Just an Old Buff Tom Story for Christmas

People have asked We Three Buffalos Tee for stories from the road. We have relatively few good ones worth telling. Certainly none of them are Zeppelin level. No arrests or major property damage. No bans from any hotel chains. So we usually come back to a small handful, and in particular, this one from Paris. It happened so long ago, probably 1990, and that fact in an of itself shows how few stories there are. In fact, I would not be surprised if I have not already told it in this space. How sad would THAT be?

I searched Dan and Camille Speca's site, which documents almost all of the live shows we have played, This particular show seems to be missing. In fact, I do not see any shows in Paris in my quick scan, and even though it was not a hot spot for us, I know we have played at least two or three times there, once opening up for the Gun Club. Anyway, it is just as well, as this show should be expunged from the official record.

It started out just as our previous trip to Paris had. During that first european tour, in 1989, we had a day off or two and figured we would drive down to Paris just for the day, even though we had no shows in France that first year. But we had all our gear and records with us (we sold vinyl as merch' - goes to show how far back this was). When we got to the border on the way in, we were stopped and taken aside by the French customs agents, who took one look at the rock band with a Dutch driver and a van registered in the Netherlands, with boxes full of rock records and t-shirts and decided we were worth a search. The first BT album, some of you may recall, had a series of symbols in a hand-drawn logo designed by yours truly, a semi-arbitrary assemblage of a peace sign , a heart, a yin/yang, a cross, and -- naturally -- a hypodermic needle, for no apparent reason except to invite problems.

The French agents did not need to see anything more to order us out of the van. They brought a dog in to sniff through everything. The van was completely emptied and each section was taken apart, ceiling and door panels removed, and all our bags brought inside the building. Tom's duffel, filled at this point mostly with dirty laundry, was placed in front of us as we watched them search each item, with the dog sniffing all of it. And they strip-searched everyone but me. I was actually a little offended.

We were afraid enough of border crossings to know not to have anything on us and none of us had any sort of drug habits that would require taking such risks. So, after a few hours, they finally and reluctantly let us go on our merry way to enjoy the fair city of Paris as warmly welcomed tourists.

The next year, we came back to actually play a show. We were never very popular in France, but we had been booked at an ad hoc club in an old abandoned hospital campus that was being squatted. With our history at the border, we figured it would be best to get an early start. I believe that this time we were coming from Zurich, with its infamous Needle Park, home to hundreds of junkies. But that might have been the first visit, I forget. Needless to say, we were again held up for hours at the broder, with a similar bienvenue committee. Instead of being early, we had to speed into Paris so as to not arrive horrendously late. Of course, we were stopped by the police again on the highway, who seemed to have a sense of curiosity similar to their countrymen back at the border. "The French police wouldn't give me no peace/They claimed I was a nasty person..."

By the time we pulled into the right location, having circled the serpentine back streets of Paris looking for this squatted club, we were quite tardy, a fact made clear by an otherwise pretty lady running toward the driver-side window of our van, screeching her head off at us in a Gallic tempest of unmitigated fury. Stephen, our tour manager was a young guy from New Zealand, but I think it was Jan, our long-time Dutch soundman who also acted as our tour manager at times, who was driving and received the brunt of this vitriol. The poor guy was often stressed and took the job quite seriously, and, unfortunately, he understood some French. He mostly took it, though he tried here and there, in the milliseconds the mademoiselle paused, to explain what happened. She was having none of it. She started in on us in hilarious broken english that made her sound like an enraged female Inspector Closeau. The day in France was not off to a good start.

We were finally allowed to drive through the gates, past huge security guards dressed in DEA black, cargo pants tucked into boots, each holding German shepherds on short leashes. Yes, this was the "rock club," a walled campus that was like entering a prison.

We drove in and started to unload our gear, trying our best to ignore the ongoing stream of abuse from Fifi, who we soon deduced was the promoter. While Bob -- who was our graphic designer and was out selling merch for us -- unloaded the van, Jan, who did not see Bob, slid the van door shut on his head. Bob was woozy and eventually had to be taken to the hotel to rest. He may have gone to the doctor. I know he did eventually, I just don't recall this detail. It turned out that he got a concussion of some degree which made him nauseous.

