Across a Wire: Live in NY City | Counting Crows
release date: 1998 record label: Geffen
track listing: 1) Round Here
2) Have You Seen Me Lately?
3) Angels of the Silences
4) Catapult
5) Mr. Jones
6) Rain King
7) Mercury
8) Ghost Train
9) Anna Begins
10) Chelsea
“Remember everything, she said,
because sometimes only a memory remains…”
Our lives are a string of experiences. Each one, good or bad, becomes a part of our memories. These can be comforting, as with the elderly, who remember the past as a testament to the life they lived, a monument etched in the stone of their soul. On the other hand, the young approach life with the hope of creating memories for themselves that will last – the kind that will comfort them when they approach the age of their grandparents. When the sun begins to set on our lives, we all want to look back on our memories and see a life we can be proud of. But our memories are not just remembrances of the past, they stand as proof that we have lived. Without them, we lose our identity, and perhaps, even our lives.
Alzheimer’s isn’t fair. Every day it erases the past of thousands of men and women, robbing them of the years they spent on earth. Of course, their family and close friends remember them before the disease, but for the individual suffering under the weight of Alzheimer’s, life becomes a fog. Memories fade like a Polaroid photograph moving in reverse – and what is left to take their place once their gone? A blank canvas where once there stood a masterpiece. A family photograph without familiar faces. A house filled with a lifetime of unimportant objects. To be such a significant part of our lives, our memories are as fragile as glass.
My grandmother is in the middle stages of Alzheimer’s disease. It prevents her from living a normal, unassisted life. She has a hard time recalling names, remembering important facts, or even what she did earlier in the day. It is equal parts frustrating, discouraging and heartbreaking, not only for her, but for her loved ones. Details of her life, important memories, are disappearing. They live, now, only in the memories of her family and close friends. Alzheimer’s teaches a tough lesson: while you still have the ability, take time to remember.
For much of my teenage years, I listened only to Christian music. In an ironic twist of fate, the only secular music in my world belonged to my father, a pastor. He had a collection of tapes he kept in his car. Most of it was classic rock, music he had grown up listening to: the Allman Brothers Band, CSNY, Peter Frampton and Joe Walsh. Driving around town, he usually listened to the radio. The tapes were saved for long trips, like our yearly vacation to Georgia to visit his side of the family. The music of the Allman Brothers and CSNY still bring to mind the tall, skinny, kudzu-covered pine trees lining I-75 South. As the oldest of three boys, I was the first afforded the chance to sit in the front, passenger seat of the car and help determine the music we would listen to. On one such occasion, the cover art on one of my father’s tapes caught my eye. In sloppy black letters, strewn across a golden background, was written “Counting Crows.” I couldn’t remember ever listening to that album, so I asked my dad about it. “They’re pretty good – pop it in, if you want.” A few years later, when I had my own car with a tape deck, I “borrowed” Dad’s Counting Crows tape. I never returned it.
Periods of my life seem to be classified according to the music I listened to. In middle school, when I was learning who I was and trying as hard as I could to stand out, it was Five Iron Frenzy. In college, discovering the importance of working out my faith, I fell in love with the justice driven music of U2. As my faith has matured in the past few years, I have found the music of Derek Webb to be both uplifting and challenging – an important mixture in our world, where it’s too easy to have a complacent faith. Likewise, my four years of high school are defined by the music of Counting Crows. The rollercoaster of emotions following first love, first heartache and everything in-between found its musical equivalent in the lyrics of Adam Duritz and his band. By the time I discovered Counting Crows, they had already released four albums. I scoured our local, small-town Wal-Mart for all the discs I could find – only two. The local pawn shops had nothing to offer, so I turned to the internet. The first (and up to this point in my life, I think the only things) I ever purchased on eBay were two Counting Crows albums.
