There’s no such thing as getting over loss. You grieve, endure and adapt; the last two easier said than done. Everyone goes through the grieving process in their own way. When Andrew Wood of Mother Love Bone died from a heroin overdose in 1990, his friend and one-time roommate Chris Cornell, one of the greatest writers and singers in rock’n’roll history, responded by writing about it and singing with enough soul and volume, the dead could hear. Specifically Wood, as part of “Say Hello 2 Heaven” is directly addressed to him. Soundgarden had released Louder Than Love six month’s before, which turned out to be a perfect description for what Cornell accomplished.

He wrote “Say Hello 2 Heaven” and “Reach Down” about Wood. Subsequently, Cornell got his Soundgarden bandmate Matt Cameron, bassist Jeff Ament and guitarist Stone Gossard, both formerly of Mother Love Bone, and their pal, guitarist Mike McCready to record these two songs and create more new music. McCready could play wah-wah drenched Fender Strat solos that were reminiscent of his heroes Jimi Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughan. He even started to wear “Plateau” hats as a tribute to the then-recently deceased Vaughan.

Ament, Gossard, and McCready brought in a guy named Eddie Vedder, who at the time was surfing and working as a security guard in San Diego, to perform on a few of these tracks, while also having him sing in a new, entirely separate project of theirs. But before that could even get off the ground, they banded together to call themselves Temple of the Dog, after a line in the Mother Love Bone song “Man of Golden Words.” The self-titled album, released in the spring of 1991, was a modern classic. The problem was, barely anyone outside of the Pacific Northwest had heard it.

Cut to Spring 1992: thanks to Nirvana’s Nevermind, Seattle is the nexus of the universe, a musical and cultural phenomenon. Young men like myself grow their hair long and wear goatees, years before Lin-Manuel Miranda. Alice in Chains and Soundgarden reinvent heavy metal, as the latter’s aggressive yet accessible Badmotorfinger becomes their commercial breakthrough, while Ament and Gossard’s new band Pearl Jam’s debut Ten refuses to leave CD players in dorms across America for most of the ‘90s.

Suddenly, MTV realizes they’ve been sitting on “Hunger Strike” for the last year, a video featuring members of Pearl Jam and Soundgarden rocking out and screaming in a corn field, among other locations. This was most people’s introduction to Temple of the Dog. In the proceeding two and a half decades that have whisked by, they played the occasional charity concert, but never toured. Until now.

Cheap Trick blasted from the PA, with Robin Zander reassuring everyone searching for their seats that “Everything’ll work out if you let it.” The existence of Temple of the Dog and Pearl Jam is a testament to that notion, a perfect example of enduring and adapting. It was from an obscure film, 1980’s Roadie by Alan Rudolph, who’d been a protégé of Robert Altman. Meat Loaf, Alice Cooper, Blondie, Roy Orbison, and Art Carney were part of the cast. At seven years old, I actually saw this in the theater, around the same time I went to see Caddyshack. The presence of Cooper and Blondie make it likely that Wood, Cornell, and the rest of the Seattle crew, who were teenagers back then, also checked it out.

Wood would’ve turned fifty this year. He left behind many great songs, one of which, “Man of Golden Words,” was played as a piano instrumental by a spot lit man whom I didn’t recognize, as the band made their way to the blackened stage. Stone Gossard’s psychedelic “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” rainy waltz of a guitar riff cut through the darkness. “Say Hello 2 Heaven” started the show, instantly transporting me back to Boston in 1992, where I was an idealistic young man who had transferred to Emerson College. It was an odd dichotomy, since these songs evoke one of the worst moments in Cornell’s life, while reminding me of some of my best.

Along with the affecting opener, “Wooden Jesus,” “Call Me a Dog,” and “Your Saviour” sounded incredible. The first progressively got more heavy as it went on, the second is one of Cornell’s classic ballads that most acts would’ve saved for the encore, and the last a funky condemnation on those who proclaim to have all the answers. Good timing, being that Election Day was just mere hours from now. Cornell managed to retain the sound of the muffled fade-out, where it’s like he’s shouting from the top of a distant, hazy mountain.

Seeing a twentysomething couple wearing purple tie-dye Nirvana shirts made me nostalgic for Boston’s Newbury Comics, practically a second home for music/film/literature/pop culture fanatic college students in the ‘90s. Each visit, you’d see brand new cool shirts displayed all over the store. The Seattle bands, Black Crowes, Smashing Pumpkins, Anthrax, Faith No More, Radiohead, Jane’s Addiction, Living Colour, The Verve, Guns N’ Roses, Beastie Boys, Skid Row, Pantera, Stone Temple Pilots, etc, were our generation and our music. Corny as it probably sounds, we wore their shirts with a sense of pride, like Yankee fans strutting around in Jeter pinstriped jerseys. Although perhaps not quite as obnoxious.

The idealism of youth gradually erodes as time seasons you. But how does a young person, especially a woman, remain idealistic in a century that’s often seemed like a cesspool? We were on the verge of deciding a presidential election between someone who for years had defended her husband of sexual assault accusations by insulting the accusers, and one who actually boasted about sexual assault on tape. The couple in tie-dye were going to have a lot to contend with. We all would.

In the meantime, we were busy watching TOTD cover Mother Love Bone’s “Stardog Champion” and “Stargazer.” Without any disrespect to Wood, these new renditions were superior to the originals. The addition of Cornell, Cameron and McCready helped make them the arena rock spectacles they were destined to be. “Stargazer” in particular was a revelation, the acoustic/electric guitar combination having a similar psych/folk/hard rock dynamic as Led Zeppelin.

“Seasons” could also be described that way. It’s a Cornell song from the Singles soundtrack, originally just his voice and acoustic guitar. The moment you first heard “Seasons” in the summer of ’92, it already felt retrospective, like it had been around for decades. With the passage of almost a quarter-century, the chorus, “As seasons roll on by,” and the line, “My mirror shows another face,” take on a whole new meaning. The song retained its ghostly winter desolation, even as the band provided some raga stomp to make it more intense than usual.

They then covered “Jump Into the Fire” by the late Harry Nilsson, best known for its perfect placement in the Goodfellas “helicopter” scene where Ray Liotta drives around Long Island in a state of cocaine-fueled paranoia. Nilsson raises his voice with each repeated verse, so by the end he’s screaming like a lunatic, “WE CAN MAKE EACH OTHER HAPPY! WE CAN MAKE EACH OTHER HAAAAAAAAAAAAPY!!,” stretching out the last word for what seems like eternity. Not surprisingly, Cornell ably managed Nilsson’s belligerent delirium, adding his trademark soulful fury.

The psychedelic blues of “Four Walled World” was next, Gossard’s “The End”-South Asian riff leading off another one of Cornell’s stellar “isolated man” songs. McCready contributed avant-garde noises on par with another one of his heroes, Ace Frehley, for the verses, and Gossard played fiery slide guitar as Cornell testified, “And I won’t see nothing tonight/But the tears in her eyes and my four walled world!!”

Cornell introduced their cover of Free’s “I’m a Mover” by simply saying, “If you like music, you like this band.” Seeing Chris Cornell singing Paul Rodgers, and Free, the most underrated building block of hard rock/heavy metal get their due, was one of the many highlights of this extraordinary evening. On “Pushin Forward Back,” McCready replicated that memorable Stevie Ray homage in the bridge, and for “Hunger Strike,” the most well-known of the TOTD songs, we all filled in for Eddie Vedder to sing his verse.

