Archive for August 24, 2006

Same old, Same old (Thoughts on the music schedule at Kipona)

August 24, 2006 / Jersey / 3 comments

I’m going to try to put this as nicely as possible…

Kipona Fest is next weekend here in Harrisburg. Similar to The American Music Fest and Patriot-News Artsfest, Kipona is a three-day long event featuring art, food and music along Front Street in Harrisburg.

It is a great time. For the past three years, I’ve taken Kaiya down for at least one of the days to enjoy some Funnel Cake, good weather and fireworks.

(I left one important item out of that list…did you catch it?)

The food selection is mostly carnival fare–but that’s good. What red-blooded American doesn’t enjoy Funnel Cake, Corn Dogs, six dollar lemonade and Cotton Candy now and again?

Commendations to the City of Harrisburg in the fireworks department as well. We can always look forward to laying out the blanket, looking up at the sky and watching the display reflect off of the waters of the Mighty Susquehanna. (Then again, fireworks are kind of like Funnel Cake–even if they suck, they’re still pretty good. Or is that pizza? Or sex? Either way, you get the picture.)

Fun ensues running into people that I rarely get to see outside of a venue, live music or bar environment. The standard 3-5 minute chit chat of “good to see you, how’s things?” is relatively amusing.

And the weather is always bearable. It looks like it’s going to be hovering in the mid-80′s that weekend. Perfect, in my opinion.

But for all of the fun and food and good times that Kipona has, I am constantly disappointed with the live music selection.

It’s become predictable.

Now I’m going to try to stay as politically correct as possible without naming names…only suggested improvements.

Suggested improvement # 1: If a band or act has played on a stage during one of the “big three” Harrisburg events, they shouldn’t be allowed to play again until next year. KiponArtsMusicFest all seem to blend together–they’re structured the same, they feature many of the same vendors–tell me, “Why do they have to feature the same tired acts?” Like clockwork, whenever the schedule is “announced”, I can’t help but roll my eyes and utter “pfft” after “pfft” after “pfft” while reading the schedule.

Suggested improvement # 2: If a band, member of a band, or solo act is booked for a performance at one of the Big Three, they should only play one slot!! This befuddles me the most! It’s probably safe to estimate that, in the Greater Harrisburg Area, there are no less than one thousand available performers and bands that are of equal or greater quality than the acts that get booked year after year. How about mixing it up a bit? Is the talent buyer of the festival that out of touch that he can’t craft a schedule without booking some acoustic cover act two and sometimes three times over the course of the weekend?!

Suggested improvement # 3: Look beyond the open mics and local acoustic circuit for entertainment. (This one sort of bleeds through from S.I.#2) Don’t get me wrong, I am a huge supporter, proponent and friend of the Harrisburg Music Scene. (That should really go without saying) But what incentive is there for someone like me (or any of the hundreds of other local music fans that see live, local music on a regular basis) to trudge out to a stage and check out something new? I would assume that the City of Harrisburg Parks and Rec would want some variety in their schedule. Which leads me to ask: “Is the schedule just copied and pasted from year to year?” ‘Cause it sure seems that way!

Suggested improvement # 4: How about trying to attract some new sponsors? I know that Comcast is a big dog with lots of money to throw around, but surely some of those stage and sound rigs couldn’t cost more than a few thousand bucks for the weekend….How about splitting some of the cost with potential sponsors? I’d love to see a Neato Burrito stage…or a Atomic Warehouse stage…or how about a Local Bar/restaurant stage? We see enough ads for cable, internet and banking companies. What’s wrong with getting some local flavor in on the action?

C’mon Harrisburg–put some of that entertainment tax to good use! (wink, wink, nudge, nudge)

Suggested improvement # 5: When the Special Events Director of the City of Harrisburg position opens up again, give me a call.

It’s easy to be an armchair quarterback–and I’m sure some of you may raise a brow or roll an eye at some of my musings…some may even think that I sound bitter–but it’s not bitterness at all. Most of the bands that I work with play at one or all of these events. But I’ve told them the same thing…I’d much rather check out some new, established acts than see the “same old, same old” year after year.

That’s what the music schedule at Kipona seems like to me…same old, same old.

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Fire Drill!

August 21, 2006 / Jersey / No comments

Ever had the feeling that nothing is surprising? That you’ve probably seen it all?

How about when you think you’ve got all your “T’s” crossed and “I’s” dotted that you kick your feet up; only to have the chair you’re resting on kicked out from under you?

Welcome to my world; 1:10AM Sunday August 20th.

