To The Beacon

Juxtaposition.  Taxis, concrete, Picassos, glass, bagles, steel, tie-die, furs, martinis, brownstones, loafers, taxis, reubens, Birkenstocks, old fashioneds, hipsters, bankers, doormen, pinot (you pick it), concrete, truffles, neon, Van Gohs, parks, markets, bikes, flowers, taxis, overcoats, plastic bottles of Budweiser, tapas, joggers, beggars, concrete, skyscrapers (modern), skyscrapers (post-modern), skyscrapers (gothic), Wayfarers,  Southern Rock, Warhols. Notice a pattern? 


That's what makes the anachronism that is the Allman Brothers Band's annual residency at the Beacon Theater so special. It is charmingly out of place. When you close your eyes and listen to a gritty '70 version of "Statesboro Blues" ("I'm goin' to the country ...") a $10 bottle of Heineken is not the first thing that comes to mind. You don't see many Harleys in New York. I'm not sure how the Beacon run started (in 1999) or how it has survived, but it is one quirky tradition. I checked off a decade-old bucket list item when Cress and I went this year on March 17. 


The Beacon.  For someone expecting the Fox Theater North, the first thing that strikes you about the Beacon (on Broadway, between 74th and 75th) is its size. Designed as an early motion picture and vaudeville house and opened in 1929, like so much in New York, it's intimate. The seats that my friend John Lyndon had been so kind to line us up with were perhaps 120 feet from the stage but 50 feet from the back wall. (Close quarters are automatically a good thing at any concert worth attending.) It's also ornate; a recent restoration brought it back to its original glory. It's something to behold. Per Wikipedia, "[t]he Beacon's ornate neo-Grecian interior features thirty-foot-tall Greek goddesses flanking the proscenium arch of its curtainless stage, which can rise from its basement level carrying a full classical orchestra." I don't have enough architectural vocabulary to do it more justice, but this was the view from our seats. 

Revival and Relevancy.  No man (not even Keith Richards) is immune to the drag of time. Contrary to the refrain of the night's opener, the road does not go on forever for a Rock band. It's a finite thing. The Allman Brothers are no exception. Following Barry Oakley's untimely death (yes, motorcycle accident in Macon) in 1972, the band was steadily sapped of its vitality as drugs, alcohol, and dissension took their inevitable toll. By 1982, they were done. While a reunion was inevitable, there were two directions it could take. One would have found a couple of the original members performing with a supporting cast of no-names on the Southeastern casino circuit under a banner that lost its true meaning long ago (the pure commercial sell-out). 


Instead, they chose the High Road. They put themselves back to together and did the hard work that is necessary to remain relevant after decades in the business. They reinvented themselves. Beginning with the introduction of Warren Haynes, Allen Woody, and Mark Quinones in 1989, the band fused explosive young talent with the four remaining original members (Gregg Allman, Dickey Betts, Jaimone, and Butch Trucks) to exhilirating effect. The real evolution came with the dismissal of Dickey Betts (sniff sniff; but for the better) and the introduction of then guitar prodigy Derek Trucks in 2000. That began a period of rebirth that saw them dig back into their catalog and re-invent their classics while unveiling a seemingly endless catalog of new covers ranging from Derek & the Dominoes to Dr. John to John Coltrane. A musically-vital project now more than a decade old has resulted. 


Music people are motivated to go and see this band today not because of what they are playing, but how they play it. (Could the same be said for an Eagles reunion crowd or a modern Jimmy Buffet audience). While every ABB crowd is inevitably sprinkled with Decade of Hits devotees waiting for a "Rambling Man" that will never come, the bulk of the people there are real music fans genuinely interested and invigorated by what is happening on the stage. (It's the way I console myself over Duane Allman's untimely death. As great as he was, would he have followed the same course of self-destruction that pushed Jerry Garcia out of musical relevancy in his later years? At the ripe old age of 65, would he still have the volcanic fire that Derek Trucks puts out night after night? Not likely. As a matter of pure music history, it's better for the artist to be gone early than to wither for years in irrelevancy. I'll still never get over it.) Thus, Cress and I ducked out of the chaos of the Broadway sidewalk into the Beacon about 8:00 p.m. 