David Bowie’s “Quicksand” was an intriguing cover, the lyrics, “I’m sinking in the quicksand of my thought/And I ain’t got the power anymore” actually sounding like Cornell could’ve written them. MLB’s “Heartshine” and “Holy Roller” were formidable groove machines, with some Motown influence on the background vocal harmonies. In the middle of the original “Holy Roller,” Wood sounds like he’s speaking from a remote location, and that part was broadcast through the speakers. Albeit not in the manner initially intended, Wood finally had his dream come true of performing at Madison Square Garden.

The late Layne Staley, another lost friend to addiction, was acknowledged with a devastating “River of Deceit” from Staley and McCready’s mid-‘90s group Mad Season. The band turned around to those of us sitting behind the stage, and Cornell talked to our section, dedicating the song to everyone in that area. It was a classy, magnanimous gesture. Same with when Cornell gave a visibly sad McCready a brotherly shoulder rub as he started the Ry Cooder/Dickey Betts country pickin’ licks. Mad Season is haunted by death; both Staley and bassist John Baker Saunders died in, respectively, 2002 and 1999 from heroin. It’s understandable why that could be tough for McCready to get through.

What made “River of Deceit” such a powerful statement is Staley’s clear understanding of his dire situation. It starts, “My pain… is self-chosen” and ends, “The only direction we flow is down.” A few years before, with Alice in Chains, he sang the Wood-inspired “Would?” The tragic example of others and the self-aware wisdom from his own art made his passing all the more senseless and depressing. TOTD did the song and his memory justice with a cathartic performance that felt like a microcosm of the entire evening.

The pre-encore portion of the show concluded with “Reach Down.” They conducted the kind of jam that wouldn’t have sounded out of place in the Fillmore East circa 1970. McCready’s extended guitar solo conjured up those phantasmagoric, multi-colored liquid loops the Joshua Light Show would project behind the bands at that storied venue. As he was shredding, McCready would occasionally stop in his tracks, then suddenly run as if he just noticed ghosts were chasing him. Given the reflective, backward-looking nature of the concert, metaphorically speaking, maybe they were.

At one point earlier in the show, Cornell joked about a guy in front attempting to air drum, good-naturedly imitating his futile efforts. That fan had the right idea. “Reach Down” was a complete ass kicker, a big reason being Matt Cameron (Pearl Jam’s drummer since ’98), who along with the rest of the band supplied steady intensity, so McCready could annihilate everyone. This was rock’n’roll at its best, reaching you on a physical and spiritual level. The last lines were the Gospel-infused/Mavis Staplesish, “I gotta reach down and pick the crowd up, carry back in my hand to the promised land.” Mission accomplished.

After a short break, the encore began with only Cornell on stage with acoustic guitar, doing “Man of Golden Words,” throwing in some lyrics from Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb.” The others joined him for the ballad “Times of Trouble,” with its haunting guitar melody that had also been used for Pearl Jam’s “Footsteps.” The song ends with the admonition, “If somebody loved you and left you for dead/You got to hold on to your time ‘till you break through these times of trouble.” Like Springsteen, Petty, Lynott, Mellencamp, Townshend, Vedder, and all the best bluesmen, Cornell knows his audience because he is his audience.

Speaking of which, Temple channeled their inner-fan with Led Zeppelin’s “Achilles Last Stand.” Cameron brilliantly duplicated John Bonham’s jackhammer drum fills and Ament made playing the galloping “DUN-DA-DA-DUN-DA-DA-DUN” bass of John Paul Jones look easy (It isn’t). Cornell is one of the few singers who could credibly take on Zeppelin, and he managed to match Robert Plant’s eerie wordless vocals. The lyrics, “With all the fun to have, to live the dreams we always had/Oh, the songs to sing, when we at last return again,” seemed appropriate for this long-awaited reunion.

On the surface, The Cure’s “Fascination Street” might seem like a surprise cover. But Cornell and Robert Smith, odd as it may sound, both essentially sing the blues, specializing in songs of alienation. McCready and Gossard captured all the melodic guitar nuances, including Smith’s memorable sparkly refrain throughout the song. The performance was a reminder that the Seattle bands were equally influenced by ‘80s alternative acts as much as punk and classic rock.

When an air-raid siren wailed throughout the arena, I thought it was Cornell. No, just the beginning of Black Sabbath’s “War Pigs/Luke’s Wall.” You forget how much of a monster groove this song has. The guitarists copied Tony Iommi’s arpeggios on the “Luke’s Wall” outro perfectly. That section of the song has always sounded mournful, yet defiant. On this pre-election evening, even more so.

After another brief rest, Cornell mentioned that they would play some Joy Division and Slayer. He was kidding, although Temple were such an exceptional band, it could’ve easily happened. They ended up doing the Temple of the Dog closer “All Night Thing.” No one was playing keyboards, although you could hear the funereal organ from the original. Like David Bowie’s “Win,” the ballad was simultaneously sexy and melancholy, a quiet end to a loud night.

What made this concert so special is that TOTD had been a one-time thing, so these songs are rarely played live. Because of this, there’s still a sense of discovery about them, unlike other material from that time. “Missing,” an unreleased tune written when Temple first formed, served as one of the other encores. It suited the night’s theme of absence: Bowie, Bonham, Nilsson, Kossoff & Fraser (Free), Staley & Baker Saunders (Mad Season), and of course, the reason this evening existed in the first place, Andrew Wood (Coincidentally, Leonard Cohen died the day of the show, but it wasn’t announced until later in the week).

Like many music fanatics of my generation, Wood grew up worshiping Kiss. The night before he was to meet Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley, Wood overdosed on heroin, fell into a coma, and died three days later, only 24 years old. He was a child of the ‘70s with dreams of arenas, stadiums, and total world domination. Instead, his fantasy became the reality of his friends.

In his honor, as part of the long-term process of enduring and adapting, Temple of the Dog destroyed Madison Square Garden. It was a fitting way to be remembered.

Matt Leinwohl

The countdown to ecstasy officially commenced when the train doors shut. Befitting a Friday evening that marked the beginning of Halloween weekend, the Long Island Rail Road was so crowded, you could barely find a place to stand. Situated by the doors, a couple in their fifties were conversing, when the man noticed a younger woman with a colorful bag from CVS across from them. Intrigued by this bag, he asked the woman bag-related questions for a few minutes. The man appeared to be so blown away by the sight of this particular item, he was like a kid in 1978 hearing “Eruption” by Van Halen for the first time.

The younger woman holding the bag was with her husband, headed out to see Billy Joel at Madison Square Garden. When the Chris Christie clone next to them became aware of this, he pointed out that “Tommy” was friends with him. This was Tommy Byrnes, Lynbrook native and longtime lead guitarist for Joel. The couple could barely feign interest, each contributing a lethargic “Oh wow.” Perhaps sensing their indifference, fake Christie added that he once “partied with the band.” He had to be a big shot. Since Joel’s residency at the Garden, how many Long Island dudes have used that line to pick up women? Meanwhile, the other guy was still going on about the bag.

In the middle of all this, I was headed to see Steely Dan (who influenced Joel’s classic ’78 album 52^nd Street) at the Beacon Theatre. As the train whisked by Kew Gardens, Forest Hills, and my old neighborhood Rego Park, childhood memories of Queens from the ‘70s and early ‘80s flashed before me just as rapidly, with Steely Dan a gateway to certain recollections. It’s difficult to imagine that period without them. Between their constant presence on the radio, 8-track and vinyl, Steely Dan was as ubiquitous as oxygen. Co-founder/songwriter/guitarist/bassist Walter Becker partly grew up in Forest Hills. It’s somehow fitting that this music which evokes a certain time and place was, by coincidence, partially created by someone from that exact same setting.

