Get hung up, feed the ducks with a bun

The Itchycoo Park rock fest, held on the same Manchester, Tennessee property where Bonnaroo is now held, didn’t last as long as my series about it! More precisely, I’ve been talking (and talking and talking) about Living Legends of Rock and Roll: Live from Itchycoo Park, a DVD culled from that 1999 festival. And now, a fate worse than Living . . .

Starship featuring Mickey Thomas: In a departure from the earlier naming convention, Mickey Thomas is not of Starship, he’s featured. Not sure how, as the only returning members from their peak popularity, Farner’s role in GFRR differs from Thomas’ in the eyes of Image Entertainment, who released this thing. Or it could be that the competing Jefferson Starship—with Marty Balin, Jack Casady, Paul Kantner—was in operation in 1999 and prohibited Thomas and band from being billed any other way, although I’ve read that Thomas used “Starship” (in every sense), unchallenged.

[Mickey Thomas puts his best face on Starship's performance.]

In a departure from the rest of the program, the final act is allowed three songs in their performance. And I use the term in the same sense that a donkey show can rightfully be referred to as a “performance,” taking things that, on their own, may be harmless or even enjoyable, and combining them in an unspeakably foul act.

Two of the three songs done here by Mickey Thomas (as featured with Starship) are r’n’r classics (living legends, some would say), great records, and from the 60s/70s era this festival seemed to be targeting.

The other one is “We Built This City.”

This is a song that, like the previous-worst selection on this DVD, required FOUR writers to fully render to its ultimate magnificence. One of them, Bernie Taupin, outdoes his lousiest work for Elton with his lyrics for this atrocity.
(While Taupin has been involved with many great songs, close listening reveals that in most cases, the songs succeed despite his lyrics, not at all due to them. He has written some decent stuff especially on early Elton John albums, but by and large, I find his work abysmal and believe EJ’s music is successful in spite of the words.)

“City” is such a cobbled-together mess of a song that I grudgingly credit this Starship for their ability to render a recognizable onstage version of it. Unlike the rest of their set, the 80s-appropriate keyboard playing is at least intermittently audible here and the guitarist’s likewise anachronistic overplaying fits the song. It wouldn’t surprise me, based on this performance, if the band weren’t asked to audition with this piece and that this is the template for Thomas’ ideal Starship sound. They do close their segment with it. My sweet lord, though, does it suck.

Somehow Thomas inherited guardianship of the Starship; if the band were a kid, we’d be frantically calling Child Protective Services. It does appear that the Balin-Casady-Kantner Jefferson Starship were active concurrent with this, so perhaps the Airplane—Starship legacy was Thomas’ only insofar as the concert promoters were concerned. I mean, in the absence of Grace Slick, who is more entitled to perform “Somebody To Love,” Marty Balin or Micky Thomas? I’d rather hear Balin sing it, that’s for sure. Heck, I’d rather hear Jorma sing it. Or Papa John Creach.

Thomas’ singing on the Elvin Bishop hit (and speaking of, why isn’t this billed as Elvin Starship or Jefferson Bishop, featuring MT), however, always struck me as a pretty terrific blast of blue eyed soul. And the song is ok here, apart from the guitarist’s misguided attempt to trump Elvin Bishop’s style with his sheer volume of notes (and volume), so perhaps not a full-blown donkey show. So to speak.

What he and his ‘ship do with Jefferson Airplane’s defining hit, though, is a noisy, shrieky mess. It’s an ugly bludgeoning. Mickey encourages the stylistically inappropriate guitar solo by interjecting the admonition, “Suck it up.” Huh? Maybe I need to check closed captioning; he may be saying, “Sucks, don’t it?”

The band looks like Micky took pot luck from Central Casting’s notion of 80s rockers: a bassist in camo shorts, which is not only a contemptable look to offer an audience, but should be prohibited from civilian wear at any time; an encephalitic-looking shredder in a wife-beater on lead guitar; a corpulent drummer who appears to be the product of a mating between a walrus and Mr. Clean.

If you’ve read this far, I’m sorry, and you will not be surprised to learn that lead vocalist Mickey reminds me of another (far more bush league) singer I’ve known. The physical resemblance may be superficial, but both share a glazed, soul-dead look in their eyes and many of the same hackneyed stage moves. What put me most in mind of the singer I know, though, is when, at the end of their set, Mickey pulls himself away from the guitarist’s “good buddy” embrace to … raise his shirt and point at his nipple.

