Culture, Entertainment, Music

Tom Rush: Concerts and Conquering COVID

“Normal” is something we all want to retrieve. It’s out there somewhere, some day. Mean time, here is a great example of a guy who just won’t quit, despite the continuous obstructions of a COVID lockdown.

Tom Rush is a singer entertainer from the near dark but enlightened ages of the 60s. He has remained musical, entertaining and present even today, despite the virtually complete shut down of group entertainment.

If you are of, or enjoy the 60’s-70’s vintage of coffee house music, Tom Rush is part of your past and hopefully present. We first listened to this bluesy story teller at the Riverboat in Toronto. Hailing from Massachusetts, he made the trip north to hang out with Gord Lightfoot, Joni Mitchell, Jim Kweskin, Eric Anderson, Richie Havens, James Taylor and Livingston Taylor and a host of other free-range folk singers entertaining small groups in Yorkville, Toronto’s original coffee house district.

While many entertainers went to the big stage, Tom Rush centered himself in small gatherings of a 100 fans or so. He delivered a rich medley of stories and songs that telegraphed heartaches, pains, humor, trains, cowboys, dirty deed doers and other colorful characters. His presence was magnetic, personal, and his shows were always full.

Fast forward 50 years and we find that Tom is still composing, strumming and singing, seemingly unaware he was supposed to retire. Did not get the memo. He has a website and a newsletter, and a regular itinerary up and down the east coast, and occasionally wandering into the Carolinas and the Midwest. The venues remain the same: small crowds sitting at tables tapping their feet and soaking up the vibes.

So what do you do when a pandemic shuts down the tour? Many entertainers escaped to the islands. Others are on their boats. Some have postponed concerts and floated out new dates a year or so into the future. But who knows? Meanwhile, they sit by their phones and wait for a call to get their vaccination.

Tom took a different approach. He went back to his website followers, and invited them to sign up for a weekly concert. Rockport Sundays is just that: a podcast from his kitchen in Rockport Mass. It is available for streaming every Sunday morning. At a measly $10 a month, his fans get a morning wake up call where Rush and his genius accompanist Matt Nakoa perform a song, tell a story, and just tune in for 10 minutes or so. It is a comfortable setting, with Rush maybe shoeless, surrounded by some beautiful guitars, and frequently flanked by Nakoa and his six foot wide keyboard, totally COVID compliant.

The experience is profound. This guy was a folk blues icon when most of his fans were just getting into university. For more than half a century (ouch) he has not let go. In fact he has grown into our present as a constant reminder of where we came from. And the beauty is, it’s current stuff. He sings old songs, tells stories about his many travels and sidekicks, but also unloads new music. Through it all, the website allows for comments, and would you not know it? He responds.

If you like a little bit of kitchen table music and playing, dressed up with a background story, you should check out Rockport Sundays. It is indeed a treat.

It actually feels a bit like normal.

childhood, Culture, Entertainment, Uncategorized

Those Thrilling Days Of Yesteryear

If I could imagine anything better, I would. It just happens that the COVID lockdown has actually delivered an unintended dividend which has captured my conscious state most every day. Cowboys and horses.

I am not much of a daytime TV viewer, but as we are under a house arrest, since March 2020 for the record, I have seen a lot more TV than I ever dreamed. The center of my attention has been a parade of cowboy shows: Gunsmoke, Bonanza, Laredo, Alias Smith & Jones, The Virginian, Branded, Rifleman, Palladin.

The Virginian: great viewing while under COVID house arrest.

Now you may think that I have dissolved my brain and body into a bowl of mush after viewing these chestnuts. Not quite, but I have come to discover the glory days of TV-show series productions that no longer grace our screens. The “horse opera”, or “oater” was edged out in the mid-70s. They fell ratings-victims to the more glib sit-coms, pant-suited police shows, and family drama shows.

In the 60s, and I mean 1960s, we sat as entranced kids, knees akimbo, or chins on hands, hunched in front of the black and white TV watching westerns like Bonanza. But a decade before that popular series began, we could choose to witness the escapades of Wild Bill Hickok, The Lone Ranger, Hop Along Cassidy, The Cisco Kid, Rin Tin Tin, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers and Cheyenne.

The 50s: those thrilling days of yesteryear.

There are plenty more, and just to check them off for you detail-minders: Gunsmoke, Have Gun Will Travel, Rawhide, Wells Fargo, Maverick, Bronco, Wanted, Dead or Alive, to name the many.

But by the 70s these had mostly been displaced by shows that deleted three items from our consciousness: cowboy hats, six-shooters and horses.

Instead, we alternately suffered or enjoyed the Partridge Family, Odd Couple, Three’s Company, Jeffersons, 8 is Enough, All In the Family, Brady Bunch, Mary Tyler Moore, Happy Days and Here’s Lucy. There are more, but let this marquee of family-centric shows suffice.

The horse, the hat, the six-shooter: all gone.

In the time that many of us breached puberty, we had lost the thrill of leather, cattle, wagons and corrals. We were deep into relationships.

I realized this as I settled in to a season’s COVID binge of cowboy shows. My realization also cast some light on a lost art and science of TV and movie production. Actors needed to master these techniques: riding a horse, drawing a six-shooter, faking a jaw-breaking punch, managing a team of horses and wagon, staunchly taking a bullet to the shoulder, shooting while galloping, sipping mugs of sudsy beer and bolting shots of bad whiskey frequently. The broader science of running a herd of cattle comes to mind as well.

I mention these activities, because they are gone from sight. Hollywood can’t do it any more. Yet they were at the time, a serious accomplishment, a competency equal in every way to playing professional sports, race car driving, gymnastics and kick lines. You can’t fake it.

As a young kid, I was immersed in these early cowboy shows and learned the swagger, the tilt of the hat, the quick draw, and taking the eventual body shot that required a complete tumble, head over heels and into the dirt.

Budding cowpoke, ranch hand and saddle tramp.

The High Production Quality That Followed

There are two family shows, both from the 70s, which I do admire for their high production quality and diverse, detailed stage production: Little House On The Prairie, and The Waltons.

Little House boasted a full fictional community in Walnut Grove, Minnesota during the 1870-1890s. In 204 episodes viewers were taken into the workplaces of the saw mill, Oleson’s General Store, the church, the ice house, the school, the post office, the bank, Nellie’s restaurant, and Doc Baker’s office. We sat at the table of the Ingalls, the Olesons, the Garveys, Mr.Edwards and the blind school.

