so ya thought ya might like to go to the show

Now that the world seems to be slowly creeping back to some form of "normal" in these so-called "post pandemic" days, I've begun to venture out and experience live music again. I started off slow, first going exclusively to outdoor shows. Luckily, in my part of the Greater Philadelphia area, there are a lot of outdoor shows throughout the summer. The best thing about these outdoor shows — besides being outside — is they are free. I like free. My wife and I saw quite a few free show this past summer. The performances touched on all sorts of diverse genres — R & B, hip-hop, Tex-Mex, folk, jazzy cabaret and even a little bit of surf guitar. Oh, and they were free.

In June, I attended my first indoor show since 2020. I had some initial hesitation about going, but it was a show in a 1300-seat venue with reserved seating. I figured if I kept my mask on and people stayed in their seats, I could enjoy myself and not worry that some drunk hippie would twirl in front of me and cough his COVID-infused droplets all over my face. (No, it was not a Grateful Dead-related band and there was little-to-no twirling.) I left that show unscathed and — better yet — uninfected.

In September, I went to my first general admission, stake-out-your-spot-on-the-floor show since the week before COVID-19 shut down every public performance venue across the globe. I wore a mask and did my best to steer away from close contact with my fellow concert-goers... even this guy. 

Last Sunday, I went out to another show at a very small venue to see a band I had seen before. The headliner was supported by two opening acts, with neither of which I was familiar. After a quick dinner, my son and I went over to the venue and took our place at his favorite spot — a seat by the rail on the balcony, offering an unobstructed panoramic view of the stage, albeit an aerial view. Around 8 PM, the lights dimmed and the first band took to the tiny stage.

Now, I have been to a lot of concerts in my life and I have seen a lot of bands. Some good, some very good and some bad. Some very bad. I've seen some opening acts that I really enjoyed. I've also seen some that had me checking the time throughout their entire performance and trying to figure out how many more songs they would play in their allotted time. When the venue darkened last Sunday, from the opening guitar chords, I knew I'd be checking the time very soon.

The first band was boring... and bored. They appeared disenchanted with performing. Their opening number was dirge-y and tedious and cacophonous. At the song's conclusion, the lead singer, a young lady whose long and unruly hair covered her face, pushed her mouth against the microphone and introduced their next selection.

"Yeah... um.... so, this.... uh... next... um, like song.... is a new song and... like.... um.... its not on like an album or anything... and um... so... yeah... "

Every other song from the 30-minute repertoire was introduced in this fashion. One time, the stage banter was altered slightly to include a plug for the band's merchandise that was available for sale near the venue entrance.

"Um... yeah... so, like we have, like merch for sale. Like over there. We don't have no stickers though. We have t-shirts and... um, yeah... so we have merch and stuff. So, um... yeah... here's like... um... a... um.... song."

The sparse crowd — considerably younger that yours truly — seemed to be okay with this band. This led me to believe that the musical opinion of a 62-year old man is pretty much irrelevant. So, I sat quietly, fiddled with my phone, looked around and waited for the first band to leave the stage. They eventually did, departing with a message as eloquent as anything they previously said.

"So... um... that's our, like.... last song. Thanks for having... um.... us. We have merch. and... um.... so, yeah..."

After a brief rearranging of the stage, the next band came on. They were fronted by a particularly-flexible young lady with dyed periwinkle hair and a short, leopard skin skirt. They delivered a good old-fashioned punk rock show, possibly showing their predecessors "just how its done."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

make your own kind of music

I started writing a long rambling post about my musical preferences. Yeah, I know, I know.. which of my blog posts aren't long and rambling? Anyway, I scrapped that post in favor of one that is shorter and more to my point.

Maybe.— JPiC 

I love music. I have always loved music. As a kid, I listened to the radio. I bought 45s and albums. I had an 8-track player in my car. I went to concerts. (I went to a lot of concerts.) I sang with friends who played guitar. (I couldn't carry a tune if it had handles on it it, but that never stopped me. I was having fun.) I just love music. But, like most things in my life, I don't take music too seriously. There is music I like and there is music that I don't like. Those who know me "in real life" (IRL, as the kids say), know me to be pretty outspoken and opinionated... especially about music.

I have seen numerous concerts from a wide variety of artists. I've seen Alice Cooper and Donnie & Marie. I've seen a dozen or so Grateful Dead shows, and I'm not even a fan. I saw teen heartthrobs Big Time Rush and four days later, I saw former teen heartthrobs The Monkees. Once, my wife and I went to see legendary crooner Tony Bennett. Just before the show started, I leaned close to my wife and whispered: "How many other people in this room have also seen The Clash... besides us?"

I try to keep up with current trends in music, but it's pretty tough. There are waaaay more outlets for music availability than when I was a teenager. There are current artists I like and current artist I don't like.... just like when I was a teenager. When I was younger, however, if I didn't like a band or a specific genre of music, I dismissed it with a very finalizing "this sucks!" I was the first person in my high school to wear a "Disco Sucks" t-shirt, as a result of the burgeoning trend bolstered by the film Saturday Night Fever (which I did not like.) A few years earlier, I was the first person in my high school to wear a KISS t-shirt, a mantle of which I am not particularly proud. When I displayed the slogan "Disco Sucks" in glittery letters across my chest, I was met with jeers from the silk-shirted, coiffed-hair cliques and with "thumbs up"s from the denim-and-flannel set.

Now, forty-something years later, I have taken a kinder and gentler view of music. First of all, I do not have a favorite band. I just like the music I like. Second, I have found that I am open to nearly any type of music and I have found something I like and appreciate in nearly every genre. Third, and most important, I have learned that no music really sucks. Sure, there is music that I don't like, but someone likes it. And if someone likes it, it can't possibly suck. So, I will no longer proclaim that a song or a band "sucks." I will simply say, "I don't care for it" or "This is not for me."

