Sad, sad news. We received word today that Tom Sheehy, aka The Colonel — longtime Philly music publicist/scenester/historian, storied music biz vet, barroom philosopher, perennial guest list fixture, late-blooming recipient of a Ph.D. in 20th-century American History from Penn, colonel in the ‘MMaRmy, and frequent Phawker contributor — passed away this weekend. This week we will honor his memory by re-posting some of his greatest Phawker hits. We conclude our weeklong tribute to The Colonel with his 2011 remembrance of the night Nirvana honored a longstanding booking at J.C. Dobbs on October 1st 1991, one week after the release of Nevermind, an album that would in a matter of months make them The Center Of Everything. show that hundreds, if not thousands, claim to have attended, though in truth only 125 actually were there that night.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Kurt Cobain took his own life 19 years ago today. We prefer to remember a happier time, the beginning, not the end. With that in mind we are re-posting The Colonel’s 2011 remembrance of Nirvana at J.C. Dobbs, just as the band was going supernova.

BY COLONEL TOM SHEEHY I’d never bothered to keep a guest list before, but that night I did — beer stains and all — somehow knowing just hours after the fact that I had witnessed something historic and I wanted an artifact to share with those that would come after. I’d never before witnessed a seismic cultural shift happen beneath my feet, but on that particular night I had a front row seat for a massive generational sea change which had been brewing since the end of the previous decade, but wasn’t fully realized until September 24th of 1991, when the trio from Seattle known as Nirvana embarked on a tour in support of their new album called Nevermind that included a blistering set on that postage stamp size stage at J.C. Dobbs, where I was working as a promoter, in Philly on the first of October. Just 90 days later, Nevermind went to number one on the Billboard album chart and 20 years later we are still feeling the aftershocks.

Prior to that legendary performance, Nirvana had already played at J.C. Dobbs twice — on April 30, 1990 and July 12, 1989, when they made their Philadelphia debut. Before their April ’90 show, I chided Nirvana bass player Krist Novoselic for walking around barefoot in the bar. I told him broken glass could be anywhere in a place like this and he could seriously cut himself. Novoselic just smiled and said he had really thick skin. I then asked him how things were going, and his face struck a somewhat somber look as he shared with me some inside the band info. He told me that him and Kurt were “sick and tired of playing in places like Oklahoma, and having kids come up to us after the show and tell us how much they liked our band, but that they could not find our records in the stores. So, we’ve decided we’re going to sign with a major.” The rest is in the history books: Kurt and Chris spoke with Thurston Moore and Kim Gordon of Sonic Youth, and they touted their new major label home, Geffen Records, as a cool place to be. Based on Sonic Youth’s recommendation, David Geffen signed Nirvana to his DGC label. Nirvana ended up touring Europe with Sonic Youth during the end of the summer of 1991. This was after they went into the studio with Butch Vig to make their second album, a recording that would define a generation.

In August of ’91, the October 1st date for J.C. Dobbs was confirmed. I immediately called my contact at Geffen’s publicity office to see if she had any advances of the new album. She said they just came in, and that she’d overnight a cassette copy to me. She also told me that she had just met the guys, and that they were really nice. She indicated it would be no problem setting up as many interviews as I needed to promote the date. Having previously promoted Nirvana shows, I knew how easy it was to work with those guys. However, when the advance cassette arrived the next day, I knew I would need no interviews, because my gut told me that this new album was so strong that we were going to sell out as soon as I got the show up for sale. I called my Geffen contact back just to share my enthusiasm for the record, and right away she told me she might have to rescind her previous offer for interviews because she was now getting 80 requests a day. At that moment, it was obvious to me that all around the country, and probably the world, promoters, critics and anyone else who heard the advance of that album knew that the band was going to go supernova.

Given the long, late hours the job required, I almost never got a phone call from work early in the morning, but when I looked at the caller ID that Tuesday morning at around 11 o’clock, I immediately knew it was about Nirvana, and I also sensed that the news had to be bad. The band’s road manager called from Pittsburgh to say that Kurt Cobain was feeling sick with stomach pains — those same stomach pains would take on a greater significance some three years later.  The road manager said that the band didn’t want to cancel the Dobbs show and if we could commit to bringing in extra monitors to take strain off of Kurt, then they could perform the show. Those extra monitors were ordered seconds after that phone call ended.

