welcome back my friends to the show that never ends

Greg Lake's
Bar Mitzvah 'do

I loved Emerson, Lake and Palmer... when I was 13. A friend from school introduced me to the 1973 progressive rock classic Brain Salad Surgery almost a year after its release. I remember sitting in my pal Bobby's bedroom, in front of his stereo, positively mesmerized by the otherworldly sounds emanating from the speakers. I was accustomed to the pop of The Jackson's Dancing Machine, Terry Jacks' clawingly sad elegy Seasons in the Sun, George McCrae's pre-disco Rock Your Baby and the inane "ooga-chucka"s of Blue Swede's take on Hooked on a Feeling. In comparison to the three-minute ditties I heard on the radio, Emerson Lake and Palmer were positively empyrean. Bobby also commented that he wanted to get his hair cut for his Bar Mitzvah in the style that Greg Lake sported in a photo included in the album package. But it was the music that got me hooked. I went right out and bought a copy of the album for my very own. 

I played my copy of Brain Salad Surgery over and over and over. I loved it! The songs spanned a variety of styles, although they all seemed to complement each other. There were ballads and traditional madrigals and even a bawdy skiffle tune. It was all capped off with an epic, three-part pseudo symphony, chockful of Keith Emerson's signature synthesizers, Greg Lake's soaring vocals and Carl Palmer's inventive percussion. 

But, alas, my interest in Emerson, Lake and Palmer was short-lived. In the Summer of 1974, I discovered Queen and there was no looking back. Freddie Mercury and company — in my limited teenage opinion — were the epitome of innovation and experimentation. By the time the 70s ended, Emerson Lake and Palmer had gone their separate ways and I was entering my new wave and punk phase of musical interest.

As a white male in his 60s, I grew up in what is now looked back upon as the "classic rock" era. Okay, maybe I'm on the young side of that era, but, still, I was in the thick of it. To be honest, I loathe the classic rock era, with only a few exceptions. I still like the stupid bubble-gum pop of one-hit wonders like Reunion and  Paper Lace (ahhhhh.... Paper Lace....!). But, I cringe at the reverence that "classic rock" unjustly thinks it deserves. Well, maybe not the music itself. I suppose it's the fans of classic rock. The unwavering, narrow-minded, opinionated cranks that just know that "classic rock" is the greatest music ever produced. The ones that angrily try to convince the members of subsequent generations that they should be listening to classic rock and the music from their actual youth is frivolous and unimportant. Of course, their campaign is bolstered by the regular parade of classic rock-era bands that trot themselves out for a national tour with one original member and a subsidy of recruited musicians who weren't yet born when the band in question was enjoying the adoration of their youthful fans. (I experienced this at a recent show I attended purely as a social experiment and to get a blog post out of it.)

"Is this bloody thing on?
C'mere and help granddad
with this, luv?"

A few days ago, I was mindlessly scrolling through the "Reels" on Facebook. Between the brief clips of stand-up comics, mouse-eared folks traipsing through Disneyland and cats climbing up curtains, the algorithm powers-that-be saw fit to stick in a promo video for an upcoming performance by.... um.... Emerson, Lake and Palmer. The video, shot from the unnatural angle of a nasal cavity examination featured an older man that I swear I just saw picking though low-fat yogurt in the refrigerated section at Aldi. In a weak and scratchy British accent, this bloke implored the viewer (in this case, me) to come see him at the historic Levoy Theatre in glorious Millville, New Jersey. He revealed that for an extra fifty bucks, you could participate in a  Q & A session, as well as pose for an exclusive photo with him and his band. It turns out this older gentleman with the thick-lensed glasses and gray crewcut was none other than Carl Palmer. The video looped again and he repeated the details of the performance by Emerson, Lake and Palmer. I was puzzled for a moment. After all, keyboard maestro Keith Emerson had taken his own life nearly ten years ago. Later the same year, vocalist/bassist Greg Lake (he of Bar Mitzvah-style hairdos) succumbed to pancreatic cancer at the age of 69. I got bad news for you, Carl. Your former bandmates ain't joining you in South Jersey... or anywhere else, for that matter.

Additional research showed that the performance — "An Evening with Emerson, Lake and Palmer" — would consist of  the 74-year old drummer flanked by two giant screens (in the promo video, Carl emphasized the enormity of the screens) showing decades old footage of Keith and Greg. Carl will be accompanying the film live on drums. For an extra fifty bucks — over and above your ticket price —  you can meet Carl face-to-face and possibly ask him: "Jesus, Carl.... what the fuck?" before they kick you out the door. That sounds like it's worth fifty bucks. Maybe you can also tell him to center himself better in the camera frame when he makes iPad videos. Y'know, before the venue door smacks you in the ass.

Look, I don't begrudge Carl Palmer (or Brian May or the guy from The Yardbirds who's not Eric Clapton or Jimmy Page or Jeff Beck) for wanting to earn a living. But do you really have to grab a buck at the expense of a dead and more popular bandmate? Is that the career path you had hoped for? If you ask Brian May, he'd confidently reply that "Freddie Mercury would have approved."

I guess Keith Emerson and Greg Lake are on board, too. Right, Carl?

www.joshpincusiscrying,com

happy together

I have to admit. The only reason I wanted to go to this show in the first place was my overwhelming desire to hear a 65-year old Susan Cowsill scream "...and spaghetti'd" in the closest approximation of her 10-year old self. Everything else was a bonus.