Or "Ugh! Not the fucking Dave Matthews Band again!"

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

these are a few of my favorite things

Here's a questions almost everybody has been asked at one time or another....

"What's your favorite _______ ?" 

"Color" is usually the word that fills in the blank most often, followed by "food," then "band" then any number of specific categories.

When I was younger, I always had an answer to any "what's your favorite" inquiry that was posed. My favorite color was orange. We had plastic tumblers at my house and I always selected the orange one from which to drink. Eventually, that orange tumbler was placed at my usual seating position at the dinner table without a special request.

My favorite food changed as I grew up, but I always had a specific favorite. As a kid, my favorite food was Frosty-O's cereal with Dudley Do-Right on the front of the box... not the one with Chumley, Tennessee Tuxedo's dimwitted sidekick. There was something cheerful and compelling about the cartoon Mountie's smiling visage on a bright green background that made me want to consume bowl after bowl of those little sugar bullets. And I could happily — and effortlessly — eat bowl after bowl of Frosty-O's and never get sick of it... until, I course, I got sick of it. As a teenager, my favorite food was pizza. My father was convinced that I could eat pizza for breakfast, lunch and dinner... and, quite possibly, he was right.

When I was in high school, everyone knew I was the guy who loved Queen. My bedroom was plastered with giant posters of the British band, as was the inside of my locker. I bought their albums as soon as they were released and I would sleep out for tickets when a concert tour was announced. I knew every lyric to every one of their songs. I studied every Queen-related article in every publication, absorbing a plethora of trivial tidbits like a sponge. Actually, my obsession had its rewards. In the summer of '82, there was a street vendor on Philadelphia's famed South Street who sold the original Chipwich, an innovative frozen novelty comprised of a slab of vanilla ice cream between to chocolate chip cookies with the exposed edge of ice cream covered in more chocolate chips. He had a sign hanging from the giant branded umbrella that shaded his branded cart which read "Rock and Roll Trivia." When questioned, he explained that if a customer could answer three questions about any rock band, he would award them with a free Chipwich. I was game because who couldn't use a free ice cream sandwich?!? Of course, I chose to answer three questions about Queen. The Chipwich guy eyed me up and down as he prepared to deliver the first of three guaranteed stumpers.

"What is Brian May's guitar made from?," he asked, a smirk spreading across his face. He folded his arms across his chest and waited for me to throw my hands in the air in surrender.

I looked him right in the eye and answered in my best smug voice, "A chair and some wood from his fireplace." The Chipwich guy was dumbfounded. His eyes widened and his jaw literally dropped open. He reached into the freezer compartment and extracted a cellophane-wrapped treat. "I'm not even going to ask you the other two questions.," he said, shaking his head in disbelief, "No one knows that! You get the Chipwich!"

My favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz until I saw James Cagney push around the Dead End Kids in Angels with Dirty Faces. Then, when I was thirteen, my more sophisticated tastes were piqued by Phantom of the Paradise. That became my favorite movie. It remained my unwavering favorite for five full months when Tommy took its place at the top of my list. Then, my mother introduced me to Singin' in the Rain and that became my new favorite. I experienced a similar streak with television shows. First, I was enamored with Milton the Monster, then Underdog. Then, I moved on to The Brady Bunch, then The Partridge Family. Of course, I graduated to more meaningful, well written, programs like Hill Street Blues and ER as I got older. After the cancellation of those two shows, my interest in currently produced television shows dwindled. I found myself not wanting to follow an ongoing story line and not wishing to keep track of a specific cast of characters. Instead, I watched reruns of old shows, readily available on a number of cable networks.

But now.... now, I really don't have any favorite anything.

Sure, there are foods that I like and bands that I like and movies that I like, but I wouldn't designate any of them as "my favorite." If I was asked, "What food could you eat for the rest of your life?," I'd say Mexican food.... or Chinese food.... or my old stand-by — pizza. But I don't think any of those would qualify as "my favorite." With very few exceptions*, I will eat nearly anything that is put in front of me, because I know it will not be my last meal.... until it is. But, I don't have a favorite food.

I go to a lot of concerts and I listen to a lot of music. While I still have a soft spot for Queen from a purely nostalgic standpoint, there is no band I would say is currently "my favorite." Yes, I like a lot of bands, but I really don't have a "favorite."

The same goes for television and movies. I like some movies. I don't like some movies. I watch a lot of reruns of television shows that were popular when I was a kid and I watch very few of the current crop of new programming. Yes, I do have an affinity for the old Andy Griffith Show and the new Marvelous Mrs. Maisel — but "favorite?" Nahhhhh.... not really.

And I no longer require the plastic orange tumbler be placed at my table setting.

Note: A discussion, prompted by the idea of this blog entry, produced this list of Mrs. Pincus's favorites: 
Movie: Gone with the Wind
Band: Grateful Dead 
Color: Pink (Although I could've sworn it was "purple." The record has since been set straight.)
Food: Hamburger
Dessert: Hesh's Bakery Birthday Cake (Sadly, this is no longer available, as Hesh's closed its doors in 2014 after 54 years in business. Duplicating that cake and its legendary icing has proven difficult by other Philadelphia bakeries — despite their claims.)