The Show.  For a Southerner with an affinity for Rock, the Allmans are the home team. They are tied inevitably to the history of Our State like the '91 Braves. Thus, it's hard for me to write about them objectively. What I can tell you is that they are still capable of powerful performance, but they are decidedly older than they were even five years ago. Like an aging quarterback trying to will his aching knees to carry him to one more win, the original ABB members now rely more on the supporting cast. That's not a bad thing. (If you like to hear electric guitar and have never seen Derek Trucks and Warren Haynes share a stage, do yourself a favor.) It seems like Gregg hands a couple more songs a show off to Warren on vocals these days and sits out the instrumentals more. Jaimone is looking a little frail (though I hear his playing past 2:00 a.m. at the post-show party this night was anything but), and I hear Butch Trucks's shoulder is going out on him. Derek and Warren are the focus now, as they should be. Still, this is a band I would rank in my top 5 to see live, on the merits.  


The March 17 Beacon show was a case in point. For a scholar of the genre, the recorded Bill Graham introduction was a goosebumps moment. Coupled with the 40th anniversary of the release of Eat a Peach, it gave the night historical context. Keeping with the theme was a rare "Midnight Rider" opener. (This is the first ABB song that I remember associating with the band. I think it was on a beer commercial that ran about '89; hot girl walking into a dusty bar in the middle of the desert and throwing a coin in the jukebox.) The song is not a platform for extended solos, so it's not on my shortlist for a modern ABB set. On this Saturday night, it worked perfectly as an opener. If there was a 16 oz Stella in the house below shoulder level by the end of the first chorus, I didn't see it. 


Things then got hot. Early. "Trouble No More" is a perfect example of a classic that Derek Trucks has set afire. His completely atypical no-pick cackling demon slide style is perfect for "Trouble," and my jaw was firmly clenched by the end. Before he launches into the solo on this one, you can just hear his SG straining at its reins. It's strong sauce. 


I'd been watching the setlists and knew that the now-patented "I Walk on Guilded Splinters" (Dr. John, believe it or not) was a possibility. Bingo. I can't think of a better example of the band taking a deep-track cover, stamping it with a smoldering ABB brand, and setting it loose on the crowd. It's a thick-steak groove with a screeching roller coaster laid on top of it. I pulled out my phone with the intention of texting a friend: "Derek almost just burned this place to the ground on 'Guilded,'" but I was too excited to type. This is when the fleece came off. Here's the intro (sorry for the abbreviate version, this is long as I could hold my cell phone steady before my Swerve On):

There was no rest for the weary. Having been relatively "quiet," by Guitar legend standards thus far, Warren Haynes took over for the slow Elmore James twelve-bar classic, "The Sky is Crying." Warren's style is powerful, but more precise and in the classical blues vein than Derek's. Warren's body may have been born in Asheville, but his soul was born on the Delta. Like Garcia (albeit with a harder edge), the man can play everything more competently than 99.5% of the world's guitarists can play anything. There's not a song he's afraid to tackle (as we saw later), but old, dirty Blues is right in his wheelhouse. Rock has no more honest, hardworking ambassador than Warren Haynes. He is the standing Godfather of what we call "jam." 


From there, the set stayed on the slow end of the metronome, with the very-new "Egypt" and an unexceptional version of the slow jazzy "Desdemona" that put everyone in their seats for the first time of the night. (Not because anyone was bored; it's just a sign of a 30-60 year old crowd.) The Willie Dixon/Muddy Waters standard, "Hoochie Coochie Man" offered what could have been a set-closing high point. On this night, they gave it a slow tempo intro (think "Mannish Boy" slow) that spilled a little awkwardly into their more traditional arrangement. I thought it fell a little flat. Historical sidenote: The band will never play a better version of this song than the 7/3/70 Atlanta International Pop Festival version.   


A new evolution at the Beacon this year is an acoustic mini-set after the break. The run is always known for eclectic and rare covers (e.g., starting this year with an interpretation of Rogers & Hammerstein's "A Few of My Favorite Things") and big ticket guest appearances. While Randall Bramblett (sax) and Bruce Katz (keys) contributed to the first set, coming out of the break, we were due for a big-time cover. Warren and Gregg took the stage for a mellow version of Jackson Browne's "These Days" (previously unknown to me). A bit of precussion was added for "The Dark End of the Street" (most popular as performed by the Flying Burrito Brothers/Graham Parsons). All in all, a slow start. In hindsight, they were saving up. History followed.


