In Israel, during the summer they have this thing called “Leilot Levanim”. It translates into “White Nights” and happens every Thursday night, throughout the whole country. The buses run until 3AM, the trains go until past midnight and every business stays up until about 5AM. There are street festivals and carnivals, the roads are full of traffic and bands play on the street for tips and your entertainment.
It’s fricking awesome.
That said, we were in Englewood and it was a balmy Thursday evening in September—the evening of my annual “Back to School Night”. El Madre and I had just finished up with my piano interview (apparently a year of begging makes parents realize you’re actually serious about something) and were looking for a place we could have a quick and tasty meal.
Now, the majority of Englewood’s restaurants are either typical Jewish/Israeli cuisine, Chinese food, Mexican Tapas Bars, or delis and takeout. We passed by several Israeli cuisine-type restaurants before finding one that looked easy and tasty. We decided to sit outside and were enjoying our lemonades and pita when we heard music.
Live music?
Nearby?
On the street?
My traitor of a heart started beating faster in anticipation as I looked across the street. Leilot Levanim in Englewood?! It was too good to be true.
So we ate our meal, enjoying the musical stylings of some random, unkown yet kickass jazz-rock-blues band. At one point El Madre looked at me curiously as I sang/hummed some phrases that I knew, but couldn’t put my finger on (one turned out to be The Meters' Cissy Strut;I’ve forgotten the others by now).
It was, in essence, lovely.
After checking the time, we packed our stuff up and jumped into our dumpy Ford (the only car we had left since our accident). However, the route to get back home from Englewood put us on the street driving right next to (and past) the band. El Madre and I were really happy and excited from the music and so I wanted to show them our appreciation.
While we were driving by them, I flashed them a brilliant grin and a thumb’s up.
The guy closest to the front, the sax player, smiled back, then put both hands over his heart.
Our own, personal close encounter with Frunobulax. Unfortunately, no rhinestone collars…
**BEWARE! This selection includes crazy antics, teenage behavior, Valley-type women, the NJ Parkway and a distant relative of Frunobulax. Consider yourself warned.**
Despite the fact that the ‘rents knew Irene would be just like any other storm we’ve ever been hit with (yes, Chris Christie, we’re on to you…), they still wanted to get on the road early and be home before 1PM.
On Friday morning, August 26th, we woke up to brilliant sunshine. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
Just my luck?
Anyway, we hopped in the car, stopped for coffee and were on the Parkway by 10AM. We were cruising, listening to tunes from my Zune and trying to enjoy the ride back, despite the bouts of traffic.
We were about halfway home when suddenly, El Padre called my name from the front of the car, his voice amused and sing-songy. “Carmeeel…”
“What?” I bit out, irritated. I mean, I was reading. Who in their right mind would interrupt me while I was finally getting to the good stuff?
“Look at what they have in the backseat.”
“What?”
“A poodle.”
I immediately bolted upright while slamming my book closed and staring out the window opposite mine. Sure enough, there was a white sedan (Florida license plates, might I add?)with a curly, disco-type poodle stretching in the back. An old-ish guy was driving (like a/an (fill in the blank. I refuse to generate negative karma)) and his wife was sitting beside him. The windows were totally open in the back and half-open in the front.
At that precise moment, Dirty Love (from Return of the Son of…) came on, unplanned.
It was now or never.
I scooted over to the other seat in the back, asked El Padre to get a little closer (we had fallen a bit behind) and waited for exactly the right moment.
My timing was exact. I had the window open and screamed/sang the lyrics just at the right moment:
“THE POODLE BITES! THE POODLE CHEWS IT! THE POODLE BITES! THE POODLE CHEWS IT!”
The woman sitting in the passenger seat, a female in her 50s with fake blond hair (seemingly, a Val) looked over, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape and totally freaked out—and not in the awesome Zappa way. She pointed at me (I was still screaming and singing along), nudged her husband, and then shut all their windows, eyes straight ahead. The sedan sped up ahead of us.
