tonight I'm gonna have myself a real good time

This post is purely self-indulgent. It is 100 percent for my enjoyment. You may like it. You may not, but I'm telling you right now. It's just for me. So, if you want to skip this week's entry on It's Been A Slice, that's okay. Next week, I'll write about some old television show or a movie or some bit of day-to-day tedium that pissed me off. But this week, it's just a little "me" time.

One evening in the late fall of 1974, thirteen year-old Josh Pincus was up in his bedroom in his home in northeast Philadelphia. I had my radio tuned to WFIL, the radio station in Philadelphia for all the top pop hits of the day. Everyone listened to the "boss jocks" on WFIL and I was no different. I was probably avoiding getting my homework done when I heard a very very unusual sound coming from the radio. Among the glut of Olivia Newton-John and Mac Davis and America and Tony Orlando and Dawn, the song I was hearing sounded like aliens. I was stunned. I was motionless. I was mesmerized for a full three minutes. When it was over, the DJ announced to me and the entire Delaware Valley that we had just heard a new song called "Killer Queen" by a British band called Queen. I was an instant fan.

The following year, I became a concert goer. Going to concerts at 14 years-old was no easy task. I wasn't old enough to drive and I wasn't familiar enough with the intricate and often unreliable public transportation system in Philadelphia. Fearing that the wrong bus or subway train would deposit me in a different country where I'd never see my family again, I was not above securing (read: begging) my mother to provide door-to-door car service to one of the two (maybe three) major concert venues in the city. My mom was only too happy to drive my friends and I. My father... well, I never asked my father. If we weren't going to see Al Jolson, my father was not driving. Besides, he had to get up early the next morning for work... even if it was his day off.

In the winter of 1977, Queen released A Day at the Races, the follow-up to their international hit album A Night at the Opera. Somehow, some way, I had missed Queen when they brought their A Night at the Opera tour to the Tower Theater for three nights in 1976. But I was not going to let that happen again. Queen had become my favorite band and I was determined to see them live. Based on their new-found popularity, the natural venue, after playing the 3000-seat Tower Theater, was the self-proclaimed "America's Showplace" — The Spectrum. The Spectrum, an 18,000-seat multi-purpose facility, was the home to the Philadelphia 76ers and Flyers. It also hosted a wide variety of musical acts — all presented with the worst acoustics one would expect from a place more suited for hockey games. But — no! — Queen was relegated to the Philadelphia Civic Center, another multi-use venue. (The Beatles played there in 1964.) Alas, The Spectrum was hosting Electric Light Orchestra on February 11, 1977, so Queen drew the short straw. Nevertheless, I purchased a ticket for $7.50.

The night of the show, my mom graciously drove a friend and me to West Philadelphia. We made firm arrangements where to meet my mom at the show's conclusion. My friend and I nervously maneuvered our way through the general admission crowd. We decided that a viewing point on the second level would be optimum. I really didn't want to fight the crowds stage side. So we spotted and laid claim to two empty seats in the balcony and waited for the lights to dim.

Irish rockers Thin Lizzy kicked things off. They buzzed through a quick thirty minute set highlighted by "The Boys are Back in Town," their current big radio hit. After a brief intermission, Queen burst on to the stage to the shrieking guitar strains of "Tie Your Mother Down," the lead track on their A Day at the Races album. From there, they tore through 22 more songs, each one more exciting than the last. Their four-song encore included "Hey Big Spender" from the Broadway musical Sweet Charity and a "queen-sized" take on Elvis Presley's "Jailhouse Rock." Freddie Mercury stalked and swirled and pirouetted his way right into my teenage heart. I thought my head was going to explode... and that would have left my friend without a ride home. 

Despite touring in support of A Day at the Races well into the summer of 1977, Queen released News of the World, their sixth studio album in October of the same year. Where did they find the time? The album boasted a rare double-A sided single in "We Will Rock You/We Are The Champions" which was already charting ahead of the album's official release. Two Queen shows were announced at the Spectrum for late November 1977. I bought tickets to the first night. At the time, it was unheard of in my social circles to go see a band on more than one night of a multi-night stop in your city. Except if you were a Deadhead... and I surmised that Deadheads only went to more than one show in a tour because they were so stoned that they had forgotten where they were the previous night. Besides, the night of Queen's second show was Thanksgiving, and there was no way my mom would have allowed me to go to a concert instead of spending the evening wrestling a turkey drumstick away from my Aunt Claire. 

