Two yentas in tie-dye walked into Damrosch Park on a hot August night. The kind that makes Neil Diamond confidently point to his adoring audience and shout, “YEAH!!”

They found seats and watched Parker Milsap. After his set ended, the yentas decided to leave the packed seating area and view the concert from the middle of the park, by the trees. Upon arrival, they reminisced about things that happened just minutes before at great volume. This mainly consisted of complaining about the millennial women from their previous location who weren’t familiar with Bob Weir. “Idiots!” exclaimed the taller one. The shorter yenta concurred with this assessment, while adding some expletives. The young women they mocked may not have known him, but it was unclear if the yentas knew Weir was currently on stage, as the back and forth went on and on, even during his performance. Standing in front of the yentas were two people attempting to enjoy the show. I was one of them.

We were gathered in Damrosch Park at Lincoln Center to celebrate the 40^th anniversary of The Last Waltz, the monumental concert from 1976. It was later released as a documentary in ’78 by Martin Scorsese, and is a contender for best rock’n’roll film ever made. Everyone knows about the legends in front of the camera, but the giants behind the scenes included Production Designer Boris Leven (West Side Story, The Sound of Music), plus Cinematographers László Kovács (Easy Rider, Five Easy Pieces), Michael Chapman (Taxi Driver, Raging Bull, The Last Detail), and Vilmos Zsigmond (The Deer Hunter, McCabe & Mrs. Miller). They made that Thanksgiving evening at the Winterland and the subsequent MGM soundstage performances with The Staple Singers and Emmylou Harris look like the Kingdom of Heaven.

Quite the sight in its own right, The Guggenheim Bandshell stood like a giant, white Hershey’s Kiss bathed in multi-colored lights, with the Amsterdam Houses towering above from across the street. It was a long way from The Barn in Woodstock, where the late Levon Helm and the Midnight Ramble Band would perform. Even after his passing, it still attracts major acts from around the world. Helm, Richard Manuel, and Rick Danko are all sadly long gone, and four decades later, Robbie Robertson has kept his word from The Last Waltz that he would never tour again. That makes Larry Campbell, guitarist-singer-musical director of the MRB, the keeper of the campfire by telling the stories of characters like Virgil Kane and Crazy Chester. Based on this evening, they’re in good hands; Sometimes literally, like whenever Campbell blasted away on his Fender Telecaster.

The opener was “This Wheel’s on Fire,” a sinister, biblical, Western Noir written by Bob Dylan and Rick Danko originally from The Basement Tapes and Music from Big Pink. It held up perfectly with those original versions, as well as the stellar covers by Mountain, The Byrds and best of all, Siouxsie and the Banshees. Julie Driscoll’s rendition is the most well-known, as it’s the theme for beloved British comedy Absolutely Fabulous.

When “The Shape I’m In” started, a middle-aged guy revealed to everyone the shape he was in by drunkenly hopping up and down while screaming, “OH YEAH!!!!” “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” and “Evangeline” exemplified what a strange, memorable experience it was to see these songs of rural America done in an urban environment, and in the greatest cultural institution in the world. With “Evangaline,” residents of the Amsterdam Houses and the upscale Hawthorn Park high-rise across the street presumably had dinner while enjoying Patty Griffin singing the sad tale of the title character and her lover, Bayou Sam, the riverboat gambler.

It takes tremendous guts to tackle Van Morrison’s “Caravan,” and Anderson East sang like he was throwing them up. East is a 28-year-old, clean-cut, preppy looking guy, but has the voice of an older, unkempt, snarling, deranged lunatic. In rock’n’roll, that’s a compliment. There were times when he actually brought back memories of the late Kevin DuBrow from Quiet Riot. East made a big impression on the crowd, especially the fortysomething man in a vintage concert t-shirt featuring a mustached Joe Walsh circa ’78 shredding on his double-neck Gibson. He and a nearby man with a blonde goatee, shorts and porkpie hat both made overly earnest “cool guy head nods,” appearing to be getting high from the music, inebriants, and themselves.

When the great Lucinda Williams arrived on stage, a few people greeted her with, “LUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!” She rewarded their enthusiasm with a devastating performance of “It Makes No Difference.” Williams could do “Pump Up the Jam” and it would still sound like a desperate plea from one broken person to another, like Susan Tyrrell and Stacy Keach in Fat City. So when she sings a line like, “And the sun don’t shine anymore,” you’re inclined to believe her more than most musicians.

