Somewhere back in time, around the mid-80’s at South Side Middle School on Long Island, some friends and I were talking about Iron Maiden and their mascot Eddie, a zombie-like figure who was/is on all their album covers and merchandise. The artist Derek Riggs created Eddie, and on each record would illustrate him in different situations or guises, like as a pharaoh or futuristic cyborg. Back then, Maiden released an album a year, so you didn’t have to wait too long for whatever came next with the character. Where would he pop up this time? Also, the first illustration of Eddie was titled, “Electric Matthew Says Hello.” His original name was Matthew, just like me? When you’re a 12-year-old music fanatic, minutiae like this tends to be remarkable.

None of this would matter if the music weren’t any good. And Iron Maiden have a killer catalog, no pun intended. But they were brilliant to spotlight Eddie, who aside from being very lucrative for them, helped get fans invested in the band and made us feel like we were part of a community. Millions of imaginations were stirred, helping to build an impressively vast, loyal global fan base.

On this particular day at school, our conversation occasionally found us chanting Maiden lyrics such as, “I’m running free, yeah!!” At one point, Johnny, a mini-greaser who favored sleeveless t-shirts, now commonly known by the cringeworthy term “wife-beater,” came over to us. When Johnny looked in the mirror, it’s likely he saw Matt Dillion in Rumble Fish. Everyone else saw Sha Na Na.

Johnny inquired, “Hey, whatta ya guy’s talkin’ about?”

Marty replied, “We’re talkin’ about Eddie!”

Intrigued by his answer, Johnny followed up, “Eddie and the Cruisers?”

With a proud smile, Marty said, “Nah, man, Eddie Maiden!”

As far as anyone knew, Eddie didn’t have a last name. While Johnny seemed disappointed, we thought we were cool talking about a monster and grown men who wore spandex.

Three decades later, I was a grown man walking into Madison Square Garden to see Iron Maiden, when another grown man yelled to no one in particular, “UP THE IRONS!!!” Despite this being the salute of Iron Maiden fans, the response he received was mainly indifference and a smattering of weak, “Yeahs.”

In the five month’s since I’d last been at MSG, the Paris terror attacks occurred, and the venue now had metal detectors, serving as an unfortunate reminder that the world had increasingly become more frightening than even an Iron Maiden album cover. Surprisingly, no one made any corny jokes about metal detectors at a heavy metal show. Probably for the best.

Walking by the merch stand, a guy looked at the shirts, shook his head incredulously, and exclaimed, “$40 for a shirt!” adding an expletive for emphasis. He would’ve gotten along with the George Takei guy from the Cult show. (http://seemyway.com/2016/02/28/thank-you-kindly-the-cult-live-at-the-gramercy-theatre/) Going up the escalator, a man warned his friend, “We gotta see these guys while they’re still alive.” Like angry shirt guy, he also made sure to add some expletives to stress the urgency. He did have a point though, especially with the death tsunami striking the music world the last few months.

About a half-hour later, “Doctor Doctor” by UFO blasted from the PA. It’s the song Maiden always play before they begin, so the sold out crowd got instantly rapturous and sang along. UFO never had more than a cult following in America, so it was gratifying to see an entire arena honor a band that should’ve been as big as the groups they influenced, like the one that was about to take the stage right … the Garden was abruptly swathed in darkness. An animated video popped up on the giant screens showing Ed Force One, the Iron Maiden airplane, being thrown into the air by Eddie’s gigantic hand. Fog then emanated from the stage, with four cauldron fires lit at the top. They were a long way from the Cart and Horses Pub in Stratford.

“If Eternity Should Fail” and “Speed of Light” got the night off to a strong start, spotlighting their most recent album, The Book of Souls. The latter song is like vintage Deep Purple, with a “Highway Star”/”Burn” riff that makes you want to floor it like Ryan O’Neal in The Driver, and an opening primal scream from Bruce Dickinson that justified his nickname, “The Air Raid Siren,” indicative of the kind of operatic, metallic singing that Purple vocalist Ian Gillan originated.

Dickinson will demand the audience scream for him everywhere they play, using the name of the state, city or venue. Repeatedly. Two songs in, he unleashed his trademark plea, “Scream for me, New York City!!!!” After we complied, he then let loose, putting all of us to shame, “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” It was their first New York show since his diagnosis and recovery from tongue cancer. Seeing a 57-year-old cancer survivor running/screaming for two hours and performing at an exceptional level, was witnessing an astounding exemplification of resilience, showing what a truly determined individual can accomplish. That may sound trite, but another new song, “Tears of a Clown,” written for Robin Williams and featuring a mammoth groove on par with Led Zeppelin, served as a grim reminder of the bleakest of alternatives.

As a 10-year-old in the summer of ‘83, there was a wide range of stellar music on the radio and MTV to devour. Below are twenty examples;

Eurythmics-“Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This).”
The Fixx-“Saved by Zero.”
Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble-“Love Struck Baby.”
Prince-“1999.”
INXS-“The One Thing.”
Tears for Fears-“Change.”
Eddy Grant-“Electric Avenue.”
R.E.M.-“Radio Free Europe.”
Jackson Browne-“Lawyers in Love.”
Zebra-“Tell Me What You Want.”
The Motels-“Suddenly Last Summer.”
The Police-“Every Breath You Take.”
Lindsey Buckingham-“Holiday Road.”
Herbie Hancock-“Rockit.”
Donna Summer-“She Works Hard for the Money.”
Neil Young-“Wonderin’.”
Robert Plant- “Big Log.”
David Bowie-“China Girl.”
Irene Cara-“Flashdance… What a Feeling.”
Iron Maiden-“The Trooper.”

Even amongst that eclectic list, the last one stands out. You definitely wouldn’t be hearing “The Trooper” at Hot Skates, the local roller skating rink. The opening line, “You’ll take my life but I’ll take yours too!” is one of the great beginnings to any song. On the screens was the illustration from the single, where Eddie wears a red coat uniform, standing amidst the carnage of the Battle of Balaclava in 1854 during the Crimean War, holding a bloody sword in one perpetually putrefying hand, and a tattered Union Flag in the other.

As always, for this part of the show, Dickinson dressed like Eddie and also held the Union Flag, shouting lyrics such as, “The Bugle sounds, the charge begins!” It’s at this moment you realize that an Iron Maiden concert is equal parts ground warfare and Broadway production. The three-guitar attack of Adrian Smith, Dave Murray and Janick Gers is exactly that, an attack, with a near-constant barrage of riffs and shredding. Smith’s bluesy aggression contrasted perfectly with the more classical-influenced Fender Stratocaster poetry of Murray. Gers, who replaced Smith for almost ten years and stuck around when he came back, entertained the crowd with his showmanship, performing Ritchie Blackmore circa ’73 guitar flip/dance maneuvers. However, at times it looked as if he was putting the “tap” in Spinal Tap.

Bassist/lyricist/founder Steve Harris did his usual routine of putting one foot on the monitor and pointing the bass at the audience like a rifle, all the while playing like a virtuoso. Nicko McBrain, the Englishman in Boca Raton, held everything together on the drums with incredible power and precision. Meanwhile, Dickinson emoted and whisked across the stage as if he were frantically looking for Jean Valjean.

Considering what he’s been through the last few years, Dickinson sounded excellent, his range and theatricality showing why Lady Gaga has mentioned him as an influence. Although like some singers as they get older, his voice occasionally resembled Mel Brooks high-pitched, off-key yell from The Muppet Movie, in the scene when he shouted, “SEND YOUR FROGS LEGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGS!!!”