Meanwhile, the three of us were dying of laughter. El Padre was cracking up, I was holding on to my jeans and wiping tears from my face and El Madre couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen.
Despite the fact that I feared for my life (people generally drive with their eyes open, not half-closed in hysterical laughter), I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face.
I got 70 minutes of live ZPZ…That should be enough to hold me over for the year…Right?...
RIGHT?!...?
Part 2 of Night 2 of The Awesome ZPZ Beacon Experience.
Leaning against the wall next to the box office, occasionally dipping a cookie in The Mother’s coffee or taking a sip from it, I observed the scene going on with unease.
There was a middle-aged man to my left side, standing with a bicycle between his legs. He had a fanny pack tied across his chest and was wearing a wizard’s hat, yelling, “Tickets! Need a ticket?”
Oh, yes. He was a scalper. Quite an obvious one, in fact.
And yet…There was a guy, guarding the entrance into the Beacon. A Beacon-Guard, if you will. Why wasn’t he stopping Wizard Dude?
Then, there was an old man, definitely in his mid-60s, walking around, wearing overlarge glasses and holding an umbrella, asking people if they had a spare ticket. I felt didn’t feel too bad for him; a twinge of remorse was all he got from me.
The young man sitting cross-legged on the pavement across from me, however…Him, I felt bad for. A dull (and slightly melancholic) expression on his face and a cigarette between his lips, he held up a small cardboard sign that read:
WWFD?
It then went on to explain that he had no money for a ticket and that he’s ‘got stinkfoot’.
I felt bad for him. I mean, I felt really bad for him. After all, it was basically a year ago that I was in his shoes…Plus or minus a couple of factors. I was very close to asking The Mother (who was also empathetic) for some cash, so we could give it to him. But then she finished her coffee and it was time to go inside. I stashed my remaining cookie inside a pocket so the guys who raid your bag at the front wouldn’t find it.
Inside, we burned some more time and tried not to pay attention to the freaky-looking guys hanging around. As soon as they opened the doors, we dashed inside and got to our seats. Really, for a teenage girl and a woman alone…a rough crowd is fairly intimidating (despite the fact that I own pepper-spray and have good aim).
We agreed that we weren’t coming back without a male member of the household.
Soon enough, the show began. And I was in heaven.
I bopped and swung my head from side to side, singing along when there were lyrics, occasionally humming when there weren’t. I tapped my feet in my Converse to the beat and was totally, utterly into it. This would, after all, be my fix for the year.
When Dweezil asked the audience if anyone had been there the night before, El Madre and I shot up, screaming. And when Ben asked people to dance during ‘Dancin’ Fool’, I got up and rocked from side to side. Why not? I figured. You only live once.
The cool thing to me about this particular 2-night stint was that I got to hear several of my favorite songs. ‘Don’t You Ever Wash That Thing?’, ‘Big Swifty’ and ‘Nanook Rubs It’ especially, though there were others that I greatly enjoyed. The even better thing was that I got a new song to add to my favorites: ‘Heavy Duty Judy’. But the absolute, most awesome thing was that ZPZ managed to make songs I only sorta liked (or didn’t like at all) come alive for me.
Really. That is cool.
In any case, the show ended too soon for my taste, but that was expected. And in all honesty, I was glad to have seen them at all.
Glancing over at El Madre, I thought distantly (and in light over recent events that you guys may or may not find out about), If we move I’m not giving this up. No matter where we go, she’s going to have to help me see them whenever possible.
Later on, I brought this up to The Mother. She didn’t even bat an eyelash and quickly agreed.
Ahh…The joys of having a mother who’s as wild and crazy as you are…
We waited during the ‘intermission’ and El Madre asked me why Sir Ponty hadn’t joined ZPZ on King Kong (which she fell in love with this summer thanks to moi), then demanded why they hadn’t performed King Kong at all. I just looked at her, grinned and said, “Y’know, Mom, if you wanna see them play King Kong, you’ve just gotta come to another show and hope. And probably request it on the site.”
She just smiled.