[Show us your ti-- no, sir, not you!]

For whatever unfathomable reason he did it, he (like this local singer) clearly has a mistaken impression of what people want to see 50-year-old white guys do on stage.

Keys = Is this BOB from Twin Peaks? If not, he could certainly play his stunt double. (Looks like he may be Phillip Bennett, who is listed on the “Starship” site as having been with them since 1995.)

His hair-flipping is off-putting, but his playing “technique” is compellingly bizarre, comprised primarily pressing down numerous keys (mostly inaudibly, seemingly at random) with rigid fingers held parallel to the keyboard. At the conclusion of one passage, he pulls away his hands from the instrument, as if he’s a conjurer revealing an astonishing feat of legerdemain. On “We Built This City,” he supplements his arsenal of kool movez with a cute little single-finger thing, simply adorable. Especially for a murderous demonic entity.

[Yeah, well, have you ever seen them in the same place at the same time?]

ROD = Here I was going to take my usual cheap shots at Thomas’ stiff, creepy, post-plastic visage when I learn that—well, he had his out of necessity. According to the account in Jeff Tamarkin’s Jefferson Airplane biography, in 1990 Thomas got into a dustup with then-Starship drummer Donny Baldwin,* resulting in Baldwin handing the singer’s face to him. Literally. Thomas required a “cranial facial entry,” or, as he says in Tamarkin’s book, “they took my face off and then reattached it, with 60 staples in the top of my head.” So I guess my comment about Balwin removing his face is, technically, inaccurate.
[*Could it be Baldwin didn’t take kindly to an instruction to “Suck it up”?]

Regardless, not even I am so callous as to wisecrack about his looks. The rest of the band, not so much decrepit as motley and untrustworthy looking.

And so, with the image of Mickey Thomas flashing his pale chest, the credits roll on the living legends of Itchycoo Park.

I’ve certainly given the impression that seeking out this DVD would be a monumental waste of time and money, and I sort of regret that. As of this writing, many of the Itchycoo performances I wrote about, including most of those I’d actually recommend seeing, are available for online viewing at:

http://vandalproductions.com/component/k2/item/288-itchycoo-park-99.html.

I definitely recommend taking a look at the Steppenwolf and Grand Funk, possibly the Iron Butterfly, depending upon your feelings about that song.

Maybe you will be able to make sense out of the arbitrary collection presented as Live From Itchycoo Park, with its inexplicable assortment of artists, its crappy packaging, and its producers’ indefensible notion of what constitutes a “legend.” If nothing else, the existence of this DVD attests to the insatiable demand for live rock and roll footage, no matter how shoddy or arbitrary its presentation. Now where is the footage of those 40 other Itchycoo acts we actually might want to see?

Thanks for reading all, or any part of this. It was a slog, I’m sure.

While I truly am a huge fan of vintage rock concert footage, and somewhat fascinated by the Itchycoo Park Fest video, I also confess to using the tens of thousands of words from these past few posts to air some of my lingering emotions about former friends and band mates in a manner that hopefully will not get me shot or beaten by them. Feel free to apply any of the unkind characterizations used here in veiled commentary about your own pasts!

Then send the links, so I can enjoy ‘em!

X, is this awful!

[No it's not your eyesight ... I'm having trouble getting Blogger to respect my authority regarding font sizes.]

What we’re doing here, if you just joined me, is going through the acts and songs presented on the DVD, Living Legends of Rock and Roll: Live From Itchycoo Park, a chronicle of sorts of the 1999 festival held on the current site of Bonnaroo.
That’s the what.
The why, still a mystery.

Christopher Cross (or, as I like to call him, Xopher Cross): On what Bizarro world is the kind of beige wallpaper yacht pop perpetrated by Xopher Cross considered a rock festival attraction? Same kinda world where this (in my IMO) vocally-challenged, reptilian creature can sell millions of copies of such thin broth as “Sailing,” “Ride Like the Wind,” and “Arthur’s Theme (Best That You Can Do),” that last, far and away the worst thing Bacharach has his name anywhere near.

The great preponderance of mediocre acts, at worst, grate on my nerves only when I’m trapped in an enclosed environment with their issue, say, in a car with someone else controlling the tunes or in the dentist’s chair. I will confess, however, Xopher’s music makes me not just ever-so cross, but outright angry.

