just the facts

If you are a reader of this blog (with any sort of regularity, although I still can't figure out why anyone would be), you know all about my affinity for television. Especially old television from my youth, or in some cases, before I was born. I like old sitcoms, dramas, game shows and even commercials — all of which are readily available for viewing on cable TV or any number of streaming services. 

One of my favorite shows was Dragnet, a police procedural drama produced and created by actor Jack Webb. Dragnet began life as a radio drama, based loosely on a small role Webb played in the 1948 film He Walked by Night. Webb played "Lee Whitey," a police forensic scientist. Webb worked closely with a real Los Angeles police forensic scientist and decided that the intricate, detailed day-to-day work would make for an interesting premise of a weekly series. He was right. Dragnet premiered in the summer of 1949 on the NBC radio network. After a short period of adjustment and "growing pains," Dragnet came into its own. Under Webb's direction, actors were instructed to deliver lines in a slow, deadpan manor. Dragnet abandoned the shrill and high-strung presentation of other contemporary police dramas in favor of a slower, more concise demeanor. The show's popularity grew and Dragnet enjoyed a successful nine-season run.

At the same time, Dragnet made an easy transition to the fledgling medium of television. Loyal listeners got their first glimpse of Jack Webb as no-nonsense "Sergeant Joe Friday" on their TV screens in December 1951. Actor Barton Yarborough, who played Friday's partner "Sergeant Ben Romero" died suddenly after filming just two episodes. He was replaced by actor Barney Philips (best remembered for having an eye in the middle of his forehead in a memorable episode of Twilight Zone) for the rest of the first season. Season Two saw a new partner — "Officer Frank Smith" — played by Ben Alexander (after a brief run by actor Herb Ellis). This incarnation of Dragnet ran until the summer of 1959.

In 1967, NBC brought back Dragnet. This is the series with which I am most familiar. It, again, starred Jack Webb as "Sergeant Joe Friday" and the ubiquitous Harry Morgan as his new partner "Officer Bill Gannon." The episodes were shot in color and took full advantage of the budding "hippie" culture so prevalent in the country at the time. Webb and his cohorts represented all things good and pure, as they butt heads with various evil, counter-culture hippie freaks, pushing their society-corrupting "mary jane," "dexies," "reds" and "smack" on 60s innocent youth. Along with the standard robberies, break-ins and kidnapping, Dragnet in the 60s presented a variety of hot-headed teens and dirty hippies hell-bent on "puttin' to The Man," as well as young men and women holding respectable jobs, but "turning on" at home when working hours were through. It also dealt with race relations, while simultaneously being a little racist itself. 

Jack Webb was also a small screen "Orson Welles" of sorts. He regularly employed the same roster of character actors to appear in different roles over the course of the show's four seasons. Versatile veteran actors like Virginia Gregg, Stacy Harris, Peggy Webber, Herb Vigran, Olan Soule and dozens of others would pop up week after week as suspects or witnesses, as though we'd never seen them before. 

Virginia Gregg appeared in 14 episodes playing 14 different characters, from the flamboyant leader of a pyramid scheme to the helpful employee at a candy store (that is obviously supposed to be See's). Jill Banner, everyone's favorite "Spider Baby, " shows up in five episodes playing both sweet and surly. When the script called for a repugnant asshole, actors like Vic Perrin and John Sebastian (and — yes! — Bobby Troup, who went on to star in Webb-produced Emergency! and married Jack Webb's ex-wife Julie London) were only too happy to oblige. 

MeTV, the popular retro cable network, shows two episodes of Dragnet every morning beginning at 5 AM. Coincidentally, that's the exact time I wake up to go to work. While I enjoy a bowl of cereal and a cup of coffee, I half pay attention to the morning's Dragnet offering. Over time, I have seen the entire 1960s version of the  Dragnet series approximately a zillion times. I've seen Heather Menzies get threatened with a hand grenade wielded by an angry Mickey Sholdar. I've seen Tim Donnelly ("Chet" from Emergency!) head up a ring of dog-nappers. I've even spotted Kent McCord and Martin Milner playing their familiar roles of "Officers Reed and Malloy" before Adam-12 was a proper series.

But enough was enough. I ran through the series so many times, I was bored. But, then, I discovered that Buzzr!, another retro cable channel that specializes in game shows from "way back when" shows old episodes of What's My Line? opposite Dragnet in the same time slot. So, instead of watching Friday and Gannon interrogate a smarmy G. D. Spradlin for the billionth time, I watched a pre- M*A*S*H  Alan Alda ask "Is it bigger than a bread box?" I watched comedian Soupy Sales offer up a barrage of corny (but funny) one-liners before getting a "no" on his question from moderator Larry Blyden. And later, I cringed as Blyden made several decidedly racists, yet perfectly acceptable for the time, comments regarding a contestant who imports rickshaws to the United States. "Okay," I thought, "this will make a suitable Dragnet replacement."

The next day, Buzzr! showed Family Feud instead of What's My Line?

I wonder what else is on....?

(By the way, Jack Webb never — never — uttered the line "Just the facts.")

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

cover me

My favorite radio station, WXPN in Philadelphia, just announced the theme for its annual "Countdown of the 885 Greatest..." whatever for this year. In the past, they have ranked albums, songs, artists over the course of a week or so in the early part of December. After opening up the voting to listeners via the station's website, the playback is subject to heated debates and angry disappointment by those who take countdowns and rating things waaaay too seriously. Countdowns (as well as halls of fame and awards shows) are meaningless. They are based on opinion and only opinion. However, people hold their opinions very dearly. Very dearly. Dearly enough that opinions have been known to cause fist fights and loss of friendship.