Eventually, the set change was complete and Return to Forever came onstage. We lasted about fifteen minutes (two or three songs) before we exchanged a look and got up to leave. I felt bad, but…We were jet-lagged, tired and weren’t feeling too hot. The music was…Well, too loud (in hindsight, it probably just sounded too loud to us, jet-lagged as we were).
We left (buying a set of ZPZ pins on the way out which you CANNOT FIND ON AMAZON), but, of course, couldn’t actually leave yet since we had promised El Padre we’d buy bagels for Sunday morning.
So back to Fairway it was…
And soon enough, we were on the West Side Highway, driving home, loaded up with music and breakfast food.
Noticing that El Madre’s eyes seemed pretty heavy, I started explain my theory on what would’ve happened had this been the 70s (to keep her awake). “So you see, Mom, ZPZ would get off stage and then everyone would see their crew come on and start dismantling and moving everything. And what would happen is that everyone would literally get to their feet and demand that ZPZ come back on stage and they’d steal the show. Like Taste did at that “memorable performance” at MSG, on that TV show we saw in Israel. And that’s what’s wrong with this society: they have none of that 70s spirit.”
Oh, yeah. Just a little bit jet-lagged? Only a tad?
Part 1 of Night 2 of the Awesome ZPZ Beacon Experience.
You guys get to hear what I sound like when I have a ‘teenage outburst’ and find out about my love of chocolate…I feel so exposed! =P
**Part 2 blows into town tomorrow night, guys. Beware!
Ladies, gentlemen, other various lifeforms of this galaxy (or others—I don’t judge): they say that variety is the spice of life. Considering this week has had plenty of variety (details never TBA), I decided I was going to dedicate this blog to a couple of those events. Now, now—I know what you’re thinking:
No. I’m not selling out. I just decided that maybe Frank (and Dweezil) were right: “It’s pretty frakken great to be alive.” So here goes nothing!
1. Since everyone on the website knew/knows about it, I decided to include—taa-daa! A dedication to Dweezil’s birthday. So, wherever you are right now (Florida, I believe?): Congrats, Dweezil, on being the only Virgo I know to turn 42 this year. I hope the coming year will be awesome for you. =D
2. Yeah, yeah, Labor Day was on Monday and you all know what that means. Soo Dedication #2 is to the start of the school and work year. Congrats everybody. Goodluck waking up at 6AM.
3. Oh, and guess what? This is my blog, which means that I get to dedicate it partly to my birthday tomorrow. What’s that? You forgot, didn’t know, and haven’t seen me in forever so take $100 and HAPPY BIRTHDAY? Oh, why thank you…You’re too kind.
With that in mind, let us continue onwards to Awesome ZPZ Show Number 2.
I woke up early that day, excitement and nerves making me sleep fitfully. The morning passed by slowly and the yucky grayness outside didn’t help, though that didn’t dampen my hopes. I comforted myself with the knowledge that by ‘resting’ for most of the day, I’d be extra-awake for that evening. Ahem. Yes, I’m serious. (For those of you who like to play musical chairs with my blogs (I SHUN YOU!) I was severely jet-lagged, having returned from Israel merely 2 days before.)
Afternoon finally rolled around and soon enough, El Madre and I were driving across the GWB, blasting Boston (and afterward, ELO—Mom’s choice). We got lucky enough to score the same parking space as the day before and practically the same seats (just a row further back). As is custom, upon hearing this news, I proceeded to do a little snappy jig. The man behind the box office seemed impressed (or otherwise, extremely confused and perhaps a bit disturbed).
From there, we went to the park area at the subway station on 72nd and enjoyed the nature. We people-watched a little bit and took a couple of photos (and continued to the rest of the night, as a way to document the events for El Padre, who, again, didn’t join us). After we had had enough of the subway crowd (which is actually quite fascinating, if you observe closely enough), we headed to the direction of Fairway, then changed our minds and began walking to Café Aroma on 72nd between Amsterdam and Columbus. Since we were going down a couple of streets we decided to go from behind the Beacon.
