How I Saw Ozzy, Almost Got Mugged and Wound Up in Homewood With My Dad

For years, I lied about the first "real" rock concert that I attended. I told everyone it was the Pretenders in the fall of 1981 at the Stanley Theater, when they were touring in support of Pretenders II. I did see that show, but it wasn't the first. My first rock concert occurred in the same venue just a few months earlier - Ozzy Osbourne, on his Blizzard of Oz tour, with Randy Rhoads on guitar.

In the summer of 1981, I had just finished 8th grade, getting ready to move on to high school at Taylor Allderdice. Though I had darkened the door of Jim's Records in Bloomfield, it would be another six months before I dove headfirst into punk rock and all its byproducts. At that point, I was still heavily into '60s music, having just discovered Moby Grape, Spirit and Iron Butterfly around that time. For radio, I was devoted to WDVE-FM 102.5, which at that time was all about the AOR (Album Oriented Rock) format. Fine with me. I was into all that stuff and I showed my devotion with a DVE jersey. 

When it was suggested on-air that people going to the Three Rivers Regatta should wear their DVE shirts, you can bet I was willing to do it. Strolling through Point State Park that weekend, I was approached by DJ Marsy McFerrin. "Would you like two tickets to see Ozzy Osbourne," she asked, not really caring that I looked like a kid. Sure, why not, I thought. I liked Sabbath when I was younger, since the first five albums were in the house. Sounds like a cool idea.

For some reason, my parents didn't object. I invited my best buddy Gene, who was still going by his first name of Garlyn, to come along with me. He probably knew Sabbath but might not have heard "Crazy Train," the only solo Oz song I knew, to be honest. But he was up for it. We had been comedy partners in crime all through 8th grade, cracking each other up with little provocation, often at the worst times. 

When we got to the Stanley, a crowd was swarming around front doors and sidewalk. Maybe it was sold out, I'm not sure. But some dude asked us for tickets and Gene, thinking he worked there, wanted me to give them to him. Luckily I didn't. Though for some time after that, I thought we could have made a fast couple of bucks and spend the rest of the evening getting hopped up on Little Debbie's and root beer. 

The opening act was Def Leppard, who had only released On Through the Night at that point. They were cool but to this this 13-year old, they were soooooooo loud. I screamed at Gene and couldn't hear myself. Oh my God, am I going to go deaf? My dad will kill me! After a few minutes, my ears had adjusted and the overwhelming swell of noise felt cool. 

Now, two 13-year olds probably think they can blend in easily in a place like this and I just wanted to look cool and fit in. So when the crowd started chanting "Ozz-ZEE! Ozz-ZEE!" between sets, I wanted to kill Gene when that goofball started chanting, "Harri-ETT! Harri-ETT!" Apparently, he associated the name more with Ricky Nelson's dad than heavy metal. Rather progressive for a young African-American kid, in retrospect. But I had to make him stop. Kudos to him for not caring. Shame on me for worrying too much. 

Then Ozzy came on, with a roar of guitar that felt even louder than Def Leppard. The man, the myth, the legend. "Are yooooo high?! I said, are yooooooooooo high?! Well, SO AM I!" That actually came a few songs into the set, which I believe also included "Mr. Crowley." My memories are kind of fuzzy about details. What I recall is that after about five, maybe six songs, Gene looked at me and said, "I'm going to go. I'm bored." 

But, but, but.... I mean, I wasn't totally wrapped up in the show but I didn't want to leave. Yet, I couldn't stand the idea of being there alone. Or of Gene getting home by himself. So we left. Had I know that Randy Rhoads would die in a plane crash less than a year later, maybe I'd've hung out. But no one can predict that. 

I called my dad, who said he pick us up. We agreed to meet down the street and around the corner from the Stanley in the doorway of the building where I had once taken piano lessons. It was an easy meeting place but the thing is, the block of Liberty Avenue between locations was full-on red light district in 1981, despite the fact that Lomakin's Music Store was sandwiched in between a couple peep show theaters. The site of two dorky kids, one white and one black, standing on a street corner, must have looked suspicious to the regular denizens of the area. Maybe we looked like runaways, in good clothes. 