Soldiering on, we completed a soundcheck in one of the many euro venues that resemble an airplane hangar, with a tin barrel ceiling, clearly the optimal conditions for the sort of hi-fi sound that warms the heart an exacting Dutch sound engineer with frazzled nerves and guilt compounded by arriving late and slamming his friend's head in a van door. But as you can tell, we were not so egregiously late as to miss a soundcheck; just enough to summon the blackest stuff from the bowels of a demonic French chick's damned soul.

As we made our way out for a quick bite, the bassist from the opening band asked Chris if he could borrow Chris' P-Bass. Chris, generous soul he is, sort of shrugged and said, sure, I guess so. When we got back in after dinner, the band was finishing up their set. I was first in the club. There was a rowdy audience watching and listening to the cacophonous racket, as the bassist repeatedly threw Chris' P-Bass up in the air, the strap holding it to his body, and letting it slam and bounce against his upraised thigh. I turned around to grab Chris, "look at what this guy is doing. You'll want to see this."

Chris came in and stood, mouth agape. He confronted the kid backstage afterward. "What the fuck? Why did you do that?"

The kid was very blase -- there's a nice French word for you. "Hey c'mon," he said. "Eet eese poonk rock, men."

Chris replied something like, "where's your bass? What happened to it, and why did you need mine?"

The guy just shrugged his shoulders. There was nothing wrong with his bass. He just wanted to use Chris's and got overexuberant. Chris simply did not know how to respond. But he let the kid have it.

Finally, the moment we were all waiting for, the time that we get to play; it is all about the music, man; the hour or so that makes it all worthwhile. We started our set to a packed crowd in this little room. The kids had paid around the equivalent of $20, which back then, for a band our size, was a lot of dough. I was actually starting to feel good. The crowd was definitely boisterous. And as a song or two went by, I felt myself getting beer spilled/thrown at me. Cups seemed to be flying. And one hit my right at the top of my guitar and drenched my torso.

Sort of half laughing, in my slowest, clearest speech, to try to convey my message to the French crowd, I said something like, "OK, I know it is a rock club and you all paid a lot of money to come and have fun, I have to politely ask whoever it is throwing beer up here to please stop." I heard a lot of yelling and jeering, people pointing fingers, and so on.

We started into the next song, "Mineral," which starts slowly, quietly, and with just me playing the guitar. The screaming continued and I saw a bustle in the crowd, just behind the first few rows of people, who started to look over their shoulders at those behind them fighting someone off, pushing around, trying to get out of the way, as this other insane-looking girl with a shaved head made her way forward, literally clawing her way up to the front. By the time it came for me to sing the first lines, she was in front of me yelling at me.

Mistake number one: I stopped playing and made eye contact with her, allowing her to engage me. She was still trying to gain ground and people were pushing her back. "What are you saying?" I asked. Mistake number two.

She yelled something to me in French or gibberish, or some combination of the two. Either way, I had no idea what she was saying. Mistake number three: I say, "hold on, hold on, what is she saying? Let her talk."

She wrestled her way right in front of me and yelled, "I thought eet would be refreshing to you! I thought you wanted to be refreshed!" She had been the one throwing the beers at me.

"No, ha ha, no that's fine," I said. I don't need...."

Splat! She spit right in my face before I could get my sentence out. Hawked a loogy right in my face.

Mistake number four comes next. Instead of walking away, which is something I am not too good at generally, and starting the music again, I instantly and instinctively spit right back in her cute little face. Well, before I could even straighten up, the skinhead chick was ON me, grabbing a hold of my guitar strings and my face, her nails slashing as she clawed up onto stage, kicking slapping, pulling my hair, my guitar clanging away. I looked to the side and saw Chris, again with mouth agape, but just standing there, along with Stephen, our guitar tech, stock still, the both of them. My face must have been in a panicked expression of, "a little help here?"