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*Some of those exceptions are meat, tomatoes and coconut.

song sung blue

Let me preface this story by saying I really dislike "tribute bands." While I certainly am a fan of live music, I draw the line at bands that feel it's okay to ride the coattails of an established and beloved (by some) act by imitating every last move, note and lyrical inflection for a few bucks (actually way more than a few bucks). Even if the object of "flattery" is a band I like, I feel angered by and embarrassed for the performers, as well as the actual band. A few years ago, Mrs. Pincus and I were given tickets to a Queen tribute band — the "ultimate" Queen tribute, if I recall correctly. We broke our promise of staying until the end of the show. I loved — loved — Queen in my youth and still hold a soft spot for them (except for my recent contempt for Brian May). However, I couldn't stomach any more of their "America's Got Talent" caliber of prefab presentation. A former co-worker regularly cajoled me to see a Genesis tribute band that plays almost monthly at a nearby venue. He constantly sang their praises, to which I constantly rebutted. "Not only wouldn't I go to see them," I would explain, "but the fact that they performed Wind and Wuthering in its entirety, my least favorite Genesis album, was absolutely not helping the argument." He eventually let up when the company let me go.

Let me also preface this story by saying that I will rarely turn down free tickets to anything. Case in point: my wife and I have seen Donnie and Marie, Tony Orlando and suffered through numerous bad experiences at the now-notorious (by way of this blog)  Movie Tavern — all for free. But, free is free and, as a good friend likes to remind us: "If it's free, it's for me." Words and sentiment couldn't ring truer.

Let me offer one final preface to this story. I love..... no wait..... let me rephrase that. I marvel at people's public behavior. I think since the advent and prevalence of social media in people's everyday lives, most folks have forgotten simple rules of public decorum. They have forgotten that there are other people in the world and sometimes their pursuit of a good time can impede on other's pursuit of a good time. Also, I believe that nobody owns a mirror anymore.

That said....

Free.

Mrs. Pincus obtained two tickets to Jay White's performance at the Xcite Center showroom in Parx Casino, a gambling venue just outside of Philadelphia. Parx's showroom has surprisingly attracted some fairly big names. Not the current superstars that could easily fill a stadium, but headliners in, what I would call, the "twilight" of their careers. Acts like Air Supply, John Fogarty and Reba McEntire — all recognizable, but perhaps no longer at the height of their popularity, yet still popular enough to fill a 1500-seat venue. Well, fill it three-quarters of the way anyway. Between the actual name acts, are scattered several "tribute" acts, including the noted Australian Pink Floyd Show, allegedly blessed by the remaining members of Pink Floyd (Hmm, there's one thing they can still agree on.) and the aforementioned Jay White. (I also saw ads for something called "Ian Anderson presents Fifty Years of Jethro Tull." I'm not quite sure in which category that show falls.)

Jay White calls himself "America's Diamond" and performs songs made famous by popular (dare I say "legendary") singer-songwriter Neil Diamond. (Technically, this moniker makes zero sense as the real Mr. Diamond was born in Brooklyn, New York... and you don't get more American than that, baby!) Not only does Jay White sing with a very, very close approximation of Neil Diamond's imitable Sprechgesang style, but he looks uncannily like Neil Diamond to boot. I can just imagine White marching into the office of a record executive and belting out a few tunes, only to be halted with suspect scrutiny. "Mr. White.... you're okay, but we already have a guy who sounds and looks like you." "Fuck it," I imagined White's growling retort, "I'll do a goddamn tribute show then!" And that's exactly where Jay White's career has brought him, playing such illustrious towns as Gulfport, Mississippi, Kokomo, Indiana and a week-long residency in Delavan, Wisconsin.

I was a little apprehensive about going to this show, but, as I said earlier, I won't turn down free tickets to pretty much anything. And this show had all the promise of "pretty much anything." Mrs. P and I had nothing to do and the venue was air-conditioned, so... what the heck! Besides, Neil Diamond has announced his retirement from the stage, giving Jay White the opportunity to perhaps fill a void that I was not aware needed filling.

...and then there's this guy.
(That's Jay White on the right.... or left.
I'm not sure.)

We drove the twenty or so minutes to Parx Casino and located the venue at the rear of the bustling gaming floor. We were a bit surprised by the configuration of the showroom. It was flat, not sloped at all, and was reminiscent of my elementary school auditorium, except the stage seemed to be built unnaturally high. (A Trip Advisor reviewer seems to agree with me.) The pre-show music piped in over the PA was a standard mix of songs that would appeal to the decidedly older crowd. (classic light rock and a smattering of country). Just before the lights dimmed, however, Lee Greenwood's chest-pounding, flag-waving, heart-stirring "God Bless the USA," came blasting through the venue speakers, offering just the right blend of nauseating, rabble-rousing, redneck faux-patriotism and faux-religion to an all-white audience, all of whom apparently had checked their handguns and MAGA hats at the door. A woman a few rows in front of us stood at her seat and dramatically waved her arms at the audience as though she were the choirmaster at a school recital. The room erupted in thunderous applause at the song's conclusion — a recording from thirty-three years ago by an artist who was not in the fucking room!

The crowd loved it... especially the old guy
 with the two-foot braid.

In the darkened theater, I could see a number of musicians filing in and tuning up. Still in the shadows, they launched into the opening bars of "Soolaimon," a popular, but lesser-known song from the Neil Diamond canon. Jay White, clad in a sparkly shirt and high-waisted tuxedo pants, his helmet of hair fashioned into the signature Neil Diamond 'do, strutted and posed and pointed his finger for the next ninety minutes, as he bounced around from "Cracklin' Rosie" to "Cherry Baby"  to "Holly Holy"... all executed with the dead-on precision of the respective recordings. The band was comprised of obviously talented musicians and White is definitely in possession of a strong set of pipes. But, there was still something that didn't sit right with me. While I do love and appreciate cover versions of songs, someone making a career out of someone else's act is no different than an artist duplicating the Mona Lisa or a writer plagiarizing Hemingway. If you have talent and creativity, then use it and be creative. Don't sell yourself short and take the lazy route. I know I was in the overwhelming minority. The crowd that evening, much like the audience gathered at the "Ultimate Queen Tribute," was eating it up like candy-coated candy. They thought they were actually seeing Neil Diamond at a fraction of the cost of a Neil Diamond concert ticket. They stood. They swayed. They sang, They cheered. One woman was welcomed stage-side while the pretend Mr. Diamond offered a personal and seductive serenade with "Girl, You'll Be a Woman Soon." It was greeted with palpable adoration. I found it embarrassing.