The year he hit big, 1980, was possibly the worst to date in pop music since Elvis debuted. It was not only this guy’s pop pap, but such treacle as Air Supply, Kenny Rogers’ “Lady,” and Hall and Oates embarrassing remake of “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feeling” were crowding Elvis Costello and the Clash off the charts. It was a year in music that was capped off, in December, with the murder of a Beatle. THAT’S how bad 1980 was.*
[* If that weren’t enough, Professor Longhair also died that year, another tough knock to an aspiring piano player.]

And the plaintive, reedy, paper-thin voice of Christopher Cross (real name: Christopher Charles Geppert) was absolutely inescapable. Even when his material was passable, as with “Sailing,” his abrasive articulations render it unlistenable. I’ve talked here before about my disgust over the film, “Arthur.” The thought that it required four experienced composers to craft the two awkward verses and one incessant, ludicrous chorus—none of which make much sense even with a knowledge of the film—is testiment to the lazy songwriting that characterized the early 80s.
Plus, my band had to learn to play “Sailing” for a gig we should never have accepted, and which was as dismal as a prom with a Xopher Cross theme could be.

Like Styx and Steppenwolf before him, Cross is given two selections on the DVD program and, of course, they are “Sailing” and “Arthur.” In some weird affectation that must pass as his live performance style, Cross compounds the inherent annoying qualities of his voice by biting off the ends of most of his lines of lyrics. Bad as I think his voice is on his recordings, live, it is simply awful, lacking in any kind of timbre or sustain.

He at least has an interesting, competent band, featuring two very presentable women on keys and drums, who serve as a welcome relief when they cut away from their band leader. The bass player’s vocal harmonies bolster CC on the verses of “Sailing,” and the others chime in on the chorse, to nice effect. I could see myself enjoying the band if I were a couple martinis into a mellow cocktail lounge experience. At a massive rock fest, so much less so.

To recap, nothing about Christopher Cross, from his huge success to his inclusion at the Itchycoo Festival or the DVD, make one particle of sense to me. At least part of this performance is available on YouTube, as of this writing, so judge for yourself, if you like.

[Cross was recently interviewed on PopDose and, to my amazement, seemed personable and reasonably modest, for someone whose debut album earned a Grammy for every chubby finger on his hand, and talks about approaching his newest album “from a real guitar place … ‘cause that’s where my roots are from.” Although he acquits himself nicely on guitar at Itchycoo, but where in his hit singles are his “guitar place” roots at all evident? And he can’t possibly be nice enough to compensate for the blight he and his kind inflicted on pop culture.]

[<--- Xtopher Cross, with the band, Flash, showing where his roots "are from"]


Keys = As noted, an easy-on-the eye woman who plays quite well, if sometimes from an awkward semi-crouch, due to the inadequate level of her lower-tiered instrument. Big deal like Xopher, and yet, too chitzy to spring for a proper keyboard stand. (I really am a jerk when it comes to this guy, aren’t I.)

ROD = Not sure any of the band looks exactly contemporary with the big guy up front. They all look tip-top, though. Xopher himself would have been around 50 when this was shot and, as they would have said at one time, he cuts a prosperous figure. From this appearance and contemporary photos, he either fails to adequately protect his fair skin from the sun or is working on some righteous gin blossoms. In general, he looks like most overweight 50-year-olds I know who live the high life with too much money. I’m just so proud of myself for getting through a thousand words about the guy and not once typing “porcine.”

Legendary rating = What I said about Styx, only more so. Chris Cross is the poster boy for wretched 80s schlock culture. Sure, he’s legendary. So is Lakehurst, New Jersey.

Next, and finally, a triple “dose” of Mickey . . .

An Itch(ycoo) You Can’t Scratch

What I’m going to do here, for my own (and, almost certainly, for no one else’s) contemplation is a runthrough of the 1999 Itchycoo Park festival, as represented by the DVD, Living Legends of Rock and Roll: Live From Itchycoo Park. I should note, I don’t actually own this DVD, only an ephemeral copy, in the form of a recording on a DVR (which belongs to DISH network). When I first tried to find a copy of the DVD, last year, used copies were going for as much as $93. In keeping with the idiocy of my obsession with this thing, that’s $23 more than a full pass to the actual event cost.

