The Rocks - The Shows

I've been fortunate to see some great shows at The Rocks, though not quite like the '64 Beatles show, or so I'm told (still looking forward to that reunion).  If you haven't been, do yourself a favor and see at least one concert there before you die.  It's a great atmosphere, quite laid back and I haven't heard of too many riots there.  Yet.

But first, I'd suggest come to Colorado a few days before and get acquainted with the thin air.  The trek up to the venue is a bit daunting.  I have felt sorry for some, ahem, larger concert-goers as they Bataan-march up a million feet just to get to the entrance.  Then maybe another mile to get to their seats.  Get that lady some oxygen.

This 9,500 capacity, open-air amphitheater is basically three-sided.  Slabs of red rock, around 30-40' high, are on either side of the seating and behind the stage is another slab, with a little man-made stone thrown in.  The rear is open-ended so, thus, it's shaped like a U.  Row 70 is the furthest and from there the stage is getting pretty tiny (at least for old men like me) and binoculars come in handy.  The sound is still distinct unless some wind gusts are swirling and then it can get weird.  There is a 10' open-space area in front of the stage with security to keep the masses at bay.  Not many brave idiots have made it on stage.  Yet.  Above and behind the stage is a crazy view of the Denver skyline and especially cool is when it's lightening and raining out there but hasn't hit you.  Yet.

I won't bore anybody about the history (which is kinda cool, just google it) but the first concert was in 1906 with a 25-piece brass band.  And practically every band on tour wants to play here.  They appreciate the sights and sounds just as much as the fans.  Here is a smattering of shows that had some Kodak moments, but unfortunately are captured only in the dark, dank recesses of my mind.

The Pretenders - '83
They had put out 'I' in '80, 'II' in '81 and were priming for 'Learning To Crawl' to come out later this year. They scorched earth.  Chrissie Hynde, new guitarist Robbie McIntosh and band were slamming hits like "Middle of the Road", "Back on the Chain Gang" and "My City Was Gone".  I didn't know how good they were and seeing them with some new members in '09 (though not at RR) I realize now that Hynde is still the real deal.  It rained.  Really hard.  I got soaked.  Used garbage bags.  And the band played on.

Stevie Ray Vaughn - '84 and '85
Every year at RR is the B.B. King Blues Festival.  These two were absolutely astounding.  SRV, no holds barred, was one of the most frightening, blistering, soulful white boys.  Ever.  He ruled the stage, but not in a cocky way, but in a true master's way.  I don't even remember anybody else playing because after seeing SRV, there was no one else.  I was lucky enough to see him one more time, in '89 (though not at RR), all clean and sober.  Touring with my favorite living guitarist, Jeff Beck.  He was better than ever.  SRV and JB dueling.  He made JB put his axe down and watch.  JB couldn't keep up.  I would go see SRV every year if he was still with us.  And a footnote.  The first show we saw, I had a friend, Newton, (total SRV nut) that had scalded his foot a couple of days before.  I mean, down to the bone scald.  He waited in 90 degree heat for three hours, in pain, to see Stevie.  And he had a smile on his face as we carried him to the car.  That's what Rock-n-Roll is all about.  RIP SRV.  We're still listening.

Frankie Goes To Hollywood - '84
Almost too embarrassed to admit to this one.  In my defense, I didn't want to go and didn't pay and wouldn't pay, except Kevin K. and Tracy K. wanted me to go.  Picture this:  lead singer (insert dingdong here) in pink bunny suit.  Yikes.  And "Relax" played twice. They ran out of songs.  Memorable leaving RR.  We were running down the steep sloped exit ramp, holding hands for some strange reason and took a shortcut and wiped out.  Red dirt covered us from head to foot.  And then driving (yikes) the wrong way out of the show.  I only hoped the hard ground would've jarred the memories of this terrible show out of me.

Scorpions - '84
One of my favorite metal bands, I didn't get to see much of this one.  I was with people that knew the owner of a limo service.  One stop picking poop-head here, one stop getting dingleberry here, then a couple of twits and got to the show to see one song before the encore.  Oh well, I felt like a band member.  And bonus: another freebie.

