White (Led) Boots

It would be an understatement to say that the wife and I don't get out much.

We're pretty fond of our two dogs, one cat, and responsibilities to our vegetable garden. After nearly 25 years on the road, a vacation to me is waking up somewhere familiar with coffee but a few steps away. A night out on the town is usually going to the local market to buy something swell to cook up for dinner.

The decision to go to Oakland to see the last performance of Jeff Beck's 2009 U.S. tour was a no-brainer, however. After all, Beck was flying high from his recent Rock and Roll Hall of Fame induction for his storied solo career. Add in the twin engines of his band being so damn tight and the venue being the newly renovated Fox Theater in Oakland, and we quickly decided the trip down from the country would be in our best interests for fast fun.

***

This past April, Jeff Beck was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame...for the second time in his career. Beck's first trip to the Hall was in 1988 for his stint in The Yardbirds.

Why should anyone care? I'll tell you why. It's because Jeff Beck is a master of the electric guitar and one of the few great innovators in rock and roll. Ask any guitarist or serious music appreciator who the best is, and Beck's name will likely be the answer. Don't believe me? Ask Clapton, King, or Vaughan. Or ask Christopher Guest, who modeled the gum-chewing Nigel "This goes to 11" Tufnell of Spinal Tap after Beck. That's enough to warrant entry into the Hall's hallowed space in my book.

No other guitarist has Beck's sonic palette and incredible range of expression. 10,000 hours logged mastering his craft aside, Beck has reinvented himself time and time again, framing his patented twang-bar Stratocaster sound with an assortment of musicians and musical styles that would make the likes of Frank Zappa or Miles Davis proud. "It's a form of illness really, isn't it," he said in a recent Gibson.com interview. "If you choose music there's no real limits to how far you can dig to better yourself and improve...it's a bottomless pit of inspiration."

Today's mainstream music industry lacks any real credibility, which is why it was so refreshing to see the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame get something right for change. Far too often innovative artists are overlooked for inclusion in award shows and the Hall of Fame to make room for the popularity contest winners and multi-platinum acts. With Madonna's induction last year, the Hall became a sad joke among my friends and peers, much like when the first Grammy award for "Best Heavy Metal Album" was given to Jethro Tull over the obviously deserving Metallica in 1989. It was one of those classic "what-the-fuck-were-they-thinking" moments and showed how far out of touch the industry had become. But Beck's induction was a case where all the egos were set aside to honor an innovator who has been around since the beginnings of modern rock. The look of pure joy on the face of Jimmy Page, Beck's childhood friend and former Yardbirds band mate, was contagious. There was one of rock's silver-haired elder statesmen inducting one of his close friends while practically jumping up and down and clapping his hands like an excited schoolgirl. Ever the gentleman, Beck graciously thanked Page and many of his peers in his brief acceptance speech, a humble genius who most likely would have preferred being at home working on one of his vintage hot rods.

Hit up YouTube and check out the version of "Beck's Bolero" from Beck's performance at the induction ceremony. In the middle of the tune, he stops, introduces Jimmy Page, and proceeds to rip into an instrumental jam of "The Immigrant Song" for a few moments before careening back into the end of "Bolero." Notice how Page, one of Beck's oldest schoolyard chums, never strays from the supportive rhythm guitar role, thereby allowing Beck to do what he does best: wring lead vocal sounds out of his signature white Stratocaster. Believe me, Beck was hitting high notes that Robert Plant hasn't been able to achieve since 1971.

Last summer while on tour, a friend of mine passed along a bootleg DVD of various Beck live performances that featured the entire set from Clapton's Crossroads Blues Festival in Chicago 2007. Beck's band - drummer Vinnie Colaiuta and keyboardist Jason Rebello along with the amazing young bass prodigy Tal Wilkenfeld - blew me away. Members of Panic who ventured up to the front lounge of the bus would stop in their tracks to share in the amazement Jimmy Herring and I enjoyed while repeatedly watching the DVD over and over again. The band was tight and it was very clear that Beck was happy and being pushed to new creative heights. He even let Wilkenfeld take a bass solo on his beautiful rendition of "Because We've Ended As Lovers." But the capstone of the show was the set ending performance of John Lennon's "A Day In The Life." I had seen him play this tune before, but this particular performance featured joy, sadness, and exuberance coupled with an utter mastery of the guitar and melody incarnate. Never allowing the melodic intent of the original version to give way to chops this performance was something for the ages.

