WHISPERING STEEL, ROLLING THUNDER
At night it beckons—an urgent whistle. Like the far-reaching beam of a lighthouse combing the ocean for a ship, the signal I hear arouses my attention—my senses—and I heed the call. Whether near or far, the stout growl of galloping steel is unmistakable. Through myriad settings it barrels without sojourn through the infrastructure of the world, its destination anywhere and everywhere, a force awakening in me numerous sensations beyond simple description.
In 2009 I planned a trip via railroad. Since I hadn’t traveled by railroad since childhood I was excited about the upcoming adventure. Months prior I had begun a new job whose headquarters stood across from two lanes of train tracks, a graffiti-stained bridge crossing over them, weeds, bushes, and other foliage overspreading the area. Every day, weather permitting, I would spend part of my lunch break outside. I’d place a folding chair under a shade tree and read a book, picking one from the bundle I had in my duffle bag. The soft breeze, reliable and refreshing, would sometimes sweep across the overgrown terrain and set the mood, diverting my energy from my daily chores to a place of unmatched peace. Little did I know that such a simple pleasure, taken further, could be so invigorating.
Far away, miles away in fact, from the depths of expansive woodland, I could hear, day after day, the distinctive whistle of the train as it sped along the sinuous paths of the Jersey rail system toward me. The whistle itself, gathering volume in increments of seconds, persuaded me to put down my book and focus on the vacant tracks only hundreds of feet away. I yearned to hear “rolling thunder” get closer and closer, to watch it zoom past, and to behold its power and mystique.
Whenever I watch a train go by, I wonder: Who’s on the train? Where is everybody going? Are most passengers on vacation or traveling on business? Do the people in the dining car—if there is one—appreciate the panorama from their table? Are they savoring the sights which can only be seen from inside a train? I hope so. I don’t know what emotional mechanisms trigger these questions, this radical shift in my disposition, but in the few moments it takes for a train to whiz past, my heart flutters like the wings of an overzealous butterfly. The truth is, I take pleasure in searching for answers, in finding out who I am and what inspires me.
Over the years I’ve tried to pinpoint when and where I developed an interest in trains. As a young boy I traveled by railroad once or twice. I don’t remember much about those trips. Like some children, I don’t think I ever cared about how I got to a destination, as long as I made it from point A to point B without delay. Now, here I am caught up in my travel plans.
As the day for my train trip got closer, I grew eager to drive to the station and absorb the energy of a bustling railroad hub. And whenever I heard the train passing my work site, my anticipation for my pending vacation soared. So I would remind myself over and over again: Soon I will be on that train.
At Penn Station in Newark, one of America’s busiest stations, a deluge of sensations washed over me. A mild case of travel anxiety I had the day before had been supplanted by a fusion of mirth and fascination. Around me people from different places were about to board one of the next trains—some riding for pleasure, others for business. I stared—being inconspicuous, I hoped—at individuals in the throng. I had this insatiable hunger to find out where they were headed, where they were from, and how often they rode the rail. Studying the passengers’ luggage gave me a hint as to their destination. Piquing my interest was a man with two large suitcases standing beside a kid holding an overnight bag. Man and boy were quiet, still, their faces neutral. Nearby, a lady, thirtyish and smiling and dressed in casual clothes, waited in line at a ticket machine, two big suitcases against her leg. A lot of luggage for traveling solo.
With ticket in hand I ascended a steep flight of stairs to my assigned track—a platform where my enthusiasm ballooned, and where a thicket of passengers stood waiting for a train. Many were wearing headphones. Not me: nothing was going to prevent me from experiencing the approaching train. I remembered all the times I had heard these very trains chugging from the distance, en route to their next stop; all the times the powerful whistle had stirred my rest and warmed my heart—I was not going to miss its grand entrance.
