oh say can you see

On Tuesday, I went to my first general admission concert since the world went into seclusion from the onslaught of the COVID-19 pandemic. I went to a show in July, but this was at a reserved seating venue, where staying in your seat (or at least by your seat to do a little awkward dancing) was strictly enforced by the staff of flashlight-wielding, credential-wearing martinets employed to patrol the aisles and keep order. 

But Tuesday's show was different. It was held at Philadelphia's beautiful World Café Live, a two-stage venue that I have been to many, many times since its opening in 2004. I've seen a wide variety of musical acts there, as well as special movie screenings and a fair share of dance parties sponsored by the radio station that employs my son (which is, by chance, housed in the same building). While a handful of shows at WCL offer reserved seating, most are general admission, allowing attendees to stake out a spot on the large open space in front of the stage or in the smaller area surrounding the bar at the rear of the venue. I have seen shows that were poorly attended, with sad little clumps of patrons gathered haphazardly on the floor. Conversely, I attended a free performance by 80s icons The Pretenders where the audience appeared to be doing their best approximation of a sardine can. 

To be honest, I would prefer a sparsely attended show. I don't like crowds. I don't like the way crowds behave. Large groups of people tend to think that concerts are interactive events where they are free to scream and try to engage the performers in one-on-one conversation. Others feel that the music is merely background noise for their very important conversations, often raising their voices above the volume of the PA system in order to tell their partners what they had for lunch that day. Then there are those who seem to think they are in a room all by themselves for a private recital with a band, regardless of how many or how few other people are there to see the same show. These folks roam freely, flailing their arms in joyful dance and regularly obscuring the view of the stage for a number of well-behaved concert-goers.

The Baseball Project - Scott McCaughey (bottom left),
 Linda Pitmon (center) Steve Wynn (bottom right),
Mike Mills (top left) and Peter Buck (top right).

On Tuesday, my son and I saw The Baseball Project, a so-called "supergroup" currently on a multi-city tour promoting their latest release Grand Salami Time, the quintet's first new album in nearly a decade. What? You've never heard of them? Well, the band is comprised of members of other bands. There's Steve Wynn, guitarist and leader of 80s indie rockers The Dream Syndicate. On drums is Steve's wife Linda Pitmon, who has kept a strong driving backbeat for The Filthy Friends as well as Alejandro Escovedo's band. Also on guitar is Scott McCaughey, who plays with his other bands The Minus 5 and Young Fresh Fellows. Scott has popped up on and contributed to recordings from everyone from Liz Phair to The Monkees. He was a studio and touring member of alt-rock darlings R.E.M. Rounding out the band are Mike Mills and Peter Buck, both former members of R.E.M. and proud inductees in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. These five musicians joined up over their common love of rock and roll and the National Pastime, producing four albums (and a couple of EPs) of baseball-centric tunes that are decidedly different from the standard novelty songs of the past like "I Like Mickey" and "Talkin' Baseball." I've seen The Baseball Project several times (including a show in — very fittingly — Cooperstown, New York, home of the National Baseball Hall of Fame). They are fine musicians and songwriters and always present a rollicking (and informative) evening of entertainment.

Following a quick dinner of tacos, my son and I entered the near-empty World Café Live around fifteen minutes before showtime. I secured a spot at the back of the main floor while my boy ran up to the bar to grab a beer. Returning quickly, he handed me a tall cold can of something called "Liquid Death," which, despite its foreboding name, turned out to be plain water. (I don't drink alcohol and he knows it.) He placed his beer on the line of tables immediately behind us. I chose this spot specifically so there was no chance of anyone standing behind us, thus eliminating the possibility of getting pushed forward by some overzealous fan "caught up in the moment... maaaaaan!" As showtime ticked closer, the venue began to welcome more guests, but, it was - by no means - anywhere near its capacity of 700. Not even close. I had high hopes of a well-behaved crowd who would optimistically keep their distance.

Buck.

The lights dimmed and the band members filed out to the stage, grabbing their instruments and acknowledging the crowd with waves and smiles. Linda, seated behind the drums, shouted off a traditional "1-2-3-4" and the band launched into "Erasable Man," a rocking ode to the legacy of Negro League powerhouse Josh Gibson. The crowd bobbed their collective heads and pumped their collective fists and made all the other patented actions executed at concerts by old, uncoordinated white guys. Of course, the darkened audience area was dotted with the glow of raised cellphones, snapping a few photographic souvenirs for perusing and showing-off at a later date. In my peripheral vison, I could see a hulking, white-haired gentleman cradling a small digital camera (not a cell phone) in his palms and aiming in the direction of Peter Buck. Buck was the only member of the band not outfitted with a microphone. He stood silently and nearly immobile for the entirety of the show, plucking his guitar of choice and staring down his bandmates. He rarely, if ever, turned his glance towards the audience. The white-haired gentleman to my left was on a mission to capture every move — or in this case non-move — that Buck made (or didn't make).

Now, don't move.

