The passing of David Bowie late Sunday was the lead story
on American network news the next day, indicative of the international
status of the English rock star. I was more an admirer than a fan. The
highlight of his music for me was the way he incorporated the intro of
the Beatles' A Day In The Life into the rollicking chorus of his 1975 hit Young Americans.
I heard the news today, oh boy
The whole incorporation lasted about five seconds, but it is a great five seconds in a tremendous song, and I smile every time I hear it!
***
As the title of this post indicates, disparate thoughts, four to be precise, entered my noggin upon learning that Ziggy Stardust had bitten the dust. What immediately struck me was the still photo of Bowie displayed on TV, with the years of his birth and death. I always take notice when a celebrity dies and the year of birth is given as 1947. Such was the case with Bowie. That is also the year I was born. When I see "1947" it's like a flashing sign surrounded by a bright red border; I can't disregard it.
I have been thinking about my own mortality ever since I started seriously deliberating over when to retire in the mid '00's. As the advertisements for the financial institutions are wont to remind us, you don't want to outlive your money. Retirement planning would be oh-so-easier if only we knew exactly when we were going to die. The same thing occurred when I turned sixty-two and had to make Social Security decisions.
It shouldn't shock or even surprise me that geezers like myself, born in '47, could be in the home stretch. Last summer I attended my fiftieth high school reunion in Minot. Our Class of 1965 had eighty-nine members. Sixteen of them (18%) have passed. The summer before that I went to my forty-fifth class reunion at Notre Dame. Approximately one hundred fifty of fifteen hundred classmates (10%) are in that big football stadium in the sky. Thank God for the mental relief provided by theater and movie actor Alan Rickman, whose final curtain call came four days after Bowie's. Rickman was born in 1946, an older fellow.
***
My second thought was about my mother, Little Pook. The British Invasion arrived on our shores during my junior year of high school in February 1964, and from that point until I left home to go to college nineteen months later, I played (and drummed to) Beatles music constantly in our house. The Pook not only put up with it, she became a Fab Four fan herself and could hold her own in any discussion about the mop tops. She was one of the many moms who preferred the Beatles to those ragamuffins, the Stones. Thus in retrospect I should have been only mildly surprised when, two decades later, Pook almost caused me to run my car off the road when she immediately identified a Bowie song which had come on unannounced on the radio. She let me in on the secret that she liked his music "even though he seems a little strange." I would have replied "You go, girl" if only that saying had been coined by then.
***
Bowie has sometimes been referred to as "rock's chameleon." He would take on different personae depending on which of his albums he was supporting on the present tour. When Jon Bream, the veteran music critic for the Star Tribune, interviewed him in 1987 in the midst of a tour, Bream wondered whether Bowie would remain in character. The answer was no; Bowie conversed like a normal guy. Steven Kurutz of the New York Times found him "quite lovely and accessible." In 1991 Bream also wrote that Bowie insisted that interviews include not only him but the other members of his band, which at that time was Tin Machine.
This thought came to mind this week: There are many current rock stars who could take a lesson from Bowie's desire to have the press think of his band as a whole, not just Bowie and sidemen. For example when Maroon 5 hit town last year, the Strib concert reviewer (either Bream or Chris Riemenschneider) was turned off by lead man Adam Levine's hogging of the spotlight. While addressing the audience, Levine referred to his mates as "my band" and used terms such as "my song" instead of using the preferred pronouns "we" and "our." I also noticed that when Jimmy Fallon had U2 as guests, Bono made sure to occupy the seat closest to the host. Drummer Larry Mullen, who originally put the band together, was relegated to a chair behind the couch. (I have to watch out for the drummers!) Maybe I read too much into that arrangement -- I suppose we couldn't have Bono take a back seat -- but I was dismayed by the maneuver. How refreshing it would have been to allow Mullen or bassist Adam Clayton to open up.
On the flip side, again referring to the Beatles, one of the many things which made the Liverpool Lads enduring to Yank teens was that they always came across as a band of equals. Teenage girls split their favoritism almost equally among the Cute One (Paul), the Quiet One (George), the Smart One (John) and the Funny One (Ringo). It was only until we read more about them over the years that we came to realize the genius of Lennon and McCartney. According to Lennon biographer Philip Norman, the band was always John's. But take a look at the cover of their first American album on Capitol Records, Meet The Beatles, with the famous Robert Freeman photo. You'll see four guys of apparently equal rank, no one out of the foreground. That policy was consistent on both sides of the pond throughout their history.
