At the Guest Services Center, the last man on earth with a Jheri curl had a big smile on his face. In fact, you couldn’t spot anyone at the Barclays Center who wasn’t in a good mood. This was to be expected, since it’s always a special occasion when you see one of the Beatles. Especially in a year that’s felt like the longest game of Russian Roulette ever played, no pun intended.

If you’re of a certain age, or even if you weren’t alive back then, chances are you most associate Paul McCartney with the Summer of Love in 1967, which the Beatles helped define with Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band and “All You Need Is Love.” Or perhaps the A Hard Day’s Night summer of ’64, and maybe even the Help!/Shea summer of ’65 is immediately conjured up.

But for those of us who were kids of the ‘70s, McCartney is also emblematic of the Bicentennial summer of ’76. At the height of Framptonmania, “Let ‘Em In” and “Silly Love Songs” dominated the airwaves. Like Elton, Donna Summer, Steely Dan, and countless others, Paul McCartney and Wings were a major part of Generation X’s childhood soundtrack. In the mid-to-late ‘70s, you’d hear songs like “Listen to What the Man Said,” “Goodnight Tonight” and “With a Little Luck” played constantly alongside “Penny Lane” and “Get Back,” so you’d be simultaneously discovering Wings and the Beatles.

From the perspective of a child, it was hard to fathom that McCartney could create so many exceptional songs. Most importantly, they were all completely distinct from one another. How was it that the ragged metal/punk/alternative precursor “Helter Skelter” and the mellow AM Gold ballad “My Love” were both written and sung by the same guy? McCartney and the Beatles proved you could have the same kind of expansive range in rock’n’roll that Miles Davis displayed in Jazz and Pablo Picasso accomplished with the visual arts.

The man has so many beloved songs, his opening act is a DJ who plays remixed tunes that usually aren’t on the setlist, like “Getting Better” and “Say Say Say.” In his own unique way, it’s essentially McCartney letting everyone know, “Here’s what we won’t be performing tonight.” Combined with the concert itself, that’s 60 years in four hours, including The Quarrymen’s “In Spite of All the Danger.” Condensing one’s life into mere hours would appear to be an arduous task. However, when your biggest achievement is changing planet earth for the better (while in your 20s), everything else must seem rather simple.

All that music, and McCartney opened with … a John Lennon song. A magnanimous gesture, and a fitting one, being that he was performing in the adopted city of his old friend. Great as it was seeing him sing Lennon’s verses in “A Hard Day’s Night,” when he sang the “When I’m home …“ bridge, which he did in the original, it really hits you that you’re witnessing living history.

Just before the show started, two men in their 60s had wondered if McCartney could still “rock hard.” The second song, 1974’s “Junior’s Farm,” seemed to satisfy their curiosity. McCartney’s outstanding long-time band particularly stood out, making the song heavier than usual. No small feat, considering the original is a hard rock classic that 70’s FM radio played regularly beside Alice Cooper, Aerosmith, Kiss, and other hard rock/heavy metal acts the Beatles had a profound influence on. In McCartney’s first decade without his old band, “Junior’s Farm” was one of many examples of how he excelled in a world he partially created.

“Can’t Buy Me Love,” “Jet,” and “All My Loving” followed, one great tune after another. “Let Me Roll It” concluded with the “Foxy Lady” jam, an homage to Jimi Hendrix, a friend who once sought out McCartney to be the bassist in a supergroup with Miles Davis and jazz drum God Tony Williams. At that point, Abbey Road was brand new and Let It Be had been in the can. The latter album featured the next song performed, “I’ve Got a Feeling,” head-banging 70’s rock at its finest, despite being recorded in 1969. Guitarist Rusty Anderson’s replication of George Harrison’s frenzied descending lead break was pure arena rock greatness.

For “Nineteen Hundred and Eight-Five,” McCartney and his band did a perfect job on the harmonies for that extraordinary wordless vocal hook. Somehow, they invoked both the luminous California blue skies of the Beach Boys, and foreboding ‘40s/’50s black-and-white film noir. Next up was “Maybe I’m Amazed,” which will always summon the spring of ’77, when you’d hear the live version from Wings over America floating out of cars everywhere. McCartney’s brief opening piano melody alone can make you feel the tranquil glimmer of nostalgia. Remarkably, four decades later at 75, he’s still able to soulfully scream at the top of his lungs, “YEAH, YEAH, YEAH!” It’s a word that’s served him well.

“You Won’t See Me” from Rubber Soul got a slight makeover, starting slowly and building some drama towards the first chorus, similar to “Feel” by Beatles fanatics Big Star. “We Can Work It Out” may be the most “McCartney” of McCartney songs; jaunty rhythm, cautiously optimistic lyrics, with sublime melodies and vocals. Like most of the night, the perpetually smiling crowd sang along with him. Then again, he could play it in a Turkish prison, and the inmates would still feel chipper.

“In Spite of All the Danger” was originally from The Quarrymen, essentially the embryonic Beatles. They recorded it in 1958, fueled by Elvis, Chuck, Fats, and all the other rock’n’roll pioneers. However, it sounded more like the “cowboy songs” of the pre-rock era from acts like Gene Autry. In other words, the American Prairie via Liverpool. McCartney had the audience sing the “Ohhhhh-whoa-whoa-ohhhhhh” vocal hook back to him a few times. Not a bad reception for an obscurity he wrote way back in high school.

“Love Me Do” was yet another one everyone sang along with. For many people my age, it’s usually associated with the performance clip released in 1982 for its 20^th anniversary. That autumn, MTV had it in heavy rotation with Duran Duran and Billy Idol. An old black-and-white video of a short, simple song that had an Andy Griffith Show vibe was destined to stand out in the Day-Glo ‘80s.

The Jobim-influenced “And I Love Her,” “Blackbird,” the ’82 Lennon tribute “Here Today,” and “Queenie Eye” were next in succession. The latter, released in 2013, held up well with all the classics, and wouldn’t have been out of place on T. Rex’s 1971 landmark Electric Warrior. “Eleanor Rigby,” the sad orchestral tale of isolation and the elderly, reminded everyone how astonishing it was for a then-23-year-old multi-millionaire to write with such skill, maturity, and empathy. At this point, McCartney is probably older than the two tragic characters in the song.

He first acknowledged the 50^th anniversary of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band with “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite!” It sounded like a psychedelic circus with a whirling, sinister Technicolor carousel out of a ‘60s “Hammer Horror” film. “Something” changed the mood from phantasmagoric nightmare to melancholic reverie. While McCartney’s been performing it since Harrison died 16 years ago, you never lose the thrill of seeing him do material from the other Beatles.

Continuing in that vein, he did “A Day in the Life,” written mainly by Lennon. In a live setting, the influence it had on Bowie’s “Space Oddity” was more pronounced than usual. After the “Woke up …” interlude, McCartney segued into “Give Peace a Chance.” Too bad the 21^st century seems to have responded with one continuous Ray Liotta laugh.

Almost 30 tunes in, he finally got to one of his greatest accomplishments, “Band on the Run,” essentially three different songs. The smooth lullaby first half, sci-fi reggae second half, and up-tempo final half, topped off with interstellar Americana slide guitar, took the show into another stratosphere. It also gave the crowd a second (or third) wind. Meanwhile, the septuagenarian onstage hardly seemed to break a sweat.

