You don't have to read this.
Adventures in the real world.
I know how you feel. You subscribed to a Substack account because your friend who hosts it pitched it to you; or because you are on Substack and it came recommended; or because you had reason to know of and possibly even admire the person behind the account and wanted to support; and possibly you even demonstrated that support with a paid account. And for all those reasons - and for the fact that whenever you interact personally with the host, they seem to be subtly suggesting you should read more of their Substack - you want to read everything they post.
But you can’t. Because there isn’t enough time. There isn’t enough time to read their five thousand word weekend essays when you have other things to get on with on a Sunday. There isn’t enough time to read a five hundred word essay if you want to read everyone else’s essays and posts too… because, damn it if you didn’t get caught up in the sweeping tide of Substack and now somehow you’ve replaced the cats-and-children flow of Facebook and the doom scroll of X - or merely added to them, which is even worse - with words. Too many words, even though you like words. You feel guilt about this maybe. But try as you might, weeks upon weeks of posts by people you like, know, and trust are going unread and the backlog only gets greater. You just can’t keep up. There. Isn’t. Enough. Time.
Believe me, I sympathize. Indeed, I empathize. Because while the person above could well be you, it is certainly me. I am over subscribed, not just on Substack, where there are so many cool people writing, doing, making, discussing, debating, and sharing,\ so many cool ideas, music, podcasts, plays, books, climate events, political shifts and more, and I seem to have signed up to all of them. I have additionally oversubscribed my life by deciding, quite apart from my music work and my podcasts, to do a forced march to conclude my college degree, which I could (should?) have by the end of the spring semester if I can keep up the pace.
Why does Tony Fletcher need a college degree if he got this far without one? That’s for another post. But among the reasons are that I love to learn, I enjoy research, and I take pride in the deep dive as long it’s not diving into a rabbit hole… Hey, I can mix metaphors better than you can mix a margarita. And in the old days I could mix one of those better than you, period, and I’ll supply you with the personal references to prove it if you argue. But if you’re going to argue, take it to X; I’m here to have fun.
Having fun online, is of course, somewhat oxymoronic for most of us most of the time. So, last weekend, in the midst of the usual weekend deadlines for Substack posts and college papers, I decamped from my new home office, stepped away from the online world - reluctantly still packing my Surface Pro because of those very deadlines - and took the bus to the greatest city I know of in the western world: New York, New York. In other words, I stepped out of the online world for 48 hours and returned to the default world, and if you aren’t reading this because you’re living there yourself (by which I mean the default world, not (necessarily) NYC), that’s fine by me, no apology necessary - and of course, no apology forthcoming because you’re not reading.
I went to NYC to have a good time. The social kind. The interactive kind. The kind of good time that Kurt Vonnegut used to have when he was alive and crusty living in Manhattan and would go out to buy an envelope and take it to the Post Office despite there being more “modern” ways of handling such commerce. It’s something you may have read or heard him talk about in an abridged form, on social media no doub, unless you read the book that the talking point came from - A Man Without A Country - which phrases it somewhat differently. So here is the quote you’ve probably heard: it is from a PBS interview in 2005: (I told you I like to research):
DAVID BRANCACCIO: There's a little sweet moment, I've got to say, in a very intense book — your latest — in which you're heading out the door and your wife says what are you doing? I think you say — I'm getting — I'm going to buy an envelope.
KURT VONNEGUT: Yeah.
DAVID BRANCACCIO: What happens then?
KURT VONNEGUT: Oh, she says well, you're not a poor man. You know, why don't you go online and buy a hundred envelopes and put them in the closet? And so I pretend not to hear her. And go out to get an envelope because I'm going to have a hell of a good time in the process of buying one envelope.
I meet a lot of people. And, see some great looking babes. And a fire engine goes by. And I give them the thumbs up. And, and ask a woman what kind of dog that is. And, and I don't know…
And, of course, the computers will do us out of that. And, what the computer people don't realize, or they don't care, is we're dancing animals. You know, we love to move around. And, we're not supposed to dance at all anymore.
I went to dance.
You don’t have enough time to read my posts. But you’re here anyway. Thank you. I love you.
