Men like Ian Fraser “Lemmy” Kilmister tend not to live long lives. Yet he managed to just make it to 70. Sad as it is to hear of his passing, there’s something oddly fitting that he died as fast as he lived. Lemmy celebrated his birthday on Thursday, was diagnosed with terminal brain and neck cancer on Saturday, and as sudden and rapid as one of his songs, he’s dead on Monday.

In Donnie Brasco, when Michael Madsen finds out John Wayne passed away he asks, “How can John Wayne die?” Lemmy was such a larger than life figure and rock’n’roll survivor, I suspect people are asking the same question about him. He was a unique character, to the point where his headstone could say, “You can’t make this shit up.” At the impressionable age of 12, Lemmy actually got to see Buddy Holly in concert in 1958. A few years later, he saw the Beatles at one of their legendary gigs at the Cavern Club in Liverpool, back when, if you can imagine it, they were an up-and-coming band. By the end of the decade, he had roadied for Jimi Hendrix.

Then there’s that surname. The most authentic, intimidating, rebellious, anti-establishment figure in rock’n’roll history, and his last name was Kilmister. Perfect.

In the late ‘60s, the man best known for his deafening bass and gravelly gargoyle shout, played guitar and sang for the psychedelic band Sam Gopal. If Motörhead were like a traffic collision, Gopal were more akin to the band Traffic, with Lemmy singing in a (for him) folkish, mellow tone similar to Steve Winwood at that time. But even back in 1969, when some of the most popular songs were “Get Together” and “Aquarius/Let the Sunshine In,” Lemmy countered the counterculture with “The Sky is Burning.”

Par for the course for someone usually at the right place at the right time, Lemmy started Motörhead and eventually found a drummer who went by “Philthy Animal.” Together with guitarist “Fast” Eddie Clarke, they gave new meaning to the term “power trio.”

1979 (and the ‘70s in general) featured an incredible mélange of music; the unrelenting ascension of Donna Summer, Blondie, hip-hop, Elvis Costello, The Clash, and Van Halen, the introduction of Joy Division, Killing Joke, Bauhaus, The Comsat Angels, and The Cure’s dusky alternative/goth/post-punk, as well as Led Zeppelin’s bittersweet, inadvertent last call with In Through the Out Door. And that’s a small sampling.

That same year, Motörhead’s “Overkill,” featuring Lemmy’s bark and bass of doom, the breakneck severity of Phil “Philthy Animal” Taylor’s pioneering use of double kick drums, and Clarke’s Dick Dale with motion sickness guitar, sounded like nothing that had come before. In a decade full of musical diversity and innovation, they ended the ‘70s by creating thrash metal, sonic evolution that sounded like revolution.

It wasn’t all darkness and decibels. He wrote the lyrics for his old friend Ozzy Osbourne’s 1991 ballad with balls, “Mama, I’m Coming Home.” And yet, he still managed to fit in the line, “I don’t care about the sunshine.” It was symbolic of the uncompromised life he led, like the warts on his face he never had removed. Ultimately, Lemmy was lucky enough to live life on his own terms. Not many people can say that.

Sadly, Phil “Philthy Animal” Taylor preceded Lemmy in death by only a month. The earth was a little more scorched by their presence. Now it’s the sky’s turn to burn.

Matt Leinwohl

“First time pooping?”

The journey to New York City began on an inquisitive note. Saturday night during Halloween on the Long Island Railroad is usually going to be festive. However, this evening was special. It seemed everyone was either going to see the Grateful Dead offshoot Dead & Company at the Garden or headed to Citi Field for the World Series with the Mets. I was part of the former group, but as a long-time Mets fan, had the game recording on the DVR. The train was swarming with Dead Tie-dye and Mets blue and orange, both parties cheerfully mingling with one another.

Near where I was standing, a small line formed for the bathroom. A mother in her forties was waiting for her toddler to come out. The man at the head of the line had the look you see with a lot of middle-aged Long Island males; stocky, graying goatee and white baseball cap covering the few lonely hairs left on his head. He was responsible for the excrement query towards the mother that begins this post. She responded with a look of fear and confusion.

“Most kids when they poop on the train for the first time, they leave a big mess.” The mother gave a tired smile and mentioned it wasn’t the first time while silently praying her son would finish any second now. It was probably just a harmless exchange, but why was this grown man making fecal inquiries regarding the child of a perfect stranger? There are times when being friendly is just inappropriate affability.

At the conclusion of the stool study, a fortyish couple swathed in Mets gear hopped on from Lynbrook. Mr. and Mrs. Met were going to the game, and she would be running in the New York City Marathon the next morning. That’s a lot of activity in a short time frame, and with presumably no sleep. Hopefully, she would accomplish both things without adding brown vomit to her beloved blue and orange.

I knew her story, as upon entering the train, the couple immediately greeted the two women across from me and talked for a few minutes. It wasn’t apparent how these people were acquainted with each other, as they got on from different stations, but they were conversing like old friends. This was one of those times when it seems the world is like Cheers, where “everybody knows your name” — except yours. It’s as if there’s some sort of mass get-together that no one told you about. Of course, that wasn’t the case. And they seemed like perfectly decent people. However, the feeling of detachment one occasionally experiences from merely observing banal encounters becomes heightened when you’ve recently experienced the break-up of a long-term relationship. “We” suddenly becomes “I.” Happy couples can remind you of what was, while you’re trying to adjust to what is.

Despite this very brief moment feeling like a Smiths song, the night was more about rejuvenation than alienation. To reiterate, you had Halloween, the (semi) Dead at MSG and the Mets in the Fall Classic for the first time in fifteen years. And as the Bay City Rollers would have pointed out, it was all on a (chant with me) “S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y NIGHT!” Melancholy would have to wait another day.

