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.

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