I got a ride to the concert with my brother, who also had tickets. His seats were in the front row to the right of the stage, but the view was obstructed by a giant speaker. My seats were in the fourth row but dead center. Queen hit the stage with a fast, hard version of "We Will Rock You" and immediately segued into the epic "Brighton Rock" from Sheer Heart Attack. They packed a whopping 31 songs into their evening's set. The night ended when Freddie Mercury disappeared backstage and reemerged with an armful of  pink carnations. One by one, he nonchalantly tossed them out to the crowd... and I caught one. (I took it home and - almost fifty years later - I still have it.) My brother watched a speaker and the top of Brian May's head.

Almost a year to the day, Queen returned to the Philadelphia Spectrum in support of their album Jazz. This release, again, was supplemented by another double-A sided single "Bicycle Race/Fat Bottomed Girls." I honestly remember very little about this show. I was sitting seventeen rows from the stage, which, in the scheme of the Spectrum, might as well have been in the parking lot. In between the time I bought my ticket and the day of the show, I contracted a bad case of pneumonia. It was bad enough to keep me out of school for a few days... but not nearly bad enough to stop me from seeing Freddie and company live in concert. At one point during the show, I thought it would be a good idea to stand up on my chair like everyone else in my section. It turned out not to be a wise decision at all. As soon as I stood up, I lost my balance and fell backwards. Luckily, my friend who I was attending the concert with, grabbed me and kept me from hitting the floor. I suppose the show was really good. I read about it in the newspaper the next day.

After a two-year hiatus, Queen returned to Philadelphia for The Game tour. For some reason, I don't remember who I went to this concert with. I don't remember how I got there. By 1980, I had a driver's license. I may have borrowed my mom's car. I really don't remember. I have seen a set list and read about the show. I remember seeing Freddie Mercury come out on stage perched upon the shoulders of Darth Vader. I remember him referring to my beloved city as "Filthydelphia." I even remember being confused by their choice of opening song - "Jailhouse Rock." I remember being surprised by the inclusion of an opening act, something they had dispensed with for the previous two tours. I just don't remember being there. 

In 1982, I met the future Mrs. Pincus. She walked into the restaurant where I worked. After a few dates and "getting to know you" conversation, I revealed myself as a Queen fan. She was a Deadhead. She didn't have to tell me. It was apparent by the stickers on her car and the music in her apartment. In April of 1982, against my better judgement and despite my long history of concert-going, I was taken to my first (of many) Grateful Dead shows. Let's just say... I love my wife a whole lot more than I love the Grateful Dead. I only thought it would be fair to take my soon-to-be wife to a Queen concert. (Turnabout is fair play.... isn't that how the saying goes?) So I did. Queen was coming back to Philadelphia in the summer of 1982. I bought three tickets — one for me, one for the future Mrs. P and one for the original Mrs. P... my mom. My mom had developed into quite the avid Queen fan. She bought Queen albums before I did. She turned up the volume when she heard Queen songs on the radio. (Oh, she recognized Queen songs on the radio, unlike my dad who... well, my dad didn't.) So, that summer I took the two Mrs. Ps to their very first Queen concert. One was ecstatic. The other, not so much. 

The show — in my very biased opinion — was great. My mom cried the moment Queen took the stage. (She loudly voiced her dismay with opening act Billy Squier, commenting: "Well, he sucked!") My mom was just beside herself — dancing and singing along and squealing like a teenager. Mrs. P-in-waiting, however, was unimpressed by Freddie Mercury's descent to the stage on a flower-covered swing, citing that Jerry Garcia never did such a thing. My future spouse questioned the band's numerous costume changes, asking if that was a ploy to cover for their lack of talent. I noted that Jerry Garcia had been wearing the same black t-shirt since 1968. We remained quiet for the rest of the show.

While Queen mounted several more tours before Freddie Mercury's death, they never returned to the United States after 1982. 

I got to see Queen five times. This week was the forty-ninth anniversary of that very first show. Time sure does fly when you get old you're self-indulgent.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the show must go on

In February 1991, I purchased Innuendo, the fourteenth studio album by Queen and the final effort to be released in lead singer Freddie Mercury's lifetime. As of right now, I have listened to the album in its entirety twice. The first time I listened to it was the day I brought it home from the store (probably a now out-of-business Tower Records). The second time was this past Tuesday, in my car on the way home from work.

I was an instant Queen fan from the moment I heard "Killer Queen" blaring from my radio one late October evening in 1974. Amid the breezy pop of Olivia Newton-John and the bass-heavy funk of Billy Preston, the sound that Queen produced in a precise three minutes was positively alien. I had never heard anything like Queen, and I needed to hear more. I bought Sheer Heart Attack, the full album on which "Killer Queen" appeared, as well as Queen's previous two releases, aptly named Queen and Queen II.

