hesitation blues

Right around the week of Christmas, I accompanied my wife on her regular late-day run to the post office. I had a day off from work (one of those "use-it-or-lose-it" days that all seem to clump together at the end of the calendar year) and I was getting a little bored with watching reruns of  Match Game from 1974. Most everyone on the panel — Tom Bosley, Brett Somers, Charles Nelson Reilly, Richard Dawson — was dead and I had had it with their lame and dated double entendres about Dumb Dora. I was looking for a good excuse to get out of the house. So, when Mrs. P offered to pick me up on the way to drop off a load of pre-Christmas shipments from her eBay store, I jumped at the chance.

We found a parking spot at the post office and I helped my wife carry the shipments, now stuffed awkwardly into large tote bags, inside. Since they were all pre-paid, thanks to eBay's print-at-home system, we merely dropped the bags off at the front counter, sidestepping the queue line, and waited for a postal clerk to collect, empty and return our bags. I, however, needed stamps, so I got into line. Mrs. P. went off to choose a greeting card from the small Hallmark concession relegated to a lonely corner of the post office service area.

A man, several customers behind me, was trying unsuccessfully to get Mrs. P's attention. "Susan, right?," he loudly questioned. Mrs. Pincus looked up and tried to identify the man, while attempting to conceal a puzzled expression. Instead, he identified himself. He was the father of a boy that was a student in my wife's class when she taught pre-school nearly a lifetime ago. The fact that he was able to recognize her after all these years (and it is many years), is a testament to her youthfulness. I still maintain that my wife looks exactly as she did the day I met her. I, on the other hand, have aged considerably and not with any particular grace. 

Mrs. P politely asked how he is and how his children are. And this guy launched into a deeply personal ramble about ill-feelings among members of his family. About how there was resentment and animosity between his sons' spouses and their mother (this man's wife). He elaborated on scenarios that should have remained within the private lives of only those members of his immediate family and those personally affected... not a bunch of people waiting to buy stamps and pick up registered letters.

When we finished at the counter, the man met us at the exit door, stepping aside so as to continue his uncomfortable conversation. As he finished up his convoluted personal tale, he half-heartedly asked if we have children. My wife proudly offered information about our son, a DJ on a local public radio station. The man, whose head sported a knit cap embellished with an embroidered "Hot Tuna" patch, interrupted Mrs. P's sentence to begin a new rambling about The Grateful Dead. Using my son's radio station as a segue, he reminisced about a decades-gone-by broadcast allegedly featuring the Dead playing songs for a dollar-a-minute as a station fundraiser. My wife and I covertly exchanged glances, silently acknowledging that this story was complete fabrication. Still going off on a tangent, he expounded on the various Hot Tuna shows he has seen over the years, emphasizing his close relationship with founding band members Jorma Kaukonen and Jack Casady. He went into excruciatingly minute detail about going backstage and delivering a camera and talking to Jorma's wife. He paused several times to confirm that we were indeed familiar with Hot Tuna, their origins as an offshoot of Jefferson Airplane, their contributions to the world of meandering hippie-space rock and Jorma Kaukonen himself. His story was endless and disjointed and pointless. He held us, though, positioning himself so as to block our access to the door. He needed to finish this saga and, as far as his captive audience was concerned, we needed to hear it to the end! His description rattled on aimlessly for what seemed like another twenty minutes until Mrs. P glanced at her non-existent wristwatch and announced, "Sorry to cut you off, but we have an appointment to get to." He halted midway through a sentence about Native American jewelry (I don't know how that subject breached this one-sided conversation). We smiled and quickly said our goodbyes, inching towards the door.

We scurried to our car, hoping to outrun our loquacious captor. Behind us, though, we still heard him saying something about some long-closed venue and some long-ago performed concert. Mrs. P gunned the engine and we made our getaway.

I often wonder who listens to radio stations with a "classic rock" format. You know, the ones that repeat the same fifteen songs from the middle 1970s. Hang around the post office at closing time. You'll find out.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

down in the tunnels, trying to make it pay

"Buscar" is a Spanish verb that means "to seek.*" It evolved into "busker," a term for street performance for gratuities. You know, those guys you see on the corner in high traffic areas, a well-worn acoustic guitar slung across their midsection, passionately singing on their cement stage. Sometimes they accompany themselves on a beat-up violin or even bang rhythmically on an inverted plastic bucket. But they are always sporting an overturned hat or similar receptacle with which to gather small monetary donations from passersby.