As the Beatles were slowly disintegrating, McCartney dreamed about his late mother, inspiring “Let It Be.” Even with a joyful sold-out arena singing every lyric, you can still sense the bleak desolation the song was born out of. The message of having faith despite dismal circumstances illustrated his remarkable capacity to, as he once put it, “take a sad song, and make it better.”

Speaking of which, “Hey Jude” ended the first set, and the crowd sang louder than usual. Even McCartney merely sitting behind his psychedelic piano and singing “Hey …” to start the song, got the crowd acting like Derek Jeter had suddenly appeared in his old Yankee uniform. After all this time, for some reason it occurred to me that the initial “nah nah” melody after the third verse could’ve been right out of an old Jewish folk song. Unfortunately, he didn’t do the stirring “JUDE! JUDE! A-JUDY-JUDY-JUDY-JUDY-OWWWWW-WOW!” Not only is it one of the iconic moments in rock’n’roll, but for all intents and purposes it gave birth to Steven Tyler.

How did a 22-year-old write “Yesterday?” It’s easy to forget how young he was at the time, and how good the song is. After awhile, when you hear something again and again, you no longer hear it. And yet it’s a perfect depiction of how we get the urge to cling to the past, when abrupt, unwelcome changes upend our lives.

After that first encore, he switched from acoustic guitar to his legendary Hofner bass, and the band kicked in with “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise),” bringing some of the Summer of Love to a summer that felt more like the next song, “Helter Skelter.” Its placement towards the show’s conclusion exemplified McCartney and his band’s relentless energy, which seemingly increased as time went on.

When he sat down behind the piano and crooned, “Once there was a way to get back homeward,” that was a signal to prepare to leave at the final note. In recent years, he’s ended with “Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight/The End,” the medley that serves as the finale for Abbey Road (notwithstanding the 23 seconds of “Her Majesty”). McCartney’s got an excess of material he could close with, but the medley was ideal. It served as a goodbye from the Beatles, who broke up soon after, and to the ‘60s, which would’ve been entirely different without them.

“Oh yeah! All right! Are you gonna be in my dreams, tonight?!” Those aren’t lyrics from Kiss. That’s the first line from “The End.” Leave it to the Beatles to bid adieu with an ass-kicking three-man axe jam, setting the tone for the guitar odysseys of the subsequent decade, and a harbinger of the powerful triple guitar attacks of Lynyrd Skynyrd and The Outlaws. McCartney, Anderson, and Brian Ray (who co-wrote Smokey Robinson’s 1987 hit “One Heartbeat”) did a stellar job recreating this magic moment. Then the piano chimed like a Christmas bell, and they harmonized on the Beatles parting message: “And in the end, the love you take, is equal to the love you make.”

In a time when ignorance, inhumanity, incompetence, and infantilism are seen as virtues, some welcome words of wisdom.

Matt Leinwohl

After 15 grueling rounds, Muhammad Ali defeated Earnie Shavers at Madison Square Garden in September of 1977. The Vicious/Mercury bout didn’t last quite as long. That July, Sid Vicious went up against Freddie “Mr. Fahrenheit” Mercury at London’s Wessex Sound Studios. Queen were recording News of the World and the Sex Pistols had been spewing out Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols. At one point, Vicious snarked, “Ah, Freddie Mercury, have you succeeded in bringing ballet to the masses then?” Mercury responded, “Oh yes, Simon Ferocious. Well, we’re doing our best, my dear.” That would be an understatement.

A quarter-century after Mercury’s death, Queen were still reaching the masses, including a grown man in a “THESE PRETZELS ARE MAKING ME THIRSTY” shirt. The gentleman and his two friends, fiftysomething Long Islanders, were on the train to Atlantic Terminal. They wore shorts, which along with the goofy Seinfeld-related shirt, exemplified how the line between tourists and Long Island residents can often be an anorexic one.

We were all looking forward to the Queen + Adam Lambert show at the Barclays Center. It was Friday night, the start of a weekend-long rock’n’roll odyssey, seeing acts that got me into music as a child in the ‘70s. Aside from Queen, there was The Classic East at Citi Field on Saturday and Sunday. As a guitar fanatic, seeing Joe Walsh, Vince Gill, Neal Schon, Lindsey Buckingham, John McFee, Larry Carlton, and Brian May in a three-day span, was like visiting paradise with amps. Queen’s stage had even been designed to resemble May’s iconic Red Special guitar, which he and his father built in the early ‘60s.

Since this year is the 40^th anniversary of News of the World, the killer robot from the album cover made various appearances during the show. The evening started when the giant screen in front of the stage shook a few times, until the robot punched through it, revealing the band launching with most of “We Will Rock You,” which segued right into “Hammer to Fall.” Just five minutes in, May showed why he’s one of the most distinctive musicians of his generation, playing abrasive riffs that made middle-aged men bang their heads, and melodic solos that had the grandeur of vintage Disney scores.

“Stone Cold Crazy,” from 1974, anticipated thrash metal, punk, and Van Halen. In Brooklyn, it sounded as turbo-charged as ever, thanks in part to the grey-bearded, legendary drummer Roger Taylor, who looked like King Lear with shades. He turned 68 a few days before, and May celebrated his 70^th birthday the previous week. Remember when senior citizens were usually associated with early-bird specials and shuffleboard? The 21^st century and its influx of new “old” people like Taylor and May have obliterated those images, each performance a roaring funeral for antiquated notions.

After “Stone Cold Crazy,” “Another One Bites the Dust,” “Fat Bottom Girls,” and “Killer Queen” followed; thrash, disco, hard rock and vaudeville all in a row. Not many acts can pull off that kind of remarkable versatility. And with “Killer Queen,” they even made jaunty soft-shoe vaudeville sound menacing. The momentum got temporary stalled however, when Adam Lambert performed his new single “Two Fux,” featuring the defiant chorus, “I don’t really really give two fux!” Unfortunately for him, neither did all the people taking beer and bathroom breaks.

Aside from that slight blip, Lambert did an excellent job in a daunting situation. He was especially impressive performing the South Asian-influenced wordless vocals during the extended middle section of “Get Down, Make Love,” similar to the psychedelic orgasmic freakout in Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love.”

With Mercury, Paul Rodgers, and Lambert, Queen have had three virtuoso vocalists/dynamic frontmen. So it’s easy to forget that Taylor is an exceptional singer as well, to the point where he could be the lead vocalist in most other bands. “I’m in Love With My Car” was a perfect showcase for his grand sandpaper voice. Only Queen could make lyrics like “When my hand’s on your grease gun, oh it’s like a disease son” sound regal.

“I Want It All,” and in particular the guitar solo, is the reason you see live music. That’s the instant when the song switches from mid-tempo to full-on rave-up. May was shredding while the rest of the band matched him in speed and volume, concluding on a majestic note, sounding like the King and Queen’s Royal Entrance. Changing up the pace, the ballad “Love of My Life” featured just May on vocals and acoustic guitar, until a projection of the ‘80s mustached Mercury joined him. The audience greeted and later bid adieu to the projection like it was an old friend. A very strange, yet powerful moment.

