“Now, when I talked to God, I knew he’d understand/He said, ‘Stick by me and I’ll be your guiding hand/But don’t ask me what I think of you, I might not give the answer that you want me to.’”

Fleetwood Mac’s “Oh Well” came out in 1969, a month after Woodstock. But Peter Green’s lyrics are particularly scathing in 2020, considering the amount of religious Americans who gleefully support a malevolent hedonist atheist. “Oh Well” encapsulates why Green was one of the most revered musicians of the last half-century. His rockabilly riffs are as cutting as the lyrics, a nod to the recent past, while Danny Kirwan’s melodic lightning strike leads signal the near future, as the hard rock/heavy metal ‘70s were only four months away. That Green had Kirwan dominate the song in the first place showed how magnanimous he could be, typical for someone who decided to name his band after the rhythm section.

What takes “Oh Well” to a level of exhilarating menace was the decision to have Mick Fleetwood’s drums come pummeling in a minute into the song. The tribal rhythms provide additional heft, combining with Kirwan’s Gibson Les Paul vehemence to counter the laid-back insouciance of Green’s singing and the song’s title.

Rage then fades into lonesome solemnity, as Green’s classical guitar emerges, creating a completely different atmosphere. You expect to hear Leonard Cohen dreamily reminiscing about a lost love. Instead, electric guitar, bass, cello, timpani, and clash cymbals, all performed by Green, as well as piano and recorder, conjure up a desolate Sergio Leone/Ennio Morricone landscape. Morricone, who died a few weeks before Green, was perhaps the greatest composer in the history of cinema. With the second half of “Oh Well,” Green, a Jewish blues guitarist from East London, ascended to his level.

ZZ Top paid homage to the first half of “Oh Well” on 1972’s “Just Got Paid.” AC/DC did the same with 1979’s “Beating Around the Bush.” Even guitarist-vocalist-songwriter Bob Welch, who joined Fleetwood Mac in 1971, a year after Green left, contributed his own variation of “Oh Well” with 1976’s “Religion,” from his power trio Paris. Unlike the others, it’s pure avant-garde sleaziness, uniting Sunset Strip hard rock with the dissonant no wave sound droning out of New York City around that time.

The 1971 masterpiece Led Zeppelin IV features two songs that have “Oh Well” in its DNA, “Black Dog,” with its similar stop and start verses, and the percussion nirvana of “Four Sticks.” Bassist-keyboardist John Paul Jones, who wrote the main riff to “Black Dog,” would go on to co-produce the 1993 Butthole Surfers album Independent Worm Saloon. The single “Who Was in My Room Last Night?” uses the melody of “Oh Well” as the main hook. “Oh Well” even had an effect on one of the best power pop acts of the ‘80s. In 2014, Rick Springfield published his novel Magnificent Vibration, about a man who can reach God on his cell phone. Appropriately enough, when he promoted it at bookstores, Springfield performed “Oh Well,” which his band Zoot had played live frequently back in the early ‘70s.

Green, however, was more than just one song. Much of his material, in particular 1969’s “Before the Beginning” and 1968’s “Black Magic Woman,” appear to exist in a unique dream world made up of ‘40s film noir, ‘50s blues and ‘60s psychedelia. (The latter song begins with Green’s guitar materializing like an apparition.) They all have in common a sonic and visual haziness that presumably Green picked up on. Descendants of this specific sound and vision include Little Barrie’s theme to Better Call Saul and much of David Lynch’s oeuvre. (Green would’ve been an ideal performer for the Roadhouse on Twin Peaks.)

“If music be the food of love, play on.” Green’s farewell with Fleetwood Mac, 1969’s Then Play On, was titled after the opening line of Twelfth Night. Once again, Green connects seemingly disparate elements, in this case Shakespeare and ‘50s doo-wop, likely noticing that they shared a grand romanticism. On the ballad “Closing My Eyes,” he channels the crooners of the early rock’n’roll era, while anticipating the Smiths. Not only does Green sound like Morrissey, but the first lyric, “Now it’s the same as before, and I’m alone again,” is the defining sentiment of Morrissey’s writing.

Before forming Fleetwood Mac, Green was in John Mayall & the Bluesbreakers, his tenure bookended by Eric Clapton and future Rolling Stone Mick Taylor. There’s pressure-filled gigs and then there’s replacing a musician who was just starting to be referred to as “God.” Clapton had a brief yet historic run with Mayall, but so did Green, who was subsequently known as “The Green God.” The zealotry was justified. Setting the tone for what was to come, the 1967 instrumental “The Supernatural” radiates the sensuality and fury of a monochrome femme fatale.

The following year, Mayall released the solo album Blues from Laurel Canyon. Green, who by now had a more fanatical following than his one-time boss, guested on “First Time Alone.” At a time when the guitar had only recently become associated with volume, Green’s solo has a quiet, luminous, regal beauty. The guitar is mixed so low, it sounds remote, bringing to mind distant headlights shining through midnight fog.

The distinctive, sublime sound of “The Green God” kept attracting converts, prominent among them the Beatles. During a 1969 interview, right after the release of Abbey Road, John Lennon described “Sun King” to a London DJ, “That’s where we pretend to be Fleetwood Mac for a few minutes.” He was referring to Mac’s majestically sorrowful instrumental “Albatross,” which had come out the year before. The Lennon-penned “Sun King” emulates the meditative blues of Green, while adding swirly psych guitar and celestial vocals, sounding like a forerunner to The Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd, released four years later. The result is a cathartic ambiance that still comes off as sinister.

In general, you can hear traces of Green in the music the Beatles recorded throughout the end of the ‘60s. Lennon’s lead guitar on “Get Back” and “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” as well as George Harrison’s solos on “Dig a Pony” and “Come Together” possess the slinky splendor of Green’s work, but on a more primitive level. And “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” is even a blues/jazz/proto-metal tale of obsession, a Peter Green trademark.

The nocturnal metropolitan ambience of ‘70s Aerosmith owes a great deal to early Fleetwood Mac and late Beatles. They made that connection explicit by using the Then Play On two-part jam “Fighting for Madge”/”Searching for Madge” as a foundation for the rave-up sections of 1974’s “Woman of the World” and “Rats in the Cellar” two years later. In addition, they’ve been covering “Rattlesnake Shake,” also from Then Play On, since they started, and routinely perform 1968’s “Stop Messin’ Round.”

The same year Aerosmith came out with “Woman of the World,” UFO released “Lipstick Traces.” The title alone signifying loss, the melancholy instrumental has guitarist Michael Schenker doing his best attempt at a Peter Green ballad, who in turn was doing his best B.B. King and Santo & Johnny. An “Albatross”/”Sleepwalk” in the age of Dazed and Confused, you picture denim-covered couples with matching feathered hair slow dancing to it at a hard rock/heavy metal sock hop.

Due to schizophrenia brought on by drug use, Green essentially disappeared in the ‘70s. Other than a couple of singles early in the decade, he bookended the ‘70s with his only full-length releases, 1970’s The End of the Game and 1979’s In the Skies. In between, he existed as a spectre. The sad irony is Green was a living casualty in a dynamic world he helped create.

The ‘70s (and beyond) wouldn’t have been the same without him. Aside from all the acts that were previously mentioned, Santana honored one of their biggest inspirations with the hit 1970 cover of “Black Magic Woman.” Keyboardist-vocalist Gregg Rolie seemed to base his nonchalant vocal style on Green, which was even apparent years later when Rolie was in Journey, where he was a founding member. Judas Priest ended the decade with a rendition of 1970’s foreboding “The Green Manalishi (With the Two Prong Crown),” spelling out Green’s role as a heavy metal progenitor. The ominous phantasmagoria of the original is similar to Pink Floyd’s “Astronomy Domine” from three years earlier. Both could soundtrack a demonic fairground.

There are quite a few parallels between Green and his spiritual doppelganger Syd Barrett, the original Pink Floyd guitarist-singer-songwriter. Groundbreaking British musicians with matinee idol looks born in 1946, their struggles with drug related-mental health issues caused them to leave bands they led and become recluses (especially Barrett), only to witness each group eventually develop into an enduring musical and cultural phenomenon. (Unlike Barrett, Green would occasionally record and tour in the ‘80s, ‘90s and the 21^st century.)

Pink Floyd’s 1975 tribute to Barrett, “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” is uniquely affecting in that it mourns someone who was still alive at the time, with David Gilmour’s heroically sad guitar prologue expressing grief even more devastatingly than the lyrics. Seeing as Green was virtually going through the same situation, Gilmour may have had both in mind while he played. One of his biggest influences, you can hear Green in Gilmour’s stately guitar odysseys, particularly on that song. It’s like the solo from “First Time Alone” in Technicolor.

Green’s departure from Fleetwood Mac at the dawn of the decade set off a domino effect, giving more of a spotlight to Danny Kirwan and Jeremy Spencer, then later on Bob Welch, Bob Weston, and of course, Christine McVie, Lindsey Buckingham, and Stevie Nicks. It’s a remarkably talented group of musicians who had their lives and careers changed directly or indirectly because of him.

