Welcome Back My Friends To The Show That Never Ends

With just one quick riff through the opening chords, it becomes obvious to me what song is coming.

And the chills already begin down my spine and goosebumps bubble up on my arms.

That’s how I often know a concert is really reaching into my soul and grabbing my attention.

On this night, the Bodeans had barely begun to play. But when Kurt Neumann began the opening sequence of "Dreams", I was taken away to a heaven filled with amplifiers, guitars and Kenny Aronoff’s steady thump from behind the drum kit (a sound I still hear in my head).

Just thinking about it takes me back to that September Sunday night. I had been through a stressful week, and it was only getting worse. This Bodeans show at the Paradise was just the first show I was going to that week. I had the White Stripes on Wednesday and Paul McCartney the following Monday. Three concerts, 800-something miles in eight days. That was the good stress to help me forget the bad stress.

When the Bodeans roared into “Dreams” that night and belted out the chorus “Ain’t this what dreams are made of." The chills on my arm answered with a definitive “Yes”. I remember thinking this is one of those things that truly makes me happy. It is one of the greatest feelings in the world.

I’ve been going to concerts since I was in high school. The first show I went to, as a licensed driver, was Survivor and REO Speedwagon. Yes, that dates me. I wish I could say it was their reunion tours. It wasn’t. Saga and Pat Benatar followed with the J. Giels Band up next. From then on, my life has revolved around waiting for the next show and the next onsale date.

There was even the time when I was doing concert reviews for the newspaper. Between gigs I’d go to for myself and ones I’d actually write about, I was going to a concert at least once a month for a good year or two.

I once made a list of all the concerts I’ve seen and all the venues I’d seen them in. I don’t recall the final number but it was lengthy. Heck, there are a handful of artists that add up to significant numbers on their own. Between Bruce Cockburn, the Bodeans, Ellis Paul, the Smithereens, Richard Shindell, U2 and REM, there’s over 30 shows right there.

There are some shows I probably don’t remember too much about, but I bet if pressed I could tell you a little something about each one. I have binders at home that serve as scrapbooks to all the shows I’ve been to. They’re filled with ticket stubs, set lists, newspaper advances, concert reviews and even autographs of Ronnie James Dio, Allison Krause, John Gorka, Patty Larkin, the Saw Doctors, the Moody Blues, Jars of Clay and Margo Timmins, of the Cowboy Junkies. I even have concert photos from the shows I shot pictures at, including the above photo of Paul Stanley. I thought security was going to toss me because after being told what not to do while shooting photos, I did exactly that. Got a good shot out of it.

There are still memories from the various shows that are inevitably burned into my mind. There was the disco ball and sweeping lights that circled Foxborough Stadium as David Gilmour roared through the guitar solo of "Comfortably Numb" at a Pink Floyd show. I can never forget that powerful moment where light and soaring notes combined to create a feast of sight and sound that carried you away for those moments.

There was Tony Levin’s bass that thundered in my chest with each note during a Peter Gabriel show. I was in the front row, standing right in front of the bass speaker, where every note thumped inside my body as Levin looked down and smiled.

There was Billy Duffy’s bad ass riff as the Cult roared through their best stuff. Those catchy power chords had me in awe. http://www.facebook.com/ext/share.php?sid=51121946652&h=1dOO_&u=LrQMF

There was Bodean Sammy Llanas handing me his guitar pick after a stirring performance of “Naked”

There were the moshers and slam dancers that made the mistake of bumping into me. One got shoved forcefully into the stage as Live played at Great Wood during the Womad Festival. Another wound up on the floor, where other irritated concert goers began kicking him.

There was seeing McCartney for the first time. Being a lifelong Beatles fan, it was incredible to see one of the artists that had influenced so much of my musical foundation.

There was seeing a solo Peter Wolf at small club in Portland or the Dave Matthews Band at the Gray Cage at Bates College, sharing a bill with Big Head Todd and the Monsters.

There was the combination of mudslides and Social Distortion at Hampton Beach.

There was being in the seventh row as The Who played Quadrophenia. When Pete Townsend broke a string and was obviously frustrated, I hoped and prayed he smash the guitar. He didn't.

There was seeing legends I never thought I’d see, Roger McGuinn, Fleetwood Mac, Gordon Lightfoot, Simon and Garfunkel, Crosby, Still, Nash and Young and Rush.

There was the spur of the moment trip to a show in Augusta featuring 80’s metal bands and watching Cinderalla come out with some attitude and swagger and rock the house.

There was the first rock concert at the newly built FleetCenter, featuring REM.

There were second-row seats to see Radiohead, in their largest concert in America at that time - and the warmup band, Spiritualized, which I likened to the Moody Blues in a train wreck.