We were nearing what seemed like a back door when, suddenly, music erupted from behind the brick walls. I came to an instant standstill and El Madre, who had looked over to see if I was still walking with her, did too.
“What?” she asked suspiciously.
“Mom.” I could feel a huge smile growing on my face. “Do you hear that?”
She raised her eyebrows, confused. “What?”
“That’s Fifty-Fifty.”
“Aand…?”
“Mom. Come on. What else do you hear, aside from Zappa Plays Zappa?”
It took her a couple of seconds. But she got it.
Her eyes widened and a grin plastered itself to her face, as it had done to mine. Yet she was still disbelieving. “That’s not…”
I threw myself at El Madre and tackled her in a hug, jumping up and down (unfortunately for her, dragging her up and down with me) and screaming, “MOM! It’s Jean-Luc Ponty! He’s going to play with them! I told you he’d play with them!! AAAHHHHH!!!!” (That last part was while shaking her back and forth)
And whatnot.
El Madre, who had been enduring my teenage outbreak, looked at me a bit uncomprehendingly. “But didn’t we already discuss this?”
“We did. We hypothesized. But now we know.”
Dear readers, it was with this kickass knowledge in mind that we went to enjoy some awesome sandwiches.
After burning as much time as possible at Aroma, we headed over to Fairway so El Madre could get some coffee. While there, I decided to indulge in my not-so-secret love of chocolate chip cookies. After paying for our items (and recommending Horrible Bosses to the woman ahead of us as a crazy, idiotic movie that will make you laugh), we went across the street to the Beacon, stood under the marquee and held up the wall like badasses. All we needed was the Lucky Strike pack wedged under a t-shirt sleeve...
Yeah, so this is a long blog. Really. It's very long. Longer than the last one. I’m too lazy to cut it up. So.
Are you up to the challenge, young padawan?
Beware of strange people, pissed waiters and awesome music. Oh, and Prince.
Odd things seem to be happening to me. People are talking to me. Strangers at the supermarket or on the street will strike up a conversation.
Really! I’m not kidding.
See, take this example:
It was Friday morning, August 12th. El Madre and I had just landed at Newark Airport the morning before. The day had started barely two hours ago and we were already tired (such is the woes of jet lag). We were going along our usual routine at Trader Joe’s—divide and conquer. While I set out to pick up the dairy and refrigerated products, The Mother busied herself with dry goods and pantry items. We were on our way to the checkout line when suddenly, she remembered she hadn’t gotten all the veggies she wanted. So we went our way back to the fruit and veggie section when she spotted a fantasy in dull green: artichoke (I’m not your average no-broccoli-eating kid, by the way. I love vegetables—just keep that eggplant away from me). She was attempting to pick a few out, and sent me to grab some lemons (insert obscene Led Zeppelin lyrics here).
Ahem…Where were we?
In trying to find the perfect lemons for food usage, I grabbed one…and watched in horror as a few tumbled down along with it. Only my fast reflexes (psh! Says the klutz in glassesJ) kept the two misfortunate yellow beauties from going splat!
I looked at the TJ’s stocker who was standing next to me, utterly mortified. “Sorry!”
“No problem,” he answered, totally easy-going. “Happens all the time.”
“Is she wreaking havoc?” My mom joked.
He chuckled, but my ears were still ringing, so I hadn’t heard. “What?” I asked El Madre.
“I asked if you were wreaking havoc.” The Mother had a mischievous glint in her eye.
“Oh, no,” I replied, a devious grin playing on my lips. “I’m saving that for tonight.”
“Oh, are you?”
“I wouldn’t wanna disappoint,” I answered coolly.
El Madre took pity on the stocker, who had been obviously eavesdropping on our exchange and wore a confused expression. “We’re going to a concert tonight,” she said.
“Oh, really?” He seemed intrigued.
“Yeah. Zappa Plays Zappa and Return to Forever IV,” I explained.
He raised his eyebrows, nodding appreciatively.
“Ring any bells?” I teased.
“Oh, I’m very familiar with them. I was a music major at college.”
This guy had totally caught me off guard. So, naturally, when I spoke, I was my usual, eloquent self: “Wow.”
