walk right in, sit right down

On Saturday evening, Mrs. Pincus and I went to Philadelphia's beautiful World Cafe Live to see the first of two performances by British popster Nick Lowe and those masked men of instrumental rock Los Straitjackets. But that's not what this story is about.

World Cafe Live is currently celebrating its 20th anniversary as one of the best concert venues in the City of Brotherly Love. The venue boasts two stages — a smaller, more intimate space known as "The Lounge" on the street level and the main stage, named "The Music Hall," located two flights down. The Music Hall accommodates approximately 650 people. Depending on each particular evening's performance, the room is sometimes a wide open space dotted with tall bistro tables at which patrons can stand, lean and rest their drinks. Other times, tables are set up in various configurations based on ticket sales. A more popular act will feature more open space and fewer tables. Often, when reserved tickets at a table are sold, a dinner menu is offered to those who arrive early for a show. On this night, the floor was open with six tables set up along the back wall of the lower level — three on each side of the area housing the audio mixing equipment and the folks operating said equipment. Each table was set to seat eight people and each of these tables sported a very noticeable "RESERVED" sign at the end that was not butted up against the rear wall. On the upper level, just in front of the bar that runs the length of the back wall, were eight smaller tables — each one displaying a similar "RESERVED" sign on its surface. Upon closer inspection, one table — 304 — was the only one not designated as "RESERVED." We were one of the first people through the doors and we looked around to confirm that the seats at Table 304 was indeed free for the taking. Mrs. P and I grabbed two chairs at the back of the table while a few other folks with General Admission tickets (like the ones we had) joined us. Each one asking "Are these seats reserved?" or "Is it okay to sit here?" or some other variation of the same inquiry. As though we were some kind of Welcoming Committee, Mrs. P and I gestured toward the six available chairs until they were all filled. It was still nearly 45 minutes before showtime. The place was filling up. Hosts and hostesses were leading people with reserved seat tickets to the tables surrounding us.

(The two red dots are where Mrs. Pincus and I sat. The other dots were taken by our fellow concert-goers holding General Admission tickets)

The man from the couple sitting at the front of Table 304 was visibly nervous and jumpy. The man and woman seated opposite us reconfirmed that this table was not reserved. Mrs. Pincus laughed and said, "If anyone asks, I will pretend I don't speak English." I bolstered my wife's assertion with a joke about a man in a car asking a police officer if it was okay to park in an empty space behind a long line of cars. The policeman said, "No! This is a No Parking Zone. If you park here, you'll get a ticket." The man pointed and said, "What about all these other cars?" The cop replied, "They didn't ask." The other couple chuckled (I don't think they got my joke) and we all sat firm and defiant on our seats.

With thirty minutes until showtime, the jumpy guy at our table scurried off for a few minutes. He returned, loudly commenting to his partner that he asked about the "reserved status" of our table. He was told that all the seats were reserved and we may — may — be asked to leave Table 304. I instantly thought of that kid in elementary school who would anxiously raise his hand two minutes before the dismissal bell would ring to remind the teacher that she forgot to give a homework assignment to the class. As showtime grew nearer, several more of our table mates had to relinquish their claims when the rightful owners presented their reserved tickets. As the minutes ticked off, we sat like Charles Whitman's targets innocently making our way across the University of Texas campus. The jumpy guy and his mate were the next to go, followed by the couple across from us. The final seats (except for ours) were taken by a man with a prominent gray pompadour and a woman wearing waaaaay too much perfume. Way, way too much perfume. (Years ago, Mrs. P and I had boarded a very crowded plane. With the plane filling up, there was still an empty seat next to me. We watched a woman board the plane and begin to make her way down the aisle, Mrs. P pointed out that she saw this woman in the ladies room just prior to the boarding announcement. She noted that this woman may have knocked over a cosmetic display because she positively reeked of perfume. Just as my wife finished pronouncing the word "perfume," the woman sat down in the empty seat next to me. And she did indeed reek of overpowering perfume.)

Finally the house lights dimmed and Nick Lowe and Los Straitjackets took to the stage. Mrs. P and I still sat firm in our seats, still not asked to move. Two or three songs in, we were still there. I thought of the times I have attended baseball games and watched people holding tickets to seats adjacent to ours show up in the third or fourth inning. Lowe and the band tore through song after song. By the time the show reached the midway point, I figured we were safe. As a matter of fact, we sat undisturbed through the entire second set.

The nearby air stunk like a French whorehouse, but at least we had seats. And we beat the system.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

so ya thought ya might like to go to the show

Now that the world seems to be slowly creeping back to some form of "normal" in these so-called "post pandemic" days, I've begun to venture out and experience live music again. I started off slow, first going exclusively to outdoor shows. Luckily, in my part of the Greater Philadelphia area, there are a lot of outdoor shows throughout the summer. The best thing about these outdoor shows — besides being outside — is they are free. I like free. My wife and I saw quite a few free show this past summer. The performances touched on all sorts of diverse genres — R & B, hip-hop, Tex-Mex, folk, jazzy cabaret and even a little bit of surf guitar. Oh, and they were free.