Two trains had come and gone through the station, each filled with business-class patrons. Through the oversized windows I noticed hundreds of lighted desks, all of them covered with laptop computers, their occupants staring at the screens as if watching their money grow, rather than taking in the surroundings. From overhead speakers a distorted voice, a voice squelched by static, announced the pending arrival of my Amtrak train. In a matter of minutes it would roar through the station producing a momentous clatter. The TV screen on the platform updated arrival and departure times, indicating that my train among others was on-time. The whistle started singing its song to me from a distance, a song I had depended on for peace every day for months. Along with other passengers I shuffled toward the track, my enraptured heart racing. The lead car’s bright lights flooded the tunnel. I was overwhelmed by a one-of-a-kind magic, a storm of sights and sounds that caused a ripple of gooseflesh all over my body. Car after car blazed past me, and within moments I heard the screeching brakes slowing them down. Once the train stopped, the doors slid open and the attendant set down a small stool. I showed him my ticket, followed his instructions on seating. I appraised his tidy uniform, the style of which hadn’t changed much over the years. The square hat, the tailored jacket and vest, the shirt pocket filled with pens, tools, and miscellaneous supplies—his attire made me feel as though I was going to be special for a day, just like Jack Dawson and Fabrizio in the movie “Titanic,” who express their gratitude for being on board the massive ship.
I walked to my seat, sat down. I’m on the train, I told myself, I’m on the train. I’m really here in this long, picturesque car, the same one I’d been thinking about in my sleep and daydreaming about day after day. The emotions channeling through me were on another level, surpassing by far the rush children get at sporting events. A kid can go to a game at any time, but he doesn’t get to ride a train as often—if at all. To me, being on the train, here and now, was more gratifying, more thrilling, more surreal, than listening to screaming sports fans. This train ride was a real and tangible reward, and my trip had only just begun.
As the train rolled out of the station, the figures of passengers still waiting for their train became smaller as the distance between us increased. And as the last Amtrak car cleared the fringe of the station, I realized that my latest peregrination was about to bestow new meaning. We rushed through the towering clutter of the city, a smorgasbord of eye-pleasing backdrops: tall buildings, immense warehouses, massive billboards. Large apartment complexes towered over supermarkets and small plazas. The window opposite me had a similar view, although the passenger occupying that seat had already cracked a newspaper.
The attendant began inspecting the new passengers’ tickets. After reviewing mine, he pulled out a hole-puncher and perforated it three times, sending to the floor a flurry of confetti. Then, smiling, he fastened my ticket to the overhead luggage rack. Using a homegrown sense of humor, he entertained the passengers while he worked. Every joke, every witty line he spoke, seemed well timed and unrehearsed. He might have been a successful open-mike comedian in his hometown; his personality and disposition livened up the place.
I wanted to explore. It was not my intention to remain seated for several hours without “feeling” the train—the swaying of the cars, the rocking from side to side, the challenge of trying to balance myself, my attention on my fellow passengers, reading their minds and studying their body language.
I got moving and before long I found the snack bar, a room not much larger than a cockpit, a place where passengers couldn’t help brushing against each other as they jockeyed for a position closer to the counter. Pretzels, chips, nuts, chocolate bars, granola bars, soft drinks and other items sold in a hurry. My appetite had kicked in. Despite the selection of food, patrons could be heard contemplating whether to wait for dinner in the dining car, an idea that I myself had considered, though it would not be open for a few hours, so I continued exploring. Through the nearby rectangular window, an ever-changing world displayed itself in a medley of forms. Each minute presented fresh snapshots of America’s landscape to admire (or regret) and then lose sight of in a blurry dissolve. When looking out the window of a train, time is condensed. My thirty-second glance revealed lush woods as far as I could see, an area containing uninhabitable hovels, felled trees, decaying rubbish, corroded metal, a demolished car (how it got there I can’t imagine), a damaged bicycle, empty bags, threadbare clothes. In a matter of miles I had seen both beauty and ruins.
I kept wandering down long corridors with weak light, pausing between cars, peering out the windows, watching the world whip by. To my delight I discovered a small town; not far away I noticed an antique fire truck parked on a mound of soil. Behind that, a library the size of a large shed, colorful flowers decorating the periphery. Further along, I spotted passengers doing what I was doing, pointing at the sights, their curiosity running wild. I couldn’t believe how easy it had been to amuse myself, such an abundance to take in and reflect on, every morsel being logged in my memory for future backward glances in time.
