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Sometime just before New Years Eve 2004 I was sitting around mulling the whole resolution thing and I was hit with an epiphany. Rather than make a New Years Resolution that would focus on improving one aspect of my life (until I inevitably let it slide) I figured it would be more effective and all-encompassing to come up with a theme for the coming year instead.
And what if that theme rhymed?
And so the pending year became known as Coming Alive in 2005 and it was an opportunity (excuse? inspiration? motivation?) for me to get around to doing a bunch of things that I had always said I would do. Hence, my year included a bunch of fun stuff like my first ever bicycle trip and my first time visiting Newfoundland (that was a two-in-one mission), I experienced a ski hill for the first time, I got myself a girlfriend, and oh, so many other great things came out of those dozen months that I struggle to remember them all.
This particular missive focusses in on one particular day early on in 2005, Valentine’s Day; February 14th. I awoke very, very early and gathered a trio of compadres and pointed my Honda south, Big Apple-bound.
We cruised the border – always a heart-warmer – and 700 kilometres later we were in the Holland Tunnel eager to get lost in Manhattan, which is exactly what we did for the next forty-five minutes or so. Soon we wrestled our way through traffic to Central Park, and after a tidy twenty minute search for a parking spot we were out on the street walking in the cold rain with warm hearts.
Our first stop was the Dakota. Beatles fan that I am I rarely visit New York City without stopping by for a moment or two of reflective silence. We walked to the door and the four of us stood there getting drenched in rain and melancholy, silently taking in the scene where a quarter of a century earlier the evil and misguided Mark David Chapman shot John Lennon in the back five times. Before us stood the concierge booth that John dragged himself to. Sigh, and double sigh. What an unspeakable tragedy it was that occurred in that place.
Then it was across the street to Central Park and straight to the Strawberry Fields monument, another personal NYC ritual. The Imagine circle that is marbled into the path had a single fresh rose placed in the centre, a small but beautiful reminder that the man will be loved for much time to come. Another sigh.
We had planned our trip to coincide with the display of a Christo art installation entitled The Gates. Christo is that artist who does those big environmental exhibits like wrapping the Taj Mahal in fabric or covering a series of Caribbean islands with paper and the like. His new piece was a series of 7,500 steel gates that covered over twenty miles of Central Park, each draped with a large, seven-foot long saffron-coloured piece of fabric. The installation was twenty-six years in the planning, had no official opening and was free to all. We took in the scene, walked through some of the gates and I was impressed. I thought it was quite beautiful, but really, it seems that any Christo piece is best appreciated in the macro. Like, from space. Though I’m glad I was there, I think the inevitable coffee-table book would be more impressive than actually seeing it live. Especially at dusk on a cold rainy day.
As we were walking out of the park two locals were walking in, and in a perfect New York accent I overheard the lady express her (and likely most New Yorker’s) opinion of the artwork in the simple statement, “Nice freakin’ cointins!”
But we weren’t in New York City to visit the Dakota or Central Park or the Christo exhibit or even Times Square, which is where we found ourselves a spot to eat a quick dinner and escape the increasing rain. No, we were in the city to see the legendary Les Paul, musician extraordinaire and inventor par excellence.
For years I had heard that Les Paul played every Monday night at a NYC bar called the Iridium, and Coming Alive In 2005 was the perfect time to finally get around to attending one of the shows. We lined up outside the bar hugging the walls trying to stay dry-ish. Eventually the doors opened, and in a feat of serendipitous misdirection that would require a further ten paragraphs to describe the four of us ended up beating the line and being seated at the very front table of the tiny venue.
We each ordered a drink (and kept it at one each, so financially strapped were we) and in no time at all Les Paul came out with his band, which consisted of another guitarist, a bass player, and a piano player. Les took his place atop a high stool and they started to play. It was immediately encouraging that the music was really good; nice to know we were going hear quality music and not just see a legend try to keep it together.
As the band tore through standard after standard (How High The Moon, Sweet Georgia Brown, Autumn Leaves, Sunny Side Of The Street, Satin Doll, ‘Round Midnight, Blue Skies, etc.) I couldn’t stop thinking that I recognized the other guitar player, and it was driving me a bit nuts.
At one point Les (who was very talkative between songs and seemed to be having a great time) addressed a guy in the audience who had brought a guitar with him (obviously in hopes of getting it signed after the show). “You play?” Les asked him.
”Yeah, a little.”
“Well, why don’t you get up here and play a song with us?” Les asked. My heart almost stopped.
“Nah, I’ll just embarrass myself,” the guy answered. Oh my goodness. Les Paul wouldn’t have had to ask me twice. As a matter of fact there was a guitar sitting on a stand sidestage; I eyed it and debated yelling out, “I’ll play with you Les!” My heart was a-flutter, could I bring myself to call out?
…and then the moment passed. I’ll never forgive myself for not doing it. It stands as one of this life’s little big regerts.
Les had some guests come up to play with him, first a fiddle player from Chicago, then a harmonica player that played with Bo Diddley. They were pretty good but I was especially blown away by the last guest, a young tap-dancer from Jersey. Believe it or not, this guy tapped along with the band for three tunes and he was awesome.
After about seventy-five minutes or so Les bid us all good night and the band left the stage. The announcer stepped to the mic and announced that Les was sorry but he would not be doing an autograph session this night. That was too bad, as two of us had brought official Les Paul pickguards with us in hopes of getting Les to sign them.
As we were getting ready to leave I noticed that familiar other guitar player packing up his gear so I stepped up and introduced myself. Turns out the guy played and recorded with Keith Richards and some other notables. He asked where I was from and when I answered he told me that he met his first wife in Ottawa. A few more words and I thanked him and rejoined my party, but I just couldn’t leave without meeting Les. I grabbed the pickguards and went back to the guitar player. “Excuse me, I have a big favour to ask…”
“No problem buddy, just go on back” he said, motioning to the stage door. Cool!
I went in and found a half-dozen people waiting to talk to Les and get pictures and autographs and such. I was last in line. When it was my turn everyone else had left. I stepped forward and said “Les Paul,” (I addressed him by his full name on purpose just so that for once in my life I could say “Les Paul” to a person and not to a guitar), “it was an honour for me and my friends to drive down to New York to hear you play tonight.”
“Sit down my son“ he said with a smile, patting the spot next to him on the small leather couch. And just like that I was sitting next to the man who invented reverb. Sitting next to the man who invented multi-track recording. Sitting next to the man who invented the freakin’ electric guitar! I shook his hand, the one that was mangled in a car accident years before, the hand he instructed the doctors to reset in a shape that would allow him to still hold a guitar pick. I got my pickguard signed (To Todd Keep Picking Les Paul) and one for my buddy too, and I even got Les Paul to sign the back of my ticket stub (the only one our party received) for me to give to one of the other guys in our party, which was a pretty benevolent move for a manic ticket collector like myself.
After several minutes in the solo presence of Mr. Les Paul I rejoined the group and paid the bill ($43, which included a surprising $23 “table minimum not met” charge) and we got in the car, aimed ourselves towards home and drove all night, arriving back in Ottawa at 9:30 in the morning, twenty-six hours after we had left.
And of course it was worth every mile.
For the record, the list of music gear notables I have personally met so far includes Les Paul (1915-2009), Paul Reed Smith, and Hartley Peavey. Too bad Leo has passed on.
There is a more detailed account of this epic day in the Travel Logs section of my website, including many more pictures and even a video or two. You can find it by clicking here.
Todd Man Out 