In the spring of 1970 I was in Philadelphia for a lacrosse match against Penn. The night before the game, I was walking around when the campus when, passing an open window in the basement of a lecture hall, I heard the mellifluous tones of Cat Stevens pouring out into the balmy night air:
Will you make us laugh
Will you make us cry
Will you tell us when to live
Will you tell us when to die
(So you see, Sarah, Cat had predicted your “Death Panels” long before you did)
I then remembered seeing a flyer that Cat Stevens was giving a concert that night. Since going to Woodstock, it was a matter of honor with me that I never paid to see a concert — music was free, man! — and I always contrived to find an uguarded door or window to gain entrance. In this case, however, I just had to settle onto the lawn outside the window to Cat’s rehearsal room and listen while he played the entire concert, just for me.
Today, rock stars won’t play in any venue smaller than a NFL football stadium. Ah, those were the days….
Rupert