Because I’m a long-time amateur piano player, I will make special note of the keyboard players. Due to my own advanced age, I will speak to how well, or poorly, the “legends” have aged, with my Rate of Decrepitude [ROD], where 10 is “will be kicking Jack LaLaynne’s ass in the afterlife” and 1 is “the Crypt Keeper’s close-up double.” If you like, you may refer to this ranking by its alternate designation, ROT, for Ravages of Time. And because of the full title of this video, I’ll evaluate the aptness of each act’s general legend-worthiness.

Styx
The video kicks off with Tommy Shaw making some exceedingly awkward small talk to introduce Styx’ mechanical “Too Much Time on My Hands.” This band is always better when they spare us the cod-British braying of Dennis DeYoung, if that isn’t faint praise, and this is an energetic, capable rendition of a song I could not care less about.

What an odd choice to lead off the DVD, with a song that was a hit in 1981. From the acts advertised to appear at the festival, and those on the DVD, the concept seemed to be 60s/70s FM-AOR, so this sets an odd, 80s AOR tone from the outset.

Not only the lead slot, Styx also gets to offer a second selection, “Fooling Yourself,” that is every bit as proficient, and memorable, as their first. Clearly this music is incredibly (if inexplicably) popular, and maybe I’m missing something, but I don’t hear anything in this wallpaper music, as high voltage as they may act like it is. There’s just nothing memorable or exciting about it, and if I hadn’t wanted to see some of the other acts, I would have stopped watching and gone to wash dishes, or some other more-stimulating activity.

Keys: While anything other than DeYoung would constitute a trade up, replacing DeYoung’s vocal affectations and obvious theatrical aspirations for (presumably Lawrence Gowan’s) absurd acrobatics involving his swivel-based instrument* renders the substitution a near wash. I was not alone in bursting out in laughter the first time Larry took his big organ out for a spin.

ROD: Tommy Shaw = 7 (he’s looking a little face-lifty), overall = 8 (Mr. Swivel on keyboard has a youthful look that brings down the overall air of decrepitude, ludicrous as he may be)

Legend rating = As emblematic as this stuff is of 80s rock, I will grudgingly acknowledge the “Styx legend” as apt, while noting that one can be a legend for negative reasons, too.

* Yes, I snickered typing the words, “swivel-based instrument.” And it’s not properly an “organ,” but c’mon, you gotta give me that one.

Mark Farner of Grand Funk Railroad
No offense to Mel and Don, but they might as well cede the name and let Mark bill himself as “Grand Funk Railroad.” To my ears, on casual listening, their rendition of “I’m Your Captain/Closer To Home”* sounds indistinguishable from any by the classic GFRR lineup that I’ve heard. The “of” designation puts the stamp of questionable legitimacy on this aggregation, same as when someone tours on his former association with a known band, but is too obscure to have name recognition on his own, like “Roger Earl of Foghat,” for example. Or “Smiley Burnette of Petticoat Junction.”

* In keeping with the overall shoddiness of this package, the DVD lists the performance as two separate songs, the second of which it labels, “I’m Getting Closer To My Home.” It’s a truly craptastic looking piece of product, and I hope the images show up well enough here for you to fully appreciate its desperate cash-grab appearance.

As the lead singer, primary songwriter, and guitarist/keys player/frontman, Farner was to Grand Funk as Fogarty was to CCR, the voice and face of the band. So, sorry Mel and Don (and Stu and Doug), your absence isn’t going to be the crippling shortcoming you might prefer it to be.

What is with Farner and those crappy guitars he plays, though? Is Kramer really the best choice for the kind of light metal boogie GFRR specializes in? Maybe, although I’m assuming it’s less about the sound and more about an endorsement deal.

This act and material at least make sense for a 70s AOR concert document. Who knew that the band who brought you “T.N.U.C.” had such a durable, even sorta moving athem in them? “I’m Your Captain/Closer To Home” has been interpreted as being about drug addiction (by those who think all 60s/70s rock and roll lyrics are about drugs, in some capacity), and Farner has apparently encouraged the notion that the song is about the Vietnam War. I remember the radio ads when the album came out, with a portentious voice spouting some vaguely apocalyptic environmental message, an interpretation the lyrics pretty clearly support.

