Round I: A Tale of Underage Drinking

If a tree falls in a blog, does anybody read it? I’m guessing my readership is pretty low at the moment, and I haven’t really thrown a lot of dedication into it yet in order to win hearts, minds, etc. Since I’m planning on stealing some Original Pirate Material from that class blog I’m also writing for, let’s toss in a quick little post here that I promised, RE: Underage Drinking.

Honestly, the wall above my bed speaks to me. It’s where I keep my ticket stubs, or at least the ones that haven’t gotten lost along the way. I look at each one, and it tells me stories. Some are funny, some are sad. Some are profound, and some are merely anecdotal. Some of them have volumes of stories all packed into one tiny paper rectangle— others I won’t bore you with here. One fish, two fish, red story, blue story— it’s all there in the Blogpage Subheading. But all of them are a part of me, and I care for every story, no matter how mundane. So screw you, ok? No, I’m sorry— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, baby. Well, that being said, I’m going to get you warmed up with an easy one. Nothing too deep, potentially… slightly preachy, but I’ll spare you that precious saline in your eyesockets during Round I. Maybe you’ll get a chuckle out of it, too.

Before I start, I need to introduce my first (of many) character(s). She was my musical Partner In Crime (P.I.C.) for the better part of two (2) years, and thus she will probably appear in a good amount of these anecdotal recreations. In July of 2006, The String Cheese Incident came to Red Rocks Amphitheatre in Morrison, Colorado for a two night stand with Bob Weir & Ratdog. Cheesedog, as we called it. (What a clever bunch, we fans are) Anyway, in the lots before the show, I was introduced to this girl named Kristin. Tall, tan, and beautiful— with blonde hair down to her belly button. I mean, her belly button equivalent; she didn’t wear her hair in front. And by tall I mean relatively tall; she’s my height-ish, with me coming in at a towering 5’8’’. We basically rocked that show together that day, and, as they say, the rest is “yada yada.” Kristin and I were basically together, although we never called it as such, for the next two years. Being that both of us are tragically obsessed with live music, there are nearly One Hundred and Four musical stories from the recent portion of my show-going career in which she is a character. For those of you who, like me, are not Mathematics Majors, that estimate is based on a healthy once-a-week concert diet during the time we were together— sometimes more, sometimes less (That’s 2 years X 52 weeks, carry the one…). Thus, you see my need to introduce her to you. Henceforth we will call her the Hippy Dippy Mama (HDM). The nickname is partly for convenience (a la Bill Simmons, "The Sports Guy"), and partly as a shameless plug for my buddy Charlie’s awesome rap by essentially the same name— which you can find on his blog *here* .


* * *

Fast forward to September of 2007. Do the Wayne’s World “Temporal Switch Squiggle-Vision” thing, if you’re into crowd participation. The Hippy Dippy Mama (HDM) and I had gotten into the habit of trampling over the sick & weak in order to secure good seats for General Admission Red Rocks shows, during the traditional 50 Yard Dash that is held at this venue two hours before every concert. See, what people don’t realize about Red Rocks until they’ve seen it happen, is that, when there is any amount of wind during a show, the Great Aeolus (in all of his wine-infused Greek wisdom), decides to steal the sound for himself. This can be a major Buzz Kill. However, this Buzz Kill can be eliminated if you are willing to elbow Women, Children, and Disabled in order to snag that elusive Row 1-15.

(Note: So it’s not really that cutthroat— we call this “hyperbole,” in the biz— but there are a lot of people who are envious of Row 1-15, who feel that this practice is “cheating,” and by appeasing them, they might continue to read my blog. I’ve got to preserve my precious few readers any way I can, gad-demmit, gad-demmit.)

