telling him about Dr. Demento as we listened. My son got a kick out of the novelty songs, too.

The Doctor will see you now.
(photo by Patti with an EYE)

Which brings us up to the present. My son, now 30, works at WXPN. In addition to his own on-air shifts, he serves as the engineer for Kathy O'Connell's show, which, three decades later, is still going strong. Just this week, I got word that the actual, real-life Dr. Demento would be paying a visit to Philadelphia to speak with Kathy as part of Kindie Comm, an annual event focusing on the independent kids' music industry. The good Doctor is also promoting the release of a 2 CD, thirty-track tribute to the beloved songs made popular on his show — all performed in a punk rock style by noted bands of the genre. My son, now a certified radio "insider," was good enough to slip me in during Kathy's Q & A session with Dr. D and John Cafiero, his cohort and collaborator (conspirator?) on the compilation. Dr. Demento was positively fascinating. He is a gentle, soft-spoken, if somewhat befuddled, man — now in his late 70s — with an encyclopedic knowledge of names, dates and participants in the music and radio industry going back to the first time Guglielmo Marconi stuck two wires together. The audience — made up in part by singers and songwriters who were heavily influenced by the songs they heard on Dr. Demento's show — were held spellbound by tales of Benny Bell and Freddy Martin (AKA Felix Figueroa) that Dr. Demento spun. Afterwards, a lengthy queue of devoted fans aching to meet their musical hero formed in the venue's lobby. I numbered myself among them.

I came prepared with a drawing I did of the good Doctor for the good Doctor — two copies; one for him and one for me. When it was my turn (I was second in line), I shook the Doctor's hand and presented him with my drawing. He smiled and asked If I drew it. I modestly answered in the affirmative and he told me that the cover of his first compilation album (released in 1975 - he released 17 more since) was drawn by a fan of the show. Then he scrawled his signature across the bottom of my drawing and graciously posed for a photograph. When I posted the photo on social media, my connections came out of the woodwork to tell me how jealous they were that I got to meet Dr. Demento,

I felt like fourteen-year old me who was hearing Dr. Demento for the first time.

had to make due with a worn out rock 'n' roll scene

Last weekend, Mrs. Pincus and I took a three-hour drive to Gaithersburg, Maryland, a sleepy burg situated about 50 miles southwest of Baltimore. Our destination was an antique show being held in one of the buildings at the Montgomery County Fairgrounds, a facility which, in warmer months, plays host to livestock and farming expositions. We had been to previous shows at this venue in years past, but with the increased popularity of eBay and other online outlets for purchasing collectibles, the recent incarnations have shrunk in size considerably. What was once a sprawling cornucopia of varied objects and curios has been reduced to a smattering of dealers sadly displaying their wares to their equally computer-challenged prospective buyers.

My wife and I started out at 8 AM on Sunday morning and mingled with the few cars that comprised the traffic on southbound I-95. It was early, so we talked to keep my wife from falling asleep at the wheel. Our car was filled with the sounds of WXPN and its regular Sunday morning eclectic mix of quiet songs to ease its listeners into a lazy day of relaxation. This was hardly the soundtrack my wife needed to accompany her navigation through the increasing number of cars that now joined us on the highway. As we left the Philadelphia area and the broadcast realm of its radio stations, we began to scan the dial for the regional offerings of Delaware and Maryland's sonic transmissions. Although our twenty-seven year marriage has sustained on a host of common interests, Mrs. Pincus and I usually divide when it comes to musical preference. For the most part, my tastes run from 30's era swing to current alternative bands and everything in between. With very few exceptions, my wife dislikes any band that isn't The Grateful Dead. I will listen to pretty much anything. My wife is a little more particular. So, settling on a radio station we both can agree upon can be a tall order. As on most lengthy car trips, my wife drove with one hand on the steering wheel while the other hand danced around the radio dial as though the preset buttons were on fire.

As we crossed the Millard E. Tydings Memorial Bridge and my wife negotiated the potentially dangerous crosswinds, her fingers tuned in a local Classic Rock station playing the opening bars of Queen's 1975 stalwart "Bohemian Rhapsody". My wife simultaneously shot me a sidelong glance and a bemused smile. With her affinity for the meandering psychedelic blues-rock of Jerry Garcia and company, Mrs. Pincus is decidedly not a Queen fan. I, however, was an ardent fan of Freddie Mercury and his cohorts in my youth... and Mrs. Pincus knew this all too well. (That story is related HERE on the josh pincus is crying blog.)

With the four-octave range of Mr. Mercury's vocals wailing from the speakers, Mrs. Pincus asked, "When a song like this comes on the radio, is it like an old friend has returned and taken you back to a simpler time — a time of youth and innocence and no responsibility?" She explained that's how she feels when she hears certain songs. I thought for a bit about her question before answering. Finally, I replied, "Not this song. Other Queen songs, sure, but not this one." When the first section of the song ended, Mrs. Pincus hurriedly changed the station before the "dreadful operatic part" (as she put it) began.

Several days later, I found myself placing Queen's 1973 debut album into my CD player and cranking the volume to a window-rattling level. Despite having not listened to these songs for nearly thirty years, I knew the guitar riffs, the drum beats and the words to every tune — and I sang those words out strong and loud (much to the chagrin of my son, the only other person at home at the time). My wife was right. Old songs can be like old friends. And it's the good ones  — the ones you miss the most  — that bring you the most comfort.