The guitarists on that list are indicative of the high standard he set, the latest being former Heartbreaker Mike Campbell, who sang “Oh Well” on the most recent Fleetwood Mac tour. Campbell, like Green, is a virtuoso known for poignant, economical solos. Moreover, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers often covered “Oh Well,” and the impetus for their 2010 album Mojo was the blues rock of the late ‘60s/early ‘70s, chief among them Peter Green’s Fleetwood Mac.

As the Buckingham/Nicks Fleetwood Mac were experiencing a new level of success with 1977’s Rumors, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers were starting to get noticed because of “American Girl,” the first single from their self-titled debut, released in late 1976. The self-titled debut from Dire Straits came out two years later, with genius guitarist-singer-songwriter Mark Knopfler picking up and expanding where Green’s 1970 instrumental “Timeless Time” left off. It was also during this period that another classic first album came out, 1977’s My Aim Is True by Elvis Costello. After Green’s passing, Costello acknowledged his debt to him and 1969’s “Man of the World” by admitting, “I wouldn’t be playing guitar today if it wasn’t for that record,” illustrating how Green’s reach extended even into ‘70s punk/new wave.

“Shall I tell you about my life?” Those are the first words of “Man of the World.” That it sounds like the start of an Elvis Costello song exemplifies the profound impact Green had on him, and how Green’s proficiency with the guitar overshadowed his stellar writing. The key line from the song, “There’s no one I’d rather be, but I just wish that I’d never been born,” has the complexity of Costello’s best work. The self-loathing of the second part uncovers that the first is expressing contempt for the world as well. If you despise your existence, yet would still rather be yourself than anyone else, that’s not exactly a glowing endorsement of humanity. In other words, “Don’t ask me what I think of you, I might not give the answer that you want me to.”

The song goes from braggadocio to longing in two and a half minutes, with the opening proclaiming, “I’ve flown across every tide, and I’ve seen lots of pretty girls,” and the last line lamenting, “How I wish I was in love.” The ending is the kicker, revealing that all along Green’s been presenting to us the thin line between misanthropy and romanticism.

Writing about Green, Costello mentions how Mac’s 1968 cover of Little Willie John’s “Need Your Love So Bad” motivated him to check out John’s work. It’s a reminder that Green and his generation of guitarists were usually the gateway to the blues, introducing the originators of rock’n’roll to legions of music fanatics.

Earlier this year, a few weeks before the world shut down, some of those guitarists like Gilmour, Pete Townshend, and ZZ Top’s Billy Gibbons congregated in London to perform at a tribute concert for Green organized by Mick Fleetwood. The 86-year-old John Mayall joined Gibbons on the Otis Rush cover “All Your Love,” an inspired pairing of Green mentor and disciple. Along with Green’s then-girlfriend Sandra Elsdon, “All Your Love” had been the inspiration for “Black Magic Woman.” The song also put the focus on Rush, the Chicago bluesman who was such a towering figure to Green and Clapton, you can hear how they initially patterned their singing after him.

Gibbons and Steven Tyler performed the two songs they were destined to team up on, “Rattlesnake Shake” and “Oh Well, Part 1,” while Gilmour “Floyded” “Oh Well, Part 2” and “Albatross.” The former was, after 50 years, finally making its live debut, and Fleetwood dedicated the latter to his one-time brother-in-law George Harrison, a kind gesture that managed to recognize the recurring connection between the Beatles, Fleetwood Mac, and considering who was covering “Albatross,” Pink Floyd.

The rest of the show included current and past members of Fleetwood Mac like Christine McVie and guitarist Jeremy Spencer, who was joined by former Rolling Stone bassist Bill Wyman. With Green’s passing five months later, Spencer is now the lone surviving guitarist from the early years. Another Mac alumnus, Rick Vito, the lead guitarist for the late ‘80s/early ‘90s edition of the group, and best known for his extraordinary slide guitar solo on Bob Seger’s 1986 nostalgia anthem “Like a Rock,” was part of the evening’s house band.

Few musicians could attract representatives of ‘80s thrash metal and ‘90s Britpop for the same show, but ex-Oasis mastermind Noel Gallagher and Metallica’s Kirk Hammett paid their respects to Green. Gallagher adapted admirably to acoustic blues like 1968’s “The World Keep On Turning.” Hammett roused a standing ovation from the crowd with his electrifying extended soloing on “The Green Manalishi (With the Two Prong Crown),” where you could hear a brief snippet of 1988’s “One” from Metallica. What made the performance even more special was that Hammett had been playing Green’s original 1959 Les Paul Standard, better known as “Greeny,” the guitar the song was written on. For years, it had been owned by the late Gary Moore, and later bought by Hammett. History was literally in good hands.

Not surprisingly, on a night where even his old guitar made an appearance, all that rock’n’roll royalty did not include the man everyone came to celebrate. Like he did in the ‘70s, the man born Peter Allen Greenbaum instead served as an Omnipetent presence. This time, not as a living casualty, but as someone living out their final years as a beloved elder statesman, felt but not seen in a dynamic world he helped create.

Fit for a man known as “The Green God.”

Matt Leinwohl

It had only seemed as if she would live forever. As the casket lowered into the ground, the reality finally hit that Grace Leinwohl, my grandmother, was in it.

The passing of a loved one is a universal experience, but that doesn’t make it any less sad and odd. Someone who’s loved you since birth (and vice versa) is now no longer in existence. In her case, a woman who was so indefatigable well into her nineties, she could exhaust anybody, even those born in the ‘90s. Just a few years ago, when she was holding court in the kitchen, each member of the family left one at a time, the same fatigued look on everybody’s faces as they headed for the living room to get a short break. How could anyone, especially at that age, have so much energy? When someone like that is suddenly gone, the quiet that follows can be deafening.

Our current reality added another layer of weirdness. Everyone wore masks and kept their distance from one another, since the funeral took place during a plague that shows no sign of ending, because too many Americans choose to put their faith in a pathological liar who purposely makes himself look as if he’s got a permanent rash on his face.

The irony of covering our faces at a time when we were mourning and celebrating my grandmother, is that she liked to brag about having, in her words, “the best looking family.” There was one Thanksgiving where my cousin and his girlfriend were visiting from college. Grandma focused like a laser on the young woman and enthusiastically asked, “Is this the best looking family you’ve seen?” As was her wont, she didn’t ask once. If the answer to a question wasn’t sufficient enough for Grace Leinwohl, she would keep inquiring. On that particular day, she had only asked twice, since some of us intervened before the situation reached a Where’s Poppa? level of absurdity. Times like these could be simultaneously exasperating and hilarious, yet in retrospect somewhat fitting. You don’t live to be 96 years old without having an extraordinary amount of persistence.

Determination and humor are a few of the characteristics that defined Grandma. She was old-school Brooklyn, back when everyone sounded like Bugs Bunny. You could often hear her saying, “It’s a tough life, but somebody gotta do it!” Solemn occasions weren’t solemn for long. After my grandfather’s funeral, she said to me, “You know, your grandfather was a great man. He really looked out for the little guy. There was one time when we were driving, he noticed a big guy beating up a little guy. Grandpa got out of the car and beat up the big guy. That’s the kind of man your grandfather was.” In the worst of circumstances, she could make you laugh without trying to.

Some things are too depressing to find any humor in. For the final two weeks of her life, she was in hospice care, mainly asleep. When the end is that close, you start to feel preemptive grief, and grieve for that person while they’re still alive. Everything will remind you of them, even the most arbitrary moments. After a Westworld episode, the brief Warner Brothers end theme was played on saloon piano, and an abrupt pang of sadness hit me. One of the prevailing sounds of childhood was my grandmother’s piano playing. A few days later, when Little River Band’s “Reminiscing” from 1978 came on the radio, I had to turn it off. The gentle, jaunty opening electric piano alone is usually enough to make you bask in the warm glow of nostalgia. But with impending loss, you’re not just mourning a person, you’re also mourning the past. With this in mind, a song from the disco era that rejoiced in nostalgia for the big band era, now served as a reminder of the near future, one which would not include my last grandparent.

The long, silent goodbye of my grandmother coincided with the release of Bob Dylan’s Rough and Rowdy Ways. The album’s ambience of funereal fury was deeply resonant, especially “Murder Most Foul.” Its sparse arrangement, mainly consisting of somber piano and violin, conjured up the image of people slowly filing in for a memorial, perfect for a song that’s essentially Dylan sitting shiva for the second half of the 20^th century. Strange as it may sound, the album prepares you for loss. Unlike “Reminiscing,” it doesn’t inspire blissful feelings about the past. Instead, it allows you to take solace in its bleakness. In this case, throughout that awful, lonely time when you’re waiting for the call everybody dreads.

The afternoon we got the call, I’d been listening to Bruce Springsteen’s SiriusXM show “From My Home To Yours.” Aside from providing a sensible voice amidst the downward spiral of moronic cruelty, Springsteen creates playlists featuring a variety of artists, including The Hold Steady, Laura Nyro, Fugazi, Little Milton, Gram Parsons, The War on Drugs, Southside Johnny & the Asbury Jukes, Irma Thomas, Future Islands, and of course, Bob Dylan.

