The Colonel Remembers: The Beatles at JFK in South Philly

It was forty-five years ago today, that The Colonel went to see them play. Now they've never gone out of style, and on that summer night they truly raised a smile. So let me introduce you to, the act you've known for all these years, the one and only Beatles live at JFK in South Philly.

Back in 1963, anyone who was alive at the time, knew exactly where they were, and what they were doing on November 22nd of that year, because that was the dreadful day that our beloved president was assassinated. Eleven weeks later, if you were an aficionado of popular music, or a cynosure of contemporary culture, you also knew precisely what is was you were up to on the evening of February 9, 1964. For it was on that particular Sunday night, that the Fab Four from Liverpool, England made their American debut via the Ed Sullivan Show on the CBS television network.

It can be said, that American political life was never the same after the death of JFK. The aftermath of such horror produced a breach of trust the American people felt towards their government and it also produced a fissure in the faith they once held in their leaders. The American illusion began to dissipate and this was most deeply felt among the nation's youth. With the British invasion which was led by The Beatles, music was forever changed for the better when a foray of musicians from the former mother country captivated, fascinated, and enthralled us, and if for just a short amount of time, gave us a new and much needed illusion to once again immerse ourselves in.

The Ticket

I grew up in a predominately Irish-Catholic working class neighborhood, where everyone's dad provided the family with the fruits of hard labor achieved by using his hands. However, there was this small pocket of homes populated by what we called, "the rich kids." Their fathers wore ties to an "office"; they drove new cars and they worked with their brains. The issue of class dominated social life as I was growing up. If you were working class, the rich kids wouldn't even acknowledge your existence. However, I was able to negotiate between both classes, because I had knowledge. Dennis Casey was one of the rich kids. He went to private school, but like many kids in the rich neighborhood, he sought me out, because of my extensive musical knowledge and my infamous record collection.

One night, Dennis called me up and said he heard I had the new Stone single, and asked would I mind stopping over his house so he could hear it. I had the hook up. I had an English pen pal who hooked me up with the Heanor Record Club in England, so I was able to send away for new singles and albums before they came out in the States.

As I went to Dennis' house, he told me his parents were not home which meant we could blast their "Hi-Fi" down in the family room to our hearts content. A Hi-Fi console set was something only the rich kids had, and records never sounded better than when they were turned up full blast on one of those very expensive systems. However, something went wrong that night. Dennis' father came home early from the Country Club, and he started to yell down the stairs. We assumed he was pissed about the volume we were playing the Hi-Fi at. But what he wanted was something else entirely. He called us upstairs to the living room, and said to us, "Do you boys want to see that group The Beatles?" I answered instantly for both of us as I said to him:

"Yes sir, we do." As Mr. Casey handed each of us a ticket, my eyes were immediately drawn to the center of the paper. I was somewhat perplexed by what I saw, so I made an inquiry. "Mr. Casey sir?" I said, "this ticket has a hole in it. Why is that sir?" Mr. Casey looked at me with a certain sense of antipathy and said, "Tommy, these tickets are comps." With that answer, I felt even more befuddled, so I initiated a follow up question. I then asked the gentleman, "What are comps sir?" He then told me: "They are complimentary tickets. They are free to us." Dennis' dad was a big time Democratic Committee man, so he had access to everything. He went on to tell us that the group, The Beatles gives us (the City) a bunch of these tickets for free, and we in turn give them to our people that we have to do business with. Needless to say, I was quite excited to not only have the chance to see The Beatles, but I was completely mesmerized by this concept of the "comp." I made a mental note of this, and in years to come, the comp ticket became one of my best friends.

The Stadium

It was only appropriate that The Beatles return date to Philadelphia was at the newly re-named Philadelphia Municipal Stadium, which was then known as John F. Kennedy Stadium or JFK which was its colloquial reference. That venue was the only structure where both President Kennedy and The Beatles made storied public appearances. Kennedy, a Navy man, would come up to Philly from the Capitol for the annual Army-Navy game. He began a tradition where the Commander-In-Chief would walk across the field at half time, to sit on the opposing team's side of field. The Beatles would take a similar walk across JFK the night they performed at the venue. JFK was the largest outdoor stadium on the East coast of the United States. The capacity of the venue for concerts was 104,000. Allegedly, that was the reason the late Bill Graham chose it for the US leg of Live Aid in 1985. However, when The Beatles were booked there, Promoter George Hamid Jr. who also promoted shows at his Steel Pier in Atlantic City, utilized only about one-fifth of the stadium, which gave him a capacity for 20,000. Tickets were $5.00 for reserved and $3.00 for general admission. Tickets didn't sell as quickly as anticipated. In fact, Hamid was forced to take out a print advertisement in the Philadelphia Inquirer, which stated in very bold print: SEATS AVAILABLE NOW. This situation was not limited to Philly alone; most of the four-teen dates on the tour had slower than expected ticket sales because of a certain embroilment which exploded during the first week of August.