***
Constantly reinventing himself, Bowie was the most successful and well-known of the avant-garde rockers. Art rock, glam rock, prog rock, he ran the gamut. He focused as much on the visual experience of his fans as the audio experience. He even employed choreographers, including Toni Basil, for his tours. Rock was theater. One reason I never became much of a Bowie fan is that I prefer more straight-up rock, a la Lynyrd Skynyrd., a band I've seen four times in person.
My thoughts took me back to Ribfest, which always seemed to fall during the hottest week of the summer. The event was held in a huge surface parking lot in downtown Minneapolis, off of 5th Street and Nicollet Mall. Rib vendors from all over the country set up their smokers and trailers, competing in a contest for blue ribbons, trophies, prize money and bragging rights. In addition to the sumptuous meals and the requisite beer, the festival's other attraction to entice the public's attendance was a concert set up on stage at one edge of the premises.
The Ribfest promoter usually booked "B-list" talent for the annual affair. For Ribfest circa 1999, the headliner was Southside Johnny & The Asbury Jukes, a veteran Jersey band sometimes labeled as "a poor man's E Street Band." The warm-up act was Eddie Money, the former New York cop-turned-singer, who had twelve Top 40 hits, most notably Take Me Home Tonight from 1986, featuring Ronnie Spector, formerly of the Ronettes.
I made my way over to the stage a good half hour before the scheduled start time. There were a couple of thousand fans in attendance, all of whom would eventually be standing as close to the stage as possible on a general admission basis. Some very rough looking men -- ridden hard and put away wet -- were moving equipment, setting up instruments, connecting wires and doing sound checks, all the while dangling smokes of unknown nature from their lips, many wearing cowboy boots, leather vests and western hats. There was one roadie who appeared to be in especially bad shape, one of those guys who was probably fifteen to twenty years younger than he looked. He reminded me of the many panhandlers lining Hennepin Avenue with their misspelled messages written on pieces of a cardboard box. "The hard life of a roadie," I thought to myself. "This poor guy needs a shampoo, a bath and a fresh set of clothes."
Ten minutes later it was time for the opening act. I recognized the man who waved to the crowd as he strolled up to the mic. He was the same pathetic guy who'd caught my attention moments before. It was Eddie Money.
I heard the news today, oh boy
The whole incorporation lasted about five seconds, but it is a great five seconds in a tremendous song, and I smile every time I hear it!
***
As the title of this post indicates, disparate thoughts, four to be precise, entered my noggin upon learning that Ziggy Stardust had bitten the dust. What immediately struck me was the still photo of Bowie displayed on TV, with the years of his birth and death. I always take notice when a celebrity dies and the year of birth is given as 1947. Such was the case with Bowie. That is also the year I was born. When I see "1947" it's like a flashing sign surrounded by a bright red border; I can't disregard it.
I have been thinking about my own mortality ever since I started seriously deliberating over when to retire in the mid '00's. As the advertisements for the financial institutions are wont to remind us, you don't want to outlive your money. Retirement planning would be oh-so-easier if only we knew exactly when we were going to die. The same thing occurred when I turned sixty-two and had to make Social Security decisions.
It shouldn't shock or even surprise me that geezers like myself, born in '47, could be in the home stretch. Last summer I attended my fiftieth high school reunion in Minot. Our Class of 1965 had eighty-nine members. Sixteen of them (18%) have passed. The summer before that I went to my forty-fifth class reunion at Notre Dame. Approximately one hundred fifty of fifteen hundred classmates (10%) are in that big football stadium in the sky. Thank God for the mental relief provided by theater and movie actor Alan Rickman, whose final curtain call came four days after Bowie's. Rickman was born in 1946, an older fellow.
***
My second thought was about my mother, Little Pook. The British Invasion arrived on our shores during my junior year of high school in February 1964, and from that point until I left home to go to college nineteen months later, I played (and drummed to) Beatles music constantly in our house. The Pook not only put up with it, she became a Fab Four fan herself and could hold her own in any discussion about the mop tops. She was one of the many moms who preferred the Beatles to those ragamuffins, the Stones. Thus in retrospect I should have been only mildly surprised when, two decades later, Pook almost caused me to run my car off the road when she immediately identified a Bowie song which had come on unannounced on the radio. She let me in on the secret that she liked his music "even though he seems a little strange." I would have replied "You go, girl" if only that saying had been coined by then.