Finally, somehow, we were separated. Shaken, I left the stage and exited out the back door. In this setup, the dressing rooms were in another building up a flight of stairs. I was shaking and scratched up. We had only played maybe three songs. Fifi the promoter lady comes in, now all gooey sweet, begging us to go back on, telling us how the people loved the music and it was only one bad apple and so on. I told her to fuck off, that we had been badly treated this whole day, and that they have this heavy security presence and yet no one there to stop this one petite Tasmanian devil from nearly taking me out? She begged us, but my adrenaline was pumping and wanted to make her sweat, maybe a small riot from the outraged kids in the offing, so we refused to go back on for a while. She kept begging and we relented, telling her it was "for the kids, man!"

We were escorted back down the steps toward the entry to the stage. But we had to pass back through a courtyard between the two buildings. There, in a doorway, was the skinhead girl and two of the huge security guys and she was pummeling them while they tried to restrain her. They sort of seemed like they didn't want to hurt her, but she was trying their patience.

We played our set, which was good for a few laughs. People in the front were apologizing for her, telling me she was clearly on bad drugs. We wrapped up an otherwise uneventful and fun set.

Afterward, we were up in the dressing room again. enjoying a few drinks with some folks. I was discussing the bizarro incident with a French guy.

"Oh yeah, man," he said. "She was very high on something. She had been making problems all night."

"She was insane," I told him. "I mean, she really hurt me. And then we saw her outside going nuts on some big security guys."

"Yes, yes!" he replied. "You know, they had to shock her," illustrating some sort of movement with his hands."

"Huh? They had to shock her? What do you mean?"

He kept up the prodding motion. "Yes, oui. They had to give her electreek shock."

"What?! Like a cattle prod? A stun gun?" I asked (I don't think the word "Taser" had yet entered the lexicon -- english or french).

"Yes, yes, 'stun gun!.' Can you believe it, man?"

Here is the kind of place we played: huge SWAT team security guys patrolling a prison-like campus with German shepherds and stun guns, waiting for an opportunity to send high voltage into an out-of-control skinhead chick, and yet not being able to rise to the occasion when they were actually needed.

Merry Christmas kids!

New Buffalo Tom

Find the premier of the new track, "Arise, Watch," here at Stereogum for a free download.



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Buffalo Tom Updates

Hey, we are gearing up for the new record, called Skins, due out mid-February. We have a new Facebook page, Twitter feed, designer stage wear, hair pieces, and low-profile trusses to keep things in place.

There is a new interview, here, and it contains a preview of a new track from the record.

In other news, this very blog -- yes, this one -- was nominated "Best Music Blog," no, not by the Pulitzer Committee, but by the Boston Music Awards. A friend of mine asked why I had not been plugging it and if I was afraid of self-promotion. Hahahahahahahahaha. You can vote here, if you like. And also see nominees, Tom Janovitz for best folk record with his nom de rock, Sodafrog, and Scott Janovitz for his band, the Russians, in the singer/songwriter category.

More as it comes!

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Billy Ruane, Rest in Peace

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!”



-- Kerouac









Billy and Billy. Photo by Ken Okaya.
















Boston just lost a legend and a giant-hearted friend. Billy gave Buffalo Tom one of, if not our very first gig in Boston. For those of you who are not from Boston, and/or didn't know him, Billy was more than a fan, more than a promoter, more than a friend. He is responsible for so much good music, so many good clubs, and endless generosity and good will. He singlehandedly brought music to the Middle East Restaurant, which became, simply, the Middle East. But there were stunning memorable nights at Green Street Grill, galleries, bowling alleys, lofts...

The loss is staggering. My eyes are misty as I write this. He will be missed and his death marks the end of an era. We mourn Billy as we mourn the passing of our youth.















Photo by Wayne Valdez.



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Rejected TV Theme

I took a stab at a theme for a new TV show. No go. Some might recall I did the theme song for "Yes Dear" some years back. So, here are two demo versions of the newest attempt at network-TV-paycheck glory, rejected, alas! Anyone else out there want to buy one?

