Waldorf Astoria Story-Live Music Is Better # 2

New York Dolls vs Marshall Tucker

I won two tickets to see The New York Dolls on Halloween in the Grand Ballroom of The Waldorf Astoria.

I was 16 years old in 1973. The tickets came from the radio station to my family home on Long Island one afternoon.

I can still recall that sound of the mailman coming to our front door. The sound of the door, the metal slot on the door being lifted, the mail dropping to the entrance hall floor, and the metal slot door slapping closed.

How many pieces of mail do you get a day now in 2021? Pizza flyers do not count.

Showed my Mom the tickets and she said, “The doors open at 11PM?!!?”

That piece of rock history was (sadly) not going to have me in attendance.

My time with David Johansen would have to wait.

Fast forward to 1975 and The Marshall Tucker Band at the Wollman Skating Rink in Central Park.

Glenn and Marianne and Brenda accompanied me on this psychedelic southern rock evening. It was a very humid evening in NYC and we were dressed in shorts and jeans and t-shirts and long hair. We were vibrant and alive and tripping through the streets of the City after the Caldwell Brothers had given us all we expected.

Floating a frisbee down 48th Street, I ran to catch it and it scuttled along the sidewalk and stopped at the feet of an elderly woman dressed in black. She looked like the atypical mourning Italian widow.

I apologized for the interference, and we turned the corner to where the Waldorf Astoria stood. Wandering towards the glittering façade we noticed a gathering near the hotel.

A marching band dressed in full red and white regalia, feather-covered hats and instruments at the ready. We skipped over to them and asked them what they were up to. They were young, a high school marching band from New Jersey and they looked hip and cool standing there off Park Avenue.

As I wrote about this, I recall that they were from Parsippany High School. And someone in the room I am in just used the term “grey matter” as I wrote that. Memory is a funny thing.

The marching band was to be the finale for some sort of event in the Grand Ballroom. We asked if we could wander in with them, they laughed and agreed to our request.

In our state of electric wonderment, the marble, the mirrors and the long-carpeted corridors were like an amusement park. Brenda was doing cartwheels down one hallway as the band headed backstage. She looked amazing.

Here I was, just outside the doors to the Ballroom I was denied entry to in 1973. We strolled in. Sitting at tables of 12 or so were people in their evening gowns and tuxedos. Speaking from the stage was radio broadcaster Jean Shepard. I knew this because my Mom had turned me onto his long-winded stories on the radio and many a night, I had his voice coming from a transistor under my pillow.

We were out of place, but we were also bereft of inhibition. So, as I said, it was a warm humid night in NYC, and I was thirsty. In my cut off shorts and t-shirt I went to the closest bar and asked for a Gin and Tonic. The bartender in his 20’s looked at me and said, “I don’t think so”. He looked sideways as if he was looking for a manager or something.

Just as this occurred, Jean finished his monologue, the marching band burst onto the stage, and we exited the Grand Ballroom laughing hysterically.

Once on the streets and the laughter had subsided, Glenn threw the frisbee and I jogged after it and missed it. It scuttled along the pavement again and landed at the feet of a little woman dressed in black. I looked at her, I glanced back and looked at Glenn to ensure he saw what I was seeing, and we rolled off into the evening.