Mercury was a spectral presence throughout the night, perhaps none more so than when a snippet of the studio version of 1976’s celestial cabaret “You Take My Breath Away” glided through the arena. That was used to preface “Who Wants to Live Forever,” from the beloved 1986 action/fantasy Highlander. It was opera with hot guitar licks, and Lambert’s tour de force, as he did justice to Mercury’s original towering performance.

The mood at Barclays went from verklempt to childlike wonder, as May rose to the stage in the robot’s giant hand, a hurricane emanating from his Red Special. Grown men screamed for their youth in response. It was the dynamic start of his guitar solo, which also included a fragment of 1991’s melancholy “Bijou.” The solo varied in sound and mood, equal parts substance and spectacle, a microcosm of the evening, and Queen’s entire career.

“Radio Ga Ga” reminded everyone that Queen could do lush ‘80s synth-pop as well as anyone. Considering that music in the 21^st century has been the sonic equivalent of the Trump administration, “Radio Ga Ga” is actually more relevant now than when it was released in 1984, one of pop music’s finest hours.

As a two-year-old in the Spring of ’76, I used to sing along to the operatic section of “Bohemian Rhapsody” in the back of my family’s ’72 Chevrolet Vega, just like the doofuses in Wayne’s World. Being so young, I was awestruck experiencing this larger than life, Technicolor rock opera. Fast-forward four decades, that feeling hadn’t changed. Especially for the first guitar solo, when May once again rose to the stage, this time covered in mist, and wearing a gold cape, similar to the white one he wore in the video. I’d never cheered a 70-year-old man in a cape before, but there’s a first time for everything.

“We Will Rock You” and “We Are the Champions” ended the show, immediately taking me back to Rego Park, when I was four and constantly playing the News of the World 8-track. The latter was a perfect example of how Queen brought sophistication and culture into hard rock, or as Sid Vicious put it, “bringing ballet to the masses.”

The voyage through the past was off to a memorable start.

Matt Leinwohl

The last thing you expect to see at a Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds show is a beefy man in shorts and t-shirt “broing out” on stage with Cave. It looked like he’d been traveling to Margaritaville, made a wrong turn on Jubilee Street, and decided to stick around. He awkwardly stomped about, made rowing motions, and capped off the performance by shuffling backwards, while flailing his hands towards his genitals, as if agitatedly warding off a swarm of bees. Throughout the man’s valiant display of foolishness, Cave had an amused expression, but never broke character, continuing to sing. The David Lynch buddy comedy added some levity on a night devoted to tales of murder, depression, and bereavement. By 2017’s standards, an evening such as this would be considered escapism. And no one needed the escape more than Nick Cave.

In July 2015, while Cave and his band were in the midst of working on their most recent album Skeleton Tree, his 15-year-old son Arthur died after falling from a 60-foot cliff. When they resumed sessions, Cave revised some lyrics, and the grave spectre of absence haunted the album and subsequently, the Beacon.

When the lights dimmed, the theatre became an art deco house of horrors, with shadowy murmurs and misty organ, as Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds appeared resembling debonair undertakers in their usual attire of black suits. Turning 60 in September, the tall, dark, and cadaverous Cave radiated macabre elegance, looking more like someone who’d yell “Release the Bats!!” than he did back when he was fronting The Birthday Party in the early ‘80s.

In a career that spans almost 40 years, Skeleton Tree is Cave’s masterpiece, and it made up the majority of the setlist. The only song that wasn’t performed from it was “Rings of Saturn,” which oddly enough, was played earlier that evening on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert. “Anthrocene” set the tone with the line, “All the things we love, we love, we love, we lose.” The Bad Seeds chanted after each verse, and with this sad incantation, Cave had the audience in the palm of his hand, like Hamlet at the graveyard peering into Yorick’s skull.

The unsettling constant whistling synth of “Jesus Alone” matched lyrics such as “You believe in God, but you get no special dispensation for this belief now/You’re an old man sitting by a fire, hear the mist rolling off the sea/You’re a distant memory in the mind of your creator, don’t you see?” “Magneto” was even more intense, with bleak piano and ghostly pedal steel guitar that evoked a new dawn rising witnessed by someone loath to rise along with it. Cave perfectly depicted the moment when grief turns to anger with the lyrics, “Oh, the urge to kill somebody was basically overwhelming/I had such hard blues down there in the supermarket queues.”

“Higgs Boson Blues” picked up the tempo, the Beacon singing along to every word, ending with Cave so close to the crowd that some of them touched his chest as he sang, “Can you feel my heartbeat? Boom, boom, boom.” Cave’s 1984 debut with The Bad Seeds, From Her to Eternity, was represented by the cabaret/punk/blues title track, which featured the audience at its most vociferous, screaming along to the chorus.

“Jubilee Street” from 2013’s Push the Sky Away became a whole other beast. The mid-tempo studio version maintains its pace until fading away at the end. When done live, at the moment it usually concludes, Cave yells, “I’m transforming, I’m vibrating, I’m glowing, I’m flying, look at me now!!!” The Bad Seeds respond accordingly, changing the tempo so abruptly, it was an exhilarating surprise. Cave ran around the stage repeating this refrain, with the band providing a powerful, melodic ass kicker of a rave-up outro that sounded not unlike Sonic Youth’s “Theresa’s Sound-World.” Cave even sprinted over to the piano, playing an eerie counter-point that could’ve been a different song altogether, but still merged flawlessly with the Bad Seeds. Essentially, Cave is Bruce Springsteen and Roy Bittan.

He stayed behind the piano for 1990’s “The Ship Song,” musically reminiscent of Springsteen’s “Racing in the Street,” but lyrically echoing “Born to Run,” with the opening verse, “Come sail your ships around me/and burn your bridges down/We make a little history, baby/every time you come around.” It’s the Classics professor version of “Just wrap your legs ‘round these velvet rims/and strap your hands ‘cross my engines.”

Only Nick Cave could begin a romantic ballad with the lyric, “I don’t believe in an interventionist God.” Once again remaining on piano, he performed 1997’s “Into My Arms.” Cave’s a man of many talents, and one of them is making lullabies for adults. How he was able to evolve from the abrasive savagery of The Birthday Party to the ambient beauty of the last two decades, is one of rock’n’roll’s most remarkable feats. What’s even more impressive is Cave’s ballads actually contain more intensity than his rockers.

The spirally, desolate 3AM drone of keyboards drove Skeleton Tree’s “I Need You,” capturing the longing of lyrics like “I’ll miss you when you’re gone away forever.” Old favorites “Red Right Hand” and “The Mercy Seat” were more aggressive live, the former adding a punkish psychedelic freak-out section towards the end, ideal for a tune which could be a James Bond theme song told from the villain’s perspective.

“Distant Sky” from Skeleton Tree had the Danish Soprano Else Torp reprise her part on the video screen above. It was yet another extraordinary poignant ballad, the vibes and keyboards conjuring up the song’s title. You could hear Cave’s voice crack when he sang, “They told us our dreams would outlive us/They told us our gods would outlive us/But they lied.”

“Skeleton Tree” has the same lonely, elegiacal hazy organ as Nick Drake’s “Northern Sky” floating through it. Just that aspect of the song alone is enough to go straight to the heart. When Cave sang, “I called out right across the sea/but the echo comes back empty,” one suspects even the hearts of stone cracked.