I could go on and on.
Some of the best concert going experiences were shared with friends. What got me thinking about writing about concerts is the fact that I went to see Shindell Sunday night in Portland. I went to the show with one of my favorite people. I’d looked forward to the evening for days. We drove down the Portland, relaxed in a pub in the afternoon before taking in the show. It was a fantastic day, and Shindell was excellent.

There was the Bodeans show at the Metro in Boston with another dear friend. It was great hanging out with her and watching the show. Even though she developed a crush on Kurt and wanted to become a groupie and follow the band to Providence for the next night.

There were a pair Smithereens shows with another cool girl I know. I even saw a Springsteen show with her years later. There was the Dokken/Sammy Hagar show at the Orpheum when a college buddy and I caught the train into Boston and barely caught the last train home. That friend and I caught AC DC in the old Boston Garden and then took a road trip to Portland from college a few years later to see the band again.

I saw The Firm at Boston Garden with my sister, who asked “Which one is Jimmy Page?” when the band took the stage. I saw a couple of shows with her, including the Moody Blues, when we met the band afterwards and she drooled all over Justin Hayward while getting his autograph.

There were the Pearl Jam shows which ticked off the powers to be at work when a group of coworkers and I took the weekend off to go to back-to-back shows at Great Woods. We missed the companies precious computer training sessions (which we made up in about 15 minutes later the following week) but had a great time.

I come across people all the time that have either never been to a concert or hardly ever go to one. I can’t imagine that. That experience is such a significant part of my life and existence that I can’t fathom it not being there.

Being a sports fan and a sports writer, the fan part gets lost sometimes. Sporting events are where I work. I enjoy the excitement and the atmosphere and am still surprised on occasion by what happens, but it is still my job. The emotional aspect of being a fan is often lost.

Concerts give that back to me. Granted I'm a pretty tame fan. I don't sing along (I'm there to hear the band sing not me and the tone-deaf people near me). I don't shout out requests. I don't get up and dance. I listen to the music. I watch the band. I analyze as only I can and enjoy the moment and the surroundings.

They’re social events, entertainment, opportunities to escape, a chance to lose oneself in the music (and a few mudslides and Irish drinks in a girlie glass). But the concert atmosphere does more than all that. It draws you into the world, connects you with the artists and their raw power, intensity, intimacy or the tender sounds of their voices and words - depending on the style of music. It can be a communal celebration, a shared experience for couples or an individual escape.

There will be times I will stop and pause and think to myself that I really need to go to a show. It’s like a junkie suddenly needing a fix. Sometimes I’ve thought that to myself and realized I had just gone to a concert a few nights before.

I don’t get to as many shows as I used to. I only go to see ones I really must see now. I don’t spend the ticket money that I used to or travel the distances I used to. But I still love the experience.

I’m fortunate to be thrilled by the excitement of sporting events or savor time spent on the water. Both are very unique experiences that I cherish. So is enjoying a good concert. It nearly gives me goosebumps thinking about it, but that’s the point. I go to the shows for the real thing.

