RIP Pat DiNizio

<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/UNZbP3ZVem4" frameborder="0" gesture="media" allow="encrypted-media" allowfullscreen></iframe>Saw the Smithereens many times in the late '80s -- most memorably a Stone Pony show broadcast live on WNEW-FM before which Edward Natoli and I visited a Palace Amusements overrun with crack dealers -- but my favourite Pat DiNizio anecdote occurred when the band opened for Squeeze at Jones Beach. 'We're the Smithereens!' cried DiNizio. Silence. 'We're the SMITHEREENS!' he cried again, eliciting weak applause. 'We're the FUCKIN' SMITHEREENS!' The Long Island crowd went wild. A band that good shouldn't have had to work so hard to be appreciated. Maybe DiNizio's passing at 62 will bring long-overdue acclaim. RIP to the pride of Scotch Plains, NJ.

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Sunday at the Stony Pony V, The Local Taphouse, St Kilda

When I was a kid, the satisfying crux of Christmas was its ritual. Going up to the attic on some ethereally ordained date. Bringing down boxes from another lifetime, before my parents divorced, like an elementary-school-aged mayor unsealing a time capsule every December. There'd be an NFL game on TV, grey sky outside, maybe a flurry or two skipping through bare branches. It being the '70s we had an artificial tree, and it being the only kind of tree we knew, my brother Kevin and I never thought we were missing anything. That tree was crap but I loved every one of its forever mangled, color-coded branches that fit like gnarly pipe cleaners into a green-spray-painted stump. When that tree was upright and adorned with lights the size of XXL eggs I'd stare at it like baby Jesus himself looking up at a sea of wino-looking faces gobsmacked by the kid with a shiny halo around his lumpy skull.

What's this got to do with listening to Asbury Park rock and roll, raising money for charity and drinking the finest craft beer in Melbourne? Nothing, except that as I ponder my motivation for holding five Sundays at the Stone Pony, I realise I'm never happier than the moment I step back from the Local Taphouse's rear wall and gaze upon our pseudo Stone Pony banner hanging exactly as it does in that shitty little brick building on the corner of Ocean Avenue and Second Avenue in Asbury Park. So much of my former life is gone forever but for a few hours the Pony breathes life into my adopted hometown of St Kilda, as far from New Jersey as you can get without boarding a spacecraft. When the first notes of Southside Johnny's 'This Time It's for Real' scream through the speakers I can smell the Atlantic Ocean and sense the ghosts of Palace Amusements and the Casino on the Asbury Park boardwalk of my youth.

I'm going to miss that. Because the magnificent Stone Pony banner that my friend and 'Sunday at the Stone Pony' colleague Piera made back in 2014 will never again grace the Local Taphouse. I'm done trying to tap into whatever fellowship Springsteen's appearance on these shores the past 3 out of 4 years has created. The people have spoken. They don't care. That's life.

We raised a little over $1000 for Lifeline Australia at Stone Pony V but that was due to the obscene generosity of a handful of attendees -- I'm looking at you, Stewie -- and a large contingent of colleagues from the Intrepid Group who boosted attendance numbers that would have otherwise depressed the fuck out of me.

I wouldn't bother to post about something so wildly successful except for the two women who never, and I mean never, fail to humble me with their selflessness and undaunted spirit. I've already mentioned Piera -- her spiritual sister and rock and roll troubadour is Mary. To me they're literally the finest people I've come to call friends during my ten years in Melbourne.

They're two of the finest humans you'll ever meet. They're both genuine Chris Cornell fans and were devastated by his suicide back in May. We never discussed it but held matching opinions that a suicide prevention organisation would benefit from another Sunday at the Stone Pony. They're shown above speaking about the need to raise awareness about suicide, their experiences as teachers working with vulnerable students, firing people up to throw a couple extra bucks into the coffers.

Thank you both. It's been a good run. And thanks to everyone who's come over the years.

Last-minute silent auction preparations.

A small portion of silent auction items.

Mary and Piera even arranged for exclusive Stone Pony V t-shirts to be made.