As far as teenage Josh Pincus was concerned, there was no better band than Queen. I saw them live several times, totally captivated by Freddie Mercury's charismatic stage presence. From the very beginning of each concert until the final note of the encore, Freddie held the audience in the palm of his hand. The band's recorded musical output continued to break rules, defy genres and offer new and innovating songs. 

Until it didn't.

In the 80s, my love for Queen sort of waned. My interest in other bands led me away from the teenage comfort Queen brought me. Bands like The Clash and Adam and The Ants brought an edgier grittier sound that Queen didn't attempt. In the middle 80s, the Queen sound became formulaic. They were putting out faux disco, faux punk and faux new wave. They were trend followers instead of trend setters. Even though I continued to buy Queen albums, I did so out of obligation rather than interest. I gave each new release the obligatory listen, then returned the disc to its jacket, never to grace my turntable again. Where I once knew the track listing of every single early Queen album, I couldn't even name a song on The Miracle or A Kind of Magic. A recent episode of the HBO Max sitcom Hacks opened with a Queen song called "Breakthru," which — I swear! — I had never heard before.

In February 1991, I bought Innuendo. I listened to it and, honestly, I hated it. Aside from the epic title track which kicked off the album, it sounded like an unfinished work-in-progress. Songs meandered and just never went anywhere. Their once-innovative songs now sounded forced and just all over the place. When the CD finished, I put it back into its protective case and returned it to the end of the "Q"s in the alphabetical arrangement on my music shelves. And there it stayed for 34 years.

Although he began exhibiting symptoms as early as 1982, Freddie Mercury was officially diagnosed with AIDS in 1987. Rumors about his health ran rampant in the press for years, with Freddie and his bandmates vehemently denying every one. Throughout 1989 and 1990, Queen recorded Innuendo, with a weakened and frail Freddie Mercury determined to finish the album. Bandmate and friend Brian May regularly expressed concern for Freddie, only to be brushed off. Freddie forced himself to hit unhittable notes and play complicated piano pieces. After Innuendo's release, Queen was honored with an award for Outstanding Contribution to British Music. The band attended the awards ceremony with a gaunt and pale Freddie Mercury in tow. It was his last public appearance. On November 22, 1991, via his manager, Freddie Mercury publicly confirmed his AIDS diagnosis. He passed away on November 24.

I don't know why, but just this week I pulled out my copy of Innuendo and loaded it into my phone to listen via Bluetooth on my commute home. The album seemed new to me, as none of the songs sounded the least bit familiar. But I listened. Freddie's voice sounded surprisingly strong, belying any hint of poor health. Some songs were intricately arranged. Others were playful and filled with snide humor. Most harkened back to the bombastic quality that made Queen Queen. It was like a trip in a time machine. 

And it was sad.

Innuendo seemed to play out as the coda of a career. It was Freddie Mercury's swan song and he was determined to go out like he came in — with a loud, obnoxious, sardonic bang. He knew his fate. He knew this was his final act. And the final result shows it.

I will probably never listen to Innuendo again. I don't see a reason to.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

doing alright

In 1982, two great things happened. I met the woman who would eventually become the illustrious Mrs. Pincus, and Chipwich — the beloved chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwich — was introduced to the world via vending carts on city streets.

I loved Chipwiches, from the very moment I purchased and gobbled one down. They were ingenious and I often wondered why no one thought up the concept prior to 1978. After all, ice cream had been around since the 17th century and, when Ruth Wakefield pulled that first batch of chocolate chip cookies out of her oven at the Toll House, why wasn't her immediate inclination to put a scoop of ice cream between two of 'em? Nevertheless, Richard LaMotta of Chappaqua, NY, inspired by his love of dunking chocolate chip cookies in milk, devised the Chipwich. His rag-tag squad of street vendors — clad in khakis and pith helmets — sold their frozen wares out daily... even at a then pricey $1.00 each. One of those vendors, with his retro-cool cart, stocked with Chipwiches, was a regular fixture on Philadelphia's famed South Street, a frequent haunt of the future Mrs. P and myself in our early, carefree dating days. Just into our official "adulthood," our lives were filled with movies and music and the pursuit of fun — all of which were readily available on South Street. And our pursuit always had room for a Chipwich.