To be honest, concerts like these make me cringe and I have unabashedly railed against them for years. Every time I see an ad or promo for an upcoming show featuring the remnants of a once popular band from thirty (or longer) years ago, I will rhetorically question "Who goes to these shows?" Within the past few weeks, a bunch of creaky old men who were once the high-and-mighty Rolling Stones packed —packed, I tell you! — Lincoln Financial Field (the home of the Philadelphia Eagles). With tickets going for around a hundred bucks a pop, I still scratch my head and wonder: "Who goes to see The Rolling Stones in 2024?" The answer, apparently, is 67,000 people... in Philadelphia, at least. By the way, The Rolling Stones are down to two original members, although guitarist Ron Wood has been with them for nearly fifty years.

There are other bands currently waging tours — some even farewell tours. It's your last chance to catch 70s pop rockers Foreigner as they cross the country, waving "goodbye" to their legions (I guess?) of fans. But, be warned. The current incarnation of Foreigner is just singer Mick Jones and a band of guys who never played on a Foreigner album. It is my understanding that, due to health concerns, Mick Jones has missed the majority of dates on this tour. So, with ticket prices ranging from $40 to $95, this is essentially a Foreigner cover band. And, speaking of cover bands, Dead & Company, the Grateful Dead-ish collective who sort-of called it quits last summer, are back and trudging through a residency at Las Vegas's newest showplace The Sphere, much to the delight and obliviousness of Deadheads still holding on to the hope that Jerry Garcia will make a surprise appearance. (Spoiler alert: He won't.) Dead & Company guitarist John Mayer was 12 when the last Grateful Dead studio album was released.

That said, back in March, I bought to tickets to a show that goes against everything I stand for musically and is a reflection of everything I spent two paragraphs making fun of. And guess what? I don't care. The Happy Together Tour has been entertaining time-challenged music lovers for going on — get this — forty years! The line-up has varied over the years, but the concept has not. Headlined by 60s popsters The Turtles, The Happy Together Tour has featured a rotating collection of bands spanning the early 60s up to the middle 70s. The six bands included on each tour has something for every musical taste — providing that your musical tastes never evolved past the Nixon Administration. (For those of you too young to get that joke, Nixon was a President of the United states in the 1970s.) There are doo-wop holdovers, radio-friendly bubblegum one (or two)-hit wonders, pseudo-psychedelic hippies and a little bit of something in-between these specific genres. The two-hour-plus show allows for four songs from each group and a slightly extended set from The Turtles to cap things off.

This past Wednesday, Mrs. P (a somewhat reluctant Mrs. P) and I drove over to the nearby Keswick Theater to redeem our tickets and see what this thing was all about.

First off, my wife and I brought the age range waaaaaaay down. As I looked around, I covertly whispered to Mrs. Pincus: "Are we as old as these people?" Without even glancing up, she said: "Well, you are." I was fascinated! Mesmerized! Did I actually grow up listening to the same music as these people?  As folks filed in — slowly, very slowly — my wife spotted a fellow she recognized in the row in front of us. It was a funeral director from a prominent Philadelphia mortuary, Coincidentally, she had just run in to this guy at a funeral just a week or so ago. It was somewhat comforting knowing that he was in attendance... y'know.... just in case. And by the looks of the crowd, well, I wouldn't have been surprised if his services were employed on this evening.

Soon the lights lowered and the disembodied voice of national DJ Shadoe Stevens announced the evening's first guest — The Cowsills. The Cowsills enjoyed a surge of popularity for a few fleeting years in the fun-loving, carefree 1960s. With radio-ready hits like "The Rain, The Park and Other Things" (you know... "I love the flower girl..."), the politically-incorrect "Indian Lake" and their scrubbed-clean take on the counter-culture anthem "Hair," The Cowsills were the inspiration for TV's Partridge Family. Little Susan is now 65 and has had an pretty successful music career of her own. She performed and toured with Dwight Twilley as well as her own band The Continental Drifters with then-husband Peter Holsapple, late of the db's. She is a staple on the rich New Orleans music scene and can often be seen singing in one of the many clubs in the famed French Quarter. But, tonight she and her older brothers Bob and Paul are flashing back to a time when flower power was "a thing" and peace signs were flashed unironically. Original members Bill and Barry, along with Mom Barbara, have all passed away, The remaining siblings ripped through their hits, including an extended version of the Love, American Style theme song (ask your parents) and quickly cleared the stage for the next act.

Here's where thing started to get a little weird. Joey Molland was announced with a rundown of titles made popular by Beatles protégés Badfinger. A lanky fellow with long, gray tresses took the stage and launched into a barrage of familiar tunes, none of which were originally sung by this guy. The crowd didn't care. They knew the songs and they knew the words and they understood that this is the greatest music ever put to record and runs circles around anything thing that Justin Timberwolf or Billie Irish does. Joey is the last surviving member of the classic Badfinger line-up. In 1983, original bassist and song writer Tom Evans took his own life. The night before, he had a vicious, friendship-ending argument with Joey Molland over royalties from Badfinger's song "Without You," a tune covered by dozens of artists. Although he played on the original recording, Joey had absolutely nothing to do with the song's composition, yet he felt he was entitled to monetary compensation. Joey did not perform "Without You" in his set of four Badfinger songs.

After Joey and before a brief intermission, three guys in iridescent suits sang a quartet of familiar doo-wop-y songs though smiling faces. Identifying themselves as The Vogues, the trio consists of no original members. Tenor Royce Taylor joined the group in 1991, twenty-three years after the group's last charting hit. His bandmate, Troy Elich, joined the group in 2023. Their set evoked a lot of "Oh, I didn't know this was them" murmurs throughout the dimly-lit audience. But, they sang "Five O'Clock World" and everyone was happy.