I rarely listen to WXPN's annual countdowns for any long period of time. Sometimes, I will tune in just for fodder for posting snarky comments on social media (something I am known to do) until I lose interest (something I am also known to do). Otherwise, I have no interest in knowing that Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Up Around the Bend" was voted the 432nd best song by a group comprised of a guy that hated his brother (Oasis' "Wonderwall" came in considerably higher.) I don't care to rank and rate music, so I never vote in the countdowns. I just want to listen to songs.

This year, the theme is The 885 Greatest Cover Songs (the station's signal comes in on 88.5, hence the randomness of the tallied amount of final entries). I love cover songs. I love to hear one artist's interpretation of another artist's composition, especially songs that are so-called "classics." I love to hear obscure versions of familiar songs. Conversely, I like to hear a familiar song, only to discover that the version everyone knows was previously recorded by someone else, but for some reason, just wasn't a hit. I like offbeat and unexpected takes on popular songs. Covers are cool and I just might listen to this year's countdown more than I did in years past.

Cover songs themselves can be broken down into subcategories of their own. One of my favorites (and I'm sure this will be brought up in the course of XPN's playback this year) is songs that you didn't know were covers. For example, "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. Not only is that song a cover, but it's the third recording after the original version. The song was recorded by country singer Bobby Bare. It did not chart, so the song's composer Don Schlitz recorded it himself, with similar results. Johnny Cash included it on his 1978 album Gone Girl. Kenny Rogers took a shot with it the same year and scored a Number One hit on the Billboard Country chart. It reached Number 16 on Billboard's Hot 100. Another surprising cover is "Superstar," the eerie ballad that reached Number 2 on the Billboard chart for The Carpenters in 1971. It was originally recorded by folk-rock duo Delaney and Bonnie in 1969. Richard Carpenter saw Bette Midler sing the song on The Tonight Show late one night and thought it would be perfect for his sister's vocals. He was right. How about Barry Manilow's signature "I Write the Songs?" Yep. A Cover. It was originally recorded by pop husband-and-wife duo The Captain & Tennille in May 1975 and released as a non-charting single by teen idol David Cassidy before Manilow reluctantly recorded it a few months later. It hit Number One for Manilow. The song's author, Beach Boy Bruce Johnston, included the tune on his own solo record and Frank Sinatra re-recorded it as "I Sing The Songs," entirely missing the song's meaning.

Other songs like Blondie's "Hanging on the Telephone," "I Love Rock 'N' Roll" by Joan Jett and The Blackhearts and even Chubby Checker's "The Twist" are all covers. Yes sir... this year's countdown is going to be a wild ride.

The voting opened just a few days ago and runs until the end of October. Voters are limited to a list of ten songs. I have been compiling my list since the theme was announced. My list, of course, will not represent the best cover songs, because that is merely opinion. There is no "best." I will just submit a list of some of my favorite cover songs. I suppose songs will be ranked by how many people vote for the same song. If that's the case, none of my selections will even make the list. But that's okay. I can listen to them anytime I want.

And at this point, my list of ten songs has been whittled down to twenty. But, I have plenty of time to vote.

I know my list will include THIS GEM. It's my favorite cover song of all time.

You can vote in WXPN's Countdown HERE.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

listen to the countdown, they're playing our song again

At the end of last year, my favorite radio station, Philadelphia's WXPN, interrupted their regular programming to present the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." Culled from an online poll of loyal listeners, the countdown (played back in reverse order) offered a wide variety of songs from a wide variety of artists. The content was comprised mostly of WXPN's so-called "core artists," the ones who receive regular play on the station and are beloved by listeners for their musical output, their longevity, and because WXPN says they are beloved or some combination of  the above. So, of course the countdown featured 18 songs by Radiohead (a band I do not care for), 11 songs by Hozier (a singer I am indifferent towards), 9 songs by Bruce Springsteen (a singer I am sick of hearing, especially his 21st century releases) and slew of non-descript singer/songwriters who — honestly — all seem to blend together. The countdown included 8 songs by Kendrick Lamar, rapper and recent Super Bowl halftime showman. WXPN rarely plays Kendrick Lamar in their day-to-day playlist. As a matter of fact, the station receives a number of complaints from its predominantly white, predominantly older audience when ever a rap artist interrupts their Dawes and The War on Drugs listening time. (Yes, WXPN is my favorite radio station. Imagine what I would say if it wasn't my favorite!)

People love to rank things. They love to make lists of pretty much everything in their lives in the order of how much they are loved. They love to tell other people how they have ranked things and try to convince those people to rank these things in the same order, often leading to heated arguments, insults and animosity. That's just human nature, I suppose. In 2020, I reiterated how much I dislike... no, make that hate countdowns. Countdowns and lists and rankings are based on opinions. And — boy! — do people have opinions. Opinions are meaningless in the big scheme of things. If you insist on things being ranked and rated, it should be based on measurable facts, not on how much you like or don't like something. Everyone has different likes and dislikes, yet people want everyone to share their opinion. And they get very, very defensive when their opinions are not shared. Very defensive.

Every year, the Oscars, the Emmys, The Grammys, the Tonys and countless other awards are given out based on the opinions of a specific group of people. Record sales, box office receipts and other factual, measurable criteria are tossed aside in favor of arbitrary opinions based on likability, personalities and politically motivated feeling. That's why Glenn Close or Alfred Hitchcock never received an Oscar. That's why Paul Newman was finally given an Oscar for a 1987 performance in a less-than-stellar sequel to the movie for which he should have won an Oscar. Paul Newman skipped that Oscar ceremony in 1987, later stating: "It's like chasing a beautiful woman for 80 years." Paul knew bullshit when he saw it. 