Soon after I'd received the DVD, music industry blogger supreme Bob Lefsetz devoted one of his daily rants to the mastery of Jeff Beck. I wrote Bob an email about how we'd been enjoying Beck's Crossroads performance on the tour bus, which he published. Jimmy Herring began to integrate Beckisms into his arsenal onstage. Throughout last summer's tour, I'd hear a primal squonk from stage right and look over to see Herring laughing his ass off at my surprise as he'd slip a quote from one of Beck's tunes into one of his own improvised guitar solos. I made up my mind I'd catch Beck at the next opportunity.

***

The bell on my iPhone Inbox buzzed as we were preparing to leave for our first trip to the Fox Theater in Oakland. Lefsetz Letter of the Day has arrived, boasting a glowing tweet from Beck's show in L.A. the night before. Rod Stewart had apparently surprised Beck onstage (their first appearance together in over 25 years) for a sweet rendition of Curtis Mayfield's "People Get Ready." The news only heightened our expectations for the show we were about to see.

We arrived at the Fox and were promptly met by Veronice, the ticket gal for Another Planet Entertainment who showed us inside the beautifully restored former movie palace. Allen from Another Planet gave us a walking tour, and we were duly impressed to say the least. More than $90 million went into the renovation of the theater, and I must say it looked to have been money well spent. The Oakland Fox is similar to its namesake Fox theaters in St. Louis and Atlanta but with one serious difference: the Oakland Fox is laid out in the great tradition of the most fan friendly music venues. Rather than fixed seating all the way to the stage, there is a general admission pit that holds 1,900 music lovers. Behind the pit area are tiers for standing room with some small cocktail tables and a massive bar. The balcony features seating for another 900. There's a smoking section, more bars, and a small café that serves food, which is open whether there's a show or not.

Upon arriving at the VIP area, it was clear the musos were coming out tonight in full force to see the master at work. A tequila-wielding Sammy Hagar greeted us with a wide smile. The drummer from the Chili Peppers arrived soon thereafter, followed by someone who I'm pretty sure was an incognito Joe Satriani. Not knowing that these guys were ¾ of the new band, Chickenfoot I amusedly thought to myself that we could make one helluva band. Sorry Michael Anthony...I just didn't know yet!

The Fox boasts a state-of-the-art line array sound system, which means that the sound in the back of the balcony is just as clean and loud as it is on the floor or in front of the stage. I have yet to see a more fan friendly venue as classy as Oakland's Fox Theater. And despite all of its glorious beauty, what shone brightest that night was the music that happened onstage.

Clad head to toe in white (including white felt boots with fringe), Jeff Beck took the stage and the band revved into "Beck's Bolero." All hands were raised when Vinnie Colaiuta began the infamous drum intro to "Led Boots," and by the time the song was in high gear, those same hands were unanimously performing the Wayne's World "we're not worthy" genuflection.

Jeff Beck's performance in Oakland was a staggering display of electric virtuosity without musical snobbery and overt academics. The band was tight, but loose enough to have a little fun. The humorous highlight of the evening was Wilkenfeld's bass solo which morphed into Beck's famous "Freeway Jam" (which has been noticeably absent from the setlist for nearly a decade) featuring her playing the melody in the upper register while Beck played the bass line in the lower register of her guitar at the same time. To me this is a sign of a master at work and having fun. Something also tells me that Wilkenfeld is having a good effect on Beck and loosening him up. This kind of behavior bodes well for a future studio recording (which I hear is in the works) with this band.

After finishing the show with a powerful rendition of "A Day In The Life," Beck took a victory lap performing "Where Were You" with Rebello providing an eerily stark keyboard accompaniment. The rest of the band returned and put the pedal to the metal with "A Scottish One" and a final twist of humor with "Peter Gunn." We exited the beautiful Fox Theater exhilarated by what we had just witnessed. Beck is truly a master and he seemed to be riding high, buoyed by the strength of his supporting cast. He roared through all of his gears with grace and humor while keeping melody in the pole position where it belongs: firmly in the hands of the master.

