Untimely Reviews: Phish, Dick's Sporting Goods Park, Commerce City, CO 09/03/11, Part I

If you caught my review for night one of Phish at Dick’s Sporting Goods Park in Commerce City, CO, you might have guessed that when I woke up Saturday morning, I had a considerable-sized hangover. It was one of those headache-oriented hangovers that let you know an hour before you actually wake and open your eyes that it’s going to be a rough start to the day. I had plans to sleep a little bit of that off, but thanks to DiscoBiscuit Jeff from Philly, who speaks at one volume and one volume only –- loud -- my plan was altered.

At about 7:40 a.m. Mountain, DBJ wandered into our campsite trying to score something, anything, from Uncle Jake. It started off as breakfast -– for which he was offering $5. DBJ was told that our crew needed to eat first, but that if there were any leftovers, then no problem. He was back within moments trying to reassess the situation (Editor’s Note: Uncle Jake was the only one up and out of his tent, and thus far he’d fried a few strips of bacon and begun heating water for coffee.), and basically the same conversation was repeated.

When it was clear that there was still no breakfast for DBJ to have, he asked about having one of our plastic cups. Uncle Jake gave him a cup, thinking (I assume) that this would make him go away for a while. Instead, these were some of his top-volume lines.

“Yeah, bro. My name’s Jeff,” he said (for the second time). “I’m from Philly” (which we already knew) “and the Disco Biscuits are really my thing” (also a repeat). “I’ve seen Phish 89 times but I’ve seen the Biscuits more than a hundred.”

Good job, DBJ.

“But, yeah,” he said. “That’s really awesome what you’re doing, cooking for your people, but for real, bro -– if you had anything to spare, I’d totally throw you some cash.”

Dear DiscoBiscuit Jeff from Philly:

Take said cash, plan ahead, and go to the store.

Signed,
Everyone

He wasn’t done, though.

“So, did you have a good show last night, bro?”

“Yeah, man,” said Uncle Jake. “Real good time.”

“Dude, that was so tight,” said DBJ. “Check this out, bro: Every song they played started with the letter ‘S’.”

Thanks for the news flash, Philly. Now a word from our sponsors.

“Yeah,” said Uncle Jake. “Pretty crazy.”

“Dude, it was more than crazy,” said DBJ. “They played ‘Sparkle,’ and ‘Simple,’ and ‘Sanity.’”

I’d had enough.

“Know what else they played, bro? ‘Silent in the Morning.’” My head throbbed with each hollered syllable.

“Yeah, man,” he said. “Totally.”

DBJ went on talking up his schpeel to Uncle Jake. Loudly. I was contemplating getting out of the tent.

“Know what my favorite song from last night was bro? It was called Shut the Fuck Up.”

This made him mad.

“A better song was You Better Man the Fuck Up, dude,” he said.

“Yeah, bro,” I said. “That’s gonna get you some free breakfast real quick.”

“Aw, dude,” he said. “I was just messin’ with you, but whatever, man. If you don’t like it, you shouldn’t’ve come.”

With that, he was gone. But I was up.

DBJ was back by later, and it was clear -– mostly because one eye was literally looking the other direction -– that he had not yet slept. He was covered in a light coat of dirt, sporting a backwards hat with those obnoxiously fat, always-untied high-top sneakers that Grubby McDorkboxes like him usually rock. Apparently, he’d lost his cup and was in search of another, but he didn’t pause to ask our camp.

Anyway, Uncle Jake, Emily, and the nephews had plans to go into town and see some sites. Originally, they were going to tour around Red Rocks, but it was discovered that Carlos Santana was playing there Saturday evening. With George Lopez. (Note: Really? Does that actually happen?) So, it was determined that venue crews and staff would likely be setting up, so they headed northwest to Boulder and Estes Park instead. Having seen all of those places plenty, I stayed behind.

Once I’d washed the taste of Pabst-brined gerbil out of my mouth, I showered, changed and set out to see who was who on grounds to enjoy this weekend of Phish. It was sort of an aimless wander, but I wanted to get 10 subjects, and once a subject agreed to a quick chat, they had a choice of question sets: a), b), or c).

Taylor and Steve were first. They chose set a).

1) Where are you from? “San Francisco.”

2) How many times have you seen Phish? Taylor: “22”; Steve: “50.”

3) What do you do for work? Taylor: “non-profit, children’s mental health”; Steve: “student at Stanford.”

4) Complete this sentence: This best way to spend time when not doing anything Phish is…: joint-effort answer: “other music, i.e. Dark Star, Govt. Mule, the Disco Biscuits” (Editor’s Note: I badly wanted to ask if they knew Jeff from Philly, but did not.), “The Dead.”

5) What’s your favorite thing about the Phish culture? Taylor: “Everyone’s so positive. There’s a sense of togetherness. We’ve been on campgrounds for other festivals where we didn’t even know our neighbors.” Steve: “Other lots are all disjointed. Everyone’s so ‘I need this' and 'you’ve got that' and 'aarrghhh.’”

(Note: Steve was a little wary at first, wanting to know if this interview would “make its way onto the Internet,” which I assured him it would. He was also keen to some Thank You Phish Day that was supposedly taking place that day, where there had been plans of sky writing a message to the band and handing out free doses to the crowd. I didn’t see any of those things, but if I was oblivious, then, Thanks, Phish!)

“Melanie” was second. She went with set c). She also gets extra quotes around her name/locale because she was interested in being cute, and by "cute" I mean giving a a fake name and locale.

1) Where are you from? “’Tampa.’”

2) Name three bands on your iPod or in your CD player not named Phish. “Eric Hutchinson, Tool, Dean Martin.”

3) Do you have an opinion on Bob Dylan? “Love him! Minnesotan! Woohoo!” (Note: This was apparently a shout-out to all her Tampa people from Minnesota.)

4) What do you make of all the Obama criticism? “Ohhhh-bama. That’s what I say.”

5) What’s the most important thing to teach kids? “Have fun.”

Up next was Daniel. He, too, went with c).

1) Where are you from? “New York.”

2) Name three bands on your iPod or in your CD player not named Phish. “Ali Farka Toure, Emancipator, Holy Ghost.”

3) Do you have an opinion on Bob Dylan? “I love Bob Dylan.”

4) What do you make of all of the Obama criticism? “Obama had a tough road to go when he was elected. The criticism is out of control. I mean, he can only do so much. He’s not a miracle worker. I think he’s doin’ alright.”

5) What’s the most important thing to teach kids? “Sustainability.”

Fourth was Chloe. Again, c).

1) Where are you from? “I live in Lakewood, but I’m from Boston.” (Note: I asked her if she was stoked about the Bruins championship win, and she showed me her Boston inner-wrist tattoo.)

2) Name three bands on your iPod or in your CD player not named Phish. “The Grateful Dead, Boards of Canada, Pink Floyd.”

3) Do you have an opinion on Bob Dylan? “Bob Dylan’s a super-poet. He can’t fuckin’ talk anymore. No, I mean, he’s like the first rapper. I just wish he could still sing.”

4) What do you make of all the Obama criticism? “I love Obama. He’s doing what I want for weed, so he’s cool with me. I voted for him because I think he’s a good person. They’re good people. It’s better to have a good person in office than a good politician.

5) What’s the most important thing to teach kids? “To love themselves, to be themselves, to always be true to themselves.”

Lara fell in the five-hole. She chose b).

1) Where are you from? “Denver.”

2) What’s your biggest musical influence outside of Phish? “The Grateful Dead.”

3) What book did you most recently read? “The Help by Kathryn Stockard.”

4) What’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex? “I don’t know. I’m not very adventurous, I guess. In a tent?”

5) What’s one thing for which you want to be remembered? “Changing the lives of children.” (Note: Yes, Lara’s a teacher.)

In the six spot was Tim. He also chose b).

1) Where are you from? “Chicago.”

2) What’s your biggest musical influence outside of Phish? “The Beastie Boys.”

3) What book did you most recently read? “The Life of Pi by Yann Martel.”

4) What’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex? “I don’t know. Oh, in a nasty lake.”

5) What’s one thing for which you want to be remembered? “I don’t really care if I’m remembered.”

Lee was batting seventh, made for three consecutive b) picks.

1) Where are you from? “Minneapolis.”

2) What’s your biggest musical influence outside of Phish? “The Beatles.”

3) What book did you most recently read? "Big Sur by Jack Kerouac.”

4) What’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex? “At a festival.”

5) What’s one thing for which you want to be remembered? “I don’t know...bein’ happy.

Hannah and Christopher were eighth. They went with a).

1) Where are you from? (Editor’s Note: I either forgot to ask them where they’re from or didn’t write it down, but I’m pretty certain they’re from the Denver area. What I do know is that they’re engaged (and if memory serves as of December with plans to wed next September) and will celebrate in Breckenridge.)

2) How many Phish shows have you seen? Christopher: “102”; Hannah: “1.”

3) What do you do for work? Hannah: “marketing sales account manager”; Christopher: “finance.”

4) Complete this sentence: This best way to spend time when not doing anything Phish is…: simultaneous answer: “Furthur!” They then added, “or snowboard or ski or hike 14ers. Live life!”

5) What’s your favorite thing about the Phish culture? Hannah: “my fiancé”; Christopher: “friends.” Hannah added that she also “thought the letter-of-the-alphabet show was cool.”

Up next: Lorin, who went with b).

1) Where are you from? “Connecticut, but I live in New York.”

2) What’s your biggest musical influence outside of Phish? “The Grateful Dead.”

3) What book did you most recently read? “Democracy by Joan Didion.”

4) What’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex? “My friend’s second-floor porch.”

5) What’s one thing for which you wish to be remembered? “Always being able to stand up for myself.”

Jon and Jessica closed it out, also with b).

1) Where are you from? “Seattle, by way of Orange County.”

2) What’s your biggest musical influence outside of Phish? Jessica: “Pink Floyd”; Jon: “Neko Case.”

3) What book did you most recently read? Jessica: “Clash of Kings by George R. R. Martin”; Jon: “Clan of the Cave Bear by Jean M. Auel.”

4) What’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex? Mutual response: “The kitchen.”

5) What’s one thing for which you wish to be remembered? Jon: “Being hospitable, generous”; Jessica: “being reliable.”

So this was the little interview experiment, which was a ton of fun, something I'll repeat at future shows given the opportunity. Check back tomorrow for part two of Saturday's review, which will include some more campground shenanigans, and, uh -- oh, yeah -- the show.

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This Week in Blogstralia: The Employee Lounge

Every now and again I find a URL in my browser that leads to some great work being done in the blogosphere. The Employee Lounge is this week's great-work example.

Linh Trieu, speaking on behalf of herself and blog partner Tina Magee-Jenks, was kind enough to spend some of her time with the House of Georges in an effort to educate us on what it is that goes on in the Lounge. Our conversation, after the jump.

bankmeister: Let me start by saying that, in a sense, The Employee Lounge is a perfect example of my worst nightmare. But wait, I mean that in a good way. That is, your blog(s) embody most everything I’d like mine to, but it does not. You’ve got good design, unique artwork, consistent posting, and a great concept. As someone who’s logged many a chef hour in Kansas City kitchens, I love the idea of the Lounge. It’s fresh, fun, and always, I imagine, going to give you new material. So on the surface, the idea of interviewing hospitality employees and posting those conversations with original photography is big-time facepalm material in my mind. As in, it’s one of those why-didn’t-I-think-of-that sort of moments. Regardless, kudos to you both for giving birth to the concept.