First stop: IDLES
My first stop - at least the first I emerged from to breathe that joyously toxic NYC air, the streets laden with traffic, people everywhere, bars heaving - was in Forest Hills. Back in January, writing about IDLES as my Best Gig of the 21st Century, I’d vowed that next time they played within 100 miles, I’d make perfectly sure I had tickets and the date in my diary. I did both as soon as the band announced what turned out to be an overly ambitious NYC date late in September at an outdoor venue that holds 13,000 people. As a result, I was left holding the second ticket I’d bought, unable to convince my younger son or any friends to cancel plans and see one of the best live bands currently straddling the earth.
That doesn’t mean none of my friends attended. One of them that I reminded about the show promptly got himself on the guest list (but has kindly let me use the photos he took with that pass, and aren’t they amazing? Cheers Graham). And in trying to unload that extra ticket, I discovered that two of my very best friends, Tom Ferrie and Kristin Wallace, former Park Slope neighbors these days relocated to Staten Island where they founded the incredible community station/venue/organization that is Staten Island’s Maker Park Radio, had tickets for the same block, ideally situated center and first tier above the General Admission. After catching the end of a (re-)invigorating set by a recently reunited The Walkmen, we met on the concourse for a beer, which for me meant finishing off the mini-wine I’d picked up on my way in - overpriced of course, but the general civility and friendliness of the Forest Hills Stadium staff, including the extremely convenient $5 bag check for those of us carrying weekend backpacks, compensated.
Many of my friends have quit alcohol. I’m always happy for them if they are happy for themselves. But I live a near monastic life at home, working and writing and studying away, especially now that I’ve moved out of uptown Kingston and everything is a drive, including the bars, and the end result of these intense periods is that I find myself increasingly, relentlessly “on,” my wake time getting ever earlier, regressing this very week before hitting NYC from 5am to 4:30 to a totally stupid and debilitating 3:30am, an hour of night even the cat had cause to blink at. Nobody needs Tony Fletcher more “on” - and tired with it - than he usually is. So when I decamp, not only are socialization, art, and entertainment my priorities but so is the occasional alcoholic beverage or two, almost always in tandem with one or more of the others. You do you, but my life ethos works for me.
It works for Tom and Kristen too, who seem to get as much done as anyone - including raising four fine children compared to my two. Latest case in point: a brand new record store they’ve helped get off the ground back in Park Slope, indeed on my old 5th Avenue. We chatted about the outdoor show they’d just put on in Staten Island starring Lee Fields, which had been postponed due to weather from a summer night when I had planned to make it, to a mid-September night when I couldn’t. And they told me about plans to DJ for the station and host book events from the new record shop (Sterling Records) that apparently has a great collection of music books, and they asked, Would I be up for doing an event there some time?, and being just a boy who can’t say No, I said Yes.
And I gave them a hot-off-the-presses new CD by The Dear Boys, and Kristen went to get some merch, and I went to refill my water bottle because the IPAs at Forest Hills may cost $16 - plus tax and tip (cheers Tom!) - but at least the venue supplies proper water refill stations… and when we heard a muffled voice that sounded very much like that of Joe Talbot, we climbed to our respective seats in Block 601, admiring how Forest Hills Stadium has somehow discovered a way to tamp/dampen the sound beyond the arena itself, so that when you descend the stairs, it’s like being transported a mile or so away and only after you ascend them again do you find yourself appreciating how loud the music is.
IDLES, not so by the way, were fantastic. Every experience in life is wrapped in context, and I had no reason to expect anything like the show I’d seen in 2019, which took place inside a club inside a bowling alley inside a giant suburban mall outside of Albany. Back then, I recall thinking, “This is the closest I will ever get to seeing the MC5 in their heyday.” (On which note,
and I just unleashed our latest episode of our Crossed Channels podcast, dedicated to that very band.) Yet even in this vast outdoor space, with unsold seats rising all around us, the band was able to establish much of that same club vibe. That comment I made about being one of the best live bands currently straddling the planet? I take it back. They are the best that I know of.
IDLES may not (yet) have made another album to match their breakthrough second, 2018’s classic Joy As An Act of Resistance, but it’s hardly for lack of hard work and effort across what is now five long players, and it’s testimony to their own ethos that the live set can draw from all five without ever letting up. The General Admission crowd moshed like mad, various members jumped in to join them at times, and Joe Talbot spoke with that incredible decisiveness he has about why it had meant so much to him that The Walkmen had accepted the invitation to open. See below:
IDLES didn’t “save” me - though they certainly renewed my faith in live music on a night I needed it back in 2019. But they do have a power to make me feel young in a way I’m surprised by. I don’t have personal angst, I don’t listen to contemporary punk, I’ve never been a metal head or much of a hard rock fan, I’ve never been in recovery, and I don’t mosh. Yet all the same, I found myself with fist (joyously) clenched, singing along, not so much jumping about in my seat as grooving.
