Born In Chicago

Elinor Bunin Munroe Film Center

July 26, 2013

With minutes to spare, the old man had found where he was going to sit – right next to me. I was in the last row (where I usually sit at movies) and the seat next to me was one of the few available for this sold out showing. While going up the steps, he smiled at his good fortune, and asked if the seat was available.

This could be tricky. I certainly wasn’t going to lie, but he could potentially be very annoying. Which is why I was sitting at the very back in the first place, to hopefully avoid any kind of annoying or rude numbnut. There’s no one behind you and at Lincoln Center’s Beale Theater’s stadium seating, you’re elevated above everyone else, so you don’t have to worry about someone’s giant head or really bad hair to block your view. Not that I would do this, but if I lied and said the seat was taken, then I would be the rude one. In avoiding potential numbnuts, you don’t want to turn into one yourself. Like I said, tricky.

I mentioned that no one was sitting there, and he replied, “Excellent! This is where I usually sit. I find with things like this, you can’t sit far away enough!” I liked this guy already. “Thanks for saving the seat,” he added. It was an attempt at humor, but I could sense he was one of those slightly eccentric people that gets real crotchety real fast if things don’t go their way. I said in my best Gregory Peck voice (but probably ended up sounding like Freddie “Boom Boom” Washington from Welcome Back Kotter), “you’re welcome” and just prayed that what I perceived as an undercurrent of odd wasn’t full-on batshit.

The grin never leaving his face, he left his paper, drink and whatever else he brought with him on the seat and left to do what he had to do. I’ve observed over the years that people of his age range (between 70 to 80) never wear shoulder bags, like my generation (X) or the one after me (Y). I would imagine the shoulder bag isn’t very conducive to an aging body, so this particular group seemed to favor walking around with belongings in mini-supermarket bags or like my new friend, to forgo the bag entirely and just bare-hand it.

When he sauntered back, I noticed the guy’s baby gray Jew-fro and glasses made him look like Sydney Pollack’s ghost, the much missed director/actor of Tootsie, Absense of Malice, The Yakuza and many other great films. Plopping comfortably onto his favorite seat, he told me how relieved he was to get a ticket, as that morning’s New York Times had a front page story on the documentary we were about to see, Born In Chicago. I’d gotten my ticket awhile back and was pleasantly surprised that the movie had been given such prominence from the prestigious paper.

The film is a vital document about a period in rock ‘n’ roll that doesn’t get as much attention as it should. Back in the early 60’s, young white (mainly Jewish) musicians like keyboardist Barry Goldberg, harmonica God Corky Siegel (try to say that name without cracking a smile) and candidate for most underrated guitarist ever, the late Mike Bloomfield, all descended upon Chicago to play Luke Skywalker to Muddy Waters’ Yoda and Howlin’ Wolf’s Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Siegel was part of the Siegel-Schwall Band, which let’s face it, sounds like a law firm. But they were a shit-hot blues act, one that played the Café au Go Go with Howlin’ Wolf (Chester Burnett) in the mid-60’s for two weeks. According to Siegel, every morning the Wolf would knock on his hotel room door (giving new meaning to idiom “the wolf is at the door”) and the two would walk and talk on the streets of New York for hours. That’s a real indelible image, especially considering the turmoil of that time period. A little Jewish guy and a six foot six black man, who was so huge and intimidating, he made bad-ass football legend Jim Brown look like a member of emo eunuchs Fall Out Boy (sadly, what now passes as a rock ’n’ roll band from Chicago).

Moments like that, or when B.B. King admits Mike Bloomfield was like a son to him, illustrate that the connection these men had, based on friendship, brotherhood and music, did as much to help fight prejudice as much as any march had accomplished.

Fellow Bloomfield fanatics will be happy to know there’s substantial time devoted to him. Some footage we’ve seen before, like his appearance with Dylan at the Newport Folk Festival when Dylan went electric and helped change the course of music history. What gets forgotten in the whole mishegos that followed is Dylan may have picked up an electric guitar, but he was just casually strumming rhythm. Technically, it was Bloomfield who actually went “electric,” his searing lead guitar that got people euphoric or kvetching.

Don’t forget, this was 1965, probably amongst the first, if not the first time the mainstream was exposed to the kind of loud guitar solos we’ve come to know and love. To use a popular term, no one had really seen or heard someone “shred” before. Unless, of course, you were Mike Bloomfield himself, watching Buddy Guy in the Chicago clubs a few years before.