One guy took advantage of the situation. He came up and asked us for money, either a quarter or a dollar. We demurred. "I asked nicely," he said. We declined again. "I said," he did a high kick in front of us, "I asked nicely." Looking at the ground, neither of us were giving in. "I SAID," another high kick, "I ASKED NICELY." With that, one of us gave him some change and he was on his way. And we sunk into the corner of the doorway. 

My dad thought nothing of giving Gene a ride to Homewood, where he lived. Me, the naive kid, wondered if that was a good idea for a white guy and his son to be driving into a predominantly black neighborhood. "Don't worry, I'll tell the guys to leave you alone," Gene said, cracking up as he assured me I really had nothing to worry about. 

When we got to his house, I walked Gene up to the porch and got to meet his mom, who I had only talked to quickly on the phone before she handed it over to her son for one of our marathon calls. (It's not just teenage girls who tied up the line back then.) She was sweet and thanked me for getting him home. I'm glad I did get to meet her that night because later that fall, the family moved to Baltimore. Though Gene and I keep in touch now, I've only seem him once since then, and his mom passed away not too long after my mom did. 

This entry was not really about Ozzy Osbourne, but it was about how his visit to Pittsburgh made a bunch of events transpire. I didn't mention being there for years because seeing Ozzy just seemed a little... uncool for awhile. Until you're talking to a Randy Rhoads fan, or an Ozzy fan. Then it has its charm.  I've listened to Master of Reality and some of Volume 4 since getting the news that Ozzy has left us. While I could expound about those records, many already have. But few have had the concert journey that I had with him. 

Thanks, Ozzy. 

 

Salute to My Mother

I don't know if I've ever gone this long without doing a blog post. This is the kind of gap that makes you think, "Looks like that blog isn't coming back." But the past couple months had a lot of writing going on in other places, which left little brain space for here. Though I often had germs of ideas for quick album write-ups, I have been psyching myself out when I realized the albums were six months old, and came out in 2024. 

For anyone who isn't familiar with my latest journalistic escapades, here is the lowdown and some links:

For the first time in seven years, my byline appeared in Pittsburgh City Paper in May. It only ran on their website, but I wrote a preview feature on James Brandon Lewis' show in the Jazz Poetry Month event at City of Asylum. 

Then, a dream came true and I got to interview Beth Kaplan and Judy Grunwald from Salem 66 about the band's history and the compilation of their music that just came out. It marked my writing debut for The Big Takeover. 

Before I even pitched The Big Takeover on that story, I talked to them about a story on Fly Ashtray, a long-standing New York which was once on Shimmy-Disc and continues to make music over 40 years after they got together. It was such a detailed piece, it ran in two parts. 

Part One is here. 

Part Two is here. 

Somewhere in there, I managed to find time to interview Marc Ribot for JazzTimes. 

Then my son graduated high school. 

Then, my mom died. It's hard typing that. Not because I'm a complete mess now that she's gone. It's just a big thing to throw at people. And, I think, I'm doing okay. My mom had dementia for several years and while the changes in her were hard to see, she kept plowing on, like the force of nature that she was. The longer she stayed around, the more I tried to adapt to her world. She remembered me and my four siblings and our spouses, but the day-to-day stuff slipped away. She went peacefully, drifting off in the house I grew up in, and where she wanted to be.  

One thing about my mom that came up during the viewing, talking to longtime friends and relatives, is how she could be a catalyst for things to happen. I always viewed her more as someone who was a little underconfident, and saw a big gap between her and other people. But that wasn't always the case. For one thing, she talked two members of the Four Freshman into coming to a party at her house, after seeing them perform. They didn't stay too long, and years later, Mom said she wondered if the guys thought they were going to get some action and, when that didn't happen, they split. But that doesn't matter - she got welcomed them to her house - the house where she lived with her parents, by the way.

In going through papers at the house last week, we came across an envelope with two letters from composer/bandleader Neal Hefti. If his name doesn't ring a bell, just think of the themes to Batman and The Odd Couple. That's his work. 

Mom told me the story when I was a kid about how she wanted my dad's group to play the Hefti song "Falling In Love All Over Again," for what I think was a fashion show at our church. They couldn't find charts for the tune so somehow, she got Hefti's number and called him. "May I please speak to Neal Hefti," she asked. "SPEAKING," the voice on the other end replied. Maybe she called a hotel room when he was in Pittsburgh for a gig. Or maybe my uncle (her brother) got her the number. Regardless, she called ("the bold thing," to borrow a phrase of hers) and he sent her the music - two different versions of it, as you'll see below. 