On that day, of all days, I listened to Springsteen play Dylan’s version of “Some Enchanted Evening,” which given the context, sounded more poignant than usual. It reminded me of when my grandfather would sing to my grandmother, and croon old standards that had been relatively new when they were young. A month before his death, despite being very ill, he was still able to sing to her. One of the songs he performed was “Some Enchanted Evening.” Hearing Dylan’s version not too long after we received the call, I’ll take it as a sign that my grandfather has resumed singing.

In the weeks before her passing, another Dylan song, 2006’s “Beyond the Horizon,” kept haunting me. It seemed like one of those standards Grace and Sid Leinwohl would’ve loved. Certain lyrics stood out to the point that I ended up reciting them at my grandmother’s funeral.

“Beyond the horizon, behind the sun/At the end of the rainbow, life has only begun/In the long hours of twilight underneath the stardust above/Beyond the horizon it is easy to love/Beyond the horizon, in the springtime or fall/Love waits forever, for one and for all.”

Now would be a good time to mention that my grandmother hated Bob Dylan.

Matt Leinwohl

It wasn’t supposed turn out like this. In seemingly record time, former New York Met Matt Harvey went from “The Dark Knight,” a nightlife-loving, dynamic athlete in the tradition of Joe Namath, Walt “Clyde” Frazier, and Keith Hernandez, to a character from The Collected Stories of Richard Yates. Mets fans were once so enamored of Harvey, any day he pitched was designated “Harvey Day.” Suddenly it’s 2019, and after going 5-7, with a 7.09 ERA for the Los Angeles Angels, the team decides to release him halfway through the season. What made this an especially grim development was the timing, as it occurred just a few weeks after the shocking, tragic passing of Angels pitcher Tyler Skaggs. Even with the glaring need for a starting pitcher, Harvey was of no use to them, making him a sad addendum to an even sadder story.

The story of Harvey’s old ballclub, the Mets, is one mainly defined by bad decisions and bad luck, to the extent that they often seem like the Spinal Tap of baseball. A relatively recent example is the Daniel Murphy fiasco. After the Mets went to the 2015 World Series, in large part because of Murphy, the second baseman departed as a free agent, since they barely showed any interest in resigning him. This was despite years of solid production and his transformation into ’85 Don Mattingly during the ’15 postseason, where Murphy hit .529 in the Championship Series against the Chicago Cubs, subsequently becoming the NLCS MVP. Before that, he batted .333 in the Division Series against the Los Angeles Dodgers, at the time managed by the actual Don Mattingly.

Letting him leave was a bad decision. Bad luck was Murphy signing with their division rival Washington Nationals, where he continued channeling “The Hitman” by batting .347 with 25 home runs, and 104 RBI, as well as leading the league in doubles, slugging percentage, and OPS. He also won his first Silver Slugger Award, and finished second in the 2016 NL MVP voting. Worst of all, Murphy’s production was the principal factor in the Nationals dethroning the Mets to win the NL East title. In Spinal Tap terms, that’s pure “Shit sandwich.”

Last year was a different story, perhaps best exemplified by those memorable walk-off victories that evoked the spirit of ’86. Also bringing to mind that year were the on-field interviews Steve Gelbs conducted with first baseman Pete Alonso and left fielder J.D. Davis after their respective game-winning hits. Both players engaged the exhilarated Citi Field crowd like they were David Lee Roth circa ’86, (The propulsive Eat ‘Em and Smile provided an ideal soundtrack to that Summer of Mets) for all intents and purposes doing Diamond Dave’s “Look at the all the people here tonight!” routine.

Aside from the “Polar Bear” and “Sun Bear,” the continued emergence of shortstop Amed Rosario, outfielder Brandon Nimmo, infielder/outfielder Jeff Kent, right fielder Michael Conforto, and reliever Seth Lugo all played a part in the Mets rebounding after a disappointing first half. Having the best pitcher in baseball also didn’t hurt, with ace Jacob deGrom winning his second Cy Young in a row. It’s quite the accomplishment for someone who, out of all the Mets pitching prospects of the early to mid-2010’s, was considered an afterthought. Even Rafael Montero got more hype. Oddly enough, deGrom is enjoying the career that had once been projected for his old teammate Matt Harvey. The former rose up from indifference to achieve eminence, while the latter is currently hurtling through the reverse trajectory.

The Pete Alonso phenomenon shifted Dominic Smith’s trajectory as future first baseman of the Mets from “is” to “was.” But just when it looked like Smith got “Wally Pipped” before he even really started, “Medium Hurt” displayed tenacity that was reminiscent of Wally Backman. Smith excelled as a pinch hitter, played the occasional first base, semi-regular left field, and developed into a legitimate power threat. The Mets, of all franchises, lucked out. Smith and Alonso’s genuine enthusiasm for each other’s success set the tone for last season, giving the Mets a whole new personality, a team now defined by charismatic doggedness.

In late July, Smith’s momentum was stalled by a stress fracture in his left foot. He was still a vital force in the clubhouse, sharing scouting reports and even taking part in the on-field festivity when Michael Conforto got a walk-off hit in August, riding around the field on his scooter. What made the image so indelible is it symbolized Smith’s persistence and humor. And it served as a reminder of why baseball is so compelling. With one crack of the bat, the game can go from a protracted period of intense silence to inspired, silly delirium.

After two month’s on the injured list, Smith set a new standard for triumphant returns. During the last game of the year, in the bottom of the 11^th inning, with the Mets down 6-4 to the Atlanta Braves, Smith went up to the plate for his first at-bat since July. He proceeded to hit a three-run walk-off home run, and the Mets won 7-6, setting off the most exultant third place finish in MLB history. The season began with Smith seemingly destined to be a footnote. It ended with Smith rocketing a ball into the night. He couldn’t have made a more grand assertion about his (and the Mets) future.

That feeling of euphoria carried over into spring training. Even outfielder Yoenis Cespedes, after being injured throughout most of his Mets tenure and completely missing 2019, appeared primed to contribute to an already potent offense. It was enough to make you forgive the fact that, back in May of last year, Cespedes pulled a “Spinal Tap.” He fractured his right ankle at his Port St. Lucie ranch by stepping into a hole after an interaction with a wild boar. The insult to literal injury is that it occurred while he was recovering from surgery to both heels.

Still, that was the past. The Mets appeared ready to build on the successes of 2019. As if on cue, Conforto suffered an oblique strain and Noah “Thor” Syndergaard suffered a torn UCL, necessitating Tommy John surgery. In between injuries, the season had to be suspended because of the worst global pandemic in over 100 years, one that continues to get worse due to malignant neglect.

Writing about or discussing America’s pastime as America experiences a real-life, hazardous version of “The Emperor’s New Clothes” is somewhat odd. Maybe even improper. However, it’s a way of whistling past the grave, as the graveyards get filled more than usual.

It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this.

Matt Leinwohl

It’s a good night when shaking hands with Iggy Pop isn’t the most memorable part of it. Pop and the late photographer Robert Matheu (a legend in his own right) had been at the Barnes & Noble in Tribeca, where they were signing Matheu’s 2009 book The Stooges: The Authorized and Illustrated Story.

 On 1973’s “Search and Destroy,” Pop refers to himself as a “street walking cheetah.” That’s not braggadocio. Despite being short in stature, Pop is the personification of intimidating. While he was tranquil, erudite, and polite, his eyes radiated the kind of intensity that could only belong to someone who wrote “Raw Power” and “Gimme Danger.” Also, it’s not every evening you introduce yourself to somebody who helped create a genre of music. And it’s not every evening that the opposite happens, when someone who helped create a genre of music introduces themselves to you. On this particular evening, both instances happened within a few hours of each other.

Following the signing, my friend and I went across the street to the Gee Whiz Diner. In retrospect, the name of the establishment would sum up the night’s tone. While having dinner, we talked about music, which wasn’t uncommon. Over an hour into our conversation, however, something happened that definitely was. The middle-aged couple who had been seated across from us the entire time, suddenly were standing towards the edge of our table with knowing smiles. This could’ve been the beginning of a horror film. Instead, it was one of those occasions where living in New York City can feel as if there’s no difference between dream and reality.

“Hi, sorry for interrupting, but we overheard some of your conversation, and were really impressed by how much you guys know about music.” The woman said this as she and her husband continued to smile conspiratorially. When we thanked them, she pointed to the man and added “This is Ivan Kral.” Turns out the couple were Ivan Kral, the second punk rock pioneer I’d meet that night, and his wife, the entrepreneur Cindy Hudson.

While thinking of a reply, I could feel my face contorting into an expression that was somewhere between shocked and beatific. Having a part of your record collection compliment your musical knowledge will do that to you. There was only a finite amount of time to talk. How to proceed? If this were an ‘80s sitcom, the response would’ve been “Hey! You’re Ivan Kral! What’re you doing here?!” In real life, something almost as goofy occurred. As a member of the original Patti Smith Group, I knew that he’d co-written Smith’s 1979 song “Dancing Barefoot,” but in the heat of the moment wasn’t quite so sure. With nerves, the first casualty is intelligence. Considering why Kral and Hudson went over to us in the first place, this was an unwelcome development.