As the train pulled into the tunnel, people started to congregate by the door, including the Shit Sleuth. He towered over another man, leaning towards him like Lyndon Johnson intimidating Senator Richard Russell, talking about John Mayer playing with the Dead. “A lot of people want to poof-poof John Mayer, but he’s a great guitar player.” He had meant to say “pooh-pooh,” but somehow came up with “poof-poof.” After a few seconds, he repeated himself slightly louder for further emphasis, “I mean, they just want to poof-poof the guy!”

While awkwardly expressed, he had a point. Mayer is a terrific guitarist … wait a minute, he wasn’t the Bowel Movement Shamus! Who was this guy?! I mentioned before that middle-aged males from Long Island can look similar, but this was absurd. He checked all the boxes; stocky, graying goatee, primarily bald with white baseball cap, and in this case, slight whiff of moron. The new guy was Tweedledum to the manure enthusiast’s Tweedledee; Poof-poof and Poop.

The train had now arrived at Penn Station. The doors opened, and poof-poof, we all disappeared into our respective Saturday nights.

Matt Leinwohl

The Mets have the kind of history appropriate for an organization that conducts its business in a town named Flushing. As a loyal Mets fan since 1981, I take no pleasure in pointing this out. However, when things go well for them, it often borders on the mystical. The 1986 Houston Astros and Boston Red Sox can vouch for that.

Highly-rated pitching prospect Steven Matz’s debut was the latest in a series of “holy shit!” moments for the Mets. And that’s exactly what Matz’s grandfather, Bert Moller, exclaimed at one point, as he smacked his head like those old V8 commercials. All his grandson did was become the first player in franchise history, at any position, to knock in four RBIs in his first major league game. This was especially noteworthy, as the Mets offense has been truly offensive, having been held to one run or fewer twenty-two times this season, the most in the majors. His contributions with the bat overshadowed the seven and two-thirds innings on the mound, where he limited the Reds to five hits, while striking out six. To top it off, Matz grew up a Mets fan in Stony Brook, Long Island. He was one of us. Holy shit indeed.

The experience was even more powerful considering this was a long time coming. The Mets drafted Matz in the summer of 2009, back when Twitter was just beginning to make an impact and Conan O’Brien started his short run as host of The Tonight Show. Soon after, Matz missed not one, but two years due to Tommy John surgery. He wouldn’t pitch again until the 2012 season. In the meantime, he would be overshadowed by the other seemingly endless amount of Mets pitching prospects. Even Rafael Montero got more hype than Matz.

Such a long period of inactivity and uncertainty must have weighed on him like a boulder. In situations like that, fortitude has to overcome fear. And it seems that’s exactly what happened. It wasn’t until about a year and a half ago that people remembered the Mets had a local guy in the system. He was highly regarded back in ’09, but now you were hearing the term “Ace” thrown around, and even comparisons to Clayton Kershaw of the Dodgers, perhaps the best pitcher in baseball. Matz didn’t merely just come back. He was even better than before. And now, most importantly, he was proving that on the major league level.

Earlier that day, it was announced that Chris Squire, the legendary Yes (a band well-versed in the mystical) bassist had died, just a month after revealing he was undergoing treatment for Leukemia. Being a longtime fan of the band, the jukebox in my brain played nothing but Yes non-stop. “Leave It” in particular was in constant rotation. The lyric at the end of the first verse, “the dreams we make real” took on a whole new meaning as history unfolded at Citi Field.

Steven Matz, at least for one astonishing Sunday in Flushing, made his dreams and those of his family, friends, Mets fans and fellow Long Islanders real. A chiming sitar, high-pitched voice, dulcet synths and a tumbling bass line began to occupy my mind. Yes were claiming “It Can Happen.”

Matt Leinwohl

The guy had a face made for dartboards. With the self-satisfied grin of a man whose only concern in life was that he was old and comfortable enough to no longer have any concerns, he surveyed the Sunshine Theatre for a place to sit. Spotting an empty seat next to a couple of thirty-something women, he broadcast to the entire auditorium, “Leave that one for me!”

Older men tend to demand things in situations like these, when civil inquiries would suffice. Even when no harm is intended, it comes across as rude. At any restaurant throughout America, you’re likely to see a man of a certain age tell a waiter, “Gimme a … “ Not a big deal, just one of those things you notice after awhile. At least it’s not as annoying as the Millennial men who use “upspeak,” an annoying vocal affectation where everything sounds like a question, and each sentence starts with “so.”

So the guy, who looked like the late actor Sam Wanamaker as Bernie Sanders, stepped out for a few minutes. When he came back, the ladies wisely had someone else take the seat he had claimed. Good for them, not so good for me. Quickly realizing no one was sitting next to me, he headed straight to the seat, without asking if it was taken.

I hoped this guy wouldn’t be as irksome as he appeared. He seemed to know the older women in front of us, kibitzing like a relatively normal person. So far so … uh oh, what was this? He started cupping his hands around his mouth, like he was playing harmonica. Was he … no, couldn’t be. Unfortunately, he wasn’t doing an impression of Corky Siegel. He was flossing.

I turned to my girlfriend and said, “This guy is flossing.” Glancing at the man in action, she had a look of disbelief. After registering this for a minute, she went back to her iPhone and typed away, silently praying I wasn’t going to call him out.

In “(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes,” Elvis Costello sang, “Oh, I used to be disgusted and now I try to be amused.” Easier said than done, but worth a try. I stared at Bernie, watching him get every nook and cranny, bewildered at how repellent and tactless human beings could be. Noticing me staring at him, he stopped, smiled and said, “I gotta get the chicken out.” Instead of wanting to vomit, I actually laughed. He was a Eugene Levy character come to life. How could you not laugh?

However, not wanting to get chicken pieces potentially flying at me, I asked in my best calm but firm Pete Hamill “Hey pal” voice, “You don’t wanna do that in the bathroom?” Pausing for approximately one second, he replied “No!” It was in a bratty manner, like a child. I replied, “You’re a class act, sir” and left it at that. He may have been obnoxious and gross, but you can never tell an old man to go fuck himself. It’s just one of those rules of life you have to follow. Amusement won out over disgust. Elvis would be proud.

