“Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
– Emma Lazarus, The New Colossus (1883)
These familiar words are cast on a plaque at the base of the Statue of Liberty. They eloquently greeted immigrants arriving at Ellis Island for over a half century, symbolizing America as a welcoming beacon of hope. It is our clarion call to the world embracing a history of freedom, opportunity and acceptance. The promise of a new life.
Today’s administration is one of very different symbols and actions like walls and deportation sweeps. The ripping of decent hardworking people from their families with limited to no due process. The Trump presidency is defined by a normalization of hate. Executive order is not law.
As summer winds down and school ramps up, political discourse has reached a feverish pitch. I continue to wax nostalgic. In that vein are more threads of my youth.
Playing deadly angles
I finished dinner with friends in Salem, then we headed to The Beverly Depot for a nightcap.
What started innocently enough as a night out with good friends almost ended in a head-on collision.
I was driving. As we crossed the Salem-Beverly bridge I saw a vehicle coming right at us. It was barreling off the left and right guard rails, sparks flying, completely out of control.
I had to think fast.
In an instant I anticipated where it would be when it reached us. Like a life or death version of Pong. To avoid the oncoming vehicle I swerved into the opposite lane. My gamble was right.
Our cars fishtailed. His vehicle swerved and grazed my rear fender. We were rattled but unscathed.
The battered car landed pinned against a railing, wheels spinning, motor running. We raced to pull the driver out of the smoking heap before it exploded, shut off the ignition (it was hotwired), and dragged the driver to safety.
As we later learned, he was a serial car thief well known to the North Shore police. This was his last heist. A few months later I testified at his trial where he was found guilty.
We rehashed our harrowing experience over much needed drinks.
Someone was watching over us that summer night.
A sht show
Not in a musical sense. Let me explain.
The Summer Jam at Watkins Glen occurred a year after Woodstock. Fifty-two years ago this summer, 650,000 hippies descended on a racetrack in upstate New York to experience The Grateful Dead, the Allman Brothers, and The Band together for a glorious weekend of music.
I set out on a wing and a prayer with a pal. We battled eight hours of bumper-to-bumper traffic, parked miles away, and finally arrived before the big show without tickets. The gates were crashed. We walked right in.
Roughly 150,000 tickets were sold at $10 each. Yes, The Dead, Band, and Allman Bros. for a sawbuck!
The Dead and Allmans were getting over the loss of band member Pig Pen and Duane Allman. By the day before the concert the number of intrepid fans that showed up had already far exceeded the organizers’ wildest expectations.
All roads leading to the venue were backed up for 20 miles. So were 650,000 digestive tracts. The number of portable toilets was grossly underestimated. They were quickly inoperable and the drinking water was contaminated resulting in widespread constipation.
It rained buckets. With a leaky makeshift tent, a muddy river running through it, and a Saltine to share between us, we were ill prepared for what was to come.
The show became something very different than planned. In a sense it signaled the end of an era in rock and roll.
All three bands turned their sound checks the day before the big show into a magical jam.
The Band ran through some of their classics with unique instrumental grooves. They were wonderfully improvisational.
The Allmans followed and ran through a short set that featured Ramblin’ Man and One Way Out.
It was The Dead’s turn. Not to be outdone they played two glorious sets that out-soared their next day’s performance. Then all three bands played together in a rare piece of music history. It was muck and mire transcended.
The event however was not without tragedy. Skydivers parachuted onto the scene with flares. One guy’s suit caught fire and he came down in a horrific heap for all to witness.
Sometimes living in the past helps one cope with the present.
Steve Steinberg lives in Danvers and is an adjunct professor in Endicott College’s Gerrish School of Business Graduate Program. He is a regular contributor to The Salem News.