“You co-wrote ‘Dancing Barefoot,’ right?” It was a question phrased more like a statement, said in a slightly exaggerated, self-assured James Caan “New Yawk” voice as an attempt to mask any doubt. When he nodded in affirmation, I responded in my normal voice “That’s one of my all-time favorite songs.” Both Kral and Hudson’s faces lit up with genuine joy and even some relief. Hearing us talk about music for so long, it would’ve been embarrassing for everyone if we didn’t know who he was.

In the midst of the excitement, I completely forgot what specifically we were discussing that prompted this visit, and felt a slight wave of self-consciousness. Kral seemed to sense this. A native of what is now known as the Czech Republic (or Czechia), he said in his Eastern European accent “You know, Gene was always like that.” That managed to be the gateway into the recent (10 minutes ago) past. My friend and I had rhapsodized about Warren Zevon’s 1976 self-titled album, Hall & Oates’ War Babies, their 1974 collaboration with Todd Rundgen, and Kiss. The Gene Simmons reference Kral made was likely due to the awful impersonations of Simmons he’d presumably seen us doing earlier that evening.

Kral had enlisted in the “Kiss Army” a few years before such a concept existed. One of their original champions, he was friends with Kiss when they started, and even attended their early shows at the Coventry Club in Sunnyside, Queens in 1973. He likely bonded with Simmons, as they were both immigrants, the latter from Israel.  Luger, Kral’s glam rock band at the time, would open for them in August ‘73 at the Hotel Diplomat on West 43^rd Street. This was the fabled gig where Kiss met their future manager Bill Aucoin, and consequently went from outer borough oddities to kings of the night time world.

While talking with Kral in the present, it was difficult not to think of his extraordinary past. His father, Dr. Karel Kral, was the United Nations reporter for Czechoslovak news agency C.T.K. In 1966, he warned of the threat of the country being invaded by the Soviet Union. Two years later, in 1968, the Warsaw Pact invasion of Czechoslovakia had occurred. By then, the Kral’s were already living in New York as refugees, where Dr. Kral worked as a translator at the United Nations. The timing was perfect. The teenage Kral left an increasingly repressive society for a city approaching the grimy, glorious dawn of the ‘70s.

Maintaining a stealth ubiquity throughout that period, he performed with Shaun Cassidy, an early version of Blondie, and Iggy Pop, among others. (Kral and Hudson were at the Stooges book signing.) Kral never received the fanfare of his peers, but was as vital a figure as anyone from the ‘70s downtown rock scene. That’s in large part because of his role as composer/guitarist/bassist for the Patti Smith Group, where he spent most of the decade.

During his time with the band, he co-wrote classics like “Kimberly,” “Pissing in a River,” “Citizen Ship,” and “Ain’t It Strange.” The aforementioned “Dancing Barefoot” bridges the gap between mid-‘60s Byrds and early ‘80s goth/alternative, with its haunting guitar buzz refrain, sci-fi/new wave noir synths, and swirling 12-string guitar solo. Ethereal, ominous, and alluring, the song perfectly captures the nocturnal metropolitan ambience of late ‘70s New York. “Revenge,” also from 1979’s Wave, his last album with Smith, is powered by Kral’s hypnotic guitar arpeggios. Within seconds, before the singing even starts, it’s as if a spell is being cast. The music lives up to the exhilaration expressed in the title, combining the menacing psychedelic waltz of “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” by the Beatles with the sinister melody of “Remember (Walking in the Sand)” from The Shangri-Las.

“Because the Night,” from 1978’s Easter, and written by Smith and Bruce Springsteen, is another song that significantly benefits from Kral’s presence. When Smith repeats “They can’t hurt you now” before the chorus, you believe her in part because of Kral’s raggedly victorious guitar solo, which embodies the song’s defiant and romantic spirit. It’s similar to Springsteen’s pugilistic guitar work on Darkness on the Edge of Town, (released two month’s after Easter) in particular the solo’s beginning, akin to the rumbling before an earthquake.

Throughout the ‘60s and ‘70s, when Kral wasn’t playing guitar, he could often be found keeping a visual record of his time in New York, in the event he was ever deported. This started when he filmed Murray the K shows with a Super 8 camera in 1967. In 1974 and ’75, he documented the emerging New York punk scene, capturing what was going on at CBGB’s, Max’s Kansas City, and the Bottom Line. Kral managed to get Blondie, Television, the Ramones, Talking Heads, the Patti Smith Group, Richard Hell and the Heartbreakers, and other newcomers on film, back when the general public hadn’t heard of them. The closest to a familiar name at the time were the New York Dolls.

Kral and filmmaker Amos Poe compiled all of those acts into a film called The Blank Generation, named after the Richard Hell and the Heartbreakers performance. (The song would later become an anthem in 1977 with Hell’s then-current band the Voidoids.) Using silent 16mm cameras for the performances and behind-the-scenes footage, Kral and Poe edited the images with demo recordings of the different bands. The end result was avant-garde home movies that were essentially music videos before the term even existed. The Blank Generation premiered in New York City on April 22^nd, 1976. The self-titled debut album from the Ramones, the abrasively poppy clarion call from Forest Hills heard round the world, would be released the following day. Once again, timing was in Kral’s favor.

Decades later, timing was in both of our favors. I’d seen The Blank Generation for the first time a few weeks before at the Museum of Modern Art. I had informed Kral of this, and how much I loved it. Now it was time for him to look shocked. From his perspective, what were the chances this complete stranger he went up to would’ve just seen his highly influential, but relatively obscure film? When he asked what the reception was like, I flashed back to the image of a succession of visibly annoyed elderly people leaving the theatre one by one, presumably repelled by the odd, brusque music, and experimental nature of the movie. With this in mind, I responded that it had been a good turnout.

While we said our goodbyes, Kral and Hudson told us about Kral’s YouYube channel, the “IvanKralVault,” which features clips from the massive amount of footage he accumulated over the decades. This includes silent footage of Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels at the RKO Theater in Manhattan in 1967, where a portrait of then-President Lyndon B. Johnson is flashed on the giant screen behind them. The channel makes for a perfect escape, especially now with life in quarantine.

The following day, I looked up Kral online and was reminded that he co-wrote four songs for John Waite’s 1982 solo debut Ignition. Kral played rhythm guitar as well, including on the early MTV hit “Change.” His melodic arpeggios at the end encapsulates the poignancy at the heart of the bouncy new wave classic. That same year, he did the score for Diner, one of the greatest films ever made, with keyboardist Bruce Brody, his old bandmate from the Patti Smith Group. I’d known of Kral’s involvement, but had completely forgotten about it. The previous night started to make a little more sense. It’s possible he saw my friend and I as the 21^st century equivalents of the music and football obsessed characters from the movie.

On Super Bowl Sunday, one of the most sacrosanct modern rituals in America, Ivan Kral passed away. In his final years, he saw his adopted home gradually turning into a Morning zoo DJ autocracy. Unlike many of us, it’s doubtful he ever took democracy for granted. The silver lining is Kral never got to witness his beloved New York City become a mass grave site due to the malignant neglect of a bitchy, miserly, moronic, cowardly socialite. And you thought punk was nihilistic?

He also never got to see some of his fellow Michiganders putting their lives at risk to protest the necessary measures keeping them alive. Mimicking the sniveling attitude of their leader, they whine about not being able to get their hair dyed and shop for lawn fertilizer, as others quietly fade away, suffering lonely deaths that could’ve been prevented. For one last time, Kral was in the good graces of perfect timing.

His life was a great American tale, one that ranged from owning a video store in New Brunswick, New Jersey during the ‘80s to attending the memorial of former jailed dissident turned first President of the Czech Republic, Vaclav Havel in 2011, even composing and performing a memorial song called “Rest in Peace.” Kral was another New York story where dream and reality are indistinguishable. He left a country that banned rock’n’roll, then proceeded to become a crucial figure in the evolution of rock’n’roll and New York City, subsequently inspiring the rest of the world.

Ain’t it strange?

“How is he still alive?” A baffled voice could be heard among the muttering crowd that walked out of Manhattan’s Film Forum. Judging from the question, it was clear this person had just seen the 2012 documentary Beware of Mr. Baker, which at that point had attracted sold-out crowds for weeks. There appeared to be no logical answer, so the only proper response was silence.

Heroin, cocaine, alcohol, cigarettes, and hostility towards the human race is usually a combination that leads to a brief existence. Ginger Baker defied reality. In the 2005 biography Cream by Dave Thompson, Cream bassist Jack Bruce stated “I’m sure that a lot of people came to see Cream to see if Ginger would die.” Bruce added that some would go so far as to shout “You gonna die tonight, Ginger?!” Approximately half a century after that grim inquiry, on October 6^th, 2019, it actually happened. Peter Edward “Ginger” Baker passed away at the inexplicable age of 80.