Blues Traveler - '90
In support of their excellent first LP, these guys tore it up.  John Popper on lead and solo harmonica was amazing.  And a light mist captured in the stage lights was way cool.  This 3 and a half hour show almost killed Steve R., but he survived as we all did.  Every 4th of July at RR, BT plays to sold out shows.  I haven't been, but they must be doing something right.

Red Hot Chili Peppers -'90
In the late '80's, rock for me was mundane and stagnant.  Until I heard two bands that made me say "What the shit is this shit?":  Jane's Addiction and RHCP.  Off-beat, off-kilter hard rock with bizzare vocals, these bands made me want to listen.  I saw RHCP four times in a span of two years and this night at RR they opened for, gag, Oingo Boingo.  They cruised through a short set (they usually played for a couple of hours) and had to be forced off the stage.  They were pissed.  We were pissed.  Singer Anthony Kiedis wouldn't give up the mike as a roadie tried to take it from him and the band kept trying to play.  Finally, Kiedis shouted some profanity and threw the mike, stand and all.  Shit started flying.  This is probably the closest to a riot at RR I had seen. Thirty seconds into Oingo Shitsco, we left.  As did most of the crowd.




Stone Temple Pilots - '92
Hard rock had been somewhat resurrected in this late 80's, early '90's period with Pearl Jam leading the way.  Their excellent LP, 'Ten' in '91, is still one of my favorite old-school-style rockers.  For critics (I'm not one of them), STP was a Pearl Jam wanna be.  These guys were harder, edgier and had a way better rock  vocalist in Scott Weiland.  We had heard only one of their songs on the radio.  And they were supposed to headline with The Butthole Surfers opening.  When the opener hit, I looked at Rick C. and said "Man, I didn't know Butthole sounded this good."  He didn't either.  For a few songs, we were flabbergasted (or just flabbered) as to how good BS sounded.  But it really was STP.  When we totally rocked our socks off, BS came on.  They sucked.  We left.
 
Insane Clown Posse - '99 
I have tried to scrub this one from my ledger.  It still hangs in my mind like a huge, green, piece  of phlegm.  I actually was paid to see this one, thanks Mike R.  Probably made Frankie Goes To Hollywood look like, well, Frank Sinatra.  The worstest, awfulest, foulest and most repugnant show I, excuse me, I have to go retch.

Rush - '08
I saw these cats in '76 for their '2112' tour in Minnysoda and they were the super-prog band.  And you know what?  They are still tight.  Still prog-out and for three hours, with three huge, high-def screens on each guy, it was amazing.  Ever since Dan W. (or was it Terry G.) and myself saw their first LP in '74, in Canada, this band has always had wonderful memories of fantastical lyrics, tasty guitar and probably one of the best drummers in the rock world.  You, Mike R., made up for the ICP trip (see above).  Thank you.

 

The Rocks

Before coming to Colorado in 1981, I hadn't the faintest idea of what a Red Rocks Amphitheater was.  That faint idea turned into a startling reality.  "You have to go to The Rocks.  It's the best", doth quote many excited individuals.  "The Rocks?  Whazzat?" I sheepishly asked, wondering if I sounded as naive as I really was.  "You never heard of Red Rocks?  It's only the best place on earth to see a concert."  Uh, never heard of it.  "It's awesome......"  And thus began group discussions and debates as to who saw what band when.  "I saw Santana play 'Black Magic Woman' for, it must've been an hour.  Ya, really".  "Aw, you're nuts.  I saw the same one.  In '79, right?"  "No I think maybe '75 or '76, I forget."  On and on and on.  These guys (you know how us guys can get excited about anything shiny, loud or fast) really put a hook in me.  "Hey guys, sounds cool.  Where is it?"

