Friday, May 03, 2002
TREY IN THE STUDIO, PHISH ON THE WEB
I thought a natural way for approaching Phish guitarist Trey Anastasio's self-titled solo album was to write about it along with one of the band’s similarly phresh multidisc live sets. I e-mailed a friend at the label for Trey and the band. The friend said I could be serviced with the Trey disc, which I received promptly.
But, the note continued, “Unfortunately, we do not send out the Phish live packages as they are quite costly and consists of a number of discs.” Okay, I thought they were single discs, like the nutty live Pearl Jam scheme of a few years ago, something like 26 simultaneous live shows released. Most of these Phish live sets are, in fact, 3-disc affairs, but some are two-disc sets that retail for $20 on the official Phish Web site. I was annoyed enough to recall the notion that “friend at a record company” is an oxymoron. But I’ve known and liked this person for 30 years, so I thought more about it.
It’s really about the harsh budgetary realities that have stricken her industry as well as mine, the newspaper/magazine publishing business. And it seems that both of our industries are stuck in business models that in good times work well, but in bad times reveal their obsolescence.
The record business model is stuck in the 1950’s. Or perhaps the 1350’s. The labels are fiefdoms, the artists serfs who toil on their lordship's land. They send hundreds of serfs into the fields without real regard to their ability to do the job they are supposed to do. (This, in the parlance of A&R philosophy, is “throwing shit at the wall and seeing what sticks.”) The palace does not provide the proper tools to promising workers: This old-fashioned notion, known as “artist development,” went out the door with the first round of musically savvy moguls who got too rich too care, or were unceremoniously defenestrated by the short-sighted Young Turks who took their place.
Phish has flourished in this Medieval atmosphere by playing the court jester, witty truth-tellers that could give wise kings not just belly laughs but insight. And while the princes of commerce laughed, Phish strolled off in broad daylight, taking their tools (guitars, drums, microphones, amplifiers) and wandering the countryside entertaining fellow serfs, bridging some of the distance between their positions in the court of culture and those who would pay a farthing or shilling to be amused. They left the palace, and after a few years they were playing The Palace. And then the Gardens, and the Forums, and then The Colosseum’s.
At this point, it doesn’t matter much or not whether the royal accounts at AOL-Time Warner are satisfied with Phish’s record sales: The Phish economy is based largely on touring revenue, with “dry goods” such as CD's sold online, t-shirts, stickers, baseball caps and other memorabilia ensuring a fine profit margin as well. When I read recently about Page McConnell selling out a show at Manhattan’s Roseland Ballroom without any advertising or promotion, my reaction may have been, “Who is Page McConnell” had I not been casting my line in the Phish pond lately.
For all that, “Trey Anastasio” may be more “commercial” than any of the (few) studio recordings I’ve heard by Phish. “Alive Again,” the disc opener, is particularly persuasive, with percolating percussion and a steady blast of latin horns riding bareback on Trey’s dancing guitar lines. “Cayman Review” continues the Caribbean bounce, a little like mid-period Steely Dan without the cynicism. “Push On to the Day” is inspirational Phish-hop with a Bob Weir bridge and the continuing cornucopia of horns. “Drifting” never reaches beyond its slick surface, but “At The Gazebo,” in which Trey is backed by a string and wood ensemble, is a worthwhile stretch. The lengthy (11:22) “Last Tube” opens pleasantly but its repetitiveness over such a stretch of time seems one of Anastasia's few moments of excessive self-indulgence. “Mr. Completely” is completely fine, a tip of the hat to the Beatles’ circa or just pre-”Revolver,” and it’s title sums up what Trey accomplishes in this set of fine playing and playful songwriting.
I was still hungry to hear the Phish kept its drive alive for nearly 20 years (formed in Vermont, the band is now on ‘hiatus’), compare some of their live work to Trey’s accomplished studio adventure. Not willing to pay industry-standard prices to experiment with the unfamiliar, I did what any sensible music lover does, and went to the medium upon which Phish Nation was built: The Internet.