In June, I attended my first indoor show since 2020. I had some initial hesitation about going, but it was a show in a 1300-seat venue with reserved seating. I figured if I kept my mask on and people stayed in their seats, I could enjoy myself and not worry that some drunk hippie would twirl in front of me and cough his COVID-infused droplets all over my face. (No, it was not a Grateful Dead-related band and there was little-to-no twirling.) I left that show unscathed and — better yet — uninfected.

In September, I went to my first general admission, stake-out-your-spot-on-the-floor show since the week before COVID-19 shut down every public performance venue across the globe. I wore a mask and did my best to steer away from close contact with my fellow concert-goers... even this guy. 

Last Sunday, I went out to another show at a very small venue to see a band I had seen before. The headliner was supported by two opening acts, with neither of which I was familiar. After a quick dinner, my son and I went over to the venue and took our place at his favorite spot — a seat by the rail on the balcony, offering an unobstructed panoramic view of the stage, albeit an aerial view. Around 8 PM, the lights dimmed and the first band took to the tiny stage.

Now, I have been to a lot of concerts in my life and I have seen a lot of bands. Some good, some very good and some bad. Some very bad. I've seen some opening acts that I really enjoyed. I've also seen some that had me checking the time throughout their entire performance and trying to figure out how many more songs they would play in their allotted time. When the venue darkened last Sunday, from the opening guitar chords, I knew I'd be checking the time very soon.

The first band was boring... and bored. They appeared disenchanted with performing. Their opening number was dirge-y and tedious and cacophonous. At the song's conclusion, the lead singer, a young lady whose long and unruly hair covered her face, pushed her mouth against the microphone and introduced their next selection.

"Yeah... um.... so, this.... uh... next... um, like song.... is a new song and... like.... um.... its not on like an album or anything... and um... so... yeah... "

Every other song from the 30-minute repertoire was introduced in this fashion. One time, the stage banter was altered slightly to include a plug for the band's merchandise that was available for sale near the venue entrance.

"Um... yeah... so, like we have, like merch for sale. Like over there. We don't have no stickers though. We have t-shirts and... um, yeah... so we have merch and stuff. So, um... yeah... here's like... um... a... um.... song."

The sparse crowd — considerably younger that yours truly — seemed to be okay with this band. This led me to believe that the musical opinion of a 62-year old man is pretty much irrelevant. So, I sat quietly, fiddled with my phone, looked around and waited for the first band to leave the stage. They eventually did, departing with a message as eloquent as anything they previously said.

"So... um... that's our, like.... last song. Thanks for having... um.... us. We have merch. and... um.... so, yeah..."

After a brief rearranging of the stage, the next band came on. They were fronted by a particularly-flexible young lady with dyed periwinkle hair and a short, leopard skin skirt. They delivered a good old-fashioned punk rock show, possibly showing their predecessors "just how its done."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

fiddle about

My love of all things Disney is no secret. This story, however, is about my love of small things Disney.

After many trips to the Walt Disney World Resort just outside of Orlando, Florida, my family and I decided to check out Walt's original theme park on the west coast. Of course the Pincus family doesn't do anything in a normal way. We headed to Southern California by way of Las Vegas, spending three days in Sin City before driving four hours across the Mojave Desert to Anaheim.

Friends told us that we would be disappointed by Disneyland as compared to Walt Disney World. The California version is small and quaint, they warned. You'll be bored after a day. They were wrong. We fell in love just moments after stepping through the entrance gates. There is something homey and warm about Disneyland that doesn't exist in Walt Disney World. Sure, we love Disney World, but it seems so big and sprawling and corporate. (Yeah, I know. That sounds silly. Disney exudes "corporate!") Planning a vacation to Walt Disney World is little like planning to lead troops into battle. You must have a preconceived strategy, a game plan, a proposal for attack. There is no down time! Move, move, move! No time for relaxation! There's Dole Whip to eat and singing pirates to see! Disneyland didn't seem like that... at least to me... at least in 2004. The first thing I noticed, as we approached a familiar-looking Main Street USA, was The Main Street Cinema was actually showing movies. In Walt Disney World, The Main Street Cinema had long been transitioned into another gift shop selling the same Disney trinkets as every other shop on Main Street. Disneyland had open areas with benches and beautifully landscaped shrubbery. And not just in one little place near the forecourt of Sleeping Beauty Castle. There were little shady spots throughout the park. Secluded quiet places with a bench or two taking up precious real estate that, in Florida, would have someone hawking membership in the Disney Vacation Club upon it. Disneyland, on the other hand, is a place that folks who live in the surrounding area can just wake up in the morning and say "Hey! Let's go to Disneyland!" Just pure spontaneity with no planning whatsoever. After a day of observing the little touches of thoughtful detail, my family was in agreement that Disneyland seemed closer to Walt's original idea of a theme park.

Our last trip to Disneyland was in 2011. Things began to change a short time after, with a big push for big change over the past few years. It worked, too. Park attendance has increased.... by three million annually.

Your time is up.