I then proceeded to set out one beautifully hot, sunny, dry summer day from Lakewood, a western 'burb of Denver, with just a t-shirt, sneakers and cut-offs.  My goal: Red Rocks.  My mode of transport: self-locomotion.  Little did I care how far it was, how badly prepared I was or what the hell I was thinking.  I just started walking.  And walking.  A half-mile later, I knew where I was (I did have some vague directions rolling around in my head) and where I wasn't.  I wasn't at The Rocks.  I paused at a sign proclaiming Morrison 10 mi.  Ah, Morrison, the small, touristy, hippie-dippie hamlet just outside of Red Rocks State Park.  It's adopted The Rocks (the venue) as their own, but in reality the City of Denver owns it (the venue).  Morrison owns the mystique, restaurants and shops that garner a lot of revenue from the concert-goers.  It's quaint until thousands of misfits descend upon it with a crazed collective consciousness looking for tickets, booze, drugs, women, men, directions, gas, food, cigs, water, water coolers, rain gear, missing girl/boyfriend, missing dog, missing ticket-booze-drugs...........  You get the idea. 

As if the musical gods handed me tickets to The Beatles reunion (John and George still alive), a van screeched to a screeching halt.  "Hey man.  Where you headed?"  A fellow with scraggly beard and shaggy hair was leaning out the window.  An old model VW vanagon had an acoustic guitar strapped to its front grill.  I smiled.  As so many happenstances happen that turn out to be bummers, a high percentage of them yields rewards.  The latter was my ticket.  Him and his buddy (also scraggly beard and shaggy hair but with a gold tooth that dazzled in the sun) were going to The Rocks to hang with the traveling community of Dead Heads.  And maybe score some tickets, booze, drugs, women, men, directions.......... this sounds familiar.  Goldy squinted at me from the passenger seat.  "You were gonna actually walk to The Rocks?  Man, that's heavy."  Uh, ya.  Years later, I think he actually meant "That's assinine."

Bouncing in the back of this weathered van, devoid of seats or interior, except for some musty-smelling camping gear, I watched as we wound our way towards our destination.  Majestic red spires jutting out of the ground as if dropped out of the heavens.  But with such precision and grace and glory as if to say "Here are your red rocks.  Now do something wonderful with them."  And what a wonder they are.

We didn't score any tickets, but I did get to meet Wavy Gravy, the iconic crazy from Woodstock.  I really don't know what he actually does but I did get to stare into his toothless maw.  "Welcome, welcome.  Effrybody ith welcome.  Want thum athid browneeth?"  As eight or ten or twelve (who was counting?) of us returned to Earth from the Heavens in the van, with somebody actually trying to play that guitar, the sunset behind The Rocks was a painting Dali wished he would have created.  Sounds of the Dead surrounded and embraced us as we crept back down the road that meant our time here was done.  For me, the time had only just begun.

Something In The Air Tonight

The Rocky Mountain Power Jam
Friday,June 25, 2010
Cervantes Masterpiece Ballroom
Denver, Co.

Colorado, specifically Denver, has been embroiled in an ever-evolving, ever-pretentious and quite entertaining world of medical marijuana laws.  I'm not going to make a case for total legalization (of any illegal substance) or the further decriminalization of maryjane (not to be confused with the ski resort) or the sudden onslaught of "medicinal" shops selling meds.  I'll leave that to the legal system and voters, which means it'll be an issue til h-e-double hockey sticks freezes the puck.  Laws, by-laws, previous initiatives, present interpretations and the mumbo-jumbo of legalese all contribute to this controversy.  I believe that people with legitimate illnesses should be able to acquire, acquire and not distribute, distribute medicines of all flavors.  I also believe that the natural means of treating these people is a good thing.  But say that to a pharmaceutical giant, such as Pfizer.  Being on manufactured drugs is designed to keep a pained patient comfortably numb, but as an innocent bystander with but one script, my opinion is only that.  An opinion.

In the last two years or so,  Denver has been in the eye of the storm concerning medicinal pot.  A sudden surge of pot shops, caregivers and doctoral prescriptions of questionable origin have all contributed to the confusion surrounding past laws and future laws.  Legal or illegal?  The people who are caught in this vortex of legislation are the legitimately afflicted.