As the yentas started to make their presence heard, Campbell said, “Well, looky here. If it ain’t none other than Bob Weir!” With way too many legendary musicians dying this past year, it was a powerful moment to see the audience express their love for rock’n’roll royalty when Weir joined the band for “Further on Up the Road.” Looking every bit the elder statesman with gray hair and beard, Weir declared with authority, “Someone’s gonna hurt you like you hurt me.” Lost in the sea of people, an older man’s voice could be heard yelling, “SING IT BOBBY!!! SING IT LOUD!!!” You can bet he had a beatific expression on his face.

Weir was not part of the original show, but would’ve fit right in. However, Dr. John had been part of it, and there he was limping with swagger towards the piano to reprise his cover of “Such a Night” from The Drifters. You could picture various Muppets, including one he partially inspired, Dr. Teeth, surrounding him and providing harmonies for the refrain, “If I don’t do it, you know somebody else will.”

The concert ended with all hands on deck singing “Forever Young,” and “The Weight.” It was a fantastic, worthy tribute, although it was interesting to see no one took on Muddy Waters’ “Mannish Boy,” Neil Diamond’s “Dry Your Eyes,” and Joni Mitchell’s “Coyote.” Limited to two hours, they couldn’t play everything. But it does speak to the singularity of those particular artists, and the challenge of doing them justice.

Walking out of the park with the rest of the immense crowd, you could hear two familiar voices. It took a few seconds to realize the yentas in tie-dye were back in full effect. The reality was, as irritating as they were, the yentas otherwise seemed like decent people. It’s not as if they planned on being annoying. If lack of self-awareness were considered a serious offense, the world would look like The Omega Man, completely deserted.

The hot August night complete, it was time to head down to the 1 train.

Matt Leinwohl

Peter Gabriel and his band don’t believe in wasting time. He was testifying that the rhythm had his soul, and it became apparent we were in the presence of something both divine and wicked. “The Rhythm of the Heat” from 1982’s Security opened the show, and Madison Square Garden became akin to a Joseph Conrad story adapted by Michael Mann. This was going to be an extraordinary night.

After going dark for a few seconds, the spotlight shone on Sting and his band on the other side of the stage, where they played “If I Ever Lose My Faith in You.” When Sting sang, “You could say I’d lost my belief in our politicians,” the sold out crowd gave what sounded like a liberating cheer. It was a well-meaning but ultimately pointless gesture, as the majority of us would nonetheless end up voting for the likes of Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton.

These selections highlighted what each artist is best known for; Gabriel-shadowy, creepy, ethereal ambience combined with enough luminosity to feel cathartic. Sting-bright, mid-tempo killer hooks and melodies that belie the bleakness of the lyrics. It was an ideal start for a unique evening of artistic brotherhood.

After explaining and joking about what to expect for the rest of show, they duetted on Gabriel’s “No Self Control,” both bands contributing to the unsettling Steve Reich/African/new wave/R&B hybrid. When it came to the refrain, “I don’t know how to stop,” Sting was a suave, lethal Mr. Hyde to Gabriel’s anguished Dr. Jekyll. It epitomized what stellar vocalists they are; Gabriel an avant-garde soul man and Sting a jazz singer who happens to perform pop songs.

The Police’s 1981 “Invisible Sun” featured Gabriel playing keyboards and singing in prayerful harmony with Sting, like a Gregorian chant. Current world events made its theme of hope in the midst of violence, turmoil, and decay a disturbingly familiar one. Dominic Miller and David Rhodes, the long-time guitarists for Sting and Gabriel respectively, made an impressive guitar duo, teaming up for percussive, atmospheric arpeggios.

“Games Without Frontiers,” like “No Self Control,” was from Gabriel’s classic 1980 Melt album, and also done as a duet. He took the first verse, and that’s when the dancing started. When Gabriel says the rhythm has control, he’s not kidding. He and his band are known for oftentimes getting down while performing, using dance to physically punctuate a line, verse or chorus. With other acts, this could get annoying quick. However, it added some levity and festivity to what can be an intense show.