***
Bowie has sometimes been referred to as "rock's chameleon." He would take on different personae depending on which of his albums he was supporting on the present tour. When Jon Bream, the veteran music critic for the Star Tribune, interviewed him in 1987 in the midst of a tour, Bream wondered whether Bowie would remain in character. The answer was no; Bowie conversed like a normal guy. Steven Kurutz of the New York Times found him "quite lovely and accessible." In 1991 Bream also wrote that Bowie insisted that interviews include not only him but the other members of his band, which at that time was Tin Machine.
This thought came to mind this week: There are many current rock stars who could take a lesson from Bowie's desire to have the press think of his band as a whole, not just Bowie and sidemen. For example when Maroon 5 hit town last year, the Strib concert reviewer (either Bream or Chris Riemenschneider) was turned off by lead man Adam Levine's hogging of the spotlight. While addressing the audience, Levine referred to his mates as "my band" and used terms such as "my song" instead of using the preferred pronouns "we" and "our." I also noticed that when Jimmy Fallon had U2 as guests, Bono made sure to occupy the seat closest to the host. Drummer Larry Mullen, who originally put the band together, was relegated to a chair behind the couch. (I have to watch out for the drummers!) Maybe I read too much into that arrangement -- I suppose we couldn't have Bono take a back seat -- but I was dismayed by the maneuver. How refreshing it would have been to allow Mullen or bassist Adam Clayton to open up.
On the flip side, again referring to the Beatles, one of the many things which made the Liverpool Lads enduring to Yank teens was that they always came across as a band of equals. Teenage girls split their favoritism almost equally among the Cute One (Paul), the Quiet One (George), the Smart One (John) and the Funny One (Ringo). It was only until we read more about them over the years that we came to realize the genius of Lennon and McCartney. According to Lennon biographer Philip Norman, the band was always John's. But take a look at the cover of their first American album on Capitol Records, Meet The Beatles, with the famous Robert Freeman photo. You'll see four guys of apparently equal rank, no one out of the foreground. That policy was consistent on both sides of the pond throughout their history.
***
Constantly reinventing himself, Bowie was the most successful and well-known of the avant-garde rockers. Art rock, glam rock, prog rock, he ran the gamut. He focused as much on the visual experience of his fans as the audio experience. He even employed choreographers, including Toni Basil, for his tours. Rock was theater. One reason I never became much of a Bowie fan is that I prefer more straight-up rock, a la Lynyrd Skynyrd., a band I've seen four times in person.
My thoughts took me back to Ribfest, which always seemed to fall during the hottest week of the summer. The event was held in a huge surface parking lot in downtown Minneapolis, off of 5th Street and Nicollet Mall. Rib vendors from all over the country set up their smokers and trailers, competing in a contest for blue ribbons, trophies, prize money and bragging rights. In addition to the sumptuous meals and the requisite beer, the festival's other attraction to entice the public's attendance was a concert set up on stage at one edge of the premises.
The Ribfest promoter usually booked "B-list" talent for the annual affair. For Ribfest circa 1999, the headliner was Southside Johnny & The Asbury Jukes, a veteran Jersey band sometimes labeled as "a poor man's E Street Band." The warm-up act was Eddie Money, the former New York cop-turned-singer, who had twelve Top 40 hits, most notably Take Me Home Tonight from 1986, featuring Ronnie Spector, formerly of the Ronettes.
I made my way over to the stage a good half hour before the scheduled start time. There were a couple of thousand fans in attendance, all of whom would eventually be standing as close to the stage as possible on a general admission basis. Some very rough looking men -- ridden hard and put away wet -- were moving equipment, setting up instruments, connecting wires and doing sound checks, all the while dangling smokes of unknown nature from their lips, many wearing cowboy boots, leather vests and western hats. There was one roadie who appeared to be in especially bad shape, one of those guys who was probably fifteen to twenty years younger than he looked. He reminded me of the many panhandlers lining Hennepin Avenue with their misspelled messages written on pieces of a cardboard box. "The hard life of a roadie," I thought to myself. "This poor guy needs a shampoo, a bath and a fresh set of clothes."
Ten minutes later it was time for the opening act. I recognized the man who waved to the crowd as he strolled up to the mic. He was the same pathetic guy who'd caught my attention moments before. It was Eddie Money.
DadBoy-pretty sure I was there with you to see Eddie Money at Ribfest!
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