As the show progressed and The Baseball Project tore through their musical catalog, I noticed that the white-haired photographer was inching his way towards me with each new song. By the time "The Voice of Baseball" (a loving tribute to late Dodgers announcer Vin Scully) began, the white-haired gentleman was right in front of me. I mean right in front, the back of his head a mere inch or two from my nose. Without regard for anyone around him — specifically me — he focused his camera in his raised arms, blocking my once-clear view of the stage even more. Because I was close enough to him (by no fault of mine), I noticed the image in his camera's viewfinder never changed. It was centered on Peter Buck. Exclusively. He did not move to snap a photo of any other band member. He just took photo after similar photo of Peter Buck. And Peter Buck rarely changed position. He switched guitars a few times, removing and replacing an instrument in a nearby rack, only to return to the exact same position on stage left (his right), just behind the energetic Scott McCaughey, who bopped and swayed to the rhythm of each new tune. Nevertheless, the white-haired budding Ansel Adams continued to take what was essentially the same fucking picture while relentlessly encroaching on my personal space. I turned to my son, pointing at the oblivious white-haired gentleman and miming a shrug with my upturned, outstretched palms. My son laughed, leaned into me and said, "Did you miss going to concerts?"

Fifty or so minutes into the show, the band announced a quick break (that they identified as the end of the first game of the double-header). They would be returning for a second set and the house lights brightened in the meantime. Surprisingly — and even better — thankfully, the white-haired gentleman exited the venue and did not return for the second set. I suppose he captured every non-movement that Peter Buck didn't make to his satisfaction. Perhaps he was just one of the many devoted R.E.M. fans in attendance, still hanging on to the vivid memories of the band and trying to relive the Athens rockers' glory days. Perhaps he was gathering research and reference material for a proposed tribute to the R.E.M. guitarist in the form of a painting or even a sculpture. Perhaps he was a member of the extended Buck family, tasked to provide a pictorial chronicle of the celebrated cousin/brother/uncle on the second wave of his stellar career.

Or perhaps I was just happy that I could see the stage again.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

no one fights like Gaston

Disneyland is the original, self-proclaimed "Happiest Place on Earth." But recently, it was anything but. A cellphone video taken by a recent theme park guest went viral when it was posted to YouTube. It was immediately exploited by every local Los Angeles news broadcast and then — through the power of social media — it spread nationally. As chronicled by the amateur video several adult members of one family are shown arguing... arguing loudly enough to garner attention from other Disneyland visitors. Suddenly, the argument escalated to shouting which, in turn, explodes in violence. A man is seen striking a woman in the face several times. Then there's some spitting, followed by another man throwing hard punches. Then, another woman is thrown to the cement ground by one of the men after she surprisingly abandons her electric scooter. The whole episode lasts just under minute, but it is very unnerving and upsetting to watch. A few brave onlookers attempt to intervene. Eventually, park security arrives on the scene and handles things in a proper manner. They were all escorted off of Disney property and into the waiting hands of the Anaheim Police Department.

Happiest Place on Earth

The video is difficult to watch for a few reasons. One... it's Disneyland, for goodness sake! Not only that, the melee took place in the Toontown section of the park, an area that is geared towards younger guests. Seeing these folks smacking each other around in the shadow of Goofy's house, complete with its whimsical cartoon mailbox just a foot or two away from the fisticuffs, was, among other things, surreal. Second... aren't these people on vacation, where all of your troubles and anxieties are put on hold? Third.... as my son pointed out, there are so many cheaper places to fight with your family than at a Disney theme park. Each one of those guests easily paid around one hundred dollars to beat on each other. They could have done it for free out on Harbor Boulevard.

The entire episode, unfortunately, is not uncommon. In hot weather, in stressful situations with sensory overload, tensions mount and emotions explode. As a veteran of many Disney vacations (in both Disneyland and Walt Disney World), I have personally witnessed instances of this behavior. On every trip we have taken to either Disneyland or Walt Disney World, my wife, my son and I stroll through the various themed lands looking for people who are very obviously not enjoying themselves. "Oh, that guy really wants to be here." we'd quietly point out to each other, singling out an angry Dad with a scowl across his face, arms tightly folded across his chest, leaning on a stroller that is unsuccessfully trying to contain a crying infant. The mouse ears hat atop his infuriated head is the crowning glory. We've often seen family members screaming at each other. An agitated father yelling about how much this trip is costing him. An exasperated mother throwing up her hands in surrender and children of varying ages, their faces smeared with dried remnants of ice cream, stomping their little feet or escalating a tantrum to rolling uncontrollably on the ground (and blocking the path of other guests).