Riding the LIRR also brought to mind that before Becker and Donald Fagen downsized to a duo with session musicians, they were an actual band with a heavy Nassau County presence. Their late drummer Jim Hodder came from Bethpage and guitarist Denny Dias (best known for his hypnotic, exotic electric sitar solo in “Do It Again”) grew up in Billy Joel’s hometown of Hicksville. These four, along with future Doobie Brother/defense consultant Jeff “Skunk” Baxter on guitar, released Steely Dan’s stellar second album Countdown to Ecstasy in July 1973, the same time I was released into the world. For this concert, Fagen, Becker and their exceptional touring band would be recreating the album.

Steely Dan was more of a guitar-based group around the time of Countdown to Ecstasy. In general, early material like “Reelin’ in the Years” and “Bodhisattva” are similar to Van Halen and Thin Lizzy, hard rock acts with a lot of swing in their step. However, no matter how much they would later adjust their sound, jazz has constantly been their bedrock. As a reminder, while walking up the balcony, the sad and sexy saxophone of Coleman Hawkins greeted everyone with “I’ll Never Be The Same.” It’s from 1961’s appropriately titled The Hawk Relaxes, and played from the PA. The dulcet tones of Kenny Burrell’s guitar were as tasteful as the chandelier hovering from the endless ceiling.

As usual, the band, sans Fagen and Becker, opened with a jazz standard. On this night it was “November Afternoon” from Donald Byrd & Booker Little. Not one to waste time, their longtime drummer Keith Carlock, always one of the highlights of a Steely Dan concert, was already in beast mode. At the end, the two architects of Steely Dan, looking like recently retired advertising creative directors, were welcomed like kings of the world, ready to go back to ’73.

“Bodhisattva,” a hybrid of hard rock and big band jazz, leaned more towards the latter, as the horn section handled what was normally the dueling guitar melody. On “Razor Boy,” Steely Dan’s backup singers, The Danettes, took over lead vocals. “The Boston Rag” featured the band going into a slow, steady groove, while guitarists Becker and Jon Herington took turns doing extended solos, earning the occasional short, sharp “OW!” from the crowd. Keyboardist Jim Beard was showcased on “Your Gold Teeth,” alternating between Latin rhythms and Bill Evans-style cascades.

“Show Biz Kids” retained its chain gang melody, while transforming the slide guitar paradise of the original to pure stank funk, with Carlock channeling James Brown drummers John “Jabo” Starks and Clyde Stubblefield. You almost expected Fagen to get up from the keyboards, break out into splits and spin turns, and point to the crowd during the “They got the Steely Dan T-shirt” lyric.

He and Becker couldn’t possibly have known that the last line, “Show biz kids making movies of themselves/you know they don’t give a fuck about anybody else” would be more relevant today than in ’73. As if on cue, a guy in his twenties a few rows ahead, got up and started texting, blocking everyone’s view. A man from the back yelled, “Yo! Beavis! Sit down!” This went on for a few minutes. Not wanting to get involved, but quickly losing patience, my booming New York voice somehow cut through the music, when I summoned my inner-Danny Aiello and shouted, “NO ONE WANTS TO SEE YOU TEXT!” And with that, the millennial who happily conformed to a stereotype promptly sat down, seemingly having no clue he was the song come to life.

“My Old School” was a high point, the audience stomping and clapping as Herington’s guitar got more aggressive as the song played on. Changing the mood completely was “Pearl of the Quarter.” It’s one of Steely Dan’s more underrated gems, stellar melancholy pop country that should’ve been a hit. Suitably, The Danettes brought the “pearl” character to life, performing the catchy “voulez vous” refrain. “King of the World” closed this half of the show, the “wheeeee-oooooo” synthesizer melody from the original now played by the horn section, sounding more Chicago than grainy 70’s sc-fi cult movie.

“OHHHHHHHHHHHH!” The guy screaming a few rows up responded to the beginning of “Hey Nineteen” like a crazed soccer announcer. Like “Reelin’ in the Years,” its got one of the more identifiable opening guitar licks in rock’n’roll. Perhaps the most beloved song in their catalogue, “Hey Nineteen” has keyboards and guitar (by the late session ace Hugh McCracken) that exude wistfulness and humor, as the protagonist, a big shot in college during the late ‘60s, laments his current life in Scarsdale (“Where the hell am I?”). He could’ve lived next door to the guy from “Once in a Lifetime” by Talking Heads, which came out around the same time in 1980 expressing a similar fear, loathing and regret (“This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife! MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!”).

David Letterman and Paul Shaffer were known for simultaneously mocking and celebrating cheesy show biz pageantry. That’s exactly what Becker does in the middle of “Hey Nineteen,” when he goes into his usual bizarro stage patter that combines the deadpan style of Martin Mull with the sarcastic earnestness of the aforementioned late night legends. Cutting off his own guitar solo, he walked to the mic and said, “Guess my solo’s over.” After talking for about five minutes on how great the band and fans are, plus assorted cryptic humor, Becker got back to the song by making a request to the Danettes: “Ladies, tell us about the Cuervo Gold.” This is a time-honored Steely Dan concert tradition you either get a kick out of or inspires you to head for the toilet.

“Peg” always sounds great, although it’s not quite the same without Michael McDonald’s unique high-pitched masculine background vocals. “Josie” was the evening’s pinnacle, sophisticated 70’s New York City nighttime decadence in under five minutes. The spellbinding opening guitar riff immediately pulls you in. “Reelin’ in the Years” had Herington flawlessly replicate Elliot Randall’s iconic lead guitar work from the original, no small feat.

At the conclusion of the encore, Fagen and Becker left the stage to a well-deserved roar of approval, as the band stuck around to do Nelson Riddle’s 1959 theme to The Untouchables. The evening of ecstasy was now complete.

Matt Leinwohl

This wasn’t supposed to happen. How did they make the wild-card game? Every sports franchise deals with injuries, but the 2016 season for the New York Mets was like Walter Hill’s The Warriors and Southern Comfort, films where a group of protagonists are up against insurmountable odds, and get picked off, one by one, until only a few survive. Aside from everyone getting hurt, Michael Conforto had a disappointing season, spending much of it in Triple-A. They also barely received any significant contributions from Travis d’Arnaud and Kevin Plawecki at catcher. These setbacks and the following injured list show just how remarkable it is the Amazin’s made it to the postseason:

Lucas Duda- Missed most of the year.

David Wright- Done for the year in May.

Neil Walker- Done for the year in August.

Juan Lagares- Missed extended period of time.

Matt Harvey- Done for the year in July.

Jacob deGrom- Done for the year in September.

Steven Matz- Done for the year in August.

Wilmer Flores- Done for the year in September.

Travis d’Arnaud- Missed extended period of time.

Yoenis Cespedes-Missed extended period of time.

Asdrubal Cabrera- Missed extended period of time.

Jim Henderson- Missed extended period of time.

Jon Niese- Reacquired from Pirates on 8/1. Done for the year on 8/24.

Justin Ruggiano- Signed on 7/30. Put on 15-day disabled list 8/2. Activated on 8/18. Done for the year on 8/27.

Zack Wheeler- Hasn’t pitched since 2014.

The Groucho Marx/Phill Collins “Hello, I must be going” award goes to poor Justin Ruggiano. The outfielder signs with the Mets, and immediately joins the walking dead. He comes back for two seconds, then it happens again.

And yes, Jon Niese actually returned to the Mets for a few weeks, that wasn’t a bizarre dream. Their lavishly praised pitching depth got tested to the point that the man sometimes known as “the nose” was back in Flushing. Who saw that coming? Shortly after being traded to Pittsburgh for Neil Walker in the offseason, Niese made a comment about the Mets defense some perceived as traitorous snark. Consequently, the Mets online community reacted to his reacquisition about the same way you’d expect the crowd at a Black Sabbath concert to the request, “Will you please welcome to the stage, ADAM LEVINE!!!!” Of course, the reunion didn’t last too long, as even Niese went down for the count. It got so bad, their substitutes needed substitutes. Luckily for the Mets, their subs saved them.