There are hundreds of Phish tracks available at any given time on peer-to-peer sharing endeavors like Gnutella and LimeWire. I limited myself only to tunes that Phish has covered by other artists. That’s no limitation at all, since Phish revels in being the ultimate bar band.
What I downloaded stunned me with the range of their enthusiasms and the almost random joy of venturing into the mouth of the music business monster--as long as it was other people’s material. A jokey “Smoke On the Water” allows them to indulge in some snide but funny rock criticism: (“ “ ‘Smoke On the Water’ and ‘Cat Scratch Fever’ are the same fuckin’ song,’ they say between riffs, before breaking into the Stones’ “Miss You” for a fade. “Ooh Child” shows affection for its (Five Stairsteps, early ‘70s soul) source. Jane’s Addiction’s “Been Caught Stealin’ ‘’ perfectly captures the ambiguity of Perry Farrell’s careening careerism, unsure of whether he’s moving forward or sliding backwards.
They do “Gin and Juice” (Snoop Doggy Dogg) and Bob Marley’s “Trenchtown Rock” with equal élan.
And, of course, there are the voluminous covers of Grateful Dead tunes. Phish is so secure of its own place that it fears not the comparisons to the band that gave it both an esthetic (improvise everything) and business (build a core and tour and more) model.
The earliest Phish I found online was from the at least semi-official Web site, Momadance..
The mission: "To fill the void during the hiatus, we will be posting some gems of days gone by. If you are in possession of a rare or classic show and would like to share it with the world, write us with the details."
That early tune, the Dead’s “Eyes of the World,” is from a gig at a Burlington, Vt. club in 1984, said to be from “the earliest circulating tape.” It’s not all bad: Trey is already an accomplished guitarist, a Garcia acolyte, of course. But the playing is extremely tentative; you can almost feel the stage fright. By 1990, in Ft. Collins, Colorado, they’ve got their confidence up. I was hoping “AC/DC Bag” would be a medley of AC/DC tunes; it wasn’t, but neither was it a false advertisement, since the set ends with “Highway To Hell,” played with neither sneer nor snicker.
Playing music, any music, is a joy for Phish in a very real, deep, and palpable way. That’s why Phish’s appeal can cut across generations: The joy is contagious. My online Phish epiphany was complete when I came across a download of “Terrapin Station,” one of the Dead’s signature tunes. Supposedly recorded August 9, 1998 (information on peer-to-peer sharing mechanisms is often inaccurate), this wasn’t just a version of the song: It got inside the song, its spirit, its majesty, its mystery. It made me smile, and smile, until tears rolled down my cheeks.
(c) 2002 Wayne Robins. All rights reserved. Comments? e-mail waynerobins@hotmail.com
I thought a natural way for approaching Phish guitarist Trey Anastasio's self-titled solo album was to write about it along with one of the band’s similarly phresh multidisc live sets. I e-mailed a friend at the label for Trey and the band. The friend said I could be serviced with the Trey disc, which I received promptly.
But, the note continued, “Unfortunately, we do not send out the Phish live packages as they are quite costly and consists of a number of discs.” Okay, I thought they were single discs, like the nutty live Pearl Jam scheme of a few years ago, something like 26 simultaneous live shows released. Most of these Phish live sets are, in fact, 3-disc affairs, but some are two-disc sets that retail for $20 on the official Phish Web site. I was annoyed enough to recall the notion that “friend at a record company” is an oxymoron. But I’ve known and liked this person for 30 years, so I thought more about it.
It’s really about the harsh budgetary realities that have stricken her industry as well as mine, the newspaper/magazine publishing business. And it seems that both of our industries are stuck in business models that in good times work well, but in bad times reveal their obsolescence.