We were in the office preparing settlement for Brothers Past at The Abbey Bar at Appalachian Brewing Company. Although we had anticipated a larger crowd for An Intro To Ilya, all of the numbers added up and everyone was getting paid that night. (A good thing for any promoter).

Now let me back up a few steps; the life of an independent concert promoter isn’t always glamorous. Especially when you’re also the production manager, venue contact and hospitality coordinator. I’m not crying, but I do wear a lot of hats.

The past couple of shows we’ve done have been musically sound, but financially, um…underwhelming. There were a few factors involved in the “43″ of 5.12; and you may remember the letdown of The Son of A Blues Man.

But this week’s wrench in the gears was something I hadn’t even thought of, much less prepared for. Which was a staunch reminder to always stay on my toes and never take anything for granted in this business. The show really doesn’t end until the last patron is out of the building…in this case of this past Saturday August 19, they were out of the building in EIGHT MINUTES.

With the looming no-smoking laws on the horizon, we’ve been beginning to host an event or two per month as “non-smoking” shows. I’m a smoker, but am really looking forward to the day that PA catches up with the rest of the country (isn’t that always the case in PA?) and bans cigarette smoking in bars and restaurants.

This past Saturday, we were on the fence about whether or not to have it be smoking or non until about three hours before doors. We decided on keeping it a smoking show; mostly to accommodate the fans.

The show goes off without a hitch. Brothers Past introduced their smokin new drummer (and Jersey native) Ilya “Sputnick” Stemkovsky to a warm audience with open arms. The first set hooked the crowd of just about 200 with some old classics with a new twist; the sound was pretty good (we really could use some bigger new speakers and fly them from the ceiling, but then again; there’s a lot of things on that list); and everyone was having fun.

Seeing and presenting as much live music as I do, I can’t always be the biggest fan of the music we present. But I can normally judge the success of a show not by the amount of heads in a room or how many twenties are in the drawer; rather, listening to the “YEAH!” from the crowd in between songs. There could be twenty five people in the room–but if they all simultaneously react to the crescendo of a song in the same fashion, you can tell if the bands doing the right thing on any given night.

Everything was on-point on Saturday. It was all there. Lots of anticipation for the first two-set club date with a new drummer; some great reunions of friends and longtime followers of the band; the weather, the drinks, the room…the vibe was there.

And then, sure as a bear shitting in the woods, it happened.

Sitting in the chair with my feet proverbially kicked up on the desk, I heard it from through the floor below me. Mixed in with the crowd banter, thumping bass, blips, beats and guitar riffs, was a steady “beeeep…beeeep…beeeep…beeeep”. Knowing the electronic element of Brothers Past, it wasn’t until I pressed the button next to the elevator door that I realized that these new beeeeps I heard weren’t part of the song.

No, friends. “Those beeps aren’t part of the song! The fucking fire alarm is going off!!” is the first thought in my head. The elevator turned itself off automatically and descended to the first floor…but the band played on.

I raced down the stairs at the front of the building, got back into the room and breathed a mini-sigh of relief when I got in front of the stage. It was sort of audible over the PA system, but it didn’t really drown out the music.

Brewery Managers and staff began scrambling and I got the word that the fire department was on it’s way. It was probably only three or four minutes from the first beeps to the time the trucks and police arrived; but it felt like an hour. And then, when the manager and I hooked up again–I got the words that I knew were coming, but dreaded to hear–”The fire department is here and we’ve got to get everyone out right now.”

Shit.

“Mother fucker!” was all I could think. Why’s it always gotta be something?? We were so fucking close! Maybe two or three more songs and it’d have been a stellar show. Not a single bump in the road.

But the fire alarm had to go off.

My first stop was the bands lighting guy and road manager, Matt–”Dude! We gotta get everyone out. The Fire Marshall is here and he’s pissed.”

“Are you serious?!”

“Yeah.”

Next stop was the sound man–Same reaction, but he also let me know that the song was maybe thirty seconds to over. “Okay, as soon as they’re done, let them know…”

Over to the house lights, the room blasted bright white lights that could barely cut through the dense cloud of smoke in the room. Starting at the back of the bar, I began rounding up the troops; “Everybody out! The fire departments here and we gotta get everybody out! Put down’ your drinks and head for the door in an orderly fashion!”

The song ended, the crowd applauded and Tom made the announcement:

“You’re not going to believe this” He said, “but the fucking fire alarm is going off and they want us all to get out”.

And exodus began.

Standing at the front doors, we shuffled them all out. All two hundred dancing, happy, influenced kids. And it was smooth. Everyone was out in about eight minutes. Calm, organized, helpful. Had there really been a fire, this would have been a textbook evacuation. Sure, I had never even thought about what it would be like to evacuate a room full of entranced, die hard music fans a the peak of the second set, but it went smooth.