Adding some poignancy to the whole evening was Bloomfield (who died of a drug overdose in 1981) would have turned 70 a few days later, on the 28^th. During the panel, Barry Goldberg, who played that historic gig at Newport and co-produced the documentary, mentioned that Bloomfield introduced him to Dylan (who’s interviewed in the movie) and more importantly, to his wife 42 years ago.

The film has a lot going for it, mixing illuminating interviews with stellar performances, old and new. My new friend would make the occasional odd noise if there was a song he recognized, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” as if he were laying back blissfully in the dentist chair.

One minor flaw was when someone spoke, performed or a picture was shown, they would be identified again and again, their names popping up constantly to the point of distraction. One time is fine, maybe a few times, but by the 20^th time, even the least knowledgeable blues fan will know who these people are. And was it necessary for Bob Dylan to have his name up every time? We know who he is.

The complete opposite happened during the panel, where Goldberg, Siegel, director John Anderson (not the tiny former singer of Yes) and Marshall Chess spoke with a moderator who didn’t bother to introduce himself. He would sometimes be addressed as Bob. Bob who? At one point, my pal whispered, “Do you know who this guy is?” I replied with, “I was going to ask you.” He then threw his hands up, the universal sign for “Who the fuck knows?” All we knew was he went by Bob and had a bow tie. (A few days later, I would find out that this was Bob Merlis, owner of Merlis For Hire, an independent publicity firm based in L.A. Before that, he’d been Senior VP of Worldwide Corporate Communications at Warner Brothers. Pish posh. Also, he’s a member of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame nominating committee. Had I known that, I could’ve asked him why after 20 years of eligibility, Deep Purple wasn’t in the Hall.)

The panel began with Siegel and his harmonica wowing the crowd for a few minutes. With his gray hair, neatly trimmed beard, designer glasses and dark blazer, Corky Siegel didn’t look like one of the world’s greatest harmonica players, so much as a very nice, mild-mannered but hip accountant who’s about to be given a surprise retirement luncheon at the firm.

Marshall Chess’ (from Chess and Rolling Stones Records) friendly, hawk-like face and casual wardrobe of black t-shirt and grey khakis gave him the appearance of Ray Davies as an alter kocker living in West Palm Beach, dressed to kill for the Early Bird Special.

The only time his unwavering aimable expression changed was when (what I’d imagine was the 858^th time) he disputed Keith Richards’ account of arriving at Chess in ’64, and being shocked by the sight of Muddy Waters painting the ceiling. Before Bob could complete the question, Chess yelled “Bullshit!” I could’ve sworn Bob’s bow tie shrank a little in fright. Chess thought Richards had hallucinated that image and noted, “Buddy Guy said it was bull!” He then acknowledged that he and Keith have agreed to disagree. If I ever meet Mr. Chess, remind me to never bring that up.

Playing diplomat as well as he performed harmonica, Siegel ended the tense detour the conversation had drifted off to by stating, “Muddy painted the town.” Good save, Corky.

In the middle of the discussion, a photographer situated himself on the steps right where my friend was relaxing his feet. As you might’ve guessed, his feet were not budging. The guy would turn back and shoot him looks when he wasn’t busy shooting the panel. Each time, my friend would respond with, “Too bad I got my feet there!”

When the panel concluded, I was happy to see the two of them talking and shaking hands. It shouldn’t have been that unexpected though. They were exemplifying what the movie was about, how blues brought people together. Granted, this was a totally different context, but it was a good image to end the night on.

 

Laurie Anderson

Rockefeller Park

June 19, 2013

 

It was a typical, tranquil early evening in downtown Manhattan’s Rockefeller Park. The sun was still shining as parents kept watch of their toddlers running and falling on the grass, teenagers played soccer, young couples held hands with the satisfied looks of those who have plenty of time on their side – and drones circled overhead. Alright, so maybe it wasn’t that typical. They were actually toy drones, part of the show that was about to start. But let me rewind a little.

Since 2002, the River To River Festival has occurred every summer, using various locations throughout lower Manhattan to stage free cultural events. In the month’s after 9/11, that particular area of the city was  essentially a graveyard. The Festival was a way to take back the city from the tourists/gawkers who were so obsessed with the ruins of the World Trade Center, it bordered on necrophilia.

