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Posts Tagged ‘David Crosby’


The line for breakfast in Martha’s on Church was long, stretching to the sidewalk. I ordered two decaf lattes and bagels to go. I was assailed by a grey, pig-tailed man around my age in Moody Blues t-shirt and crumpled check shorts, intrigued by my accent and “Closing of Winterland” t-shirt, he enquired:

“Do you live in the City?”

“I wish. But no, I’m staying in a cottage a few blocks away for a month”.

“Wow, you Brits really seem to love it here. Love your shirt by the way. I was there”.

“Thanks, and my turn to say wow. I have to make do with the CD and DVD”.

We stepped to one side as the line lengthened further.

“We’ve been going to concerts here for two decades. We were at the Great American Music Hall with Dark Star Orchestra last night”.

“Nice. Y’know, I’ve never seen them, but I’ve heard they’re pretty close to the Dead”.

“Yeah, they play whole shows and last night’s was the Fillmore ’69 which was view of music heaven. And Bob Weir joined them for a couple of numbers”.

“Double wow! They must have been awesome. It’s funny but you guys are wedded to the Dead, while I’ve travelled all over the UK pretty regularly to see concerts. I’ve seen the Stones, Pink Floyd and the Moody Blues, of course”.

“That’s weird but cool, because we’ve probably seen more gigs in the States than we would at home. In the past few years we’ve seen Crosby and Nash, Elvis Costello, the Doobie Brothers, Steve Miller Band, Phil Lesh and Bob Weir all in the city, and Eric Burdon in South Lake Tahoe”.

Another baby boomer further back in the line began to regale us of times following the Dead on tour in the eighties, but was cut short by the welcome announcement that my bagels were ready.

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‘Tis the night before the start of our our tenth – and longest – stay in San Francisco. And the first to be spent in summer in the enchanted city.

We spent a week in the southern neighbourhood of Noe Valley last spring, and whilst much of that time we were elsewhere, we enjoyed its relaxing, civilised atmosphere so much that, when we had to decide where to rent an apartment for four weeks in June this year, we chose it above other likely candidates such as the Mission and the Sunset . This will enable us to acquaint ourselves more with the neighbourhood and adjoining districts as well as providing a good base for visiting other parts of the Bay Area, familiar and previously unexplored alike.

So where is Noe Valley? And what we have let ourselves in for by living there? It sits immediately south of the Castro and east of the Mission in a sunny spot protected from the fog by steep hills on three sides. Its borders are broadly defined as between 20th and 22nd Street to the north, 30th Street to the south, Dolores to the east and Grand View Avenue to the west. Our apartment is on 28th Street between Church and Dolores.

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A look at a map of the greater San Francisco area would suggest that it is relatively remote, and it is undeniably off the tourist trail. But public transit and local roads render it easily accessible to downtown and the South Bay respectively. The J Church MUNI Metro line was our constant companion on our previous trip and will be so again, at least for the first half of our stay before we hire a car for the trip to Tahoe.

Noe Valley is a quiet but cosmopolitan residential neighbourhood with a classy small town feel. Its preponderance of comfortable, even affluent, young families has lead to a change in its nickname from the hippie-inspired “Granola Valley” in the seventies to “Stroller Alley” today. But it also attracts couples and singles of all persuasions, notably gay and lesbian migrants from the Castro. A healthy number of artists and writers complete a sophisticated demographic. The population of approximately 21,000 comprises 70% white, 15% Hispanic and 7% Asian, with the remaining 8% coming from all corners of the globe.

It is blessed with a significant number of classic two storey Victorian and Edwardian homes. Broad streets and brightly coloured exteriors have the writers of guidebooks reaching for words like “cute” and “quaint”. Property prices are inevitably expensive.

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The neighbourhood gets its name from José de Jésus Noé, the last Mexican alcade (Mayor) of Yerba Buena, the original name for San Francisco. He owned the land as part of his Rancho San Miguel but sold it to John Meirs Horner in 1854. Horner laid out many of the wide streets we enjoy today, and the name “Horner’s Addition” is still used for tax purposes by the city assessor’s office.

The main development of what was traditionally a working class neighbourhood came in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, notably after the 1906 Earthquake and Fire. Today, its interest for outsiders lies essentially in the eclectic shopping and dining experience to be found along the stretches of 24th Street from Castro to Church and Diamond to Dolores. Coffee shops, restaurants, one of a kind clothing and gift stores and bookshops abound, along with one of the best farmers’ markets in the city.