A lot of famous people launched their careers by busking. As a child, B.B. King (then known by his real name Riley) played the blues on his guitar on the streets of Mississippi. While busking in Spain in 1962, young Rod Stewart was arrested for vagrancy and deported back to his native England. Tracy Chapman was an active busker in Cambridge, Massachusetts, while she attended Tufts University. Folk-punk pioneers The Violent Femmes were busking outside a theater in Milwaukee when James Honeyman-Scott of The Pretenders asked them to come in and play a set before his band took the stage.

Since I commute to work by train, I pass through the massive Suburban Station in Philadelphia twice daily. I routinely see a familiar parade of buskers both on the busy center city streets and in the train station itself. Despite the early hour of my arrival, I see a smattering of violinists, cellists and flutist set up in remote corners of the station. They feverishly draw their bows across those taut catgut strings or delicately blow into their respective mouthpieces. Judging by the amount of money accumulated in their hats (or cigar box or whatever), they have been at it since before the sun rose that morning. I've seen solos, duos and trios of velvety voices doo-wopping their way though a classic tune to the delight of the small audiences gathered in a semicircle around them. I've heard the unlikely combination of banjo and trumpet or harmonica and accordion playing harmoniously together or discordantly fighting for attention just a few feet away from each other.

There are some genuinely talented individuals singing on the streets and in the train station. I've heard voices and musicianship that rival — or even surpass — some that I've paid to see on the stages of some of the city's bigger venues.

Then there's this guy.

I see him nearly every day, though not always in the same spot. Sometimes, he's in the narrow walkway, blocking the path of customers exiting the Au Bon Pain. Sometimes he's in the cold, urine-reeking vestibule that leads up to the street level. Sometimes, he's hidden in the dark, vacant, tiled corner that seems forgotten in some renovation plan. That's the spot he seems to like best, because it's there that he plies his typical — and typically strange — performance. Seemingly oblivious to any potential audience, he faces the wall and angrily strums his splintered acoustic guitar. His deep, throaty voice ricochets off of every single surface, creating a malevolent, unpleasant sound. It is not the least bit musical, just a sound. His eyes are obscured by dark glasses, giving him a frightening and unapproachable appearance. He paces erratically like a caged animal, spitting out familiar lyrics to classic rock songs, although he has chosen to realign them along nearly unrecognizable melodies. Hearing only bits of song phrases as I hurry to catch my train, I've wracked my brain trying to identify the song in question, only to have it hit me twenty minutes later — the garbled musical refrain throwing off the familiarity of the lyrics.

I have never seen a dime in his upended hat. I have never seen him acknowledge a single passerby. I have only seen him howl his unintelligible versions of Lennon and McCartney compositions (at least that's what I think they were) directly into the grimy marble tiles of the train station, in a manner reminiscent of a troubled man practicing primal scream therapy, not one attempting to entertain an audience.

If walls could talk...

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

*The word "buscar," in Spain, now refers to prostitutes.

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'm gonna add some bottom

Uncontrollable circumstances have forced a friend of mine to seek out a new bass player for his band. He decided to take the "place an ad" route, so he turned to Craig's List, the online one-stop shop for all things everything. My father used to say, "If you put your phone number in the newspaper, every nut in the world will call you." My father's prophetic warning still rings true in the Internet age, except emails have now replaced phone calls. However, nuts are perennial. So, Sly* placed this ad (The ads have been edited for privacy - JPiC):

Formed in late 2011, heavily into '60s soul/northern soul/mod/garage sounds, like Booker T. and the MGs, Small Faces, The Kinks, Georgie Fame, etc. Lineup is Hammond organ/elec. piano, guitar, bass, drums. Songs are almost a 50/50 split between instros and vocals.
We're all 'family guys' with kids, jobs, houses, etc. but we make time for this because we love it so much. Rehearsals are weekly in *******, usually weeknight evenings, gigs are 1-3 times/month, local and regional.
Someone with the tightness/groove of Duck Dunn (Booker T and the MGs), the power and joy of Ronnie Lane (Small Faces), and the cool detachment of Pete Quaife (Kinks). Background vocals would be a plus. We try to do 3-part harmonies, so if you're a good high-harmony shouter, that'd be cool.
We do try to put on a 'show', so image/energy definitely has its place. Other obvious requirements like reliable gear, transportation, etc. kind of go without saying.
 If interested, please get back to us and we'll set something up. Thanks.

and, man oh man, did he get a reply!