Unfortunately, the sheet music that Hefti enclosed is long gone, which is too bad because the song is a beautiful ballad. Phil Woods recorded it on his album Woodlore (Prestige), which I got for my birthday from the folks when I was high school. To this day, that's the only version of the tune I've heard as well. 

But the story doesn't end there. Five years later, she received another letter from him. (By then, I guess they were old pals since he addresses her as "Martha," rather than "Mrs. Shanley.") I'm pretty sure my mom's letter was related to the purchase of the Count Basie album Basie Plays Hefti, which she and/or my dad picked up around that time. 

I love the sincerity in Hefti's tone: he's grateful that my dad was still playing his tune, which he'd like to hear someday, and hopefully he'd also meet my mom someday. Not for any reason other than the fact that he appreciated her enthusiasm for the music. She was like that. It was all about sharing. And her energy was contagious.

Saluting David Thomas By Thinking About How Pere Ubu Shook My World

During my high school days of the early '80s, I attempted to get caught up on as much as "important" music as I could: Trout Mask Replica, every Velvet Underground release, Patti Smith, as well as any new Birthday Party or Gun Club album. Pere Ubu's name was one that was always discussed in reverent tones. WDVE had even run an ad for a show they were doing at the downtown club Heaven, somewhere around 1981 (ironic, considering the band was at that point at their weirdest and the station wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot pole). It helped me figure out how to pronounce their name and think they must be on the level if WDVE would give them the time of day. A friend of my brother's once gave me a ride after a show and Ubu was playing on his tape deck. I remember thinking it rocked like a cool punk band should, but it had some noise going on, which made it cooler.

Sometime later, I picked up a copy of Pere Ubu's first album,  The Modern Dance. "Sentimental Journey" had come into my world at some point, courtesy of CMU's radio station WRCT. That one really blew my head open. The sound of breaking glass, mumbling, a bleating horn, all of it leading up to a crashing crescendo from the band. Then it did it again. Twice. It could have been free jazz or it could have been weird punk rockers. Regardless, I knew I was in for something wild.

But I wasn't too sure about it once it put it on the turntable. I didn't dislike it but nothing really grabbed me. David Thomas' staccato delivery of "Out in the real world/ in real time," felt too clever. The dual off-key horns in "Laughing" didn't justify the payoff for the singing. If there was rock and roll guitar at the start of "Non-Alignment Pact," I wasn't feeling it. 

So I did what every thoughtful music listener should do. I played it again. And another time. And once more. I probably reread the entry in the Trouser Press Record Guide to gain a little more insight too. There was also a one-star dismissal of the album's follow-up Dub Housing in the first edition of The Rolling Stone Record Guide that said something long-winded to the effect of "art rock that's no less pretentious due to its connection to Johnny Rotten." Dave Marsh wrote it, if memory serves and my distrust of mainstream rock criticism was beginning.

Eventually the things that made The Modern Dance unique - things which I was hearing in this way for the first time, without a noticeable reference for them - started coming out. I came to like "Real World." "Street Waves" had a drive to it that got lifted off the ground when Tom Herman took a guitar solo. A year or two later, someone described Herman's high-pitched slide solo in the title track, as a sound that makes you wonder if your stylus is dying or if it's hitting a part of the record that's simply worn down. In other words, it's an unworldly sound that becomes musical in Herman's hands. 

Additionally, "Chinese Radiation" had a strange drama to it, when the piano came in, after a weird mélange of crowd cheers joined the band who seemed to finally be kicking into a song (they weren't). Thomas screamed like someone who was being carried off. Or the whole thing seemed like a flashback sequence in a movie that was fading back to a lone Thomas, singing over those singer-songwriter piano chords. (The same sort of weird poignancy shows up on "Goodbye" on their third album, New Picnic Time.)

Pere Ubu is a band that challenges listeners because they challenged themselves. They aren't a band that you can get in one spin, which brings up a greater point: GOOD MUSIC CAN'T ALWAYS BE GRASPED BEFORE YOU GET THROUGH THE SECOND VERSE (if it consists of things like verses and choruses). As I've played records people over time, they've reacted by saying, "Oh they're trying to sound like _______," or "they just want to be _______," before the song is over. Or they talk through the rest of the song, not really giving it a chance. When asked what they through, they shrug. 