The same goes for various Halls of Fame. The Baseball Hall of Fame is chock full of statistics, but, when it comes to selection for induction into the coveted Hall, players are chosen based on the opinions of a committee. They know what statistics are and what they represent, yet they choose to ignore statistics when it really counts. Induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame has been a "bone in the throat" for a lot of die-hard rock and roll fans. Each year, when nominees are announced (by the same opiniated group that will eventually vote on who gets in), tempers flare and voices raise in protest. "Why hasn't (insert your favorite snubbed rock & roller here) gotten in?" is the frequent gripe. The word "deserves" is brought up a lot, mostly by people who don't fully understand what "deserves" means. Non-rock and rollers like Dolly Parton have been given the honor of induction, while Bad Company, Boston, Warren Zevon and Iron Maiden look on from the sidelines. Again, record sales, concert receipts and radio (and now streaming) airplay are not considered for induction. Only opinion. According to the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame's website, "the Nominating Committee's selections are based on a number of criteria, including the impact and influence of the artist on music history, as well as their popularity, longevity, and musical innovations." That just another, more complicated way of saying "opinion."

So, because I do not like countdowns and I do not subscribe to the importance that is placed on countdowns and ratings and rankings, I avoided the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." I listened to the radio before the countdown began, but I was already at my desk at work by the time it started and each subsequent day when it picked up where it left off the previous day. I avoided it for its entire ten day (or so) run. When it was all over, I casually glanced at the results that were posted on the WXPN website — just out of curiosity.

And there was a glaring omission.

Sparks 21st Century albums

The parameters for inclusion in this countdown was songs released between January 1, 2000 and right up until the day the countdown voting closed. That encompasses 25 years. The list of 885 songs was totally devoid of a single entry by Ron and Russel Mael, the brothers who have been performing for the past 54 years (in one capacity or another) under the name Sparks. Since their debut in 1971, Sparks has flown just under the mainstream radar of the music industry. As a band, they are hard to define. They have dabbled in many musical genres including pop, rock, new wave, dance and electronica. Along the way, they have poked playful fun at they genres they so expertly mimicked. Although their humor is quite prevalent in their songs, they are not a novelty act, like Weird Al Yankovic (who, by the way, has five Grammys). Sparks are a legitimate band. Yes, they have popped their heads up here and there, scoring with a few minor hits in the 80s, but mostly they are one of the cultiest of cult bands. They get very little airplay despite their musical output of 41 albums (including 2 soundtrack albums, a live album and 12 compilation albums) and 79 singles. They have appeared and performed on network television (including briefly on an episode of Gilmore Girls). They were featured in the 1977 thriller Rollercoaster and more recently, they were the subject of and acclaimed documentary by edgy filmmaker Edgar Wright.

Sparks met the criteria for inclusion in the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." Beginning in 2000, Sparks released 11 albums. Eleven! including the two soundtracks and a collaboration with Scottish band Franz Ferdinand (whose "Take Me Out" ranked at Number 93 according to someone's opinion). Within the past 25 years, several Sparks songs were played on WXPN for a brief period of time, mostly just after a new album release or when the documentary came out. After that, the new Sparks songs disappeared from the airwaves and 1983's "Cool Places" would pop up on the station's 80's themed specialty show.

However, not a single Sparks song made it to the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century." Not a one. The alt-metal band Incubus had a song come in at Number 859. Pop punkers Jimmy Eat World were included at Number 689. Even Taylor Swift took the 133 spot with "Shake It Off" — a song that is rarely if ever played on WXPN. But no Sparks.

Is the  "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century" really an accurate assessment of the "885 Greatest Songs of the 21st Century?" Before you answer, understand that it's just your opinion.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

Footnote: I went an entire post about music without a single shot at Ringo or The Dave Matthews Band.

my motto's always been when it's right, it's right

A little while ago, I posted a photo on Instagram that referenced the 70s pop band Starland Vocal Band. Let me tell you a little story about The Starland Vocal Band. It's a story you could have gone the rest of your life without hearing, but here you are, so make the best of it.

The Starland Vocal Band are a prime example of the denigrating term "one hit wonder." In the early 1970s, the husband and wife songwriting team of Bill Danoff and Taffy Nivert collaborated with country music superstar John Denver to pen Take Me Home Country Roads, a song that was eventually named the official state song of West Virginia (narrowly beating out I'm My Own Grandpa by just a few votes). Danoff and Nivert recorded two albums of their own compositions under the name "Fat City," as well as two more using the name "Bill & Taffy." All four albums — released between 1969 and 1974 — attracted little to no attention.

As America was celebrating its Bicentennial, Danoff and Nivert formed the Starland Vocal Band and released their debut album. Now a foursome with the addition of keyboardist-singer Jon Carroll and his soon-to-be girlfriend Margot Chapman, the breezy popsters unleashed the seductively-sweet Afternoon Delight on the Top 40 airwaves. With its light melody, honeyed harmonies and cryptic but obvious euphemisms, Afternoon Delight was a ubiquitous hit across the country, peaking at Number One on the Billboard charts just days after the United States wished itself a Happy 200th Birthday.

Riding the wave of its popularity, the Starland Vocal Band seemed to be poised for greatness. They were given their own variety show on CBS that ran for six weeks as a summer replacement series in 1977. The show, a typical 70s romp with corny comedy and musical numbers, featured comedian Mark Russell and a writing staff that included April Kelly (of later Boy Meets World fame) and a young David Letterman. 

When the Grammy Awards rolled around, the group had garnered four nominations, including the coveted Record of the Year and Song of the Year. On the night of the award ceremony, they won Best New Artist, much to everyone's surprise — especially the heavily-favored Boston, whose debut had moved a whopping 31 million units. They also took home a Grammy for Best Vocal Arrangement for their aforementioned harmonies.