Little House On The Prairie–Quality Production

All the while, we followed Laura, Mary, Albert Ingalls and all of their school friends over the fields, through the streets, and to the ponds and streams. Sometimes they rode horses, plowed dirt rows, delivered calves, milked cows, fed chickens and held piglets in their arms. In spectacular scenes they climbed mountain sides, rode railway cabooses, forged steel bells and ran through burning houses. Where do you see that today?

The Walton’s gave us a rural mountain picture of life in the 30s to 40s with the same comprehensive production settings: a two-story farm house, a 1929 Model AA Ford truck, a cow named Chance, a working saw mill, Blue the docile mule, Reckless the dog, Rover, the occasional peacock, plus a menagerie of other pets and wildlife. The characters lasted for almost the entire series of 221 episodes. We watched as they worked the mill, cut and dipped fence posts, drove their jalopies to school, visited Ike Godsie’s General Store, hiked the back woods, went to church and college, sat at the kitchen table, circled around the radio, birthed calves… these scenes aren’t happening on TV any more.

For the record, Little House was mostly shot around the Big Sky Ranch in the Simi Valley, all under the direction of Ed Friendly Productions.The Waltons was filmed around Hollywood Hills and Burbank by Lorimar productions. Walton’s Mountain itself was on the backside of the same chunk of granite that displays the Hollywood sign.

I am not criticizing the state of television viewing today. But I am marveling at just how full an education the young actors and actresses of Waltons and Little House received.

And at the same time, what young viewers also learned from these classic family shows. Waltons and Ingalls children took their viewers out of their homes, out of the cities and alleys, and gave them some wide open spaces to enjoy and appreciate.

When this COVID blows away, I hope we get outside some more. Mean time, there’s Wagon Train.

Thanks for reading! Take a preview at my latest book, Norfolk Chronicles, a treasury of 50 tales, sightings and vignettes from the tobacco fields, alleys and roads of Norfolk County, and Delhi, my hometown.

childhood, Culture, Entertainment

Down At The Rink – 3

The Delhi Arena: Home of the Ice Carnival

The Delhi arena was our community center. It housed our public skating in winter and summer, our hockey teams, our figure skaters, our bike races, wrestling matches and the odd magic show. But chief among its attractions was the Ice Carnival, that happened every March.

Small towns like Delhi enjoy a trait you can’t find in a big city: togetherness. The Ice Carnival brought together hundreds of parents, children, fans, performers, business leaders, round-the-corner store owners, and just as many more contributors who worked tirelessly in the background, unknown to many of us as they mobilized for this annual event.

Juniors in full clown get-up.

The Delhi Figure Skating Club put on the Ice Carnival. This was the capstone to four months of figure skating instruction. Youngsters would show up every Wednesday afternoon to learn the basics of skating. They scrabbled over weak ankles and catchy toe picks that tripped them every time they moved. Yet four months later, they had mastered forwards, backwards, modest hops and skips, and skating hand in hand with their groups. The Intermediate and Senior skaters appeared on Wednesday and Saturday evenings, and had learned or polished their ability to execute spins and mid-air jumps, dances in pairs and precise figures.

Fulfilling the dream of being the next star on ice.

All of these accomplishments were the fulfillment of many parents’ dreams of one day seeing their child be the next Karen Magnussen or Toller Cranston. But in the short term, they would be happy just to see them applauded as a star on ice, and that’s what the carnival promised.

The themes generated ideas for costumes and duets.

Every year the DFSC would choose a theme. Maybe one time it was Peter Pan, or Wizard of Oz. The musical Gypsy was nominated one year. Other times it was Deep In The Heart of Texas, Nutcracker and Aladdin. The theme became the platform for choosing characters which might be Munchkins, or gum drops, Tinkerbell, scarecrows, clowns, broncos, cowgirls, roughnecks, roses, skunks, elephants, pink panthers, candy canes, Belles of The Ball, you name it.

It was a war effort of volunteerism, sewing 100’s of costumes.

The carnival ignited a war effort of volunteerism. The juniors show would require possibly 200 costumes. And for each of these, a mother would get a pattern which might be for a teddy bear, to be sewn in three segments. If she couldn’t deliver, there were sewing dynamos who were skater mothers like Jackie Byron, Hazel Osborne, Yvonne Kelleher, Georgette Rapai, Marjorie Klein who would bang out ten teddy bear costumes, or fifteen skunks with stuffed tails, as long as you brought the material.

A milk maid with her charges.

The theme was rounded out with backdrop and props. Moms and dads would show up to staple 40-inch tin foil around the entire boards of the rink, and string electric lights. Under the direction of Gord Franklin, sheets of plywood and lengths of 2x4s would appear, and were pounded into scenery walls across the back end of the rink. Teams of painters would arrive with buckets of tempera to draw forests, and houses, and oil wells, windmills and whimsical street scenes.

Odd man out: boys were in high demand.

Truly, if there were 200 skaters in the carnival, there were 200 parents who helped sew, paint, build and deliver. One year we required 30 tambourines for a big number. With some ingenuity Cy Stapleton acquired enough steel pie plates into which he cut and welded flattened, perforated bottle caps that rattled raucously. Not quite symphonic, but still impressive.

A Swiss Miss with smiling escort.

The music was key for the Ice Carnival. Under the direction of Floyd Thomas, the Delhi Band would practise and perform perhaps 20 different tunes and bumper segments to bring our solos, dances and parades to life.

The Delhi Community Band delivered sound and rhythm to mobilize the acts.

Meanwhile at the business end of the production, every skater was assigned a group of tickets to sell. These challenges were as daunting as a walk to the principal’s office. Neighbourhoods were canvassed door-to-door by mumbling, addled urchins with handfuls of card-sized tickets, going for $2,$3,$4 each. We were exhorted to get them all sold, or don’t come home.

Elves waiting backstage for their cue.

As the day approached, dress rehearsals were convened, and under the stressful din of our instructors we were given our routines. The Juniors were herded in groups of ten or fifteen. Their performance consisting of a couple tours around the ice, perhaps a rotating ring or parade of bunny hops. The more accomplished were picked to do solos. The soloists usually got exclusive costumes with more colors or frills or trim. They were stars.

The girls were dressed in sequins, gloves and tiaras.

The intermediates and seniors had more complex routines to maneuver and there were more opportunities for truly gifted skaters to create and perform solos and duets, showing off impressive turns, spins, jumps and speed. They looked special, and the crowds loved them.