Darkness fell on the stage post-"Dark End." With the lights came the ethereal presence of  Grace Potter. After introductions, the band moved patiently into a mystifying cover of Fleetwood Mack's "Golddust Woman." ("Did she make you cry, make you break down, shatter your illusions of love!?") I've always been a Fleetwood basher. Nevermore. Beyond giving Fleetwood a measure of credibility in my mind, the eight minutes that followed left no doubt that Grace Potter is a Presence. This was a Moment she'd obviously waited for,  and she knocked it out of the park. If the crowd seemed quiet, it's because most of them were staring at her, mouth agape, enchanted as she moved around the stage like a hippie shaman in a trance. It was unforgettable. 


I noticed Warren screaming commands at the band towards the end of "Golddust" and Grace stayed on the stage. Anticipation. Once the electric instruments were handed back out, the band launched into screaming version of Neil Young's "Southern Man." Yes! Yes! "Waaaaareeeeeeeeennnnnnnnn!!!!!" Everybody loves Neil. (If your notion of him is that of a South basher warring with Ronnie Van Sant over her honor, hear the Drive By Truckers' side of this. It's not that simple.) Going back to our theme of juxtaposition, hearing the Long Islanders standing next to us (the guy to Cress's left had on skinny-leg acid wash jeans with '89 vintage black Reebok high tops and a mane of silver hair straight out of Wayne's World; you can't make this up; no, he wasn't trying to be funny) scream the lyrics while listening to Southern legends play an ornate theater on Broadway was apropos. It was an invigorating 12 minutes, frozen in time for me. 
   
Historical sidenote: What you see in that video is the first time in the 40 year plus history of the Allman Brothers Band that a song has been played on a stage with zero members of the original band present.


Once a venue is as overheated as the Beacon was after "Southern Man," the next step is always hard. The air really didn't get back in the sail until later in the set when they brought bassist Oteil Burbridge up for Hendrix's "Manic Depression." 


For the helpless Jerry fans in the audience (me included), an up-tempo version of Little Milton's R&B thumper "That's What Love Will Make You Do" was the late-show highlight. The peak saw Trucks, Haynes, jazz guitarist Jeff Acheson, and Bramblett repeatedly passing solos down a line like a possessed IBM Selectric.  


The recently revived "Jessica" brought the second set to a rousing close. Gregg reminded the audience that he could still blow on a clipped "One Way Out" encore (too short for encore duty IMO), and up came the lights. With smiles on our faces and ringing in our ears, Cress and I took the long walk back down Broadway in the brisk night air.   


I want to say a special thanks to John Lyndon for putting the night together. For years now, he has devoted hours and hours of his time and lent his (deep) connections to the band to make as many tickets as he can available to anyone who expresses a desire to go. If only I knew the number of smiles that he's created in the process. Thanks, John. 

J. Roddy - SOTW - March 10, 2012

"It's like Jerry Lee Lewis backed by Lynyrd Skynard!"

That was my friend Derek's observation two songs into an entertaining set by J. Roddy Walston & the Business at the Fabulous 40 Watt last week. While the front man of this four piece shuffle boogie powerhouse may not have The Killer's vocal or piano chops, he has the same type of contagious manic enthusiasm. If your looking for comparisons, I'd say the band is more Marc Ford era Black Crowes rhythm section and guitar with a biker-hippiefied Ben Folds on the keys (throw in a twist of MMJ just for flavor). The general style of the songs is what you'd expect from a piano heavy modern jam unit with heavy Jerry Lee musical influence; soulful intros that build into SG whirlwhind solos.

On a flat pre spring break Tuesday night, a lesser showman would've been content to put his first 40 Watt headlining slot in the books and move onto the next stop. Sensing an interested but not 100% engaged audience, J. Roddy refused to quit flailing his piano and exhorting the crowd until he had PBR tall boys (and my High Life) in the air. Any band (or person for that matter) is well-served by hard work and intense devotion to what they do. It makes you want to like them. For all their frenetic energy, these guys are intensely focused on their Mission, and it's effective.

I've given the self-titled debut album several listens and, once you adjust your ears, it's quality top to bottom. The new material the band rolled out on Tuesday had similar promise on first listen. Keep your ear on these guys. They seem like a band with the work ethic and repertoire to leave a mark. Your SOTW for March 10, 2012 is their A list show stopper and spiraling rocker, "Brave Man's Dead."    