After the movie, my girlfriend and I were on Ninth Avenue. Two women walked by, looking like mother and daughter. The older one had a limp, while the younger one was way ahead. Suddenly stopping, she turned impatiently to the older woman and yelled at the top of her lungs, “LET’S GO!! I HAVE TO GO SHITSKI!!!!”

Hopefully, she made it in time.

Matt Leinwohl

You can find snobs in the unlikeliest of places. Four years ago, I was at Madison Square Garden for a concert by Furthur, a Grateful Dead spin-off with guitarist Bob Weir and bassist Phil Lesh. Some guy in his mid to late forties was sitting next to me with his teenage son. Most crowds at anything associated with the Dead are extremely friendly. I had even been offered a joint by someone sitting next to me at a Further show I’d seen earlier that year at Radio City Music Hall. (I declined. Not my thing. Plus, Radio City was essentially one giant joint anyway with all the smoke, so everyone ended up getting high.)

The guy at MSG and I started talking about music. I mentioned that I had seen a bunch of shows that year, having been fortunate enough to see Paul McCartney (for the first time), U2, Soundgarden and other memorable performances. But I didn’t mention those acts. You would have thought I’d at least bring up the previous Furthur show. For some reason the first concert that came to mind was Twisted Sister, as I had seen them at the Best Buy Theatre about six months earlier. His demeanor suddenly went from low-key affable to frigidly perplexed. It was as if I had loudly farted in the middle of the conversation.

“Oh, that’s Dee Snider, right?” It was more of a judgment than an inquiry. After confirming that Snider was indeed part of the band, the discussion just kind of petered out. Twenty minutes into the show, he and his son would walk further down the arena for better seats. Deadheads are supposed to be high, not high and mighty. One would be hard-pressed to find a more permissive environment than a “Dead” show. You can get away with a lot of things: drug use, questionable hygiene and dancing/lyric pantomiming that would give Jerry douche chills in his grave. However, admitting to seeing Twisted Sister in the 21^st century is apparently not one of them.

Hearing the sad news about Twisted Sister drummer A.J. Pero’s death made me think of that night at the Garden and especially the time I saw them on April 29th, 2011, oddly enough the same day as the royal wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. Two nights later, President Obama walked to the podium like he was auditioning for Ocean’s Fourteen and announced that Osama bin Laden had been killed by U.S. forces. If that happened just forty-eight hours earlier, the euphoric eruption from the tough, hard rock/heavy metal New York crowd would have blown the roof off the Best Buy.

It was a Friday evening in Times Square, a perfect milieu (pardon my French) for hard rock royalty. The atmosphere was good-natured and jovial, but with all the tattooed testosterone, you got the feeling that just one wrong move could have turned the Theatre into a frenzied saloon from a John Wayne western. The Dead and all their offshoots have their loyal “Deadheads.” Twisted Sister, on the other hand, have their deeply devoted “SMF’s.” And the “Sick Motherfucking Friends of Twisted Sister” were out in full force. At one point during the show Dee Snider mentioned something about Russia. “FUCK RUSSIA!” responded one gentleman. It was that kind of night.

Despite the shenanigans and slight whiff of potential violence, the evening had been rooted in altruism. The show was a benefit for the Pinkburst Project, raising money to cure Uveitis, one of the leading causes of blindness. It hit close to home for the band, as Samantha French, the teenage daughter of guitarist/manager Jay Jay French, has the disease. It’s not unusual for Twisted Sister to fight the good fight. This year marks the 30^th anniversary of Dee Snider (along with John Denver and Frank Zappa) speaking out against censorship at the PMRC Senate hearings. You could see the smirks on everyone’s faces when he came out, particularly Sen. Al Gore (we would all become acquainted with this look soon enough). Snider, sensing how he would be perceived, strutted out with a Long Island-sized chip on his shoulder. From the annoyed puss on his face you knew he wanted to remove the self-satisfied, condescending smiles of the politicians and their wives with his bare hands. Instead he accomplished something far more significant; articulately making his case opposing album ratings and coming across as a thoughtful, intelligent human being in the process.

The year before, Mark Metcalf for all intents and purposes reprised his role as Neidermeyer from Animal House for the videos of “We’re Not Gonna Take It” and “I Wanna Rock.” The hearings were almost a bizarro dramatic sequel to Animal House directed by Frank Capra. Tipper Gore even bore a slight resemblance to Verna Bloom, who played Dean Wormer’s wife. Snider and the music industry lost the battle but won the war. Ratings did end up on albums, but their placement only struck up even more interest and curiosity from the young people Tipper and company were trying to “protect.” Twisted Sister was correct. You really can’t stop rock’n’roll.

In 2000, their open letter to doofus Atlanta Brave relief pitcher John Rocker was a finely-worded middle finger to his ignorant comments regarding New York, in particular his distaste for, as he put it, “foreigners.” Twisted Sister got involved as they requested he no longer use “I Wanna Rock” when he took the mound. They mentioned that the group was made up of individuals from Jewish, Italian and Latin backgrounds and expressed pride in coming from such a diverse part of the world. Most impressive, they were able to accomplish this without any ultra—liberal, phony pretentiousness. Years later there would be a scene from the incredible film Silver Linings Playbook that reminded me of that letter. It’s the scene in the parking lot when the asshole Eagles fans make prejudiced comments about the Indian gentlemen with Bradley Cooper and his group. Shea Whigham, as Cooper’s older brother, leaps into the fray and shouts, “Leave the fuckin’ Indians alone!” Granted, they were still “the fuckin’ Indians” to him, but like the band, he wasn’t merely patting himself on the back and paying lip service to the notion of diversity. He was living it and in this instance, risking bodily harm for it.

