If you're ever up in western Mass on a Monday night, this is the place to be. Pittsfield -- yes Pittsfield: birthplace of Moby Dick, home of Melville, the first law against baseball, Emily Erwin of the Dixie Chicks, and a mountain of carcinogenic prophylactics left behind by General Electric. They've also got a great Friendly's there, too, as I recall. And an elite cadre of individuals who are turning an old copper what-have-you into a flashpoint for all sorts of radical activity. Maybe you read about them in Boston's paper of record? Here's the website, and the blog. Sometimes on Mondays there are movies, but always stimulating banter and other stuff the square community doesn't give a shit about.
Can you believe it's already July? Wooosh. The cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon, man. Recent activity has included Macbeth at St. Ann's, waterfalls on the East River, and an exchange with Werner Herzog and Donald Fagen, though unfortunately not at the same time. This followed by a rather businesslike Steely Dan set at the Beacon. Now it could be that time I saw them at Roseland, 15 feet from the stage, spoiled me, but I've got to say, what's up with the setlist fellas? Josie instead of Caves of Altamira? Green Earrings over Haitian Divorce? No Deacon Blues but Everything You Did? You know I can't help but sing along to lines like "Turn up the Eagles the neighbors are listening" and (my favorite) "I never knew you! You were a roller skater!" But still! It all feels a bit safe.
Of course, I had a great time, and the band they're playing with is big and rich, and it's hard to bitch too much when the evening does include such highlights as an initially unidentifiable re-arrangement of Show Biz Kids and a killer Royal Scam opener. But please, guys: FM can fucking go. Bury it where you hid Rikki Don't Lose That Number. And use that extra set time for Sign in Stranger. Thanks, The Management.
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