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RIP Gary Cioffi

Last week a treasured friend and brother to many in the Revere, Mass., music scene passed away after fighting cancer for several years. I didn’t know Gary Cioffi nearly as well as many of you, but he touched my life all the same.

Mood music:

Gary and I were connected on Facebook, where I enjoyed the jokes he posted almost every morning. I also followed his cancer battle, which he waged with grace and humor. I’ll miss those posts.

Shortly after he connected with me, he sent me a private message asking if I remembered him. I had to admit that I hadn’t. He reminded me that his mom used to babysit my siblings and me in the 1970s. My memory kicked in when he mentioned how he used to play the piano we had in the living room. I was barely beyond toddlerhood at that point, and the memories are fuzzy. But I remember images and sounds.

I connected with him online because he was part of my hometown music scene. A lot of Boston’s best bands have their origins in Revere, most famously MASS. I wanted to see who was doing what, and I quickly discovered that Gary was a central player in the scene, drumming for the band That’s That.

He played the places I remembered as a kid, including Bill Ash’s Lounge.

His helping me to reconnect with my hometown musical roots is the thing I’m most grateful for.

To those who were close to him, I offer you my sincere condolences.

Peace be with you.

And thanks again, Gary, for giving me a glimpse into your world and reminding me where I came from.

Gary Cioffi

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Lollapalooza 1992: Case Study In Terror

The other day I came across some YouTube videos of the Jim Rose Circus, a freak-show act popular among my crowd in the early 1990s. I first saw them live at Lollapalooza 1992, and watching the videos reminded me of what a terrified 20-something I was back then.

Mood music:

I was excited to go because the band line-up included the biggest rock acts of the day, including Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, The Red Hot Chili Peppers and an industrial metal band I was into at the time: Ministry.

I enjoyed the Jim Rose act and was chilled and relaxed through Soundgarden and Pearl Jam. Then Ministry came on stage and flipped the switch on the intense anxiety and fear I struggled with back then. They launched into a cover of Black Sabbath‘s “Supernaut” and all hell broke loose behind me. The setting was an outdoor venue known back then as Great Woods, and behind the seating area was a grass-covered hill. The sun of the day started to dim and I thought a thunderstorm was afoot. Then I looked behind me and saw that the dimmed light was the sun being blocked by a cloud of dirt. The crowd in the back had begun tearing up large pieces of sod and tossing it in the air, creating a soil sunscreen.

At first I thought it was funny. It was all part of the metal spirit. Then the thick chunks of sod started making its way toward the seating area and stage. A piece slammed me in the side of the head and that’s when the terror switch in my soul turned on.

The crowd in the back didn’t stop with the sod. They started tearing the rear fence from the ground and piled the wood high, setting it aflame. I was convinced there would be a riot and stage rush that would crush us all. I fled to the men’s room and stayed there a long time. The group with me included Sean Marley, who was older than me and often played the role of big brother.

Sean was fearless, and though the depression that eventually ended him didn’t come on for another couple years, I’m pretty sure he already had something of a death wish at that point. He was a lot less patient with me. But he never gave up on me. He put up with my fear a lot and was always working to break me of the fear. It took many years after his death for the fear to be broken, but I’m always going to be grateful to him for trying.

We stayed long enough to see half of the Red Hot Chili Pepper’s headlining performance, but left before it was over. My certainty that we were all going to get killed or arrested had gotten so bad that I was twitching by that point, and my friends saw the writing on the wall. No one ever complained, though. Not to my face, anyway.

Though I don’t carry the fear anymore and my anxiety is mostly under control, I really can’t say how I’d react if I were at that same show right now. Would I smile and drink in all the chaos and stay until the end? I’m not so sure. I would have scowled at the stupidity of some in the audience, and probably wouldn’t be afraid to say something aloud. I might even yell toward the back that people should stop being idiots.

Most likely is that I’d have left early anyway — not for fear of physical danger, but because I’m simply too old to put up with that kind of behavior.

lollapalooza4

 

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Review: Pop Gun’s “American Soul”

Music is one of my main coping tools, and I’ve latched on to a new CD from some old friends that I know will get me through the stresses of a new job and the slow commute that goes with it.

I’ve already determined that Pop Gun’s American Soul is an excellent soundtrack for ensuring the painful wind from the Longfellow Bridge across Storrow Drive and onto I-93. I could swear at the drivers around me and bang my fist on the steering wheel. Instead, I’m listening to Pop Gun.

Mood music:

(Disclosure: I know these guys well. I worked with drummer Greg Walsh at a small weekly newspaper nearly 20 years ago. In more recent years, I’ve gotten to know bassist-vocalist Harry Zarkades and guitarist-fellow Hillie James Melanson.)

I’ve had Pop Gun’s Trigger CD for a long time and have my favorites for sure, but American Soul has a depth and weight that comes with the 20 years of life experiences these guys have had since the songs for that first CD was written.

My favorite track is “Love and Wine,” written and vocalized by former guitarist Bruce Allen, who recently moved to Colorado. (Harry Sabean replaced Allen.) It’s a song full of light and fresh air, especially when Allen sings, “The sun will shine, and love is a vine that we’ll tend together.” When he sings that love is like wine, “sweet when it’s young and it only gets better,” it resonates with me after nearly 15 years of marriage.

“Bitter Heart” is another favorite. Melanson sings this one, and the mix of melody and crunchy riffs remind me of some of Boston’s classic bands, like The Cars and Aerosmith, with a bit of The Neighborhoods mixed in for good measure. His vocals are a smooth contrast to Zarkades’s more serrated tone. That’s one of the things that makes this album work for me: the vocal variety in the songs.

Erin and I attended Pop Gun’s record-release concert last week and the new tunes passed the critical test of scoring direct punches live.