On a sunny Saturday afternoon, (future) Mrs. P and I strolled up South Street. As we approached our favorite Chipwich vendor — a typical 80s kid with multiple earrings and bleached blond-and-pink hair trying to make a buck — I spotted a new addition to his mobile establishment. Suspended from the metal ribs of his Chipwich-logoed umbrella was a hand-written sign that read "Rock and Roll Trivia." My curiosity was instantly piqued. I fancied myself an aficionado of trivia, especially in topics with which I was very familiar and rock & roll were two of them. Plus, at a Chipwich cart, I could only imagine what the prize would be. I was game. And hungry. I asked our intrepid vendor "What's this?" as I poked an extended finger in the direction of his sign. He smiled and laid down the simple rules of his probably-unauthorized contest. "I'll ask you three questions about your favorite band. If you can answer all three right... dude... you get a free Chipwich. Simple as that! Wanna play?"

He had me at "free Chipwich."

"I get to pick the band, right?," I confirmed. He assured me that was the case. Without even any consideration, I chose Queen, a band I had loved since I heard "Killer Queen" wafting from my AM radio back when I was in 8th grade. The Chipwich vendor smiled and rubbed his palms together in a close approximation of a cartoon villain. I could almost visualize the wheels spinning in his head as he formed the first of my three questions.

"What was Brian May's first guitar made of?," he asked, and stared at me as he waited for — and anticipated — a wrong answer.

If you are a regular reader of this blog, you know that my feelings for Queen's guitarist have changed considerably since the passing of Freddie Mercury in 1991. With the flamboyant frontman out of the way, May has morphed from a silent maestro of the six-string into an outspoken, self-appointed and self-important mouthpiece of a (in my opinion) now-defunct band whose musical output is at the licensing beck-and-call of Brian May's monetarily-driven whims. But, in 1982, I was still on "Team Brian" and he was okay in my book. I made it my top priority to know everything there was to know about Queen — its germination, its members, its songs, everything! And — goddamn! — if I didn't know what Brian May's first guitar was made of!

I looked the Chipwich vendor right in the eye, puffed out my chest and proudly said, "Brian May built his first guitar from some wood from a fireplace mantle and parts of an old chair."

The Chipwich vendor's jaw dropped. "What?," he exclaimed, "No one knows that!" He reached into the frigid bowels of his cart and extracted a cellophane-sheathed Chipwich, its wrapper flecked with sparkly bits of ice. "I'm just gonna give you the Chipwich, man. I'm not even gonna bother with any more questions. No one knows that guitar one!"

I began to unwrap the frozen, chocolate chip-appointed spoils of my victory. As I reached for a napkin from the conveniently placed chrome dispenser, I casually asked the Chipwich vendor, "Just out of curiosity, what was the second question going to be?" The Chipwich vendor grabbed a rag and wiped up a few errant drips of ice that were now liquefied on the hot chrome lid of his cart. "I was going to ask 'How many synthesizers were played on Roger Taylor's first solo album?'" 

There was a long-running statement/inside joke included in the credits of every Queen album release. At the end of a long list of studio personnel and an enumeration of the various musical instruments and recording techniques employed by the band, they were adamant about letting the world know that not a single synthesizer was used to achieve any of the unusual sounds the listener heard. Sometimes varying in its wording — no synthesizers, nobody played synthesizer, no synths!  — the sentiment was always the same. Drummer Roger Taylor, the first member of Queen to release a solo album, included the smart-alecky line "P.P.S. 157 synthesizers" at the end of the liner notes of his "Fun In Space" debut in 1981. At the time, however, I did not own this album. Ergo, I did not know the answer to the second question.

I finished that Chipwich as fast as I could.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

that's what keeps us going on and on and on and on

Today is the fifth consecutive day that I have been working from home. My office closed last Friday, along with thousands of other businesses, due to concerns regarding the unprecedented spread of the virus known as COVID-19. Just a few days prior, every staff member was warned of a possible — no, pending — closure. On Thursday, every one received an email informing us that the office would be closing indefinitely as of Friday morning.

So, here I am. Working from home for the first time in 30+ years of being a part of the work force. After I check in with my supervisor around 8:30 in the morning, I have had, pretty much, nothing to do. To maintain a sense of normalcy, I have been waking up at my usual "get ready to go to work" time. I posted my usual celebrity death anniversaries on Facebook. I drew some pictures. I watched a lot of television. I further wound my way around the internet, including posting a more-than-normal group of pictures on Instagram — both freeze-frames from television shows and screenshots from things I found on various websites.

