Friday, July 26, 2002


My adopted homeland of Hoboken, NJ boasts a lovely waterfront park, called, natch, Frank Sinatra Park. (Natch because he was born here, though rumor has it that other than the coal-fired oven-baked bread he had flown from Dom's in Hoboken to his swinging pad in Las Vegas--he didn't like the Mile Square City much.) In the summer, the park hosts a series of concerts right on the river.

Last night was a splendid one--a vibrant folk/rocker, Amy Fairchild, who boasted a great voice, Sheryl Crow-ish biceps, and an utter unflappability as little kids zipped through the middle of "her" stage. Over her shoulder, you could see the Hudson River, and all of lower Manhattan. The featured act, Freedy Johnston, was late, so Amy kept singing and singing, and finally ended on a September 11 song--a modest one, a kind one, a smart one.

Freedy was...well, grumpy. Didn't like the kids zooming around, though they danced like bastards to his mopiest songs. Quipped that he should have learned a couple of Raffi songs, but "they cut off my cable." Um, "they?" The Cable Conspiracy? He's a hell of a songwriter/performer, but the man was not in a good mood. Claimed that "they" made him wear an eyepatch as a kid to strengthen a lazy eye. Made fun of the fact that he was selling t-shirts along with his CDs, something that "they" never told him was part of his job as a traveling musician. He was wearing sunglasses, he said, because of a gross thing going on with his eyes. Okay, I'd be grumpy too.

But hey, he still rocks. And the water glittered and both cities--the tiny one and the big one---just shone.


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