I’m not dead yet…

JONATHAN CHARLES FOX
Posted 8/9/17

And if running around at breakneck speed last week didn’t kill me, nothing will. “You do it to yourself,” my shrink said. “Nobody is holding a gun to your head.” …

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I’m not dead yet…

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And if running around at breakneck speed last week didn’t kill me, nothing will. “You do it to yourself,” my shrink said. “Nobody is holding a gun to your head.” She’s right of course, I’m just not sure that I know how to do it any other way. Still, there must be a better way to avoid a near-death experience like last Thursday, when I leapt out of bed at 5:30 a.m. After a quick shower, I walked the pooch, grabbed some coffee and headed out the door to promote The River Reporter on-air (www.thunder102.com) discussing, among other things, my madcap schedule of upcoming events.

“It’s like being in a time machine,” I said to general manager Paul Ciliberto during a break. “I have tickets for the 1960s musical ‘Bye Bye Birdie’ (www.fbplayhouse.org) tonight and a photo shoot on the grounds of Max Yasgur’s old farm (see page 12) in anticipation of the upcoming anniversary of the 1969 Woodstock Music Festival. And ‘Santana’ is coming to town on Saturday,” I prattled on. “If memory serves,” I continued, “Santana became an overnight sensation following their performance at Woodstock, so I feel a ‘60s theme emerging.” After the curtain call for “Birdie,” Dharma and I made our way home and were back in bed just after midnight. “Long day,” I whispered to the dog, but she was already snoring.

Resisting the urge (you’re welcome) to dress in full hippie regalia the next night, I called a pal and suggested that we check out the triple-play opening reception at the Delaware Valley Arts Alliance (www.artsalliancesite.org), which included artwork created by Barbara Zweig and Dorian Yurchuk, while the annual group exhibition titled “Art in Bloom” was simultaneously being admired upstairs in the Loft Gallery. “Bloom” pairs a variety of artists and floral designers, who create one-of-a-kind displays inspired by the artwork. Although I cruised through Zweig and Yurchuk’s exhibits, I will have to return, having given them short shrift, knowing that the floral displays are a bit more ephemeral.

While surfing social media the next day, the ‘60s theme re-emerged, and I took note that a lot of people I know were excited that Carlos Santana was making a return visit to the spot “where it all began.” Having seen Santana perform on multiple occasions, I wondered how the evening would compare, and headed out the door to join thousands (and thousands) of fans making their way to the original Woodstock Festival site, now known as Bethel Woods Center for the Arts. The tour is called “Transmogrify”—a word that I was unfamiliar with. So I looked it up, knowing that my phone is “smarter” than I. “To transform,” the soulless voice responded. “Especially in a surprising or magical manner.”

“That does not surprise me in the slightest,” I said to no one in particular. Santana has been making magic (IMHO) for decades, and “Soul Sacrifice” (the 11-minute instrumental that they closed with in ’69) is the stuff that legends are made of. In fact, Santana was “largely unknown” prior to Woodstock and “the only act to play [the festival] without a record” (www.wikipedia.org). Upper-cutting the crowd with a fist of Latin Rock Fusion, the band that bears the name of lead guitarist Carlos Santana was playing “world music” before the term even existed.”

With my time machine set to “Groovy,” I was honestly thrilled to be taking some photos of the man himself, and the show even looked magical, as Santana and company were bathed in stunning, colorful, beautiful, mystical light. As the music filled the cool nighttime air I found myself swaying, eyes closed, while songs like “Oye Como Va,” “Maria, Maria,” “Smooth,” and “Evil Ways” washed over the crowd, and the vibe was just-plain palpable. “Wow, man,” I said to the guy sitting in front of me. “It’s almost like time has stood still for these guys. Better than ever, right?” Nodding in agreement, he stuck out his hand. “I’m Mark Adler,” he said “and this is my 48th Santana concert!”

As “Black Magic Woman” hung in the air like a dream, Adler told me that he had met Carlos in New Paltz at the age of 14, where (for some reason I didn’t quite grasp) Adler gave Santana and then-wife Debra a hay ride. “I want to dance to the music,” I shared with my new friend, “but I’m exhausted. And I might have to visit the lawn, because my phone is blowing up with friends telling me that they are here, too.” But by then, Adler had lost interest in what I had to say, choosing instead to listen to the band. Go figure. Giving in to peer pressure, I stood, I swayed and yes, even danced a bit while making my way up the hill, which reminded me (in the best way possible) that I’m not dead. Yet.

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