The setlist was a mix of outstanding new material with classics like “The Number of the Beast,” “Powerslave,” and “Hallowed Be Thy Name.” Towards the end, Dickinson paid tribute to the crowd by acknowledging how diverse it was. He wasn’t kidding. There were people you normally don’t see at a metal show, or any rock concert, for that matter, like the bearded man wearing a yarmulke, lots of Latin couples and two men who turned out to be a guy and his lady pal wearing matching Bill “Moose” Skowron buzz-cut flat-tops. Then there were the many fans down in front holding up the flags of their countries. After “The Book of Souls,” this unlikely collection of individuals cheered when the gigantic tribal version of Eddie trudged around the stage wearing a loincloth, brandishing an axe and giving everyone the middle finger.

You never know what will bring people together. Up the irons.

Matt Leinwohl

You could picture Gary Shandling viewing this comically grotesque presidential campaign season and wincing in recognition. And not necessarily because Senator Bernie Sanders has an older brother named Larry. Early on, this excremental spectacle was reminiscent of Caddyshack, with Donald Trump as Rodney Dangerfield and every other politician, Republican and Democrat, as the country club snobs who despise him. In particular, Jeb Bush made a memorable foil to Trump, like how Ted Knight was to Rodney.

But the more appropriate comedy film/show antecedent is Shandling’s The Larry Sanders Show from the ‘90s, especially how this wretched election resembles a never-ending version of the roast episode. Larry’s sidekick, the unbearably phony suck-up Hank Kingsley (Jeffrey Tambor at his best, which is saying something) is so concerned about the roast for Sanders that he works on jokes with the head writer of the show. Like many current politicians, Kingsley had the great misfortune of being an unlikable person whose main purpose in life was to be liked. Because of this, Kingsley would become a rich target during the roast, which featured everyone from Carl Reiner to a pre-Daily Show Jon Stewart, and his pathetic comebacks to Stewart reeked of anxiety, jealousy, and unwarranted entitlement. Much like how Jeb would react to Trump tearing into him during the roasts … I mean, debates.

In fact, watching Jeb this past year was like seeing Hank Kingsley run for president. Imagine that, the man who would be King instead turned out to be Kingsley. It was a strange, unexpected development, considering there are those who think he was an exceptional Governor of Florida. Perhaps he was. However, you wouldn’t know it by his campaign, which was marked by a series of awkward moments that were Kingsleyesque. Even the goofy explanation point (Jeb!) was pure Hank.

When Barbara Bush went campaigning for her son, Trump mocked Jeb, saying, “He desperately needed mommy to help him.” It was hard not to feel bad for Jeb, but more so for America having to witness a presidential contender get such a savage neutering from another presidential contender. Just when you thought it couldn’t get worse, Jeb whined in response, “He made fun of my mother.” Actually, Trump made fun of him for being weak and Jeb’s feeble Hank reply only proved him right.

Then there was the time he pitifully implored an apathetic New Hampshire crowd to “Please clap.” It was the kind of cringeworthy plea for attention that made Hank Kingsley such a perfect vessel for Shandling’s observations on how desperate some people are for the approval of others. The most noxious example of this was last October, when Jeb tried to impress the NRA by dismissing the mass shooting in Oregon that had just taken place with “stuff happens.” Nine innocent people were killed and another nine wounded.

By the time he mercifully called it quits, the campaign flushed $130 million down the toilet, made Al Gore’s inept, lackluster 2000 run seem like a paragon of competence and inspiration, and (perhaps temporarily) put a humiliating end to one of the most powerful political dynasties in American history. If that’s not bad enough, there’s also the colossal embarrassment of finishing lower in numerous primaries than Dr. Ben Carson, a man who once boasted of his attempt to hit his own mother with a hammer, have that refuted by the press, and then double-down, insist it was true, while accusing the press of “smearing” him. Even Hank might’ve shaken his head in disbelief on how poor Jeb could’ve fallen so low.

This past year showed that not even someone as privileged as Jeb Bush is immune to the absurdities and cruelties of life, self-imposed or otherwise. On The Larry Sanders Show, Shandling explored and reacted to that theme, sometimes with merely a pained smile or a grimace. And the deadpan non-reactions of many Jeb crowds brought to mind The Larry Sanders Show’s pioneering use of uncomfortable silence as a punch line. You would later see it utilized on Curb Your Enthusiasm, Arrested Development, Veep, Modern Family, The Office and seemingly every commercial now airing. As a testament to his genius, the show within The Larry Sanders Show was more compelling than most of the modern late night talk programs. Shandling did a stellar job guest hosting The Tonight Show, and his intelligence, self-deprecating charisma, timing and curiosity shone through in a fictional context as well.

He also broke new ground with It’s Garry Shandling’s Show, from the ‘80s. It came off as a fusion of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood and Late Night with David Letterman, deconstructing the sitcom format in the same irreverent, accessibly avant-garde way Letterman did with talk shows. It’s Garry Shandling’s Show could find humor in the most unlikely situations, like with Gilda Radner. In 1988, a year before she died of cancer, Radner made an appearance as herself, acknowledging her disease and mugging for the studio audience, shaking her clasped hands in a victorious, self-congratulatory manner, as if to say, “Look at me, I’m still here! Aren’t I great?!”

Any kid in the ‘80s who loved comedy connected to that unforgettable scene in Freaks and Geeks when Bill came home from school and watched a young Shandling do stand-up, set to The Who’s “I’m One.” He laughs hysterically, possibly seeing an older, more confident reflection of himself, and feels less alone. It pulls off the trick of the viewer relating to someone on TV at the same moment they’re relating to someone on TV. When Shandling suddenly passed away last month, it was one of the first things that came to mind.

Frank Sinatra, Jr. preceded Shandling in death by a week. Like Jeb Bush, he grew up with every possible advantage, and yet couldn’t escape the brutal indignities of existence, even after his own existence ended. An NBC news affiliate in Indiana announced his passing, accompanied by an image of Joe Piscopo as his father, back when he parodied him in the ‘80s on SNL. No one could imagine how hard it must’ve been living in the immense shadow of one of the 20^th century’s greatest artists, plus having the same name as him. Mistakenly using a photo of his father would’ve been enough of an insult. But presenting a picture of a guy who pretended to be his father three decades ago? In life he was eclipsed by his father. And now in death by his father’s greatest impersonator.

It was the kind of cruel absurdity that, if he were watching, you could picture Shandling wincing in sympathy.

Matt Leinwohl

Watching Joe Garagiola and Vin Scully on NBC’s Game of the Week as a pre-teen in the ‘80s was like seeing your grandfather talk baseball. And by that I mean your grandfather, not mine. Sid Leinwohl, better known in our family as “Grandpa Tattoo,” had a mild interest in the game at best, but was a good sport. Back in ’87, we were watching the Mets, when the camera briefly focused on back-up catcher Barry Lyons warming up on-deck. Grandpa inquired, “That Lyons?”

He clearly wasn’t familiar with Barry Lyons, but caught the last name on his jersey and made it seem like he knew him by double-checking if it was him. An odd way of bluffing, but he probably figured I would confirm it was Lyons, and provide his first name, statistics and background so that next time he actually did know who he was. Which of course, is exactly what happened. In imparting this information, my responsibility was to amiably present it as if he already knew all this, so he wouldn’t feel left out. In other words, I pulled a “Garagiola.”

