Sheryl Crow with Eric Clapton, Sarah MacLachlan, Keith Richards, Chrissie
Hynde, Stevie Nicks, Dixie Chicks
Tuesday, September 14, 1999
Central Park, New York City
8:00 PM

Sheryl Crow recently moved to town, and threw a fabulous party for her new
neighbors in the backyard the other night — and it was some party, let me
tell you.

But this isn’t just any town — it’s New York. And our backyard — Central
Park. And it wasn’t one of those close-friend deals — 30,000 of us were
there. In the teacher-turned-songwriter’s own words, “New York is a rockin
place to live.” I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Hopped a cab for the ride uptown, my driver charting a somewhat dubious
course through crowded post-rush streets. Exited at 91st Street, at it’s
meeting with the park, where I joined a slow-moving crowd, all eager to get
through the gates.

Thanks to work commitments holding me until the very last minute, I was
arriving slightly out of sorts, at the unfashionably late hour of 7:58, and
this would have been okay, had there been a waiting seat, but nay — the very
reason we are here is to celebrate summer’s end, there on the East Meadow,
in Central Park. Though sadly, this is a roster of artists worthy of the
Great Lawn, our favorite Parks Commissioner Stern doesn’t want to stress the
baby grass planted there only this year, so we are here. But there will be a
show, and what does it matter, which lawn it’s on.

Crossing stately Fifth Avenue, I took one look at the blocks-long, snaking
line, and decided to take my chances at jumping to the front — pity the poor
polite suckers, as Parks employees were no match for the moving throng — we,
the 25,000 lucky ones, were too much for them, as at least a third of the
crowd decided to come late, which created mostly a disaster. “Hold up your
tickets where we can see ‘em!” Hmmph.

Ticketed and ticketless alike (shades of Woodstock ‘94) inched past the
barriers, walking the four blocks or so on the access road to the awaiting
field, already filled with concert-goers.

In the distance, the bass thumped out what was instantly decipherable as
one of the Missus-from-Missouri’s signature tunes, “A Change Will Do You
Good.” And to the left, high above the road, the unwashed masses pressed
against the fence, hoping to catch a glimpse of what those of us below had
been lucky enough to find tickets to.

This was not a Ticketmaster fiasco, there was no scandal — this star-studded
extravaganza of a show was completely FREE, but chose to distribute tickets
in what was, most possibly, the strangest method ever thought up —
American Express, the sponsor of this mega-event, handed out vouchers at
unpublished locations around the city over the past two weeks, vouchers
which, every one in four of, was a winner. I was lucky enough to score one from
a good friend.

Walking into the Meadow, the sound is unbeatable, and the psychedelically
lit stage area (two Jumbotrons on either side, walls of tie-dye light below
stage-level, video walls wrapping around the back, and fashionably colored
lights swinging out at the audience) hits you right on the nose. This,
coupled with the band’s launch into “Anything But Down,” let you know that
this was not just any show.

The pint-sized songstress was dressed in brilliant red, her smiling, joyous
demeanor beamed out on screens large enough to be seen in New Jersey, as she
rapped with the crowd, making an immediate connection with light-hearted
banter and a particularly soulful version of the hit “Leaving Las Vegas.”

Woodstock was for the kids. The MTV Music Awards were for the
middle-schoolers. Ricky Martin was just-for-girls. This one was for the
grownups. Myself being a somewhat unwilling concert goer, I couldn’t have
been happier.

The crowd consisted mostly of twenty-and-thirty-somethings, many
arriving straight from work, toting plastic deli containers of macaroni
salad and bottled water, still on cell-phones, jockeying for remaining
grass space.

But any workday stresses were forgotten, as Sarah MacLachlan wheeled (with
the help of crew) her Yamaha grand onto mid-stage, for a passionate rendition of
“Angel” by the hungry crowd, and had it not been for the long lines of
Our Finest up and down the gently sloping hill, it could have been a moment
straight from Lilith.

But even the NYPD couldn’t help but get excited — one cop was clapping
her hands excitedly for MacLachlan — “She was so good on Rosie the other
day,” she remarked, to us civilian bystanders.

