6 Degrees of Seperation
A Musical Tribute
S. G. Lacey
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Monday, September 11th, 1961: Liverpool, England, UK
From my position leaning against the curved brick wall, I have a view of the entire club. The Cavern Club. My club.
Above us is a 7-story fruit warehouse. This basement was formerly a wine cellar, as evidenced by the tell-tale arched wall openings, which create a series of semi-enclosed corridors branching off on both sides from this main room. Rumor has it this space served as an air raid bomb shelter during World War II. If these dark red walls could talk.
On stage is a 4-piece band, who look like a bunch of misfits. Donned in black leather jackets, drain pipe jeans, dark shoes, and similar goofy hair styles, from my distant observation point, it’s hard to tell the three standing guitarists apart. The only differentiation points are that the lad on the right has a longer neck, and small body, on his instrument, characteristic of an acoustic base guitar, and the boy on the left, playing lead, with no vocals microphone in front of him, has a cigarette hanging loosely from his mouth, contributing to the general haze in the air.
Smoke is the least of my worries with regards to the atmosphere. This cellar space is perpetually damp, causing bands to often complain about electronics wire shorts, rusting metal components, and other inconvenient equipment malfunctions. The thick brick structure not only seals in the moisture, but also contributes noticeably to the insulating properties of the space. Temperature management in here has always been a concern for me, even before purchasing the club; with no windows, there’s few options for drawing excess heat out when the venue is full. No issues on that front right now.
It’s a Monday night, typically a slow day. Glancing around, I estimate around 100 people in the crowd, half of our stated legal capacity, thought I have no doubt there have been over 300 warm bodies crammed into this cave at times over the summer. On those instances, the stifling heat and humidity in the space becomes unbearable. But I have to pay the bills, and most of the young patrons seem oblivious to the interior climate anyways.
The band on stage now is in the middle of a multi-month run here at the Cavern Club. They have been playing sets roughly 3 nights a week since the beginning of August. As I watch, thick mops of dark hair bob vigorously in unison with the flowing music. These unique haircuts apparently stemmed from their recent visit to Germany, mimicking the existentialist-style look of the youths there.
Momentum is gaining around this band in Liverpool, coming out of their 3-month summer stint in Hamburg. The German concert goers have different tastes, favoring a more engaged show style, with longer jam-format songs, and high on-stage energy. Based on the uptick in basement traffic, it seems such an approach is taking off with the younger generation of English music connoisseurs as well.
Some of the habits the band learned in German I’m definitely not a huge fan of. These lads swear frequently, often act as if they’re playing for themselves rather than the paying crowd, stop and start songs sporadically, and generally participate in a variety of childish antics during their performances.
Still, playing together 7 nights a week for months on end does promote comradery within the group. Often, as I watch them jam away, it feels like they can anticipate each other’s movements; the three guitarists synchronized as they trade off on leading, drums instantaneously adjusting cadence to match the swings in tempo, with catchy vocals perfectly harmonized as well.
This club opened in 1957, and I purchased the establishment just under 2 years ago. I’m still refining the business model. Like my predecessor, my initial goal was to put Liverpool on the map as the leading jazz center in the country outside of London, with the Cavern Club being the center point of this revolution.
However, his commitment to a jazz-only establishment went too far. At one point, when The Quarrymen, a band which was the predecessor to the group currently performing, started playing skittle, a mix of jazz, blues, and folk music with homemade instruments, during a set in 1958, the former owner threatened to kick the entire group off the stage.
My musical penchants are not so staunchly held. It’s hard to deny the current Mersey sound movement going on here, especially amongst the youthful segment of society. Named after the River Mersey, which runs just blocks from the entrance of my club, we’re located at the epicenter of this emerging musical style, so I may as well embrace it.
The band on stage currently exemplifies this new genre perfectly; light melodic sounds dominated by a trio of guitars, with lyrics focused on vocal harmonies and memorable hooks. There’s no denying these boys have been influential in the renewed popularity of my club recently.
This admiration is evidenced by the ream of magazines spread out on the high top that my left elbow is resting on. The Mersey Beat, a music-focused rag launched just a few months ago, choose to use this group for the cover of their inaugural issue. Since my bouncer handles the distribution of this publication, we get a bundle to hand out to key clientele for marketing purposes, free of charge, as opposed to the retail price of 3 shillings.
It also helps that all the band members hail from Liverpool, thus stirring up a surge of local, hometown, support.
I’ve been careful to slowly incorporate the more polarizing rock and roll beat music into our stable jazz offerings. Most of this avant-garde style was being performed in sketchy haunts on the outskirts of Liverpool when I took over the Cavern Club. Starting with a single midday show, we’ve grown the beat music acts, and patrons, to multiple nightly shows per week, including an occasional all-night junket combining jazz, blues, and beat tunes.
As an accountant by trade, I’m manically focused on the financial numbers. Even more so, now that I’m the owner of the establishment. I was fortunate to have access to the books, prior to buying the business for 2750 pounds, a number that seemed to make sense at the time. I can get between 2 and 6 shillings per patron for a show, after paying out the bands and covering overheard. Therefore, I determined anything over 75 customers per night was heading right to the bottom line.
However, our initial Jazz festival event in January of 1960 was not profitable, and it soon became clear a shift, or at least broadening, of the musical acts would be required to keep the club operational. Fortunately, along came the Mersey sound revolution.
Another boon for profits has been implementing the lunchtime sessions. Running from noon to 2 PM, these informal shows provide a strong draw from the multitude of office and dock workers who fill the downtown area during the week.
Shows are varied, incorporating music, comedy, and other entertaining talents. Serving tea and sandwiches further increases revenue, without having to set-up and staff a full-fledged kitchen.
I’ve decided not to serve alcohol for any shows, since it only causes issues at live music venues, and doesn’t match the refined high-end club image I’m trying to portray. Same goes for attire. I’ve directed my men at the door not to let anyone in wearing jeans, T-shirts, or other such simple clothing. In my opinion, if patrons are dressed in nice clothes, then they’re less likely to thrash around and cause trouble. That’s why the dingy outfits these young performers continue to wear infuriates me so much.
What this band needs on a manager to whip them into shape. I’ve been passing around their initial recorded single, “My Bonnie”, a collaboration with Tony Sheridan, which was recorded in Germany a few months ago, in the hopes that I can entice one of the big players in the music industry. No luck thus far.
During a brief break in the band’s action, my compère springs to the microphone, working to keep the crowd engaged. I have to credit him of coming up with one of our best marketing hooks, referring to our patrons as “cave-dwellers”. This rabid fanbase has allowed me to start selling Cavern Club memberships. These annual passes, denoted by a paper card and a medallion coin, provide guaranteed cash flow, at the start of the year, making the business less dependent on day to day ticket sales. Smoothing out revenue streams is music to my accounting ears.
Back on stage after a 3-minute hiatus, likely for a piss and smoke break, the young band jumps right into their next set. Their first offering is a well-known blues tune, which I recognize instantly. Initially performed by Elvis Presley, the song has been covered by several famous American musicians, before making its way across the pond.
Having shed their standard leather jackets, probably on account of the heat generated under the small stage lights, the troop looks like a pack of street hooligans. But they can really put out some sound, the whaling guitar chords and rustic lyrics easily making it to my standing position in the back of the dungeon-esque hall.
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“She makes love without a smile,
Ooh, hot dog that drives me wild.
Oh, I got a woman,
Mean as she can be.”
​
I’ve had the most business interaction with Paul, the band member on the right of the stage, who is currently singing, and playing bass guitar. The rhythm guitarist, and band leader, John, is about to turn 21 years old. I only know this because his birthday is less than a month away; he and Paul already told me they need the beginning of October off to hitch hike across Spain. They didn’t provide any more details, and I didn’t ask.
The lead guitarist on the left, George, is younger than his strumming counterparts, and looks it, with a baby face, and the perpetual energy of youth. He often appears more focused on his craft, deftly manipulating the delicate strings of his instrument, content to let the other two take charge with crowd engagement.
The current song finally comes to a close, after a raucous bluesy jam session that continued for 6 minutes after the simple lyrics conclude. Punctuated with one more 4-line chorus, the loud anthem ends with an around-the-horn roll of the drums.
The last notes of the guitar reverberate off the solid brick rectangles and ample cement binder, loud echoes bouncing through the cavernous space, mingling with excited clapping and appreciative commendation from the crowd.
Still in my mid-30’s, there’s a lot of time left for this business to grow. At this point, if this band, dubbed The Beatles, succeeds, so does the Cavern Club. Despite their transgressions, this is a horse I’m willing to hitch my wagon to. Especially, since I’m still paying them only 3 pounds and 15 shillings per set. That bargain won’t last, if their popularity continues to grow at the current rate.
Between 1961 and 1963, The Beatles performed 292 shows at the Cavern Club. Brian Epstein, their future band manager, first saw them play there at a lunchtime session on November 9th, 1961. Ringo Starr replaced Pete Best as the band’s drummer in August 1962, much to the chagrin of many “cave-dellers”. By the middle of 1963, the band’s popularity had outgrown the Cavern Club, and Beatlemania was born throughout the UK, and eventually the world. The Cavern Club fell on hard times, with the owner, Ray McFall, filing for bankruptcy in 1965. Demolished in 1973 as part of subway renovations, the Cavern Club was rebuilt to near replica form in 1984, and still thrives as part of Liverpool’s live music scene today.
Thursday, August 29th, 1968: London, England, UK
Fumbling around blindly, relying on my trained hands for guidance, I find the desired metallic pin connection, and join this round protrusion with its matching female counterpart. The brief burst of static through my headphones confirms the desired link has been made.
Crawling out from under the desk, I take care to not disturb any of the other critical joints as I extricate myself from this tangled mess of wires. Good thing I had the foresight to tuck my tie into the front of my pants. There’s a lot to get caught on down there. This sound system is a continual work in progress; we’re always tinkering, adding, and optimizing.
Getting the job here at Trident Studios was quite fortuitous. I went with a friend to the grand opening party at the end of last year, simply hoping to check out the fancy electronic equipment at this new London recording facility.
The setup was impressive, as were the brothers who founded the studio, especially since they offered me the first mix engineer job without even seeing my resume, which I inevitably hadn’t brought to the party. That’s how fate works, I guess.
This audio engineer gig at Trident Studios has been a blessing. I’ve already seen some amazing musicians come through the recording room. Growing up in the suburbs of London, I closely followed the burgeoning British rock scene over the decade. Now, I’m a part of it.
Not bad for a young kid with less than 5 years’ experience in the industry. Granted, I previously worked with Columbia Records under the CBS label, but that big corporate recording operation is nothing like the nuanced professionalism, and customized band-friendly approach, we employ here at Trident.
Our office is in the heart of the Soho district in London. This region contains a diverse mix of pubs, restaurants, theaters, and clubs, all with one centralized theme. Sex. Several times walking into work, I’ve lost track trying to count these raunchy haunts: sex toy shops, peep show holes, porn cinemas, and discrete “massage” parlors, can be found on every block in Soho. Such is the culture during these swinging 60’s, here in urban England.
While the commute into work may be harrowing, once here I’m in my element, in charge of operating some of the most state-of-the-art recording equipment in the world. The siblings who own and built this place spared no expense.
Currently seated in my black leather padded chair, with reclining capability, and casters for mobility, if I reach out, I can manipulate no less than 100 knobs, dials, and sliders. Shifting my position 4 feet right or left, via the accommodating wheels on the bottom of my seat, yields access to an equal number of additional control toggles.
