Almost Famous

From my latest on BostonMagazine.com:

I just got home late Saturday night from the last of the Buffalo Tom touring for 2011. (Because, really, why would a rock band want to play on a Saturday night and come home instead on a Sunday?) It had been an especially intense little run of five West Coast shows in four cities, three states, and four days — flying each leg from Boston to San Fran, to LA, to Portland, then driving overnight to Seattle for a daytime lunch performance, which was broadcasted live on the excellent KEXP, and then a late-night club performance the same night. Flying home the next day, you would excuse me for sleeping the whole flight.

Back at Logan, I rounded up my guitars (always the last bit of luggage to arrive at baggage claim), and bid adieu to the band and two-man crew until the next time. I loaded up the cart and went up to meet my taxi driver, an enormous individual who did not leave his seat as I loaded the stuff into the trunk.

Making small talk, in between labored breaths, he proceeded to list all the classic rock knowledge he had accumulated, with a particular slant towards local rock history, such as the warehouse in Waltham where Aerosmith once rehearsed and recorded. Sadly, limits of his expertise betrayed him before he could come up with the name of the lead singer for the J. Geils Band.

“Peter Wolf,” I volunteered.

“What’s dat? Oh yeah, Petah Wolf. Right,” he affirmed. “So, are you famous?”

“Well,” I wearily started to explain, “Not really. We had our day in the 1990s, but never hit it really big like all of those guys.”

He paused in pensive silence for half a minute. “I can tell you’re not famous because you’re carrying your own equipment.”

You noticed that, eh, I thought. While you were sitting there watching me load my guitars into your cab, for which I will nevertheless tip you 20 percent for some stupid reason?

And that’s about how it goes. No respect for trying to keep a dream alive in one’s 40s. We must suffer the indignities of a cab driver pointing out that he can tell we’re not famous.

Rest of post here


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The Giant Kings Scare Me

Last week, after a middling Wednesday of trying to sell and market real estate with mixed results, instead of throwing in the towel and wrapping myself in a Snuggie to watch the Celtics get eliminated, I did the only thing that made sense at the time: shook myself a small, ice-cold martini.

It was just enough to perk me up and make me want to listen to some music. I checked Facebook and was reminded that the greatest band in Boston, The Giant Kings, were playing that night, the second-to-last of a residency at the beloved subterranean Lizard Lounge in Cambridge. These gigs are relatively rare, and seeing as though I am leaving town for a short Buffalo Tom West Coast tour and would miss the final night, I sent out the Bat Signal and managed to round up a foursome to go down and listen to some great music. When you are in your mid-40s, the enormity of this accomplishment on a Wednesday night cannot be overstated. I must also point out that I had already gone out the previous Monday night to see the legendary Echo and the Bunnymen, my 80’s heroes, at the Paradise. Two nights in one week during the busy spring real estate market makes me feel even more boastful. Combine this with the fact that I have been spending more than my usual allotment of nights in rock clubs these past few months while touring with Buff Tom, well, yes, I am beating my chest! (I made it a trifecta with the Feelies at the Middle East on Saturday.) And those bags under my eyes? They are a a badge of honor....

More here at a post I wrote about the incredible Giant Kings


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