Dave Schools blames his strange obsession with Jeff Beck on finding a copy of the Yardbirds bootleg Golden Eggs in a mom ‘n' pop record store as a teenager. When not blogging for BLURT or playing bass for Widespread Panic in front of thousands of screaming fans, Dave likes to dance... tap dance.

[Photo Credit: SonomaMan]

How To Enhance Your Listening Experience By Stealing The Music You Love

Ever since I can remember, I've loved music. I don't mean loved so much as I mean I NEEDED music. Being an only child, music and books were my best friends.

My parents quickly realized that I could be placated with a weekly trip to Standard Drug Store, which sold a wide variety of 45 rpm records and even a few of the top-selling LPs of the day. The first thing they bought me was Deep Purple's version of the Neil Diamond tune "Kentucky Woman." My folks likely thought it was a "safe" record to buy their young son because it was a Neil Diamond-penned song, but my incessant listening to Purple's brutally loud and cool take on the song nearly drove my dad crazy.

After that, it was a steady diet of Creedence Clearwater Revival 45s. CCR seemed to have a new #1 single every month in those days, and it was a form of rock n' roll that my folks deemed non-threatening, at least compared to the mind-warping acid-rock of Deep Purple.

Soon, I inherited a box of 45s from a family friend who was being shipped off to fight in Vietnam and wanted me to have his collection. The gift was a goldmine: The Who, Sly & The Family Stone, The Turtles...not to mention other assorted one-hit wonders like The Bubble Puppy and the 1910 Fruitgum Company!

As my fierce desire for new music grew, my parents decided that it was time I graduated from the Mickey Mouse turntable - where Mickey's little arm served as the tone arm of the turntable - to an actual stereo system. The door was opened for the LP, and so began my endless journey from the Beatles to Led Zeppelin and beyond.

By the time I was 12 or 13 years old, my appetite for new music had outstripped my allowance, and I was forced to get creative. A paper route seemed like a sensible method of earning some money as I wasn't yet old enough to be a bag boy at the local Safeway. I lived in a compact neighborhood consisting mostly of little old ladies who paid up on time and sometimes gave the polite, young paperboy an extra tip. At the end of every week, I pooled my hard-earned cash from the paper route for my weekly bike ride to Gary's Stereo and Record shop in Willow Lawn.

Gary's was an amazing place, a stereotypical ‘70s multi-purpose cultural establishment. Upon entering the store, the customer was greeted on the right by a lengthy glass display counter filled with a rainbow assortment of what was then called "paraphernalia." Behind this counter lurked a couple of not-so-helpful sales clerks in the classic "too-stoned-to-help-you-yet-too-snobby-to-care-about-your-decidedly-unhip-needs" mode.

Every square inch of the walls at Gary's were lined with vinyl and posters proclaiming the newest major label releases. It was something beautiful to behold. To the left were the newest the Top 40 45s displayed in racks, six feet high. On the other side were the shelves where the LPs resided. Beyond the records, the store opened up into a much larger showroom that housed the stereo department.

Gary's was a wonderland to me: a place where I could go and just dig through the 12 x 12 inch pieces of art to my heart's content. I would go back and forth from one end to the other like a typewriter working my way from bottom row to top, repeating the process on the other side of the shelves until I'd zeroed in on just the right album to buy. I always stopped before I got to the Classical music section...that was for the old folks.

I was a huge Pink Floyd fan, having been turned onto them a few years earlier by my camp counselor, Klaus, who had come to Camp Greenbriar from Germany with tapes he recorded off of Berlin radio stations that were filled with "The Pink Floyd Sound" and other strange kraut rock.

The gap between Floyd releases was interminable to their fans, usually two or three years. It was during the period between Wish You Were Here and the release of Animals that I discovered and became enchanted by the cover of a Floyd LP that I had never seen before: Ummagumma.

Ummagumma was a much-sought-after double LP containing both a studio album and live show recorded in the U.K. in June 1969. My paper route earnings, when combined with my allowance, only amounted to enough cash to purchase a single LP for $5.99. Ummagumma was a bargain priced at $10.99, but it was still too pricey for my wallet. But I needed that music NOW. There was no way I could wait for two weeks and actually save up the money needed to purchase it, so I devised a plan to STEAL the record.