Employee Lounge: To respond to that, even though there was no question posed, I've had a personal blog for a few years and it was none of those things, consistent, original or conceptually focused. I was all over the place, but it was good practice and of course, a great learning experience. Reading other blogs is also really important. Seeing how other people do things is just as important as what their content is.

bankmeister: Indeed. And this seems like a good opportunity to get the questions rolling, so walk me through the process of how the Lounge got off the ground. Actually, back up a step. The bit the Pitch blog did on the Lounge says that Linh used to work with Tina’s husband. Sketch out the networking framework of how Linh and her husband’s idea transformed into Linh and Tina’s project. Did it happen overnight, or was it one of those things that was casually discussed before finally saying, No, really -– let’s do this thing.

Employee Lounge: Our collaboration happened pretty quickly. The Employee Lounge was just a name I came up with for a pie-in-the-sky restaurant concept, but it was one that was always about community. It was just going to be a place you could escape to during your work day. I took a lot of the things that George and I talked about and applied it to the blog, like the Employee of the Month. Now, that's our most popular post on the blog every month. But pipe dreams don't pay the bills so I got my first corporate job where I met Chris Magee-Jenks. We were cube buddies, font nerds and avid blog readers. Almost every day, we'd be messaging each other about cool stuff we'd see on the computer.

That's one of the things I really loved about working in an office, the friendship and sharing of ideas and inspiration. One day, Chris came to me for advice about how to promote his wife's photography business. The conversation ended up with me pitching the blog concept and asking if she'd be willing to work with me. She was about to get back into nannying, I had just quit my job and here we are. The timing was right; Tina and I are both in the similar stages of our careers so we work really well together.

bankmeister: Walk me through the events leading up to your first post back in March. Did it feel, heading into the initial assembly of it, like it was a lot of work, and now it comes easier, or was it a breeze from day one?

Employee Lounge: I am not a planner and Tina likes working that way too. We spent one day setting up the framework on the blog, knowing that we wanted to keep things simple. Then, we went to people we knew in the service industry and started posting fast and furious. It's important to have content so we posted as many people as we could. After that we slowed down to one post a day, which caused our numbers to go down. We realized that we had to diversify the content to keep things interesting. Now, we collaborate with other bloggers and brainstorm design-related projects. We want to keep using our other skills in design and illustration. In some ways, it's always been a lot of work. Mostly, it's super fun and it keeps us motivated, so we enjoy all of it, the ups and the downs.

bankmeister: Early in the archives there’s a lot of Tannin and Hotel Rieger action going on, and in the Pitch piece, you talk about choosing a venue first, seeing who’s available second. You also, in that article, say that “the only thing it costs” you is your “time.” Is that a possibility because of the way you quote/unquote choose your subjects? Have you encountered any resistance from establishment staffs in the form of, Oh you should really come back after lunch, or tomorrow when so-and-so’s working, or have your receptions been 100 percent positive?

Employee Lounge: I have friends at both The Rieger and Tannin so they were a big help for the first days of our blog. If you can't go to your friends first, who can you go to? You don't have to explain the shit out of things to them, they just say, Cool, I'll help you. Honestly, there will continue to be Rieger and Tannin posts in the future because I hang out there a lot.

Now that we do "restaurant snapshots," it costs us a bit of money too. We never, ever ask for anything free (well, we did ask some restaurants to donate gift certificates to our EOM, but it wasn't for us). Everyone is running a business and we understand that. We try to be respectful and remain professional (to the best of our ability, (sometimes I have too much to drink)). We have definitely been turned away. People are naturally suspicious when you come in their doors with a big camera. Or they think we're trying to sell them something. But it's no biggie, there are tons of people we can talk to. We have learned that it doesn't hurt to send an e-mail in advance sometimes, but mostly we work without a schedule.

bankmeister: Describe for me, if you will, the process of assembling a post.

Employee Lounge: Tina and I Google chat all day long. It starts like this: Where are we going today? What time? Once we have a rough idea, I pick her up and we get started. I interview, she shoots. We use Blogger and can access it at the same time. She processes and posts the pictures, I write the bio and link to everything related. Then I post links on Twitter and Facebook.

bankmeister: Regarding the photography, I noticed a pattern in the posts. There seems to be a fairly conservative beginning picture that captures the subject’s upper body, and then there are a couple more shots that take, if you will, some creative liberties. For example, the photographer seems to like hands and feet, or having something like a cell phone on a table be the foreground, and the subject more in the background for those secondary shots. Is this a fair assessment?

Employee Lounge: We discussed how we wanted to shoot our subjects only in the beginning, inspired by a photographer who created triptychs made up of three different subjects to create a full-length standing portrait. Portraiture is not just about the face. It's also in the way they stand or sit, or make a certain gesture. Focusing in on those details tells a deeper story.

bankmeister: And how about tattoos? They seem to always get some lens attention if the subject’s sporting some ink.

Employee Lounge: Even though neither of us have tattoos, we appreciate the art form. Since we both come from art backgrounds, we try to include all kinds of art as much as possible, whether it's tattoos, restaurant graphics, fashion or food.

bankmeister: What about the writing end of things? I’ve seen some posts that get the token paragraph, then other subjects get three chunky ones. And there’re one or two folks who barely had four lines scratched out about them. Is there a mold or an outline for each post, or does some form of time, availability, and the subject dictate what the post will look like?

Employee Lounge: I only write what they say. Some people are more talkative than others. Some days I'm a better interviewer. Other days, I can barely remember what the next question is. A lot of things affect the outcome, like how well I know them, but I don't stress about the length of each post. I think people who visit our blogs are there to look at the photos more than they do for my writing.

bankmeister: The blog’s subtitle is something I’d like to discuss. Have you found it tricky to get a post a day published? More specifically, are the two of you working full time and working on the blog in your spare time? Have you made any efforts to monetize it, and if not, will you in the future?

Employee Lounge: Well, we try to post two a day. A profile plus something related.You can't be a daily if you don't post everyday, and sometimes it can be hard. We only have content if we make time to go out and interview people. But if one of us goes on vacation, we have posts backed up and ready. Last month though, our one-week break turned into a three-week break, so that was tricky. I fill in for Tina sometimes with some food or KC shots. We both freelance so our schedules are more flexible. For now we haven't made any efforts to make money from our blog, mainly because we want to prove to ourselves the value of our work and our content. But it's is definitely something we'd like to see happen in the future.

bankmeister: The best part about the subtitle, though, is the commitment, if I may call it that, to making Kansas City better. This is stupendous and commendable on levels immeasurable. Very cool. Do you look forward to that part of a subject’s interview more, or is it more interesting to learn about the subjects themselves? Have you ever considered rewording the final question?

Employee Lounge: This question makes our blog cohesive, but it's the hardest question we ask. It's easy to talk about yourself. I like learning about the people more and no, we have no immediate plans or rewording our KC question.

bankmeister: Allow me to clarify: To each his own, and if eight out of 10 people want to say “more public transportation,” then fine. What about not leaving it so open-ended? I have no idea how this would work, but off of the top of my head, you could allow them to suppose they were given the government checkbook for a day, or were put in charge of a rally, or an exhibition.

Employee Lounge: That's a good idea actually. But honestly, I think if they got the government checkbook, the people who answered public transport would use that check for public transportation. It's maddening that we keep talking about light rail year after year, but there is never any progress! That's why we support biking as much as we can through links and information on the blog. Baby steps. We keep it open-ended because we don't want to influence their answer.

bankmeister: I know I’m getting philosophical about the thing, but it’s tough to see many folks have ideas that they may never again revisit. Also, you should make weather/landform gripes unacceptable. Enough, though, about me telling you how to run your own blog.

Employee Lounge: Ha! Mountains and an ocean would be nice though!

bankmeister: Let'sreturn to the positive. The features that are not subject profiles are really cool. The guess-where-we-ares, the weekend link love, the outtakes, the industry detours, the guest posts, all of them. I’ve always felt like the more feature ideas you can come up with, the better the blog will be. Are there any creations simmering on your collective stoves that we may soon see in the Lounge?

Employee Lounge: Once a month, we will be posting a feature on Kansas City history. David Hayden did the first one about the Town of Kansas Bridge. My husband George Vial, also a writer, will be working on a post about the history of Weston. We're also collaborating with Jessie Artigue of The Concrete Catwalk on some fashion posts (uniform makeovers, taking your look from after work to the bar, stuff like that). And I would love to see KC chefs share favorite recipes or kitchen tricks. The beauty of blogging is that we can keep adding these things. As soon as we come up with an idea, it can happen.

bankmeister: All in all, the work you two are doing is admirable. I really appreciate, as do others I’m sure, the fact that you have the “stay healthy” tab on the site, and hey –- who doesn’t like recommendations for cheap wine, patios, and brunch spots?

Employee Lounge: Working on the blog, Tina and I have found so much to be inspired by. It's the best thing we ever did for ourselves as artists, and we are insanely happy to have found an audience who support us like they do. The tabs at the top of the page are all things that I like so it's a given. Health care has always been a tough subject, especially in the service industry, I think. I never had health insurance before I worked my corporate job, so I get it.

bankmeister: Good thing going, though, and the work I’ve seen on your two personal sites -- for example, the garden post is just breathtaking –- has great potential as well. I mean, all of the shots on Backyard Ink are fantastic (Editor’s Note: Tell Larry and Rhonda I said the Broncos suck.), as is the photographic work and writing on Bristow Fresh (http://www.bristowfresh.blogspot.com/). If you asked me, I’d say the latter could use more skinny-dip photos, but I’m just a hack in a basement, so if you’re gonna take me seriously, then let’s up the Lounge antes on shots of the breastacular/well-endowed-mannequin variety, too.

Finally, a hearty huzzah to Annie for her perfect answer to how she’d make Kansas City better. This is exactly how I’d answer were I a subject, and if Annie reads this, let’s make a joint effort to do something and get a grassroots/civic-pride movement going. I think we start by going to a Board meeting, no? Oh, and David’s bit about citywide (versus neighborhood) pride was also top-notch.

So, thanks for the time, and if I may toss out a few subject recommendations:

1) Jillian, who can be found at the Foundry.
2) Buck, who can be found at Corner Cocktails in south Waldo (though he'd probably pitch a fit and decline.
3) Bernie, who can be found at the Brooksider
4) Ethan in Westport. You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a joint from which he's collected a paycheck, and
5) Katie, who, if I'm not mistaken, is still at Mike's Tavern.

(Photos courtesy of Tina Magee-Jenks, via The Employee Lounge)
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Depots, Hubs, and Automobiles: Our Train Trip to See Railroad Earth @ The Pageant, St. Louis, MO, 04/15/11

It was 4:07 p.m. when our Amtrak Missouri River Runner pulled out of the St. Louis station, and as I’d been reflecting all day on last night’s Railroad Earth show at The Pageant, I’ve finally decided that it’s impossible, on this particular occasion, to separate the musical performance from the entire adventure.

