Toad, July 27, 2022
Wednesday night July 27, 2022
The little band box on Massachusetts Avenue in Cambridge was stuffed with virtual tinder.
Like a spark from stone and flint, it erupted in one virtual soul and psyche purification flame when the righteous Fred Griffeth and his top-tier Fandango band struck the first chords of the first song.
The ageless Fred Griffeth sang robustly to the good souls in Toad, in the cleansing ritual known by all as “choich“.
How much joy can you stuff into a little outpost like this? How many angels can you fit on the head of a pin?
The set list was familiar. The faces in the crowd were sprinkled with a handful of newcomers.
The psycho emotional fervor of the flock was in need of a bi-weekly calling down of the spirit. Three songs in and we had all been led to the figurative river, gently immersed, baptized bona fide, and ready to testify. Rapture was within reach. Given the daily news diet of human and ecological mayhem, we were pilgrims, supplicating, waiting for 90 minutes of salvation.
If there were drones circling overhead to manage the electrical grid of Cambridge, they might have called in an alert for the inexplicable dot of energy coming from 1912 Mass Ave.
Close inspection would show no cause for alarm, no danger to the grid. Data would show that a similar energy vortex would be detectable every other every Wednesday from the same address.
Photo courtesy of Carol Fondé
Many of the flock were perched at the mahogany bar, others sitting on the brawny ancient curved bench leading up to the bandstand. A few people strolling past the door were sucked into the righteous rock and blues house of worship and found themselves surrounded by kindred spirits from legal drinking age to card-carrying members of the AARP.
Griffeth, always animated and spontaneously emoting, sang from the soles the flip flops on his brown feet, tapping into the energy from the roiling core of the earth. At some point, I don’t know whether he even saw us. Consumed by stagecraft and the art of connecting, Griffeth merged into a sublime fourth dimension, the musicians soloing in intent pursuit.
The man was speaking in tongues of gospel, rock n roll, blues, and Americana. Griffeth left the song charts behind. In musical legerdemain, he became a euphoric energy dervish that, like a black hole, sucked us deep into our own euphoria. Critical mass was achieved, early and often.
I had not been to Toad since March 2020. The place had become shuttered. Many believed that it would fall to the pandemic malaise and become a footnote in our collective memory.
But no… A physical space can become abandoned boarded up and obliterated. But with a force fueled and kept alive by the collective memory of those who seek salvation, (is there any other word for this?), there on Wednesday nights, not so much.
I showed my vaccination card, walked in the door, sucked in my breath, and nearly sobbed. I was home.
Safe. Amongst kindred spirits. And this bar of such compact dimensions wrapped its arms around me, warmly whispering, “Hey Stranger, where have you been?”
“You waited for me!” I whispered, pleased with the recognition.
“That’s what friends do,” said the disembodied voice from above the purple neon “TOAD“ sign just above the door.
Fandango
Fred Griffeth, vocals
Andy Santospago, guitar
Chris Anzalone, percussion
Steve Monahan, bass
Ryan Claunch on keys
Photo courtesy of Carol Fondé
As always, comments welcome
J.M.W. Turner Sunset
Gobsmacked...once I saw the first incandescent cosmic explosion, I drove westward through streets to get a better view, leaning outside the car window to photo and once in a while shooting right through the windshield. Reminded me of walking through a gallery of J.M.W.Turner's paintings that fiercely capture the evocative power of his palette to envision apocalyptic moments in history...a condemnation of the slave trade, a ghastly vision of slavers hurling slaves overboard with a typhoon bearing down on it, and the burning of the House of Commons October 16, 1834.
He must have held these moments in his imagination and kept on adding layers of pigment after the events occurred.
I let Nature do the heavy lifting. I found roads that offered better views, eyes on the glorious colors changing like a kaleidoscope by the minute from 7:58 PM till 8:19 PM and it was over. A cosmic palette a la J.M.W.Turner.
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Photos by Paul A. Tamburello, Jr
July 17, 2022 in Commentaries | Permalink | Comments (0)