Across a Wire: Live in New York City was the third album released by Counting Crows. A double live album, it contains songs from their first two albums, August and Everything After and Recovering the Satellites. The first disc, recorded for VH-1’s “Storytellers,” is acoustic, purposeful and intimate. The accompanying second disc, recorded at MTV’s “Live at the Ten Spot,” is the complete opposite – driving, sloppier and intent on delivering rock and roll guitar licks. While both discs are great in their own right, my personal favorite (and somehow, the only one to make it on to my iPod) was the acoustic set. If you ever get the chance to see Counting Crows live, please, by all means, go. While their albums are outstanding, nothing is like their live shows. The band members are easily some of the most talented musicians I have ever had the pleasure to hear. Each concert has been distinctly different. I appreciate a band that is not afraid to experiment with their songs, and Counting Crows are the poster-child for this. The only thing that can be guaranteed about seeing them live is that the concert will not be a photo-copy of the studio album. Lead singer, Adam Duritz, directs the band like a dread-locked symphony conductor, asking for swells and signaling for the music to diminish as he works his way through lyrics both familiar and on-the-spot brand new.
My grandparent’s house quiet behind me, I sat down on the front porch with the moon shining down overhead as Across a Wire opened. Accompanied only by an acoustic guitar, Adam Duritz tears into the opening track from August and Everything After, Round Here, followed by Have You Seen Me Lately, from their sophomore effort, Recovering the Satellites. The album hits its stride as the full band joins in for another track from Recovering the Satellites, Catapult. Adam Duritz introduces fan-favorite Mr. Jones next, saying that “this is a song about my dreams.” This version, however, is decidedly more somber than the original, with Duritz coming to the conclusion that “when everybody loves you, that’s about as f----- up as you can be.” My favorite song on Across a Wire, Rain King, comes next. Totally reworked by the band, it is no longer driving like the original from August and Everything After, but rather meandering. This song, for me, defines a live show by Counting Crows – the musicianship is superb and Duritz spouts off new lyrics on the spot. The album concludes with Mercury, Ghost Train, and reworked version of Anna Begins. Following a lengthy pause in the recording, a previously unreleased track, Chelsea, brings Across a Wire to a close.
I couldn’t even begin to guess how many times I have listened to this album in my lifetime, but sitting on the porch that night, the music filling the darkness around me began to take on new meaning. I was transported back to the small town where I grew up, to the high school I attended, and the five friends who filled by life with so much joy, heartache and laughter. In the eight years since I graduated high school, it seems as if everything has changed. Neil Young sings in One of These Days that his friends are “scattered like leaves from an old maple.” Eight years ago, I left my home to attend college and, like many students before me, I believed my friendships would survive the test of time and distance. Alas, most of them did not. Of my five friends, some have moved far away from that little town, others live nearby, but one thing is true for most of them: our lives remain painfully disconnected. But that does not mean those people and the experiences we had together are not still dear to my heart. On the contrary, absence does seem to make the heart grow fonder.
Invited in by the music that defined by high school years, memories came flooding back to me as I listened to Across a Wire. The nights spent at Wal-Mart because we had nothing else to do. The time we snuck into the graveyard, or when we drove up to the haunted mansion, just to see if anything was going on. The proms, the first dates, the puppy love and the broken hearts. And the endless, endless, endless conversations about our two favorite topics: God and girls. In the chorus of Have You Seen Me Lately, Adam Duritz begs for someone to “just tell me one thing you remember about me.” Everyone wants to be remembered – to live on in the memory of our friends, even if the years have separated us.
What follows are just a portion of my memories. They are written, primarily, for my five friends. But I invite you into them as well, for perhaps in joining me, you too will remember relationships that time and distance have robbed from you. My dear friends, although we may be separated, known that you continue to live on in my memories.
R.L. – my brother and my best friend. For me, you have been the definition of faithfulness. I remember when you were a new student and our fifth grade teacher introduced us. My stutter kept me from saying much then, but since that day, you have been in my corner. We shared everything: video games, music, clothes, even girlfriends. We spent hours talking, playing sports, and bumming around town together. Remember the night we walked all the way to BP? Or the time we convinced our prom dates to go to Gatti-Town? On the paper route, we would always stop at a certain house and see who could throw the paper closest to the front door. We ran cross-country in the snow, joked about the awkward names of lunch options at Gold Star Chili, tried to start a band, and spoke in French whenever we could. A decade later, it brings me so much joy that see our lives continue to be intertwined. I pray that you feel as supported, loved and uplifted by me as I feel from you each day. Who knows where I’d be without you. I’d hate to even think of it. Let’s freakin’ get you married.