Over the years, I had many acts cancel at the last minute, and to this day, none of their names are memorable. A great artist will always rise to the occasion whereas the lesser ones often failed to do so and invariably wound up in the Where Are They Are Now? bin. Kurt Cobain was going to tough it out and the show was on. As support act Das Damen (a last minute fill-in for scheduled openers The Melvins) finished their set, I started to get a little anxious. Yet is was a good sense of anxiety, for I was feeling a sense of fierce pride, because I knew that something urgent and meaningful was about to take place; the room was filled with intense anticipation as the trio took the stage. As they did on most of the dates of that tour, Nirvana opened their set with a cover of The Vaselines’ “Jesus Wants Me For A Sunbeam” followed quickly with “Drain You.” The set was balanced between four songs from Nevermind and their Sub-Pop repertoire. By the time they hit the fifth song of the set, which was their new single, “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” what began as traditional mosh pit limited to the front of the stage quickly spread and enveloped the entire downstairs floor as kids were flailing themselves over each other in a frenzy that was only superseded by the blast of sound emanating from the stage. The sight of which was simply mind-blowing.

The headline for the concert review in the Philadelphia Inquirer read: “A Trio From Seattle Rocks At J.C. Dobbs.” Critic Sam Wood remarked that “During its 45-minute set at J.C. Dobbs, Nirvana stormed with the fury of a roiling cataract.” After the show, outside the front of the club, I spoke to Kurt. I asked him how he was feeling and I also thanked him for going through with the show. I wished him and the band good luck on the rest of the tour, and then they left South Street for Washington, D.C. where they would play the 9:30 Club the following night. The next day, I got a phone call from the local WEA rep. He asked me, “Colonel? Who the hell did you have at Dobbs last night?” He went on to say, “I was driving down South Street, and the line was all the way down to TLA!” My retort was simple: Last night, we had the future.

DOWNLOAD: Nirvana Live @ JC DOBBS  10/1/91 [via FREEDOM HAS NO BOUNDS]

PREVIOUSLY: It was 16 years ago today that Kurt Cobain’s body was found. Sigh. With pinpoint accuracy, I know where I was when I first saw the video for “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, because it’s intrinsically linked to one of the great obsessions of my teen years; an Italian-American princess, three years my junior, who was both a card carrying member of the International Thespian Society, in league with the JV cheerleading squad AND a total Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio doppelganger, circa The Abyss. MORE

Brian Jones performs w/ The Rolling Stones @ Atlantic City 1966

EDITOR’S NOTE: Sad, sad news. We received word on Sunday that Tom Sheehy, aka The Colonel — longtime Philly music publicist/scenester/historian, storied music biz vet, barroom philosopher, perennial guest list fixture, late-blooming recipient of a P.H.D. in 20th Century American History from Penn, colonel in the ‘MMaRmy, and frequent Phawker contributor — passed away this weekend. This week we will honor his memory by re-posting some of his greatest Phawker hits. Today we’re re-posting The Colonel’s 2011 remembrance of seeing The Rolling Stones at the Steel Pier in Atlantic City in 1966. MORE

Dear Jonathan,

I trust all is well.

I usually listen to Aftermath every July 1st to commemorate the day I saw The Rolling Stones play Atlantic City at Steel Pier in 1966. Tours were not “branded” in those days. If they had been, it would have been called: “The Aftermath Tour” because that was the album they were touring in support of that summer. The Stones played Convention Hall at Asbury Park, New Jersey that Sunday, July 3rd. I didn’t see that show, but another teenage Stones fan named Bruce Springsteen saw the Stones that day for the first time. The first time I saw the Rolling Stones was in 1965, a full year before Springsteen saw ’em. The Boss may be older than me, but he ain’t got shit on me when it comes to The Rolling Stones! I always recall the events of that day, so that I can further burn them to memory just in case my brain cells start to die.

When I left Philly with my crew, I was loaded with cash. I had nearly $10.00 on me !!! Round trip bus fare was $5.00. Admission to Steel Pier, to see the Stones perform THREE shows that day was $1.90. I know I must have swallowed a few hot dogs with soda, and I came home with some dough still left in my pocket. The Stones played in the ballroom on the pier. Same place where where Benny Goodman and Tommy Dorsey played back in the 1940s. It was general admission, so me and my friends got there early, and right in front of Brian Jones; I actually touched the back of his jacket that day. I also saw that it was Brian, not Keith, who played that lead riff on “The Last Time.” And I will always remember when Brian sat down on a chair, picked up this weird looking instrument called a dulcimer, which he played with a hawk feather, when the Stones performed “Lady Jane.”

On July 2nd, I celebrate America’s independence, because that was the day in 1776 when the thirteen American colonies as represented by their several delegates, voted to break all ties with His Majesty George III. As the delegate from Massachusetts, John Adams wrote to his wife: “This day will be celebrated for years to come with parades, and fireworks from one coast to the other.” (That was also the first recorded utterance of the United States of America envisioned as a continental nation; long before Lewis & Clark).