He and Scully were an ideal broadcast team. Garagiola had a midwestern “gee whiz” sensibility that contrasted perfectly with Scully’s east coast poetic panache. In 1984, when Bob Uecker hosted Saturday Night Live, Harry Shearer and Billy Crystal portrayed Scully and Garagiola giving a summary of his performance as host. After it’s pointed out that Jesse Jackson would be hosting the following week, Crystal responded, “That guy is some kind of Reverend.” This was the same year Jackson made his infamous, anti-Semitic “Hymietown” comments, so Crystal nailed Garagiola’s typical polite understatement with that line, and even got his occasional blinking down flawlessly.

The real Joe was beloved for his self-deprecating sense of humor, particularly his famous quote about growing up across the street from lifelong friend and Hall of Famer Yogi Berra: “Not only was I not the best catcher in the Major Leagues, I wasn’t even the best catcher on my street!” However, as a 20-year-old rookie, he helped his hometown St. Louis Cardinals win the World Series in 1946, hitting .316 with four RBIs. It was the only time he reached the postseason, and he made it count, unlike far more talented players who have wilted on the grand stage. It was a fitting beginning for a man who seemed to lead a fairy tale life, and would become one of the game’s greatest ambassadors. Baseball was good to him, and he responded in kind.

While Joe Garagiola was known for his genial disposition and Ed Grimley “Say cheese” smile, Joe Santos became renowned for depicting characters with intense and exasperated, “Say what?!” grimaces. Santos grew up in Red Hook, back when Brooklyn was a place you escaped from and not to. After years of small parts and supporting himself by working various jobs like railroad worker and cab driver, he got his first big role in the 1971 classic The Panic in Needle Park. It was also the breakthrough for his friend Al Pacino, the star of the movie. Pacino had recommended him, as they played softball together. Much like the other Joe, you hit and catch a ball, suddenly your life changes.

In baseball, perhaps the ultimate compliment is, “Check the back of his baseball card,” meaning the presumably stellar stats that are featured. The equivalent for an actor is their IMDb page, and Santos has quite an impressive one. His oeuvre is very “dude” friendly, the kind of cops and robbers crime dramas you watch with your grandfather. And by that I mean my grandfather, not yours.

1973’s The Friends of Eddie Coyle was one of the best films from that era. Along with Robert Mitchum as the title character, it featured Santos, Peter Boyle, Alex Rocco, Richard Jordan, Steven Keats, James Tolkan, Matthew Cowles, and Jack Kehoe, essentially character actor nirvana. No matter how many times one sees it, you feel like you’re watching actual criminals in grimy ‘70s Boston, not actors playing them.

Other movies with Santos include Shaft’s Big Score!, Shamus, The Don Is Dead, and The Last Boy Scout. He was even in Abel Ferrara’s sleazy classic B movie Fear City, from 1984. All first class, low-brow, “tough guy,” Sid Leinwohl cinema.

You can also find Santos in virtually every 20^th century cop show. NYPD Blue, Miami Vice, Naked City, Hill Street Blues, Hunter, Police Story, Baretta, and The Streets of San Francisco are just a sample size. In 1978, he somehow managed to make an appearance on the unfortunately titled David Cassidy – Man Undercover.

His last television credit was The Sopranos, where he played the consigliere Angelo Garepe, the mentor to Steve Buscemi’s character. He was reunited with David Chase, who received his big break as a writer/producer on The Rockford Files, where Santos played Sgt. Becker, the character he’s most associated with. He added a blunt, impatient, old school New York presence to the laid back, southwest ambience of the show. It would be like if Lou Reed joined the band America in the ‘70s. Only 43 when the series started, he already looked like a retired cop, conveying anger and weariness with a simple glare. Although no matter how many times Rockford annoyed him, he always came through for his friend.

Santos and Garagiola passed away within five days of each other last month. With a glower and a grin, they were among the best in their professions. Both seemed like Sid Leinwohl kind of guys.

Matt Leinwohl

What kind of person boos a musician for playing an electric guitar? Seems silly, doesn’t it? We’ve heard the story about Bob Dylan getting flak for “going electric” so many times, it’s easy to take for granted just how idiotically irrational those people were.

This came to mind with the recent announcement that Dylan would be back at Forest Hills Stadium in July. The last time he performed there was on August 28^th, 1965, one of the most fabled shows of his career, and a month after the hostile reception for his electric set at Newport. Dylan faced a similar response in Queens. Al Kooper, the legendary keyboardist who played the organ on “Like a Rolling Stone” that unforgettably conveyed autonomy as much as the lyrics did, was part of the band that evening. In a Village Voice article from last year, Kooper mentioned, “there were people that actually got up onstage and were trying to get at Bob. Some person tripped over the chair I was sitting on when I was playing the keyboards and knocked me over at one point.”

Remember, these were young, pre-hippie, New York liberals in the ‘60s. In their own childish way, these “progressives” were just as regressive as the racist, anti-Semites from the south they presumably despised. Their anger was directed at Dylan because he advanced from folk to rock’n’roll, so freedom of speech and artistic expression were fine, just as long as it fell in line with their tastes and agenda. The most amusingly bizarre aspect of all this was that for a brief moment in time, young people actually wanted the music turned down.

Granted, this country had never seen or heard anything like this before. Musicians were already using electric guitars, they just weren’t playing nearly as loud. This was two years before The Who came to America, so people weren’t used to the thunderous volume. But Dylan, Kooper, bassist Harvey Brooks, and guitarist Robbie Robertson and drummer Levon Helm from The Band were taking music to a new level, putting the “ROCK” in rock’n’roll, while also featuring strong lyrical content. Along with some other artists, they helped set the stage for hard rock, metal and punk. It must have been quite an experience walking around Forest Hills that evening, with Robertson’s coyote howl guitar gusting through the tranquil suburban streets.

No one knew who they were at the time, but it’s difficult to imagine Robertson and Helm receiving any kind of negative reaction. The former ended up as one of the best guitarists and songwriters of his generation, while the latter was one of the more distinctive drummers and singers. Helm was so beloved, that when this unique American voice died in 2012, he seemed to get more attention than Dick Clark, who passed away the day before.

In 1969, Brooks would work with another rule-breaking, visionary genius, performing electric bass on the fusion classic Bitches Brew from Miles Davis, once again playing a role in the evolution of music and pissing off parochial pricks, this time in the jazz community. Kooper would accumulate many accomplishments, including discovering the almighty Lynyrd Skynyrd. He produced their first three records, even playing the iconic, opening funereal organ and mellotron on “Freebird,” perhaps the ultimate guitar song.

Nine month’s after Forest Hills, on May 17^th, 1966, Dylan would be backed by The Band (except for Helm, who was temporarily replaced by future character actor Mickey Jones), then known as The Hawks, for an equally infamous show in Manchester, England. At one point, an especially ridiculous human being yelled, “Judas!!” Dylan responded with, “I don’t believe you! You’re a liar!”

This is a perfect retort, as he’s calling the guy out on his bullshit and invoking the notion of “faux outrage,” even though the term didn’t exist five decades ago. You can picture Dylan observing the current toxic atmosphere in America with phony, whiny leftists taking offense at the most benign subject on one side, their equally slimy, repugnant, conservative equivalents on the other, and shrugging, “Been there, done that.” It’s telling that in the most explosive political climate since the ‘60s, the musical act most associated with that era (other than the Beatles) is now singing “Some Enchanted Evening” and other songs that predate rock’n’roll.

