You Got the Gig, Kid...Dispatch from Nantucket Film Festival

(from Boston Magazine.com)

For the past few years, I have had this website with the ironic title of Part Time Man of Rock. We all know there is not supposed not be any “part time” in “rock.” When my wife was a kid, she misheard the Kiss song “Rock & Roll All Night” lyric. It famously goes, “I wanna rock & roll all night and party every day.” She heard it as “I wanna rock & roll all night and part of every day.” I mean, in our minds, that’s still a pretty good level of commitment to The Life of Rock. Even just part of every day seems a worthy goal now that I am 45.

But I still find myself caught between the rock & roll and multiple other worlds on a regular basis. I sell real estate in Lexington, Lincoln, and other western suburbs. Sure, I get some maturing rockers buying modest homes, but I get many folks buying and selling swankier digs and they tend to be running in different circles than I do. And I did not exactly grow up poor. But nothing prepares me for the rarefied air of Nantucket.

Each time I go, I am astounded by the consistency of that life’s (truly, deeply, profoundly) rich pageant: men in “Nantucket red” pants from Murray’s, whale belts, and open collared Brooks Brothers, and skinny ladies with perfectly blonde tresses flowing down over their Lilly Pulitzer sundresses, gliding across finely manicured, croquet-court-quality lawns at evening garden cocktail parties. It is rare when you see someone in something as shabby as even Banana Republic chinos or (gulp) jeans. Listen, I can be as cranky as anyone about the slob-ization of Americans on holiday, but that's a costume party down there for cryin’ out loud.

I was on the island this past weekend, invited to be a featured guest at the event’s Storytelling Night. Other participants included such up-and-comers as Brian Williams, Anne Meara, Jerry Stiller, Tom Perrotta, and director, Dave McLaughlin. The packed house of 250 people included Chris Matthews, and a lot of people with extremely white teeth and the sort of healthy glow that yacht-loads of aged money brings. This is not my typical crowd. I sensed that I should be reconsidering my story about getting strip-searched for drugs at the French border and then spit in the face by a skinhead chick at a club in a squatted factory in Paris 20 years ago (story linked).

I was under no illusions of why I was there; I am a FOM, a close friend of the host, Mike O’Malley, who is riding the kind of hot streak that only someone with such a giant heart who has paid his dues for decades deserves. Mike has been going down there since he was in college, but he also hails from a different world than most regulars down there. Yet his success, his willingness to always help out worthy events, his extreme talent as an MC and host (never mind as a charity auctioneer) and his ties to the island make him a natural choice, even if he is a bit -- let’s say earthy -- for the finely bred folks there.

Years ago, I was pleased to be able to introduce Mike to Tom Perrotta, whom I had met at one of the legendary Earfull nights at the late and lamented Kendall Cafe, when authors would read and rockers would stomp. Tom, while able to hobnob with all strata of society, also seems far more at home at grittier events like those. And Tom’s success as a novelist and in Hollywood (Election and the Oscar nomination for his screenplay adaption of his own Little Children), also made him a natural choice as a storyteller.

Tom, his wife, and I shared a ride down with Dave McLaughlin, who directed the film On Broadway, for which I provided th musical score, and which starred Joey McIntyre, Eliza Dushku, Lance Green and (have you picked up the connections yet?) Mike O’Malley. Dave is the youngest of 11 kids in a West Roxbury Irish family, has written at least two screenplays, one of which played at an earlier Nantucket Film Festival, and worked for the Mayor for a while. You think he has some stories? Again, slam dunk as a choice.

Then there is me. A real estate agent who also played in a modestly successful post-punk rock & roll band called Buffalo Tom (polite applause from the man in the blue blazer and the perfect hair in row three, two seats over from BriWi, as Anchorman Williams is affectionately called by the locals). The organizers like to mix in some local, non-celebs to tell five-minute stories, like the Moth Radio Hour on NPR. So, it is not like I was the only person there of little renown -- unlike the time Mike brought me to Nomar Garciaparra’s “Nomar Bowl” charity bowling event circa 1999. I thought I was going to that shindig to rub elbows with ballplayers. I did not expect to be enlisted onto a team as a “celebrity” when someone else did not show up. Neither, it seems, did the visibly and audibly disappointed hedge fund managers on my “team” who had paid good dough to be at that event.