But this is Grand Funk—next I’ll be analyzing the lyrics to “Mean Mistreater”! This is a solid rendition of a song no one ever expected to become a Classic. And Grand Funk, whoever constitutes the band at this stage, is vastly better represented in Itchycoo Park than in the only other festival film appearance I know of, at 1970’s Midsummer Rock Fest, where they are shown performing “Inside Looking Out” … and “T.N.U.C.”

Keys: None

ROD: His hairline’s slipped a bit and he’s looking beefier, but overall, almost aberrantly healthy for an old-tyme rocker, so Farner gets an 8.

Legend rating = Given that their music has outlived some of the critics who used to delight in belittling the band’s blue collar populism; that they were such tireless (relentless?) arena-shakers that critical opinion didn’t matter; and that they produced several tracks that still rock convincingly, decades later, Grand Funk looks pretty solidly “legendary.”

Iron Butterfly
Iron Butterfly managed to make news in 1999; unfortunately, it wasn’t for their performance at the Itchycoo Park festival, but for the discovery of the body of Philip Kramer, the band’s bassist during the 70s, later a defense contractor whose 1995 disappearance fueled far more press than most of their records managed. The haters may say that the extensive Kramer speculation was far more interesting than most of the Butterfly’s records, but I often found IB to be satisfyingly heavy and crunchy.

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida was the first l.p. I bought with my own modest, early-teen income (although things would have been different had it not been for Dad bringing home Beatles and Beach Boys records). It was just so dark and weighty, and the aspiring musician in me was encouraged by the prominent role the organ played in this band, sort of like Vanilla Fudge with more than one tempo. For these and other reasons, I’ve always had a thing for ‘Vida (as IB fans call it, or should, if they don’t), to the extent that I invented a unit of time based on the song’s duration.

The deluxe CD of the ‘Vida album includes three versions of the title track: the single, the original album cut, and a live take. This rendition from Itchycoo will make you forget none of those. Sure, it ticks all the essential ‘Vida boxes: incessant repitition of that insidiously catchy riff, check; captivatingly nonsensical lyrics, got it; plodding, quasi-tribal drum solo, yep; and of course, the droning, churchy, somewhat menacing organ extravagence of Doug Ingle—not so fast! Although several sources show Ingle as being with the band for part of the year, he is absent at Itchycoo, his place (and then some) at Icthycoo is taken by Damian Bujanda, looking quite Whale Music-period Brian Wilson.

Here we have the opposite of the Grand Funk situation, or something that should have been billed as “Iron Butterfly sans Doug Ingle.” I like to point out that you can only get away with replacing vodka in the bottle with water for so long until what you’ve got ain’t vodka any more. And that if you keep slapping Ford Fiesta parts on your Bugatti Veyron, you will eventually have a hideous mutation that won’t outrun a Vespa.

This version of the band includes just the rhythm section from the group that cut ‘Vida in the studio and, drum solos aside, their parts and sound do not identify this sprawling rock n’ roll landmark. Bujanda is totally adaquate on the Hammond, (although his bench surfing gyrations and bliss-faces are distracting as a Frisbee to the head), he’s just not very distinctive, and he sure ain’t Doug Ingle.

Minus Ingle’s distinctive organ style and lead vocals, this is nothing more than a competent tribute band. Or, if you like, it’s like showing up at Le Mans in a Tata Nano (go to topgear dot com and search for this car—well worth your time).

Keys: Though Damian Bujanda is infinitely more animated (not that that’s an advantage), I can’t help thinking of late-70s Brian Wilson when I watch him play. My belief is that, if you’re going to attract attention to yourself onstage, it shouldn’t be to catch the moment when he blissfully rocks his substantial bulk off his piano bench.

ROD = Not notably decrepit, I also had to remind myself that this video was shot 12 years ago. They look about like any middle-aged bar band you could find playing Camaro rock in any state of the union. Let’s call it a 5.

Legend rating = Iron Butterfly personifies the one-hit wonder, with a body of work (including their three other charting songs) lacking anything remotely approaching their signature tune. Although “Flowers and Beads” has always seemed devilishly catchy to me. Can one song make you a legend? When it’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, the answer is [insert Doug Ingle grunt] yeah!

Next: Those nice Nelson boys. And Firefall? More like Sh*tstorm!

