(If you missed Part 1 of Oliver’s terrific piece on Kinky Friedman, CLICK HERE)
At the precise moment I accepted that I would not attend Kinky Friedman’s June 9th Highline Ballroom performance, the search began. That was his only show in New York City. Damn.
I started looking down, plotting distances between my Queens apartment and cities along the Eastern seaboard. How far would I be willing to travel for this show? Of course my thoughts always go to a dark place – “Kinky is 67, pushing 68 – time is running out. I need to see him now.” But I wasn’t going to drive to Boston or DC. Then I saw another Saturday night show slated for June 23rd. It was in New York – just not in the City. That made it a little different. Two hours North to be exact, in bucolic Woodstock, New York.
Unlike the eponymous music festival – Kinky’s show would actually be in Woodstock and not Bethel. For those who care, that nugget of minutia matters immensely. I pulled the trigger. 2 tickets – one for me and one for my roommate. Show starts at 9 PM. You should first know something about the Hudson Valley. I adore it. It’s no accident a whole school of painting formed around the region’s natural light. The river, the mountains – it’s all so beautiful that on car rides I’ll often mutter “Damn it, I love this country so fucking much” over and over again. I’d already convinced myself this show would be far better than the standard urban environment of the Highline Ballroom.
My roommate would captain the ship up north. Trouble was, we had many hours to kill. Instead of arriving a few minutes prior to the show, it made the most sense to drop everything and make a day of it. The day would be spent in the Hudson Valley. We just drove along the river, passing through hamlets and towns, preparing ourselves for a night of music. Leaving the city is always important to surviving in one. It gives one a perspective unattainable inside New York’s well-defined boundaries.
After a quick and easy dinner, we arrived at the Bearsville Theater, clearly an erstwhile barn. Quaint and stunningly refurbished it was a far cry from New York’s many famous venues. Not too long after the doors opened, we realized that at 25 years of age – we were the outliers. This show was a fit of nostalgia aimed at baby boomers. That’s no matter. Despite my predilection for sophomoric humor, I consider myself an old soul. I decided to get a few beverages during the opening act’s brief performance. That’s when I first saw him. Kinky knocking back a shot of tequila. It was no time to bother him. Wouldn’t want to add any disturbances before lift off. So I returned to my seat, ready for the main event to commence.
Not long after, he took the stage. Proudly saying he hadn’t written a new song in over two decades, this show would feature the classics. He went through “Sold American,” “Wild Man in Borneo,” and what Friedman proudly considers the first, last and only pro-choice country tune, “Rapid City, South Dakota.” Since the concert took place in Woodstock, Kinky dedicated “Autograph” to longtime Hudson Valley resident – late, great, Levon Helm. That warmed the heart of this fanatical Band fan.
He did not disappoint anyone with a stirring rendition of the hilarious yet wildly offensive, “Ballad of Charles Whitman.” However, no Kinky Friedman show would be complete without his most famous song, “They Ain’t Making Jews Like Jesus Anymore.” For Friedman, singing this particular song continues to resonate with those fighting the forces of false outrage, unspeakable political correctness and defending free speech. That’s to say nothing of the song’s musical value. One must listen in order to truly understand.
On a live recording from years ago, when the antagonist of the song lists various groups he detests, following Friedman’s question, “Is there anyone I missed?” one fellow in the audience yells “the albinos!” From an authority like Friedman, the guy was a friend of his, bigwig over at ESPN, John A. Walsh, and noted albino. At the Woodstock show, Friedman asked the same question he’d been asking for thirty years. During the pause, I responded, “the albinos.” Kinky even acknowledged my impeccably timed homage.
After the show, he stood prepared to greet people as well as sign and sell a few books. It’s often said one should be wary of meeting heroes. They rarely measure up to one’s imagined platonic ideal. Disappointment comes with the territory. Still, I plunged in, taking a calculated risk. With my roommate in the bathroom, I walked up to Kinky and said, “I’m the one who shouted, the albinos.” He smiled and said the timing was perfect. We spoke for a few minutes about music, Levon Helm, Woodstock and humor writing. It was then that he shook my hand, grabbed a book from the stack. Signed a little note and handed it to me – gratis.
“For Oliver – Find what you like & let it kill you. Kinky Friedman 2012.”
By: Oliver Mosier
Bored and Thirsty 