First and foremost though, Twisted Sister are a killer live band. When they did their 1983 anthem “You Can’t Stop Rock’n’Roll,” it was impressive to see A.J. Pero in person replicate the tempo shift during the guitar solo, when the song suddenly grooves along like Aerosmith’s “Nobody’s Fault.” During “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” Yankee great Bernie Williams joined them on guitar. Even more remarkable, they brought out a deaf Rabbi named Darby Leigh to sign “The Price,” one of the best power ballads from that era. The Rabbi was deaf since birth but found inspiration from Twisted Sister’s lyrics. It was a moving moment, but you had to laugh at the end when Snider summed up the absurdity of the circumstances by simply saying, “Thank you, Rabbi Darby.”

Snider was hilarious the entire night. When he felt he wasn’t getting enough energy from the crowd, he yelled, “Come on people! I’m a fifty-six year old man running around like a maniac!” He joked about people constantly standing up, then sitting down, then standing up again in the balcony, comparing them to Churchgoers. “Turn to page 75 in your hymn books. All Rise for ‘Burn in Hell.’”

Considering the fractured past of the band, the fact that this night was so upbeat or even happening in the first place was somewhat improbable. Most bands have conflicts. But when you have guys from Long Island pissed at one another, it’s whole other level of tension. Bassist Mark “The Animal” Mendoza (nee Glickman) and Dee Snider grew up there. Mendoza hails from West Hempstead and Snider from Baldwin. I grew up in Rockville Centre, the town over from the latter and close by to the former. We can be a passionately angry group of people. Just ask Massapequa’s Alec Baldwin. When we don’t like someone, we really don’t like them. In their Behind the Music episode, Mendoza says that after Twisted Sister broke up in 1987, he was so furious at Snider that “I wanted him dead. I wanted to see him die. Not by me, I didn’t want to kill him. But if he got into a plane crash or a car wreck or something, yeah, well good. Good riddance to an asshole.”

In the ‘80s, Mendoza was a skinny guy with curly hair and makeup, a Nassau County version of Tim Curry in The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Sometime after the spilt he got a lot bulkier, grew a beard and slicked his hair back in a ponytail, looking like retired U.S. Navy Seal commander/author Richard Marcinko. Instead of playing the bass, there are times where he’ll punch the strings. If Twisted Sister ever win a Grammy, you can bet Kanye will stay glued to his seat.

Twisted Sister are a profile in persistence, able to overcome poisonous personal tensions, bankruptcy, Senate wives, disinterest from their own record company, snooty perceptions (even from a Deadhead) and all sorts of trials and tribulations. Now they’re dealing with the passing of one of their own, the first of the gang to die. After a few weeks discussing the future, they announced that former Dream Theater drummer Mike Portnoy (another Long Island native) would fill in for their remaining 2015 tour dates and 2016’s “Forty and Fuck It” farewell tour. If this truly is goodbye and “fuck it,” the music will always survive. It bears repeating; you can’t stop rock’n’roll. Twisted Sister are a testament to that.

Matt Leinwohl

Somewhere in South Dakota, Steven Tyler executed an almost fatal spin-turn, taking a nasty fall off the stage. He ended up breaking his left shoulder and receiving 20 stitches in his head. Aerosmith’s tour with ZZ Top was subsequently canceled, which is why I was headed to Madison Square Garden after work for a refund.

I had noticed a colossal tour bus on 33^rd Street, right outside the venue. In all the times passing by MSG, I had never seen one parked outside. Inside the Garden, there were posters of Taylor Swift everywhere and one of her chirpy songs blasted through the speakers. That’s when I realized Swift was performing that night, and it was probably her bus. Approaching the box office, I noticed the man with the moustache and curly hair behind the ticket counter bore a striking resemblance to the late photographer/actor Allan Arbus, best known as Dr. Sidney Freeman on M*A*S*H. He had the drowsy, slightly annoyed expression of a man who was in the midst of being tormented. Lots of New Yorkers have this look, so it wasn’t too out of the ordinary.

“You believe I’ve had to listen to this shit all day?” The man asked this with a sapped sigh, although it wasn’t really a question. It was more of a statement from someone who was surviving something traumatic. No wonder he appeared so somnolent. Looking at the two rock’n’roll titans on the ticket, he more than likely felt comfortable (as Dylan put it) laying down his weary tune, figuring I would appreciate and relate to his plight. He assumed correctly, as I instinctively burst out laughing.

It really was funny, when you also consider just how popular Swift is. And not just with young women. On a music forum, I once read a middle-aged male compare her 2010 record Speak Now to Bob Dylan’s 1975 masterwork Blood on the Tracks. Sounds like a joke, but Swift fans mean business. Both albums deal with disintegrating relationships. The difference is one comes across as a painful, funny, sad, lonesome and harrowing “dark night of the soul,” and the other the soundtrack of your next visit at Chuck E. Cheese. Nothing against Taylor Swift, who comes across as a smart, formidable and charitable person, but let’s not compare her to Dylan just yet. Or maybe ever, ever, ever.

After giving me the refund, the man said, “Sorry about the inconvenience.” I had a feeling the guy wasn’t normally this polite. It could be that you can never underestimate the bond between strangers who share an opinion that counters conventional wisdom.

Five years later I was watching the 2014 Grammys when I suddenly thought of this guy. Taylor Swift performed “All Too Well” at the piano, and I pictured him wherever he was, looking pained and drained. It then occurred to me that while I don’t connect with her music, millions of others do. In an increasingly dark, harsh world, if she’s able to light up every single one of their lives, including deluded, short-sighted, middle-aged males, that’s not a bad thing.

And she was preferable to Imagine Dragons, who won Best Rock Performance that night. Other artists in that category? Jack White, Alabama Shakes, Queens of the Stone Age, and … um … David Bowie and Led Zeppelin. Think about that for a minute.