A mere couple of weeks after assembling this post, I discovered that the band would be in Omaha on March 28, and in St. Louis on the evening of April 15th. The wife, ever-intelligent, swiftly solved the which-show-to-see dilemma I’d made into a monster with a quick-fire question: “What night of the week do they fall on?”

Ah, I thought. How logical. St. Louis it was to be.

So it was decided, and the busy weeks between now and then caught up with us. It was suddenly Monday and we’d done little more than call the venue twice to check on ticket sales, and get a feel for what navigating the evening with a four-month old might look like.

At some point, it sort of simultaneously occurred to the both of us that it could be a perfect arrangement –- and a hoot -– to take the train. With that much decided, the wife, in rapid-fire fashion, acquired train tickets, and booked us a hotel room. I was to research, purchase the right noise-reduction protective headphones for our baby, and check in with the venue again regarding tickets, prices, etc.

So, I read up on things like what the environmental noise rate is, and what certain events register at in decibels, and I kept thinking about that display they put up on TV in certain football games where the crowd noise supposedly falls somewhere in between a jet engine and an atomic bomb. It turns out, though, that headphones are something that will deliver sound to your ear pieces. Earmuffs were what we wanted, but I never thought to call them earmuffs because earmuffs are what you wear when you’re ice fishing in Canada, right?

I narrowed my earmuffs down to two different selections –- in case you’re interested, I went for the Pelzors over the BabyBanz –- and, like many other parent-related experiences I’ve had in the last 16 weeks, products, practices, and philosophies of the child-rearing nature, are completely sexist. Yeah, I know. I was, and continue to be, surprised, too. But if you want to try a car seat out, expect the literature to say, Mom –- ours is the safest! Shopping for a crib? Brand X is safe and so easy to assemble that any mother with only a few tools in her recipe box can handle the job, while breast-feeding. Wanna wear your kid in a wrap? I’d tell you that I use and recommend one in particular, but it irritates me that the brand name is a hybrid of the word mother and baby. You doing cloth diapers? Awesome. Great stuff. Don’t expect that your local distributor will be expecting dads to participate in anything diaper-related. Whenever they’re hosting a diaper swap, or announcing a new line, or looking for a blogger, it’s mom, mom, mom, mom, mom. And don’t even get me started on birthing and breast-feeding. That stuff’s completely sexist.

But, you know what? I don’t stand watch for these people to slip up, and then over-publicize the stuff until someone’s fired. I don’t start Facebook groups suggesting that you join me in banning products x, y, and z. And I certainly don’t generate any anti-hype on Twitter. Too much negativity out there as it is.

So, I’ve got several Web pages open, and I’m juggling the office phone and the cell, calling around looking for the pink Pelzor earmuffs. And here’s the thing: Nobody carries any kind of noise-reduction earmuff in stock. Nobody.

A little panic sets in, and this is totally normal for me. Actually, what sticks in my spokes usually look like are this: Frustration, panic, apathy, discussion of frustration, panic, and apathy, and then anger over the fact that I became frustrated, panicked, and wound up apathetic. Finally, I suffer the consequences of my cycle and walk around with my martyr hat on, explaining to those kind enough to listen how I wound up in the situation I’m in. But I’m irritated that these earmuffs aren’t available locally, and I begin to try and picture all of the different humans in the shipping business I must now depend on to get me my Pelzors by the time our River Runner rolls out at 8:15 a.m. Friday morning. And that’ll be the absolute end of the line because if the earmuffs aren’t in stores in Kansas City, I doubt St. Louis is going to have them, and even if they do, we’d have to shell out cab fare to get there.

A little more about that abundant negativity, though: I have this feeling about buying music and the way that the Internet has changed everything. Many times, I discover an artist, or find myself with a chunk of time to run out and buy an album by an artist, and it’s physically not possible for me to do it. I mean, the primary problem is that I just don’t have a flush bank account, and an unlimited access to leisure spending, so if I could fix that situation, then there’d be no issue. But if that were the case, I wouldn’t have this little paragraph to offer you, and besides -– it’s just easier to get my brow and my guts wrinkled in frustration so that I then have to take a Tums to ease the panic, drink to forget the apathy, and then talk about my crisis once I’m tanked.

Obviously, if I had money, I’d just download the thing on iTunes and be on my way. But you know, I don’t always want an electronic version of it. Maybe my iPod shot craps (Editor’s Note: It’s happened. Funny story there, too.), and I don’t feel like sitting at my computer to listen to music. Maybe I happen to have been given a nice, crisp 20-spot from the wife, but told not to use the debit card. Frankly, I’m far too lazy to drive to the bank to deposit my $20 just so I can drive back home and spend it. And the reality of it is that I like going to record stores. I love the process of shopping for music. I get my rocks off taking a gamble on an unheard-of and having it be awesome.

You know where I’m going with this, though, don’t you? Maybe you don’t. Maybe your city is big enough that it can still have a variety of music stores in business. Mine is not. No, the Sam Goody’s and the Musiclands have left the malls, and frankly, the multi-story Virgin stores were never here in the first place. No, it’s mostly been smaller chains and mom-and-pop types of joints, and even the long-tenured Streetside Records closed its doors the other day. Sad, sad times. What’s left are stores like Vintage Stock, which are cool if you’re looking for a Sammy Winder bobblehead (Note: See that Broncos fans? I just threw you a bone? I could’ve gone Barry Word, but I’m trying to be positive, so appreciate it. Clowns.), or maybe you’re geeked up about Scre4m and you wanna get the movie posters for the first three movies. Could be that you just dusted off the Sega Genesis in the basement and you’re havin’ the boys over for a Mortal Kombat (Note: Dibs on Rayden.) tournament.

Vintage Stock is great for all of those things, and they have a ton more: movies, baseball cards, memorabilia, and yeah – they even have a healthy collection of CDs. You know what they don’t have, though?

Nope. They are fresh out of the CD you’re looking for. The one that’s creating that acidy feeling on the back of your tongue because you have to have it today. Here’s where you get phases two and three of the triple-whammy letdown boxed across your cheeks. They’ll go to the computer, and you know what they’re going to do, and you can already feel your brain running through the motions with them. You think, I drove all the way out to your Iowa branch. No chance I can make it to your Utah location and be home in time to get ready for the party. Zero chance. An impossibility. But Sally goes over to the computer, and her fingers start pecking the keyboard as the words, “Let me check for you and see if any of our other stores have it” fall from her lips like she’s the character in an action film that screams the slow-motion “Nooooo” just as a loved one is shot 37 times in the torso.

While I have you, think about that scene for just a second. Thirty-seven times. And the shooting victim always lasts long enough to reminisce about that one summer where they all ran away from home and formed that band and lived off of s’mores and comradery and how they wouldn’t trade that summer for anything. And then the “Nooooo” friend has his turn to return the sentiment, but instead watches his friend die before he can mutter one syllable. I do not think that this is the way that things go down. I try to picture this as a real-life scenario, and I’m capable of doing so from both perspectives.

In real life, if I were shot, things would be different. Not only am I certain of this, but I’m certain of it, regardless of whether I get shot 37 times or once, whether I get shot in the chest or in the little toe. Either way, the scene would look like this: I get shot, vomit, soil myself, weep for six seconds about the frailty of life and that which I did not accomplish, then die. And if things were the other way around, and I’d just watched a friend or love one get shot, it would look a little different: My friend gets shot, I vomit, soil myself, weep for six seconds about the frailty of life and that which I have not accomplished, then pass out.

But anyway, Sally is looking on the computer. You know you can’t make it to the other store, but you’re thinking about that secret, undiscovered route, that sequence of streets paved with glistening, golden time where no driver in front of you goes seven miles-per-hour under the speed limit, where all of the traffic lights are as green as an overripe pear, that path that has never yet felt the rays of a law enforcement radar gun wilt the blades of its hillsides. You can picture it. So distinct you even envision yourself whisking past a billboard that reads, “Plenty of time!” in bright orange letters, and you can feel the warmth of the afternoon sun on your neck, the breeze coming in through the windows, and all of it, the stability of the scenery, the record store in the near distance, your waving family members happily greeting you from the porch as you turn into the driveway, your car still plastered with the smell of molested shrink wrap, suddenly uproots, swirls, and vanishes with a gurgle, down the stool of reality as Sally begins to shake her head, also in slow motion.

She turns to face you. You know what’s next. You feel your heart rate rise, and a few beads of anxious sweat begin to form on your upper lip. The front door. You can’t spot it fast enough. You’re suddenly overwhelmed by the thought of every second you waste by continuing to stand there, and those that you already cashed in by making the trip out there. It’s too late. You know the words will pelt your ear in any instant. The weight of defeat crushes your rib cage as if Sally were British Bulldog Kid Dynamite herself and she’d just power slammed you from the top turnbuckle. You’re waving hands of submission to the ref, but he doesn’t see you. There’s no forfeiting now. You. Will lose.

“I can order it for you,” she says.

“Oh,” you start with a pause. “No. I, uh…I’ll just…Thanks.” You turn, and briskly exit as if you’d just asked her to the prom, via microphone, from the stage in the cafeteria, and before the entire school.

So here we are again with another example of how the Internet has changed everything. You can learn all of the information you want about a product, competitively shop for it, have it shipped directly to your house, and write a review once you’ve used it. But you can’t have it today.

Naturally, we’re supposed to take the good with the bad, which reminds me: I’ve been trying to omit two things from my posts of late, and those things are negativity and profanity. A few months ago, Jason Whitlock lost his mind over the Jay Cutler/NFC Championship Game, and Charlie Sheened his way through all of the media outlets to make sure his voice was heard. And he sounded like a lost sheep, trying to bleat his career-challenged self back to the herd. It was bad.

Or take your pick of the myriad female sports journalists that have had bad encounters in their field over the past year, or better yet, they’ve had them across their whole career, but maybe only the most recent one became public. I wanted to write about all of that, too. Either topic, though, would’ve resulted in a post with a negative theme, so I opted not to. I’m fairly passionate about both of those topics, though, and I’m also a pretty opinionated person, so chances are, I would’ve gotten on a good cursing bender, and not stopped until it was too late. I’m glad I didn’t do either.

But I’m sitting there, already having sighed out of frustration, paced to calm my panic, checked out of work for the day, and feeling mad about the fact that my wife is frequently unavailable to take a phone call at work. Because of some pink Pelzor earmuffs. I decide to proceed with the online order, and the cycle immediately starts again once I put the Pelzors in my cart, and peruse my shipping options at the end of the checkout stage. For seven dollars, I can choose 3-5 days. I can guarantee their arrival in 1-2, but it will cost me $27.65. Drowning in my second round of apathy, I text the wife. She responds with a phone call, goes through the same procedure I just had, but with me on the phone, and says she’ll handle it.

A little while later I get a text from her saying that she ordered them, that she went the seven-dollar route, that they will get here in time, that I need to send out some positive energy so that they will.