When the place refilled after intermission, 60s hitmakers The Association reignited the crowd with an airy rendition of "Windy." Between songs, they cracked a few age-related, self-deprecating jokes before lighting up the place with "Never My Love," "Cherish" and an impossibly-accurate reading of "Along Comes Mary." They also reminded everyone that they kicked off the legendary Monterey Pop Festival in 1967. Well, not everyone. There are just two original members of The Association currently touring. Some audience members needed to be reminded of the impact the Monterey Pop Festival had on the 60s music scene. Later, those same folks needed to be reminded where they parked their cars.

Jay & The Americans were next welcomed to the stage. There is a Jay, but he's not that "Jay". He's not even that other "Jay." But he is a "Jay." Actually, those other, more famous "Jays" weren't really "Jay" either... but I digress. The Americans boast two original members from their hit-making heyday. Their current lead singer has a similar soaring vocal style as his predecessors. He was able to successfully recreate songs like "Cara Mia" and "This Magic Moment" (which may or may not be the same song) in such a way as to please the auditory limitations of the evening's audience. They ended with... maybe "This Magic Moment" again... I'm not sure.

As the night drew to its climax, what was left of The Turtles ambled out to the stage. The Turtles, best known for their sunshine-y, kind of humorous, ditties are down to one original member... and he's not even the lead singer. Also known as "Flo & Eddie," the duo that was the core of The Turtles, sang with Frank Zappa, T-Rex and Bruce Springsteen. They even provided songs for children's programming like Care Bears and Strawberry Shortcake. In 2018, Howard Kaylan (the "Eddie" of "Flo &...") was told by a doctor to stop touring in the wake of heart surgery. Mark Volman (the "Flo" of "...& Eddie) recruited Archies (yep, the cartoon band) vocalist Ron Dante to join The Turtles, as Volman had only provided backing vocals, limited percussion and wacky stage antics. Regardless of who was singing lead, this version of The Turtles wowed the crowd with "Elenore," "You Know She'd Rather Be With Me" and "It Ain't Me Babe," including a horribly-accurate Bob Dylan impersonation by Mark Volman in a raucous "bite the hand that feeds you" moment. Ron Dante was afforded a solo on "Sugar Sugar," with nary a mention of his other musical accomplishments over the decades. (He sang lead for The Cuff Links, provided lead vocals for various television show theme songs and produced the first nine Barry Manilow albums.) Of course, the set's coda was the title song of the tour — "Happy Together." The bouncy "bah-bah-bah"-driven tune brought the aged audience to its feet, happily joining in on the simple chorus upon instruction from the stage. And then, in a moment reminiscent of the final act of Disney's Enchanted Tiki Room or every M. Night Shyamalan movie, Volman and Dante invited the evening's performers back to the stage — one by one — to sing a few bars of one of the songs they sang in their set.... even though we were all here and it just happened an hour ago or less! The Cowsill siblings repeated the chorus of "The Rain The Park and Other Things," as Dante announced "THE COWSILLS!" Yeah! We know! We here here for them! That was us, remember? Each band came out in order of previous appearance, offered the Cliff Notes version of their big hit, and then segued back into "Happy Together." It was odd, to say the least. It was fun, to say the most.

The lights came up. The audience rose, some grabbing their canes or walkers or oxygen tanks, and shuffled out to the exit aisles. Mrs. Pincus, who admittedly had some trepidation about attending this event, was pleased. She had fun.

And I got a blog post out of it. As well as something else checked off my list.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

batches & cookies

I like cookies. Come on.... who doesn't like cookies? They are the all-time favorite afterschool, watching TV, ruin your dinner snack. They are easy to bake at home. They are easier to buy and bring home. I remember my mom would bake cookies from a recipe... until she started buying those ready-made tubes of Toll House cookie dough. Eventually, she abandoned the whole "baking" idea and just bought cookies in a package. My brother and I were just as satisfied. We didn't care where our cookies came from. As long as there were cookies in the house.

I was always partial to a brand of cookies called Mr. Chips from a small commercial bakery called Burry. Burry supplied the Girls Scouts with their wares for their annual cookie drive until the company's Girl Scout cookie division was purchased by ABC Bakers in 1989. The remainder of the company's operations were bought by Sunshine Baking. In their heyday, Burry's made some great cookies — Fudge Town, Mr. Chips and Gauchos. They also made Scooter Pies — a large, single serving concoction comprised of two graham cookies sandwiching marshmallow filling and covered with chocolate. They were good, but we didn't have them often, Mr. Chips, however — those were always present in the Pincus household. Every so often, other cookies would make an appearance in our kitchen. My mom liked Nabisco's Oreos. She also like Fig Newtons, which I always questioned their inclusion in the cookie category. They were — as far as little Josh Pincus was concerned — fruit cakes. And they were filled with a fruit that old people ate. I would sometimes eat the cake outside and toss the innards when the cake was completely consumed. Fig Newtons had a pretty funny and memorable commercial in the 70s, featuring character actor James Harder singing and dancing dressed as a giant fig. I loved the commercial, but not enough to get me to eat a fig. As an adult, I have changed my mind.

Cookies that made it to my house were sometimes purchased by the pound at a local bakery. They were dry, crispy things covered with jimmies ("sprinkles" to those of you outside of the Philadelphia area), chocolate chips (with the chips just applied to the surface of the cookie, not integrated into the cookie itself, unlike normal cookies). Some were filled with some sort of viscous jelly made from an unidentifiable fruit. I avoided those until the more colorful ones were gone. Then, if I really wanted a cookie, I'd choke a jelly-filled one down with an extra large glass of milk.