We’re the first studio in the United Kingdom to use Dolby noise reduction, and an 8-track reel-to-reel recording deck. Plus, there are plenty more technological advancements planned for the future. However, it’s tough to grow within the confined upper space allotted for the sound room. Still, just being a pioneer with the 8-track recording format has been a big point of differentiation for our new, budding, operation.
At the beginning of this month, we helped The Beatles record one of their newest songs, “Hey Jude”. Due to time constraints, this production was essentially completed over just two 10-plus hour marathon sessions: the first live recording focused, and the second mixing heavy, my specialty. This was the most stressful, and riveting, week of my life. Based on the list of artists lining up to record at Trident Studios in the coming months, I have no doubt similar bouts of exhilaration are in my near future.
This accelerated recording timeline is hopefully not the norm moving forward, but was essentially for The Beatles to hit their obligatory release date for the first single published via their wholly owned publishing company, Apple Records. Their commitment and dedication is clearly paying off; less than a month later, “Hey Jude” is in the top 5 on the charts in both the US and UK, inevitably headed to the number 1 spot.
Hoping to leverage the success of The Beatles recent release, I was told by one of the Trident’s founding brothers that we’re scheduled to host an American musician, who will be releasing his first studio album under the recently formed Apple Records publishing company. Apparently, when you get as popular as the Fab Four, you start becoming involved in all aspects of the music industry. This is also an impressive vote of confidence for the young American, who at only 20 years old, will be the first non-British artist under the Apple umbrella.
As a result of this record label connection, the determination was made to share studio time between him and The Beatles. With the recording successes here at Trident Studios, there’s not enough time in the day to execute all the requests we have coming in. This makes for some long, stressful, sessions, but is a great spot to be in as a business.
I love this sound engineering work, so am definitely not complaining. I just need to get a cot and shower installed in my recording perch.
Our newest client arrived in London in mid-July, and started coming to our facility shortly after. He’s very shy and reserved, but I have been able to pry a few life facts out of him. Apparently, this European journey is not of his own volition, but instead mandated by his parents. After this cryptic admission, I was able to get very little additional information from James, as he prefers to be called, but did ascertain through others that he has been in and out of hospitals, due to both depression and drugs, several times in his young life.
If you’re trying to kick a heroin addiction, I could think of better places to avoid temptation than the Soho district of London, with all its distractions and transgressions. But the lad seems to be doing well this far, optimizing his time in the studio, then writing at night.
Song composition seems to be his passion. He’s always scribbling down lyrics or arranging notes, during down time on the set, running these ideas by anyone who will listen, which sometimes happens to be one of The Beatles’ world-famous band members.
Beyond the high-tech electronics, one of our other invaluable possessions here at Trident is the handmade C. Bechstein concert-sized piano. This instrument has proved a major draw for enticing bands, as pianos are not an easy item to travel with, but can offer an additional depth of sound in a recorded track.
We suggested that our newest client could write some piano pieces into his songs, but he’s leaning towards using a full orchestra for background musical depth. Right now, James is coordinating with a local composer to enlist a 30-piece ensemble. This seems a little aggressive to me, and such a troop will definitely not fit in our little studio, so they’ll need to come up with other recording options. Then, I can splice the supplemental sounds in on the back-end post-production.
I’ve learned over the past few months that The Beatles are not without their own personal struggles. Immense success in the market apparently hasn’t brought any less turmoil to the band. In fact, rumor has it that their drummer, Ringo Starr, has left the band, storming off during a recording session at a competing studio across town earlier this week.
The group traveled to India for a meditative vacation earlier this spring, hoping to escape the constant fan and tabloid bombardment of Beatlemania. By all accounts, this was a very productive break, especially from a writing standpoint. However, the renewed tensions of the London spotlight, combined with the tight quarters and long hours of recording, have caused a confrontational vibe in the studio coming out of this freeing travel experience.
Apparently, the thin, tensely stretched, rubber lines holding this band together have finally snapped.
Right now, we’re working on one of James’s tracks for his initial album, which will be self-titled. We’re shooting to record 10 solid songs during his time here in London, but at the prolific rate which he writes music, we may be able to expand a dozen or more offerings.
Technically, this current studio slot is booked for The Beatles, so Paul and George are hovering around in the back of the room, tuning their gear in preparation for the next recording set. However, there’s not much you can do without a drummer, and it’s a shame to waste good studio time, with all of our Trident personnel already here and ready to work.
Regardless, for me as a music aficionado, the scene visible below to my left, through the large picture window of the recording room, is surreal.
The young American is at the main microphone, acoustic guitar secured by an embroidered floral print strap slung over his frail shoulders. His thick, dark brown, hair ends just below shoulder length, conveniently staying out of the way, as he makes minute adjustments to tuning pegs on the guitar’s headstock, with long, boney, fingers.
Off to his right, Paul McCartney rocks back and forth casually, the base guitar as comfortable as a baby in his arms. In the back of the studio, George Harrison, is seated in a chair, small vocals mike just inches from his lips.
The lead musician nods his head, strumming a long cord, I give him an exaggerated thumbs up through the window, then start the recording rolling, the nearly imperceptible whirring confirming we’re live.
We used to communicate verbally through the door in front of me, which accesses the main studio, are via a steep flight of stairs, but found the acoustics in the lower space are markedly improved, when sealed off from the upper perch I sit in. Hence the use of hand signals.
I simultaneously monitor the input channels from the variety of musical sources downstairs: James’ simple guitar chords, Paul’s deep base contributions, George’s subtle supporting vocals. It’s like assembling a complex puzzle where the size and shape of the pieces are changing in real time. Sure, we can adjust the track sounds after the fact through over dubbing, splicing, and other mixing techniques, but a pure baseline recording is the key to achieving a quality finished product.
The best part about this studio is that ownership has decided to focus specifically on rock and roll music recording; thereby not diluting the sound system with the cleaner notes and filtering typical of standard, multimedia broadcast studios.
My gift as a mix engineer is having a finely tuned ear, and trusting my natural hearing beyond all else. Already, in less than a year of operations, we’ve spent countless hours with oscilloscopes and meters, monitoring the incoming frequencies and wavelengths traveling to the sound board. Tone and pitch are the elements that create music, not current and amperage.
Each instrumental emission, each vocal utterance, each ambient sound, should be natural and pure. If we forget that, then we have forgone our commitment to the incredible artists we serve.
As I listen closely to the lyrics, working to balance the microphone feeds, the deep meaning of the last verse is revealed. The homesick focus of the song has always been evident from the chorus, combined with James’ penchant for depression. I saw him scribbling away on sheet paper earlier this morning, apparently making some last-minute adjustments to the wording. We’ve recorded this song twice already this week, so I know the lyrics well. This last stanza is definitely modified.
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“With a holy host of others standin' around me,
Still I'm on the dark side of the moon.
And it seems like it goes on like this forever.
You must forgive me, if I'm up and gone to,
Carolina in my mind.”
​
Very poignant, we are certainly in the midst of holy hosts tonight. The song ends, and I stop the tape, again communicating with hand signals through the window to the band and crew down below.
Reaching for a roll of white labels off a sideboard table, I print “JAMES TAYLOR: 8/29/1968 – CAROLINA” in thick block letters using a black marker. We have tons of tapes in this studio, and if I don’t mark them right away, there’s no way to keep track of what recording material is on each one.
I can’t wait to see who will come through Trident Studios next. Hopefully, I can find time to mix this recording, and play it to our studio’s current guests, via the four massive Tannoy speakers, for review later tonight.
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James Taylor’s initial album included another song entitled “Something in the Way She Moves”, another reference and tribute to The Beatles. Ringo Starr reunited with the band later in the fall of 1968. Behind schedule for a planned release, The Beatles participated in a 5-day marathon recording session at the Trident from 10/1 – 10/5, including an all-nighter on October 3rd. The White Album was completed on October 10th, then the band members dispersed on holiday. The Trident’s first sound engineer, Malcolm Toft, designed the Trident ‘A’ Range console in 1971, which went on to become the music industry standard. The Trident Studio earned a reputation as one of the most well-known places for British Rock artists to record, mixing music for Elton John, David Bowie, Queen, and The Rolling Stones among others, before closing in the early 1980’s.
Tuesday, February 16th, 1971: Los Angeles, California, USA
As we motor down the highway, cruising at roughly 50 mph, I take in the smog engulfed Los Angeles skyline. This is about the maximum speed we’ve reached over the past half hour, and have come to a standstill several times, despite the 4 available lanes heading in our direction. This intermitted progress has provided me with plenty of time to inspect the diversity of cars, and inhabitants, in Southern California, as they whiz by us, or we pass them.
They have some wide highways here in LA, and a lot of them. I’m not sure what interstate number we’re on currently, but know we’re generally headed north and west, back towards downtown, after visiting at radio station studio in Santa Ana this morning.
We’re enjoying our own classy ride on this journey. A Cadillac DeVille convertible, less than a year old, sky blue exterior, with white leather upholstery that matches the soft roof. The top is currently pulled back and folded behind me, allowing for an unencumbered view of the landscape, even from my rear position on the driver’s side.
Sitting on the bench seat next to me is the person I’ve been traveling with for the past several days. Based on attire and clothing, it’s essentially impossible to tell if this entity is a man or women. I’m still making my decision, and did have to look up “androgynous” in the dictionary last night, as my research article for Rolling Stone magazine starts to come together.
This 24-year-old “man” is taking in the views even more intently than I am, since this is his first time in the United States. His long blonde hair, well beyond shoulder length, is at the mercy of the wind, with the roof down, but still seems to remain organized, despite its very fine, wispy, nature.
Driving is the owner of this fancy vehicle, a top executive at RCA, one of the premier record labels going these days. Apparently, they are doing quite well financially.
In the passenger seat, is our Los Angeles tour guide, a music industry magnate. Based on the Valentine’s Day adventure he took us on this weekend, I have no doubt about his far-reaching connections in this city.
This past Sunday, we were treated to full immersion into of the elite LA night life scene.
At one party, my car seatmate, still a relative unknown to the North American music audience, got his first chance to charm a live audience. I’ve been following this artist’s career for several years, since the release of his “Space Oddity” single in 1969, appropriately offered in the UK market just 5 days before the launch of the Apollo 11 shuttle.
Now with 3 original albums under his belt, 2 self-titled, and all flops, this opportunity to gain US exposure may be his last chance for commercial success. The newest record, the basis of this current marketing push, is firmly in the hard rock genre, a marked departure from his previous, mellower, offerings, includes sci-fi sound inspiration, and dark lyrics.
Having listened to every song ever released, I have utmost confidence in this artist’s ability to succeed, and adapt. Still, it was great to see how well this lad is able to engage the crowd, albeit a small and inebriated one, in the spur-of-the-moment living room session a few days ago.
Sitting cross-legged on a water bed, and strumming a 12-string guitar, while singing original songs none of the other party-goers had ever heard before, was bound to draw a crowd. And that’s without even accounting for the full-length robe, and golden, flowing, hair of this foreign performer.
This chap is here at the request of his current label, Mercury Records, who organized a 3-week, impromptu United States tour. I’ve recently joined for the tail end, the West Coast portion, of the journey, starting in San Francisco in the middle of last week. Our Rolling Stones magazine headquarters is conveniently located up there, right in the bustling downtown area. I’m always looking to show an up-and-coming musician a good time, especially if I can expense the bill.
I applaud Mercury Records for dragging one of their key new resources across the Atlantic, but this seems to have been a disjointed, whirlwind, adventure. Apparently, upon arrival in Washington, DC at the end of January, the British passport, combined with the unique appearance, led to a significant customs delay.