If you’re a fan of Boston rock, this CD carries on the rich tradition that makes me proud to call this place home.

Buy American Soul. You won’t regret it. The best place to order one is the Pop Gun Facebook page. The guys will get back to you in short order.

For locals, you can pick up the disc at The Record Exchange in Salem, MA, and Dyno Records in Newburyport, MA.

Pop Gun
Photo by Melanie Carr
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I Wish Hard Rock Stations Had More Class

It’s not easy being a rock ’n’ roll fanatic some days, especially when it comes to the choices I have on the radio dial. Oh, don’t get me wrong: The Boston area has plenty of great stations, especially RadioBDC and Rock 101 in Southern New Hampshire.

But some radio stations, in the Boston market and beyond, that play my kind of music have to ruin it by appealing to the lowest common denominator.

Mood music:

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It’s always been this way, of course, and once upon a time I didn’t mind. One of my local stations, WAAF, has cranked up a humor based on sexual crassness for as long as I can remember. Hell, this is the station that brought us shock jocks Opie and Anthony. They shocked Boston until April 1998 they told their listeners as an April Fools’ prank that Boston Mayor Tom Menino was killed in a car accident while transporting a young female Haitian prostitute. In more recent years, I’ve tuned in to hear women on the morning show being asked about the shape of their vaginas.

As a 20 year old, I loved this stuff. But somewhere along the way I grew up, and my radio stations didn’t. (The RadioBDC DJs, formerly of WFNX, have always been more mature in this regard.)

It’s a drag for two reasons:

  • I can’t listen when my kids are in the car, which is most of the time.
  • Thanks to the Internet and, more specifically, Facebook, I have to see a lot of meathead comments from WAAF and its followers. This morning, for example, WAAF posted these comments above pictures of the women they talk about:
    • “Here’s math teacher Iowa Ashley Nicole Anderson who allegedly had relationships with FOUR different students! Would you??”
    • “Here’s Mandy Caruso, the cosplayer dressed as “Black Cat” who was upset about being sexually harrassed at NY ComicCon.”

The comments to the latter post have a few mature comments, but most of them are abusive name-calling. One jerk calls her a “cumdumpster” and someone else asks, “What does she expect when she looks like that?” Forget that these women are human beings, prone to all the mistakes we’re all prone to. The woman in the latter case did nothing wrong. She was at a comic book convention and was in costume. That doesn’t give some asshat the right to ask about her cup size.

I’m no prude. I do come from Revere, after all, and have been known to swear like a sailor. When my sons let the bathroom humor flow, I admit I laugh inside even as I’m scolding them.

But there are lines I’ve decided not to cross anymore. I want my rock ’n’ roll delivered to me by DJs whose thinking and sense of humor are something above the Stone Age stuff.

I’ve unliked the WAAF Facebook page and don’t plan to listen to the station again anytime soon.

Thankfully, I have RadioBDC and, when I want to cut out all the talking, Spotify.

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When Fakes Go for the Kill

We do a lot of stupid things to gain acceptance among others. Many of those things go back to being a fake. Some of you have been guilty at some point. So have I. The question is if anything good can come from our shenanigans.

Mood music:

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I’ll start with myself. Someone who means the world to me recently suggested that I’m the star-struck type. I love making friends with musicians, especially when I’m a fan of their music. It sounds sick, but I’m kind of proud that some locally famous “rock star” types read this blog and think I’m worth having a conversation with. I get the same way when respected people in my industry give me the time of day, not to mention other writers. Sometimes, my desire for acceptance in these circles will influence how I dress and even how I talk.

I’m almost ashamed to admit it all. If there’s any redeeming aspect of this, it’s that my star-struck nature has led me to some real friendships — friendships that have made me a better person. And if someone is an asshole, I’m not going to try being their buddy no matter how much I love their music or respect whatever else they do for work. Still, I can’t deny the behavior exists.

It’s all the funnier because I can be the most judgmental fuck on the face of this planet when I see other people being fake.

When the wannabes think it’s cool to throw verbal bombs online to get attention (some call this trolling), I’m quick to stare down my nose at them. I pat myself on the back for not being a troll in these moments, but is that really true? I’m a product of the news business, where editors try to make headlines as attention-grabbing as possible. One could legitimately call that a form of trolling.

I know people who turn fake when they want the world to think they’ve found the perfect soulmate. They post lovey-dovey comments to each other on Facebook all day and jam cyberspace with pictures of them hugging and smiling. Then you find out from people close to them that it’s all for show, that they argue all the time.

There are those who want to be accepted in wealthy social circles even though they may not have a lot of money. They max their credit cards out on clothes and cars to look the part and kiss asses all day in the country clubs and five-star restaurants. Then they go home to their leaky roof, chipped paint and stack of unpaid bills.

Then there are those who want to be accepted so badly in the political world that they’ll pull their principles inside out and say whatever will make people like them. Mitt Romney, this year’s likely Republican nominee for president, has been accused of being this way. Al Gore was accused of it, too, as was John McCain. A pity, because they all show signs of greatness when they’re being themselves.

I think one of the reasons some of us become addicts is because we know we’re fake and want to numb the shameful feelings that go with that look in the mirror. I think it’s why some of us suffer from depression, too.

Nothing sucks quite like knowing you’re not keeping it real. Being fake is exhausting work.

So what do we do about it?

There’s probably not much we can do because we’re dealing with flaws at the very core of human nature. For my part, I just try to figure out who my real friends are along the way and try to nurture those relationships. Maybe some of my friendships started with me being a star-struck idiot (those friends would probably laugh at this, because they know they don’t qualify as genuine stars), but the ones that became real friendships have made me better.

Or, at least, it’s made me take a sober look in the mirror more often. Hopefully, the man that emerges over time will be the real deal.