Sometime in the 90s, places like Mrs. Field's and The Original Cookie Company started popping up in malls. Cookies — once purchased in a package containing several dozen or by the pound at a local mom-and-pop bakery — were now brazenly being offered for sale by the each. One cookie! You could buy one cookie! It was certainly larger than the cookies bought in packages at the supermarket, but it was just a cookie. Soon, these places offered large cookie sandwiches, somewhat along the lines of the Scooter Pie. Two three-inch chocolate chip cookies were stuck together with a generous mound of frosting between them. These sold for a dollar or more which, frankly at the time, was unheard of! A cookie for a dollar? Ridiculous!

Last Saturday evening, Mrs. Pincus and I had dinner with my brother and my sister-in-law (His wife. Don't think anything weird is going on). The restaurant was in a shopping center filled with upscale, somewhat pretentious shops. One of those shops was a place called Dirty Dough, an unusual choice of name for a place that sells food. Dirty Dough offers a variety of "stuffed gourmet cookies." After a dinner that kept us late (we were talking about all sorts of things), we strolled over to Dirty Dough about fifteen minutes before they locked up for the night. The young lady behind the counter was informing the customer ahead of us of their limited offerings due to the late hour. We sort-of eavesdropped as she ran down the short list of available cookies, deciding that none of the flavor combinations appealed to us. We left, half-heartedly hoping to return in the future.

We headed to a Crumbl location we passed on our way to the restaurant. Crumbl is a trendy new chain of cookie bakeries with nearly a thousand locations across the United States and Canada. Crumbl is also open until midnight and we spotted a few folks we had just seen earlier at Dirty Dough. The Crumbl experience is an interesting one. Upon entry, no employee greets you. Instead, the front counter sports several iPads displaying an intuitive, interactive menu. One can scroll though the available cookies and make selection without a single word spoken to another human being. A team of employees can be seen busily working, scurrying around ovens, mixing dough, forming cookies — but not speaking to any customers until their pre-paid order is ready to be delivered across the counter. Mrs. P and I perused the evening's cookie selections. I settled on a traditional chocolate chip cookie and my wife opted for a frosted cookie of the sugar variety. We clicked our choices, sending little digital representations of the cookies into our virtual shopping cart. Our total was revealed and payment options were displayed. Our total, by the way, was ten dollars. TEN BUCKS! For two cookies! Cookies! Baked flour, water, sugar and such. I was paying ten dollars for two cookies. Granted they were above average-sized examples, but (and I'll do the math for you) they were five dollars apiece. FOR A COOKIE!

I swiped my credit card. Not happily, but I swiped it. A few minutes later, a young lady, handed us two small pink boxes emblazoned with the Crumbl logo. I was reminded of a scene from Quentin Tarantino's 1994 sprawling neo-noir crime epic Pulp Fiction. In the scene, dimwitted hitman Vincent Vega (as played by dimwitted actor John Travolta) is questioning his boss's wife's drink choice in a themed restaurant called Jack Rabbit Slim's. Mia (played to mysterious allure by Uma Thurman) had ordered a "five dollar milkshake." Vincent, cocked his head and asks for clarification on the beverage's contents and price.

"Did you just order a five-dollar shake?," he asks, "That's a shake? That's milk and ice cream?"

"Last I heard," Mia assures him

"That's five dollars?," he presses, "You don't put bourbon in it or nothin'?"

"No." she replies.

"Just checking.," Vincent adds.

When the drinks arrive, Vincent asks to sample the "five dollar shake" in question. Mia obliges, offering her straw and assuring her tablemate that she is free of "cooties." Vincent takes a healthy sip and then another. 

"Goddamn," a surprised Vincent reports, "that’s a pretty fucking good milkshake!"

"Told ya’.," Mia replies with a knowing confidence.

"Don’t know if it’s worth five dollars," Vincent concedes, "but it’s pretty fucking good."

I wish I could have had a similar exchange with the young lady behind the counter at Crumbl. However, I don't think she would have had the same appreciation and situational relevance from a quote from a thirty year-old movie as I did.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

king of all the world

There are a few places I have been to that immediately conjure a specific — and similar —- mental image. One of those places is Fremont Street in Las Vegas, Nevada. I remember the first time I visited Las Vegas. It was in 2003. I recall pulling up to our hotel at the foot of the notorious Las Vegas Strip and being mesmerized by the millions and millions of illuminated buildings and marquees that lined the sidewalks for as far as the eye could see. Later in the week, my family and I ventured up to Fremont Street, just outside the glitz and reverie of the storied "Strip." Fremont Street was the original "Las Vegas Strip" back in the heyday of the Rat Pack and all those shots of Vegas that I saw on 60s TV shows. But since the attention has been shifted to bigger and better places like The Bellagio with its magically majestic choreographed fountains and New York New York with its uncanny approximation of "The Big Apple" compressed into a city block, Fremont Street has had to do what was necessary to attract visitors and, more specifically, their money. Something called "The Fremont Street Experience" was constructed in the early 90s. A barrel-domed canopy that stretches four blocks above the street was deemed to be the perfect solution to Fremont Street's waning tourist trade. A dazzling eight-minute animated light and music show was presented on the underside of the canopy, much to the delight of tourists below. When the show concludes and the regular street lights come up, the seediness of Fremont Street is once again revealed in all its faded glory. (Note: I have not been to Las Vegas in over a decade, so this observation is based on my experience and not on any subsequent improvements that I may not be aware of.) The hotels and casinos on Fremont Street are small, compact and look as though their finest hour has long since past. I remember strolling up and down Fremont Street and likening the scene to an old prostitute — once alluring and desirable, but now faded and worn out after years and years of.... well..... you know.