Dylan returns to Forest Hills a conquering hero, to a venue that symbolizes a time when his art evolved, and as a result, so did his audience, and music in general. As a bonus, he’s bringing old flame Mavis Staples with him, and they’ll likely both be treated with the reverence they’ve earned and deserve. It’ll be the opposite of that night over fifty years ago, when Dylan and his band cast pearls before violent, shortsided, hypocritical swine on the wrong side of history, betraying their progressive ideals by attempting to literally stop Dylan from demonstrating his.

Welcome home.

Matt Leinwohl

The George Washington Hotel towered above Lexington Avenue, a remnant of times long gone. After staying there for a few months in 1939, W.H. Auden was so enthralled with the building, he wrote a poem about it. Nearly 80 years later, I was across the street, waiting in line for The Cult show at the Gramercy Theatre, listening to some modern poetry from the guy behind me.

“Da singa of Da Cult sang with da guitar playa and da keyboard playa of Da Doors. Dey were called Da Doors, but because of a lawsuit, dey had ta change it to Da Doors of da 21^st Century. He did a good job replacing da singa of Da Doors.”

He was a short, graying, fiftysomething guy talking to his taller, younger friend. Not once did he use the names of any of the musicians he was referring to. Jim Morrison was simply “da singa.” Did he forget the names? Did he even know the names? People are strange. And that would include me for fixating on this in the first place.

Once inside, my friend and I were in the lounge, staring at the overpriced shirts by the merch table. A middle-aged man who looked like a semi-high George Takei claimed, “You could get that $35 shirt for $5 online.” It was an observation made to no one in particular, and without a shred of bitterness. His slightly dazed, genial grin appeared to be that of a man stoned and alone.

Behind the merch table was a round guy with a baseball cap and glasses that were both oversized. He took in this comment with a deflated expression, like a despondent muppet. Mustering the strength to recover, he then gave George a Tom Sizemore stare, which one couldn’t take seriously because of his Elton John circa ’75 look. However, his sad attempt at an intimidation tactic seemed to work, as George got closer to the table and said, “Hey man, I didn’t mean anything by that.” Crisis averted.

Before The Cult came on, David Bowie’s Blackstar album was played in its entirety. The crowd kibitzing and enjoying libations while the melancholic intensity of a dying man’s last statement hovered over everyone made for an odd dichotomy. Bowie was a master of contrasts, so he might’ve appreciated the image. The section of the title track where he, accompanied by only a heavenly sounding guitar, croons, “Something happened on the day he died/Spirit rose a metre and stepped aside” takes the term “soulful” to new heights. Wow.

No time to get verklempt though. Not with the propulsive drums from “’tis A Pity She Was A Whore” blasting throughout the theatre. Let’s dance. Or since we’re already comfortable in our seats, just nod along to the beat. After the final song, “I Can’t Give Everything Away,” the record started again. It was a nice touch, an acknowledgement of the immortality of artists. At this moment The Cult took the stage.

They started with “Dark Energy,” from their new record Hidden City. I haven’t had the chance to pick it up yet, but if that and the other three songs they played from it are any indication (“Hinterland,” “Deeply Ordered Chaos,” and “G O A T”), it could be their best album since 2001’s underrated Beyond Good and Evil.

Next up were the classics “Rain,” “Horse Nation,” and “Wildflower.” When performed live, the first two come across as tribal warfare, especially on the latter. John Tempesta’s rapid-fire drums and Billy Duffy’s raga guitar had an Indian ambience, both Native American and South Asian. “Wildflower” was one of many examples of Duffy’s riff mastery, even if that one is “borrowed” from AC/DC’s “Rock ‘n’ Roll Singer.”

It was around then that a beefy bald dude with a backwards baseball cap started dancing in the aisle, pointing towards the stage, and “broing out.” You could sense he was going for a Channing Tatum vibe, but ended up appearing as just a fat bald guy having a conniption.

He was doing his thing to the monster groove of “Sweet Soul Sister,” especially the funky bass breakdown where Ian Astbury sings like Glenn Danzig at Graceland, “Hustle and strut through the city at night/Hustle and strut.” Come to think of it, this really would’ve been a great song for Elvis.

Astbury is always fascinating to see live. Aside from having a voice that contains the grandiosity of Freddie Mercury and the bluesy grit of Danzig, his interaction with the crowd never disappoints. Perhaps it’s merely rock’n’roll theatre, but there always seems to be genuine tension radiating from the stage. You have the compelling dynamic of a cultured guy performing for a group of people who for the most part aren’t. A learned individual facing people who are mainly interested in hearing him sing lyrics like “Hot damn, ooh, mercy ma’am.”

When I saw them ten years ago, he blurted out between songs, “Songs of innocence, songs of experience.” It was a reference to a book of poetry by William Blake. Crickets. A few years later at Irving Plaza, Astbury made a sincere recommendation of the play Equus, which had recently come back to Broadway with Daniel Radcliffe. It was met with indifferent silence, the worst kind of all.

On this particular evening, Astbury was in fine form as a vocalist and courteous ball-buster. As usual, he took aim at NYC hipsters and fashion snobs, and would end most songs with, “Thank you kindly.” At this point, he’s probably accepted that the audience has a lot of middle-aged dudes who are simply content to rock out to “Lil’ Devil” because it reminds them of their first lap dance. While not “art,” there’s something oddly, sleazily poignant about that.

Speaking of which, “Lil’ Devil” was now being performed, the crowd shouting along, and the sights and smells of strip clubs and roadhouses of yore coming back to them. The vibe then changed to “haunted house” with “Gone.” This was a first. The Cult rarely play material from their 1994 self-titled album. It’s one of their best, and I’d never seen them do anything from it before. The sinister thump of the drums/bass, along with the eerily calm piano shadings were like the Nefertiti-era Miles Davis Quintet providing the soundtrack to Nosferatu’s shadow creeping up on an unsuspecting victim. The exploding guitar and vocals in the chorus are acid rock at its finest. They need to play this more often.

The aforementioned “Deeply Ordered Chaos” was another stellar addition to the set. It was inspired by the 2015 Charlie Hebdo massacre, and the title comes from the artist Francis Bacon, who stated, “I believe in deeply ordered chaos.” It’s a mid-tempo ballad with a magnetic, impressionistic Malcolm Young riff that drives the song, until the tempo picked up and Tempesta took over, increasing the tension for a while, then segueing back 30 years to “The Phoenix.” Duffy expanded on Ron Asheton’s “I Wanna Be Your Dog” riff with savage Wah-Wah pedal wizardry that came across as so psychedelically violent, it invoked giant lava lamps swirling with blood.

Another Love favorite, “Nirvana,” came next. These last three songs demonstrated that Tempesta is one of rock’n’roll’s premier drummers, able to shift from swing to bombast at a moments notice. It was a homecoming for him, as he grew up in the Bronx with Frank Bello and Charlie Benante of Anthrax, and worked as a drum tech for them early on. Now he’s the longest-serving drummer in Cult history, a crucial part of what makes them such a killer live act.

The luminous opening chords of “Fire Woman” got the crowd pumped. After each chord, Duffy raised his hand in the air, same as in the video and the cover of 1989’s Sonic Temple. Many grown men, myself included, did the same and felt compelled to shout, “YEAH!!” Before the next song, Duffy picked up his trademark White Falcon Gretsch. The crowd got even more animated, as we knew “She Sells Sanctuary” was next. For the unconverted, this might all seem a little silly. They would be correct. But it’s all part of the unique pageantry of rock’n’roll.