In other news, your faithful Editor heads off to the Big Apple next week with my Bride to satisfy a decade-long desire to catch the Allman Brothers Band at the Beacon Theater. I suspect I'll find the inspiration and time for a special Empire City edition of Early Evening. Have a great weekend and enjoy this weather!

P.S., SOTW Bonus Beer compliments of Early Evening for the first person who comments with the source of the drum intro on the song linked in the first sentence! Payable the next time I see you. This is an easy one. 

"Late Night" - SOTW - March 2, 2012

When you leave your last bar of the night, you are either going home to crash or you aren't. During your 20's, on those golden nights that never end, "last call!" was like a conductor tapping his baton for the Main Act to begin. (On the extremely rare occasion when I hear it these days, its more like a cry of mercy). The question then became, "what are y'all doing late night?" Not that time mattered, but "late night" ran from around 1:30 a.m. until approximately 4:00 a.m. (daybreak for the unfortunate). It most often involved a "party" at some unlucky soul's residence. Beverages were can beer and liquor drinks only. Even if there had been a keg at some point, it was gone before the revelers left for the bar hours earlier. The sub-activities depended on how depraved a group you were running with. One constant was noise ordinance shattering music played through overloaded speakers that someone's dad had purchased with a year-end bonus back in '78 and kicked down to the kids when he upgraded to Bose Accoustimass. To try and give "late night" any description from there becomes hard. It could involve anything from costumes and karaoke to property destruction.

Getting from the bar to "late night" typically involved a drive (by a hand picked designated driver, of course). The soundtrack for that shuttle was critical for setting the mood. That's why the "shotgun" call was so high stakes after 1:00 a.m. Given that the vehicle was often stuffed over capacity, it wasn't an easy call and drunk people aren't shy about advancing (lame) requests. That's why max volume was a necessity. In a car with predominantly women, something "fun" from the sorororock category worked best. In a car o' dudes, you'd usually choose something a bit more "angry." (Don't worry Zach, we'll give that one the full treatment later). The distance of the drive mattered. A swing from Buckhead to Virginia Highlands gave time for a something more "jammy." The shorter bar > late night haul necessitated something punchier. The ultimate late night short haul (with a longing nod to the Moondogs > Timm Valley Road gauntlet in Buckhead via Pharr Road) is the 2.4 miles of Lumpkin Street that lie between the old Gus Garcia's sector of downtown Athens and the little anonymous red brick house that sits on a curve on Westview Drive at the intersection of that street and ... Westview (a/k/a the most confusing intersection in Athens). That's where my friends Wes and Asa took up residence in the fall of 1997. It was the kind of gloriously decadent setting that would seem made up if it wasn't true. Minds were lost there and GPA's shattered. It's just a few hundred yards north of my home now. Every time I walk by it pushing one of my girls in the jogging stroller I just shake my head and thank Heaven that I'm alive.  

If last call at Tasty World came and went circa '98 and a Land Rover Discovery full of dudes poured out (not having managed to "hook up"), your Early Evening Song of the Week for March 2, 2012 was the ultimate soundtrack for the short haul back to Westview. Played at volume setting 32 (on a scale of 1 to 35 through a 400 watt sound system), this haunting quasi-literary flower power anthem is one that would have you staring out the windshield contemplating the Meaning of Life one second and pounding on the dashboard with exuberance the next. (Hearing it now, I can't help but imagine Hunter Thompson standing at the back of the Matrix Club in San Francisco in fall of '66 staring at Grace Slick and the "house band" work the kinks out of this song.) Here's to "late night's" past! Have a safe weekend, and get to bed early! 

    

SOTW - February 24, 2012

As I sat yesterday enjoying the buena vista on the shores of Lake Buena Vista, I became sentimental. (One is prone to nostalgia when experiencing the "magic" of the Magic Kingdom for the first time in nearly three decades). A thought occurred. Music always sounded a little better when blasting three inches from my ear out of the C pillar speakers in the back of Brian Pheil's '91 candy sucker blue Camaro (6 cyl, Ttops, A/C, auto, clean!); 60 mph with the windows down. In the ignorant bliss of youth, freedom gave music the type of sheen that only a $5,000 custom sound system could put on it today. Life itself was so high fidelity then it didn't matter if the soundtrack was played through an overloaded $10 Taiwanese crap speaker with one of those pointless cardboard cones around the tweeter. 7 o'clock on Friday night. Summer's over. Home football game. New pair of Nike airs. 11:00 pm curfew (one hour weekend extension). "I hope you brought your wood screws, cuz' I'm about to blow your doors completely off!"