That is not to say the music MUST be heard the first time in complete silence, with undivided attention. I'm just saying that it needs to explored, sometimes multiple times. Pere Ubu did that for me. As did Brian Eno, when I first heard Another Green World, a story I feel I've told umpteen times, but it bears repeating (and my family might be the only ones who recall hearing it ad nauseum). In a weird twist, I didn't buy Dub Housing until a few years ago. I know people that think it's a better album than The Modern Dance. I do love "Blow Daddy-O," with its free drumming and keyboard drone, but the rest of it hasn't totally sold me yet. It must be time for another spin.

A few days before I heard that Ubu vocalist David Thomas had passed away, I was driving in the car and put on Ubu's early single "Final Solution. I firmly believe it's one of the greatest songs ever. I realize the title originated during a particularly dark period of history but the song itself was inspired by Eddie Cochran's "Summertime Blues" and is built on a different kind of young angst, the likes of which were probably pretty prevalent during that time in Cleveland, Ohio. 

As the song built to a climax, fueled once again by Tom Herman's rabid guitar, I got lost in the power of it. It lifted me up and made me want to scream along with Thomas. 

As soon as it was over, I had a thought that has lingered in my head since then: Sometimes I forget that it's just a song. 

So I played it again.

Thank you, David. I hope you've been reunited with your old bandmate Peter Laughner. 

The Public Image of Record Store Day

Record Store Day edition of Public Image Ltd's "First Issue" on my kitchen table

I've opined about Record Store Day many times, over many years. At this point in time, my approach to the day and the releases goes something like this: Let everyone have their fun. If someone gets excited over an Emerson, Lake and Palmer picture disc, fine. If there is yet another live set by Bill Evans coming out and it interests people, good. If someone shopping for RSD releases wanders over to the non-RSD crates and buys something on impulse because it looks intriguing, that means RSD is doing its job. 

This past Saturday, I finished off an article for JazzTimes on Ingrid Laubrock (which you can read here if you're interested - and you should be) and I had a few hours before I had to go to work. So going out and trying to check out RSD releases seemed like a good way to reward myself after completing an assignment. Plus, there was one album that I would snag if I saw it.

After a trip to Government Center, where I picked up the new Destroyer album Dan's Boogie (because I have to have every new Destroyer album) and the anniversary reissue of Belly's King album, I cruised past the Attic, where the line stretched down the street, and then headed to Rosie's Records in Lawrenceville (originally called Long Play Cafe before they moved down Butler Street). 

In the shop, I held up Public Image Ltd's First Issue, with the first ever release of the US mix that never came out, and Brian the owner got very excited. He said that was the only thing he ordered that he himself thought was really cool. So both of us were happy.

The story goes that PiL was told that they didn't enough material to fill their debut album. To remedy the situation, John Lydon and Jah Wobble went into the studio and cranked out "Fodderstompf," nearly eight minutes of a repetitive bass line and drum machine, over which the two repeated variations on the line "We only wanted to be loved" in falsetto, not unlike the cast of Monty Python when they dressed as women. At one point, Wobble rapidly spews, "We only wanted to finish the album with a minimum of effort, which we are now doing successfully." Towards the end, he also starts shooting off a fire extinguisher. 

After all that, "Fodderstompf" does not appear on the new edition of First Issue. Neither does the spoken piece "Religion I" or the version that adds a heavy groove to it, "Religion II." In place of the former track, we get "Swan Lake," which was released as a single under the name "Death Disco" and also appeared on Metal Box, the band's second album. In lieu of "Religion," "Annalisa," the song that ends Side One,  now clocks in at ten minutes, making it longer than the album's opening salvo-cum-endurance-test "Theme." However, the extra four minutes are not an extended jam but a track of noodling piano and moaning vocals. It's a little funny.

The big difference, though, is the sound of the album. First Issue was originally mixed with a thunderous bass sound, like the dub reggae that the PiL's loved. It had a round sound where the attack of Jah Wobble's bass was not as prominent as the way it resonated after the note was struck. A year ago, I found a used copy of the original album and when I told my brother - who bought it when it came out in 1978 - that "Theme" skipped a few times, he replied, "They all did." Perhaps the pummel of Wobble and drummer Jim Walker were too much for US turntables. (I've been meaning to increase the weight on my tone arm to see if it would help, but really I don't mind if a few skips skim a little time off the nine-minute track.) 