You wouldn’t normally consider Bartolo Colon a sub or replacement, but it’s easy to forget he was keeping the number 5 slot in the starting rotation warm for Zack Wheeler, then move to the bullpen. Godot … excuse me … Wheeler, originally due to return in July, never came back. He last pitched for the Mets on September 25^th, 2014. For some perspective on how long that’s been, Derek Jeter’s historic final game at Yankee Stadium was on the same date.

Meanwhile, the overweight 43-year-old Colon was among the most durable of Mets, winning 15 games, hitting his first career home run in his 20^th season, and continuing to be, no exaggeration, one of the most beloved Mets in franchise history. Because of his appearance, he initially was regarded as a kitschy figure, even gaining the sarcastic nickname “big sexy.” However, Colon’s consistency, leadership, heart, and humor have made him a genuine folk hero in New York. Hopefully, he’ll resign for another year and perhaps pitch beyond that. The oldest player in the game, Colon was born two month’s before me. Once he retires, I’ll be older than everyone currently playing major league baseball. If that can be delayed as long as possible, it would be much appreciated.

Lucas Duda bears a strong resemblance to David Harbour as Chief Hopper in Stranger Things, yet disappeared like Will and Barb back in May. Out in El Paso, James Loney had vanished into oblivion, playing first base for the Chihuahuas, the Padre’s Triple-A affiliate. Apparently, it gets cold in San Diego, as despite being in last place at the time, (and eventually finishing at the bottom of the NL West with 94 loses), the Padres never saw fit to promote Loney. Instead, they dumped him to the Mets in exchange for the always humbling “cash considerations.”

For the majority of 2016, he stabilized first base, being his usual solid, unspectacular self. On October 1^st, Loney, not known for his power, broke a 2-2 tie in Philadelphia with a two-run home run. The usually low-key Loney dropped the bat like Prince casually flinging his guitar after a particularly scorching performance, grinning toward the Mets dugout with arms raised in victory. The homer helped the Mets clinch home field advantage for the wild-card game, while also symbolizing how far he’d come since joining the team on Memorial Day weekend.

If someone said before this season the Mets would make the postseason with Rene Rivera as their primary catcher, the average response would’ve been, “Who?!” followed by, “Uh-oh.” Once again, d’Arnaud got hurt. The difference this time was his surprising unproductivity when healthy. And yet again, Plawecki didn’t make the most of his opportunity, ultimately being sent down when d’Arnaud came back in June. Rivera didn’t conjure up ghosts of catchers past like Piazza, Carter, or even d’Arnaud from last year. But he solidified a position that had gone from surplus to void in record time.

The Bronx’s T.J. Rivera just kept hitting all year, mainly in Triple-A. At one point during the summer, the Mets treated him like a yo-yo, having him go back and forth from Queens to Vegas. After Wilmer Flores’ headfirst suicide slide sidelined him in September, Rivera’s playing time increased, and he made the most of it, batting .333 in 33 games. With Neil Walker a free agent, Rivera could be the 2017 opening day second baseman.

Good news: Last month, Gabriel Ynoa struck out eight in 4 2/3 innings in his first major league start. Bad news: it was against the Twins, who lost 103 games. Still, a very impressive beginning. And then there’s that last name, which sounds like it’s from Michael Jackson’s “Bad.” Presumably, the Mets will soon have prospects coming up with the surnames “Jamone,” “Shamone,” and “Eeee–heee.”

While we’re on the subject of rookie pitchers with odd surnames, how about Robert Gsellman? His last name could be one of those German sounding nonsense words Jerry Lewis randomly shouts. There’s also Gsellman’s long hair and tattoos, making him appear more rock’n’roll than most current rock bands. Plus, it’s difficult not to respect anyone whose entrance song is Billy Squier’s “The Stroke.” Most importantly, he stepped up and became a huge factor in the Mets successful wild-card drive.

The phrase “thrown into the fire” was invented for situations like Gsellman’s major league debut in St. Louis. Think about how demoralizing it was seeing Jon Niese limp off the field, four batters into the game. On top of everything else the Mets had to deal with, “the nose” got snipped. You felt bad for him, while also coldly thinking that he hadn’t really been missed in the first place. The problem was, they were running out of pitchers.

This was one of the key moments of 2016. After Niese departed for the season, the Mets could’ve done the same. Instead, they called on Gsellman, who proceeded to shut down one of the best offenses in baseball, throwing 3 2/3 scoreless innings for his first big-league win. He then takes over what would’ve been Niese’s slot in the starting rotation, and pitched like such an old pro down the stretch, it’s hard to fathom he was born the year Pearl Jam’s Vs. came out (’93). Not bad for someone pitching in Double-A as recently as June 5^th.

Yet another rookie pitcher that came to the rescue was Seth Lugo. His hairstyle brought to mind Jim Carrey in Dumb and Dumber, but it was highly paid professional major league hitters who looked stupid attempting to hit Lugo’s curveball. Statcast measured one of his curves at 3,498 rpm, the highest spin curve ever tracked. They’ve only been around since 2015, but this is noteworthy. Out of all the exceptional pitchers currently in MLB, a 2011 34^th-round pick who went under the radar of most Mets fans, and on a team celebrated for their pitching, set the record. Great as that is, the most crucial part of Lugo’s stellar underdog tale is becoming one of the Mets most dependable contributors during the season’s second half. Without Lugo and Gsellman shoring up their battered starting rotation, the year ends in August.

The homecoming of Jose Reyes has been described as a “feel good” story. He added some much needed speed and vitality at the top of the lineup, while taking over for David Wright at third base. His arrest for alleged domestic violence and subsequent 53 game suspension, however, is what made him available to begin with. Feel nauseous?

Some claim the Mets benefited from an easy schedule in September. While true, it doesn’t detract from what they accomplished. The 2016 Mets displayed the kind of grit and fortitude worthy of a Thin Lizzy song. In fact, “Fighting My Way Back” should’ve been blasting throughout the summer at Citi Field.

Despite the World Series in full swing and Halloween approaching, you can still take pleasure in the promise of a new baseball season. The Mets have many questions for 2017, yet if the pitching is completely healthy and Colon comes back, they’ve got Syndergaard, deGrom, Harvey, Matz, Wheeler, Colon, Lugo, GSELLMAN!, and Ynoa (ya know it, shamone!) as nine potential starters. If we’re being generous, let’s include eternal prospect Rafael Montero to make it an even ten. Most teams can’t match that quality/quantity.

Here’s to next year. Let’s go Mets!

Matt Leinwohl

With Halloween four days away, Lou Reed died on a Sunday morning on Long Island. How’s that for timing?

And the location? Springs and Freeport are two different worlds, but both situated on the same Island. Like many New Yorkers of a certain age, Reed was born in Brooklyn and moved to Long Island. In his case, Freeport. Judging from the electro shock therapy he had as a teenager, Lou Reed and the suburbs weren’t the best fit.

1990’s Songs for Drella, a collaboration between Reed and ex-Velvet Underground bandmate John Cale, dedicated to their mentor Andy Warhol, opens with “Small Town.” The Sondheimesque last verse states, “When you’re growing up in a small town/you know you’ll grow down in a small town/There’s only one good use for a small town/You hate it and you know you’ll have to leave.” Reed was writing about Warhol, but also referring to himself and any other suburban or rural misfit dreaming of the big city.