Cave’s version of the traditional folk song “Stagger Lee” was one of the encores, and the moment he brought the “bro” on stage. At least 40 others soon followed, and you could barely see Cave singing amongst the dancing crowd. At one point, he stood on top of the piano and sang, surrounded by people devoutly staring up at him. The image was almost biblical, bringing to mind Matthew 11:28: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

The funereal organ of “Push the Sky Away” felt like being on a carousel of mourning, and made me think of the recent suicides of Butch Trucks and Chris Cornell. Some on the stage walked back to their seats, while others stayed, huddling together, swaying back and forth chanting the lyrics. Cave went out into the crowd to perform this song dealing with depression, written a few years before his son’s death. You can only hope Cave gets as much from it as his audience. The end of “Push the Sky Away” could’ve been the mission statement for the evening; “And some people say it’s just rock’n’roll/Oh but it gets you right down to your soul/You’ve gotta just keep on pushing/Push the sky away.”

From a man who’s often written about death, words to live by.

Matt Leinwohl

Everyone was trying to get on the train as if it were the last chopper out of Saigon. Each car resembled a Hefty garbage bag that had burst, with people spilling out onto the platform like litter. Presumably, these individuals knew that after the doors shut, they would still not be inside the train. It’s a thin line between faith and stupidity. Faith is an essential part of existence. Once it becomes blind, that’s when things get problematic.

It was a chaotic scene, but still preferable to the impatient mass of humanity upstairs, waiting for any updates on their rides out of Manhattan. Delays and cancellations were getting to be an everyday occurrence lately, which was the last thing we needed. Even in relatively normal times, New Yorkers tend to be on edge. These are no longer normal times. You have to be careful in this sleazy, psychotic Morning Zoo DJ dystopia we’re all a part of now. A Buddhist would be tempted to punch somebody.

The 5:47 was among the many trains that were cancelled. Those of us who were planning on taking it were told to head to track 15 for the 5:55. Getting there, you had to go through everyone else waiting for their delayed and cancelled trains. It was a daunting experience. All it would take is one idiot, and Penn Station suddenly turns into Killing Joke’s “Frenzy.”

The hardest part over, the next challenge was walking down the stairs with the entire track 15 pack. Actually, “trundling down the stairs” would be more accurate. On the other staircase, some people were headed up, shaking their heads and reporting to all of us, “Forget it. You ain’t gettin’ on.” This was when you could first see the overflow from the cars onto the platform. I walked all the way towards the back of the train to see if all the cars were impenetrable. The doors of the last two were shut, but inside, there had been plenty of room to stand, with some seats available as well. Even better, there wasn’t a line waiting for the doors to open. Turns out the “forget it” crew forgot to check all their options.

One of the conductors poked his head out the window. Myself, an older man who had a gruff Robert Loggia vibe, and an early 20-something guy looking like he just arrived from auditioning for a New Kids On The Block jukebox musical, were attempting to get his attention. The three of us shouted, “HEY! OPEN THE DOORS! THERE’S PLENTY OF ROOM!!” The conductor just blankly stared back at us. Who knows what was going on in his head? Perhaps this random assortment of men perplexed him?

Mr. Loggia said, “I got this.” He walked over to the window and spoke with the conductor. You couldn’t hear the conversation, but it appeared to be one-sided, consisting of Loggia gesticulating, and judging from the exaggerated expressions on his face, yelling. Meanwhile, the conductor continued to stare blankly, then nodded his head when Loggia was done. By now, more people were discovering the last two cars, while another conductor walked towards where I was standing. He opened the door, let myself and a few others in, and that was it. The rapidly growing crowd were understandably annoyed, with a few yelling, “COME ON!!” It felt like I had been given the privilege of entering Studio 54.

While motoring down the aisle, the conductor kept pace behind me, repeating, “Keep movin’, keep movin’.” The encouragement was appreciated, but redundant, as keep movin’ is exactly what I was doin’, until I stopped to stand by the door. As the train pulled out, one of the conductors joked, “The slow boat to China … excuse me …,” and then announced all the stops. Smart move. Humor is a good way to assuage the agitated.

You’d never know that the majority of the train was like Bosch’s paintings of Hell. We fortunate few had lucked out with a smooth, relaxing ride … oh no. The train stopped at Woodside, and that’s when I realized the Mets had a game earlier that day. A small army of fans led by a tall bald man with extreme body odor who yelled, “The Mets lost!” (spoiler alert) entered the car. Thankfully, the guy walked down the aisle to a different area, no doubt grossing out everyone in his vicinity.

A few semi-drunken guys in their early 20’s kept giving each other “bro hugs” for no apparent reason, and seemingly having a contest on who could talk the loudest. It would be easy to make a snarky Nickelback reference, or any other shit band the media associates with the bro lifestyle. But the truth is you’re just as much likely to find dudes like these at a Neil Young or Pearl Jam show. Acting douchey doesn’t preclude you from liking (or making) good music. Besides, while obnoxious, they were an episode of William F. Buckley Jr.’s Firing Line compared to the general moronic malevolence the (non-fake) news has presented to us day after day in 2017.

To give you an indication on how crowded it was, the guy directly in front of me was close enough that we looked like Hall & Oates on the cover of H20. I would sometimes look to the side, so we weren’t just awkwardly staring at each other. Unfortunately, he would occasionally blow his nose, which meant that my main challenge for the ride home was to avoid getting his snot on my face. Not exactly a moment for the highlight reel.

As the train pulled into Rockville Centre, my mental jukebox responded accordingly, and I started to hear Tommy Lee’s bittersweet Old West saloon piano and the vicious, victorious guitar of Mick Mars that can make grown men feel compelled to shout “YEAHHHHH!!!”

Home sweet home.

Matt Leinwohl

Some stories don’t need words. Chuck Berry knew that. And he was such a master wordsmith that Bob Dylan referred to him as “The Shakespeare of rock’n’roll.” For those of us who weren’t alive in the 1950’s, that time is more fantasy than reality, a suburban and rural dreamscape (occasionally in black-and-white) shaped by music, television, art, photography, and cinema. (Oddly enough, Generation X’s main impression of the post-WWII, pre-Beatles era came from ‘70’s and ‘80s films set during this period, such as Diner, Animal House, American Graffiti, and Back to the Future.) Berry’s instrumental “Deep Feeling” encapsulates this phantom Americana in just two minutes and twenty-one seconds. While other stellar instrumentals from the Eisenhower administration radiate menace (Link Wray’s “Rumble”) or romance, loss, and dreams (Santo & Johnny’s “Sleep Walk”), Berry’s mini-masterpiece emits all of those qualities and more.

It’s from his full-length debut After School Session, which came out 60 years ago this month, and features classics like “School Days” and “Too Much Monkey Business.” Yet “Deep Feeling” is the true standout. The barrelhouse piano by Johnnie Johnson and Willie Dixon’s steady bass groove give it a bluesy, seductive feel. Both musicians were titanic figures in their own right. Johnson made indispensable contributions to Berry’s songs, with some claiming he was the main musical driving force, Billy Strayhorn to Berry’s Duke Ellington. But that’s another story.

