AN ELECTRIC LIGHT NIGHT

     The coolest thing about getting HBO on cable TV way back in 1980 or so, other than having the ability to watch R-rated movies in our own living room, was the fact that they also showed cool concerts.  In fact, one of the first things I ever watched on HBO was a concert by the Electric Light Orchestra, live from the original Wembley Stadium in England.

     In support of their 1978 smash Double LP “Out of the Blue,” the shows on this tour not only featured the band’s trademark symphonic rock classics and eye-sizzling laser light show, but they also opened with the band emerging from the same gigantic spaceship that was featured on the album artwork.  Sure, it looked like a life-sized version of the classic electronic memory game Simon, but what a spectacle!

     When I learned a couple of years later that ELO was touring again with a date scheduled in Chicago, only about an hour away from the small town in Illinois where I grew up, I knew I had to go check them out in person.  Still just teenagers, my best friends and I all had our driver’s licenses, but there was simply no way any of our parents were going to let us drive into Chicago.  One set of parents drew the short straw and “volunteered” to take us to the show.

     On the day of the concert, the four of us piled into the car with a brave pair of parents and headed up to the Windy City for the concert, which was to take place at Chicago Stadium.  Then home of the Chicago Bulls and Chicago Blackhawks, this venerable old stadium sat at the absolute bulls-eye of one of Chicago’s most decrepit neighborhoods, with parking almost as atrocious as at that other Chicago sports landmark, Wrigley Field.  Nonetheless, we gamely eased our way around the winos and picked our way past the panhandlers, until our party of six finally reached the relative safety of the rickety old joint.

Although nobody knew it at the time, The Electric Light Orchestra had peaked in popularity right about the time of the concert I’d seen on HBO.  This time around, they were on the road in support of their 1980 album “Time,” which marked somewhat of a stylistic departure for the veteran group.  Following the disco-tainted “Discovery” album and a goofy but good half-a-soundtrack for the rather silly movie Xanadu, “Time” was a high-concept theme album about a man transported into a dystopian future who just wants to return home.

     Ironic, then, that “Hold On Tight,” the most popular song on the album, only became famous because it was used in a coffee commercial.

“Time” was certainly a different-sounding album for the group.  Gone was the lush orchestral sound that had become the group’s trademark, replaced by a futuristic, heavily-synthesized embryonic electronica with a dash of rockabilly.  It still sounded like ELO, just an ELO that had, well, stepped into a time machine and been launched into the future.  (Co-founder Jeff Lynne had even taken the ill-advised step of shortening the band’s official name to “ELO,” as if to emphasize the move away from its symphonic roots.  I’d joked at the time that “Electric Light Four-Guys-And-Some-Synthesizers” just wasn’t catchy enough.)

As we settled into our seats, nine o’clock to the stage, and dabbing at the blood trickling from our noses due to our high altitude, we were practically giddy with expectation.  Hall and Oates was the opening act, and I’d heard a DJ speculate in an interview with them a few days before the show, that more people might be coming to the show to see them than ELO.  Their set was met with polite applause.  Then the lights dimmed, the crowd roared, and out rolled…a robot.

“Just on the border of your waking mind, there lies, another place, where darkness and light are one…” Jeff Lynne’s lyrics poured forth from the mechanical storyteller which, no surprise given the date, bore more than a passing resemblance to one R2-D2.  The crowd went wild and the show was underway.

It’s odd that I don’t remember many specifics about the concert itself.  I remember the stage was often bathed in blue; I remember they played all of their huge hits from the ‘70s – loudly – and I remember the sweet scent of my first contact high from pot smoke which hung in the air, visibly blue once the house lights came back up.

Rock concerts are like romances, in that you always remember your first.  The ELO show circa 1980 wasn’t the best show I’ve ever gone to, (the winner there is Pink Floyd’s “Delicate Sounds of Thunder” tour), but it made the type of impression only a first experience of its kind can make.  To this day, some 31 years later, the Electric Light Orchestra, in all of its various forms, remains my favorite band in the world.