Suddenly it occurs to me that maybe all of the sexist peddlers of baby paraphernalia are onto something, that maybe us dads should just sit back and do as we’re told.

Naaaaaaah.

Anyway, I did manage to call the venue, find out that tickets were cheaper if you paid cash at the box office, that it didn’t look like they were in any danger of selling out. And I actually did pack (mostly) the night before we left. But when the reality settled in that an online purchase had to be the way to go if I wanted my baby wearing pink Pelzors Friday night, I had two thoughts: 1) I really want to put my fist through this monitor, and 2) Fuck.

The wife and I decided some time ago that since we were grown-ups now, i.e. we got married, don’t have bill-collections phone calls to dodge, seldom kill an entire day trying to recover from the previous night, and are also now responsible for the safety and care of another human being’s life, that we should have one goal in life that we strive to attain, and that’s not to be late for stuff when we travel.

Here’s another little nugget regarding dysfunction in my life: At some point, probably in my late 20s, it occurred to me that I had developed this habit of going out the night before I had to catch a flight. And at some point, it occurred to me that, on said nights, I would not have two beers and an order of nachos, or a few beers over the course of a game on TV. Rather, I would handle the day’s business (except packing of course), and go out for several hours, having somewhere in the neighborhood of about 10 drinks. It’s a fascinating pattern of behavior, one with what I imagine to be some significant psychological theory attached to it, like, I’m deathly afraid of flying, or I’m loathing this trip, or I’m stressed because I had a lot to get done before leaving town, and that which I did not get to will haunt me the whole time I’m gone.

Funny part is, I’ve noticed that I’ve done it on nights before road trips, on evenings prior to trips I’m really looking forward to, and after a week in which I didn’t leave any project half-done, so who knows. Either way, one of two results is certain to occur every time I travel: 1) I feel like complete garbage, and wind up forgetting to pack something really important, like, say sunscreen for my trip to Mexico, or the tickets for my trip to the away game in Denver, or, and this was a real good one, my suitcase full of clothes for my trip back home; 2) I miss my flight.

The second part isn’t worth getting into, but know that I’ve, on many, many occasions, either been nauseous upon arrival at my destination, or gotten to said destination at a time later than intended. And frankly, option two is much, much better, even if you have a bridesmaid pissed off at you for missing the rehearsal dinner, or dad had to make two trips to the airport because there is nothing worse than being hungover and going through the arduous, ice-pick-to-the-eardrum process of TSA. And those jerks just swell with power, don’t they? This is why you’ll never hear of someone going postal at a TSA checkpoint or officer.

I mean, I’ve been in some seriously slow post offices with some seemingly intentionally slow, lethargic postal workers, and I’ve wanted to scream at both them and their customers, but I maintain my composure because I’m not that insane. But I can see where some have snapped, and at the end of the day, they’ve decided that their rage outweighs the need to ship that particular letter or package at that particular moment. At the airport, though, that chartered flight on that particular air bus might not be available in a few hours. Or tomorrow. But those creeps know what’s up. They know the look on your face. That look of panic that says, If you don’t pick up the snail’s pace with which you’re using to investigate the number of teeth in my comb, that plane, right outside that window right there, will leave without me. You have the power to not let that happen, should you choose to exercise it.

I’ve not ever met anyone that deals well with the one-two combo of stress and hangover, but I don’t suppose I’ve ever really asked, either. I’ve always thought, though, that sprinting to your gate, bags in hand (Note: Who can afford to check luggage anymore?), and trying to catch your breath while taking off your shoes, belt, emptying your pocket, pulling laptops out, and sending bagged liquids and gels in tubs through a scanner, all while stressing about missing your flight might be the worst modern experience available to those of us stubborn enough to never, ever plan anything in advance.

Turns out I was wrong.

You can, adult plan implemented, stay in the previous evening and you can pack. You can wake up with sufficient time to get yourself ready and out the door, but I am here to tell you that whatever amount of time you set aside to get you, your wife, and your baby ready to get out the door -- add an hour. You won’t regret it.

Friday morning might’ve been one of the worst travel experiences I’ve ever had. By the time we got in the car to drive to the train station, we were supposed to be at the train station. And it was raining. In case you’re unaware of these two predicaments, allow me: 1) The train station wants you there a half-hour prior to departure, and earlier at busier depots; 2) When it rains in Kansas City, people drive as if they have never been on a mountain before, they’ve just been given an overwaxed set of sharp skis, no poles, and shoved off the lift on a double-black diamond run.

On the 25-minute drive to the train station, very little is said, and what is said refers, mutteringly, to which lane I should be in and whether or not I was trying to get in it. We’ve not taken a train out of Kansas City in years, so we’re unsure about where to park, what entrance to Union Station we use, and what the check-in process will look like. When we approach, we ignore our better judgment and wind up having to set through two extra sets of traffic lights to get back to the spot we were just in, and when we get there, the wife grabs the baby in her car seat, which she puts into the stroller, and sets a shoulder bag on top of that. We have a B-o-b, which is a monster, off-road sort of stroller, so they run. No problem.

I park, and get significantly wet trying to get my rain jacket on. It’s now pouring. I’m wearing flip flops and my baseball hat is packed. When she got out of the car, I was roughly aware of what my totes would consist of, but didn’t process it because my entire brain was occupied with the idea of missing the train, and the idea that we’d put ourselves in this situation. But now is when the reality sets in: I’m in charge of the suitcase with all of our clothes in it, the shoulder bag with all of the electronics in it, my armful of knick-knacky things like the morning paper, my coffee, etc., and the pack-n-play.

By the time I get everything situated, I am soaked. I have arguably the most cumbersome travel load I’ve ever carried, I am really late, and I’m in flip flops. I run, drenching my pants with every splashy step until I get to the sets of front doors. These doors are very narrow, very heavy, and very locked, except for the one on the end. I was not quick to discover that last part. I manage, with significant effort, to pull off some clumsy sequence of tackling-dummy drills to get through each door, and as I step inside, I am certain my lungs are going to pop. Beneath my sopping rain coat, I feel my phone buzz in the breast pocket of my shirt.

God, I think. I really hope that’s not the wife. Whatever she might have to say to me now that’s not good news certainly cannot wait for me to reach the train.

I empty my burning hands and arms of their load and retrieve my phone. Of course, it is her. I look around. The ceilings in Union Station are probably 65-feet high. The foyer stretches in three directions for roughly 10 football fields. Or at least it seems so this early with no one, save two men chatting in front of me, in here this early. I know precisely where entrance to the train station is, but my eyes are still swollen with panic, and I cannot locate it. I look at the two men. They’ve finished their conversation. One is walking briskly to the east, away from me, vanishing into the shadowy empty morning of the dry inside. The other walks north, at a slow pace, toward the center of the vast open room. I missed my shot at asking for help. I open the phone. I am hopeful that there, as she is want to occasionally do, is a detailed, fool-proof set of directions that will take me directly to the seats adjacent to her and the baby on the train. In this scenario, I will not have to speak with anybody, produce any tickets, identification, or money. I will just sit, and try to enjoy what’s left of my coffee, the majority of it long since sloshed on my clothes. Instead, I see her one-word message: Run.

And it was in that fleeting moment, that I longed to be hungover, cursing a TSA under my breath.

Well, not really, but what a start, (Note: Yes, the headphones did come.)

and precisely 10 seconds after I'd stepped onto the train, it began moving. It took two trips up and down the train steps to bring in my load, and once permanently inside, I was informed by the conductor that our gear was sprawled across three different cars. In that moment, I hadn't considered what I must look like, but the first seat I walked past had two ladies in it. One turned to the other and whispered, "This reminds me of that scene from Home Alone. Hearing that gave me a pretty good idea.

Some six hours later, we de-trained, and several minutes later, a taxi dropped us off at the Drury Inn. We got checked in, the wife did a little bit of strange shopping across the street, and I hung with the baby in the room, where we most certainly did not try to watch any television or YouTube videos. These things, you see, are not good for infants. Mama got back in time to allow me to grab a 15-minute nap, even though she once demanded from me the answer to, "What 30-something naps?" The answer, of course, would be the 30-something that stays up ‘til 1:30 in the morning writing about Aerosmith debates.

The nap, however, was huge, and the three of us strolled over to the MetroLink, and caught the westbound blue line to the Delmar Loop and hoofed it over to The Pageant.

We purchased two tickets, and were about to enter when questioned by the sales representative if we had a ticket for our baby. This was troubling. We’d waited to purchase tickets in person to avoid the fees and surcharges, and I had had several conversations with Pageant employees about bringing a baby into the venue, and was reassured that an infant would not need a ticket. I conveyed this to the representative who said he’d need to clear it with his manager, who was a guy sitting at a computer behind him.

This manager got up, and went somewhere, presumably to come around and speak with us. Twenty minutes later, the representative told us that they were “still checking into the matter.”

Now, I’m not an expert in the ticket-sales industry, but it seems like there should be clear-cut rules for this sort of thing, and that your employees should be aware of said rules. And for the representative himself, why would we be purchasing tickets for ourselves, in person, and already have one for the baby? Regardless, we waited, and people kept coming in and out of the tiny sales nook, many of whom were either on the guest list for Railroad Earth, or for opening act, The Greencards. At one point, two young ladies came in, announced that they only needed two of the three reserved for them, and the fox-like wife, piped up: “Oh, can we have your third for our baby?”

The young ladies were ecstatic about giving it to us. Problem solved. So we exit the nook, and enter, only to be intercepted by the vanishing manager. I’m not including this bit to bag on The Pageant. I’m really not. The venue was nice, clean, well-staffed, and had all of the appropriate amenities, but this was the kicker. The manager had two things to accomplish during our brief exchange: Inform us of the favor he was doing our family, and repeatedly adjust his waist-length pony tail. Listening was added at the end, but not prioritized. Our exchange went a little something like this:

Pony-tailed manager: “I apologize for the confusion, but I just want to let you know that I’m waiving the minor surcharge for you this evening.”

The wife: “Oh, we actually have a ticket for our 16-week-old baby now, so we don’t need you to do that.”

PTM: “I’m referring to the minor surcharge (points to the part of the ticket that says $2 minor surcharge>), and I just want to let you know that I’m waiving that for you this evening.”

Me: “What I don’t understand is this: I called down here three times before we traveled here specifically to see this show. In each phone call, discussions regarding having a baby occurred, and I was led to believe there would be no cost for an infant to enter. Now that we’re here, we’re told the infant has to have a ticket and there’s a surcharge?”

PTM: “Correct, and I apologize for the misunderstanding.”

Me: “Well, we waited to buy tickets to avoid fees and surcharges, and it might have been helpful, during multiple conversations about bringing a baby to the venue and avoiding surcharges by paying cash, that there is a surcharge for a baby.”

PTM: “I understand, but I’m waiving the surcharge for you this evening, and we’re trying to get to the bottom of this.” (begins to walk away)

Me: “All three conversations were with females, and they were all friendly and helpful. The most-recent conversation was during the Mumford & Sons pre-sale, where there were some glitches happening.”

PTM: (turns back, adjusts pony tail) “During Mumford & Sons?”

Me: “During the pre-sale.”