Yo,
If PRO LEVEL is what you're looking for, I just MAY BE the one for you !!! ODDLY ENOUGH I'm just a block or two from you, below Spring Garden, and between 9th and 10th Streets, and used to live in Fishtown [a Philadelphia neighboorhood - JPiC] (used to watch "G-Love" walkin' around the hood). I have opened up for James Brown at "Jam On The River" in Philadelphia for 10,000 or so people, and I have done gigs where just one or two people have shown up (I think we've ALL been through that). I was the bassist with the Dead End Kids, hard rock band (the former"Kings of Wildwood") for awhile, and everything in between. PLAYING is my MAIN THING, but I DO like to see A LITTLE something ($) come out of it. Some of my 10-30 amps & axes are in the pawn shop, but I can always get them out, if the need arises. I've BEEN AROUND, but was told I was the most dynamic player with Dead End Kids, by a reliable source. If you know ANYTHING about them, you know this is a TALL ORDER......... Anyway. If you feel like givin' me a shout,call (***) ***-****. As of JUST NOW, myphone minutes are down to two (2), but I'm tryin'to get the dumb-ass phone company, to realize that my debit card ACTUALLY DOES have money on it !!! Have my own wheels, gear, etc.
Talk to you soon,
Dave

Sly rolled his eyes and lamented, "This is why I absolutely loathe placing ads for musicians."  But, bass-playin' Dave wasn't finished. Thirty minutes later, he added a post-script to his initial (tirade? ramble?) whatever-you-like-to-call-it. It seems that if he wasn't getting a steady gig out of this, he would at least try to sell a guitar to make the whole endeavor worth his while.:

ALSO - I'm sellin' my Les Paul, with an asking price of $30,000. I DID have it on craigslist, but got "flagged" twice, POSSIBLY for mentioning that Slash was one of the potential buyers. Not REALLY sure why, but the money should NOT be a problem, once this is taken care of. I keep getting 5 calls in the same number of days, and then it's OFFLINE !!! Mind if I stop by. If I do it NOW, I could be back in time to eat. OTHERWISE, I could do it after 6................
On 5/19/14, Dave wrote: > P.P.S. - Sorry for the bad "space bar" on this keyboard. Many of the > words arejammed together "cause the bar can't "jam"..............

But wait! Dave still had more to say, despite no acknowledgement whatsoever from Sly. Two days after first contact, Sly received this:

“Hey, just one more thing. I don't think it's FAIR to judge one person just because another, who had ONE thing in common, turned out to be a bad choice. You may miss out on the VERY GUY you need in order to make things WORK, long term. I DID TELL YOU that I stay OUTSIDE the facility. HOWEVER I worded it before, this is precisely because I DON"T LIKE the people who stay in there. Also. I don't necessarily think your guy "turned into" a junkie. People who do that stuff lie about it all the time. It's pretty much the only constant thing about them. He most liikely just failed to tell you about it until the issue became unavoidable. Even if this IS what happened, it just shows a weak character for someone to PICK UP that kind of behavior, just because 40% or more (MY estimation) of the people around them do so. I also doubt this guy was doing the kind of work I did when he became homeless. There are basically two categories of people in there (notice I said "there", not "here"). Your bums in general, ne'er do wells, ex-cons,& junkies. On the other hand there are those who had a chink in their armor, as far as luck is concerned and who get out as soon as possible. I'm quite sure you remember my stating I was only there as long as required to be eligible for a program through which I can get out and STAY OUT. It would be POINTLESS in THIS ECONOMY, to just make a run for it, hoping in vain for work without making SURE it's going to workout. They make you WAIT nearly 6 months beforeyou're eligible for ANYTHING and then they expect you to take whatever burger flipper or WHATEVER jobis available,WHETHER OR NOT you can support yourself with it.
All the best,
Dave
P.S.- Minutes are out AS OF NOW,,but will likely be back on shortly,,as customer service is too stupid to know that my debit card has money in it. Unless it'sanother Target type scheme.”
Anyway. If you reconsider,let me know. I did not seeanything from you in my Inbox.but did not bring my glasses,and haven'tchecked it all. Just thought these ideas were important to get across and WILL LOOK to see if you sent anything. They call me "Lightning" in the studio. I'm a very fast learner and have the reputation ofbeing the BEST in any location in which I play. Sorry you got a bad taste in your mouth from that "other guy", but I really have no control over that,do I? You must be getting a lot of calls or are not quite sure with whoever you have oryou would not let another Wednesday pass by without hooking up with SOMEONE.

