Hot August Night

My summer began with a seat at The Philadelphia Orchestra for Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man.” It ended this week with Todd Rundgren performing his “Love for the Common Man.” Both were wonderful, moving, emotional, and thrilling. Live music is a privilege. Thank you.

Mr. Rundgren spoke very briefly during his two-hour presentation. He is an accomplished musician and to his credit he lets his music do the talking. “I know everything is expensive,” he said at one point. “Thank you for spending your money to be with us here tonight.”

He is more than a brilliant songwriter and producer.

Those two pieces bookended everything else that happened between June and mid-August.

One is a towering orchestral declaration written in 1942.

The other is a rock song that still carries the same quiet insistence that ordinary people matter.

Sitting in those two very different rooms - one a formal concert hall, the other an electric New Jersey shoreside pavilion (a room I played years ago but to about 1/25th the crowd!) - reminded me why I still care about standing in front of an audience after all these years.

When the music is right, when the show hits home, the room changes. People lean in. Something shared happens.

That feeling is still the reason I pack my suitcase and head out to parts unknown in search of an audience after all these years.

In the middle of the summer, I made it to the Mason Family reunion. It was good to see everyone.

Family gatherings have a way of collapsing time.

Faces you only see once or twice every decade or so suddenly look familiar again. Stories get retold, some of them improved by the years.

There is comfort in knowing the same people are still around, still checking in, still connected even when life pulls everyone in different directions.

The work side of the summer took me through the Midwest and then back to the Jersey Shore. I played Peoria, Illinois - the same town where my father worked at WMBD Radio and Television.

Walking those streets carried a quiet weight. I could not stop thinking about him in that building, doing the daily work of farm broadcasting while I was a boy and then a student at The University of Illinois.

Then it was on to the Funny Pharm Comedy Club in Goshen, Indiana, the Kenosha Comedy Club in Wisconsin, and finally a sold-out show at the Surflight Theatre in Beach Haven, New Jersey.

That last one felt especially good.

A Monday night in August is not the easiest night to fill a theater, yet all the seats were taken and the room was warm.

Huge thanks to Gail, Olivia, Steve, the Surflight staff and everyone who came out. You made that night feel special.

After the show there was the usual mix of tired legs, gratitude, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing the material landed.

These are the nights that keep the calendar- and my heart - full.

While I was in Peoria I was mugged at my hotel.

You read that correctly. I was mugged at the hotel.

I was not hurt. The assailant was bleeding heavily when I left him.

I drove off to my gig at the Mason City Limits Comedy Club.

He was taken to the hospital.

I’m glad to hear he recovered.

My sincere thanks go to the Peoria Police Department and the dispatcher that night, but also to Officer Irvin (or Ervin?), and Officer Barr. They responded quickly and professionally.

Situations like that are never welcome, but the way the Peoria Police Department handled it mattered. I left the hotel that night, grateful the system still works when you need it.

August has always carried a particular feeling for me, even decades later. Bluntly, it still smells like football practice.

My defensive line coach at the University of Illinois - I believe his name was John Nelson - used to tell us that Big Ten defensive line play is a streetfight.

He was not being poetic.

He meant it was physical, messy, and decided by whoever was willing to keep pushing after the first hit. That lesson stayed with me. I learned how to handle myself in physical confrontations during those years, and it turns out the skill is useful long after the pads come off.

He also used to say that defensive linemen never come from suburban homes with two-car garages.

On that point he was wrong. Some of us did.

The larger point, though, still holds. Life occasionally requires the willingness to stand your ground, to stay calm when things turn sudden, and to keep moving afterward. “RUN TO THE BALL!”

The coach was teaching football, but he was also teaching something wider about resilience. I did not fully understand that at the time. Believe me coach: I do now.

Looking back over this past summer, the pattern is clear.

Music that still moves people.

Family that still gathers.

Rooms that still fill.

An unexpected confrontation that ended without any lasting damage.

And an old coaching phrase that continues to prove useful.

None of it was planned as a theme, yet it all fits together like a hot August summer day where you have some time to watch big, fluffy white clouds scoot across a picture-perfect blue sky.

Just another day? No. There is nothing common about being tuned into the universe and being grateful for beautiful music, supportive family and heavenly audiences.

Live performance remains a privilege. So does the chance to keep doing the work, to keep showing up, and to keep learning the same lessons in new rooms.

I am grateful for the concerts, the family, the audiences, the officers who did their jobs well, and the long-ago coach who understood that some skills transfer far beyond the field.

Run to the ball!

Thanks for reading,

Taylor

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