Sometimes I take big risks when it comes to urging others to go to concerts, especially ones at small venues featuring somewhat obscure artists. This was the case Saturday night, as I dragged Pam, on her birthday weekend no less, to the Troubadour to see Rhett Miller, the lead singer of the Old 97s, play a solo acoustic show.
Pam and I have seen Rhett Miller perform before, just not as a solo act. The Old 97s played at the El Rey a couple of years ago, and I convinced John, Kris and Pam we should see them, as I liked their music but had never seen them live. It did not turn out well. In fact, John
and Kris left after three songs. Pam wanted to go with them. I was more into it, so I made her stay two more songs. Then she and I left. The Old 97s have been together since 1993, and their music is best described as alt-country, which encompasses roots rock, bluegrass, rockabilly, honky-tonk, outlaw country, folk, and punk rock. The night we saw them it seemed like they had forsaken every genre but punk, pure, loud punk. Screaming loud punk. Jumping around the stage punk. Any notes that were sung on key were purely accidental, or so that is how we felt. John, Kris and Pam have given me a much deserved ration of shit about them ever since.
That show, though, did not change my view of the Old 97s. I still listen to them, a lot. I like their music, maybe not all the songs, but many of them. They have a unique style and sound that resonates with me. To be fair, they are somewhat of an acquired taste. Maybe I should have made John, Kris and Pam listen to more of their music before the show. Or maybe that wouldn’t have mattered. Either way, there was no way John, Kris or Pam would acquire a taste for the Old 97s after the show.
A couple of weeks ago, I saw that Rhett Miller was playing an acoustic show. Being somewhat foolhardy and still hoping I could get Pam on the Old 97s bandwagon, I asked her if she wanted to go. At the time I am pretty sure I said the lead singer of the Old 97s was playing a solo show. Then I told her, in error, it was at the Orpheum in downtown Los Angeles. She said, “Not interested.” The next day I told her that I was wrong and that the show was at the Troubadour. She was okay with that. At least she was okay with the venue. We bought tickets and then waited.
As the show neared, I got nervous. There was some chance, maybe more than some chance, that Pam had no idea that we were seeing the lead singer of the Old 97s. I had also convinced myself that the show was on her birthday, which really ratcheted up my fears. As such, I felt compelled to let her know again exactly who Rhett Miller was. Of course, she cried out, “You never told me that is who we are seeing!” Needless to say, she started grumbling. The good news was that the show was not on her birthday. I had gotten that wrong. Not the date of her birthday, which I always remember, just the day of the week on which her birthday fell. I felt better after that. As I have mentioned before, Pam is a saint. So even after I said we could just skip the show and do something else, she said, “No. Let’s go.”
We planned our evening to include dinner at Amici, which is diagonally across the street from the Troubadour. As there was some chance we would not stay for the entire show, we decided to just walk in a little after the doors opened and stand during the show instead of waiting in line before the doors opened to get a seat upstairs. So we had a leisurely dinner and then walked over to the Troubadour. Apparently, Rhett Miller does not have a huge following in West LA because the first floor was pretty empty and there were actually a few seats remaining upstairs.
The opening act, Kate Micucci, was okay. She was more of a comic than a singer. She has written a slew of funny songs with quirky lyrics. She sung them in a sweet, little girl like voice. And, for a while, they were fun. She also had a few of her friends assisting her with some pure comedy shtick. In total she had about 20 minutes of funny songs and comedy bits. It was unfortunate that she crammed those 20 minutes into a 45 minute set, resulting in me wanting her to leave the stage well before she actually did.
Rhett Miller played for about an hour and a half and did a great job. His set contained a mixture of his solo material and Old 97s songs. Most of the songs were about failed attempts to get together with the opposite sex or about drinking too much. His lyrics are dark, but upbeat in a bizarre sort of way, making me want to keep listening for more, convincing myself that a positive lyric is just a few chords away, sort of like eating an almost good dessert and waiting for the taste to kick in.
