mp at The Saint
August 19, 2009

     I don’t believe anyone who says that rock and roll can be explained.  For the past week, I’ve been desperately searching for words which will fully illuminate my perceptions of our eighth High Life Wednesday.  In truth, I still haven’t found the words, but tonight, I am confident that they will finally surface.  I am confident because the margins of my Boston Globe are already filled with blue ink.  I am hopeful because, from my current location-- Section 50, Row G, Seat 5, Fenway Park—I see two signs that rock and roll is present in Boston.  First, a young kid in Row D is wearing a Dropkick Murphys t-shirt.  Second, I see Kate Hudson.  She's not yet responding to the name Penny Lane, but I'm not worried.  There are nine innings to go, and Jeter is stepping up to the plate.

     A venue alone does not make a band or a team play well, but there’s no denying that the right venue and the right crowd can enhance one’s experience of an event.  As Jeter strolls to the plate, all eyes focus on the space between the pitcher’s mound and the batter’s box.  My eyes shift from left to right, from the Green Monster to the Pesky Pole, and in the split second before the first pitch, I am reminded of a thousand moments from the past— Williams, Fisk, Dent, and Boone.  I am reminded of moments when the stage lights dim and my favorite bands take the stage. 

     Despite the fact that our band lives in North Jersey and New York, the Saint is our home field.  We know the staff the way that regulars know the ushers at Madison Square Garden, and we know the quirks of the Saint’s stage and sound the same way that the best left fielders know the ways in which balls will carom off of the Green Monster.  As Jeter slams the game’s first pitch into the right-center field seats, I think back to the first time that I saw Maybe Pete at the Saint.

     I don’t remember the year, but I’m almost certain that it was a Wednesday, and that it was Saint owner Scott’s birthday.  Truthfully, I traveled from Long Island specifically to see the headlining band, Marah, but I knew that Maybe Pete was a cut above the rest after I saw them open for Bob Bandiera a few months earlier.  In short, I walked out of the Saint convinced that I had just witnessed the two best bands in America.  I’m pretty sure that I heard, “No One But Yourself To Blame,” “Outta My Hands,” “Close Enough for Rock and Roll,” and “Exit 140A.”  Of course, my perspective on those songs is much different now than it was at that time. 

     In the months following Scott’s birthday show, I spotted Frankie and Kelly at various clubs in Philadelphia, New York, and New Jersey.  At the Bowery Ballroom, I tapped Frankie’s shoulder and told him how much I enjoyed his band.  As I walked away, I heard Kelly whisper a question.  I find myself repeating Frankie’s answer often now:  I don’t know, but he’s seen our band.  It wasn’t until a few months later that we discovered our shared passions for music, baseball, and New York City.  For me, the most important Maybe Pete show was one that I didn’t attend.  I was half asleep on a bus headed from Amherst to New York when my phone rang.  A college friend was calling from the Saint to tell me that Maybe Pete was looking for a drummer, and that if I was interested, I should email Kelly in the morning.   

     I stare at Kelly’s handwriting and I try to replay last week’s set list in my mind.  “Close Enough” was tight, not too fast.  “Love and Fear” felt as good as ever.  “Blame” had great energy and forward momentum, thanks in large part to Will’s solid bass lines.  We pulled off “Sweet Virginia,” and I’m thinking that we should experiment more with stripped-down, acoustic arrangements.  “Exit 140A” was, as usual, loud and proud.  We ended the song and I knew that on this night, the four of us were on the same page.  I run down the set list and I’m struck by the number of songs that I didn’t hear on that night almost six years ago.  I’m proud that we’re able to mix up our set lists from week to week, and I’m anxious for people to hear our latest recording.  One thing hasn’t changed over the years.  The band never crosses the line that separates attitude from arrogance.  We’re all too aware of our strengths and weaknesses, but like all great teams, we work together and we almost always deliver when the game is on the line.  

     In terms of technical ability, our band resembles The Bad News Bears.  If judged strictly on sheer power, passion, and volume, we’re Murderer’s Row.  Over the past few weeks, there have been moments of complete ineptitude and moments of absolute brilliance.  Most of week three was a train wreck, like Robinson Cano’s first inning tonight.  Our beginnings and endings were sloppy.  At times, we were dropping beats and we were out of tune, but, like Cano, we redeemed ourselves by playing one of the best versions of “Somehow” in a recent memory.  In my mind, this past week was one of the best shows of the residency.  From the first note, our starts and stops were crisp, clean, and tight.  Sticks flowed off drumheads, and strings rang true and in tune.  From my seat behind the drums, I saw nothing but positive, confident body language despite the fact that all of us were still recovering from injuries suffered at the recent charity softball tournament.  Like four pitchers who were dealing their best stuff, we found our groove and delivered.

     Ironically, I find myself sitting on a bus.  That’s where I’m riding, from Boston to New York, just as I did five years ago when I received the phone call informing me that Maybe Pete was auditioning drummers.  Then, I knew that I had nothing to lose.  Now, I realize just how much I’ve gained: music that I never thought I’d make, friends that I never thought I’d find.  Thanks to Frankie and Kelly, I’ve had the opportunity to meet many kindred souls.  Mark and Kerri Linskey, Bruce Tunkel, Max Caselnova, Marc Gambino, Keith McCarthy, Lindsey Miller, and the newest members of our rock and roll mafia, Will and Katie Cooke.  

     On this bus, everyone’s looking forward.  I’m looking forward to our final High Life Wednesday.  We’re bringing copies of our new E.P., “Pancakes and Martinis.”  I don’t know if Wednesday will be our best show of the residency, but I can promise that we’re bringing all of the instruments that we need to get the job done.  Guitars, basses, drums, tire irons, baseball bats, and wrenches.  We’re bringing our collective experience and our love and knowledge of all things rock and roll.  We’re pulling out of Boston now, and I can still hear Red Sox fans singing, “Sweet Caroline.”  As for me, I’m going back to New York City.  I do believe I’ve had enough.

     As the bus creeps slowly through the Bronx, I think about real, live bleeding fingers.  I think that “140A” is our Mariano Rivera.  I hear a baby crying, and I reach for my headphones.  I hear “Asshole” and I imagine Dion and the Belmonts.  I hear the words, “holy cow.”  I see a photo of my friend with Mickey Mantle, and I see the smile on my Dad’s face.  Streetlights turn from green to red and back again.  I look right and see one word.  Apollo.  I feel good.  I hear a man scolding his son.  This time, you will listen.  Yeah.  This time it’s for real.  I see the lights of Times Square.  Hold on, I’m coming.  I see Penn Station and I see a thousand people who are born to run, who are born to lose, who are just about a moonlight mile on down the road.  I step onto the pavement and hear Sister Wynona Carr sing these words: life is a ballgame.

     I tuck my pad underneath my arm, throw my last good pen in the trash, and sigh.  I still haven’t found the right words, but I’m close enough for rock and roll.      

By Johnny Macko

Setlist:
Close Enough For Rock-n-Roll
So Damn Easy
Through The Static
Last One Standing
Between the Love and Fear
The Guitars Got Louder
Sweet Virginia (Stones)
Kite
No One But Yourself To Blame
Outta My Hands
Another Cigarette
Sympathy for the Devil (Stones) [w/ Jeremy Korpas]
Exit 140A