The Controversy

On August 4, 1966, a United Press International wire story ran in the Philadelphia Inquirer. The headline was: "Beatles Manager Rushes to U.S. To Quell Furor." Indeed, Brian Epstein did cut short his European vacation to try and get a hold on the press frenzy that was creating severe damage to the reputation of his prize act, The Beatles.

In his book The Beatles - 365 Days, Simon Wells explains very succinctly what happened and why.

An old quote which John Lennon gave to journalist Maureen Cleave was taken out of context and recycled in an American Teen magazine called Datebook. Just as the tour was ready to hit, The Beatles got wind of the firestorm that was spreading across the USA. What Lennon said was, "The Beatles are more popular than Jesus." He said this in the context, that in England, and certain parts of Europe, religion was waning. This was also true in America, and in Philadelphia, and in my life as well. I was an Alter Boy in the Roman Catholic Church. Once a month, we had a special service for the woman of the Parrish called: The Sodality of the Blessed Virgin. I served that event every month along with my classmate Raymond Harrison. This particular Sunday night service was scheduled for February 9, 1964. The same night that The Beatles were going to appear live on the Ed Sullivan Program. I was thirteen years old at the time, and I came from a very religious family. I had the biggest decision of my young life to make: God? or The Beatles? I will be forever grateful that my intuition guided me to the correct conclusion: I chose The Beatles. I called in sick to the rectory, and little did I know, my friend Raymond Harrison squealed on me. The next morning, I was summoned to the office of the Pastor. He sat me down in front of his desk, and from his huge chair behind his desk, he bent over and said to me: "Son, are these degenerates your God?" Consequently, I was suspended from the Altar Boys and castigated by the nuns and other priests at my Parrish. When I first heard about John Lennon and the Beatles are bigger than Jesus" dissention, I said to myself, YES they are bigger than Jesus !!!!

Promoter George Hamid Jr. knew he had a potential catastrophe on his hand, because the Ku Klux Klan paraded in front of the venue the lads played at in Washington, D.C., and in Pennsylvania, four State Senators introduced a measure in Harrisburg urging a boycott of the concert here in Philadelphia.

The Philadelphia press did not help matters with the kind of in house and wire stories they chose to run in all of their editions. On the Sunday August 14, two days before the show, The Inquirer ran a story titled "Embattled Beatles in Return." Inquirer staff writer Samuel L. Singer reminded his readers about the noise levels generated by the screaming fans when The Beatles first performed in Philadelphia in 1964. However, Singer suggested that on this visit, "that most of the noise this time is by protesters of all ages who would like The Beatles not to be heard at all, even on the radio." Other stories which the Inky ran, seemed to placate the populace, and assure them that Philadelphia was prepared for all eventualities. One such story with a Rose DeWolf byline was headlined, "It Looks Like a Battlefield: Stadium Braces for Beatles. This piece was designed to put the readers at ease. It gave the readership the sense that the Philadelphia decision makers had all the bases covered, and that they were prepared for all eventualities both in and outside of the venue should any of the national concerns spill over into the City of Brotherly Love. Another story called: "Beatles' Visit Provides Profit For Phila., Too." The story reeked as a plant by the city. The reader was not only assured that this concert would not cost taxpayers a dime, but it suggested that the city stood to make a few bucks off of this bunch of heathens.

Yes, there were ban the Beatles radio scams designed to get ratings all around the country, not unlike the "Disco Sucks" shenanigans that occurred ten years later in the 1970s. But these types of "promotions" took place mainly in the South. Fortunately for Mr. Epstein, the 1966 tour of America played no dates below the Mason-Dixon line. But still for The Beatles, it was a new headache which was not of their choosing, and added to recent tour problems in Japan, The Philippines, this "Bigger than Jesus" ruckus actually and sadly, impacted attendance in the United States.

The Show

As we arrived at JFK on the night of the show, Mr. Casey told us to ask for a particular gentleman, who ended up being the head of security for the city at the stadium. This man not only escorted us to our seats, which were awesome, but he gave each of us a Beatles program, which of course was "comped."

This concert was billed as an, "An All Star Show" which it truly was. Bobby Hebb open the show. He was an R&B singer from Nashville, who had a huge hit single on the Pop Charts that summer called, "Sunny." The sound was wonderful, and Bobby Hebb was a perfect choice to open the show.