Sly re-read the ad he placed and finally emailed Dave, saying:

I think you may be replying to the wrong ad.

Dave responded:

Oh. Yeah, I guess.

Don't do drugs, kids. And stay in school.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* you remember Sly, don't you?

you get your kicks from just driving me down

Goddamn you, Bruce Springsteen. You broke my heart.

Yeah, yeah, I know I was a bit skeptical when my brother, upon returning from that intimate show at the Widener University Field House in 1975, gushed about your incredible marathon performance. Sure, my brother called you "Springstein," but he was thoroughly taken by your energy and exuberance. Later, when my brother brought home a copy of Born to Run, I still wasn't sold.

But I was intrigued and I listened again. This time something suddenly clicked... and I was hooked.

I bought Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ and The Wild, The Innocent and The E Street Shuffle and I was blown away. There were lyrics that rose above the bubble gum pop I was accustomed to. There was music that transcended the basic guitar and drums of other current bands. You sang with heartfelt compassion, speaking as a voice of the "everyman." Your jubilation was exhibited in rockers like "Rosalita," evoking vivid visions of street gangs and young love. The gentle poetry of "Sandy" was both chilling and earnest. I revisited Born to Run with a new outlook. I rediscovered epics like "Jungleland" as mini-masterpieces of combined story and melody. I had become a rabid and loyal fan.

I saw your show at Philadelphia's Spectrum with my friend Sam the night that John Lennon was murdered. Sam and I had slept out all night for tickets. We were unaware of the terrible event unfolding outside The Dakota in New York City. You were giving your all onstage for the fist-pumping faithful... and you had them in the palm of your hand. You had a difficult time performing the next evening after finding out about the death of one of your heroes and inspirations. But you went on, even paid tribute with "Twist and Shout" as the evening's encore.

Then came Born in the USA and nothing would ever be the same.You were rocketed to super-stardom. The album yielded an unprecedented seven singles. But gone were the gritty, introspective compositions. Instead, you presented a boastful, flag-waving bravado that departed from everything I had come to love about you and your music. The next victim of the "New and Improved Bruce," was the spontaneity. Everything seemed calculated and rehearsed, gearing toward the biggest possible commercial impact, the most "bang for the buck." I saw two, non-consecutive shows on the Born in the USA tour. They were stiff, over-rehearsed and identical, right down to the stories and dramatic pauses — all performed as though it was a play.

And then you did the unthinkable! You brought your wife into the band! Didn't you learn anything from Paul McCartney or your idol, John Lennon?

Then came Lucky Town and Human Touch, the forgettable simultaneous releases, followed by twenty years of some of the sorriest shit I have ever heard put to record. Uninspired, cookie-cutter compositions all carefully groomed to fit to the rockstar character that "Bruce Springsteen" had become. You're telling me that the same guy who wrote the tender "Incident on 57th Street" also wrote the novelty bullshit "57 Channels and Nothin' On"? You were believing your own press and fancying yourself the elder statesman of American rock music.You became a brand, like McDonald's or Coca-Cola. You became what you rebelled against. And you were quite convincing to your blind followers.

And now, you dare release the dreadful High Hopes, a throwaway compilation of covers and outtakes featuring phoned-in guitar work by an out-of-place Tom Morello and exploitative appearances by the late Clarence Clemons and Danny Federici. This is easily your laziest effort to date.

