I (easily) spotted Oteil Burbridge (former ABB bassist/current Dead & Co. bassist) a few folks behind me in the check-in line at the Jacksonville airport, while my wife & I were desperately trying to head home from the weekend-long Wanee Music Festival in 2007. The discount off-site hotel that we stayed at had given us both legionaries-level cases of the flu that still remains in the top 5 sickest times of both of our lives. Which probably explains my unusual approach for a quick pic rather than offering the friendly handshake and customary “Thanks for doing what you do”-style that has been my hit-and-run, don’t be “that guy” approach to hero interaction. And it also explains the strange expression upon my lily-white face in the picture of us below that depicts a music fan burning alive with fever from the inside, hoping he's not passing the plague along to this giant of the bottom end. He was gracious, friendly and obliged my fever-dream fueled picture request without hesitation...and thankfully, without any awareness of the internal battle of germs being waged violently inside of me...as the shutter snapped for the shot. #covid07? Sorry 'bout that, Oteil.
Side note - Our parting handshake also helped confirm something for me - the dude has MASSIVE hands...and afterwards, I fully understood why he has to play a six-string with giant mitts like that...mercy!
The memory of Allen Ginsberg’s poetry reading at CMU on April 8th, 1994 will forever exist in my mind in full technicolor detail and with immediate recall. In the sense of personal and spiritual gravity, i count the experience of attending this reading as one of my life’s highest times. Oddly enough, contrary to my life lived of the continual observer…compiling unimportant details, facts and stats into a mental database for instant reference in service to absolutely no one but myself…I’ve never been able to remember how I heard about or even knew the reading was happening. Maybe a mention on the local college radio station? A City Paper shout-out perhaps, under the extensive weekly “literary events” listings? From overheard rumblings mumbled a few aisles away while digging at Jerry’s? It’s all a black screen and a white page until that night.
My first memory is scoring an on-campus parking spot close to the venue and immediately liberating a flyer for the event off of a nearby telephone pole after exiting the car.
Another personally uncharacteristic aspect to this night was that although my introduction to the Grateful Dead universe…and parallel to that, its obsessive world of live music taping & recording…was still a year away…I have no idea what prompted me to grab the micro-cassette recorder, that i infrequently used to document spontaneous poetic brainstorms, to then use it to record what turned out to be such a personally historic experience. Thankfully, the reward of that oddly-timed instinct has been my ability to revisit that amazing night with my recording ever since.
I knew having an expectation for AG to include any of the handful of poems I was already familiar with from his historical cannon of classics - Howl, Kaddish, America, A Supermarket in California, etc. into the evenings “setlist” would be foolish. And while my suspicions were correct, the pieces presented from his latest collection “Cosmopolitan Greetings”, were still instantly illuminating and delivered warmly, with monkish languidly and wisdom dripping from every stanza. We were also treated to his harmonium-assisted interpretations of material taken from William Blake’s “Songs of Innocence” & “Inexperience”, which would often involve audience participation that allowed us all to convene with his creative genius.
As the reading drew to a close, I sat stunned and silent in my chair, unable to comprehend what I had just witnessed and took part in. It had instantly blew open mental walls and widened creative parameters for me and still continues to echo boldly in the catacombs of my mind & soul to this day. Everything I experienced that night was like finally getting to attend the type of church service or prayer meeting that, up until that point, had only existed in my mind. I felt that the entire reading was unmistakably holy and spiritual…but academic and philosophical too…mystical & mythical…intoxicating & empathetic…soulfully healing & fulfilling…and a truly lucid literary day-dream turned evening of undeniable reality with a heaping side-order of inspiration to last a lifetime.
Most of the crowd shuffled outside, choosing self-reflective cigarettes and scholarly discussion in the courtyard over remaining frozen in their folding-chairs in hopes that their reality would eventually reform. So, its wasn’t until after those few additional moments of extended catatonia that i snapped “awake” in my chair to discover my copy of AG’s “Collected Poems - 1947-1980” anthology sitting in my lap. Apparently, along with the micro-cassette recorder, I had also grabbed the massive book on my way out that night with equally unknown intentions in mind that I’ll never remember or understand. But of course, in hindsight, i’m eternally grateful for the unconscious instinct behind it to this day.
I grabbed the red-covered book and sprung from my chair, walking straight towards the abandoned lectern and folding table adjacent to it, now loosely populated with professors, grad students and other "brotherhood-of-the-elbow-patch" members crowded around AG. None of my actions that followed were premeditated. I was simply executing a plan that I wasn’t even aware i was an accomplice to. I sheepishly moved closer to the action of the buzzing hive of folks trying desperately to engage in self-serving conversation for personal validation. AG noticed me almost immediately standing loose-kneed in the back of the crowd, actively avoiding any eye contact and motioned for the adoring half-circle to take a break from their own brilliance to let this visibly shaking youth step forward to meet him.
