the great outdoors

I'm not what you would call an "outdoorsy" person. I don't like to hike. I don't like to garden. I pay a guy to mow my lawn (which is just slightly larger than a postage stamp.) The thought of camping  makes me cringe and is probably the main reason that I bought a house. But there is an exception. I like outdoor concerts.

For the past few years, Mrs. P and I have joined our pals — Consuelo and Cookie for a series of outdoor concerts put on under the auspices of nearby Camden County, New Jersey. Every summer, just as families are returning home from Memorial Day celebrations, Camden County begins hosting a program of weeknight concerts at three different venues across the reaches of the municipal boundaries. These shows feature performers from a variety of genres, levels of fame and appeal. One of the best parts of these shows is they are all outdoors and they are all free of charge. On Monday nights, a line-up of jazz and hip-hop artists are showcased at Wiggins Park — a natural amphitheater on the Delaware River with an illuminated Philadelphia as a dreamy backdrop. Wednesday evenings are reserved for the McLaughlin Norcross Dell — another grassy amphitheater with newly renovated benches and an omnipresent Mr. Softee truck. On Thursdays, the stage is set at Cooper River Park, which, coincidentally, is around the corner from where I work. Over the years, we have seen the likes of Max Weinberg, Tiffany, The Sugarhill Gang, Richard Thompson, former Barenaked Ladies frontman Steven Page and a host of other performers whose names escape me at the moment.

There's nothing better than sitting out in the cool summer air, in a folding chair or on a blanket, with an overstuffed hoagie in your bag, surrounded by similar-minded folks all gathered for a lovely evening of good — sometimes familiar — music and relaxation. After a particular trying day at work, dealing with unreasonable clients and annoying co-workers, a free show at an outdoor venue hits the spot.

Of course, when you have shows outdoors and you are geographically situated in a place that experiences all four seasons, you run the risk of rain or other unpleasant weather. Many of these shows, over the years, have been postponed because of rain, only to be postponed again when it rains on the rain date. This was the case for a recent rescheduling of a performance by 80s R & B band Color Me Badd, currently featuring just one original member. Color Me Badd was originally scheduled for a Thursday in July. When that day arrived, the Philadelphia/Camden area was in the throes of an oppressive heatwave, an occurrence that has become increasing familiar over consecutive summers. Via the Camden County Facebook page, the show was rescheduled for a date in late August. When the August date rolled around, the dark clouds that had gathered over the Delaware Valley that morning showed no signs of vacating the premises any time soon. Pressed to make a decision, the Camden County "powers-that-be" announced that the show would be moved to the stately Scottish Rite Auditorium — a venerable 1000-seat theater built in 1930 and voted "one of the “150 Best Buildings and Places” by the American Institute of Architects"... for what its worth. While the event would remain free of charge, seats still had to be reserved through the venue's website. 

Now, I certainly do not number myself among Color Me Badd's most die-hard fans. I am not even a casual listener. I can honestly say I cannot name a Color Me Badd song. However, I do know that an evening of songs I do not know is always made enjoyable if it takes place outdoors with friends and food. The thought of sitting in a cramped, seated theater, shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers and the looming uncertainty if outside food would be permitted didn't exactly set the stage for a fun evening. The draw for these shows is "free" and "outdoors." This one was only firing on every other cylinder. A daytime group text between me and Mrs. Pincus and Cookie and Consuelo resulted in the general consensus of skipping this particular show.

A few days later, we found ourselves on the lush green lawn of Wiggins Park, a cool breeze blowing in from the Delaware River, a sandwich and a bag of chips close at hand and the musical stylings of Living Color's Will Calhoun's tribute to jazz legend Miles Davis wafting through the giant sets of speakers. 

This was more like it. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

out of touch

This is my favorite time of year! No more snow. No more cold weather. And a whole season of free concerts in nearby Camden, New Jersey. 

For the past few years, Mrs. P and I, along with some friends, have been going to this free outdoor concert program sponsored by the good folks at the Camden County Board of Freeholders... or something like that. Although Camden gets a bad rap as one of the most dangerous areas in the region, these free events are peaceful get-togethers where folks can enjoy a wide variety of musical genres in the throes of balmy weather at several easily-accessible outdoor venues. The acts presented range from local performers to nationally-recognized names... although some of them haven't had a hit record in years and often evoke head-scratching inquiries of "Are they still alive?" Over the past several seasons, we have seen Sheila E., The Sugarhill Gang (though the "gang" now just consists of Guy "Master Gee" O'Brien, the self-described "baby of the bunch"... who is 64 years-old), Arrested Development, Joan Osbourne, Richard Thompson and a Barenaked Ladies-less Steven Page. Also included were a bunch of bands whose names slip my mind at the moment. But they were free to see... so we saw.