Rock Me Daddy-O I


Rock Me Daddy-O II

The Eagerly Awaited Review of the Exile Boondoggle

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Ballad of Tim Wakefield, Redux

Someone made a "video" of my song from last season:

On Broadway Score

hey -- I just uploaded the score I did for the film On Broadway, by Dave McLaughlin and Lance Greene, and thought I would share it for those of you who want some mellow acoustic instrumental music to listen to. Featured are Joe McMahon (bass), Phil Aiken (piano/organ), and Tom Polce (drums).

This is the piece that scores the climax scene

This one is the opening credits theme.

This is another wistful little number.

As always, you can right/Apple-click to "save file as."

The Ride Home

Scud Mountain Boys on the soundtrack back up I84.

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BT photoshoot at the Crackerfarm

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Buff Tom last session

Finishing up with a couple of more new songs at the old Fort Apache, now known as Camp St Studio, with Paul Kolderie and Adam Taylor.

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http://billjanovitz.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default

New T-Shirt Link

New T-Shirt Link (for now)

Tom Gross is the guy handling these. I don't know details about orders, sizes, etc. so please hold your emails.

Thanks -- Bill

I Loved You, Well Never Mind/I've Been Crying All the Time

Rest in Peace, Alex Chilton, a true artist and hero.

Thirteen, Bill, Kay, Mike.

A note from Kay.

Joanna Newsom

I have been far too dismissive in my life, ruling out artists, writers, whatever, based on preconceptions or early knee-jerk reactions. As one gets older, these sorts of instincts seem to solidify and self-justify. Going into something you might assume is not your thing will, more often than not, leave yet another bad impression and strengthens your resolve to avoid more of "those sorts of things."

The trouble is, however, that one runs the risk of missing out on things of almost incomprehensible beauty, such as this and other songs by Joanna Newsom.

Though I am as guilty as most in the closing of the mind, I can't say that my initial reaction to Joanna's music was to close myself off from it and recoil. See, for me, one of the good things about living in this era is that it is easier to just get exposed to the actual art, music especially, without reading about it first. In pre-Internet days, I tended not to base my decisions on whether or not to go out and explore new artists based on music press; that is not the most effective way to convey what an artist is like. Nevertheless, I would often find myself reading that this to that band was like this other one. Oh? Well I don't like what I have heard of them, so the other ones who this writer says sounds like them must also not be my thing.

If someone had described Joanna to me before hearing it, I can't say I would have heeded the George Michael dictum, "Listen Without Prejudice." The adjectives most used to describe her are, "elfin," "fairy," "child-like," "freak folk," and so on. She pays the harp. Apparently, she grew up in a neo-hippy, new age, rural ex-mining mountain enclave alongside friends and collaborators like Devendra Banhart. Some would say her voice is often like that of Bjork. Sometimes it can seem like Tori Amos. OK? See why one might run away as fast as possible?

You would do so at the risk of missing out on something deeply rewarding. She's not for everyone, but don't automatically assume she's not for you. Lucky for me, I clicked on something and heard her first, before knowing anything about her, a couple of years ago. I was drawn in pretty quickly. I had sort of put her music on the back burner, but it hs moved back to the front recently. There was a nice piece on her in the Times this past week. Then I clicked on this and watched the whole thing repeatedly. The harp playing is jaw-dropping, the voice is magnetic. But most of all, the poetry leaves me breathless. You simply will not find anyone who sounds just like her. Having listened, I can't imagine her music not existing. It seems necessary. It feels at once magically inspired and stolen from the ether, and crafted artfully. It makes me believe in God and it makes me want to work harder. I think she has tapped the same mystic vein as Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, and Ricki Lee Jones.

You can find the lyrics online. I hate all those pop-up-y ad-riddled lyric sites. But I must quote at least one section that hits me on a primal level and makes me wish that I had written it:

And they will recognize
All the lines of your face
In the face of the daughter, of the daughter, of my daughter.