Now the police officer that responded; he’s a different story altogether.

See, we were all relatively cool. Perhaps it was the confidence of having combed the building for a fire and found nothing; perhaps it was the confidence in really knowing our crowd, but we were cool. (Band, Brewery and Event staff and crowd, that is)

But if this guys demeanor was any indication of how he handles himself under stress, perhaps he should consider a different calling.

I’m sure that two hundred drunk music fans at 1:15 AM intimidated this guy, but he really could have handled himself better. Instead of calmly finding someone in charge, he barreled up the stairs and into the doorway belting “I need to find who’s in charge!!! I need to find who’s in charge!!!”

So I stepped up “Hey, I’m the promoter here. What’s up?”

“But are you in charge!?!?!” His eyes bulging and veins popping out of his forehead.

“Well, I’m not the top of the chain, but I’m pretty close tonight.”

“Look man, are you gonna help me or are you gonna give me a hard time?!?!?!?”

Um, sure officer. I’m in charge. What’s up?

“Are all of these people coming back in?”

“Uh, yeah–that’s what we planned on”

“You’re NO help!!!!”

And he scurried back down the stairs.

Shortly after, the last of the patrons had made it out to the side parking lot and all was relatively calm. The staff and I made our way down the stairs to join our crowd in the lot for a second set break.

Lights were flashing, cops were there, but all was surprisingly calm.

About five minutes later, we confirmed with the fire department that the alarm was tripped by the combination of the bands fog machine and two hundred smokers in a room.

Then we began the re-immigration.

Stepping back out into the crowd, we made the announcement “Band and Staff! Back in the building! Band and staff please! Back in the building. Set three is starting in 5 minutes!”

We cleared a path and welcomed them back, the crowd made it back up the stairs in a few minutes, we turned off the lights again and the show went on.

All in all, it went better than could have been expected. But several lessons were hard learned this past Sunday morning–

1. Just when you think you have all of your bases covered, recount your bases. ‘Cause new ones are always popping up.

2. When it comes to having a good time, safety matters.

Sure, we knew there wasn’t a fire. We had gone through the whole building prior to the evacuation. But had the whole Brewery and Roundtable staff not been on our A-Game, things could have been much, much worse.

History’s tragedies like The Station in Warwick RI or the massacre at Altamont showed us that a crowd, especially a drinking crowd, could be deadly.

But when all of your I’s are dotted and T’s are crossed, everything’s much easier to read.

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After dinner, on my stoop…

August 13, 2006 / Jersey / No comments

While out on my front stoop enjoying a smoke after dinner, I was advantaged enough to view no less than fifteen young males and three or four young women being loud, disrespectful, violent and belligerent with one another.

They were all between twelve and fifteen years old.

Like a pack of roaming dogs, these youth were what appeared to be “play fighting”; or just horsing around–but it most definitely did have a bitter, hostile undertone to it–like things could (and likely would have; had my neighbor and I not chased them away) get blown out of proportion and a handgun goes off…

The odd thing, though, was that they were all dressed almost exactly alike–oversized white tee shirt with black shin-length shorts or pants and black sneakers.

My knee jerk reaction was to call the police–like I have many times before (mostly to no avail).

But further thinking led me to the notion that perhaps instead of expecting the police to be there to keep the streets clean; maybe the parents should be made more accountable for what their kids are doing while roaming the streets.

And the solution doesn’t have to be punishment–we know the system is clogged enough as it is. Maybe more responsibility from the media that’s obviously got plenty to throw around.

People see enough ads for the hottest whip, illest ringtones, most diggity dopest burger and, probably the worst, most ineffective ads ever: the anti pot ads that show the kid with his fist in his mouth…

Maybe instead of the government spending billions on advertising for military recruiting, they can funnel some funds towards a Responsible Parenting Program.

Imagine for a moment your television screen showing not some camoflouged, armed and ready for battle commoner-turned-hero; rather a Mother Father and Daughter fishing in a stream–or washing the car–or gardening?

It starts at the top, right?

In a perfect world, the police would be there to assist with a fender bender, get a cat out of the tree or pop the lock on a car with the keys stuck in it and the engine running.

But this ain’t a perfect world.

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Another Smokescreen

August 11, 2006 / Jersey / No comments

International and national politics have never really been interesting subjects to me.

Normally, I read disturbing stories in the paper and, like most Americans, realize that there’s not much that I can do about it.

Since 9/11, the world that we’ve come to know and love has changed so dramatically it’s hard to ignore.

Patriot Act laws aside, the price of just about everything has skyrocketed.