Dixon wrote “Back Door Man,” “I Ain’t Superstitious,” “I Can’t Quit You Baby,” and countless other songs that would help define rock’n’roll. Another one is “Bring It On Home,” sung by Sonny Boy Williamson II, which has the same bassline Dixon used for “Deep Feeling.” On Led Zeppelin’s version, they also replicate his bass for the mellow first half, before going nuclear.

However, it’s Berry who dominates, conveying humor, lust, and desolation with each squeal of his lap steel guitar, bringing to mind everything from Edward Hopper’s mid-20^th century paintings on solitude to the horny hijinks featured in the Porky’s trilogy. (Another group of ‘80s films which took place in the late ‘50s/early ‘60s beloved by Generation X.) Your perspective might be completely different, which is the beauty of an exceptional instrumental. Without the guidance of lyrics, instrumentals are essentially a collaboration with the listener, allowing their imagination to fill in the gaps. You could describe much of Jerry Garcia’s work the same way, so it’s fitting that this was a favorite of his. Garcia probably appreciated as much as anyone that on “Deep Feeling,” Chuck Berry, the most venerated storyteller in rock’n’roll, lets you tell the story.

While not as celebrated as his other material, it had a stealth impact. Fleetwood Mac’s 1968 “Albatross” was like “Deep Feeling” for the “Swinging London” era, but with a more sorrowful tone befitting a year of war, riots, and assassinations. “Albatross” ended up being an inspiration on the following year’s “Sun King” by The Beatles, who retained the meditative blues of Berry’s and Mac’s instrumentals, while adding swirly psychedelic guitar, celestial vocals, and an overall cathartic ambiance.

Around the same time “Albatross” came out, The Rolling Stones released Beggars Banquet. After the Carnaby Street phantasmagoria of 1967’s Their Satanic Majesties Request, Beggars Banquet was more rooted in folk/country blues, but still had an atmosphere of drowsy psychedelia. At times, “Deep Feeling” haunts this album like a spectre, especially the lonesome slide acoustic guitar by Brian Jones on “No Expectations,” and the raggedy, swaggering slide work of Keith Richards, the world’s most famous Berry disciple, on “Jigsaw Puzzle” and “Salt of the Earth.”

Ronnie Wood would not be outdone. Like the previous examples, his slide guitar on the Faces “Around the Plynth” from 1970 owes a lot to Berry’s lap steel work on “Deep Feeling.” But Wood took that influence to a whole other, much darker stratosphere. At one point, with Rod Stewart’s soulful, sandpaper screaming in the background, Wood’s deranged, possessed slide solo repeatedly goes up and down like a demonic seesaw, matching the pain and desperation of lyrics such as “Water down the drain, I’m wasting away.” Stewart then shouts “Slow down there!” Wood complies, ending the solo by briefly quoting the aforementioned “No Expectations” from his future band. This was more than likely a tribute to the then-recently deceased Jones.

It’s difficult to imagine music advancing the way it did without Chuck Berry. “Deep Feeling” is just one his many contributions to its evolution. Leonard Cohen once said about Berry, “If Beethoven hadn’t rolled over, there’d be no room for any of us.”

Hallelujah.

Matt Leinwohl

Since our Executive and Legislative Branches were taken over by Arkham Asylum, it’s been difficult to get too excited about the 2017 Rock and Hall of Fame induction ceremony happening tonight at the Barclays Center. In the grand scheme of things, the Hall of Fame is not important. However, the remarkable honorees are worth celebrating, and there’s the opportunity to have Steve Howe, Trevor Rabin, Lenny Kravitz, Alex Lifeson, Mike McCready, Stone Gossard, Nile Rodgers, Jeff Lynne, and the almighty Neal Schon make up an extraordinary guitar army for the closing all-star jam.

Joan Baez’s speech ought to be quite interesting. She’s justifiably being honored for six decades of exquisite pugnacity, calling bullshit in a celestial voice. And her insubordinate spirit hasn’t faded. In a recent Rolling Stone profile, Baez talks about a 2010 White House celebration of music from the civil-rights era she had attended. When Michelle Obama requested she sing “If I Had a Hammer,” Baez, who considers this beloved folk anthem “the most annoying song,” replied, “If I had a hammer – I’d hit myself on the head. Ain’t gonna do it.” Even in a benign situation, still speaking truth to power.

At one point, Steve Perry had the hairstyle of Baez, the face of character actor Leo Rossi (River’s Edge), and the voice of Sam Cooke. Before he joined Journey, they were an overlooked powerhouse that combined the sheer guitar intensity of Cream, the adventurous jazz fusion of Return to Forever, the melodies and vocal inflections of The Beatles, and the piano balladry of Elton John. Singer/keyboardist/songwriter Greg Rolie, Neal Schon’s old Santana bandmate, crooned like a smooth ‘70s Bay Area Dracula. In 1978, Perry added soul to this unique mix, and when the more pop-oriented keyboardist/songwriter Jonathan Cain replaced Rolie in 1980, they became one of the world’s most successful groups with the following year’s Escape, subsequently providing musical accompaniment to 35 years worth of proms and bonfires. No matter who’s in the band, Schon holds it all together, performing guitar solos that sound like victory marches.

It took a very long time for Journey to get in the Hall, mainly because the critics who always despised them are on the voting committee. The only reason Journey succeeded was because of the fan vote, instituted just a few years ago. They led by such a wide margin, the Hall actually extended the voting by almost two weeks. This was an amusingly transparent move, as they were clearly hoping for some act, any act, to take over the lead. Back in the ‘80s, these detractors would refer to Journey and other hard rock bands from that era as “faceless, corporate rock.” It always struck me as absurd that a collection of relatively anonymous, interchangeable people the average person wouldn’t be able to identify, would consider musicians constantly on the radio/MTV, selling millions of records and concert tickets as “faceless.”

Another act that should’ve gotten their due during the Clinton administration is Yes. It’s appropriate that they have a song called “Wonderous Stories” and an album named Drama, as the band’s lengthy instrumental breaks aren’t extraneous, but vital parts of grand cinematic tales that ignite the imagination. The beauty and ferocity of “Heart of the Sunrise,” from 1971, with its bucolic feel (mostly from keyboardist Rick Wakeman’s haunting mellotron) and urban imagery, conjures up a nocturnal ballet in Central Park staged during an earthquake.

“Starship Trooper,” also from ’71, is an otherworldly three-part epic with swirly guitar, ghostly harmonies, and an atmosphere of introspective isolation. The last section, “Würm,” with its slow-burn menace, saves the best for last. Steve Howe leads the way, playing a watery guitar jangle, with Chris Squire’s rumbling bass like a monster gradually waking up from a deep slumber, and original keyboardist Tony Kaye’s hammond organ adding eerie midnight cathedral ambience. Howe, a Rudolf Nureyev clone who always looks like he’s poised to strike, executes a solo that manages to psychedelicize his disparate influences, such as Chet Atkins, Chuck Berry, and Wes Montgomery.

After a brief spilt, Yes reconvened in the early ‘80s without Howe, replacing him with guitarist/vocalist extraordinaire Trevor Rabin, who became their main creative force during that decade. Befitting a band often labeled “progressive,” Yes were inspired by hip-hop back when most rock’n’roll bands paid no attention to it. “Owner of a Lonely Heart”, from 1983, used a sample of the drum breakdown by Funk, Inc.’s 1971 “Kool Is Back.” Questlove has claimed that this was the first use of a sample as a breakbeat, instead of a sound effect. Not bad for a band often falsely associated with sprites and forests. It was their only song to go to number 1 on the Billboard Hot 100.