The skies had been glaring down all afternoon, and about ten minutes after we had put down our blanket in Row 1-15, they decided to do like Paul Pierce and, “make it rain.” Me and the Hippy Dippy Mama (HDM) headed to a nook by the right of the stage for shelter. Soon we were joined by a multitude of other folk, including a small gaggle of ‘boppers. You know those kids who just exude “under 21”? Yeah. At “Jamband” shows (Don’t worry, I hate that term even more than you do. In fact, I just threw up a little in my mouth knowing that I actually put it out on the World Wide Web.), these Kidders wear their ‘bopper badges like Goddam Highway Worker Reflector Vests. Believe me, I know. I’m sure there is a shoebox circa 2000 in my closet somewhere with a few of my own badges. EVERYONE has them, and I will get to that later. Typical “Jamband” Reflector Vest Packages include one (1) three inch (3’’) diameter hemp necklace, usually with appropriately heavy glass bead, a “funky” (translation: weird) hat, and at least one other Piece of Flare. These particular kids, God bless ‘em, had it all, right down to the patchwork pants and tie-dye shirts.

After about five minutes, the HDM made me aware of the fact that the Kidders were checking us out and whispering amongst themselves. Upon making eye-contact, one of them approached me. I smiled, knowingly. “Hey, um… you think you guys could buy us a beer?” Now, farbeit from me to condone underage drinking— but come on, it was raining. So the kid hands us a ten, and the HDM heads off for some brew. I strike up a little conversation with the lad while we wait, and he spins me a pretty classic background story. Denver Suburb X natives, their parents dropped them off at the Park-n-Ride (I shit you not, Wayne’s World fans). My lost youth was suddenly flooding back.

A bit of small-talk later, and the HDM returned with a couple of home-grown heady Coors Lights. The Standard Underage Beer Transaction (SUB-T) was complete when he told us to “keep the change” (over half the price of his beer). Separated from the flock, he eyed his compatriots for a moment. What he saw was an opportunity to impress a couple of older kids. With a gleam of Confidence in his eye, he turned back to us and said, “Hey— check THIS out.”

At this point the kid begins to chug. With plenty of time to think, I began to make non-verbal conjecture with the HDM about what might be going on. It soon dawned on us that his plan was to drink most, if not all, of what was to be the gaggle’s communal beer (most likely procured with communal funds). Then, he would arrive back at the gaggle, with his Ask For Beer Merit Badge in hand, and ha! The joke is on them!! What a prank, a Classic.

About ten minutes into his pint-sized marathon, he begins to falter. I swear, I’m almost verbally rooting for him at this point, really. Then, he hits the dreaded “wall.” He comes up for air, and as the foam settles, we see that he has taken a whole… inch and a half out of this beer. Ouch. In the quiet words of George W., “Mission: Accomplished.” (?) Needless to say, all three parties involved were without speech. As the Kidder returned to the gaggle, proverbial tail between his legs, we remained in repose. I wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the moment, but some combination of empathetic embarrassment and something else kept my laughter at bay. What was it? I think I was rooting for him to Win.

Because we’ve all been there, and that’s something people in the music-going scene are so hesitant to admit these days. When I was a sophomore in high school, a couple of Seniors took me to my first Phil Lesh show. Even though they were technically less than a year older than me (repeated 9th grade, oops!), I was that kid chugging the metaphorical beer. Had they laughed in my face at all of my beautiful innocence, where would I be now? Besides a lot wealthier, that is. I don’t know, maybe I was fated to spend the next decade (or four) in constant pursuit of The Next Show no matter what. But they took me in. And every older kid across the country who ever bought me a beer when I was underage at a show, or passed me some grass, or just fucking smiled when I was dancing like a lunatic in the aisles— these people are at least partly responsible for my seeing so much great music in the twelve or thirteen years I’ve been going to see it live (great older bro and responsibly permissive parents included), and for who I am as a member of this human community.