When he chooses to use it, he has a great bluesy, Americana voice that sounds really good live. At some point in many songs he would wind up his arm, strum the shit out of his guitar, and just let loose with some primal sounds, making for nice a contrast in styles. He was really comfortable on stage, with the ability to tell engaging, funny stories in between songs. I had a great time.
During the show, I snuck a few looks over at Pam. I am pretty sure she knew I was looking, but she just ignored me. From my vantage point she looked like she was enjoying it. After the show was over, Pam admitted he was much better than she expected. She also admitted that she would see him perform live again, just not with the rest of his band. Maybe if I stock her iPod with lots of Old 97s songs, she might change her mind.
time.”. Despite the obviousness of this quote, people continue to test the veracity of it, and they continue to find out just how true it is, even applied to small, reasonably homogenous groups, like concert goers.
The show itself was fun. The opening act, Rachel Platten, was really a bit out there for a country show. She performed like a teeny bopper, despite the fact that she is in her mid 30s. Her songs were a mix of pop and indie pop genres, and I am not a fan of either. Unfortunately for me, she truly loves her bass. I, however, do not. I usually gripe about the bass rattling through my torso and up into my head. For some reason, it lodged in my right shin at the show. That did not make it any better, and I swear I had a shin splint in my right leg the next day. Having said that, she is a good entertainer with an excellent voice. She put on a good show and finished it with Fight Song, which is a great underdog anthem and is near and dear to Pam. Pretty soon it was Tim and Faith time. They came out together. Sang songs together. Sang songs separately. Sang songs together. Left the stage together, we think, because we snuck out just as the encore started. Each song was good, but something was amiss. Something was a little off. Maybe it was crowd energy. Maybe it was chemistry on stage. Maybe it was genre conflict.
delivered perfectly. Tim sort of nailed it, sometimes sounding really pinched as he drawled out some of his less gritty material. At times he was amazing, especially when he sang Live Like You Were Dying, a song I love. I got the sense that he was performing more for himself than for the audience. This came as no surprise, as I felt that way I when I saw him perform last time. So that did not explain what was amiss.
I kept replaying the show in my head. As I did, I realized that when Tim and Faith sing a duet, Faith’s voice, which is so strong, just overpowers Tim’s. As a result, the show comes off as more of a Faith Hill show than a Tim McGraw show, despite the fact that Tim McGraw was, and still is, a bigger star with a bigger fan base. This seems to account for lots of the lukewarm comments. My suspicion is that if it was either a Tim or a Faith show, the comments would have been spectacular. Instead, it sort of fell flat, proving just how astute John Lygate was.
built to traverse them.
Forty years ago, traffic on it was sparse. For the most part, it is not sparse now. On Saturday mornings, though, traffic is pretty light, and at times it seems that there are more bicycles on the road than cars, which causes its own issues.
Store? Home? Nothing tugged at me or felt right, and I just kept driving north up PCH. I passed Duke’s. I passed Kristy’s. The miles kept flying by. I saw the sign for Encinal Canyon, one of my favorite roads, and turned onto it. I knew it would merge into Mulholland after several miles, enabling me to accomplish my goal for the day.
Encinal is a magnificent road. Very few cars travel on it. The pavement is new and well maintained. The turns range from long sweepers to medium radius twisties, and there are several places to pull over and take some pictures, which, of course, I did. Encinal goes up in a hurry, though it is not a steep ascent like the one on Decker Canyon, a bit to the north. The 911 made the climb from the coast to about 2,000 feet effortlessly. Once it tops out, Encinal then traverses the Santa Monica Mountains before connecting with Mulholland Highway, just past the Zuma Ridge Fire Road.
s intersection on Mulholland Highway. Kanan is a major thoroughfare, going from PCH up and over the hills before connecting with the Ventura Freeway. Cars travel along Kanan at high rates of speed, and the Mulholland/Kanan intersection is only controlled by a stop sign for the cars on Mulholland.