Next up was The Cyrkle. They were an American band, who were managed by Beatles manager Brian Epstein. It was John Lennon who came up with their name. They too had a big hit pop single with a record called: "Red Rubber Ball" which went to # 2 on the Billboard Hot 100 during the summer of 1966

The Ronettes took the stage next, and until the emergence of The Supremes, they were the biggest and best all female pop group. They sang all of their Phil Specter produced hits including "Walking in the Rain." But their set was designed to build up to their performance of what was arguably the greatest single of the 1960s, "Be My Baby." As they were performing that great song, all of a sudden, a spot light began to shine on the far right side of the stadium sections. What became apparent very quickly, was the sight of The Beatles walking across the field, just as John F. Kennedy once did, and with the Ronettes singing behind them, the four lads made their way back stage. The Beatles entrance from the nearby stands, prompted screams which practically drowned out the end of a stellar performance by The Ronettes, but hey, it was The Beatles' show.

The question I had going into JFK that night was, what would The Beatles perform from their brand new album, "Revolver" which was only released eleven days before the concert on August 5th. They ended up performing eleven songs in twenty-nine minutes and that was a long show by 1966 standards. The Rolling Stones performed but nine songs during their set the previous month. The show was absolutely terrific. Yes, there was ear splitting high pitched screaming, but even with that distractive non-sense, a seasoned fifteen year old concert observer such as myself, could hear that there was without question, one damn good combo playing on that stage. They opened with two songs from the "Beatles 65" album. First, a thrilling version of Chuck Berry's "Rock and Roll Music" with Lennon's vocal in very good order. That was immediately followed up by a McCartney vocal on "She's A Woman." Next was one of the two gems of the evening, "If I Needed Someone" from "the "Yesterday and Today" album, with George Harrison in splendid voice, backed up with very lush Lennon and McCartney harmonies which formed that trademark rich Beatle vocal sound. That exquisite vocal work was further enriched by the choice of "Baby's in Black from "Beatles 65." "Day Tripper" and "I Feel Fine followed and on those particular songs, one could sense how Ringo Star's drumming style really drove the band. The next selection was "Yesterday." I have to admit that I was somewhat disappointed in the arrangement of that song, for it was performed with the full backing of the band, and that treatment did not render itself as an embellishment to McCartney's masterpiece, but more of a hindrance to the performance. "I Wanna Be Your Man" was up next, and it was interesting that this was the one track chosen from their 1964 repertoire; I still like The Rolling Stones version much better.

The second gem of the night followed. It was one of my favorite Beatle singles of all time: "Nowhere Man. Not only were the warm and layered vocals spot on, but he highlight of the song, and for me the show, was George Harrison's guitar break (that is what they were called back then, not solos) which was not only true to the recording, but it seemed that the audience calmed down a bit just to listen to this song performed live.

"Paperback Writer: was the next to last song they played, and that is one song that is so good, even a less than great rendition of it would be great; on that night, the performance of that song was truly great.

The Beatles closed thier the show with a very odd choice, but actually a brilliant one with "I'm Down" which was the B-side to the single "Help." McCartney was in great screaming mode, and Lennon was hilarious as he sat in front of an electric piano, playing with both his hands and his elbows which he ran up and down the keyboard. Ol' Johnny was having a blast and it was delight to see him smiling non-stop considering the stress he was placed under by the worst of what America had to offer before and during the tour.

The Aftermath

So, seven of the eleven songs performed that night were either hit singles, or B-sides of hits. The other five selection were album tracks. Yet the elephant in the room was, how come nothing from "Rubber Soul" or the just released album "Revolver". As history now informs us, The Beatles knew that these two weeks of shows in the States were going to be their last as a live act. The security issues created by their last visit to Japan and the Philippines, and the death threats they received in America were enough to bring that aspect of their musical lives to a close. Let alone the night after night of playing to the din of screeching teenage girls. Little did we Philadelphians know, that what we witnessed that evening in South Philly was one of the final live shows this great quartet would ever play. Thirteen days later, it all ended as they performed their last concert at Candlestick Park in San Francisco.

Rose DeWolf covered the show for the Inquirer. The headline for her review was: "20,000 Greet Beatles and it's a Scream." You would never have known she was there, because she said not a word about the musical performance in her column; what she wrote was pretty much a crowd story. She backhandedly gave the show a nod, because she noted that one could actually hear the Beatles performing. DeWolf attributed this to the very loud sound system, and the fact that there were boys in the audience. She calculated that one-fifth of the audience were boys which was unheard of in previous Beatle tours, hence, less screaming and fewer squeals. I can testify to that. Me and my mate Dennis and the other lads I saw did not make a sound; we were the pensive lot you could say; we were there to hear the music. I truly loved that show, and from that day forward, I've been "comped" my entire life.

The Colonel Remembers: When Philly Had Mad Money

               All around the country, many states, cities and towns are experiencing various types of financial troubles. The governing bodies in each of these entities are responding to their individual budget dilemmas in drastic ways. Up in New York City, they fired thousands of teachers.  Across the river in Camden, they laid off massive numbers of police officers and fire fighters. These new fiscal realities we are seeing all around the nation have manifested themselves here in Philadelphia as well.

