1984: We're driving from school to my house in J.T.'s 1973 Dodge Dart. This Dart was sharp as hell; 360 V8, Centerline wheels, shackled up in the back just enough to look cool. J.T. had laid significant amounts of rubber on the way home, including a donut in the Fassnight Park parking lot. On the stereo was what I thought was typical late-'70s classic rock. "Listen to this guy hold this note," J.T. said. J.T. was a musician of some renown; he was a saxophone player in the school marching band, and he was probably the person from whom I learned the most about playing guitar. He had an appreciation for good music. The song was "Peace of Mind." The band was Boston. I was stunned by this guy's vocal power. That was the missing piece; that was the thing that Boston had that the other Camaro-rock (or, in this case, Dart-rock) bands had. I was hooked right there. I borrowed the tape, copied it, and played it over. And over. And over.
1986: Boston had not put out a new album since 1978. The Rock 99 morning jock was hyping the new single. "We're playing it at 8:15," he said. Damn. My first class was at 8. I decided, "Not today." I drove around campus, waiting for the song. As I heard the first few chords of "Amanda," I said, "Yeah, that's Boston."
1987: Rock 99 is giving away tickets to the Boston tour. Unfortunately, the closest stop to Anytown is more than 1,000 miles away. We didn't win, but we went anyway. I had a friend who lived near the Alpine Valley venue in Wisconsin. F. had a relative who lived nearby. M. had, well, a few days off. I had some friends who lived up there who could hook us up with a party. We packed up my 1980 Citation and pointed it north. The odometer showed "21245" or something like that when we left. That was back in the days where cars didn't usually last long enough to necessitate the "1" that should have been the first digit of that six-digit number. The car miraculously held up for the trip. It fell apart soon thereafter. The show was incredible; outdoors, fourth of four nights, more than 45,000 at the venue.
1989: Headed home after a night of abusing various substances. In the passenger seat of Mickey's 1988 Daytona Shelby. Trying to hold it together and not throw up all over said Daytona. Mickey's worried about my health (or, more likely, his upholstery.) He pops in a tape. I hear "Rock 'n' Roll Band." I breathe easier, and relax a bit in the seat. The urge to yak has passed. Mickey says, "I knew that would make you feel better."
I like a lot of different types of music. Some of these types leave me open to ridicule. I'm OK with that. I love Boston. It has been the one constant through nearly 25 years of my personal evolution. It still makes me feel better whenever I hear a Boston song, just like it did that night in Mickey's car. "Don't Look Back" is my personal transition song, the first song played when I start some new job or new thing. I hope they play "Long Time" and "Party" at my funeral.
And yes, the two albums they did after "Third Stage" sucked. I'm aware of that.
I'm very saddened by Brad Delp's too-soon departure; saddened in a way I don't remember feeling since hearing that Stevie Ray Vaughan's helicopter had crashed (oddly, it crashed leaving the same venue at which we saw Boston in 1987.)
From the Boston Globe's appreciation: "Brad always signed everything that people brought him,'' said [Sean] Sturgess [general manager of the club where Delp's band Beatlejuice, a Beatles tribute band, was supposed to have played tonight]. "Some bands just draw 45 people and you can't get them to stay around to greet their fans. Brad often stayed until the end of the night. We'd even have to tell him to leave sometimes because it was getting late.''
The two times I saw Boston play, Delp seemed to be very much enjoying himself, and very much in tune with what the band's fans wanted to hear. He certainly was in tune with what I wanted to hear.
A few words I hear in my head whenever I start to overdo on the job-stress thing:
Now you're climbing to the top of the company ladder
Hope it doesn't take too long
Can't you see there'll come a day when it won't matter
Come a day when you'll be gone ...
Brad Delp is gone. The music still matters. Thanks, man, and RIP.
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