PTM: “I appreciate that.” (walks away)

The exchange itself was harmless, but the underlying concept was extremely annoying. Our baby was in a wrap, where she’d remain for the duration of the show, not taking up any real estate, not listening/viewing the show. The phrase “milking it” came to mind, as did the Leo/drive-thru scene (NSFW) from “Lethal Weapon III”.

We found a great spot to set up camp inside, and enjoyed a Schlafly (Note: When in Rome…) while we sat and listened to The Greencards, who were quite enjoyable, and, as an added bonus, they have a cute little Australian bass player.

What I enjoyed about them, in addition to their music, was that they were prompt with start/stop times, and they added the perfect amount of crowd conversation. The same could be said about the headliners.

Railroad Earth took the stage right on time and right after we’d switched from Schlafly to the hoptastic Ranger from New Belgium. We’ll get into the details in a moment, but I think now is an appropriate time to mention that, at the conclusion of Set I,

“Bird in a House,” “Happy Song,” “Mighty River,” “Storms,” “Seven Story Mountain,” “1759,” “Water Fountain Quicksand,” “The Jupiter & the 119,”

the wife turned to me, and said,” Wow. That was so awesome, I could leave now.”

I’ve often discussed –- on a few blogs, and on Twitter -– the notion of having expectations when entering a show, and my definition of that notion goes like this: Don’t have them. It took me a long time to get to that point, because for years, regardless of who I was seeing, I always had that hope-they-play approach to favorite songs, covers, and, (Note: I do not like this term, but I’m using it.) “bust-outs,” and the result is almost always one of disappointment. Even if it’s a stellar performance from your favorite band, entering a venue with particular-song expectations will typically let you down. So I haven’t done that for some time, and this evening was no exception.

That said, we’d just acquired Bird in the House (2002), The Good Life (2004), and Amen Corner (2008), and I played a fun little game with my wife, who happens to absolutely adore birds. Okay, she adores chickens, but she loves birds. In said game, I lined up those album titles in reverse order, and said (knowing the answer), “Which title do you like best: this one, this one, or this one?”

Naturally, when I showed her the Bird in the House title, she chuckled and selected it as her favorite. There were two things I wanted to tell her about that title, but refrained until after we’d returned home from our journey: 1) I really dig the title track to Bird in the House, but I try not to mention favorite albums and tracks so as not to sway the development of her own opinions, and 2) In addition to just plain being a great song with both literal and figurative lyrical themes, it reminded me of this story.

We have this cat. I do not like cats. I do not dislike cats. They are just cats. I prefer dogs.

Five years ago, however, a good friend of mine, Dave, decided to take his own life. The anniversary of his death was one week prior to our evening at The Pageant. He was a remarkable human being, and is still dearly missed. He owned two dogs and a cat. My long-time friend Matt volunteered to adopt Dave’s animals, which was obviously very noble of him to do. Logistically speaking, it was not a realistic gesture, as, at the time, he had a dog and two cats of his own. After a few days, my wife, who was my fiancée at the time, said –- and she loves to quote herself on this line -– “I have a cat door. I’ll take the cat,” when it became known that Dave’s cat was not getting along with Matt’s cats.

I loved this gesture. Even though she barely knew Dave, I thought it connected the three of us in some way that, if I tried to explain it, would probably result in me being called crunchy, or a tree hugger, neither of which would be original. We did not cohabitate at the time, but I loved seeing the cat because it reminded me of Dave, and I liked that his animals were in homes of his friends. We still have the cat, and the cat and I have a unique relationship. I have a short list of behaviors I would prefer he avoid, and mostly, he spends his days trying to get away with them, and I spend mine trying to catch him in the act. This practice drives the wife crazy, and for decent reason: The cat is no spring chicken.

He is a pretty good cat, though, and he likes going outside. We quickly learned, however, that we cannot leave any doors propped open, including the garage, because the cat is a great hunter, and he will bring his catches home -– bunnies, birds, chipmunks –- alive and in search of praise. In case you have not experienced this first hand, these are not easy-to-catch-and-release animals inside a two-bedroom house. On one occasion, he did in fact, bring home a bird (Note: I believe it was a crow –- Cacaw!) and release it in the living room. The bird was less than pleased with this particular predicament, and may or may not’ve flown like mad around the house, smacking into windows, defecating, and, much like the Railroad Earth song, “trying…to get out.”

When they opened the show with this number, I was tickled. And they nailed it.

“Happy Song” followed. I am not familiar with the tune, but I dug it. “Mighty River” was up next, and it was both solid, and apropos of our travels. Big fan. Up next was “Storms” from The Good Life, which was really moving, and the point in the evening where we, without speaking, decided that the band was not going to play anything shy of really good. At “Storms”’ conclusion, drummer Carey Harmon went into this percussive tirade that prompted me to say, “This sounds familiar” to the wife. And familiar was right: “Seven Story Mountain” is easily one of our favorite Railroad Earth tracks, and even though this rendition felt a little rushed, it was wonderful to hear. It is such a moving number, and I recommend everyone give it a musical/lyrical listen at least twice.

A track titled “1759” was next, and I’m unfamiliar with this one, but like “Happy Song,” it was great, and it’s possibly related to this song. “Water Fountain Quicksand,” from The Good Life, felt like the set closer, but we were blessed to have one final number: “The Jupiter & the 119,” which I could not possibly say more about than I already have. It too, felt a little rushed, but the experience of hearing it heavily outweighed.

At intermission, Mama took the wee one into the ladies room for a diaper change, and Daddy, doing his respectable daddy duties, smuggled some cash out of Mama’s purse in case Daddy was told prior to the close of second set to close the tab at the bar. Daddy may or may not’ve further taken advantage of this opportunity to knock back a Grape Bomb on said open tab. It could’ve been the Grape Bomb that afforded Daddy the opportunity to appreciate the perfectness of the Railroad Earth lineup:

Stage left is John Skehan on mandolin. To his right is Andy Goessling on the banjo. Front and center is Todd Sheaffer on acoustic guitar, vocals. Behind him is Harmon, and to Sheaffer’s left is Andrew Altman, who just might play the largest upright bass in the world. And at stage right, it’s Tim Carbone handling the fiddle duties. Several members play multiple instruments, but these are their primary bones, and they all contribute vocally as well. Intermission was also a good time for Daddy to get a sticker:

Set II began with some more Bird in the House, this time taking the form of “Saddle of the Sun,” which was a great second-set opener. From there, they reached back to their debut album and busted out “Colorado,” and I’ll say this about this song: It should be illegal to dislike it. Great tune.

“Lone Croft Farewell” from their most-recent, self-titled release (as is "Jupiter") came next, and they stuck with that album, following up with “Potter’s Field.” What came next was a fascinating decision time-wise. Tyler Andal (violin), and Carl Miner (guitar) from The Greencards joined the band on stage for a ditty entitled “Cuckoo Medley.” Kym Warner (aforementioned cute Aussie) donned the mandolin for a segment of the jam, or at least that’s what setlists.com and the earthboard said. I thought she was off-stage-right for a chunk of the jam,

stomping her foot in a boogie, then came out and rubbed her buns up against somebody while playing her bass, but that could’ve been the Jager shot –- Jager shot? Where’d you come from? –- talking.

“Old Man & the Sea” was up next. That one’s available on their double-disc live album Elko, which I don’t own. Dug the jam, dig the Hemingway reference. Back to Railroad Earth for a little "Black Elk Speaks," which is a real moving number that always makes me think of the hunt scene in “Last of the Mohicans.” Win, win. “Spring-Heeled Jack" was next. Don’t know it. Sounds pretty Dead-ish, which I like, and I enjoyed it. Second Set closed with “Head,” from The Black Bear Sessions, which doesn’t have a bad track on it. Naturally, we were graced with an encore: A track called “Acadian Driftwood,” made semi-popular by The Band, was a nice cover to wrap up the evening.

Set II

“Saddle of the Sun,” “Colorado,” “Lone Croft Farewell,” “Potter’s Field,” “Cuckoo Medley,”* “Old Man & the Sea,” “Black Elk Speaks,” “Spring-Heeled Jack,” “Head”

E: “Acadian Driftwood”

*w/ Andal, Warner, and Miner of The Greencards

In sum, the show was a really nice time. Like heading into it without expectations, I also didn’t head into it with any plan of how this review would look, which is why I’m not breaking down the tracks quite like I did for the Mike Gordon write-up. These guys are talented musicians, their songs well-crafted, and they generate a great energy live. The wife and I each made one brief trip down to the floor, where things –- as the floor is want to be –- had a much-amplified vibe about them, and had we spent the evening down there, these words would likely be different. I did leave it with a two-fold thought, though: I need to figure out a way to refrain from two other concert tendencies: comparing the studio versions of songs to the live and comparing shows in general. I need to lighten up, and just have a good time.

I did have one other thought about the performance, and that was that we got nothing from Amen Corner, which is quietly becoming a favorite album of mine, and the thought is this: Amen Corner is not only a Railroad Earth album, it is a) a British pop group from the '60s, b) a musical from the '80s, c) a novel by Rick Shefchik, d) a play by James Baldwin, e) the nickname for holes 11-13 at Augusta National Golf Club, f) a song from a Swedish progressive metal band called Opeth, g) a nickname for a stretch of Auburn University's football team schedule that either begins with Georgia and ends with Alabama, or vice-versa, and h) one-time London and New York locales. In case you were wondering.

Upon leaving the venue, we hoofed it back to the MetroLink, where we caught the eastbound Red Line back to the Union Station stop, and across the way to our room, where we all slept soundly. And by “all,” I mean Daddy. Mama got in a work-out in the morning, while baby and I had some complimentary breakfast. We packed, checked out, and stowed our luggage in the hotel-lobby closet, then asked a high-school basketball player to key us into the pool, where baby had her third meal of the day, and we took grabbed the MetroLink over to the Arch (Note: Again, when in Rome…) for a chilly walk-around and some photos.

We stopped in at the Morgan Street Brewery for some coffee. The wife enjoyed a Pilsner, even though she thought it was an I.P.A., and we split an order of pretzels that come with pureed horseradish disguised as mustard. The baby, as the baby is want to do -– got lots of compliments from the bored FOH staff.

Back to the hotel, luggage retrieved, taxi hailed, and we were at Union Station, this time, with plenty of time to spare to catch our train back to Kansas City. So you see, I couldn’t really separate the show from the trip. It was an action-packed adventure with cars, trains, and lightrails, our first travel as a family, one we won’t soon forget. One primary thought stuck with me throughout the long walk to the car: The walk wasn’t any shorter, and the pack-n-play/suitcase/shoulder-bag combo wasn’t any lighter, but this time my feet and pants stayed dry, and most importantly, this time I didn’t have to run.
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Tuesday Tidbits: Some Thoughts on Human Behavior, Trains, and a Bluegrass Song

This post is not about tattoos. It's really not, but you might've gathered that from the title. I don't really have an opinion about tattoos. I don't have any, but that's not because I'm against them. It's just never happened. Tattooing, though, is an art form, and art is what I want to discuss today. Sort of. What is it about art that we embrace? Is it because, in a genuine, beautiful piece of art we can find a solid dose of passion that can’t really be found anywhere else in the annals of human existence? I think it is. Think about it. What -- besides love -- really plucks your heartstrings? An incredible piece of writing? A breathtaking painting? An inspirational composition? Maybe all of the above. I have a very small collection of original paintings crafted by folks I know. I’m proud of them and I like when others admire them. I love a good read, and I really, really love a good read when it’s written by someone I know. But music might just take the cake above all. Not because it’s better, but because of access. We’ve all been raised, in some form or another, with a soundtrack to our lives. It’s in there, with your varying phases of development, and if music has had a large presence in your life, it’s likely helped shape who you are. This is probably why arguing music is such an intense, emotion-filled, unwinnable debate.