There were always a few dance numbers. A dozen or more seniors would waltz around the ice while the band played. The Averys, a very senior and elegant visiting couple would skate the equivalent of a ballroom dance, dressed in tails and evening gown. They glided around the rink, gracefully, classy, smiling and wowing the audience with their apparent ease on ice.

The guys grabbed all the comedy routines, in ridiculous outfits.

Ice Carnivals also provided comic humour, and the few remaining senior guys, Paul and George Rapai, Skip Lumley, Mike Byron, Chris Brown, Rob Lammens, contributed. The crowds enjoyed their romps in weird cow costumes, throwing confetti into the bleachers, riding steel wash buckets, pedaling two-seated bicycles backwards on tacked tires, skipping rope and lassoing each other.

The Precision Line on ice was spectacular, and good.

One legacy of the Ice Carnival was its famous precision line. While most of us at the time did not know of the Rockettes, it was certainly the model after which the senior girls and ladies were instructed. Thirty or more would appear in stunning short-skirted outfits, embellished with ruffles, ribbon, sequins and gloves to dazzle the crowd with powerful confident moves in unison, rocking and skating to the up tempo sounds from the band. They circled, counter-circled, wiggled and swayed, and finally lined up to deliver a jaw-dropping kick line forwards and backwards. The precision team became a show piece in the region for years after under the direction of Karen Haskins.

Wizard of Oz, in full dress.

All of these things are indelibly etched in my memory for the years that I participated. The experience of putting on a show, the excitement and tension of huddling behind a backdrop, surrounded by giggling groups of pretty girls, goofy guys dressed in party gear and faces smeared in grease paint, lipstick and Nivea cold creme like Mardi Gras, waiting for a cue…and the music would start up, the lights dimmed, the spots went on, out we went, and the crowds would cheer… it was a special time.

Thanks for reading and sharing! I hope you too remember a special time when you were down at the rink!

Culture, Entertainment, Music, Thank You

Stones: They Gather No Moss

63,000 showed up for night two of the #nofilter tour

Two hours, 25 songs, superbly prepared and shared.

The Rolling Stones visited Soldier Field last night. 63,000 showed up to welcome them. Someone remarked that they had been together for 55 years..crazy!

Actually, based on the details I read off the back of a worn tour shirt two rows down in front of me, they have been making music for 57 years.

It is not surprising that they are here, despite their frenetic flight path. The secret is, they make good music. Music that lasts and spans generations of fans.

I know this by their choice of “support” band that played for 40 minutes before the Stones. The warm up band, which will remain anonymous, came from a different generation.

Brought up from Texas, they are labeled as a southern rock band. They served up about 8 songs which were excruciating. Loud, atonal, angry, scowling and screeching, viciously hammering their guitars, they daisy-cut the audience. Not that the audience mattered, because they never noticed we were there. Even their soft song was strident and angry. When they strode off the stage the applause was one of acknowledgement of the effort, and thanks…for getting off the stage.

But back to the Stones. Lest we forget, they have been an item since 1962, so they are audience-tested, and found worthy. Last night they packaged the evening with a controlled energy that never quit.

The Stones packaged the evening with a controlled energy that never quit.

They played for two hours, delivering 25 songs. The sound system was the same as the warm up band, but the product was superbly better, which might be the genius of the Stones. They showed us how good rock and roll can be, with considerably less effort and volumes more goodwill.

Keith Richards subtly picked his iconic riffs.

The music was real music: recognizable melodies obviously, but prepared so elegantly.

Keith Richards subtly picked his iconic riffs without raising a sweat. Ronnie Woods rippled across the frets, and smiled to the audience like a proud chef building a plate. Charlie Watts at the age of 78 worked the drums for two straight hours without pause. You would expect he had forearms like Popeye, but no, he is a smaller, diminuitive man who executes with precision and focus, but not brute force.

And of course, Sir Mick danced across all of our heads smiling, exhorting, cheering us and the band on. We were his pets for the evening. It’s amazing what a heart valve tune-up can do for the soul.

It’s every rocker’s wish that the Stones will keep on delivering. Maybe for the concerts, the community, the culture, but mostly because they have continued to produce good, clever, memorable music–a formidable and treasured body of work over 57 years. It’s loud, but not abusive, rhythmic but not staccato, well played, and best of all, you can sing along, which we all did.

Culture, Entertainment, Music

Hall, Oates, And A Soundtrack That Won’t Quit

The kids in leather, and launched.

We missed Hall & Oates the first time around, but 40 years later they paid us back with a superb performance in Toronto in June.

Years ago, the music of this creative duo crept into our consciousness with Blue Room’s rendition of “Every Time You Go Away” in Planes, Trains and Automobiles.

Little did I fathom at the time that he had covered this wistful piece from one of the truly great composing partnerships of the 70s and 80s.

The tiny Apple Nano: 1200 songs in a Saltine.

Still unaware of Hall & Oates, I next captured “One On One” on my Apple Nano about 4 years ago.

Buying the Nano was an awakening long overdue. I was looking for a storage device to hold some music that I was collecting: a couple lost decades of 70s-80s Pop melodies that I had shunned during my Folk and Classic Country years.

One day I was in Best Buy when I asked a helper,

“How many songs can I get on this little Nano?” It was about the same size as a Saltine cracker, but sturdier. Its black crystal hinted at deep, magical powers.

She answered, “About 1200.”

I laughed, “I don’t know 1200 songs!”

Four years later we have 957 cuts on the Nano, which include about twelve from our happiest discovery: Hall & Oates.

That evolved when I was given a publicity CD at a Direct Marketing Association trade show. ULine, a container company–you know, “boxes”— somehow concluded that a free CD of 15 H&O cuts in a ULine-branded sleeve was a good giveaway item to promote itself to mail order companies.

The Molson Amphitheater on a warm evening by the lake.

Not knowing who Hall & Oates were, I stuffed the CD into a drawer and didn’t retrieve it for a year or so. One day I popped it into a player, and heard the iconic “Out of Touch” composed by John Oates.

My wife perked up when she heard “Kiss On My List”,

“I love that song! Who is this?”

“It’s Hall & Oates. You know them?”

“Nope, but I love this song. What else is on the CD?”

With that we rolled through their top hits repertoire, and pinched ourselves several times as we knew these songs, but had never connected the composers.

An enthused Hall & Oates fan arrives early.