It's all free, kiddies! All free!

This year's line-up boasts a similar array of old and new, famous and not-yet-famous. The music ranges from classical to classic rock to folk to Polynesian and island melodies to jazz to boy bands. And, once again... it's all free!

On Thursday evening, with the almost summer sun still high in the evening sky, we met up with our concert-going buddies Consuelo and Cookie, where we descended upon the grassy section of the Cooper River Park running track for a night of free entertainment. We set up our chairs alongside hundreds of other attendees. A pre-show DJ was playing selections that appeased the crowd. As I scanned the area, I noticed that the overwhelming majority was comprised of women at least twenty years my junior. But, of course! Tonight was another stop on the current Pop 2000 Tour, a multi-band bill featuring big names from the hey-day of boy bands. As a 64 year-old man, I am about as far from the target demographic for this tour as you can get. But.. free is free. So, here we are.

A different O-Town.

The show kicked off with the first of several performers whose body of work is foreign to me. A young man (at least from where I was sitting he looked young) with a high pompadour and a tank top revealing some heavily-inked biceps stepped up to the sole stage microphone and introduced himself as Ryan Cabrera. I can tell you more about Miggy Cabrera, the celebrate Detroit Tigers infielder whos name is spoken in the company as Hank Aaron and Willie Mays... but Ryan? Sorry, I never heard of him until he identified himself to a throng of squealing 40 year-olds. Ryan strummed a big acoustic guitar, cracked a few self-deprecating jokes and serenaded the audiences with a short set of innocently-poppy tunes (which all sounded the same — pleasant — but the same) before yielding the stage to a band called O-Town.

Confession

O-Town — according to a lengthy Wikipedia entry entitled "O-Town" — is a vocal group formed as a result of the first season of the reality show Making the Band. The group was originally assembled and managed by piece-of-shit par excellence Lou Pearlman, the sleazebag behind the development and marketing of Backstreet Boys and *NSYNC. They eventually ditched Pearlman in favor of new, less scummy, representation. I am not familiar with O-Town's musical output. Their debut was released in 2001, the same year they won the coveted Teen Choice Award for "Favorite Breakout Artist." In 2001, I was listening to Nick Cave, eels and Wilco. My only familiarity with "O-Town" was as the hometown of Nickelodeon cartoon wallaby Rocko. Even my then-14 year-old son steered clear of the whole "boy band" scene. As O-Town took the stage, I texted my son (now almost 39) to ask if he ever heard of them. He replied that he knew exactly one O-Town song. It goes "something something ALLLLL OR NOOOOOTHING at all." I think they sang it. They did perform a lot of very cute choreography, much to the approval of the shrieking soccer moms scattered across the grass.

The great O-Town debate was followed by another band — heretofore unknown to me — LFO. Formed as a trio in 1995 and now performing as a duo since the death of founding member Rich Cronin, LFO's two albums and seven singles are totally off my radar. However, true to my belief that "every band is someone's favorite band," I caught nearly everyone around me mouthing the words to "Summer Girls," their Number 3 hit from — fittingly — the summer of 1999. Via more texting, my son said he heard that LFO like girls who like Abercrombie & Fitch, a reference I didn't get until I heard those particular lyrics blasting through the PA speakers mounted on either side of the stage.

Bye bye bye bye bye bye bye

The night wrapped up with *NSYNC founder Chris Kirkpatrick at center stage, backed by members of all of the other bands. As the 54 year-old Chris wailed what I can only assume were beloved favorites from the *NSYNC catalogue, the boys/men behind him vogued and posed and pirouetted to the crowd's delight. I actually recognized a song during the set. It's that one where say say "bye bye, bye bye, bye." I think its called "Bye Bye" or "Bye Bye Bye." I honestly thought that was a Backstreet Boys song, but I stand corrected.

After the final number, the performers offered their thanks, as well as several pleas to visit the merchandise tent. Obviously, everyone can't be Justin Timberlake.

We disassembled our chairs, gathered up our trash and looked forward to the next free show... that's free.

www.joshpincusiscrying.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.

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