Through The Velvet Underground, Reed and Warhol made a seismic impact on the city, specifically downtown culture. In 1966, Warhol promoted a series of multimedia (a term coined that year by Bobb Goldsteinn for his Lightworks extravaganza at L’Oursin in Southampton that summer) events called The Exploding Plastic Inevitable. It combined live music by The Velvet Underground with screenings of Warhol’s films and dancing. There was also performance art, which was so under the radar at that point, it hadn’t even reached cult status. Around this time, the part of the Lower East Side between 14^th Street and Houston Street became known as the “East Village.” The big city got bigger, and future artistically inclined misfits had a wider, richer canvas to dream about, and when they got there, to dream on.

Despite the Warhol connection however, Reed had more in common with Jackson Pollock, the genius painter who became as symbolic to the End End as Mickey Mouse is to Disney World. Aside from living and dying in Springs, each one transformed their art forms. Reed’s work with The Velvet Underground was like nothing that had come before, abstract expression with amps.

The Velvet Underground would eventually become the most influential rock’n’roll band not named The Beatles. That may sound like hyperbole, but the reality is three Nassau County natives, a Welsh mastermind, and a German Cabaret singer from Fellini’s La Dolce Vita started what would later be known as “alternative” music. There’s also the fact that Reed’s anger for his Long Island past had been channeled into ruthless, avant-garde guitar freak-outs and grim, poetic lyrics which played a part in the development of punk, post-punk, grunge, art rock, hard rock/heavy metal, goth, synth pop, dark wave … you get the idea.

When you listen to The Velvet Underground & Nico, their 1967 debut, you’re stepping into the New York City they created, a phantasmagoric funhouse where every day sounds and looks like Halloween. Reed’s early work with the VU shared a macabre, All Hallows’ Eve atmosphere as some of Pollock’s paintings on paper. When looking at 1950’s Untitled, featuring black ink appearing like a ceremonial circle of ghouls, you can hear John Cale’s dark, droning, stormy castle electric viola, and Reed’s Mummy trudge guitar/Howard Cosell as Dracula from Freeport vocals. I’m referring to “Venus in Furs,” which is essentially Transylvania psychedelia, a reminder that while an entity unto themselves, the Velvets still possessed some then-contemporary touches.

The opening guitar riff of “There She Goes Again” had been taken from Marvin Gaye’s 1962 “Hitch Hike,” but sounded more like the incidental music from Ralph Bakshi’s late ‘60s Spider-Man cartoons. In the mid-‘60s, rock’n’roll started to lean towards the baroque and exotic, and that’s exactly what John Cale brought to the band. “Sunday Morning” is no exception. Cale’s viola and celesta match the plaintiveness in Reed’s voice on this paranoid lullaby. Reed never sounded as innocent as he did on “Sunday Morning,” the first song from The Velvet Underground & Nico, his first album.

It was apparent from the start that Reed, at just 24 years old, could write love songs as good as anyone. “I’ll Be Your Mirror” is a perfect example. “Heroin” is an even better, albeit more unorthodox one, especially the 14^th Street “Freebird” version on Reed’s live Rock’n’Roll Animal. Recorded in December 1973 at the Howard Stein Academy of Music in the East Village, it rivals 1971’s At Fillmore East by The Allman Brothers Band and that same venue/year’s Performance Rockin’ the Fillmore from Humble Pie as all-time greatest live album.

It mainly consists of drastically different renditions of VU tunes done hard rock ’73 style, with dueling guitars. Reed declares at the beginning of “Heroin,” “I’m gonna try for the kingdom, if I can.” The astonishing guitar duo of Steve Hunter and Dick Wagner see to it that he does. Reed was a consummate team player; a distinctive guitarist in his own right, he simply sang and played the part of flamboyant front man, wearing a choker collar, makeup and closed-cropped hair, resembling Rahm Emanuel as Christopher Lee’s Frankenstein’s Monster.

“Heroin” builds up like the “a little bit louder now” section of “Shout” by The Isley Brothers. As the music takes on a more frantic pace, Reed shouts what chillingly could be a description of the past year, “And all the politicians making crazy sounds, and all the dead bodies piled up in mounds! Yeah!” It’s followed by pure, intense euphoria; Dick Wagner’s guitar solo simultaneously conveying the power of the will to live, adapting to life without something or someone you love, and the torture of addiction.

Wagner, who passed away nine month’s after Reed, starts off with interstellar proto-Van Halen pyrotechnics, then swerves to a ride the lightning delirium mixed with melancholy comparable to Duane Alllman’s work on Derek and the Dominos’ “Why Does Love Got to Be So Sad?” This is high art that aims for the cheap seats, a microcosm of the entire record. You can bet that throughout the ‘70s, it was blaring from cars filled with teenagers making nocturnal drives around the kind of suburban neighborhoods Reed escaped from.

Like Reed, my father is a Brooklyn/Freeport Doo Wop kid, although they never crossed paths. By the time he reached high school, Reed was at Syracuse University. Freeport is best known for their football team, with the recently retired New York Jets Pro Bowl offensive tackle D’Brickashaw Ferguson an alumnus. During Reed’s time at Freeport High, the football coach was Bill Ashley, an iconic figure in the town’s history. Ashley coached for over 20 years, brought four Rutger Cups to Freeport and his teams went undefeated all four years Reed was there. He’s the “coach” referred to in 1976’s “Coney Island Baby,” which is Reed at his most contemplative.

The first half of the song, Reed uses the line, “I wanted to play football for the coach,” as a refrain, the same way Allen Ginsberg used, “I’m with you in Rockland” in Howl. Who knew Reed was a “clear eyes, full hearts, can’t lo(u)se” kind of guy? It was a fascinating revelation, proof that even Lou Reed, who countered the defiant 60’s counterculture with tales of sadomasochism and violence, the NYC man who personified urban rebel soul and rock’n’roll heart, deep down just wanted to take the first syllable out of “misfit.”

“Coney Island Baby” has a mellow, late summer Sunday afternoon at the boardwalk feeling to it, a setting when you’re apt to be reflective about the past and future. The other half of the song has Reed looking ahead, rhapsodizing on how “The glory of love might see you through.” This becomes a refrain towards the conclusion, invoking 1951’s “The Glory of Love” by The Five Keys.

During the afternoon of October 31st, a few hours before the Village Halloween Parade that Reed immortalized on 1989’s “Halloween Parade” as a meditation on loss, Laurie Anderson posted an open letter in The East Hampton Star. It gave a brief glimpse of their final days together. She wrote, “What a beautiful fall! Everything shimmering and golden and all that incredible soft light. Water surrounding us.” Declaring Springs their “spiritual home,” she stated that Reed, “spent his last days here being happy and dazzled by the beauty and power and softness of nature.”

Long Island, of all places, was where the glory of love saw Lou Reed through.

Matt Leinwohl

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

How many times can a man listen to Sting and Peter Gabriel before he’s declared clinically insane?

Back at Emerson College in the ‘90s, my friends and I would congregate at John and Leo’s room. Like a lot of times when men get together, we’d talk about women. There were also many conversations on music, movies, theatre, literature, and Miami Vice. We’d even bust out the occasional Charles Bronson or Sean Connery impression. Every available space was covered with film posters or ripped out photos of directors, actors and musicians. Leo had a series of Twin Peaks posters that spotlighted the actresses Sherilyn Fenn, Lara Flynn Boyle and Mädchen Amick looking very alluring. It was the film school equivalent of those Budweiser Bikini posters prevalent in other colleges at the time. A manically perplexed John Turturro from Barton Fink, looking as if he were grappling with some complex philosophical query, was placed next to Amick so it would appear he was reacting to her. In that context, he simply looked horny.

