the great outdoors

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

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

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

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

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

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

This was more like it. 

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

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

what are you doing new year's eve?

Mrs. Pincus and I welcomed 2019 at the venerable Trocadero Theatre, a majestic (if just a bit seedy) venue in Philadelphia's Chinatown. The evening's performance was a triple bill featuring local hip hop duo & More, Nalani & Sarina, a five-piece band fronted by multi-instrumentalist twin sisters and, the icing on the cake, Philly darlings Low Cut Connie. The show kicked off at 9 PM and would burgeon on into the wee hours of the new year.

Anticipating the dreadful parking situation in center city Philadelphia – especially on New Year's Eve – we opted to take public transportation to the show. A branch of the regional rail that serves Philadelphia has a station just a few doors from our suburban home. Although I took the train to work daily for 12 years, I haven't been on the train in quite some time. Especially at night, when a whole 'nother group of people ride. Because of the New Year's Eve holiday and expected increase in ridership, SEPTA (the overseeing body that operates public transportation in the city and surrounding area) extended the usual service to accommodate late-night travelers. The ticket window at the train station near our house, however, keeps highly-unusual and very limited hours. They are never open on weekends and during the week, the doors are locked tight before the clock strikes noon. It being a holiday (well, a holiday eve, anyway), I didn't expect to see anyone selling fares until at least mid-week into the new year. We bought our tickets on the train when it arrived and settled into an empty seat.

The commute downtown is a short one, just under twenty-five minutes and then it's just a one block walk to the Trocadero. It couldn't have been more convenient. No fighting traffic, although Mrs. Pincus loves to drive. No worrying about the possibility of drunk drivers and no concerns about finding that elusive parking spot. (Actually, we passed several parking spaces on our short walk, including one that opened up just steps from the Troc's front door.)

The show was great, as expected. Adam Weiner and company even paused around midnight to lead the crowd in a countdown and treat them to a tinkling impromptu rendition of Auld Lang Syne before breaking into Suzanne from their latest release Dirty Pictures (Part 2). When the show was over, Mrs. P and I said our "goodbyes" to our son (who was there with his girlfriend and a few friends) and made our way back to the train station for the ride home. Despite the relentless drizzle that plagued the evening, the drunks were out in full force, reeling all over the sidewalks. We quickly made it to the train station and descended the steep stairs to the underground entrance.

It was a few minutes before 2019 was officially one hour old. I was surprised to see an alert SEPTA employee monitoring the turnstiles at such a late hour. I was even more surprised when he directed us to the open ticket windows to purchase fares prior to boarding the train. This policy is usually reserved for rush hour. But here we were, queuing up along with several other surprised late-night commuters.

Just ahead of us in line was a young lady and a young man both in their middle 20s and dressed as though they were at some sort of festive event for the evening. The woman was in a dark colored dress and she clutched a small purse in her hand. The man was in a light-toned suit which probably started the night crisp and pressed, but was now showing evidence of some heavy partying. His collar was undone. The knot in his tie was loosened and cocked to one side. His jacket was rumpled and not hanging comfortably on his torso. And he was alternately leaning to the left and right, as though he was straddling a teeter-totter. When the next ticket window was available, the woman walked forward. The fellow zig-zagged slowly behind her and then propped his shoulder against the glass, his head hanging down loosely on his neck. She requested two tickets to Hatboro (a suburb many stops past our house) and the ticket salesman obliged. Money was clearly exchanged. She grabbed the tickets and marched off, leaving her disheveled companion to stagger in her wake. She appeared very pissed off. Mrs. P and I purchased our tickets next and then proceeded to the train platform, which is even further below street level, accessed by more flights of steps. I spotted the couple stop by the SEPTA employee to have their tickets validated with a special hole punch prior to heading to the train platform. A few seconds later, we did the same.

On our way down the stairs, we encountered the ticket-buying couple again. He was having difficulty climbing back up – and then back down – the stairs. She was standing in the bottom stairwell with her arms folded sternly across her chest and an unpleasant scowl on her face. My wife and I quickly and precariously scooted past them and found a seat on the fairly crowded train platform.

After a short wait, our train arrived at a little after 1 AM and we boarded. We selected a seat and I placed our tickets in the little slot on the seat so the conductor would know we paid our fares. More folks filed in, including a gentleman in a Philadelphia Eagles jacket who was carrying on a very animated conversation with himself. Soon, we were joined in our train car by the inebriated fellow and his ticked-off better half. He lurched into a double seat by a window and she seated herself in the unoccupied portion, slightly turned away him.