Winning two Grammy Awards had a decidedly opposite effect on the fledgling quartet. Their follow-up album "Rear View Mirror" never broke the Top 100 and their next five singles never even charted. Then things within the band went south. They all decided to go their separate ways in 1981. Carroll and Chapman, who became a couple and married during the band's formation, divorced in 1982. Danoff and Nivert followed suit soon after. Afternoon Delight, at one time a popular hit among the bubblegum set, did a complete 180, becoming a reviled earworm and showing up on "most hated songs" lists compiled by critics and music listeners alike. However, in recent years, the song has been featured prominently on the soundtracks of a number of popular movies.

I was 15 when Afternoon Delight was a radio staple. I liked it. It was a dirty song about having sex in the afternoon. What 15 year-old didn't giggle at the very thought? What 15 year-old didn't stifle laughter when they caught their mom singing "Rubbin' sticks and stones together makes the sparks ignite" as she was making dinner? The song was cute. The band was cute. What was there not to like?  Yeah, yeah... I know. 1976 also brought the world heavy hitters like Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear The Reaper and Led Zeppelin's Nobody's Fault But Mine, as well as Blitzkrieg Bop from the Ramones, a bunch of hardened punks who could easily wipe the floor with the Starland Vocal Band. But, I liked the song, no matter what peer pressure dictated.

Now I am 62. I have a subscription to Sirius XM Satellite Radio. With just over a gazillion channels catering to every possible musical niche taste, I find myself listening to the "70s Gold" channel, where favorites from my formative years stream on a daily basis. While I do change the station when certain songs begin, I am surprised by which songs and which bands prompt that action. As soon as I hear the opening strains of any — any! — Who song, I mash that touchscreen button as quickly as I can. I have also caught myself changing the channel away from Van Morrison, Rod Stewart, Bob Seger & The Silver Bullet Band (If I went the rest of my life without hearing another Bob Seger song, that would not be horrible) and The Doobie Brothers. I will, however, stick around for the completion of songs by Chicago (a band I never liked), Led Zeppelin (another band I never liked) and any number of bubblegum-y, pop hits and so-called "one hit wonders." I hear Afternoon Delight at least once a week during the forty minute commute on my way home from work. I still like it. It makes me think of fun times and just how stupid and carefree the 70s were for me.

On the way home from picking up dinner, I took this picture of my dashboard at a stoplight....

...and later posted it on social media. It received 10 "likes" and several comments, including one person who felt it was his internet-policing duty to tell me the song was about fornication. But, another of my connections — one who I don't know personally, but who "gets" my slightly skewed sense of humor — noted very astutely...

I couldn't have said it better myself.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* * * * * * * * * 

If  you like the Starland Vocal Band as much as I do, why not get a t-shirt and show the world!

You can order one RIGHT HERE! 

see ya later, alligator

Jerry Blavat passed away this week at the age of 82. Outside of the Delaware Valley, the name is meaningless. Although he appeared in a couple of movies and a memorable episode of The Monkees, Jerry Blavat's fame, appeal and rabid fan base extended only as far south as the Jersey Shore and north to a couple of places in the Poconos. But, between those narrow boundaries, Jerry was beloved. Very beloved. His popularity spanned generations. From his humble beginnings as a teen dancer on the original pre-Dick Clark American Bandstand to his regular summertime gig every weekend at his New Jersey nightclub "Memories in Margate," Jerry's original fans introduced the charismatic disc jockey and his unique on-air antics to their children and grandchildren. Those subsequent generations embraced Jerry. And Jerry embraced them right back.

The man known as "The Geator with the Heater" was a fixture on Philadelphia radio across seven decades. He loved the music of his youth and he kept those doo-wop ditties and sentimental ballads alive in weekly broadcasts and live dance parties. He was a man of the people and a proud proponent of all things Philadelphia. He loved to meet his fans and entertain them with stories of his show biz connections. As chronicled in his 2011 autobiography, Jerry hobnobbed with the likes of Quincy Jones, The Four Seasons and The Isley Brothers. He served as Don Rickles' personal valet and was tour manager for Danny and the Juniors. He even stood as Best Man for Sammy Davis Jr. at his wedding. For goodness sake, Jerry's mom would make a traditional Italian dinner for Frank Sinatra when Ol' Blue Eyes was in town. 

Ask anyone in Philadelphia for a "Jerry Blavat" story and they will most likely have one. And ol' Josh Pincus is no exception. In the days that followed Jerry Blavat's death, anecdotes about the disc jockey came flooding across news outlets and social media. I will share mine...

One night, I was driving my son from my house in the northern Philadelphia suburbs to his house in South Philadelphia. It's about a forty minute trip, no matter which of several available routes are taken. On this particular night, I decided to drive straight down Broad Street rather than venture into always-iffy traffic on the notorious Schuylkill Expressway. As we approached the intersection of Broad and Vine Streets, a small car pulled up next to us, sporting a large embossed plastic sign on the driver's door. The sign read "Geator Gold Radio" and the station channel number in big block letters, along with a little caricature of Jerry Blavat. I said to my son, "I wonder who could possibly be driving that car with that sign?" The windows of the car were tinted, concealing the driver's identity. We chuckled and continued the conversation we were having. The car next to us kept the same driving pace and we ended up stopping at every traffic light at the same time. As we got to the circle around City Hall, the car edged towards the curb that flanks the fancy Ritz Carlton hotel. The door opened and  I slowed down to see who the driver was. And, sure enough, it was Jerry Blavat himself. I pulled up alongside Jerry's car and my son lowered his window and called out "Hey Geator!" Jerry, all smiles with his trademark Kangol hat perched backwards on his short, now-gray locks, approached my car. His hands were raised and he was making "finger guns" in our direction.