The upshot is twofold. First, we needed to get to a Hall & Oates concert. Second, we now recognized ULine as a brand of… boxes. That learning process took about 5 years, but I hope some advertising manager somewhere is having a small vindicating shiver, a frisson, right now, much to their puzzlement.

—Which brought us to the Molson Amphitheater on the waterfront of Toronto, looking out on Lake Ontario.

Daryl Hall lights up on Man Eater.

This open air concert venue seats about 5,000 under the roof, and another 1,500 or so up on the lawn. On a warm summer evening, with a cooling humid breeze coming off the lake, one can’t find a better place to enjoy a live concert.

There are auditoriums and arenas for McCartney, The Stones and Bruno Mars, but you are one of 60,000 fans holding your ears. Instead, the Molson Amphitheater is the happiest compromise of a concert crowd and intimacy rolled into one.

The ticket prices are good, and there is no more politely enthused and amicable concert fan than a Canadian. Every performance we have attended at the Amphitheater evokes a heartfelt thank you from the performers about how welcome, and safe, they feel in Toronto.

Wow! It must be pretty tough everywhere else.

Oates is the Yin in this timeless duo.

Our mental image of Hall & Oates is locked in the 70s. A couple young guys, with hair and rugged good looks. Up close today, on the jumbotron, it’s 40 years later. But the genes still hold their ground.

Even better, so does their music.

Predictably, they opened with Maneater, a solid up tempo number that had the audience on its feet in an instant. What followed was a succession of hits from the 70s: Sarah Smile, She’s Gone, It’s A Laugh, Kiss On My List.

A friendly Toronto on Lake Ontario

Somewhere half way through their performance Daryl Hall hung up his guitar and went to the keyboard, which was a delight. The camera focused on his hands pounding these hypnotic chords for 8, 12, 16 bars, typical of their best songs where the lyrics open only after the background music is solidly in place.

Hall’s voice has great range. It’s remarkably soulful up on the high notes, and he is completely unchained in front of 5,000 fans, delivering melody and passion. Meanwhile, he works the keyboard with complex chords, lots of 8-fingered flats and sharps, in minor and major…a true believer of “black keys matter”.

Their music is complex, melodic, and memorable.

John Oates is the journeyman guitarist. He switches between several during the night, and works up and down the neck effortlessly. Strutting across the stage he occasionally sides up to Hall, which is the only time you see the physical Yin/Yang of these two: Oates the significant counterbalance to the tall and blonde Hall.

There is a third component to the Hall & Oates sound and that is the roving saxophone of Charles DeChant. This ponytailed magician nuances every tune with mellow contemplation. His signature delivery is an extended solo in “I Can’t Go For That, No Can Do” which really stretches the boundaries of contemplation to hard core introspection. Too long for my taste, but for many, right on.

The group returns for two ovations. We can’t get enough.

The team comes out for two ovations, after prolonged applause. They close with Private Eyes and then back again with Rich Girl, which by then has the audience screaming for more.

But no more, they bid good night.

The genius of this pair is their melodic creativity. It is complex music: hard to dance to I think, but easily remembered, expansive tunes that you can hum long after the hall goes silent.

Indeed, the tunes play over and over, inside my head. After walking 9 holes of golf I have re-sung Private Eyes a hundred times without thinking.

Unfortunately, I can also wake up at 3am, and still have the soundtrack bouncing along, varied, hypnotic, and without cease.

Thanks for reading! If you are an H&O fan, you will find their tour dates here.

Culture, Entertainment, Music, Thank You

America’s Time Warp – 2

The marquee at The Packard Music Hall

How We Came To See America

Forty-six years after their first concert, we finally saw America, that classic rock band that formed the soundtrack for many of us in the 70s.

Had it not been for the accidental bump into Bill Worrell, their genius lead guitar, we may have still missed an unforgettable concert, just this week, in historic Warren Ohio.

After meeting Worrell, we followed America’s tour schedule and targeted the closest drive to see them. We bought two seats at the Packard Music Hall for June 15 in Warren, Ohio, an hour outside of Cleveland. This venue was a small, old, yellow brick auditorium which seemed an unlikely spot for a famous group to appear. But with some reassurance from the folks at our hotel, we headed into town.

W.D. Packard, builder of the Packard automobile provided for a music hall in his estate. That building didn’t materialize for some years, but eventually, in 1955 it opened, and became the home of the W.D. Packard Concert Band. The hall since then has attained renown for its regular hosting of concerts for all tastes. It is the go-to place for music in Trumbull County. You would liken it to a small Ryman Auditorium.

70s– life is good and easy.

Our image of America consists of three young faces with lots of hair. But neat. Their album covers telegraph thoughtful rock melody, with some leather and tie-dye. We weren’t sure what to expect, but given that they graduated from high school in 1969, a quick look in our mirror would set the tone.

Driving down Mahoning Street in Warren, we sense an event about to take off. Warren is a grand old city, but it has endured some devastating challenges with the collapse of the Ohio steel industry. Our earlier drive across West Market Street coming into town is heartbreaking and disturbing. Urban decay in full bloom.

But here, on Mahoning, the cars–all new, all shiny, SUVs and hobby convertibles– signify that money has arrived. The parking security wave us in like ground control, and we are placed within bumper distance of a classic 80s Corvette. The crowds are moving to the doors, and after scanning our online tickets, we are admitted to the front room.

Our Crowd Packs In

The Packard only seats 2,500 fans. So this event will be close, and if not intimate, still friendly, unlike the massive takes at the United Center in Chicago.

Some happy fans, these sisters and cousins are here to hear their band.

Around us, pony tails, tees, shorts, and sandals abound. And those are the men. Beside them are women outfitted in jewelry, dresses, capris and well made up. This crowd is the picture of the Boomer: under 50, over 70, need not apply. They are a happy, satisfied bunch who are eagerly looking for a reminder of just how good and innocent those raucous 60s and 70s really were, compared to now.

The Lights Go Down.

The host of the Packard appears and welcomes us all. He thanks us for being in this hallowed hall, and introduces Brennin Hunt, who opens for America.

Brennin Hunt, from Oklahoma by way of Nashville

Hunt, aka, Brennin is a smart guitarist/writer who finds a melody and picks it over repeatedly until it is glued into your head. He has a vocal range that hits Vince Gill highs, and with whom he has co-written songs.

“I have some CDs out front, and I’ll be there to sign ’em for ya. I’m a nobody so I have time to talk with you too. Thanks!”