With that being said, my wife and I went to the 7th Annual Rocky Mountain Jam which consisted of a conglomeration of talented bands.  Saxophone giant, but small in stature, Karl Denson (he of Karl Denson's Tiny Universe), keyboard/vocalist Ivan Neville ( he of Dumpstaphunk and family member of the renowned Neville's), members of Lettuce (Eric Krasno,guitarist of Soulive, one of the best jazz/funk/jam bands according to me) and a supporting cast that just blew me away.  In this cynical age of new bands and new music, these guys (and one gal) proved that the old-school of James Brown, Sly Stone and Parliament is still around and being interpreted and updated.  This posse of musician's musicians blasted the funk that stunk.  Stunk in a great way.  The show started at 12:00 am.  As in midnight.  We had to pace ourselves with naps, a  protein-fueled meal and coffee.  We arrived an hour early to see what was happening and maybe nab a good table.  A DJ was dj-ing us with James Brown, Earth, Wind and Fire and Michael Jackson.  Why the late start?  This was an after-show of Widespread Panic at Red Rocks.  Busloads of fans from The Rock arrived and proceeded to dance the night away.  We were part of this party and we didn't stop phunking till it was over at 3:00 am.  With a permanent gigundo mirror ball taking us back to the '80s with a '00s vibe, sweaty 20-somethings mixed several intriguing odors.  Axe body wash, patchouli perfume and skunk.  Lotta skunk.  Thick waves of skunk.  Stinky skunk.  Everywhere.  Lighters lighting.  Burning.  Everywhere.  Unabashedly and blatant.

I have been to a couple of concerts in my life and, of course, experienced the skunk.  But I never, never, ever was so inundated, so enveloped by the full, rich skunk as I was this night.  And I am thankful it's not cig smoke anymore.  A long, strange trip indeed.  Spliffs, pipes and green script bottles were passed around as if candy.  Eye-popping and eye-watering.  I don't know if you, the bloggee, has smelt, felt, seen or indulged in med herb, but the contact high alone was, well, uplifting.  Constant foot-shifting, whirling and twirling dervishes of skirts and shorts and constant inhalation/exhalation.  And the band played on.  Crunch funk, tight crushing grooves of blasting drums and bass, guitar solos and keyboard with wah-wah and various tricks, kept the tunes flowing.  Quite a display from musician's musicians.

My ears are still ringing today.  My mind is a bit cloudy (nothing new there).  My musical fix sedated.  My dream last night was a strange one.  Musket (he of Good Earth Records, see my post 'Get me to the show ontime') was smiling at me and unveiling a CD case full of music and presented it to me proudly.  "These are for you, Alto."  I thanked him and he vanished in a thick fog of a, smoke machine?  And how appropo was Taylor Hicks ( yes, American Idol!) absolutely killing (in a raving, rocking and grand, guttural way) a funk/rock cover of 'Medicated Goo'?  Medicated.  Yes, very.

I Just Want To Celebrate

"Celebrate celebrate
Dance to the music"

This past Father's Day, it hit me.  Every living, breathing organism on our planet, and hopefully on others, has a mother and a father.  Sure, there are those species that have both sexes (that must be quite the party) and some that don't have a sex at all (so sad), but I shall concentrate on the Homo Sapien, as that is the one I'm somewhat familiar with.

There are the cynics amongst us that feel some of the celebratory days are just a way to promote commercialism.  And I agree, some are.  But keep it to yourself because plenty of people enjoy these days.  Don't piss on their fun.  So with that being said, I have compiled some obviously silly "Special Days".