I always had a few extra copies of the evening paper in my shoulder satchel and would often take them into Gary's after my route to give to the guys who worked in the store. Over time, they warmed up to me as I became a regular and faithful customer. My loyalties wouldn't allow me to go to Peaches Records; besides, Peaches was way out on Broad Street, far beyond my bike-riding range.

Testing out the size of my paper satchel with a record or two at home, I discovered that if I slipped the record between the extra copies of the paper, no one would be the wiser. I planned to wait until a day when the papers were thick and heavy with advertisements - usually Wednesdays or Fridays - in order to smuggle the double record out of the store.

The days crept by until that next Wednesday afternoon when I nervously began the bike ride from the end of my paper route to the Willow Lawn shopping center with a few extra copies of the Richmond News Leader in my bag. I excitedly entered Gary's, said my hellos, slipped the extra copy of the paper to the guys at the register, and began my usual routine of perusing the record shelves.

Having spent so much time there, I knew the layout of the store fairly well and had found a few blind spots where I could stand and pretend to look at records while performing the "lift." No store employees would be able to see me, especially if I waited until the guy in the stereo department was busy with a potential customer. He loved to tell his customers stories about his days as a roadie in the 60s, as if this would somehow soften even the toughest buyer into purchasing a new hi-fi system.

I picked up a copy of the double live Status Quo record and carried it to where the Pink Floyd records were located. Pretending to be fascinated with the liner notes, I placed it on top of a copy of the coveted Ummagumma LP, which I had put in the front row for easier access earlier that week.

As the moment of truth approached, the FEAR began to grab hold of me. I hadn't even smoked pot yet in my life, but suddenly for the first time, I understood paranoia. The bottoms of my feet went numb, and I was engulfed in a cold sweat. My ears felt hot and I could feel my face, red and glistening. Surely the clerks at the front counter knew what I was up to and were calling the cops!

Peering cautiously at them over my shoulder, I could see that one clerk was reading the comics section of the paper while the other was demonstrating to a pair of older teenage girls the proper use of a waterpipe that had several hoses extended from its barrel and what appeared to be a detonator type plunger attached to its top. They giggled at the clerk's suggestion that they should go to his van so he could show them how to use the thing for real.

I slowly turned my head back to the stereo department, where my eyes met those of the ex-roadie salesman. Was I caught? How could I be? I hadn't done anything wrong...yet. I took a deep breath and made eye contact with him once again as if to disarm any possible suspicion. He was glassy-eyed and staring right through me, bored (and likely stoned) out of his mind with not a customer in sight. I decided quickly that I was going to have to make the five-finger discount over by the dreaded Classical music section. It was the only place where I was completely covered from view from both ends of the store. It was probably designed that way....after all, who shoplifts classical albums anyway?

I made my way over to the classical rack with both the Status Quo and Pink Floyd records stacked together and feigned interest in the London Symphony's rendition of "Swan Lake." Holding my breath, I quickly slid the Floyd LP into my satchel while keeping the Status Quo record visible to anyone who might be looking. While this was truly a remarkable performance of sleight of hand, my paranoia screamed that the satchel was bulging with my stolen booty, but my common sense counseled that it looked exactly the way it always did.

As quickly as I could without attracting any undue attention, I returned the Status Quo vinyl to its proper place and, turning, steeled myself for the real moment of truth: the walk past the guys at the cash register. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I felt as if I was going to faint at any moment. There was a loud buzzing in my ears as the clerk who'd been reading the comics said, "Not buying anything today?" It was all I could do to simply mutter something about having to meet my mom for dinner before I lurched clumsily through the doors and out into the freedom of the fresh air.

Mounting my trusty Schwinn 10-speed, I turned back to the store to make sure no one was coming after me before peddling like the wind for home, nearly being mowed over by a speeding car on Monument Avenue that was in even more of a hurry than I was. I did the usual teenaged zombie walk past my mom and went straight upstairs to my lair, pulling the brilliantly smuggled treasure from my satchel and into the light where I could admire it.

Carefully, I slit the album's shrink-wrap and looked wide-eyed upon the iconic image of the members of Pink Floyd that adorned the cover. It was so beautiful. I slid the black vinyl platter from its protective white sleeve and placed it on my turntable. As the needle caught the groove and the first pulsing beats of "Astronomy Domine" began, I dimmed the lights and prepared myself for what was surely to be the greatest moment in my music-listening career.

