I missed “Waterloo Sunset.”

What kind of wonderful world do we live in where an iconoclastic, irascible rock star who’s alienated almost all the people surrounding him can be featured in the finale of the world’s greatest sporting event?

Long as I gaze on, Waterloo Sunset, I am in paradise.

I was gonna watch the PGA finale. But with Rory McIlroy so far ahead, I didn’t see the point. That’s the funny thing about sports. The watching is the reward, once it’s done, not many care. And if the watching is compromised, the whole experience goes out the window.

I didn’t watch a single frame of the Olympics. Because I just couldn’t stand the sanitized jingoistic presentation. America may be the greatest country in the world, but why do we have to keep reinforcing the point, why do we have to be blind to all comers, why do we have to watch the Olympics through the eyes of a network so fearful of frayed edges, of alienating a country reared on apple pie, that it gives the impression the only people on the planet are us, and a few triumphant foreigners?

Olympic spirit?

Hogwash.

But I wanted to watch the finale to see Ray Davies. Because if he can make it to the big top almost sixty years on, then life is truly worth living, there truly is a God.

And speaking of God, speaking of the power of the public, which believes it has a say and oftentimes is ignored by the corporate behemoths for its own good, in some bizarre twist of the Jack Nicholson speech in “A Few Good Men,” outcry resulted in the closing ceremonies being streamed live.

Imagine that. A television presentation without commercials, without cutaways from Take That and other English acts Americans don’t know and understand. Just pure unadulterated kitsch.

That’s what I loved about the festivities. They shot low. Instead of making us feel inadequate, it was a big tent of imperfection, where culture and lifestyle ruled. The U.S. may have eliminated arts education, our culture has become money, but in England, despite a rigid class system, although statistically not as bad as in the U.S., the arts still rule, and music is triumphant.

The highlight for me was Eric Idle singing “Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life.”

And in America, a newcomer like Ed Sheeran wouldn’t even get to appear, never mind perform Pink Floyd’s ethereal “Wish You Were Here.”

And Brian May wailed and the Spice Girls were both cheerful and laughable. And the whole thing made you smile because there was no pomp, no circumstance, just life.

And, of course, petty infighting could not be cast aside. The Gallagher brothers could not reunite, they couldn’t bury the hatchet for a greater good… Then again, that’s more of an American quality, we love to forgive, if we don’t like to forget. But when the speeches were all done, when the flame was extinguished, when I was just about to click off the YouTube screen, who appeared but the geriatric group that made their bones in Leeds, who disappointed at the Super Bowl, who’ve been running on fumes for the entire century.

I speak, of course, of the Who.

And, of course, it had to be on tape. Well, hard drive, it won’t be long before tape is an antiquated concept the youngsters don’t understand. But speaking of youngsters, they’ve got no idea that once upon a time, the music of their parents was dangerous. The Who finishing the ceremony with “Baba O’Riley,” otherwise known as “Teenage Wasteland,” is like Mitt Romney conceding he was right in Massachusetts, that health care is deserved by all. It’s like Lloyd Blankfein going to jail. Like Mark Zuckerberg copping to the fact that Facebook was built on the sacrificial lamb of our privacy. Like Roger Clemens admitting he used steroids.

You see the original foursome pissed on a slab on the album cover. Back when there were still album covers, when rock was dangerous and ruled the world, despite what those in power believed.

Yes, rock won.

It’s now OUR GENERATION!

Yes, even back in ’65 we didn’t think “My Generation” would last. It was just a trifle, an expression of angst. But here we are, a lifetime later, and it rules, it closed the Olympics.

I bet most people had no idea what “See Me, Feel Me” was all about, it hasn’t been whored out like the rest of the Who’s catalogue, but everybody knows the concept of “My Generation”…they could hear the lyrics and understand.

It was our generation. We were the best and the brightest. We fumbled so much. We cocked up the economy. We didn’t look out for our brother. We didn’t believe in love.

But we believed in music.

Unless you won a medal yourself, almost all of the achievements at these games will be forgotten, they’re already fading in the rearview mirror.

But not music.

Music is forever.

And that’s why it played such a huge part in the closing ceremonies.

Only music is that big.

Only music can truly unite us.

I just heard “Nice, Nice, Very Nice” on the satellite.

It’s turning to fall. The light’s just a bit different. We’re sliding down to the end of the year, we become more serious, more introspectful as autumn approaches. And just as I was ascending Benedict to Mulholland, Vin Scelsa started talking about a song utilizing Kurt Vonnegut lyrics and I knew instantly what he was going to play.