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This will be our fourth apartment – the first two were in Hayes Valley and North of the Panhandle (NOPA) – and, as with previous years, our aim is to blend as far as possible into the local community for the duration. With four weeks at our disposal on this occasion, our “live like locals” strategy has more chance of success than in previous years where we have stayed for no more than a fortnight. We are particularly looking forward to hiking up Bernal Heights, Twin Peaks and Buena Vista Park, as well as reacquainting ourselves with the Mission.

But the extended stay still enables us to satisfy our tourist cravings and revisit the usual suspects such as Golden Gate Bridge, the Palace of Fine Arts, Golden Gate Park , Beach Blanket Babylon and Haight Ashbury, and, of course, three pilgrimages to AT & T Park to support the Giants in their (currently faltering~) hunt for back to back World Series titles. Any trip would not be complete without expanding our understanding of the Bay Area, so Berkeley, the Zoo, Castro Theater and the de Young Museum, all places we have criminally neglected until now, are on our list.

Having always , with the exception of our first visit in October, visited in spring, we will be also be able to throw ourselves into four of San Francisco’s celebrated annual events – the Haight Ashbury Street Fair, North Beach Festival, Stern Grove Festival and San Francisco Pride.

Our last two vacations have coincided with Crosby and Nash and Elvis Costello gigs at the Warfield. This year, we move to the waterfront at Pier 27/29 where we have tickets for the concert being given by the Steve Miller Band and the Doobie Brothers at the America’s Cup Pavilion. And finally, a short detour to Tahoe is also scheduled.

I hadn’t actually realised until I wrote this just how busy we are going to be!

San Francisco – your “wandering one” is coming home again.  

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Today is my birthday, the 59th to be precise.

Cause for celebration? Perhaps, but more a sense of satisfaction and gratitude for being granted the last year.  And a sense of expectation for what lay ahead.

But, for the past seven years, any joy has been tinged with sorrow as my mother died just two days before it.  Her last whispered words as I wished her a good night in hospital were “happy birthday, I love you so much”, as if she knew she wouldn’t get the chance to say it again. Thinking no such thing myself, I admonished her, reminding her that my birthday was still a couple of days away and that she could extend her love and best wishes then. But, as always, she knew best.

Yesterday, two fine talents who have also influenced me, though not in as profound a way as my mother, were snatched from us before their time.  Graham Dilley, Kent, Worcestershire and England cricketer, passed away after a short illness at the criminally young age of 52, whilst one of the greatest guitarists of the past half century, Bert Jansch, died at the age of 67 after a long battle with cancer.

I will never forget my first sight of “Picca” Dilley on a Kent ground. Aside from his shock of blond hair, and beaming smile, here, at last, was the type of player that the county club had rarely been blessed with – a genuinely quick bowler who could spreadeagle rather than tickle a batsman’s stumps. On his day he was also a glorious stroke player, earning comparison, on one occasion, with the great Frank Woolley.  Were it not for injury he would surely have led England’s attack for more than 41 tests.

Jansch was a musician’s musician, who influenced and inspired guitarists who became household names such as Jimmy Page, Paul Simon and Neil Young.  I first encountered him playing with the outstanding British folk group, Pentangle, whom he helped to found and collaborated with for many years.

I hadn’t seen Dilley for nearly 20 years, during which time he had become a successful and much loved coach.  Nor had I seen Jansch live in that same period, though his music lives on in recorded form.  But their passing, whilst diminishing my life now, enriches it too because it reminds me how important to me they have been at times in my life, and that they have played a positive part in making me who I am today.  In that sense, they join some distinguished company.

It is against this even sadder than usual backdrop that another birthday has dawned (on a morning that I also hear of the death of Steve Jobs, the founder of Apple).  Or perhaps birth weekend would be a more appropriate term. Tonight my wife and I will have a meal and stay in Tunbridge Wells, and on Saturday evening we will pay homage to David Crosby and Graham Nash at the Royal Albert Hall, again with a hotel stay in the capital.

My mother would not have wanted it any other way.

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I’m going to break with tradition by starting with an account of the evening.  We witnessed an astonishing show by David Crosby and Graham Nash at the legendary Warfield Theater on Market Street.   My already sore throat took a fearful battering at 11pm belting out the encore numbers Teach You Children and Chicago from their Crosby, Still, Nash and Young (CSNY) days. 

