Probably I’m the last person to see this, but I opened up the latest (Dec 25) edition of the New Yorker just now, and I saw something that points out a) the danger of the lead time for even a weekly magazine; b) just how hard-working a very recently deceased icon was and c) how true one of my favorite disclaimers actually is.
In the front of every New Yorker is a section called “Goings On About Town.” A sub-section of that is “Night Life,” which is a listing of who is playing at local clubs. The first sub-section of that is called “Rock and Pop.” At the very beginning of the “Rock and Pop” listings is this disclaimer:
Musicians and night-club proprietors live complicated lives; it’s advisable to call ahead to confirm engagements.
Hee. “Complicated lives.” I have always loved the understatement inherent in that disclaimer. As if “complicated” can encapsulate the ongoing drama, craziness, stress, addictions, tantrums, mood swings, and general total and utter out-of-controlness that makes up the lives of musicians and night-club proprietors.
Which is why it’s such a great joke. And this week in the magazine, is a terrible ironic coincidence that points out just how great and cosmic of a joke it really and truly is. This week, right smack dab in the middle of that section is a huge picture of none other than James Brown, The Godfather of Soul, who was scheduled to play at B.B. Kings on December 31.
Naturally, this is just one of those things that happens when working artists just up and die; especially after magazines go to print.
However, as I write this, the listing is still up on their website. Which you’d think, maybe someone might have changed it by now?