This morning, I came across a story about former (or current... depending on how you look at it) Queen guitarist Brian May. As a longtime fan of the theatrical British rockers, I have had an on-going beef with May, ever since he began opening his previously-closed mouth in the days, weeks and years since the passing of iconic lead singer Freddie Mercury. I loved — and I mean loved — Queen. After a brief hiatus in the wake of Mercury's death, May, along with drummer Roger Taylor, assembled a few different incarnations of Queen. He took these cobbled together bands on the road, first with former Bad Company vocalist Paul Rodgers and more recently, American Idol eighth season runner-up Adam Lambert. (Former Queen bassist John Deacon retired from the music business, citing the death of band mate and close friend Mercury as the reason.) I do not begrudge Brian May or Roger Taylor for their desire to make music. Their contemporaries have continued, even as their advancing age brings them ever closer to irrelevance. I don't care that they continue to perform Queen songs, despite being only fifty percent of the band. (I cite The Who, ELO and even Paul McCartney as other examples.) What I do object to, is Brian May's self-appointed position as Freddie Mercury's mouthpiece, as well as official band historian. On many occasions, May has been quote as saying "Freddie would have liked this." or "This is what Freddie would have wanted." Referencing online apps testing your vocal range versus Freddie Mercury's vocal range, May puffed "Freddie would have loved this." May asserted Freddie Mercury's approval for licensing Queen songs in commercials for dog food and potato chips. Brian had final say over script and production of Bohemian Rhapsody, the Oscar-winning bio pic of the origins of Queen. While I will happily praise the performance of Rami Malek for his uncanny portrayal of Mercury, the rest of the film was a total fabrication, fraught with inaccuracies, anachronisms and plain old made up stuff. In promotional interviews, May admitted to the falsehoods in the film, but brushed them off as "poetic license." This is my gripe with Brian May.

So, today, I found a story explaining that Brian May fears that the current incarnation of his Queen will no longer be able to tour in the uncertain aftermath of the coronavirus. I screenshot the headline and posted on Instagram with the caption: "Coronavirus may stop Brian May's efforts to shit all over Freddie Mercury's legacy." This, I would soon find out, would not sit well with some other folks who were killing time on the internet while they, too, were working from home. Soon after this post (which I simultaneously posted to my Twitter account), I received a response from  one "❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️" — yes, that's the name. My comment apparently offended Miss Heart Birthday Cake Heart, and she let me know just how much.

I guess she saw an earlier post of mine, berating Brian May for arrogantly referring to himself as "your friendly neighbourhood rock star."  Nevertheless, this began a vicious back and forth between Anna and her emojis and ol' JPiC.

I replied: "I'll stop when he stops"

❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️: "And how exactly is Brain May shitting on Freddie's legacy?"

I sent her a link to one of several blog posts (on this blog, as a matter of fact) in which I expressed my feelings about Mr. (oops, I mean Doctor) May's behavior. She was not convinced. Or perhaps she just didn't fully read my post. Or maybe "comprehension" just isn't her thing.

❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️: "But they are not shitting on Freddie’s legacy. They are just keeping Queen’s music alive. There is nothing wrong with that. They are still Queen no matter what." I'm thinking that she didn't read my post. I don't blame her. I do have a tendency to get long-winded when making a point. Look at the size of this post, for goodness sake!

Not one to give up so easily, I replied: "They are not Queen. They are Brian May and Roger Taylor and a singer from American Idol. I have no problem with them continuing to make music. I don't like Brian May becoming the self-appointed spokesperson for Freddie Mercury and whitewashing Queen's history. My opinion."

Anna came back hard and fast... and insulting. ❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️: "Bit of a dumb opinion if I do say so myself."

JPiC:"You are not the first person to call me dumb. Not even today. I'm sure I'm not the first person to call you narrow-minded."

❤️Anna 15 days until 🎂❤️: "Actually, you are the first person to call me Narrow minded today"

JPiC: "It's early."

Anna's final response was priceless.

I love the internet and this "working from home" deal is starting to grow on me.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

playin' in the band

One day last week, JP, a friend and co-worker, posed a question to me just as I arrived at work and was taking off my coat. Little did he know that his question was one that had been the topic of discussion many times with many people. Since JP has known me for nearly ten years, he had to have expected a long-winded, overblown answer rather than a typical "yes" or "no." JP's question was straight to the point and innocent enough. But when you ask Josh Pincus a question — well, you're just asking for it.

It seems JP, a fan of Phish, The Grateful Dead and most jam-related bands, was participating in a heated debate on an online jam-band discussion group the previous night. One of his statements ruffled some feathers (not that he was particularly upset). He made a comment regarding the band "Dead and Company." Knowing my devotion to all kinds of music and the fact that I have been married to a proud Dead Head for the past 33 years, he wanted my take on his position. 