But something was wrong. As the music flowed freely from the speakers with absolute clarity and Waters and Gilmour sang the line, "floating down the sound resounds around the icy waters underground," I realized what it was: my conscience was catching up to me. Guilt was picking apart my new favorite Pink Floyd song before I even realized how great it was!

I was a teenage shoplifter.

I couldn't make it through the entire song. I wanted to confess, to turn myself in to the Gary's police, but I knew what the store manager did to shoplifters....THEY TOLD THEIR PARENTS!! And as far as I was concerned, any jail was better than having to face that look of disappointment in my mother's eyes.

In these days of downloading gigabytes of music in the blink of an eye, "stealing" doesn't really seem like that harsh of a word. Hell, even I've downloaded music without paying for it. Granted, it was an obscure live track of Radiohead performing "The Spy Who Loved Me" downloaded via a freshly installed version of LIMEWIRE, but Karma justly rewarded my offense with a fantastic array of malware and spyware that permanently crippled my PC and forced my timely leap of faith into Mac Nation. Still, I loved the fact that I had this glorious cover version of a song from my childhood performed by one of my favorite modern bands.

The moral dilemma was far more clearly delineated when I returned to the scene of the crime all those years ago, pedaling back to Gary's after a few days cooling off period spent hiding my guilty expression from my mom.

There was no yellow police tape cordoning off the Pink Floyd section. No one seemed overly suspicious. The front display guys were doing their usual shuck and jive with the paraphernalia, and the glassy-eyed stereo salesman was regaling a customer with the story of how he'd once been the guitar tech for Iron Butterfly guitarist Erik Braunn and how Braunn wore black gloves that he only took off to perform. Since my life had deviated into the criminal dark side, I bought a copy of Black Sabbath's Master Of Reality and hastened home.

A few months later, I was caught by my mom after having smoked weed for the first time while listening to "Sweet Leaf" with the kid down the street. His name was Skippy, and he shot squirrels off the power lines with his pellet gun. He also had a really hot older sister. It wasn't too long before I could enjoy all four sides of Ummagumma (although you have to be REALLY stoned to fully enjoy Roger Waters' "Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together In A Cave and Grooving with a Pict"), but in listening to the album over and over again, I can tell you that the weeks of craven guilt and shame I felt for having stolen it only served to enhance the alienating and dark music that lay etched into its vinyl grooves. Ummagumma became the soundtrack to that period of my life as I tested the limits of the law and my mother's patience, nothing too out of the ordinary for a teenager in the late 70's.

Despite my criminal history, I'd like to think that I've cleared my karmic debt with Pink Floyd by purchasing every conceivable repackaging of Dark Side of The Moon they've issued over the years. Hopefully, I'm free and clear with Gary's, too - having bought the vast majority of my vinyl collection, stereo equipment and first Tokemaster bong there.

Sure, times have changed and stealing music has become the norm. Can you imagine what it might have been like had today's tolerance of music theft been present in the 70s? Thousands of music lovers would have been literally carting away the entire recorded histories of their favorite artists! And guilt free at that. I think I'm jealous!

I truly believe today's music lovers have no clue about the theft of music. In their minds, it's not stealing at all. It's as if the digital frontier is akin to the land grabs of the Old West, ready for the taking by those savvy enough to navigate the uncharted territory. But besides breaking the law, are today's digital music lovers robbing themselves of a vital experience in music enjoyment? Maybe the music thieves of today are missing a crucial ingredient from their collections: guilt.

Guilt is so wrapped up in my feelings towards Ummagumma that I don't know if it would sound the same without it. It's part and parcel of the burden of enjoyment I have to bear while listening to this great recording. I'm not sure if listeners in the digital downloading era understand the full appreciation that develops as a result of bearing that burden. And let us not forget the actual physical burden of having to carry all that vinyl around!

The guilt of stealing music shouldn't be as easy a burden to carry around as the weight of an iPod. I often ponder the remarkable reality that my entire 44-year history of collecting and devouring music - encompassing more than 30,000 songs - can now fit into a portable device no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. It seems kind of sad, especially if you consider the hoops that a child of the vinyl era had to jump through in order to achieve a decent record collection. It's just too easy to slip my iPod into my pocket and go.

But when I do, "The Spy Who Loved Me" just never sounds as heavy as "Astronomy Domine."

