One spring evening 22 years ago, I was sitting in the old Biograph Theater in Richmond, Virginia enjoying a pleasant buzz from the half-gallon milk jug of grapefruit juice and grain that my roomie had brought along to enhance the experience of “Stop Making Sense.”
One of the better concert films of my particular era, even stacked against “The Last Waltz,” I rather enjoyed watching this particular flick. Even though the opening with “Psycho Killer” was fascinating enough, this segment left me walking around the dorm many a drunken night wearing an oversized sportcoat and jerking around as if being shot repeatedly by a large caliber handgun and muttering “same as it ever was, same as it ever was, same as it ever was . . . ”
More proof that geeky white boys can funk and rock . . .
While sitting at work Tuesday, waiting on hold for some other agent with an infirm grasp of the obvious to help my customer on some issue, I was vegging out momentarily when I realized that the hold muzak had a Steely Dan/Donald Fagen theme and that I was whistling “Green Flower Street.” At once, I realized that the barely post-teen agent in the next cubicle was looking at me like I’d lost my mind, that the muzak was almost worth listening to, and that Steely Dan had achieved cultural trivialization.
And a little side trip with Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings . . .
I’m still not exactly in a literarily coherent state these days, but I’m working on it.