How those guys, who are ten years older than me, must feel this morning after some serious hard rocking for almost three hours does not bear thinking about.  It helps to have a hot band, of course, which included not only Crosby’s multi-talented son but also the former bass player for Jackson Browne and erstwhile lead guitarist for Steely Dan.

The two sets encompassed the whole career of both performers, getting off to a steaming start with The Byrds’ Eight Miles High, introduced by Nash as “this one’s for San Francisco” – hmm, I wonder why!  This was followed by Long Time Gone and Marrakesh Express.  Given his serious health problems over the years Crosby’s voice is still a remarkably powerful and expressive one, most evident on Almost Cut My Hair, Camera and Wooden Ships.  Nash led on a number of other songs that he had penned such as I Used to be a King and Military Madness and the singalong Our House.  Their harmonies on Guinevere and more recent songs such as Don’t Dig Here and Lay Me Down were as good as ever.

We could not have had better seats – although we were in the back row in the stalls we were raised above everyone else so had an uninterrupted view of the stage.  Apart from the bovine perfume of the mens’ restroom (at least I think it was the smell of the cow), the Warfield is an incredibly evocative venue.  There are numerous bars and cheap food is available  (Janet and I had a large plate of nachos with sour cream, cheese and guacamole for just $6, although between us we succeeded in spraying my brand new trousers at least twice with the over-full paper plate it was precariously balanced on.

The only drawback was the two middle aged women, both recently made single (I can hardly think why) sat next to us who persisted in a-whoopin’ and a-hollerin’ throughout the show as if they were groupies from the early seventies when Crosby and Nash first performed together.  The one next to Janet kept leaning across her to grab my arm as if there was some secret code between us about certain songs.  When I asked her if she knew for whom Graham Nash had written I Used to be a King about, she nodded at me maniacally several times before reverting to a single sad shake of her head to denote she really had no idea (it was Joni Mitchell by the way).

A great concert in a historic, characterful venue but we nearly didn’t make it.  I had bought the tickets through Ticketmaster on the internet which meant we had to collect them at the box office before the show started.  We left our apartment at 6.15pm in the expectation that we would get to the theater by 7.00pm.  Twenty five  minutes later we were still waiting for the bus whilst five had gone in the other direction.  We resolved, therefore, to hail the first available cab that passed.

On getting into the cab I asked for the Warfield Theater.  The taxi driver, who was admittedly very pleasant, asked if there was an event there tonight and what time we needed to be there.  After I had explained this he suddenly asked ” Warfield – is that on Van Ness or Sutter”?  “Market” I replied.  If this were not bad enough he then threw us around in the back of the cab as he mounted the kerb on a right turn, and then spent the remainder of the journey sneezing violently, further causing the cab to lurch in every direction.  Although there was an argument that HE should have paid US for the fare I was so relieved to have arrived at the Warfield alive that I tipped him even better than I usually do.

In the morning we had driven over the Bay Bridge to the former naval base at Treasure Island.  We had only been there once before on our first visit in 1995 and that was at night to take photos of the stunning view back towards the city and the bridge.  To be frank, whilst we wandered around for an hour or so, we didn’t find much of interest (we did not visit the winery that has been established there).  It did, however, give us the opportunity to see the new east span of the bridge close up.

One restaurant that we had been planning to visit in San Francisco but never managed it is Green’s at Fort Mason, one of the most celebrated vegetarian eateries in the U.S.  It is ironic that we should finally visit it after we have, following more than twenty years as vegetarians, recently resolved to eat seafood and chicken.  Unfortunately, we picked the day when they were not serving lunch.  However, the takeaway (“to go”) counter was open, and we were allowed to sit in the restaurant to eat our sandwiches and salads, affording us fantastic views across the Marina to the Golden Gate Bridge.

Prior to returning to “our house” to prepare for our evening out we strolled along the Marina, even on a Monday afternoon a hive of activity with joggers, cyclists (many of whom were en route to “biking the bridge”) and assorted ball games, the most intriguing of which was what appeared to be a mini Spring Training baseball camp for teenage boys, involving separate hitting, catching and pitching practice sessions. 

We took the plunge (but only after the seemingly perilous climb!) of driving on Fillmore as a short cut back to the apartment.  After a glass of wine at a local cafe on Baker and Fulton we began our preparations for our eventful evening.

Which brings us back to where we began.

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