Similarly, I feel the same way about Atlantic City. A little closer to home, I grew up going to Atlantic City every summer. Boasting the moniker "The World's Playground," Atlantic City was once a destination for families, as well as "singles who were ready to mingle." My parents both frequented Atlantic City in their pre-married days, visiting nightclubs and enjoying the entertainment of "big draw" names like Frank, Dean and Sammy. As a family, the Pincuses loved to cavort on the beach, thrill to the rides on Million Dollar Pier, enjoy sumptuous meals in a grand hotel dining room or just gobble down a hot dog from one of the many stands on the famous Boardwalk. When casino gambling was approved for the seaside resort, visions of an East Coast Vegas were presented to the folks in Philadelphia, South Jersey and surrounding locales. However, that never truly came to be. Instead, Atlantic City took a slow decline. The glitzy casinos were not enough to conceal the boarded-up houses and bankrupt business that dotted the landscape in-between. The casinos grew and their profits increased. The help that they promised the community never materialized. I remember a comedian observing that he had never seen more broken glass than in Atlantic City. When casino gambling began to pop up in areas just outside of Atlantic City, the seashore mecca no longer had a firm grasp on the local casino business. Several once-mighty casinos shut down and Atlantic City was now showing the sad, but familiar signs of an old prostitute — her sequined skirt torn and tarnished, her once-striking looks now unconvincingly disguised by hurriedly applied make-up.

I grew up in Northeast Philadelphia. It was a place where working class families from poorer sections of the city would aspire to live once they came into better employment and an increase in income. My parents moved into a new development in Northeast Philadelphia in late 1957 and soon little Josh came along to join my mom, my dad and brother Max. As a child and pre-teen, I experienced my fair share of bullying and anti-Semitism from my predominately gentile neighbors. Kids my own age — some I considered my "friends" — would turn on me without provocation, spewing vicious epithets that they — no doubt — picked up from their parents. I moved out of my parents house — and that neighborhood — when I got married. When my parents died and I sold their house, I dropped the keys in the palm of a realtor's hand and exited Northeast Philadelphia with plans to never ever ever return. I kept that promise as best I could, crossing the boundaries of Northeast Philadelphia from my suburban home only when absolutely necessary, like when I was on my way to somewhere else. On those rare occasions, I took note of how sad the "Great Northeast" looked. Houses showed peeling and faded paint. Streets were littered with rusty shells of partly-dismantled automobiles. Empty bottles and broken glass littered empty lots, front lawns and street gutters. Businesses were abandoned, their cracked asphalt parking lots breached by wildly overgrown vegetation. It was just.... sad. Once again, my mind evoked visons of an old prostitute, worn down by a hard life. Neglected, struggling and unwanted.

The commute to my current job takes me through Northeast Philadelphia on a daily basis. Each morning, I pass near-empty shopping centers, boarded up homes and pot-hole riddled streets. There are garbage-filled empty lots and cars unlawfully parked on sidewalks. However, this past Friday morning, as I turned the corner from Levick Street onto Castor Avenue, I saw something. Something unusual. Something out of place. Something.... sweet. Sweet enough to warm my cold heart.

There was a woman in loud pajama pants and dirty fuzzy slippers. She was standing on the sidewalk with a small boy about seven or eight years old. The woman was primping and adjusting the boy's attire as though she was a personal valet. And the boy....? The boy was dressed like a king. That's right. A king — right out of a fairy tale. I only caught a glimpse as I turned the corner and maneuvered my car toward the light at Devereaux Street, but I saw that he wore a gold bejeweled crown on his head and a long red robe with a fur collar that was appointed with small black dots. The woman leaned over and smoothed the robe as the boy stood still — his head cocked at a slight upturn, his chin pointing regally, his crown gleaming the early morning sun.

He was The King. He was The King of Northeast Philadelphia and beyond. He was The King of everything the light touched. He was The King of the provincial castles and thatched-roof cottages of his kingdom. He was oblivious of the disdainful judgement I had passed on my former surroundings, conclusions drawn from decades of experiences and observations. This morning, he was The King. 

And that was the only thing that mattered.

www.joshpincusiscryiing.com

turning of the tide

I was much younger when I discovered the music of Richard Thompson. So was Richard Thompson.

In 1982, my future brother-in-law (no, not that one... the other one) introduced me to the newly-released Shoot Out the Lights by British folk-rock troubadours Richard & Linda Thompson. The album — comprised of eight heartfelt, sometimes gut-wrenching, songs — was a sonic chronicle of tension, specifically tension in a marriage and tension with colleagues. The married duo was without a record contract and had recently toured as a support act for Gerry Rafferty (of Baker Street fame). Rafferty offered financial assistance to the Thompsons, and expected control in the recording process. Richard and Rafferty butt heads often. At the same time, the Thompsons' marital union was crumbling. The album was released and was lavished with critical acclaim. However, it would be the Thompson's last effort together. Although they continued to tour, they would divorce by year's end. 

Shoot Out the Lights was, honestly, like nothing I had heard before. Granted, at the time, I was a rabid Queen fan and had recently latched on to the ubiquitous New Wave sounds emanating from every FM radio. Richard Thompson was a singer with roots in the English countryside, evoking visions of a guy in a colorful doublet and tights, strumming a lute and serenading the townspeople. He was pretty cool and his style stood out among the trendiness of Adam Ant and A Flock of Seagulls. My brother-in-law praised Richard Thompson's work, and in between Grateful Dead shows, managed to see him perform live quite a few times.

I, however, did not.

