Magic Wand
The heavy art of acid-comedown music
When the lie of youth can no longer be plausibly maintained, enlightenment beckons
Don’t ask me what it all means, man — it’s been years since my last trip
As great musicians approach and then surpass their 30s, they reach an event horizon where the lie of youth can no longer be plausibly maintained. It often happens rapidly, and even drugs start to do more harm than good. Then what? A couple possibilities remain for artists on the brink of creative middle-age, as the seminal year of 1991 still warns us: You can capitulate to whatever got you where you are, or you can start the hard, maybe impossible work of leaving it all behind.
In 1991, Metallica released a self-titled monster of a record that trapped them in a creative morass of mega-stardom that sucked away whatever was left of their younger, infinitely cooler selves. In contrast, the merciless onslaught of time, which panics and flummoxes even the Kirk Hammetts of the world, liberated the ’80s new wavers in Talk Talk, the English trio that scored a moderate hit with “It’s My Life.” Having already …
The Longest Yard Sale
Hundreds of Miles of Crap you don’t need, or maybe you do
Welcome to the Invisible America
Burt Reynolds is welcome here
Last year, at a birthday party in the Shenandoah Valley, a friend told me about a yard sale that lasts four days and spans six states and almost 700 miles along the US Route 127 corridor. “The World’s Longest Yard Sale,” it’s called. She and her boyfriend had set out from Michigan and taken on the northern leg the year before. Already, they were working on plans to finish the job. “Tell the story, tell the story,” she prodded, swatting him with the back of her hand. “Oh yeah… okay,” he yielded. “Last year, I bought a stiletto. And the guy told me beforehand, he said, ‘You know these are illegal in a lot of places, right?’ ‘Right,’ I told him. ‘Yeah… I know.’ He didn’t miss a beat. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘that’ll be twenty bucks!’”
Yes, I thought, America the Invisible. And I resolved in my heart to go looking for it.
Now in its 38th year, the “127 Yard Sale” is the brainchild of former …
A Patriotic Ode to Old Black
Neil Young’s guitar is a piece of ad-hoc American genius
‘He was always welcoming to stumbles and shakiness, to the problem of staying in tune.’
His secrets include a DeArmond adjustable-pole pickup, a Bigsby whammy bar, a loop bypass that makes his reverb unit go straight into the amplifier, a Whizzer, a foot switch in a red box, 5 Strobo tuners, an AC-powered MXR analog delay, an ancient Mu-Tron octave divider, tube reverb, a very old BOSS flanger in a blue metal box, the Echoplex, gold Herco Flex 50 picks, and more.
The invitation came from Jan via text, and without even looking at my calendar or inquiring how much the tickets would cost, I responded with an immediate hard yes. We would meet on Thursday at the Oyster Bar in the catacombs of Grand Central Station around six. We’d take the escalator down into the underbelly of our metropolis to the LIRR and catch the commuter train out to Forest Hills.
I know what you’re thinking: Tennis! On grass! And you’re not entirely wrong. The wealthy Tudor suburb of Forest Hills was once the elegant home of the US Open, in the days of Stan Smith (see my all-white sneakers — my Stans — which came back into fashion one day in 1995 when I strutted my pristine pair down Bedford Avenue).
A few steps into the crowded bar and I was met with the warmest reception from Jan, who handed me an icy Tito’s (one of the two he was double-fisting). I began to chill as the vodka took …