After I ate, I walked back towards the 911. As I did, I couldn’t believe how hot it was, and all I could think about was its lack of air-conditioning. Oh well. I got in the car and continued along Mulholland until I reached Las Virgenes, also known as Malibu Canyon, where I turned right and headed back towards PCH and ultimately home.
I spent all week planning to have breakfast with my PCA Los Angeles Region buddies in Calabasas today. Calabasas is just past Woodland Hills, arguably the hottest part of the San Fernando Valley. I wanted to take the 911 to breakfast because Calabasas is the gateway to some of the best canyon drives in the Santa Monica Mountains. The 911 has been cooped up on freeways and city streets for some time now, and I wanted to get it out, get the Targa top off and cruise a canyon and Pacific Coast Highway, just to enjoy a summer drive through Malibu on the way home.
the fall, winter and spring. If possible, I avoid the valley in the summer, as it is just freakin’ hot. So hot that just touching the hard plastic steering wheel in my old Porsches if they were parked in the valley in the summer could cause third degree burns.
I do not know why I got so worked up over it. It would either be too hot or not. And it’s not like I did not have a great fallback. My air conditioned Porsche Cayman GTS stared me in the face every time I walked out my front door. It is my favorite car in which to navigate the twisties. But I wanted to take the 911, and I did not want to be schvitzing too much as I waited for the street lights to turn green.
Today’s marine layer was so thick that it extended all the way to Calabasas. The drive to out was cool, fast and easy. Breakfast, at Lovey’s Deli, was fun and relaxing, and I saw lots great cars and lots of friends. I parked my 911 next to Keith’s McLaren, thinking they looked like they belonged next to each other. Kind of a yin and yang thing. The food was good and the conversation better, but I did have a tough time deciding between the scrambled eggs with corned beef and the cinnamon roll French toast.
Pam and I had tickets to see Chris Stapleton at the Forum. Unfortunately, Pam was under the weather the day of the show, so I went with Kim, my younger daughter. I am lucky that Kim, at 29, still wants to spend time with me, and we have several interests in common, including cars and exercise. Many times we see the world the same way, and Pam likes to quip, “There they go, four arms and one brain!”
for the first opening act, Lucie Silvas, to begin. While we waited, I wondered why Lucie Silva was the opening act. Lucas, one of my co-workers who was also going to the show, had played a snippet of one of her songs the other day, and I could not get a handle on the genre. Nor could I fathom how her music fit within the musical space inhabited by Chris Stapleton and by The Brothers Osborne, the second opening act. Days after the show ended, I found out the relationship, but by then I didn’t care. Lucie Silva is an excellent musician. She has a great voice, and she put on a great performance.
While I bemoan the former, I cherish the latter. As far as my musical tastes go, Chris Stapleton and The Brothers Osborne are right down the middle of the fairway. I was excited to see both of them perform.
changes. No strutting. No playing to the audience. Not even too many guitar changes. Just a steady stream of absolutely perfect music. Eric Clapton, arguably the greatest guitar player and musician I have ever seen live, is not an entertainer, either. He is not dramatic. He is not flamboyant. What he is is good. Damn good. Chris Stapleton comes as close to Eric Clapton in terms of pure musicianship as I have ever seen. He was just that damn good.
driving, Lebec came and went, and I never saw the exit for the McDonald’s. Oh well. I figured I would find another one, and I did, right near the 5 and 99 split. So at about 5:45 AM I pulled off the 5 and made my way to McDonald’s, expecting it to be just about empty. It wasn’t. There was a bus parked in the lot and hordes of teenagers were inside of McDonald’s, making it an absolute zoo. Apparently, this was the end of their grad night celebration, and I was just lucky enough to arrive right after them. As I was a little tired anyway, I stayed in the car and took a short nap.
essentially clueless. In theory I was prepared. I had taken care of the requisite car inspection at Marc’s shop, which resulted in a new set of front brake pads, a couple of weeks earlier. Thanks to my PCA friend, Jason, I had learned which direction we were going to drive on the track and had watched YouTube videos to get a feel for the track layout. Thanks to discussions with others, I had brought a roll of blue painter’s tape to mark numbers and protect some areas from rock chips and debris. I was a little taken aback when the check in volunteer asked me for my driver’s log book. I just looked at him and said, “What log book?” I felt a sense of relief once the volunteer went on to tell me that they were giving them out to those who needed them.