What Becomes a (Living) Legend Most

For as long as I can remember, I have been crazy for rock concert films, going back to—at least—the 1970 Midsummer Rock Festival that I caught on TV (and which my cousin attended, and says was appropriately deafening). That concert, from Cincinnati’s Crosley Field, featured Grand Funk, Mountain, The Stooges, Alice Cooper, and Traffic. While I couldn’t tell you much about most of it, Traffic’s set of songs from “John Barleycorn” made me a lifelong fan. It was pretty cool for a kid like me to see a show like this at such a tender age.

[Since writing that paragraph, in yet another indication of my glacial “writing” speed, I’ve seen Midsummer Rock Festival again. Every indication is that it’s the identical footage that aired originally in 1970, and this viewing made apparent why “John Barleycorn”was the only song I could remember from it. Perhaps it also aired very late at night and I dozed.

For the most part, the program is compellingly awful (a not-uncommon attribute of the kinds of Art I tend to gravitate to, seems like), with straight-laced announcers talking over the seemingly-randomly-selected performances with condescending observations about the clamorous music and the unwashed, lemming-like concertgoers. Some of the music is good, some ok, and there is one fascinating interview with the parent of an attendee, but overall, it is everything that, other than the T.A.M.I. Show and until the Woodstock movie, was lousy about TV and Hollywood’s perception and presentation of live rock and roll. Undoubtedly, I’ll write more about this, later.]

Fast forward—or make that, frame advance—to August 1999. Some promoters secured a bunch of acreage in rural Tennessee to put on a weekend-long festival, featuring such 60s/70s stars as Leon Russell, Blue Oyster Cult, Badfinger, The Rascals, Blood, Sweat & Tears, Peter Noone, Davy Jones, and The Buckinghams.* The event was christened The Itchycoo Park Festival and, years before Bonnaroo, it became Manchester, Tennessee’s introduction to the dazzling human spectacle that is the rock fest.

* Just some of the artists scheduled or announced to perform that I’d like to have seen represented on the Living Legends of Rock and Roll: Live From Itchycoo Park DVD—several I’d much rather have seen than, oh, most of the acts on the DVD, and none of whom you’d think would constitute difficult performance/appearance rights.

[A couple of years ago, we found ourselves passing through Manchester, the weekend before Bonnaroo, and had the opportunity to buffet amongst the waves of humanity filtering in from all parts of the globe to sweat, eat Burger King Whoppers, and step out in front of our vehicle without looking. While I am eons past the target demographic, the sheer numbers of people that attend this event—and the aggressive self-centeredness and cluelessness of those we encountered—would repel me, at any age.]

Accounts of the inaugural Itchycoo event are not easy to find and tend toward the common cluster-flub attributes (lousy facilities, price gouging, no-shows, etc.) that characterized 70s festivals. The lack of promised septic hookups, expensive showers, and sparse, costly vending choices seemed to be the rule. In fairness, at least one online article cited an attendence figure of 80-some thousand.

Not that any of the negative—some would say, nightmarish—elements are apparent in the only surviving evidence of the festival, a DVD titled Living Legends of Rock and Roll: Live From Itchycoo Park.

I first became aware of the film’s existence when it aired on HDNet or Palladia, and, to no one’s surprise, have been mildly obsessed with it since. That initial viewing was without any context whatsoever: when it took place, why the random assortment of acts, who thought the public was clamoring to see the likes of Firefall perform live. It is a compellingly weird document of a nearly-forgotten event, and pretty fascinating in its own right.

No, it’s not surprising that someone would perceive a market for a festival of 60s and 70s acts in a new, mid-American setting. What is baffling is how anyone thought this was either a representative documentary or an appealing concert package. Even without a viewing, the selection of performances could generously be called egalitarian, and more accurately, random, ranging from 60s classic rock icons to 90s one-hitters.

But view it I have, repeatedly. It fascinates me with its arbitrary roster of acts and the highly variable quality of the performances, with the condition (good and poor) of the performers, and with the sad fact that virtually none of the festival acts I’m interested in were included in the Itchycoo Park DVD.

For all its drawbacks, people like me, who grew up in an age when opportunities to see live rock and roll footage were rare as rock concerts without drum solos, will sit through hours of the Styx and REOs for 3:28 of “Born To Be Wild.”

Next time, a veritable drum solo of words about this concert . . .