I Can Do That
Wednesday. To bed last night at a decent hour, up this morning and back to breakfast before setting out to the guitar lesson that starts at ten. Barre chords. OK, I can play them, but like learning that first set of chords they take time, the fingers needing to do things fingers don't normally do in the course of a sensible life. Still, a good lesson, a new song assigned that sounds nice. So we're cooking.
After getting back from breakfast and then heading over to the lesson the head was more into its out to lunch phase than its just back from breakfast things are all right state. Some odd permutations on the double vision problem that lasted for about an hour, clearing up by the time I returned home (feeling pretty good now that I'm home), a quick lie down for twenty minutes did some good before heading out. My, my. I hope things are tight inside for the Buffalo Springfield concert tonight.
Buffalo Springfield, my, my.
For someone who's not gone to many concerts in this life I'm going to one or two now that I'm over the hill old (but can still hear). I've listened to more than a few hours of Springfield, Neil Young, CSN, CSN&Y, Poco and Loggins & Messina, though. In this life. Particularly Springfield and Young. Nice sound, the L.A. sound otherwise, but Young for all his foibles has always been particularly nice. IMHO
Later. A walk down the way to have lunch at my usual place seems to have cleared the head a bit. The brain salad of double vision tricks and upper palate-sinus playing at whatever it plays at without my conscious permission eased a bit as I returned home. A look through Walden Books, noticing the number of new releases covering the late sixties underground press and other shenanigans of the period, a sign suggesting they made a good gift for dad.
More like granddad I'd think, but what can I say as I have Ten Years That Shook the City: San Francisco 1968-1978 on the way after hearing a recommendation by one of the old cartoonists, the book describing the underground comix scene as it existed, where the artists lived and what they did during my own time in the city. Bait the hook, reel in the old dudes who'll smile nicely and at least look through the pictures.
OK, mid-afternoon, the sun is now out, the air fairly cool, UPS bringing a couple of small items for the tripods later, hopefully before I leave for the theater. They came last night well after seven, might have been eight, a record. Oh, and they brought a copy of a photography book by Dennis Hopper who was described as having carried a camera at all times during the period 1961-1967.
I was attracted by “carried a camera at all times” and the fact I like his work and his place in the cultural pantheon. We ran a story with pictures about the making of Dime Box, one of Hopper's less know films, in the old Rip Off Review of Western Culture. Oh, and the fact the book was half price plus postage. My advice is to pass unless you're a hopeless Hopper freak and attracted to the odd photograph of James Dean or Jane Fonda. Nothing wrong with James Dean or Jane Fonda, but it's a great big heavy book that I'd have sensibly passed on by had it not been presented in an email from Amazon. Clever Amazon. Serves me right for not looking for it at Walden.
Evening. Later. Indeed it was Buffalo Springfield from note one. An odd back to the past experience, the three original members (Neil Young, Steven Stills and Richard Furay) sounding pretty good for a bunch of old farts. Young's comment he'd just been thinking of Nixon's old secretary who'd managed to erase - what was it? - forty-four years from the tape? Forty-four years since Buffalo Springfield last played?
Ms. M was working for Atlantic Records then and was representing the label on one of the early tours where Buffalo Springfield was opening for The Byrds telling one or two stories of the legendary friction within the band. No noticeable signs of friction in the band this evening. They actually looked pretty good, much better than most of the members of the audience who were their (our) age. And, of course, they played the songs. Yes they did, they played the songs.
So, a cab home arriving just after eleven and now to bed. Felt pretty good, had a couple of Guinness before entering the theater at Mr. R's place next to the Fox during what must have been their happy hour, two Guinness for the price of one. Really? I can do that.