My instructor, Loren, a fellow PCA Los Angeles Region member, was amazing. I had met him before at a PCA Los Angeles dinner event to generate interest for the track day. The dinner was sponsored by the PCA Los Angeles Region, and they spared no expense as they held it at a Shakey’s Pizza Parlor. Obviously, I did not go to the event for the pizza. I went to get a better understanding of the tack day. The main benefit was speaking to the various instructors that were there. Loren talked a lot to me about the track, his philosophy while on it, and the fun he has had learning to drive around it. He stressed smoothness and precision, and his thoughts resonated with me. I was fortunate that he was my instructor.
and desires, up to and including wheel to wheel racing. I could clearly see how the pursuit of speed can cost thousands of dollars. There were many track cars there, having been towed from various parts of California. There were also highly modified cars that were still street legal but not meant to be driven on the street. Lots of money had been spent on these vehicles, way more than I want to think about.
As I shortened the lifespan of my reasonably new tires and new brake pads during the day, I realized that I had no reason to have been nervous that morning. I experienced a freedom on the track that cannot be duplicated on a freeway, a street or a back road. I have pushed it a bit and have had wonderful times on the canyon twisties, but those roads still have yellow lines, opposing traffic, limited forward visibility, bicycles, and steep drop-offs. Paradoxically, I learned that the race track is a much safer environment and a lot more fun.
e, which warped my perception of it dramatically. Several times when I was driving home I thought we were just crawling along and could not understand why everyone was driving so slowly. When I looked down at my speedometer, I was surprised to see I was going well over 80 miles per hour. Ironically, as I noted how close together each car was and I watched the antics of the other drivers, I felt much less safe on the road than I had all day on the track.
Luftgekühlt. It’s German for air cooled. It is the name of one of the largest air cooled Porsche shows in the country. In many respects it defines a life style, as it relates to an era that ended almost 20 years ago when Porsche stopped producing the 993 version of the 911. After that all 911s were water cooled and had radiators, something many die-hard Porsche enthusiasts just could not tolerate. As a result, it’s an era that is still fervently celebrated, and one that, like oldies radio, continues to have an audience.
to expect. I found it to be a great car, and even though I had had BMWs for about 30 years, it made me forget them entirely. About two years ago, I turned it in and bought my current Cayman, a 2015 GTS. I love that car, mid-engine, radiator and all.
As I was driving home, I called Pam, who is generally unimpressed and usually disbelieving anytime I combine epic and Porsche in one sentence. She asked me about the show and wanted to know if it was EPIC. I told her all about it. Then I asked her if being in Venice, hanging out with lots of Porsche fans made it epic. She said, “No.” Then I asked her if seeing a large number of air cooled Porsches made it epic. She said, “No.” So I asked her if meeting Magnus Walker made it epic. She did not bother to respond, and her silence told me that it did not. Finally, I asked if it was epic that I stood a foot from Patrick Dempsey. Her sudden intake of breath told me she thought that was epic.
have another opportunity like it again.
The cars in the show were spectacular. Sure, many have been on display before, but seeing them in this location was amazing. From the restored 1951 Class winning Le Mans 356 to the 959 used in the Paris-Dakar event to the series of all types of 911 RSs, which were white and parked in a column, the event had more than its share of museum quality cars. The cars on display outside the buildings in the show lot were drivers. Great cars, either stock or custom, that showed off every type of Air Cooled Porsche imaginable. Like mine, they were working cars which any of us would cherish. And if that were not enough, there was the air cooled lot, which contained hundreds of air cooled Porsches, the vast majority of which could have been in the show lot. As I walked around, I could not help but smile. If anyone 
asked me, I would have said that I thought about 50% of all the air cooled Porsches in LA were on display.