I swear…when those dozen or so people stepped back to reveal the balding, bearded bard of the Beats standing directly in front of me…well, I swear a few things really…
…he was absolutely glowing…ok, maybe not “glowing”, per se…but I saw an unmistakable “aura” or “light” surrounding him that i will argue the existence of till my dying day. I think he was even f’n floating a few inches above the ground too. In fact, i’m pretty certain that’s when i started to “float” or was “without any ground below me” too. I also don’t remember saying anything…at all…not a single word. It was LC Greenwood and full-size candy bars at Halloween all over again! All I could do was present him with my copy of his book in one hand and hand him a black Sharpie with the other. He took both, locking eyes with mine and smiling, as if to say with silent reverence - “I understand…everything is alright…you are safe…you are loved…and you are the universe.”
After happily signing and dating the 1st page of my book, he returned it back to me, still silently standing there like a glacier. I was fully unprepared for what came next as AG offered his open, extended arms to me. Without blinking, I found myself embracing my poetic hero in an unexpected but unbelievable hug of love & humanity. I think i managed to mutter a “thank you so much…i love you” style babble-blurb as i turned to leave, still floating inches off the ground as i exited the side door of the building. I felt like I just hugged an angel. And looking back now some 28 years later, I’m absolutely certain that i did.
2 side notes:
...yup...part 2 of last week's post is running late...but is almost finished...so stay tuned.
in the meantime - deepest respect and blessings to the memory of (((Pharaoh Sanders)))
"...peace & happiness to all the land..."
Editors Note: Although the following story of crossed paths will slightly differ from the previously posted examples of unplanned encounters, I’ve never felt that the hopeful expectation & possible potential that fueled the following memory detracts from the overall impact of meeting such a massive personal hero and literary influence. Spoiler alert though…this week’s entry proved to be more personal than i was giving it credit for and a much bigger bite than I could chew. So much so, that this week’s posting turned out to be part 1 of an unexpected 2-part tale. I got a bit carried away on the backstory but quickly realized it was as essential to explain as the reveal of part 2 will support. So stay tuned!
Before I start-in on recanting the evening in question, a bit of backstory is required to flesh-out the full momentum of motion leading up to it. Without warning or forethought, I found myself suddenly writing poetry shortly after the start of 11th grade. The catalyst (catali?) for my new activity are too numerous to speculate and futile to explain in detail. Personally, this challenging time in a teenagers life is best exemplified by David Bowie’s classic song “Changes”…and specifically the timeless refrain of…”Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes”…a truly relatable lyric that simply explains it all. My time was split equally between playing pick-up basketball and writing free-verse poetry during those last two years of high school. Certain that i’d never become the first player awarded a full-ride basketball scholarship to Michigan based on the marginally average skills displayed during the Sunday night round-robin tournaments at the local Y…and fearing that a collegiate pursuit in writing would not be met with support, either emotionally or financially, by my parents…I enrolled in the fall of ’93 for my freshmen year of college at Roberts Morris, with the ridiculously malleable major of “communications”. My stint at Bobby Mo only lasted freshman year and was mostly unfulfilling to me academically, with the only and most important exception being my first semester English class…but even more specifically, it’s instructor - Professor Bernard.
(Side Note - To all teachers…the power and potential you have to make a difference and be a positive influence in a studentslife cannot be taken likely or be overstated…you participate in a profession that is historically under-appreciated, criminally underfunded and continually taken for granted…yet, the expectations and responsibility to produce a fully-educated and well-balanced adolescent continue to grow as the resources to accomplish it dwindle…and while the ratio of good teachers to bad will sadly always be unbalanced, the enormity of life-changing influence I received from the 2 great teachers I had out of a total of at least 50+ cannot be understated either. Bottom line…teachers are the cape-less unsung heroes that can’t give up on their cities despite the tyranny of public stupidity and misinformation waiting to take over like the next villainous crime wave. You should be regarded as much as celebrities, paid as handsomely as athletes and have parades held in your honor on a regular basis. - END RANT)
In less than 4 months, Prof Bernard quickly bolstered my limited high school curriculum-fed level familiarity of literature and my own independent but equally limited diet of Bukowski with a bevy of books by beats, bodhisattva bums and other historically dangerous freaks & radicals of the written word. Feminist poetry…religious philosophy…existential prose…tales of struggle and degradation…outlaws and outliers…sinners and saints…and the timing was ideal for my bone dry sponge of a brain to experience such a soaking. By looking at him, you’d never guess that such an unassuming man, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the husband of your mother-in-law’s best friend at work, would contain such critical and life-changing multitudes. Every single book he recommended, every author he applauded, every poet he praised…every thought, rule and convention he urged me to question…all of these influences were quickly interwoven into the essential threads that formed of my eventual fabric. Three of my strongest life-long foundational threads were spun together from the strands of my two new literary heroes - Jack Kerouac (for his essential spontaneous prose) & Allen Ginsberg (for his poetic & high holy visions)…and from my introduction to Buddhism by way of books like Kerouac’s classic “On The Road” (more in style & feel) & “The Dharma Bums” (dripping with it) and Ginsberg’s poems “Wichita Vortex Sutra”, “Gospel Nobel Truths” & “Father Death Blues”.