The record business model is stuck in the 1950’s. Or perhaps the 1350’s. The labels are fiefdoms, the artists serfs who toil on their lordship's land. They send hundreds of serfs into the fields without real regard to their ability to do the job they are supposed to do. (This, in the parlance of A&R philosophy, is “throwing shit at the wall and seeing what sticks.”) The palace does not provide the proper tools to promising workers: This old-fashioned notion, known as “artist development,” went out the door with the first round of musically savvy moguls who got too rich too care, or were unceremoniously defenestrated by the short-sighted Young Turks who took their place.
Phish has flourished in this Medieval atmosphere by playing the court jester, witty truth-tellers that could give wise kings not just belly laughs but insight. And while the princes of commerce laughed, Phish strolled off in broad daylight, taking their tools (guitars, drums, microphones, amplifiers) and wandering the countryside entertaining fellow serfs, bridging some of the distance between their positions in the court of culture and those who would pay a farthing or shilling to be amused. They left the palace, and after a few years they were playing The Palace. And then the Gardens, and the Forums, and then The Colosseum’s.
At this point, it doesn’t matter much or not whether the royal accounts at AOL-Time Warner are satisfied with Phish’s record sales: The Phish economy is based largely on touring revenue, with “dry goods” such as CD's sold online, t-shirts, stickers, baseball caps and other memorabilia ensuring a fine profit margin as well. When I read recently about Page McConnell selling out a show at Manhattan’s Roseland Ballroom without any advertising or promotion, my reaction may have been, “Who is Page McConnell” had I not been casting my line in the Phish pond lately.
For all that, “Trey Anastasio” may be more “commercial” than any of the (few) studio recordings I’ve heard by Phish. “Alive Again,” the disc opener, is particularly persuasive, with percolating percussion and a steady blast of latin horns riding bareback on Trey’s dancing guitar lines. “Cayman Review” continues the Caribbean bounce, a little like mid-period Steely Dan without the cynicism. “Push On to the Day” is inspirational Phish-hop with a Bob Weir bridge and the continuing cornucopia of horns. “Drifting” never reaches beyond its slick surface, but “At The Gazebo,” in which Trey is backed by a string and wood ensemble, is a worthwhile stretch. The lengthy (11:22) “Last Tube” opens pleasantly but its repetitiveness over such a stretch of time seems one of Anastasia's few moments of excessive self-indulgence. “Mr. Completely” is completely fine, a tip of the hat to the Beatles’ circa or just pre-”Revolver,” and it’s title sums up what Trey accomplishes in this set of fine playing and playful songwriting.
I was still hungry to hear the Phish kept its drive alive for nearly 20 years (formed in Vermont, the band is now on ‘hiatus’), compare some of their live work to Trey’s accomplished studio adventure. Not willing to pay industry-standard prices to experiment with the unfamiliar, I did what any sensible music lover does, and went to the medium upon which Phish Nation was built: The Internet.
There are hundreds of Phish tracks available at any given time on peer-to-peer sharing endeavors like Gnutella and LimeWire. I limited myself only to tunes that Phish has covered by other artists. That’s no limitation at all, since Phish revels in being the ultimate bar band.
What I downloaded stunned me with the range of their enthusiasms and the almost random joy of venturing into the mouth of the music business monster--as long as it was other people’s material. A jokey “Smoke On the Water” allows them to indulge in some snide but funny rock criticism: (“ “ ‘Smoke On the Water’ and ‘Cat Scratch Fever’ are the same fuckin’ song,’ they say between riffs, before breaking into the Stones’ “Miss You” for a fade. “Ooh Child” shows affection for its (Five Stairsteps, early ‘70s soul) source. Jane’s Addiction’s “Been Caught Stealin’ ‘’ perfectly captures the ambiguity of Perry Farrell’s careening careerism, unsure of whether he’s moving forward or sliding backwards.
They do “Gin and Juice” (Snoop Doggy Dogg) and Bob Marley’s “Trenchtown Rock” with equal élan.
And, of course, there are the voluminous covers of Grateful Dead tunes. Phish is so secure of its own place that it fears not the comparisons to the band that gave it both an esthetic (improvise everything) and business (build a core and tour and more) model.
The earliest Phish I found online was from the at least semi-official Web site, Momadance..
