It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp

Before children — and mostly before marriage, as well — I was an avid, avid concert goer. Like most concert goers, I have stories of a number of memorable shows, including seeing Captain Beefheart in the old Childe Harold in D.C. during one of his rare East Coast tours, the Residents, also in D.C., NRBQ, Danny Gatton, Root Boy Slim and John Prine (not all together) many times, and a host of others.

Listening to Trio of Doom, the one-off concert/studio disk by Tony Williams, Jaco Pastorius and John McLaughlin reminded me of the only time I saw the late Jaco as the headliner (I also saw him on the tour when he backed up Joni Mitchell).

The place was one of the college auditoriums in D.C., I think either Georgetown or George Washington. It was what was billed as the first annual Capital Jazz Festival — I don't know if there was a second — and it had been poorly publicized and organized. The auditorium was maybe a third full.

There were a number of good acts, notably Buck Hill, an excellent local sax player, but I, probably like most of the audience, was there to see Jaco, the headliner.

Apparently no one had told Jaco about the small audience, and when he came out from backstage, you could see a range of emotions on his face: shock, anger, determination. That last seemed to be his final thought, along the lines of "Those motherfuckers will be sorry they missed this one," and he tore into John Coltrane's "Giant Steps" the way a man who hadn't eaten in a week might tear into a platter of fried chicken.

Every song was like that. I was limp by the time he was done.

But the funniest concert I ever saw — inadvertently so — was probably also the best:

When I was 16 I worked for a summer at a day camp for underprivileged city kids who went fishing, hiking and did other outdoorsy things for the first time in their lives. One day one of the other counselors gave me — GAVE ME — a ticket to see the Rolling Stones at Madison Square Garden that night. (This was in northern New Jersey, about 30-40 minutes from New York City.) He had only one ticket, couldn't get a second for his girlfriend, and I think she was mad that he was going to go alone and not take her.

This was during the 1972 tour, when the Stones were at the height of their powers. Stevie Wonder was the warm-up act and, to top it off, it was Mick Jagger's birthday.

It was a hell of a show.

Now this was only the second concert I'd ever been to — Emerson, Lake and Palmer was the first (don't ask) — and I, despite my long hair and pre-grungy grunge appearance, was a very naive 16 year old.

I wound up sitting next to what I now realize was a black pimp and two of his women, both also black. For some reason he took a liking to me. I probably amused him with my innocence.

As the show was ending he said, "Man, Tiffany (one of the women) really likes you. Why don't you come party with us after the show?"

I had no idea what he meant and replied, with all sincerity, that I had to leave right after the show, because my last bus home left New York at 11:30.

"The bus?" he replied, disbelief in his voice. "The bus?"

If he's still alive he's probably still telling the story. As am I.