From there, we (apparently) had a conversation. Which, you guys should know by now, is pretty odd for me. Really! I’m an awkward, usually-antisocial teen! Since when do I have conversations with strangers at Trader Joe’s?
Regardless, he turned me on to some (probably) interesting music. I haven’t gotten a chance to listen to it yet, but if Tales From The Acoustic Planet sounds familiar, give me a shout.
In any case, we went home where we were greeted by the sight of the recently awakened antagonistic brother—i.e. The Broski. He soon left for the gym, then work in a huff (because the gods know he can’t start the day right without getting into a fight with my dad—even if it has to be on the phone) and El Padre soon came home from the ferry.
We attempted to make all-inclusive plans with him for that evening, but—as is his specialty—The Father Figure chickened out. Very nice, Dad. I so enjoy our bonding moments…
Yeah. I don't even take crap from my intimidating Israeli grandmother; what do you expect from me?? Really. I said I didn’t want any more hummus, didn’t I?..
In any case, we rolled into the city near 4:30ish. Luck was on our side, as we found an awesome meter-less parking space on 76th between Riverside Drive and West End. The up-and-over walk to the Beacon (basically 3 blocks) was a piece of cake and standing at the box office getting orchestra seats, we could faintly hear some band performing a soundcheck. The sound wasn’t exact enough to tell which band, until I heard it: the signature note-leap. Then I knew it was ZPZ. A doofy smile plastered itself onto my face.
The Mother looked over at me expectantly, waving around the envelope containing our receipt and ticket. “You happy?” She asked.
We had orchestra seats! ORCHESTRA SEATS! And she was asking me if I was happy???
“I’m ecstatic!” I answered truthfully, jumping around like a crazed elf.
“Good.” She nodded curtly and decisively, then guided me out from the lobby. We walked around the bit (it was only later we realized we had been going in circles around the Beacon, top-secret-spy-style) and then went to sit on the bench at the end of the street-long divider that housed so many green trees and beautiful flowers. The day was lovely: the sun was high in the sky, the temperature was bordering on hot, but not tipping over and every so often a cool breeze would flow over us (not to mention the occasional rumble as the subway thundered away underneath us). As we sat there (an unknown shady character to our left that we avoided eye-contact with), we people-watched. It was quite enjoyable. There were mothers with their kids, people walking dogs, businessmen hurrying to and fro—in addition to a small crowd gathering at the Beacon's side-door which (probably) led to the notorious “back-stage”. I grinned to myself, thinking about what could be going down there.
Finally, El Madre looked at each other, communicating telepathically (yes, we can do that. You didn't know?). It was time for dinner.
We ambled on over to the Fairway restaurant and snagged a table for two by the window so we could see the Marquee. When I deduced that Idan Raichel would be in town in October, The Mother squealed. My eyes widened, fear making my heart beat fast.
Yeah. My mom? She's a little scary when she gets all teenager on me.
Aside from El Madre's outburst and our waiter (whom The Mother disliked), our dinner was delicious. I let her choose everything; so hyped up, I was too indecisive to even look at the menu.
Once we finished, we paid the bill (El Madre left our waiter—who, no offense, seemed like he had a 30-foot pole shoved up somewhere in there—a sizable tip. She thought it might put a smile on his face) and walked over to the Beacon. Walking in, we performed what I consider tradition: headed directly for the merchandise display. While there was definitely some interesting stuff up there, none of it particularly caught my attention. Most of the products were for RTF, anyway; not ZPZ. I heaved a sigh and rolled my eyes, 'sullenly' shuffling away from the display. El Madre chuckled; she knew I was joking.
Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, someone approached me, with “Carmel?”
My head snapped up, my eyes scanning the plush interior of the Beacon alertly. My fingers, resting on the front of my over-the-shoulder bag, began tapping a quick rhythm. Why did this random person know my name? I wasn’t even on Facebook (the devil incarnate)!
Apparently, I write about my red Converse too often, as this particular 'someone' turned out to be a fan of the blog—and recognized me by my signature sneakers.