Widespread Panic's Dave Schools regularly gathers together with all sorts of furry musicians - sometimes in caves, even - and grooves with more than just a pict in the process....

(Photo Credit: Chris Wilson (www.christopherwilsonphoto.com) 

How The Grinch Got Scrooged in Asheville

At some point in my life, the magic of Christmas vanished and was replaced by a cynical outlook that manifested itself most overtly through my use of the "Xmas" abbreviation.

Not even 30 years old, I was the kind of curmudgeonly, Scrooge-like grump who stole money from the Salvation Army bucket, cursed the little children gazing at the window displays, and, on one memorable occasion, actually brained a sidewalk Santa Claus with his own bronze bell because he was too damn jolly.

I especially loathed the way the U.S. economy depended upon millions of Americans spending their hard-earned cash on pointless gifts as the countdown of shopping days left until Christmas scrolled by in the month of December, all to the tune of another melody-less remake of an old holiday classic pimped to sell Old Navy sweaters. Christmas, in my mind, had been twisted into a sad advertisement for poor-quality garments made in China and faux sentimentality. Friends would drop by just to laugh as I railed against the blatant prostitution of the Christmas spirit. I was a soul tormented by the commercialism I perceived being foisted upon the American public.

A few days before Xmas, I would journey home to the place of my youth - Richmond, Virginia - and attempt to ignore the ebullient display of holiday cheer by my tradition-oriented mother. In fact, the only time I was smart enough to keep my big, fat mouth shut was in the presence of my friends' young children. I could see in their eyes that this holiday was still magical and perhaps even holy, despite the mountains of poorly rendered plastic toys over which they claimed dominion.

Nonetheless, something wonderful would happen every Xmas Eve once everyone had nestled into their homes all cozy and warm: quietude. Blissful, sweet silence pervaded my soul, and it was in this silence, as the street sounds faded and the night descended, that I discovered the real joy that is Christmas: a time of reflection and appreciation of family and friends, sharing old memories and making new ones.

Eight years ago, my entire perspective on Xmas changed. In August 2000, my close friend Allen Woody, bassist for Gov't Mule, suddenly passed away. Woody had a great sense of humor and was truly a caring person and a good friend. His death tormented me at a time in my life when I really didn't need any reminders of mortality, and I know I needn't mention how this affected the people that loved and worked with Woody.

Shortly after Woody's passing, Warren Haynes called me and asked if I would participate in a tribute to Woody at the Roseland Ballroom in New York City. Nervously, I accepted the invitation and soon found myself whisked away to a night of good friends and great music. My performance of Woody's bass lines that night, while not perfect, seemed to provide some solace for those in attendance. I had so much fun that I offered to fill in for Woody anytime the Mule needed me. While everyone in the Mule camp was awash with grief and not sure of what the future might hold, Warren graciously thanked me for my offer.

As Thanksgiving approached and the holiday commercials began to flood the airwaves, the call came again: Warren wanted me to come to Asheville, North Carolina to play with the Mule for his annual "Xmas Jam" to benefit the local chapter of Habitat For Humanity. I agreed, thinking it would be a fun time and also help to break up my drive from Athens to my parents' home in Richmond.

Xmas Jam 2000 turned out to be a great time, the biggest in the event's history up until that point as the show had moved from the small clubs of Asheville to the Thomas Wolfe Auditorium. The Allman Brothers Band performed that night as well as the reunited Aquarium Rescue Unit (featuring Col. Bruce Hampton, no less). I took the stage with Gov't Mule, and we played a few more songs than we had at the One for Woody benefit earlier that fall. The Christmas spirit seemed to flow all around us, and much to my surprise, I discovered that the old Scrooge mood in me had lifted. In fact, I felt downright Christmas-y. I don't know if it was something in the eggnog backstage, but I found myself imbued with the spirit of giving and it painted a magical glow on everything around me. There was something truly wonderful about coming together with friends both onstage and off to change the lives of some folks that really needed some help. It seemed like a no-brainer: play some music, catch up with some friends, and help build a house.