Actually, all you had to do was watch their mashup with rapper Kendrick Lamar to see what a strange, foolish choice they were. Fifteen years ago Eminem and Dido proved one could mesh ultra-violent hip-hop lyrics with chill folk melodies you might enjoy at the local coffeehouse. All Imagine Dragons/Kendrick Lamar did was prove that rappers and guys who look like Micro-Content Producers don’t mix well.

It had actually been a surprisingly decent Grammys. Even the Macklemore & Ryan Lewis/Madonna team-up was ok, mainly because it was good to see so many couples of various backgrounds and orientations get married. If it was also a publicity stunt, it’s hard to argue with the message of unity. A few months later though, Macklemore came out on stage wearing a giant prosthetic hooked nose, dark beard and bowl cut wig, looking like some bizarre anti-semitic caricature/concoction of Pete Townshend and what Simon Helberg would look like if he were cast as Fagin in Oliver Twist. So much for unity.

Metallica and Lang Lang’s collaboration on “One” produced mixed results. While a brilliant musician, Lang Lang’s piano drowned out Hetfield and Hammet’s poignant, gentle guitar interplay that gives the beginning of the song such resonance, and sets up the heavy metal thunder to come.  However, it was similar to Mick Garson’s work with David Bowie, the kind of discordant playing where it sounds as if someone suddenly put a knife to the pianist’s throat while they were in the middle of performing. In other words, perfect for Metallica.

Surrounded by a Dan Flavin-inspired backdrop, Paul McCartney and his excellent, long-time touring band were joined by Ringo Starr for “Queenie Eye,” from his most recent album, New. As always, it was great to see the surviving Beatles together. Ringo’s trademark mid-tempo groove powered the song, reminding everyone just how vital he was to The Beatles sound, and what a unique rhythm section the two of them make. Unbelievably, on this night, The Beatles received the 2014 Lifetime Achievement Award. Wouldn’t you have thought they had gotten this … I don’t know, let’s pick any random year — 1977? How is it possible it took that long for The Beatles to get a Grammy Lifetime Achievement Award? Perhaps transforming music, society, culture and art wasn’t enough? Exactly what do you have to do to get one?

Maybe the highlight of the evening was seeing Daft Punk, Pharrell, Stevie Wonder and Nile Rodgers turn the Staples Center into a giddy dance party with “Get Lucky” and seeing McCartney, the mighty Joe Walsh and Yoko Ono, among many others, get down. The 80-year-old Ono stood out, dancing as hard as anyone, throwing out the occasional peace sign. If seeing that didn’t make you feel good, nothing will.

When Daft Punk’s Random Access Memories won album of the year, Paul Williams, one of its many contributors said, “You know, back when I was using and doing drugs, I used to imagine things that weren’t there and were frightening. And then I got sober and two robots called me and asked me to make an album.” Perfect. If you’re a Generation X music fanatic, “Evergreen (Love Theme from A Star Is Born),” “What Would They Say” from The Boy in the Plastic Bubble and “The Rainbow Connection” from The Muppet Movie made a fairly big imprint on your childhood.

Trent Reznor, Dave Grohl, Josh Homme and Lindsey Buckingham did Nine Inch Nails “Copy of A,” which went right into “My God Is The Sun” from Queens of the Stone Age. At 64, Buckingham, with his usual air of passionate detachment, black leather jacket and funky-classical, romantic “Big Love” guitar picking, came across as the coolest guy in the room. Too bad the Grammys decided to end the show in the middle of their performance.

Speaking of childhood guitar heroes, throughout the night, Peter Frampton and Steve Lukather performed side by side as part of the house band. We all know Frampton’s accomplishments, but people forget what a distinguished career Lukather has had. Aside from being in Toto, he’s been one of the major session musicians for over thirty-five years, ripping shit up on Don Henley’s “Dirty Laundry” (with Joe Walsh), “Talk To You Later” by The Tubes, Lionel Richie’s “Running with the Night” and he’s the other guitarist on Michael Jackson’s “Beat It.” Eddie Van Halen did the solo, but that’s Lukather playing the rest of the song, including the main hook, and even the bass. How good is he? Miles Davis wanted him for his band, and he actually turned Miles down. As Chris Farley once exclaimed, “Holy schnikes!”

Another favorite moment was when Steven Tyler and Smokey Robinson came out to present together. The self-described “Demon of Screamin’” and a national treasure whose every melodic utterance sounds like a plaintive sigh. It was an historic meeting; “The Lord of the Thighs” Meets “The Lord of the Sighs.” Tyler started to sing “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me,” leading the audience in what seemed to be an impromptu gesture, with Smokey appearing genuinely touched. Later that year Smokey released an album of duets, one of which was “You’ve Really Got a Hold on Me” with guess who? Maybe that moment wasn’t so spontaneous. Still memorable though. After all, this is being written a year later.

Despite some flaws, the Grammys did appear to make a concerted effort to attract adults. It was the kind of show even an exhausted, deadpan Allan Arbus look-alike could appreciate.

The world doesn’t need another angry rant about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Many of these diatribes are well meaning, but often short-sighted, like those who are (rightly) upset about the lack of hard rock/heavy metal acts being honored, yet express annoyance that Patti Smith would be included. It comes down to personal taste, people wanting to see bands they like get in, and others they dislike kept out. Reflection and reason usually don’t apply in these discussions, just pure thoughtless passion. Besides, there are much more important things going on in the world to be concerned about.

However, some of the choices for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame Class of 2015 are so puzzling, it’s worth writing about. Or as the case often is, who was not chosen. Arguably the most egregious omission in the history of this institution is Deep Purple, having been eligible longer than Nobel Prize Winner Malala Yousafzai has been alive. In two decades, they’ve made the nomination list only a few times, and that was just in the last couple of years. For some reason they didn’t even make it that far for 2015. This despite the fact they helped shape the sound of hard rock/heavy metal, and influenced several acts already inducted.

