Tribute Band Rant #3 (Well, Sort Of…)

As now the venerable Ms. J. Baez and Mr. P. Simon (no relation) become the latest to march off into the proverbial rock and roll - or at least singer/songwriter - sunset, it serves as yet another harsh reminder that the end of an era is heading into the final stretch and rapidly running out of horses in the process.

The two farewell tours (with Elton John hot on their weathered heels) continue the indubitably inevitable yet still startling and unsettling procession of musical icons alternately retiring, expiring or simply misfiring. Whether dead, done or diminishing, it always comes down to the following: Ma and Pa Time remain undefeated. Perhaps this is just a microcosm of life in general, but it is nonetheless jarring in the sheer escalation of it all.

A sobering thought: All the rock and roll greats from the '60s and '70s save a possible smattering of mega-elderly stragglers (led by the relentlessly immortal, roach-like anomalies that are Crosby and Richards) will be toast in one way or another within 20 years.

So what will be left to look at other than old footage? Some tribute bands and creepy virtual reality forays will no doubt remain to carry on some semblance of the legacies, but will those be sufficient to recapture and maintain the heart and soul of the originals? And will we ever be able to reclaim the initial wonder, the novelty, the innocence, the danger, the passion, the experimentation... from the halcyon days... or will it all simply fizzle out as the last bastions of the old-school classic rock stars (excepting the aforementioned apparently inextinguishable David and Keith) ultimately leave this planet?

Meanwhile on that note, no pun intended, I was thinking about this the other day: We've gotta make sure we see as many of what's left of the legends in concert while they are still out there. Well, don't we?

And yet (I realize this may seem blasphemous to even broach the subject and perhaps I should've used someone else a tad less beloved as the example), do I really want to see/hear Sir Paul McCartney one last time in a giant arena knowing that despite his still ample enthusiasm and lingering instrumental prowess, his once-magnificent and seemingly range-unlimited voice has withered to a disturbing quiver? Understandable after all the wear and tear at age 76, but still difficult to accept. Even so, should I really care? It's still freaking Macca on that stage! But then again... maybe, just maybe... might a standout Beatles tribute band (albeit with the Paul character portrayed by some random Latino dude from Whittier clad in predictable mop-top wigs and ultra-cheese Sgt. Pepper suit purchased on Amazon) that faithfully mimics the youthful energy, vibrancy and sheer vocal power of the lads in their absolute vital primes somehow provide a more satisfying and potentially less depressing consolation prize at this point in time? I suppose a declining Paul McCartney still soundly beats the living daylights out of the beastly and lyrically unintelligible amalgam of gargled phlegm and ground glass that passes for Bob Dylan's voice these days.

While soaking all this in, I stave off despair by allowing my mind to wander back to what may have been the happiest summer of my life. It was certainly the most magical. Arguably so, at the very least. The year was 1974 and Watergate scandal be damned cuz things were pretty good over in the Simon household. But most importantly, it was during that unforgettable July that I discovered music for real. And for keeps.

To be continued...