When the train began to move, a conductor slowly ambled down the center aisle to check passes and collect tickets. He passed Mrs. Pincus and me, concentrating, at first, on those folks seated on the other side on the aisle. The man reciting the soliloquy flashed a monthly pass at the conductor and continued speaking something about what song was playing. (There was no song playing.) The conductor then stopped at the couple's seat and examined their tickets. He handed them back and asked them for the normal fare to Hatboro. Without a word or an argument of any kind, the young lady opened her purse and handed over several bills to the conductor. He handed back change and a long receipt into which he had punched a number of holes. Mrs. P and I exchanged silent glances. Not fifteen minutes earlier, we watched this couple buy tickets just a few feet away from us. We were thoroughly puzzled.

The conductor turned and was now addressing our side of the aisle. He smiled as he removed and inspected our tickets.

"These tickets are punched." he observed, pointing to the little holes in the tickets to make his point clearer..

My wife and I answered in unrehearsed unison. "Yes." we explained, "They were purchased up in the station and punched by an employee who wouldn't let us down to the platform otherwise."

The conductor frowned. "Well, no one told me that!," he announced to no one in particular.

He replaced our tickets, turned on his heels and headed back to the couple by the window. He startled them when he said, "You already paid upstairs, right? I owe you money." He peeled of a number of bills from a fat wad in his gloved hand and handed them to the young lady. Not a word was spoken. She just accepted the refund as though it was standard operation procedure. When the conductor moved on to the next car, there was no further discussion between the couple. He was fast asleep with his forehead flat against the window's thick glass. She was hunched over with her back to him, seemingly plotting an escape once the train doors opened in Hatboro.

The train pulled into Elkins Park and we exited. 2019 was off to an entertaining start.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

come hear uncle john's band

At the end of July, Mrs. Pincus and I went to the three-day XPoNetial Music Festival (remember the story about the ridiculous parking situation?). Besides hearing some great music and eating free ice cream samples, we were able to snag some other free stuff from a variety of vendors who set up informational booths every year. In order to build brand awareness (that there's a marketing term), these businesses and services offer free bag clips, ball-point pens, reusable shopping bags and magnets — all emblazoned with company logos. Among the local businesses are several concert venues offering free tickets to the winners of a lucky spin of a wheel (like those seen at carnivals... but not rigged. At least, I think they're not rigged). One year, I won a pair of admission tickets to see something billed as "Extreme Midget Wrestling," which I attended by myself... on my 53rd birthday, no less. Last year, we won tickets to see Father John Misty. We passed those on to my son and his girlfriend. We also won tickets to a performance by a Philadelphia-based band called Box of Rain, who offer a tribute to beloved hippie jam band, The Grateful Dead. Despite my wife's love for all (most) things Grateful Dead, tribute bands are where she draws the line. With no desire to attend this show, we asked around at the festival if anyone wanted the tickets. We had no takers. Mrs. Pincus posted an offering for the tickets on Facebook and received the internet equivalent of crickets in response. The date of the show came and went and suddenly the tickets transformed into bookmarks.

This year, we won more tickets. This time, to shows we will actually attend. In a few weeks, we will see surf guitar legend Dick Dale, who I was shocked to hear he is still alive. I saw Dick Dale almost a decade ago and he looked like he was standing on death's doormat. Hopefully the 81-year old will make it to August 16. We also won tickets to see folk icon Arlo Guthrie in October and crooner Rufus Wainwright in December. In addition, once again, we were blessed with a pair of tickets to see Box of Rain.

Again, we asked around at the festival to try and ... er... unload them. No one appeared interested. Even our friends Cookie and Consuelo politely declined. Surprisingly, Cookie, a veteran of numerous Dead shows and a lover of live music, was just not interested. I guess I understand, though. Tribute bands are a tricky sell. You either like them and appreciate their place in the hierarchy of music or you flat out have no time or patience for them. I find myself in the camp of the latter. (Remember my Queen tribute band experience? I sure do.) 

So, when we got home late Sunday evening, Mrs. P put out a plea on Facebook to take these tickets off our hands. The very next day, she got an inquiry from a friend, a young lady nearly twenty years our junior, but a Dead Head just the same... just a little late to the party. She expressed interest in the tickets with a caveat - she needed a date. A few hours later, she replied with her regrets. She could not find anyone who wished to accompany her to the show. So, Mrs P's Facebook post remained.