Baker was nothing if not consistent. He was an angry young man, then an angry old man. Good thing he took up drumming. Having a volcanic temper turns out to be an advantage when your profession requires you to hit something relentlessly. Perhaps the greatest drummer of his generation, it’s difficult to think of anyone else who could’ve performed with the Graham Bond Organization, Fela Kuti, Hawkwind, and Public Image Ltd.

Considering himself a jazz musician, he was one of countless artists influenced by the John Coltrane Quartet of the ‘60s. During his time with Cream and Blind Faith, Baker served as the bridge between jazz titans like Coltrane’s drummer Elvin Jones and drummers from the world of hard rock/heavy metal (a genre he despised) such as Alex Van Halen, Black Sabbath’s Bill Ward, Queen’s Roger Taylor, and Rush’s Neil Peart. The brief explosive outro to 1978’s “Wheel in the Sky” from Journey is identical to the ending of 1967’s “Sunshine of Your Love” by Cream, where Baker suddenly shifts the tempo, leading the band in bashing everlastingly as the song fades out. His impact was expansive enough to also include alternative/post-punk bands Jane’s Addiction, Killing Joke, The Lords of the New Church, and Public Image Ltd, particularly the tribal aspect of his playing.

The latter group had him perform on the majority of 1986’s Album. Ginger Baker and John Lydon were an inspired pairing, the ginger misanthropist and the ginger provocateur. Oddly enough, one of the few songs he didn’t play on was “Rise.” It features jazz legend Tony Williams and has Lydon repeatedly screaming “ANGER IS AN ENERGY!” like a jolly lunatic. Baker was the embodiment of that chant. Rage can wear you out, but not if pandemonium is your default setting.

Based on the title, you’d think Blind Faith’s “Do What You Like,” from their 1969 debut/swan song, would be another song that summarized him, but the lyrics (written by Baker) tell a different story, one that surprisingly expresses a strong sense of community, albeit a hedonistic one. “Get together, break some bread, yes together, that’s what I said.” Not exactly Joni Mitchell. However, it shows that even Ginger Baker, of all people, got swept up in the utopian hippie idealism of the time, an era lamented by the Eagles on 1976’s “Hotel California,” specifically the lyric “We haven’t had that spirit here since 1969.” During Baker’s long stretches of bitter isolation as an older man, it’s possible he might’ve agreed with that sentiment.

“Do What You Like” mainly features him showing off with a lengthy drum solo, and the band somnambulantly chanting the title of the song as if they were in a cult, much like the Coltrane Quartet on 1965’s “A Love Supreme, Part 1: Acknowledgement.” Elvin Jones, who had performed on it, was profiled for Life magazine in 1970. The writer Albert Goldman (best known for his infamous 1988 biography The Lives of John Lennon) played “Do What You Like” for Jones to get his reaction. Baker’s hero responded “Nothing’s happenin’. Cat’s got delusions of grandeur with no grounds. They should make him an astronaut and lose his ass.”

Thankfully, NASA never followed up on that. But it did lead to a friendly “drum battle” between Jones and Baker in 1971 at the Lyceum Theatre in London, which included a version of “Do What You Like” that stretched on for 32 minutes. For those in attendance, it was likely feast or famine. One man’s astonishment over witnessing two of the 20^th century’s greatest drummers duke it out, is another man’s exceptionally long bathroom break.

What gets lost amidst the (mostly self-imposed) madness is how innovative Baker was. On Blind Faith’s eerie pysch-folk soul “Can’t Find My Way Home,” he includes a cymbal crash after every verse. Each time, it gives the song a sudden jolt, intensifying the haunted, dusky rustic atmosphere. “Can’t Find My Way Home” ends with Baker making the cymbal sound as if it’s sizzling, conjuring the image of smoke signals rising into the setting sun.

Due to the contributions of Baker, as well as contemporaries like Brian Jones, Syd Barrett, Jimi Hendrix, Laura Nyro, George Harrison, Lou Reed, Arthur Lee, John Cale, Grace Slick, Rod Argent and many others from the ‘60s, rock’n’roll sounded more exotic, sophisticated, and strange. During his time with Cream, he played glockenspiel, tubular bells and other instruments not normally associated with popular music. At the beginning of 1968’s “White Room,” the combination of gothic castle howling guitars and violas with Baker’s regal use of tympani sound like the dramatic opening credits of a ‘60s Hammer horror film. (Beware of Mr. Baker should’ve been the title of a Hammer production.) It made for a sinister commencement to the classic album Wheels of Fire.

“Deserted Cities of the Heart,” also from Wheels of Fire, has a kaleidoscopic wasteland ambience. It features despondent cello and viola from Bruce and producer Felix Pappalardi, Eric Clapton’s stinging, phantasmagoric blues guitar that fuses the American South with South Asia, and the galloping drums of Baker, who provides the song its manic drive. They somehow managed to make grief-stricken lyrics such as “There’s no retreat from time that’s died” sound heroic, like a battle cry.

That particular lyric had new meaning when Bruce sang it during the 2005 Cream reunion at Madison Square Garden, as he, Baker, and Clapton confronted their past. Other than a few shows earlier that year in London, and their induction into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 1993, Cream hadn’t performed since 1968. It had been a sort of homecoming for them, since a large amount of their catalogue was recorded on the Upper West Side at Atlantic Studios, which was located approximately 30 blocks from the Garden. In 1967, Clapton picked up his first wah-wah pedal at the world-renowned Manny’s Music, near Times Square, which he used for “Tales of Brave Ulysses.”

My friends and I had seats behind the stage, hovering above the band, close enough to actually see them. Bruce had survived a near fatal liver transplant two years before, and upon first glance appeared worn and depleted. Baker, the wild-eyed, mythical character who inspired a legion of madmen drummers, looked more like a scowling grandfather sitting on a lawn chair than an indispensable figure in the evolution of rock’n’roll.

Appearances can be deceiving. They (along with Clapton) performed at their peak for two hours. Bruce sang and played the bass with the vitality of a man with first-hand knowledge that existence is finite. You could feel the euphoria of the crowd at certain moments, like the pause in “Badge,” when 20,000 people anticipated Clapton’s opalescent arpeggios, where it sounds as if Shangri-la is materializing. Or the beginning of “Tales of Brave Ulysses,” with Bruce’s ominous opening bassline, followed by the lyrics Richard Burton could’ve easily recited “You thought the leaden winter would bring you down forever/But you rode upon a steamer to the violence of the sun.” Another highlight was seeing Baker recreate “Toad,” one of rock’n’roll’s first drum solos. It’s a rare experience to witness living history that close, and that loud. A decade and a half later, Clapton is now the last man standing.

The bell tolls for us all. Even Ginger Baker.

The horns perform a fanfare fit for a king — even a self-proclaimed “Lizard King” like Jim Morrison. But with “Tell All the People,” which leads off 1969’s The Soft Parade from the Doors, Morrison comes off more like a lounge lizard. This shouldn’t have been too surprising. While renowned for his lunatic howl, Morrison could also croon with the best of them, and at times sounded like a psychedelic Sinatra. The Soft Parade was the most explicit example of this particular inspiration, where “Ol’ Blue Eyes” met “Ol’ Dead Eyes.”

In the 2010 book Becoming Elektra: The True Story of Jac Holzman’s Visionary Record Label by Mick Houghton, Doors’ engineer/producer Bruce Botnick recalled that when he first met Morrison, the singer was awestruck at the sight of a Telfunken U-47 microphone in the studio, saying “Frank Sinatra” as he stared at it. Botnick elaborated “On Sinatra’s Swinging Session there’s pictures of a U-47 with a Capitol logo on. And that’s when I knew he was a Sinatra fan.”

The feeling was not mutual. Sinatra once stated that “Light My Fire” was the worst song he had ever heard. “The Chairman of the Board” was widely known for his loathing of rock’n’roll, best summed up in a 1957 article for Western World magazine, where he referred to rock music as “This rancid smelling aphrodisiac I deplore.” Keep in mind he was referring to the early, clean-cut days of rock’n’roll. To put it mildly, his mind hadn’t changed by 1969, when rock had gotten louder, hairier, and perhaps even smellier. Most importantly, it evolved. The Beatles’ Abbey Road, Tim Buckley’s Happy Sad, Hot Buttered Soul by Issac Hayes, CCR’s Bayou Country, In a Silent Way from Miles Davis, Dusty Springfield’s Dusty in Memphis, Leonard Cohen’s Songs from a Room, Sly Stone’s Stand!, Tommy by the Who, Scott 4 from Scott Walker, and Bowie’s “Space Oddity” are just some of the memorable releases from that fabled year.

