Is Roger McGuinn an exceptional musician, an American treasure...or a paranoid celebrity?

4/12/14 20:33 Home

On Thursday night I drove to Bay Shore from Port Jefferson.  I’m at the end of my rope with my GPS which I bought a few years ago.  It has the annoying tendency to bring me though all sorts of side roads and through every street light which just happens to have ability to sprint to red when I approach.  On a rare occasion I don’t mind the scenic view.  I get to see small hamlets in Pennsylvania where I travel for work, and if I have the time - I truly appreciate the faded architecture, quaint towns with empty benches on deserted sidewalks, stoic tree lined Main Street... but the GPS gives and takes.  It does not filter.  I have been in places where share panic creeps up and I pray to God to let the lights turn to green and please keep the car running.  Don't stop!  The GPS was up to some old tricks on my journey to the Bolton Center.  The good news I made it on time for the Roger McGuinn show.  I can’t complain, and on the way back home I let my sense of direction lead the way and made it home in good time.  Before I write about after the show, I have to share some thoughts.  For instance you’re waiting for the story why I feel Roger McGuinn may suffer from a severe dose of paranoia or perhaps it’s something else he’s battling with?  First, the Bolton Center is a very intimate venue, less than 265 seats, the back rows rise up so you’d need to walk up a flight of stairs to get to your seat unless you’re in the VIP section.  For a little place - you can’t go wrong taking a hike.  I took my seat, middle of the theater and scanned over the rest of the sold out crowd, I was one of the youngest. The seats were compact and had an elbow in my sides for the first half of the show.  Even a dirty look couldn't stop the physical contact.  Anyway, I should be one the youngest. This was a Roger McGuinn show for God’s sake, the man was one of the Byrds, the singer, the leader for all of those classic albums.  1965...the year I was born. He is not from my generation.  He came out playing, “So you want to be a rock n roll star,” on his Rickenbacker.  His voice was crisp and his playing blew me away.  The set which was roughly two hours with a fifteen minute intermission.  The show was presented without flaws and was full of insightful stories of how the Byrds started, from their name (Thanksgiving) to the legends they worked with and the side-notes behind their songs, the Dylan classic, “Mr. Tambourine Man”, which was the first “rock” single Columbia released.  The now classic record company was very conservative.  The story behind his single for the Easy Rider soundtrack is classic, Dylan wrote some lyrics on a napkin and Peter Fonda who starred and directed the movie brought it to Roger.  When Fonda came to his house with the napkin, he told Roger, Dylan said, “Let McGuinn work on it, he came make something out of it.”   The story how they came to write 8 Miles High was funny, and as he played the opening, he said he filled it in with some John Coltrane and Andres Sagovia…  Chestnut Mare, and songs off Sweetheart of the Rodeo, Turn, Turn, Turn. There unique Irish folk songs, old time ancient maritime songs from whaling ships as well as more stories.  He played the 12 String guitar as well as acoustic and banjo.  As the show progressed and as I felt in awe for the supreme musician.  I know it sounds like bull shit, but honestly - I felt it was an honor - to be in his audience.  McGuinn is an American treasure.  I was amazed at his mastery of the guitar.  And I mean it.  I’d like to see him again.  Alright, so you may know I like autographs.  I heard McGuinn does not come out after the show to sign at his merchandise table.  There were some signed CD’s and posters for sale. Not too expensive, but I brought an album with me which I left in the car. After the concert I head out to my car which I parked behind the theater.  