 Tupac Shakur was one of the supreme storytellers in hip-hop, or any other genre, his writing the sonic equivalent of Weegee’s photography. Like an obscene amount of iconic figures in music, he died way too early. Yet even in death, Tupac still has more rock’n’roll spirit and attitude than most of the bland, contemporary acts billed as “rock.” The induction of both Tupac and Pearl Jam are reminders that the ‘90s were so long ago, it’s starting to feel like any reference to that decade should be preceded with the phrase “Once upon a time.”

Once upon a time I was a freshman in college listening to Pearl Jam’s debut Ten, which had recently come out to zero fanfare. Like the other Seattle acts, they were a different kind of rock’n’roll band, combining hard rock swagger with literary lyrical content. It helps that lead guitarist Mike McCready is a disciple of UFO’s Michael Schenker, (a musician who inspires such devotion, an old work colleague of mine constantly referred to him as “fuckin’ Schenker”) and singer/songwriter Eddie Vedder worships at the temple of Springsteen. With the swift passage of time, Pearl Jam have amassed as good a catalog as anyone in the Hall of Fame. “1/2 Full,” “Deep,” “Sleight of Hand,” “Unemployable,” “Tremor Christ,” “Go,” “Life Wasted,” and “Lightning Bolt” are just some of the endless amount of stellar songs that have soundtracked our lives. It’s impossible to imagine college, and in general, the last quarter-century without this exceptional group.

Just like it’s inconceivable to think of the ‘70s without the Electric Light Orchestra, better known as ELO. If you ever wondered what it would’ve been like if The Beatles starred in a blaxploitation film, listen to the neon power-pop/funk strut of “Evil Woman” and “Showdown.” They were somewhat similar to their peers The Bee Gees, fellow Beatles devotees who also did some of their best work with steamy, illuminated dance floors in mind. “Last Train to London,” from 1979, is one of the crown jewels of disco. Jeff Lynne’s falsetto in the chorus is so Saturday Night Fever, you can picture Barry Gibb approvingly respond with an especially ball-crushingly high “YEAH!” Even their ballads were Bee Geeesque, like “Telephone Line” and “Strange Magic.” Since the fondue heyday of ELO, their mastermind Lynne has had an impeccable career, producing some of George Harrison and Tom Petty’s best material. And now he’ll finally join his fellow Wilburys in the Hall.

In the age of Charlie’s Angels, The White Shadow, and Superman, Chic spent a lot of time in the late ‘70s with ELO in dance clubs, on the radio, and my turntable in Queens. “Dance, Dance, Dance (Yowsah, Yowsah, Yowsah),” “Le Freak,” and one of the building blocks of hip-hop, “Good Times,” helped define that period in time. Unfortunately, Chic are not in the Hall, having been nominated a record 11 times. This year though, Nile Rodgers, who along with the late bassist Bernard Edwards, were the creative team behind Chic, will be bestowed with the Award for Musical Excellence.

As a guitarist/songwriter/arranger/producer (like fellow inductee Lynne), and the sonic architect of songs we’ve all danced to from David Bowie, INXS, Diana Ross, Sister Sledge, Duran Duran, Madonna, and on and on, few people deserve this honor more than Rodgers. If you’ve had a euphoric night out in the city during the last 40 years, chances are he had something to do with it.

Rodgers success as a producer tends to overshadow his distinctive, massively influential rhythm guitar playing, a style Bernard Edwards called “chucking,” which virtually every ‘80s British pop act paid homage to. Jamie West-Oram’s funky guitar on the verses of “Stand or Fall” by The Fixx is a perfect example. “Promises, Promises” by Naked Eyes is another. Johnny Marr of The Smiths holds Rodgers in such high esteem, he named his son after him.

Overall, it should be a memorable evening. Never mind that the Hall took so long to induct Yes that Chris Squire won’t be making it to Brooklyn, as he died two years ago. Sadly, Peter Banks, the original guitarist for Yes, passed away in 2013. Despite playing on their first two albums, naming the band, and designing their first logo, the pop art “thought bubble” on the 1969 self-titled debut, the Hall didn’t think his contributions merited induction.

In spite of this cruel incompetence, to quote Tupac, “I Ain’t Mad at Cha.” Not while Arkham Asylum provides something to be angry about with each passing day. If there comes a time when the Hall inducts the Dave Matthews Band before Thin Lizzy, that’s another story.

Matt Leinwohl

Even multi-millionaires occasionally look for work. That’s the somewhat odd situation Jon Niese finds himself in after being released by the Yankees on Sunday. Of course, he presumably doesn’t have to work again, thanks to the $25 million contract Niese signed with the Mets in 2012. He could pull a Koufax and retire at 30.

However, no matter how well-off you are, it’s extremely difficult to give up something you love doing. Niese has been playing baseball the majority of his life, and an athlete’s competitive fire can’t be easily doused. According to the New York Post, he’s inclined to stay with the Yankees, and would work in their extended spring training program. When General Manager Brian Cashman was asked if they would be interested in having Niese back, he replied, “I wouldn’t say.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement. And that’s from someone whose team could actually use some pitching.

Cashman surely meant well, but the comment was just another sign of how far Niese’s stock has fallen since he pitched for the Mets in the 2015 World Series. Who knows, now that Steven “the human disabled list” Matz is currently suffering from elbow soreness, and is unlikely to break camp with the Mets on Thursday night, maybe they’ll bring Niese back for a third … yeah, not happening.

Wherever he ends up, best of luck to a bizarrely maligned pitcher.

Matt Leinwohl

There weren’t too many sharp dressed men at the Beacon Theatre for the ZZ Top show. In fact, during “Sharp Dressed Man,” a round middle-aged man in torn jeans that had seen better decades, waddled down the stairs to his seat, butt crack in full view. This was a disturbing pattern. Before the show even started, another heavyset middle-aged guy who’d been a few rows ahead, constantly stood up and down, crack exposed, to let people get to their seats. When ZZ Top says they’re “lookin’ for some tush,” presumably this isn’t what they have in mind.

But before “that little ol’ band from Texas” took the stage, Austin Hanks from Rattlesnake Mountain, Alabama and his impressive band won over the notoriously tough New York “classic rock” crowd, whose default setting is often indifference and impatience towards the unfamiliar. Everyone seemed to appreciate that Hanks and guitarist Brian Simpson made a formidable guitar duo. Like many of us axe fanatics who were children of the ‘70s and ‘80s, Hanks worshiped Ace Frehley and current tourmate Billy Gibbons. As good as he was though, Hanks left the heavy lifting to Simpson. His howling Americana slide guitar combined David Lindley’s poetic, elegiacal work with Jackson Browne and the bloodthirsty screams of a jackal.

Songs like “Take Out The Trash” were ideal music for ducking flying beer glasses, reminiscent of acts from the MTV era that had a rural, rockabilly/blues/country/honky tonk sound and image inspired by the early years of rock’n’roll. Examples include X, The Georgia Satellites, Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Trouble, Social Distortion, The Blasters, George Thorogood & The Destroyers, The Fabulous Thunderbirds, Stray Cats, and of course, ZZ Top. The power trio brought the potent force of hard rock, occasional droning minimalist New Wave keyboards, synchronized dance moves, and grooves that could border on disco to this mix.