As I write this, it is the eve of Disneyland opening one of its most ambitious expansions. After three years of secretive construction, Disneyland will unveil the much-anticipated "Galaxy's Edge," a 14-acre immersive land based on the beloved and lucrative "Star Wars" movie franchise (which Disney purchased the rights to in 2012). Much speculation, rumor and excitement has filled the Disney-loving community since groundbreaking on the project took place. As opening day drew closer, Disney began to issue reservations for admission. Due to anticipated popularity, guests will be limited to a four-hour visit during the first month of operation. Those who fail to comply with the time limitations will be escorted out of Galaxy's Edge by storm troopers straight out of the film series. (I kid you not!) Along with the enveloping experience, Disney is selling custom light sabers for two hundred dollars, custom "droids" for ninety-nine dollars and, if you get thirsty, Oga's Cantina will set you up with a rum-laced "Yub Nub" in a souvenir glass for forty-two bucks. Disney is poised to make gajillions.

But that's not what this story is about. This story is about the little touches at Disneyland. The things that Disney does so well and go relatively unnoticed by the theme-park going masses. Stuff that Disney doesn't have to do, but does anyway, because its part of the "magic" that Disney prides itself on providing. The kind of things that make Disney Disney and sets them apart from other theme parks. Sure, the big thrill rides are what draws the crowds and whips up excitement. But, the little one-on-one interactions are just as important and often much more memorable. So, as Disneyland excitedly gears up for the reveal of Black Spire Outpost on the planet Batuu, it waves a tearful goodbye to one of those little pieces of "magic" — Farley the Fiddler

Have fun.

Farley the Fiddler was one of those special added touches that brought a smile to guests' faces as they strolled the wooden-plank walkways of Frontierland. At near hourly intervals, Farley — a tall, lanky fellow decked out in full Western regalia — would stand outside of the Pioneer Mercantile, draw a rosined bow across his weather-patinaed fiddle and delight the small crowds that would gather. He would play some classic cowboys tunes, He would perform a few cool tricks with a lariat. He would even tell a few corny jokes in the trademark Disney vein. Of course, he'd pose for pictures, too. Sometimes, Farley would hand out stickers as a free souvenir. (Wow! Something free at Disneyland!) Farley did this on a daily basis  (with a few days off here and there) for nearly a quarter of a century. Just this past Monday — Memorial Day 2019 — Farley the Fiddler hoed his last down and hooted his last nanny. After seven shows a day for twenty-three years, Farley the Fiddler called it a career.

Farley the Fiddler

My family and I stumbled upon Farley the same way most guests do — by accident. We were shopping (browsing) in the Pioneer Mercantile, scanning the merchandise and marveling at the detail of the displays and fixtures (as we do in most Disneyland gift shops), when we heard sweet fiddle music just outside the far entrance. We walked outside and right into the middle of a Farley afternoon front-porch performance. He offered a wide, friendly smile and gave us a nod, tilting his Stetson in our direction, never once interrupting the bright, cheerful tune emanating from his fiddle. He chatted with us and other guests between songs and rope tricks, peppering his banter with some groan-worthy cowboy puns. ("I get a lot of fringe benefits," he said, gesturing to his decorated buckskin vest.) He'd politely excuse himself at the timed conclusion of his set and let everyone know when he'd return. Then, he'd nonchalantly disappear behind a cast member door, like all the other Disneyland cast members.

We made sure we stopped to see Farley on subsequent visits year after year. While searching the internet for more information, I found a blog post from 2015 written by a woman about the fun she and her children had with Farley the Fiddler. I even left a comment on the post to let her know she was not alone and to express my admiration of Farley.

Farley's retirement is bittersweet. I know that the next time I go to Disneyland, Farley won't be fiddling on the porch at the Pioneer Mercantile. I know, instead, that the queue to ride "Millennium Falcon: Smuggler's Run" will probably wind down to where Farley spun that rope and cracked a few silly one-liners. But, that's progress... I suppose.

I hope they still have a couple of benches.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

now our children grow up prisoners, all their life, radio listeners

There are moments in the life of every parent that stand out as "proud moments." Seeing your child take his first steps. Hearing your child say his first words. First day of school, stellar report cards, praise from teachers, graduation. Then there's Bar or Bat Mitzvah or whatever is the non-Jewish equivalent (confirmation? baptism? coronation? I don't know...). The list goes on with parents beaming with each subsequent accomplishment. This past weekend, Mrs. Pincus and I witnessed an event that made us the proudest we have ever been.

Our son's first "Meet and Greet."

My son E. always expressed an interest in music. As soon as he could talk, he was rattling off the lyrics to Grateful Dead songs, thanks to numerous car rides with his mother. ("Tennessee Jed" was a favorite.) He loved listening to the Beatles and other "classic rock" mainstays, in addition to the eclectic influence of my musical tastes. I introduced my boy to such indie hidden gems as Stan Ridgway (former lead singer of noir new wavers Wall of Voodoo), Michael Penn, Moxy Fruvous and even guitar slingers Dinosaur Jr. and nouveau-ska purveyors The Mighty Mighty Bosstones. While other kids his age were bored by the likes of Raffi, E. was grooving to Garbage and Liz Phair.