I was at the park for Laurie Anderson, empress of the avant-garde. Her accomplishments are way to long to list, but it’s worth noting that 10 years ago, she was NASA’s first and only artist-in-residence. This experience inspired the one-woman show, The End of the Moon. Overall, she would probably be considered the world’s pre-eminent performance artist, which some of you might be responding with “No shit, Sherlock.”

Anyway, right before the show, I get a text from my friend Scott who was supposed to stop by around that time. Like me, he had recently been laid off and had an interview with a recruiter a few hours before. The text mentioned that he was going to be late as “u passed out.”

Now, Scott has what I can only describe as a “unique” sense of humor. For example, he’ll say something like, “Your friend was going off again about how Springsteen’s new stuff is just as good as the old stuff.” The joke being that this guy was actually Scott’s friend, and I barely knew him. Plus, the fact that he expressed an opinion on Springsteen we both found ludicrous. It was Scott’s way of busting balls by kiddingly absolving himself of being friends with this person. So when I saw “u passed out,” I wondered if he was joking around or just made a simple mistake. Twenty minutes later, I got my answer with the text “I meant that I passed out.” Good to know.

At this point, the show was already in progress, starting with various electronic bloops and bleeps. This lasted somewhere between 5 to 10 minutes. I enjoy the sounds of robot flatulence echoing throughout the Hudson River as much as the next person, but everything in moderation.

It was during this time that two identical looking young blonde women with an Orange County vibe passed by. One said to her clone, “I guess the show hasn’t started yet.” Could you blame her for thinking that?

The thing about watching a Laurie Anderson performance is that anything can seem like part of the show, including the blondies. At one point, a 30ish guy with a clipboard whose red hair almost matched his carrot-colored khakis asked people if they were registered Republicans. He was met with silent smirks. Was this real or staged? Asking people in downtown Manhattan if they’re registered Republicans is about as useless as asking Red Sox fans if they like Derek Jeter. Certain questions answer themselves.

A half hour in, Scott still hadn’t showed up. That almost seemed performance art in itself. Would he make it? Could he even find the park? He was never good with directions. It was a shame, as once the odd noises faded away, he would’ve appreciated when the actual music portion of the show started up. The sweet sounds of viola and cello gently floated throughout the park, a peaceful sonic contrast to the small drones hovering by the stage.

Since I was last at Rockefeller Park a few years ago, the stage had been moved. So instead of the concert being dwarfed by the towering, expensive real estate of Tribeca taunting you, everything was now framed by the more affable, scenic backdrop of Jersey across the Hudson. It was a welcome change.

At 8pm, Scott finally showed up an hour late with his girlfriend, Fiona.  He looked tired, which I completely understood. Being unemployed could be emotionally and even physically exhausting. Humor was an absolute necessity during times like these. With this in mind, what sounded like a bugle playing “Taps” started to play as dusk slowly fell. We were far from the stage, so it was hard to tell if it was a keyboard replicating a horn, or an actual horn. Doing my best Albert Brooks, I said to Scott and Fiona, “It’s good to hear that Laurie Anderson is playing ‘Taps’ for my advertising career.” Nine weeks unemployed can do wonders for your gallows humor. Scott smiled and shook his head, while Fiona laughed. It was my first time meeting her and we got along almost immediately.

At one point, the music did another drastic shift, this time to the hybrid of R&B/Soul/Hip-Hop known as “New Jack Swing” that had been popular in the late 80’s/early 90’s. Keith Sweat and New Edition alumnus Bobby Brown and Bell Biv DeVoe were some of the more well-known artists of this genre. It was so dominant back then even U2 got in the act with “Mysterious Ways.” One of the trademarks of “NJS” were videos where the artists would do what a friend of mine has coined “the kick yourself in the ass dance.” The “Roger Rabbit” was another move popular at that time. I started to do some moves too. I didn’t kick myself in the ass though. Life was already doing a good job of that. Gallows humor, people.