Professor Bernard wasn’t just unlike any other teacher I had ever experienced…he was unlike any other adult I had ever met…but more importantly, he was the first person to hip me to the idea that “normal”, “conventional” and “as expected” weren’t the only roles to play in the great big picture show of life. I looked forward to every class that semester…devoured every book listed on the syllabus (syllabi?)…aced every test…and continually banged-out the weekly written assignments that burst with the kind of unabashed over-exuberance that only the young can pull-off as “sincere” during a very small & limited time-frame of their lives. At the sad but eventual close of his final class, I hung back to let the classroom empty, wanting a chance to personally thank him for everything I absorbed in the last 16 weeks. Not surprisingly, he had a list of additional books to devour to give me…along with a pamphlet for a buddhist-run writers retreat that involved a week-long vow of silence, that was a bit more surprising…but, in retrospect, perhaps wasn’t. We parted ways with what felt like a hearty handshake between teacher & student that instantly evolved into, what I now realize, was a hug of gratitude between peers.
I spent the entire winter break breezing through every book on that list, plunging deeper into my self-imposed Beat-inspired world and preparing to experience the new year with an intense literary vigor. And in another 16 weeks, that same unbridled enthusiasm would be the driving force behind what might be the most impactful chance encounter of my life…which I will thoroughly cover in next week’s entry.
Till then…be kind to yr’selves as well as to others.
Jazz Is Dead, a Grateful Dead inspired fusion-rock supergroup, headlined a show at Metropol in support of their debut album "Blue Light Rain". I was definitely excited for the chance to see legendary powerhouse drummer and Miles Davis alumn, Billy Cobham with my own eyes. The resume of bassist Alphonso Johnson was undeniable, adding to my pre-show anticipation. And although I had yet to witness guitarist Jimmy Herring in a live setting yet…his known kinship with another band recently on my radar at that time - Gov’t Mule…and his reputation for mahavishnu-level shredding...had me simmering with optimistic anticipation that night. Rounding-out the band's all-star line-up was versatile keyboardist T. Lavitz, most notably of The Dixie Dregs. Still, all anticipatory musical pyrotechnics aside, it was the addition of Merl Saunders as opening musician that cemented my attendance to the show that now would feature Jazz Is Dead as Merl's closer.
My love and respect for Merl was already solidified at that point…as a musician and rock-steady organist in his own right…but especially as a bandmate and a genuine friend to Jerome. From the start of their friendship, Merl offered Jerry a safe haven and alternate stage that taped into parts of his musical and personal fabric that were as much pure-Garcia as the 2nd movement of Dark Star ever was. Aside from his own complicated and diverse personality, there were more facets to Jerry’s musical passions than there are on a cushion cut diamond. So, Jerry the cosmonaut needed his Grateful Dead mission control to explore the unknown and play the occasional cowboy song…but then Jerry the flat-picker needed David Grisman to help on his continual hunt for that high lonesome sound…and in Merl’s case, he provided Jer a pressure-free environment to allow a seamless and logical transformation from Motown crooner to Trenchtown prophet within the same set of music and typically in front of a smaller but more die-hard audience of music lovers instead of less discerning grateful disciples. But I digress…
It was a cold, damp February night in Pittsburgh…or, as we referred to them locally as - a February night. A light drizzle fell as I parked my Plymouth Horizon (an ’87, black with a red pin stripe…not to brag) and walked the three blocks to the venue. Stopping under the awning of the venue’s side-door, I capitalized on the overhead covering and began to enjoy a dry cigarette by myself before going inside. I was a half-dozen drags deep when a black Town Car pulled up in front of the awning, opened its back passenger door, and out pops Merl Saunders walking straight towards me. I shook the disbelief from my hamster wheel and stuck out my hand to shake his as he reached for the venue’s side-door. He thanked me for coming out, especially given the Gotham-city like conditions…and I thanked him for as much as I could think to thank him for…and without setting off any crazed fanatical-alarms either. Calm, personal and brief vs. overly-excited, blathering and disingenuous has always been my MO in these situations. Lest I spend the rest of the night relieving the awkwardness of the disjointed encounter as it continually replays in my head while the self-loathing skyrockets. Having already been satisfied with the exchange and the level of circumstance at work that allowed us to cross paths in that moment, I was already turning around to walk away (float off) to experience the gravy remainder of my already phenomenal night. But as I did, Merl called back to me to ask if there was a particular song I wanted him to play that night. And without hesitating to think, immediately replied - “Wonderin’ Why”…a languid and self-reflective blues tune, played frequently in the ’72-’75 Saunders/Garcia Band days, featuring Merl on lead vocals. He smiled at the suggestion and slipped inside with a twinkling wink, waving goodbye as the door closed behind him.