As he got older, he made mixtapes (well... CDs anyway) to distribute to and enlighten his contemporaries. He tried to steer his peer group away from the shallowness of Britney Spears and The Spice Girls, exposing them to whatever new finds he discovered on radio stations in the uncharted far left of the dial. And one of those stations was Philadelphia's WXPN.

When E. was winding down his time in high school, he applied for an internship at his beloved WXPN and, all on his own, was accepted. He was slowly introduced to the ins-and-outs of a radio station. He did a lot of administrative tasks, like logging daily playlists and other related data. He gladly fetched refreshments for visiting bands who stopped by for interviews. (He picked up lunch for alt-rockers Guster and learned that indie guitarist KT Tunstall likes her tea strong.) At the same time, E. began another internship with local legend Gene Shay, long-time host of a folk music show on WXPN on Sunday nights. On Gene's show, E. learned how to set up a studio for live performances, how to program music and other technical aspects of the radio business with which I am unfamiliar. 

When E. entered college, he continued his time at WXPN. He became more adept at "running the board," a term for radio production that I won't pretend I understand. He also began hosting his own weekly time slot on the station's internet-only experiment. Here, he was able to hone his on-air skills and personality, as well as select the songs that he played. After a while, he got a couple of "fill-in" shots on the main airwaves while regular DJs were on vacation. After a series of ups-and-downs and shifting-arounds among station personnel, E. was hired as a full-time DJ/producer by WXPN. He was assigned several weekday evening shifts and two weekends slots, including a three-hour stretch on Saturday afternoons where the playlist consists entirely of listener requests. With the help of a volunteer who answers the phone, E. deftly assembles and whittles down five hours worth of musical suggestions (delivered via Facebook, Twitter, email and the aforementioned telephone) into a coherent, sometimes (purposely) jarring, playlist — all on-the-fly, live in the studio. I had the pleasure of answering the phones on two occasions and it was a spectacle watching him work... and don't be fooled, it was indeed work.

With tongue firmly planted in his cheek, E. identifies himself as a minor local celebrity. Sure, there are other DJs on WXPN that are more recognizable, but E. does have a following. Social media, especially Instagram, has allowed listeners to know what E. looks like, making him more visible than DJs of my youth. (Instagram has also allowed folks to know what his cat looks like as well.) I have been with E. at concerts and witnessed people approach him to say how much they like his show. As his father, it sure was a kick.

Nicole Atkins' John Hancock

Last weekend was the culmination of years of pride brought on by my son. Friday afternoon kicked off the annual WXPN XPoNential Music Festival, a sprawling entertainment-packed, three-day event entering its 23rd year. The festival features an unusual blend (just like the station itself) of music from a wide variety of genres. Famous names and up-and-comers are equally represented. Past festivals have spotlighted heavyweights like Bob Dylan, Beck and Emmylou Harris, indie favorites like Wilco, Dawes and Father John Misty (who offered a now-notorious set in 2016), and lesser-known, but equally as talented upstarts like J.D. McPherson, Man Man, Low Cut Connie and Diane Coffee. WXPN, a commercial-free, member-supported station, offers an array of perks to its members that attend the weekend event. In addition to discounted admission and free soft drinks throughout the festival's duration, members are treated to special "meet and greet" encounters with some of the performers. Either before of after their set, a selection of bands and singers seat themselves at a table in the designated, roped-off "members only" area for a little face time with their adoring fans. It has become a fun little bonus and I have taken advantage of the offer on a number of occasions over the years. (I met Aimee Mann, Nicole Atkins and even Kevin Bacon on different occasions.)

At the top of the list.

This year, WXPN decided to allow listeners to meet the faces behind those familiar voices they hear coming from their radios. Interspersed throughout the band "meet and greets," a selection of DJs would be spending a little quality time with their fans... and, yes, there are fans. On Saturday afternoon, the schedule was posted at the Meet & Greet tent in the WXPN Members Only area and the first ones listed were popular DJ Robert Drake, he of local "Land of the Lost" fame (a monthly radio marathon of new wave hits from the 80s) and my boy E. Actually, E. informed my wife and I about his meet and greet earlier, specifically telling me to "not to make a big deal."  But, a father's job is to make a big deal! So, we made sure we were front and center at the designated time. I actually went to make sure that Mrs. Pincus and I weren't the only ones in line. And as long as I was there, I made sure that our last name was spelled correctly on the whiteboard. (It was.) At 1 PM, E. and Robert took their places behind a long table stocked with an ample supply of Sharpie markers and — sure enough — there was a good amount of folks already in line. The festival volunteers (many of whom we know) kept the queue moving along and distributed mini festival posters for the DJs to sign as souvenirs. Mrs. P and I could hardly contain ourselves as we observed our son extend his hand and offer a friendly smile to listeners and fans. We were thrilled as we watched him sign the posters and talk about his show and the station in general. My wife and I even got autographs. He inscribed "Have a nice summer" on a poster for me and he signed the back of a stock dividend check for my wife. (We had just received it the day before. It was from a stock that E. got as a gift when he was born. The total amount was 32 cents.) Mrs. P and I proceeded out of the tent, but hung around a bit longer to watch E. be E.