New Shows added

Some shows coming up: Buffalo Tom just added to the 5/20 NY John Wesley Harding Cabinet of Wonders w/eugenemirman, robbie fulks, janeane garofolo, paul muldoon, lenny kaye and Le Poisson Rouge 158 Bleecker Street,NYC. We may also add another show or two in the Tri-State area that same weekend.

BT has a date on hold late spring/early summer in Boston, TBC.

And BillBillyEdandPhilly (Crown Victoria of sorts) will be doing some of those Toad-like sets the first three Thursday nights in April at Precinct, Somerville, alternating sets with the fabulous Jenny Dee & the Delinquents.

More BT in studio

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BT in studio again

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BT in Studio IV

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BT in studio III

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Bt in studio II

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BT in studio

Chris preparing for backing vocals.

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Norwegian Black Metal

The closest I have ever gotten to liking anything that might be construed as heavy metal was the hard rock of the 1970s like Led Zeppelin, AC/DC and maybe the first or second outer rings into the 1980s like Motorhead. These were bands still rooted in the blues somewhat. And even Lemmy provides some semblance of melody and swing.

I started to lose interest in most of the stuff that came after around 1980. There was all the hair metal that meant nothing to me. I even include Halen in this category. Am I supposed to differentiate between Def Leopard, Rush, Iron Maiden, and such? I mean, I know Rush is more prog, DL is more pop, Maiden more hard rock. I don't know. But mostly, I just never cared much either way.

And then there was all the thrash of the late '80s/'90s, which sounded like very suburban kids taking the worst aspects of hardcore and metal and putting them together. But like Dylan sang, "don't criticize what you can't understand..." OK. I am just talking here. No critique. Just not for me. I remember being at one show at the Ritz in NY around 1986, with Celtic Frost and the Cro Mags playing together. I liked the energy of the latter and thought the former were unintentionally (apparently) hilarious. But neither was my cup of tea per se.

Later on, when we started playing festivals, we would witness such bands as Sepultura. That was some scary shit. I found it interesting. This Brazilian... I dunno, death metal band? It was all slow and low and guttural, like monsters in my nightmares. It was just so different and fresh sounding to my ears -- and eyes; what a sight! But after a couple of songs, it was time for the beer tent.

But in the past few months, I have seen a few very interesting documentaries about three very different metal bands. Anvil! The Story of Anvil was just a beautiful film about being in a band, struggling to make it, dedication, and personal relationships. The fact that I cared nothing for their music, and still don't, but still loved the film is testament to what a great piece of storytelling it is.

Then Tom Maginnis recommended seeing Iron Maiden Flight 666 Again, I care nothing about the music, though with this film, I really developed an appreciation for the musicianship and talent of the individuals. But again, the music was the least interesting part of the movie for me. Here is a story 180 degrees different than the Anvil movie. Iron Maiden are huuuuuuuge worldwide. This in and of itself was not a revelation. But it was the scope of worldwide adoration and the cult of their fans that was astounding. And the joy of the band members, their good fortune and modesty, their acceptance of each other, and the family aspect of the band makes for compelling stuff. The spine of the story is that they decide to pack everything -- crew, band, equipment -- into one 757 jet and hit all the more remote places that they rarely, if ever, got to play due to financial reasons. And the lead singer pilots the plane.

I've also been hearing a bit of noise about Norwegian Black Metal and today an article about a new documentary appeared in the Boston Sunday Globe. Trailer, here. So I went to Youtube and found this really interesting documentary about one figure of this genre. It makes for an intriguing and compelling film. I watched all five parts in succession and recommend the same for you and would be interested in reading some comments:

Some Buffalo Stuff

Mark has posted some songs from the Nick Flynn/Buff Tom set a couple of weeks ago:



Also, we have contributed a live track to this cause:

www.righttracktunes.org Buffalo Tom "Thrown"live from the last Somerville Theater show, download for Target Cancer benefit.

What Else Do You Need?