Early Saturday morning — the day of the Box of Rain show — Mrs. Pincus got a Facebook message asking if the tickets were still available. Indeed they were. The interested party — Sheila, whom we do not know — said she would love them and asked how she could get them. Mrs. P explained where we live and made it pretty clear to Sheila that she would have to pick them up. Sheila lives in Vineland, New Jersey. Box of Rain's show was at the TLA, a venue on Philadelphia's South Street. Throw our Elkins Park residence into the equation and you have a perfect, totally-inconvenient triangle. Mrs. Pincus told Sheila that the tickets would be in an envelope taped to our front door. As promised, I put the tickets in an envelope, drew some Grateful Dead-ish pictures on the front and taped it to our front door. The rest was up to Sheila.

A few hours later, Mrs. P's Facebook messenger signaled an incoming message. It was from Sheila. She sent this picture of the envelope and a word of thanks. 

Mrs. P acknowledged the message and we thought that would be the end of it. It wasn't.

A few hours later, Sheila sent another picture. It was a stage bathed in trippy purple light with a backdrop of some fractal pattern of something suitably psychedelic. Evidently, she was at the TLA and the stage was set for a night of Grateful Dead tributing. I suppose it was nice that Sheila was keeping us abreast of the evening's activities, but, honestly, if we wanted to know what was going on at the show, we would have gone ourselves. And we obviously weren't interested in doing that. 

Click for video, if you must.

Soon, we got anot her message - this time a short video. Mrs. P politely acknowledged it, something I would not have done, but she is nice and I am not. I figure any acknowledgement will only encourage Sheila to sent more highlights of a show we had no desire to go to, but my wife, as we have already established, is the nicest person who ever lived. Mrs. P replied with an "I'm jealous LOL. Have a good time. Glad you could use the tickets." I would have hit "delete" and moved on, but that's me.

The video was the last message for a while. Later in the evening, Mrs. P received a picture of both sides of a flyer that was handed out at the end of Box of Rain's performance, making patrons aware of another Grateful Dead cosplay event occurring every Sunday at a bar in South Jersey. Guess where we won't be going...

Sheila's messages soon stopped. We were just happy that someone was able to use the tickets and enjoy themselves. But, we really could have done without the play-by-play.

Next time, we'll just be happy with new bookmarks.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

I want to see the bright lights tonight

In our house filled with things, my wife came across a cache of concert ticket stubs, some dating back to the middle 1970s. I had actually been looking for this collection of memories for some time. I honestly thought they were long gone, tossed to the trash when we made the move from our newlywed apartment in Northeast Philadelphia to the suburban house that has been our home for over thirty years. 

Wild nights are calling.

Curiously stored in a Barnum's Animal Crackers box, these torn paper testaments were in surprisingly good shape. Time had faded some of the early-computer printed particulars, but the ones that escaped total destruction at the hands of some minimum-wage earning ticket-taker were still legible. The band names were clear enough to read - some consisting of careless, though comical, misspellings. (The opening act for a 1977 Queen show at the Philadelphia Civic Center listed the supporting band as "Thin Lizzie," as though it was an emaciated ballerina.)

A lot of the ticket remnants were from 70s-era Grateful Dead shows, many of which were from shows staged at the Philadelphia Spectrum, the self-proclaimed "America's Showplace," which boasted some of the worst, sound-deadening acoustics this side of the $64,000 Question's isolation booth. Despite being the home base for both the Philadelphia Flyers and the 76ers, the Dead managed to find time to fit in 53 concerts at the venue, more than any other musical act. That allotment of tickets, of course, belonged to my wife — as my first experience with the psychedelic San Francisco troubadours was in April 1982, when I was taken (abducted? dragged?) to a spring concert by the future Mrs. P. I recognized my concert tickets by the decidedly un-Grateful Dead band names that were printed across the colorful Ticketmaster branding. Again, most were from the Spectrum, as it was the biggest and most popular venue in the city, but a smattering were from shows at the smaller Tower Theater, a converted movie palace just outside the western city limits.

My brother, older by four years, was a veteran concert-goer, having seen performances by Rod Stewart, Cat Stevens, The Moody Blues, George Harrison (reporting that the former Beatle was "awful" and the show was stolen by energetic keyboardist Billy Preston) and others of that ilk. He witnessed the now-legendary marathon at the remote Widener University gymnasium by an up-and-comer that he mistakenly identified as "Bruce Springstein.*" Some of my friends at middle school had toyed with the idea of actually seeing some of our favorite singers live when they came to our town. But I broke the proverbial ice when I scraped together a hard-earned six dollars and fifty cents for a single, general admission ticket to see Alice Cooper (and leather-clad guitar slinger Suzi Quatro) on the local stop of his "Welcome to My Nightmare" tour when it touched down in Philadelphia in April 1975, the twenty-second date on its five-month, multi-city trek across North America. That night, after seeing the wiry Mr. Cooper dance with giant spiders, cavort with tuxedoed skeletons and lop the head off a menacing cyclops, I was bitten by the concert bug. I left that show rabid — anxious to see another concert. And fast! It wasn't until a full year later that I was able to attend my second concert. Forking over a steep seven-fifty, I spent an evening at the back of the cavernous Spectrum, watching bland folk-rockers America deliver one boring song after another as they promoted their newest release — a greatest hits compilation culled from their five-album catalog on which every song sounded identical. I can't figure out what exactly I was doing there. I was not a fan of America — not even in the most casual sense. I didn't own any America albums. I suppose I just wanted to go to a concert.