I usually reserve one Saturday of the month for breakfast at the Spitfire Grill at the Santa Monica Airport. It is an informal affair, unaffiliated with any organization, and really meant more for catching up with Porsche driving friends than anything else. This month there was a conflict, and I opted to forego the Spitfire. Instead, I had breakfast with the PCA LA Region at the Porsche Experience Center in Carson, primarily because it was the inaugural breakfast at the 917 restaurant, which is located on the second floor of the Experience Center.
small buffet line just did not justify the price. On the other hand, the location and view did in spades.
Then we noticed some activity on the track. Instructors and students were getting into the cars. The Experience Center has a drivers education program, and we had a birds eye view of the learning process. Car handling skills are a prerequisite for driving fast on a track, and the Experience Center has some great learning tools at their disposal. We spent the rest of breakfast trying to predict how good or bad each student would do on the various obstacles. The cost of the food, and the food itself, became a non-issue. Just watching the students on the track was lots of fun, and worth the price of admission.
y have a decent Porsche Classics collection.
I decided to hang out on Saturday of the Long Beach Grand Prix weekend with another of my friends named Marc, one I have not mentioned here before. Marc and I are rekindling a High School friendship after 40+ years because we both have a Porsche obsession. Marc’s is for street legal track Porsches, like the 911 GT3RS, mine is for more sedate, older, air-cooled and newer, mid-engine Porsches, though I wouldn’t kick a new, water-cooled, rear engine 911 of any kind out of my garage, assuming my 912 would allow me to make room for it.
technical in nature and require tons of teamwork and strategy. Car racing is one of those sports, a sport where the vast majority of the action takes place behind the scenes or in the pits. So I was pretty excited as I drove my Cayman to Long Beach early Saturday morning to spend the day at the track with Marc. Marc is fairly well connected in the motorsports world, and I suspected that I was not going to have a normal fan experience. I was right.
Once we got to the track and the exhibits, the real fun started. I expected Marc to be connected, I just did not realize how connected. Marc provided passes that let us go everywhere. So we went everyhwhere. And everywhere we went, Marc knew someone. Clearly, we only went to the places where he knew someone, but we did go to a lot of places. Though it did not come close to balancing the ledger, we did run into one person I knew. Of course, it was my other friend Marc. So I introduced Marc to Marc, and of course they made their mark on each other.
are made. Cars and tires are transported to the track from the paddocks. Drivers buzz around on scooters. Horns blare. Movement is unceasing. Sitting and standing in a couple of the hospitality areas, eating, drinking, people watching and listening to various conversations enabled me to take in all there was to see and hear.
Through it all, though, I got a sense that change is on the horizon and motorsports as we know them are about to change in a big way. The insiders talk about costs and rules and how too few owners own too many cars. They talk about the insane cost to sponsor a team, and the swindling number of teams in the field. They bemoan the rise of electric car races, with their absence of engine noise, something that I think would take all the emotion out of a race, and the aging demographics of their customers. But on Saturday those issues remained in the background, and the party was in full swing.
, being driven on a Bondurant hot lap before the IMSA race, speaking with Patrick Long, one of the Wright Porsche drivers from the Pirelli World Challenge series, hanging out on the starting grid ogling the Porsches, not to 
mention the WeatherTech girls, before the IMSA race, and watching the IMSA race in the relative comfort of a covered grandstand with a couple of TV monitors right in our line of sight. I met lots of people, including Motorsports TV personalities, ex Formula 1 drivers, and a host of other players in the industry. Of course, we ate for free. Like I said, Marc is connected.