“She Sells Sanctuary” usually brings to mind some alternate universe where it’s playing at a dance party in a John Hughes movie. It was also a reminder of what a multidimensional guitarist Duffy is. He can play spiraly, post-punk psychedelia on par with his old friend Johnny Marr and Echo & the Bunnymen’s Will Sergeant, or coarse riffs along the lines of Tony Iommi, Keith Richards, Dave Davies, and Angus/Malcolm Young.

The latter style was showcased on their greatest song, Love Removal Machine, always a perfect way to end a show. In a live setting, the outro rave-up is like an earthquake that grooves. In fact, when they did it at Roseland in 2013, the ballroom seemed to shake. While the venue was torn down the next year, it was essentially destroyed that evening. Same with the Gramercy. No matter where they play this, by the end, you feel like Bobby Cannavale at the end of the first episode of Vinyl, blissfully covered in dust and debris. Sing with me everyone, “AHHHHHHHHHHH YEAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!”

The doors opened to 23^rd street, and we took in the cold, urban nocturnal winter, while bathed in the holy afterglow of an exceptional show. After my friend and I said our goodbyes, W.H. Auden came back to mind. He once said, “Music is the best means we have of digesting time.” And with that, I hustled and strutted through the city at night back to Penn Station.

Matt Leinwohl

Holy schnikes! As a mature adult, one tries to stay away from using such childish expressions. But if there was ever a time to channel Chris Farley, it’s with the news of Ace Frehley’s upcoming covers album, Origins Vol.1, out April 15^th.

Take a look at that track list. There’s a lot to get excited about. The Wah-Wah pedal wonderland of Cream’s “White Room,” and its lyrics featuring “tired starlings,” “silver horses,” and “moonbeams,” is about as Ace as it gets. He and Pearl Jam’s Mike McCready reclaim “Cold Gin,” a Kiss song Ace wrote that Gene Simmons originally sang. Like most of us Generation X music fanatics, McCready grew up worshiping Ace. Way back in ’91, at the end of “Alive,” he even paid homage to Ace’s solo on “She,” which was in itself a tribute to Robby Krieger’s solo on “Five to One” by The Doors. Now, on the edge of 50, he gets to fulfill a childhood dream.

Ace and Paul Stanley reunite for Free’s “Fire and Water.” After years of mutual ball-busting, it’s good to see that one of the main influences on Kiss has brought these old friends back together. For now.

Best of all is Thin Lizzy’s “Emerald” with Slash. There’s the Ben Hur of guitar duels at the end, so it’s a perfect showcase for these two legends. And there’s a lot of Brian Robertson in Slash’s playing anyway.

Holy schnikes, indeed.

Origins Vol.1 Track List

 “White Room” (Cream)

“Street Fighting Man” (Rolling Stones)

“Spanish Castle Magic,” featuring John 5 (Jimi Hendrix Experience)

“Fire and Water,” featuring Paul Stanley (Free)

“Emerald,” featuring Slash (Thin Lizzy)

“Bring It On Home” (Led Zeppelin)

“Wild Thing,” featuring Lita Ford (The Troggs)

“Parasite,” featuring John 5 (Kiss)

“Magic Carpet Ride” (Steppenwolf)

“Cold Gin,” featuring Mike McCready (Kiss)

“Till the End of the Day” (The Kinks)

“Rock and Roll Hell” (Kiss)

Matt Leinwohl

You don’t expect rock stars to die from Alzheimer’s disease. Especially from the band who did “All the Young Dudes” and “Crash Street Kidds.” Suicide. Overdose. Choking on vomit. Those are three of the more common associations we have of rock’n’roll deaths. Alzheimer’s? Not even close. Music functions as a euphoric escape from reality, even on albums that confront it like What’s Going On or Darkness on the Edge of Town. Alzheimer’s/dementia is a whole other level of reality for those of us who have experienced “the long goodbye” and witnessed a loved one slowly fade away. Unfortunately, it claimed former Mott the Hoople drummer Dale “Buffin” Griffin last month at the age of 67.

Griffin was only 58 when he received the diagnosis. In a 2010 profile for WalesOnline, he said, “Many old friends now avoid me as they do not know what to say, which is really hurtful. I just wish they would realize that, inside, I am still the same old Buffin I always was.” My grandmother suffered from dementia during her final years. It could get very depressing and grim. But there were also moments of beauty, grace, humor and dignity. It’s understandable how people would feel uncomfortable watching someone wilt into blankness. But that’s when they need you the most. The capacity to simply drop someone from your life and give up on them, be it family, friend or mate, is one of mankind’s more despicable qualities.

The sad irony is Griffin provided the backbeat for a band whose music epitomizes brotherhood, loyalty and community. He anchored Mott the Hoople through dreamy, funereal dirges, sticky dive bar floor rockers, and front porch folk/country. “Whizz Kid” from 1973’s Mott is like Ziggy and the Spiders from Mars with Levon Helm “Cripple Creeking” his way behind the kit. In the beginning of “Half Moon Bay,” from their 1969 self-titled debut, he’s center stage with manic Keith Moon drum fills, bashing along to Verden Allen’s organ drone and the hypnotic Harrisonesque lullaby guitar of Mick Ralphs. It’s one of the many examples of how Griffin put the power in Mott’s ballads, even though they weren’t “power ballads.”

1971’s Brain Capers is perhaps his greatest showcase. “Death May Be Your Santa Claus” has some funky drumming that would’ve been suitable for a dance-off between James Brown and Jackie Wilson. Their cover of Dion’s “Your Own Backyard” is one of the greatest, most affecting redemption songs you’ll ever hear. It’s driven in part by Griffin’s Levon/Charlie Watts quiet, pastoral swing that gets progressively more commanding with each verse. It’s appropriate for a song whose protagonist reflects on a past defined by disappointment and loss, while in forward motion towards a more promising future.

“The Journey” is a nearly ten-minute ballad worthy of the title. Just when you’ve gotten lost in its beautiful solemnity, Griffin and Ralphs sucker punch you with head-banging drums/guitar that turn out to be the main hook, matching Ian Hunter’s tormented howls of salvation. And “The Moon Upstairs” has a killer guitar riff/drums attack that pays homage to The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” which came out earlier that year. They’re both intense rebel yells, the former ending with what sounds like a small explosion.

Hopefully, Griffin is in a much better place, wherever that is. If there’s a heaven, may it possess as much grandeur as a Mott the Hoople song.

Matt Leinwohl

David Sanborn’s spectral sax, Carlos Alomar’s seductive yet melancholy guitar and the heavenly background harmonies seemed to rise like smoke from a postcoital cigarette. It was late summer, but it felt more like winter in the sense that it was a period of decay. My girlfriend of almost 13 years and I had broken up, and were moving out of the apartment we’d shared for many years.

Neil Sedaka was right, breaking up is hard to do. Especially when it’s the middle of a beautiful, sunny afternoon, and you’re alone, stuck in a grey fog of depression, beginning the dismal process of cleaning out your belongings from a place you thought of as home. A home you had no desire to leave. Young Americans from David Bowie was playing, the title track providing some vigor to counter this moment, and this summer of rigor mortis.

Next up was “Win,” one of his best, and mentioned at the top. It had always come across as alluring. But the context of the present situation gave it a poignant, end of an era vibe, completely stopping me in my tracks. After it ended, I played it again, suddenly dawning on me that the first words are, “Hey, it ain’t over” from Luther Vandross, Robin Clark and the other background singers. Then there was the chorus, with Bowie purring, “All you’ve got to do is win” like if Scott Walker (not the Governor) were a horny soul singer from Mars reciting a speech by football legend Al Davis. Win what? Didn’t matter. It was the positive thought/spirit that counted, providing a boost to someone who sorely needed one, if just for one day.