I also looked around, because it’s who I am and what I do. And I noted, as I had that night back in Albany, just what a wide demographic IDLES attract. Further down my row was another older guy, also on his own, also enjoying the show, more formally attired and coiffured, and as such I’d put him a few years above me in age. But in front of me was a Hispanic (I think) family of mom, dad, and what I guessed to be a 10-12-year-old girl, who knew the songs, and was grooving in her own slightly embarrassed, massively enthused way, as if this was her first show and she wasn’t quite sure how to express herself. I included her in this clip that hopefully also gets across some of the band’s raw power. Oh, and her mom was clearly on board too.
Behind me, similarly, stood a Young Black Teenager (now there’s a hip-hop name from the past) who had clearly been chaperoned by her, in this case rather unimpressed mother, who remained seated and certainly wasn’t to be heard applauding Talbot’s frequent use of the F-word. And alongside me to the left, also on his own, and quite unapologetic about his own singing along and fist-punching the air, was a 23-year old of Mexican descent, who - and I know because I asked - was turned on to IDLES as a high school senior by the album Joy, as he should have been, and was experiencing his own Joy at seeing his, um, idols in the flesh for the first time. Yes, it’s New York City and all that, but still, throw in the youthful moshers and the various black-clad young couples in their 20’s through 40’s, and you have to credit IDLES for casting a wider-than-usual net.
And then there was Ash. I’ll let Joe introduce Ash, and then Ash speak (and play) for himself.
Now, apparently, IDLES quite often invite someone up from the audience to play along, just as various members of the band spend occasional moments of the show in the audience. It’s all part of breaking down the barriers. But this is what distinguishes Ash. Ash is 12. Twelve.
I know Ash is 12 because I rode the subway home with him and his dad, and also because I didn’t get where I am today (ha!) without walking up to strangers and asking them questions. (Ash and his dad should be grateful I didn’t say “Do you want to buy a copy of Jamming?” like in the old days - though I once formed a life-long friendship that way on a train to Portsmouth.)
So, I chatted him with them on the platform, first when they came down the steps and were cheered roundly, and again on the train itself, given that the ride back to Brooklyn was the best part of an hour and at a certain point I figured I might as well. The two of them had a kind of dazed look like they couldn’t believe what had happened, probably each figuring how they were going to tell mom about it. When I asked him, Ash told me he was nervous when he first walked up to talk to Joe in the crowd while Joe was watching the Walkmen, saying something about his love of the band and his dream of playing with them, but that when that dream came true and he was invited on stage, he wasn’t nervous at all. Strange though that sounds, I get it.
Best of all, he’d never played the song in question - ‘Samaritans’ - before. Not once. Knew it. Never played it. Nailed it.
Dad told me Ash plays various instrument and writes and records all the time at home. When I asked the rhetorical question - “So there must be music in the family?” - he said No. Not at all. Sometimes nature just throws a wild card into the mix.
Ash and his dad got off the F Train at Bergen Street. I was one stop beyond, Carroll Street, a 15-minute walk still ahead of me to some kindly donated digs for the weekend. Sunday morning, I wrote about Ash as my first post on the ‘All Is Love’ IDLES community FB page, and was showered with love, because IDLES are all about love and thankfully, and unlike so many other people on FB, the fans share that ethos. Ash’s mom soon popped up with a message of thanks for the lovely write-up and a recent picture of Ash at work in his home studio. Sounds like she took the news of his auspicious arena debut in her stride.
The reason it took me until Sunday morning to post on FB was because in-between, though I’d already succeeded in coming to NYC to “move around” and “dance” and have what Kurt Vonnegut would call “a hell of a good time,” I’d also had a full Saturday to do even more of it, to fully live out the expression he actually used to close out the sixth chapter of that book A Man Without A Country:
“We are here on Earth to fart around, and don't let anybody tell you any different.”
I spent my Saturday joyously farting around, and those farts will form another post that, really, you don’t have to read.
Long may you fart, good sir!
Cheers Tony! We had a blast and it was so nice to spend that time with you between sets! Idles rocked. I enjoyed reading your substack about it!