And despite all of the blogs and underworld reporting (footnoted, documented and proven theories of what our current administration is really up to), our nation of people has failed to rise up and make a change.

We’re continually spoon fed ideologies, standards and rules of the way things have to be–when in reality, those rules only benefit a very small number of people.

We’re taxed.
We’re restrained by antiquated laws.
The concept of marriage is continually crammed down our throats despite a 70% failure rate.
The police seem to be just a facade.
Crime prevails in every city across the country.
Children are born into poverty, social assistance and a path that will undeniably lead to a life of crime.

But what do we do about it?

We blog.

We bitch.

We write letters to the editor.

And what does that accomplish?

ZERO.

Because we continue to swallow the rhetoric that it’s “all for our own good and safety of our country”.

War is exploding all over the world and the latest smokescreen is some horseshit story about a plot to blow up planes from the UK flying to the US.

Perhaps I’m cynical, but the first thing that crossed my mind when I read the headlines was “bullshit”.

They’re diverting our attention to hide some other gross injustices that are happening by the minute under our current regime.

…

I watched The Simpsons tonight and believe that Kent Brockman said it best: “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again–Democracy just doesn’t work. “

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The Park With The Castle in East Pennsboro

August 9, 2006 / Jersey / One comment

It was maybe eighty five degrees, mostly sunny with a mellow breeze now and again this afternoon when Kaiya and I went to the park.

After navigating through the rush hour traffic between 4:30 and 5:30 on a Wednesday afternoon, we headed straight for the sandbox. The park with the Castle in East Pennsboro is different than the park across the street from our house.

See, if Kaiya were to leave a bike, let alone a single Polly Pocket, at the park across the street; they’d surely not be there when she came back. That’s just the kind of place it is.

The park with the Castle in East Pennsboro is different, though. It’s smack dab in the middle of a subdivision of subdivision of a subdivision and a couple strip malls.

Not that it’s a bad thing, but it’s just very suburban. Whereas the park across the street from our house is, most definitely, urban.

Each day at the park across the street from our house, children gather to play on the swings, climb the monkey bars or play kickball in the clearing near the street. Normally, anywhere from ten to twenty five or so kids will be playing.

And the language that comes out of these kids’ mouths is downright disturbing.

Now don’t get me wrong, I admit to having something of a potty mouth myself, but I’m a big kid now and can talk however I’d like in the presence of other big kids.

But if my Grandmother or Mother ever heard me say a fraction of the words or phrases that get spouted out like a hacked fire hydrant by these kids, I most likely wouldn’t have any teeth today.

That’s just the way it was.

But I digress.

The park with the Castle in East Pennsboro is frequented by something of a Minivan Militia. It’s got a real wholesome feel to it. I feel safe letting Kaiya play in the sandbox with three or four other kids that are close to her age. Obviously, I keep my eye out at all times for the potential threat of danger or a predator, but that’s just the way it is when you’re a parent.

I’m also not worried that the sandbox has become a Chris Rock stand up performance–where they say words that you can’t even hear on the radio.

Despite my confident feelings and enjoyment of the park with the Castle in East Pennsboro, I couldn’t believe what I heard when I got back to the sandbox to coax Kaiya into putting her shoes on and getting ready to go–It wasn’t a swear word or a derogatory phrase. The cute little girl didn’t even say “damn” or “hell” or “ass”.

While I was shaking the sand from Kaiya’s socks and slipping them back on her sweaty little feet; a little girl probably six, maybe seven years old playing in the sandbox with the other kids broke the flow of requests for the bucket or shovel or sifter or rake and said

“I was in foster for four days.”

Hoping she had some odd accent or was mispronouncing the name of the beach town that she traveled to with her parents, I went back to shaking the sand out of Kaiya’s sneakers…

“I was in…I was in foster for four days” she rattled again.

Silence from the other kids in the sandbox.

“Do yooooou know what foster is?” she knowingly asked the girl, probably four, playing with the sifter.

“Noo” she answered meekly.

Tying the knot, and then the double knot, on her left sneaker I listened to the chubby little blond girl begin to explain…

“Foster is when…is when you go to live..um…with someone who isn’t your parents for like four days…or for a year…and when you turn eighteen you get to do whatever you want.”

The second knot on her left shoe was tied as I helped her up and dusted off her shorts and top; a small poof of dust gently blowing in the wind similar to Pig Pen from Peanuts.

And we walked to the swingset, hand in hand, the warmth of the afternoon sun completely useless against the shiver of cold I felt after hearing that cute, chubby little five or six year old explain to everyone in the sandbox what it means to be in “foster”.

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