Starting over isn’t easy. But the concept of change and beginning again is something David Bowie made a career out of, turned into an art form, and was even the basis of one of his biggest hits. The conventional wisdom is Bowie was a chameleon. But the simple fact is he loved music. And when you get down to it, was just another fanatic like us. It was apparent not just in his art, but in how he was an early champion of so many other talented artists. A short list includes Devo, Television, Eurythmics, TV On The Radio, Arcade Fire and Stevie Ray Vaughan, who most people first heard on 1983’s Let’s Dance. Aside from helping launch his career, younger fans like myself got their initial exposure to the blues through SRV because of Bowie.

He caught on to Bruce Springsteen early as well, recording covers of “Growin’ Up” in 1973, when the original came out and “It’s Hard to Be a Saint In the City” two years later. That was just before Born to Run, when Springsteen still had a cult following.

However, most impressive is even when he was a struggling artist himself in ’66, he helped the Velvet Underground, before their enormously influential debut The Velvet Underground & Nico was released. Bowie’s manager at the time, Kenneth Pitt, gave him the acetate of the record, and Bowie soon became spellbound by Lou Reed’s vision of New York City as a grimy, ashen phantasmagoria. Keep in mind, he was only 19 and had never been there before. During the last gig for his band Buzz, at his insistence, they played “I’m Waiting for the Man.” In a 2003 Vanity Fair article, Bowie stated, “Amusingly, not only was I to cover a Velvets’ song before anyone else in the world, I actually did it before the album came out. Now that’s the essence of Mod.” Actually, that’s the essence of Bowie, showing at the very beginning how ahead of the curve he was. Part of what makes his passing so sad is Bowie was rock’n’roll’s foremost forward-thinker, he could always anticipate the future. Now all that’s left of him is the past.

And what a past it is. The sheer amount of accomplishments and highlights are staggering. One of my favorite Bowie moments is in “Stay,” nasty nocturnal funk from the 1976 masterpiece Station to Station. It’s the verse where he intones, “Heart wrecker, heart wrecker, make me delight,” a nod to “Matchmaker, Matchmaker” from Fiddler on the Roof. In the brilliant 2014 book on ‘80s New Wave music Mad World by Lori Majewski and Jonathan Bernstein, Duran Duran bassist John Taylor talks about “Stay.” He points out how he and drummer Roger Taylor were trying to emulate the tightness of the rhythm section, which consisted of bassist George Murray and drummer Dennis Davis.

To review, we have a beloved musical about an early 20^th century Jewish peasant milkman living in a Russian shtetl, somehow connected to a hugely popular and stellar late 20^th century (and beyond) handsome British synth-pop band, known for lavish videos with beautiful women, yachts, and exotic locations. Seems like Bowie was quite the matchmaker himself.

Another one of his talents was that no one made loneliness sound quite so grand, particularly on “Life on Mars?” and “Space Oddity.” It was a sound and vision that was equal parts sorrow and triumph. He was lucky and smart enough to have musicians the caliber of guitarists Mick Ronson, Mick Wayne and future Yes keyboard wiz Rick Wakeman help convey that feeling of victory in isolation.

Bowie also had a knack for the exquisite and odd wordless vocal. In “Under Pressure,” while Freddy Mercury is scatting, in the background Bowie is chanting like a Cantor in a ‘50s Technicolor musical. More recently is “The Stars (Are Out Tonight)” from his 2013 comeback The Next Day. The main vocal hook is Bowie singing, “Hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo-hoo-hoo,” like an owl imitating Buddy Holly.

Even more peculiar was what a friend of mine refers to as, “the David Bowie whispers and mumbles.” Perhaps the most famous example is “Modern Love,” where Bowie proudly mutters, “I know when to go out/And when to stay in/Get things done.” Then there’s “Ashes to Ashes,” where during the bridge he sings, “I’ve never done good things (I’ve never done good things)/I’ve never done bad things (I’ve never done bad things)/I never did anything out of the blue, woh-o-oh (who-o-oh).” He sings the lyrics in a slightly anguished voice, immediately repeating them in a rushed murmur, making it simultaneously unsettling and amusing. Reiterating the wordless vocal “who-o-oh” adds an extra humorously bizarre touch.

“Ashes to Ashes” was how Bowie started the ‘80s, a decade that’s unimaginable without him. The “Berlin Trilogy” of the late ‘70s had a seismic impact on the synth-pop bands that dominated MTV, as well as the post-punk/alternative/goth bands like Magazine, The Chameleons, Bauhaus, etc. And his early ‘70s “Ziggy Stardust” period effected everyone from Echo and the Bunnymen to Mötley Crüe to John Mellencamp back when he went by “Johnny Cougar,” a name given to him by one-time Bowie manager Tony DeFries.

While his influence was/is godlike, conversely, it was also during this time that he was somewhat underrated. 1984’s “Blue Jean” was not only a captivating pop song, but one of the best videos of that era. The extended version of the clip (a mini-movie called Jazzin’ for Blue Jean) showcases Bowie’s killer comedic chops. He portrays a likeable schnook trying to impress a woman by taking her to a club where “Screaming Lord Byron,” the suave singer also played by Bowie, is performing. There’s a Clark Kent/Superman, Nutty Professor/Buddy Love dynamic to his dual performance. Anyone who loves the original, Ricky Gervais version of The Office will recognize David Brent with Bowie’s “Vic” character.

Better still was “Absolute Beginners,” the theme to Julien Temple’s overlooked 1986 musical of the same name, where Bowie was a sleazy advertising executive courting the protagonist, an aspiring young photographer in 1958 London. The song itself is one of Bowie’s all-time greatest, with old cohort Rick Wakeman once again providing beautifully melancholy piano, and Soft Boys bassist Matthew Seligman, who performs the kind of melodic, emotive lead bass Guns ‘N’ Roses’ Duff McKagan would contribute to “Sweet Child o’ Mine” a year later. And the lines, “If our love song/Could fly over mountains/Could laugh at the ocean/Just like the films,” is set to a majestic, operatic melody Pavarotti would have devoured.

How does the man who brought upon the synth-friendly, MTV ‘80s end that decade? By foreseeing the darker, more guitar-heavy ‘90s, of course, with Tin Machine in 1989. They were a band with his Lust for Life colleagues, the incredible rhythm section Hunt and Tony Sales, and Reeves Gabrels, whose guitar could veer from 4am blues to Robert Fripp in a manic mosh pit.

While once again predicting and shaping the future, Tin Machine’s self-titled debut was also Bowie’s heaviest album since 1970’s The Man Who Sold the World. The connection between those records was Jeff Beck’s extraordinary work in the ‘60s with the Jeff Beck Group and The Yardbirds. The song “Tin Machine” has Hunt Sales annihilating the drum kit like Gene Krupa transforming into the Hulk, with brother Tony swinging on bass. Meanwhile, Gabrels executes a middle-eastern melody that could be Soundgarden’s Kim Thayil attempting the Yardbirds “Over Under Sideways Down.” (Most people had no idea who Soundgarden was in ‘89.) Bowie does his best (late Yardbirds singer) “Keith Relf” voice, one that also appeared on “The Jean Genie” and other ‘70s classics.

It’s a reminder of yet another aspect of his genius, which is he managed to combine two completely dissimilar vocal influences. When you merge the insouciance of Relf with the passionate crooning of ‘60s (again, not the Governor) Scott Walker, you’ve got Bowie.