Wristbands, my man.

On the final day of the festival, E. tracked me down in our usual spot at the top of the natural amphitheater where the XPoNential Music Festival is held. He convinced me to watch the next band, the raucous Sweet Spirit, from a front row vantage point. I obliged and we headed down to the stage. We stood and chatted while we waited for Sweet Spirit's set to begin. A few people around us came up to E. and said "Hello" and "Love your show!," while others pointed E. out to their friends and whispered his name in hushed tones.

During the performance, I raised my cellphone to snap a "selfie" to chronicle another in a series of concerts my boy and I attended together. He snidely asked, "Oh, so you're one of those people now?" I can't possibly express how proud I am of him. He, on the other hand, has no problem expressing his feelings.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com.

so ya, thought ya, might like to go to the show

Once again, Mrs. Pincus scored some free tickets. This time, she got four seats to a Wednesday evening performance of Pippin, the Tony Award-winning musical that recently enjoyed a revival on Broadway. The touring company of Pippin was stopping at Philadelphia's esteemed and opulent Academy of Music for eight performances wedged into four days. Although I love going to concerts, I am not a fan of live theater, musical or otherwise. But, I am a fan of free tickets, so Mrs. P met me after work and after a quick dinner, we made our way over to the Academy which is just a few blocks from my center-city office.

I've mentioned previously on this blog, that I love old movies. Some of the old movies I love are musicals, including Oklahoma, Yankee Doodle Dandy, Best Foot Forward and Singin' in the Rain, to name just a few. But, there's something about watching a musical on stage that just rubs me the wrong way. Maybe it's the overly dramatic style that is so prevalent in stage productions. I don't like the exaggerated dancing and flamboyant gesturing. Yeah, I understand that performers were encouraged to project and enunciate to reach the folks in the last row of the highest balcony, but, these days, actors' voices are electronically amplified. They're wearing tiny microphones taped to their cheeks. They don't need to sing — nay screech! — at the top of their lungs. Yet, they do anyway.

We arrived early and stood in the small entrance area waiting for the doors to open. Other patrons gathered as well and, soon, the golden doors swung open with the help of a smartly-uniformed usher on the other side. The slightly larger (though still small) lobby was outfitted with a bar at either end and a makeshift merchandise table, already announcing that the soundtrack CD was sold out. This was only the second night of performances. I guess that's good for them, although, for the life of me, I didn't know a single song from Pippin. Not that I am an expert on Broadway musicals, but I know a few songs from a few shows. I asked my wife if Pippin was the one that featured "Prepare Ye the Way of the Lord"?

She answered, "No. That's Godspell."

"How about Day by Day?," I pressed.

"No. That's Godspell, too.," she replied.

She's the same age
as your grandma.

Well, I was fresh out of songs with which to associate the show I was about to see. In my defense, Stephen Schwartz composed both Godspell and Pippin, so I wasn't really that far off. Actually, the only things I knew about Pippin was it originally starred the multi-talented Ben Vereen and Irene Ryan, fresh off her nine-season run as "Granny" on The Beverly Hillbillies. Ryan had performed the role of Pippin's feisty grandmother until she suffered a stroke on stage and was hospitalized. She passed away six weeks later. Outside of that, everything I was about to see would be a surprise.

At the front of the lobby, between the two massive theater entrances, there was a large sign that listed the players for this evening's performance. Most of the names were unfamiliar, until I spotted John Rubinstein. I knew the name from the mid-70s TV drama Family, a show that made Kristy McNichol a household name. Turns out, John originated the title role of Pippin on Broadway and was now playing the character's father. A little further down the list was Adrienne Barbeau, the lovely costar of the controversial All in the Family spin-off Maude. Adrienne played star Bea Arthur's staunch feminist daughter "Carol." Although I hated the show, I watched it. I watched it for the same reason every teenage male watched it — and that reason was Adrienne Barbeau. She was a voluptuous 27 year old at the show's premiere and joined the ranks of Farrah Fawcett and Lynda Carter as TV sex symbols. Later, she made her motion picture debut in then-husband John Carpenter's atmospheric popcorn thriller The Fog. She followed that as part of the ensemble cast of Escape from New York, once again under the direction of Carpenter. Never one to take herself too seriously, Ms. Barbeau's campy tour de force came in the horror anthology Creepshow, a movie that poor Mrs. Pincus watched for the first time through fingers laced across her tightly-clenched eyelids. Adrienne played Hal Holbrook's shrewish spouse who, after a series of imagined slaughters at the hands of her henpecked husband, finally gets her blood-soaked comeuppance. There! — is that sufficient gushing about Adrienne Barbeau? Needless to say, I'm a fan.

"Just call me 'Billie.' Everyone does."