He has fronted for America for only a couple of weeks, but he is the perfect appetizer. His music is calculated to attract and articulated with a free range across his Martin D-28. Lots of passion in his tenor voice, he delivers a strong melody. His best, and most phenomenal delivery is a cover of Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean. He was brave enough to take on this iconic piece, and he serves it beautifully, acoustic guitar booming out the hypnotic bass line. Quincy Jones would applaud.

Brennan and Billy The Kid Worrell render New Kid In Town

Closing his act, Brennin invites our personal hero, Bill Worrell to the stage. It turns out that Worrell, aka “Billy The Kid” also played guitar for a tribute concert tour for The Eagles. To acknowledge that, Brennin and Worrell duet on New Kid In Town. Worrell’s smiling addition is effortless, and before the crowd can reseat themselves, America romps onto the stage.

A 70s light show entertains. Easy to set up and take down for the next show in Detroit, tomorrow night.

Dewey Bunnell sports wire frames tucked in beneath neatly combed back silver hair. He may be seasoned, but he is in good shape, and with a confident, upright pose launches into Tin Man. He is playing a beautiful black, mother of pearl inlay Taylor acoustic.

To his side, Gerry Beckley is likewise be-spectacled, and strums his six string, tucked under his arm. Behind them, Worrell plays a third acoustic. To his right, Ryland Steen, a mere youngster is on drums, and to his right, Rich Campbell nimbly fingers a five string Spector bass.

I mention the band’s gear because the electrified acoustics give a full body of sound. You think you are listening to an orchestra, but it’s just five guys and a powerful amp.

Just then, I asked myself, why do guys like this keep at it? This is work, big time.

The crowd is on its feet. We have been waiting for this sound since 1976. For a moment, tonight it’s all music and light.

With hardly a pause, the group turns over “You Can Do Magic”, “Don’t Cross The River”, and “Daisy Jane” . We are enraptured, and a spotlight on the audience would show a sea of pasty, wrinkled faces with wide grins singing back at the band.

The guys perform their hits flawlessly like shooting bottles off a fence rail, one after another. They introduce Billy The Kid, and he takes off on an instrumental break, one of many in the show.

America’s classic logo sustains and endures, like the band.

Meanwhile, the back stage screen flashes an encyclopedia of America images. From album covers to Peyote Indian meetings to Viet Nam gunboats and helicopters.

What is enchanting about this 70s light show, is that it is a 70s light show. No fireworks. No pedestals or trapeze work. No swinging microphone stands and no dance groups.

In all, America played 20 of their tunes. They were all good, and fresh.

You might expect that like other vintage groups, a back up team of vocalists would deliver the high notes.

Instead, Gerry Beckley hits them, if like climbing out on a drooping limb at the top of a tall tree, he was careful, and plucked the peach he was after, every time. A fearless display of singing.

The group soaked up several standing ovations, and only then did they turn over “Ventura Highway”. Beckley fingered that one on his Taylor acoustic and made it look devilishly simple.

In a quiet moment, Bunnell smiles and thanks us for listening, and remarks that they have been performing over 100 concerts a year, for 46 years.

“People ask why? Well, as long as you keep coming, we’ll keep playing.”

Asked and answered.

In front of a U.S. gunboat we get “Sandman”.

The band unloads a solid “Sandman”, heavily enhanced by Bill Worrell against a grey tone backdrop of Huey helicopters in flight over Viet Nam. They goose us up with “Sister Golden Hair” and then leave the stage.

We cheered them back, and then, like Christmas, they unleashed “A Horse With No Name” which made the evening complete.

Watching this enduring 70s band do its best stuff with cheerful ease awakened some dormant yearnings and memories. School. College. First love. First job. Money and independence.

It made me imagine the high times on West Market Street in Warren, when the steel industry was in its heyday, and wealth and the plans for future wealth were effervescent in everyone’s imaginations. Those days are long gone here, but as the town continues to remake itself, and this music plays on at Packard Hall, they will come back.

That is the joy of America.

Thanks for reading! Here’s some websites you might value:

America Concert Tour Dates

Culture, Entertainment, Music, Thank You

America’s Time Warp – 1

How We Nearly Missed A Classic Rock Band, Again

At the time we first were raising kids we managed to survive without a television, stereo, or car radio. Only occasionally did we hear those magnetic tunes of America by Dewey Bunnell, Gerry Beckley and Dan Peek. In the background, George Martin produced.

Years later, the kids now have kids of their own, and we have lots of sound equipment. And a collection of America’s Greatest Hits which are an irreplaceable soundtrack of the 70s, and still captivating today for their lyrics and melodies.

On a flight back from LAX last spring we sat beside a polite young gentleman who stared at his laptop, ears plugged in, for most of the trip. Coming into O’Hare, we all powered down, and said hello. A casual, perfunctory conversation followed:

“So, what do you do?” I asked.

“I’m a musician.”

“Really? In a band?”

“Unhunh. I play in a classic rock band called America. My name’s Bill Worrell.”

“Oh, cool. Well, nice to meetcha. We’re Phil and Jane. Safe trip home.”

The plane landed and we all scrambled for our bags, got onto our feet and into the aisle to get off the plane. The guy walked out ahead of us and disappeared into the crowds at Terminal 3.

“Do you know who that is??” my wife asked, incredulous.

“Uh, Bill somebody. Nice guy.”

“You twit!! He’s with America. You know, the band. Ventura Highway? Horse With No Name? Tin Man? Sister Golden Hair? Daisy Jane???” By now she is dragging her bag ahead of me straining to spot Bill Worrell in the crowd.

We never found him, but the enormity of my density hung over my head the entire ride home in the car.

A Steve Gaglio Photography image of our seat mate, Bill Worrell.

I felt badly. On the one hand, this kid is looking for fame and recognition, and I crush him with indifference. On the other hand, he sees me as a wizened old goof probably humming Dion tunes.

I made things up by contacting him on his website and blaming my doziness to jet lag. He immediately responded, and graciously gave me a pass with a chuckle. I wrote back adding that anyone who could play the opening riff to Ventura Highway was a hero in my books.

Ever since then we have tracked America, and a few months ago booked tickets to see them last weekend at the Packard Music Hall in Warren, Ohio. It’s a 450-mile drive but we have the time.

A Wrong Turn, And A Crisis

Warren is southeast of Cleveland. We approach this historic city from I-8o and a solid line on the map entices us to skip the beltway outside the city to our hotel, and instead, drive through town on West Market Street.

