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 40th 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