So, what was JP's question, already? "If a well-known band is comprised of three original members and continue to tour using the band name (or variation of), are they still that band?" 

I swear, I have discussed this often. More times that you (or other normal people) can imagine. Therefore, I was prepared when I launched into the filibuster answer that JP had to have expected.

I believe this scenario first came up in conversation in 2005 when two remaining members of the band Queen embarked on a world tour fourteen years after the passing of charismatic front man Freddie Mercury. As a longtime Queen fan, I was angered. Not because guitarist Brian May and drummer Roger Taylor still wished to be part of the (*ahem* lucrative) music industry, but by the fact that they were calling themselves "Queen." They were not Queen. Without Freddie Mercury pirouetting at the edge of the stage, his unique vocals soaring into the stratosphere, they would never be Queen. Never. Some Queen fans, however, will disagree. They, of course, are wrong.

The criteria by which a band can call itself that band is a tricky thing. My opinion, of course, is merely that - my opinion. But I'll try to explain my rules.

If a band is comprised of the majority of its original members with supplemental musicians filling in for departed members, that band can still claim itself as the band. However (and that's a big "however"), if any of the members had a solo career during or after the band's major output of work, then they walk a fine line with regards to their rights to the band name. As an example: The Grateful Dead had many keyboard players over the years, but the core members remained the same. Some of those members (Bob Weir, Jerry Garcia, Mickey Hart) enjoyed solo careers — some more successful than others. Since The Grateful Dead never officially broke up while those solo careers existed, the members could reform and disband and still tour under the name "The Grateful Dead." However, when band icon Jerry Garcia passed away in 1995, the remaining members decided to permanently disband. That lasted approximately three years, when three members, along with several hired musicians toured as "The Other Ones," performing songs made famous by the Dead. Several incarnations of "The Other Ones" morphed into what is now known as "Dead and Company." This band, currently on tour and playing sets exclusively of dead songs, consists of Bob Weir, drummers Mickey Hart and Bill Kreutzmann and guitarist (and self-proclaimed Grateful Dead fan) John Mayer. Original bassist Phil Lesh, who toured with a few of the offshoot versions, has now embarked on his own, but still sticks to a Grateful Dead playlist. While Weir did sing lead on many of the Dead's notable songs, Jerry Garcia was the heart and soul of the band. When he died, he, essentially, took the band with him. This current version calling themselves "Dead and Company" are one step away from a cover band.

In 1986, Jeff Lynne, the mastermind behind classical rockers Electric Light Orchestra, called it quits following a performance in Stuttgart, Germany. Lynne continued to produce other artists and even joined supergroup The Travelling Wilburys for two albums. In 1989, ELO's drummer and founding member Bev Bevan, under a licensing agreement with band leader Jeff Lynne. ventured out in a newly-formed band called Electric Light Orchestra Part II. Although asked to participate, Jeff Lynne declined the offer, though he allowed a bastardized and deceptive version of the band's name as the banner under which they would perform. ELO II featured Bevan as the only original member for two years until he recruited original ELO members violinist Mik Kaminski, cellist Hugh McDowell, and bassist Kelly Groucutt. Hardly recognizable figures to anyone but die-hard fans. The band was obviously lacking something without the creative vision of Jeff Lynne. Now, as announced for 2018, Jeff Lynne has decided to tour as something called "Jeff Lynne's ELO," which, aside from keyboardist Richard Tandy, features a bunch of guys that Jeff Lynne knows.

The Beatles never performed as a band again after that impromptu rooftop show chronicled in the film Let It Be. Paul McCartney, undeniably the most successful former Beatle, toured many times after the Fab Four broke up, but never did he call that band "The Beatles." He sang Beatles songs — a lot of Beatles songs — but he was still Paul McCartney. Even Ringo, who assembled many versions of his "All Starr Band," surprisingly never called his band "The Beatles" — which is commendably un-Ringo-like.

The Who, on the other hand, continue to tour with just two original members and a stage full of musicians playing Who songs. Both surviving members — vocalist Roger Daltrey and guitarist Pete Townshend — have enjoyed long solo careers, yet they shamefully parade themselves around as "wild mods," despite having long outgrown that label. It seems when the rent comes due, Daltrey and Townshed dust off their bell-bottoms, fringed vests and Union Jack turtlenecks for an overpriced world tour.