Perhaps it’s the advent of the Internet Community, but message boards and Public Personal Opinions (hmm, self-reflexive moment, I guess) these days seem to be flooded with “hatred” for anyone without a hundred shows under their belts. People who build so-called personas through the anonymity of sites like PhantasyTour aren’t concerned with being exposed as thirty-something wannabes, and flaunt their “stats” as an excuse to take a distant look at the Kidders down their arrogant, upturned noses. One particular such character who frequents PhantasyTour’s Yonder Mountain String Band forum is especially notorious for this. Essentially, anything he says on the board is Gospel, somehow he has been anointed King of the Message Board. And he uses this power with reckless abandon. But you know what? The Kidders read the message boards, and they feel your looks at shows. Especially the ones who may have eaten something a little stronger than the Sweet-Tarts they’re used to. The Internet Kings keep dishing and eyeing, thinking that it’s all harmless fun. But in many ways, it’s not.

My heart goes out to them, chugging that elusive beer. Nurture! My response to the Internet Kings is always this: would you rather the kids were raging on Insane Clown Posse tour? Really? ICP? In the hiz-ouse? If you scare off new-comers, the music dies with you. What a horrible, selfish notion that is. I’m not saying don’t have a laugh. Have a laugh. In private. They’re funny, the beer-chuggers. But only laugh with the distinct awareness that you are laughing at yourself, too. If you don’t believe me, go into your closet. Go now. I’ll wait. There’s a shoebox in there. It’s got about ten years of dust on it, go ahead and dust that som’bitch off. That’s your hemp necklace in there, guy. Right next to that failed attempt at a dreadlock you had to cut off. I’m not sure why you saved that keepsake, though— you sick, sick bastard. You smell what I’m cookin’ though, right? (And hopefully not your former dreadlock.)





Wow, that anecdote even turned into a Message. I must say, I am a fantastic blogger— I’ve always thought that. I’m really getting the hang of this thing, now. It’s like a new pair of underwear: at first it’s constricting… but eventually… it becomes a part of you. But you don’t have to take my word for it.

Ba-Damp-Damp!










Breeding Ground for Beer-Chugging Kidders:

Yonder Mountain String Band
Red Rocks Amphitheatre
September 2, 2007

"How to Add Ten Years to Your Life With a Trip to the Ballpark," or, "How to Post a Blog Entry Without Doing Any New Writing"

Ok, I guess it's time to really kick this thing off.

I took a class called "Writing on Music" in the Spring of 2008, and one of our assignments was to describe a "soundscape," be it natural or man-made. The idea was that sound is (clearly) the Integral Element to music, and in order to understand music, one has to tune themselves into sound in general. I thought this was a great way of thinking about the music that I love, and moreso why it appeals to me. It was also an excuse for me to write an essay about baseball, and the town that I love. Now it has become an excuse for me to post something about these two subjects on this blog. So there. Also, it's a great way for me to get a bit of Virtual Ink down here without doing any legitimate work. I pass the savings on to you. I hope you like it. Just don't ask me to do the accent for you like my professor did.


How to Add Ten Years to Your Life With a Trip to the Ballpark


Car horns, sirens, cabbies yelling obscenities at each other through their open windows; these are the major elements of the man-made soundscape. They are not generally the sounds one might choose to play in their zen garden. However, not all man-made soundscapes are created equal, and there is one that does in fact refresh mind, body, and soul. The ballpark.

It’s a cloudless Sunday afternoon in Boston. This city is bustling, and you are on your way to Fenway Park. You duck into the subway. The soundscape underground is palpable, tangible; there is a constant high-pitched whine of electricity emanating from the rails, and it is punctuated by the sound of metal wheels screaming as they slide across steel, echoing through the darkness of the tunnels beyond the platform. On the train is no more pleasant an environment. The car is crowded, as everyone is going to the same place. There is a tension and excitement in the voices around that raises each one in decibel and pitch, and for the short ride out to the ballpark there is no escaping the abrasive soundwaves of the subway.