Traveling alone, as his wife is pregnant, and manager had other commitments, was likely stressful for someone who is clearly afraid of flying, based on our short puddle jumper together down the California coast. Also, a recent falling out with his band members from “The Hype”, and not being able to secure a visa which allows musicians to play in public spaces, eliminated another key marketing opportunity. Actually performing songs from the album you’re trying to pedal. This is definitely not a traditional music tour.
In my down time catching up with the lad, it sounds like he’s been on a real charade of planes, trains, and automobiles. In the last week alone, his Mercury Records host agent paraded him through 7 cities in the center of the country, spanning all the way from Houston to Minneapolis.
Since live shows are off the table, the focus has been in-person interviews on relevant radio stations, meeting with key music industry executives, and other glad-handing promotional activities. Sounds pretty boring to me, but for a kid who’s less than a quarter century old, and in a new country, he seems to be eating up every interaction, site, and sound, of our country. Good for him.
The SFO airport pick-up was the first time I met this young artist in person, and an experience I will not soon forget. Clothed in a full-length purple wool coat, with a white chiffon scarf covering most of his head, I could have easily confused this person for a hippie girl walking around Haight & Ashbury Streets near my house.
This observation was apparently not lost on the DJ during the San Francisco radio interview I set up later that day. My male guest, strolling into the station’s sound room clothed in a long, floral print, dress, attracted many looks, along with a few verbal outbursts, from studio personnel.
Contrasting this image, was his interview answer explaining the latest album being inspired by time spent earlier in life as a shaven-headed transvestite. The host didn’t know whether to laugh, or cry, and definitely didn’t have a relevant follow-up question ready for that commentary.
We’re currently driving to another radio studio in downtown LA. I’m interested to see how the boy’s image, and persona, will be received, at this next establishment. It’s been a unique, and entertaining experience, at each stop thus far. I have no doubt a hard nose disc jockey from the “City of Angels” won’t hold back.
As we exist the highway via the Venice Boulevard ramp, we hit stopped traffic. No surprise there. Our driver turns up the radio, now that we can actually hear it with the reduction in wind, likely assuming were going to be here for a while.
The only conversation we’ve had on the drive thus far is a brief stab by our host, discreetly trying to suggest that the musician I’m writing a piece on should switch record labels from Mercury to RCA.
I’ll give him credit for savvy timing, based on what I know about the disjointed nature of this cross-country tour adventure. Plus, this businessman has been hosting the young lad at his house for several days, and showing him a damn good time, in my opinion. However, the wind and traffic noise inhibited any further negotiations, and thus we all lapsed into silent observation and reflection from our shiny chariot.
But now, both the air flow and engine noise have been significantly reduced in volume.
Our copilot, and guide, deftly manipulates the plastic knobs, adjusting the white band across the numbers on the FM radio dial. As a local music aficionado, I have no doubt he’s got every key position on the scanner memorized. A final quarter turn puts us just above “95” on the display, and static over the speakers transitions into a clear, audible, sound.
I recognize the call sign of the radio station we’re headed to, further confirmation coming as the broadcaster announces an upcoming interview with our occupant in the car at the top of the hour.
After three blaring commercials: one touting a great deal on a new Ford automobile, another offering to buy gold jewelry for fair prices, and the third listing the upcoming Lakers basketball games with associated ticket specials, the calming sounds of classic rock return to the car’s expensive, high-quality, speakers.
Just a few notes into the song, I recognize the track. “Country Road”, by James Taylor. Originally published as part of his second album last year, the radio is currently playing a new version that was just rerecorded and released as a single. This tune is already moving up the charts in the United States, and I’ve had the folksy two-line chorus stuck in my head many a time recently on road trips, while driving amongst the redwoods of Northern California.
Looking to my right, I see my seatmate has his eyes closed, but he is not sleeping. His fingers move slowly, tracking across the shiny white leather of the door panel, mimicking the lead guitar chords. His lips, slightly masked by his mop of blonde hair, move almost imperceptibly to the simple lyrics. His knee, hidden underneath the long skirt he’s wearing, bounces methodically to the beat of the base line.
As the song ends, the focus of my pending story sits stoically for a few seconds longer, then pulls a small notebook from one of the folds in his flowing dress. Wedged in the wire spiral top, which holds the pages together, is a short pencil, likely stolen from a hotel or golf course.
Extracting the stubby writing utensil from its secured spot, he starts scribbling away rapidly. I watch enamored, not just with the rate at which his delicate hands move across the page, but also by the ways in which he finds inspiration. Finishing up after just a minute, he tears off the top page, and hands it to me without a word.
​
“Ch-ch-changes,
Turn and face the strange.
Ch-ch-changes,
Just gonna have to be a different man.”
​
I read the terse lyrics twice, absorbing the impact. So simple, yet so deep. These lines encapsulate everything I have observed about this odd individual over the past few days.
Nodding, I pass the scrap of paper back to this clearly talented artist. As if prescribed by fate, the lights ahead of us change to green, opening up a clear road ahead all the way to the radio studio.
This gentleman is headed back to London at the end of this week. Based on spending only a few days with him, I have no doubt David Bowie will be successful performing in whatever band he decides to wrangle up and work with next. Plus, I have some great material with which to execute my typical sarcasm for the upcoming magazine article.
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This was David Bowie’s first trip to the United States, and it had a profound influence on his future musical achievements, spurring a prolific stretch of writing and recording when he returned to the UK. In 1971, he wrote and released “Hunky Dory”, a poetic and lyric driven acoustic folk album, inspired by popular American singer-songwriters like James Taylor and Cat Stevens. Within months, he’d transitioned to his Ziggy Stardust punk rocker persona, which was also heavily shaped by engaging with Iggy Pop, Lou Reed, and The Legendary Stardust Cowboy, all of who he was exposed to on this trip. The Rolling Stones reporter, John Mendelsohn, has written many books about his interactions with famous musicians, and is well-known for his polarizing reviews of bands; he had nothing but good things to say about Mr. Bowie.
Saturday, July 13th, 1985: London, England, UK
Something doesn’t sound right. I don’t need to be an electronics expert to figure that out.
There’s a captive audience of over 70k people in Wembley Stadium, who have been waiting all day, and night, for this performance. Now on stage is a lone man, clad entirely in black, sitting at a white grand piano, playing one of the icon songs of our era, and his lyrics microphone isn’t working. With no back-up instruments or singers, it’s not the best time for a technical issue.
We’re going to need to improvise. I have a world-renowned group of venerable musicians around me backstage. May as well enlist their services.
Just stepping off stage is one of the most respected performers, lyricists, and piano players in the world. As usually, he’s garbed in odd attire: a long jet-black robe, richly embroidered with metallic silver and gold thread, accented by shimmering scarlet red and emerald green sequence. His head is covered with a pillbox hat of similar dark fabric, complete with feathered plumage extending out the top.
Having just used the same on-stage piano to perform many of his own hits, including “Rocket Man”, this gentleman would definitely be able to provide support vocals on the current song. However, he’s busy helping his bandmates; on these quick artist changeovers, it’s all hands on deck, with limited space, and lots of equipment to move.
Casting my gaze further afield, I spot the lead singers from the last few acts. Their gear is pretty much organized by now, and they, like everyone between the ages of 15 and 60, who is of English descent, know this song by heart. Inevitably, the performer will try to engage the crowd, but if they can’t hear him, how are they supposed to sing along.
Under 2 minutes later, after a feverish scramble, I walk out onto the stage with Pete Townsend and David Bowie, our own microphones already live, our vocal cords already stretching to hit the iconic lyrics in accurate pitch. Rhythmically timing out the end of the chorus, which allows us the best chance to match the words to the piano notes, we belt in unison.
“Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.”
Moving out into full view, I catch our lead artist’s gaze, while Townsend gives him a subtle jab in the ribs, so he knows we’re joining in. After a split second of confusion, the pianist understands, subtly touching the microphone in front of his mouth to confirm. Without missing a beat, we continue the repetitive, but meaningful, refrain, of this simple, but powerful, song.
“Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be.
There will be an answer, let it be.”
The massive crowd joins in enthusiastically, emboldened by the sudden boost in lyrical transmission over the stadium’s powerful speakers.
When I find myself in times of trouble, indeed! It’s great so see how quickly great musicians band together in the shared pursuit of art and entertainment.
It’s nearly 10 PM here in London, time for the finale performance. Racing backstage as the former legend of The Beatles hits the final notes on the piano and the audience erupts, I flash the signal to the set runners. They immediately start gathering up the necessary personalities, and instruments. Within seconds, a collection of no less than 20 musicians, all of whom have performed earlier in the day, are streaming onto the stage.
Of course, we’re performing the song which started this entire fundraising endeavor. As planned, David Bowie kicks off the first verse, then the remainder of our impressive cast joins in incrementally.
We don’t have enough microphones to accommodate all these performers, so we improvise, passing the mikes down the line, and belting out the chorus in close-faced unison. Everyone in the arena knows the lyrics as well, and joins in to make their collective voices, and hearts, heard.
As the music ends, I take one of the microphones back, and thank the wonderful London crowd, then pass the production feed off to the crew in Philadelphia, where 6 more hours of performances by world class musicians are still pending inside JFK Stadium.
All the sudden, I’m being raised in the air, on the shoulders of British rock legends Pete Townsend and Paul McCartney, and carried off the stage. I’m already taller than most of the other artists, but this higher vantage point gives me a chance to survey the seething crowd standing on the soccer pitch below, and reflect on what is being accomplished. This final performance of the night, and the entire event, is going off with nary a hitch.
While fairly smooth from a broadcast standpoint thus far, the show has not been without its glitches, especially for the huge throng gathered here at iconic Wembley Stadium to experience the show live. The microphone issue on the piano solo was just one of many technical challenges, but none of these disturbances seem to have dampened the spirit of this supportive and passionate crowd.
Having McCartney, one of the surviving members of The Beatles, perform here at this London site, is critical to give the fundraiser legitimacy. Fortunately, Paul, with some gentle nudging from his kids, was willing to sign on for a pro-bono set, generously donating his time and talent, like all the other artists playing today.
Considering we organized this event in just 10 weeks, 60 bands performing over 16 straight hours at 2 separate venues, with worldwide live video feed, there were bound to be a few hiccups. The dubbing of the event by the press as a “Global Jukebox” is well deserved.
Sitting down for the first time in 11 hours, when the concert officially started, feels great. Pushing 35 years old, I’m not as spry as I used to be on stage, or behind it. I performed with my band at the beginning of this event, and a lot has changed since then. Granted, it was a highpoint of my own career to play live for Princess Diana and Prince Charles, who kicked off the Wembley festivities to a raucous royal salute.
This moment of relaxation gives me time to reflect on the occasion. And to cool off, after that rousing finale with a few dozen of my best friends. I’m sweating profusely through my blue cotton dress shirt, despite the sleeves being rolled up, and the top few buttons undone. Running a hand through my long, thick, wavy, dark brown hair, which is greasy with perspiration, I take a deep breath, then start working through the stack of important notes in front of me.
From a fundraising standpoint, the numbers are starting to look better. The most recent tally I’ve seen from the incoming phone lines is approaching 50 million pounds, already over 10 times my goal for the entire event.
Granted, getting on BBC TV and swearing to entire viewership may not have been the best approach in hindsight, but it seems to have spurred donations, both domestically, and across the world. That was just my Irish temper. It never hurts to get a little fired up about a passionate cause.
I’ve been trying to do my part throughout the day, in between my concert logistics commitments. Considering the impressive amount of musically talent we’ve amassed for this live TV transmission; people should be ecstatic to donate at least a nominal amount to our noble cause.
