Merry Christmas, 2017, everyone. Engaged, here. Very happy. It helps me to write about big stuff, process it, and then I always end up figuring I might as well post it.
Love is best when shared.

Christine is a jewel of a woman. Deeply kind, always striving to be the best version of herself, and working to remain as positive as possible each and every day. She believes in putting goodness into the world, and trusting that it comes back to you. She believes in God, she was raised a Catholic, and generally has faith in both a benevolent higher power, and the possibilities for humanity. We can be good. Love can triumph. It must.  Her spirituality dovetails so perfectly with my hippie side.  I didn’t see it coming.

Rubin is going to be blessed with an amazing stepmother.  And we will both be blessed with Christine’s two college-age daughters in our lives.  I will be an instant stepfather, with so much to learn.  The relationships I could have with them are a huge opportunity; how good and strong a man can I be, while also respecting their individuality and growth?

I have thought and lived with her for 7 months. I have learned the value of her spirit in my life, how we genuinely make each other better. We have grown to communicate better than I thought imaginable; this is easily the best relationship I’ve ever been in. Not even close.

I was given a 6 month deadline when she moved in.
“At this age, we should know.”
I get it. But a man can’t truly own his destiny on deadline.

I successfully retook the power of the wedding proposal time frame at the 6 month mark. I needed this to feel like my choice, needed to make sure that by the moment I committed and did this, I was free of any possible regret, concern, or trepidation. Given my lifelong struggle with conflicted emotions, this was perhaps an unrealistic aspiration. But I got there.

I got there because I am in the best therapeutic health of my life. I am in touch with my aggression, and mobilize it whenever possible. I am careful to be quiet and look for my center, my own moral compass, and try to base decisions on what I truly want and need. I am conscious of a lifelong desire to appease others that has been beneficial in terms of getting along with people, but detrimental in terms of holding on to unspoken resentment. I let things out these days, more than ever before.

A wedding proposal is a rare opportunity for a man. It’s a chance to define his sense of romanticism, to express himself aesthetically, creatively, symbolically. I wanted our moment to be memorable, emotional, and unique.

Hanukkah, Christmas, New Years’ Eve, and her birthday all loomed as possible dates to work with. Also present, though, was her need for the clarity of our engagement as she lived through those holidays. The endless questions about her future and our timeline from friends and family have been stressful. I did want to alleviate those soon, and had visions of her enjoying said holidays with relief, pride, and a shiny ring.

So the plan was hatched, for a Wednesday night at 7 pm. I told her there was a show in a tent downtown in Grant Park, a seasonal show I’d heard great things about. We would have to be outside for about 10 minutes, so we needed to dress warmly. No googling! Was she game? Of course she was.

As she fell asleep on the couch at 6 pm, she looked at me hopefully and asked if we HAD to go out. Yes, baby we do. I promise it will be worth it. I made up some more bullshit about the show. This was a lot of lying, and I am NOT good at lying to this woman. That’s one of the best things about us.

Our ride came, we got in it and headed downtown.
“The city looks beautiful!,” she said. “I love that we’re here, I love that this is my home.”
“I know, baby. Remember when we rode bikes, on our 2nd date I think? We went to Buckingham Fountain, and you got emotional.”
“Yes…my dad used to take me there.”
She moved out of the city with husband and daughters for sensible suburban reasons, but now I offered her a life downtown; a surprising 2nd opportunity to live the way she’d always wanted to.

The driver dropped us off right in front of the fountain. It was 7:05 pm, about 35 degrees, clear and cold with absolutely no one in sight. We walked towards the patch of park where I pretended a seasonal tent circus show of some kind might be. I feigned confusion, and we turned around to walk back towards the fountain.

In the distance, a man walked towards us. As he got closer, Christine noticed he had an accordion on. “Oh great,” she says she thought, “he’s gonna want to play a song for us and ask for money. There’s no one out here…this guy isn’t making any cash tonight.”

It would indeed be a weird night to be the wandering accordion guy saying “can I play something for you and your beautiful companion?”

As he approached, he began to play the intro to “Knocks Me Off My Feet” by Stevie Wonder. Christine had never heard this song when we started dating, and she adores it. As he hit the groove, I started to sing.
“I see us in the park…strolling the summer days of imaginings in my head….”
I take out and open a ring box.
“Baby!!!!” She screams. She cries. She covers her face with one gloved hand. I keep singing.
The accordionist is my friend Scott Stevenson, a man I’ve known an intermittent band mate for 23 years. He has perfectly disguised and nailed his role in my romantic gesture, as I knew he would.

We do the whole tune, modulation and all, with Scott singing the backup “I love you, I love you, I l-o-o-ove you.” She cries the whole way through, even as I film the entire 2nd verse. We slightly botch the modulation, and Scott slightly butchers the bass riff mid-choruses, but the totality of it is perfect.