Robert Plant, the one-time lead singer of mighty blues-rockers Led Zeppelin, regularly shoots down inquiries regarding a band reunion. Plant is not the least bit interested. As a solo artist, he has released eleven albums — two more than Led Zeppelin released over their twelve-year career. His current musical output leans toward mellow folk-rock, although his concerts are peppered with Led Zeppelin compositions. He struggles with the high notes, though. Plant has realistically assessed his career and knows, at 69, he is no longer the sinewy sex symbol and rock god he was worshiped as. He has moved on and adapted with the times.

When Led Zeppelin drummer John Bonham died in 1980, Robert Plant considered leaving the music business to become a teacher. I can think of a number of classic rockers who should take his class.

Does that answer your question, JP?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

My annual Christmas music compilation is available as a 
FREE DOWNLOAD 
at ge.tt for a limited time.

This year, it’s a whopping 81 minutes worth of pure Christmas cacophony that’s sure to ruin your holiday celebration within seconds. Need to clear your house of unwanted guest who have overstayed their holiday welcome? Download this compilation, crank it up and watch those ungrateful freeloaders head for the door. (You may even follow them.)
 You get twenty-seven eclectic Christmas selections that run the gamut from weird to really weird plus a custom full-color cover with track listings – all for you and all for FREE! (That’s right! FREE!)

(Please contact me if you have trouble with the download.)

my melancholy blues

Not Queen.

I loved Queen, the rock band that shook up radio playlists in 1974 with unique instrumentation and elaborate harmonies on their hit Killer Queen, brought opera to the mainstream, followed it up by reviving the rockabilly genre, then made a left toward funk and disco. Not bad for an art student, an astrophysicist, a dental student and an electronics engineer who stumbled into super stardom.

I saw Queen several times when I was in high school, at the height of adoration for the band. In 1977, I caught one of the coveted carnations tossed to the audience by charismatic front man Freddie Mercury during the encore of the band's Philadelphia date on the News of the World tour. I took my soon-to-be wife and my mother (um, those are two separate people) to see what would be Queen's final US tour in 1982. My mom, a long-time Queen fan experiencing her first concert, was brought to emotional tears. My almost-wife, an unwavering Dead Head, was also brought to tears — but for different reasons.

Freddie Mercury had kept his AIDS diagnosis a secret until the day before his passing in 1991. In Spring 1992, a crowd of 72,000 mourning fans packed London's Wembley Stadium for a star-studded show honoring the late singer. It was the last time the surviving members — guitarist Brian May, drummer Roger Taylor and bassist John Deacon — would perform together onstage. 

Deacon has since retired from the music business to a very non-public life, however Taylor and May have attempted to rekindle the magic of Queen's halcyon days. With May at the forefront, they recruited one-time Free and Bad Company vocalist Paul Rogers to fill Freddie Mercury's shoes (or ballet slippers, in this case). While Rogers' husky voice is typical "rock & roll," it is hardly in the same ball park as Mercury's five octave range. But that didn't deter Brian May from cashing in on the Queen legacy sans Freddie. He latched on to American Idol runner-up Adam Lambert to take on Freddie's vocal acrobatics, touting the young singer with the cringe-inducing blessing: "Freddie would have approved." (I commented at length on my current feelings for Mr. May nearly three years ago.) Needless to say, as far as I am concerned, there is no longer a band called "Queen," nor will there ever be.

Around the time that Mercury and company were telling the world that they were the champions, Broadway was alight with a show called Beatlemania. This multimedia production, billed as "not the Beatles but an incredible simulation," was a meticulous recreation of musical moments from the illustrious career of the Fab Four. It was an exciting and, for the time, unique undertaking, as well as a treat for those who had never seen the Beatles in concert (which was many, since the Beatles ceased live concerts in 1966). The four members of the cast talked like the Beatles, dressed like the Beatles, moved like the Beatles and, yes, sang like the Beatles. It was spectacular, if not a bit eerie. The production, which ran for over 1000 performances, spawned a new show business phenomena — the tribute band.

When I was younger, my friends and I would frequent any number of dive bars in our area. Besides cheap beer, these places would feature a band offering their interpretations of the hits of the day. In addition, some bands would do an entire set of the songs of one band. There was Witness, who did a Jethro Tull set.  There was the all-girl band Rapture, giving their best approximation of Blondie and, of course, local legends Crystal Ship famous for their Doors show. (Crystal Ship are famously mocked by The Dead Milkmen in the spoken intro of their song "Bitchin' Camaro.") These were just a bunch of guys playing songs by their favorite popular bands. But, more recently, tribute bands are big business. They tour regularly and get themselves booked into larger venues. Some even are officially sanctioned by the band to which they offer tribute. With clever (?) names like The Musical Box (a Genesis tribute), Strutter (a KISS tribute) and The Iron Maidens (an all-female tribute to guess who?) and some not-so-clever names like Australian Pink Floyd and 2U, these bands draw a loyal following of both the tribute and actual band.