Selena, Jamie, Piera, Stew and Carly ... legends all.

The Wonder Twins and a Big Galoot.

Dear -- and exceptionally photogenic -- friends Ashmin and Rose.

One last group photo in front of the almighty Stone Pony banner.

An Adelaide Odyssey ... or how I drove all night to see Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band

Funny thing, desire. Makes a man do things that jeopardise his very survival for a chance at the ephemeral, the mysterious, the eternal. The proverbial golden ring, or in the case of my seven-year-old self, an actual golden ring, available on the Palace Amusements merry-go-round (not the Casino carousel across Ocean Ave) in the Asbury Park of my childhood. Forsaking banks of Skee Ball and two (two!) funhouses and a Ferris wheel and bumper cars and a sea of pleasure machines, I’d plunk my bony ass on an undulating wooden horse, hang onto a grimy pole with my right hand while the left reached for a metal ring, hoping it glistened gold so I’d get a free ride. ‘Round and round went the painted ponies, neglected but proud, Kingsley Avenue stretching outside open carousel doors like a drifter's dream, calliope music crashing like the Atlantic Ocean beyond the boardwalk. Each rotation the same: Grab a dull, dirty ring, toss it in a wooden box, sink onto your yo-yo’ing horse, perk up as your chance came again, tighten your grip on the pole, reach for another ring …

And it’s golden. In your palm. Nicked, faded, possibly germ-ridden, but who cared? A golden ring. You possessed it. It possessed you. Your heart swelled, your horse shone, your little brother went green with envy (or was it all that salt water taffy?). The carousel stopped and you showed a shaggy-haired attendant your prize and ran back to your lucky horse before some jerk grabbed it and the awful music rose and the horses lurched to life and you rode until your grandfather's voice called to get your ass in the Buick parked on Lake Avenue, down where boring grownups rode giant peddle-boat swans for fun.

A man never stops dreaming about that golden ring. I snagged one the other night. All because I drove all night to see Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band.

Let me clarify: I literally drove all night. After deciding Sunday afternoon to make the trip I waited until just after midnight to depart my St Kilda home. Free of desire’s spell I can’t explain the necessity of that detail, which set me off at exactly 12:11 am on an 8-hour, 735 km (457 mile) trip onto an empty highway cloaked in a darkness comforting only to vampires, goths and the consciences Senate Republicans.

Desire frees the mind of frivolities like self-preservation, of course, so I cranked up the 1978 Agora (“Cleveland boys!”) concert and headed northwest out of Melbourne to Adelaide, city of churches and in roughly 18 hours’ time the only place in Australia this ex-pat could stand and sing in solidarity with those back home trying to save the USA from its darker, meaner, stupider self. The night’s blackness an apt metaphor for the Bannonites in charge, a gradually lightening sky like the chipping through of detainees from unjust cells. I arrived in Adelaide at 10:30 am, tired but alive.

Picked up my ticket at the box office, got a number at the GA line, grabbed breakfast at Central Market, did roll call, had a beer with friends Jamie, Carly and Laurel at the InterContinental Hotel, then went to the beach for a cleansing, baptismal swim. Back at the arena for 5:00 roll call, greeted old friends and made new ones in line, got a good spot in front of Steven in GA, drank a few adult beverages and rejoiced when the house lights darkened at 7:52.

Desire born of impotence may sound impossible but when you’re a US citizen living in Australia as the principles of your country are being savaged by a Corrupt Orange Fascist you feel useless, alone, unarmed, frustrated and ANGRY.

When someone travels across shark-infested waters to give voice to that anger and frustration it’s like free money. When that someone is Bruce Springsteen you get in your car and drive all goddamned night.

Just as the woman (and men) who marched in protest to our new ‘grab them by the pussy’ president on the eve of the tour opener in Perth gave that concert the urgency of a movement, the throngs who spontaneously rose in resistance to Trump’s Muslim ban on Sunday across the US offered the world at large proof Americans are willing to fight this new regime. As I waited outside the Adelaide Entertainment Centre on a sprawling GA line I was confident we'd hear fighting words on this warm summer night ... just as thousands of Aussies knew they'd be shaking their asses to the greatest rock and roll band on Earth.