Mike has such famous friends that anywhere he turns, he could get some big names. And Tom Perrotta is not exactly just low-hanging fruit. The fact that Mike invited me, even though we have been best buds for a dozen years, was still flattering, and I was glad to accept the challenge. Though I have performed in the course of 25 years on some huge stages (60,000 at the Reading Festival a couple of times, e.g.), I am not a good public speaker. I will not say that the only speech I gave as a best man at a wedding was the worst of all time; I will only point out that it was the only one I have ever given. I believe I have since been passed over for the role after word of my deficiency got out.

But I think I can write well enough and I have a couple of good stories from over the years in a rock band. But I felt the night, the theme of which was “off on the wrong foot,” was indeed off on the wrong foot for me. First, the extremely sweet and efficient organizers asked if I would also consider bringing my guitar to provide a little music and, mainly, to signal to the speakers that they were nearing their five-minute mark. But as the first speaker went closer toward the 15-minute mark, despite my polite gentle, harp-like arpeggios, I knew I was sunk. How could I possibly be the Bad Guy, up on stage, while this person is soaking in the laughs? Next up was my buddy, Tom, followed by Jerry Stiller. Who am I to play over the comedic genius who brought George Costanza's father to life after decades as a headlining act my parents enjoyed? Never mind that I am simply not the “give ‘em the hook” type; I had to tell my own story later. But the hosts of the event became increasingly strident in their throat-slitting gestures from the side of the stage.

Mike had the crowd in the palm of his hand all night. Anne played off of him expertly. And when Jerry came on, I really enjoyed having the best seat in the house. I greatly relished watching this legendary husband-and-wife comedy at work. They may look their age, but their timing has never been better. I watched as Anne’s lips twitched, anticipating Jerry’s story, and jumping in at just the right time, only to have him comically swipe back, as if this was just muscle memory. It was as if you saw an elderly couple slowly shuffle up to a tennis court for a doubles match only to shed off their years and destroy all comers like they were Navratilova and Agassis in their prime. Tom told a story about a high school fight that conjured up the perfect mix of comedy and pathos that he mastered long ago. And Dave told a story about losing his virginity while wearing a brace bolted into his head after breaking vertebrae in his neck. BriWi slayed the audience with a series of one-liners about Nantucket -- not exactly a story, but perfect laugh lines nonetheless. And talk about skinny -- someone at the cocktail reception afterwards described him as “lady skinny.”

I managed not to collapse in a puddle of sweat, stammer, or otherwise embarrass anyone during my turn at the mic. I was just glad to be able to get a couple of laughs. But it was not my audience. This was not a “rock & roll all night,” or even “part of every day” crowd. But there were a few who knew the band and the story went fine.

As I packed up my guitar, I wondered why the hell I had lugged it into a minivan, a ferry, and a cab, only to pluck a few notes. I did no songs. The audio techs just faded up classic rock in between performers. But after the reception, it seemed there were enough people who wanted to keep the party flowing. Mention was made of heading “around the corner” to the Summer House Bar/Restaurant. Sounded good to us. Dave, Tom, Tom’s wife, Mary, and I literally felt our way in the foggy darkness down sleepy narrow lanes, and over a footbridge. A few wrong turns and a leap of faith later, and we had finally arrived, the warm yellow glow welcoming us as if we had traveled over the misty moors to a local pub in the English countryside. The place only had a handful of people there, but it was hopping and the martinis were flowing. I had not even sat down when a slightly older fella named Jamie saw my guitar case, opened up the piano, shouted to the bartender to shut off the music on the house stereo, and asked me what songs I knew. I sat on a couch and started “Tupelo Honey.’ I looked up to find another dozen or so folks had made there way over from the Story Night. It turned out that Jamie was an old pro. We all ended up harmonizing on about a dozen classic rock and country songs, Van, Neil Young, Petty, the Stones, Merle Haggard, etc. We had the whole place singing along until last call (hear a snippet here, captured on Dave's iPhone). It was a perfect, spontaneous end to a fun night. The lubricated owner told me, “be here tomorrow night, kid. Dinner and drinks on me.”

Well, he probably did not say “kid,” but that was how I heard it. I had the Nantucket gig if I wanted it. I guess if I can't join 'em, I can at least play some songs for 'em. Its good to have a contingency plan. Even as the Part Time Man of Rock.



Crossposted at bostonmagazine.com

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.”