Caffeine-free Week
This one might require non-caffeinated friends and family (is there anybody over the age of six like that?  Really?) to have their phones on speed-dial for 911.  Without caffeine, they are way too slow.  Originally I thought a one-day celebration.  Nah, too easy.  Then a two-day.  That should be a piece of cake (just say no to coffee cake).  How about a whole week?  I nervously reached for my coffee cup and kept thinking.  But why, Mark, a whole week?  Then it dawned on me.  The whole commercialism thing.  Another chug.  From a devout caffeine creature, I knew, this would be hard.  But the rewards.  The outrageous cost of coffee these days is staggering, especially to an 8-10 cup-a-day drinker.  And the tossing and turning at night when you just had to have that eensy, teensy cup at 7:30 pm.  And not to mention what Starbucks charges.  And the jitters.  The rewards are plentiful, my fellow addict.  Chug.  Of course, it shan't be easy.  Be strong.  The headache that will inevitably come will feel like an aneurysm on steroids.  The ringing in your ears, your temples exploding repeatedly and those strange visions of Juan Valdez.  Sip.  The next six days will be a lot easier.  It's all psychological, anyway, right?  Mind games, yes?  We really don't need caffeine, do we?  Beat it back.  And, oh, the celebration at the end of the week.  A parade will be organized and quickly.  Chug. Sip.  Hopefully, not a rabid crowd clamoring for a latte, but a laid-back party of celebrants who came together for a single cause : just to say we can.  The parade should end up at a Caribou or Starbucks with the masses taking over, free espresso, make mine a triple, out of my way old man, chug, that frap is mine, I need more whole milk, damn my coffee's too weak, where's that triple espresso I ordered 30 seconds ago?  And choosing the week for this celebration?  I'll think about that after I grind some beans.  Sip.

Nothing Special Day
Celebrate the mundaneness of life.  Again. 

Colonoscopy Day
Party on this occasion for the people who get to go back in 10 years, starting with 10 candles and working down.  Just so you remember.  If you are unfortunate enough to get this procedure done more often, eat the high fiber cake.  And that cake should have pictures of this memorable day in chocolate.

No BM Day
Of course, this will probably follow the above "Special Day". 

Greeting Card Day
Sponsored by Hallmark.  That's all I can say.

Rest Your Right Eye Day
Think about your eyes for a moment.  They are always on.  Even while sleeping, they dance the REM.  Take a break.  Depth perception is compromised, but are you a professional baseball player?  I didn't think so.

Just Say No Day
No.

PMS Week
Oh wait, it's called hell week.

Talk Like a Pirate Day
There already is one?  AAARRRGGGGHHH.

Make up your own "Special Day".  And enforce it.  Remember, people love to celebrate no matter what it is.

 

And That's The Way It Was

Growing up somewhat sheltered geographically, actually really sheltered, and in a simpler time, finding something to do was somewhat of a challenge.  So, we did some harmless stuff, mainly to ourselves.  Every small town (and I've been in quite a few) is like an enclave of cliques and small, social networks.  Some were renowned for the dastardly stuff and others were pretty tame.  Guess which group I was in?  Now, I have been called a Pollyanna, by some unmentionables, for my writing on this blog.  And I admit, I do write PG rated stuff (fluff?).  I have been lucky by not being in the wrong place at the wrong time very often when I was growing up.  However, some crazy/dark moments have occurred.  That strange, dark side is on my new blog entitled 'The Dark Side and Underbelly of Alto'.  Catchy, huh?  It's still in the preparation stage.  Until then, on with the mostly PG fluff stuff.

Did you ever get to go to a Sadie Hawkin's dance in high school?  This was designed by some female, I would guess, so that the girl who never gets asked to a dance, gets to do the asking.  How original and uncomfortable.  The boy usually says yes to a complete anti-babe just to be nice, then drops her off immediately after the dance (the scoundrel), proceeds to meet with a friend (another scoundrel), party until light after drinking a ton, driving up on sidewalks, getting stuck in somebody's front yard, knocking over a few mailboxes and generally making up for a terribly annoying dance.  Shame on you, Joe A. for making me so rowdy.  I guess I had a little to do with that, but remember, I am Pollyanna.