I made better choices (in my opinion) as the years went on. I saw Elton John when he brought tennis star Billie Jean King onstage to join him in a chorus of the terribly shitty, yet hometown beloved, "Philadelphia Freedom." I saw the electrifying Queen several times, including once with pneumonia (me, not them). Freddie Mercury was a showman like no other. I even took my DeadHead future spouse to Queen's final American tour where she questioned the numerous costume changes and lighting effects. After all, the Grateful Dead had not changed their clothes since 1969 and their fans usually visualize their own lighting effects.

I saw Elvis Costello a few times as well, watching as he made the jump from new-wave pioneer to the elder statesman of his bygone "angry young man" genre. The late Warren Zevon, a short-term Philadelphia resident while he was between record deals, gave impromptu recitals at the wonderful, yet now-defunct, Chestnut Cabaret on the campus of the University of Pennsylvania. Mrs. Pincus and I were in the audience for several of those intimate shows and they were a memorable treat. Along the way, I got to see The Boomtown Rats, Tim Curry (yes, that Tim Curry), They Might Be Giants, Fleetwood Mac, Duran Duran, Squeeze, even Barry Manilow.

My son developed an early love for music, based on the constant albums and radio blaring from speakers all over our house. His interest blossomed into a career, as he is now a host/producer on a local Philadelphia radio station. Even before his current employ, we accompanied each other to a boat-load of concerts. We've seen good bands, bad bands, strange bands and just-about-to-hit-it big bands. We've had band members jump off the stage in front of us. (In one case, a singer fell off the stage on us.)  My son even introduced me to bands (A Giant Dog, Low Cut Connie, Kid Congo and The Pink Monkey Birds... yeah, you read that right) in the same way I gave him his first taste of the Beatles and his mom taught him about Jerry Garcia. Thanks to my son and the numerous concert venues that have opened in Philadelphia (named by one music website as the "best concert city" in North America), my concert calendar is usually packed. I never dreamed that, at 56, I'd still be going to shows, let alone bumping elbows in tiny venues with fans half my age. Conversely, it was funny when my wife and I sat in a sold-out Atlantic City showroom for a Tony Bennett show and, looking around, wondered how many other audience members had also seen The Clash.

It's okay, I'm with the band.

The concert experience has changed considerably since I was perched on the second level of the Spectrum, squinting to make out the color of Sir Elton's glasses. Bands were untouchable and unapproachable, sometimes just an out-of-focus dot bathed in a purple spotlight. Now, in the days of social media, a selfie with your favorite singer is no longer a rarity, it is a requirement. Granted, artists that fill stadiums are off-limits, save for those willing to pony up a few hundred (even thousand) dollars for a one-on-one experience. But, the bands that play 1200-seat (or smaller) venues will often appear at unannounced "meet-and-greets" at their "merch table" where the purchase of a t-shirt or album will net you the bonus of a sweaty hug and the opportunity of a cellphone picture to document the encounter.

This story, of course, is far from over. I love live music and it takes a lot to stop me from seeing it. As I write this, I have at least two concerts lined up in the coming months. And there will be more after that. I guarantee it.

*My brother informed me that he thought the singer's name was "Bruce Bringsteen." Actually, that's funnier.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

if sugar was as sweet as you, honey, sugar just couldn't be bought

Every summer, my wife and I attend a three-day music festival, assembled and hosted by what is arguably the greatest radio station in the Philadelphia area. Sprawling across Wiggins Park, a natural amphitheater on the Camden, New Jersey waterfront, the XPoNential Music Festival* is a glorious communal celebration of listeners sharing and rejoicing in their love of music and their affection for member-supported WXPN. The fine folks at WXPN spend nearly a year scouting out and securing commitments from an eclectic mixture of performers representing a diverse cross-section of music — from searing guitar-driven rock to sweet acapella harmonies and everything in-between. Just like the station itself, there's something for everyone. For the past several years, the evenings have been capped off by a headliner of "superstar" proportions taking the stage of the Susquehanna Bank Center, a large venue just a short walk from Wiggins Park. Last year, Beck and indie darling Ryan Adams performed. The year before, it was alt-rockers Wilco and folk granddaddy Bob Dylan. You get the idea.