What made 1969 so extraordinary is it’s where the ‘60s met the ‘70s. The aforementioned artists would impact the latter decade and beyond, as well as all the acts that put out their full-length debut albums. It’s an absurdly long list that includes Led Zeppelin, the Meters, Johnny Winter, Humble Pie, the Jackson 5, Alice Cooper, King Crimson, Joe Cocker, Genesis, Yes, Blind Faith, Mountain, Can, Luther Allison, Rod Stewart, James Gang, Santana, Free, Grand Funk Railroad, Blodwyn Pig, Poco, the Edgar Broughton Band, MC5, Elton John, the Stooges, the Flying Burrito Brothers, Chicago, Rory Gallagher (with Taste), Mott the Hoople, Nick Drake, the Allman Brothers Band, and Crosby, Stills & Nash. We put a man on the moon that year, but almost as improbable is that the ‘60s began with songs like “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polkadot Bikini” and ended with the dawn of hard rock, heavy metal, fusion, punk, progressive rock, funk, southern rock, glam rock, krautrock, and country rock. That’s a miraculous amount of progress in such a short period of time.

On The Doors’ “When the Music’s Over” from 1967, Morrison demanded like a deranged cult leader “We want the world and we want it now!” He and the rest of his generation would have to wait a little while longer. Despite the youth counterculture’s colossal influence on music, literature and cinema, it was still Sinatra’s world. He was as popular as ever in ’69 with the release of what turned out to be his signature song “My Way,” a symbolic reminder that the old guard was still in charge. And there were enough Americans who liked it that way, as Richard Nixon was inaugurated as President of the United States at the beginning of ’69. This was in large part due to the “Southern Strategy” which targeted racist white voters in the south, who were no longer democrats because of the party’s embrace of the civil rights movement. Among the architects behind this strategy were members of the younger generation resistant to progress like Pat Buchanan and Roger Ailes, both of whom could’ve been right out of the snobbish and noxious Omega Theta Pi House in Animal House.

These real-life versions of Neidermeyer and Marmalard notwithstanding, there was a massive generation gap effecting families like the Morrison’s, especially United States Navy Rear Admiral George Morrison and his son Jim. The elder Morrison was commander of the U.S. naval forces during the 1964 Gulf of Tonkin Incident that escalated America’s participation in the Vietnam War. The irony is the Doors would often be associated with the war, as their music was popular with the soldiers, serving as a soundtrack connecting them to “the World” (slang for the United States).

In July of ’69, Sinatra’s “Fly Me to the Moon” was taken literally, as “the World” (and the rest of the world) witnessed their fellow Americans depart Earth and land on the moon. That same week, the Doors (who implored “Let’s swim to the moon” two years before) released The Soft Parade, a decidedly less ambitious endeavor than a moon landing, but still somewhat of a departure for them. According to the liner notes from 2006’s The Soft Parade reissue, George Harrison seemed to think so. David Fricke writes that Harrison visited the studio during the recording and said that what he heard reminded him of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. A more apt comparison is another masterpiece from 1967, Love’s Forever Changes. Similar to that album, some of The Soft Parade exudes a lonely paranoia draped in sunny strings and horns.

It’s hard to fathom that, in spite of his reputation as a fearless performer, Morrison could be quite paranoid. “Touch Me,” the first single off The Soft Parade, was originally titled “Hit Me.” He told guitarist Robby Krieger, who wrote the song, that he believed strangers would start hitting him, so Morrison came up with “touch.” And the Doors apparently turned down the Woodstock festival, which happened a month after The Soft Parade came out, because of his fear that he’d be assassinated. Even a man as self-destructive as Jim Morrison had his limits.

Although you could make the case that it was complete self-destruction not to perform at the most beloved concert in rock’n’roll history. In ’69, the Doors walked the thin line between bold and foolish. With the ascendancy of hard rock and other genres of loud, heavy music that year, it probably wasn’t the best time to put out an experimental album with “soft” as part of the title. Especially since another exhibitionist singer named Jim (better known as Iggy) was starting to make his presence felt. Sometimes even literally.

The Stooges, label mates of the Doors, would release their self-titled first record a few weeks after The Soft Parade. Iggy Pop received all the attention, but the Asheton brothers were a brutal force to be reckoned with. Scott lived up to his nickname “Rock Action” by providing the music its thrashing, grooving heart while simultaneously making the drums sound as if they were falling down the stairs, and Ron’s primitive, excessive use of the wah-wah pedal gave the songs a swirling maniacal cackle. The electric guitar had never sounded so psychotic. With Sinatra and the Stooges at opposite ends of the spectrum in ’69, the Doors found themselves in a unique position, between progenitor and progeny. The Soft Parade was the result.

It was recorded at the then-new Elektra Sound Recorders Studio on La Cienega Boulevard in West Hollywood. Located in the middle of Art Gallery Row, Morrison would occasionally visit the galleries, the Boulevard filled with people popping in and out of them, looking like Kirchner’s Street Scenes paintings set in the Age of Aquarius. A year later, in 1970, visitors would’ve seen the Stooges around, as they used the studio to record their masterpiece Fun House, vaporous phantasmagoric punk delirium at its seedy best. The feeling of exhilaration from what was happening outside is palpable on Fun House. With The Soft Parade, that spirit is present, but more subdued.

On the opener “Tell All the People,” Morrison’s relaxed croon, Ray Manzarek’s mellow Vince Guaraldiesque piano shadings and the horn section conjuring up the jaunty sounds of a parade’s commencement would appear to belie a more threatening, messianic undercurrent. The first verse is “Tell all the people that you see/Set them free/Follow me down.” It seems innocent at first listen, even somewhat hippy-dippy, but Morrison’s presence instantly gives any song an ominous gravitas, even those he didn’t write like this one. Krieger’s composition later states “Can’t you see me growing, get your guns/The time has come/To follow me down.” With the reference to guns, and what appears to be a madman bragging about his increasing authority over everyone, it’s now suddenly a different song, where the line between community and cult is essentially non-existent. It brings to mind the moronic and malevolent cult of personality we’ve all endured on an everyday basis for the last few years.

By the end of the ‘60s, rock bands with horns were starting to become prevalent like Electric Flag, the Paul Butterfield Blues Band, Blood, Sweat & Tears, and Chicago. On The Soft Parade, horns added a new dimension to the Doors. “Tell All the People” used brass in a subversive manner, whereas the earnest “Touch Me” incorporated brass and strings to accent the dedication expressed in the song, exemplified when Morrison sings “I’m gonna love you/Till the heavens stop the rain” at the two-minute mark. The pastoral beauty of the harpsichord and strings coalescing with Morrison’s gritty roadhouse southern baritone, is one of the more sublime moments in rock’n’roll.

Some of the best art consists of those kind of disparate elements. The main guitar/organ riff from “Touch Me” is the bridge between 1967’s “C’mon Marianne” by the Four Seasons and 1977’s “Lust for Life” from Iggy Pop. And Curtis Amy’s buoyant saxophone solo at the end is pure Prestige-era Coltrane. Krieger’s spirally arpeggio’s after Morrison asks “Why won’t you tell me what she said?” makes for an odd, yet melodic accompaniment to the wariness articulated in the question.

“Shaman’s Blues” is the first Morrison composition on The Soft Parade. With a title like that, it would have to be his. You could easily forget that Morrison didn’t write every song for the Doors, but like his idol Sinatra, he was a stellar interpreter. (Considering his privileged background, it’s a shame he didn’t live long enough to cover Warren Zevon’s “Lawyers, Guns and Money.”) The organ and guitar combine for a melody that’s equal parts ‘60s Winterland Ballroom and ‘20s Ballroom Foxtrot. Krieger later contributes a solo that’s a hazy precursor to Ritchie Blackmore’s work with early ‘70s Deep Purple. The overall result comes across as both jolly, and because of the inherent darkness of the Doors, evil. In particular, when Morrison sings “I know your moves and your mind,” repeating “And your mind” enough that it sounds like “And you’re mine.” Considering the sentiment of the line, he may as well have.

“Do It” features the lyric “Please listen to me children/You are the ones who will rule the world.” Given the current state of the world, with America now in its bloated, unstable Morrison phase, that line takes on a whole new meaning. “Easy Ride” wasn’t associated with the film Easy Rider, which came out four days before The Soft Parade, but it’s catchy country pop along the lines of the Lovin’ Spoonful or the Monkees. If the Doors had their own show like the latter, this would’ve been the song playing during the madcap high jinks sequences.

The opening guitar riff on “Wild Child” is formidable to the extent that Morrison yells “All right!” (Morrison was the inspiration for Matthew McConaughey’s “All right, all right, all right!”) John Densmore’s powerful tribal beat then kicks in, with the organ gliding along the guitar, giving this psychedelic blues incantation a distinctive, spellbinding melody. Krieger’s slide guitar wailing is expansive enough that it connects the Mississippi Delta with South Asia. Oddly enough, the song invokes the summer of ’85 rather than ’69, as that’s when the Doors video/performance compilation Dance on Fire came out. Due to the ubiquity of “Wild Child” on MTV, it’s just as big a part of that summer for Generation X as Tears for Fears, R.E.M. and ironically, “Summer of ‘69” by Bryan Adams.