I sat down, turned the key and looked at my album.  I felt that tug; he’s still here and you can wait outside and…maybe get him to sign it?  I walk over the stage door in back and figure; I’ll knock and see if I can get this done.  There were two guys standing off to the side.  I bang.  “What are you doing?”  I was going to see if I can get this signed.  “No, you can’t do that; you’re going to piss him off!”  Will he come out there?  “We’ll see…just wait.”  While waiting with the two other men who were younger than me, I heard their stories they exchanged with one another, meeting Sting and Bono, seeing President Carter last week.  One of them tells us - he has more than a thousand autographs and pictures.  Let’s call him Celebrity.  I feel this is a good sign, since Celebrity knows what he’s doing and I’m going home with signed album.  He shows us pictures of him and Sandra Bullock, Robert Deniro, Brad Pitt. I kid you not.  How do you?  He was coy,“Friends tell me where to go.”  It was getting later and getting a little cooler standing outside in the night air; a truck is backed up to the stage door.  One of the employees for the theater opens the stage door and tells us, “He’s not signing.”  Celebrity tells him, “I just want a picture, I can ask - right?”  The employee shrugs his shoulders giving us the impression, we don't get it...Roger McGuinn is a different guy, he’s not doing anything.  Keep in mind, there were…one…two…three of us.  That is all.  Not a big crowd to swarm over the rock n roll star.  What’s up?  But remember I read McGuinn does not sign.  His wife, Camille is his manager and as I learned – she is his main security guard.  I encountered her direct and blunt orders.  She does not let anyone close to him. Before the brief sighting outside with the legend, his instruments were packed into the truck.  Celebrity tells me, “Don’t try to shake his hand.”  I nod.  I get it; he’s a musician and does not want my big claws to squeeze too tight and perhaps bust a knuckle or something.  I get it.  The back door opens and his wife, all 5 foot 6 storms up to us, waving her index finger, shaking her head,  “No, it’s not happening!  Good night!”  Being the tallest of the three, she comes up to me… gently but sternly pushes me away.  Why?  I ask her.  I just want one autograph.  And this is what she repeated over and over which shocked me, “It’s too dangerous.  It’s too dangerous.  No!  It’s too dangerous!”  While I am being pushed away, I see the hunched over rock n roll star escape from the open stage door and flee into the waiting truck, his door closes and he is secure.  Who is this?  I saw this once before when I saw President Obama in Philadelphia.  That’s another story.  This is Roger McGuinn, 1965, The Byrds, Turn...turn...turn...and his wife (maybe she was a former security guard and likes the role of enforcer) she gets in the truck and they drive off.  Roger waves.  That was nice.  I waved my album back to him and asked the rock star, just one autograph?  The truck drove off.  Celebrity calls his wife a bitch.  No, I don’t think so.  She was tough.  She loves her husband and wants to protect him.   And I tell them as they walk away, McGuinn is from the John Lennon generation.  And they walk away not knowing what I was trying to convey.  Take a look at what happened to Lennon.  Mark David Chapman, was one Lennon’s fans.  Maybe Roger is not taking any chances?  Even if it was only three of us; I’m sorry to have encountered such a negative reaction from him and his wife.  Most of the artists I meet are grateful for the recognition.  Not for Rock N Roll star, who does not have to sign anything or say a word.  I understand.  Wave to the crowds.  All three of us who stood there driven by vanity.  It was a lesson learned for me as well.  I should have enjoyed the show and went home with my album, and respected the privacy of the man and his wife. 