Several times, I’ve hopped on the phone when key personalities have called in, laying out the humanitarian case in plain and compelling language. My biggest successes were securing one million pounds from the Prince of Dubai, he’s apparently sympathetic to the ongoing challenges in Africa, and half a million pounds from an anonymous woman in England, she’s apparently very excited with the musical line-up we pulled together. So am I, madam.
Most impressive are the broadcast distribution numbers that I can see from this folding chair in the corner of what has become the command center here inside the Wembley Stadium press box. As we near prime time in the United States, and countries across Asia wake up, granted it’s technically tomorrow there, the viewership continues to rise.
Checking the digital display tracking live counts, something I’ve focused in on each time I’ve ventured in the room throughout the day, reveals a remarkable stat. We’re over 1.5 billion unique viewers; that means 30% of the world’s population is currently tuning into this event. My assistant just passed off the fact that we’re approaching engagement in 150 unique countries. Pretty impressive.
Increased participation, means more teary eyes, sad hearts, and open wallets. I didn’t amass one of the largest coordinated lists of musicians, across 2 continents, for my own amusement. There is an ongoing famine crisis in Ethiopia, and they need all the help they can get. Starvation seems absurd in this world of surplus, and the universal language of music is the best way to reach a global audience on this critical issue.
This Ethiopian hunger problem has become a recent passion, and life calling, for me, after seeing a BBC news report on the scarcity challenges in Africa last summer. The holiday album we put together, utilizing recordings from a Christmas concert just six months ago as a fundraiser campaign, started to bring the issue to the forefront, and also demonstrated how impactful song can be as a social engagement vehicle.
The title track, “Do They Know It’s Christmas”, performed by our eclectic group which we dubbed “Band Aid”, became the best-selling single ever on the UK charts nearly overnight. Additionally, I was able to collaborate with several very influence musicians, including both Paul McCartney and David Bowie, who were generous enough to record songs for the B-side of this record, which provided additional fundraising revenue. All told, earlier this year, over a million pounds generated from these record sales, was contributed to the famine mitigation efforts in Ethiopia and Chad. That amount seems like a drop in the bucket now.
This ongoing live concert is a great way to leverage connections I’ve already made, to take this campaign to the next level. I’m especially happy with the logo the design team created, using the outline of the African continent as the body of a guitar, while the I’s in “Live Aid” create the neck.
Despite all the technical prowess of our broadcasting team, there were a few logistics issues we weren’t able to solve. Most notably, David Bowie and Mick Jagger proposed to do a duet together, with one of them on each side of the Atlantic. However, apparently current satellite technology would result in a several second lag between the UK and US feeds, essentially negating the ability of these two iconic artists to interact with each other in real time.
The compromise, much to my delight, was that Jagger and Bowie recorded their parts of the song ahead of time, then our film team spliced these renditions into a video that was played simultaneously in both stadiums. One less thing to worry about in live time during the concert.
The clock is about to turn over to a new day here on London, and there’s still another 4 hours of great musical performances on tap in Philadelphia. Here in the control room, 6 large TV screens display the various available camera angles, while the headphones I’ve donned provide the live audio stream, which has been synched to match the video footage. It’s almost like being at the venue.
Eric Clapton is coming on stage soon, and I don’t want to miss that performance, especially since Phil Collins, who played a set at Wembley Stadium earlier, took a Concorde jet to the US, and plans to play drums supporting Mr. Clapton.
Putting my feet up, I crack open a bottle of Guinness, and take a long, well deserved, pull. I feel like I haven’t slept in weeks, on account of finalizing planning for this event, but should be able to hold out for another few hours.
The list of bands which played at Live Aid was a venerable who’s-who of rock music at the time. The diverse US concert line-up included Waylon Jennings, Santana, Stevie Wonder, Duran Duran, and Huey Lewis, and Judas Priest, among others. The Wembley performances of David Bowie and Queen are generally accepted to be historic efforts. Also, the massive global exposure via television reinvigorated many older bands’ past albums, or propelled unknown acts to future stardom. Bob Geldof, the event’s organizer, was part of the Boomtown Rats, a relatively obscure Irish punk band, but his passion for the cause, and influence on other more well-known musicians, was key in making Live Aid happen. To date, the event is still the largest, and most successful, global concert fundraiser ever executed.
Sunday, September 22nd, 1985: Champaign, Illinois, USA
The rain is pouring down, as evidenced by the stream of liquid dripping off the brim of my baseball cap. The green foam front, emblazoned with the iconic yellow John Deere prancing animal logo, does a reasonable job of soaking up the water, however the open mesh back provides no barrier to moisture. My dirty blond hair, which is usually unkept anyways, is now a soggy, tangled, mess.
It’s been drizzling intermittently all day; I’m cold, and soaking wet, outside. Inside however, I’m warmed by the diverse range of music being performed, the potential benefits of this fundraising event, and most relevant, the third cup of hot chocolate I’ve had already today.
I shuffle my feet in time with the music, both instinctively out of habit, and to keep them from going numb, despite the heavy leather boots and wool socks I’m wearing. The black plastic sheeting underneath my rubber soles crinkles, and puddles pool on the tarp where my shifting weight creates indentations that are deeper than adjacent depressions. This covering has no doubt been put in place to protect the AstroTurf underneath.
On the stage, about 30 yards in front to me, a new band is performing. I’ve determined the distance from my times watching University of Illinois football games here. My uncle works on campus, and gets us free tickets a few times a year. His seats are roughly even with the 20-yardline spot where I’m standing on the field currently, and the stage has been assembled at the back edge of the north end zone.
I’m fortunate to have filed into the stadium early enough to get in front of the multi-story tower placed in the middle of the field, which houses the necessary lights and cameras to complement the various musical acts. Being stuck behind that structure would have resulted in a major viewing encumbrance.
Currently singing is a young man in his early 20’s. He’s got long, flowing, hair, and is clad in a body length, royal blue, coat to provide protection from the harsh elements. Even from this distance, I can tell he’s a good-looking man. We don’t get many like him here in the Midwest.
I’ve heard this song on the radio, but experiencing it in person is much more compelling. Between the catchy lyrics, clean licks of the electric guitar lead, and the gyrations of the singer on stage; “Runaway” by Bon Jovi, is a hit in all respects. Definitely a song which resonates with teenage girls across the US. Myself included.
It’s been quite a day, and the sun still hasn’t set yet. The gates to the venue opened at just after 7 AM, very late according to a normal farmer’s mental clock. However, to get a prime location for this general admission event, I was in line around midnight, after spending a full day helping my parents in the fields, then taking the two-hour bus ride down from the southern suburbs of Chicago.
There wasn’t a formal set list published for this event, just a steady stream of famous bands, turning over nearly as relentlessly as this rain. No complaints about the weather, our crops need it.
I pull the concert program out from under my coat, leaving it beneath the clear plastic garbage bag which I have donned on account of the elements. I smirk every time I bring this pamphlet out. The front is bright yellow, a clear design knockoff of the infamous Farmer’s Almanac, complete with characteristic black woodcut artwork, and bright red text highlights.
I’m dedicated to keeping this document dry, so I can bring it home to show to my parents, and grandparents. On the back cover, the line-up of bands is listed in alphabetical order; all 50 plus of them. This is a fun way to enjoy a concert, just waiting to see who comes on next. Rock, country, heavy metal, folk; all these genres are in play.
The list is eclectic; if I’m honest, I’ve only heard of 75% of these acts, and can sing a song from less than half. But that doesn’t dampen my enjoyment, I love any live music. At 16 years old, I’ve still got plenty of time to broaden my melodic pallet.
It’s amazing that this entire concert was organized in just 6 weeks. Based on discussions with my uncle regarding logistics, it’s been a stressful, but exciting past month. In additional to preparing the actual stadium venue, he was tasked with finding spots on the University of Illinois campus to support the TV crews extensive filming equipment, and coordinating phone hotline centers which can provide critical aid services for farmers like emotional counseling, financial support, and job opportunities.
My father and I traveled down to Champaign two weeks earlier from our farm near the southern tip of Lake Michigan, to pick up my concert voucher from his brother, and attend a meeting of local farmers.
Pulling the ticket from my pocket, I confirm the $17.50 cost for a general admission seat, the only option for this event. The goal was to make this show affordable for any resident of the midwestern United States, many of whom are employed in the same struggling farming industry which this concert is hoping to support.
Little did we know that this monthly gathering of local farmers would be hosted, not only by the Governor of Illinois, but also incorporate 3 of the greatest classic rock musicians of our day, who are responsible for organizing the fundraising concert.
The forum lasted for hours; these artists generously fielding questions and complaints from local growers, who ranged from enamored to enraged. I definitely fell on the more pleased end of the spectrum, content to sit in the back and absorb insights from these wise entertainers.
The past decade has been incredibly difficult on farmers; such a devastating economic landscape has not been seen in middle America since the Great Depression. Widespread droughts have decimated crop yields, while soaring interest rates make it impossible to get the necessary funding to keep many farms afloat.
It’s no wonder bankruptcies are over 20%, with a majority of remaining functional operations teetering on the edge of solvency. One stat which came up in the meeting cemented the incredibly dire nature of this situation in my mind; 120 farms in the Midwest are going out of business per day.
One for the rallying cries surrounding this amassing of musical talent is the Farm Policy Reform Act of 1985, which is currently stagnated in the Congressional legislative abyss. The goals of this bill are to provide income protection and price stability to growers in need, all the way through the end of the 20th century.
A bold, but necessary, proposal. If actions aren’t taken soon, many of my neighbors, siblings, and classmates will fall into a dire predicament with generation implications.
Apparently, all the bands playing today have contributed their time, and skills, to the cause, without any potential for remunerations. This event isn’t just about the physical donations, but also the comradery generated through a unified cause. Looking around at the crowd, I see many familiar faces, engrossed in the performance on stage, impervious to the steady precipitation. This community is strong, despite the multitude of recent hardships. A little rain won’t be able to dampen our spirits.
2 hours later, the sun has nearly set, with manmade lighting starting to take over. Even more promising, the clouds have parted for now.
The current illumination on stage reveals dueling pianos, one jet black and shrouded in shadow, the other brightly lit and stark white. There’s an artist at each set of keys, nimbly playing in unison. It’s the performer at the dark piano who I recognize by image, voice, and persona, as he is the namesake for the band. Billy Joel.
The first song of the set I can’t identify, but the second is very well know. This tune resonates perfectly with my teenage body, and mind. “Only The Good Die Young.” A sad, but true, sentiment, especially during this era of hard times in farm country, with suicide rates on the rise, while foreclosures ramp up.
As the song ends, the stage begins to rotate, a novelty which allows the next set to be assembled well ahead of time. The mechanism doesn’t seem to be working perfectly every time, often requiring the physical aid of several young, corn-fed, men to nudge the turntable around. Fortunately, there’s no shortage of such strapping lads here in central Illinois.
Considering the hasty planning and inclement weather, I think everyone would consider this menial level of stage functionality a success. In fact, the entire event has gone off without a glitch, as least from my standpoint as an entertained viewer.
Not bad, considering the entire massive stage complex was erected in just 6 days, according to my uncle, working around the Fighting Illini home football schedule. The scaffolding covers the entire open, north end, of the field, and is 5 stories high. Massive “Farm Aid” banners, fittingly adored with a tractor logo, flank the main stage platform.
There have been some amazing bands throughout the day, but as the next performers are slowly revealed via flashing lights in the now dark night sky, I realize this is the act I’ve been waiting for.
The lead singer is instantly recognizable to me, with his signature mop of curly dark air, and tight-fitting blue jeans. However, the most telling part of his current outfit is the blue corduroy jacket he’s wearing, complete with the Future Farmers of America patch on the front, and larger gold embroidered emblem on the back.