"My main man!," Jerry cheered. He reached out and patted my son's shoulder. He continued his rapid-fire greeting. "Look at you two! Like Heckle and Jekyll! Yes sir! Like Heckle and Jekyll!" He winked and thanked us for stopping, explaining he had to run off to a gig at the Ritz. He waved as he disappeared inside a side entrance. We sat for a minute and laughed. Then I pulled back into traffic to drive Jekyll home. Or maybe he's Heckle and I'm Jekyll. I don't know. Jerry didn't make that clear.

For ten years, Jerry Blavat has had a radio show on Saturday evenings on WXPN, the very same radio station that employs my son. Jerry stood within "shoulder-patting" distance of my son and did not recognize him as a co-worker, despite having crossed paths on many occasions. But, it didn't matter. When you were in the presence of Jerry Blavat, he was your pal... whether he knew you or not. He had pals all over the Delaware Valley and — as far as he was concerned — he knew every one of them.

And now, all his pals miss him.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

unbroken chain

Andy Warhol once said: "In the future, everyone will be world-famous for 15 minutes." Well, this past Thursday morning, I overstayed my allotted time by a half hour.

Some time ago, my favorite Philadelphia radio station began a new feature on their morning drive-time show. Joining such popular features as Wednesday afternoon's "Worst Song in the World" and "The Fab Four," a four-song block of songs from the Beatles catalog, a long-time staple of the afternoon broadcast, the morning show introduced a fun little concept called "The Name Chain Game." The Thursday morning feature entails a little clever thinking on the part of listeners who plan to submit a contender for on-air play. The rules are actually pretty simple. It's a string of songs whose artists are connected by name. The last word (or part of a word) begins the first word (or part of a word) of the next song's performer. This continues for as long as you can. For example, an early submission in the games initial stages ran as follows: "Etta James" followed by "James Gang" followed by "Gang of Four" followed by "The Four Freshmen" followed by "Men at Work" followed by "Work Drugs." Five songs were played in a row and at the end the enthused host of the show reading the conglomeration as "Etta James Gang of Four FreshMen at Work Drugs." She chuckled. The morning news guy chuckled and the morning moved on. This little experiment gathered steam and strings of songs or "chains," if you will, averaged about four to five songs. On the rare occasion, some extended to six or seven. Additional rules allowed for dropping "the" from a band's name. Syllable pronunciation and homophones are permitted, in the case of a recent submission that included Donald Fagen followed by Against Me. 

Now that you've been properly intrigued and have subconsciously begun forming your own chains, let me tell you where Josh Pincus and my ever-so-brief fulfillment of Andy Warhol's prophecy fits into this. 

These go to 11.

Way back in January of this year, I sent an email to the morning show with my entry for the Name Chain Game. Keeping in Josh Pincus fashion to buck convention, my entry included eleven performers. Yep. Eleven. These were not obscure artists. These were performers who I had heard previously in the eclectic mix that is the loose playlist of my favorite radio station. I clicked "SEND" on my email and waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. And forgot about it. I should mention that my son is employed by my favorite radio station and is pretty friendly with the morning show host. I should also mention that that connection was in no way influential in the decision of whether or not my submission was played... or even considered. As a matter of fact, my son dismissed my submission, citing its cumbersome length not being conducive to the tight scheduling of a radio show. Hey.... what do I know about programming a radio show? I know about listening to a radio show. I've been doing that for most of my life. But, programming? I shrugged my shoulders at my son's viewpoint and secretly hoped to one day hear my Name Chain Game opus.

To my surprise, a few days ago, I got an email from the morning show host. She told me that she'd be tackling my monster submission this week. I made sure I was listening. The game usually kicks off at 8:20 AM on Thursday morning, but, as she explained, due to its unusual length, she'd be starting things just ahead of the scheduled news break. With a proper introduction and/or warning, the opening strains of "Playing in the Band" by the good old Grateful Dead got the whole affair started at 8:13.  At the song's conclusion, a short time out was taken for a quick news brief. The marathon restarted at 8:23 with "I Feel Love (Every Million Miles" by Jack White's recent supergroup Dead Weather. A little before 9 o'clock, the whole shebang came to a conclusion with the fade out of "Standing in the Shadows of Love" by The Four Tops. (How did I arrive here? I'll tell you in a minute.) And that was it. My name was announced and I was thanked. And the show moved on with an unrelated song by funkster Warren G.

Twitter alighted with a few congratulatory tweets and "likes" on the morning show's acknowledgment of the list of artists featured on this week's Name Chain Game. I got a few "likes" myself from a few followers who are local and listen to the station as well.

So, what was my chain? Well, like I said, it started off with The Grateful Dead and went like this...

Grateful Dead 

Dead Weather 

Weather Report 

Portugal the Man 

Man or Astroman? 

Man Man 

Manfred Mann 

Manhattan Transfer 

First Class 

Classics IV

Four Tops

I even made a few suggestions for songs, including First Class's one and only hit "Beach Baby," the sunny Beach Boys homage by an unlikely group of British studio musicians and one of three choices by Classics IV, the smooth, sophisticated jazz/rock ensemble that became the basis for the Atlanta Rhythm Section. (Their 1968 hit "Traces" was selected for play.)

And that was it. By 9 o'clock, my moment in the spotlight was over. As they say, "Fame is fleeting." That certainly is true. If this actually qualifies as "fame."

