dead of night

I'd like to imagine that Orville Peck rode into town on a chestnut stallion, his well-worn duster flapping in the wind behind him. Flanked by his band mates, their various instruments strapped to the haunches of their respective steeds, Orville sat tall, gripping the horn of his saddle, his face obscured by his signature fringed mask, his gaze steely upon the hazy neon of the sign affixed to the Broad Street wall of the Boot & Saddle. In my imagination, that's how Orville Peck arrived to kick off his first tour as a headliner. But, I'm pretty sure he just pulled up in an Uber.

A few months ago, my son, a DJ on a local Philadelphia radio station, sent me a link to view a video. He's done this many times before, in an effort to expose me to new and "off the beaten path" music. I clicked the link and, with the opening twang of a big country guitar, was immediately transported to a stark landscape illuminated by harsh red light. And there was Orville, a curtain of white leather fringe covering his nose and mouth from beneath a black mask and wide brimmed ten-gallon hat. A mouth from which an ethereal voice emerged — equal parts Roy Orbison and Chris Isaak. But there was something dirty and a bit malevolent about the video. Something cheap and profane and grimy. 

I loved it.

Orville Peck came to Philadelphia to do an interview at the radio station where my son works. He strode into the building all decked out in his cowboy finest — mask and all. He answered the questions that were posed, although his answers seemed to suggest he had his tongue planted firmly in his cheek. He was engaging and polite and he posed for pictures with some staff members. He was mysterious and otherworldly. And he never broke character. And that's what Orville Peck is.... a character.

That night, my son and I went to see Orville at the Boot & Saddle, a tiny venue teetering on the border of Center City and South Philadelphia. The evening's performance had been sold out for weeks. We took a prime spot stage side and waited for Peck and his band to begin. From the darkened stage, that familiar twangy guitar announced the opening of "Dead of Night." The band then plowed though every tune featured on Pony, Peck's debut release. Lit by dim blue and red spots, he spun dark tales of heartbreak, drag queens, abusive relationships and odes to the seedy side of life. He was riveting, captivating and he had the room in the palm of his hand. He did, however, get playful and the mood briefly lightened when he and keyboardist Bri Salmena traded verses on the 1971 George Jones-Tammy Wynette duet "Something to Brag About." Orville ended his set with another cover, this one "Fancy," a sorrowful lament written by Bobbi Gentry, but made popular by Reba McEntire. And he never bothered changing the point of view or gender.

Afterwards, Orville met his fans and gleefully posed for pictures (including one with yours truly). He was gracious and appreciative and personable.

I can't predict how Orville Peck's career will progress. Will he become a huge star and sell out stadiums? Doubtful. Will his next album be as intriguing as his first? Who knows? Will he even be "Orville Peck" the next time he comes around? That remains to be seen. But, for the moment, was he an evening's worth of entertainment? You bet.

Mask and all.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

dirty lowdown

As you read this, I am sitting in a camp chair on the Camden Waterfront, enjoying the final day of an annual music festival — just the latest in a forty-plus year stretch of going to concerts. Here is a tale of my early concert-going days.

A day or so ago, Mrs. Pincus and I were in the car when our favorite radio station played a new song called "Radiator 110," by venerable singer/songwriter/guitarist William Royce Scaggs, more widely known by his prep school moniker: Boz.

Mrs. P smiled and bobbed her head to the music. "Have you heard this?," she asked. I replied that I had. "I like it.," she continued, explaining that she had always liked Boz Scaggs.

I, however, have never liked Boz Scaggs. I have never purchased a single one of his two dozen albums, including the two on which he served as guitarist and sometimes vocalist for The Steve Miller Band. I really have nothing against Mr. Scaggs. His voice is okay. His guitar playing is okay, too... I guess. The reason I don't like Boz Scaggs is stupid. But, in all honesty, has nothing to do with Boz Scaggs.

