Family
Mom, Dad, and David
My mother is the only survivor in this picture. My eldest brother, David, passed away first. He was an alcoholic. I still wonder if it was environment or chemistry: his biological machine was defective in several ways, and there did not seem to be a cure. Talking to him was often a challenge, because his mid seemed to run in loops that he just couldn’t escape—most strident in his conversations with me was the theme “it’s never too late to get an education.” When I last saw him, he seemed happy that I finally made it back to that task.
My father drank hard all the way into his sixties; then he quit abruptly. He retired early from his job tending oilfield machines; superheated steam was his specialty. He hated that job for 30 years. We moved from Ventura, California to Bakersfield when I was six years old. It was a forced transfer—no one wanted to go. David was nineteen then, and in college working on a degree in electrical engineering. He stayed in Ventura, working for the defense contractor Raytheon.
Festive
Happy holidays
Corrosion Research Center
I thought it was great that the University of Minnesota had such a thing. Rust never sleeps, you know.
Another review of the show I don't agree with. Ended tepidly? I'll agree with the searching for universal truths thing, but when you're performing harmonic experiments (somewhat like Coltrane) "resolution" isn't what you're really looking for. It seems interesting to me that the writer calls Pegi Young's set "amiable" when the most memorable tune to me was something about blood, a reflection on Neil's near death a couple of years ago from a brain aneurysm. Amiable is not an adjective I would use to describe that song.
Tommorow and the Day Before Yesterday
I can’t stop thinking about the tongue-in-cheek comment Neil Young made about “there was always more.” I took it as a backhanded slap at nostalgia, a bit uncharacteristic of a “greenie.” Going through some old links, I stopped to have a look at this Tom Snyder montage. I really can’t remember whether I liked him or not—I don’t think I did. His sideburns always seemed like they were on the attack, and he never seemed to have much of a grasp of the issues. But the clip near the end of John Lennon saying that the reason people become performers is to “get a little extra” made me smile. I don’t think Snyder got the joke any better than the Star Tribune reporter did. Today, I noticed that most fans are reporting a different experience.
But the bit at the end of the clip where Howard Cosell accuses Snyder of being a shill for the network bosses is the best part. It brings out another cliché stated well by Bob Dylan: “You gotta serve somebody.” I suspect it is scariest when the biases (and masters) are hidden. A few commentators have suggested that the centerpiece of the current Neil Young tour is the song “No Hidden Path.” Everyone talks about the groove, but no one talks about the substance. For some, it’s an instant classic—for others, a recycled dirge.
Times Change
As I alluded to a month or so ago, I did go see Neil Young at the Northrup Auditorium last night. I have been doing a lot of thinking about the life unnarrated— as I’ve been busy not narrating mine—but I felt alright about breaking the silence for a moment to compare and contrast this experience with the last time I saw Neil at the Los Angeles Sports Arena.
Fifteen years ago, Rex and I stood most of the night behind a cute Japanese couple in the middle of the sidelines, looking sideways at Neil and Crazy Horse on a fairly distant stage. The crowd was mixed, and as I recall pretty well behaved with grey long-hairs and young kids who looked like they might have been conceived while their parents listened to Neil. The couple in front of us offered their binoculars, which Rex rapidly took advantage of to scope out all the details (down to the knob settings) on the amplifiers. The sound was huge. I remember thinking to myself that it was tailor made for such a large space because it loomed and rumbled and needed some distance to really pick up momentum.
Last night seemed like it might have been sort of a “night at church,” but with some key differences. Behind Krista and I, there was a Russian or Slavic couple who just couldn’t shut-up during Pegi Young’s set. Though we were all packed in our pews, moderately sized little red seats, people just kept filing in and out chattering loudly for the first half hour. It just seemed rude, somehow—at $100 a ticket, I really didn’t want to listen to them. But I became more intrigued by the couple in front of us, who just couldn’t stop playing with their iPhone. They were surfing the net during every break, and it looked as if they might doze off at any moment during the show. After Neil started the acoustic set, you could have heard a pin drop for a little while (other than the usual caterwauling from the people who love to hear themselves shout erupting once or twice per song).
When Neil made a mistake, starting “Love is a Rose” in completely the wrong key, —he said “Guess I better go home now.” There was some moaning and booing, and then he said—“Wait a minute—I am home. I grew up just north of here. You all make mistakes at home, don’t you? That should be all right.” There were very few mistakes that I noticed in the performance, but a few have popped up in the “reports” of the event. Neil commented that there were a lot of ducks around here; then said that there once were more—there was always more— “Grandpa says that the geese used to blot out the sky.” Somehow, the local reporter thought that the comment was cryptic. I don’t get it. I also don’t get the evaluation of a show based on the number of “hits” played.
But more than anything, I was offended by the heckler shouting at the painter onstage (part of the vaudeville set shtick): “Get off the stage, this isn’t a movie!” Minnesota nice my ass. I was really embarrassed by the crowd, who sat politely except when they were being idiots. Comparing this show to the LA show I witnessed before (which became part of the Weld movie), the most significant difference was the increase in the number of bald spots—and idiots. Maybe I’m just more intolerant now, or just sober.