The 5-Disc CD Player was in constant use, with acts ranging from Pearl Jam, Cypress Hill, Kate Bush, Marvin Gaye, Warren Zevon, John Coltrane, Steely Dan, the Beastie Boys, and on and on providing sonic sustenance. John and Leo had home-field advantage, so we mainly listened to their collection, which for the most part overlapped with everyone else’s. Once in a while though, some of us would bring our own music. If the mood was slightly tense, I’d put on Soundgarden, Van Halen, Sex Pistols, Thin Lizzy, Buddy Guy, James Gang, The Who, ‘70s Aerosmith or any other heavy, guitar-oriented act that seemed appropriate.

When things reached DEFCON 1 levels, it was, as Jim coined, “Time to break out the Pantera.” Even John, whose hatred of hard rock/heavy metal was only surpassed by his disgust for sports and jeans, appreciated the humor in the genuine therapeutic value within Dimebag Darrell’s scorched Texas desert Randy Rhoadsish guitar, Vinnie Paul’s treadmill run amok drums, and Phil Anselmo’s blood-curdling screaming and rumbling, which could either sound like the Cookie Monster or William Hurt as Randy “Macho Man” Savage.

If you happened to pass by the room and merely heard the threatening opening drums of “I Don’t Care Anymore” by Phil Collins, it would be apparent that circumstances had moved to the nuclear winter phase. Like the time Sean got rejected by his crush, a dancer who resembled the young Isabella Rossellini, in favor of the fat, dirty, stinking caveman-looking guy best known for recently sitting on and breaking one of the toilets, a fitting symbol for Sean’s obliterated ego.

But the two acts that were heard from the most were Sting and Peter Gabriel. Between the solo careers and their time with The Police and Genesis, we listened to them so often, it’s like we were getting paid to. It started early. Most of us first met in the beginning of September ’92. A few weeks later, some of us took a midnight march though the chilly Autumn gas lamp lit streets of Boston’s Back Bay to pick up Gabriel’s Us at the Tower Records on Newbury the moment of its release. The album in part dealt with broken relationships, exuding a soulful, wounded romanticism. We recognized that this somber, at times celebratory record illustrated how Gabriel could make blissful art out of pain and failure, but as 18, 19-year-olds, too young to personally relate to the adult situations inspiring it.

The songs on the first few albums from The Police fit our stage of maturity. “So Lonely,” ”Hole In My Life,” “Be My Girl – Sally,” The Bed’s Too Big Without You,” “It’s Alright For You,” and the others connected with us on a more primitive level. Sting and Gabriel’s work are equally intellectual, spiritual and physical. With the Merchant/Ivory vibe of Sting, it’s easy to forget about the last aspect. One of the more cultured and articulate writers in rock’n’roll, this former teacher also expertly communicates through reggae chants and wordless vocals that sound exotic.

One of our favorite examples was the title track to 1979’s Reggatta de Blanc, an expanded version of the simultaneously spirited and poignant dub-funk instrumental break from the previous year’s “Can’t Stand Losing You.” A couple of times we’d replicate The Police’s dorky dance moves from their videos, chanting along with Sting, “JAH!” and “RIOOOOOOOOO-RIAYYYYYYYY-RIAAAAAAAAAAYO!” However, they made being goofy look cool. We did not. But God (or in this case, Jah) that was fun.

John once took goofy to extremes when we were listening to the last album Gabriel did with Genesis, their 1974 magnum opus, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway. During “The Colony of Slippermen,” I’d noticed something odd and asked, “Did Gabriel just say shoobedoobe? That’s pretty silly.” It shouldn’t have been too surprising. After all, the song was titled “The Colony of Slippermen.” Not looking too amused by my comment, John proceeded to give an earnest, thorough examination on the significance of the “shoobedoobe.” Even for a music obsessive like myself, that was excruciating.

Sitting at Madison Square Garden, waiting for the Sting/Peter Gabriel show to start, it was difficult not to be bombarded with all these songs and memories. After one left, another immediately took its place, like my cerebral cortex had staged a college reunion. The Police’s “Bring on the Night” was next. It suddenly occurred that the song, or more specifically the title, befitted our lives back then. After classes, we’d meet up and talk, oftentimes until the sun came up, or go out and partake in the peak of independent film, and the resurgence of guitar-based rock’n’roll, the last time it would influence the mainstream on such a massive scale. There’s such a preponderance of colleges in Boston, it was akin to living in a science fiction movie where the adults have disappeared.

My friends and I are now the adults, having experienced birth, death, war, disease, weddings, making movies, being in Manhattan on 9/11, long-term unemployment, mediocre goatees, reunions of Van Halen and The Police, the Red Sox winning the World Series three times, having your ads greet you throughout the city, falling in love, shattered relationships, and all the good and bad life throws at you. Astoundingly, the most painfully shy of us joined the Marines and ended up losing a foot in service to his country.

I would soon turn 43, a year older than Gabriel was when Us came out. Predictably, with the passage of time it’s a completely different album, no longer an abstract work of art to marvel at. It had become real life. These thoughts then dimmed when the lights did, signaling the crowd to focus on the present with these songs of the past that were about to be performed.

It was time to bring on the night.

Matt Leinwohl

The 6:44 train to Penn Station would be pulling in soon. On this first night of summer, under the bright, early evening sun, a sixtysomething woman danced while waiting, using the Rockville Centre Station elevated platform as her own Studio 54. Her grey hair, styled in a bob, bounced up and down as she did jumping jacks, Pat Benataresque shoulder shakes, and other moves to the music only she could hear. You could easily imagine The Cure’s vibrant “In Between Days” and “Close to Me” as part of her imaginary playlist. Maybe she was headed to the show?

If so, hopefully she caught The Twilight Sad’s dynamic opening set. The Scottish act were evocative of the stellar British post-punk groups that came up with The Cure in the late ‘70s/early ‘80s, such as Killing Joke, The Chameleons, Joy Division, The Sound, and many others. They’re all linked by a sound both cinematic and nocturnal, with jagged or ambient guitars, and haunting keyboards like dying breaths. The word “gloomy” is usually associated with these bands, yet they somehow found the beauty and humor in loneliness, anger, death, misanthropy, and self-loathing. As a bonus, some of their material had killer grooves, which made them songs of danceable dejection.

In his Cureish “Lovers in a Dangerous Time” from 1984, Bruce Cockburn sang, “Got to kick at the darkness ‘till it bleeds daylight.” This is exactly what artists do. The world is a dark, depressing place. That’s not an original notion, but it’s an oddly inspiring one. When artists reflect this in their work, whether it’s Edvard Munch, John Lee Hooker, Neil Leinwohl, Michael Mann, Richard Yates, Dorothea Lange, or The Cure, they’re testifyifing that you’re not alone thinking this. It makes the world less dismal and more stimulating, in the process creating future artists. At Madison Square Garden, The Twilight Sad triumphantly picked up that flaming torch of Sturm und Drang, topped off with the occasional Scottish brogue.

They got their name from a line in the poem But I Was Looking at the Permanent Stars by British poet/WWI solider Wilfred Owen, “Sleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad.” Aside from their impressive literary pedigree, they’re also a formidable live act. Singer/lyricist James Graham did odd dance moves that were equal parts Ed Grimley, Ian Curtis and Michael Stipe circa ’91. Songs like “Last January” harked back to the days when Stipe sounded like Roky Erickson trapped in Kudzu. Promoting their recent album Nobody Wants to be Here and Nobody Wants to Leave (great title), TTS took such complete command you would’ve thought they were headlining “The World’s Most Famous Arena.” Some day they will.

 The actual headliners wasted no time in spellbinding the crowd by opening with “Out of This World,” from 2000’s Bloodflowers, followed by “Pictures of You” and “Closedown” from their 1989 masterwork Disintegration. Like some of their best compositions, all three are semi-Overtures, taking their time getting to the lyrics, allowing the audience to get deep into the ambience. “Closedown” was particularly mesmerizing, combining Bo Diddley tribal percussion, Robert Smith’s quiet, teary guitar, and Simon Gallup’s boomingly melodic bass with lush synths. This powerful synthesis of sounds was a perfect example of why The Cure are one of the most popular and respected live acts in the world.