In between sets, a guy wearing a Killing Joke t-shirt had passed by, the shirt serving as a reminder of how the line between the modern world and Killing Joke’s oeuvre (best described by drummer Paul Ferguson as “The sound of the earth vomiting”) was getting thinner by the day. Specifically, songs like “Tension,” “Follow the Leaders,” “Twilight of the Mortal,” and perhaps best of all, “Madness,” with the wretchedly relevant line, “If this is today – well what the fuck’s tomorrow?” Good question, but one I didn’t particularly want to focus on at that moment. It was time to enjoy men pushing 70 with prospector beards sing about a variety of topics, ranging from “Tush,” Legs,” and “Cheap Sunglasses.”

“Got Me Under Pressure” made you feel like you were riding 100 mph on an endless, sun-drenched, Paris, Texas desert highway, an ideal song to start the show. It was from Eliminator, which along with Michael Jackson’s Thriller, was a beloved, inescapable record in ’83 and ’84. Even Hardcore Punk legends Black Flag were obsessed with the album. In Steven Blush’s 2010 book American Hardcore: A Tribal History, Henry Rollins said, “That was our soundtrack for 1984. I think we wore out that cassette three times. We played it before every gig, and we played it in the van all the time. It was our wake-up-and-drive tape.” They would’ve felt right at home at the Beacon.

Humor is a big part of ZZ Top’s appeal, and sometimes it comes out unintentionally. During “Got Me Under Pressure,” Gibbons sang the chorus in his usual low-pitched, lascivious growl, and bassist Dusty Hill would repeat it in a much higher-pitched “Grandpa” voice, making for an amusing contrast. Next up were the first two songs from their 1973 masterwork Tres Hombres, “Waitin’ for the Bus” and “Jesus Just Left Chicago.” The former showcased Top’s propensity for memorable monster grooves, while the latter had Gibbons conjuring up rattling skeletons from his stuttering Gibson SG. He also included a snippet of the “James Bond Theme” at the end.

“Gimme All Your Lovin’ featured some unique guitar noises as well, especially the lustful, rapid rumble after the first line, “I got to have a shot.” When I was 9, this was one of the greatest sounds I’d ever heard. At 43, that’s still the case. And the vocal harmonies on “Gimme All Your Lovin’” highlighted the cactus soul of Hill and Gibbons, with their distinctive high-low dynamic.

Unfortunately, drummer Frank Beard tends to be known primarily as “the guy in ZZ Top who doesn’t have a beard.” But he’s the unsung hero of the band, the main reason why the word “grooves” has been used a few times in this post. The foundation he supplies allows them to stretch and be somewhat unclassifiable. “I’m Bad, I’m Nationwide” and “Cheap Sunglasses,” both from 1979’s Degüello, were perhaps the evening’s best illustrations, as you can picture these songs in settings as varied as discotheques, blues clubs, and roadhouses. In particular, “Cheap Sunglasses,” an urban neon sign in sonic form, sounded extraordinary at the hallowed Beacon; metropolitan hillbilly horndog noir as only ZZ Top can do. It was Ash Wednesday, and a few middle-aged women with ash crosses on their heads were getting down in the aisles, displaying devotion in a completely different house of worship.

As ZZ Top’s secret weapon snuck and lit a cigarette from behind the drums, Gibbons played blues licks that eventually evolved into “Catfish Blues” by the obscure bluesman Robert Petway.  Muddy Waters, Rory Gallagher, and Jimi Hendrix have also covered it — intimidating company. Good thing Gibbons is one of the world’s greatest guitarists, which allowed the band to take on Hendrix’s “Foxy Lady” as well. Hendrix had been a friend and early champion of Gibbons, who did his mentor proud with a faithful version, right down to the psychedelic vibrato/feedback opening, sounding like the start of the end of the world. The more recent “Chartreuse” ended with Gibbons experimenting with feedback towards the edge of the stage, looking like a scarecrow rabbi praying to the guitar gods.

For “Legs,” they brought out the iconic fur-covered guitars made famous in the video, and brought back memories of going to Long Island’s Hot Skates in the ‘80s. After a short break, “La Grange” began the encore, with Gibbons’ guitar and voice in a heated competition of what could sound seedier. Impossible decision, but the audience were the clear victors, shouting along with Gibbons and Hill during the brief pause in the song, “HELL YEAH!” In the middle of the “La Grange”/”Tush” jam, ZZ Top did a fragment of the obscure “Bar-B-Q,” from 1972’s Rio Grande Mud. A few more deep cuts like “El Diablo,” “Ten Foot Pole,” and “Backdoor Love Affair” would’ve been welcome. And no, Spinal Tap didn’t come up with those titles.

Gibbons then launched into the riff that’s powered countless road trips across America, and expresses libidinous benediction as much as the lyrics. Hill’s rebel yell and Gibbons’ blazing slide guitar on “Tush” proved that after four decades of performing this song, they still treat the subject matter with the utmost seriousness, topped off with a wink.

As the show reached its conclusion, a small dog excitedly ran across the stage, with that “Hey you guys!” look most canines have. One would be hard-pressed to argue with its enthusiasm.

Matt Leinwohl

The good news is, for many years, Jon Niese has been paid millions of dollars to throw a baseball. The bad news is seemingly everyone despises him.

While he was never one of my favorite Mets, the hostility towards Niese is bizarre. The only thing remotely offensive about him is, according to a 2013 New York Post article, he pumps himself up on game day by listening to Jason Mraz.

Nobody should feel sorry for Niese. This past week, he signed a minor-league deal with the Yankees for $1.25 million if he makes the team as a middle reliever/spot starter, plus the opportunity to earn $750,000 in incentives. Not bad for someone who would primarily be hanging out in the bullpen. We should all be so lucky.

In fact, the Dave Day (banjo player for the ‘60s proto-punk band The Monks) look-alike appears to be blessed and cursed by luck. He was born on October 27^th, 1986, the day the Mets last won the World Series. Good timing. When Niese made his debut with the Mets as a highly regarded pitching prospect in the fall of 2008, Rickie Weeks Jr. of the Brewers homered off him on just his second pitch. It was the first time in Mets history that a pitcher gave up a home run to the first batter he faced in his career. Bad timing.

For the rest of his tenure in Queens, he was a solid, unspectacular contributor, eventually made expandable by the Mets endless supply of stellar starting pitching. Back when the Mets traded him to Pittsburgh in December 2015, Niese complimented the Pirates defense. Quite a few Met fanatics got offended by the comment, and subsequently did what irrational people in the 21^st century do best: unleash their anger on social media. Some choice examples from the last 14 month’s include “Jon Niese is the Zika Virus,” “Hope he stinks as he stunk,” “More like Jon Piece of crap,” and the old reliable “Fuck Jon Niese.” Believe it or not though, there are worse things than being compared to excrement and a disease that causes death and makes your testicles shrink.