I have been a music lover since I was a child. When I was in grade school, my beloved Uncle Sidney gave me a stack of Beatles 45s that he "obtained" from a jukebox as part of the "sketchy" affairs through which he made a living. I spun those disks on the family hi-fi, mesmerized by the hypnotic yellow and orange Capitol Records label. Later, armed with some birthday money, I purchased my very first album - multi-Grammy winner "Tapestry" by Carole King. After buying more singles (including "Sugar Sugar" by The Archies and "Age of Aquarius" by The 5th Dimension), I went back to my old friends The Beatles and made their self-titled "White Album" my second album purchase. After that, my music obsession went full steam ahead. More albums and singles. Music magazines. Listening to songs on the radio. But one part of my love for music was missing. Concerts. But, at the time, going to a concert never occurred to me. My parents regularly attended shows at the nearby Valley Forge Music Fair. My mom went to see Sergio Franchi, the charismatic Italian tenor, every time he performed at the famed Latin Casino nightclub in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Once, we even went as a family to "the Latin" to see crooner Bobby Darin just a month before he passed away. I remember an older cousin passing on my brother's Bar Mitzvah, opting instead to see Jefferson Airplane at the Philadelphia Spectrum. My brother went to concerts, too... I suppose. At the time, I just thought it was something that older people did. That is, until a couple of classmates told me they were going to see Elton John. "What do you mean 'going to see'?" I questioned, "Do you know him? How are you going to see him?" They clarified their statement. They had bought tickets to his upcoming concert in Philadelphia. Suddenly, a light bulb went off in my 14 year-old head! "You can do that?," I thought. I now saw things from a new perspective. Maybe I was an "older person," and the time has come for me to go to a concert. 

When I got home from school, I scoured the Philadelphia Bulletin for concert listings, something I had never done before. I read that shock-rocker Alice Cooper was bringing his malevolent Welcome to My Nightmare Tour for a stop at the Spectrum in my hometown. I had — and loved — the "Welcome to My Nightmare" album. I asked my mom for permission to buy a ticket (a whopping six dollars of savings I earned from hawking pretzels at a busy intersection in Northeast Philadelphia). When she agreed, I asked if she could chauffeur a few friends and me to the show. My mom — a sympathetic rocker herself — conceded. On April 25, 1975, I found myself in a darkened Spectrum among a throng of frenzied fans watching a tuxedoed and mascaraed Mr. Cooper execute a Busby Berkeley-style chorus line, flanked by six-foot tall black widow spiders. He also executed a giant menacing cyclops. It was well worth the entire six bucks.

I was bitten by the concert bug. I wanted — nay, needed — to go to another as soon as possible. Granted, funds were low. I'd have to sell a lot of street corner pretzels to buy another ticket at these steep prices. It wasn't until a year later that I attended my second concert: America with former Raspberries lead singer Eric Carmen opening the show. America? Really? "A Horse with No Name" America? After Alice Cooper? I know, I know. But I was desperate. I wanted to go to another concert so badly that I was willing to see the first band that I heard of. I knew some America songs from the radio, but I wouldn't number myself among their die-hard fans (Do they even have die-hard fans?) I bought a ticket — setting me back a full dollar more than my Alice Cooper admission! The show was... okay. Not awful. Just not spectacular. They sang a bunch of their familiar sunny, silly Top 40 hits. Actually, it was pretty forgettable, but it was a concert nonetheless. I redeemed myself later in 1976 by attending a concert by the ubiquitous Elton John, touring in support of his "Rock of the Westies" album, an album that, despite the inclusion of the achingly putrid "Island Girl," would become my favorite Elton John release. 

With three shows under my belt, I was now an official "concert veteran." I eagerly participated in those regular high school "concert conversations." (Who have you seen? Oh I saw them. They were great!) I was constantly planning and deciding which would be my next concert. So were my friends. 

My friend Hal knew a guy named Mike. Although the word didn't exist five decades ago, Mike was — what you would now call — a "frenemy."  I knew him, but I didn't particularly like him. He was loud and overbearing and one of those people who was an expert on everything.  But, he was Hal's friend, so I put up with him. One day, I was at Hal's house and we were listening to records. I put on my copy of Fleetwood Mac's "Rumours." I wasn't a fan of the band, but it was an album that everyone had. Plus, if you were a 16 year-old male in 1977, Stevie Nicks was the shit! While we listened, Hal noticed, in the newspaper, that Mick Fleetwood and company were coming to Philadelphia in a month or so. We decided we would go and, since Mike was there, we felt obliged to invite him along. Mike had never been to a concert before. He was obviously excited by the idea, but tried to hide his excitement behind a shield of forced, cool indifference. It was pretty annoying. Exactly the thing I didn't like about Mike.