We had to take a tiny elevator up to the level where our seats were. We filed into the darkened third balcony and made our way down the narrow aisle to row E, where we (thanks to extra tickets) were able to stretch ourselves and our bulky winter coats across four seats. From our vantage, the theater was beautiful! White lacquered wood trim, deep red velvet seats, regal gold accents topped with dramatic gold statuary. The stage, however, was a small, distant speck, skirted by, what I thought was a collection of children's dolls, but turned out to be the orchestra.

We perused the Playbill until the lights blinked and dimmed and the show began. The opening number, "Magic to Do" (which, I admit, I had to look up because I forgot, as I did all of the musical numbers), kicked things off. It was everything I hate about Broadway musicals. It was loud, with overly-theatrical gestures and a paper-thin, yet unnecessarily convoluted story, bolstered by dancing and jumping and tumbling and actors trying to out-act each other, even walking into the audience at one point. The next two and a half hours progressed in much the same way. Was it horrible? No, not really. Was it unforgettable? Hardly. Was it entertaining? Sure! The current incarnation of Pippin has been enhanced with Cirque du Soleil-style acrobatics and elaborate stage illusions that didn't exist in its initial run. Was I glad the tickets were free? You betcha!

About midway through the first act, Pippin's grandmother was introduced. As "Berthe," Adrienne Barbeau looked stunning in a form-fitting bustier. She displayed the same irresistible exuberance that she did at the beginning of her career, sending everyone in the theater to secretively "Google" her age. She is 70 and she brazenly defies that age. (Am I gushing again?) Incredibly, Irene Ryan, who originated the role, was also 70. Apparently, "70" was different in the 70s. Not content with just belting out her featured solo with a strong, bravado-filled voice, Adrienne doffed her flimsy outer robe and joined a muscular young man ten feet above the stage, where she was inverted, her shapely legs entwined around her spotter's torso. She sang the last verse of her song while swinging upside-down, to the delight of the entire house. May I reiterate — this woman is 70! Of course, my seat was approximately six miles from the stage, yet from my perspective, Ms. Barbeau has still got it.

When it was all over, Mrs. P and I left the theater, braving a wicked downpour that was atypical for late February in Philadelphia. We hustled through what was essentially a car wash to the train station to head home. As we rode on the train, we talked about the show. I decided, while it was indeed entertaining, it certainly wasn't memorable. But, it was free.

The next day, in true celebrity-obsessed, Josh Pincus fashion, I left a message on Adrienne Barbeau's Facebook page, referencing her overbearing character in Creepshow. Within minutes, I can only assume while grabbing a few moments of rest in her Philadelphia hotel room, Ms. Barbeau replied. I rightfully interpreted a sly tone into her reply.

(click to enlarge)

Obviously, she's a good sport. (End gushing.)

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.

sharp as a pistol

Taking up an area of a little under two square miles with a population of a little shy of ten thousand, you probably never heard of Bristol, Pennsylvania. Oh, wait. There's that song about Bristol — by The Dovells — that hit Number Two on the Billboard charts in 1961. And of course it was the county seat of Bucks County until... um... 1725, but I guess you weren't around for that. Sure, Bristol has its share of history, like any number of towns in one of the original thirteen colonies. I'm sure, at one time, George Washington stopped to ask directions in Bristol or Ben Franklin knocked back a couple of brews at one of the many "publick houses." Actually, Bristol, in all of its charming quaintness, looks a lot like Alexandria, Virginia or Cooperstown, New York or a movie set from a Revolutionary War documentary. It's got that small town, "everyone-knows-everyone-else" homeyness that made you love or hate The Andy Griffith Show. At any given time, it's a good bet that someone is baking a pie in Bristol.

My wife won a pair of tickets to see a production of the Tony Award-winning musical Ragtime at the Bristol Riverside Theatre. Although I am, admittedly, not a fan of stage productions (I love concerts and I love movies, but there's something about stage plays and musicals that rubs me the wrong way), there is very little that I will turn down if it's free. So, on the designated Thursday evening, we drove a mere forty minutes to the tiny burg on the Delaware River. 

Down by the riverside!

We easily found a place to park and made our way to the theater. I was quite surprised to find the place bustling with activity, including a charter bus idling out front, unloading a contingency of folks all dolled up in their weekday finest. The small lobby was alive with chatter, as patrons handed over their tickets and a team of young ushers guided them to their seats. I turned to Mrs. P and commented, "I never imaged it would be so busy." She replied, "Like there's anything else to do in Bristol on a Thursday." She looked at me with that "rolling-your-eyes-without-actually-rolling-your-eyes" look. I smiled in agreement.

We took our seats in the small, darkened theater. The few lights dimmed completely and a very "Aunt Bee" -sort of woman took center stage for some pre-show announcements, most likely to encourage participation in an upcoming bake sale or pancake breakfast to support the church building fund. The the orchestra readied their assorted instruments (a real live orchestra, not a borrowed tape player!) and began the lush overture. On the stage the silhouetted actors moved into position. The lights raised, a spotlight illuminated the group of actors tasked with delivering the opening song and we were off.