After a while I returned to my seat, stared outside, let my mind drift. What I had seen was wondrous. I had no idea how far we had journeyed or where we were now but I was seeing things I’d never seen from a plane or a car or on a bicycle or cruise ship. From trains, passengers are privileged to view the land, from pristine countryside to hectic cities, from impoverished towns to uninhabited acres of flatland. Civilization as we know it is pulled into focus. For me, a train ride becomes a special lens through which I can interact with my homeland, magnifying the richest tones and textures—the stuff art is made of—pictures so magnificent they can suffuse one’s soul with joy, gratitude, and imagination.
Even in my dreams the train casts a spell. Once, in a vivid dream, I saw a train pulling into a Victorian-era station, a wrap-around porch standing out in soft, soothing colors; benches on the porch and scattered on the sizable lawn, passengers dressed in resplendent attire—men in pressed coats, ladies in flowing gowns; large billboards advertising tea, cocoa, or something like it. Other images have come to life in my dreams: couples in love separating for a short time: the man, standing on the rear-car balcony, waving goodbye to his lady as she runs toward him, shouting at him to return soon. Also in my dreams: a love-struck couple huddled by the tracks waiting for the next train, shivering under a moderate snowfall, only hours from meeting each other’s families for the first time. Each is sipping a hot beverage, the drinks keeping their bodies warm, their hearts warmer.
Movies have influenced my interest in and attraction to trains, having used them to symbolize a character’s coming to a crossroads in life, or to add dimension to love stories and dramas. Mystery and suspense films often incorporate the locomotive as the scene of the crime. Who hasn’t seen the villain trying to evade the protagonist by spidering up to the roof of the moving train, crawling against fierce winds to the adjoining car, hoping to find an escape? Other settings intrigue me as well: Actors walking from car to car, the camera following their passage. So much can be drawn to the forefront and emphasized by camera angles: exquisite ruffled curtains; a quaint, peaceful card/reading room; an elegant bar car with polished glasses dangling upside down from the ceiling, tumblers of whisky or bourbon clasped in the customers’ hands; a sizable sun roof that allows for an unobstructed view. The magnificence of the train brings these particular scenes to life, and will for years to come, as filmmakers continue using the railroad as a principal character. Trains—their charm is irresistible; their presence can enhance any set, strengthen any story, propel any narrative.
I closed my eyes, trying for a moment to understand my body’s reaction to hearing a train-whistle, especially at night or in my sleep. I’m sure that much of what happens on a train tinkers with my inner spirit, my inner child, my yearning to discover, and comprehend, another dimension of my emotions. Random situations bring clarity. For instance, earlier I saw two men engaged in conversation, their voices carrying; I couldn’t help hearing them. For much of the ride they had been sitting in silence, five or six rows between them. Somehow they’d managed to start a discussion. I didn’t get a chance to see what had sparked their dialogue, but no matter. Without knowing either of them, I was pleased to see two people from different places coming together and sharing a common bond. By observing them, one would have thought they were longtime friends, neighbors, etc. Possibilities, chance encounters like this one, give me much to think and write about.
The middle phase of my trip had gone by fast. Since morning I’d felt as though I’d been lost in a wild hallucination. At odd times, when I wasn’t daydreaming or absorbing the scene around me, I did some reading and writing. At the last stop I noted the faces of people outside, some of whom, peeking through the windows, would no doubt have liked to come on board but instead were picking up or dropping off a family member or friend. As the train started rolling out of the station, and the short-lived connection I had with those strangers began to fizzle, I hoped to see them in my next dream, relishing the sights and sounds as I had been doing.
The new arrivals settled in and got comfortable in their seats. The attendant entered our car through the sliding doors and began punching holes in the tickets again. His rich, crisp baritone permeated the car once more. As he handed a man’s daughter her ticket, he smiled and shouted, “The dining car is now serving dinner.” This man would have thrived on Broadway had he chosen a career in music. For now, though, his smooth, welcoming tone and message were music to my ears, a sound that pulled me deeper and deeper into this intoxicating reality. And imagine this: I can dream about this kind of experience as often as I want, for as long as the train keeps whispering in my ear.
Guess where I’m headed now? Adventures await me in the dining car. This journey can only get better. And better. And better. I’ll return home when I feel like it—or maybe you’re inclined to occupy the seat next to me? All aboard!