Sting took the second verse and my seven-year-old self smiled. Not only were they ubiquitous in college, but The Police and Peter Gabriel were a big part of my late ‘70s/early ‘80s Rego Park, Queens youth as well. “Games Without Frontiers” was everywhere during John Lennon and John Bonham’s last summer, the summer of Women and Children First, Back in Black, Caddyshack, and The Empire Strikes Back. As a child, the song fascinated me, since it sounded like a twisted nursery rhyme.

Next up, Sting sang “Shock the Monkey,” with Gabriel providing the back up vocals on his own tune, including repeating the title at the end in a distressed, carnal falsetto. Hearing Sting’s slightly gruff, professorial tenor voice on top of the repetitive, mesmerizing keyboard melody exemplified the magic of them occasionally taking over each others material. It made the night more of an event than a concert.

Us made its first appearance with a particularly invigorating rendition of “Secret World.” Everyone jumped up and down in synch to the monster groove, both band and audience swept up in the rapture. It showcased the killer rhythm section, drummer Ged Lynch and God on bass Tony Levin, who’s been with Gabriel since the beginning of his solo career. Levin had turned 70 a few weeks before, but looked the same as he always had; hopping, hairless, and mustached while maintaining the funk.

Each song using rain as grim, yet beautifully symbolic imagery, Sting’s “Fragile” and Gabriel’s “Red Rain” were done back-to-back, a powerful experience. The entrancing acoustic guitar on the former got me reflecting on how fragile and fractured the world had become since October ‘87, when I rode my bike after school to Prime Cuts to pick up Sting’s …Nothing Like the Sun the day of release. The audience greeted “Red Rain” like an old friend they hadn’t seen in awhile. By the end, when it was only keyboards and Gabriel intoning “Red Rain coming down” like the younger brother of Richie Havens, it was difficult not to feel a sense of purification.

Backed by violinist Peter Tickell providing some Celtic atmosphere, Sting sang the first two verses of 1973’s “Dancing With the Moonlit Knight” by Genesis. It opens with, “Can you tell me where my country lies?” The present circumstances in England and America dictate that the proper response is, “Good question.” It then segued into The Police’s “Message in a Bottle.”

People were scurrying like rats for bathroom breaks or beer runs as Gabriel’s bald visage peered at us on the screens above, performing “Darkness” from 2002’s Up, his most underrated record. In all likelihood, these were fans who just like a few songs off So and everything else is “so what?” “Darkness” came out a year after 9/11, and while not written for that catastrophic day, the song’s theme of overcoming fear, plus the concurrently frightening and mournful music captured the immediate post-9/11 mood of dread, anger, confusion, fury, sadness, depression and isolation. No wonder those people left.

A shame though, they really did miss out. The verses that begin, “Walking through the undergrowth …” and the accompanying soothing piano were like getting a slight glimpse of daylight in a cave. It brought me back to the months after 9/11, when I’d take marathon walks though downtown Manhattan, and preserve the routine of museums, baseball, concerts, movies, jazz shows, rock’n’roll dance parties, galleries, record stores (RIP), book stores and other vital parts of life. In order to adapt to the unthinkable, you had to continue with the usual.

It was a stunning performance, one of the best I’d seen in almost forty years of concert-going, and a confirmation that no one made pain, horror and loss sound as intensely ambient as Peter Gabriel. A brief version of The Police’s “Walking in Your Footsteps” prefaced Gabriel’s “Kiss That Frog,” which Sting took over, and was even more lighthearted than the original. Sting singing lines like, “Sweet little princess, let me introduce his frogness,” picked up the mood after “Darkness,” an indication of the concert’s depth.

“Don’t Give Up,” one of the most moving songs ever written, was typically potent. Gabriel’s back-up singer Jennie Abrahamson did a fine job replicating the calming vocals of Kate Bush. As usual when done live, the band expanded the hypnotic bass/percussion/keyboards jam at the fadeout, with Gabriel/Abrahamson dancing/chanting, “Don’t give up!” Gabriel and his band turned what could’ve easily been trite and cringeworthy into ambient gospel uplift, “soul” in every sense of the word.