I have to confess. I did not have high expectations for this show. In reality, I wanted to hate this show. I mean I really wanted to hate it. In my head, I had already devised a bunch of smarmy lines to incorporate into a blog post (this blog post, as a matter of fact!). I was expecting a high school caliber production with cardboard cutout sets, thrown-together costumes and "amateur-hour" quality singing. I wanted to relish the embarrassment and failure paraded before me. I even hated the book upon which the show was based.*

Boy, was I surprised.

The opening number was fantastic — a word I do not often use. It was professional. It was commanding. It was on par with any Broadway production. Meticulous costumes. Clever, multi-purpose staging. Intricate choreography. Soaring voices. And it was flawless. At the conclusion of the first song, my bewildered eyes met Mrs. P's equally bewildered eyes in the darkness. We were both thinking the same thing — "Holy crap! That was awesome!"

And, so, for the next two hours, we were treated to a totally engaging, totally entertaining production. Staging and special effects were more elaborate as the show progressed, including simulated fireworks and a full-size, working Ford Model T. At the show's conclusion, the cast took many well-deserved curtain calls and the thunderous applause signified unanimous approval.

And this blog post — specifically the distinct reversal of sentiment — is the highest praise I could give.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* In all fairness, I never actually finished the novel Ragtime. I got through the first two chapters and I didn't hold my interest,

the torture never stops

 

Over centuries, many devices and methods have been invented to inflict pain and torture among humans — some innocent, some deserving. Some of these implements were downright horrific, like The Rack, which stretched a victim's body to almost the breaking point. Or the fearsome Iron Maiden, that enclosed the victim in an impenetrable cage and pierced the skin with sharp spikes.

This past Saturday evening, I was subjected to a method of torture that rivaled any cruel Medieval device — a 5th grade school play.

My niece's class was planning a production of Disney's Aladdin, albeit a somewhat shortened version specifically edited for kids and those with short attention spans (which is essentially the same thing). She was cast as Genie, so for months, she would stay after school for rehearsal. She pored over the thin script booklet, her lines carefully noted in yellow highlighter. She scoured closets at my in-law's house for special accoutrements to accent her costume. I can only assume that the other cast members were going through the same ritual.

The evening of the performance arrived. My son, the Genie's cousin, graciously turned down an invitation to Opening Night, but Mrs. P and I attended as the dutiful aunt and uncle. We entered the small lobby of the auditorium that was already filling up with families and friends of the cast. My niece attends a Jewish day school of which the student body is predominantly comprised of members of affluent suburban Philadelphia families. Yelling "Rachel, over here!" in this crowd would yield a stampede of women clad in Lands End and wielding Coach handbags. Affluence doesn't necessarily go hand-in-hand with intelligence, because a more clueless bunch you have never seen. The lobby was chock full of people with faraway expressions and "lost puppy" looks — confused and bewildered. Small children (most likely younger siblings) weaved through the throng, screaming and giggling, devoid of supervision.

We entered the small auditorium and found our seats. After a few unintelligible announcements from the principal through a way-too-loud microphone, the lights dimmed and the fourth grade choir filed along the stage front and took pre-placed seats facing the audience. They stared blankly. An audible click from a boombox filled the room with prerecorded music. A dozen or so fifth graders shuffled onto the darkened stage and when the lights came up, the torture began.

For the next fifty minutes, we were assaulted both audibly and visually. Save for one young lady (the girl playing Jasmine, who obviously takes voice lessons), the singing could have been likened to ice chips — cold, flat and crackly. The choreography was puzzling, with most of the kids moving independently, like the muddy pirouetting  presented in the Woodstock documentary or someone suffering from Saint Vitus Dance. Everyone delivered their lines as though they were cattle auctioneers, blending the words in a rhythmic, though inarticulate, slur. And the faces. Oh, the faces. Every last child looked as though they would have rather been strapped in a dentist's chair than be on that stage. Not a smile could be found. The only exception being when the boy playing the Sultan blew a line and Jafar caught an inconsolable case of the giggles. I was reminded of The Voyage of The Little Mermaid attraction in Disney's Hollywood Studios theme park. It is a wonderful piece of entertainment, but if you never saw the original film, you'd be hard pressed to follow the plot. This production was similar — except for the "wonderful piece of entertainment" part.

When the play was over, the children came to center stage and took bows and the parent-and-grandparent filled audience lavished them with thunderous applause. A woman in a Coldwater Creek sweater grabbed a microphone and thanked several people for their work on the play. She preceded each acknowledged name with the adjective "amazing," using the accolade three times in once sentence. A few years ago, I saw the stage version of The Lion King. While I am not a fan of musical theater, I was suitably impressed by the ingenious costuming and production design. Was it amazing? No. It was undeniably cool, but not amazing. "Amazing" should be reserved for groundbreaking accomplishments in medicine or feats of engineering like Hoover Dam or natural phenomena like Niagara Falls (all of which I've seen and, yes, they qualify as "amazing"). I did not witness anything on that stage on Saturday evening that remotely resembled anything "amazing." I understand that parents want to give unconditional praise for their children's accomplishments, but "Hey! That was great!" works just as well. What will you do when, later in life, your child does something that is really amazing? Over time, that word loses its "specialness" and becomes diluted.