Side note; I am fortunate to have been a musician for so many reasons. But one of them is that the list of people I could have called to accompany this moment is vast. They include perhaps 4 or 5 musicians who I feel as if I know deeply, trust soulfully, and would be perfectly comfortable existing in this memory for ever and ever. We have been fortunate to connect with each other on earnest, delicate levels that allow for bonds like this. I love that Scott is part of this image for the rest of our lives.

She says yes, we are engaged. We have the following day off of work, by sneaky design, to bask in the glow of the moment. It is best to pause the chaos of daily life right here, to share the news with who and how we see fit, at our pace. To live in the happiest of moments, unencumbered for a day. Thursday was wonderful.

As I expect the rest of our lives to be.

By Matt Spiegel

On playing at FitzGerald’s, and then basking in fanboy happiness for Dos Lobos. FitzGerald’s Nightclub

Tributosaurus became James Brown. I was talkin’ loud and sayin’ nothing. Like godfathers, we all fronted those tunes. The grooves were deep, explosive, simmering, bad-ass. The festival was funky as can be for our 90 minutes.

We finished; it was 2 hours to wait for Dos Lobos. But I had to.  David Hidalgo is a gem. What a beautiful, lyrical guitar player to see. To talk to. To be near. To introduce to his bandmates for the evening. We had a moment…smiling, approachable moment. He connected with me before anyone in the room, aside from the Cesar Rosas table at which he seemed to know everybody.

Hidalgo has that glimmer…that spark. That seeming knowledge of a spiritual, artistic secret…which lets him smile and calmly navigate his passions with skill. His avocation has become his vocation…and he’s as thrilled with that fact as you would be.

As for David the player; He’s got some of Garcia’s steady meanderings, some of Gilmour’s clarity, touch, and high register melodic tendencies. How is he with a bass player he’s known for decades; and no other guitar? Or at least, a guitar under his aegis and control, fully, inarguably. I want to hear.  But this band he and Cesar picked up….these were our people, and they represented awesomely. John Abbey, Gerald Dowd, Chris Neville. The right guys for the job.

My pride in the Chicago music scene is large. It continues.

Gerald is the best. My 2nd favorite drummer in the city behind Tributo’s Dan Leali, but they both would admit either of them can do absolutely anything. And anyone that plays with Gerald learns how comfortable he is. I happened to wear his “Day Of The Dowd” t-shirt for the first 5 hours of my alert daypart. Then greeted him as he arrived to the Fitzgerald’s’ green room, lovely wife in tow, to approach what would for many be the gig of a lifetime.

We have known Los Lobos since…”I Got Loaded” on the Bull Durham soundtrack? The whole How Will The Wolf Survive album in 1984. La Bamba in ’87 pushed them higher.

And then Kiko; glorious, wondrous Kiko in ’92. Mitchell Froom at the helm. Earnest, inventive, serene, beautifully produced Kiko. The textures of low woodwinds and melodica on the title track….haunting, spooky, somber, driving.

And “Dream In Blue.” I yearned for that song all week as the fest approached, and had a chance to express that yearning to, in order, Chris, Gerald, Abbey, Bill Fitzgerald, and then to Hidalgo himself.

“It’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever written.”

I threw some fluid on that spark. No….that sounds wrong, um…I nudged the flint towards the match. Or something.
And “Dream In Blue” combusted…third tune of the set. For me: elation at hearing the groove as Gerald sets it up. Excitement for Abbey that he’d learned the part in the last hour…and more importantly he’d found the feel…the place to sit. The tune sat perfectly.

“Oh lo-ord. I can’t believe it. Oh yea-ah. Almost see it….” Hidalgo’s voice, at that perfect spot atop his chest voice. Just strained enough to have the right emotional power, but clear and strong as a bell.

What a set. After the show, talked some funk history with Cesar. He’d dug Tributosaurus as James Brown in the afternoon. And we quickly got talking Tower Of Power. San Fran, L.A. 60’s into 70’s. I guessed that he was into “Live and in Living Color.” He calls bullshit.

“That’s 1976 man….waaaay late.” He counts the records; we sing a few song titles that come up along the way. “That’s their 6th album!”

I learn something.

Cesar played with some of TOP (Emilio?) when he was 32. He raved about that experience with passion, fervor, and wisdom. I told him that what that gig was for him, a night like tonight was for Dowd/Abbey/Neville.

It is paid forward. Here’s to those who keep at their avocations until they become vocations. The spirit of why we do the former will and should always trump the business of the latter.