Because of access, variety, and, in many cases, repetition, music is the one artistic vehicle in which all of us can engage. I do realize that making this statement is not sensitive to such dynamics as culture and socio-economic status, but I’m not trying to publish in some psychological journal or in your daily rag. It’s a blog post, and dadgummit -– If I want to appear closed-minded to the twos and threes of readers that visit this site every day, then pardon me while I hang this wall-sized poster of my constitutional rights.

Anyway. I’m pretty open-minded about music. That is, I like a variety of genres. I like to mix it up, keep the proverbial iPod on shuffle, if you will. The other end of that note, however, is that I’m also pretty closed-minded about music. That is, I don’t like several genres, and I don’t like a number of artists. Some I even hate. I have, in several instances, irritated friends and loved ones to nearly immeasurable levels of annoyance and frustration. And the reason for this is simple: The experience one has when enjoying a piece of music is impossible to replicate for another human being. The trouble is that some of us are too stubborn to admit that, and we will go to our grave trying.

Simply put, I feel passionate about music. Music has brought me some of my greatest joys, and I have, on occasion, even shed some joyous tears.

Now, there are different aspects about music that I love. Some occur simultaneously. Some do not. I can rock out to the loud, simple-chord progressions and smutty lyrics of AC/DC. I’m occasionally in the mood to lower my drawers, move my arms in specific patterns and get my Snoop Dogg on. I will geek out to particular house/trance/techno beats, and I’ve been known to roll up the cuffs of my overalls and have a ho-down to some bluegrass. Sometimes I like the beat. On other occasions it’s the rhythm, and I can be a fiend for some good lyrics, too. There is no recipe for a great song. It can have any assortment of ingredients. I might air guitar every note of Rush’s La Villa Strangiato and pound my steering wheel with every hit of the high hat, and five minutes later holler “B-A-N-A-N-A-S” along with Gwen Stefani.

I will say, though, that there’s something to be said for the tune that has both phenomenal musical craftsmanship and thought-provoking lyrics. That doesn’t mean that a song that has both is automatically better than one that does not, but it’s an impressive specimen when accomplished, and we will shortly focus on a particular example.

Fascinating statement of the obvious: The human mind is cranking out thoughts with greater frequency than we can track.

Now, if your mind is like mine, these thoughts are somehow categorized, and those categories seem to rotate in and out the skull’s vault.

Statement of the non-obvious that may be fascinating to me and only me: I’ve been moderately obsessed in recent months with the notion of the history of human behavior. Were I independently wealthy and a massive nerd (Editor’s Note: Hey! I’m battin' .500.), I would strongly consider doing some extensive research about the topic. But this business seriously blows my mind.

Take hunger (Note: A lot of my human-behavior ponderings probably reach back to caveman times.), for example. In the beginning, how did people determine what the solution was to satisfying your appetite, your need to subside. Were people standing around being like, Man we are so dang hungry (Note: Actually, they probably said, We are so dang something. Should we figure out the word for it first, or the solution to it first?), what should we do? Let’s make a list: Defecate? Nah. Make tally marks on the wall to notate the passing of days? Don’t think so. Have intercourse? Hmm-mmm. Shape a stone into a point, attach it to a stick, drive it through the heart of that woolly mammoth, then skin and gut it, and chew its flesh? You know you might be on to something there.

Or eggs. What was it like when people realized they could get eggs from chickens? And eat them. Or how about the guy that discovered that eggs could be fried and topped with bacon and cheese? Or the woman (Note: See, I can at least be gender sensitive.) that discovered that eggs could be made into a batter to bread and fry the chicken that laid them? Even nuttier: The person that first played around with separating whites from yolks and whipping them into stiff peaks, then folding them back into each other to be baked into a delicate soufflé? Ingenious.

There’s one thing I imagine we all think about to some degree: technology. The world has become a crazy place. I mean, I had a hard time making the transition from cassette tapes to compact discs. And when I say “hard time,” that’s just me being nice and not labeling myself stubborn again. But I was. Ridiculously. And then there’s the whole cell phone thing. Shockingly, I was against them for a spell and now, today, I’m one of those people that would get 85 percent of the way to work and actually need to turn around and go home for my phone if I forgot it because my day would be that much of a catastrophe without it. And the e-mails, the Twitters, the Facebooks, the Google searches. All of it. These things that technology has given us are equally amazing and frustrating.

Occasionally, when technology is in the current-thought cycle, I find myself channeling my ancestral self, stripping away the elements of modernism, and, believe it or not, I can totally see my future self, old and retired, living on a farm way out in the sticks, being self-sufficient, and spending most of my waking hours on a tractor. I have no idea what that’s about, but it’s probably tied into the never-satisfied continuum of needing a vacation from yourself. But it’s there. It’s vivid, and my brain has me convinced that, even though the possibility of going stir-crazy while actually being the polar opposite of self-sufficient seems monumentally high, I think I could tolerate it. That I’d enjoy it. The peace and quiet, the distance from (Note: Fire up the cliché machine.) hustle and bustle, the amazingly low frequency of running into dysfunctional people. It sounds terrific.

Technology has, however, garnered me massively addicted to itself, so I would, of course, need: a high-speed Internet connection, impeccable cell-phone service, and a television package that allowed me to view my shows, my stand-up comedy, my sports broadcasts, and I would still want my NetFlix to be delivered in a timely fashion. So, what can you do?

Since I mentioned my tractor, though, I’ll just throw it out there that transportation is another thing that makes the inner rounds. I think about the pioneers. I try to wrap my brain around the idea of moving west over terrain, through the Midwest winters and summers, and just straight-up trying to get where you’re going without dying. You know: horses and covered wagons. Wearing the same clothes for weeks and months. Praying that your shoes hold out. Shivering yourself to sleep at night. Conducting your day from dawn to dusk. And then the progressions since then, the planes, trains, and automobiles, if you will. I don’t fly a lot, but I’m aware that there are plenty of people in the world that spend a significant amount of time each week on an airplane.

I know that there are many examples of professionals that fly a ton, but look at baseball players for one: One hundred sixty-two games a year for 30 different teams that all have 24-man rosters, trainers, front-office people, and equipment guys. That’s a lot of sky mileage. Or, how about over-the-road truck drivers? These guys cover some serious ground to bring the canned goods to our grocery-store shelves, our sneakers to the mall, our Amazon-ordered gifts and novelty purchases. Is it weird that our society has become so technologically advanced, yet we are still massively dependent on ground transportation? I think so.

But it’s not the 18-wheelers or the 747s that I want to focus on. It’s the trains. The steam engines. The locomotives. The mighty, mighty railroad. Think for a minute about the time, the money, the man hours, the raw materials, and the lives it costs to put together a railway. And then you gotta put a train on it, put people and supplies on that train, and then maintain all of ‘em. And think about what an incredible asset it was for a nation to get the thing fully up and functioning. And now what? I mean, what’re we using the railroad for now? I know that people still use them to travel, but I see railroad yards in the community I work in. I even know a guy that works at one. And I see these trains most every day, creeping along, back and forth, in what seems like a space confined to their own rail yard. That is, it sometimes seem like these things don’t ever leave, like they just cruise these trains from one end of their real estate to the other and back again.

I don’t get it. I’m certain there’s some productivity being generated at these places, but it’s clearly lost on me. This idea, though, brings me back to music. One song in particular. It’s called “The Jupiter & the 119,” and it’s by Railroad Earth. I really dig these guys, and the funny thing is that I have no idea exactly when and where I discovered them, but I’ll make the safe bet and assume it was Wakarusa. Whenever it was though, I purchased their debut album “The Black Bear Sessions” and almost immediately became a better person having heard it. And like bands can tend to do on you when you get old: They kinda got lost in my shuffle for a spell. But it was on our last trip to Durango that they fell back into my lap.

You see, I was revisiting an old college tendency of mine -– spending far more money than I have on CDs at Southwest Sound -– when I discovered that they’d just, one month prior, released their sixth album, a self-titled LP nonetheless. I always find that peculiar: when bands release a self-titled album that is not their first. It is, however, a decent album. It’s got its highs and lows, but most importantly, it’s got the track I mentioned: “The Jupiter & the 119.” Had Railroad Earth consulted me, I would’ve told them that the song title should appear The Jupiter & the 1-1-9 since that’s how it’s sung, but they did not, so here we are. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m way into the notion of being in a relationship with a song. I don’t know that I ever come to any conclusions, or draw up any hard evidence, but I find myself pondering what it was about the initial listen of a particular song that got me to like it.

Without trying to get too meta, it’s probably a lot like human relationships. You identify that you’re attracted to a person, and at some point, you’re likely going to think about what it was that stirred that chemistry. Was it that he made you laugh? Was it something intelligent she said? Maybe an outfit, or some strange coincidence that put you two in the same spot at the same time. Anyway, I don’t know what it was about “The Jupiter & the 119” that hit me first, but here’s a funny thing about me: When I purchase a new album, I have two rules: 1) I am not allowed to skip or repeat any tracks until two complete listens are in the books, and 2) I am not allowed to overplay (usually three to four listens) a new album – so as to ideally avoid immediate burnout on it, and allow it to resume its own, natural spot in the rotation.

With track two on this particular album, I broke my own rule, and I should take this opportunity to remind you that my stubbornness occasionally flirts with an obsessive-compulsive type status. I hate being stubborn, too. Mostly because it suggests that you are inflexible and opposed to change, or maybe even insecure, but I also hate it because my mom, on dozens and dozens of occasions over the years, threw this gem at me: “You’re so stubborn. You’re just like your father.” And if you deduced from that statement that I come from divorced parents, you win a House of Georges t-shirt.

But seriously, when one of my tendencies or practices gets a flat tire or a stick in the spokes (Note: What is this, the bicycle-analogy paragraph?) I feel like I have to make some sort of effort to balance things out, even if I have no idea what the “things” are. I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember, and dealing with yourself on that level is, um, not a comfortable seat to ride home in. Anyway, I broke my own rule, and it must’ve bothered me because I announced both a) the existence of said rule, and b) the fact that I was breaking it, along with c) some sort of subconsciously annunciated note to self: a don’t-break-your-own-rules-again kind of thing to my wife. And I never, ever announce my rules and habits to my wife, because, for most of eight years now, I’ve managed to hide from her the bulk of my insanity, and let’s face it: Disclosure of this sort is just a hair less than necessary.

On this occasion, though, she responded with, “I like that you have that kind of rule.” And believe you me: That is a rarity.

