Jesus, is Roger McGuinn stick kicking about? It’s been almost fifty bloody years since The Byrds released their big break out Turn! Turn! Turn! (To Everything There is a Season).
Back then your dad was still a bloody zygote. It’d be another fifteen years before he got into the acid and heavy metal, Black Sabbath, Aerosmith et. al. that present-day occasional stoner dad likes to recall in those rosy anecdotes.
Now think about how bloody old that makes Roger McGuinn. Bloody ancient. Seventy-bloody-two, in fact. And he’s still traipsing about doing the one-man-band thing everywhere from Tucson to Cheltenham to bloody Utrecht.
He’s not all geriatric like Bob Dylan, with that thousand-yard vacant stare peddling the recent material that is frankly bloody awful. In fact McGuinn hasn’t brought out an album in a while; one in the last twenty years. He just jams out his favourites to a highly receptive crowd. They’re mostly oldies, but there’s nothing wrong with that. Here are a generation celebrating their glory days. Vietnam, San Fran, Cuba, plastics, airlines, TV advertisements, Apollo 11, The Troubadour, Portobello Road and The Byrds. Play on you bloody legend, you’ve miles in you yet.
Portugal. The Man
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