Bruce, Bruce, Bruce.... I gave you six years of unwavering adoration and how to you repay such loyalty? You shit all over it on your way to the bank.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

itchy chicken

 

As a pre-Halloween treat, Southern Culture on the Skids — the trailer-park pride of Chapel Hill, North Carolina — and masked guitar slingers Los Straitjackets (as well a veteran garage rockers The Fleshtones) brought their "Mondo Zombie Boogaloo" Tour to Philadelphia's beautiful World Cafe Live last Sunday evening.

Boasting one of the coolest band names in music, Southern Culture on the Skids formed in 1983 as the self-proclaimed purveyors of "toe sucking geek rock." While the radio waves were jammed with the likes of synthesizer-heavy New Wave, SCOTS were pumping out their inimitable brand of Southern-fried surf or countrified R & B ... or a reasonable combination of the two. The band is comprised of guitarist-songwriter Rick Miller, (who looks more at home holding a can of PBR than his beat-up vintage Danelectro), along with bee-hived bassist Mary Huff and stand-up drummer Dave Hartman. I stumbled across the down-home trio with their 1995 release Dirt Track Date, not knowing that I had missed four albums and some EPs over the previous few years. My then 8-year-old son, always on the outskirts of mainstream music, was even digging their guitar-driven twang. By the time their follow-up CD, Plastic Seat Sweat, came out in 1997, my boy was adding their songs to a playlist that he was compiling for his Bar Mitzvah. Bubbie and Zayde would never be the same.

I've seen Southern Culture on the Skids many times over the years and , while their live show is an upbeat raucous celebration, it very rarely strays from its formulaic basics. Certain songs have become live show staples, as well as the order in which they are performed. I'm not knocking this agenda, I'm merely saying that one knows what to expect from a SCOTS concert. Mary will check her makeup, pluck her bass and deflect catcalls from the male members of the crowd. Audience members will be invited to the stage to join the band in a little "Camel Walk"-ing. Rick will relate a road-weary tale of the tour in his folksy drawl.

And chicken will be thrown.

Track 7 from the aforementioned Dirt Track Date is the notorious "Eight Piece Box," and it has become a fan favorite. Southern Culture's concert rider, I can only assume based on the regular appearance of the tune in the set list, must include a standing supplication for the venue to provide a bucket's worth (if that's a standard unit of measure?) of fresh fried chicken - Southern or otherwise. So, as the band is tearing through such crowd-pleasers as "Voodoo Cadillac" and "Soul City, " the unmistakeable smell of batter-dredged and deep-fried poultry fills the air, alerting the faithful as to the identity of the next number and giving fair warning to veterans of past shows. To the uninitiated, now's the time to take cover, because as Rick is picking out the opening riff, he's also flinging those breaded chicken carcasses in a high arc, above the spotlights, where they will rain down upon the crowd in a heavy, greasy fowl barrage. What is a pleasant four minutes and two second song duration can be quite unpleasant for some. I have been attending concerts for nearly forty years and I have dodged a lot of foreign objects that have been hurled either from the stage or from the audience. Fried chicken, I can say with some amount of confidence, is unique to Southern Culture on the Skids shows.

"I'm snackin' all night/
It's all right all right"

My son was DJing on stage before the show and between each of the three bands' sets. As each act readied themselves to play, my son ducked into a backstage area and soon joined me and Mrs. Pincus in the standing audience. As each set drew to completion, he'd stealthily appear in the stage wings prepared to continue spinning tunes until the next band was up. Towards the end of Southern Culture's performance, my son sent a photo to me via text message. When my cellphone vibrated, I clicked to view to picture he had snapped from his backstage vantage point. From what I could tell, it was a stainless-steel, commercial restaurant container filled with fried chicken. I knew what was coming. Sure enough, within seconds, Rick Miller was asking dancers to come on up to the stage. The sound of an electric guitar mimicking chicken clucks got the dancers a-wigglin' and the Southern-prepared fowl was distributed among the stage invitees. Soon the fried chicken that I had just seen so calmly on my phone was flying through the darkened venue. In past shows, I was agile enough to evade the crispy projectiles. I wasn't as lucky this time. A young lady in full zombie makeup (it was a Halloween show) was dancing alongside Mary Huff. Keeping time with Mary's hip sways, the zombie girl was winging chicken parts into the crowd with the velocity of Nolan Ryan. People were flinching and cowering with true fear for their well-being — myself included. Suddenly, my right shoulder exploded in a hot burst of a secret blend of eleven herbs and spices. I've been hit! I thought of myself as a young GI shivering in a foxhole as enemy ammunition whizzed above my head. A large, semi-transparent sheen of grease spread across the sleeve of my white shirt, accented by a few stray crumbs of fat-browned flour. The culprit lay at my feet on the beer-soaked floor — twisted and limp, missing a few thin lines of cooked skin. Immediately, I thought I had had a target on me with instructions to "Aim for the vegetarian!"