Before we had our driver's license, we needed to stash our booze (purchased for us by an older scoundrel) for a later, more opportune time.  Surrounding Lincoln School was a nice secluded patch of woods that we called, The Woods, or something like that.  There were so many of us, that finding your personal stash was totally by accident.  If you didn't, then whatever you found was yours.  Being chased by some irate, PBR-loving, misfits was pretty invigorating and stomach-jogging.  This was the first place that I experienced The Puke, or something like that.  Wines ( I use the term loosely) such as Annie Green Springs, Tyrolia, Boone's Farm and the nefarious Mogen David 20-20 were within my price range : very cheap.  If you haven't experienced MD 20-20, this fine-dining wine, I highly suggest it.  It came in a couple of enticing flavors.  Puke Grape or Golden Apple Puke.  Both totally appealing to the rot-gut in us all.  We had a very intricate process for drinking this crap and it seemed to work.  The quart held about four large glasses, so the first was the most important.  It was the most foul-tasting, bowel-wasting, butt-basting liquid invented by some scoundrel.  After that, you were home free because you couldn't taste the next three glasses.  Your taste buds were totally annihilated as the rest of your body would shortly be.  MD 20-20 made your eyesight 0-0.  Since those early drinking days, I have found only one other drink equally nauseating.  Half shot of Jaggermeister.  Half shot of Goldschlager.  Voila!  You have Black Gold.  Just thinking about it gives me a headache, hangover and the strange need to vomit.  Damn, those Germans are good.

Cruising had to be popular wherever there was a patch of asphalt.  And over-hormonal boys.  With wheels.  With booze.  And loose girls.  Howard Street and 1st Avenue formed an 'L' in our downtown, which used to be a part of the interstate highway system.  After the 'Beltway' was built, which diverted traffic around the downtown like a belt holding together the ever-expanding girth of our fair village, this 'L' was about 20 blocks of department stores (Feldman's and Monkey Wards), theaters (State and Libba), pizza joints (Sammy's), gas stations/auto body shops (John's), all-purpose (Woolworth's and Five-and-Ten Cent) and a whole slew of dive bars (Corner, Coachmen).  Gas being around 35 cents (gasp), driving up and down for hours on end wasn't a big deal, even with the gas-chugging muscle cars.  Showing off these cars, showing off girls in these cars and the relentless pursuit of instant gratification, was the thing to do.  "Hey, party at McCarthy's Beach."  "Bimbo's at midnight".  Even in the harsh winters, "Dupont Lake.  Bring the Ski-doo and a case of Hamms."  This was some of the most carefree times a kid could have.  And driving drunk?  Most, not all, are here to tell you about it.  I do have to mention a bittersweet memory, one of the few.  Driving or cruising the drag was sometimes void of exhaust and cars and friends and chicks and mayhem.  Where is everybody?  Am I missing something?  Did I forget about a kegger somewhere?  Is everybody dead?  And where the hell is Terry G. with my MD 20-20?

I wasn't into drag-racing (being a Pollyanna and all), but our town was overrun with gear-heads.  One casual friend ( weren't we all?) had a yellow Dodge Dart with a thick, black-belt painted vertically around the rear panel or trunk area.  See?  I can't even describe it in a studly way.  It looked like a bumble-bee.  Is that better?  This wrenchie said the engine was factory, but even a powder-puff like me knew, after the first rev, that this was huge.  He had a running bet.  Anyone able to reach out and grab a $20 bill taped to his dash while going through the quarter-mile, they could keep it.  If not, you owed him the $20.  Bold.  Cocky.  He let me try it for free.  You know, wimpy and all.  When he tromped on the gas, other than the startling, jet-sounds that deafened me and the fuel smell, my head and body were pressed into the seat with a snap.  I reached out.  Chirping second gear drove me back.  A beer can wrapped around my ankle.  I tried again.  Third gear and now eyelashes quivering and tears (?) running, I reached.  The $20 was just laying there, fluttering, asking to be ripped off the dash.  Fourth gear and rubber-fumes or something else burning (was that hair?)  The quarter-mile was over.  A backfire sounded.  Then braking.  I looked over at my friend and he had this look that I'll never forget.  One of pride.  One of confidence.  One of a bullshitter.