MORRIS COUNTY, NEW JERSEY:
BREEDING GROUND FOR HOME HAUNTS
Number 466 Lathrop Avenue in Boonton, diagonal from the John Hill School, is a frightening place to be on Halloween night. No surprise that it won first place in the 2025 Halloween Decorating Contest. Congratulations! Prepare yourself to walk through a labyrinth of unnerving sights and sounds that begins at the driveway and ends in the back yard. Among other frights, guests encounter monsters and ghouls, professional props and blow-up props, and recognizable monsters and themes. Actors stalk and jump out, animatronics make noise, light up, and come alive. The exhibit is original, unpredictable, and festive, a free Halloween celebration for all ages. From 5:30-10:30 PM, visitors can go through the haunt again and again and take pictures or video and have refreshments. Heartfelt thanks to the homeowners for their hard work and Halloween spirit. Round of applause for the show.
The Halloween House on 2 Alcott Way in Succassauna—created, built, and operated by Craig and Madeline Heard and their family—is a free Halloween exhibit on a grand scale. Movie-like props and animatronics make guests feel as though they are touring a Hollywood studio. Enter through the main gate to find popular creatures and horror figures, scenes drawn from our most vivid nightmares, scenarios that inspire awe. The place is like a museum, staged with thought, care, purpose, and vision. Professional haunted houses have setups like this, but the cost of admission is high, and patrons are sometimes pushed through when lines are long and come out having missed a little here, a little there. Not here. You can go through this exhibit more than once. What makes this journey unlike other seasonal events is that no one rushes you along, no one disrupts the flow, no one sets the pace. The Halloween House, having just celebrated 37 years of haunting, is open on Halloween night only, from 5-11, with thousands of visitors roaming the grounds during the course of the evening. Parking is also free. Many thanks to the generous Heard family for turning their property into a Halloween festival where everyone can share their fears, interact with like minds, and have hours of fun. Standing ovation for the show.
EXCERPT FROM "A READER'S CONFESSION"
Given the number of writers and categories I could name, no wonder my personal library is expanding faster than I can find ample storage space. In my opinion nonfiction prose contains much the same qualities and distinctions found in fiction. On reading just one page of an essay by any of the writers I’ve just mentioned, I detect honest impressions and the varied experiences and points of view of a life lived to the fullest. I discern proof of unlimited wisdom that needs to be shared, combined with unshakable confidence and an utter absence of pretension, making all of us in turn much wiser. Sometimes, though, when a piece of work lacks the characteristics I’m looking for, the writing feels “lightweight,” as though the author didn’t have much to say but followed through anyway, the substance thinning out from beginning to end. To reinforce my earlier statement, I do not think my own work is anywhere near as strong as that of the writers I’ve mentioned here. Not even close. Several times I’ve read, almost side by side, another author’s work and then my own, only to come to the humbling conclusion that I have a long way to go if I’m ever to be on the level of those whose writing I’ve showered with accolades. I’m sensible enough, I must say, to pay special attention to the elements of good writing—to learn them, study them, and attempt to apply them in my own way to my own manuscripts. I’m pleased to know that, to me, even if my opinion may be interpreted as ignorant or naïve, writing is a journey, not a sporting event or a competition, nor a race for sales or to the bestseller list or to promote or solicit reviews. I’m quite comfortable with my own rationale, as it allows me to read another’s words with detachment yet know when—and where—to extract the pertinent lessons.
A number of writers, too many to name, have immeasurable talent. I’m awed by their craft, having incorporated the perfect words, the strongest sentence structure, a smooth, lyrical flow that leaves me admiring every word, every paragraph, a style all their own. Solid examples to point out: Katherine Anne Porter’s short story “Holiday,” John Updike’s “Pigeon Feathers,” John Cheever’s “The Country Husband,” Vladimir Nabokov’s Speak, Memory, Bernard Malamud’s short stories, E.B. White’s essays, Saul Bellow’s nonfiction. Read these works and savor their substance, depth, and clarity; reap the rewards of living on the writer’s stage. Of course, there are countless more, but those I’ve just enumerated flashed in my mind without having to think long and hard, all having left indelible impressions. These pieces of exemplary writing have everything working for them; they are dazzling in sum, as flawless as flawless gets. Each of these works is an important lesson in storytelling and composition. One cannot go wrong by paying close attention to that level of talent, which is why I’ve been trying my hardest to comprehend, retain, and put into practice such lessons, and why I’ve always referred to my own path in writing as a journey and not as a pinnacle of achievement because my work has been published. I must always grow and be flexible, never limiting myself or my craft. And—I will never forget why I write. After all, I’ve never said, “I want to be the next…” I see no point in that objective, or in being self-congratulatory. Having learned from the best, I only want to find out what I’m capable of and see where it takes me. If possible, I would like to channel the excellence of the greats without mimicking the greats. At least I can try.