I've been to a lot of concerts over the past half century. I've seen big names and small names at big venues and small venues. I have missed the opportunity to see a few of my favorites over the years. Although a fan, I never got to see Billy Joel. Sure, he tours regularly now, but I want to see 1975 Billy Joel, not forty-seven years later Billy Joel. I missed seeing Pink Floyd on their Animals tour due to a miscommunication in my desire for tickets. (That's a long story for which I have since forgiven my brother.) Alas, Pink Floyd are no more, but I'll be goddamned if I'm going to give irrelevant loudmouth Roger Waters a dime of my hard-earned pay to see him croak out his racist, out-of-touch politics. I actually haven't listened to Animals in years.

But Richard Thompson is different. At 73, he's still got it. He still writes good songs. He still is pretty handy on the guitar and he still releases good albums. And I finally got the long-delayed opportunity to see him live.

And it was a somewhat rude awakening for Josh Pincus. 

Richard was scheduled to play at a small outdoor amphitheater in Haddon Heights, New Jersey, a typical "green-lawn and backyard-swing set" suburb, sitting just outside the city limits of notorious Camden. After a rain-out the previous week, Richard was kind enough to take the ninety-minute drive down to Haddon Heights from his Montclair, New Jersey home and perform seven days later.

I arrived nice and early and found a wide choice of seats among the permanent benches facing the small stage. I sat at the rear of an open lawn, using a stone wall as a little table to eat the salad I brought with me. As I ate, more folks began to file in. Some were carrying folding camp chairs. Others toted blankets. Most hefted some sort of paper bag emblazoned with the familiar "Whole Foods" logo. Just about everyone (except me) arrived in Subarus. Oh.... and everyone was old. I mean really old!

For reference only.

The men were bent over, a supporting hand offering comfort to an angled lumbar region. They wore ill-fitting clothes, the uniform of the day either being a Hawaiian shirt (to show they were here for a good time), a weathered concert T-Shirt proclaiming their love for The Grateful Dead, Bonnie Raitt, a recent tour of an ancient band or some annual blues festival dated 1980-someting in the year of Our Lord. A small smattering wore the same clothes they wore while seated all day behind their desk at the law firm which employs them. A lot of these guys looked like Peter Garrett from Midnight Oil. None of these guys had enough hair to drag a comb through, and those that did couldn't possibly complete the task, as it was gathered together in a ratty, gray ponytail. The women wore ensembles available on page 47 of the latest LL Bean catalog or some handmade peasant dress that they have worn to every concert since high school. Some wore that battered, floppy cowboy hat that is standard issue for concerts among this particular age group. You know the one I mean.

I was lucky enough to overhear snippets of conversations around me. "My kids are seeing Pearl Jam tonight. I can't even name a Pearl Jam song!" "I sat right over there last month to see Kathleen Edwards. Right over there. You see? Right there... in the middle. Right where I'm pointing. Right there! Right there!" "That Jenny Lewis is from that Rilo Kiley band." When I turned my head to see the source of each of these conversations, I felt as though I was sitting in the courtyard of a retirement community — you know, the ones that are advertised during afternoon reruns of Wagon Train and Perry Mason.

At dusk, Richard Thompson took the stage. Bathed in lavender lights, he tore through song after song, accompanied only by his acoustic guitar. His between-song banter was brief, though, at times, humorous, displaying the same sardonic wit featured throughout his compositions. Culling from his vast career, his song choice included a few cuts from his time as guitarist with Fairport Convention, a couple of tracks from the "Richard & Linda Thompson" years and, of course his prolific solo output. I was familiar with a handful of tunes. The ones I didn't know sounded like typical Richard Thompson songs, so.... 

About three-quarters into the show, as it neared to its palpable conclusion, I spotted a guy — in my peripheral vison — making his way down the aisle to my right. Dressed head to toe in tie-dye and sporting a birds'-nest-like beard, he looked like he just wandered over from wallowing in the mud on Max Yasgur's rain-soaked farm. While Mr. Thompson was introducing his next selection, "Mr. Woodstock" began to yell at a young man seated at a long table a few feet in front of me. The fellow — in his early 20s — was checking over a few open laptop screens that were arranged across the table's surface. He wore headphones and one hand was resting on a computer mouse. He was — obviously — an integral part of the technical crew. "Woodstock" raised his voice and screamed "Hey! Sound Guy! Sound Guy!" The young man's gaze never waivered from the screens. "Sound Guy! Hey! Sound Guy!," he continued, "Turn it up, man! The people across the street can't hear, man! Turn it up, man! Hey! Sound Guy!" (The venue was so packed, that some overflow of fans  had taken to parking their blankets across a street that bisects the park. A distance away from the stage, but still within reasonable proximity to enjoy the performance.) "Woodstock" was relentless. "SOUND GUY!," he blared. Finally, the young man removed his headset and calmly addressed the angry hippie. He spoke just four words. He said, "I'm the 'lights' guy" and turned his attention back to his work. 

A look of confusion spread across "Woodstock's" face. It was as though he had just been answered in the dead language of Aramaic. He was speechless for a moment, his head cocked to one side like a dog trying to figure out where in the backyard he hid that bone. Then, he continued right where he left off. "Hey! Sound Guy! Sound Guy! Turn it up!" By this point, the 'lights' guy didn't care.

Mrs. Pincus was out of town on this day. When I got home, I called to tell her about the show. I related the anecdotes I just told you, driving home my point about the advanced age of my fellow concert-goers. "Are we that old?," I asked.

"Well, you are.," she replied.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

don't deny your inner child

I stumbled across The Dead Milkmen by accident... when I was young. 