The new issue, which claims on the hype sticker to be the mix that was slated for release in the US during the fall of 1979, has a mix more like a rock album. The bass is still loud in "Theme," but the sub-woofer feel isn't quite there. Walker's snare has more gated echo on it before Lydon starts moaning, so the crack of the beat sounds like an explosion. Instead of sounding like he's moaning from across the room, little John is front and center now. Levene's steady caterwauling guitar now plays second fiddle to him, which is too bad since his playing is more interested than the overwrought lyrics.

It's funny how Lydon and Levene, when they appeared on Tom Snyder's Tomorrow, talked about how boring rock and roll had become, when their opening salvo had some close contact with a slow blues rock. Of course, the guitarist's final electric shriek wasn't something one would hear on a Led Zeppelin album at that time.

"Annalisa" puts more focus on Walker's drums, in particular the high-hat and snare, rather than the thump of his whole kit. The same goes for the song "Public Image," which also tames the guitar a little bit. It also ends with a different echo on Lydon's "goodbye." Conversely, the guitar tames down the vocals on "Low Life" and "Attack." The latter originally sounded like it was coming out of a transistor radio and it now sports a better vocal mix. The two songs now segue in a delay loop that could have happened in '78 but sounds a little modern. 

"Swan Lake," the one non-original track, gives Wobble a slightly more more clarity this time. Instead of fading in a loop of the last line ("Words cannot express"), it meanders on for a few extra minutes, perhaps proving that the original band knew when to edit, "Fodderstompf" not withstanding.

One further observation: The inner sleeve, like the cover featured headshots of Levene and Walker on each side, in keeping with the magazine-style theme of the cover. The reissue comes in a plain black die-cut sleeve, with an insert that reproduces the Levene photo. The flip of it has new album credits but no picture of the departed drummer. Of course, there is no instrumentation listed anywhere either. 

In the end, it was worth it. The whole trip, the camaraderie of record buying folks, the excitement felt by the seller as well as the buyer. Not to mention the fact that I actually found what I was looking for. 

Magnetic Fields Brings The Book of Love Back to the Stage

This may be a given to all people that are in the know, but it's worth putting on record: Stephin Merritt, in addition to being a songwriter with wit and rhyming skills akin to no less than Cole Porter, is also an amazing crooner. When his deep voice croaks out tunes like "I Shatter," accentuated by some distortion, his pipes might seem novel at first. But when he unfurls one of his beautiful ballads like "The Book of Love," he knows exactly where your heartstring lie and he gives them a gentle tug. Even if he's wearing a faded t-shirt with the band Yes' logo on it, you still might be tempted to slip him your phone number.

The feeling became clear just a few songs into the first of Magnetic Fields' two-night stay at the Carnegie Lecture Hall, the space connected to the Carnegie Library in Pittsburgh's Oakland neighborhood. Last Saturday and Sunday, Merritt and his crew played all 69 of the tunes on their revered 69 Love Songs album, which turned 25 years old last fall.  The magnum opus, which spreads across three CDs (and has appeared on six 10" vinyl records) changes sonically from track to track so playing the whole thing is a bit of a herculean task. But the five-piece lineup of the band arranged the songs in a manner that retained the initial feel of each tune, adding different elements where they were needed. And the played the whole thing in order.

The second picture here shows the stage set-up, taken before Saturday's set. Merritt can be a little particular about things onstage. (Years ago, a friend saw him throw a bottle of water at a chatty couple during a New York show, leaving the room silent for the rest of the set.) So I wasn't sure if snapping a photo mid-set would be tolerated, and if nothing else, a layout of their instrumentation seemed warranted. When the band came out, they consisted of Shirley Simms (ukelele, vocals), Chris Ewen (keyboards), Sam Davol (cello), Anthony Kaczynski (guitar, vocals) and Merritt (who played some sort of sampler/keyboard, in addition to singing).