A.J. – my first love. You turned my world upside down. One day my only concerns were punk music and baseball, and the next, I was having phone conversations with you till sunrise. My dad would get furious at me for keeping the phone lines tied up at night, but after everyone had gone to bed, I would still snuck upstairs for the cordless phone. One of our first dates was going to Danville Cinema in my Crown Victoria to see “Domestic Disturbance” with John Travolta. I sat through “Pearl Harbor” twice, just because you wanted to see it again. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. I remember trying so hard to impress your dad, being scared of your mom, and hoping your sister was as fond of me as I was of her. My friends made fun of me for wearing periwinkle to prom, but it didn’t bother me, because you were my date. We certainly had our problems, but not all of those were your fault. You were the first to learn what every girlfriend after you has been forced to understand: dating me is not for the faint of heart. We had some good times together. I hope life is treating you well.
J.J. – my friend. I remember when you moved to Danville, just up the street from my house. I thought I was so lucky to be your friend; let’s be honest, you were way cooler than I was. I remember hanging out in your basement, trying to wrestle you and being pinned in no time at all. The first time you came to youth group, you stole all the ladies’ hearts – I hoped hanging out with you would rub some of that charm off on me. We stayed up for hours talking about the Bible, arguing our points and searching for scripture that backed up what we believed. You showed me that just because I said something didn’t make it true. You tried to convince me that “Perfect Dark” was better than “Goldeneye.” I still don’t believe you. I always admired your ability to love others. While I judged and put people into boxes, you embraced them with open arms. By being your friend, I was introduced to people I had gone to school with my whole life, yet had never had a conversation with. That kind of love drew people to you, and as a Christian, you pointed them on toward the ultimate lover of their souls. To this day, I wish I could be more like that.
L.B. – my first serious love. In high school you were such a great friend. You talked me through my rocky relationships, offering me a shoulder to cry on every time I needed it (and Lord knows, it was more than I’d like to admit). Even at my saddest, you always had a way of making me laugh. I remember how crazy my best friend made you, and the nights we hung out at your house, sitting on your trampoline and staring up at the stars. I remember when you got the phone call about your father passing – I was driving a few people home and you were sitting in the back seat of my car. My heart broke into pieces for you. Every day, on my way to the paper route, I would pass your house. Sometimes I’d honk, other times I’d put off work to hang out with you for a few minutes. I remember the highs of church camp and the lows of having to come back home. We sat in the back seat of the church bus and talked about life and love for hours. In college, our friendship blossomed into something more. You supported me as I left to do mission work in the mountains, and the next year, you came with me. Those few months in Harlan County changed our lives forever. I confess that I haven’t been the best friend, but I hope you know that I still want the very best for you. Let’s hang out soon. I mean that. I miss seeing you.
D.P. – my friend. You were the smartest guy I knew. We spent so much time in my room, discussing everything from art, to faith, to relationships. You loved sitting in my yellow chair – I still have that ratty thing. I think about you each time I sit in it. The other day, I ran across a food tray from Sonic that we accidentally stole – halfway home from the restaurant, we noticed it still attached to the windowsill of my car. You walked with me through every heartache I experienced in high school. My parents thought of you as another one of their sons and you were always welcome at my house, no matter the day or time. The first time I heard the Decemberists was in your car. To be honest, I didn’t like it much. How things have changed. I was so proud when you got into the college of your dreams, even if I couldn’t join you there. As our friendship progressed, you taught me that life was not just about black and white – we had to leave some room for gray. Because you challenged me and my faith, you caused it to grow. I love you. I’m sorry that we lost touch. I hope you know that it has nothing to do with you. Next time we’re both in Danville, let’s get some coffee.
As the last chords of the album faded into the night, I looked up to notice the moon sinking behind some trees. It was no longer visible, but I remembered its light. Friends pass in and out of our lives, and sometimes only a memory remains. But for you, my five friends, that memory is a light that still illuminates my life.
release date: 1998 record label: Geffen
track listing: 1) Round Here
2) Have You Seen Me Lately?