“Runnin’ Blue” is Krieger’s tribute to Otis Redding, with Morrison lamenting at the start “Poor Otis dead and gone/Left me here to sing his song.” The proceeding guitar lick is the prototype for the opening of Steely Dan’s “Hey 19,” and the horns make a return appearance to contrast mourning lyrics like “Got to find the dock of the bay/Maybe find it back in L.A.” The tone shifts when fiddle and mandolin appear and Krieger takes over the vocals, sounding like if the young Bob Dylan were a square dance caller. There’s another shift during the instrumental break, where the brass section gets a melodic spotlight on par with Chicago, which then turns into a brief avant-garde jazz breakdown. For all intents and purpose, “Runnin’ Blue” is four different songs in one, yet it flows seamlessly.

“Wishful Sinful,” another Krieger contribution, is one of the more overlooked songs in the Doors catalog. It doesn’t sound like 1969 so much as the template for Echo & the Bunnymen’s 1984 orchestral nocturnal pysch-goth classic Ocean Rain. Following a catchy bassline that’s a model of brevity, the watery guitar arpeggios perform a hypnotic lullaby. The orchestra that first quietly appears during the second verse is a beautifully subtle depiction of yearning. Later on, the stunning sequence where Champ Webb’s English horn solo gently floats amidst the strings, and then descends to earth when paired with Krieger’s suspicious guitar, manages to be transcendent, poignant, and sinister. The recurring line “Can’t escape the blue” stands out because of its ambiguity. “Wishful Sinful” uses the sea as a symbol for devotion and lust. However, Morrison’s melancholy crooning tells another story, conveying those times when awe and despondency are intertwined. “Can’t escape the blue” is also an apt summation of The Soft Parade cover, which has the Doors posing around a camera tripod, with blue light hovering above illuminating the darkness that surrounds them.

If there was ever a Doors song you could conceive of Sinatra covering, it’s “Wishful Sinful.” He would’ve really put some “Vegas” into the line “I know where I would like to be/Right back where I came!” Despite Sinatra’s consuming hatred for rock’n’roll, he performed a rendition of Simon & Garfunkel’s “Mrs. Robinson” for his My Way album in ’69. Yet you could still hear the jovial contempt for the song in his voice when, instead of “Jesus,” he gave a shout-out to his pal Jilly Rizzo, singing “And here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson/Jilly loves you more than you will know, wo wo wo!”

Presumably, Frank and Jilly wouldn’t have loved the last song on The Soft Parade, the innovative title track, which even more so than “Runnin’ Blue,” is essentially multiple songs. Morrison had been influenced by the experimental downtown Manhattan theatre group, The Living Theatre, and it shows on “The Soft Parade.” The song starts off with Morrison doing his fanatical southern preacher routine, repeating the phrase “Petition the lord with prayer.” After a few moments of tense silence, Morrison turns it up several levels by shouting “YOU CANNOT PETITION THE LORD WITH PRAYER!” As a kid, this came across as frightening. Now it’s somewhat comical when you realize he sounds like Neidermeyer in Animal House, yelling in Dorfman’s face “A PLEDGE PIN?! ON YOUR UNIFORM?!” The next part settles down considerably, but is no less tense, with Morrison singing “Can you find me soft asylum/I can’t make it anymore/The Man is at the door.” Harpsichord and other exotic instrumentation eerily accompanies Morrison’s paranoia, illustrating how the Doors were often just as much haunted house as roadhouse.

The last thing you would expect to come next is proto-disco, but that’s exactly what happens, the sequence conjuring up Polyester-clad dancers under a neon disco ball years before that image became a reality. The “Champion sax” referenced in this particular verse is likely an homage to the 1959 novel Doctor Sax by Jack Kerouac (who died three month’s after The Soft Parade was released), which was one of Morrison’s favorite books. With the addition of Krieger’s jazzy solo, this part sets the stage for the Grateful Dead’s more dance-oriented material on 1975’s Blues for Allah.

Once again, the tempo changes, the cheerful keyboards leading the way to a section that’s more akin to an elderly vaudeville performer doing a soft-shoe dance on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, while also a forerunner to Beck’s baroque nursery rhymes, with Morrison singing about “Catacombs/Nursery bones.” The lyric “The monk bought lunch” launches another shift, this time a tribal funk tempo, with an emphasis on interplay between guitar and keyboards, not unlike what the Talking Heads accomplished a decade later. You can even picture David Byrne in the “big suit” doing his unconventional dance moves to this part. Morrison is so impressed with the section he becomes every annoying drunk guy you’ve ever seen at a concert, stating in what appears to be in an intoxicated manner “This is the best part of the trip/This is the trip, the best part!” He wasn’t done giving props to his own song as it was in progress, adding “Pretty good, huh/Huh!/Yeah, I’m proud to be a part of this number.”

In spite of the amusing obnoxiousness, he had every right to feel pride. The song could’ve just ended at this point, but to paraphrase his hero, the best was yet to come. Following the “Lions in the night” verse, the rhythm shifts to a more aggressive pace, with what sounds like an army of angry Morrison’s. After the foretaste of funky late ‘70s Talking Heads, the final two and half minutes exudes menacing hard rock cabaret swagger that sounds more like Alice Cooper than the actual Alice Cooper band did when they released their debut Pretties for You a few weeks before The Soft Parade.

With so many examples, it’s remarkable to hear how ahead of its time The Soft Parade was, in particular the title track. The numerous Morrison’s screaming Beat-imbued poetry over each other at the end of “The Soft Parade” clearly made an impression on Patti Smith, who pulled a similar trick on the epic frenzied rave-up “Land” from her 1975 landmark debut Horses. (Smith has admitted that Robert Mapplethorpe’s legendary Horses cover, where she throws her jacket over her shoulder, was partially influenced by fellow Jersey luminary Sinatra.) That album also featured “Break It Up,” Smith’s tribute to Morrison, inspired by a dream she had about him, and from a visit to his grave in Paris.

On “Shaman’s Blues,” Morrison sings “There will never be another one like you.” Half a century later, you could say the same about the Doors.

Matt Leinwohl

It was possibly the first rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” where you were expecting to hear a Jaco Pastorius counter-melody. On a scorchingly hot afternoon, the kind that occasionally elicits contempt for summer, the 2019 Baseball Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony illustrated the unique splendor of this time of year. Only in the summertime can you witness Yankees legend Bernie Williams play “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” on guitar with most of the living Hall of Fame inductees sitting behind him, and the stunning bucolic scenery of upstate New York in front of him.

Williams managed to accomplish the impossible by performing a standard as familiar as your shadow, and rendering it completely unrecognizable. His version sounded more akin to the pastoral calm of Pat Metheny’s 1976 debut album Bright Size Life, particularly “Unity Village.” The spell of solemnity was suddenly broken when Williams started playing the iconic riff of Metallica’s “Enter Sandman,” acknowledging his former teammate Mariano Rivera, who would be honored after the performance.

The brief homage added levity to a day that was often poignant. Brandy Halladay, the widow of Roy Halladay, who died in a plane crash in 2017, showed remarkable poise considering the circumstances. Halladay said “Roy would want everyone to know that people are not perfect. We are all imperfect and flawed in one way or another. We all struggle, but with hard work, humility and dedication, imperfect people still can have perfect moments.”

Harold Baines invoked his late father in his powerful speech. With shades covering eyes inclined to look as sad as a Kinks ballad, Baines mentioned how his dad would pass on lessons, usually when they were playing catch in the yard. Quoting Linwood Baines, his son said “Words are easy, deeds are hard. Words can be empty, deeds speak loudest, and sometimes they echo forever.”

That’s the beauty of baseball. A situation as seemingly common as a father and son throwing a ball to each other can take on heroic, mythological significance, like it was right out of Superman. This year’s ceremony will be echoing for quite some time.

Matt Leinwohl

The Mets have never made it easy. For their fans and for themselves. On a glorious summer afternoon where their cross city-rivals in the Bronx presented a classy, unforgettably heartwarming Norman Rockwellesque Old-Timers’ Day, manager Mickey Callaway became mad at Newsday reporter Tim Healey for saying “see you tomorrow.”

It got worse from there. After Callaway referred to Healey as an obscenity, he walked away, only to come back and curse at the reporter once more, ordering him to leave the clubhouse. Leaping before he looked, pitcher Jason Vargas piled on. After a staredown with Healey, he said “I’ll knock you the fuck out, bro,” and had to be restrained from charging at him.

On the following day, the stench of stupidity lingered when Callaway met with reporters. Instead of showing any signs of contrition, he essentially justified the potential violence against Healey by stating “Billy Martin punched a reporter one time…I’m a passionate guy about baseball, I’m a tough competitor.” Aside from the fact that the tragically self-destructive Martin is the last figure you’d want to invoke in these particular circumstances, getting upset about something as harmless as “see you tomorrow” is the complete opposite of tough.

Sometime later, Callaway called the reporters back to the clubhouse and ended up apologizing. Looking like a hostage video in a Mets cap, it was clear that management had forced him to address the media again. Vargas, on the other hand, didn’t bother with an apology. While almost beside the point, he could’ve injured himself had there been a fight. To put it mildly, that’s somewhat counterproductive when you throw a baseball for a living. The whole incident was reminiscent of an episode of Boardwalk Empire, where Bobby Cannavale, as a perpetually aggrieved gangster, gets offended by someone sincerely wishing him good luck, subsequently burning the man to death. The only casualties in this idiotic situation are the reputations of Callaway, Vargas, and of course, the Mets.