I don't think it does. But it was fun.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the final countdown

My favorite radio station just wrapped up a week-long countdown of the two thousand and twenty "greatest songs of all time." A few months prior to beginning the playback, they solicited listeners to compile a list of their ten greatest songs of all time. These lists were then tallied and calculated and counted and sorted. On December 10 at 8 AM, they played "Time is Tight," a 1969 release by instrumental funk band Booker T & The MGs. This song, ranking at Number 2020, kicked off a non-sequitur musical marathon that would — over the course of eight days — span decades, artists and genres. The countdown promised (or threatened) to continue non-stop — burgeoning on 24 hours a day — until the Number One song was revealed. Social media immediately lit up as, in the first 24 hours, the station defiantly — and consecutively — played "I Keep Forgettin'" by Michael McDonald, "Just Like Honey" by The Jesus and Mary Chain, "Louisiana 1927" by Randy Newman, "The Breaks" by Kurtis Blow and "Open My Eyes" by Nazz. This made for one of the early examples of unusual and awkward segues. As the on-air hosts divulged each song (in reverse order), Twitter was a-twitter with hash-tagged conversations, proclamations and overtly possessive browbeating. With each new song disclosure, a new volley of discussion would erupt, fraught with more speculation, contempt and even a bit of bullying. And this is how things played out until the single digits were reached.

I planned to steer clear of the countdown and, to be honest, I only heard approximately sixty or so minutes of it and that didn't come until Day Five. It was on the radio in my wife's car as we took a ride to my son's house to deliver some cookies that she made. We talked during the drive, so I really wasn't paying close attention to the songs. I heard approximately 26 songs in the time it took to drive to his house and then return home. When each song began, I asked the same question: "Is this the 'Greatest Song of All Time?'" I asked the question — out loud — 26 times... until Mrs. Pincus (rightfully) told me to shut up. On the final day, I blew off my planned "avoidance" and I sat with my wife on our sofa as we listened to the last 100 songs play back through our stereo. To add to the fun, we participated in the social media fervor that accompanied the countdown. It was sort of a running commentary, like those second audio tracks on DVDs that nobody listens to. Because I am who I am, my tweets were dripping with sarcasm and faux ignorance (in keeping with my online persona). I tweet strictly for my own amusement and, sometimes, I find the results funnier if the folks on the receiving end don't know me and take everything I say to heart. I was careful to include a healthy dose of my "disdain" for Ringo Starr, as well as a "put on" misunderstanding of particular artists. (For instance, I expressed my love of jazz great Dave Brubek when his classic "Take Five" checked in at the Number 54 position. However, I punctuated my tweet with a photo of David Ruprecht, the host of the 90s game show Supermarket Sweep. I got the joke and that was all that was important.)

I love music. I hate countdowns. I did not compile nor submit a list for inclusion in the countdown. I hate ranking anything — movies, television shows, foods — anything. I don't care to hear other people's lists and I especially don't need to hear two thousand and twenty songs in reverse order of greatness. It's all opinion. There is no definitive answer. There are no bad choices. There are no good choices. It all means absolutely nothing. Months and years from now, when this countdown is a mere memory, will it make any bit difference that "Day Tripper" by The Beatles ranks as the 1,164th Greatest Song of All Time the next time they play it? 

I like what I like. I don't like what I don't like. The specifics of those things, of course, will differ from person to person. But people seem to get really possessive and defensive about the songs they like and the songs other people like. People want other people to like the same songs they like. I don't know why? I don't understand the insecurity that surfaces when someone says they don't like a song or band that you like. It appears, though, that my generation insists on keeping the flame burning for the music of their formative years. This phenomenon doesn't seem to exist in the generations that followed. The Top 25 songs, as "determined" by the Countdown results, were an embarrassing reflection of my contemporaries, boasting primarily white guys with guitars... with just a few exceptions. People my age, in 2020, are still hanging onto their beloved "Layla" and "Stairway to Heaven." I could just picture graying men with bad backs struggling to pump their fists in the air as the opening chords of Bruce Springsteen's "Jungleland" emanated from the smart speaker that their grandson set up for them.

Sure, I like to hear the music I grew up with. I also like to hear the music my parents grew up with and the music my son grew up with. It makes for a much more enjoyable variety of soundtrack to my life. I don't try to "school" anybody. I will not make a convincing argument to persuade someone half my age that Elton John, in his heyday, could run musical circles around Taylor Swift. That's just stupid. Elton John was a talented singer and songwriter and Taylor Swift is a talented singer and songwriter. And what difference does it make if you or I feel otherwise. There's no need to take music so seriously. It's supposed to make you feel good. Let it. And let different music make someone else feel good.

So after eight days and nights, the 2020 "Greatest Songs of All Time" came to a close. And this is what I learned:

1. People my age like to vote in countdowns

2. People my age don't seem to be aware of any music that was released after 1977

3. People my age really need to lighten up

4. I still know the words to all twenty-three minutes of Genesis's "Supper's Ready"

And we will never know what is truly "The Greatest Song of All Time."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the next voice you hear

At the end of the summer, my wife's trusty Toyota 4Runner finally gave out. After sixteen years of reliable, nearly maintenance-free service, it just couldn't proceed anymore. With over 160 thousand miles tallied on its odometer, accumulated on countless journeys, it was the final few miles of a return trip from Slaughter Beach, Delaware that finally did the dependable vehicle in. The non-specific "check engine" light glowed ominously until our mechanic revealed the old workhorse was in need of a new transmission, a costly repair for a car that was pushing two decades on the road. Totally taken off-guard, we made the reluctant decision to purchase a new car. 

Jane! Stop this crazy thing!