                In the City of Brotherly Love, for the last few years,  local government officials have been telling us that we are seriously strapped for cash.  So, at first they tried to cut costs by closing  libraries and fire houses,  and enhancing revenue streams by taxing things like nachos, Red Bull, and all other kinds of snacks and soft drinks. Fortunately, an enormous backlash from the citizenry tabled those insane ideas for the time being, and what we've ended up with so far, are good old Philly style tax increases.

                If you think that our home town is currently suffering from a case of municipal madness, and that our civic leaders are sitting around a conference table in City Hall fretting over how they are going to come up with some new ideas to save this town from budget woes, don't worry because our civic decision makers managed to come up with even more lugubrious ideas in the past.

                Back in the 1960s, City Hall had to develop very creative ways of handling the budget. The problem then was, Philly had more revenue in the treasury than it knew what to do with! Sounds mad crazy doesn't it? In 1968, our beloved city had so much bank, that it decided to become a rock concert promoter.

                The city booked a series of concerts for that summer and called it "Schmidts Presents:  The Philadelphia Music Festival." The venue they used was the city owned John F. Kennedy Memorial Stadium which was located where the Wells Core Wachovia First States Fargo Union Center now stands. This was the same venue where Live Aid was held in 1985, and after Grateful Dead played there in 1989, the city condemned the joint and tore it down.

                For these shows they did not use the full capacity of  JFK which was 104,000. They only used about one fifth of the stadium, which gave them a space for 20,000 which was the same setup used previously by George A. Hamid Jr. when he brought The Beatles to South Philly on August 16, 1966. The series was also held "in cooperation with the Philadelphia Department of Recreation." Tickets were sold at local playgrounds, and at all Acme supermarket stores. The best part of the deal was the ticket price: $1.00 Even by 1960s standards, that was cheap; it cost $5.00 to see The Beatles two summers previously.

                Now, even though the city didn't have to pay to rent the venue, because they owned it, with a complete sellout they grossed only $20,000. Yet they still had to pay for talent, tickets, hire help at the playgrounds to sell the tickets, hire caterers, carpenters to build the stage, hire ushers and security the night of the events, and pay for all the print, radio and television adverting which ran from May to July. Even with a sponsor like the then local brewery, Schmidt's, kicking in some bucks, it was apparent that these shows were not designed to make a profit or even break even. If not profit, then what was the motivation? Allegedly, the whole idea was to give "the kids" something to do during the summer. You have to remember, this was the era of Vietnam and mass riots in many big cities, so city leaders were always mindful of the potential of "youth unrest." Which made even less sense when you consider these concerts were promoted to persons under the drinking age, and the sponsor was a beer company, not a soft drink distributor.

                I bought tickets to two of the shows. One was for July 17th which featured The Rascals, The Box Tops, Country Joe and The Fish and Philly's own The Delfonics. The other ticket was for July 24th, for a show billed as, "The British Invasion" which had The Who, The Troggs and Procol Harum featured on the ticket. My friends and I were down the shore on July 17th, and we ended up blowing off driving back to Philly that night to see the show. It was ok by me, because the only band I really wanted to see was The Box Tops. But more importantly, we heard on the radio that Procol Harum was off the bill for the following week, because they could not get work visas, and slotted in their place was one of my favorite new bands at the time, Pink Floyd.

                On the night of the 24th of July 1968, I was psyched up, because not only was I going to get to see Pink Floyd, I was most pumped up about seeing The Who once again.

                The year before, on August 24, 1967, The Who made their Philadelphia debut at Convention Hall, which was located at 34th and Spruce Streets.  That night The Who were sandwiched on a bill between Blues Magoos from New York, and headliners Herman's Hermits. I'd seen the Magoos before but this time they all had matching black suits on, and when they did their "psychedelic  freak-out" version of "Tobacco Road," the stage lights were turned off, and from each side of the stage, flashing black lights began to turn on and off in rapid sequence, and all of a sudden, large green neon stripes appeared on the suits of each member of the band. The audience roared with their approval and even for a cynical sod like myself, I had to admit it did look quite cool. The Magoos closed their set with their #5 hit on the Billboard Charts from the previous year, "(We Ain't Got) Nothin' Yet."

                During the intermission, my friends and I worked the room. We were trying to find anyone and everyone we knew to spread the word. Our message was simple: Walk out of Convention Hall as soon as The Who are done playing. We were pissed off that a band as great as The Who had to open up to such a joke act as Herman's Hermits. They were up there with acts like The Monkees,  Gary Lewis & The Playboys and Freddie and the Dreamers. Those were all "bands" your little sister liked; not groups that anyone who seriously dug music ever gave a fug about.