The evening closed with a participatory "Sweet Caroline" punctuated by the recent obligatory "so good so good so good" chorus that has ruined that song for me. Thank you Red Sox fans. I hate you even more. The last song was an epic rendition of "Coming to America" from the soundtrack of the 1980 version of "The Jazz Singer." My wife noted that if the crowd realized that this song was about a Jewish cantor emigrating to the United States, they may not be singing along with such gusto.

The house lights went on and the audience filed out — some still dancing as out of rhythm as they were clapping.  Jay White was in the lobby, cheerfully posing for pictures with his adoring fans. We passed.

If I learned anything from this experience, I realized that I know a lot of Neil Diamond songs. More than I thought.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I want to see the bright lights tonight

In our house filled with things, my wife came across a cache of concert ticket stubs, some dating back to the middle 1970s. I had actually been looking for this collection of memories for some time. I honestly thought they were long gone, tossed to the trash when we made the move from our newlywed apartment in Northeast Philadelphia to the suburban house that has been our home for over thirty years. 

Wild nights are calling.

Curiously stored in a Barnum's Animal Crackers box, these torn paper testaments were in surprisingly good shape. Time had faded some of the early-computer printed particulars, but the ones that escaped total destruction at the hands of some minimum-wage earning ticket-taker were still legible. The band names were clear enough to read - some consisting of careless, though comical, misspellings. (The opening act for a 1977 Queen show at the Philadelphia Civic Center listed the supporting band as "Thin Lizzie," as though it was an emaciated ballerina.)

A lot of the ticket remnants were from 70s-era Grateful Dead shows, many of which were from shows staged at the Philadelphia Spectrum, the self-proclaimed "America's Showplace," which boasted some of the worst, sound-deadening acoustics this side of the $64,000 Question's isolation booth. Despite being the home base for both the Philadelphia Flyers and the 76ers, the Dead managed to find time to fit in 53 concerts at the venue, more than any other musical act. That allotment of tickets, of course, belonged to my wife — as my first experience with the psychedelic San Francisco troubadours was in April 1982, when I was taken (abducted? dragged?) to a spring concert by the future Mrs. P. I recognized my concert tickets by the decidedly un-Grateful Dead band names that were printed across the colorful Ticketmaster branding. Again, most were from the Spectrum, as it was the biggest and most popular venue in the city, but a smattering were from shows at the smaller Tower Theater, a converted movie palace just outside the western city limits.

My brother, older by four years, was a veteran concert-goer, having seen performances by Rod Stewart, Cat Stevens, The Moody Blues, George Harrison (reporting that the former Beatle was "awful" and the show was stolen by energetic keyboardist Billy Preston) and others of that ilk. He witnessed the now-legendary marathon at the remote Widener University gymnasium by an up-and-comer that he mistakenly identified as "Bruce Springstein.*" Some of my friends at middle school had toyed with the idea of actually seeing some of our favorite singers live when they came to our town. But I broke the proverbial ice when I scraped together a hard-earned six dollars and fifty cents for a single, general admission ticket to see Alice Cooper (and leather-clad guitar slinger Suzi Quatro) on the local stop of his "Welcome to My Nightmare" tour when it touched down in Philadelphia in April 1975, the twenty-second date on its five-month, multi-city trek across North America. That night, after seeing the wiry Mr. Cooper dance with giant spiders, cavort with tuxedoed skeletons and lop the head off a menacing cyclops, I was bitten by the concert bug. I left that show rabid — anxious to see another concert. And fast! It wasn't until a full year later that I was able to attend my second concert. Forking over a steep seven-fifty, I spent an evening at the back of the cavernous Spectrum, watching bland folk-rockers America deliver one boring song after another as they promoted their newest release — a greatest hits compilation culled from their five-album catalog on which every song sounded identical. I can't figure out what exactly I was doing there. I was not a fan of America — not even in the most casual sense. I didn't own any America albums. I suppose I just wanted to go to a concert.

I made better choices (in my opinion) as the years went on. I saw Elton John when he brought tennis star Billie Jean King onstage to join him in a chorus of the terribly shitty, yet hometown beloved, "Philadelphia Freedom." I saw the electrifying Queen several times, including once with pneumonia (me, not them). Freddie Mercury was a showman like no other. I even took my DeadHead future spouse to Queen's final American tour where she questioned the numerous costume changes and lighting effects. After all, the Grateful Dead had not changed their clothes since 1969 and their fans usually visualize their own lighting effects.

I saw Elvis Costello a few times as well, watching as he made the jump from new-wave pioneer to the elder statesman of his bygone "angry young man" genre. The late Warren Zevon, a short-term Philadelphia resident while he was between record deals, gave impromptu recitals at the wonderful, yet now-defunct, Chestnut Cabaret on the campus of the University of Pennsylvania. Mrs. Pincus and I were in the audience for several of those intimate shows and they were a memorable treat. Along the way, I got to see The Boomtown Rats, Tim Curry (yes, that Tim Curry), They Might Be Giants, Fleetwood Mac, Duran Duran, Squeeze, even Barry Manilow.

