Music! Music! Music!

August 13, 2026 by DickH Posted in Uncategorized Leave a Comment

Music! Music! Music!

By Leo Racicot

The very first music concert I attended was at Freedomland, an amusement park in The Bronx. My sister, Diane and I, were in White Plains, New York visiting our aunt, uncle and cousins for three weeks in the summer of 1962. One of the acts we saw at Freedomland was The Chad Mitchell Trio. One of the members of that folk group was John Denver though Denver hadn’t yet become John Denver. If I close my eyes, I can still see the fresh-scrubbed college look of these guys singing their hearts out in three-part harmony.

The very first rock/blues I saw was James Montgomery Band on North Campus just outside Costello Gym. Joe and I went together. It must have been about 1970. Up till then, we’d only heard that type of blues roots music on the radio. Hearing it performed live was a thrill. We felt modern and part of our generation. The Band continues to tour in 2026.

It was around this same time that I fell in love with singer Judy Collins; I’d picked up her album, Who Knows Where the Time Goes in a Stuart’s record bin — and listened and listened in my bedroom, the sun and a light summer breeze lifting the curtains in the window as Judy’s crystalline clear soprano lifted itself to the sky. Her music captured me as has no other and I’ve lost count of the number of I’ve been blessed to see her live in many different venues. I was so taken with her, I’d bring friends with me to hear her: David McKean out in Tanglewood at Collins’ Berkshire Music Festival performance in 1968. Joe, at Hampton Beach Casino around the same time. I’ll always remember seeing her at Suffolk Downs; we audience sat on the grounds, the smell of horse dung permeating the air as Collins, lovely vision in prairie dress and guitar, sang, her eyes closed in reverie through most of the concert. A night of pure magic. Judy, at age 87, continues to tour the world, her pristine, ethereal tones miraculously still reaching for the heights.

The great Joni Mitchell was a favorite in those days, too. I listened endlessly to her many hits. When it was announced she’d be participating in the Boston Concerts on the Common Series in 1983, I talked Diane into coming along. (I was forever dragging my poor sister to concerts of performers she wasn’t a fan of, especially if their gigs proved to her why she didn’t care for them. This concert was the one that’s become notorious in music history; Mitchel was not in a good humor that night; she stopped the music more than once to scold an inattentive audience and sang only a couple of numbers before storming off the stage. After a long absence, she was coaxed back but only made it through a couple of more songs before storming off again. I don’t think the concert lasted more than half-an-hour. Diane was incensed when the announcer stated unequivocally that “No refunds will be given”. This bothered Diane no end and years later, whenever Mitchell’s voice came on the car radio, Diane would rail, “That was an outrage; they should have given us our money back!” In 2000, Joe and I decided we’d give Joni another chance. We saw her at Boston’s Seaport Pavilion. She was older, her voice richer, smokier and well-worth our worship. And — she didn’t flee the stage once, stayed for more than the standard two-hour concert time. An unforgettable evening…

I’ve been around a long time; I can’t possibly list here all the singers and bands I’ve seen. Some of the more memorable ones come to mind….

I’ve had a lifetime of adoration for Julie Andrews ever since I saw her in The Sound of Music when it first came out in 1965. So indelibly did she captivate me that I walked downtown to The RKO Keith Theater a dozen times to watch that movie. So, when, in 1987, I saw she was to appear in person at New York’s Westbury Music Fair (Andrews never appeared too often, if at all, in person), I didn’t hesitate, bought a ticket on impulse. More than a few people over the years have been skeptical (if not downright disbelieving) that I traveled from Boston to Westbury to see Julie Andrews in concert in a raging blizzard. They also doubted that an international supernova like Andrews would appear in a small circle-in-the-round theater on Long Island. But appear she did. It was November, 1987 and though the snow was looking ominous, I was determined to see the divine Julie in person, even if it meant taking my life in my hands. I would go anywhere for her. And did! The concert was, to say, a thrill. To be able to see this superstar in-the-flesh, not two feet away from me was extraordinary, to say the least. In a gown made of the finest silver, Andrews sang all her hits. One number stuck with me all these years; her rendition of Lerner and Loewe’s Come to Me, Bend to Me from Brigadoon.

I don’t think I’ll ever get over the first time I saw Bette Midler perform on stage. Never before or since have I seen such energy displayed. She was a tornado of performance; The Divine Miss M sang, danced, twirled, even conquered Hawaiian bolo balls with aplomb. That girl never sat still for one second except to stop and sing a heartbreaking ballad or two. In fact, in those early days, pre-fame, even when theater venues weren’t even a third full, Midler worked her tail off, gave it her all, 150 percent, as if she was performing at Madison Square Garden. As with Judy Collins, I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve seen her over the years. After that first concert, the real shock was seeing her in the lobby, post-show. She appeared as this very tiny lady, hardly five feet tall, dressed primly, the archetype of a 1950s librarian, pill box on her head, ribboned cameo at her throat, not a bit like the tsunami I’d just seen decimate an audience a few minutes before.