My point, though, is that I have no idea why I broke the rule. I mean, I know I broke the rule because I really dug the tune, but I can’t say what, exactly, it was about the song that I liked. And having given it some thought, I’ve decided that it must’ve been the fact that Todd Sheaffer is never going to win any sort of best-vocalist award, but somehow his voice and my ears were really connecting on this particular occasion. I think that maybe it’s because he really gets after it on this one. You know, from down deep in the diaphragm. I also think that there’s an impossible-to-miss thing happening in this song, and that’s that the song is valued, marketed, and sold on the one thing that embodies that passion we crave in our art. And that thing is a story. Think about it. The most majestic of paintings tell a story, be it a different story to every viewer, or the same story to thousands. The songs we dig tell tales of love, of loss, of accomplishment. And even the greatest writers manage to tell you several intriguing stories within their story.

This is why Sheaffer belts, no fewer than 10 times in the track, “Tell me: Have you heard the story…”

Here’s a funny thing specific to lyrics, general to songs: The first time we hear a song we absolutely love, do we know what the song’s about? I posit that we do not. I mean, when taking in new music for the first time, there’s too much going on. And chances are, you’re not a music critic, so you don’t sit down at your work desk, strap on some headphones, and focus. No. Key, even if they’re random, moments of songs resonate with you when you’re cutting carrots for the salad you’ll have for dinner, or when you’re gulping down water after your run at the gym, or maybe in that fleeting moment before you turn off your engine at the gas pump. But after one listen, maybe you’ve taken away an idea, or a line or two from the track. Or maybe it’s even more general, like, Hey, I think I kinda liked that song, and I’m already looking forward to hearing it a second time.

So you give it a whirl again, and maybe after your third or fourth listen, your opinion has evolved into, Man, I am really into this track. And if you’re anything like me, what follows next looks a little something like, I am totally in love with this song, and I’m going to listen to it repeatedly (Note: Remember, two complete listens are in the books by this point.) until I a) know all the words by heart, b) can hit all the vocal pitches with moderate precision, and c) have become obsessed with playing it for whoever will listen even though those listens aren’t the A+ listens that listening alone while top-of-the-lung wailing are.

My point, though, is that after one listen, I had absolutely no idea what “The Jupiter & the 119” was about. I mean, I knew that there was a story that was all the buzz, and there was probably some train imagery that attached itself to one of those dust mites of the mind, but it was, generally speaking, a surface evaluation, an, I-can-see-myself-liking-that-song sort of observation. And now, having listened to it about 25 times, I find myself getting on my case for not seeing the story more clearly earlier on. But whatever. Let’s talk about the story.

Actually, let’s clarify some things first: I’m not an historian. If we’re not talking about The Kansas City Chiefs Football Club, the band Phish, a small sample size of the literary (Note: It’s Finger-Quote Thirty up in this joint.) classics, or the basics of classic-culinary technique, then chances are I had to look it up, which is precisely what happened in this case. So, yeah: I Googled both the Jupiter and then the 1-1-9. And, sure: You’re all big boys and big girls, so you can do the same thing I did, or you can let me give you the buts and the nolts. If you do choose to look it up, though, you should time how long you are actually engaged in reading either page, and note your seconds in the comments. It can be our own little attention-span experiment that we’ll collectively feel shameful of for, oh, about 12 seconds.

And by the way, I’m in favor of the rule of using the article “an” before words that start with ‘h’, but shouldn’t we, like, asterisk that rule when we’re tweeting or texting or speaking in acronyms? I mean look at this phrase: Shannon Sharpe is not an H.o.F. tight end. Sure. I’m abbreviating because of a) that whole attention-span thing, and b) because of the fact that it’s fun to read. My question, though, is: Where does the fix come in? It doesn’t work any better if you spell it out: Shannon Sharpe is not an Hall of Fame tight end. Does the rule, then, become that, if you’re going to fix it, you have to fix it all the way? Do you have to say: Shannon Sharpe is currently not a candidate for enshrinement in professional football’s Hall of Fame?

Anyway, if you hadn’t guessed by now, both the Jupiter, and the 1-1-9 are, in fact, locomotives. Train engines, as it were. And allow me to assume that, at this point, 99 percent of you tuned out a long, long time ago, so I can do things like get off track (Note: Damn skippy, that pun was intended.) every other sentence, dropping in fun-filled facts. Like this one: The definition of locomotive is: a self-propelled vehicular engine for pulling a railroad train. Now I don’t know about you, but I’d never considered a locomotive as a self-propelled concept prior to looking that up. In fact, I probably never thought of anything other than a lawn mower as self-propelled, but here we are.

Because I can feel your curiosity from here, I’ll give you a few more details, and then we’ll be done with it. The Jupiter was property of Central Pacific Railroad, while the 1-1-9 was owned by Union Pacific. They were a) both steam locomotives, b) classified as the 4-4-0 variety (Note: You’re on your own, there, buddy, ‘cause that’s some eye-glaze material.), and c) freaking gorgeous pieces of machinery. The Jupiter was crafted courtesy of Schenectady Locomotive Works; Rogers Locomotive and Machine Works was responsible for constructing the 1-1-9. They, like Railroad Earth, are from New Jersey, which you may or may not now is a crummy damn city. What basis, you may be asking, do I have for making such a slanderous statement?

Well, none, really. But I do know this: The existence of the New Jersey Devils pisses me off because they started in Kansas City, had a layover in Denver, and finally found a home in En Jay where they, ironically, divorced their losing ways, and started winning Stanley Cups. Also, that “Jersey Shore” show is eight heaping tablespoons of God-awful, and two words for a summarizing capper: Bon. Jovi. But, we’re (Update: We’re looking at the bright side, now.) looking at the bright side of things because art is great and warm and inspirational and so forth, and when it comes down to splittin’ beans, Rogers Locomotive and Machine Works made the 1-1-9 in Jersey, and the frickin’ band that’s singing about their product is, too, so Jersey’s awesome. Jackpot, count it, etc.

The moment you’ve all been waiting for: The two steam engines traversed their respective railways and were stopped, one railroad tie from touching cowcatchers, for nothing more than a celebratory moment known as The Golden Spike ceremony. A party, if you will. I say “nothing more” there, but saying that is awful darn ridiculous, because what they were celebrating was freakin’ epic: the completion of the First Transcontinental Railroad.

Have another look at that phrase: First Transcontinental Railroad. Doesn’t that seem like a chapter heading in your Social Studies textbook, one of those reading assignments that makes you wanna pass out, face-down in the print, drooling onto the pages? (Note: How to recognize when you’re packin’ on the years/shedding pounds of coolness: Stuff that was lame to you as a kid is now suddenly cool.) It does. It totally does. This week: First Transcontinental Railroad; next week: exploring the intricacies of the Magna Carta. Great, man. When’s recess, and are they serving pizza today?

That’s quite a concept, though: a railway that goes across the freaking continent. And you know what? They, quite literally, hammered that shit out in six years. Six years!

Can you imagine what kind of time a project of that magnitude would take today? In 2011? Jiminy Christmas. You’ve seen the public works people in your city. It takes them half a week to fill a pothole. We’ve all driven by that scene. We’ve all heard comics rip on them. That pack of seven government-employed workers standing on the shoulder of the street, six of them smoking Winston’s while watching one dude dig a hole. Sure. It’s a tired joke, but it’s still true. And funny. And maybe a little sad, too. But, man. Six. Years. That’s impressive. Now, we’re talking about a song here, and the song is celebrating an impeccable event, one that’s worth all of the staged photogapharia, champagne toasts, and spike-driving imagery you can imagine, but there are some tidbits about this little shindig that are…Well, let’s just call them downright American:

1) The Jupiter was not originally intended to be part of this historic day. A locomotive called the Antelope was, only it got destroyed. By some workers. Who rolled a log down a mountain and smashed it.

2) Neither was the 1-1-9. The Durant Special was supposed to be featured in the festivities, but its conductor was afraid to locomote across Devil’s Gate bridge because he thought it would collapse due to some missing supports. He did, however, agree to use the Special to shove the passenger cars across the bridge, which was awfully noble of him. The cars, of course, made it across, but then had no steam engine to pull them to their destiny: Promontory Summit in the Utah territory. In stepped the trusty ol’ 1-1-9 to save the day.

3) The big day at Promontory Summit happened on May 10, 1869, and believe you me: It was, it seems, a big day. And so Promontory gets all the notoriety. Trouble is is that it kind of went out of commission in 1904. See, they were going around the Great Salt Lake instead of traversing it, which was a little more time consuming: utilization of The Lucin Cutoff shaved some 43 miles off of the trek.

4) Water was a problem to the east as well, only this time it was the Missouri River, and there was no circumnavigating it. In fact, for a time, folks had to de-train, and take a boat across it, which kind of makes the First Transcontinental Railroad a little less transcontinental, in my estimation. There was a solution to that, too, though: In 1873, the Union Pacific Missouri River Bridge opened up, making the railway officially transcontinental, except for this confusing tidbit:

5) The First Transcontinental Railroad consisted of a railway constructed by Union Pacific and Central Pacific railroads. The western terminus (either end of a transportation line) is, um, the Pacific Ocean. It sounds to me like, if you’re wrestling with how to navigate lakes and rivers, that you probably don’t want to tackle an ocean, so…probably a good terminus. The eastern terminus, however, is Council Bluffs, Iowa/Omaha, Nebraska. Now, much like I’m not your typical ace in the hole when it comes to history, I’m not going to recommend that you hire me to teach your kids geography either. I do, however, recall enough about the landscape of the United States to say with a certain confidence that I think there’s land out there east of Omaha. And, yeah, I just dropped a little Seger on you. Uncalled for. I know. My bad. The point, though, is that we’re, once again, several states shy of saying, “I’m bad, I’m nationwide.” (Note: I think all the avenues in life would be more pleasant to stroll if we could weave a little ZZ Top into them.)

I do think, though, that I discovered the reason for this flaw, and that’s this: Abraham Lincoln is supposedly the responsible party for choosing Council Bluffs as the eastern terminus. That’s not a diss on Lincoln, either. I love me some Abe. Problem is: He made that decision from the Lincoln Memorial, which is probably a shade out of binoculars’ reach from Iowa. But in the end it wasn’t a big deal at all because all the Union and Central Pacifics had to do was connect with the eastern railways that already existed. Duh. Everyone knows the east coast gets everything first.

Anyway, The Golden Spike ceremony is the gig from which we get “The Jupiter & the 119,” and it’s a day that continues to receive notoriety. In 1957, the Promontory Summit area was proclaimed the Golden Spike National Historic Site. There were all kinds of celebrations for the 100-year anniversary, and heck – the state of Utah, in 2007, decided they’d go ahead and make the driving of the spike the image that appears on their quarter, which is pretty cool. Not as cool as it would be if they conjured up an image of someone explaining to someone else all of the details and rules associated with Utah’s bars and liquor stores, but you’d probably need a bigger quarter for that, and I’d bet that the other 49 states would probably be like, C’mon, Utah. You’re annoying enough as it is.

Also, Council Bluffs built itself the Golden Spike Monument, since, you know, the, uh, spike driving happened in Utah and Iowa is the eastern edge of civilization, but hey -- who’s keepin’ track.