The mission: "To fill the void during the hiatus, we will be posting some gems of days gone by. If you are in possession of a rare or classic show and would like to share it with the world, write us with the details."
That early tune, the Dead’s “Eyes of the World,” is from a gig at a Burlington, Vt. club in 1984, said to be from “the earliest circulating tape.” It’s not all bad: Trey is already an accomplished guitarist, a Garcia acolyte, of course. But the playing is extremely tentative; you can almost feel the stage fright. By 1990, in Ft. Collins, Colorado, they’ve got their confidence up. I was hoping “AC/DC Bag” would be a medley of AC/DC tunes; it wasn’t, but neither was it a false advertisement, since the set ends with “Highway To Hell,” played with neither sneer nor snicker.
Playing music, any music, is a joy for Phish in a very real, deep, and palpable way. That’s why Phish’s appeal can cut across generations: The joy is contagious. My online Phish epiphany was complete when I came across a download of “Terrapin Station,” one of the Dead’s signature tunes. Supposedly recorded August 9, 1998 (information on peer-to-peer sharing mechanisms is often inaccurate), this wasn’t just a version of the song: It got inside the song, its spirit, its majesty, its mystery. It made me smile, and smile, until tears rolled down my cheeks.
(c) 2002 Wayne Robins. All rights reserved. Comments? e-mail waynerobins@hotmail.com
Wednesday, May 01, 2002
TRUTH PHISHING IN AMERICA
Recently, I sent this e-mail to a high-ranking vice-president of a Fortune 500 media company:
"While the rest of the 'old media' wring their hands nervously awaiting those symbols of corruption and disintegration, the Pulitzer Prizes, we have
better news: Trey Anastasio is going on tour, man. (The usual places, this summer). And his debut solo album will be in stories April 30. Title: 'Trey
Anastasio.' Whoa. I'm gonna lay down outside Tower Records now so I get the first copy." I was being a little ironic, but he wasn't. My man got back to me right away.
"I know," said media mogul, who looks most comfortable in blue pin-stripe suits (he reminds me his suits are mostly gray) and would look completely at home at any corporate board meeting. "---- already has tickets to five of the shows."
We have a secret: We are Phish people. Quite a long time ago, Don Henley wrote a very good song with a very condescending (Henley condescending? I'm shocked) line: "I saw a Deadhead sticker on a Cadillac..." It was meant to be savagely ironic, but why? Why aren't people old enough to have their AARP cards permitted to pursue their passions, musical or otherwise? I paid my dues, AARP and otherwise, and if I wanted to put "I'd rather be Phishing" on the bumper sticker of the family's four door Honda Accord, why shouldn't I enjoy it?
My executive friend likes to go to Phish concerts with his 20-something son. Now isn't THAT Family Values, Mr. President? Interesting that Dubya's daughters have had law trouble with underage drinking, and that his brother Jeb, Governor of the Banana Republic of Florida, broke down in tears yesterday as he spoke about his daughter's illegal effort at getting the prescription anti-anxiety drug Xanax. I mean, holy moly: A parent who has any idea about what's going on with their kids could get them a legal prescription for Lorazepam (generic Xanax, $2 to $5 for a month supply, on most health insurance plans) from the Family Doctor. Governor Jeb Bush does have a family doctor, does he not?
One of my last and most welcome duties near the end of my tenure as Newsday's pop music writer was to cover a Phish concert at Roseland Ballroom in Manhattan. I remember enjoying the band's competence and wit a lot. But what I remember is what happened before the band went on. I am standing at the Roseland bar, drinking a Scotch. A younger Phish fan, high on something other than Johnny Walker Black, comes up to me and says, "Hey man, what are you doing at a Phish concert?" I say I write for a newspaper, but I'm also interested in the band. And he says, "Wow, man, I wish MY dad would go to a Phish concert."
Next installment: Trey's CD, and my Phish downloads: Feedback? waynerobins@hotmail.com
(c) 2002 Wayne Robins. All rights reserved.