About 15 years ago, Electric Light Orchestra, Part II, a spin-off band featuring many original ELO members and the trademark ELO orchestral sound, but not mainstay Lynne, went on the road to support their “Moment of Truth” CD.  Knowing this was as close as I’d ever get to seeing ELO perform live again, I made the short trek down to San Antonio to check ‘em out.

Instead of the 15,000 concertgoers packed inside the old Chicago Stadium, which has long-since been torn down, there were maybe a thousand or so aging, diehard fans tucked inside what was essentially a large club.  Not surprisingly, the spectacle wasn’t nearly the same as that first show, but the music still carried the night…AND the surroundings were so intimate, that I got to have my picture taken with the late, great bassist Kelly Groucutt.

The Electric Light Orchestra rocks on in the eternally young land of Classic Rock radio and YouTube, while Lynne, co-founder and drummer Bev Bevan, and other surviving members of the band in all its incarnations keep ELO’s music alive in performances around the world.

For me, the Light was lit on a cold Chicago winter’s night over three decades ago…and the Electric Light Orchestra still burns brightly to this day.

WALKING BEANS

I grew up in a microscopic smudge of a town.  Ashkum, IL boasted some 600 residents at the time of the 1970 census, when I first became aware of such things.  I'm convinced to this day, however, that those 600 included all the dogs, cats, and otherwise domesticated creatures within the village limits.

     Frankly, I always thought the main job of the Village Clerk should be to sit at the edge of town with some chalk and a chalkboard and keep a running tally of exactly how many folks we had at a given time, changing the sign as cars entered or left town.

     Since my Mom was the Village Clerk at the time, this idea never received serious consideration.

     It was -- still is, in fact, and probably always will be -- a farming town.  Like most metropolises of similar size found throughout the Midwest, the village sprouted up and still huddles alongside the railroad tracks.  The tallest building in town by a long shot is the grain elevator, where the area farmers bring their annual harvests of corn and soybeans to be dried and stored until they're ready to be sold.  The railroad runs right past this elevator, a man-made steel river that provides the farmers a means by which to get their product to market.

     Ashkum's lifeblood was -- is -- the farmers who surround the community.  In conjunction with the 700 souls who now live in the town, the farmers shop at its grocery store, send their kids to its school, attend its three churches and patronize its three taverns, (a nice symmetry, that!)  The farmers don't need Ashkum to survive, but Ashkum sure needs its farmers.

     This has always been especially true in the summertime.  If you were a town kid in the summertime, the farms were an entire industry.  Kids would mow grass, baby-sit, take on a paper route or do a variety of other odd jobs to earn their own spending money in the summer months.  But what they did most was work for farmers.

     Now keep in mind, we're talkin' about a bunch of townies.  It's not as if we had a vested interest in a farm's success.  We were a bunch of mercenaries out for a buck.  Which naturally meant that we got the nastiest, hottest, dirtiest and most insultingly moronic jobs ever bestowed upon humans of any age with IQs higher than your average tree stump.  Generally speaking, there were three biggies, the Big 3 summertime cottage industries for youths in the Midwest.

     Of the three, baling hay was arguably the most reviled and unarguably the filthiest and most exhausting, although it generally paid the best.  Technically speaking, we didn't do the actual baling.  There was a machine for that purpose.  No, when you were on a baling crew, you either worked "on the rack" or "in the barn."

     If you were on the rack, you rode with a couple of other guys on a hayrack -- this being the only one of the Big 3 that was almost exclusively male -- which brought up the caboose of a train behind the baling machine and the tractor.

     The baling machine scooped up the hay, previously cut and piled in a continuous, spiraling row along the ground, in a manner not unlike a slack-jawed whale might scoop through an oceanic cloud of algae.  In a miraculous process I'm betting even those who designed the machine don't fully understand, the baler packed, molded, and tied this hay into perfectly formed, ice cube-shaped bales. These oversized hay briquettes then emerged onto a protruding conveyor belt as if in a bad "I Love Lucy" episode and trundled along to a rendezvous with the waiting rack crew.