Ironically, I’m wearing my own FFA jacket tonight, an ode to the ambitious next generation of young farmers in this country, of which I am definitely one. The text on the back of the singer’s jacket signifies that he’s from Seymour, Indiana. In contrast, my denotes my hometown of Peotone, Illinois. Other than that identification, we could be twins. Good thing I took that tacky garbage bag off when the rain subsided.
After the first classic song, a rousing 7-minute performance combining singing, dancing, and air guitar, the thick coat is apparently too much, considering the humid evening air. The lead singer sheds his blue jacket, and is now clearly visible from my vantage point in a bright white, loose fitting, shirt which shimmers against the stage lights.
The band starts up on the next song, led by a methodical beat. First, the only sound is the wooden drumsticks hitting against each other, then the snare and bass drums join in an alternating cadence, finally complemented by a single long, deep, guitar cord.
After 30 seconds of fist pumping to the beat, the crowd is clamping in unison with the cadence. At this point, the singer moves to the microphone and breaks into the bold, somber, lyrics.
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“Scarecrow on a wooden cross,
Blackbird in the barn.
Four hundred empty acres,
that used to be my farm.”
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Halfway through the song, I realize my eyes are wet. Initially, I think the rain has started up again, then realize I’m crying. It’s been a long, emotional, day, and this song has compressed and amplified all my thoughts about the past, present, and future of farming in the heartland of America where I live.
References to empty acreage, mourning grandparents, unpaid loans, bank foreclosures, and the Bible. It’s all too real, and too accurate. Such a poignant song.
Reaching up, I wipe my cheeks with the soft corduroy sleeve of my FFA jacket. I remember what it means to wear this coat, and that revelation, combined with the cute musician bouncing around on stage, returns a smile to my face.
2 hours later, the concert ends with a chorus-like performance of “Will the Circle be Unbroken”; the combined voices of 80k fans supplementing the electronically amplified voices of numerous impressive musicians who have united on stage after their various individual performances throughout the day.
After a vivid fireworks show, streaks of neon light exploding brightly against the dark grey clouds of the nighttime sky, the full stadium lights come on. This is a blinding intrusion after hours of dimly lit musical entertainment. It must be time to go.
The crowd slowly gets the hint that this amazing day-long concert is over, and silently head for the exits. I follow the bodies in front of me, shuffling along across the plastic tarp, often having to navigate around a stagnant pool of water, or a pile of disposable cups around an overflowing trash can.
Leaving back through the east gate of the stadium, I glance left and spot a tall oak tree on the lawn. This was the same trunk that I leaned against for a few hours of groggy sleep while waiting in line to enter the venue last night.
I check my watch. It’s 1:30 AM. No wonder I’m tired. I’ve been on this concert adventure for over a full day, with minimal sleep or food, and constant sensory stimulation. But this trip was so worth it.
I have no idea how much the telethon fundraising lines took in, but if the TV broadcast was remotely similar to the live experience in the arena which I had over the past 14 hours, people should be lining up to make donations.
Jon Bon Jovi, Billy Joel, and tons of other amazing musicians. Plus, my favorite band, performing a few of my favorite songs. I’ll be replaying John Cougar Mellencamp spirited performance in my mind on the bus ride back north to Peotone.
The inaugural Farm Aid concert in 1985 raised nearly $9 million via ticket sales, broadcasting rights, and telethon donations. This event also established a foundation dedicated to helping farmers in America’s heartland; raising over $50 million to date, and hosting more than 30 concerts since 1985. John Cougar Mellencamp, Neil Young, and Willie Nelson were instrumental in organizing the concert, spurred on by a comment Bob Dylan made at Live Aid about helping farmers several months earlier. This was also the first concert where Sammy Hagar, who was rushed to the stage from the airport in a light-flashing ambulance, played with Eddie Van Halen, starting the next chapter for this iconic rock band. John Graham, a facilities manager at the University of Illinois – Champaign in 1985, was instrumental in the logistics and planning of the inaugural Farm Aid. He also kept a detailed journal of the proceedings.
March 23rd, 2000: New York City, New York, USA
In front of me, a thick, black curtain is drawn fully across the stage, dim royal blue lights casting long, eerie, shadows across the folds in the fabric. This dark cloth is framed by a tall, broad arch of ornate woodwork, while alcoves flanking the stage hold large reflective foil clam-shells shapes, which emit the same pulsing blue illumination.
As the house lights come back up, the rest of the theater’s elegant interior becomes clear: textured cream-colored walls, rich gold trim embellishments, blood red carpeting and upholstery. These rich furnishings are in stark contrast to the outside of the building.
Exiting the limo, and seeking this inner sanctuary, a few hours earlier, from street level it was hard to determine that we were entering a famous Broadway site, considering the multitude of neon signage, and massive pixelated billboards, plastered onto the exterior. The traditional theatre marquee, drab and plain letters of black and white against the surrounding gaudy, flashing, display screen technology, was the only identification of the historic hall housed within.
Not to mention this quaint 3-story performance venue is dwarfed by the towering 46-story hotel which sits atop, seemingly poised to crush the tiny structure below. Real estate, both visual and physical, is apparently extremely valuable at this important corner of New York’s Times Square.
My boyfriend and I are situated in the center of the third row of the orchestra section. Comfortable seated in plush velvet chairs, we’re just 10 feet from the leading end of the old wooden stage, which sits right at eye level. These are definitely VIP accommodations.
According to a plaque I reviewed on the way into the Palace Theatre, this venue opened in 1913, and gained notoriety initially with an array of vaudeville performances during the Roaring 20’s. The signage also made note of the place being haunted by the ghosts of several former performers. This gathering of ghouls includes a few children, who were displaced during the theater’s closure in the Great Depression, and a trapeze artist, who fell to his death during a performance shortly upon reopening.
Every seat in the house tonight, of which there are less than 2,000, is occupied for this Broadway premier. The play’s current name, like many elements of the performance, has gone through many iterations on this long journey to a lavish New York City opening.
The book rights for this specific story were acquired by Walt Disney all the way back in 1994. They quickly approached my boyfriend to see if he wanted to work on the project. Despite great success composing music for the Lion King, he was hesitant to work on another animated film so soon after. However, the idea of a Broadway play, complete with all the glitz and pageantry of a red carpet opening, proved to be a highly intriguing proposition.
Tonight, 6 years later, the production has finally made it to the desired NYC premier. It’s been a long, and winding, road.
Opening in Atlanta 2 years ago under the moniker “Elaborate Lives: The Legend of Aida”, then moving to Chicago last year, this theatrical production has been plagued with challenges. Complex set malfunctions, poor acting dynamics, musical score debates, undesirable critic reviews. At times, it seems like everything that could go wrong, has gone wrong, on this project. But now here we are, at the famous Palace Theatre on Broadway in the Big Apple.
My suitor has always had an interest in theatrical performances. Besides having his original music used on countless movie soundtracks over the past 3 decades, recently he’s started to make more direct forays into the performing arts space.
As I take in the beautiful theatrical production unfolding in front of us, I think back to his initial direct movie venture, a collaboration song with Jon Bon Jovi in 1990, on his “Blaze Of Glory” debut studio album, which served as the soundtrack for the “Young Guns II” comedic Western offering. Their duet didn’t make it to the final movie, and was recorded before we started dating, but he has regaled me with stories about working with a young Bon Jovi, who was only 28 years old at the time.
Apparently, Jon wrote the title track for this album, which served as the theme song for the movie, in just 4 minutes, scribbling the lyrics on a napkin at a hamburger joint, while brainstorming with the movie’s high-powered cast in the early stages of filming. It seems, Bon Jovi was a savant writing and musical talent, even at a young age; in fact, he and I were born the same year.
I turn my attention back to the performance, where the second act of the play is now well underway.
On the stage currently is a lone woman, tall and light skinned, with wavy blonde hair tucked under a maroon, cylindrical tapered, hat, typically of the Egyptian era. The design matches both the color and embellishments of her lavish flowing gown. Apparently, they spare no expense in these Broadway productions.
The woman’s appearance is somber, eyes covered with a dark shadow of make-up, and posture stoic. The entire display is emblematic of the scene that just played out, where she has discovered her soon-to-be-betrothed fiancée has as ancillary affection to a Nubian princess.
First readings of this piece, and most of the other songs in the play, were presented to Disney executives way back in the spring of 1996. Continued refinements to the lyrics and score, including a full studio album, where my partner collaborated with several famous musicians in his extensive circle, including James Taylor and Sting, came together over the past several years.
I remember being in the studio the day he recorded this current song as a duet with Janet Jackson; it was one of his favorite songs on the album, and mine as well. The gentle power of Janet’s voice is difficult to replicate, but the performer currently singing on stage is doing an excellent job trying.
The actress’s mezzo-soprano voice ramps up as the verses progress, the first 2 lines of the final stanza being belted out in full throat, then the last line delivered in a hushed whisper. The singer hangs on the concluding note, as the stage goes dark for another set change.
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“I know the truth, and it mocks me.
I know the truth, and it shocks me.
I learned it a little too late.”
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I squeeze my partner’s hand next to me, noting the irony of the clean orchestral notes, and beautifully written lyrics, in this solo.
We have an interesting relationship, but I wouldn’t change a thing about it. We’ve been dating for 7 years now, and I learn something new about my significant other every day. Even though he’s 15 years my senior, his childish personality, combined with my more mature and reserved demeanor, make our physical age gap seem meaningless and inconsequential.
Working as a young advertising agent in London, far from my Canadian upbringing, we met at a dinner party, during what turned out to be a key point in his life, and mine. Sober for nearly 3 years, after spending the 1980’s abusing his mind and body with a variety of elicit substances, he was looking to find companionship outside the party scene which invariably surrounds the music industry.
By his 50th birthday party in 1997, a lavish event which I remember well, my boyfriend’s focus had turned heavily towards film production. I’ll never forget that event, when he showed up dressed as Louis XVI, in a extravagant, shimmering, outfit of silver and pearls. He’s always had a penchant for clothing.
Controlling spending has been something we’re always struggling with as a couple. Sure, between recurring song royalties, and event appearance fees, income in rarely an issue for us, but I’m naturally frugal and thrifty. My counterpart is not.
Earlier this year, as financial discussions moved from pillow talk to an important element of our relationship, he confided to spending roughly 1.5 million pounds per month in the early phases of our courtship; an unfathomable amount in my mind.
Cars are another point of contention, he owns over 2 dozen, despite the fact I keep telling him it’s only possible to drive one at a time, and employs a permanent chauffer anyways. The art, photography, and clothing collections are much harder topics to broach, so I’ve left them alone for now.
Collaborating with Disney pictures on the sound track for the Lion King, which was a smashing success at the box office, the highest grossing traditionally animated film of all time, opened many doors in the industry. He was generous enough to hire me to lead his newly formed production company, Rocket Pictures, which has allowed me to expand my own budding filmmaking talents.
Unselfishly, he recently opened up the kimono regarding his dynamic musical career and complex personal life, allowing me to produce an honest, moving, documentary. Also, our first mainstream movie offering, a typical modern British comedy, made it to the market just a year ago.
These endeavors are a negligible contribution to our robust financial standing, but I value the opportunity to find my own work, and means of self-expression. It can be stifling living in the shadow of such an influential man. I never thought I would meet, let alone be living with, someone so famous; having already been inducted into the US Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, and knighted by British Royalty, just in the short span of time I’ve known him.
Based on the premier performance presented on stage thus far, I completely agree with the plan to rename this play to highlight the brilliant musicians who were influential in pulling this project together. The new minted Broadway name, “Elton John and Tim Rice’s Aida”, is going to be a major hit.