My son developed an early love for music, based on the constant albums and radio blaring from speakers all over our house. His interest blossomed into a career, as he is now a host/producer on a local Philadelphia radio station. Even before his current employ, we accompanied each other to a boat-load of concerts. We've seen good bands, bad bands, strange bands and just-about-to-hit-it big bands. We've had band members jump off the stage in front of us. (In one case, a singer fell off the stage on us.)  My son even introduced me to bands (A Giant Dog, Low Cut Connie, Kid Congo and The Pink Monkey Birds... yeah, you read that right) in the same way I gave him his first taste of the Beatles and his mom taught him about Jerry Garcia. Thanks to my son and the numerous concert venues that have opened in Philadelphia (named by one music website as the "best concert city" in North America), my concert calendar is usually packed. I never dreamed that, at 56, I'd still be going to shows, let alone bumping elbows in tiny venues with fans half my age. Conversely, it was funny when my wife and I sat in a sold-out Atlantic City showroom for a Tony Bennett show and, looking around, wondered how many other audience members had also seen The Clash.

It's okay, I'm with the band.

The concert experience has changed considerably since I was perched on the second level of the Spectrum, squinting to make out the color of Sir Elton's glasses. Bands were untouchable and unapproachable, sometimes just an out-of-focus dot bathed in a purple spotlight. Now, in the days of social media, a selfie with your favorite singer is no longer a rarity, it is a requirement. Granted, artists that fill stadiums are off-limits, save for those willing to pony up a few hundred (even thousand) dollars for a one-on-one experience. But, the bands that play 1200-seat (or smaller) venues will often appear at unannounced "meet-and-greets" at their "merch table" where the purchase of a t-shirt or album will net you the bonus of a sweaty hug and the opportunity of a cellphone picture to document the encounter.

This story, of course, is far from over. I love live music and it takes a lot to stop me from seeing it. As I write this, I have at least two concerts lined up in the coming months. And there will be more after that. I guarantee it.

*My brother informed me that he thought the singer's name was "Bruce Bringsteen." Actually, that's funnier.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

we are each other

I met Mrs. Pincus in February 1982. I wish I could say differently, but, it was not love at first sight. As a matter of fact, she thought I was the most obnoxious person she had ever met and I was hitting on her girlfriend. But, soon, a spark ignited. We had a lot in common and we fell in love and the rest is Pincus history.

While we explored our common interests, there was one subject we decided was off-limits — music. We decided if we ever ran out of things to talk about, we would ask each other: "What kind of music do you like?" and that would pretty much be the end. We would have exhausted all there was to discuss between us. So, we never — in 34 years — asked the question.

But, of course, we knew. How could we not? I had records and tapes when we met and so did Mrs. P. Jeez! We even went record shopping together. We darn well knew each other's favorite band. Mine was Queen and hers was The Grateful Dead. We couldn't have picked a more opposite pairing if we tried. Queen, with its flashy stage show and multiple costume changes, was noted for its chameleon-like musical style falling somewhere between Led Zeppelin and George Formby. The Grateful Dead, on the other hand, was a group of tenacious, psychedelic 60s holdovers, purveying its inimitable brand of atmospheric opuses to the spacey delight of the most rabid and loyal fans in the history of modern music. I was taken to my first Grateful Dead concert one month after I met the future Mrs. P. I was bored and unimpressed. I took my bride-to-be to her first (and, to date, only) Queen concert a few weeks later. She hated it.

I went to a dozen or so additional Dead shows in the years following. Mrs. P, however, was spared prolonged exposure as Queen had eliminated North America from all of its subsequent touring schedules. Soon afterward, Queen's flamboyant chanteur, Freddie Mercury, passed away. Four years later, The Grateful Dead's iconic sage, Jerry Garcia died.

Then things got eerie.

Considering how different — how polar opposite — Queen and The Grateful Dead were, their fate took a very similar path. Very similar.

Liar, liar everything you do is sin

Immediately after Freddie Mercury died, the remaining three members of Queen laid low, shunning the spotlight after a tribute concert for their departed colleague. Bassist John Deacon retired from the music business entirely. Guitarist Brian May and drummer Roger Taylor began to get a little antsy. Obviously they were not ready to call it a career. They had more music left in them. They soon teamed up with former Bad Company/Free singer Paul Rodgers and mounted a tour called "Queen + Paul Rodgers." They performed songs from the Queen catalog as well as hits from Bad Company. They frequently capped off their shows with the popular Free anthem "All Right Now." More recently, May and Taylor recruited American Idol runner-up Adam Lambert, a much younger vocalist with decidedly more pop-leaning talents, to fill Mercury's glittery shoes. At the same time, Brian May has been busily licensing Queen's music to every commercial entity that will wave a fistful of money in his direction. Queen songs have been featured in ads for PetSmart, Lay's Potato Chips, Diet Coke, The Gap and others. Brian May, taking the role as earthly spokesman on behalf of his late collaborator, has said (with a straight face), "Freddie would have approved of this." In the 25 years since Mercury's death, and despite several lucrative tours, there has been no new music attributed to Queen. They're just resting on their laurels.

He's gone, gone,
nothin's gonna bring him back

Faithful Dead Heads predicted the demise of their heroes in the wake of Jerry Garcia's death. Surprisingly, the band soldiered on, forming and reforming as "The Other Ones," "The Dead," "Furthur" and currently "Dead and Company," each version including a revolving roster of former members of the original, Jerry-less Grateful Dead, fortified with additional musicians. Their repertoire consisted of the 50-plus year Dead library of songs plus a number of familiar covers that had become concert staples. In a scene right out of the Mark Wahlberg film Rock Star, founding (and surviving) member Bob Weir once shared vocal duties with John Kadlecik, the leader of The Dark Star Orchestra, a Grateful Dead tribute band. Now, they are back on tour with the addition of John Mayer, a much younger guitarist with decidedly more pop-leaning talents. In the 21 years since Garcia's death, and despite several lucrative tours, there has been no new music attributed to The Grateful Dead. They're just resting on their.... well, you know.