     The crew's job was simply to spear the incoming bales with wicked-looking hooks that would've turned Peter Pan's nemesis a positively Pan-like shade of envy and hoist them into neat stacks on the hayrack.

     Moronically simple.  Except when a good bale-soaking rain doubled the tonnage, the rack was full and you were trying to heave this soggy deadweight over your head while balancing on the six inches you had left to stand on, all without knocking your compatriots off the six inches they had left to stand on.

     Being in the barn was similar.  You waited up in the hayloft for the full racks to come in from the field.  When they did, the rack crew downloaded the bales onto an elevator that trundled them up to the loft.  There, the waiting barn crew neatly stacked them to the ceiling.

     While in the barn, you didn't have to worry about falling off a moving rack.  You did, however, have to worry about the lack of fresh air streaming in through that tiny 2' x 3' opening, the fact that, whaddya know, heat does rise, and whether or not you'd reach terminal velocity if you fell from those bales near the ceiling to that floor waaaaay down below.

     After a brutal day of baling, it was not at all unusual to go home with scratched, punctured arms resembling those of a heroin addict.  You'd also be caked with dust and expelling substances from your nose and throat with colors and textures that were completely foreign to nature.

     While baling hay was the Hard Labor of summer jobs, de-tasseling corn was many an innocent youth's first foray into the cold-hearted world of Corporate Hell.

     If you're a city slicker driving through corn country in mid to late summer, you may notice the Dr. Seuss-like puffy brown tufts on top of the corn stalks.  Those are the tassels, the rough equivalent of a flower's pollen.  Since most farmers exhibit loyalty to a specific brand of seed corn with a fierceness scarcely seen this side of the "Tastes Great!  Less Filling!" debate, cross-pollination of different strains of corn is not a particularly welcome development.

     As a result, the farmers hired de-tasseling companies that swept through a community, plucking up unwary children like the Gypsy travelers of old and chaining them to their de-tasseling machines under the watchful eyes of the evil, bullwhip-wielding Machine Master.

     Okay, I'm exaggerating.  He just used a riding crop.

     In any case, this Dickensonian crew of children would ride the detasseling machine, suspended between the steamy rows of a cornstalk jungle, getting smacked in the face and receiving the Death of a Thousand Cuts by the thick, sharp leaves on the stalks.  Your entire existence centered on yanking the offending tassel from each stalk as you passed by, leaving in your wake a rather goofy looking field full of decapitated corn stalks.

     There was very little joy in this work.  The crew chief/slave owners who operated these coldly impersonal detasseling companies were almost universally reviled by the kids under their thumbs.  You were just working for "The Man," not a pleasant concept at any age.

     Of all three summer jobs, however, there's one that conjures up the fondest memories, while at the same time producing the most puzzled expressions whenever I say its name.  That job was Walking Beans.  Ah, even now, the memories come flooding back.

     Oh, don't get me wrong.  This was tough, exhausting, backbreaking work, usually lasting from Sun-up to late afternoon, five or six days a week.  Still, there was something about walking beans that gives it an odd, Rockwellian feeling, even to this day.

     First, lest you begin to imagine little bean plants on leashes strolling through the neighborhood, walking beans simply consisted of a crew walking up and down the rows of beans and pulling, chopping, cutting, hooking, or otherwise eliminating all the weeds in a given field.

     Hay baling was a sporadic, one or two day's worth of work.  De-tasseling corn was indentured servitude.  Walking beans was, in those days before farmers engaged in the chemical warfare practices they employ today instead, a nearly universal fact of life.  It was its own subculture with its own rules and customs.  Farmer Jones’ crew used the nasty, mini-scythes on a pole known as "hooks" to cut the weeds.  Farmer Smith preferred hoes.  Farmer Wilson’s group simply pulled the weeds.

     You knew the farmer you were working for.  Oftentimes you'd get on his crew year after year, starting from around twelve years old on up through eighteen or nineteen, depending on your post high school plans.  Choosing whom to work for forced you to consider a multitude of factors.  Timing was important, as you wanted the work to stretch out for as long as possible:  ("When is Evans starting this year?"  "Should be in a couple of weeks."  "Good.  We should be done with Johnson by then.")