Every once in awhile though, the Mets get things right. Their 50^th anniversary tribute to the 1969 team that won the World Series was a stellar, indelible ceremony, with the main highlight being Ed Kranepool’s speech. The Bronx native, an original Met, spent his entire career with the organization, from 1962 to 1979. For some music-related perspective on how long that is, the Beatles debuted with “Love Me Do” during his first year, and Paul McCartney released “Goodnight Tonight” in Kranepool’s last year.

That he made it to Citi Field in the first place was, to use a word associated with the ’69 Mets, a “miracle.” Waiting for a kidney transplant for more than two years, the 74-year-old Kranepool finally had surgery on May 7^th. Addressing the Mets regarding their disappointing year, he said “They can do it, like we did—you got to believe in yourself.” Kranepool continued with “Good luck. You have half a season. I wish you the best so that we can celebrate in October.” Inspirational, magnanimous words made all the more powerful considering where he was just a month before. Mets broadcasters Gary Cohen, Ron Darling, and Keith Hernandez were understandably emotional. The latter couldn’t even say “Ed Kranepool” without his voice breaking.

The tribute concluded with the ’69 Mets and current team greeting each other. Seeing rookie sensation Pete Alonso (the home run derby champion a week and half later) and Kranepool talk was a brief yet memorable moment, two first basemen separated by 50 years but linked by history, both loyal to the orange and blue. Alonso, an All-Star in only his first year, and a charismatic showman of a ballplayer, is one of the few bright spots for the Mets, endearing himself to the fans on and off the field, such as when he dressed as Robert Plant circa ’75 for Halloween last year. (Led Zeppelin released their first two albums in 1969, with Led Zeppelin II coming out less than a week after the Mets won the World Series.)

Mets fans barely had time to bask in the warm afterglow of nostalgia and promise of the future, as the folly of the present immediately intruded. A day after the ceremony, the Mets apologized to Jim Gosger and Jesse Hudson, both from the ’69 team, for including them in a video montage of deceased players. Before the game, a message ran on the scoreboard expressing regret for the mistake. The Mets couldn’t even get the apology right, as Hudson’s first name had been misspelled as “Jessie.”

That’s how the Mets started the week. They ended it with the instantly legendary “chair-throwing” episode. After a loss to the Phillies, general manager Brodie Van Wagenen met with Callaway and the coaching staff. He reportedly yelled at the coaches, picked up a chair, threw it, and much like Frank Vincent telling Joe Pesci to “go get your fucking shinebox” in Goodfellas, told Callaway to conduct his “fucking press conference.” Callaway will never be confused with Gil Hodges, but Van Wagenen mainly had himself to blame.

This past October, the Mets somehow thought hiring an agent as their general manager would be a good idea. Van Wagenen proceeded to gather players who once were his clients, like Robinson Cano and Jed Lowrie. The former is a 36-year-old who missed most of 2018 because of a suspension due to testing positive for a banned substance, while the latter still hasn’t made an appearance yet for the Mets, essentially an injured list in human form

Both are second baseman, which the Mets didn’t need, as they already had recent All-Star Jeff McNeil, now playing the outfield and currently batting .349, the best in baseball. Van Wagenen traded Jared Kelenic and local hero Justin Dunn (from Freeport, Long Island) the Mets two biggest prospects, to the Mariners for Cano and closer Edwin Diaz. Cano, with four years left on his contract, has had a horrible season, exemplified when he twice didn’t run out ground balls earlier in the year. Diaz is a whole other story. After having a dominant season in 2018, he now seemingly can’t get anybody out.

But wait, there’s more. The Mets also included Jay Bruce in the deal. The Mariners later traded him to the Phillies, a hated division rival. Bruce finished the first half of 2019 with 24 home runs, and most importantly, has helped the Phillies to a 6-1 record against the Mets, going 9-for-26, with four homers and 11 RBIs. Meanwhile, Cano has a grand total of four homers and 18 RBIs.

On Sunday, Newsday perfectly summed up the season so far, when they featured a photo of the Tampa Bay Rays Travis d’Arnaud celebrating his walk-off home run against the Yankees. He spent most of his years with the Mets on the injured list, until they gave up on him back in May. Just below the image of a triumphant d’Arnaud was a photo of Van Wagenen, with the accompanying headline “Brodie threw chair during Mets’ meeting.”

Van Wagenen, Callaway, and Vargas deserve each other. The Mets and their fans, however, deserve better.

Matt Leinwohl

By the time Dr. Bobby Brown retired from baseball in 1954, he had served in two wars, accepted a Coast Guard Silver Lifesaving Medal for rescuing a Coast Guardsman from a plane crash, received a medical degree from Tulane University, and as third baseman for the New York Yankees was a four-time World Series champion, hitting .439 in 17 games during the Fall Classic. He was just 29.

Dr. Brown managed to follow all that up by becoming a cardiologist for 25 years. Afterward he returned to baseball, serving as the American League president for a decade. And now there he was at 94, the last surviving member of the 1947 World Series champion Yankees, living history strolling onto the field (without needing any assistance) at Yankee Stadium for the 73^rd annual Old-Timers’ Day. There are no players from earlier World Series championship teams who are still alive, making Dr. Brown’s presence all the more extraordinary.

As the only pitcher to throw a perfect game during the World Series (1956), Don Larsen is familiar with the extraordinary. The 89-year-old Larsen had to be wheeled during the ceremony, then got up to use his walker the rest of the way to cheers from the crowd, and posed for pictures with the other perfect game winners for the Yankees, David Wells (’98) and David Cone (’99). Larsen’s literal moment in the sun was a microcosm of this particular Old-Timer’s Day, how one unforgettable moment would glide into another.

Speaking of gliding, even at 70, Mickey “Mick the Quick” Rivers lived up to his nickname, chasing down fly balls like back when Rush wore kimonos. Rivers, an indispensable part of those legendary late ’70s championship teams, came through in the clutch for his old teammate Brian Doyle on Sunday. The 65-year-old Doyle evokes 1978 as much as “Baker Street” and Taxi, filling in for injured second baseman Willie Randolph during the World Series that year, and hitting .438.

Over 40 years later, Doyle was back at the plate, which was remarkable, considering he was diagnosed with Parkinson’s in 2014. Doyle ended up getting a hit, with Rivers pinch running to first. The image of his bat connecting with the ball is indelible, but it shouldn’t have been too surprising. In a 2015 New York Daily News profile, Doyle said “If you’re not dreaming, you’re not living.”

Witnessing everything that day, including the almost 50-year-old Mariano Rivera hitting an inside-the-park home run a month before he’s inducted into the Hall of Fame, and 70-year-old first baseman Chris Chambliss effortlessly stretch and scoop up the ball to end the game, who would argue otherwise?

Matt Leinwohl

“The sound of a brand-new world.” That’s the chorus of 1986’s “Radio Head” from Talking Heads. You can see why Radiohead decided to name themselves after the song. Much of their music conjures up the image of isolated individuals adjusting to a new planet, which is especially fitting since Radiohead’s rise in the ‘90s coincided with the early years of the Internet. And like their fellow inductees Roxy Music, there’s a clairvoyant aspect to Radiohead, as they made 21st century music while it was still the 20^th. Their breakthrough 1995 album The Bends starts with the dynamic alternative psychedelia of “Planet Telex,” featuring the unforgettable chorus “Everything is broken/Everyone is broken.” The sentiment is remarkably contemporary, but what equally stands out is the Burt Bacharach-level melody, indicative of their gift for making sorrow sound splendorous.

The title track of The Bends pulls off a similar trick. Grim lyrics like “We don’t have any real friends,” and “I wish it was the ‘60s/I wish I could be happy,” are countered by heavy anthemic rock’n’roll, with a chorus that could’ve been right out of Boston’s first two albums. However, amidst all the glorious despondence, Radiohead can also be stealthily amusing. On the Paul McCartneyish “Karma Police” from 1997’s classic OK Computer, Thom Yorke sings the refrain “This is what you’ll get,” followed by a resigned Yiddish vaudeville piano melody. It brings to mind McCartney and Yiddish theatre legend Fyvush Finkel sitting by a piano and shrugging at each other in a “What’d ya expect?” manner.

The ambient Kid A instrumental “Treefingers” came out in 2000 and aptly comes across as the dawn of a new century. In retrospect, its intense hypnotic calm takes on extra layers of innocence and melancholy, considering the turbulence of the proceeding two decades. Kid A’s Princely “Idioteque” creates an atmosphere of electro-funk paranoia in a Slim Whitman dystopia, with Yorke’s falsetto harmonies and foreboding lines like “Ice age coming/Let me hear both sides” and “We’re not scaremongering/This is really happening.”

The world finally caught up to Radiohead.

Matt Leinwohl