I'll Sleep When I'm Dead

One of the tenets that some of us – especially those who have lost people before their time – generally operate under is to live well, as life is all too short. Appreciate the good things while you have them, stop and smell Rose’s . . . those kinds of credos that most people say but far fewer employ.

Regrets . . . I’ve had a few, but most of them that stick in my memory are of paths not taken, events passed up on for reasons that seem silly in retrospect. Weddings, road trips, sporting events, and, quite frequently, concerts. The moment-in-time gatherings that you hear about later and wonder why on earth you missed it.

Case in point, the Primus / Fishbone show at the Boathouse circa 1991. I had an exam the next day. There’s no way I studied / didn’t drink / passed the test, right? From what the guys said, it was an all-timer.

On Saturday I got into an intoxicating (-ed) conversation about rock and roll icons I’m glad I got to see before they were gone. Jerry, Joey, Jimmy (before he went for the gold and started to suck), etc. Our friend Otis stands atop the heap, having seen Elvis as a young kid.

For me, the one that got away was Joe Strummer and/or The Clash. Word in the Strummerville circles was that a reunion was . . . well, if not imminent, then a distinct possibility. Joe and Mick had buried the hatchets of years past, Topper was cleaned up, and Paul was still hanging around the industry. Then Joe Strummer had a fatal heart attack right before Christmas nine years ago, and that was that. I couldn’t fall back on memories of The Clash at William & Mary Hall in 1982, because I wasn’t there. Too young back then, and by the time I was in high school, that was that for The Only Band That Matters. I should’ve sought out a Joe solo show but never did. Shoulda coulda woulda. That was that.

Which leads me to yesterday. Father’s Day, and I awoke to a newspaper story about the Big Man heading off to the promised land. Very sad stuff for those who knew him, and kind of a bummer for those who would have loved to see him stroll down the archway one more time. I’m just pleased I got to see the E Street ensemble a number of times.

In September of ’99, I missed the first couple of days of a family Maine trip to make my 3rd Springsteen show of the week. Took some heat. Worth it. Bruce had just reunited with the full band, and it was their first East Coast tour. Our friend Cricket had a ticket connection, and she generously got me tickets to a trio of shows at the MCI Center in DC.

The third night I was in the 13th row, and our late, great chum Evan rode his motorcycle up from Georgia to see the show with me. He remains the biggest Springsteen fan I’ve met, though I’m certain his equivalent exists in scores of towns in the Garden State, around Philly, and in states and countries everywhere. Anyway, if you aren’t the superfan of the band you’re seeing, it’s a close second to be with someone who is. Insights and Pabsts were shared all night, and it was another brilliant set from the greatest collection of showmen (and showwoman) I’ve witnessed.

Which leads me back to yesterday. My morning featured quick visits with my dad and then my stepdad, handing them some Johnnie Walker black and cards that included more heartfelt sentiments than I’ve offered them in the past. The recent spate of good friends losing their dads and my own two experiencing health issues certainly warranted it. Okay, it was warranted regardless, but sometimes dudes can be stubborn.

After that, I took my daughters to the beach. Can’t beat it.

Finally, we get to my point: I was pretty beat, had a few in me, and thought about blowing off nighttime plans in favor of an early bed. Nah . . .

Instead, I went to see Phish at Portsmouth, VA’s NTelos Pavilion. One of the best venues I know, for those looking at their favorite bands’ dockets. Intimate amphitheater on the river. Meanwhile, I’d never seen Phish before; I know a fair bit of their stuff but had missed out on the space landings at Hampton Coliseum in years past. Last night was worth the trip.

I thought the show was phenomenal. Sounded amazing, huge energy, and although they didn’t do any of the stage antics of their lore (e.g., descending to the stage in a large hot dog), they pulled one stunt: they brought their four fathers on stage for a little banter and appreciation, followed by their children. Winsome.

And here’s where it wraps up . . . in a modest, not showy way, they paid tribute. Middle of the first set, without ado, they started in on “Thunder Road.” They had no sax to perform “Jungleland” or something more Clarence’s style, nor would they want to even try. After the song:

“Thanks, you guys. Thanks for puttin’ up with a little shakiness. We learned that from a place of real love. That was for the great Clarence Clemons, who passed away yesterday.”

And then directly on to the next song. I was surprised and impressed. Mainly I’m just glad I went last night. Surrounded by a slew of friends, many beverages, and a rock and roll show I’d not seen before, I was living well, since life is all too short.




. . . and so is Rob. DAMMIT, I tried, little buddy, I just couldn't make my way through it.