Music was best then in short, intense doses. How many 10 minute guitar solos do you hear on an Alice in Chains record? There just wasn't enough time for the anything long; even "November Rain" tested the patience. (Were all those horns at the end really necessary?) The optimum song was long enough to take you out of the parking lot behind "E wing" during a skipped lunch hour and down Pecan Street (at 55 mph), through the hard right onto 16th Avenue, directly into the parking lot of the former DQ. There was never a better example than your Early Evening Song of the Week for February 24, 2012. The feedback statco whammy bar fuzz at the beginning was my first taste of psychedelia. About the time I got my head wrapped around it, Bam! Hard gut shot of Canadian-American electric jive: "I like to dream yes, yes ..." Who needs the trippy stuff when you're skipping lunch? 

There's a bit of very little-known history behind this song that need not be lost. For about 11 minutes, this was going to be the official graduation song of the Crisp County High School class of 1994. Before the class meeting where such matters were taken up, a series of smoky bathroom meetings and "coach, I don't feel so good today" locker room pow-wows resulted in a loose coalition behind this scrappy insurgent candidate. (Or maybe it was just a few outspoken class members who successfully hijacked the meeting from Zackary Wade's less than authoritative hand on the President's gavel). Once the ballots had been cast and counted, your SOTW held a narrow margin over the "Establishment candidate," Mariah Carey's "Hero." Victory! The supporters could just see themselves grooving out of the stadium in their mortarboards as a bona fide hippie anthem filled the Cougar Den! Democracy in action. Majority rules! Then, Principal Brinson caught wind of the disaster that was unfolding in the lunchroom and inserted himself quickly (with walkie talkie in hand). Realizing that such foolishness at what was supposed to be a solemn and inspring event could imperil his seat at the head of the Politburo, he did what any smart dictator would do; he changed the rules midstream and quashed the insurgency. The initial ballots were swept away in a cloud of controversy amongst some muttering about absentee and ISS students not having their chance to vote. "Folks, we forgot to mention this in advance, but this is going to be a two round balloting, and the second round wins." The dream born in molded plastic chairs under flourescent lights was thus shattered. The "re-vote" was a forgone conclusion. Mariah Carey it was.

Though it narrowly missed its place on the ultimate throne of history, your SOTW lives on. While Prinicpal Brinson got the best of me in the Great Senior Song Vote of '91, I snaked through the lunch hour DMZ that surrounded that place my fair share of times. More often than not, Pheil would be the driver in that old blue Camaro. Once we cleared the gravel lot good, we'd roll down the windows and fire up a Camel Special Light. He'd open the old cracked vinyl center console lid and fish out his casette copy of 16 Greatest Hits. (A couple of taps on the knee and a good strong blow would usually suffice to get the McDonald's french fry salt out of it.) The rewind button was long gone, so a Bic pen jammed into the dashboard had to suffice. Song 1, side 2. Turn it up to where he could hear the tape hiss good. Yes! A single hour of freedom never felt so good ....

Skydog's Lost Shoes

Howard Duane Allman was supernatural. The man known as "Skydog" found new galaxies with his guitar. To Hear him is to believe it. His story is one of the great tragedies of Rock history. Unlike the tales of self-destruction that litter the genre (Jim Morrison, Brian Jones, Kurt Cobain), Skydog met his end by pure accident when his Harley Sportster collided with a lumber truck on October 29, 1971 near the intersection of Hillcrest and Bartlett Avenues in Macon. (No, he wasn't hit by a peach truck.) He was just a few weeks shy of his 25th birthday. It's one of those things I've never quite been able to get over despite the fact that I was -4 years old when it happened. He's buried amongst some hardwoods at the bottom of natural amphitheater near the Ocmulgee River in the Rose Hill Cemetery. If you stand there with your eyes closed on a quiet Sunday, you can almost hear the serpentine electric hiss of a '70 era "'Liz Reed" solo blend in with the breeze blowing through the trees.