We both got what we came for. For as well as expressing solidarity with those fighting injustice back home, Springsteen was a force of nature bent on devastating the cheaply made trailer-park-Trumps of this world. We got:
-- Another hypnotic ‘NYC Serenade’
-- A double accordion, fire & brimstone, ‘go fuck yourself’ version of ‘American Land’ that began with this statement:

Tonight we want to add our voices to the thousands of Americans who are protesting at airports around the country the Muslim Ban and the detention of foreign nationals and refugees. America is a nation of immigrants and we find this anti-democratic and fundamentally un-American.

-- Bruce forgetting the second verse of 'Ties that Bind', laughing, then going to the whip like a jockey in deep to the syndicate, "NO MAN CAN BREAK the ties that bind ..."
-- Drop-dead versions of Darkness gems ‘Something in the Night’ and ‘Racing in the Street’
-- The refitting of singalong favourite ‘Trapped’ into a cathartic protest anthem dedicated to detainees. For a rarely played song the band was exceptionally tight, Max's high-hat the song's epoxy, the crowd blowing it all apart with each hollered chorus.
-- Bruce tossing his guitar a good ten feet in the air to end 'Glory Hands'; it landed in Kevin's hands in perfect sync to the music
-- Jake Clemons squeezing his hands as Springsteen sang 'Hold tight to your anger ...' during a blowtorch 'Wrecking Ball'
-- About the most intense song pairing you'll ever hear at a rock show. The ground beneath the Adelaide Entertainment Centre is no doubt still smouldering days after 'Youngstown' was followed by 'Something in the Night'
-- Ralph Kramden playing Roy’s piano while Ed Norton shared vocals with Springsteen during a gorgeous ‘Brown Eyed Girl’. Yeah, read that again. It happened. I’ve got photos to prove it. Bruce was understandably skeptical about bringing them up as he (rightfully) didn't think Aussies would get the joke but it didn't matter, 'cos everyone onstage tore up 'Brown Eyed Girl' -- even Norton!

Bang ... zoom!

(An aside: I grew up watching late night staples 'The Odd Couple' and 'The Honeymooners' on New York City's WPIX, channel 11, from 11 pm to midnight. When I moved to Australia I made sure the DVDs for every one of the episodes of both shows came with me. Call it preventative medicine. Cheaper than inpatient treatment at a mental hospital.)
-- After mistakenly repeating the musical intro to 'Murder Inc' Bruce smiled and shouted at Steven, "That's right. Do it again, boys." Steven, as he did throughout the night, laughed.
-- Max thundering along to Roy and Charlie's river of keys (my notebook reads 'Roy motherfucking Liberace' ... don't think that needs explaining) during 'Racing in the Street'
-- Wedding-song ballad ‘If I Should Fall Behind’ stripped down to primer in an acoustic version that by its conclusion had an arena-full of fired-up folk resting their heads on Springsteen’s chest, hearing his heartbeat and his heartbeat only
-- A hipster-beard-free Garry W Tallent
-- An energetic (by Aussie standards) Adelaide crowd and downright volcanic GA
-- Monstrous versions of foundation songs ‘The River’, ‘Badlands’, ‘Thunder Road’, even ‘Dancing in the freakin’ Dark’. Strong bones = Sound body. Ask any doctor.
-- A giddy Richie Sambora standing beside Steven and peppering 'Shout' with big-hair guitar licks. He was slow to leave; Bruce walked back to the mic after showing him off, gestured to the floor and said 'just the band' to no one and everyone, before launching a jubilantly revived ‘Rosalita’ that closed out a magic night just before 11:00

Roy lit like a Spielberg film as he opens another surreal 'NYC Serenade'.

"Listen to your junk man ... "

"He's singing ..."

Beardless Garry.

Bruce getting EVERYone's attention during 'American Land'.