I was a hopeful art student in 1982, on my way to my menial job of scooping ice cream in an effort to supplement the small student loan I had to contract in order to pay my tuition. Making my way to my job on Philadelphia's notorious South Street, I spotted a simple, single-color, hand-drawn flyer crookedly tacked to a wall near 6th and Lombard, adjacent to the entrance of Levis', the legendary purveyor of hot dogs since 1895. The black & white manifesto expounded on the so-called "serrated edge" philosophy that seemed to be the core of the Dead Milkmen's vision. The grinning cartoony cow — with equally-cartoony "X"s over its eyes — belied an underlying sarcastic tone to the whole thing. At the bottom of the flyer was revealed its true purpose. There was an address and an offer to send for a cassette tape of a collection of songs — recorded in a suburban barn by the Milkmen themselves. "Count me in!," I thought to myself, "These smartasses are my kind of smartasses!" I was a fan of the current trends in pop-punk music (or punk-pop music, depending on which sub-genre is most prevalent) and The Dead Milkmen instantly appealed to me. When I got home that night, I quickly dashed off a check (in the quaint pre-Venmo days) to the Dead Milkmen for my very own sampling of their music, sending it along with a lengthy note — hand-embellished with my own satirical artwork — questioning their philosophy, their outlook, their hopes and dreams and other topics of which I feigned interest. A week or so later, I received a copy — well-wrapped to prevent possible shipping damage — of Death Rides a Pale Cow. The cover photo — a many-times Xeroxed image of a cow — told me that this was to be a smarmy continuation of the humorously rambling dissertation contained on that flyer I saw on a South Philly wall. And, sure enough, The Dead Milkmen didn't disappoint. I played that cassette in my lesser-priced GE version of the Sony Walkman until the magnetically-coated, polyester tape stretched thin. I turned my musically ignorant friends on to the high-octane (and high camp) wonders of Labor Day and Beach Party Vietnam. In a concerted effort to lure them from the hypnotic repetitiveness of A Flock of Seagulls and the faux romanticism of Culture Club, I blasted Veterans of a Fucked Up World with only their enlightenment on my mind. I was young, snotty and angry... but I wasn't "The Adicts" angry. I was Dr. Demento angry.

The Dead Milkmen were the personification of my youth. Rough. Arrogant. Funny... even if they were the only ones who thought they were funny. Their songs were sarcastic little commentaries on things that society held dear. They sang about stuff I drew and I drew stuff they sang about. 

It's a funny thing, though. As much as I loved The Dead Milkmen — and I loved them! — I didn't get to see them perform live until 2014. That's right, 32 years after I first saw their silly flyer stuck to a brick wall with a bunch of other flyers. However, I made up for it, because I saw them perform in a cemetery. Just after that show, I began to follow and interact with the surviving members of the band on several social media platforms (Sadly, original bassist Dave Blood took his own life in 2004). Guess what? Things change when you grow old.

Guitarist and co-vocalist Joe Jack Talcum's presence on social media is pretty sporadic as compared to his bandmates. Joe mostly announces upcoming small gigs, displays his art and gets tagged in a slew of Facebook posts of videos that are decidedly uncharacteristic of a member of the Dead Milkmen.

Dean Clean, the drummer for the Dead Milkmen, posts a lot pictures of his musical equipment. Sure, most musicians like to show off their cool new toys. Evidentially, Dean owns a wide variety of gadgets and gizmos replete with dials and lights and knobs and jacks in to which other gizmos can be plugged. But, Dean also shares the beautiful results of his prowess behind the stove. Dean, as it turns out, is quite the food aficionado, capturing close-up shots of an inviting backyard grill or an artsy perspective of a perfectly arranged charcuterie board. During the summer of 2020, when everyone was huddled in their homes fearful of the looming coronavirus, Dean asked for fan's addresses via Instagram. Those who responded were treated to a limited edition, hand-drawn postcard from the same guy who kept the pounding backbeat on Life is Shit.

Most of my Dead Milkmen interaction is with Rodney Anonymous. Rodney often hosts live Instagram "reports," walking through his South Philadelphia neighborhood and divulging little known facts about locations regularly passed by and ignored by pedestrians. He also speaks out about issues that face folks of ... shall we say... a certain age. Rodney is also a fan of my television watching habits, as is evidenced by the "likes" he gives to my regular posts of "screen shots" from fifty year old sitcoms. Based on the reruns I watch and the approvals he gives, we lived parallel lives in front of the family "boob tube" in our formative years. On occasion, I will serve up a playful shot at Rodney about his punk rock salad days... and he accepts my good-natured jibes like a sport. He also likes when I post cat pictures.

Collectively, The Dead Milkmen host an online Q & A on YouTube, on which they talk about a wide range of subjects and answer burning questions from their now-senior fanbase. It is essentially four guys, approaching their twilight years, discussing things while they nurse a cup of coffee at the neighborhood diner... except they're on Zoom.

I have suddenly (and reluctantly) come to the realization that I am old, my contemporaries are old and my heroes are old. We all get old. And even if we try to avoid mirrors, there are mirrors all around us. I still fancy myself that rebellious kid with vinegar in his veins, ready to take on the big, bad oppressive world. But when I look in an actual mirror, I see a white haired man, very reminiscent of my father. It's okay, though, because there's an old expression — one I heard used by my parents and grandparents and other assorted old people: "You're as young as you feel." 

I finally understand exactly what that means.

Note: After I finished writing this, I saw Sting delivering clues on "Jeopardy!" Now I really know what that means.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

time (clock of the heart)

A few years back, I was watching one of my favorite movies — Marty, selected by the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences as the "Best Picture" of 1955 (and the downfall of one Herb Stempel on the TV quiz show Twenty One). Early in the picture, "Marty Piletti" (as portrayed by 1955 Best Actor Ernest Borgnine) is talking to his mother. She tearfully laments to her son that she is an old woman of 50. 50! An old woman! I was floored. Immediately, I logged on to IMBD.com (the invaluable Internet Movie Database) and searched for the film. My research revealed that Esther Minciotti, the actress who played Ernest Borgnine's screen mother was actually 67 at the time of filming. However, I was still a bit disturbed that, in 1955, fifty years of age was considered "old." It should be noted, though that Ernest Borgnine was only 38, but looked well into his 50s. I suppose it was around this time that I became a little obsessed (just a little) with the ages of actors from the "Golden Age" of cinema as well as those on television during my formative years.