I cleaned my shirt off with a foil-wrapped WetNap I had in my jacket pocket. I laughed at the absurdity of the situation and took it in stride. I had seen Southern Culture on the Skids before, but this time I was just unable to dodge the pullet.

(All puns intended. - JPiC)

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I just wanna bang on the drum all day

I don't play a musical instrument and neither does Mrs. Pincus. So, what were we doing in Guitar Center, a local outlet of a chain of music stores? We were buying a birthday gift for Mrs. P's cousin's little boy who is a budding ?uestlove, Neil Peart or (God forbid) Ringo Starr. And, what store won't we ever set foot in again? That's right, Guitar Center.

When we received an invitation to the four-year-old's birthday party, Mrs. P — the Queen of unique and thoughtful gifts — decided on a cool pair of drumsticks. She had seen the youngster pounding away on a small drum kit in some videos posted by his mom on Facebook. I thought it was cool too, but I hadn't been in a music store since the last time I took my son to get his guitar restrung and that was years ago (and that was at Sam Ash, Guitar Center's biggest competitor). 

My wife saw a pair of tie-dye decorated sticks on Guitar Center's website, but was disappointed when she discovered they were only available online. So, this afternoon, we drove out to Guitar Center to peruse the stock in search of a pair of of comparably cool sticks. We parked and entered the store. It was dimly lit. The walls were lined with guitars in every conceivable shape and size. A few long-haired dudes handled a few of the instruments. Just ahead of us was a separate room with a large sign reading "DRUMS" in metallic purple letters above the door. On the other side of the threshold, we were greeted by a goateed dude who offered assistance.

"We're looking for a pair of drumsticks for a four-year-old," my wife explained.

Evidently, this guy heard "Buddy Rich" instead of "four-year-old" and launched into a technical pitch as though we were newly-hired roadies and we were setting up the stage for the Newport Jazz Festival. When Mrs. P finally conveyed that she was shopping for a child, he provided a selection of drumsticks covered in glitter up to the silicone tips. As my spouse made her selection (the red and blue ones), the counter phone rang and the clerk dude excused himself to take the call. He "uh-huh"ed and "mm-hmm"ed for five minutes. Other customers wandered into the drum room as his phone conversation continued. Those same customers wandered out of the drum room as his phone conversation did not let up. Finally, my wife approached the counter and motioned to the clerk dude that she'd like to pay and get on with our lives.

Then things got strange.

He asked for a photo ID and information with which he could start a profile for their customer database. When she produced a credit card, he asked for additional identification. ("Oh, you don't have to take it out of your wallet. It's just for your own protection.," he said reassuringly.) Then he presented the receipt.

"Hang on to this," he insisted, "the girl at the front door needs to see it before you leave."

Sure enough, a young lady who resembled Chrissie Hynde circa 1982, blocked our path to the exit. "I just need to see that.," she said in a monotone as she reached for the receipt in my wife's extended hand. "Can I just check the bag, too.," the girl added. She scanned the contents of the bag — two sets of drum sticks and a baseball cap with a gold Zildjian logo above the bill. She confirmed that the items corresponded to the inventory listed on the receipt. She stamped the paper slip and, still expressionless, handed it back. "Have a good day." she said, as though it was an effort to say it. I quickly glanced around the store and noticed that a good amount of the staff were watching a good amount of the customers. Us included.

In the parking lot, we climbed into our car. "Well," my wife said, "their motto should be 'Guitar Center — where we ignore you then treat you like a criminal.' "

"I guess musicians are not to be trusted.," I replied.

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