My Father's Day

My father sat in his chair reading contently.
It wasn’t an unusual sight. One of his favorite things to do would be to recline in his chair that overlooks our cove in Owls Head with a book in his hand. On this occasion, the story he was engrossed in was his own. This particular summer he was reading his memoirs. His own life story that he had written a year or so prior to that.
I’d watch him be completely enthralled in his own life story and tell him “Dad, it’s not like you don’t know how it ends.”
He’d laugh or at least acknowledge his smart ass son and comment about how interesting his memoirs were. I must say, he had a point. His story was quite incredible especially when you look at the man that rose from those early years of uncertainty and tragedy. In fact, he only wrote about his life up to the point that he got married and had kids. There wasn't much exciting to recant after that.
Today is my Dad’s birthday. There are a couple of ways I could recognize him on this day. I could spend the day in Owls Head at the place he loved and cherished. I could go out and buy a pie, something else he loved and cherished (but not for the same reasons). If I had gotten down to Owls Head, I would have visited the cemetery, even though I’m not sure his stone would be visible beneath all the snow. So I would have ended up working around the cottage doing various chores, all things he loved to do (even if he did fail to fully inform me about the significant amount of work and responsibility the place requires).
Since I couldn’t do all those, even though buying a pie option is still being considered, I thought I might write a blog about him.
One of the things that amazes me most about my Dad was the fact that he was such a normal person. I recall one lady referring to him as a gentleman – a gentle man, which he was (unless of course you accidentally back the car down the driveway by releasing the emergency break. His hand wasn’t so gentle on my backside in that instance).
He was a friend, a minister and a teacher to many, yet most people probably didn’t even know the adversity he faced growing up. In this day and age, his upbringing could have been described as a bit dysfunctional, but I’m sure he never would have called it that. I remember the morning of his memorial service and stopping by the church. I got into a conversation with the minister at the church and recounted some of the things my father went through as child. He wasn’t even aware of those hardships that my father faced.
My Dad was only a few years old when it was discovered that his mother had tuberculosis. My grandfather’s first wife died of that disease a year after their wedding in 1917. My grandfather married one of her closest friends, my grandmother, a few years later. My Dad, his two brothers and their mother spent much of the late 1920’s in a sanitorium. First they were in Fairfield and then were moved to Hebron.
Eventually all the boys were able to return home while Frances, their mother, stayed at the sanitorium in Hebron. My grandfather, a clerk at a manufacturer in Rockland, would make regular trips to Hebron when he could to visit Frances.
Most of my Dad’s interaction with his Mother was in the sanitorium. She died when he was just 10. From there, my grandfather raised his three young boys on his own. He worked hard but tried to make a good life for his boys. He made sure they were baptized, a wish made by Frances before she died. He gave them a fine upbringing and then watched all three go off to World War II. My Dad was a radio operator, and as a result he didn’t get sent to Europe until the late stages of the war. After the war, my Dad finished high school and went off to college, the first in his family to do so. He went to seminary and became an ordained minister.
Between reading his memoirs, researching the life of my grandfather and having numerous discussions about his life and upbringing, I know my Dad's story well. One day, he and I even made a trip out to Hebron. The place is all grown in and hardly any buildings remain, but he drew out a map and gave me a tour. Thanks to the sharp memory that I inherited, he remembered exactly where everything was. I drive by Greenwood Mountain fairly regularly think about that part of his life.
I can’t imagine growing up in such a scenario and certainly having limited access to your mother and then subsequently losing her at age 10 are circumstances that I can’t even fathom. I can’t help but think about the story of the day the telegram came to say that Frances was very ill. My grandfather tried to make arrangement to get off work and find care for the boys so he could drive to Hebron to be with Frances in her final hours. He didn’t make it. He got another message the following day telling him that she had died. My father recalls crying himself to sleep that night after learning that his mother was gone.
My Dad had a hard life early on. It was a life filled with hardship, adversity and disappointment. Yet, he never spoke of his upbringing in those terms. Life in the sanitorium, he said, provided him a place to live and play with kids his own age during the depression. It also allowed him interaction with his mother.
Between his mother and other influences at the sanitorium, the seeds of his desire to enter the ministry were sown. His father provided for his boys and was active in their lives in the church and the boy scouts. For a young life that was so difficult, my grandfather and father made the best of their circumstances.
And that was always my Dad. Like his father, he always moved forward and wasn’t burdened by misfortune. He lived a life of strength and courage, resembling one of his favorite scripture verses. You never heard him complain. He never showed any signs of bitterness for the travails he experienced as a boy. Those were the years that shaped him and defined him, and I think my Dad made sure they did so for the better. He used those experiences to make himself a better person and lived life with full knowledge that despite the adversity, he had many blessings as well.
I remember the day I learned the prognosis that he had gotten at Dana Farber. I had been away on a schooner vacation and returned home to hear what the doctor had said. My Dad initially downplayed it and said that it was leukemia, the worst-case scenario, and that he had to be sure he was careful with germs etc because his immune system couldn’t handle it. He made it sound like it was no big deal and nothing we hadn’t already been doing. It wasn’t until my Mother got me alone moments later when she explained that the real prognosis was that he could live another two weeks or another two months.
It turned out to be another two months. He died the day before Christmas, and I spent Christmas Eve writing his obituary. Never during that time did my Dad ever shows signs of anything but complete strength and courage, even though he knew his life was at its end. We spent those two months watching football games, watching Meet the Press, talking about the cottage and going through books and tools that he wanted to get rid of.
I could go on and on about various influences he had on me and my life. But as I reflect on his life and the hardships he endured, he proved to me that life is full of good and bad, but it can be what you make of it.
Hardship and adversity can break you down and ruin you or it can build you up and make you stronger. You can feel cursed or you can feel blessed. My Dad showed me that strength, courage and faith is enough to get you through most anything. Misfortune only dictates your life if you let it. He never did that. The simple blessing of his life shaped him and kept him going.
As I researched and wrote a 350-page history on the life of my grandfather, I developed a great admiration for a man who I hardly knew. He died when I was just six. In my Dad’s memoirs, he wrote about his own father “ Dad’s legacy was not in his property but in the life he lived and the faith he passed on to all three of us boys.”
That is great legacy left by my grandfather but one that my Dad also followed and left for me. My Dad was a better man for all he endured in his lifetime. As a result, I hope I am a better person, learning from him and his legacy.
Which has me thinking. I could go for a piece of pie. Happy Birthday Dad!