Tuesday, April 30, 2002
Elvis in Acapulco: His Last Chants?
I'm watching Elvis Presley in "Fun in Acapulco," barely. I've got it on Turner Classic Movies (TCM)
on the bedroom TV to which I've also connected the DVD player and my cheapo home theater system. Which means I can also play music CD's on the DVD player. And, unless I mute the TV or switch speaker channels, that means I can get TV and CD sound simultaneously.
Thinking I would just read some magazines, with Elvis as a silent screen star (in fact, in this movie, he does look a little like Rudolph Valentino), I put on a CD of Buddhist music and chants. Title is a little unwieldy, but it deserves to be spelled out: "Tibetan Buddhist Rites from the Monasteries of Bhutan" Volume 1, "Rituals of the Drukpa Order." Recorded by John Levy in 1971, and released by the Lyrichord Discs label (address on the label is 141 Perry St., New York, NY 10014). I don't know if they're in business. Ordinarily, I would make a call to find out, but this is Blogging, not formal Journalism; by definition (as we try to define this), that means a little laxity in reporting in return for freedom of pure, or impure, expression.
The last 30 minutes of "Fun in Acapulco" are almost certainly as bad as the first hour, even with a young Ursula Andress as one of the love interests. Like every other similar Elvis movie (one of his bad Hawaii movies was on the other night too), this is more travelogue than motion picture. When it gets really awful is when Elvis (circa 1962), scrawny and undernourished-looking but very tan, sings in a cantina with a mariachi band. So I turn the sound of the movie down to just the right level that it interacts in counterpoint and at times even harmony, of sorts, with the Buddhist music. So Elvis and mariachi are mixed with a chorus of 17 monks, two conch-shell trumpets [how the conch-shells showed up in the Himalayas I have no idea], two thigh-bone trumpets (that’s what it says: I’ll reserve comment), two long trumpets, two large drums, and a pair of cymbals. It's a good mix, since the brass sounds like foghorns, and Elvis sings like he's in a fog.
In the movie's climactic moment, Elvis climbs up a sheer stone facade to do the famous Acapulco cliff diving thing, the image of a thousand travel brochures and the reason why no one with any sense would go to Acapulco: I mean, is this as good as it gets there? Elvis is nervous: a miscalculation and he dies on the rocks. There is a shrine near the dive spot. Elvis kneels and crosses himself. At that moment, I turn up the level of the Tibetan CD: The monks are chanting with atypical intensity. They are praying with him. Fabulous.
The Elvis movie over, I switched channels. Marlon Brando was on screen, in "One Eyed Jacks," which he directed, starred in, and in which he may or may not have worn a cod-piece. He was kissing a Mexican-looking woman on a beach that looked like it was facing the Pacific Ocean. I kept mixing and matching the Tibetan monks with Brando on the screen, but it didn't work as well as it did with Elvis, who was coasting. Brando, intense in his artistry, however off the mark, was just too much.
(c) 2002 all rights reserved. Feedback? waynerobins@hotmail.com
I'm watching Elvis Presley in "Fun in Acapulco," barely. I've got it on Turner Classic Movies (TCM)
on the bedroom TV to which I've also connected the DVD player and my cheapo home theater system. Which means I can also play music CD's on the DVD player. And, unless I mute the TV or switch speaker channels, that means I can get TV and CD sound simultaneously.
Thinking I would just read some magazines, with Elvis as a silent screen star (in fact, in this movie, he does look a little like Rudolph Valentino), I put on a CD of Buddhist music and chants. Title is a little unwieldy, but it deserves to be spelled out: "Tibetan Buddhist Rites from the Monasteries of Bhutan" Volume 1, "Rituals of the Drukpa Order." Recorded by John Levy in 1971, and released by the Lyrichord Discs label (address on the label is 141 Perry St., New York, NY 10014). I don't know if they're in business. Ordinarily, I would make a call to find out, but this is Blogging, not formal Journalism; by definition (as we try to define this), that means a little laxity in reporting in return for freedom of pure, or impure, expression.