There was a mini-set of 1985’s The Head on the Door, featuring “A Night Like This,” “Push” and “In Between Days” performed in a row. The first one showcased guitarist Reeves Gabrels, who replaced the sax solo from the original with a solo that gave it more weight and intensity. After his stellar work with David Bowie, Tin Machine and Modern Farmer, it was good to see this underrated musician playing the sold-out Garden with The Cure. Gabrels and Smith played MSG with Bowie for his 50^th birthday show in ’97, where they did “The Last Thing You Should Do.” Smith memorably (and fittingly) handled the repeated lyrics, “Nobody laughs anymore.” After Bowie shouted, “YEAH!!,” Gabrels unleashed a torrent of head-banging guitar so powerful, you can probably still see the cracks in the roof.

Back to the present; the other two songs showed the buoyant side of The Cure, at least musically. “Push” always gets the crowd excited. The opening guitar riff and proceeding high-five melody have an optimistic, “Morning in America” feeling. You can picture people with big smiles exchanging pleasantries on their way to the office. Or major sports highlights of the ‘80s, like Jesse Orosco skipping towards Gary Carter after winning game 6 (perhaps the greatest, most suspenseful baseball game ever played) of the ’86 playoffs in Houston, clinching the NL Pennant. Never mind the lyrics begin with, “Go! Go! Go! Push him away!” and also include, “Oh smear this man across the walls like strawberries and cream.” Then there’s “In Between Days” with, “Go on, go on, your choice is made. Go on, go on, and disappear.” But those melodies! Despondence never felt so effervescent.

Next up was “The Last Day of Summer” on the first day of summer. You would expect nothing less from Robert Smith. “Kyoto Song” fused surrealist imagery with Far Eastern sounds. “A Strange Day,” from 1982’s incredible Pornography, contained unsettling drums which were like loud 3:00AM door knocks and a low, eerie, watery keyboard drone that went perfectly with a line like, “Move slowly through drowning waves.”

“Lovesong” and “Just Like Heaven” were crowd pleasers, as one would expect. A remarkable aspect of The Cure is that the songs which were embraced by the mainstream have as much depth as anything from their oeuvre. The former was Smith’s wedding gift to his wife. It’s the opposite of something like “Push,” in that the lyrics are devoutly blissful, even as the music has a beautifully exotic, almost Spanish melancholy to it. And it’s got another one of Simon Gallup’s unforgettably expressive bass lines, simultaneously moving while wanting to make you move.

Smith is the soul of The Cure, but Gallup’s bass is the pulsing heart, the dominant instrument of their sound. His singable bass lines are Phil Lynottesque, which Smith, a massive Thin Lizzy fan (he once stated he’d seen them ten times in two years) presumably noticed when he hired him to replace original bassist Michael Dempsey in ’79. It’s time Gallup (cool name for a bass player) got his due as one of the elite, up there with Jack Bruce and Motown legend James Jamerson.

The first set ended with “Bloodflowers,” its grandiose shadowiness ideal for the cavernous arena. The first encore began with the new “It Can Never Be the Same,” a stunning slow-burner that bodes well for the future of a band that’s been focusing on the past in recent years. Speaking of which, 1980’s creepy “At Night” was a particular favorite. It’s the kind of atmospheric tune you can imagine hearing at the end of a Miami Vice episode, where Crockett and Tubbs give each other the “Oh shit” look, having just realized the serial killer they brought in is actually innocent. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Castillo is so enraged that the real killer is still out there, he does one of his intense stares that burns a hole through the soul, just like the song. And yes, I probably have watched that show a little too much.

The second encore ended with “Burn,” written for and featured in the 1994 film The Crow. The graphic novel in which the movie was based on had been party inspired by The Cure. Surprisingly, “Burn” was first played live in 2013. Since then, it’s been a constant on this tour, and deservedly so. Yet another reminder of what a deep bench they have.

The sonic twins “Play for Today” and “A Forest” from 1980’s Seventeen Seconds concluded the third encore. Although the latter leans more phantasmagoric, a nightmare you can dance to. There are many interpretations, but it seems to document that grim feeling one gets when you realize that love can have an expiration date. And you were unaware that date had already passed. “The girl was never there. It’s always the same. I’m running towards nothing, again and again and again and again.” The propulsive force of the music echoed that sentiment. Towards the end, Gallup laid it to rest with a steady “dun-dun” heartbeat tempo, then the bass suddenly dissipating like a dream.

Recent set lists revealed that “Boys Don’t Cry” would finish the show. So when it started, that was the signal to do my Rickey Henderson impression. Nothing against the song, but some boys don’t want to be stuck like a sardine on the crowded MSG escalator for an hour. The 12:01 back to the Island would be pulling in soon.

Matt Leinwohl

The woman’s face was buried in her paperback copy of J.G. Ballard’s High-Rise. This was not an unexpected sight. When you’re lined up for a Gary Numan show, chances are you’ll see someone reading Ballard, William Burroughs or Phillip K. Dick, all influences on him. It’s about as likely as encountering sanctimony and ignorance at your average political rally.

She’d been completely engrossed in the novel, disengaged from her surroundings, bringing to mind Numan’s “Me! I Disconnect from You” from Replicas, the 1979 album he would be spotlighting on this night. It was a welcome change of pace. How often do you see someone reading an actual book these days?

Standing in front of her was a tall, skinny man with a graying Fu Manchu beard and moustache, whose face would mildly shake once in awhile. An attractive 30ish woman passed by, smirking at the line with the superior air of someone unaccustomed to waiting on one. In particular, she focused on the Fu Manchu guy, casually judging him with a cruel smile. In Numan’s “Are ‘Friends’ Electric?” the first line is “It’s cold outside.” Tell me about it.

It would be even chillier inside the Gramercy Theatre with an evening of icy synthesizer-based music. The opening act was I Speak Machine, an audio-visual collaboration between musician Tara Busch and filmmaker Maf Lewis. Busch provided the live, gurgling synth soundtrack to the short film Zombies 1985, a faithful homage to the hilariously cheesy/scary horror films from that era. Not amused or frightened was the hefty, expressionless man with long hair wearing an ‘80s metal-head denim jacket a few seats away. He resembled the Frankenstein’s Monster in Penny Dreadful, if the creature was from New Jersey and had a severe case of ennui.

Mary Shelley’s Vinnie Vincent didn’t seem to appreciate that after the movie, Busch gave a mesmerizing set, the highlight being her exceptional cover of Numan’s “Cars.” With just keyboards and ghostly wordless vocals, she sang the haunting synthesizer melodies, sounding like if an angel had joined Van Halen for their ominous Numanesque 1981 synth instrumental, “Sunday Afternoon in the Park.”

In addition to I Speak Machine and Van Halen, Numan impacted a wide variety of artists. Hip-hop pioneer Afrika Bambaataa stated in a 2014 Vice interview, “That (Numan’s 1978 single “Bombers”) was one of the early records we used to play when rappers was rapping. I don’t know if Gary even knows there was so many black and Latino youth jamming to his music.”

And for anyone who ever detected Numan in some of Prince’s work (particularly the early stuff), congrats. According to the book Prince in the Studio (1975-1995): Volume One by Jake Brown, Prince asked, “Do you like Gary Numan? You know, his album Replicas never left my turntable. There are people still trying to work out what a genius he was.” The late artist, rightly thought of as a genius as well, probably would’ve had a good time with the rest of the “Numanoids” at the Gramercy. The first half of the show was Replicas in its entirety, plus the B-sides “Do You Need the Service?” and “We Are So Fragile.”