Tin Machine is thought of as some odd footnote in his oeuvre, but Bowie accomplishes his usual trick of connecting through contrasts. Underneath the volume and fury of “Under the God” is the iconic opening riff to “What’d I Say” by Ray Charles. “Prisoner of Love” evokes the vulnerability and authority of Sinatra singing in the darkness, under a street lamp and (Echo and the Bunnymen’s) “The Killing Moon.”

He could achieve this visually as well, like his appearance on Soul Train in 1975 lip-synching “Golden Years.” Amidst a sea of black faces stands this pale, skinny wraith with orange hair, half-zombie, half-carrot, dancers bathed in dark silhouette grooving behind him.

His most unforgettable appearance might be when he opened The Concert for New York City with a cover of Simon & Garfunkel’s “America.” It was just him sitting cross-legged with a small keyboard, playing a creepy/innocent merry-go-round melody. He was paying homage to his adopted country and city, which had just been devastated by the tragic events of 9/11, consoling the city that he loved so much. It’s where he would eventually die, having just released a new album and staged an Off-Broadway musical. Leave it to Bowie to exit within a swirl of life, art and creativity, one final contrast.

He joins Lennon, Hendrix, Jones, Bolan, Lou and all the madmen who preceded him in death. The man is gone, but what he left behind is eternal.

It ain’t over.

Matt Leinwohl

Warren Haynes was once the new guy. Back in the summer of ‘89, the Allman Brothers Band reunited after seven years for their 20^th anniversary. They put out the Dreams box set and went on tour. My father and I went to the show at Jones Beach and couldn’t believe how incredible their new guitarist was. In fact, he seemed to take the entire amphitheatre by surprise.

Back then, you couldn’t preview performances on YouTube. Information was minimal, as social media didn’t exist. Life had more of an air of stealth to it. Plus, the Allmans were not as popular as they are now, so there wasn’t much hype about the tour. Even the Doobie Brothers reunion that year got more press. But by the end of the summer, this guy few had heard of got people excited about the Allman Brothers again.

How excited? In ‘92, my friend and I went to the old Tower Records in Carle Place, Long Island to get some records signed by the band. I brought my parent’s copy of At Fillmore East. Wearing the mushroom t-shirt I got at that Jones Beach show and a goofy grin, I enthused to Haynes, “It’s a true honor to meet the biggest badass on slide guitar!” Gazing up from signing the album, the look on his face was a mixture of appreciation and just the slightest bit of deadpan amusement, like he was thinking to himself, “Is this guy for real?”

Cut to all these years later, I’m at the Beacon Theatre on New Year’s Eve, waiting for the doors to open, standing with a bunch of older, grey-haired men from Upstate with matching white baseball caps. You could immediately tell where they were from by their friendly dispositions and the Inland North accent they share with people from certain parts of the Midwest. After a few minutes, I realized these guys probably weren’t that much older than me, maybe a decade at most. It had been a long time since I was that enthusiastic 19-year-old at Tower. He still exists, albeit somewhat more seasoned.

This last evening of 2015 was a celebration led by Government Mule. They started out as a side project in ’95 by Haynes and late Allmans bassist Allen Woody. Once the ABB called it a night in 2014, the Mule became the main focus. It’s been a tradition for them to play the Beacon on the final few nights of the year.

Of course, the Beacon is probably best known for the annual Allman Brothers residency that occurred each spring for a few decades. Those shows helped attract new fans, cement their legacy, and made them as beloved as the Grateful Dead. So it was appropriate that the Mule would be playing sets devoted to the Dead, The Band and the Allmans with special guests. It was like the July ’73 (the month I was born) Summer Jam at the Watkins Glen Grand Prix Raceway with a Fairway across the street.

A few minutes after 9:00, the Mule came out with bassist Lincoln Schleifer, guitarist Steve Kimock, and back-up singers Machan Taylor and Elaine Caswell. Haynes and Kimock had experience playing in various Dead spin-off bands, so they were familiar with the material. Starting with “Watkins Glen Jam,” it featured glacial Garcia guitar, in particular from Kimock. Haynes contributed watery tones with what sounded like a Rotary speaker pedal, otherwise best known as a “Leslie.” Hendrix, Clapton, Joe Perry and many others have used it over the years. The icy, isolated, atmospheric beauty of the guitars combined with the jazzy rhythm section conjured up astronauts performing floating pirouettes on the moon. The instrumental then went right into “Bird Song.”

“Tennessee Jed” and “Bertha” followed. The latter had Kimock invoking the late Byrds guitarist Clarence White with some bucolic licks that turned the Beacon into one of those stunning ‘70s photographs of the Southwest from Stephen Shore. In the midst of the “Buick riding through Route 66 into the sun” vibe was a 30ish fat guy wearing multi-colored shades, dancing horribly with what resembled a glowing green squid tentacle rotating around his neck. His friend then joined him in the mirth and merriment, with the same slimy, shimmering green item around her collar. They looked like two people rejoicing right after the Swamp Thing had exploded on them.

What made the entire spectacle amusing was the self-satisfied smirk on the guy’s face. He actually thought he looked cool. No human being has ever looked cool doing whatever he was doing, least of all a sweaty, doughy doofus. I felt bad for the people near them, dealing with the potentially seizure-inducing, rapidly flashing lights emanating from the fat man and his friend. There’s a difference between enjoying yourself and being a pain in the ass. Hopefully, they’ll never make an appearance on my lawn.

During “Truckin’,” the crowd predictably and justifiably cheered at the line, “New York’s got the ways and means.” This included an older woman who looked like the late singer Edie Gormé. We’re used to thinking of Deadheads in a certain way, like skinny young women named “Sunshine” with stringy blonde hair and granny classes. But the reality is the Dead have been around in some form or another for five decades. We’re at the point where the audience actually does include grannies.

This portion of the show concluded with “China Cat Sunflower/I Know You Rider.” As he did throughout the set, Haynes (North) Carolinaized the Dead. The tranquil twang in his voice put some Southern hospitality into their lysergic, rural West Coast hymns. That same spirit was evident in the guitar as well, as you could hear his old mentor Dickey Betts C&W-inflected leads.

And that was the end of the Dead set. To quote a song they had performed earlier, there was “nothin’ left to do but smile, smile, smile!!!” That may sound corny, but you’d be happy too witnessing Steve Kimock and Warren Haynes do justice to one of the great American songbooks, inspiring each other to exhilarating heights. The goofy grin from my 19-year-old self was back. It seemed to be asking, “Were these guys for real?”

Matt Leinwohl

Somewhere out there, Mike Damone’s toes are tappin’. You can picture the fictional but all too real Cheap Trick fan and other characters from Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Dazed and Confused, Over the Edge and Freaks and Geeks all together raising a triumphant joint and enjoying a cool buzz in honor of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame class of 2016.

With the exception of N.W.A., this particular group (Steve Miller, Cheap Trick, Deep Purple and Chicago) are getting in because of the contributions they made during the post-Woodstock, pre-AIDS/MTV era those beloved films (and TV show) so accurately portrayed. This period, from roughly 1970 to ’81, was an incredibly rich one for music. Unfortunately, this decade is often overlooked possibly because it’s book-ended by the cultural, societal and musical transformations of the ‘60s and the music video phenomenon of the ‘80s. In other words, stuck between revolutions.