On July 3rd, I usually recall the passing of Brian Jones. Had he survived, The founder of the band that changed my life would have reached 69 years on Sunday.

On July 4th, I usually tell people that “The 4th of July” is the biggest mistake in American history. The delegates voted for independence on the 2nd of July, however when they sent the document stating said independence over to John Dunlap, the printer on Chestnut street, the paper was undated. By the time Dunlap got to the printing order (picture a busy Kinkos) it was July 4, 1776. Hence, Dunlap placed “July 4, 1776” on the declaration. The existence of the document and the status of American independence was not announced until July the 8th, when on that date, twelve horsemen left 5th and Chestnut for the other colonies, so that the document which Dunlap printed, could be read allowed to the populace, as it was read to the citizens of Philadelphia in the court yard of the State House (now referenced as Independence Hall) early that morning.

On July 5th, I usually recall Hyde Park in July of 1969. The Rolling Stones had scheduled their first live performance in almost a year — which back then, was an astonishingly long time for a working band to go dark. This occasion was also the introduction to Londoners to the new guitarist, Mick Taylor, who was tapped from John Mayall’s band, after the firing of Brian Jones. However, that concert soon became a memorial for Brian, who drown to death under mysterious circumstances two day’s prior. There was no rock press to speak of in July of 1969 and there was no Internet. However, I had befriended one of the biggest Stones fans in London as a “pen pal” and she not only wrote to me straight way, but included B&W photos of the gig now didn’t she.

As a historian, I usually look forward to the beginning of July, for those first eight days of the month are so rich in history, both musical and political. However, I did not listen to Aftermath last Friday. I’d planned on doing so after I took my puppy Buddy [pictured, right] for a walk. I haven’t even thought of the Stones or  America until today, because last Friday evening at about 8:15pm, Buddy was attacked by a vicious dog. I was in the hospital with him until 3 AM on Saturday and I’m lucky that he has survived. And since that time, I have not only been dealing with veterinarians, but Philadelphia Police, and the SPCA as well.

I am telling you all of this, because I do not know if you had made any arrangements for me to cover Kid Cudi @ The Mann on Thursday or not, but because of the events of the last five days, I will not be able to go.

Best,

Colonel

EDITOR’S NOTE: Sad, sad news. We received word on Sunday that Tom Sheehy, aka The Colonel — longtime Philly music publicist/scenester/historian, storied music biz vet, barroom philosopher, perennial guest list fixture, late-blooming recipient of a P.H.D. in 20th Century American History from Penn, colonel in the ‘MMaRmy, and frequent Phawker contributor — passed away this weekend. This week we will honor his memory by re-posting some of his greatest Phawker hits. Today we’re re-posting The Colonel’s 2011 remembrance of (almost) seeing The Who and The Pink Floyd at JFK Stadium in 1968. MORE

BY COLONEL TOM SHEEHY If you think that our home town is currently suffering from a case of municipal madness, trust me this is nothing compared to the fiscal insanity of Philadelphia in the 1960s. However, the problem then was that Philly had more revenue in the treasury than it knew what to do with! Sounds mad crazy doesn’t it? In 1968, our beloved city had so much bank, that it decided to become a rock concert promoter. That year, the city booked a series of concerts for that summer and called it “Schmidts Presents: The Philadelphia Music Festival.” The venue they used was the city-owned John F. Kennedy Memorial Stadium which was located where the Wells Core Wachovia First States Fargo Union Center now stands. This was the same venue where Live Aid was held in 1985, and after Grateful Dead played there in 1989, the city condemned the joint and tore it down. I’m pretty sure that was just a coincidence.

JFK stadium’s capacity was 104,000, but they only used about one fifth of the stadium, which gave them a space for 20,000. The series was held “in cooperation with the Philadelphia Department of Recreation.” so tickets were sold at local playgrounds, and at all Acme supermarket stores. The best part of the deal was the ticket price: $1.00! Even by 1960s standards, that was cheap; it cost $5.00 to see The Beatles two summers previously.

Now, even though the city completely sold out the concert series — and unlike most concert promoters didn’t have to pay to rent the venue, because they owned it — they only grossed $20,000. Yet they still had to pay for talent, tickets, hire help at the playgrounds to sell the tickets, hire caterers, carpenters to build the stage, hire ushers and security the night of the events, and pay for all the print, radio and television adverting which ran from May to July. Even with a sponsor like the then-local brewery Schmidt’s kicking in some bucks, it was apparent that these shows were not designed to make a profit or even break even. So what was the what was the motivation? Allegedly, the whole idea was to give “the kids” something to do during the summer. You have to remember, this was the era of Vietnam and mass riots in many big cities, so city leaders were always mindful of the potential of “youth unrest.” Which made even less sense when you consider these concerts were promoted to persons under the drinking age and the sponsor was a beer company.