                As soon as the lights started to come down, me and my friends rushed the stage. The Who opened up with "Substitute." I spent the first minute or so just checking out what the members of the band looked like and what they were wearing. Peter Townshend wore a gold lamé jacket with a white shirt which had large ruffles from the neck down to the waist; ruffles also appeared through the sleeves of the coat covering part of his hands. Rodger Daltry, the god of all Mods was wearing a quilt patterned multi-color jacket/cape with fringe around the edges; he also wore a pair of pink trousers. Keith Moon was wearing just a white t-shirt, but the first thing that struck me about Moon was how young he looked; he seemed no more than seventeen, yet his twenty-first birthday was the day before. Nothing struck me about the statuesque man in black bassist John Entwistle, except the speed in which his fingers moved around the fret board.

                From "I Can't Explain," to "Pictures of Lilly," to "Happy Jack," and their cover of the Beach Boys' version of "Barbara Ann," (sung by Keith Moon), the Who were one fierce and explosive group in the summer of 1967 which at the time had been named, "the summer of love." That year, The Who had gone to the top of the pops in the UK, but in America, they received hardly any air play at all on radio, so here they were in Philadelphia, supporting Herman's Hermits.

                The Who were clearly the most powerful opening act I had ever seen up until that point in my young concert going life.  Sonically, they played at volume levels I never before experienced for a quartet with just one guitar, bass, drums and a front man.  This massive sound could have been attributed  to the fact that each guitarist used two gargantuan Fender amps a piece.

                Although bass player John Entwistle was expressionless during the entire set, the other three members of the group were like an eruptive visual panorama of the London music scene that year; they were the most exciting British Invaders to perform in Philly since The Rolling Stones played on that very same Convention Hall stage in 1965. Front man Roger Daltry would sporadically smile, but he would instantly transform into this fierce warrior like stance as he twirled his microphone cord into the air, then throw the microphone itself over the heads of the audience, then make the cord and mic return to his hand like a lasso! While at the same time, Keith Moon, sitting behind a custom set of Premier drums, with two kicks, and the name of the group decaled on each head, would display smiles, frowns and all sorts of wonderful facial antics like a carnival clown throughout his chaos in control style of drumming. However, not only did Peter Townshend not smile or make much eye contact with the audience, he looked like one pissed off bloke. His on stage presence and demeanor suggested that a certain annoyance was building up inside of him and that at any second, he could blow up into a rage. He was a Mod for sure, but he was also something else. Something as yet unnamed; a decade later Peter Townshend would have been dubbed a punk.  That sense of vexation which he was feeling that night on stage would soon manifest itself in a very detonative display of blood. Peter Townshend invented the guitar playing windmill. That was when he would strike a chord on his guitar, and continue to flail his arm in a rapid circle, continually hitting the strings, and because of the intense motion, his fingers would hit his guitar strings along with his pick, and if you were standing right in front of him, you would feel this slight wet sensation spraying across your face; it was Peter Townshend's blood. Look at the cover of "The Who Sell Out," and you can see the scars on Townshend's index finger. For Townshend, rock & roll was not only an art form, it was also a blood sport.

                Now Townshend used just  one guitar throughout the set that night; it was a double necked Gibson.  However,  all of a sudden, before he began the next song, which would be The Who's finale that evening, Pete took the Gibson off and a roadie handed him an old looking Fender. My hearty was pounding, because I knew what was about to happen. A friend of mine from New York saw The Who earlier that year when they made their American debut at the RKO Theater, and he filled me in on all the show's closer. With his Fender in check, Townshend hit it with "My Generation."

                The opening chords fevered up my imagination.  Townshend was now in furious mode; he was twirling & whirling his musical life away as his singer spewed his lyrics at the audience. And this was an audience that was receiving messages from California all summer long to wear flowers in their hair and to make love not war. The Who would have none of it, as Roger Daltry indicated:

                   

                     People try to put us d-down (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
                     Just because we get around (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
                     Things they do look awful c-c-cold (Talkin' 'bout my generation)
                     I hope I die before I get old (Talkin' 'bout my generation)

"I hope I die before I get old" was not a dispatch that could have come from the city by the bay or a missive from some Grateful Airplane type hippie group selling peace, but a cannonball that could only have an explosive aftereffect.  And it sure did.

                 Townshend lifted the Fender above his head. He grabbed it by the neck, and abruptly began to smash his guitar on the floor of the stage. A few seconds later, Keith Moon started to kick his drum kit about. He received aid from Roger Daltry, as the front man picked up his microphone stand, and started to topple any and all percussive instruments within sight. Townshend moved toward his amps, and belted them with his guitar. All this activity created a monstrous sound, which was only enhanced visually by the sight and smell of smoke coming from the debris ridden stage. I have never been in battle, but on that particular night, I knew what war must sound like.