Duane left behind an infant daughter, named Galadrielle. (Never seen Duane with a baby rattle, check out the photos here.) Galadrielle never knew her father. Living the life of a Rock gypsy, he apparently accumulated very few worldly possessions. (Why would he have needed anything beyond the clothes on his back, a Les Paul, Coricidin bottle, and an amplifier?) Among the things he had when he passed were the (badass) navy suede leather with orange overlay shoes he's seen wearing on the cover of the 1972 posthumous collection of his work, An Anthology.

Here's the best I could do in the way of a close-up.

Duane and his girlfriend Dixie maintained an apartment is Atlanta on 10th Street. The Shoes were there when he died. Finding opportunity in another man's tragedy, when he heard the bad news, some n'er-do-well cleaned out the apartment, including the shoes. During the ensuing 40 years, for all the world knew, the Shoes were lost to history.

Good deeds tend to find the right time and place. Not long ago, a "gentleman" whose name I do not know (if it's the same SOB who availed himself of the Shoes after Duane died, I hope he enjoys reading this) contacted EJ Devokaitis, the curator of the "Big House Museum" in Macon (an ABB museum that resides in a house where the band lived and jammed during their improbable Phil Walden arranged Macon residency). Resisting the urge to do right even 40 years later, the "gentleman" told EJ that he had the Shoes and that, if the museum didn't want them, he was going to sell them on Ebay. EJ wanted them, but not for himself. He negotiated the price this "gentleman" was asking for the Shoes down to $3,000 and bought them out of his personal savings. Knowing that Galadrielle had not known her father and had only a single item that had belonged to him (more on that later), EJ gave the Shoes to Galadrielle. Thus, these remarkable artifacts of Rock history found their way, , against all odds, to the only rightful owner on this earth. Here they are today.

You won't find a man on this earth who knows more about the Allman Brothers Band (or divorce law), or shares that knowledge more generously, than my friend John Lyndon. John's brother, Twiggs, was the road manager for the band from it's earliest days. (Twiggs's story is an amazing one in its own right. While John tells it best, you can check it out here.) For any ABB fan, if you ever get the opportunity to spend 30 minutes with John, don't miss it. I promise you'll be amazed.

At some point, Gregg Allman gave Twiggs one of Skydog's sunburst Les Pauls. Being the deeply generous and decent man that he is, John made sure that Galadrielle ended up with that guitar. According to John, it is the first thing she had ever owned that belonged to her father.

Every year, John uses his connections to arrange for a huge block of open invite tickets to one night of the ABB's annual run at the Beacon Theater in New York. Not having been, I've always thought of this as a bucket list item for any homegrown Southeastern music lover. John was kind enough to join me for lunch recently. Over a "Power Lunch" at the National, he wowed me with unknown chapters of the ABB legend, including the Shoes. (It would be fun to listen to John tell stories even if I cared nothing about the subject matter, which was the furthest thing from the case here). He was obviously bothered at the idea of EJ coming out of pocket to put the Shoes in the hands of their rightful owner. Being the head of devoted horde of ABB nuts, he was in a position to do something about it. Before I left that lunch, I was determined to do two things. Play my part in getting the Shoes to Galadrielle, and go to the Beacon.

I'm proud to report that I've accomplished both. Cress and I are booked to be at the Beacon in March for our own "Evening with the Allman Brothers Band." Using a small surcharge on the dozens of Beacon tickets he purchased this year, John has reimbursed EJ for the Shoes. He continues to collect donations, and the surplus will go the the Big House Museum. Galadrielle will get a card from our group to express our happiness that the Shoes are with their rightful owner. Nearly forgotten, a brief tale in the history of Rock has thus found its happy ending.

SOTW - February 10, 2012

So, I was in Atlanta on Monday for a late-starting expert deposition. That being a work function, I was in my standard squareish navy lawyer suit with only slightly stylish (two years ago) un-risky tie. I had my faithful sidekick and resident legal eagle, Dustin Marlowe, with me. The proceedings drug on for several hours, putting us out after 8:00 pm. That's past normal dinnertime and I was famished. A slighly-panicked search for a restaurant ensued, which ended at the Tuk Tuk Thai Food Loft at the corner of Peachtree and Deering (a very cool space with delicious alternative takes on Thai classics). There were perhaps 12 diners in the large restaurant, including us. I was too hungry to take in much of the scene. One Red Hare Ale and a plate of what I would call "pad Thai" later, things were going much better. Whew.