What can I say? They're my favorite, and those Doc Martens aren't coming ‘til my birthday (which FYI, isn't so far away).
Anyway, we talked...And talked...And talked. It was, actually, a pleasant change, as the last time we had been there, The Mother and I had leaned against the wall—yes, talking, but also feeling a bit uncomfortable. The crowd here was...Well, a little rough, to say the least. It was nice to have a distraction (although perhaps not quite safe. Much as I hate to admit it, I don't have my own personal Jason Bourne. I haven't found one on eBay yet).
While unexpected, meeting this certain Someone and his son was amusing.
Soon enough, we were let into the theater and took our seats. Just before the show started, two older men came in and sat next to each other in the row directly ahead of us (we were sitting in the middle, so they were to our extreme right). Wearing black sleeveless tees and black cargo shorts, they spoke very loudly. When ZPZ finally came on, they went ballistic.
“NEW YORK LOVES ZAPPA!” and “NEW YORK WANTS HALLOWEEN!”, they yelled, in their deep man-voices. At first, El Madre and I chuckled. It was, indeed, pretty funny. But as the show continued, so did they, and while on the one hand, it was comical, on the other, I found to be—well, disrespectful.
It is, as I hope you all know by now, not my style to talk about the actual show in ZPZ's case. But I've decided that there's a moment those who weren't there deserve to know about. Something I call “The Broadway Dream Moment”.
The band segued into Big Swifty, and after the intro, used it as a sort-of showcase for their solos. The Mother and I, however, did not expect to hear Ben begin singing in a Broadway-esque fashion. Big Swifty doesn't even have lyrics! “I just wanna be part of the song...”
He and Dweezil began riffing, Dweezil mocking him for going off on a 'muppet solo'. Ben then began to sing about his dreams to perform on Broadway. Dweezil, smirking smugly, shot those down immediately.
From there, some interesting developments occurred. Let’s just say:
It. Was. Awesome.
And, apparently, so are Scheila's dance moves. Midway through the set, I poked El Madre and then pointed to the left side of the stage (stage right?), chuckling to myself. Ben and Scheila could be seen off to the side of the stage, dancing together.
When the set ended and everyone—except for Dweezil—started filing off the stage, I clung to El Madre tightly, my knuckles turning white. I was chanting under my breath: “They have to come back on. They have to come back on.”
Yeah. They didn't come back on.
Instead, Pete's shaggy haircut could just be seen leaving as Dweezil went to the edge of the stage so he could say hello and shake the hands of the people who were part of the crowd that had literally surged up and shoved themselves against the side of the stage.
I'd seen that response before, last December, but forgot how intimidating the teeming crowd of people could appear. I also knew from last December that Dweezil (and Scheila) basically stayed there until he'd said hello to—well, everyone. Which, with such a crowd (I repeat: ROUGH), was admirable. Although in hindsight, the rough-looking crowd must not have been too rough, since they all commended him on it. I guess looks can be deceiving?
No. Nevermind. I don't trust 50-something-year-old men with yellowed teeth and stinky beer breath.
Anyhoo, El Madre and I waited a bit to see if the crowd would thin out a bit, but it was a lost cause. With that in mind, we set off to say a quick hi. It was as dangerous as setting off into the Amazon rain-forest: because of all the people rubbing up against me (ginormous 'Ew!'), a few novelty (music) buttons on my bag actually fell off, never to be seen again. Someone bumped into The Mother, knocking her glasses off-kilter (she's still complaining that she can't see right because of it).
Once that was over with, El Madre sank down into an aisle seat, freezing, the button-down shirt I had brought for warmth thrown over her thorax. I kneeled on the aisle, leaning my head against her arm.
I had no previous experience to base this on, but I was pretty sure that (general sense of all-encompassing happiness, complete with a goofy, silly grin) was what being stoned felt like.
Or, at least, it was pretty close.