 The irony is the 1970’s were perhaps the most revolutionary time of all. It was all about, to paraphrase the Cohen Brothers A Serious Man, taking advantage of the new freedoms. Dylan, The Beatles, Hendrix, Velvet Underground, MC5, The Animals, Rolling Stones, Sly Stone, The Who, Motown, Stax, etc. led the charge and blazed a Technicolor path.

The bar was set as high as the musicians, leading to the ‘70s and the golden age of hard rock/heavy metal, dance music, progressive rock, fusion, introspective singer-songwriters, reggae, punk and the overall endless amount of innovation, variety and excellence. The previous post touched upon this, briefly focusing on 1979. The class of 2016 has a Bicentennial, spirit of ’76 feel to them, especially with Steve Miller’s “Rock’n’Me” taking over the top spot of the Billboard Hot 100 from Chicago’s “If You Leave Me Now” from November of that year.

Chicago kicked off their incredible run with one of the greatest debuts of all time, 1969’s Chicago Transit Authority. It was a record as versatile as the decade they would soon dominate. Robert Lamm could play piano like Vince Guaraldi and sing in a gutsy croon. The late Terry Kath was a burly 23-year-old Caucasian who sounded like Ray Charles and played guitar like nobody else.

Kath’s instrumental “Free Form Guitar” will shock anyone who thinks of Chicago as strictly horns and harmonies. In the midst of all the funk, soul, folk and Bacharach level of songcraft, Kath paid homage to Jimi Hendrix. Except by paying tribute to the (then recent) past, he also gave us a glimpse of the future. “Free Form Guitar” was shredding that predated Eddie Van Halen’s 1978 instrumental/introduction “Eruption” by almost ten years. But more than anything, it anticipated Dinosaur Jr. and Sonic Youth’s avant-garde experimentation with feedback and dissonance in the 1980’s. Even with all the mind-blowing guitar heroics of the late ‘60s, this was completely unprecedented. Then there’s Peter Cetera, whose voice is so inimitable it’s easy to forget his bass playing, which combined the melodic jauntiness of Paul McCartney with the funkiness of Larry Graham.

In early ’77, another band from Illinois, Cheap Trick, broke through with their self-titled first record. Like Chicago Transit Authority, it’s not only one of the best opening statements in rock’n’roll, it’s one of the best albums period. “Oh, Candy” is such a vibrant three-minute pop song/pop art it’s easy to forget it deals with the suicide of photographer Marshall Mintz, a close friend of the band. The incredibly catchy, upbeat yet downbeat chorus (“Oh, Candy worked so hard/at doin’ what he thought was right/it really, really doesn’t mean a thing.”), with the Beatles/Big Star harmonies of vocalist Robin Zander, bassist Tom Petersson and guitarist/primary songwriter Rick Nielsen, lights up like fireworks in pitch-black darkness. The song proved quickly that behind the whole cool-looking guy/odd-looking guy image of the band, there was a vast amount of depth.

On the same record, “Mandocello” and “The Ballad of T.V. Violence (I’m Not the Only Boy)” were placed back to back. It’s hard to fathom they were from the same four guys. The former is a ballad with an airy, breathtaking quality, the sonic equivalent of the Manhattan Solstice. The latter is a psychotic, snarling rocker about serial killer Richard Speck with the chilling refrain, “I was a lonely boy/I’m not the only boy.” The other refrain, “gimme your love,” invokes another Illinois icon, Curtis Mayfield and his tune of the same name from Superfly. It’s not surprising that Zander would soon be known as “the man of a thousand voices.”

Not every Cheap Trick album has been nearly as stellar, but their first six, up until 1980’s All Shook Up, is as good a run as any group has ever had. It’s nice to see the Hall of Fame’s website acknowledge that as well. It should also be noted that the first post from this blog took its title from their usual concert opener “Hello There.”

At the same time CT were introducing themselves at full volume, Steve Miller was reacquainting himself in a more mellow manner to everyone with “Fly Like an Eagle,” at that point near the top of the charts. Despite being just 33, he was a veteran coming off a three-year gap between albums, a lifetime back then. The blues guitarist from Texas with the chill West Coast Jazz singer vocals, added synthesizer but still had Joachim Young’s B-3 Organ to add some Booker T earthiness to the otherwise spacey ambience.

Listening to the line, “Time keeps on slippin’, slippin’, slippin’ into the future” actually accomplishes the complete opposite; the swirly synths and Miller’s nasty but smooth riff are now like a portal back to the past. It’s difficult not to think of growing up in Rego Park, Queens and my mother pregnant with my sister. It doesn’t seem that long ago. How did time slip into the future so fast?

Speaking of the future, even Bill Kristol could’ve correctly predicted that N.W.A. were getting in this year. The recent commercial and critical success of Straight Outta Compton essentially locked that down. Some people don’t feel hip-hop should be included, but that’s a shortsighted notion. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is basically the Music Hall of Fame. “Rock and Roll” is simply an umbrella term. Also, there’s more rock in N.W.A. than in most of the current acts categorized as rock. Even compared to modern hip-hop artists, they have more in common with their fellow Reagan/Bush-era L.A. legends Guns N’ Roses than Kanye or Drake.

There’s an “about time!” aspect to this particular class, none more so than Deep Purple. They were first eligible in 1993, so long ago that George Burns and Rose Kennedy were still alive, and Justin Bieber and reigning American League Rookie of the Year Carlos Correa were not. As discussed last year on this blog, Green Day got in before them, a complete embarrassment for the Hall.

Purple are one of the principal architects of hard rock/heavy metal. For the past four decades, “Smoke on the Water” has usually been the first song budding musicians learn when they start playing guitar. Ritchie Blackmore’s riff is so iconic that his soulful, tasteful, almost Mark Knopfleresque (years before the actual Knopfler appeared) solo is overlooked. On this song and a few others, the rhythm section of bassist Roger Glover and drummer Ian Paice pulled off the complex trick of making the groove simultaneously lumber and gracefully swing.

They went through a few configurations, but the “Mark II” lineup mentioned above is the one that helped change the world of music. Ian Gillian was the first rock singer to use the titanic, operatic scream predominant in heavy metal, one that everyone from Rob Halford to Axl Rose is known for. And the late keyboardist Jon Lord was among the elite at his craft, performing Hammond organ like Jimmy Smith in a Gothic cathedral.

When Gillian and Glover left in 1973, future Whitesnake vocalist David Coverdale and bassist/vocalist Glenn Hughes took over. The music still annihilated, but there was more of a soul element, to the extent that Coverdale and Hughes were referred to as “the unrighteous brothers.” It was appropriate, as the two had the same deep voice/high voice dynamic as Bill Medley and Bobby Hatfield or even David Ruffin and Eddie Kendricks of The Temptations. At times, Coverdale can come across like a hard rock/heavy metal Lou Rawls. The Hall of Fame did right by including them for the induction.

Shaping one genre of music would’ve been enough. But the original Deep Purple with Rod Evans on vocals managed to influence the U.K. bands of the late ‘80s/early ’90s with their 1968 cover of Joe South’s “Hush.” The Stone Roses, Charlatans, and others all made careers off of it. While the organ and rhythm gave it a “Swinging London” feeling, Evans drawled his way through “Hush” like he was from the American South, providing a striking counterpoint.

The Hall performed a mitzvah by not forgetting about Evans. Whether or not he shows up though is anyone’s guess. He completely dropped out of the public in 1980, and amazingly in this day and age, no information can be found about him since then.

Whatever happens, all hail the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame class of 2016 for expanding on “the new freedoms.”

And someone make sure to save Damone a seat at the Cheap Trick table.

Matt Leinwohl