Live free or die!
It’s that time of year. Every year around July 4, I get out my copy of the Basement Tapes. I don’t know, I guess my fingers find it before my brain even fires up. It might be the perfect Independence Day LP. It sure makes me feel patriotic. Or something like it. All I have to do is study this cover for a minute and before too long I’m ready to break out the sparklers.
Look at these guys: Robbie, Danko, and Garth. Wouldn’t you like to invite them over for a backyard party? Fire up the barbecue, maybe get a softball game going? Can’t you see Levon with an apron, grilling hot dogs? And look at Bob here on the cover. Trying to play a mandolin with a bow. You can’t play a mandolin with a bow, dude! Oh that Bob Dylan. What a joker. Seems like the kind of guy who’d jump over the hood of your car with a squirt gun and say, “I got you!”
It’s not like I had to dig for the record. It’s been in the current listening pile for a couple years and probably won’t get re-filed for some time. Last summer I pulled it out because I played some shows with the Casual Coalition. They’re something of what they used to call a super group. North Bay guys. Working exclusively from the book of the Basement Tapes.
They reached out to me last year to join them for some dates. It was billed as Bob Dylan’s 80th Birthday Bash: The Basement Tapes Live. We had a blast taking those songs out for a joyride. Even if we did find ourselves in the middle of a super spreader Covid event down in Santa Cruz.
We weren’t crazy enough to think the Basement Tapes could be reproduced. It’s not scientific. But we freely added and took away from the recipe. And what a great band! Brian Rashap and Craig MacArthur, Alex Jordon, and the rest. Danny Eisenberg on organ, David Simon-Baker, and Sean Nelson. Members of the Mother Hips, Phil Lesh & Friends, and Stu Allen and the Mars Hotel.
Aside from that stupid super spreader gig in Santa Cruz (thanks Grateful Shred), it was nothing but good times. Stepping out of pandemic purgatory, it felt good to be playing on that makeshift stage in The Chapel parking lot. And with Valencia Street blocked off it was a straight-up street fair. I felt alive.
On that Chapel parking lot gig, there was a guy on stage I didn’t recognize. No one introduced me or anything. Turns out that was Stu Allen. From the group Mars Hotel. Low-key dude, but lo and behold! He could play.
We were all rotating singing songs. We had a set list and everything. But when it came Stu’s turn he ambled over and huddled us together and showed us a song.
One.
Chord.
At.
A.
Time.
I can’t remember what song it was. I’m thinking it was one of those Richard Manuel songs with diminished and argumentative chords. Stu took his time saying, “The verse goes like this… and the chorus goes like this… and there’s a bridge that goes like... ”
This went on for a while. I wasn’t quite panicking, but at some point I was thinking to myself, “Does this guy realize that there’s an audience out there? And some of them may have even paid money to be here? Maybe he thinks this is the soundcheck? I suppose it’s possible. Yeah, this glassy-eyed hippie might actually think this is the soundcheck.”
Whatever.
He certainly didn’t seem like he was in a hurry. Chalk it up to “bro time” as they say in Boulder. Hell, I could roll with it. I can roll with just about anything, shy of someone wearing shorts on stage. Seriousness aside, Stu really does play beautifully. Every note sparkles when he’s throwing the diamond light shapes around.
Such a good time, even Stephanie Finch joined us one night in SLO:
ANYHOO, I’ve been humping this double LP around for years. Too many living places to count. The cover has some of that warped wavy water damage on the cardboard. After the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake when I was living in a warehouse on Folsom, the rain made its way into my loft and a bunch of records in my then-current listening pile were water damaged. The warehouse was condemned in the aftermath of the earthquake. But it took a little while to relocate. Relocating involved picking up a gallon of milk on occasion for a certain eccentric landlady until one day she said a place might have opened up for us. That’s another story.
Right now I’m dropping the needle on “Nothing Was Delivered.” And it’s hitting the Basement Tapes spot. It’s got that deep wide Fats Domino groove to it. Is this a political song? Probably. I mean nothing was delivered? That’s the oldest story in the world. You know, I really wish these politicos would stop with the promises. But then again, that’s how you win elections—make insane promises. The bigger, the better. Tell us how you’ll cure all our ills. No longer will you be hosed at the pump. Global warming? Car break-ins? Spotify? No problem!
As for the Basement Tapes LP. So much has been written about the Basement Tapes and the Old Weird America and the Shadow Kingdom. Scholarly stuff. I’ll resist the temptation to throw any MFA gibberish on the fire.
All I know is that it’s definitely my cup of meat. It’s never let me down. Believe the hype, people. Put it on. And if it doesn’t make you feel proud to be Canadian, check yourself for a pulse.
Oh yes, the fine art of newslettering. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m still making this up as I go. Why not become a paid subscriber today if you’re not already? If not, you can always donate to an abortion fund or any gun violence prevention group. Or you can do none of the above and just carry on. We are happy to have you.
Onward,
-CP
P.S. Here’s a rough mix (a pretty good one) of the Dylan tribute for my paid subscribers…