It's interesting how two bands from different backgrounds with different musical directions ended up in such a similar situation. And, of all the bands in the world, my wife and I chose those two bands as our respective favorites.

The golden road to unlimited devotion. Funny how love is.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

may all your favorite bands stay together

I stumbled upon a strange phenomenon at my very first concert, but I didn't realize it until years later.

Alice Cooper, the venerable shock-rocker, was riding high as he brought his audacious Welcome to My Nightmare Tour across North America. One month into the promotional road trip, a stop was made at the Spectrum, the all-purpose (now defunct and demolished) South Philly venue that served as the home base for the Flyers hockey team and the 76ers basketball team, as well as inefficiently hosting concerts with its horrible, noise-deadening acoustics. At fourteen years old, this show in late April of 1975 would become my first foray into a life-long love of live music. As my friends and I found our seats and anxiously awaited the start of the show, we watched a lone man take a seat at the end of our row. He was by himself and he sat quietly, staring off in the direction of the stage. Suddenly, the house lights dimmed and the crowd emitted a collective frenzied cheer. Colored spotlights bathed the stage and diminutive hellion Suzi Quatro, the evening's opening act, strutted into view to the strains of roaring guitar power chords. This was a full two years before Ms. Quatro would gain TV fame as tough gal "Leather Tuscadero" on the sitcom Happy Days. This Suzi Quatro was a real-life rocker, seductively plucking a big Fender bass that was slung low between her leather-sheathed thighs. She churned through a forty-minute set to the polite approval of the sea of Alice Cooper fans, although I didn't recognize a single tune.

The lights came on and the stage filled with roadies busily gathering cables and setting up for Alice Cooper's performance. And the guy at the end of our row got up..... and left. He was done. He had come to see Suzi Quatro and his evening's entertainment had concluded. My friends and I laughed to ourselves and commented briefly, but were soon distracted when a malevolent, top-hatted Alice broke into a Busby Berkeley number while flanked by a couple of six-foot black widow spiders.

Years and years and many, many concerts later, my son and I were seeing a show by the sardonically-named Dogs Die in Hot Cars, a Scottish quintet known for their catchy (and equally sardonic) hit "I Love You 'Cause I Have To." The band, who were quite popular at the time (2004, to be exact), had sold out the small Theater of Living Arts and the capacity crowd was getting antsy. Soon, the show began with a then-unknown French band called Phoenix. They have since gone on to bigger and better, including headlining numerous outdoor festivals and nabbing a Grammy Award. But, on this particular night, they were just another opening band in a long line of opening bands. My son and I, pressed up against the stage and bobbing our heads to the beats, glanced to our immediate right. There was a young lady and a woman (who was most likely her mother) dancing and jumping and having the time of their lives. Although the volume was turned up enough to blot out any audible audience singing and conversation, this familial twosome were clearly mouthing every word of every song in the Phoenix repertoire. Every single word of every single song. Three minutes earlier, I had never heard of these guys, yet Mom and her girl were obviously their biggest fans.

Something occurred to me that night as I left that particular concert. I started to think back to other shows. I remembered similar scenarios that, at the time, I just didn't give another thought, but, revisited, I began to see a pattern. After observing rabid fans screaming for The Jack Rubys (who opened for They Might Be Giants) and a small cheering section for a young lady with a guitar doing her best Joni Mitchell impersonation (I forget who she opened for, but I swear they grabbed her off the sidewalk and asked if she knew a few songs when the real opening act bailed), I was convinced that every band is someone's favorite band. Now, I've seen some established acts as warm-ups for a big-name headliner. I saw Kenny Loggins open for Fleetwood Mac. I saw Thin Lizzy open a show for Queen. I have gone to concerts specifically to see an opening act and still stuck around for the headliner. I have even been so impressed by an opening band, that I was prompted to purchase their album afterwards (New Zealand new wavers Split Enz come to mind, after seeing them precede Squeeze in the summer of 1982). But, I don't think I would qualify any of these bands as my (or anyone's) sole favorite. I don't think...

Look, I've been to a lot of concerts over the past forty years. I've seen a lot of bands and I have liked a lot of bands. There have been plenty of bands that I don't like, however I can understand their appeal. They're just not my taste. When I was in high school, I was a big fan of the band Queen. I had all of Queen's albums. I had Queen posters. I had Queen stickers on my books. I saw them many times and always clamored for seats as close to the stage as I could get. I had friends who felt the same way about other bands, too. I knew fervent Who fans and devoted Dylan fans and, of course the ubiquitous Deadheads (As a matter of fact, I went on to marry one of those Deadheads). I was not really a fan of any of these performers, but I certainly understand their appeal. But, there are bands that are so... so... average that I can't image that they are anyone's favorite. I won't name any one band in particular because everyone is entitled to their opinion — no matter how stupid, narrow-minded and tasteless their opinion may be.

This past weekend, a friend sent me a text that read: "You know how we always say that every band is someone's favorite band?" His message was accompanied by this photo he snapped while driving on the Pennsylvania Turnpike —

Click photo to enlarge.

Since this is 2016 and the crazy days of nuevo punk are long in our past, I replied: "I sure hope that's Adam Ant himself driving that car."

