As you have probably heard by now, Brad Delp, the lead singer for the band Boston, died Friday.
I can’t remember the last time I thought of Delp or his band. They certainly weren’t on my list of possible subjects for This Ain’t The Summer Of Love, yet I find myself more strongly affected by news of his death than I would have thought. I’m not sure why that is, although I’d guess it’s got something to do with how evocative of a certain time and place their music is for me.
Now, I’m not here to argue that Boston was an important band or anything. They didn’t redefine what rock & roll sounded like, for the most part, and they didn’t push any sort of artistic agenda that I know of. There’s nothing revolutionary or subversive about them or their music. It’s all just big dumb fun – which, if you think about it, would also be a pretty good definition of a large portion of rock. Big dumb fun is a concept that I will defend, if not to the death, then at least until the point where I’m breathing hard and bleeding in a couple of places.
If we can call Phil Spector a genius – and, despite his devolution into a paranoid homicidal large-haired nutbar, I’d say he qualifies – then we sorta have to look at Tom Scholz as… well, maybe not a genius, but certainly a savant of some kind. Say what you will about the songwriting; it’s basically a string of the “good-time boogie people” and/or “little darlin’ I gotta ramble on” clichés that made up 95% of pop at the time. That, I will grant. But if you have any admiration at all for Spector’s famed wall of sound, you have to respect, on some level, the lapidary construction of the Boston sound. I recall reading a review of Don’t Look Back that referred to Scholz creating cathedrals of sound; I tend to look on it more on the lines of baked goods, like a really ornate wedding cake. It’s layer after layer of guitars and keyboards, with an icing of Brad Delp’s high tenor multi-tracked harmonies over the top. A cake without icing is only half of what it could be, so let’s give Delp the credit he deserves.
I have a very distinct memory of walking across the parking lot of my high school. It’s late spring of my freshman year, a beautiful blue sky California afternoon, and all the seniors are coming back from lunch. Upperclassmen were allowed off campus at lunchtime. Me and my little geek posse usually ate lunch on the big lawn that separated the parking lot from the street, discussing music (this was the spot where we tried to decide if Blue Öyster Cult were punks – I shit you not) and trying not to stare at the girls as they walked past on their way to class. The soundtrack emanating from the 8 tracks of the various cars I passed was pronounced 'lĕh-'nérd 'skin-'nérd, Dreamboat Annie, and the first Boston album. In my memory, it’s that moment in “More Than a Feeling” where Delp hits that impossibly high note that glides seamlessly into Barry Goudreau's equally high-pitched guitar solo. I can certainly see where that might grate on the nerves of some folks, but I have to admit that it always gives me a little inner grin. Sue me.
I also recall catching their show on the Don’t Look Back tour at a Day on the Green and being somewhat disappointed that Boston wasn’t quite able to re-create their studio sound in a baseball stadium. Go figure. (We also got burned in a dope deal at that concert, making it an educational day in many ways.)
While I wouldn’t go so far as to say that they were my favorite band at the time, if I’m honest with myself I have to admit that they were a part of who I was back then, which makes them part of who I am now. In the past, I have tried to deny that fact. Neither Boston album survived the Great Punk Rock Purge of my record collection, circa 1981-82. At the time I thought I’d never want to hear such outdated claptrap ever again. Plus, y’know, ya gotta maintain your cred at all times; what if someone were to come over to my weasel ranch of a studio apartment and see Boston in there among the cool stuff?
Time passed, as it is wont to do. All I ever heard of Third Stage was the admittedly awful “Amanda”; I’ve never heard any of their work since then, and in fact didn’t even know that they’d done anything since that third album until I did a little research in preparation for the piece you are reading.
Now I am at an age where I don’t really give much of a fuck one way or the other about cred or coolness. That ship has pretty much sailed, so I can acknowledge the unadventurous, perhaps even banal nature of Boston and honor it at the same time. It made me happy then and, by locating and playing a few mp3s, I find that it still does.
If the idea of me banging my graying head in time to “Foreplay/Long Time” gives you the willies… well, I apologize for scaring you, but I’m not gonna stop because of it. I’m just celebrating a long ago dopey suburban teenster and the stranger from the other side of the continent who made him grin inside.
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