3) Angels of the Silences
4) Catapult
5) Mr. Jones
6) Rain King
7) Mercury
8) Ghost Train
9) Anna Begins
10) Chelsea
“Remember everything, she said,
because sometimes only a memory remains…”
Our lives are a string of experiences. Each one, good or bad, becomes a part of our memories. These can be comforting, as with the elderly, who remember the past as a testament to the life they lived, a monument etched in the stone of their soul. On the other hand, the young approach life with the hope of creating memories for themselves that will last – the kind that will comfort them when they approach the age of their grandparents. When the sun begins to set on our lives, we all want to look back on our memories and see a life we can be proud of. But our memories are not just remembrances of the past, they stand as proof that we have lived. Without them, we lose our identity, and perhaps, even our lives.
Alzheimer’s isn’t fair. Every day it erases the past of thousands of men and women, robbing them of the years they spent on earth. Of course, their family and close friends remember them before the disease, but for the individual suffering under the weight of Alzheimer’s, life becomes a fog. Memories fade like a Polaroid photograph moving in reverse – and what is left to take their place once their gone? A blank canvas where once there stood a masterpiece. A family photograph without familiar faces. A house filled with a lifetime of unimportant objects. To be such a significant part of our lives, our memories are as fragile as glass.
My grandmother is in the middle stages of Alzheimer’s disease. It prevents her from living a normal, unassisted life. She has a hard time recalling names, remembering important facts, or even what she did earlier in the day. It is equal parts frustrating, discouraging and heartbreaking, not only for her, but for her loved ones. Details of her life, important memories, are disappearing. They live, now, only in the memories of her family and close friends. Alzheimer’s teaches a tough lesson: while you still have the ability, take time to remember.
For much of my teenage years, I listened only to Christian music. In an ironic twist of fate, the only secular music in my world belonged to my father, a pastor. He had a collection of tapes he kept in his car. Most of it was classic rock, music he had grown up listening to: the Allman Brothers Band, CSNY, Peter Frampton and Joe Walsh. Driving around town, he usually listened to the radio. The tapes were saved for long trips, like our yearly vacation to Georgia to visit his side of the family. The music of the Allman Brothers and CSNY still bring to mind the tall, skinny, kudzu-covered pine trees lining I-75 South. As the oldest of three boys, I was the first afforded the chance to sit in the front, passenger seat of the car and help determine the music we would listen to. On one such occasion, the cover art on one of my father’s tapes caught my eye. In sloppy black letters, strewn across a golden background, was written “Counting Crows.” I couldn’t remember ever listening to that album, so I asked my dad about it. “They’re pretty good – pop it in, if you want.” A few years later, when I had my own car with a tape deck, I “borrowed” Dad’s Counting Crows tape. I never returned it.
Periods of my life seem to be classified according to the music I listened to. In middle school, when I was learning who I was and trying as hard as I could to stand out, it was Five Iron Frenzy. In college, discovering the importance of working out my faith, I fell in love with the justice driven music of U2. As my faith has matured in the past few years, I have found the music of Derek Webb to be both uplifting and challenging – an important mixture in our world, where it’s too easy to have a complacent faith. Likewise, my four years of high school are defined by the music of Counting Crows. The rollercoaster of emotions following first love, first heartache and everything in-between found its musical equivalent in the lyrics of Adam Duritz and his band. By the time I discovered Counting Crows, they had already released four albums. I scoured our local, small-town Wal-Mart for all the discs I could find – only two. The local pawn shops had nothing to offer, so I turned to the internet. The first (and up to this point in my life, I think the only things) I ever purchased on eBay were two Counting Crows albums.