Rising from my seat at the end of the show, I clap vigorously as the entire cast, including my boyfriend Elton John, in his tonal black embroidered suit, splashes of color provided by a bold tie, move to the front of the stage, and take their final bow.
Elton John’s musical talents need no introduction; having produced over 30 studio albums, and sold more than 300 million records worldwide. His 1997 rework of “Candle In The Wind” as a tribute after Princess Diana’s death is still the best selling single ever in both the UK and US. His work on “Aida” earned him both Grammy and Tony Awards to add to his collection. He and David Furnish were wed at a well-documented ceremony in 2014, immediately after Great Britain legalized same-sex marriage. Currently, they are raising 2 adopted kids, while continuing to be an open and influential power couple for homosexual rights. The Palace Theatre is currently undergoing a major renovation, which started in 2019. This project includes raising the entire space 30 feet, while maintaining the classic architecture inside, and installing a massive 80-foot-wide, state-of-the-art LED marquee outside, to advertise shows to Times Square passers-by; completion is planned for the end of 2022.
Monday, March 12th, 2001: Culver City, California, USA
3 glowing metal rings drop slowly down from the ceiling, a lovely lady clad in white resting in each 4-foot diameter hoop. Spotlights flash, bright points of light in the dark stadium. I’m close enough to the action that I can spot the thin metal wires which support these circular seats, and the precious cargo within. However, for the average viewer in the arena, or on TV, these orbs likely appear to be hovering in space magically.
Through the speakers, the song lyrics start quietly, gradually gaining volume as the chorus repeats.
“All my girls at the party,
Look at his body.
Shakin' that thing,
Like I never did see.”
I instantly recognize this song as “All For You”, the artist’s title track from her upcoming Virgin Records album, scheduled for release next month. However, I’m more focused on the visual elements, as opposed to the sound, considering this performer’s image in my livelihood.
By the time the metal carriages reach floor level, the crowd has whipped itself into a frenzy. The women alight on a small, round, landing pad, which is connected to the main stage by a narrow catwalk. As the lead singer, and center of attention, reaches the ground and dismounts, I breath a heavy sign of relief. There are no more aerial acts planned in this show, fortunately.
From my vantage point, in a secluded corner at the side of the stage, I can see the brightly lit runway, which extends into the crowd, and out of my peripheral vision. The main dance floor, where the 3 performers are headed, is directly in front of me. This flat surface is covered with 4-foot checkered black and white tiles, like a massive chess board.
One perk of being a professional make-up artist is that you’re always close to the action; at the ready for any last-minute cosmetic adjustments which may be required. As a result, I got to watch several of the earlier performances, some acts on TV from the confines of the main dressing room, as I packed up my kit, then a few more recent routines in the flesh, from this small closet which flanks the stage.
This location allows for quick touch-ups, or more drastic measures, if a major wardrobe malfunction happens mid-performance, god forbid. I have a small cosmetic bag with me, but the available remedies are limited with this meager tool kit, and the space allotted small.
This event is being filmed at the Sony Pictures Studio in Southern California, a conveniently short drive from my house. This multipurpose entertainment venue is perfect for unique variety shows like this one, which combines comedy skits, music, dancing, and other mixed media contributions.
It’s my understanding that the live footage being filmed tonight is going to be spliced in with various other B-roll material before the television broadcast on MTV tomorrow evening. That delay is convenient, as it allows for potential air brushing and image manipulation, if any issues arise. It’s always nice to have options when every cosmetic detail must be perfect.
The studio’s Culver City location is ideal, essentially equidistant from downtown Los Angeles, Hollywood, and the beaches of Santa Monica. As a result, the crowd, and performers, for this event include many big players of the LA entertainment scene. Jamie Foxx is serving as emcee host, while a diverse mix of stars, NBA basketball players, street-thug rappers, elegant actresses, have all shown up for the celebration of one famous and influential musician’s career achievements.
Turning my attention back to the show, I scan a sextet of dancers who are lined up just outside of the audience’s view, awaiting their queue. All are clad in primarily all-white outfits, aside from minor black, silver, or gold wardrobe accents.
I’ve spent the last month leading up to this event watching old music videos non-stop to get up to speed for this project. Based on my research, the looks personifying the 70’s, 80’s, and 90’s translate in order to innocent, racy, and reserved. My employer’s musical range, and subsequent made-for-TV dance performances, have varied broadly throughout the past several decades.
I arrived at the arena in the wee hours this morning, getting my cosmetic studio set up, with every planned application clearly laid out. Each performer takes nearly an hour, even with my 3 helpers. We started with the entertainers who had the most stable make-up designs, then proceeded accordingly.
As usual, I’ve been working closely with the costume crew. Both of our teams have a tough job. For this event, we didn’t know which ladies were going to arrive to play each part. While the seamstress cuts sleeves, hems pants, and adjusts waistlines, I modify skin tones, style hair, and accent eye features. It’s a collaborative process, some ladies requiring only a few minor touches, and others multiple rounds of manipulation, to transform them to the desired visage from music videos of the past.
As the 3 women who dropped down from the ceiling follow the catwalk up to the main stage, they are met by the 6 other dancers, bringing the total of 9. A brilliant flash of light is followed nearly instantaneously by a loud clap of thunder, digitally generated of course. By the time the stunned audience refocuses on the stage, the dancers are already well into their routine, moving in perfect choreographed unity.
Each artist is wearing a different historic costume from a well-known music video. There’s a lady in tight jeans and a fluffy sweater, straight out of the mid 80’s. Another woman sports a one piece, skin tight suit, complete with hood covering the head, and gap to reveal cleavage; the early 90’s was an odd phase.
The most clothed is in loose-fitting suede pants and matching dress coat, with broad-brimmed hat and gloves, again all bright white. The least clothed has a nearly shear silk skirt around her waist, subtly masking her white panties, and a skimpy cropped top, studded with silver beads. All of these women are executing the same dance to perfection, despite the wide range of outfits and body types. It’s a mesmerizing display of feminine power and grace.
I especially appreciate the diversity of women performers who have been highlighted in this MTV organized event. Plus, it provides some nice opportunity to potentially gain some new clientele for my make-up business.
The Destiny’s Child act was my favorite thus far: three stunning young women playing a poignant and influential song. They have so much talent at such an early age.
I had the pleasure of working with their lead singer, Beyoncé Knowles earlier today, as her primary stylist was under the weather. During our 30-minute session, I got to learn a little more about this young lady. Talking while I work always makes my patrons more comfortable.
In some down time while we were waiting for her curlers to set, she revealed that she used to dress up like the guest of honor in 3rd grade. I thought she was joking, until she revealed she’s only 19 years old currently. Tall and curvy, with flowing locks of wavy blonde hair, she is a true beauty.
As I fixed her long hair into a high ponytail, gold scrunchy matching her large, dangly, hoop earrings, she explained the band’s history. Apparently, the group had a lot of turnover in the earlier years; not surprising when you start a band of girls in their tween years. However, the comradery and solid relationship between the 3 confident women currently working together as a unit is evident in their backstage mannerisms. Their hard works seems to be paying off, as the band’s newest album, “Survivor” is already working its way up the Billboard charts.
Based on her on-stage tribute earlier, Beyoncé seems to have quite a developed singing voice already. The cover song they performed, “Let’s Wait A While”, about abstaining from sex, was originally recorded way back in 1986, when Beyoncé was only 5 years old. This ironic fact didn’t seem to phase her, as she belted out several powerful verses to the riveted crowd.
My mind drifts back into work mode. It was great helping out the ladies from Destiny’s Child, but the coupe-de-grasse make-up effort earlier today was my employer herself. It took nearly 2 hours to get her image up to the desired standards.
As usual, one of the biggest logistical challenges was tucking her portable microphone into her hair. This piece of technology needs to be very secure, since maintaining a constant distance from sensor to mouth is critical for volume control. At the same time, having a full-face shield like a football helmet isn’t going to work; my lady needs to look good and be completely unencumbered by this item. This is especially true considering the vigorous dance routine her and the team plan to execute on stage.
Fortunately, we were able to run the mounting hardware around her forehead, with the fine plastic tube and foam ball extending out towards her mouth. With the long, auburn locks we’re utilizing tonight, there’s plenty of options for hiding this fixturing system.
Considering the robustness of the microphone mount, the cords are relatively simple to manage. Routing down the back, following her gold sequence bra and pre-torn white t-shirt, the battery and transmitter pack are secured in the back pocket of her white denim pants. While I’m not in charge of wardrobe decisions, the cosmetics, attire, and technology are inevitable linked. Never a dull moment in this industry.
I know that my employer is very excited about this evening. At only 35 years old, she has already accomplished so much. With nearly all her family here, considering the fact that she’s the youngest of 10 children, this is a special reunion. The only sibling who couldn’t attend in person is her globally influential brother, though he did record a tasteful and emotional video which was played earlier.
With all of our free time over the past several years waiting to hair dye to absorb, nail polish to dry, and skin toner to take, there’s been plenty of opportunity for conversation. In many discussions, her father has come up. He has been very influential in her life, potentially to a fault, based on the confidential information she has shared with me in various times of stress.
He served as her manager for the first 2 record releases, both of which gained only menial traction. In 1986, just before her 20th birthday, she set out on her own to record an edgy and vibrant new style of pop music. It was a big gamble, which payed off handily, yielding numerous top 5 singles on the Hot 100 chart, and ultimately earning the Grammy nomination for album of the year. From there, this lady was off and running in the music industry.
No one could stop her then, or now, 15 years later. And she’s earned a lot of dedicated fans along the way. As the star-studded turnout tonight for her tribute proves, there’s no debating the influence Ms. Jackson has had on the entertainment community at large.
I have been her exclusive make-up artist for the past 3 years, with aspirations to continue the role. We make a great team, at least in my opinion. Music has always been her life, but recently she has branched into acting. The last movie we worked together on was The Nutty Professor II: The Klumps. Working with Eddie Murphy was a fun experience for both of us. There are a few other Hollywood movie roles in the works, and with the upcoming world tour to promote her new album, we will be busy for a while.
Thus far I’ve watch 3 acts from my nook, with Macy Gray being by far the most visually, and professionally, interesting. She came out supported by 8 back-up dancers, all with different brightly colored wigs. Good thing I wasn’t responsible for doing make-up for that troop.
The song she performed is clearly popular and well known; as I look around the crowd many in the audience are mouthing the lyrics and clapping their hands to the beat. I don’t recognize it, but the small “Love Will Never Do – 1989” scrolling across the LED flashboard, which identifies the current act, helps me out. This display is key for the multitude of backstage workers to need to make adjustments to the set, lighting, instruments, and cameras. To say nothing of the critical performers that must be corralled for each consecutive act.
Another interesting thing about Macy Gray’s performance is how she identified the guest of honor for this event as a mentor, even through it appears they are roughly the same age. Apparently, the younger generation is not the only group influenced by the highly skilled performer I work for.
After her routine, about an hour ago, I took a minute to look up Macy Gray on my cell phone. My quick online search revealed some interesting background details on Ms. Gray. Apparently, she graduated from USC, then started singing at local jazz clubs in LA. That explains her smooth, smokey, voice. And, her first commercial album was only released just 2 years ago. That’s surprising, and impressive, considering she won the Grammy for Best Female Pop Vocalist just a month ago.
I know this nugget because I watch all the major television awards ceremonies. I consider these shows research, and have even expensed the big screen TV and video playback device I bought expressly for this purpose. The make-up industry is constantly evolving, and I need to stay at the cutting edge.
I try to attend any local events, but standing along the red carpet, catching a quick glimpse of each famous personality dressed to the nines, is often not as valuable as reviewing faces in all the harsh detail of an HDTV, with unrestricted rewind capability to analyze a lip gloss sheen, tooth whitening treatment, or eye shadow blend.