Great expectations, questionable today.

Just off the interstate, our first introduction is to the hamlet, Center of the World. It is distinguished by a few small roadside stores and the shell of a burnt out, collapsed garage. We drive on.

Getting closer to Warren on West Market street we drive past closed shops, discount stores, pawn shops and unkempt properties. We see a couple walking toward the Superpawn Shop, him with bareback in shorts, festooned in tattoos. She shuffles by his side in tee and flip flops.

Our trip to downtown continues dismally. The ruin continues with no cease.

“How could they book a gig here?”

“An aggressive agent, I guess. Wow. What an eye opener.”

Deflated by the west side, we head up to Packard Music Hall to check out the venue, look for safe parking and quick getaways if we need them.

Warren’s City Hall, a beautiful building decked out in petunias.

Along the way we see the greatness of Warren. Founded in 1798, this city has some of the most stunning architecture in its public buildings we have ever seen. Along the wealthy streets there are some enormous, and beautifully built antebellum homes. Flowers are everywhere.

The music hall is small. Which means a cozy concert, and that’s good. But beyond it is a park with groups of people milling about, not so much picnicking, but lazing about, because there is nothing else to do on a Wednesday afternoon. The view among the ancient oaks and green lawns is strangely unsettling.

We drive back through the city center amid vacant store and office buildings, out along East Market Street where the real estate improves.

Trumbull County Court House in downtown Warren is majestic.

But it doesn’t improve enough to lift a feeling of dread about going downtown at night to see America.

By the time we reach our posh hotel in the suburbs we have decided to go home. I inform the front desk folks, and with that, we elect to have a lunch in the mall, and start the 450-mile return trip, extremely disappointed.

The Turning Point

We sit at the bar of an Outback Steakhouse. Bar sitting is great when you are splitting a meal. It also gives license to speak with neighbors.

Lynn is running the bar. I opened:

“Hi Lynn. We just got into town, but I made a huge mistake driving in on West Market. It’s pretty scary. What happened?”

She paused before answering, maybe wondering if I was worth explaining to.

“Well, we used to have about six steel mills in the area. They all went out of business in the 80s and it’s been a struggle for many. All the people and business who supported the economy went away. Welcome to another country.”

With that I started to synchronize the news of Ohio’s past with my sheltered life in Illinois. But concerns persisted.

Our first look at the concert hall.

“We’re going to the Packard Music Hall to see America. It looks kinda rundown. Are we crazy?”

“Oh no. You’re perfectly safe there. It’ll be a good show. The east side is quite different than the west side.”

With that, a lady came up to us from behind.

“Are you going to see America tonight?”

She wore a black and white summer dress. Bracelets on her tanned arms telegraphed upscale success. Her 20s-something daughter hung back at their dining table.

“We are going. It will be great. You’ll love it. We are having dinner at Leo’s first, and then drive in. The Packard is perfect, and the place will be packed. You’ll feel right at home.”

Her name was Diane, and she unloaded a ton of dining advice, hotels, and sights to see. Had I asked, she may have admitted to being a real estate sales rep. Regardless, she was good.

With that, we decided to rebook our hotel room.

More tomorrow, and I tell you how this trek to see America ended up.

Culture, Entertainment, Music, Thanks

Tom Rush, Master

A Charles Giuliano Photos image of Tom Rush at work.

Occasionally a simple action sets a need in motion.

A couple years ago a college friend sent me a CD of folksinger Tom Rush. This entertainer’s music first broke into our lives back in 1966, hung in there until graduation, and then evaporated as we moved on.

Competition with job, kids and new directions pretty much locked Tom Rush out of our daily routines.

But fifty years later, the brand new CD woke me up. Not only was our musical hero from university days still alive, but he was also, still, at the the top of his game.

We decided to go see him again.

On stage, Rush is a quiet conversationalist. He talks to the audience, and snares them into the context of his next song with the finesse of a master salesman. His modesty hides his greatness in the genre.

Launching his career along with icons like Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, James Taylor, Eric Von Schmidt, Jim Kweskin, Richie Havens, Fred Neil today his body of work reaches across decades of accomplishment, from early blues to contemporary ballads.

If “ballads” sounds corny, think stories, worries and wishes put to music and rhyme, about things and events on our plates every day.

Isis Restaurant & Music Hall occupies a renovated theater from 1937 in the heart of West Asheville.

Last Sunday Tom Rush performed at the Isis Restaurant & Music Hall in Asheville, NC. Contrary to the those of many small cities across America, Asheville’s downtown is booming.

In the west end, also known as the West Village, the Isis theatre is a fixture built in the 1930s, and renovated to its current appealing look with bar, restaurant and stage. Outside, the original marquee showcases the night’s act. Across the street is a guitar shop, with nearby pawn shop, grocery, village market, cafe’s and gas stations.

The street is filled with cyclists and people enjoying their particular pursuits. While there was plenty of curb parking we chose to park in the grocery lot. There was a sign pointing to a steel box into which I folded eight dollar bills to keep my place.

Across Haywood Road a guitar store stands ready to fulfill the next musician’s dream.

Seated at our table up front, we looked at our hopeful neighbors, ordering dinner. The Isis is delightfully small. It seats about 50 diners and another 100 or so listeners on the main floor and in an upper gallery. It is a cool place, good food, with a restaurant out front which was packed when we arrived, 90 minutes before the show. Louise, the show scheduler came by our table to welcome us– a nice touch.

Up on the stage, a young fellow is tuning instruments: pianos and guitar. He looks like a stage hand but in fact is Matt Nakoa who opens for Rush. I shake his hand, and ask him to pass a note to his partner, requesting a song.

I can’t believe I am doing this but the opportunity can’t be lost to communicate with this giant.

It helps when I add, “We saw you last September in Minneapolis. You guys were just great, thanks!” He got my name and finished his tuning, and left the stage.

A few minutes later after Louise opens the show, Nakoa reappeared and delivered a virtuoso performance. His songs are rich, thoughtful and complex, with a voice that adds a layer of honesty to the words.

At the keyboard, he is incredibly efficient. Not that he uses only one or two notes per bar, but rather that he uses all his fingers every second. I was reminded of the Bruce Hornsby sound: full barreled piano, active and melodic. Matt Nakoa could choose to be a powerful classic concert pianist, but he opted for the folk and jazz club scene, much to our good fortune.