Yesterday, my wife called me at work to tell me that her cousins Diahann and Heath (remember them?) were offering us tickets to see a Queen tribute show at The Borgata in Atlantic City. Mrs. P would pick me up near my office after work and we'd drive to the shore for dinner (again, complements of Diahann and Heath) before heading to the show. I did a quick Google search for this particular Queen tribute and discovered an officially endorsed tribute called "The Queen Extravaganza" starring one Marc Martell. The project, produced by Queen drummer Roger Taylor, was described as "much-buzzed-about" and has received much praise. Martell was commended as sounding "as if Freddie (Mercury) was in the room." However, further investigation revealed that the show we would be seeing was not that show. It appears that Mr. Martell has split with the official version, and taken his own rogue band in a similar direction, calling themselves "The Ultimate Queen Celebration." Ultimate, indeed.

After dinner, we entered the sparsely-populated venue a few minutes before showtime and were ushered to our eighth row seats. Mrs. P and I glanced around the room and assessed that the majority of the crowd had at least ten years on us... or perhaps they had all just led hard lives. Soon the lights dimmed and stage smoke enveloped the racked guitars and drum kit. In the dark, a man in our row screamed at the top of his nicotine-roughened voice: "Freddie's in the house!" Mrs. P and I exchanged surprised looks and Mrs. P whispered, "These people think they're at a Queen concert." On second thought, she may not have said "people." She may have said "idiots." Other folks were screaming wildly, bopping their heads and throwing up the "devil horns" (The same ones that KISS's Gene Simmons wants to trademark). The band members emerged from the violet-lit smoke, strapped on their instruments and launched into "Tie Your Mother Down," the lead-off track from Queen's 1976 effort A Day at the Races. Marc Martell, the alleged second coming of Freddie Mercury, stepped to the front of the stage and belted out the song's opening lines: 

"Get your party gown
Get your pigtail down
Get your heart beatin' baby" 

Was he good? He was okay. Was he Freddie Mercury? Not. Even. Close. Bud.

They were a cover band. A band doing other band's songs. Mr. Martell was making a half-hearted attempt at imitating some of Freddie Mercury's signature stage moves, while incorporating some of his own gestures. (Having seen the real Queen, I am very familiar with Freddie's faux ballet, stiff-finger punches in the air and microphone balancing.) The band was average, with the lead guitarist copying Brian May's well-known solos, but not his expression. Actually, he looked as though he had better things to do.

They delivered song after song, feigning excitement with each one. I physically winced at the opening strains of Sheer Heart Attack's "Now I'm Here," one of my favorite songs in the Queen canon. 

Not Queen.

Each new number — "Killer Queen," "Save Me," "Love of My Life," "Play the Game" — merely served as a sad reminder of how good Queen was. I silently reminisced about how much I once loved this band and how I still smile when I hear one of their hits and what a welcome shot of nostalgia it is to hear one of their more obscure songs. But, by Queen — not a cover band. Freddie Mercury oozed a certain amount of arrogance and pomposity, but it was earned. He was beloved by fans worldwide. When he greeted a local audience with "Hello Filthy-delphia! How are you motherfuckers?," it was received with reverence and esteem — especially when it was intoned with his upper-crust British accent. When Marc Martell, with the tiniest bit of smugness, shouted: "How are we, New Jersey?," it was met with a smattering of light applause. This was Queen karaoke by some guys playing rock & roll dress-up.

After a while, I was embarrassed. For the band and for the audience.

I don't know what would have made it better. Would I have appreciated it more if it was closer to Beatlemania, with the band members actually dressing like and imitating the members of Queen? I really don't know. I think that would have made it too close to the stage show We Will Rock You, the Ben Elton-penned Queen musical in the Mamma Mia vein. My son and I saw this ill-conceived debacle in Las Vegas and I hated it. I mean I really hated it. So, I don't know.

Was "The Ultimate Queen Celebration." an interesting evening? Oh sure. Hey, I got a blog post out of it. It also made me want to listen to my old Queen albums — something I haven't done in, literally, years.

The band wasn't bad. The performance wasn't horrible. But, most importantly, it wasn't Queen.

This is:

Queen.

Look, Diahann, I didn't even mention the pretzels.

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