I'll have to say, and coming from a crotchety old Iron Ranger, you can take this any way you want to, those times I hold dear to my heart.  Ones you never want to let go of.  They were filled with pure, childish joy, wild imaginations, smells, sounds and feelings of something that has passed.  But is still there.  To hear.  To smell.  To feel.  It was great to be alive then and there and it sure is great to be alive here and now.  Without the memories (or the forgetfuls) we have nothing to base ourselves on.  Wherever you grew up, however you were raised, whenever it was, do not forget.  Remember.  This is coming from a Pollyanna.

-- Recent Listens --

Them Crooked Vultures
Them Crooked Vultures, 2009

Josh Homme (gtr, vox)  [ Kyuss, Queens of the Stone Age ]
Dave Grohl (drums)  [ Nirvana, Foo Fighters ]
John Paul Jones (bass)  [guess]
Scathing rock.  We need more of this.

Jeff Beck
Emotion & Commotion, 2010
J.B. - why so long?

Robben Ford
Blue Moon, 2002
Typical Ford.  No wasted notes from premiere and unheralded guitarist/singer/songwriter.

Merl Saunders and Friends
Keepers, '71-'75 (redone in '97)
Saunders on keys, gigantic sounds as fresh now as then.  Though not a Dead fan, Jerry Garcia wins me over  with his wild abandon.  Not enough of legendary Mike Bloomfield but still a nice funky, blues disc.

Harry Nilsson
Pussycats, 1974
Nilsson ( Schmilsson, Son of ) is one of my favorites.  Gets together with John Lennon, who is partying whilst on hiatus from Yoko.  Some tight, fun and serious songs.

Ween
12 Golden Country Greats, 1996
Whacked-out with great musicianship.  Songs such as 'Piss Up A Rope', 'Help Me Scrape The Mucus Off My Brain' and 'Japanese Cowboy' give you indication of what this is all about.  Have fun with all their stuff, though not for everyone.

Rolling Stones
A Bigger Bang, 2005
Screw the critics (I'm not one).  This stripped down bluesy release has Jagger doing more than vocals (guitar, harmonica, bass) and Richards trading licks with Woods (or Mick?).  Raunchy, as usual, this is actually better than expected.  Screw the critics (I'm still not one).

Get Me To The Show Ontime (circa around 1979)

9:15 am     I get a call from Rocker letting me know the show is at 7:30 tonight at the Duluth Auditorium.  I confirm this.  Back to sleep.

10:45 am   Bud calls and wakes me up from one of my vivid dreams.  Led Zeppelin is ready to play at our high school (ya, right) and Robert Plant can't sing.  They ask me if I could fill in (hey, it's my dream).  I say, "You're bloody well right I'll sing" or something like that.  Then, the phone rings.  I slam the phone down.  So close to being a star.

10:46 am    Bud calls back.  I ask what the hell is his problem.  He mumbles something (he's a certified mumbler) and I think he says thickets for the hugfest in foo-foo.  What?  Oh, the concert.  Ya, got it.  Why?  Bud says the show might be sold out.

10:48 am    The phone is left dangling as I vaguely hear some mumbling.  I'm high-tailin' it to my '69 Ford Custom 500 and drivin' crazy- fast.  For all of  five blocks.  I hope Mrs. Adams isn't takin' her morning slow-walk next door.  She just might have to fast-jump out of the way.

10:54 am     I brake and jump and roll.  Not really, but it sounded good.  I dash into Good Earth Records and look for Jerry.  It's a landmark store in our little town which sells albums, tapes, posters, smokin' apparatuses.  And concert tickets.  In this bygone era, you had to purchase them at a store or order them and wait for the mail.  There was no waitin' here.  Jerry is not around.  Only a dimwitted worker bee, Jimbo.  He hadn't seen Musket (nickname for Jerry) in awhile.  He didn't know when he'll be back.  'LA Woman' is blaring on the stereo which disrupted my thinkin'.  I was thinkin', "Shit, I better get four tickets or I'm dead."  I promised Bumbler, Rocker and, the most important one, our driver, Jonesy.  If only I had woken up earlier.  Preferably yesterday.  "Calm down.  Musket will be back.  It's his store and looking at Jimbo, I'd say he had better hurry."  Jimbo was air-drumming on top of the cash register.