A Neale Eckstein image of Matt Nakoa unwinding a tune.

Nakoa also played guitar, with a light and intriguing touch. He is left handed, playing a left handed guitar, but strung for a right hander.

This forces an inverted chord formation which for most people would be like tying their shoes using a mirror. I am guessing he had to borrow someone else’s guitar in his learning, and the habit stuck. The result is golden: a unique and magical delivery.

He delivered a half dozen songs, each original and lush in melody. You want to hear “Ballad of Jenny Kane”. Just as enchanting however was his patter between numbers. He plays while he speaks, reminiscent of 60s entertainer Mauri Hadyn who also spoke with the audience while she produced a continuous soundtrack of riffs.

Tom Rush walks on after Matt’s introduction, and the crowd cheers for both singers.

Two figures could not look less likely to work together, and that is the magic of this duo. We are faced with mop-headed Gen-x musical prodigy standing beside a crusty, smiling, white haired, git-picking balladeer. Unbelievable combination.

Early on Tom Rush started a following that just won’t quit. His ’72 Columbia Records release.

Our fascination is soon overcome by the quality of their product. Rush commands the room with his good nature and low-key, self deprecating introductions. He opens up his act with the confidence of a master woodworker unwrapping his blades, choosing one to carve a unique keepsake for the audience.

Launching into “It’s Gonna Get Hot Tonight” the crowd responds enthusiastically to Rush, encouraged by his beat and voice, both strong and happy. In the background Nakoa has shelved the concert hall vibes to provide a wood-floor honky tonk sound that fills out the song perfectly.

The audience tonight is a following that has grown organically over 5o years of performances. We drove 750 miles to see him. True to his brand, Tom Rush delivers amusement and satisfaction by way of his story telling, singing and playing.

We know these songs, and they have legs. The lyrics are his, in perfect measure, with stories we want to hear. They are delivered by a voice that is both raucous and contemplative. He can change our mood in line or two, all the while polishing that finished piece of work for presentation.

There is a side to Tom Rush which is remarkable, and it points to his generosity. Yes, Matt Nakoa adds a dimension to his music, but it is the reciprocal nature of Rush’s partnership that is giving a younger generation the benefit of his experience.

He is hardly looking at the final days of his stellar career, with over 25 engagements scheduled in the coming months. Despite that, he has taken on the onus of sharing what he knows with a new, younger talent.

Matt Nakoa has his own music and his own story, but he is following in the footsteps of a legend with full support. In big business, the CEOs always say to hire people smarter than we are, but it’s scary. Rush took that dare on Nakoa. Our kids should all be so lucky.

A look at Tom Rush’s website unveils another gift. While he has the usual display of story, news and events, he also has a page of FAQs . What’s with that? Countless questions from fans about how to play his songs, complete with guitar tunings. In our world, it would be like a master vintner unveiling his secret recipe for a knockout wine.

Which leads to another puzzle in the Tom Rush narrative. Why does a self respecting folk icon tour New England and the west coast playing in small venues for only the price of a good steak? Celebrity has its costs, but modest ticket fees aren’t among them.

I think the answer is that the man loves what he does, and he wants to share it. His audience loves him back. That is remuneration enough.

And by the way, he called me out, and played my request.

Thanks for reading! This show is what coffee house music and jazz clubs are all about. Who needs an auditorium for 20,000? I pass on some websites for your interest, and feel free to share!

Tom Rush Show Schedule

His CD “What I Know”

Matt Nakoa’s Home Page

Entertainment, Music

50 Years, Then and Now

Tom Rush– timeless and still touring.

We are not much into nostalgia. And we aren’t groupies. But it was more than idle curiosity that drew us to Minneapolis last week to see and listen to the folk blues singing hero of our youth, Tom Rush.

Rush was, and still is the consummate story teller. We first saw him at The Riverboat in Toronto back in 1966. Back then, about 75 of us could cram into this little subterranean shotgun of a room on Yorkville Avenue, right beside a smoke shop called the Grab Bag. Admission, $3.00. If it wasn’t a busy night, you could stay for two sets, maybe all night. Drinks? You bet. Lemonade, cappuccino or mocha coffee. Smoke? Light ’em if you got ’em.

Selfie, before there were selfies.

The Riverboat truly derailed my formal education. All of the new folk and blues singers started there: Joni Mitchell, Richie Havens, Jim Kweskin, Gord Lightfoot, Sonny Terry, Brownie McGee, Tim Hardin, Jack Elliott, Arlo Guthrie, Eric Anderson, Tom Rush…and I saw them all, prolonging my university stay.

But Tom Rush was the most memorable because of his ability to set up every song with a story. And the tunes themselves were stories, made epics by his delivery.

One of his first albums, a masterpiece.

So it was exciting to see this guy again, even if he wasn’t mainstream billboard marquee candy.

The 20-something concierge at the hotel asked,

“So where you going tonight?”

“To see Tom Rush.”

“Cool, Rush. So, like, are they touring again?”

I took along his first album cover with the plan to get an autograph. But I changed my mind when I realized that I had bought it in 1965, 50 years ago.

To ask him to sign it now would be a cruel favor indeed.

When we entered the Dakotah Jazz Club on Nicolett Mall we also had an awakening. It’s comfortably small, hosting maybe 150 diners around a small stage.

But the diners were the warm bucket of water we did not see coming. They were old. With old gray pony tails, and walking sticks, and suspenders, and jean shirts, and earrings, and mustaches, and sandals.

Trains, stories, music, smokes… the quintessential folk singer.

That’s when it hit me. Pow. I’m old.

Just then Tom Rush came out on the stage. And he’s even older. Not the slim, young, booted guy strolling down the cobblestone lane we remembered. But still, to his credit, a slim older guy, with a full head of real, white hair. Rugged and ready.

He launched into one of his new songs, “It’s Gonna Get Hot Tonight” and never looked back. The voice was there, intact. His guitar work was perfect. And the stories flowed, all over again as the audience sat back to enjoy the ride.

What a treat. He knew us well, and played to our weakness: we’re all old. Or advancing anyway.

The idol of our hippie youth: an english major Harvard drop out.

He smiles as he sets up The Remember Song. This is his talking blues about failing to recall names and faces, conquering wireless technology, and hooking up. True to the theme, he forgets where he’s at in the middle of it.

And we lap it up. Delicious.

When he finishes, he says, “That’s my hit song. It’s just a few clicks short of 7,000,000 on Youtube. My wife says, they’re all probably from the same guy. He can’t remember watching it.”