The lively song and dance routine on stage, the final of the night, comes to a close with a vigorous climax. Performance may be a better description, considering the substantial amount of choreographed movements, complex costumes, and other ancillary AV effects used.
Strobe lights flash, interacting with the highly polished checkered floor, creating a stimulating visual effect which warps the mind. The final 15 seconds of the act, the dancers pick up their pace to another level, limbs moving as speeds seemingly impossible for humans, in cadence with the ever-quickening background music. Finally spent, the dance troop huddles in the center of the stage around their leader, and the crowd roars its approval.
Another successful show in the books. One that Miss Janet Jackson and her family will no doubt remember for a long time to come. Being the first performer in history to be celebrated in an MTV “Icon” tribute night is a great honor. And true to form, her last act on stage is to thank the crew and crowd for their support. Of course, the pleasure is all mine.
MTV made a conscious effort to include as many female acts as possible for this inaugural “Icon” tribute event. The interviews and performances included in the TV broadcast revealed how influential Janet Jackson was on an entire generation of female musicians. Destiny’s Child battled adversity, performing together until 2006, then Beyoncé Knowles branched off on her own, becoming one of the most beloved, and profitable, performers of the 21st century. Janet Jackson is the only female artist to have 18 consecutive singles in the Hot 100, this was accomplished over a 10-year period. Shutchai “Tym” Buacharern and Ms. Jackson worked together until 2004 on a variety of music and movie endeavors; he still does make-up for a wide range of Hollywood’s elite.
Saturday, October 20th, 2001: New York City, New York, USA
Now this is a proper hangout. I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with a few of my best mates from the FDNY Bravest football team. We each have a foamy rimmed, 16-ounce, plastic cup of Miller Lite in one hand, and a shot of Jameson Irish whiskey spilling over the rim of the disposable shot glass in the other.
I’m not a small guy, pushing 6 feet and 250 pounds, but the 2 men flanking me are true beasts. Both have at least 3 inches, and 2 stones, on me. They represent the core of the offensive line for our football squad, having provided formidable protection for our quarterback over the years, god rest his soul.
This is our third round at the bar, and the concert hasn’t even started yet. No worries, us 3 have plenty of mass to soak up the alcohol. As we finish our shots, the lights flicker inside Madison Square Garden. Apparently, we’re even going to get to see, and hear, some live music tonight. The free ticket, and booze, provided for anyone clad in a New York City emergency service professional’s uniform, is a sufficient enough appreciation for most. The list of amazing artists slated to perform is simply icing on the cake.
Granted, this city as a whole, and the first responders specifically, have been through a lot over the past month plus. We need a night to let loose as a community. Hence the 3 shots with my boys already.
The bar we’re posted up at is in the back corner at ice level, essentially where the boards would turn their rounded 90° corner on the Rangers bench side, if the arena was set up for a hockey game. This location offers a distant, tangential, view of the stage, but the sound is excellent, on account of supplemental speakers throughout the arena.
The light panels in the distance suddenly come on, illuminating what looks to be a full rock band on stage well in the distance. The most notable figure is a tall man with slick-back blonde hair, clad in an all-white suit. As the song progresses, more people around the bar realize the show is starting, and the ambient noise dies down. In this quieter atmosphere, the song’s lyrics come into full focus.
​
“We can be heroes, for just one day.”
​
As the music continues, spotlights swipe randomly through the full crowd gathered in the floor seats, often stopping on a man or woman in uniform. Many of them have already gotten out of their chairs, and are swaying the melody.
I’m already tearing up, and this is just the first act of the night. Looking around, it’s clear I’m not the only person impacted by the message; my big pals appear equally stirred. David Bowie has provided a simple and poignant opening to this tribute, fundraising, concert. The white, angel-esque, attire he’s wearing suddenly seems appropriate.
A few minutes later, I bid adieu to my friends, and set out to find my wife. As I travel along the interior concourse, the arena eruptions in vigorous cheers. I can’t hear the intro to the song, but this performer is evidently popular. Most of the acts on the docket tonight have New York roots, but this band is clearly a crowd favorite. I need to see what’s going on.
Straining my ears to catch the music, heavy drum background, electric guitar cords, and authoritative lyrics, the tune starts to take shape. Returning back into the cavernous confines of the arena through the nearest tunnel, just in time for the second catchy chorus, the song finally crystalizes in my mind, and my soul. It’s my life indeed.
“You better stand tall when they’re calling you out.
Don’t bend, don’t break, baby, don’t back down.”
​
From my position, now well above the floor level, I can see the standing room crowd gathered at the front of the stage moving in unison. Exaggerated by strobing flashes of light, the motion resembles the seething, relentless, pulse of waves crashing onto a Jersey Shore beach. The women in the crowd below seem especially vigorous. I can’t blame them; Bon Joni’s rowdy anthems are always a favorite with the ladies. Speaking of women, where did my better half run off to?
After a quick stop at the restroom, I head back to the suite reserved by the FDNY Manhattan Borough Command, a group I’m proud to be a part of. Our box is right at center court, when the Knicks logo is often displayed, with excellent views of the stage, floor, and scoreboard; New York City is really taking care of their own tonight.
Not surprisingly, I find my wife settled in the front row of seats, right where I left her. She appreciates all types of music, and this show is guaranteed to offer an eclectic mix. As I slide into a conveniently empty chair next to the love of my life, I see a grand piano being wheeled onto the stage, and am reminded of the reason I’m here in this privileged position.
There are losses to be honored tonight, most notably my fallen older brother John.
Among his many talents, my brother was a music connoisseur. His piano skills were solid, and combined with his charisma, we spent many a night with the fire department crew belting out karaoke, while my brother hammered away on the black and white keys.
Now, one of New York’s most beloved pianists, Billy Joel, is about to take the stage, to no doubt perform a few of New York’s most beloved songs. After an opening song, likely to get everything tuned in, myself, and the 18k other individuals in MSG, are rewarded with musical gold.
The stage arrangement is quite dark, the only light being provided by hundreds of flickering candles. This format seems to intensify the piano cords and companying vocals. The FDNY helmet sitting atop the dark wood of the piano is a further sobering reminder of what has been lost.
3 notes into the song, I’m standing and belting out the lyrics, which is apparently 2 notes slower than everyone else in the stands. The words and music travel to our location, crisp and clear, even though they are already ingrained in my mind. Mr. Joel’s verbal statements match my memories from growing up, each of those boring bus rides on the Hudson River transit line building character, making me the person I am today.
“I’m in a New York State of Mind.”
​
Apparently, my wife is similarly moved, as she rises from her chair for the first time, swaying gently to the music, and singing along in a bold, but controlled, voice. However, her most important contribution is grasping my hand, as she has done many times over the past few months. She is my rock, and I may not be here tonight without her support.
The next band which comes out is a far cry from the steady parade of male rock artists who have performed this far. Three young female African American singers, all dressed in black. Each is stunningly beautiful in her own way, despite the striking differences in body type and hair color: one medium length and dark, one with curly blonde locks, and the third with shorter red tresses.
They are performing a gospel medley, each taking a turn singing a ringing verse of the preachy song. According to the massive scoreboard hanging in the center of the area, this band is Destiny’s Child. They’re new to me, but very pleasant on the ears, and eyes. I sneak a peak over at my wife to make sure she doesn’t catch me leering at the gorgeous young ladies on stage.
One tall boy of Boddington’s later, after another of the seemingly endless stream of famous personalities walks off stage, I check my watch. The show has already been going for nearly 2 hours. I’m not sure what the planned length is, but based on the number of acts listed in the program, we may be here all night. That’s completely fine by me. Especially when I realize who the next band is.
15 minutes later, I have not been disappointed. The Who just played 3 of their most iconic songs in rapid succession. This has been the best performance of the evening in my opinion, and they don’t appear to be done yet.
There’s still plenty of hits in The Who’s arsenal, and it doesn’t take me long to catch on. The rest of the crowd is a little slower to respond this time, but by the third verse, one which is especially timely to us New Yorker’s, who are trying to resume some semblance of everyday life after 6 weeks of tumult, nearly everyone in the arena is singing along.
​
“There's nothing in the street
Looks any different to me.”
​
Pete Townsend executes one of his signature windmill guitar moves, the Stratocaster screaming in compliance to his aggressive motions. The band sets into the final chorus, hammering away on their instruments in an effort to make the rocking music match the potent energy of the crowd.
​
“We don't get fooled again.
Don’t get fooled again.”
​
On the display screen behind the band, images of Old Glory and the Union Jack fly side by side; a signal emblematic of these two English speaking countries uniting to fight terror across the Atlantic, and globally. A true symbol of solidarity in these troubling times.
As the overhead lights fade, and the bold sound of this British rock band comes to a close, I realize that was my queue to head backstage. I don’t know if I’m actually going to partake in the proceedings, but need to get in position in case the opportunity arises. I tell my wife she’s welcome to stay in our suite, but she decides to accompany me. This turns out to be an excellent decision on her part.
We navigate our way through the maze of Madison Square Garden, eventually finding the VIP backstage entrance. They check my ID, and apparently, I’m on the list, and have arrived at the appropriate time, since a black gloved usher leads us through the heavy metal door, then steers us to a row of folding chairs.
Offering a silent wave of his hand, apparently to communicate we’re free to move around the space, he disappears before I can ask any of the 10 questions I have. I plop down in the hard seat, hoping someone will come by soon to explain the next steps, or to offer up a beer.
We have no view of the stage from our secluded location, but there is lots of action related to set changes, TV film crews, and all manner of performers moving across our field of vision. Also, a live feed of the event is visible on a bank of black and white monitors flanking our location. At least we can still hear the on-stage action, though it’s somewhat muted, and slightly ahead of the camera stream.
The other odd item within sight is a table of random memorabilia. Intrigued, get up from my assigned seat, and I walk over to check these materials out. There are several large advertising posters for the event, multiple sets of drum sticks, various photographs of key performers appearing tonight, and even a brand-new guitar.
Noticing the cup of black sharpie markers sitting on the corner of the table, I quickly realize that this is table of fundraising materials for the event. The placard next to the pens denotes the proceeds will be distributed through the Robin Hood foundation, a group which supports poverty in New York City. Truly a worthy cause, especially in today’s environment.
I move forward to check out a snare drum head, which has at least 15 names scrawled in black on its stark white, mylar, covering. Unsurprisingly, I can’t recognize any of the people; these artsy types apparently like to make their signatures as non-descript as possible. I reach for a pen, then hesitate.
I could write any name I want on this film, which will no doubt command a nice price at the fundraising auction. But I’m just a commoner, here to observe, and not cause any trouble. Sheepishly, I head back to my folding chair, where my dutifully behaved wife is still seated stoically. I still have much to learn.
After a variety of amusing comedy skits and speeches, music returns to the line-up. It’s going to the difficult to top The Who’s masterful performance.
The next concert act starts out with the band playing an aggressive R&B intro, heavy baseline, with electronic overtones. Suddenly the hard sound rounds out and softens, the main new contribution being a recognizable horn section. The chorus repeats for over 2 minutes, the deep, smokey, vocals of the lead singer complemented by several higher pitched back-up voices. Macy Gray has some pipes on her.
​
“Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.”
​
Truer words were never spoken, especially in the past month of turmoil, anger, confusion, and sadness.
Having now been seated in this rigid folding chair backstage for more than half an hour, I ask myself why I’m here. Who volunteered me? I’m not relevant in this parade of high-brow performers. I could be drinking Irish whiskey with my friends down on the floor right now.