It’s because of their ludicrous slights that some people think the Hall of Fame doesn’t mean anything, that it’s even worthless. Maybe they’re right. But over the years, as an avid viewer of the ceremonies, you can see how much it means to those being included. In 1999, when Ray Charles inducted Billy Joel, the dazed and blissful expression on Joel’s face as he accepted his award expressed every failure and achievement leading up to that moment. As if that wasn’t enough, during the annual jam at the end, Joel was playing piano, when Paul McCartney (honored that night for his solo work) surprised him by giving a shoulder rub, like a proud older brother. Two of Joel’s biggest musical heroes essentially said to him, “welcome to the club.” Pretty good for a guy who, in the early 70’s, once tried to kill himself by drinking furniture polish because, according to Joel, “the world didn’t need another failed musician.”

Rush was eligible for almost fifteen years. When they finally made it in 2013, drummer/lyricist extraordinaire Neil Peart said, “We’ve been saying for a long time –years– that this wasn’t a big deal. Turns out, it kind of is.” One wouldn’t expect Neil Peart, of all people, to get sentimental about such things. But basking in the love engulfing the Nokia Theatre from the fans hailing their conquering heroes, it must have confirmed for him that, among many other accomplishments, Rush never courted the mainstream. The mainstream eventually came to them.

That point could not have been illustrated any clearer when, as they played “Tom Sawyer,” a brilliant song that nevertheless is often thought of as a sausage party in sonic form, the camera caught a quick shot of a beautiful woman in her 20’s, dressed like she was at a fancy Upper East Side soirée, dancing to Peart’s complex, yet funky grooves. A woman, much less a complete stunner, getting down to Rush? You could actually see icicles starting to form on the horns of Satan. It brought to mind the lyrics of “2112: Grand Finale,” “We have assumed control.”

While those are the kind of moments that make the Hall worth getting invested in, the people who control it have a tendency to create controversy and ill-will even when bands get in, by deciding which members are included and which are not. This is where the Hall can really embarrass themselves. For example, AC/DC was inducted in 2003, and early bassist Mark Evans was deemed unworthy for some reason. He played on their first three albums, the 70’s classics High Voltage, Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap and Let There Be Rock, probably the best in their estimable catalog.

Even more frustrating was the omission of the late singer/writer/guitarist Bob Welch from Fleetwood Mac’s 1998 induction. For three years and five albums, Welch bridged the gap between the Peter Green years and the Buckingham/Nicks era, as the main voice and face of the band. Somehow, this wasn’t enough.

That same year Santana was also inducted. Neal Schon, a sixteen-year-old guitar prodigy when he joined Santana, didn’t make the cut. The two records he contributed to, 1971’s Santana III (one of my all-time favorites) and 1972’s Caravanserai, are not only indispensable parts of their oeuvre, but helped push Carlos Santana’s playing up a notch or two. Having a teenage sidekick who could play high-speed, wrathfully macabre wah-wah solos that conjured up the image of a cackling goblin terrorizing a Mexican village, established them as a guitar duo for the ages.

Listen to Santana’s playing before and after Schon. He was always remarkable, starting out as an acolyte of jazz and blues guys like Gabor Szabo, B.B. King and Peter Green. After Schon, Santana really seemed to find his voice, combining his early influences with more firepower. And because of Santana, Schon brought more subtlety to his playing with Journey, especially on all those ballads we know and love. (By the way, Journey is not in the Hall. Shocker.)

And perhaps the greatest singer in heavy metal history, the unparalleled Ronnie James Dio, got the cold shoulder when only the four original members of Black Sabbath were (after predictably waiting a decade) finally let in. The two albums he appeared on during his first stint with the band, 1980’s Heaven and Hell and 1981’s Mob Rules, were equal to anything from the Ozzy years. It was extraordinary how this booming, imperial, snarling, enraged, soulful voice of God came out of such a tiny, humble, gentlemanly Italian guy from upstate New York. Dio’s super lungs gave Sabbath a breath of fresh, furious air, when most thought they were done, post-Ozzy. Had the Hall even heard of him?

That’s bad enough. Then in 2012, the Red Hot Chili Peppers were inducted, and deservedly so. However, unlike some of the other groups just mentioned, the Peppers were represented by almost everyone who had been in the band. In a move that can only be filed under “shits’n’giggles,” Josh Klinghoffer was deemed worthy. He was a touring back-up guitarist for a few years, and then replaced John Frusciante when he left in 2009, contributing only to 2011’s I’m With You. Adding insult to injury, Klinghoffer became the youngest-ever living inductee at 32, just for being at the right place at the right time.

If you’re keeping score, in addition to the individuals already mentioned, Paul Rodgers, Kim Gordon, Richie Blackmore, Annie Lennox, Robert Smith, Brian Eno, Pat Benatar, Warren Zevon, Ian Curtis, and Phil Lynott, to name just a few, are not in the Hall of Fame. Josh Klinghoffer is. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, Josh Klinghoffer is in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

This is not meant as an indictment of Klinghoffer, an extremely talented musician. But it speaks to the cluelessness bordering on mean-spiritedness from the Hall if they think he contributed more to the Chili Peppers than Dio, Schon, Welch and Evans did for their respective bands.

And now with Green Day entering in April, the Hall has made one of their more puzzling decisions in their near thirty-year history. I have nothing against Green Day, a perfectly good band. In a ten-year stretch they showed an admirable amount of evolution, going from a record named after excrement (1994’s Dookie) to a concept album about early 21^st century Bush America (2004’s American Idiot). The latter album was a huge commercial and critical success, eventually spawning a Broadway musical. Not bad. Getting into the Hall of Fame first time on the ballot worthy? Not really.