I was amazed. The performance had been excellent, and was made even more kickass by the fact that we had wonderful seats (row P, near what I assumed was the mixing booth). I hadn’t sat that close to ZPZ since last summer and was thrilled. My heart was still pumping. Yeah, that grin wasn’t going away anytime soon.
The theater, which had only been about 2/3s full, filled up with people arriving specifically for RTF, which I thought was lame. They missed out on a great opening act.
El Madre and I went back to our actual seats and settled in for Return to Forever, still pumped.
They came up on stage and started to play...
But between Stanley Clarke's bass and Lenny White's drums, something in the sound—to us—was off.
Admittedly, it was probably because we were exhausted. Also, the AC was cranked up way too high for our taste (thank you Madre for stealing my over-shirt). Between the two of them, I felt a headache coming on.
And from the look on Madre's face, so did she.
So I did the only responsible thing for a teenage daughter to do: I gave her an out in case she, like me, wasn’t feeling so hot (El Madre is actually more sensitive to cold than I am, so gods only know what she was going through).
Hey, a kid's gotta do what a kid's gotta do, right?
About 45 minutes in, we went downstairs to the ladies lounge...And stayed there for about half an hour, it was warmer and the music just not quite so loud. Nearing an hour and half into the show, we crept back up and after five minutes, quickly dismissed the notion of actually staying. I could feel the pounding headache, which had finally subsided, begin to return with ungodly force.
I knew it would mean forfeiting the chance to say hi again to Mr. Ponty, like he suggested back in Caesarea only a week ago (psh. Yes, Carmel, like he even remembered you), but I couldn't deal.
Wow. This is a long blog. Like, a long blog. Really. I'm serious.
Prepare for unforeseen stories and leg cramps…
**WARNING: This is your FBI-&-Interpol-sponsored (psh) notice that the next few blogs are purposely out of order. I will notify when we get back on track. END COMMUNICATION!**
As you guys already know, this summer, I visited my grandparents’ with El Madre. Long story short, the harsh reality (which consisted of my grand-padre—recently released from hospital after a bout of horrible pneumonia—inadvertently running the grand-madre ragged because he can’t take care of himself. That’s right—the very same grand-madre who weighs less than me because she’s so busy with him that she doesn’t eat. Do the math: very ill grandparents) we were forced to face there was a bit too much, and about a two weeks before we were due to fly back, we gave in. It was time for a 2-day trip to Caesarea.
We booked a room at S’dot Yam, a kibbutz right on the water, and finally found it after driving around half of the city. Knowing the frigid Atlantic water that awaited us at home (too close for comfort), we headed straight to the beach. Later we had dinner on the water and then got all dolled up for a night on the town (that’s right, biznitches. Who said Levis aren’t fancy shmancy, huh?).
That is, if seeing Return to Forever IV at the Caesarea Amphitheater could be considered ‘a night on the town’.
The Madre and I had been planning on seeing them and ZPZ (which okay, fine, was the only reason I even wanted to go) at the Beacon Theatre the next weekend, but we needed a break. We bought the tickets at the box office and the kind guy behind the counter directed us to the namal (“port” in English) which doubles as their National Park. The main entrance is part of a restored citadel (from the Crusades period) and opens onto a path of large, aged stones that form a pathway to the water. A few uber-expensive restaurants overlooked the teal inlet. A carpet of grass was spread out before the ruins that once were a temple (and church and mosque—in that order) and continuing in that direction, you eventually came to the hippodrome. In the other direction, a boardwalk housing a few attractions jutted out to sea. From one side, you could clearly see civilization on the horizon; from the other, fishermen stood on rocks while the sun set, painting the scene in soft dusk light, before turning a deep blue.
It. Was. Breathtaking.
We eventually made our way back to the amphitheater, where after getting in, what greeted you was the sight of several stands selling very aromatic food and every drink imaginable. They were even selling ice cream! Were we at a concert, or some other event that necessitated food? What was going on here?
In addition to the overt food selection, there was also an odd scene going on: families with small children hung around in the vicinity of shlumpy, older guys in Metallica T-shirts. Not to mention the totally decked out women and rare, slightly confused-looking teenagers milling about. The Madre and I exchanged looks. We were out of our element; that was certain.