Check out Jesse Winchester on Elvis Costello’s Spectacle. Jesse might not be everyone’s cup of tea. Some my find him too straightforward or sentimental. To those I say: hey, there’s no accounting for the taste of such cold-hearted wretches like you who can’t recognize brilliant songcraft when it is staring you in your sad old bitter face. So go and pull out your Nitzer Ebb records and have a good time.

Look at the faces in the crowd. Look at my girlfriend, Neko Case, tearing up. Look at Elvis’s face. One of the greatest songwriters of our generation is sincerely humbled. As well he should be.

Now, Elvis is one of my favorite all-time songwriters. And I think he should get a Nobel Prize simply on the basis of forming this new television program (which I have only seen clips of, by the way, as my cable company wants to charge me $14 more a month to get this “tier” of programming) where he provides a wide audience for someone like Jesse Winchester. But Elvis has often seemed to let his cleverness, his words, and his concepts get in the way of good pop songs over the years. Don’t get me wrong: I am all for pushing boundaries and ambition, and the wish to write something that moves the head as well as the heart. Costello perfected that delicate balance for many years and still pulls it off more times than not. Waits is a pro at this. Dylan still manages to hit it from time to time, but now his brilliant lyrics are often backed by a 12-bar blues crutch.

It is extremely difficult to write a simple, beautiful song -- lyrically and melodically -- like this Jesse Winchester example. And Jesse has done so repeatedly. I’m only a recent fan. Look for “Little Glass of Wine,” or “Foolish Heart.” I would not be surprised to find out that Nick Lowe turned on Elvis to Jesse, but Elvis has apparently long had an amazing deep record collection, so perhaps not. Lowe has always done a good job with the above-described balance, as has Elvis, delivering the goods since “Alison.” But, like Tom Waits, Nick Lowe has been a guy who seems to get better on his later records. Sure, I loved the early catalogs of both of them, but as with Tom, Nick’s later records -- I’m talking about those from the past 5-10 years even -- leave me breathless.

So, if you don’t like that sort of thing, there is nothing I can do to win you over from the side of evil to the side of good. After all, I was told last night by a bunch of musicians, in the dressing room at Hot Stove Cool Music, things like “you must not like music,” and “everyone likes those first two records at least. How can you not like it? What’s not to like?” This was, of course, in response to my admission that I have never liked any Van Halen. Don’t start listing songs. I do not like them. I don’t hate them; I simply found nothing in any of it to enjoy. My brother Scott agreed with me, as did a few older musicians, who might have been more reluctant than I to alienate themselves at first, but sheepishly came around eventually. Who was on the side of good and who on evil in that situation? I feel like I stood with the Force in that instance Hot Stove Cool Music is a big tent.

*****

As is well known by now, the danger of having a blog, and of the internet in general, is the impulse to comment, write, and/or post something can be fulfilled in a matter of seconds and sent off to view with the push of a button. Like this video, for example. A friend of mine, Brendan Gilmartin, posted it on Facebook (sorry, I forgot who you were that did me the favor) and I react here. Immediately. Everything is instantly publishable. And for an impulsive personality like mine, this poses potential pitfalls that can easily end up as nagging regrets. In the past, I might get ginned up and make an off-color remark at a party, wake up with a throbbing head and queasy stomach at the crack of noon the next day, and slowly work my way into making an apologetic phone call or two. But after some Alka Seltzer, an afternoon on the couch watching some NFL game in which I have nothing personally invested, and a roast chicken dinner, the faux pas or sore feelings from the night before would quickly be receding in the rear view.

I don’t mean to imply that I am about to rail off on anything or anyone; I am certainly not. In fact, I am about to get all mushy. Again. You see, the perils of instantaneous modern mass communication also offerw the potential for one to pour his heart out, straight, no chaser.

I have been involved with Hot Stove Cool Music for nine of it’s ten years. We held the 10th anniversary event last night. In those early, pre-2004 World Series says, I never thought it would be more than a one-off, then two-year thing, and so on. But as a result of those first couple of years, I got drawn in seemingly forever -- by the charity, by the music, by it’s Boston-ness, and, most of all, by the bonhomie of the people involved in making it happen -- musicians, managers, baseball writers, baseball players, club managers, actors, bartenders, fundraisers, guitar techs, wives, husbands, kids...