Almost completely forgotten, “Cat’s Cradle” had a huge impact upon the sixties generation. The Dead named their publishing company “Ice Nine” and Ambrosia did this song, with lyrics from the book. This was before Vonnegut wrote his masterpiece, “Slaughterhouse-Five,” back when reading books was something we all did, before cable TV eviscerated that pastime as a general pursuit. I remember lying on my bed reading the red paperback in between after-school activities and my mother calling me down for dinner. “Cat’s Cradle” was our secret world, back before parents wanted to be our best friends, before they were slim and wore designer jeans and got plastic surgery in an effort to never grow up and mature.

Actually, that’s us. But the books we read, the music we listened to, is locked in amber, it’s unchanging, it’s evidence of a magical time, our best selves. And one of my favorite albums from that era is Ambrosia’s debut, from just before rock went completely corporate and society split into two camps, calcified rockers and dancing fools.

But it wasn’t “Nice, Nice, Very Nice” that made me buy the album. That was a bonus. It was “Holdin’ On To Yesterday.” You only had to hear it once and you needed to own it. Even though it sounds like a Top Forty track at this distance, it was initially alternative. And FM spun it. It was a magic transport to another galaxy, where we could see our entire lives in the rearview mirror, we were now old enough to have regret. It’s the best of music, “Holdin’ On To Yesterday” has got a sound that evidences a feeling you just can’t get in any other art form, neither movies nor TV, never mind books. It’s wistful. The singer hasn’t completely let go. Do we ever?

And the guitar solo and the keyboard flourishes distinguish this from the pabulum you found on the AM band. “Holdin’ On To Yesterday” is an aural movie. I had to immediately run out and buy the album. Which never completely broke through. You see it was on 20th Century, back when labels mattered. An equally good album on the label at this time was Alan Parsons’s “Tales of Mystery and Imagination.” It’s better than anything Parsons ever did thereafter. And one can say the exact same thing about Ambrosia. Parsons switched to Arista and had hits and Ambrosia switched to Warner Brothers and morphed into a soft rock outfit that had some chart success but became something disposable, a joke, the band was never taken seriously by the cognoscenti. And that’s a pity, because they overlooked this exquisite debut.

The album opens with “Nice, Nice, Very Nice.” Which is what we used to call art rock and is now referred to as prog and at the time it was believed only the English could perform this music, but Ambrosia proved them wrong. Sure, the Vonnegut lyrics are winning, but it’s the dynamics that are so enticing. The way the song goes from heavy to mellow…it’s like riding a roller coaster, although this one does not come back to the same place, it leaves you at an unknown destination far down the line. “Nice, Nice, Very Nice” is so far from everyday life, it’s what we loved so much about music back then, the adventure.

And “Nice, Nice, Very Nice” segued into “Time Waits For No One.” Which began with the chimes of a theoretical clock and a nursery rhyme feel and then there were those prog changes again, and exquisite vocals and Sturm und Drang that whipsawed your mind as you nodded your head and sang along.

Then came the aforementioned “Holdin’ On To Yesterday,” but thereafter was this rockin’ workout entitled “World Leave Me Alone.” Anyone who only knew Ambrosia from what came after would be surprised by this, the band held nothing back, they positively rocked. I remember nodding my head, feeling like my life was its only personal movie, important, and I was starring in it and having fun.

That’s the first side. You couldn’t ask for anything more.

And the second is no disappointment.

I made a cassette. I remember playing it for a girl I wanted to impress as I shuttled her from the bottom of Gad 1 to the Plaza at Snowbird. And I don’t think she got it, but it didn’t really matter, because the music was enough. They say without a partner, life is meaningless, but with the right record, you’re never alone, your life is rich and full.

So I’m driving down Beverly Glen decades later and I couldn’t be happier. And I just had to tell you about it.

P.S. Alan Parsons mixed this album and Ambrosia appeared on “Tales of Mystery and Imagination”!

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HARD Summer

It was like I was invisible.

You always wonder in L.A., am I safe? This is the land of Rodney King, this is where there are fewer police per square mile and enough ethnicities to shoot a whole slate of MTV reality shows.

Yes, MTV made a conscious decision to show the black, the brown and the yellow, not only the white.

And they were all there last night.

I’d be worried if I had girls. Used to be the worst thing they’d do is roll up their skirts, put them way above the knee. But last night I saw barely-grown women dressed in all kinds of concoctions. Well, let me make it a bit clearer, UNDERDRESSED in all kinds of concoctions. Do they leave the house like this? Probably not. They probably say they’re spending the night at Susie or Sal’s…wait a minute, Jennifer or Madison’s, and then they put on their mesh stockings and spangled bras, don their furry hats and take the subway to HARD and make old men like me have our eyes bug out.