Once they let us into the main theatre we found our seats and waited for the band to come on. When they finally did, they all stood on the stage waving at us while Chick Corea took photos of the audience on his cell phone. I guess Israelis are a different entity to him.
In any case, you guys know it’s not my style to go into detail about the concert itself. But this, I feel, was different. So you guys get the full scope on Return to Forever—in the ever-refreshing teenage flavor, that is.
The band wasn’t Zappa, Zeppelin or Yes (the Holy Trinity in my book), and that’s already saying a lot—for me, at least. That said, not every number spoke to me, though a few were really amazing, like ‘Sorceress/Shadow of Lo’ and ‘A Dayride In Oakland’. I happened to find ‘Renaissance’ profoundly touching. They were, while not off the charts, still awesome. Clarke was frightening with his bass and Ponty was lethal on the violin.
They finished two hours later with a song that had everybody—myself and The Madre included—standing, clapping and dancing in their seats. And ladies and gentlemen, I do not dance in public.
We waited for the area to clear out a bit before skipping down the steps towards the stage so we could say hi to Mr. Ponty or Clarke (our favoritesJ). That way, we joked, maybe they’d remember us at the Beacon! Ha!
As we neared the stage, we realized that the band had disappeared backstage and that two gorilla-esque bouncers were manning a neon-orange roadblock they were using to let people in.
I felt annoyance wash over me. Maybe it was because I had just gone through a year of civics and all that freedom and equality stuff was still in my system. Maybe it was because the people being let in looked like total poseurs. Or maybe it was because I was just fed up of Israelis.
But, goddammit I got pissed!!!
I urged El Madre to ask the bouncers why they were letting them in and they told both of us (still on the side steps of the theater), that it wasn’t up to them. It was up to the boss, they said, pointing to a tallish man standing by a pillar off the side of the stage who had a mike clipped to his shirt.
So we went down to stand in front of the roadblock and see what we could do. Now, I know what you guys are thinking. Carmel! What are you doing?!
I wasn’t really sure. It wasn’t like this was the kind of thing I did all the time. I think I was feeling empowered, having just finished reading a Led Zeppelin biography and hearing about all the girls who basically barged in backstage. Plus, I wanted to try being spunky and gutsy, attempting to get what I wanted with the sheer strength of my wits. Those Doc Martens El Madre promised me needed an owner with attitude, did they not?
Basically, I wanted to try.
Which, to be honest, considering the fact that I’m a total geek who randomly yells Big Lebowski quotes out of nowhere, was pretty freaky.
To get the guy’s attention, I waved my hands in the air and yelled “HEY, BOSS MAN!”
Boss Man, who had been speaking to someone, spun around at the sound of my voice. He looked at the group of people standing before the bouncers (of which I was—apparently—a part of) questioningly and pointed at himself, like who, me?
“Yeah, you!”
His eyes focused on my face. “I’m not the boss. I’m only their boss. Those guys,” he pointed backstage, “are the bosses.”
“Okay, fine, Doctor,” I said. “I have a question for you.”
“What?”
“Can I get in?”
He chuckled at my naiveté in the oh-so-Israeli fashion and from there, after some charming conversation (after being asked if I knew Mr. Ponty, I smiled broadly, replying, “Maybe from a past life,”) and getting teased for having a Hebrew and Israeli name but (supposedly) not speaking Hebrew, he signaled very quietly and sneakily, for us to go around the back.
We did just that. Suffice it to say that we thanked the Boss Man (who, apparently, got in deep poo for what he did) and after waiting around a bit, got to say hi to both Mr. Stanley Clarke and Jean-Luc Ponty…
…The latter of which, then, said we should definitely come by and say hello at the Beacon.
All of this, topped off with a day touring the National Park, tumbling in the waves and getting sunburned?
I think that definitely constitutes an awesome break. Don’t you?
**For show, Caesarea & culture photos, see here: http://www.dweezilzappaworld.com/photo_albums/2014/photos