The last 30 minutes of "Fun in Acapulco" are almost certainly as bad as the first hour, even with a young Ursula Andress as one of the love interests. Like every other similar Elvis movie (one of his bad Hawaii movies was on the other night too), this is more travelogue than motion picture. When it gets really awful is when Elvis (circa 1962), scrawny and undernourished-looking but very tan, sings in a cantina with a mariachi band. So I turn the sound of the movie down to just the right level that it interacts in counterpoint and at times even harmony, of sorts, with the Buddhist music. So Elvis and mariachi are mixed with a chorus of 17 monks, two conch-shell trumpets [how the conch-shells showed up in the Himalayas I have no idea], two thigh-bone trumpets (that’s what it says: I’ll reserve comment), two long trumpets, two large drums, and a pair of cymbals. It's a good mix, since the brass sounds like foghorns, and Elvis sings like he's in a fog.
In the movie's climactic moment, Elvis climbs up a sheer stone facade to do the famous Acapulco cliff diving thing, the image of a thousand travel brochures and the reason why no one with any sense would go to Acapulco: I mean, is this as good as it gets there? Elvis is nervous: a miscalculation and he dies on the rocks. There is a shrine near the dive spot. Elvis kneels and crosses himself. At that moment, I turn up the level of the Tibetan CD: The monks are chanting with atypical intensity. They are praying with him. Fabulous.
The Elvis movie over, I switched channels. Marlon Brando was on screen, in "One Eyed Jacks," which he directed, starred in, and in which he may or may not have worn a cod-piece. He was kissing a Mexican-looking woman on a beach that looked like it was facing the Pacific Ocean. I kept mixing and matching the Tibetan monks with Brando on the screen, but it didn't work as well as it did with Elvis, who was coasting. Brando, intense in his artistry, however off the mark, was just too much.
(c) 2002 all rights reserved. Feedback? waynerobins@hotmail.com
Monday, April 29, 2002
[4/29/2002 6:38:30 PM | Wayne Robins]
McCartney Miracle Seats, and Howard Stern Too!
A report by Wayne's Words correspondent Debbie Cohn-Orbach
"Friday night David and I went to see Paul McCartney at Madison Sq. Garden. We literally had the last row seats in the theater. They were terrible, but at least
we were there. We had binoculars, but the angle wasn't great. Before the show we were talking about how hard it will be to sit through his 2 1/2 hour set way up
there and were hoping that our "neighbors" would be into the show and not too loud, drunk, or disturbing, like they were for Crosby Stills Nash and Young.
Then, someone approached us and said Paul would like to offer us an upgrade on our seats. We thought he was kidding, but handed us front row center seats
and said "follow me".
On the way to the seats he explained how he works for Paul and how Paul likes to give out good seats to people in the back. I asked why he picked us, and he
said it looked like we would have fun. We were going down the back staircase in the Garden. Suddenly I noticed it was just us and John Stamos on the stairs. I
decided I wouldn't ever have this chance again, so I approached John said hi and said something about the fact that he has been hanging out with Howard Stern
a lot lately. He said Yeah and laughed. I told him we were just given front row seats, and he said it was cool and put his hand out to shake mine. He told us to
have a good time.
As we made our way down to the floor, we entered at the same time Howard Stern and his girlfriend did. I was trying to say hi, but David felt it would
jeapordize our seats if I had any more delays (we temporarilly lost the people bringing us to our seats when I stopped to talk to John).
So, there we were, front and center for Paul McCartney. He was totally into interacting with the people in the front. He was looking at me and singing, so I
waved, and he raised his hand from the piano and waved back. It was a pretty amazing experience. At times I started looking around for celebrities. I watched
Howard a lot during the show.
Today, when Howard started talking on the radio about how great the show was, I just had to call in. I wanted to show our appreciation for the seats and didn't
know how to reach that guy who worked for Paul. I got on the air right away and told Howard not only was the show great, but Paul was very generous and
gave us front row seats. He was impressed."