Over the seven years or so I've played the Xmas Jam, I've had the great fortune to play with Gregg Allman, Bob Weir, Marty Stuart, Jorma Kaukonen, Bruce Hampton, Stockholm Syndrome and a host of others. And believe me, it has NEVER been work regardless of the amount of rehearsal time required for the gig. Beyond the musicians, it takes a whole lot of work to put this celebration on year after year. Despite the long hours and toil required of those who make this event happen, you will see nothing but smiles on their faces, and it's because they're getting something intangible in return for their labor. I believe it's the true spirit of giving.

Friends of Bill W. have a saying, "You keep what you have only by giving it away." I can personally amend that to say, "You can regain what you have lost only by giving it away."

Playing Xmas Jam gave Christmas back to me. Ask anyone who has seen me in Asheville at the Xmas Jam and they'll tell you that I always say, "My Christmas begins HERE." It feels great to do something positive for so many by doing something that I love so much. I can only imagine how Warren and his wife and manager Stefani Scamardo must feel.

I've seen the mayor of Asheville present Warren and Stefani with the key to the city more times than I can imagine. They must have a special shelf in their place just for those things! The city elders need to go ahead and just build a statue of Warren somewhere in Asheville. Just make sure it's made out of solid milk chocolate. Warren would like that.

Happy Holidays!

DAS

Artwork by Marq Spusta (www.marqspusta.com)

My Imaginary Visit to the Hard Rock Park

When I was a kid, my two cousins and I thought Myrtle Beach was actually called Murder Beach.

We were scared to go there, and the fact that our parents would try to diffuse our fear by saying things like, "At least it sounds nicer than Nag's Head or Kill Devil Hills," did very little to abate our apprehension.

Over the past 20 years, I figure I've played in Myrtle Beach with Widespread Panic more times than I care to remember. And I remember all of the gigs, from the earliest at The Afterdeck - basically an outdoor deck connected to the strip club known as Thee Doll House - to a massive gig at the local raceway. Most recently, our venue of choice has been the House of Blues in North Myrtle Beach.

During our last three-night stand down at the House of Blues, I was invited to check out the Hard Rock Park, an amusement park that had just opened a few miles away run by the same folks that own the Hard Rock Café and all the other mass-marketing mess associated with that particular brand.

I'll admit it: I was curious and a little bit frightened at the prospect. After all, nothing had put the fear into me more than wandering around the casino at the Hard Rock in Las Vegas a few years ago and seeing everything from Keith Moon's drumsticks to Joan Osborne's dress encased in glass like holy relics for all the tourists to drool over. Okay, maybe Keith's sticks merited it, but not Joan's dress or Vince Neil's collection of women's undergarments. The whole thing felt cheap and sickened me to the core. In my mind, some things are sacraments and others are just dirty and mundane. The corporatization of the music that made me who I am just felt wrong...kind of like most organized religion does to me. Despite my gut reaction, I looked up the Hard Rock Park on the web in anticipation of a possible visit. I was appalled, but not surprised, with what I saw:

• "Led Zeppelin: The Ride" is the big thrill-coaster where riders race at speeds up to 65 mph all to the tune of "Whole Lotta Love." I'll bet Page and Plant made a pretty penny on that deal, but wonder if Willie Dixon's estate ever got its due.

• "Nights in White Satin" is the haunted house at the Hard Rock theme park, which begs the question: was anything the Moody Blues ever did considered the least bit frightening, except possibly their brief appearance on MTV in the 80's?

• There's a bouncy house called the "Punk Pit" that advertises "slam dancing for the whole family." Now that's something unusual.

• There is even an attraction called the "Roadie Stunt Show" that allows onlookers to watch a hapless roadie on his first day of tour. Fascinating I'm sure to just about everybody, unless you're one of the lucky few who set up gear and deal with prima-donna rock stars for a living.

• Perhaps the most intriguing attraction is called "The Magic Mushroom Garden." Seriously. This is a place where children of all ages can climb and play on soft, colorful mushrooms. I guess it's no worse than the infamous spinning teacup ride at Disney World that I was so fond of as a child ...just without all the projectile vomiting.

After checking out the website, I went to bed conflicted over my pending visit to Hard Rock Park the next day. Everything I loved about rock music had been co-opted into utter silliness like some kind of heretical cartoon....and all for the profit of someone who at one time probably loved rock ‘n' roll as much as I did. And worst of all, it was neatly packaged and "fit for the whole family!"

