One word springs to mind when I think of last evening's Fleetwood Mac show:
t - h - o - r - a - z - i - n - e,
or whatever the hell it was that one of my former neighbors on Putnam Street (my special name for him = Hosey for the pantyhose he wore on his head, rather, a part of the hose on his head, sometimes - no lie! - with the cotton crotch floating on the back of his head as he made his way to and fro to and fro from his halfway home two doors down to the small mom and pop bodega where he walked back walked back walked back with a few candy bars balanced atop a can of Pepsi.) took every day.
Stevie Nicks displayed such anti-Stevie Nicks edgy freaky earth bitch energy and I noted, through Lead Boy Colleague's big ol' lens, that she was not even making the connection between her manicured hand and the tambourine. A ruse.
The others were doing their jobs. The crowd glass was half-full.
I had more fun and witnessed more stagely enthusiasm later at Mohawk Place watching banjo masters and folk soloists with Doug.
And, unlike Fleetwood Mac, those musicians did not make the press stand about half a mile away to shoot their likenesses, to steal their souls.
Off for more more more.

Thee only bad thing about last evening's Steve Earle gig was his lame-o attempt at a combover. Shouldn't such a perfectionist with off-stage guitar tech with a Kentucky Waterfall to beat the band (a mullet to those of you in the Middling City), exemplary songwriting and just the proper mix of balladry and intersong political banter be able to swoop the last remnant of headtop hair in a better way? Just a thought. Trying to lure one of my boy colleagues, Marky, into the Earle fold, as he's missing something I know he'll be digging.
Approached stage from the left side and, as I made proper media ok's previously, attempted to take my spot in the mini-pit, next to the other guitarist's guitar tech (and I've never seen one work this hard, in addition to non-stop tuning of about 10 he slargled a Rolling Rock, smoked, jumped onstage to play guitar and for one song, a synthesizer), when I was stopped by a ball of security flesh.
Badass: Where do you think YOU are going?
Me: Over there (pointing at Steve Earle's beat-to-crap cowboy boots)
Badass: No, YOU are NOT.
Me: Well, the promoter said it was ok.
Badass: Well, he's right over here and I'll ask him.
Me: (internally) you do that, fattie.
Badass: Go right ahead.
So about half an hour into the show I ask him
Me: So what should I call you besides Badass?
Badass: Excuse me?
Me: WHAT SHOULD I CALL YOU BESIDES BADASS?
Badass: I'm a Dynamic Bouncing Technician. Nick.
(joy! at ever discovering hidden comic talent)
So it turns out this Nick/Badass is not only a security guy but a Harley tech, a body tech (masseur) as well as a former Teamster and pipe-fitter. I find him fascinating.
On the other side of me was a goofball Canadian (no Kentucky Waterfall/Hockey Hair) who holds blues concerts in his living room in Barrie, Ontario.
For someone who claims the role of promoter he didn't know a thang about shows.
He had that wide-eyed Canadian charm, that interesing sonic attack of all things vowel (and, as always, apologies to dear Canadian pal Georgie-san) but he didn't understand via my body language that at some point I was no longer interested in explaining the Middling City music scene to him when Steve Earle was in the room - and that, given a choice, I'd rather speak to a squat polymath who could fix my body, sweat my pipes and repair my Harley, should I ever acquire one in a foolish midlife purchasing frenzy.
Love.

Sort of an Ani swagger parade is how I'd describe the Ani cd just left in my possession by Lead Boy Colleague. Guess I paid scarce attention to the release of Evolve and I'm digging the moth illustration on the cover. Jazzy. Onwards.
Best music news of late is the appearance tomorrow night of Steve Earle. His sister Stacey has hunkered down on Middling City stages here and there and now it's time for the best Earle of all. A blow your head off and switchblade yer heart extravaganza to be sure.
Next night, that'd be Thursday to yous not always working within linear timetables, is Fleetwood Mac and I'm feeling fairly sure that that'll not be as adrenalizing as Earle, or their last MC gig when that whole hoopla surrounded them when they drug their collective asses out of near-obscurity to hit the highway. All, really, thanks to past prez Bill Clinton and his inaugural Don't Stop...
My new school, New School U's Parsons School O'Design, is so discombobulated as they've lost and resent a few forms which is a real head-scratcher.
I tell you what:
yesterday had to break into my residence not once but freakin' TWICE. Doorknob lock went all kaflooey and dragged a ladder to the back of the house, broke a second floor window, set off home alarm (never thinking to unalarm) and then jimmyed (when the hell do you get to use this excellent verb?) the door off its hinges while bleeding up and down the wall out of a finger. Very evenly spaced and I've already pointed this out to four, I think unimpressed, others. So also while I'm bleeding and jimmying I'm on the phone with a man from Total Safety:
Me: what do you mean you can't find me in your computers? I pay my bills to you every month.
Him: I'm sorry but I don't see you... can you get to your keypad? It's rather difficult to hear you.
Me: BECAUSE MY ALARM IS GOING OFF. I guess you can't help me, GOODBYE.
About an hour later, after the cops came and went, I realized that I have Brinks, not Total Safety.
So same thing happened - unbelievably! - three hours later after I thought I fixed the prob. Turned alarm off, no cops, no jimmying. New doorknob.
All's swell that ends swell.

Yesterday, whilst reading a cookbook as I sat in my car and figuring out my paella strategy for today, I inadvertently, upon the passenger side, let loose my car keys. After shooting a wedding in a small town, and then trying to get into the car, I realized the tragic turn of luck. Hitched a ride with wedding people to a country club, hobnobbing with their bitchy limo driver the entire way. He was driving a near-classic limo like a yacht.
Him: This family never tips me, I drive the aunts around, the mother of the groom around, and they are all loaded. No tips, I'm like a waitress, I work for minimum wage. GRRRR, etc.
Me: (thinking) get a-no-th-er j.o.b.
So I'm grabbing his big subliminal hint that for helping me I should grease his craggly palm. I did - for the rides to & fro and for hanging onto my cell phone as I shot more wedding moments, alerting my photographic self when AAA was en route. More kvetching from Mr. Limo. We arrived at my car and the guy in the towtruck said Your car doors are already open. Handed tip to Mr. Cranky. Had a stress smoke on way back to club. Accidentally melted a grand and gaping hole into an article of clothing in the back seat - glad the little ember didn't hit the old newspapers archived vehicularly. Imagine someone making an announcement during the wedding reception thusly:
Would the asshole who parked right next to the building please rush out to your vehicle, it's engulfed in flames!
Conflagration follows me.
As do high rockstar times and minor misdemeanors.