Relief is coming, however. As you depart the subway system in Kenmore Square, and make the traditional walk across the bridge over the Massachusetts Turnpike, the sounds of the ballpark begin to release you from this tension. The sounds of a ballgame are like any piece of music; it is comprised of many different parts or instruments with their own distinctive sounds and cadences. As you reach the Pike, the first instrument that arrives is the Scalpers. “Tickets— anyone buyin’ tickets, sellin’ tickets…,” they repeat with precise inflection. As you wade through the crowds to Yawkee Way, there is a distant, unintelligible rumble of the PA announcer listing the starting lineups inside the park, followed by a steady rain of cheers or jeers, depending on the team.

Yawkee Way has its own distinctive sounds. Its beat is set by the two-toned electronic pulse of ticket barcodes being scanned and accepted, followed immediately by the cranking of metal turnstiles. “Scoahcahds, programs—get yah official Red Sox scoahcahds heah!” shouts a man on stilts in a team logo WWII helmet. In the distance, an Irish brass band is playing, and the air is disrupted only by the occasional cheers, “oh!”s, and laughter as another man on stilts tries to play catch with anyone who will look his way across the crowded street. All the while there is a constant chatter of excited fans and the sizzle of sausages on the grill.


Enter the caverns and halls beneath the famed seating of America’s oldest ballpark. Not all echoes are alike; there is a distinctive reverberation that comes from the 100 year old green metal that supports the stands. Indistinguishable but excited crowd noise and grill sizzles dominate this darkened passage. A chant of “Let’s go Red Sox” gets louder and louder before fading once again, as one anxious fan passes on the way to his seats-- the Drunken Doppler Effect. There is a light ahead. The crowd chatter that was until now mere white noise becomes stronger as you near the opening, until finally you reach the threshold of the open park and it becomes a roar.

Immediately there is the crack of a wooden bat, followed by a giant cheer. Leather on leather slaps as the ball reaches first base, and another cheer, this time slightly louder, goes up as the umpire signals the runner in safe. “Now batting, the right fielder, Manny… Ramirez.” Drones the PA announcer in deliberate monotone. Another cheer goes up, followed by ten seconds of some rap song, distorted by the fuzzy speakers of the old ballpark soundsystem.
With one final clank, you settle into the old wooden seat. You have reached the destination of your journey of sound.

This soundscape is familiar and inviting. White noise is often overlooked, but it is the most important element of sound to wash away one’s troubles. The ocean has its white noise: the constant washing of sand or rock. The woods have theirs; it is the wind blowing through the pines. A ballpark’s background noise is unlike any other. There is the low murmur and constant chatter of the crowd. On a cloudless afternoon at the ballpark, even the sun seems to buzz slightly, like the distant hum of secedas. The man-made soundscape of the ballpark is a combination of the sounds of summer and the familiar noises of America’s game.



Perhaps the soothing quality of the sounds of the ballpark lies in this familiarity. The stresses of human life are piled on as we grow older, and a trip to a baseball game brings us back to a simpler time, to our childhood. Going to a baseball game as a kid is part of the American experience, and in a fast-paced society such as this, baseball is one of the only things that remains virtually unchanged. Even the cadences of the vendors who walk the steps at Fenway has been the same since I was 8 years old. “ICE cream. HEY ICe cream, heAH.” The sound of metal tongs clanking against the sides of a metal box as they reach in for a Fenway Frank, or the top shutting hard as a piping hot ‘dog is handed down the line to an anxious kid. The sound of a bag of peanuts, caught by a fan after being thrown by the vendor ten rows away.

You don’t have to like Neil Diamond, but when the middle of the 8th comes around, and 36,000 people are singing along to Sweet Caroline and pumping their fists in unison, you get it. When the home team wins, and they blast The Standells’ Dirty Water and Dropkick Murphys’ Tessie, you get it.

All of these things make a person feel like a kid again. They make you forget every hardship, every responsibility— even if it’s just for nine simple innings. A ballpark is a man-made sanctuary for the mind and spirit in its feast for all the senses, a respite from the abrasive man-made world in the city that surrounds it. Even if it is just for the afternoon, the ballpark makes you a kid again, and refreshes your soul.






Author and Older (Taller) Brother at the Ballpark