Anderson started to chant “Internet is the new dragnet.” Like the toy drones, it was another reminder that this was a topical show. It was supposed to make everyone reflect on the NSA scandal, but the music was making me think of a 25 year old video that had Bobby Brown and his pals dancing in bicycle shorts and suspenders. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P0FKzPfsxA4)

Seeing someone who was a major part of the downtown NY scene of the 70’s and 80’s that brought so much great music and art to the world co-existing with the 21^st century downtown of obnoxiously expensive condos, annoying people with clipboards asking personal questions, hedge fund managers and baby carriages was interesting. It’s as if she were reclaiming lost territory, Anderson’s mere presence a reminder that without people like her who helped make that area of Manhattan so vibrant, current residents would be living in the suburbs, and not the city. And if you want to be the next Laurie Anderson and based in NY, you’d have to live in a suburb like Maspeth or somewhere else in Queens that’s not as costly as Manhattan or Brooklyn. If you really think about it, that’s more odd than anything Anderson has ever come up with.

The show was called “The Language of the Future,” except that it was easy to get nostalgic for a past I never experienced and imagine what it must have been like to be in the arts in NYC 40 or 30 years ago. Then, as now, the city was under attack. The difference is that it used to be terrorized by poverty. Now it’s terrorized by prosperity. There doesn’t seem to be much use for any kind of middle ground.

When I got back home, my girlfriend, who was half-asleep, asked if I had heard about James Gandolfini. Uh-oh. Questions phrased like that never have good answers. I asked what happened, but like the guy with the clipboard, I was simply asking a question that answered itself.

It turns out Gandolfini, while he died in Italy, lived in Tribeca. In fact, his apartment was on Greenwich Street, where we had just been at the Gee Whiz Diner. After the initial shock and sadness, I started to realize that he was probably one of those parents who took their kids for walks in Rockefeller Park. I wondered if during one of those beautiful sunny summer evenings, he ever squinted across the Hudson with his home state staring back at him and realized just how fortunate he was to make it to the other side. He managed to thrive on an artistic and financial level, hitting the ultimate jackpot.

Yeah, turns out nothing really typical about this evening.

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers
Beacon Theatre
May 21, 2013

The swarthy, fiftyish man sitting next to me kept mumbling and sighing impatiently. With his brushstache, he resembled a short, squat, ethnic Mike Ditka as one of the Mario Brothers. We were both among the forty or so people gathered in a drab room to get ready for our “re-employment orientation.” It had come to this.

I was laid off in April, after having a steady job at an ad agency for fifteen years. I’d spent the previous five weeks looking for work, but nothing was happening on that front. A week before, I was sent a letter from the New York Department of Labor summoning me to this orientation.

The rotund black gentleman who greeted us reminded me of the great character actor, Gary Anthony Williams (probably best known for his work on Boston Legal and Weeds), but without his hilarious, distinctive twitchiness. Things immediately got off to an awkward start when he apologized for being a little late, as they were understaffed — which would make number one on a list of things you never say to a group of unemployed people. It was only just over a month for me, but God knows how long everyone else was out of work.

Annoyed expressions and harrumphs soon filled up the room, which seemed to symbolize the dreariness of the space and the reason why we were all there in the first place. The late-middle-aged blonde woman with a perfect, agitated Long Island accent proclaimed, “You’re saying this to forty people who are jobless. You could hire some of us!” The fortyish black woman sitting behind her added, “I could start right now!” More harrumphing soon followed, including from me. Not that I wanted to work there, but it was more in solidarity for those who did. It wasn’t so long ago that I had nothing in common with these people. Now we were all strangers united by something that had gone terribly wrong in our lives, and making wordless, angry noises.

Perhaps sensing the growing Altamont level of tension, he quickly corrected himself, saying that they were understaffed because a lot of the employees had been sick. This defused the situation somewhat, but his poor choice of words, and everyone in general just being pissed that they were there at all, created residual bad vibes that lingered like a produce section gone bad.

The entire experience lasted barely an hour, but you would’ve thought Super Mario Brother was watching the full director’s cut of Heaven’s Gate. The final ten minutes was comprised of perfectly valid questions everyone had. Each inquiry was met by Mario with exaggerated sighs, grimaces, and whispered “enoughs,” “holy shits,” and “marones.” Was this guy the same way at his last job (s)? Maybe Mario’s attitude caused his current predicament?

It was tempting to do my best Warren Oates in Stripes and say, “Lighten up, Francis,” but truth be told, at that point, I wanted to get out of there myself. Besides, everyone handles setbacks differently. Ultimately, he was frustrated. We all were.