The journey continues.
13th HOUR HAUNTED ATTRACTION: JERSEY’S LEADER IN FEAR
One of the most original and detailed haunted attractions, 13th Hour rises from behind the Dewey Avenue bridge in Wharton, New Jersey, just down the road from Rockaway Townsquare Mall. The two-floor haunt consists of The House of Nightmares, The Attic, and The Dark Side of the Hayden House, through which customers walk on their own. And good thing. Having a guide would only prevent you from taking in the barrage of sights and sounds, each and every room decorated with passion, care, and imagination, giving visitors an unforgettable journey that gets better and more elaborate as the years pass. The walkthrough is so fluid, the themes and designs from room to room and scene to scene so smooth in pattern, and the overall layout seamless and not in any way disjointed, confusing, or seeming patched together. The truth is, an aspiring haunted-house owner could buy scary props, lights, smoke machines, animatronics, and other things and set them about and hang black tarps as walls, then hire inexperienced actors and charge a competitive price for admission. That formula might work for the short term. But for the long ride, a willingness to know your customers well and listen to and surpass their expectations over a number of years is the right way to forever tower over your imitators. To go through 13th Hour would show you firsthand that it takes talent, dedication, and vision to build and always improve an award-winning haunt, one that wins major industry awards while also winning the admiration of fellow haunters. Therefore, describing too much about the production would be a disservice. One must see it and live it to understand why thousands and thousands of visitors come back several times during the Halloween season, sometimes having to wait in long lines. Substantial credit must be given to the staff and security for moving people along, for reducing wait times, and for minimizing disruptions.
The actors play no small part in 13th Hour’s success. Because they interact with you, surround you, and portray a character—and not just scream in your face, which is the primary scare tactic used at other walkthroughs—they heighten your fear and steal your attention long enough for animatronics or someone or something else to cause the jumps and sustain the tension, a tension that never lets up. That is professional haunting—as it should be. In fact, those who enjoy watching horror-suspense-thriller movies would experience the same adrenaline rush walking through this serpentine maze of sets. In this terror trap you are part of the scene and not just viewing the nightmare from a safe distance. The action is non-stop as the whole building comes alive overhead and underfoot and all around you. No mercy. Remember Long Branch Haunted Mansion, Brigantine Castle, and Haunted Gingerbread Castle? Top attractions that have been gone for years. Well, now 13th Hour is drawing the crowds and dominating the chills-and-thrills market.
Christmas Haunt is the same frightening walkthrough combined with holiday flourishes. Again, special touches are in place to accentuate the theme and satisfy your desire for the macabre. The haunt has had a Valentine’s show as well as other seasonal events. Which means, no need to leave New Jersey to seek out Halloween excitement and adventure. Fun can be had and memories made here in Morris County, at the 13th Hour haunted house, where visitors can find, in addition to three haunted attractions, ten year-round escape rooms and even hatchet throwing!
Would you like to explore a supreme haunted house? Would you thrive on the challenge of solving complex puzzles to escape dark, foreboding rooms? Who wouldn’t! Go online and buy tickets, spend an evening in 13th Hour’s mysterious world and spread the word about Jersey’s number-one haunt, a haunt for all ages.
EDWARD BURNS: THE “FAMILY” MAN
Since the release of his first (and breakthrough) film, “The Brothers McMullen” (1995), Queens, New York, native Edward Burns has used his sharp eye and ear and unique style and voice to explore family drama and dysfunction, never shying away from or distorting the thorny elements of family life and relationships. Sarcasm, confrontation, pettiness, friction, competitiveness, jealousy, and betrayal are prominent in his work. Although he may not receive widespread recognition and acclaim, Burns, who cites Woody Allen as a major influence, continues to make evocative films that for years to come will be seen and admired by those who appreciate good filmmaking on a small budget.