Across a Wire: Live in New York City was the third album released by Counting Crows. A double live album, it contains songs from their first two albums, August and Everything After and Recovering the Satellites. The first disc, recorded for VH-1’s “Storytellers,” is acoustic, purposeful and intimate. The accompanying second disc, recorded at MTV’s “Live at the Ten Spot,” is the complete opposite – driving, sloppier and intent on delivering rock and roll guitar licks. While both discs are great in their own right, my personal favorite (and somehow, the only one to make it on to my iPod) was the acoustic set. If you ever get the chance to see Counting Crows live, please, by all means, go. While their albums are outstanding, nothing is like their live shows. The band members are easily some of the most talented musicians I have ever had the pleasure to hear. Each concert has been distinctly different. I appreciate a band that is not afraid to experiment with their songs, and Counting Crows are the poster-child for this. The only thing that can be guaranteed about seeing them live is that the concert will not be a photo-copy of the studio album. Lead singer, Adam Duritz, directs the band like a dread-locked symphony conductor, asking for swells and signaling for the music to diminish as he works his way through lyrics both familiar and on-the-spot brand new.
My grandparent’s house quiet behind me, I sat down on the front porch with the moon shining down overhead as Across a Wire opened. Accompanied only by an acoustic guitar, Adam Duritz tears into the opening track from August and Everything After, Round Here, followed by Have You Seen Me Lately, from their sophomore effort, Recovering the Satellites. The album hits its stride as the full band joins in for another track from Recovering the Satellites, Catapult. Adam Duritz introduces fan-favorite Mr. Jones next, saying that “this is a song about my dreams.” This version, however, is decidedly more somber than the original, with Duritz coming to the conclusion that “when everybody loves you, that’s about as f----- up as you can be.” My favorite song on Across a Wire, Rain King, comes next. Totally reworked by the band, it is no longer driving like the original from August and Everything After, but rather meandering. This song, for me, defines a live show by Counting Crows – the musicianship is superb and Duritz spouts off new lyrics on the spot. The album concludes with Mercury, Ghost Train, and reworked version of Anna Begins. Following a lengthy pause in the recording, a previously unreleased track, Chelsea, brings Across a Wire to a close.
I couldn’t even begin to guess how many times I have listened to this album in my lifetime, but sitting on the porch that night, the music filling the darkness around me began to take on new meaning. I was transported back to the small town where I grew up, to the high school I attended, and the five friends who filled by life with so much joy, heartache and laughter. In the eight years since I graduated high school, it seems as if everything has changed. Neil Young sings in One of These Days that his friends are “scattered like leaves from an old maple.” Eight years ago, I left my home to attend college and, like many students before me, I believed my friendships would survive the test of time and distance. Alas, most of them did not. Of my five friends, some have moved far away from that little town, others live nearby, but one thing is true for most of them: our lives remain painfully disconnected. But that does not mean those people and the experiences we had together are not still dear to my heart. On the contrary, absence does seem to make the heart grow fonder.
Invited in by the music that defined by high school years, memories came flooding back to me as I listened to Across a Wire. The nights spent at Wal-Mart because we had nothing else to do. The time we snuck into the graveyard, or when we drove up to the haunted mansion, just to see if anything was going on. The proms, the first dates, the puppy love and the broken hearts. And the endless, endless, endless conversations about our two favorite topics: God and girls. In the chorus of Have You Seen Me Lately, Adam Duritz begs for someone to “just tell me one thing you remember about me.” Everyone wants to be remembered – to live on in the memory of our friends, even if the years have separated us.
What follows are just a portion of my memories. They are written, primarily, for my five friends. But I invite you into them as well, for perhaps in joining me, you too will remember relationships that time and distance have robbed from you. My dear friends, although we may be separated, known that you continue to live on in my memories.
R.L. – my brother and my best friend. For me, you have been the definition of faithfulness. I remember when you were a new student and our fifth grade teacher introduced us. My stutter kept me from saying much then, but since that day, you have been in my corner. We shared everything: video games, music, clothes, even girlfriends. We spent hours talking, playing sports, and bumming around town together. Remember the night we walked all the way to BP? Or the time we convinced our prom dates to go to Gatti-Town? On the paper route, we would always stop at a certain house and see who could throw the paper closest to the front door. We ran cross-country in the snow, joked about the awkward names of lunch options at Gold Star Chili, tried to start a band, and spoke in French whenever we could. A decade later, it brings me so much joy that see our lives continue to be intertwined. I pray that you feel as supported, loved and uplifted by me as I feel from you each day. Who knows where I’d be without you. I’d hate to even think of it. Let’s freakin’ get you married.
