Tonight I met up with my best friend’s parents, Micah and Steve Brown. They live outside of Poughkeepsie, N.Y., and I was planning to meet them on my way down the state, but they were already coming up to Woodstock, which is only ten miles from the Zen Mountain Monastery.
They bought me a ticket to see Phoebe Snow, a blues singer from the 1970s. Maybe I’m uncultured, but I had no idea who she was until I searched for her name on the internet. But I’m open to new things.
Here we are right before the concert:
Inside, I was one of only three people even close to my generation. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so bad about not knowing who Phoebe Snow was.
But the concert was pretty amazing. Snow’s voice was incredibly deep and strong, and she barely needed a microphone. She sang some old classics, including “Piece of My Heart” and her hit “Poetry Man.” It was almost as fun to listen to her as to watch the men and women in the audience, dressed like they were going to a nice restaurant, but mouthing words with their heads swaying like they were in a smoke-filled lounge.
It’s hard to write about music, as it seems trite, like reading song lyrics. They may sound nice to the ear, but on paper, they can look pretty insipid. Ever seen “Superstar” by The Carpenters written out? “Baby, baby, baby, baby, oh, baby, I love you, I really do.” Sounds good, but it’s not Shakespeare.
But what was really nice was hearing about Snow’s life. After her career began to blossom with her first hit in 1975, she gave birth to her daughter, Valerie, who had severe brain injuries. Snow sacrificed much of her career to take care of her at home, until she died a little over a year ago. Now she dedicates all of her shows to Valerie, and tears up repeatedly. There aren’t a lot of famous people who’d be willing to give it all up for family.