On Labor Day, we drove over to our local Toyota dealer, the same one where we purchased our last three cars, including my 2004 RAV4 that sat almost dormant for the 12 years I took the train to work. Once in the showroom, we were approached by the same salesman that sold us our Previa minivan when our 31-year old son was a toddler. The salesman, in typical salesman fashion, told us he remembered us. (He did not.) My wife had done some online research prior to our arrival and reserved a 2018 RAV4 (in red) for herself. Our salesman led us out to the lot and we all climbed inside this shiny-new, pumped-up version of my car – fourteen years newer and chock full of technological enhancements that weren't even considered when my car was easing its way down the assembly line. There was a back-up camera and blind-spot indicators and beeps and dings and other assorted noise that alerted the driver to critical circumambient happenings, as though it was the command center on a NASA rocket launch.

We made our purchase, signed and initialed a bunch of papers and soon, Mrs. P was presented with a giant plastic key fob emblazoned with the Toyota logo. It was explained that the car did not require a key to start the engine. The dashboard sported a lighted button that fired up the engine when pushed, as long as the driver had the fob somewhere on his or her person. My wife joked that she went from driving the Flintsone's car to driving the Jetson's car.

The most important update on the hulking dashboard, of course, was the sophisticated sound system. This computer-operated, digital-displayed system integrated Bluetooth technology, HD radio and the Sirius XM satellite subscription radio. With 30 optional pre-set stations and a large screen displaying a wide variety of information, this system was, at first, overwhelming to those of us who considered an in-dash cassette deck to be hot stuff. Although it wasn't officially presented to us, we found out that with our purchase, we received a free, three-month, trial subscription to Sirius XM satellite radio. Sure, it was cool, but we really only listen to one terrestrial radio station in the Philadelphia area – the one that, bias aside, employs our son. However, free is free, so we gave it a cautious shot. First we discovered a channel that plays only big band and swing classics from the 1940s. My wife and I are huge fans of the music of that era. A little more scouting around unveiled a channel that played only Beatles tunes. Then one that plays early New Wave songs from the early 80s. Then a Billy Joel only channel, hosted by the Piano Man himself. Then, Mrs. Pincus stumbled upon the Grateful Dead channel and it was as though the red carpet to the Pearly Gates were just rolled out for her. A scenario that included twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week of Jerry Garcia and his psychedelic pals was the clincher. Mrs. P was officially spoiled.

After enjoying weeks and weeks of Sirius XM, the pending end of the trial period loomed large. The regular price of continuing the service was outrageous, as was affirmed by a number of emails reminding us of the termination of the free subscription. However, the longer we waited to make a decision, the sweeter the deals became. First, Sirius started dropping the price a little bit with each email. Then, the length of time of the proposed subscription was extended. Then, a combination of lower price and longer time period. Sirius didn't want us to leave, so they finally took a page from the Don Corleone playbook and made us an offer we couldn't refuse. My wife opened an email that enticingly put the price at fifty bucks for six more months and they'd throw in a free Amazon Echo Dot, something with which were were only vaguely familiar and were pretty sure we didn't need. But, we took the offer and we took the free Echo Dot and within two days I found myself setting up this little lighted hockey puck that plugged into the wall.

Talk to me.

Two years ago, we made a major leap into the world of advanced entertainment technology. We bought – not one – but two high-definition flat-screen televisions and signed up for the magical X1 service from Xfinity Cable. The new system came with a sleek black remote control that would respond to voice prompts. I felt kind of stupid talking to a piece of plastic, especially if I was asking to see the latest episode of Sam and Cat. I use the feature infrequently, as there are many other options to make the television do the exact same thing. Honestly, I feel more comfortable pressing a series of buttons than telling the remote what I want to watch... especially when I am by myself. Now, we have a new gadget in the house that is operated by voice commands. Granted, it was essentially free, but we still felt obligated to use it. (Actually, Mrs. P wanted to sell it on eBay, but I thought it would be cool and convinced her to keep it.)

The future is now.

Following the brief, simple set-up, our new Amazon Echo Dot was ready to heed our every command. According to write-ups and explanations about the Echo Dot's capabilities, it could control our television, control our house lights, operate and set our burglar alarm, lock our doors, adjust the heat, see who is knocking at our front door, answer our phone and a plethora of other time-saving duties. But, none of those things in our house are compatible with or equipped for the state-of-the-art technology of the Echo Dot. Instead, we are limited in its potential. Disappointed that our home was not immediately transformed into the Monsanto House of the Future (on display in Disneyland from the late 50s until the late 60s), we were relegated to having the Amazon Echo Dot perform a few amusing tricks. At this point, it was a novelty, like a little trained seal that can do a bit more that balance a beach ball on its nose. Activated by starting each command with "Alexa" (the so-called "wake word"), we get a daily report on the news, the weather, what are our choices for the evening's television viewing and other basic information. We have asked "Alexa" various trivia questions like who played a particular character in a movie or in what year did a certain event occur – questions that could easily have been answered by a few taps on our omnipresent cellphones. We have installed several "skills" (Echo's version of "apps") that allow "Alexa" to tell us daily celebrity birth and death anniversaries. We can also have "Alexa" provide musical entertainment via WXPN (our favorite radio station) or even through our new Sirius subscription. We discovered that "Alexa" can tell jokes, sing songs and recite poems all in her pleasant, weirdly-inflectioned, otherworldly female timbre – somewhat unnervingly reminiscent of HAL 9000.

"Alexa, hi."

To be honest, we are enjoying our time with "Alexa." For the first week, my wife was determined to change "Alexa"'s name to "Janet," after the adorable and obedient android on the quirky TV series The Good Place, to no avail. (The device is pre-programmed to respond to either "Alexa," "Computer" or "Echo" exclusively.)