A five-song stretch of 'American Land', 'The Ties That Bind', 'No Surrender', 'Land of Hope and Dreams' and 'Trapped' was a loud, crackling five-gun salute to the words of support Springsteen offered Muslim ban protesters.

That Springsteen has to remind folks that "this train CARRIES IMMIGRANTS" during 'Land of Hope and Dreams' is as ludicrous as Dylan having to sing "the answer, my friend, is blowing METAPHORICALLY in the wind" or Jagger singing "I can't get no ... SEXUAL satisfaction".

"Can you feel the spirit?"

"The time slips away, and leaves you nothing mister but ... boring stories of ....."

'Glory Days' booty shake.

Steven gets his picture taken.

Fresh from an Adelaide surf.

"C'mon and take your best shot ... let me see what you've got ..."

Without question the strangest Bruce Springsteen photo I've ever taken. And I've taken a lot of photos of Bruce Springsteen.

When 'Norton' became a bit too exuberant sharing vocals during Van Morrison's 'Brown Eyed Girl', Bruce indelicately pried the mic from his hands and looked like he wanted to kick his ass back to Canarsie.

How's this for a photo caption: Steve Van Zandt plays his guitar while Ralph Kramden plays Roy Bittan's piano during 'Brown Eyed Girl'.

Alice, Trixie, Ralph ... all we need is Mrs Manicotti from downstairs.

"Tonight my baby and me we're gonna ride to the sea ... and wash these sins off our hands."

Nils about to set fire to the stage during 'Because the Night'.

When you've been lucky enough to have heard 'Thunder Road' across so many years, in so many places, and still get a chill at the opening harmonica ... well, all you can do is roll down the window and let the wind throw back your hair.

I loathe speculating about Bruce's state of mind -- the 'Born to Run' book has given us more insight into the man's psyche than we ever could have expected, or deserved -- but it seems to me enough time has passed since Clarence's passing and Bruce is back to playing 'Thunder Road' with abandon, rather than as an ode to the Biggest, Baddest Blood Brother of them all.

Much of that is due, of course, to the miracle that is Jake Clemons.

Former Bon Jovi lead guitarist Richie Sambora joined the band for 'Shout'. When he wasn't laughing hysterically Steve led him through the song by tapping his arm when Bruce was about to stop.

Jake driving the young girls wild during 'Shout'.

SpongeBruce Springsteen. (sorry)

Steve drapes Bruce with the 'Boss' cape and announces his exit from the building ...

... but campy Springsteen doesn't go far.

'Rosalita'. Like it was written yesterday.

Normally the show is everything but for me Monday’s Adelaide concert was the magnificent, soul-restoring, sweat-inducing, voice-like-Paul-Robeson-creating centrepiece of an unforgettable 43-hour odyssey. After the show I went with a friend to West Beach to reminisce about this golden ring of a night with sand between my toes and smell of salt water in my lungs. Eventually slept for five hours at a rest area roughly 50 kms outside of Adelaide, and after brushing my teeth and tossing bottled water on my face I was driving back to Melbourne at 9:30 am on a bright, sunny highway..

The long ride neared its end at 6:30 pm Tuesday in you-can’t-make-this-shit-up fashion: With early evening sunshine turning the landscape orange I hit a rise on the Western Highway that offered a pristine view of the Melbourne skyline. At that exact moment, and I mean exact moment, Max’s drum intro to ‘Born in the USA’ pierced my weary brain, the version on the Chapter and Verse retrospective packing a modern technology wallop. Sleep-deprived, sand-covered, the number 247 in black ink on my left (driving) hand, a song that touches a deeper place when the people you love and the place that created you are so far away was re-born as I hurtled toward my adopted hometown. I bellowed the lyrics of Springsteen’s greatest fighting song and was shocked when tears started to fall, rage turned to relief by a welcome, unexpected, blessed blast of rock and roll hope.

‘Rock and Roll the fear away’ read a sign in Adelaide’s GA section, a sign Springsteen pointed to, nodded his head and smiled. You see, that’s the kind of wisdom a man must drive all night to receive … and live long enough to make real.