I brought in my then-relatively-new buddy, Mike O’Malley early in those first few years. He immediately became MC and chief auctioneer. He is so good at what he does, that various Red Sox and the Red Sox Foundation tap him for virtually every event that they have. He flies out from his home at least a dozen times a year just to help on these charitable events. Friends of mine who watch him in this milieu never fail to remark to me how impressed they are at how he handles these things, as well as all the glad-handing and promotion before and after the actual shows. He works extremely hard. Imagine, for example, flying in on the red-eye only to have to sit and listen for two hours to the braintrust who typically make up the “talent” on wacky morning radio shows.

And yet Mike never fails to thank me -- thank me -- year after year, for bringing him into this organization. And that pretty much summarizes HSCM. Jeff Horrigan, Mike Creamer, Kay Hanley, and Peter Gammons constituted the foundation on this thing in year one and remain at its heart. Creamer does most of the heavy lifting -- from the bulk of the booking of music, to arranging the venue, comp tickets, car services, hotels -- everything to who is out of beer in the dressing room. But there are so many other folks who come back year after year to lend a hand. Egos have rubbed over the years, some people have joined, some have left. Often it is merely attrition. Sometimes it is a difference in opinion, philosophy, or vision. Rarely is it a heavy conflict.

The astounding thing about HSCM, though, is how few people have left the fold. It is like the mafia. You can’t get out that easily. It is heartwarming to see how much of a close group of people it is, how much we look forward to seeing and playing music with each other, hanging with each other’s families, etc. And we are fully aware of less charitable views of the event: we’re just a bunch of the same crusty old Boston rockers playing behind a baseball writer/commentator, baseball players and general managers strapping on guitars, the same group of people year after year, etc. Am I more known as a sideman for Peter Gammons than for my Buffalo Tom-acity? I don’t think so, but it is not an absurd question. Who cares? Seth Justman, keyboardist and principal songwriter for the J. Geils band certainly seems not to care about such trivialities. Can I tell you what a thrill it is for a rock & roll lifer, a deeply committed fan, to play and sing “Must of Got Lost” while one of the song’s authors is playing organ? I got to do so in practice and soundcheck and then Mike O. came in and shattered everyone with his lead vocal on the song last night.

The J. Geils Band! Seth Justman! A man who knows a thing or two about writing a classic, simple, beautiful song. A man who knows soul, the blues, roots, and pop songcraft. Though, you would not know it was him, lurking there in the shadows. In fact, when Mike came in to rehearsals to sing the song the first time, he brought it. Knocked it out of the park -- which is a good thing for him because I was having such a great time singing it that if half-assed it (which he never does with anything), it was going to be mine. When we finished, I remarked at how great he sang it and, most impressively, while one the song’s authors stood right next to him playing organ. It soon became apparent Mike had not made the connection. I still don’t think it would have fazed him. Maybe it would have made him more nervous. But no one else would be able to see it. Mike comes in and owns the situation. He sells it.

Seth is not going to intimidate anyone. Until they know who he is, perhaps. But he is one of the sweetest guys you’d ever want to meet. And that’s why he fits right in to a band led by Peter Gammons. Mike Gent, Ed Valauskas, Pete Caldes, Phil Aiken, Paul Ahlstrand...you’re not gonna form a band with more heart than that. Generous of spirit and truly great musicians, I am humbled repeatedly.

We have a great time and , more importantly, have raised and continue to raise a boatload of money -- well over $3 million and counting -- for organizations like the Jimmy Fund for pediatric cancer research; the Home For Little Wanderers; the BELL Foundation’s Red Sox Scholars; and more. Anyone who has a problem with this is probably the same guy slagging off Jesse Winchester.

Straw man? Perhaps. Hopefully. I wish.