In harmony with smooth narratives, Burns’s films have a distinctive style that blends rawness and reality. And even though he has taken on significant roles as an actor, as a writer and director he has never ignored—or discarded—the formula that has made him an independent standout. As mentioned earlier, his works are structured around everyday conflict, and that conflict is conveyed through crackling dialogue and meticulous character development, aspects of Burns’s writing that have always been intact; his scripts combine formal language with colloquialisms, light humor with biting sarcasm. Characters come alive; even minor characters carry weight and purpose. As far as conflict goes, an argument in a Burns film—for anyone who is unfamiliar with his work—is realistic, sounding as if you the viewer are part of the scene, the words and body language natural and unrestrained, never melodramatic, never overdone—authentic through and through. Watch any of his films and see (and hear) for yourself how convincing the back-and-forth is. To achieve this without a slip, Burns casts consistent and dependable actors and picks ideal locations, the cinematography never failing to pull it all together and add polish. That is why Burns, each and every time and by every standard, turns in the work of a seasoned craftsman whose unswerving attention to detail has entertained and inspired others.
Though he has produced the majority of his films on small budgets, Burns makes the best of that money without sacrificing quality or substance. As a matter of fact his book, Independent Ed (Avery, Penguin Group, 2015), chronicles the making of his films, from the development stage to the premiere. Whether you’re a film enthusiast, an aspiring filmmaker, or an esteemed veteran, you would no doubt find his memoir fascinating and informative. Anyone who has ever dreamed of working in the film business, or is even curious about filmmaking at all, should read Independent Ed, a fun behind-the-scenes journey.
At the time of writing it is Christmas, and, during the holidays, people tend to watch sappy movies that sometimes seem “forced” and one-dimensional, the characters themselves dull and timeworn—no depth, no layers, no heft. Throughout his career Burns has not done a tearjerker; judging by his output over two decades, he doesn't seem headed in that general direction. An Edward Burns film is never forced, artificial, contrived, pretentious, or saccharine. “The Fitzgerald Family Christmas,” for example, demonstrates a precise balance and control of pain, humor, and tenderness, the tone steady and fluid as it builds and builds to its thoughtful conclusion. There’s nothing mawkish about it. Regardless of theme, though, when it comes to writing real-life situations and complex characters, Burns is one of a kind, his stories always honest and always unmoored from superficiality.
Some of Edward Burns's most successful films are “The Brothers McMullen,” “She’s the One,” “Sidewalks of New York,” “The Groomsmen,” “Purple Violets,” “Nice Guy Johnny,” “Newlyweds,” and “The Fitzgerald Family Christmas”—films that show working-class people living relatable lives and coping with everyday adversities, a template that has earned Burns a devoted following. Worth noting is the opening of “Purple Violets”: the lead character, played by Selma Blair, is seen reading The Stories of John Cheever—fiction from a first-rate writer. The scene might have people wondering if Burns has been inspired by Cheever’s work. If his films are any indication, he has probably read and been influenced by important modern writers. Yet another reason why his characters are memorable and true to form.
Moviegoers who are tired of investing their time and money watching mainstream movies lacking characters and stories worth caring about may be looking elsewhere for films that establish with them a genuine emotional and psychological connection while digging into the human condition, films unafraid of presenting to the audience through drama and humor all their missteps and imperfections, exploring with an unblinking eye the unforeseen and unavoidable clashes between members of an imperfect family and between friends and acquaintances. That would be a challenging feat for some filmmakers, but not for Edward Burns, whose followers are awaiting his upcoming projects: “Beneath the Blue Suburban Skies,” “Millers in Marriage,” and the sequel to “Brothers McMullen.” Keep rolling, Independent Ed!