The night of the concert rolled around. Hal, Mike and I rode the bus and then the imposing Broad Street Subway to the South Philadelphia venue. Mike was so ecstatic, one would have thought we were headed to an audience with the Queen of England. He yammered on with unsubstantiated authority about the location of our seats (in a venue he had never visited) and the band (whose albums he didn't own) and — due to his limited concert and music experience — repeated himself several times. The show itself was good. Kenny Loggins opened the night, followed by a substantial hit-filled set by Fleetwood Mac. Strangely, they skipped "Don't Stop," despite its inclusion on the playlist of every radio station in the country. At the show's conclusion, Mike picked up his non-stop monologue where he had left off, only now, as the veteran of a single concert, he was an expert. He sang wrong lyrics to songs he had just heard, awkwardly fitting them into tuneless melodies. It was maddening.

During the next week at school, Mike cornered me in a hallway as I was retrieving some books from my locker. "Hey!," he began. Was he initiating a conversation with me? He was Hal's friend, not mine. What does he want? I thought. 

"Yes?" I replied. 

"You wanna go see Boz Scaggs?," Mike asked. Why was he asking me? Oh right! I'm his concert buddy now. Shit! I rolled my eyes. 

"What?," I said, hoping for a little clarification. 

"The Scaggs show. You wanna go see Scaggs?," he elaborated, narrowing his eyes, cocking his head and forcing an air of coolness about himself, like he had been to hundreds of concerts. It wasn't working. He looked and sounded like an idiot. And "Scaggs?" What the hell was that? Why does he keep saying that? Who was he trying to impress? Me, I suppose. 

"Uh, no," I answered, "I'm not a big fan of Boz Scaggs." He looked dejected, but tried to maintain his stupid "cool." It was apparent that Mike had been bitten by the concert bug as well and wanted to see another concert as soon as possible... even if it was a performer with whom he was not familiar. (At least I held out for America, a band from whom I could name a number of songs.) 

"Awright, I'll see if someone else wants to see Scaggs." His voice trailed off as he walked away. Finally, I wouldn't have to hear him say "Scaggs" again.

So, there. That's it. That's the stupid reason I don't like Boz Scaggs. Because Hal's friend Mike ruined him for me. Even if I had the notion to give Boz a second chance and another listen —  in my head, I'd only hear Mike saying "You wanna go see Scaggs?" Ugh. That was forty years ago! Some things stick with you forever. No matter what you do, you just can't shake 'em.

My apologies, Boz. Blame Mike.

This is a very unusual photograph. It was taken in 1977.
I was not friendly with anyone in the picture... especially Mike, who is second from the left. That's me in the center.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard

After much preparation, we had another yard sale at Chez Pincus this past weekend. In the days and weeks prior, a diligent and determined Mrs. Pincus gathered loads of items that she deemed no longer worthy of the Pincus Home Collection. The various household cast-offs were combined with a selection of surplus items from my wife's eBay store and the whole lot lay in silent repose until early Saturday morning, when we dragged every last piece out on to our front lawn and newly-paved driveway, where we arranged everything into a pleasing display. Pleasing enough to entice someone to get this stuff out of my life once and for all.

The weather was on our side that day and the crowd was fairly steady, thanks to (no lie!) three hundred signs we stapled onto nearly every utility pole in our neighborhood. Mrs. P, wrapped up in her "I mean business" change apron, performed a nimble retail ballet, as she flit from one customer to another, answering questions, making change and — cha-CHING! — moving merchandise.

During the course of the day, I mostly just sat on my ass and watched. After emptying my living room and dining room of the piles of assorted "treasures," I decided that the actual sale was best left handled by my spouse, with her sharp business prowess and sweet interpersonal skills — two qualities in which I am sorely deficient. So, I sat. With a big cup of coffee in my hand, I parked myself on the edge of my porch and sat.