Surprise re-arrangements came immediately. Opener "Absolutely Cuckoo," normally fast and in a slightly jumpier time signature, felt relaxed in a steady 4/4. When Ewen delivered a banjo sample during the melancholic "All My Little Words," the fear started that the night be more like Magnetic Fields karaoke, but my skepticism was wiped away within a few songs. Merritt added some counterpoint vocals to Simms' lead in "Come Back From San Francisco." "Punk Love," one of the more jokey interludes on the album where the title is repeated as the tempo accelerates, sounded more anthemic in real life. To summarize the less-than-happy feeling about our nation's capital, the usually bouncy "Washington, D.C." was delivered at a slower tempo, with finger snaps that captured the mood.

Merritt, as a front man, has the amazing skill of being deadpan and hilarious at the same time. He dryly noted that the album has several types of songs ("Love is Like..." songs, animal songs, and even dead animal songs). Like Thelonious Monk, he can slay with just a few words. He cut loose during the goofy "Love Is Like Jazz," copping a French beatnik feel and playing with one of those toys that moos like a cow and a spring echo tube. Davol took things further, walking offstage and coming back with toy dinosaurs for each band member to use. (The Natural History Museum is connected to the Lecture Hall, for those out-of-town readers.) Speaking of Monk, I could be wrong but it seemed like Kaczynski quoted the pianist's great "Crepiscule With Nellie" before things were through. Bonus points in my book.

The guitarist also wrapped up Night #1 with a dramatic performance of "Promises of Eternity." Merritt sings it on the album but he deserved a rest after the evening's big workout. It didn't seem like a coincidence that the song playing over the p.a. as we walked out was the Monkees' "Tommorow's Gonna Be Another Day." We still had 34 more songs to hear.

Night #2 put another idea in my head. While there are numerous tracks on 69 Love Songs that play in my head, randomly triggered by things having nothing to do with the band, there are still a wealth of them that I just know in passing. And there are plenty of gems among them. "The Death of Ferdinand de Saissure," with Merritt, Simms and Kaczynski harmonizing together, was one.

69 Love Songs doesn't exactly go out with a band on "Zebra," though it does have a laugh. Merritt prefaced the song with the warning, "After this song, there will be a 25-year intermission," riffing on his announcement of the show's real intermission earlier. But when the final song was done, there was a wave from the band, once again Ewen took a photo from the stage, and they were off.

Yes, it was all we could ask for. They had played 69 songs, with nary a flub throughout both nights. But after my big musical weekend (see the previous post), it was also a bit of a letdown, knowing that reality would be back the following morning.

But that's just me.  

Ida Still Knows About Me, Tsunami Still Mows You Down

Last Friday, March 28, I traveled to Philadelphia, via King of Prussia (where my brother lives) to see Ida and Tsunami, who were in the midst of their Coin Toss tour. Both bands were active in the late '90s/ early '00s. Ida was probably one of my favorite bands around that time, combining indie rock sensibilities with some of the most exquisite harmonies ever heard in that vein of music or any other for that matter. I wasn't the type to go on road trips to see bands back then, but I once journeyed on a Monday night to Cleveland to see them, in a car with my wife and friend Leslie, with whom I was starting the band Up the Sandbox. (We didn't really sound like Ida at all but we probably tried to create a mood similar to their work. But maybe that's idealized revisionism.)

I always wanted to get into Tsunami because they had their own label (Simple Machines) who put out a lot of cool music, which showed greater support for the independent scene in general. Plus they were fronted by two women, and having spent nine years in a band with two women who did a lot of writing and singing, it was clear that they were cool.  But me with my limited record buying funds just never got around to them. They came to Pittsburgh once (at least) and played the upstairs room of the Oakland Beehive, but somehow I missed that show. (A current co-worker of mine recently unearthed some photos of that night.) I was probably working. 

So Friday was a night to catch up and to reminisce. 

The name of the tour comes from the fact that the order of performers is not determined until the show starts. (I had forgotten this timing detail and felt shamed when I asked the merch guy the order, thinking that it was determined during soundcheck. Oops.) Both bands came out onstage as "Also Sprach Zarathustra" played over the p.a. Everyone looked deadly serious, which is funny since they're all pretty charming. Franklin Bruno (did I mention the great songwriter of the Inland Empire was sitting in with Tsunami?) gave someone in Ida the "you're going down" look which was especially hilarious. The coin - which seemed to be designed for this tour - was flipped and Ida went on first. As they took their places, Bruno offered to take three questions. One dealt with the nickname on everyone's jacket, his being "Pudding." He offered that it might not be a term of endearment from his wife, but it would fit. Alas, I forgot my scoop pad, so I didn't scribble down any info about the other two questions, or the music that followed.