And part of our mission is to encourage bringing new blood into the event each year. How many such events have had such disparate acts as Low Anthem (last night -- I love them); For Peace (hip hop); James Taylor; Dropkick Murphys; Juliana Hatfield; John Legend; Pernice Brothers; Nada Surf; Lori McKenna? Last night, the band State Radio was probably responsible for selling at least 75% of the tickets, at $40 a pop. When I took the stage with my aging fellow “Hot Stove All Stars,” I looked over a sea of 20-something faces, all of whom seemed open and eager to hear all of the music being played. That warmed my heart. Maybe the day will be soon where we have grown this brand to such a spot where we can walk away and leave it to the youngsters. Believe me, I would love to have someone else take it over from us, build it, and get the same love we get from it.

But that would mean saying goodbye. None of us want to let go. I do think the House of Blues might have been too big a venue. And we always have post-game chats where we try to think of ways to make improvements. And we are always open to suggestions. Maybe we take it back to the beloved Paradise. Maybe it keeps growing. I know we need to get more ball players committed to showing up like they used to when the thing was lousy with the “idiots” of yesteryear. Maybe some of us old-timers will walk away for good someday. Just not yet. We’re having to great a time.

“Never thought about tomorrow/Seemed like a long time to come.”

(non)Cover of the Week 63

My friend Vincent T. -- the close friend of my recently deceased Uncle Vince -- called me this morning and let me know that Vince's cell phone is still on. He was not the first to try it. But he and others who have called it told me the same thing: It was therapeutic to hear his voice again.

I have not brought myself to call it yet. His voice is still clear enough in my head. But I have checked in and, recently, posted something on Vince's Facebook page. I have also posted something at the memorial site set up by the funeral home. And when I was down in Miami, though his computer had been taken in by detectives looking for whatever they could find (story here, and here, for those of you wondering what I am talking about), I started thinking more about the digital footprint we are all leaving. There's a voice, there are emails (I came across some funny fan mail and responses printed out, between Vince and Augusten Burroughs, e.g.), there are home pages, blogs, Amazon reviews, and so on. They are all still floating out there, perhaps forever.

I would like to say I have drawn some sort of conclusion, profound or otherwise, from this. But I think it simply is. And that hits us on some deep level. I mean, the shallowness that we associate with this digital culture, what we feel is fleeting and disposable, ends up to be very much the opposite. We are leaving bits of ourselves all over the place for others to stumble upon or actively seek out after we are gone. Sure, a Facebook page is not the same as leaving, say, the library of William Shakespeare (whoever "he" was) or catalog of John Coltrane behind as a legacy. But it is a lot more than the few crumpled and yellowed letters, photos, and press clippings of those who passed before 1990 or so.

There was a recent gag from the Onion about future "archeologists" discovering the lost civilization of Friendster. This is not so far-fetched.

This all got me thinking of a line I wrote and sang in 1990 or so, on the song "Porchlight," which was written around the time that the burgeoning technology of "voice mail" was becoming more mainstream. This was one of those "written from the road" tunes, as Paul Kolderie and Sean Slade used to joke about bands coming back to record their first records after being on tour for the first time. We had a beeper/voice mail system in place for personal calls and business calls, to be reachable in the days before cell phones, email, etc.

The line is, "Your voice got smaller 'til I realized it was gone."

The voice is only another trace, a ghost that lingers.

*****

So, for this week's cover, I cover Buffalo Tom's "Porchlight." And as a change, I do it live from the breakfast table this morning. You can see I really dolled myself up for this brunch concert. Buffalo Tom has played this live only rarely. Tom Maginnis does not like drumming to it for some reason. We have not quite figured it all out. We played it as a request of Jon Stewart on his final T.V. show in the 1990s, well before he took over and redefined the Daily Show.






Vince and John, Bolinas 1970

My Hero

I don't care how self-serving this is, I am re-posting this because it makes me happy.

Old BT photos

For those of you not on Facebook, here are some links to galleries of old photos I recently scanned:


Facebook 1


Facebook 2


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