PATRICK MCVAY

WRITER

Rock Show

You kids don’t know about rock shows because you were too little when rock shows were suddenly made illegal, but now they are legal again, and I have an actual ticket to one of these.

OK, not a ticket per se; I have an entry pass via an app on my phone. So cool! I almost opted for a physical ticket, mailed to me via the pony express, but I worried that the ponies wouldn’t be vaccinated and would be snorting away without masks on, spewing pony nose dew all over my precious physical ticket. Then, who knows, we all get the horse variant, and then China doesn’t allow us into their country because they start calling it the “American Horse Virus,” which causes liberal Chinese to decry the racist language against American Horses.

It could happen.

Anyway, I’m sure you remember what a rock show looks like, if you were of age before they became illegal. The sound. The lights. The beer. All of us screaming until we’re hoarse.

Maybe it is called the “American Hoarse Virus.” But that’s no better.

The best news in all of this is that the Sinclair survived. And so did The Osees!

 

 

 

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What Was I Thinking?

Young people are always asking me if I ever saw the Beatles, or the Doors, or the Glenn Miller orchestra. And whether calculators had been invented by the time I was in grade school. What about toilet paper?

Soon I’m rubbing my temples, irritated as hell. I inform them that I was born in “the sixties,” which means Glenn Miller had been dead some 20 years and Jim Morrison was already three-quarters of the way through his short life, which would be over before I was 8. Not to mention that toilet paper had been clogging up toilets for centuries prior to that.

And believe me, no one saw The Beatles.

A more apt question is “Did you ever see Rush?” In fact, I didn’t. And no, I don’t have a good excuse. Among my earliest LP record purchases, probably via the ubiquitously advertised “Columbia House 11 LPs for a Penny” deal, was the Rush album 2112, which I quickly wore out, playing songs from it like Passage to Bangkok over and over while I pretended to keep up with the drumming of Neal Peart.

Suddenly it was 2020 and Neal Peart was no longer with us, as they say, and my chance to see these rockers and all their odd Canadianisms had vanished like moose into the woods of Ontario.

So heap your derision on me, for this was indeed among the great failures of my rock life.

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Clap Trap

Of the thousands of things that this godforsaken coronavirus headache has made me appreciate about those days, not so long ago, when I could walk down the street, breathe the air in deeply, and exhale it upon just about whomever I pleased, none seem quite so unlikely to return any time soon as the live rock show.

Dammit, I had tickets to Pussy Riot! And Antibalas, if you must know. And, on just about every-other Friday night at the Lizard Lounge, Club D’elf.

Cut to this current moment in time: it is late May of 2020 and my best rock show opportunities are happening via YouTube. And that’s not going change any time soon. You can’t even go to church right now, let alone a rock concert. As God has lobbyists aplenty, I’m pretty sure churches will get the green light to change water to wine in front of a live audience well before a bunch of aged punks like X will be allowed to play the song White Girl while people scream and applaud wildly.

The fake news media is bound to claim that wild applause is not only a symptom of Covid-19, but is also a means of spreading the virus, alleging that when people smack their palms together, as they do when they see a good rock show, the dried-on virus particulates that are hidden in the creases of their palms are dispersed like sound waves into the atmosphere, where the virus particulates then deploy wings and make a bee line for random strangers’ nostrils and open mouths.

Don’t believe the hype. The germs known to be dispersed by enthusiastic applause are thought to prefer clogging up pores rather than sinus cavities, which is considered not a very effective means of infecting the host. Ergo, fear not wild applause.

Once my message gets out I suspect a goodly number of people will applaud my efforts to get rock going again. But please don’t applaud too loudly. I don’t want my pores getting any more clogged up than the already are.

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Mr. Essential

I have always considered myself essential in the sense that I’m game to stay open when people like you are shutting it down. In a sense, I’m essential because I believe I’m essential. And once a person believes he’s essential, that person has no choice but to stay open.

Meanwhile, you’re closed. The American public comes to you with their problems but finds an outstretched palm in their collective face. Not only is that not helpful when maybe the American public needs drapes during a major pandemic, but it’s also not particularly sanitary! Put your (maybe; who knows?) coronavirus-infused hand six feet back, pal.

My main concern: several businesses and rock people I frequent and/or watch onstage are guaranteed not to survive the Democrat(ic) Pandemic Plot. For example, what becomes of The Harvard Bookstore? How about The Modern Homebrew Emporium? Matt Murphy’s Pub? Busted Knuckle? Adi’s Bike World? Jack at Phil’s Barber Shop? George and his people at La Flamme? Eco Builders? Brookline Booksmith? China Fair? Rockler? Abodeon? Leavitt and Pearce? Grant Lee? Mike Doughty? Peter Parcek? Audio Lab? As you can imagine, I could easily go on.

I predict a wholesale slaughter. (But don’t quote me).

At least we know we’ll get a new president sometime in the next five years.

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J'Biden Era Haikuage

 

People's Arms. That's right!

200 million shots

In 100 days

 

We are good people

But we still have far to go

Repair. Restore. Heal.

 

There's nothing new here

The Affordable Care Act

We're restoring it 

 

America's Day

Democracy is fragile

The world is watching 

 

Strategy is based

On Science, not politics

Truth, not denial

 

 

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