Sarah disappeared quicker than she arrived, and Sheryl wasted no time as
she dug into her latest and greatest — the cover of the formidable Guns and
Roses hit, “Sweet Child,” which, thankfully, did evolve into somewhat of an
extended mix ala Axl, but when it comes to “Sweet Child,” it’s never
extended enough, as far as I can see.

The Men in Blue escorted a bewildered transgressor out of the VIP corral as
the bleached-blond-former-porn-star drummer began his slow lead into the
wonderfully gritty-when-live "Am I Getting Through (Part I & II)."

It was a good note to break on.

We thought we’d seen a pretty good show, but that was nothing, compared to
the second set, introduced by none other than Bill Murray — “Right now, this
is the coolest place in the United States!” And he didn’t mean the cooling
temperatures of this mid-september evening.

The raven-of-rock n’ roll re-entered stage left, bringing with her, the
Dixie Chicks, clad in tight black leather — a knockout bunch. “Right now,
these chicks have the #1 record on the Billboard charts,” Crow announced.
“And that’s why I hate ‘em.”

Any feelings of malice dissolved rapidly as they harmonized eloquently on
“Strong Enough,” as the group of women swayed and cast loving looks upon
the crowd.

Upping the star-power a notch, on swept Stevie Nicks, to the loudest cheers
yet, draped in her signature shawl, powering her way through some of her own
music, with good backups and very Mac-like percussion and guitars. Drops of
rain began to fall during her mini-set, and the crowds dug up rain-gear,
umbrellas, plastic tarps, but casting it all off for a moment to give wild
appreciation for what was possibly one of the top tunes of the evening.

Bob Dylan’s “Mississippi” was next, and as quickly as the rain came, Crow
chastened it firmly, sending a somewhat non-committal downpour back into
hiding almost immediately.

Chrissie Hynde sang along on the old standby “If It Makes You Happy,” her
signature pipes rising above the wall of sound — a wonderful moment for any
Pretenders fan. The energy between the two was tangible, as both jammed and
sang, sending chills of joy down the spine.

“Hey New York! It’s great to be here!” (mayhem ensues in crowd) “Matter of
fact, it’s great to be anywhere!” This may be Keith Richards feeling his
age, but who cared — as he tore into a smoking version of “Happy,” audience
appreciation went up yet another level, with a total of five guitarists on
stage.

Crow put down the guitar to sing and cheerlead for the next tune, fronted
by Richards — “Sweet Little Rock n’ Roller.” The two were positively
naughty, her behaving badly, as she stood, hand on hip, other hand on
Richards’ shoulder, grooving to the beat, flashing that little
come-hither-stare of hers.

Proving she is a woman that can wear many hats, any sexual energy
dissipated as soon as Richards left the stage, as we moved into the soulful
Crow-MacLachlan duet on “Difficult Kind,” an wistful expression of longing.

By this time, we already know who’s next, and in the short break before the
next song, the audience needs no visual confirmation of the brightest star
that was set to shine from stage this evening — there is a deafening roar —
making all audience response heretofore out to be positively polite, as the
guitar-god himself, Eric Clapton, takes the stage at precisely 9:42 in the
PM.

He opened with the Cream classic, “White Room,“ followed by a version of
Hendrix’s “Little Wing.“ This was a tune with which he shredded the cheap
seats at Madison Square Garden earlier this year, and he didn’t do too badly
out here in the open air either.

If I could have laid back, there on the ground, and fallen to sleep, never
to wake up again, I could have died a happy man. But any delusions of sleep,
long term or otherwise, were shattered almost instantaneously as I glanced
at my watch. It was 9:50, and I was due at work, 50 blocks away, in 10
minutes.

As I fled the park, I heard wisps of my favorite tune in Crow’s
repetoire, “There Goes the Neighborhood,” making their way out to Fifth
Avenue. I leaned out the window of the cab to catch the last sound waves, as
my driver ran the yellow light, and changed lanes without warning.

It’s good to be in New York, and it’s good to be a New Yorker.

Email: dj@asan.com

Next Update: 21 September

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