What does all this have to do with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers?

I would see them at the Beacon Theatre that evening (I’d gotten a ticket a few weeks before being laid off), and after awhile, being unemployed makes you feel like you’re in a Tom Petty song. “The Waiting,” “Even The Losers,” “Hurt,” “Don’t Do Me Like That,” and many other of his tunes deal with the fear and aggravation that comes when life sucker punches you.

“In a world that keeps on pushing me around, but I’ll stand my ground and I won’t back down.” We’ve all heard “I Won’t Back Down” so many times it’s easy to miss that the protagonist actually has the balls to acknowledge that he’s been screwed around with repeatedly. But he has enough self-respect that he’s gonna keep walking tall.

That’s what stands out about Petty’s writing. It expresses vulnerability while also bursting with defiance. Even in the song titles. A perfect example is “Fooled Again (I Don’t Like It),” one of his greatest. The title pretty much says it all, the key word being “again,” admitting that he’s been fooled before. While the words “I Don’t Like It” are enclosed in parentheses, there’s so much anger in Petty’s voice they may as well be wrapped in a fist.

That kind of fighting spirit was in abundance the night I saw them. For a long time, Petty and the Heartbreakers had focused on the hits, which is a complete waste of one of the better songbooks in the history of rock’n’roll, and a band that covers as much ground as Keith Hernandez did at first base.

But instead of filling arenas with the same old sounds, they decided to do a five-night residency at the Beacon Theatre (the first time they would ever play at this legendary venue) and explore their entire catalog, with some inspired covers thrown in. This was Petty Paradise, Pettypa (even the) looza.

“So You Want to Be a Rock’n’Roll Star” started the evening off as a nice tip of the cap to one of their biggest influences, the Byrds. Right out of the gate, Mike Campbell attacked his twelve string with some Middle Eastern flourishes. There was enough Paul Butterfield Blues Band circa “East-West” in there, that Campbell conjured up Roger McGuinn possessed by the spirit of Mike Bloomfield. Mike Campbell isn’t a name you usually hear when guitar heroes are discussed, but for two hours his playing invoked that indelible line from Death of a Salesman, “Attention, attention must finally be paid to such a person.”

“Love Is a Long Road” was good, but basically served as a genial hello to the Full Moon Fever portion of the crowd. Next was “Here Comes My Girl,” probably my all-time favorite Petty tune. Like the studio version, instead of what would normally be a guitar solo, the band builds up atmosphere with Campbell repeating a haunting melody that uses Benmont Tench’s misty “Booker T.” organ as a raft to get back to the verse. Petty didn’t do the “Watch her walk” mumble that precedes that section (which sounds more like “What’cha want”) but they expanded on the ending with Campbell getting shimmery tones from his axe, while the rest of the band provided the mid-tempo groove.

“When The Time Comes” was the biggest surprise of the night. It opens Petty’s massively underrated second album You’re Gonna Get It! and mixes an ominous riff with a folky/power pop chorus. I figured they hadn’t played it in forever — meaning the mid-80’s. But afterwards, Petty mentioned that 1978 was the last time, when the album had first come out. Wow. To paraphrase another great Petty song, “I got lucky, babe.”

Booker T. & The MGs “Green Onions” was another exceptional cover, doubling as a showcase for keyboardist Benmont Tench, one of the masters of the instrument. Wearing his trademark dark blazer and a fedora, he looked like the President of the Leonard Cohen Fan Club. Campbell replicated Steve Cropper’s jagged leads, and quarterback Petty looked just happy to be there. It was such a faithful version you’d be forgiven to think you were at a sweaty club in the South around ’65 and not seeing one of the world’s most famous bands in the Upper West Side of Manhattan during the 21^st century.

We remained in the South for “The Best of Everything,” a welcome obscurity from 1985’s Southern Accents. It showed off Campbell’s prodigious slide guitar skills and was also a reminder of just what an impressive balladeer Petty can be. A cover of Muddy Waters “I Just Want To Make Love To You” (written by Willie Dixon) was another Campbell slide guitar bonanza.

“A Woman In Love (It’s Not Me)” from 1981’s excellent Hard Promises proved a few things. First off, no one uses parentheses better than Tom Petty. It also showed how silly it was for them to not have played it in so long. Most rock songs start with rhythm guitar, then eventually there’s lead guitar, also known as a solo. This tune does the complete opposite. It immediately starts with Campbell’s instantly memorable wailing guitar melody, accurately capturing the feeling of rejection and setting up the classic first line, “She laughed in my face.”