I’m loath to bring this up, as it may make me sound like a paranoid conservative, which I am definitely not. But you can imagine Green Day scored a lot of points releasing an album containing a negative slant on a President highly unpopular with an industry that tends to lean liberal (with the exception of Country music), including those who vote for the Hall. When former Yankee manager Joe Torre was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame this summer, he immediately said, “Might as well cut to the chase – I’m here because of the New York Yankees.” Green Day should say something similar regarding George W. Bush.

The Hall’s infatuation with Green Day seems to be a desperate stab at being hip, reminiscent of The Larry Sanders Show episode where Gary Shandling creeps up on Winona Ryder as she watches Smashmouth. Shandling is stiffly bobbing his head to the music, trying to look cool in front of her. The joke is all he’s doing is making awkward facial expressions to the sounds of Smashmouth, a band that performed the kind of music that could accompany slow-motion highlights of hacky-sack competitions.

Of all the bands out there, what exactly made Green Day so special that they had to get in the first time they were eligible? Especially when more impactful, influential and substantial bands had to wait much longer or have never been nominated in the first place? Even Buddy Guy, who took the electric guitar to levels that previously hadn’t been seen and heard before, didn’t get in until 2005.

Influence is often cited as one of the reasons for being honored, as it should. Does this mean the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame thinks that Green Day and all the poor man versions of them, those shitty, white-washed, twerpy, pseudo punk bands that appeared in their wake, have more credibility and weight than Deep Purple, Free, Johnny Winter, Big Star, Joy Division, Thin Lizzy and Mott the Hoople? The MC5 played a big part in creating punk, heavy metal and grunge, with live shows rivaling The Who for distortion, volume and energy, while adding Sun Ra avant-garde Jazz and some slick Sam & Dave dance moves for good measure. Not in. They’re all acts that actually were (what’s that phrase again?) rock’n’roll.

It’s not that Green Day is horrible in any way. They have written some very good songs, in particular, “Wake Me Up When September Ends.” A lot of this comes down to timing. There are so many acts from the 70’s and 80’s, including The Replacements (a huge inspiration for Green Day), that still have yet to receive their just due. Even bands from Green Day’s era, like Jane’s Addiction and Soundgarden, who both kickstarted 90’s alternative rock, should have been ahead of them. No one likes it when people skip lines. The Hall shouldn’t be any different.

Believe or not, this was initially going to be a short article. But in writing about the various inconsistencies of the Hall, the music fanatic gets unleashed like the Hulk. Ultimately, they’re no different than any other of this country’s major institutions these days, in that no one seems to know what the fuck they’re doing.

The truth is, when the ceremony airs next spring, I’ll visit the family and we’ll enjoy some excellent performances and a bunch of artists who, for the most part, are deserving of the honor. It’s a family tradition that’s gone on about 20 years, as long as the festivities have been televised. I’m calling right now that keeper of the Texas Blues flame, Gary Clark Jr., inducts Stevie Ray Vaughan & Double Trouble, jams with Double Trouble, and does Stevie proud by scorching the nose hairs off the usual suits sitting in front.

It’s easy to go into the default defensive position that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame isn’t a big deal. If that’s the case, why do we music lovers spend so much time having endless debates about it?

Because turns out, it kind of is.

Seventy-seven years later, you can still smell the cheese. Berenice Abbott’s 1937 photograph “Cheese Store” features a variety of cheeses on display in a store window. Even in black and white, the cheese is so vivid, its unique odor may start assaulting your nostrils. You’ll either salivate, or if you’re like me, become nauseous.

It’s one of the many works showcased in the exhibit “Changing New York: Photographs by Berenice Abbott, 1935-1938” at the Steinberg Museum of Art at Hillwood, part of Long Island University.

When Abbott died in 1991, Nirvana’s Nevermind, Pearl Jam’s debut record Ten, and Metallica (better known as “The Black Album”) from Metallica were unleashed, played relentlessly by millions, and served as a soundtrack to my freshman year in College.

The year that she was born, 1898, the Post Office authorized the use of postcards, Theodore Roosevelt’s Rough Riders charged up San Juan Hill and Manhattan, Brooklyn, Queens, the Bronx and Staten Island consolidated, becoming “the five boroughs,” and New York City as we know it was created. One imagines life was many things for Berenice Abbott. Short wasn’t one of them.

How appropriate that her birth would coincide with the dawn of Gotham, as she would turn out to be one of the key chroniclers of its first official century. This show focuses on black and white photographs taken from 1935 to 1938, part of Abbott’s Changing New York undertaking for the Works Progress Administration/Federal Art Project. Some go back a little earlier, like the 1932 photo of the construction of Rockefeller Center. It’s fascinating to see such a massive landmark in its skeletal stage, and a reminder that this symbol of affluence was built during the majority of the worst economic collapse in American history.

The Great Depression casts a giant shadow throughout, none more so than on 1933’s “Treasury Building from J.P. Morgan’s Office.” An actual giant shadow devours a good portion of the image, the remaining light shining like a spotlight on a man (and his shadow) walking towards a pothole, with the American flag waving and keeping watch from above.

1937’s “Advertisements (Billboards)” features a group of billboards, but one in particular stands out. It’s an illustration of a very well dressed, all-American family driving, the young son and daughter in the back, and cute dog peeking its head out the window. All of them are smiling and life couldn’t be better. The top of the ad states, “World’s highest standard of living.” To the right of the family, it says, “There’s no way like the American way.” Wonderful sentiments, but you get the feeling people were too busy fighting off the tentacles of the Depression to agree, or even notice.

Like “Treasury Building …,” we get a God’s-eye view of the action with “Greyhound Bus Terminal” from 1936. What initially looks like an average day at Greyhound seems more like a statement on class. In front of the Terminal, two men who look to be in their early 30s are walking, a substantial gap separating them. One is clean-cut and relaxed, casually reading the paper. The other guy has greasy, slicked-back hair, with his jacket draped around his shoulder, caught in mid-swagger. But there’s an uneasiness to his walk, like he’s ready for a fight.