It is no secret that I watch a lot of television. I rarely watch any current programming, opting to view and review programs from my youth. I love to revisit the shows I watched as an adolescent, parked in front of our big black & white Zenith in my family's den with my mom on the sofa and my dad settled in "his" corner chair, chain-smoking Viceroys. (Unsurprisingly, one of the few "current" shows I have watched and enjoyed is Amazon's original The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, mostly because of its retro setting.  Go figure...)

If you follow my illustration blog (found elsewhere on the internet), you will find that a lot of my drawings are heavily influenced by the television shows from my youth. In 2011, I published a drawing of actor Joseph Kearns. Kearns had a long and celebrated career as a bit player in a number of radio shows before making the transition to the new medium of television. He performed and held his own alongside such entertainment giants Jack Benny, George Burns, Eve Arden and (ironically) Gale Gordon. He is best remembered as the cantankerous "Mr. Wilson" on the insufferable sitcom Dennis the Menace. The show ran for four seasons.  If you remember, Kearns sported wire-framed glasses, a crew cut and wore his pants pulled up to his armpits. He always had a scowl across his face and doddered around his house with a loose cardigan draped over his slumped shoulders. Granted, Dennis was a pain in the ass and drove Kearns's character up a wall, but he carried himself like a man of seventy. With just seven episodes left to film in Season Three, Joseph Kearns suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and unexpectedly passed away. He was 55. 55! (Gale Gordon, who replaced Kearns was just a year older.)

Recently, I was watching the zillionth rerun of The Andy Griffith Show. I love The Andy Griffith Show almost as much as my wife hates it. I love the gentle humor and the crazy characters and how Sheriff Andy tries to maintain some sense of order in the nuthouse that is Mayberry, North Carolina. I am convinced that the real reason that Andy doesn't carry a gun, is because he would have shot Deputy "Barney Fife" to death in episode four. In the show, town sheriff "Andy Taylor" (as played by Andy Griffith) lives with his son Opie (future Oscar winning director Ron Howard) and his aunt "Bee Taylor." Bee is embodied by actress Francis Bavier, who enjoyed a career playing essentially the same befuddled character in films and television going back to the early 1930s. In this particular episode of The Andy Griffith Show, there was a discussion about Aunt Bee's birthday. I was prompted to look up just how old Ms. Bavier, at the time of filming this episode. With her dark-patterned, high-necked dresses and her gray hair pulled back into that omnipresent bun, she gave the appearance of a woman in her mid to late seventies. She was 62. If you need a frame of reference.... Madonna is 62. Additional research led me to discover that Irene Ryan, feisty "Granny" on The Beverly Hillbillies, was the same age as Francis Bavier. Sure, Ms. Ryan wore a wig and glasses that she didn't really require, but I recall seeing her on Password at the height of The Beverly Hillbillies popularity. She looked a lot older than 62. Incidentally, Buddy Ebsen, the Hillbillies patriarch was 54.

Oh, there are others that fascinate me. Actor Carroll O'Connor (a favorite of my father) was just 48 years old when All in the Family premiered in 1971. Abe Vigoda, who was the brunt of many "boy, is he old" jokes for the latter part of his career, was just 54 when he played the role of "Detective Phil Fish" on Barney Miller, making the "old" jokes a bit odd. The "Sweathogs" on Welcome Back, Kotter were all in their twenties when they were playing high schoolers in 1975. (Ron Palillo, who played "Horshack" was 26.) Marcia Strassman was just two years older than the actors playing the students when she appeared as series star Gabe Kaplan's wife. Jim Backus, pompous "Mr. Howell" on Gilligan's Island, was just 52 when the show began. And Oscar-winner Shirley Jones was 34 when she was cast as the mother of five kids on The Partridge Family, just 14 years older than her real-life stepson David Cassidy.

This past week, I watched a movie called Harry and Tonto. I had seen it before, probably just after its 1974 release. The film, about an elderly man traveling across the country with his cat, starred Art Carney. Carney had diligently campaigned for the role, convincing the studio that he could pull off the role of a 72 year-old man, despite being just 56. (An age-appropriate James Cagney was the first choice for the role. He turned it down.) However, Carney wore little age-enhancing make-up, preferring instead to wear his real hearing aid and not conceal his war-injured gait. Carney won an Oscar for his performance and a "second act" in films opened up for the actor. By the way, Brad Pitt just won his first Oscar at this year's ceremony. He is 56, as well.

Of course, the most jarring age revelation (at least for me), is Judy Garland. I grew up watching the annual telecast of The Wizard of Oz, as well as Ms. Garland's other grand musicals like Meet Me in St, Louis, Easter Parade and Summer Stock. Judy's personal troubles are well known and the toll they took on her are apparent. Judy passed away in 1969 at the age of 47. On a December 1968 appearance on The Tonight Show, just six months before her death, she looked quite haggard and aged beyond her years.

Perhaps I have just become more aware of age and the ages of my contemporaries as I approach my sixtieth year on earth. I think it makes me feel younger.

I guess this is the kind of thing that old people do.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

playin' in the band

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Does that answer your question, JP?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

***** ***** ***** ***** *****

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

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

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