Whether it was my own mixed emotions about visiting the park, or something freaky I ate, my dreams that night were plagued by nightmarish visions of other "attractions" I might encounter should I decide to go. Thus, in all good humor, here's what I remember from my imaginary visit to the Hard Rock Park in Myrtle Beach:

• After a few drinks at "Bonham's Vodka Bar" (23 shots, minimum), proceed immediately to "The Randy Rhodes Airplane Experience" and try to buzz the tour bus.

• For a little more down-to-Earth experience, give "Keith Moon's Destruction Derby Bumper Cars" a shot. Just make sure you aren't dressed as his limo driver!

• The park's creators are very concerned for the safety of their patrons so in front of every thrill ride is a life-sized cardboard cutout of Ronnie James Dio that says, "You must be at least this tall to shout at the devil on this ride!"

• Getting tired of those screaming brats? Drop them off at "Gary Glitter's Baby Sitting Service." Don't worry about a thing: the kids are in good hands!

• Be sure to visit "The Iggy & the Stooges Funhouse," consisting of a long, dark hallway filled with broken light bulbs and peanut butter. If you make it out unharmed, a lucrative publishing deal and commercial licensing opportunities await!

• If you really want a scary experience, try "Jerry Garcia's Deadhead Tour Express Train," a forty-five minute ride though a bad acid trip all set to the tune of 12 different poorly recorded bootleg versions of "Dark Star" playing AT THE SAME TIME. Free Ben & Jerry's ice cream during the drum solo!

• Towels are provided free of charge, but no sun block is needed if you want to take a permanent dip in the "Brian Jones Memorial Swimming Pool."

• Be sure to bring a handkerchief as you stroll through the memories in "Mark David Chapman's Gallery of Shooting Stars." Pow!
Besides the more obvious rock ‘n' roll rides, there are also a few intellectually stimulating attractions for the indie-rock shoe gazers in every crowd:

• Check out Wayne Coyne's one-man performance of Hal Holbrook doing Mark Twain's monologues. The quirky and cerebral white-suited leader of The Flaming Lips adds his own spin to Holbrook's revered reading of America's foremost humorist by performing inside of a huge, clear plastic gerbil ball.

• Try your skill at the "Axl Rose Midway of Difficult Performers." Games like "Find Jeff Mangum," "What Kind of Band is Built To Spill Anyway," and "Will Ryan Adams Actually Show Up?" test your mental prowess and teach kids valuable lessons. You could even win your very own Wynona Ryder kewpie doll!
And realizing that all kinds of emotional stress can occur during a visit to the amusement park, management proudly offers certified therapeutic counseling in the Psych Ward:

• Arguing with your spouse? Just ask Sid or Nancy for some sage advice for couples!

• Feeling depressed? Kurt or Elliott will talk you out of falling on that butter knife!

• For those with really deep-seeded problems, we recommend several sessions in the sandbox sanitarium with Brian. For best results, be sure to wear a colorful Hawaiian surf shirt!

Lost in the park? Be sure to see one of our many tour guides dressed as Sufjan Stevens, who will compose a topographical song on the spot to help you get to where you're going!

Need a bite to eat? Scattered throughout the park are several "Elvis Presley's Blue Suede Diner," where visitors can ingest the South's most artery-clogging fare with free Metamucil chasers for the olds and Ex-Lax for the young. If only the King had known about the wonders of regularity, he might still be with us today!
And don't miss the park's thrilling main attraction: John Entwistle's Roller Coaster Tour of Las Vegas. Start off with your very own heart condition, high-priced escort, and eight ball of cocaine in your penthouse suite and end up in the county morgue! Don't worry, your longtime bandmates will go ahead and start their tour without you!

It's kinda ironic that this last attraction was the final stop in my imaginary visit to the Hard Rock Park. After all, it was at the Hard Rock Hotel in Vegas where John Entwistle spent his final hours. Perhaps he had a premonition of the future of his legacy and that vision was the Hard Rock Park in Myrtle Beach. Or maybe he decided to check out early the only way he knew how: like a real rock star.

God bless you, John!

DAS

Dave Schools blames his strange affection for submarine movies on the 20-plus years he's spent in a tour bus with Widespread Panic. When not blogging for BLURT or playing bass in front of thousands of screaming fans, Dave likes to dance...tap dance.

Photo by Josh Miller