We
all knew Dave Edmunds could play guitar, we just had no idea how well. The
legendary rocker blew the Montage Grille audience away last Monday with a sweet
amalgamation of Chet Atkins, Scotty Moore, and Mozart. Opener Marshall
Crenshaw, though a terrific songwriter, seemed to rest entirely on the strength
of his music. He didn’t really care, and it showed. I sat through both shows
slurping java and swapping celebrity sex stories with a girl who shagged Tommy
Stinson.
           Played my first show ever at CBGB in
NYC amidst the filth, grime, and history. A rare wave of anxiety came over me
as I took the same stage a multitude of my heroes had played. In keeping with the
legendary mystique, the joint apparently hasn’t been cleaned since they played
there.
           Withstood the arctic chill of Times
Square the next day at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and saw a bunch of
inflatable characters I didn’t recognize except for the Monopoly millionaire.
My mondo-eclectic friend from California brought along his rubber monkey,
pretending it was in the parade. It was so damn crowded, I felt like I was
constantly being felt up.
           Also while in Manhattan, I was asked
to be a greasy, tattooed extra in Thalia’s new MTV video, shot on a burned out
old ship (“The Frying Pan”) docked at the Chelsea Piers. Thalia is married to
EMI exec Tommy Mattola (the ex-Mr. Mariah Carey). She bumped, grinded, and
lip-synced in Spanish while I boogied with drag queens, fire-breathers,
faux-lesbians, a Chihuahua, and a bald girl whose head the director had me kiss
for 20 minutes. All while I was sporting the “regular guy” look.
           Almost OD’d on a lethal cocktail of
Sanka, Dramamine, and Girl Scout Cookies (I think this is what killed John
Belushi) on the drive back to Rochester.
           Please, let’s not forget the true
meaning of Christmas. Happy birthday, Santa.
This article appears in Dec 11-17, 2002.