GEOFF TATE
BIG ROCK SHOW HITS
LIVE AT THE NEWTON THEATER, NEWTON, NJ
SEPTEMBER 7, 2023
Opening Act: Mark Daly
Opening the set with the album title track “Empire,” Geoff Tate walked on from stage left, his usual regal presence drawing energy from the audience, who came alive with cheers, overhead fist-pumps, or holding high and proud the heavy-metal hand sign. Once Tate and his band settled in, the show was fluid, with few breaks, the seasoned musicians sounding rehearsed. From the start the frontman’s clean voice and tone were evident as he stalked the breadth of the stage, wandering everywhere, never staying in one place, often dancing, jumping, or becoming animated in one form or another throughout the 105-minute show. Older selections, from Operation Mindcrime and Rage for Order in particular—displayed Tate’s stagecraft, a characteristic of his live shows which hasn’t diminished at all in forty-plus years, incorporating practiced body movements and hand gestures that enhanced the songs’ visual presentation. None of Mr. Tate’s physical showmanship affected in any way the overall strength and consistency of his voice; never out of breath, no straining or cracking. So, while the eighteen songs showcased Tate’s power, range, and enunciation, some lyrics were sung differently from their original versions. For better or for worse—That is up to the listener to decide.
The concert featured a generous layout of Queensryche’s extensive catalog. Among the albums from which Tate shaped his set on this night were Empire, Rage for Order, Promised Land, Operation Mindcrime, Operation Mindcrime 2, Q2k, Dedicated to Chaos, The Warning, Rage for Order, Promised Land, Tribe, along with an unexpected track or two. “NM 156,” “Screaming in Digital,” and material from the original Operation Mindcrime had the crowd roaring loudest and singing along. As the tour expands and continues one cannot begin to imagine how the songlist will change from gig to gig. Knowing Tate, though, concertgoers should expect a regular rotation of tunes that would satisfy both singer and rabid fan alike.
As far as the design of the stage itself and overall production value are concerned, all the musicians had sufficient room to maneuver, and all of them took advantage of the deep, wide platform, constantly moving around and entertaining the audience from every position. The stage-light towers added a sense of size and dimension, the lights themselves flickering, shifting, swirling, and roaming as would be expected to intensify by degrees a high-energy rock concert like this one; the volume, of course, was loud, the guitar solos searing; the thumping percussion could be felt all around, underfoot, and in the stomach. The way it ought to be!
Following the ballad “Silent Lucidity” the band left the stage for a brief moment. With the full house howling, whistling, and shouting out song requests and words of appreciation, Tate and his band returned for a two-song encore, after which they were rewarded with a longish standing ovation as they said thank you and waved goodbye.
Anyone who is looking for a night of straightforward rock music from the former Queensryche singer, attend at least one show on this tour and move and groove and punch the air while listening to your favorites. No doubt Tate and his band will play at least a few of them, maybe even surprise you. The Big Rock Show Hits is a tour not to be passed over. True, absent from this production is the playing of an album in its entirety, as he has done on recent tours, but even more fun the fans should expect to hear the popular radio hits mixed with any number of tracks not included as frequently in past shows, each and every one of them performed with passion, seriousness, and as a celebration of music that spans generations. Tour dates are posted at Geofftate.com; setlists can be found online.
SECONDS
Work puts me on the road very early in the morning. While some are still snoozing or easing themselves out of bed or fixing breakfast, I have the privilege of making discoveries others might miss in their travels. On a Friday in late autumn, I was driving through a suburban neighborhood. On this particular highway and at this approximate time, it is vital to point out, tailgaters, speeders, and other reckless drivers are not uncommon. Numerous times I’ve been harassed by those tailgaters, their high beams like torches burning through my back window, distorting my vision. Such drivers are a daily nuisance, determined to ruin your day—if you let them. Today, though, no one was prodding me, giving me the finger, aiming at me bright lights. From what I could see mine was the lone car on the long picturesque boulevard, at least for now.