Resigned to the fact that a name change is impossible, Mrs. Pincus is now focused on trying to get "Alexa" to say "fuck."



www.joshpincusiscrying.com

seen the doctor

I have suffered from a condition for over forty years. but I was finally able to get an appointment to see the doctor. 

One Sunday evening, just before I started high school, I discovered something unusual while listening to the radio. As a fourteen-year old, well versed and totally immersed in the world of Top 40 Radio, I stumbled upon some strange sounds emanating from a station just a little up the FM dial from WIFI-92, a Philadelphia Top 40 station masquerading as a cool FM station. It was on 94 WYSP, an album-oriented rock station my older brother listened to, that I heard the quirky DJ with the even quirkier voice, introduce "Transfusion" by one Nervous Norvus. This tune, one I had never heard before (I would later find out it was originally released in 1956, five years before I was born.), was an echo-y, sinister-sounding recitation with vague musical accompaniment, filled with the gut-wrenching sounds of a car crash and lyrics coolly describing the aftermath of reckless driving habits with rhymes like "Pour the crimson in me, Jimson." It was awesome. Next was another gem of weirdness called "Fish Heads," a nonsensical ditty chock-full of non-sequiturs, performed by Barnes and Barnes (Brothers Art and Artie, later revealed to be songwriter Robert Haimer and actor/singer Bill Mumy, best known as "Will Robinson" on TVs "Lost in Space"). For two hours, I sat transfixed as the DJ — Dr. Demento, as he called himself — assaulted the airwaves with the likes of "I Want My Baby Back" by Jimmie Cross, "The Battle of Kookamonga" by Homer and Jethro and "Leader of the Laundromat" by The Detergents (another group fronted by prolific vocalist Ron Dante, the voice of The Archies, The Cuff Links and producer of the first nine Barry Manilow albums). He even played "Monster Mash" and it wan't anywhere near Halloween. Later in the program, I heard Spike Jones and his City Slickers, a band with whom I was familiar from a stack of thick 78s my mom used to play. Much to my amazement. Dr. Demento also spun tunes by Allan Sherman, a singer of song parodies I also knew from my parents' record collection. 

I was dizzy with excitement, hopeful that this was not just a one-time broadcast. When the show concluded (with a Top Ten countdown that crowned "They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haa!" by Napoleon XIV [the stage name of Philadelphia singer/songwriter/producer Jerry Samuels] as this week's "Number One Most Demented Song"), the good Doctor invited listeners to tune in each and every week for more demented songs. As I listened to the crackly tones of "Cheerio, Cherry Lips, Cheerio," the closing theme originally recorded in 1929, I knew I'd be in the exact same spot the following week — and for many, many weeks to come. 

Eventually, WYSP stopped carrying the syndicated broadcasts of the "Dr. Demento Show." It was around the time my musical tastes began to expand. However, I still kept a soft spot for novelty records. I was a big fan of They Might Be Giants, who — let's face it — are just a good old-fashioned novelty act with wide appeal. I bought early albums by Barenaked Ladies, a group of Canadian popsters who mixed songs like "Be My Yoko Ono" among their dreamy ballads and upbeat rockers. And, of course, I loved Weird Al Yankovic, himself a Dr. Demento discovery.

When my son was growing up, we listened — as a family — to a call-in show for kids on Philadelphia public radio station WXPN. The host, a jovial and endearing woman named Kathy O'Connell, carried the Dr. Demento torch as she peppered her show with tracks by Weird Al, Allan Sherman and her personal favorite, TV pioneer Soupy Sales — introducing a new generation to these timeless "classics" of a bygone era. I was so excited to hear these songs again to share them with my young son, telling him about Dr. Demento as we listened. My son got a kick out of the novelty songs, too.

The Doctor will see you now.
(photo by Patti with an EYE)

Which brings us up to the present. My son, now 30, works at WXPN. In addition to his own on-air shifts, he serves as the engineer for Kathy O'Connell's show, which, three decades later, is still going strong. Just this week, I got word that the actual, real-life Dr. Demento would be paying a visit to Philadelphia to speak with Kathy as part of Kindie Comm, an annual event focusing on the independent kids' music industry. The good Doctor is also promoting the release of a 2 CD, thirty-track tribute to the beloved songs made popular on his show — all performed in a punk rock style by noted bands of the genre. My son, now a certified radio "insider," was good enough to slip me in during Kathy's Q & A session with Dr. D and John Cafiero, his cohort and collaborator (conspirator?) on the compilation. Dr. Demento was positively fascinating. He is a gentle, soft-spoken, if somewhat befuddled, man — now in his late 70s — with an encyclopedic knowledge of names, dates and participants in the music and radio industry going back to the first time Guglielmo Marconi stuck two wires together. The audience — made up in part by singers and songwriters who were heavily influenced by the songs they heard on Dr. Demento's show — were held spellbound by tales of Benny Bell and Freddy Martin (AKA Felix Figueroa) that Dr. Demento spun. Afterwards, a lengthy queue of devoted fans aching to meet their musical hero formed in the venue's lobby. I numbered myself among them.

I came prepared with a drawing I did of the good Doctor for the good Doctor — two copies; one for him and one for me. When it was my turn (I was second in line), I shook the Doctor's hand and presented him with my drawing. He smiled and asked If I drew it. I modestly answered in the affirmative and he told me that the cover of his first compilation album (released in 1975 - he released 17 more since) was drawn by a fan of the show. Then he scrawled his signature across the bottom of my drawing and graciously posed for a photograph. When I posted the photo on social media, my connections came out of the woodwork to tell me how jealous they were that I got to meet Dr. Demento,

I felt like fourteen-year old me who was hearing Dr. Demento for the first time.

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.