His set was excellent that night, full of warm Leslie fueled tones and heartfelt vocal delivery. The Garcia-related anecdotes shared between most songs were joyfully told, with an unmistakable hint of love and melancholy that prevented it from coming across like the typical on-stage saccharine banter of an aging musician. And as the set drew to a close, my pre-show song request was long forgotten, washed away in a 50-min flurry of dancin’ feet, sweat and smiles. But sure enough, Merl announced the evening’s encore - “This last song was a request from a really nice young man I met before the show tonight…hope you enjoy this one, Mike.” I was in the process of turning around to hit the bathroom before the JID took the stage and never lost my pivot foot when he said that…and immediately turned the other 180 degrees and braced myself for impact as I locked eyes with the stage. It was absolute chicken-skin country…mercy!
I’ll never forget how his eyes sparkled back at me before the show that night. As the side-door locked shut behind him, I stepped out from the cover of the awning to search for a dark star in the sky, exhaling the last draw of smoke from my lungs.
L.C. Greenwood - if by “crossed paths" with, you meant “trick-or-treated from”...then yes…I crossed paths with LC Greenwood once. It was either in the fall of ’87 or ’88, in the neighborhood of Point Breeze, a western suburb of Pittsburgh. With the advent of modern bulk box stores like BJs and Costco, it’s easy to be the baller of the block these days as you proudly hand-out full-size candy bars on the night of the 31st. But 35 years ago, you had to either be a Carnegie, a Frick or a member of the legendary Steel Curtain to exhibit such blatant Wonka-level treat-giving hubris. Luckily, this fellow Point Breezian and all-time Steelers defensive legend lived a short 6 blocks away from my house. And nothing travels faster through the kid-grapevine on all-Hallows Eve than news of a house giving out full candy bars. My recollection of this encounter is somewhat hazy but I still stand firm on its validity. I do remember knocking on the door of his gothic-industrial styled corner property. I also remember the door opening to reveal the unmistakably massive frame of the gridiron giant, holding an overflowing bowl of treats to greet me. It's easy to recall what I said to him as he stood there...because I absolutely forgot how to talk from that moment on. I couldn't even offer-up the customary "trick or treat" as I stood there hypnotized with my pillowcase opened as my mouth was. My only other flash memory was noticing how the regular Snickers looked like a fun-size bar in the lineman’s massive hands. Four bocks and 5 minutes later, I "came-to", marveling at the full-size candy bar now clutched my tiny hand as I walked home.
Franco Harris - As long as I’m tapping into my black & gold roots, I might as well bring this one up. The very first Boston Chicken, now Boston Market, in the greater Pittsburgh area opened in the summer of 1993 in the North Hills suburbs. The father of my then-girlfriend had a connection to the owner/investor of that initial franchise…and that gentleman had some connection to a certain HOF Steelers running-back Franco Harris, receiver of the immaculate and 1st-in-command of a mighty & proud Italian Army that bears his very name. Fast forward to the restaurant's celebratory opening day that found me adding pieces of corn bread to black plastic plates recently adorned with fresh, creamy mac-n-cheese, ladled-out expertly by THE Franco Harris. His involvement that day was wisely kept a secret from the employees. So the excitement and disbelief immediately felt as I was introduced to Mr. Harris and informed that he'd be working alongside me on my first shift was almost uncontainable. It was easily the best day I ever had working there and I couldn’t believe that I actually got paid to do it. Honestly, I would have gladly done it for free. I continued to work at Boston Chicken/Market for the next 2 summers when I’d come home from college. During my rotisserie chicken-related tenure there, I served-up white & dark meat alongside a variety of co-workers…but not s single one off them had over 12K career rushing yards and 4 Super Bowl rings. I haven’t worked in fast-food since those collegiate days…but if Jerome Bettis or Troy Polamalu were slated as a celebrity server for the soft-opening of a local franchise, I’d think about stopping by for an application.