Another photo with undertones of class/status is “Department of Docks and Police Station” from 1936. A man in a suit, tie and hat walks with both hands in his pockets, head tilted downward, radiating an air of arrogance, about to pass by another dapper gentleman with a hat. He’s selling postcards and has his head down as well, busy tinkering. Despite their proximity, they seem to be from two completely different worlds.

It’s interesting to see even back then New Yorkers avoided eye contact, seemingly denying each other’s existence. Abbott caught the unfortunate truth of how such a creative, vibrant metropolis could also contain people spitefully indifferent to one another, how the city rotates on the axis of ambition and apathy.

In “Warehouse (Yuban),” yet again from 1936, a man reads the paper while smoking, leaning against the Yuban Coffee Warehouse. It’s possible he works there and is taking a cigarette break. Whatever the case may be, Abbott presents how we’re dwarfed by our surroundings, those of us working and living in the city. It’s something we take for granted, just how tiny we are in comparison, even to a mid-sized warehouse.

With “Rector Street, Italian Festival,” from you guessed it, 1936, we get the stunning vision of a desolate street illuminated by tiny lights on wires. The starkness of black and white gives the image a solemn mood. We’re looking at the prelude or aftermath to a setting that would normally be full of life, color, food and smells.

You can even smell the cheese.

When you think of the Writer/Activist Larry Kramer, the words “toughness,” “persistence” and “warrior” come to mind. The lush sounds of Roxy Music? Probably not. However, the excellent HBO adaptation of his play The Normal Heart, which recently won the Emmy for best Television Movie, might change that.

In a film full of memorable, enraged speeches, perhaps the most unforgettable moment is a scene with no dialogue. Mark Ruffalo portrays Ned, the surrogate for Kramer, and Matt Bomer is his boyfriend Felix. They’re driving in a convertible through the country, surrounded by sand dunes, on the way to their beach house. Life seems perfect.

The idyllic image is accompanied by Roxy Music’s “More Than This,” which seems fitting. It came out in 1982, when this sequence takes place. Plus, what couple wouldn’t want to have Roxy Music shadowing them?

Deep in the heart of Roxy Music’s sensual elegance though, is a sadness that Director Ryan Murphy caught on to, as Roxy often sounds like Friday night but with a Sunday afternoon aftertaste. He brilliantly uses the song as subtext, showing how music can transform even the most banal of scenes. Its inclusion transforms what would normally be just people in a car into a meditation on mortality. “More Than This” is so stunningly beautiful, it can be easy to forget that the song is about an impermanent relationship. It’s even there in the chorus, “More than this – there is nothing.”

Felix has AIDS, and those words sum up what’s coming for him and others afflicted with this horrific disease, in addition to the pain and aguish their loved one’s will go through taking care of them. The presence of death is felt, although instead of wearing a black shroud and gripping a scythe, the Grim Reaper looks like Bryan Ferry from the cover of Another Time, Another Place, wearing a white tuxedo and looking solemnly debonair, while holding a cigarette.

As well-written and performed as the many speeches are, this moment is the most powerful because Murphy and Kramer are showing us what would soon be lost. This portrait of two people in the prime of life is actually just the prelude to a long, tortured goodbye.

Music can have that kind of effect. Especially Roxy Music.

His surname was Winter, but he played scorching guitar like an albino shaman summoning molten rock from a volcano. In fact, “molten rock” is a perfect description of the kind of music Johnny Winter played, especially “Fast Life Rider” from 1969’s Second Winter. Winter is wailing with the wah-wah pedal and backed by military drums. It sounds like a march into oblivion, conveying fury and freedom, topped off by the lonely weariness of his rebel yell of a voice. This is what 25-year-old musicians actually sounded like back then. For him the phrase “Don’t Mess with Texas” was redundant. All one had to do was listen to any song by the Lone Star native, and you’d get the drift.

It couldn’t have been easy for an albino to grow up in the South. Winter was fortunate, however, to come of age during the 60’s, when the counterculture allowed people to reinvent themselves. So by the end of the decade, the clean-cut misfit transformed into a guitar hero who looked like a badass Ed Begley, Jr., had he starred in The Warriors.

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Joe Perry recently said, “If it weren’t for Johnny Winter, I would have never picked up the guitar.” The proof is in the playing. Perry’s slide guitar on “Rag Doll,” “Let the Music Do the Talking,” and “Adam’s Apple” all contain Winter’s fire and brimstone.

And you can hear the seeds of Aerosmith in “Mean Town Blues,” from 1971’s Live Johnny Winter And, as well as Live at the Fillmore East 10/3/70. In recent years, the word epic has often been used to describe things like cute cat videos on the internet or selfies. Winter and Rick Derringer staged guitar battles that truly were “epic,” with the … 10/3/70 version storming in at almost 20 minutes. The Aerosmith connection is mainly due to the axe-interplay between Joe Perry and Brad Whitford. They combine Winter/Derringer’s Southern grease with East Coast, urban ambience, and incorporate British influences like John Lennon, George Harrison, Keith Richards, Brian Jones, Mick Taylor, Peter Green, Jimmy Page, Jeff Beck, Eric Clapton, Dave Davies, etc.

Winter made a huge impact even on those who inspired him, like Muddy Waters. He produced three of his albums, including his last studio recording, 1981’s King Bee. The first and best of these records, 1977’s Hard Again, starts with a remake of “Mannish Boy” that has Winter screaming “Yeah!” like Frankenstein’s Monster had he been aroused by fire, instead of fearing it. When Aerosmith finished a show I saw two years ago at Madison Square Garden, the lights went up and this rendition of “Mannish Boy” came on as the audience made their way out. It capped off a stellar night of rock’n’roll (Cheap Trick was the opening act) and was a nod to two major inspirations. In a way, they were ending with the beginning.

Muddy Waters was the greatest bluesman of his generation. Johnny Winter, one of his many disciples, and the whitest of white men, turned out to be the best of his.