11:23 am     Ok, the whole album of 'LA Woman' is now over.  No Musket.  No tickets.  No way.  Where the hell is, wait, here he comes.  With a smile as big as a double-wide and eyes as red as a baboon's butt.  Oh oh.  Pushing his glasses back on his nose, as they always slid down, he looked at me.  "Hey Alto.  What's up?"  "I need four tickets for the concert tonight."  "What concert?"  "You know, the Slade and Brownsville Station one.  In Duluth."  Jessica Sampson saunters by and Musket's attention is not on me anymore.  The Boss is now screaming.  Internally, so am I.

11:42 am     Watching Jerry run his store was a thing of beauty.  He started Good Earth on his own and had a vision of what a record store should be like.  And he nailed it.  Not only was the selection diverse but it was a cool place to hang out and talk music.  And he knew his music.  And was passionate about it.  He could talk for, literally, hours on why John Lennon should've killed Yoko Ono.  Or what Jim Morrison meant on an obscure poem he wrote.  But this was getting ridiculous.  He was ringing up some Billy Squier and a button (the Rolling Stones logo) and was deep in conversation about Elvis Costello with some high schooler who should take a freakin' bath (not many showers in those days).  I nervously flipped through the G-H album section keeping my eye on him.

12:12 pm     My patience is exhausted.  Jerry was now out the back to get a shipment of albums and cassettes.  Man, can he move fast when he has to.  I caught up to him and asked if I could help.  "Oh hey, Alto.  What's up?"  "Any tickets?  Jerry?"  He was already gone to the back.

12:25 pm     Jerry comes back.  Finally.  "Oh hey, Alto.  How long you been here?"  "Musket, the tickets.  I need four tickets.  Remember?"  "Oh ya.  I think that show sold out."
 
12:26 pm     Plan B.  "Are you sure?  Could you check?"  "Ya, I can call Freddy over in Chisholm.  He might have some."  "Oh man, that's be great."  He was gone in a flash.  Jimbo can't figure how to ring up a blank cassette.  Jerry rings it up and then goes into a rant about how bad the Stones are these days.

12:36 pm     Jerry is gone again.  How does he move so fast?  I look at Jimbo.  He just shrugs.  Now I'm starvin' marvin'.  Figuring Musket will be back soon (fingers are crossed), I go next door to grab a burger.  The best in town.  Except the half-pounder with fries has gone up.  Geez, now $2.99?  I've lost all my patience and my money.

1:02 pm      I reenter Good Earth full and ready to keep up with Musket.  If he tries to escape again, I'll have to tackle him.  He's bigger than me but I'm desperate.  It'll take us at least an hour and a half to drive to Duluth.  I still have to shower (one of the lucky families) and get prepared for the show.  That takes a lot of time and effort.  I'll stay calm and see what's in the bargain bin.

1: freakin' 52 pm    Guess who decides to show up?  Yup, Musket.  With a pizza and beer.  "Hey Alto.  Want some 'zza?"  "Jerry."  "Hey man, you look a little stressed.  How 'bout a beer?"  "Thanks but no thanks.  How about those tickets?"  "What tickets?"  Deep breath.  "THE CONCERT TICKETS FOR TONIGHT."  "Oh those.  I have to go get 'em.  I'll be back in about an hour."  Now I don't know about you but one hour really means two, maybe three.  Exhausted, I gave in.

5: oh my God 38 pm    A knock at my door.  I answer in full concert mode.  My hair combed just right, an old Black Oak Arkansas t-shirt and my fav-o-rite blue jeans, a little torn.  "Hey Alto.  Sorry 'bout that.  We got to talkin' and well, here they are.  You can pay me whenever.  I don't know why you needed them so fast.  They don't play till tomorrow."

5: is that me sobbing? 45 pm   I am back asleep.  With the phone off the hook.