The record was originally credited to Tubeway Army, the band Numan led, and had one of the most iconic album covers of that era. Numan’s dressed in black with bleached blonde hair appearing like Billy Idol’s anti-social younger brother, staring blankly (like Mary Shelley’s Vinnie Vincent) out the window from an empty room. Across the street is the entrance to a park (in reality an illustration), with the words “The Park” on top of the gate shining in orange neon through the darkness, with a Crescent moon above. It’s referenced in “Down in the Park,” where all sorts of horrifying things happen. This futuristic (for 1979) image of isolation came across as Edward Hopper’s Blade Runner. Incidentally, this was three years before Ridley Scott’s visionary interpretation of Phillip K. Dick’s novel Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? had been released.

Almost 40 years later, there he was pushing 60, leading his band on the title track. Already Numan was throwing the audience a curve, as it’s the second song on the second side, so the album wouldn’t be presented in order. Good idea. The foreboding, funky drums made for an ideal introduction, and a reminder of why the original hip-hop artists caught on to him before most people.

Guitarist Steve Harris (not to be confused with Iron Maiden’s bassist) made an immediate impression, doing a gawky Scarecrow/Pete Townshend dance to the groove, while adding more guitar crunch. This set the tone, as everything had more power, especially the up-tempo songs  “You Are in My Vision,” “It Must Have Been Years,” “Praying to the Aliens,” and “The Machman.” Steve Malin’s liner notes to Replicas 1998 reissue mentioned that the first two “reveal Numan’s teenage enthusiasm for ‘70s rock acts, Queen and Thin Lizzy.”

While accurate, the main antecedent is the ‘60s British invasion. The primitive guitar riffs and young man blues of the early Who and Kinks inform this material more than anything. In particular, the whimsical melodies/lyrics of Ray Davies, which Numan put a bleak, robotic, extraterrestrial twist on, even with “Down in the Park.”

Davies’ narrator was gazing on “Waterloo Sunset” from his window, where he was “in paradise,” and didn’t “need no friends.” Whereas the character in “Down in the Park” looks out his window at the park, “where the chant is ‘death, death, death’ until the sun cries morning.” Numan’s world is clearly much darker, but they’re both content in their alienation from the rest of the world, “alien” being the key word for Numan.

“Down in the Park” contrasted the ugliness of the lyrics with the music’s exquisiteness, which was transcendent in a live setting. You felt completely absorbed in the synth splendor. On a sonic level this was Air years before the French electronic duo existed. “Are ‘Friends’ Electric?” got the most enthusiastic response of the night, everyone dropping their fists like hammers and singing the “ber-ner, ber-ner” synth parts leading up to the spoken verses. You know you’ve made an impact when large groups of grown men and women sing along to farty keyboard squiggles you created four decades ago.

The instrumental “When the Machines Rock” wouldn’t have sounded out of place in a Peanuts cartoon, the bouncy synths and handclaps making you envision Charlie Brown and company getting down at one of Prince’s Paisley Park parties. Another instrumental, “I Nearly Married a Human” followed, the previous composition’s endearing quirkiness perfectly countered by the elegiac, ambient beauty of this Enoesque work of art. The title references a relationship that has ended, with spatial synthesizers capturing the sadness of what it’s like when two people have slowly drifted apart from each other, like astronauts floating in the darkness of space. It’s one thing to listen to this on iTunes, but at the Gramercy it became an experience that bordered on holy. Meanwhile, Mary Shelley’s Vinnie Vincent still looked bored.

Watching this album come to life, it was hard to fathom Replicas came out the same year as AM Gold balladry like Robert John’s “Sad Eyes” and the rural ‘70s hard rock Americana of (the British) Bad Company’s “Rock’n’Roll Fantasy,” among the myriad other genres of that time. Numan blazed his own trail by dealing with the impact of technology on humanity, featuring characters known as Machmen who were half men, half machines. Throughout the evening, while these songs of danceable dehumanization were performed, the crowd either held up IPhones or stared at them, their devices seemingly as important as limbs.

We hadn’t become Machmen yet, but we’re almost there.

Matt Leinwohl

Sometimes the bad guys win. As Met fans who experienced the ‘80s, we should know this by now. Such was their reputation that there’s even a book on the 1986 Mets called The Bad Guys Won. On the day we booed Chase Utley, we also cheered for the surviving members of the ‘86 Mets for their 30^th anniversary, including Lenny Dykstra. He was the little engine that could and would slam into the outfield wall to help his team. Fans of a certain age idolized Dykstra for his toughness, which earned him the nickname “Nails.” In 1987, he released a book with the same name, a riveting yarn perhaps best known for the excessive use of the phrase, “I call bullshit on that.”

Off the field, Dykstra got into a lot of trouble, piling up slimy incidents way too numerous to list, and eventually went to prison. Last year, around the time the Mets returned to the World Series, he claimed on Colin Cowherd’s radio show that he gave private investigators $500,000 to follow umpires so they could gather dirt on them. He then used the information to ensure favorable calls at the plate.

Blackmail is sleazy and indefensible, but home plate umpire Adam Hamari might give you second thoughts after his disgraceful conduct over the weekend. Ejecting the Mets ace Noah “Thor” Syndergaard for throwing a pitch behind Utley was an embarrassingly unprofessional call. Usually, pitchers get a warning, yet Hamari saw fit to put himself before the game, taking out one of the most dynamic players in baseball. People paid to see the Mets and Dodgers, not some guy who isn’t playing and whose name nobody knew up until then.

Now there’s talk about Syndergaard getting suspended. To review, Utley breaks another man’s leg, gets suspended for two games, appeals the suspension so he’s active for the reminder of the playoffs, only to have MLB drop the suspension in March. So Utley technically didn’t miss any time after purposely, brutally injuring someone, while Syndergaard was penalized for purposely not hurting Utley, and throwing behind him. I call bullshit on that.

To add further insult to literal injury, Utley later hit two home runs, the second one a grand slam, as the Mets lost 9-1. There’s also the humiliation of having almost everyone from the most celebrated team in Mets history watch this go down, a group of men who would’ve actually chased Utley had he done the same thing to one of their own.

Throughout this entire time, Utley has maintained a steady, faux-innocent expression that asks, “Who, me?” Yeah, you. Never mind that he and his wife have raised over $45,000 for the Pennsylvania Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Or that he went up to the plate to Zeppelin’s “Kashmir” while playing in Philadelphia. Or how he’s the kind of hard-nosed, clutch player that might’ve fit right in with the ‘80s Mets. Wait a minute, what did he do again?

Meanwhile, Ruben Tejada, the player whose broken fibula had us, like Judas Priest, “Screaming for Vengeance” in the first place, wasn’t even on the team anymore. He was released during Spring Training, picked up by the Cardinals, then designated for assignment this past Saturday, the same day this all happened at Citi Field. Further proof that God exists and follows baseball; Tejada was born on October 27^th, 1989, exactly three years after the Mets won the World Series. Granted, it wasn’t on the same day, but you get the idea. October 27^th is akin to a beloved holiday for Mets fans, immediately conjuring the image of Jesse Orosco’s glove seemingly disappearing into the nocturnal Flushing autumn sky, and never coming down. Judging from the exhilaration we still feel 30 years later, none of us have come down.

However, while the 2016 Mets may have what the ’86 team song, “Let’s Go Mets Go,” described as, “the teamwork to make the dream work,” Saturday showed that occasionally things don’t work out. Ask Lenny Dykstra. Or anyone else for that matter. It’s not always ’86. That’s baseball. That’s life.

Matt Leinwohl