Suffice to say, Ida was everything I had hoped. The core lineup of Dan Littleton and Elizabeth Mitchell (guitars, pictured above), bassist Karla Schickele (bass, below) and Michael "Miggy" Littleton (drums) were augmented by violinist Jean Cook, who has played with them before. She also offered between-song banter while everyone returned. As I had suspected, the (relatively) younger woman playing keyboards and guitar with them was Dan and Liz's daughter Storey. 

After all this time, and numerous albums, the big question was what would make it into the setlist. All stuff from their Simple Machines releases? How much from Will You Find Me, their magnum opus? How much later material, when the group was augmented by several more players. (I wore my Malarkies t-shirt that night, in homage to that duo, who appeared on some later Ida albums and with Schickele's band k. My Ida t-shirt is one of the few band shirts that I wore out, it seems.)

"Maybelle," the slow, unfolding piece from Will You Find Me, came early in the set, with Mitchell and Schickele harmonizing together beautifully. Everyone in the room seemed to hang on every note, especially when Littleton joined them on the chorus. "Requator," one of the songs where the band really rocks out and Mitchell really breathes fire, was an exciting surprise in the set.  I was also really happy to hear two of Schickele's songs, "Poor Dumb Bird" and "This Water."

When the group played New York, Mitchell said Thalia Zedek gave them a hard time for not letting Storey have a solo spot, so she had her moment center stage with "At a Diner" an original that shows that she learned some good lessons from Mom and Pop.

Each night of the tour has had special guests and tonight was no exception. Mary Lou Lord joined Ida for a cover of Bevis Frond's "He'd Be a Diamond" and Susie Ulrey came up for the band's "Downtown."

The bands must have figured that their audience does not want to stay out too too late these days, even on a Friday. There was no official break between bands. In fact, as soon as Ida was done, Tsunami's Jenny Toomey joined Dan onstage to play a song that they two had done in their project Liquorice. Being the great storyteller he is, Dan had to preface the song with a long, convoluted tall tale about the cover of the band's album on 4AD. 

Then the rest of Tsunami took the stage. Along with Jenny Toomey (left, above) and Kristen Thomson (right), the group was rounded out by Bruno, Rob Christiansen (bass) and Luther Gray (drums). The rhythm section was new to the fold, with an impressive background. Christiansen had played in a few bands from that era, including Eggs, and Gray also maintains a double-life as a free jazz drummer with people like Joe Morris. Bruno is a personal favorite for his work with Nothing Painted Blue and his more recent band, the Human Hearts. 

The evening made me want to pick up the recently released Tsunami box set to rediscover their whole catalog. Their set was a wide range of sound - rocking out, getting a little more melodic at times and never letting the high energy slow down. Richard Baluyut of the band Versus was their guest toward the end of the set. For encores, members of Ida joined them for covers of Lungfish's "Put Your Halo On" and a rousing version of Mission of Burma's "Academy Fight Song." (A few nights earlier, Clint Conley, who wrote and sang the Burma song, joined the band onstage in Somerville, MA.)

I overheard conversations in the audience where people talked about seeing the bands years ago, or putting one of them up for the night when they came to town. Upon running into one friend who I knew in Pittsburgh, a bit removed from the indie rock scene, I quickly met a friend of hers who had been in a band with Dan Littleton, pre-Ida. "Oh, you were in the hardcore band," I asked, remembering only a fragment of Littleton's past. But I guessed right. 

There was a time when it was easy for me to roll my eyes at 50-something people who seemed so invested in the music of their youth. As time goes on, you get a little more diplomatic about it. (In fact, I wouldn't think twice if I was asked to join a band play 1960s covers.) Now that I'm at this age, going wild at hearing songs live again, I can understand why the past can stir you up. At this same time, bands like Ida and Tsunami staked out their spot by going against the grain, or at the very least, setting their own standards for what they would do. Having hits wasn't the point, doing your own thing was the point. 

When you combine that with the feeling I still have, post-pandemic, that seeing a band live feels even more life-affirming that it did six years ago, it explains the energy that I felt last week. Keep that fire lit.