                As The Who left the rubble strewn stage, me and my friends exited Convention Hall.  Leaving that building, I began to wonder what it would be like when this band is the headlining act.

*  *  *

                 Exactly eleven months later, I headed down to South Philly to find out.  As I was leaving the house that night, my father said I should bring an umbrella, because a major storm was predicted for later that evening. Like most things dad said to me regarding rock and roll shows, it just went in one ear and out the other. Plus, nobody who was cool ever carried an umbrella back in the day.

When I got to JFK, Mandala, a Canadian version of Blood, Sweat, and Tears,  who were somewhat popular in the land of the maple leaf, but relatively unknown here in America were playing on stage. They didn't even receive any advance billing on tickets or in any of the advertising for the concert. They did nothing for me.

Up next: Pink Floyd.

              They opened their set with "Set The Controls For The Heart Of  The Sun." They sounded just like their records, which was a huge compliment back in the day. Yet their live sound was more expansive; almost dreamy and very atmospheric.  By the summer of 1968, hippies became the dominant psychographic at most rock concerts. It was quite apparent that the music of Pink Floyd and the hippies were a perfect fit. Years later, Floyd became more of a drug  soundtrack for the chemically induced set, rather than a band.

                The second song of the set was "A Saucerful of Secrets." As Pink Floyd were playing, the sky grew dark and the temperature dropped very quickly, and then the rain came. Floyd kept playing, sparks began to be visable near David Gilmore's amp, and then unanticipatedly, a roadie type came running across the stage, cupped his hands over Roger Waters' ear, and told him something. Waters did not look happy. He thereupon told the audience: "They want us to leave the stage, but we'll play through eight feet of bloody water if we have to !" At that moment, the heavens opened up, and sheets of rain overspread the stage.

                The members of Pink Floyd played on, however, a few minutes later, the sound died; somebody pulled the plug; the show was stopped and the members of Pink Floyd left the stage. Then someone came to the center microphone and announced that the show would not continue. We were left with no Troggs and no headlining performance from The Who.  Everyone went home drenched to the bone.

                 The next day I heard from a friend that there was an announcement on the news that  there would be no rain date.  The City of Philadelphia was the promoter. As a consequence, my hometown let me down. If only they had spent a little more of their then vast  treasury on a cover for the stage, I would have got to see the bloody Who as the headliner!

                 In the aftermath of that disaster, Philly got out of the rock promoter biz. The next year, New York Jazz promoter George Stein was hired to put on the "Summer Pop Festival" which he booked inside the Spectrum. One of the opening acts for that engagement was another up and coming British band called Led Zeppelin.

The Who finally headlined Philly in 1969 at Electric Factory, and in 1982, they were on top of the bill at JFK for the full 104,00 capacity.

As for myself, I left the open air concert experience behind. Wherefore, my musical mantra ever since that rainy night in South Philly has been: "No Roof ... No Rock !!!"

POSTSCRIPT: The Courtship Of Eddie's Father

Eddie Vedder was born Edward Louis Severson III on December 23, 1964, in Evanston, Illinois. Should this man ever decide to write his autobiography, he already has the title: “Longing To Belong” which is also the name of a song from his praiseworthy new album, “Ukulele Songs.” The need to have a relationship to people, places, and things seems to be an enduring theme running through much of Vedder’s music over the last two decades. As such, Vedder has made it his business to establish a very strong connection with Philadelphia which harkens back to the first time he performed here when his band Pearl Jam made their Philly debut at J.C. Dobbs back in 1991.
Since that time, whenever Pearl Jam return to this area, Vedder often asks the audience “who was at that Dobbs show?” I was the promoter for that historic show, and before Pearl Jam took the stage that night, I had the opportunity to sit at the bar and have a conversation with Vedder over a few drinks. Besides enjoying the requisite dialogue regarding the then exploding Seattle music scene and a mutual love of basketball, I began to get the sense that this guy was somewhat more anxious about that evening’s show than most musicians I had spoken with over the years who were in pre-gig mode. Of course there was good reason for him to have a sense of solicitude. Here he was, at a club he never played before, yet two of his band mates already had a relationship with the room, as both Jeff Ament and Stone Gossard performed at Dobbs when they were in the band Mother Love Bone. Vedder also had the extra added burden of going on stage to perform material from the band’s first album “Ten” before it had even been released.
Through it all, Eddie Vedder rocked the house that night while fronting Pearl Jam and throughout that evening I found him so easy to bond with because it was quite apparent that this then-26 year old guy was searching for some kind of human reciprocity. Vedder’s ongoing need for connection probably emanates from his troubled childhood and since that time has manifested itself in the inspired art which he has created over the last 20 years with both Pearl Jam and through his solo work.