Look at this stuff...

Although I was content to sit silently, I knew that, since this was my house, I would be called upon to answer some questions about the items strewn about my property. So, unavoidably, I fielded an assortment of some of the most idiotic questions and comments. One man strolled up our front walkway, stopping before a narrow wooden bin filled with the remnants of our once-proud record collection. He withdrew a copy of a 1997 greatest hits release by the British ska band Madness. He held the album up for me to see. "Madness.," he chuckled as he read the printing on the cover, as though I couldn't read it myself. I offered a cockeyed, uncomfortable smile and thought, "I know, idiot, it's my fucking album." The man replaced the album, turned around and walked away.

...isn't it neat?

Another fellow picked up a glossy photo of Dire Straits guitarist Mark Knopfler that my son had decided he could live without. This man, as if mimicking the "Madness" guy, showed the photo to me and pointed to it. "Mark Knopfler.," he said, and then put it back in with our album inventory and strolled away.

Wouldn't you think...

Since moving into his own house, my son has slowly (very slowly) begun to dismantle and pare down a twenty-plus year collection of stuff that had accumulated in his former bedroom. He has taken some mementos to his house, while others have been discarded and still others have been offered at one of our previous yard sales. One of those items, an acoustic guitar, was now perched on the cement steps that lead to our front porch. There were several inquiries about the instrument — an introductory model from the good folks at Sam Ash Guitars. One older gentleman in a tie-dyed shirt and a long, gray ponytail fastened with a schmatta to keep it in place, asked the price of the guitar and if he could inspect it. My son grabbed the zipper pull on the case and traced the zipper all the way around the shape of the bag until the guitar was revealed. "I haven't played it in a long time.," my son said as he removed the guitar from the case and handed it to the potential customer. The man peered down his nose at the instrument. "Looks like the bridge is gettin' pulled up by the strings. I can adjust the strings fer ya.," he said, his spindly fingers daintily turning the tuning pegs, his eyes under his furrowed brow focused on the oxidated strings, "I guess it hasn't been played in a while." My son rolled his eyes and whispered to me, "Didn't I just say that?" The man asked, "What're ya askin' fer it?" My son replied, "A hundred including the case. Interested?" "Naw," the guy answered, "I'll adjust the strings for you, though. Got any other guitars?" My son frowned with disgust and whipped the guitar out of the guy's hands and zipped it back up into the case.

...my collection's complete?

In preparation for this sale, I went through my closet and whittled my wardrobe down to just the clothes I regularly wear. I made several large stacks of pants and jeans that I haven't worn in years or no longer fit me or both. The always-enterprising Mrs. P suggested we should put them out at the yard sale rather than just donating them to a local old clothing drop-off box. So, a bunch of my clothes now sat beside a bundle of bent snow shovels and a tall, narrow set of Ikea CD storage shelves that survived our flooded basement. Much to my surprise, a few men furiously unfolded and examined my jeans, each selecting several pairs for purchase at two bucks a pop. While I was happy to sell them, I felt it a bit unnerving that some dudes are now gonna be walking around my neighborhood wearing my pants. Pretty creepy, if you really think about it

What the guys go crazy for.

Throughout the course of the morning and afternoon, I think more people asked about the beautiful set of connected wooden auditorium seats that we have on our front porch. My wife found them in an antique store. They were rescued from an elementary school in Atlanta, Georgia (...or so we were told. Great antiques must have a great story attached to them) and ended up at our home. We did our best to block the chairs with boxes and empty bins, but still, people craned their necks for a better view and asked, "Oooh! How much are the movie theater seats." I offered the same answer to all, "They are bolted to the porch. If you want 'em, you have to buy the house."

Overall, our sale was a success and we moved a lot of unwanted items out of our house. We held on to some things, storing them on our back porch for one more public offering at a future yard sale. Some items, however, had overstayed their welcome and were amassed in the back of my wife's SUV for donation and eventual tax deduction. But, the real lesson learned here is: "Boy, people are strange."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com