Yup, I could have been Bugs Bunny. You know, when his peepers extend a few feet? There were girls who Playboy would love to photograph, with their tits pouring out. And even though there was no water in sight, that didn’t mean string bikini bottoms were taboo.

And each one of these girls, a rainbow of colors, had a smile on her face, was dancing, was having an incredible time. You see going to the electronic music festival is a tribal rite, missing it would be akin to saying no to Woodstock. But a Woodstock with food trucks and plenty of porta-potties.

But it’s even better. Because each and every one of these kids knows each other. You see it’s the social generation. You may think it’s only online that everybody’s connected, but it carries over into the real world too. You could live thirty miles from your best friend. You go to the show and you’re better connected than Mark Zuckerberg. And old people just don’t get it.

Old people believe a show is an overpriced exercise where some old fart band or young lip-syncher performs onstage and everybody stands there statically, enchanted by these rip-off artists earning their private jets. Traditional concerts are so much about us versus them, the performers getting rich on the backs of their audience, that they’re seamy, about to collapse under their own weight. Pop acts can’t sell out stadiums. But electronic ones do. Because everybody’s in it together.

Kind of like Skrillex.

You know it stuns me when someone remembers my name. Furthermore, remembers the last time they’ve seen me. But that’s what Sonny did. In between phone calls. You see he was making sure his friends got in. And he’s the act! Didn’t he have someone to do this for him?

It’s an entirely different generation. It’s not the old men who have their e-mail printed out, but kids doing it for themselves.

And there were a couple of stages and a couple of tents. Multiple acts to experience and move your body to. It was a celebration of life. And I’m worried if someone’s gonna rip off my money or my valuables from the shorts I wore with way too big pockets. But when I was finally acknowledged, it was by a twentysomething with his shirt off who came up to give me a high five. There was no scariness here, this was a love-in!

My only regret is I’m not their age. That I cannot participate. When I used to leave the house everybody was on guard, pecking order was visible, whereas today’s generation is inclusive, they’re all in it together. The economy might suck, but that doesn’t mean they can’t have a good time at the show.

1. Arenas

I’d say it’s a no-go for EDM. Because EDM is social, and an arena is not. But the honcho I spoke to backstage told me the reason Avicii failed in arenas was because he wasn’t big enough. He hadn’t paid his dues. In EDM, like the rock of yore, a couple of hit singles does not guarantee a vast sell-out. This is not Rihanna. Instead, you’ve got to get fans and grow them. And the way you do this is via word of mouth. All the press in the world isn’t gonna matter, has anybody seen them, were they good?

2. Brand Names

You’ve got to lose to make it. HARD was not always the moneymaker it is today. But now it’s an established name and people trust the curation, the infrastructure. EDM is not for rip-off artists, it’s for people who’ve paid their dues. In other words, if you think you can just book talent and everybody will come, you’re wrong.

3. The talent may not be primary, like at a traditional pop/rock show, but without headliners, you’re sunk. People will endure newbies coming up, but only if you guarantee someone they know and love will be spinning at the end of the night.

4. Production matters. Kids want to see the fancy lights, they expect them. This is part of the experience.

5. Turns out Electric Daisy is tarred with death, but not the rest of EDM. Two kids died ten days ago in Massachusetts, and there’s been no national outcry for the death of EDM. Hell, if you read the story, one kid was days away from rehab…he’d agreed to go. Maybe your life is your own personal responsibility . And as long as the promoter does everything in his power to eliminate drugs and underage drinking assuming he’s responsible is like assuming the pavement causes car accidents.

6. EDM is alternative. To all the made by assembly line, shoved down your throat crap plied by the old men of the media business. It’s no longer about having a relationship with the newspaper and the radio station, but having a relationship with the kids. In other words, a younger generation is rebuilding the music sphere. Thank god.

7. Think “event”, not “concert”. That’s the business promoters are in today. The talent deal is important, but that’s not the end of your responsibility. You’re creating an environment, for people to spend hours in and have a good time. The days of mistreating the customer just so he can get a glimpse of a momentary star are done.

8. There were roving sellers of drinks. You never had to go far for a porta-potty. There was gourmet food as well as pizza and garlic fries. You get a choice. And isn’t it interesting that you can get better food at a temporary outdoor show than you can at the arena, than you can at the amphitheatre. It’s time to show the customer some respect.

9. When done right, EDM makes your body move. You can’t help but shake your leg, do a little twist, go back and forth. And as the lights swirl and the music pumps you get that feeling deep inside that you’re alive. People are not sheep. Automatons programmed to eat and sleep and color between the lines. Life is about inspiration, taking risks as well as testing limits. It’s about the possibilities, not just the drudgery. And when I went to HARD Summer last night, I felt all this.