How many breaks you got was important, too.  Were they just quickie water breaks or did the farmer's wife bring some snacks out to the field for a "lunch?”  Was the main, noontime lunch brought out to the field, (ugh!), eaten up at the house, (better), or did everyone pile into the truck to hit the Dairy Queen, (cool?!)

     There were also unspoken rules of etiquette passed down through the ages like ancient tribal customs.  When you reached the end of your row, you turned around and worked your way back to meet the person furthest behind.  If someone hit a particularly heavy patch of weeds, everyone hopped over to wipe out the patch in a brief, furious skirmish before forming ranks again within your own rows and resuming the march, sweeping a swath of land free of the enemy.

     Oh, you were a soldier, no doubt about it.  Armed with your trusty hook or hoe, you were out on patrol, a seek-and-destroy mission against an insidious, cleverly camouflaged foe.  Upon contact with the enemy, you fixed bayonets and charged.  If you survived, you placed your weapon confidently on your shoulder and proudly marched on ahead.

     Of course, not that many actual wars feature barely pubescent girl soldiers in the front lines, their shorts and halter tops enticing their compatriots, hormonally supercharged young boys who were physically 15 or 16 but mentally somewhere in the "Check out this loogey!" stage.

     Aw, but what the hell.  We were young and stupid, without a real problem in the world, making five or six bucks an hour with no rent or credit cards to worry about.

     If life could've stayed that simple and straightforward, and someone could have ever actually persuaded a Village Clerk to take up that chalkboard, I doubt the population count on it would ever go down.

     Ashkum would have had the cleanest bean fields around forever.

Aching Absences at Daytona

There will be an unmistakable presence looming over Daytona International Speedway as NASCAR starts its engines and prepares to drop the Green Flag on the 2011 season this Sunday at the Daytona 500.  Though it’s hard to believe, this weekend marks the 10^th anniversary of the death of one of racing’s most iconic figures, the legendary Dale Earnhardt.

Even non-racing fans know the name.  Everyone can picture the mustached, swaggering figure with the twinkle in his eyes, pilot of the ubiquitous black Mr. Goodwrench Chevy Impala with the bold, white #3 emblazoned on the door.

It’s only natural for Earnhardt’s death to assume a prominent storyline this weekend in Daytona, as the seven-time NASCAR Winston Cup Champion had become the face of the sport for most Americans.  Although Earnhardt was used to leading, not following, the man commonly referred to as “The Intimidator” was following on that day that changed NASCAR forever; following not only the two cars in front of him in what was to be the last lap of his last race, but following what had become a tragic trend in the fastest growing sport in America.  In fact, Dale Earnhardt was the fourth NASCAR driver to die in a crash within a calendar year.

NASCAR had changed for me some 9 months earlier on May 12, 2000, when racing claimed the youngest member of another NASCAR racing family dynasty.  Two friends and I were pulling a racing doubleheader.  Having attended a race at the now-defunct Longhorn Speedway in Austin on a Friday night, we were walking towards the grandstand at Thunderhill Raceway in Kyle, Texas one night later when we heard the track’s PA Announcer ask for a moment of silence and prayer for the Petty family.

Earlier that afternoon, Adam Petty, great-grandson of original NASCAR driver and 3-time Champion Lee Petty, grandson of the legendary 7-time Champ Richard Petty, and son of 9-time NASCAR Cup winner Kyle Petty, had died instantly when the throttle stuck wide-open on his #45 Sprint Dodge in a Busch Series practice session, sending him hurtling head-on into the wall at New Hampshire Motor Speedway.  He was just 19 years-old.

If Earnhardt’s death was the final catalyst to wrack stock car racing to its core, and led the sport -- finally – to enact a series of changes that have made the sport much safer today, Adam Petty’s death started the conversation.  (It shouldn’t be overlooked that his death was followed in rapid succession by an eerily similar accident at the same track that claimed the life of 1998 Winston Cup Rookie of the Year Kenny Irwin, Jr. and a crash later that year in Texas that killed Craftsman Truck driver Tony Roper.  That meant that three drivers had been killed, one in each of NASCAR’s three top touring series in one season, before Earnhardt’s death.)