Imagine my good fortune, then, when on the right side of the road, in an area where I’d never glanced before, I passed a lake whose surface, rippleless in the glow of approaching dawn, could be seen from my position on the dark highway. I glimpsed the pristine reflection on the water: houses of different shapes, trees of all sizes, stood out in eye-catching form and detail. It was as if an upside down model of a lake community were sunk in the ground, or as if such an impeccable picture were being cast on the water from an invisible projector. The view brought gooseflesh to my arms, I got a chill. I smiled, sighed, while easing my foot off the gas pedal, savoring the moment. Had it been my day off I would have pulled over and stared a little longer, grateful to have noticed something that in an instant had dispelled my morning sluggishness and given me peace and strength for the day ahead. What made the moment—the image—particularly special was that I did not have to search the internet to find it. No computer or cell phone necessary. Not this time! That reflection, seen through a gap between houses, was outside in the tangible world, a world of endless wonders and infinite treasures. The details of that lake scene are forever imprinted in my memory. For that I am thankful.
Needless to say, I appreciate the little things in life: a phrase often used for moments such as these; and the lake’s glassy surface—and the vision captured on it—is another little thing to add to a growing catalog of mental pictures, pictures that provide, as needed, calm, comfort, and inspiration. What might I discover next!
JOHN WILLIAMS: THE MOVIE MAGICIAN
John Williams’s body of work occupies a special nook in my musical treasure chest. I first heard his music in the 1970s and 80s when I was just a curious little boy. It gave me the shivers, lifted my spirits, and sparked my imagination. Then, as a teenager developing myriad interests, I became an excited filmgoer who checked the newspapers every week to find out what was playing in theaters, just so I could plan my whole weekend around that flick. A number of unforgettable movies I saw, some of which were scored by Williams, who, at the time of writing, has been nominated for more than 50 Oscars, 60 Grammy Awards, and numerous other awards. For decades I have followed his musical journey, a journey that has enriched my life and inspired me, brought me peace and comfort in tough times, made my hardest days a little better and cleared my mind when nothing else could. Sometimes, not wanting to miss anything, I look up music he has made from films I haven’t seen and also from films I might never see. In fact, I remember hearing a song not long ago, a soothing, atmospheric, elegant song, and by the end I had gooseflesh. That piece of music, one I hadn’t heard before, was the main theme to yet another movie whose soundtrack had the Williams name. And another day made better by hearing his music.
I grew up at a time when records, 8-track tapes, and cassette tapes were being listened to, shared, and traded, and when, regardless of the weather, my friends and I would gather in groups at the park or huddle around cars with the windows down, music of all kinds pouring from boom-boxes and car stereos. Oh, the sounds of youth! And those sounds brought us together time and time again, in all seasons. Nothing could keep us apart, as we were naturals at improvising our own amusement. Who knows how many hours we must have spent listening to music and talking to each other (living in the moment, one might say) and, of course, thinking about and preparing for the future. I know I thought about the years ahead a great deal, most often when I was alone in my room or working outside or taking a walk and had substantive music playing in my head, shaping — and refining — my thoughts, ideas, visions. To a young lad in search of wisdom and direction, the scores of Mr. John Williams helped nourish my tender heart and my developing mind.
His music, to my ears, is textured, layered — grand in design. With his score as background, the narrative comes alive. While I admire many composers, Williams was the one who drew my attention to movie scores; through his music I came to understand, from my own limited perspective, the meaning and purpose and application of the craft — knowledge that has influenced my writing. A discriminating listener, I often think of his artistry whenever I hear music that lacks those indispensable characteristics. And that is why my musical treasure chest is overflowing. Though there is always room for more talent, more possibilities, more memories.
Williams’s music was a part of my childhood which I still enjoy and celebrate, probably because I don’t want to grow up, though I know I have to, to some extent, but also because music has a distinct way of marking time, and the music of John Williams has always been and will always be for me a reliable marker, reminding me of fun-filled adventures in a dark auditorium, along with music that heightened that pleasure and piqued my interest in filmmaking among other creative disciplines. Growing up I was enamored of themes from “Superman,” “E.T.,” “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” “Jaws,” “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” and “Star Wars.” Even now, hearing those sublime tracks, as well as others he has written and composed, makes me smile, reflect, and feel appreciative of his legacy. Williams’s gargantuan catalog includes more than 150 film scores, all first-rate.
For me, John Williams’s music restores memories of my early days watching movies at the theater and at home, whether alone or with good company— flashbacks that fill me with profound happiness and gratitude. Mr. Williams, thank you for your contributions to music and to the history of American cinema. Without them, my life — and the lives of many — would be out of harmony.