Equally riveting was Nina Simone at Symphony Hall in 2000. I’d always liked Simone’s musical stylings but wasn’t prepared for the full Nina Simone in-person experience. To call her performance intense would be an understatement of the highest order. Her stage presence was theatrical, extremely moving, spiritual. I left the hall in a state of ecstasy, floated home on a cloud of Joy.

You don’t hear too much about them happening anymore but in the 1970s and 1980s, it was common for a performer to stage a pop-up, impromptu appearance around Boston. These were unscheduled gigs, unannounced until the last minute. If you were lucky, you’d be in the right place at the right time. I saw the great Richie Havens at The Prudential Center, seated outside some shops, singing his heart out in his trademark bass tones. I caught Cindy Lauper & Arlo Gurthie on The Esplanade, again just out-of-the-blue. Two dynamic performers, as the song goes playing real good for free.

The folk blues singer/civil rights activist, Odetta, was a favorite of mine from the 1960s when I first heard that magnificent voice, a voice coming at you like a locomotive. I saw her at Harvard’s intimate Paine Hall, at Newport Folk Festival a couple of times during which the Zoom lens on my camera captured a favorite photo I’ve kept for years. One cold, wintry night strolling around Harvard Square, I heard a familiar voice pouring out of Club Passim. I said, “I know that voice”. When I peeked in the window, there was Odetta, her power filling the room, knocking the walls down.

Strictly speaking, it wasn’t exactly a concert The incomparable Vanessa Redgrave gave at Boston’s Orpheum Theater In April, 1982. I attended a pro-Palestinian fundraiser featuring Redgrave in a one-woman show. She was riveting. No one else was on-the-bill but from my seat, I could see a man hovering in the wings and said to myself, “That fellow looks like Tennessee Williams”, never in a million years thinking it could be the playwright himself. But it was! At the end of her program, Redgrave said, “Now, we have a very, very special guest speaker. Mr. Tennessee Williams”. Williams advanced to center stage and read from one of his essays the subject of which was the freedom of the artist to speak out about political and social causes and concerns. I was over-the-moon, as was everyone there that night. This story continues — I was filing out of the theater when I ran into my friend, Jane, who worked for the theater management. She said, “Would you like to meet Miss Redgrave?” and pulled me by the hand into the wings. Redgrave was BIG, gave me and others a very lusty, masculine “How do?” handshake. It was then I heard someone say to Williams, “So brave of you to do this, Tennessee” to which the tiny, little writer who had appeared so shy on stage just moments before replied, “Let’s see what kind of blankety-blank mess I’ve gotten myself into this time!”

Rosemary Clooney. The name still resonates. One of the enduring singers to emerge from the Big Band era. I grew up on her music; my parents and relatives were older so that type of music was always on the radio, the record player. When, in 1993, Rosemary came to North Shore Music Circus in Beverly, I was hot to see her. By that time, she was quite large. She was also quite frail. She performed her two sets perched on a stool, center stage. The voice was as strong as it had ever been, singular, sassy. The phrasing as perfect as when she’d started out decades before. One of the great voices. She delighted the audience with three encores. In return, they gave her five standing ovations. They didn’t want to say goodbye.

Whenever I liked an entertainer and his/her work, I’d go to great lengths to see them perform in-person. I was single and anyway, none of my friends shared my musical tastes. I could never get anyone to go with me anywhere so — off I’d go, near or far, to see someone whose work brought me joy. I’ve seen Bette Midler in New York, Las Vegas, San Antonio, Toronto, Providence & Miami, Judy Collins in practically every state in the nation, made my way through a raging blizzard to see Julie Andrews. But for me, the most memorable was the time I, a very green, very shy, scared young man went all the way to New York City to see/hear the truly mesmerizing Miss Peggy Lee. When I got off the bus at Port Authority, I made my way (only God knows how) to the Midtown address listed on my ticket and ended up, to my dismay, in a dark, dirty alleyway. Newspapers and other debris were flying around the windy passage, and I thought, “This is a good place to get murdered or mugged.” The only door I saw was a corroded, old door with a hand-written sign that read ENTER HERE. Nobody else was in the alley with me, no long line of ticketholders, no ticket takers, nobody to ask anything of, no nuthin’. Hmmmm. As The Divine Miss M used to say, “I’m not making this up, you know!” I don’t mind telling you I was one Nervous Nelly as I walked up to the door, hesitantly pulled the handle and yanked. I know now that New York’s many dark alleyway doors open up onto a wonder world of surprises. But this was the first time I experienced this big city phenomenon. For, what opened to me when I flung wide the door was a blinding World of White. Everything was white! The supper club was white. The tablecloths were white. A white cloud of tulle hung in the supper club sky, white lights twinkling throughout it. Peggy, herself, when she emerged, was white. Her hair was white. Her gown. The frames of her sunglasses — white. I thought I died and went to White Paradise. Suddenly, a hush fell over the club. The lights went down. The orchestra went up. Peggy Lee began to purr Fever into her white mic. Peggy was White Hot!

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