About the time I was wiping the last of the chili powder induced persperation off my brow, Dustin says, "dude, that's Andre 3000." [Cue hushed but wide-eyed tones].

"No waaaaay."
"Duuuude! Just look!"

As my head pivoted left and I got my eyes on him, I heard his voice as he cut up with a staff member. That removed all doubt. "Dude, that is Andre 3000." "I'm sorry Ms. Jackson!" Though he is not tall of stature, Andre Benjamin's visual impact from 12 feet away is immediate. Dude is stylish. You'd know he was a famous if nobody told you. He was wearing the kind of outfit one would throw on when he got off work early unexpectedly with nothing to do on a cold afternoon, except this outfit looked to have been custom tailored in Milan. Super fine overwashed denim was prevalent, including hyper-tailored pants and cargoish vest worn over an orange and maroon striped rugby shirt that I thought had gone out of style in the late 80's. (Obviously not. If Andre wears something, it's gotta be stylish.). The too-stylish-for-a-normal-human-on-a-Monday ensemble was topped off by one of his sigature, slighly over-large "gatsby" style hats. Apparently a regular at Tuk Tuk, he was engaging to the staff and seemed approachable ... just not approachable enough for some random 36 year old suit to walk up reeking of Thai pork (Andre is a vegan) and request a picture that would be on Facebook 90 seconds later. He got on the elevator and left. We got on our cell phones and started calling people.

Andre 3000 is, of course, one-half of the hip-hop duo Outkast. Rising out of humble beginnings in the East Point section of Atlanta, he and his partner, Antwan "Big Boi" Patton have ridden their "Dirty South G Funk" to 25 million album sales worldwide and six Grammy awards. In the process, they put "the ATL" on the map as a hub for the most dynamic and enduring musical movement of the last 20 years. I am by no means a scholar of hip-hop or Oukast, but I've tried to learn enough to appreciate the genre and its vast influence on what we hear today. (Totally unrelated sidenote. If you do not have a copy of Kanye West's My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, check it out. It's spectactular.) It takes less than a song to develop an appreciation for Outkast once you hear it. The content and delivery of their music is as original as it is intellectual. Your Early Evening Song of the Week for the week of February 11, 2012 tells it best. Enjoy!

SOTW - February 2, 2012

I oppose the idea of a Walmart in downtown Athens. The reason why is simple: Walmart destroys small and locally owned businesses and replaces them with Big Box retail that has changed the aesthetic of America for the worse. I grew up in a small town. I watched one small business after another wither and die into the Walmart black hole. Civic leader after civic leader (my father included) fought in vain to reverse this tide and revitalize the downtown. To no avail. It's not because people stopped buying things. They just started buying them in the giant cinder block and aluminum cube out by the interstate instead of the plate glass, brick and mortar storefronts that had been the heart of commerce in the town for generations.

It's not enough to say, "but Walmart will create jobs and we need jobs!" Really? Do you have data to back that claim up, because that's not what this community experienced. I have no doubt the same story has played out in hundreds of other towns across this country. Sure, Walmart hires people, but how many jobs does their presence destroy? You can't discuss one without considering the other. More to the point, what kind of jobs are we talking about here? My firm has a growing employment law practice. Dozens of Walmart employees call my office each year, and we see their problems first hand. Not surprisingly, we just don't hear as much from the Marriott, FedEx, and Publix employees. Folks, not all jobs are created equal.

I run a small business. I vehemently support free markets and an economically growing and vibrant Athens. We need more jobs and economic growth, just not at the cost of the soul of our downtown. There is more to building and maintaining a great city than making every decision based on economic productivity. If that was the only concern of smart city planners, Central Park in New York would be a giant field of skyscrapers. The Pritzker Pavilion in Chicago would be a Barnes & Noble with attached Starbucks. The ancient oaks that I was married amongst in the City Park in New Orleans would have been burned as firewood long ago and shotgun houses build in their place. Piedmont Park in Atlanta would be Ansley Mall, Phase II. Wouldn't the North Oconee Greenway be more economically productive if there were a couple of warehouses and a cattle processing facility there instead? Wouldn't that create some jobs and increase the tax base? Any takers?  

Your Early Evening Song of the Week for February 3, 2012 is an admirable effort by some of Athens' finest musicians to give voice to these concerns. I hope that our political leaders are listening, and that they will do what they lawfully and rightfully can to make our growth smarter.