Thank You Uncle Bobo

Exactly twenty years ago, this was how I spent New Year's Eve. With the Tom Tom Club opening. We were on the floor at midnight, watching Bill Graham be Father Time, beneath the balloons. Massive joygasm!

P.S. Could this finally be be "The Al Franken Decade" ?? Go Al, Go!

Genius Of Love (original 12 inch mix) - Tom Tom Club

Feverish Thoughts

My first sick day. Since February, when I lucked into my new, much-improved job.What an odd thing, when teeth chatter uncontrollably and the fever burns. I burrowed into my comforter and thrashed about a while. We noticed that V for Vendetta was just starting, so we watched it. Despite feeling poorly, it floored me.Two Sissy Hankshaw-sized thumbs-up. Feeling less weird today, but not 100% healed. Maybe a minimal rant will help.





So much to say about so much. It takes me over sometimes. Every day I feel more disillusioned. If only... I were the type that could look away, ignore the insanity, and distract myself in a myriad of ways. I've never been one to deny the obvious, no matter how upsetting it may be. It's obvious (to me) that we are approaching the point of no return. I will not just shut up and watch it occur. I keep up this incessant blogging for my mental health. This is for me. Plain and simple. It's not because I think I am another undiscovered writer. No chance. It is a place for my burgeoning frustration. Sometimes it's for the things in my little world that soothe my soul or make me laugh. Either way it feels sort of obsessive. That troubles me. (Add it to the motherfucking list!) I hope there comes a time I won't need this silly thing for venting about my fucked-up country. That may be overly-optimistic.





My son and his cohorts are driving to Los Angeles (What???!!) this weekend, to see Roky Erickson at the El Rey Theater. As he pointed out: "The City itself is not on fire, Mom." He has friends there, keeping him posted. They're staying at one of his pal's mother's place.In Malibu. The tickets were procured weeks ago. Even though he's 25, I have the maternal urge to suggest that they wear those white masks over their mouths whenever they're outdoors. The particulate down there should be quite something. If I do suggest this, he will laugh at me. No matter, I probably will.






One of my very best friends is treating me to a getaway to see her soon. Gracious! There are now direct flights from Santa Rosa to Seattle. This is less stressful than getting to San Francisco or Oakland. She's a friend from my formative years at Tahoe. One of only a few that have remained friends for about three decades. As I pointed out to Tara Dharma recently, my circle of friends gets smaller as the years roll on. The trade off is... the remaining friendships that I hold dear and rely on are strong. Many others have been lost along the way. Some are mourned, some are forgotten. It's complicated stuff, friendship. Like life is.






I've been wondering about labels. There are labels for everything and everyone. For instance, I could easily be labeled a deadhead. I am one. Or was, depending on your outlook. But is that all I am? Perhaps, to some. No matter, really. I can handle the label. But wait, there's more to me than that, musically. I have seen and/or worked at almost every genre of music you can fathom. From Lollapalooza to the San Francisco Symphony. Due to my years as a blue coat for B.G.P., I saw shows I would not necessarily have seen by choice. Like Tiffany or Duran Duran or Run D.M.C. It's music, and it intrigues me-whether I am particularly fond of it or not. I'm weird like that.



Lastly, I think our kitten has a name that will stick. Dusty became Cassidy. It fits her the best. Finally. I felt negligent, being uncertain. Not Cassidy like the song, or after Neal Cassady. She hops. Naturally I thought of Hopalong Cassidy. Another archaic reference.Consider it's source! Anyway, Cassie works too.

Artifact

Not long before Winterland was to be demolished in 1979, (and condominiums went up on the site.) I went on a mission with two friends.. One of the them was my good pal, Aiko Jim. The venue had been a San Francisco landmark for many decades, long before becoming home to many historic rock concerts. On the front of the building were several of these fancy, framed boxes. They typically held posters of upcoming shows. The hastily-written sign you see was an exception to the norm. This sign was made for the last concert that ever ocurred there, on December 31st, 1978. It was a last-ditch effort (by BGP) to defray those who did not have tickets. They still showed-up. I'll bet some of the scalpers did well that night.

Close to a year after the final concert, we heard that the demolition was mere days away. We decided that we needed something to show for our years spent behind those music-saturated walls. We waited for darkness. In Jim's nondescript Chevy Nova, we rolled up in front of the beloved, doomed venue. We grabbed the crowbar in Jim's trunk, and proceeded to pry loose one of the old boxes. Into the trunk of the car it went, and we sped off into the night. (Laughing like mad, of course.)

It has lived the last almost thirty years with Jim. It weighs too much to hang on any typical wall. The locked glass door has never been opened. We have always wondered whether the sign was written on the back of a concert poster of some sort. (?) To us silly deadheads, this is a sacred artifact, from a hallowed place in musical history. I asked Jim if he'd take a picture of it when we visited last weekend. He did. Is it vandalism, when they're going to bulldoze it anyway?

Thank You, Uncle Bobo.

In keeping with the discussion about Bill Graham at Listics, I scanned this great photo I found in my archives. I grew up going to shows put on by him. Later in life, I worked for BGP for several years. I have to agree with observations by others familiar with his "ways." He was often tough to take. But he knew how to do things just right, and the music scene flourished because of his vision.

During the Warfield Theatre run in 1980, a friend and I attempted to buy tickets to one of the 14 nights on the street. From a scalper. After the guy took off with our money, I found Bill out in front of the venue. With tear-stained cheeks, I told him my tale-of-woe. He looked me square in the face and said "These are the 80's, sweetheart---wake up!" He never was one to mince words.

I also found one of my stubs from the Warfield Shows. I think I'll start to scan them, for preservation's sake.