An unlikely pose, but the record company demanded it no doubt.

He covered a lot of his work that night, and it provoked me later to get out all our Tom Rush albums. Which gave me pause to think.

The tragedy of streaming music online is that we no longer have album covers to read. Used to be you’d put the needle on, and sit back and read the album backer, extracting every scintilla of detail about the artist. No more.

Something to read and read again while we listened.

Our migration to smaller media and its packaging is the driver. In the 25-year generational shift to today, we traded in big vinyl records for 8 track, then cassettes, overtaken by CDs, which were displaced by downloads and Internet radio.
Along the way, we gave up the opportunity to read about our music.

Now we can listen to more and more of it, while we know less and less about it.

A Michael Wiseman pic of the story teller, nonpareil.

Fortunately, Tom Rush steers clear. He doesn’t play to massive concert audiences. He’s for small crowds, talks to them, and as a result, we come to know him and his music well.

Probably won’t forget it either.

Thanks for reading! Please share this with your musical friends!

Entertainment, Media, Sports

The Peril of Cable

Reconstruction goes on, with no traffic tie ups.

We are in the midst of rebuilding our house after extracting a 2007 Acura from the bedroom where it was abruptly parked, 9 weeks ago.

Billy, our ATT guy sorting out phone lines.

The latest house renovation is re-connecting some of the ATT phone linkage which was damaged during the crash. My hat is off to those dedicated techies who spend hours on their knees, on pea gravel in crawlspaces of 50-year-old houses, communing with spiders while they unravel nests of old wires, looking for a dial tone.

Cable and wires are my nemesis.

The current Stanley Cup playoffs remind me of my near cable undoing during the 1976 Canada Cup.

Forty years ago we had no television. We found great entertainment listening to the radio. But there was a new show on– M*A*S*H, and curiosity drove me to see it.

Black & white: as good as it gets.

We had inherited a small black and white television, but its rabbit ear aerial could only bring in fuzzy pictures, even from the three local stations. I had learned that a new invention–cable– could pipe in perfect imagery.

All I needed to do was to subscribe. But reportedly, the cost was huge, so we stayed with radio. Inspector Maigret on CBL Toronto was great theater.
At the time, we rented in a townhouse complex, one of about thirty 2-story apartments surrounding a common. Blue collar young families used the common as a play ground for their kids, who could run off their patios and into the parkland, well within the confines of the complex.

No amount of protective sheathing will resist a wire cutter.

Our next door neighbor Buzz was a truck driver. Buzz wasn’t an outlaw, but you could tell by the look in his one good eye and the stitchery across his face that he met challenges head on, or at least, with his head.

Buzz, on a good day.

We called him Buzz after we heard him holler across the common to a neighbor about a batch of turkey buzzard soup he was making. -Not sure that he was a hunter, and it would not surprise me to find he was feasting on something from the grill of his rig.

On any warm evening we could wave to our neighbors who might be on the patio, barbecuing, or enjoying dessert outside.

Guy Lafleur works his technique.

In September, 1976, the common discussion was about The Canada Cup series. This was a fierce hockey competition between Canada, Finland, Russia and Czechoslovakia which were fighting each other on the ice for supremacy.

The game between Canada and the Czechs was starting soon, and the chatter all along the patios was about our chances.

Gyro and his little helper.

On our patio, I was brewing a solution to the TV viewing problem. Gyro Gearloose, unleashed.

I had often seen in our basement the TV cable snaking along the ceiling, one wire going to each room upstairs. In the living room was a cable outlet. My figuring was, cut a length of cable from one of the unused bedroom lines, and use it to connect the TV in the living room.

After confirming it was a bedroom line, I deftly severed it to create a 3-foot piece of cable. Marching upstairs, I connected it to the wall, and to the TV.

Success! With 12 channels to surf, too.

Voila!! Pure, crisp and pristine TV viewing, not on three channels, but on TWELVE channels. And as I spun the dial, I found M*A*S*H. Wow! I was amazed by my brilliance. Running through the channels, I also found The Game. First period, and the Czechs are pounding Canada.

Pretty pumped, I went on to the patio to brag about our newfound cable reception. I wasn’t expecting high-fives, because everyone already had cable, but still…

Where’s the remote??

Outside there was commotion. Unsettled residents were sliding open their doors, crossing over to their neighbors, assembling in groups. There was a mild but growing grumble of discussion floating across the common.

“What’s up?” I asked.

Buzz growled. He stood about 6’4″ and 260 pounds. The devil tattoo on his forehead was pulsing. “Cable’s out. How about yours?”

“Oh, geez, no, hahah, mine’s fine!” I blurted out. I hardly had seen the words float across to his pierced cauliflower ears before I realized my blunder.

“Good. We’re coming over. Got a bottle opener?”

A better idea in progress!

“Well, let me just check the kids, first.” I dove back in to the living room, slammed the door, and literally ripped the cable out of the television. Unscrewing the wall plate, I pulled the piece out, and ran to the basement. Minutes later, I had re-connected the wire.

Running back up to the patio, I found Buzz gathering his restive and frustrated friends heading in to our living room.

Out of breath, I put on my most disappointed face, “Geez. Whaddyaknow..our cable is out too. Crap. Shucks. ‘Can’t get the game!” I kicked the lawn chair for emphasis.

In the next moment, another hockey fan grunted across the common: “Cable’s back on. What the…”

Buzz retreated with his entourage, shuffling back onto his patio, tearing off a prolonged belch as he slid open his living room door.

We retreated to ours as well. The TV screen was an oatmeal grey with Hawkeye swimming through it. I turned it off. Out on the patio, the sound of distant cheers.

Mean time, we clicked on the radio, Inspector Maigret, surveying a footprint in the garden. We leaned in closer to hear.

Thanks for reading! It wasn’t for a couple more months before I learned that cable was free: it was in the rent. Canada won the series. Go Hawks!

Phil Brown

"Like triple cream– rich, pungent, a little barnyardy, and spreads easily. A good cheese."

Category Archives: Entertainment

Tom Rush: Concerts and Conquering COVID

Those Thrilling Days Of Yesteryear

Down At The Rink – 3

Stones: They Gather No Moss

Hall, Oates, And A Soundtrack That Won’t Quit

America’s Time Warp – 2

America’s Time Warp – 1

Tom Rush, Master

50 Years, Then and Now

The Peril of Cable

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