In addition to a weekend full of great music and (sometimes) brutal sunshine, the festival offers a variety of businesses the opportunity to sales-pitch concert-goers and entice them with free samples and logo-emblazoned tchotchkes. Over the course of three days, one can score shot-size bottles of iced tea, single-serving cups of ice cream and a cup of "chip" and salsa (that's correct — a single chip) along with fistfuls of branded keyrings, guitar picks, sunscreen and bag clips. Mrs. Pincus loves to visit the different booths, schmooze with the vendors and pick up some of the freebies.

"Uh, yeah... we got one of those."

The festival's major sponsor is Subaru, the yuppie-friendly automobile company. Subaru boasts a huge booth decked out in misting fans, phone charging stations and funky couches. The latest model of Subaru SUV is available for inspection and answers to your questions are supplied by any number of fresh-faced young salespeople, all sporting big smiles and their Subaru-logoed finest.

My wife learned, through an overheard conversation, that Subaru owners are offered special perks just for being Subaru owners. Now, I maintain that Mrs. P is the nicest person that ever walked this earth. She is sincerely sweet and charming, however, she does get a kick out of seeing what her charm can get her. On Friday evening, the first day of the festival, Mrs. P began her friendship with the folks at the Subaru booth. I saw her talking and smiling at a young lady holding a stack of new model brochures. Soon, my wife joined me in a free sample of on-premises-made guacamole from the Whole Foods booth, adjacent to the Subaru set-up. Suddenly, the young lady from Subaru tapped my wife on the shoulder and covertly informed her that the wristbands for the exclusive "Subaru owners" area would be available on Saturday afternoon and we should definitely stop back. When the young lady strode away, I asked Mrs. P why that girl thought we own a Subaru.

"I told her how much we love Subaru. I never actually said we own one. She just assumed...," Mrs. P smiled that same charming smile.

On Saturday, day two of the festival, Mrs. P ingratiated herself with a good-looking fellow who looked like late surfing legend Duke Kahanamoku. Based on how he carried himself, he obviously was in some sort of managerial capacity with Subaru. Mrs. P began telling him about her conversation with the young lady on Friday. She made a point of mentioning the young lady by name and repeated her sentiment about our love for all things Subaru. Duke smiled and reached into a storage section of the booth and produced a couple of black Tyvek wristbands with a repeated Subaru logo pattern. "These," he explained, "would permit you access to the Subaru VIP area at the Susquehanna Bank Center. They have a buffet and drinks. It's just a way of saying 'thank you' to our loyal Subaru owners." We happily accepted the wristbands and thanked him.

I headed back to our chairs to catch a performance by indie Tex-Mex rockers Calexico. Midway through their set, Mrs. P joined me. Once again, she was smiling. She fanned out three tickets for the Subaru VIP section of the reserved seating area. Duke had come through again. Our regular festival passes included standard lawn seats at the Susquehanna Bank Center. Reserved seats are additional. Free seats, however, are welcome bonus. As evening fell, we found ourselves in the Subaru VIP area eating salad and chips and cookies (we're vegetarians and non-drinkers, so we skipped the buffalo wings and beer, although the other guests happily chowed down) while we mingled among actual Subaru owners. Mrs. P passed on the tickets herself, opting to let me, our son and our friend take the seats. She said she would just hang around the VIP area and meet us after the show. When we had enough of headliners My Morning Jacket, we vacated our seats and returned to the Subaru VIP area. Mrs. P said she had to say "goodbye" to her "friends" and shook hands with a group of guys (guys I never saw before) who were smiling and laughing while bidding her "adieu." Once again, there was evidence of that "Mrs. Pincus" charm.

Sunday, day three of the the festival, brought more surprises at the Subaru booth. Although Duke was unable to secure reserved seats, but he gave us a Subaru t-shirt as a consolation. But later that evening, when we met up with him at the Subaru VIP area, he produced a pair of reserved seat tickets after all. "Here," he laughed, "for my favorite Subaru owner!" It was already late in the show, so we politely declined the offer. We were about to make our exit anyway, so we thanked Duke again for his generosity and hospitality.

As we made our way to the parking garage, I think Mrs. P was already planning for next year's festival. Maybe she'll sweet-talk us into playing a guitar solo with one of the bands.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

* presented by Subaru