[edit]
McCartney Miracle Seats, and Howard Stern Too!
A report by Wayne's Words correspondent Debbie Cohn-Orbach
"Friday night David and I went to see Paul McCartney at Madison Sq. Garden. We literally had the last row seats in the theater. They were terrible, but at least
we were there. We had binoculars, but the angle wasn't great. Before the show we were talking about how hard it will be to sit through his 2 1/2 hour set way up
there and were hoping that our "neighbors" would be into the show and not too loud, drunk, or disturbing, like they were for Crosby Stills Nash and Young.
Then, someone approached us and said Paul would like to offer us an upgrade on our seats. We thought he was kidding, but handed us front row center seats
and said "follow me".
On the way to the seats he explained how he works for Paul and how Paul likes to give out good seats to people in the back. I asked why he picked us, and he
said it looked like we would have fun. We were going down the back staircase in the Garden. Suddenly I noticed it was just us and John Stamos on the stairs. I
decided I wouldn't ever have this chance again, so I approached John said hi and said something about the fact that he has been hanging out with Howard Stern
a lot lately. He said Yeah and laughed. I told him we were just given front row seats, and he said it was cool and put his hand out to shake mine. He told us to
have a good time.
As we made our way down to the floor, we entered at the same time Howard Stern and his girlfriend did. I was trying to say hi, but David felt it would
jeapordize our seats if I had any more delays (we temporarilly lost the people bringing us to our seats when I stopped to talk to John).
So, there we were, front and center for Paul McCartney. He was totally into interacting with the people in the front. He was looking at me and singing, so I
waved, and he raised his hand from the piano and waved back. It was a pretty amazing experience. At times I started looking around for celebrities. I watched
Howard a lot during the show.
Today, when Howard started talking on the radio about how great the show was, I just had to call in. I wanted to show our appreciation for the seats and didn't
know how to reach that guy who worked for Paul. I got on the air right away and told Howard not only was the show great, but Paul was very generous and
gave us front row seats. He was impressed."
[edit]
McCartney Miracle Seats, and Howard Stern Too!
A report by Wayne's Words correspondent Debbie Cohn-Orbach
"Friday night David and I went to see Paul McCartney at Madison Sq. Garden. We literally had the last row seats in the theater. They were terrible, but at least
we were there. We had binoculars, but the angle wasn't great. Before the show we were talking about how hard it will be to sit through his 2 1/2 hour set way up
there and were hoping that our "neighbors" would be into the show and not too loud, drunk, or disturbing, like they were for Crosby Stills Nash and Young.
Then, someone approached us and said Paul would like to offer us an upgrade on our seats. We thought he was kidding, but handed us front row center seats
and said "follow me".
On the way to the seats he explained how he works for Paul and how Paul likes to give out good seats to people in the back. I asked why he picked us, and he
said it looked like we would have fun. We were going down the back staircase in the Garden. Suddenly I noticed it was just us and John Stamos on the stairs. I
decided I wouldn't ever have this chance again, so I approached John said hi and said something about the fact that he has been hanging out with Howard Stern
a lot lately. He said Yeah and laughed. I told him we were just given front row seats, and he said it was cool and put his hand out to shake mine. He told us to
have a good time.
As we made our way down to the floor, we entered at the same time Howard Stern and his girlfriend did. I was trying to say hi, but David felt it would
jeapordize our seats if I had any more delays (we temporarilly lost the people bringing us to our seats when I stopped to talk to John).
So, there we were, front and center for Paul McCartney. He was totally into interacting with the people in the front. He was looking at me and singing, so I
waved, and he raised his hand from the piano and waved back. It was a pretty amazing experience. At times I started looking around for celebrities. I watched
Howard a lot during the show.
Today, when Howard started talking on the radio about how great the show was, I just had to call in. I wanted to show our appreciation for the seats and didn't
know how to reach that guy who worked for Paul. I got on the air right away and told Howard not only was the show great, but Paul was very generous and
gave us front row seats. He was impressed."