This yearning for connectivity was certainly in evidence last Saturday evening as a sold out audience at the Tower Theater witnessed a truly wondrous performance and a rewarding lesson in the cathartic power of music. As a solo artist, some may lump Vedder in with the singer-song writer genre which dates back to the 1970s. That reference insufficiently portrays what it is this man does on stage. Vedder comes from a more traditional genus. He is more akin to the folk singer heritage that was prevalent during the 1950s and 1960s. That custom incorporated conversation with the audience that was part musical presentation, part colloquy.

So, when this troubadour from the Northwest country hit the stage in Upper Darby over the weekend the exchange began with “Waving Palms” followed by a fierce rendition of “Can’t Keep” which is not only the opening track of “Ukulele Songs,” but is also the lead song from Pearl Jam’s 2002 album “Riot Act.” It was Vedder covering Vedder. Stripped down to just ukulele and vocal, “Can’t Wait” took on a certain sense of urgency and immediateness. The song’s strength came from its simplicity and simplicity was the modus operandi of the night. Instead of being surrounded by band mates, Vedder was encircled by ukuleles, mandolins, guitars, a pump organ, and a large reel to reel tape recorder. However, the most enthralling musical instrument was Vedder’s voice: a vigorous baritone in peak form.

The conversation began as Professor Vedder gave his audience a history lesson regarding the Tower Theater. He told them the place was built in 1927, and then asked that the lights be brought up so that everyone could see the beauty of that venue. He then said he felt like Justin Bieber, because of all the cameras that were aimed at him. He offered his followers a deal: he’d quickly make all the different faces he can, “that way you guys can all shoot your photos right now and get it over with.” At that point, a disorienting barrage of strobing flip phone flashes illuminated the darkened theater. The faithful subsequently kept their end of the bargain. Pearl Jam fans are such a tried-and-true bunch; they could teach loyalty to dogs.

Vedder carried on with more selections from “Ukulele Songs.” From the resolve of “Sleeping By Myself, ” to the sense of loss in “Without You” to the melancholy and bittersweet of songs like “Goodbye” and “Broken Heart. At the conclusion of that painfully gorgeous set of songs, Vedder told his audience, “If you don’t relate to these songs … I’m happy.”

Before he began to play the next song, Vedder told the audience that when he was in Hawaii, one night while he was “spinning” (an apparent Vedderism for inebriated.) he took a walk along the beach with a tape recorder. He then turned to the large reel to reel tape player which was to his left, put it on and the sound of waves crashing along a beach gushed forth from the stage. Vedder then noted that while on that shoreline in Hawaii he thought that the sound “would be great in that theater in Philly.” Just then, the stars on the ceiling of the Tower came into view. It was if the audience was transported to that Hawaiian beach as Vedder played one of the most alluring songs from “Ukulele Days, “Light Today.”

After an exquisite cover of Bob Dylan’s “Girl From the North Country,” Vedder treated his fans to an assortment of Pearl Jam faves: “I Am Mine,” “Just Breathe,” “Unthought Known,” and “Speed of Sound.”

However, the most powerful of the Pearl Jam songs performed Saturday night was also one of the oldest. It was a song which Vedder wrote back in high school, allegedly inspired by his abusive father. This song took on a special significance that night, for it reinforced Vedder’s ongoing need for connection and maintaining relationship to others. It also required a very unique set up. Vedder recalled the last time he played Philly: “On Halloween, before the wrecking ball” which was a reference to Pearl Jam’s multi-night string of shows as the last act to perform at the Spectrum in October of 2009, before that legendary arena closed its doors forever. On the very last night of that engagement, Vedder brought to the Spectrum stage a man who had been a peanut vendor at the venue since the joint first opened. Last Saturday, Vedder looked toward the wings of the stage and noted, “Today is his 90th birthday.” And with that, the man himself, Charles DeFabio walked out onto the stage as Vedder hit it with a fiery and rousing reading of “Better Man.” Judging by the heartfelt bond between the two men, it was almost as if DeFabio represented the father figure Vedder’s been looking for his whole life.

It was only appropriate that Vedder closed his show with “Arc,” the a capella chant from the Pearl Jam album, “Riot Act.” On a darkened stage, Vedder stood at the mic and sang along with echo loops of his own voice to create lush harmonies and Middle Eastern-sounding accents which did more to purify the night rather than end it. No sooner had the red curtain come down, it quickly went back up as Vedder was awash in exhilarating and sustained applause.