As I watched the YouTube video (along with, at last count, over 4 million other viewers), I was reminded of a few episodes similar to the brawl depicted in the video — one dating back to 1986. My wife and I drove to Walt Disney World in December 1986 along with a friend of ours. Mrs. Pincus was three months pregnant and this would be our "last hurrah" before the responsibilities of parenting took over as top priority in our lives. At the time, Disney property boasted only four resorts and all were way out of our price range. We opted, instead, to stay at a small motel on I-192 in Kissimmee, just a mile or so from Disney World and not far from where Mrs. P and I spent our honeymoon two years earlier. Upon check-in, we were given keys (yes, actual metal keys on a big plastic fob) to a room at the rear of the parking lot. We unpacked our car and and readied ourselves for a week-long vacation. We headed out to Walt Disney World Village, the small shopping area at the crossroads of Apopka Vineland Road and Hotel Plaza Boulevard. (This little distraction has since been expanded several times and is now known as Disney Springs.) We ate dinner, browsed some shops and then retired to our room for some sleep before our first day at the Magic Kingdom.

wah wah wah

We were awakened early the next morning — not by an alarm or a prearranged wake-up call — but by a muffled sound coming from beyond the adjoining wall of the room behind ours. Almost as soon as it began, the sound increased in volume. They were obviously human voices, but actual words were not determinable. It was closer to the sound made by adults and teachers on the Charlie Brown animated television specials — that "wah-wah-wah" supplied by a trumpet player skillfully applying a mute to his instrument's brass bell. The sound got very loud very quickly, sounding as close as though the folks were in our room. Actually, there were some words that we could make out. Four words, as a matter of fact. Four consecutive words that stood out, clear as a bell, among the other muffled words coming through that six-inch thick drywall barrier. Among the unintelligible vocalization we distinctly recognized "shut the fuck up" being repeated by both parties as though each monosyllabic word was intoned by a diction coach. The gist of the disagreement was unclear, but "shut the fuck up" that punctuated nearly every sentence rang out each time like a church bell on Sunday morning. As the week went on, we were awakened by this same muted dialogue from our neighbors every single morning. We were in a motel, so we knew we were on vacation. We could only assume that the "Shut The Fuck Up" Family (as we came to affectionately refer to them) were on vacation, as well. If this was how they behaved on vacation, we couldn't imagine what their interaction was like at home.

I'll show you a Laughing Place.

Years later, my wife, my young (at the time) son and I found ourselves in the Magic Kingdom in the summer — a particularly volatile time for stress and emotions and our extended family was no exception. My wife's brother and his wife were also along on this particular trip and we met up with them in the queue line for Splash Mountain. The line was unusually long and we were inching our way towards the actual ride entrance (which, if you've ever been to a Disney theme park, is nowhere in sight from this end of the line). With a park filled with people and a concentration of hot, sweaty, uncomfortable folks surrounding us, my brother-in-law and his wife broke into a very loud, very heated disagreement that very quickly blossomed into an angry and raw shouting match. Their caterwauls stopped passing groups in their tracks and elicited judging side looks from our fellow queue-members and we genuinely were afraid that the two of them would soon come to blows. (Seriously!) Suddenly, my sister-in-law spat out a final word and stormed off, disappearing into the crowd swarming in and around nearby Frontierland. My brother-in-law, looking forlorn and helpless (he's six-foot-four and was bedecked in a particularly gaudy Disney-themed shirt), asked his sister if she thought he should go after his spouse. This did not really require an answer and he reluctantly left the ride line in search of his wife and possible reconciliation. Although we were all staying in the same hotel, we never saw them again for the remainder of the week.

The scene of the crime

In 2009, we were told of an almost fist fight that was squelched by a quick and attentive Disney cast member. My family and I were finishing up our dinner at the Rose & Crown Pub in the United Kingdom pavilion in EPCOT. As Linda, our waitress for the evening, cleared our table of the dinner dishes, she made friendly chit-chat. Actually, she was quite friendly all evening. We seemed to have been one of the last guests remaining in the restaurant's dining room, as most other diners had moved to the outside patio that overlooks World Showcase Lagoon for an optimum view of the IllumiNations nighttime spectacle (which sadly ends on September 30, 2019 after nearly 20 years). We had marveled at the signature fireworks and lighting display many times before, so seeing it through the large glass windows of the dining room was just fine for us. Linda took a seat at our table and began to relate some "insider" stories of being a Disney cast member. She told us that she rarely waits tables and usually works the bar in the front part of the pub. One evening, she explained, two gentlemen were throwing back beers while their families were checking out the quaint offerings of the UK pavilion. It seems their intake of alcohol was more than they could handle and they began to get loud and unruly. In the heat of a disagreement, on of the men poked his finger a little too close to the other man's face. The pointee stood and uneasily leaned into his tormentor. Linda told us how she leaped over the bar and wedged her small frame between the two men and into harm's way, using her slight arms to separate them. "Hey," she shouted, "remember where you are, guys! Disney World! Y'know Mickey Mouse and all that!" Linda's efforts were successful and the two men left separately and under their own recognizance. She continued to tell us that this was only one of dozens of fights and near fights she witnessed during her employ with Disney.

So, if you are planning a trip to Disneyland or Walt Disney World.... remember two things: Try not to fight. But, if you feel the need to fight, make sure you know where your camera is. After all, are stress levels going to be high on family vacations? Of course they are. Is fighting in a Disney theme park anything new? Not at all.

It's a tale as old as time.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com