And where there normally would be a solo, Campbell does a somber jangly rhythm to a mid-tempo groove, Tench’s organ neck and neck with the guitar, until Campbell and the rest of the band cede to him, with the organ cascading into the next verse. The solemn feeling from that section depicts loss as vividly as the lyrics. It’s almost like introspection you can dance to. Live, it hit all the same highs, but with the perspective of 30 years in the rear view mirror.

“Tweeter and the Monkey Man,” from the first Traveling Wilbury’s record, actually improved upon the original. It still had the same folky pleasantness juxtaposed with those darkly comic lyrics, but they added a Grateful Deadish section in the middle that suddenly turned the Beacon into Winterland  ’77. The band settled into a psychedelic jam, Campbell’s liquidish leads invoking Jerry Garcia. Is there nothing this band can’t do?

A few songs later they made the Dead influence more explicit by performing “Friend of the Devil,” getting some of the biggest cheers of the night. Even more so than the previous Dead homage, Campbell’s performance was so completely Jerry it was like watching a séance. “Crawlin’ Back to You,” another stellar Petty ballad, had Campbell darting in and out of the song with some subtle, affecting leads. Phil Manzanera used to do the same thing with Roxy Music. In fact, it kind of sounded like Avalon-era Roxy, with some southern grit.

“It’s Good to Be King,” the title taken from History of the World: Part One by Mel Brooks (one of the funniest movies ever), just may have been the highlight amongst all the other highlights. This is another song that becomes a whole different beast when seen live. Despite the origin of the title, it deals with another down-on-their-luck character, someone daydreaming about a better, but unrealistic life. The epic guitar duel between Campbell and Petty increasingly got more intense, tapping at the anger and frustration (Petty’s bread and butter) boiling under the song’s resigned tone. It was also cool to see Petty take some leads, which he rarely does. Then again, when Mike Campbell’s in your band, why would you?

Tough act to follow, but “I Should Have Known It” kept up the intensity, especially the ass-kicking, Peter Green-era Fleetwood Mac rave-up at the end. It was the most recent song (from 2010’s Mojo) of the show, promising more good things to come.

The concert concluded with a quartet of hits. “Refugee” sounded just as urgent as it did in ’79, with the lyric “Everybody’s got to fight to be free” taking on a whole new meaning. “Runnin’ Down a Dream” is always a fine addition to any Petty set list. “Listen to Her Heart” is one of their most beloved songs, and deservedly so. It’s yet one more ditty that’s simultaneously tough/tender and no matter how many times you hear it, never gets old –particularly Campbell’s closing, chiming solo.

This extraordinary night of rock’n’roll ended with America’s other National Anthem, “American Girl.” Since 1976 it has provided the soundtrack to so many good times that when people were standing up and dancing you could tell that depending on their age, they were either celebrating their Fondue and Egg Chair past, or iPhone and Twitter present. No matter how old or young you are that killer funk breakdown in the middle will always get you.

Walking down the stairs some guy yelled “No more arenas for those guys, only theaters from now on!” What he said.

A morning/mourning of dread and self-loathing gave way to a night full of life, celebration and loud guitar. It had come to this.

 

 

 

 

 

Are you ready to rock? That’s right, within seconds there’s already a Cheap Trick reference. This is  a blog that will focus on music, and other subjects like film, art, tv, and sometimes even baseball. The title “See My Way” comes from a ridiculously underrated song by Blodwyn Pig, a british band from the late 60’s.  If you don’t know it, check it out. Steven Tyler has actually admitted that the riff for “Mama Kin” comes from “See My Way”. You can kind of hear that, although the song has the vibe of a maximum energy MC5 anthem, but without the politics. There’s also this sinister breakdown in the middle that sounds like Black Sabbath performing Ravel’s Boléro at the world’s most intense Mexican bullfight. Keep in mind, this came out in 1969, the year before Sabbath’s debut.

Anyway, I’m hoping this can be a fun place, almost like a hang-out. It would be great to hear from all of you. The comments section will hereby be unofficially known as “see your way”. So, as Phil Lynott liked to ask, “Are you out there?!!”