Like millions of race fans, I had grown up a fan of “The King,” Richard Petty.  As I rekindled my love affair with racing as an adult, I’d quickly become a fan of Kyle Petty, even though it was obvious that, though talented enough to win 9 Winston Cup races and finish 5^th in the points for two consecutive years, Kyle wasn’t the dominant driver that his dad was.

Nobody was, except Earnhardt.

There’s an iconic photo of the four generations of racing Pettys that always sticks in my mind.  There’s Lee, the Founder, Richard, “The King,” Kyle, the Renaissance Man, and Adam, the future of Petty Enterprises.  The roadmap was all laid out for Adam: a full season running in the Busch Series -- sort of NASCAR’s AAA league – supplemented by a handful of Cup races.  In fact, he’d made his first and, as it would turn out, only career Cup start about six weeks earlier, qualifying for the DirecTV 500 at Texas Motor Speedway.  When Adam took the Green Flag along with his dad Kyle, he became the first 4^th generation NASCAR driver in history; a feat witnessed by his great-grandfather Lee, who would sadly pass away suddenly just 3 days later.

Second generation driver Dale Earnhardt, who had run a race the year before with his two sons, Dale, Jr. and Kerry, was running third before his fatal crash, trailing Dale, Jr.  Racing is a seriously family affair.

Petty Enterprises never really recovered from Adam’s death.  Kyle, forced to juggle the often competing demands of ownership and driving, all while coping with his son’s death, stepped out of his #44 car and drove the #45 until the end of his own driving career.  Petty Enterprises nearly imploded before a surviving nugget of the company found new life as the newly rebranded Richard Petty Motorsports.

Similarly, Dale Earnhardt, Inc. (DEI) was merged into oblivion after Earnhardt’s passing, although it took longer and a semblance remains in Earnhardt-Ganassi Racing.

It seems as if virtually every foot of Earnhardt’s last lap on this Earth has been dissected, the footage of the fatal tangle 499.75 miles into a 500-mile race as firmly seared into a race fan’s brain as the last seconds of the space shuttle “Challenger” or the attack on the Twin Towers.  There’s Earnhardt, trying to at least hold onto third, if not protecting eventual winner Michael Waltrip and Dale, Jr. who are both piloting DEI-owned machines.  Earnhardt grazes across Sterling Marlin’s front bumper, right-angling up the race track and into the Turn 4 wall at 160mph with Kenny Schrader’s Pontiac seemingly fused to his passenger-side door.

It all looked so innocent to the casual observer, especially compared to the spectacular crash that had happened about 40 laps earlier, a melee that launched cars airborne and crashing every which way, wiping out or damaging nearly half the 43-car field.  Yet everyone walked away.

Earnhardt’s crash, broadcast live, seemed no worse than a hard fender-bender...but those who’d been there knew better.

“Man, I hope Dale’s okay,” worried 3-time Cup Champion driver – but rookie broadcaster Darrell Waltrip – ecstatic at his brother’s huge win, but knowing in his gut that Earnhardt’s crash was far worse than it looked.  Sadly, he was right.

By contrast, Adam Petty’s crash occurred in obscurity, away from the TV cameras, despite the fame surrounding his name.

Both Dale Earnhardt and Adam Petty live on in different ways.  Building on the momentum initially generated by the deaths of Petty, Irwin, Jr. and Roper the year before, the huge blow dealt by the loss of Earnhardt would at last force NASCAR to make such seemingly commonsense safety changes as requiring all drivers to wear full helmets fitted with head and neck restraints, and building cushioned SAFER barriers over many tracks’ concrete retaining walls.

No doubt, Adam Petty would be making the start this weekend, had the New Hampshire crash not taken his life.  Instead, while Adam Petty’s memory lives on at the Victory Junction Gang Camp, a summer camp for chronically ill children Kyle and Pattie Petty founded to honor their son, the Daytona 500 will start without a Petty in the field for the third straight year.