I sit in with Dag Juhlin‘s brilliant Expo’76, as discussed but not as we’d planned. I’m not in the room and miss my chance for “Can’t Hardly Wait,” and then happily wave Dag off with a “who gives a shit, enjoy your life” kind of grinning nonchalance.
But I am apparently requested later…and found in the tent. “My Old School”…Dag has started it….but I grab a mic and go for the low melody. He jumps up. We are locked as Donald Fagen and for the duration.

It kills. Horns! Dag’s guitar breakdowns are on point. The band’s hits are tight as they oughta be.
Then later, “Ooh Ooh Child,” where I sing along with la la la’s, gang tackle the choruses and even add the soprano single note beds on the verse.

The outro comes…it is mine. Oh, it is delicious, and it shall be mine.

“You just a wait and see…how things are gonna be.”

Right now.

BTW, Rahm Emmanuel loved this one. Or at least, that intro was when he happened to look our way during the NATO conference 4 years ago at the Navy Pier Grand Ballroom, and raised 2 thumbs up.

The more I picture it…the gesture seemed a little Nixonesque. Not two fingers of each hand, in that wagging peace/victory hybrid Nixon created, or at least perfected. But you could see it from there.

That Nixonian gesture reeked, from the very first time I was conscious of it. The video is intellectually paired with him saying “I am not a crook” in my head, and stands as a moving emblem of his ability to lie. His willingness to deceive, as many as it takes. He had the acting chops to fool most of those it took. Or at least the ability to take directions from extremely wise power brokers. Karl Rove, line 2.

But enough about Rahm.

Tonight was about me; in that our nights will always be about ourselves. I had a phenomenal night.

The soulful roadhouse in Berwyn has built a culture all its own. It is deep, evocative, and eclectic. The curious are always rewarded. The American Music Festival is always a success.

Again and again, please, as long as can be.

I’m standing in the whole between shortstop and 3rd, where Addison Russell might make a leaping throw back across the infield to get a tough out at first.

But I’m listening to Phish bash their way through The Rolling Stones’ “Loving Cup.”

What a surreal, perfect night. It’s as palpable a world collision as Hot Stove, Cool, Music, but maybe even more visceral. Leaning on a guard rail, staring at the pitcher’s mound and discussing the scientific improbability of being able to hit a baseball, all while my hippie sensibilities are simultaneously indulged.

The stands are filled with happy, swaying weirdos. They’re amazing to watch, and I spend a lot of the night with my back towards the stage. The press box level is fully desolate, including the broadcast booth above the 670 logo. This night isn’t about the usual crowd you find up there. Like me.

Tonight I’m down here, among thousands filling the general admission space atop a metal plated outfield. In deep center a stage is adorned with two giant video screens, though as of 2016 they’re dwarfed by the ballpark’s own. My eyes keep drifting to the old hand-controlled one atop the bleachers, as if someone was keeping score.

Everybody’s winning. Darkness reveals a solid light show. More blue! Oooh, purple, fade it into red, ads some green, hint at yellow, but back to blue! Soothing. The lighting cues fit the jams.

This band I saw for the first time at The Campus Club in Providence, Rhode Island in May of 1991 has held up remarkably well. That’s the thing; they’re older, balding, graying, but still going. Like most of us. The bond intensifies as our numbers dwindle. I’m glad these guys have gotten past some well publicized issues with pills and booze. I’m happy for their ability to function, thrive, and survive. Call it a low bar, but we all know people who’ve succumbed by now.

Chalk Dust Torture is song #2. A moment of pure musical glee. Ahhhhhhhhh. Look to the sky, drink in the moment, feel the gratitude of being in this spot at that hour. All my vasoconstrictors they come slowly undone.

I go get a drink, moving 15 feet to the right. I’m now very close to the left field line, still “on” the dirt; at Javy Baez’ spot in a no-doubles formation. I could make a cat-quick dive to my right to smother a shot headed towards the corner. Of course, it’d take me about 30 seconds to collect myself and get up, but hey…no double. Probably.

It’s my first show ever at Wrigley. I hope the outfield grass is not damaged by our trampling stank. Would love to be here when the grass is set free on Sunday.
Otherwise, the place is holding up phenomenally well. The GA entrance at Sheffield and Waveland was an absolute breeze. There’s plenty of space around the perimeter to walk, gape, dance, stumble, and socialize. I’ve never been so happy to pay 11 bucks for a beer, since the assortment is solid and the vendors plentiful.

It was a rare, magic night. A night when the atmosphere provided what I used to think I needed hallucinogens to receive. Connection. To the music, to the crowd, between my past and present, between my passions and vocations. It’s all too beautiful.

I’m not even that mad they didn’t play Llama, or Squirming Coil, or You Enjoy Myself, or Stash, or Cavern, or Golgi Apparatus, or….

http://phish.net/setlists/?d=2016-06-24