Lynn Swan - Ok…one last absolutely random Steeler encounter before I run the risk of a restraining order from the Rooneys. It was the mid-to-late aughts, and I had plans to meet my sister in the city for lunch. I took the LIRR from Babylon to Penn and hoofed it uptown to the neighborhood of 50th & 6th where her office was at the time. As I approached the building, I saw her already standing on the corner to meet me. We hugged hello and proceeded to walk west across town in our customary brisk gaits, avoiding foot-traffic, enrapt in our own world of conversation. The situation would make it easy for Santa himself to slip through my sidewalk scanning glances, possibly even rubbing shoulders as we passed. But that afternoon, my eyes locked and immediately identified the approaching all-pro wide-receiver walking straight towards me, darting through the sidewalk populace with purpose and grace like he was running a route to his destination. I instinctively executed my interceding move, breaking conversation with my sister mid-sentence and without warning, and stepped directly into his path. And to simultaneously avoid any vibes of being threat or a nut, I moved with an extended hand and offered my quick declarative statement of - “Mr. Swan?…I’m a lifetime Steelers fan…it’d be a honor to shake your hand.” He smiled at my fanatical confession, graciously thanked me for my support as he met my hand with his in a firm, confident handshake…and continued east, barely breaking stride and still moving with the grace of a gazelle. Baffled by the sheer coincidence of the circumstances, I stood frozen on the sidewalk looking down at my hand, trying to process what just happened. Thankfully, I was able to offer my sister a convincing enough explanation fast enough to avoid any future concerns that her brother is now accosting strangers in the city for handshakes.
It’s been just over 24 hours since I’ve had to apply any calamine lotion to my body and I couldn’t be happier. Now, I’m not advocating this as an actual solution…but I recently discovered that nothing alleviates the pressure and distracts you more from a week long visit by your in-laws than getting poison ivy on your arms and legs.
All kidding aside, while the timing of it was unfortunate, the silver lining to my itchy predicament was the added down-time it provided me to focus on what my first thematic idea for future content on this blog could be. Now, it’s never been my MO to seek-out celebrity out of ego or for the social-media end-game of personal validation vis a vie the star-struck selfie. Granted, it doesn’t even apply in my case since I’ve never even been on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, Twitter, MySpace, Friendster, etc. But that’s not to say that if I’ve felt the opportunity was present to convey to an artist - typically for me: a musician, writer or comedian - with a extended hand, my thanks and appreciation for their work in a sincere but brief fashion, that I don’t capitalize on that. I just don’t bring the rest of the world into the experience…that is…until now! So, after racking my brain for possible topics to re-ignite my literary leanings and to return my fingers back into home-position, I kept returning to the occasions I’ve had to pass along that handshake and heartfelt thanks to a wide assortment of creatives and other assorted heroes over the years. I realized that the common thread between all of my chance-encounter experiences were the unexpected nature of their circumstances and the unique stories they’ve given me throughout my life. Most of which, however, I haven’t shared with anyone…at least not in as much detail and as fully-related to what each encounter meant to me as I intend to convey in this forum in the next few weeks. I hope my motivation for the project is seen for its love and admiration of its subjects and not for the star-fuckery it might incorrectly seem to come across as.
I want to also intermix my thematic entries with frequent posts free of any pre-formulated intention. Quick-hits and enthusiastic endorsements here and there…to gush over a new song stuck in my head…celebrate a new band or album that deserves the awareness…share nitpicky, nerdish evaluations of live music…rant…rave…and occasionally marvel & muse at this weird journey we’re all trying to navigate through together.
The first thematic post is slated for tomorrow…so look for that.
In the meantime…I’m still listening to the 4-LP “I Am The Moon” release from the Tedeschi Trucks Band and “Reset” from Panda Bear & Sonic Boom non-stop, as I have for the last 2 weeks…with some Joey D (RIP), Tony Joe White, and music from the TV shows Letterkenny & Shorsey thrown in for good measure. The Never Not Funny, HDTGM, Threedom, Action Boyz and Always Sunny podcasts continue to be weekly listens. I’m also almost finished with the available “With Gourley And Rust” free-feed podcast episodes and am very tempted to join their Patreon to prevent the end of their goof-ball styled gravy-train of cozy friendship, cloaked cleverly behind the facade of horror movie franchise enthusiasm. Good times.
Live, love & laugh…
-MP