Enough about a bunch of stuff constructed by dead people, though. We’re talking about a song here. And it’s a good one. Remember? I broke rules for this thing. Like, chaos ensued, and whatnot.

Let’s talk bluegrass for a minute.

This genre of music is daunting to me. To give it to you in a really watered-down version, I imagine it to be something like Harry Potter. What I mean by that is that I saw the first Harry Potter movie. Like, in the theater, with popcorn and a Coke the size of my right leg. And though it was a while ago, I seem to recall enjoying it. It didn’t make me want to read the book, but then again, movies seldom do. I’m typically of the belief system that the book is always better than the movie, but I’m almost never qualified to say that because I don’t read nearly enough. I own a ton of books, and one day hope to read every one of them, but that’s a daunting blog post for another day.

But perhaps the golden-spike driving point here is that I didn’t go see the second Harry Potter movie, or any of the ones that followed that, either. And that’s probably because I didn’t choose to go see the first Harry Potter movie. I went to it because that’s what my family selected to go see while we were in Florida for Christmas. I wasn’t opposed to seeing it, and I certainly wasn’t going to be weird relative that stays home from the movies while everyone else goes. So I went. And it was good. But that was 10 years ago. I’ve probably thought about Harry Potter for a total of 19 seconds since then, so it kinda just wasn’t meant to be. And I think maybe the same thing started to happen, or could’ve happened, with bluegrass. I can’t recall any specific moments or people or opportunities, but I imagine there were several crossroads in my life where, had I gone a different direction, I could’ve begun the arduous process of obtaining my PhD in bluegrass. (Note: We’re talkin’ figurative terms here, kids. Figurative.) I could’ve explored the roots, the beginnings, carved out a niche of some favorites, and let the exposure blossom.

But see, what happens when you’re stubborn looks a little something like this:

Person X: “Dude, let me make you a copy of this tape. I think you’ll really dig these guys.”

Stubborn me: “That’s cool, bro. I’ve already been given the keys to every musical city on the planet, so I highly doubt you’re going to show me anything I haven’t already stamped as awesome.”

And so here we are. I do know a little bluegrass, so I’m not hopeless. But in my helping friendly book of rules, where the balance cannot go unrestored, and petty details may not remain unanswered, and hyperbole is the worst thing ever, “a little” may as well be a dull pair of scissors while I stare at a locomotive-sized jar of mustard. Ain’t no cuttin’ happenin’. There are reasons behind why this is important enough to explain in detail, and those reasons look like this: Bluegrass music is up my frickin’ alley, yo. It’s the kind of thing that jives with my rustic soul, my old-school approach.

Check this out: The first thing I ever saved up (Note: Also figurative. I could never really “save” for anything since I was always blowing my wad on cassettes, but whatever.) for and purchased was an electric guitar. I was so excited for it that I couldn’t even wait until I’d saved enough for an amp. I just played without one for a while. I took lessons. I practiced. A little. But I wanted to shred like Eddie Van Halen, be a rock star like Jimmy Page, and have that Tom Scholz Rockman sound blast out of some speakers while chicks in the crowd went berserk over me and my band. And don’t get me wrong. I love and respect the guitar. I just never had the patience and determination to master it. At one point, I had an arsenal of like eight or 10 songs I could play but couldn’t touch a solo to save my life.

But I hung onto that thing, drug it with me with every move. And then, after college, I bought a nice keyboard. And I took lessons. And the mantra was this: The piano is the root of music, right? So, if I learn piano, then I’ll be more musically knowledgeable, and also, if my rig gets big enough to include a Moog and some clav’ action, then naturally, chicks will dig me. And my band. As we rage on the stage. I was really into it for a bit, too. But then I moved to pursue this relationship, which was bad timing for, among other things, my blossoming career as a pianist. A short while later, I bought my buddy’s bass.

That was kinda it. He was selling it. I knew I’d probably never seriously take it up, but the idea of potential jam sessions (Note: Relationship already over, lots of space in my house, and now all I’m missing is a drum kit! The band is nearly complete! Now all’s we gotta do is figure out how to play these things!) and all-night parties was too much to pass up. Plus it was cheap. And then, a few years later, at a time when I could absolutely not afford to make another impulse purchase, I bought dual turntables and a mixer, which went a little something like this –- and, yes, you must say this in your best stoner voice -- in my head: Dude, if you can’t produce original material, you can make ultra-sweet compilations of other people’s music. This will be both gnarly and instant platinum.

I hung onto everything for a little while, and even added my sister-in-law’s acoustic to the collection when she needed some cash. Sold the electric and thebass a little over a year ago. Still have the Yamaha and the Technics, but I would trade them both in an instant for a banjo. Yeah. A banjo.

I’d steer the John Deere back to the farmhouse a little early each day, and I’d sit on the porch, drink a cold beer, and play the dickens outta my banjo. And not ‘cause I think it’d make the ladies dig me, but because I love the sound of that instrument. And here’s how realistic this dream is: I’m not lookin’ to become the next Bela Fleck. I’d be content just learning how to play “The Rainbow Connection.” Banjos are that righteous.

Anyway, there’s a ton of bluegrass I haven’t discovered, but thankfully I’ve discovered a tiny little morsel, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that “The Jupiter & the 119” starts off with some beautiful mandolin/fiddle (Note: Technically, Tim Carbone is listed as a violinist, but when I think of violins, I think of those terrible strings performances they always have elementary-school kids do, where it sounds like these kids have dedicated a solid four minutes of practice in preparation for the big day. For my money, when it’s this big and bold of a sound, it’s a flippin’ fiddle.) action. It’s kind of eerie, too, almost like the sound of it casts an image of that near-dusk part of the day where the world is sorta settlin’ in and leaves are kinda scootin’ around in bunches of wind here and there. It’s almost like the fiddle is the wind, and the rustling leaves come to life with each pluck of the mandolin’s strings. Or maybe I just watch too much television. I dunno.

The genre of bluegrass might be the only showcase for the acoustic guitar when the acoustic guitar is not appearing in singer/songwriter fashion. It provides the perfect amount of backbone to the collective sound. It never overpowers, and would certainly be noticed if omitted. So, Sheaffer kicks in with some six-string strumming and then the banjo comes rollin’ in. And by “rollin’ in,” I do not mean that super-speedy, fast-pickin’ pace of play, but a smooth, yet bouncy kind of cycle to it. The only way I can think of to describe it is to mention that terribly cheesy rollin’ thing that Daunte Culpepper used to do in Minnesota, and that would do a serious disservice to both the song and the band. They do, nevertheless, really get things going, and the rest of the band joins in.

Sheaffer and company begin to tell the story of these two locomotives, their musical fire starts to get hot enough where you could cook over it, and they back it off a notch. Solid, solid move. I’ll say this about songwriting, and know going in that I’m about as versed in the art of writing song as I am qualified to tune a piano: If you can tackle both the concept of strategical placement, along with tactful execution, throwing an “Ooo” or an “Ohh” into your song is very soothing. I think it’s one of those things that all of us say or think or sing with some regularity but simply aren’t aware of it, so when we become aware of it, and then do it, it feels really natural. Railroad Earth hits the Ooos in this track outta the park.

And speaking of placement, that nice little vocal moment is followed by a segment that has some quiet, sporadic picking and bow playing that provides filler to a rather boisterous drum portion that supports a vocal segment that’s crucial to the story -– the two engines making their way toward each other -- and then everyone nicely rejoins for the refrain. The song and the story begin to build a little steam, and everyone’s plugging along up until the three-minute mark, and it is at that point that Carbone makes a change in delivery; his fiddle switches from subtle background to forefront accents, and it’s one of those moves that sorta says, Hey, listen up: We’re gettin’ somewhere important in a second.

And gettin’ somewhere they are. I mean, hello! Golden Spike ceremony dead ahead! Another nice transition follows though. It’s near the five-minute mark, and it seems, in flashes, that all you hear is vocals. And I gotta say that at this very minute, I cannot think of another song where music and story meet in such a wonderful marriage. We’re talkin’ eggs-and-bacon good here, people. Now, it may seem like I’m now an expert on the First Transcontinental Railroad, but I assure you that I am not. I know only what you’ve read and nothing more, but in my various clicks of the InterWebs I’ve come across a few images of the big day, or maybe it was one image and one likeness. Whatever. The point is that all of the reading and image viewing in the world don’t paint the picture that this Sheaffer delivery does:

“They met in Promontory, from east and west they’re here,
And all across the country, they raised a mighty cheer.
The mighty tracks are polished, on the tracks they proudly rest,
The crowd’s all gathered ‘round ‘em, dressed up in their Sunday best.
The big brass band is playin’, it’s a bright uncloudy day,
The speaker’s oratory, and the bosses have their say.
The reverend says a prayer, it’s mercifully short,
The drunken railmen laugh, and the iron horses snort.
The engines movin’ closer, they easin’ down the line,
The champagne bottles pop. Come fill your glass, it’s toastin’ time.
These engines, these were maiden, they’re nose-to-nose alike,
They raised a silver hammer, and they NAILED THE GOLDEN SPIKE!”

From the song’s peak there isn’t any further development necessary, but suffice to say that all instruments are in full bloom, and when audible, they conjure up images of hayseed-chewin’, dirty, bare feet, and swinging dresses. And it’s here that the banjo playing is really remarkable. While all parts are equal throughout most of the song, it’s important for this instrument to take a larger role as the song begins to wind down because it offers the feel of the kind of machine that’s so powerful that you don’t want to shut directly down after a good running, but rather you want ease into an idler speed, and eventually shut it off. And as the tune tapers off, you get a little fiddle mixed in with the banjo, which is akin to the lightest, most perfect dessert after an incredible meal. The kind that leaves you just a notch over satisfied, yet not quite flirting with uncomfortably full. Better still, is the image that the two instruments conjure: the nice, thick-and-healthy lingering smoke cloud left behind by a train.

So, as you might’ve guessed: I’m a pretty big fan of this song. And while we’re bathing in honesty, I’ll let you peak below a few bubbles: I don’t typically allow one track to speak to an album’s value, but this song is an exception. “The Jupiter & the 119” is Drew Brees in 2009. Sure, the rest of the ammo is good, but let’s look at the gun that’s doin’ the firing. This is a really well-crafted tune, and it’s time you should hear it for yourself. The studio version can be streamed here, but they’ve taken out that nice intro I’ve so quaintly described. You can get a feel for it my checking out the first minute or so of this live version. Like the blogger that provides the link to that stream writes, “Give the track a listen. It’s addictive!” Or better yet, buy the album.

To summarize, though: It's worth noting that, given all of the direction that music has gone in the last 142 years, it's nothing shy of impeccable that a band, a group of musicians, could compose a track that's this amazing that's not about a relationship, or about the sense of loss experienced via one of today's plights, but rather, about an incredible feat that changed our society, progressed it. The railroad, man. If you can sit down, pen the lyrics to a tune about a piece of history that's ancient, given the newness of America, and then compose a fantastic cut that jives this well with your story, then kudos, boss. You're doin' somethin' right.
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