This is what it’s all about.

You see prior to “Workingman’s Dead”, not only had almost no one east of San Francisco heard the band, they thought their music sounded like their moniker. Heavy and dark, somewhere between Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath, whose eponymous debut would come out shortly thereafter. The previous albums were just for fans. And there weren’t many of those.

But the Dead started to make inroads in New York. At the Fillmore East. Where they ended up starting at midnight and playing until dawn. They could have no restrictions. It was a special event. Which I learned about from the back cover of the program. Yes, when you went to the Fillmore you got a program, can you imagine that today? No promoter would spend the money. Then again, no act would authorize it either! Greed put the Fillmore out of business, but seventies greed is nothing compared to twenty first century greed. And on the back cover of that program was a picture of a sold out audience, standing, and a caption that said “2600 Happy People During The Grateful Dead”. Maybe that’s not exactly right. But I remember it saying “Happy”, and I remember them standing, and I remember the thought of asking my parents to go to an all night show in New York City was completely taboo, because back then, after midnight, the train to Connecticut didn’t run.

But I wanted to go.

Which is maybe why I was primed when I heard “Uncle John’s Band” on WNEW.

Yes, I’d settled there. First it was WOR-FM, then WABC-FM, and then WNEW-FM, with Alison Steele and Zacherley and Scott Muni. Hell, I remembered Muni from AM! WABC! “#1 in the nation, the Scott Muni show!” He came before Cousin Brucie, talked just as fast, to hear his slowed down speech on FM made my jaw drop.

And I believe it was in my parents’ living room, on the big rig, that I first heard “Uncle John’s Band”. This was before FM was ubiquitous in cars. Hell, we had it, but reception was awful.

“Uncle John’s Band’ sounded like a Crosby, Stills & Nash cut.

And at this point in time, Crosby, Stills & Nash (and at this point Young), were the biggest band in the land.

We know now that the Dead could never perfect these harmonies live. Then again, neither could CSN&Y! But the music was so sweet, acoustic guitars ruled, and the a cappella breakdown sounded like a church choir, assuming your church was Haight Street and tie-dye and love beads and nudity and sex and…

I bought the album.

The cover had a sandpaper feel. Abandoned after the album became successful. But that took a long time. Most everybody didn’t sign on until the follow-up, “American Beauty”, which I purchased upon release but never thought was as good. I loved “Box Of Rain”, but it was no “Uncle John’s Band”. But I had to endure “Ripple” all through college, it drives me insane, to this day. “American Beauty” was a bit lighter, “Workingman’s Dead” was dark.

And speaking of dark, my second favorite cut on “Workingman’s Dead” is “New Speedway Boogie”, the first side closer, the Dead’s take on Altamont, which is just as good, if not better, than the Stones’ film about the fiasco, “Gimme Shelter”. With a hypnotic groove and a plaintive Jerry Garcia vocal before we could tell the vocalists apart, “New Speedway Boogie” is the essence of seventies music. Not made for the radio, but for the listener, who purchased and spun these albums ad infinitum.

Please don’t dominate the rap Jack, if you’ve got nothing new to say

Yup, that’s how we spoke back then. We RAPPED to each other!

And, of course, the second side closer, “Casey Jones”, went on to be the most famous cut on the album, one of the biggest Dead songs ever, maybe only equaled by “Truckin'”. You can hear the snort of cocaine right at the beginning, before the music starts. “Casey Jones” is the essence of the Dead, a drug-fueled trip of one’s own, society be damned.

And be sure to listen to “Easy Wind”, for the Pigpen vocal if nothing else. Pigpen was the soul/R&B aspect of the band, if he had survived, the legacy would be just a bit different, a bit less mellow.

As for the rest of the record, it sounded closer to Nashville, to country, than anybody other than the Flying Burrito Brothers at this point. One of the reasons “American Beauty” was so successful, in addition to “Workingman’s Dead” laying the groundwork, was the step back from the hard core country sound. “Workingman’s Dead” is spare, at times depressed, despite the ultimate ubiquity of “Uncle John’s Band” and “Casey Jones” it wasn’t for everybody, just the band’s audience, which proceeded to grow and grow. You see the Dead weren’t owned by the man, but their fans.

And “Workingman’s Dead” is the foundation. Without it, you don’t have the Dead of today. The venerated band that was far ahead of its game, who let people tape and trade when that was considered anathema, who realized road receipts trumped record sales every day of the week.

Start here.

Or if you know it already, think back, revel in the pleasure of its discovery.

Yes, the Dead are not quite like anything else. It’s a road, a commitment, it’s definitely worth the journey.

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