And while the memory of Dale Earnhardt will understandably be at the forefront of this year’s race, with a moment of silence planned for Lap #3, let’s not forget Adam Petty and the lasting legacy of the Petty racing family.

Super Bowl Halftime? Bring on the Marching Bands!

     The Super Bowl is finally here.  Yea.  Please pardon my underwhelming sense of enthusiasm for this year’s game.  Normally I’m as much a football-crazy loon as the next guy, but I’m just not feelin’ it this year.

     I know some folks who can’t wait for the game to get here.  One good friend of mine is a diehard Pittsburgh Steelers fan.  My oldest nephew loves the Green Bay Packers, or at least he did during the Brett Favre years.  (What’s even more impressive about that is that he remained steadfastly loyal to the hated Packers while growing up in the heart of Chicago Bears country.)

     Speaking of my beloved Bears, maybe their clunker of a performance against those same Packers in the NFC Championship Game two weeks ago, which kept them out of the Super Bowl, has something to do with my malaise for this year’s game.

     Still, just as the Indianapolis 500 is the one and only auto race millions of non-race fans watch each year, just as we pretend to like soccer every four years when the World Cup rolls around or we become instant experts in the intricacies of short track speed skating during the Winter Olympics, the Super Bowl is the one football game almost every American with a pulse will watch every year.

That may be because it provides even non-football fans with a good excuse to get together and have a party.  Come to think of it, in this overly-wired age of the DVR, Hulu, and YouTube, the Super Bowl might be one of the last great American communal viewing experiences left, so we better treasure and celebrate it.

     So, without a vested interest in the outcome, we’ll head over to a friend’s place and watch the Big Game with the rest of the world.  The game will probably be underwhelming, since so few Super Bowls really are “super,” but one fringe benefit of a Super Bowl broadcast is the collection of some of the best commercials of the year.

On the other hand, one indisputable downside of the broadcast is the dreaded Super Bowl Halftime Show.

     Now, the network honchos would argue that the Super Bowl Halftime show is a Major Event, a special showcase for some of the biggest, most popular, and even legendary acts in music history.  With past performances from such venerable artists as Paul McCartney, The Rolling Stones, Prince, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, ZZ Top, and The Who, to name just a few, the line-up of past Super Bowl halftime performers reads like a veritable “Who’s Who” of classic rock.  It’s as if the person – check that, corporate board members – in charge of finding halftime performers have been working through their personal wish list of acts they’d like to meet.

     It seems like a great idea on the surface, except that in reality, it’s Super Lame.  The teams depart for their locker rooms all lathered up, then the roadies throw together frighteningly gaudy stages in an even more frighteningly quick time.  Other roadies push the aging band members out on-stage, whereupon the legends unhook their oxygen supplies, hoist themselves out of their wheelchairs, and stagger through a barely recognizable 3 or 4-song greatest hits set while piped-in cheers add to the din, before the whole procedure packs itself away.  Finally, the teams return to the field for the second half, stiff and out of their groove after the 27-hour break.

     Give ME a break.  I understand the Super Bowl isn’t really about football.  Let’s face it; the last real games of the NFL season are the AFC and NFC Championship Games that determine the Super Bowl combatants.  No, the football game in a Super Bowl serves roughly the same purpose as the hamburger patty at McDonalds:  it’s just there to support the parts that really taste good, like the ketchup, mustard, pickles, and onions.

     Corporate parties, private parties, TV ad campaigns, hookers, promoting the network’s next Big TV Show, and overpriced hotel suites and luxury boxes are what the Super Bowl is really all about.

Which is where the Halftime Show comes in.  It’s simply one more opportunity for a big-money sponsor to climb aboard, one more ancillary event to promote in addition to the game itself.

     As for me, I’ll take a good old-fashioned marching band at halftime of a football game anytime.  Like outdoor stadiums above the Mason-Dixon Line and natural grass, marching bands at halftime is the way God intended football to be.

     Alas, that’s not gonna happen anytime soon at the Super Bowl.  So, you may as well pass the nachos.  Maybe if I crunch loud enough, I won’t have to hear the Black-Eyed Peas.