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.