What looked like a fresh start for Niese turned out to be the worst year of his career, as if the Curb Your Enthusiasm theme music took human form. It got so bad even Pirates General Manager Neal Huntington regretted receiving Niese from the Mets for second baseman Neil Walker, saying publicly, “In hindsight, maybe the two fringe prospects and trying to figure out where to reallocate the money might have been a better return.” That’s right, not prospects, fringe prospects. This was said when Niese was still on the team. It’s one thing to be roasted by anonymous people living lives that are profiles in stupidity and cowardice. But from the guy that actually traded for him?

Making things worse, Walker, a fan favorite, team leader, and Pittsburgh native, was putting up one of his best seasons before a back injury shut him down for the year in August. Meanwhile, Niese was buried in the bullpen, got traded back to the Mets in August, and soon after was also done for the year after getting knee surgery.

Yankee fans once booed Derek Jeter, someone so beloved I saw a grown man repeatedly chant “DEREK JETER!” for no apparent reason during a Rush show at Jones Beach. So realistically, it may not be too long before Niese hears his first “YOU SUCK!!” However, this Mets fan wishes him the best in the Bronx. At least up until they face the Yankees this summer. On that occasion, to quote a recent one-word assessment of Niese on social media, “STINKS!”

Matt Leinwohl

In retrospect, our firm commitment to the mullet was somewhat baffling. As teenagers in the late ‘80s, my friends and I rode our bikes around Long Island, confidently rocketing through Sunrise Highway like Mötley Crüe on their motorcycles in the “Girls, Girls, Girls” video, awful hairstyles be damned. In the summer, we’d play stickball at the back of St. Agnes, pretending to be the New York baseball icons from that time: Keith Hernandez, Don Mattingly, Dwight Gooden, Roger McDowell, Dave Winfield (who attacked the ball like it was someone he detested), and Darryl Strawberry (best know for hitting colossal home runs as casually as making a sandwich).

In the summer of 1988, my friend Joe added George Michael to the pantheon of heroes. Faith had come out the previous fall, and subsequently became a major soundtrack during freshman year of high school, with “Monkey” being the latest huge hit. When MTV wasn’t showing Remote Control, chances are they were playing “Monkey,” or any of the other countless videos from that album. Throughout the whole George Michael phenomenon, Joe was carefully taking mental notes on his man-crush. One afternoon, a few of us went to his apartment and were greeted by Joe in a dark, wide-brim hat, tight jeans, and a 15-year-old’s unsuccessful attempt at a beard, which mainly consisted of awkward patches. He’d seen the “Monkey” video one too many times.

Gathered in his room, he put Faith in the CD player, immediately went right to “Monkey,” and proceeded to blast it at an unnecessarily high volume. Shouting over the music, he essentially gave a dissertation on the song. It was apparent Joe obsessively studied it, like how college students from the ‘60s and ‘70s pored over Dylan lyrics. In between droppings of knowledge, he would emulate some of Michael’s dance moves from the video, punctuating his observations with spin turns and elbow thrusts. On the stout side, Joe’s hat and red scraps of facial hair (featuring more beard than moustache), made him resemble a round, dancing, ginger Amish guido. Somehow, we never laughed.

While I liked Faith, other records from that time commanded more of my attention, like Springsteen’s Tunnel of Love, Document by R.E.M., The Cult’s Electric, Robbie Robertson’s self-titled first solo album, U2’s The Joshua Tree, and the mighty Appetite for Destruction, Guns N’ Roses full-length debut. My equivalent to “Monkey” was “Sweet Child o’ Mine,” a radiant love song that’s also a dynamic, six-minute guitar odyssey with a melodic bass line you can sing along to. Another tune that owned the summer, it replaced “Monkey” as #1 on the Billboard Hot 100 as autumn was about to take over.

This pattern of Michael getting lost in the shuffle started in 1984 (one of the greatest years in music/pop culture) with “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go,” his American mainstream breakthrough. While a fun, bouncy song, it seemed a little too lightweight. About a decade later, I started to appreciate those jazzy organ breakdowns after the chorus, and realized the song was a stellar Disney/Motown combination that could’ve been from Smokey Robinson & the Miracles.

However, back in fall ’84, I was preoccupied with other things, including the Mets first pennant chase in years, Marvel and DC, the dawn of Miami Vice, Billy Ocean’s “Caribbean Queen,” Paul McCartney’s “No More Lonely Nights,” Deep Purple’s comeback single “Perfect Strangers,” and “Hot for Teacher” from Van Halen. (The video inspired my friends and I to go as “young Van Halen” that Halloween. As an 11-year-old guitar fanatic, I was Eddie, and had a cardboard guitar that kind of looked like his iconic Frankenstrat. Emphasis on “kind of.”)

“Last Christmas” came out soon after. Already saturated with melancholy before Michael’s passing on Christmas day, it’s a synth-pop soul classic that manages to be heartfelt minus the sappiness, with short, affecting Christmas bell-like keyboard solos that get at the heart of the song’s loneliness. It’s up there with Michael Jackson’s “Rock with You” for best use of keyboards in a pop tune. Having spent the last three decades welcoming us at our local drugstores every holiday season, adding sublimity to mundane activities, you can easily take “Last Christmas” for granted.

As a writer/producer/arranger, Michael’s ear for melodic nuance is what made him such an exceptional artist. That captivating sax in “Careless Whisper” always seems like it’s about to be accompanied by Robin Leach waxing poetic about the French Riviera. While a sad song, the music has an appealing ostentatiousness reminiscent of ‘80s touchstones like the aforementioned Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous and Dynasty. The exotic, downbeat acoustic guitar and his use of falsetto harmonies in the “Now that you’re gone” section take it into a whole other stratosphere. He sang everything, so the back and forth between the lead and background vocals comes across as a brief interior monologue. Marvin Gaye, David Bowie, and Chris Cornell have done this as well.

Michael’s talent for nuance was again spotlighted on “Everything She Wants,” even down to the distinctive synth squiggle that precedes the second verse. Overall, the keyboards share a similar early hip-hop/science fiction sound as the one’s used in Chaka Khan’s version of “I Feel for You,” which came out at the same time. There’s also those ethereal wordless vocals in the chorus that Michael has as the main melodic hook, comparable to how Van Morrison uses “la la’s” in “Caravan.” As one of the elite singers of his generation, he could actually get away with “Ah-ha-ah, oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, uh-huh-huh, ah-ha-ah, ah-ha-ah, doo doo doo, la la la la la.” Not too many people can make “doo doo” and “la la” sound suave and sensual.

Those last two words accurately describe “Father Figure” and “One More Try” from Faith. They’re the kind of stunning ambient synth ballads that seemed to have come out on a daily basis in the ‘80s, like Roxy Music’s “Avalon” and The Cure’s “All Cats Are Grey” (also from an album called Faith). At a Patti Smith/Television show I saw at Roseland in 2004, Smith did a cover of “Father Figure,” giving me a new appreciation for it. Five years later, “One More Try” was playing at the Bon Vivant Diner in Union Square, while everyone inadvertently did their impression of Hopper’s Nighthawks. The song was a pleasant surprise. I didn’t recall it being that good. But it was on the towering level of his legendary performance of Queen’s “Somebody to Love” at the 1992 tribute concert to Freddie Mercury.

Despite Joe’s stupid hat and embarrassing dance moves, turns out he was on to something.

Matt Leinwohl