Appropriately enough, the two Englishmen in New York sang on Sting’s ’87 “Englishman in New York.” When Vinnie Colaiuta did the booming Bonhamesque/hip hop drum break that always seems to come from nowhere, it took me back to Emerson. During the 863^rd time we were listening to it, I spontaneously did a freestyle rap over the drum break that began, “My name is Sting …” Time has dimmed my memory of the rest, which is for the best. Even better was their duet on Gabriel’s “Solsbury Hill,” from his first solo album in ’77, around the exact same time The Police formed. The song was written about Gabriel starting his life over after leaving Genesis, the key line being, “I will show another me.” Mission accomplished.

Sitting a few rows ahead of me were Scott, an old friend from college, and his wife Fiona, celebrating their one-year anniversary. Scott’s all-time favorite song is “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic,” which was next. Now that’s an anniversary gift. Gabriel then covered Sting’s “If You Love Somebody Set Them Free.” It departed from the merry mood of the original, which comes across as a celebration of separation. Gabriel’s sounded closer to the mid-tempo blues of B.B. King’s “The Thrill Is Gone,” exploring the song’s sad beating heart, without losing its sensuality. After the chorus, he added in a croaky whisper, “Let ‘em go.”

“Roxanne” was stellar, with Sting and band jamming on “Ain’t No Sunshine” by Bill Withers in the middle, perfect for this night of musical connections. Gabriel’s “Love Can Heal,” a new song dedicated to his friend Jo Cox, the British MP who had been murdered eleven days before, was pure sonic solemnity and tranquility, followed by Sting’s exotically upbeat “Desert Rose.” Anyone frequenting the Union Square Barnes and Noble at the turn of the century is very familiar with this song.

It was time to raise the boom boxes and make hearts swoon with “In Your Eyes.” Ronnie Bright, the bass vocalist from The Coasters (and other doo wop groups) who memorably repeats the title at the end of the original, passed away last November. As the music started, Gabriel held his microphone to a few members of his band, who pretended to sing Bright’s vocals, which were piped in the arena. It was an amusing, classy tribute.

The two bands took the stage, with Sting joining the backup singers. Continuing a now thirty year tradition, when Gabriel got to the verse that starts, “All my instincts …,” everyone moved in one direction, swerved back in the other after the next line, etc. Youssou N’Dour’s role was capably handled by Jennie Abrahamson and Sting, who went “full Sting,” doing wordless vocals in his best “Roxxxxannnnnnnnnne!” voice.

A big part of the show’s exceptionality was how the musicians were utilized. Depending on the song, you’d have both bands, one band or a mix of the two on stage. People forget what a fantastic bassist Sting is, so at one point you had him and Tony Levin, two bass legends, playing together. Zappa veteran Vinnie Colaiuta, Sting’s drummer for many years, made a formidable two-headed drum monster with Ged Lynch.

Arguably the most impressive musician was the stealth presence buried behind the keyboards in the back. The first two albums from Bruce Springsteen in 1973 wouldn’t have sounded the same without the classical, jazzy, funky, evocative keyboards of David Sancious, only nineteen at the time. When he moved from E Street, Sancious eventually joined Gabriel’s band for awhile and is now with Sting.

How many times have you heard “Every Breath You Take?” And yet, somehow it sounded more affecting than ever. It was similar to the original, but slightly faster. The main difference was Gabriel singing harmony with Sting, adding an extra layer of gravitas to a work of art that already had it in abundance. Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard singing “Pancho and Lefty” by Townes Van Zandt came to mind. “Sledgehammer” concluded the show with Gabriel and Sting trading verses, grooving, and palling around like a rock’n’roll version of The Sunshine Boys. Of course, Sting took the “You could have a big dipper” verse.

The sound of the final note was like a starter pistol, a signal to catch the train that would, to paraphrase “Solsbury Hill,” “come to take me home.” A few severely balding men who bizarrely all resembled Austan Goolsbee, former Chairman of the Council of Economic Advisers under President Obama, were sitting at the other end of the car. One of them shouted, “Cookin’ boogers for everybody!” Being from Long Island, he pronounced boogers as “boogas.” It was such a stupid, asinine thing for a grown man to blurt out, I laughed. Was it any more ridiculous or obnoxious than John playing professor regarding the “shoobedoobe” back at Emerson?

The night took me back in a few respects, including currently riding back to the town I grew up in. Most importantly though, it illustrated how music and art can enrich lives, serve as a constant source of inspiration and propel you towards your future.

The rhythm has control.

Matt Leinwohl