As we walked back to our car, Mrs. P., once again, told me that I'm a "good sport." Like she's done so many times before. 

The torture was over.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

go and fetch the captain's log and tear the pages out

William Shatner is the greatest actor that ever took the stage or stood before a camera. If you don't believe me, you can ask him.

In 1966, Gene Roddenberry was asked to recast the pilot of a science fiction series he proposed to NBC. Dumping the poorly-received Jeffrey Hunter, Roddenberry recruited a young actor named William Shatner to play the charismatic leader Captain James T. Kirk. Shatner, the veteran of many small stage productions, a handful of anthology TV series and the former "Ranger Bob" on the Canadian version of The Howdy Doody Show, jumped at the role. NBC approved of the recast and Star Trek, as a series, went into production. After 79 episodes with disappointingly low ratings, Star Trek was canceled, despite a rabid letter-writing campaign by fans. NBC issued this announcement: "You Star Trek fans have fought the 'good fight,' but the show has been canceled and there's nothing to be done now." The regular cast went their separate ways.

Years later, Star Trek was recognized as a ground-breaking series, in spite of its low-budget production and sub-par acting. The cast of the original series went on, in true Bob Denver/Gilligan's Island fashion, to milk those characters for all they were worth. And leading the pack was William Shatner. Shatner was given roles based on the novelty of William Shatner. It was a joke. A goof, with everyone in on it but Shatner. Instead, Shatner  — perceiving himself as the revered thespian, stumbled through a post-Star Trek career of B-grade movies (remember Kingdom of the Spiders or Incubus, a full-length movie with dialogue entirely in Esperanto?), TV guest appearances usually including a "Captain Kirk wink-wink" reference, and the occasional (embarrassing) musical foray. Sure, he was successful at all of his various endeavors, but so was Ted Bundy. His subsequent long-running series were strong, but they were no doubt conceived as "Let's see Captain Kirk as a cop!" and "Let's see Captain Kirk as a lawyer!"

Last night, my wife and I subjected ourselves to went to see the local stop on Shatner's current one-man career retrospective Shatner's World: We Just Live in It on its multi-city tour. The performance, at the main showroom at Harrah's Casino in Atlantic City, came one week after the New Jersey community suffered heavy loss and damage as a result of Hurricane Sandy. Shatner was scheduled for two performances at Harrah's, but the Friday evening show was canceled. Not because of the hurricane, but due to lack of ticket sales. (Luckily, our tickets were complimentary and yes, that's a $75.00 face value per seat.)

After dinner, we arrived as the doors opened one hour prior to curtain. The place was empty and as it grew nearer to showtime, the theater was not filling up too quickly. Soon, the lights dimmed and Shatner's voice announced himself as he bounded out to the stage to the strains of the Star Trek theme (what else?). The set was sparse. A large screen showed a starry sky and two tables and chairs stood at either end of the stage. We sat back and witnessed two hours of self-indulgence that could have just as easily been presented in an empty venue with the same results from the performer. Shatner, who is by no means a comedian, stumbled and stammered through a mish-mash of meandering soliloquies, most culminating in a payoff not worth the wait. He lost his train of thought several times during each anecdote and several times tripped over the punchlines. Many of his tales were pointless nonsequiters, told purely for his own amusement. He related a story of purchasing a horse, punctuating it with loud bursts of bravado acting. I don't even remember the point of the story. Next, touching on the humble beginnings of his acting career, he told of a famous incident in which he shared the stage with actor Lon Chaney Jr. During a performance on live television, a drunken Chaney — thinking it was still a rehearsal — muttered to himself about not breaking props and saving them for the live show. The panicked director couldn't convey the fact that this was the live show, and the result was unintentionally hilarious. (This exhibition is recounted here and is available to watch here.) Curiously, the teleplay does not include Shatner. The 1952 anthology series Tales of Tomorrow, during which the incident took place, never featured Shatner. His inclusion in the story happened in his imagination.

Shatner's World also featured many film clips including an interview with Patrick Stewart, star of Star Trek: The Next Generation. Stewart, a classically trained and respected actor said, "If I were to die tomorrow, I'd be happy and honored to only be remembered as Captain Picard." The statement was delivered in a truly heartfelt and humbled manner. Stewart is a better actor than Shatner, so his comment was either convincingly scripted or genuine. Shatner put on his hack-actor face and replied, "I feel the same way." His reply dripped with ostentatious bullshit.

Over the course of any show, I have never seen more patrons get up and walk out. At one point, I counted ten people at one time making a mass exodus.

Bottom line: Shatner is a blowhard. He is full of himself and way more impressed by his accomplishments that anyone else. He is an overacting ham with very limited range who lucked into an iconic show nearly six decades ago. Over the years, his co-stars have voiced their dislike for Shatner, including actor George Takei who, on a Comedy Central roast of Shatner, screamed, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!"

You said it, Sulu.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com