Trying to Catch Up/ Loving the Embarrassment

Here it is, the final days of February and the first blog post in over a month. Usually, January finds me pretty energized and prolific here, especially in the wake of Winter Jazz Fest. The entries usually stay fairly consistent until the spring, or even summer. Not this year. You'd think The Man came and took me away.

Not quite, thankfully. The good news is that my lack of blog posts can be attributed to being busy in other places. With JazzTimes back, online only at this point, I've been busy working on assignments for them. In addition to my dispatch on the Manhattan Marathon of Winter Jazz Fest (see previous blog post for a link), I've contributed three pieces this month:

Bassist Joe Sanders, a Milwaukee native who now resides in France and recently released his album Parallels

My Overdue Ovation on bassist Steve Tintweiss, a piece which was overdue itself, having been slated to run in JazzTimes around this time two years ago, right before the magazine was sold and the new owner (who has since sold it) got rid of all of us "gatekeepers."  That piece appeared on this site but the version in the link has been tightened up and updated. 

Trumpeter Ambrose Akinmusire, whose latest album, honey from a winter stone, recently came out on Nonesuch Records. 

It's great being back in the JzzTimes fold, as my first entry into the magazine happened just over 22 years ago, when I profiled Marshall Allen not long after he had taken the helm of the Sun Ra Arkestra. (Marshall recently turned 100 and just released an album as a leader of a smaller group.) Plus, some of the writers from JT's prime are back too - including editor David Adler and contributors like Morgan Enos, Geoffrey Himes and Allen Morrison. Please check it out. David is posting new stuff almost every day and I need to catch up. Don't begrudge the ads that are there. We have to generate some revenue in order to survive. 

Along with those pieces, I also have a review in the February issue of the New York City Jazz Record of the latest album by cellist Christopher Hoffman. This link goes to the whole issue, which can be read and downloaded, which I recommend. There are a lot of good features this month - and a little bit of me. 

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A few days ago, I finally watched We Were Famous, You Don't Remember: The Embarrassment, a great documentary on the great, unsung Wichita, Kansas band the Embarrassment. (I've very, very slow with getting to films.) They existed from the late '70s into the early '80s, causing quite a stir in their hometown, which created a ripple effect that touched people far beyond in other cities. They did it without releasing more than a couple EPs and a few single, all on their own. They're one of those bands that is not widely known, but the people who do know them are absolutely fanatical about them. With good reason.

Through some stroke of luck, filmmakers Daniel Fetherston and Danny Szlauderbach uncovered a bunch of live footage of the band, much of which had decent-to-good sound quality. The four-piece band was clearly one of those groups that took a smattering of musical knowledge and combined that with youthful enthusiasm to make things up in their own. Watching them tear it up at a basement party, I felt like I was there because I was bopping around on the couch picking up on their energy. 

When you watch a film with the subtitles on (like I do), it gives you an extra perspective on the band's lyrics, since they often flash up on the screen. I knew the band was clever to begin with, but singer John Nichols really slayed me when I caught when he was singing in "Celebrity Art Party." 

The main reason it struck such a chord with me - aside from relating to the band's excitement and the idea of writing songs about wild topics that might have been discussed in a college class right before practice - probably had something to do with that period of time being long gone. Granted it might be easier now for a band like the Embarrassment to get the word out about what they do, to make connections and get to more cities. But at that time, there was no real standards set, especially in literal Middle America. You did what you felt because it felt right. 

And in conjunction with all of that, the end of it bummed me out a little bit. I know that's the basic story arc of these things. They didn't have a tragic ending like some bands. They had just had enough. But the stories from people they knew back then about how crushed they felt - I think that's the part that got me. A small flock of people felt really invested in this band. They believed in them because they had this "thing" that made the hearts beat faster. I'm getting overly poetic about it but it again harkens back to a more innocent time when bands could really felt like something more than just a band. 

Of course, Embarrassment guitarist Bill Goffrier would soon more to Boston and get into Big Dipper, who rocked the next breed of music geeks like me, making the whole life of putting out records on a small label and traveling in a van seem like the greatest life there was. So there is that happy epilogue. (About a year ago, I found out that the Embarrassment played Pittsburgh's fabled Electric Banana once. Bill said he mentioned it the first time they came here which is probably true but I was too wound up that night to remember that.) 

We Were Famous (whose title comes from a song lyrics) is streaming on Tubi, so you should watch it there. Or go to the official site for it and find out how to watch it.