Dang, I still had some questions I wanted to ask him for this blog.  Oh well…

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From Long Island to DC to witness President Obama's Second Inauguration

1/22/13 18:26 on the train Northport

How was the inauguration?  There were some who saw my pictures on Face Book.  I should sign in today and check what was written.   The comments, the likes... There are those who check on FB as if it is a lifeline to the world.  I’m not there and don’t want to be.  You can say this is a contradiction since I linked the blog to FB.  There are some stories I will post and others that will remain in the hidden chambers of these files.  So how was it?  Four years ago there was a different excitement in the air.  Those of us in the crowd of almost two million would say it was a festive occasion.  I didn’t feel the same.  Maybe since we had tickets?  Maybe since we expected Joe and Diana to join us as well as my son?  Amanda was in Boston?  Sunday night; I was stressed out.  I was even thinking maybe we can skip this thing and watch it on TV.  Who needs the stress?  Four years before, we dealt with long lines from the Metro station, long lines getting into the station, long lines onto the platform, onto the packed train and shuffling for blocks like zombies on packed city streets in DC. That was then.  I had everything planned, we leave by 7 - the latest.  Park the car and get into the station.  We bought our Metro tickets already - to save time.  If I can’t park the car in the lot, I will bring it back to the hotel and jog the two miles to the station.  Okay, I was a little obsessive about this thing.  I would do it if necessary.  It was not necessary.  I parked the car and we walked right up to the platform and felt like this was going to be easy.  It was not as easy as I thought.  Humanity swelled in the streets.  The crowds for these events are compacted and squeezed like herds of animals down into the narrow industrial strength steel fences, kept off the grasses and kept contained. Not to say we were going to get in trouble.  We were hoarded through metal detector devices. I was waved with a wand held by a lesbian who asked me if I had a belt on.  Yes.  Her mechanical voice sounded as if she was spat out from boot camp a few days before.  Yes, it’s a belt.  That’s my zipper.  The alarm went off.  It’s closed.   No bump.  It’s cold.  To feel any peace of mind, the ongoing concept of threat was subdued.  Silhouettes of sharp shooters, peered down from the peaks of roofs.  It was a warmer day than fours ago.  The sky was grey for the most part.  But this is one event in history - where humanity intermingles within inches, there is no such thing as personal space.  No need to freshen one’s breath as I encountered numerous wafts of digested meals on warm breaths.  We were told to go from one entrance to another and from there I was mixed with a group of young men who cussed on about how they were attending Yale - obviously trying to impress some younger women around them.  Bella was shocked with the language they were using.  What can I say my love? She is ten and the term asshole, makes a real impression on a ten-year old's imagination.  This is the same place where we were mixed with the exclusive company of mink coats, private designed wardrobes, hair styles that were expensive and molded for hours, and when set among the anonymous souls -  looked downright - outright ridiculous.  Did you pay a lot for that contraption? Why bother?  Did you tell your girlfriends you were going to see the President?  Why?  There was one point when we waited to cross the street, waited for a good twenty minutes till my eye balls rolled in urine, I was crying holding the pee and when we crossed we ran like the fools.  Well I couldn’t run.  A woman fell in front of me and when I went to help her up a guy shoved me off her, not too rough of a shove ‘cause I would have swatted him.  Let’s be civil here.  I made it to the barren Porto-Potty and released the steamy stream into the weird blue color abyss and felt a relief like no other.  When I came out to find my patient family waiting they were not there.  Instead I was staring at the blank faces of strangers, their eyes rolling in urine, waiting for their turn of glory.  Ali and Emma and Bella were gone.  Seized up by the tide and washed into the ocean of heads and coats and oblivion.  I went back and found a spot near one of the statues, with a view of where the speech would be given. I calmed myself since my calls were not going through - nor the texts.  I imagined getting back to the car and waiting in the cold parking lot since I could not reach Ali.  Till one message came in and we were only twenty yards away from one another.  I didn’t see them till the President was speaking.  Not that they could see what I saw, but I regret they were not with me.  Emma would have had some excellent shots since she brought her camera.  While the speech was going on, I became friends with those around me.  There was a young black boy who I helped to sit on the railing and an older black man who needed to rest against the railing since he had an ailing back.  For some reason he reminded me of my Father-In-Law.  We were all strangers and yet one unified family as we listened to history project over the loud speakers and into our hearts.

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A Stillness before the Hurricane

8/27/11
It’s raining lightly outside, quiet except for the idling train which will make one of its last rides for the day. Stopping service on the LIRR is unprecedented. Services will be suspended at noon on MTA, Metro North and the subways are part of the plans to prepare for Hurricane Irene. Flights to and from New York and Philadelphia are cancelled. More than 2.6 million people will be affected. Most events in the area if not all events have been cancelled, including my nephew’s birthday party which was supposed to take place tomorrow. Our church sent an email to cancel service. But I’ve been trying to brush this off. Even yesterday morning on the commute into work I thought Ralph the conductor was overreacting when he said he bought a chunk of dry ice for the freezer, in case the power goes out. Then I learned Long Island is due for a direct hit. The center of the storm is supposed to strike. My mind slowly accepted the stark reality - this can be a cataclysmic event. As I type, I feel as though this could be some of the last words I share with you; since the experts are telling us this will be more severe than Hurricane Katrina. We have batteries and food. We have each other, but the idea of losing the roof or the siding is a possibility, I cannot accept losing my wife or children. I look at the trees outside and am taking before and after photographs in my mind. There are calls for mandatory evacuations in Jersey and parts of the coast of New York, including parts of the city and of course Long Island. Last night, when the president came on TV and warned us, “All indications point to this being an historic hurricane,” that's when I looked at Ali and said, "we're in for it." There has been some overreaction , The Jets cancelled their only free practice at Hofstra on Thursday, the bank was closed this morning. The county executives made robo calls on Thursday to be prepared for the hurricane. Before I started writing, there was a message from our home insurance company, warning us and to take preventive actions, bring in garbage cans – into the house or garage, and if you have to file a claim here’s the number to call. When I went to get my hair cut and planned to go to the bank, which I mentioned was closed. I passed stores that were taping their wide store front glass. One store was bordered up, a gas station ran out of gas and there are lines at the stations and the ATM machines. Get cash! Panic has settled into our summer. What will it be like after it passes? The experts agree it will hit us late tonight, so we’d be deep in sleep…maybe. Our shed outside will take a hit and I expect it will collapse and then I can see the old garage will go down. The furniture is removed off the deck, the gas tank for the grill is disconnected and in the garage and we wait. I have my beers and books. It’s quiet outside at 11:44 in the morning.