A.J. – my first love. You turned my world upside down. One day my only concerns were punk music and baseball, and the next, I was having phone conversations with you till sunrise. My dad would get furious at me for keeping the phone lines tied up at night, but after everyone had gone to bed, I would still snuck upstairs for the cordless phone. One of our first dates was going to Danville Cinema in my Crown Victoria to see “Domestic Disturbance” with John Travolta. I sat through “Pearl Harbor” twice, just because you wanted to see it again. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is. I remember trying so hard to impress your dad, being scared of your mom, and hoping your sister was as fond of me as I was of her. My friends made fun of me for wearing periwinkle to prom, but it didn’t bother me, because you were my date. We certainly had our problems, but not all of those were your fault. You were the first to learn what every girlfriend after you has been forced to understand: dating me is not for the faint of heart. We had some good times together. I hope life is treating you well.
J.J. – my friend. I remember when you moved to Danville, just up the street from my house. I thought I was so lucky to be your friend; let’s be honest, you were way cooler than I was. I remember hanging out in your basement, trying to wrestle you and being pinned in no time at all. The first time you came to youth group, you stole all the ladies’ hearts – I hoped hanging out with you would rub some of that charm off on me. We stayed up for hours talking about the Bible, arguing our points and searching for scripture that backed up what we believed. You showed me that just because I said something didn’t make it true. You tried to convince me that “Perfect Dark” was better than “Goldeneye.” I still don’t believe you. I always admired your ability to love others. While I judged and put people into boxes, you embraced them with open arms. By being your friend, I was introduced to people I had gone to school with my whole life, yet had never had a conversation with. That kind of love drew people to you, and as a Christian, you pointed them on toward the ultimate lover of their souls. To this day, I wish I could be more like that.
L.B. – my first serious love. In high school you were such a great friend. You talked me through my rocky relationships, offering me a shoulder to cry on every time I needed it (and Lord knows, it was more than I’d like to admit). Even at my saddest, you always had a way of making me laugh. I remember how crazy my best friend made you, and the nights we hung out at your house, sitting on your trampoline and staring up at the stars. I remember when you got the phone call about your father passing – I was driving a few people home and you were sitting in the back seat of my car. My heart broke into pieces for you. Every day, on my way to the paper route, I would pass your house. Sometimes I’d honk, other times I’d put off work to hang out with you for a few minutes. I remember the highs of church camp and the lows of having to come back home. We sat in the back seat of the church bus and talked about life and love for hours. In college, our friendship blossomed into something more. You supported me as I left to do mission work in the mountains, and the next year, you came with me. Those few months in Harlan County changed our lives forever. I confess that I haven’t been the best friend, but I hope you know that I still want the very best for you. Let’s hang out soon. I mean that. I miss seeing you.
D.P. – my friend. You were the smartest guy I knew. We spent so much time in my room, discussing everything from art, to faith, to relationships. You loved sitting in my yellow chair – I still have that ratty thing. I think about you each time I sit in it. The other day, I ran across a food tray from Sonic that we accidentally stole – halfway home from the restaurant, we noticed it still attached to the windowsill of my car. You walked with me through every heartache I experienced in high school. My parents thought of you as another one of their sons and you were always welcome at my house, no matter the day or time. The first time I heard the Decemberists was in your car. To be honest, I didn’t like it much. How things have changed. I was so proud when you got into the college of your dreams, even if I couldn’t join you there. As our friendship progressed, you taught me that life was not just about black and white – we had to leave some room for gray. Because you challenged me and my faith, you caused it to grow. I love you. I’m sorry that we lost touch. I hope you know that it has nothing to do with you. Next time we’re both in Danville, let’s get some coffee.
As the last chords of the album faded into the night, I looked up to notice the moon sinking behind some trees. It was no longer visible, but I remembered its light. Friends pass in and out of our lives, and sometimes only a memory remains. But for you, my five friends, that memory is a light that still illuminates my life.
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