The encore segment kicked off with “Parting Ways” from “Binaural” and then once again, it was story time. Vedder played New York before coming to Philadelphia. And he shared an experience he had with his daughters as they all went up to Central Park to see Strawberry Fields. But first, Vedder said he wanted to go across the street to see the Dakota, the place where the late John Lennon was shot to death in 1980. Vedder indicated that he stood next to the entrance way of the building and it was, “the worst thing ever.” The vibe got better he said when they visited Strawberry Fields. He then broke into a stirring rendition of John Lennon’s “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away.” I got chills hearing him sing this song, because this was Lennon’s first stab at folk music, which was inspired by the time he spent hanging out with Bob Dylan in 1964. However, the truly affirming moments came as the audience passionately bellowed out the “HEY” of Lennon’s timeless song.

Vedder then announced that some special people would be joining him. Marketa Irglova of Swell Season then came out and performed a delightful duet on the Billy Rose and Lee David song, “Tonight You Belong To Me.” Irglova’s fellow Oscar winner, and special guest on the tour, Glen Hansard joined Vedder for an awe inspiring performance of “Society” from the “Into The Wild” soundtrack.

Yet, the best was still to come. Vedder seemed to become somewhat pensive, as he talked about the great loss that came upon the music world with the passing of Clarence Clemons that week. He then announced, that the Big Man’s nephew, Jake Clemons was in the house, and out walked this young man, with saxophone hoisted in the air, to join Vedder and Hansard for a galvanizing take on Bruce Springsteen’s “Drive All Night.” Vedder switched to pump organ and sang the opening verse before turning the vocal duties over to Hansard. I got chills when Jake Clemons stepped forward and blared a fervent solo on his horn. Jake Clemons is not as big of a man as his uncle, but he sure has adopted his very soulful stylings on the sax that does the Clemons name proud. This was a riveting tribute to The Big Man.

Eddie Vedder clearly left a part of himself on that Tower Theater stage that evening; it was an exercise in human connection through the poetics of pain. And considering the power and the glory generated by the new material, it is certain that the next Pearl Jam record — set for release in the fall to mark the band’s 20th anniversary — will be greeted like scripture by the faithful.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Tom Sheehy is finishing up his doctorate in 20th Century American History at the University of Pennsylvania. Previously, Mr. Sheehy worked in the music business for 30 years doing publicity and marketing for record companies, radio stations, and concert promoters.

COLONEL REMEMBERS: Peter Falk RIP

BY COLONEL TOM SHEEHY In the Spring of 1978, I was working for A&M Records in Boston. I was staying at the Copley Plaza Hotel, and as I was getting dressed, I decided not to wear my jacket that morning. I got on the elevator, and as it stopped on the floor below me, a man got on who looked very familiar, but what really caught my attention was his manner of dress. He was wearing a very heavy winter coat which suggested to me, the weather must have changed over night. I debated whether or not to go back to my room and get a sweater or a jacket, but just then, the elevator door opened. The man and I got out and proceded to walk to the front door of the hotel. As I got closer to the entrance, I could see that there was a lot of snow on the ground. I was somewhat perplexed, because yes, this was Boston, but it was springtime! Just then, a guard stopped me and said I would have to use the side entrance of the hotel to exit the building. I asked him why, and he told me because they are filming in front of the hotel. Ah ha !!! Then it dawned on me. It was fake snow, and the man with the squinty face was an actor. In fact he was Peter Falk, and they were filming the television series “Coloumbo.”

CONCERT REVIEW: The Roots Picnic 2011 by Colonel Tom Sheehy

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Big Star

 From 1967 to 1976, Jerry’s Records, was the hippest record store in Philly. It was located at 1107 Market Street. It was the first store I ever saw where hot lookin’ cashiers went braless. It was the first store to sell bootlegs. If you were a musician or a student, you made up your work own schedule to accommodate gigs or mid-terms. Jerry’s carried everything, except country and opera, because nobody ever asked for it. If a customer did want something Jerry’s didn’t carry, it would be special ordered.

I worked at Jerry’s part time when I was a student. My first job was to sweep the floor and get the manager coffee.  A few years later, that manager was hired by Larry Magid to manage Electric Factory Concerts. Consequently, I was promoted to manager. Some of my customers were a young Angelo Amorosi, and a thirteen year old kid, who came in my store at EXACTLY 11AM every Saturday. His name was Mike Hoffman, now the owner of a.k.a. Music.

As I said above, if Jerry's didn’t have it, we’d special order it for ya. One thing we NEVER had, and NOBODY EVER asked us for was anything by “Big Star.” How could the hippest store in town, with the hippest clientele have NEVER heard of … Big Star ???????

Out at Penn, students are constantly reminded of their course requirements. Many times a student must be admitted to a course, even though it is filled, because he is a senior, and he needs the class to graduate. In other words, an academic resume must contain certain sectors of study in order to get a degree. Sometimes I think that knowledge of Big Star is requisite listening for all hipsterati.

Madison

If Bruce Springsteen really was the Woody Guthrie or Pete Seeger he trys to image with, he'd go to Madison with his guitar and sing a song of freedom !!!