All these trivial concerns and musings fade away as the next band starts up. I still can’t see the stage, set, or crowd. But none of that matters. All I hear is the lone, clear and soothing voice wafting backstage, accompanied by a gentle acoustic guitar. The odd angle of this sound distribution, with mismatched visuals on the display, doesn’t make the lyrics any less impactful.
​
“I've seen fire and I've seen rain.
I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end.
I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend,
but I always thought that I'd see you again.”
​
I thought I had my emotions under control for the rest of the evening. But now James Taylor has appeared, with his melodic guitar and moving lyrics. As the words pour from his lips, the tears pour from my eyes. This song is just too relevant at a time when my emotions are already raw.
This verbal imagery pulls me back to the morning of September 11th; when I stayed outside operating the ladder truck as my colleagues, including my brother, entered the smoking towers to help civilians in need. This was the last time I saw many of these brave men and women alive.
As the sad song winds to a close, the event producer points my way. I’m on apparently. I guess I need to get myself together in a hurry. Pulling a handkerchief from the inside of my coat, I use it to liberally wipe my cheeks, then stuff the cloth back where it came from, with a hint of embarrassment. Nothing to be ashamed of, I’ve always worn my heart on my sleeve, and there’s a lot on my mind these days.
As I walk out onto the stage, accompanied by Michael J. Fox, the surreal nature of this activity becomes a reality. How did I end up here? What am I supposed to say? I’ve been to all manner of events at MSG, but never been a part of the entertainment. This should be interesting.
I think about what my older brother would do in this situation. No doubt he would offer some well thought out and classy sentiments, likely leveraging his orator skills honed earning a law degree from Fordham University, while working full-time in the FDNY over the past 22 years.
John was always the studious one, while I was more erratic as a child. I can’t change my character now; I’m going to be true to my morals. I straighten up my navy-blue uniform, and proudly trot out into the bright lights towards the microphone positioned on the center of the stage.
After a curtious introduction from Mr. Fox, he offers the mike to me. I start by thanking all the service professionals in attendance for their efforts during these dark times for New York City. I make sure to acknowledge our FDNY losses in the towers: my 43-year-old brother John, 12 members of my Ladder #3, 20 players on the company’s semi-pro football team, plus countless other friends and family.
As my short speech nears completion, another thought pops into my head. Now this is speaking from the heart. With a captive audience in the arena, and no doubt millions more watching the live TV broadcast, I can resist. Leaning in, I shout.
“Osama Bin Laden, you can kiss my royal Irish ass.”
​
Hesitating for a second, I decide to seal my fate with a further callout to our arch nemesis in Afghanistan.
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“I live in Rockaway, and this is my face.”
​
Coming off the stage, I’m giddy with adrenaline. I just swore on national television, and couldn’t be happier about it. The chants of “USA, USA!” follow our departure from view; clearly all of my colleagues are aligned on the sentiment.
It takes several minutes to calm down backstage after my speech, aided by the generously provided bottles of Brooklyn Lager. The number of high fives, slaps on the back, and other votes of confidence provided by various personalities backstage has been overwhelming. I never thought I would get this close to so many famous people, let alone earn their admiration. I even got an appreciative handshake from the mayor of New York, who we had just introduced to the stage for his speech.
Finally catching my breath during a brief break in the glad-handing, I detect a recognizable sound coming from the stage to my left. I know this song, every note and word. I move to the side of the curtain, hopefully still out of sight, and peer out towards the band. This is the closest I’ve ever been to a concert that doesn’t involve a few fiddles at the local Irish bar.
Apparently, the crowd is enjoying the performance as much as I am. By the time the chorus repeats for the second time at the end of the song, everyone in the arena with a pulse, and pride, is singing along with John Mellencamp.
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“Oh but ain't that America, for you and me,
Ain't that America, we're something to see baby.
Ain't that America, home of the free, yeah,
Little pink houses for you and me, ooo, ooo yeah.”
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So many times, we’re played this song at backyard BBQ gatherings. It’s a quintessential summer jam for the working class.
In this case, the rendition immediately brings me back to the last cookout I had with my brother, on Saturday, September 8th, just a few days before the tragedy at the World Trade Center. He and his wife hosted a block party at their house in Rockaway Beach, Queens, just minutes from my own pad.
As usual, kids were running through the sprinklers in the yard, my brother’s children of 4 and 7 years old leading the charge. The men huddled around the grill, trading stories from the beat with a cooler of ice-cold beer well within reach. The wives alternated between working on their tan in the late summer sun, and gossiping under the shaded canopy of large beach umbrellas.
After grazing on meats, salads, and snacks all day, as the sun set, I distinctly remember by brother breaking out his tin whistle, one of his prize possessions, and a definite crowd pleaser. Within minutes, everyone remaining at the party, young and old, joined in a lively version of the Irish classic “The Star of the County Down.”
The most excited person was our grandmother, who lived with John, and has likely heard the song more that the rest of us combined, considering her upbringing in Ireland.
My work on stage completed, I grab my wife’s arm, and suggest we head out into the lively crowd for the end of the concert. Heading off, we pass a table where a generous spread has been provided for us VIPs. Famished, I grab a hoagie from an ornate silver platter, piling some potato chips between the bun and cheese for good measure. I need to get some sustenance if I’m going to keep drinking at this pace.
Behind the food spread is a large flat screen TV, this one actually in color, which displays the live, commercially broadcast, VH1 feed of the event. Glancing up, initially I’m confused. The performer being shown is definitely not at Madison Square Garden. I should know, as I was standing just feet from the stage a few minutes ago. They have been playing various fundraiser solicitations throughout the performance, but this footage seems different.
Regardless of the location, I instantly recognize the artist. Janet Jackson is debatably more identifiable than her brother. Clad in a short white top and army camouflage pants, she’s performing “Together Again”, one of her newer songs. I’d heard that there was another 9/11 tribute concert tomorrow in Washington, DC, which Michael Jackson is organizing. Janet must be participating in that event as well, which would explain the video feed contribution here.
Good timing for us, this break should give my wife and I a chance to find a spot to post up for the remaining live acts at MSG.
Leaving through the backstage access door, I cross paths with one of my colleagues from the FDNY. In a brief exchange, he whispers to me that he’s been tasked with introducing my spouse’s favorite artist in a few minutes. We’ll have to secure a prime location to enjoy that performance. No worries, I’ve got a plan.
Hurriedly, my wife and I scurry down the corridor, then a narrow flight of stairs, which dumps us out at floor level. There’s a security guard there, but after taking one look at my uniform he yields, offering us a route right along the front edge of the stage.
Using my large frame like a bulldozer, I shuffle forward through the crowd, my much smaller betrothed following behind closely, and clutching to my waist. Soon, we’ve established a position less than 20 feet from the piano stool where our mark is seated.
Our timing is perfect, as is our view; his deft fingers strike the first keys of the song, while his fancy footwear taps out the desired cadence. From this location, we can almost hear the performer singing in his natural voice, before the electronic application and speaker distortion kicks in.
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“I'll go my way alone, grow my own,
my own seeds shall be sown, in New York City”
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Sir Elton John is one of my wife’s most beloved artists, and I’m pretty sure she never planned on seeing a show from this close. Good thing she accompanied me on this fateful journey tonight.
This knighted figure has always had a close connection with New York City, and this current song is no exception. Subways, Spanish Harlem, Broadway. Elton’s lyrics hit on all the diverse and beautiful elements of this city, which I consider the world’s finest, primary because of the people who live and interact here on a daily basis.
Suddenly, my fireman’s nose, instinctively trained to sense subtle smells, especially smoke, notices a perceptible acrid tinge in the air. This smell isn’t burning building materials, but something more subtle. It brings back remises of my high school transgressions. Not the harsh stench of cigarettes, not the sweet aromas of cigars, but something more earthy and pungent. Marijuana.
I turn and glance around, scanning the crowd like a good steward of the law, then realize how trivial this act is. Smoke is drifting up from multiple locations throughout the lively, engaged, throng. And there’s hundreds of police officers in the building tonight. If they don’t care, then I’m fine with it.
Our city has deep wounds that need to be healed, both physically and mentally. If people need to smoke a little weed to mellow out on an emotional night, more power to them.
The band chosen to perform the final act of this moving tribute event makes a lot of sense. It’s rumored that Paul McCartney wrote a song while sitting on the tarmac at JFK airport, understandably unable to take off on the morning of September 11th. I’m familiar with pretty much everything in The Beatles collection, as well as most of McCartney’s solo work, but have not yet heard this new offering.
With Eric Clapton along side to play guitar and provide back-up vocals, I’m sure this will be an impactful rendition. The song starts out slowly, clean guitar licks matching simple vocals; a format which epitomizes Sir McCartney’s musical composition style.
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“Everybody talkin' about freedom.
We're talkin' about freedom.
We will fight for the right,
To live in freedom.”
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As I listen to the lyrics, I feel like I’m back in the makeshift breakroom set up just outside the blast zone of the WTC South Tower. In the days after the collapse, we were running 12-hour search shifts, rotating in and out to avoid dust inhalation, physical fatigue, and mental degradation. Despite the fact that it would have been easy for any of us to go home for a shower and some rest, I think there was a full week after the incident where no one left the complex.
The things that kept us going were simple: comradery with remaining friends, excessive pots of piping hot black coffee, and a rotating stream of music playing over the portable speakers. In this sleep deprived, zombie-like, cadence, this collaborative approach was the only way to maintain sanity, and keep team motivation going. We will fight, for the right, to live in freedom.
McCartney was obviously not there in the trenches with us to observe the struggle and chaos which occurred on the ground in lower Manhattan, yet his song captures the demeanor of our crew at the time perfectly. To date, we’ve lost 343 of our FDNY teammates, though some of the bodies still haven’t been recovered from the dense rubble.
As the song ends, a variety of emergency personnel storm the stage, most in full professional dress attire. From our close proximity, I can tell the emotions of these individuals run the gamut: sorrow, jubilation, confusion, and relief. Personally, I’m energized, and tempted to jump up on the stage myself, but realize this would leave my wife to fend for herself in the lively horde below.
I had the upmost respect for Paul McCartney before this event, but now my admiration has only grown. He committed to organize and lead this benefit concert, across the pond in a city that is not his heritage; though his former wife of nearly 30 years, and their 4 children, have helped establish strong roots in the area. McCartney’s music has influenced multiple generations, and this event is not his first-time donating his artistic skills for an important cause. It’s occurred many times before, on both sides of the Atlantic.
The process of rebuilding the morale, character, and grit of New York City will take years, but the past 5 hours have proved to be an excellent step in the right direction. There is no doubt that music will continue to be a huge part of the healing process for residents of The Big Apple.
This event was just what New York City needed, just 6 weeks after the tragic collapse of the World Trade Center towers, and has been described in various tabloids as the greatest Irish wake in history. The Who’s performance was especially noteworthy, not only for its energy, but also because this was unfortunately John Entwistle’s last live performance in America; he died of a heart attack just 8 months later. In addition to the impressive collection of musical acts, the night featured short films from Woody Allen, Martin Scorsese, Spike Lee, and Kevin Smith, comedy acts from Jerry Seinfeld, Will Farrell, Adam Sandler, and Howard Stern, and political appearances from Tom Daschle, George Pataki, Rudy Giuliani, and Bill/Hillary Clinton. This event raised over $35 million between TV broadcast rights, call-in donations, and auction proceeds. “The Ballad of Mike Moran” was written by a few entrepreneurial fellow firefighters based on his lively speech, then sold as a fundraiser for $9.11 per CD. Mike Moran retired from FDNY in 2017 after 34 years of service protecting the city he loves.