I rest my case.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

angst in my pants

I have been going to concerts for forty years. Starting with my first show (Alice Cooper with special guest Suzi Quatro), concerts have been a pretty big deal. I saw most of them at Philadelphia's self-proclaimed "America's Showplace," The Spectrum, an 18,000 seat area with some of the worst, sound-killing acoustics you ever heard. It was a multi-purpose facility, home to the Philadelphia Flyers and Philadelphia 76ers, much better suited for sporting events than concerts. I saw performances by Elton John, Jethro Tull, Queen, Fleetwood Mac and a dozen or so of the Grateful Dead's record-setting 53 shows. 

I saw a few shows at the smaller Tower Theater, a converted movie theater resurrected in the 70s as Philadelphia's answer to Bill Graham's famed Fillmore East. The Tower hosted acts that, while popular, couldn't possibly fill the massive Spectrum. I saw Warren Zevon, The Boomtown Rats and The Jerry Garcia Band there. Philadelphia also presented indoor shows at the sprawling, yet clunky, Civic Center and outdoor, festival-like shows at JFK Stadium,  the crumbling deathtrap, now the site of the 21,000-seat, schizophrenically-named* Wells Fargo Center.

I regularly attended concerts through my teens and they were exciting events. They were the culmination of weeks (sometimes months) of planning. There was coordination of purchasing tickets and securing transportation. There was decisions on what to wear and speculation and discussion about possible song selections. On the evening of the actual show, I'd be seated in a section that seemed to be miles from the action. Although it was thrilling and enjoyable, there was a noticeable, cold, untouchable distance between me and the band. Even when I sat in the third row and Queen's flamboyant Freddie Mercury tossed carnations in my direction, there was still an unseen barrier that kept me in my place and the the band in theirs... and never the twain shall meet.

My concert-going took a brief pause when my son was born. However, as he grew, and since music played such a major part in our lives, my wife and I took him to kid-friendly shows. We started with the venerable Trout Fishing in America, whose fun mix of folk-rock and silliness was the perfect jumping off point. We slowly graduated to the pop sounds of Canada's Barenaked Ladies and another Canadian quartet Moxy Fruvous. Soon, as he made his own musical discoveries, our boy was ready for the real adult world of concerts. We began to frequent an unassuming club in Philadelphia's western suburbs called The Point, which rose from the ashes of the legendary Main Point, early stomping grounds for Billy Joel, Jackson Browne, Joni Mitchell and Bruce Springsteen. It was a small venue, serving coffee and light snacks along with lesser-known, but powerful acts like Michael Penn and the mighty (though now defunct) Asylum Street Spankers. We also attended the Tin Angel, a tiny, narrow club in Philadelphia's historic Old City, where we witnessed performances by Graham Parker, Jill Sobule and an intimate set by one-time pop-darlings Fountains of Wayne. In later years, my son began working at a Philadelphia radio station that shares a building with a popular concert venue. I have lost count of the number of shows — by a wide variety of performers and genres — we have seen there.

The cool and most interesting aspect of my recent concert experiences is meeting the bands. That is something that was unheard of and just never ever happened when I was a kid. In these days of social media and more person-to-person connectivity, it is actually commonplace. (It sort of helps if you are related to someone that works in the media.) That invisible barricade between audience and performer has gotten thinner and thinner, sometimes to the point of nonexistence. Sure, it's still virtually impossible to have a "close up and personal" encounter with a Taylor Swift or some "flavor-of-the month" boy band, but most bands at smaller venues will offer a formal "meet-and-greet." Some like to mingle with the lingering crowds as they exit a show. If you're patient, some can be caught as they exit the venue themselves... and they are usually very friendly and appreciative. Meeting bands after a show has become such a common occurrence that it's almost taken as rude if a band doesn't put in a post-show appearance. Some bands have even learned to cash in on the "meet the fans" experience, but that's a despicable practice in my opinion.

Photo by Russell Mael, from
the back steps of the Electric Factory.
Ron Mael, my son and me are right up front.

A few nights ago, my son and I saw FFS, a so-called "supergroup" comprised of the chameleon-like Mael brothers — quirky Russell and enigmatic Ron — founders of the indescribable Sparks and Scottish art-rockers Franz Ferdinand. The pairing has produced one of the best albums of 2015, a self-titled release combining an original amalgam of the music and lyrics of both bands. Despite the age difference among the members (Franz Ferdinand are in their early 40s; Sparks are well into their AARP years), the collaboration works and it works well (no matter what that song says)! After the show, my son and I waited behind the venue by the tour bus, like a couple of giddy teenagers. Along with a gathering of about fifty die-hard fans, we braved the brisk night air as each member of the band filed through the crowd, shaking hands, signing albums and posing for pictures. It was a lot of fun and an experience that was approximately forty years in the making. 

But, I'm making up for lost time. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*It has had no less than five names in its nineteen-year existence.

don't stand so close to me

I went to see my friend Sly's band play at a small venue in the nuevo-hip Philadelphia neighborhood of Fishtown on Monday night. Rock shows on Monday nights don't draw a lot of people. That is a fact and there is no getting around it.

I scored the perfect – and I mean perfect! – parking space directly across the street from the club. I ran over to the sidewalk where I admired my car sitting in said perfect space, while I sent a text to Lis (another friend I had planned to meet at the show) to let him know I was waiting outside. Just as I hit "SEND" on my phone, Lis turned the corner and greeted me. I heard his phone signal a message and I told him to just ignore it because that message was from me.

We paid our admission and walked into the club a few minutes before the first band was scheduled to take the stage. There were three or four other people inside, including the bartender. I understand that this particular club has a reputation for starting shows late, but I doubted that the crowd (could it even qualify as a crowd?)  would double or triple in a few more minutes.

Lis and I hung back at the bar which is, more or less, a separate room from the performance area. From the bar, you can see the stage, but there is a distinct separation delineated by a wide threshold and a long, narrow step. The performance area is also distinguished by its darkened, "mood-lit" atmosphere.

The opening band (of a card of four) finally began to tune-up. It was one guy behind a small drum kit and another on guitar. And they were horrible. No... I take that back. They were loud and horrible. Lis and I were easily forty feet away from the stage, in, essentially, another room, and we could not hear a word the other was saying. I looked towards the stage and I saw two silhouetted figures pushed against a wall watching the band. The rest of the stage area was empty and that's not an exaggeration.

Empty.

The next band wasn't any better, although I believe they were louder, as I had an even harder time hearing Lis during our conversation. Also, the size of the crowd (crowd?) had not increased over the course of the first band's set.

The headlining band for the evening's show was Split Squad, a so-called "supergroup" comprised of members of such seminal rock acts as The Plimsouls, The Fleshtones and New Wave darlings (and Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductees) Blondie. Sly's band was scheduled to go on just before the headliners. Now that the warm-up bands had finished, Lis and I made our way towards the small stage and watched as Sly and his bandmates set up and prepared their equipment.

With no formal introduction – aside from Sly screaming the band's name into his microphone – the set began. As the sound from Sly's mighty Hammond organ filled the tiny room, I actually counted the number of individuals gathered around the stage. I counted ten. A quick recount yielded the same result. Back at the bar, there may have been another ten folks. So, with ten people in the audience, needless to say, there was a lot of empty floor space in front of the stage. An awful lot.

"Got personal space?"
[Click to enlarge]

In the darkness, a couple of shadowy figures swayed and bopped to the music. A few people paced back and forth across the empty floor, some making their way to the bar, while others took their choice of open spots against one of the walls. Suddenly, a guy came up from a side flight of stairs into the area in front of the stage. He never took his gaze off of the band as he backed up and planted himself smack dab in front of Lis and me. I don't mean a few feet ahead. I mean close enough that I could see the frayed threads on the back of his collar. I could read the label stitched on the back pocket of his jeans. I could see the amount of product in his long hair, attempting to keep it flat against his neck. I could also see that it was Keith Streng, the energetic guitarist from Split Squad (as well as legendary garage rockers The Fleshtones). Based on past performances I have witnessed, Keith is a pretty frenetic guy onstage. He regularly executes high leg kicks, exaggerated shakes and whiplash-inducing neck shimmies. Many times during a show, with guitar in hand, he scales speakers and drum risers as a springboard to leaping several feet in the air, legs tucked beneath him, achieving impossible hang-time before a perfect landing on the heels of his pointed, two-tone Oxfords. But, now, here he was standing – literally – inches from the tips of my toes – grooving like he was in an empty room. And, save for a few people, he was.

As Shakespeare said, "Ah! There's the rub!"

Did I mention that the place was nearly empty? Well, it was. One could have plopped down on the floor and rolled around and not bumped into anyone. You could have marked out a game of hopscotch on the floor and played without interfering with anyone's personal space. With ten pins and a 16-pound ball, you could have fucking bowled in there and not infringed on anyone's good time. But, Keith chose the immediate spot, several inches in front of us, for his own personal "get down tonight." He pranced and bobbed and danced and gyrated. I was shocked that, in the dim light, he didn't step on my or Lis's feet.

Keith stayed in that spot for almost the entire thirty-minute set by Sly's band, only stealing away during the last song to prepare for his own set. I've often heard that musicians are living in their own little world. I guess Keith's little world is always packed to capacity.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I'll never be anybody's hero now

Steven Morrissey, one-time frontman for the popular 80s band The Smiths, has either postponed or canceled dates on every one of his solo tours beginning in 1991, when the final Australian dates and eleven dates in the United States were canceled on his Kill Uncle tour. Since then, eleven subsequent tours have either been interrupted, totally canceled or aborted before the first show, including hanging David Bowie out to dry. (Tumblr user Torr chronicles the adventures of Morrissey's tours here.) Being the tour manager for Morrissey is a tough, thankless job.

Just last week, Morrissey rescheduled a date in Atlantic City, New Jersey, only to cancel the entire tour several days later. I can only imagine that, after all this time, the planning stages of a Morrissey tour go something like this...

Morrissey: I think I'd like to go on tour, y'know, to promote the new album.

Morrissey's Tour Manager: Uh, sure, Steve, I'll get on that right away.

Morrissey: I want the whole deal. Spare no expense. Full band, lighting, rigging... the works!

Morrissey's Tour Manager: You got it, Moz. I'll get on it straight away. (He does not move.)

Morrissey: Hey, shouldn't you be making phone calls or something?

Morrissey's Tour Manager: Uh, oh yeah, sure, sure. Phone calls. Right. (He picks up his desk phone and pretends to dial.) Hi, yeah. I wanna book... um, yeah.... right, right the big room with the big stage. Yeah, the one with lots of seats! Great! Thanks. (He hangs up the phone.) Alright, Moz! We're all set for the, um ...Palladium in South... I mean, West Texarkana! Two nights! June fifth... fifteen... eighteenth! Yeah, the eighteenth and the nineteenth! (He pretends to scribble on a legal pad using a drinking straw.)

Morrissey: Smashing! Um, shouldn't you be calling some musicians?

Morrissey's Tour Manager: Yeah! Musicians! Of course! Look, Moz, I'll take care of everything. Why don't you go out and protect a cat or something. I have everything under control.

(Morrissey leaves. The tour manager puts his head down on his desk and falls asleep.)

Three days later.

Morrissey: Y'know, I just sneezed twice in the last hour. We better cancel the tour.

Morrissey's Tour Manager: Yeah, sure, whatever.

Morrissey: Don't you have to make some calls to some venues?

Morrissey's Tour Manager (laying his head down on his desk): All taken care of, Moz, all taken care of.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com