I bought tickets to two of the shows. One was for July 17th which featured The Rascals, The Box Tops, Country Joe and The Fish and Philly’s own The Delfonics. The other ticket was for July 24th, for a show billed as “The British Invasion” which had The Who, The Troggs and Procol Harum featured on the ticket. My friends and I were down the shore on July 17th, and we ended up blowing off driving back to Philly that night to see the show. It was OK by me, because the only band I really wanted to see was The Box Tops and, hey, we were only out a dollar. But more importantly, we heard on the radio that Procol Harum was off the bill for the following week because they couldn’t get work visas, and slotted in their place was one of my favorite new bands at the time, The Pink Floyd.

On the night of the 24th of July 1968, I was totally psyched, not only was I going to get to see The Pink Floyd, but I would get to see The Who once again. The year before, on August 24, 1967, The Who made their Philadelphia debut at Convention Hall, which was located at 34th and Spruce Streets. That night The Who were sandwiched on a bill between Blues Magoos from New York, and headliners Herman’s Hermits, Yeah, you read that right: The Who opening for Herman’s Hermits. During the intermission, my friends and I worked the room. We were trying to find anyone and everyone we knew to spread the word. Our message was simple: Walk out of Convention Hall as soon as The Who are done playing. We were pissed off that a band as great as The Who had to open up to such a joke act as Herman’s Hermits. They were up there with acts like The Monkees, Gary Lewis & The Playboys and Freddie and the Dreamers. Those were all “bands” your little sister liked; not groups that anyone who seriously dug music ever gave a fug about.

As soon as the lights started to come down, me and my friends rushed the stage as The Who launched into the opening chords of  “Substitute.”  I spent the first minute or so just checking out what the members of the band looked like and what they were wearing. Peter Townshend wore a gold lamé jacket with a white shirt which had large ruffles from the neck down to the waist; ruffles also appeared through the sleeves of the coat covering part of his hands. Rodger Daltrey, the god of all Mods was wearing a quilt patterned multi-color jacket/cape with fringe around the edges; he also wore a pair of pink trousers. Keith Moon was wearing just a white t-shirt, but the first thing that struck me about Moon was how young he looked; he seemed no more than 17, even though he turned 21 the day before. Nothing struck me about the statuesque man-in-black bassist John Entwistle, except the speed in which his fingers moved around the fret board.

From “I Can’t Explain,” to “Pictures of Lilly,” to “Happy Jack,” and their cover of the Beach Boys’ version of “Barbara Ann,” (sung by Keith Moon), The Who proved themselves to be one of the fiercest and most explosive groups in the summertime in the year of our lord,  AKA The Summer of Love. The Who were clearly the most powerful opening act I had ever seen up until that point in my young concert going life. They played at volume levels I never before experienced from a quartet with just one guitar, bass, drums and a front man. This massive sound could have been attributed to the fact that each guitarist used two gargantuan Fender amps a piece. Front man Roger Daltrey twirled his microphone cord into the air, then throw the microphone itself over the heads of the audience, then make the cord and mic return to his hand like a lasso! While at the same time, Keith Moon, sitting behind a custom set of Premier drums, with two kicks, and the name of the group decaled on each head, displayed smiles, frowns and all sorts of wonderful facial tics like a carnival clown. Peter Townshend didn’t smile or make much eye contact with the audience, he looked like one pissed off bloke. His on-stage presence and demeanor suggested that a certain annoyance was building up inside of him and that at any second there would be blood. He was a Mod for sure, but he was also something else. Something as yet unnamed, but a decade later Townshend would have been dubbed a punk. Townshend invented the guitar playing windmill. That was when he would strike a chord on his guitar, and continue to flail his arm in a rapid circle, continually hitting the strings, and because of the intense motion, his fingers would hit his guitar strings along with his pick, and if you were standing right in front of him, you would feel this slight wet sensation spraying across your face; it was Peter Townshend’s blood. Look at the cover of The Who Sell Out, and you can see the scars on Townshend’s index finger. For Townshend, rock & roll was not only an art form, it was also a blood sport.

Now Townshend used just one guitar throughout the set that night; it was a double necked Gibson. However, all of a sudden, before he began the next song, which would be The Who’s finale that evening, Pete took the Gibson off and a roadie handed him an old looking Fender. My hearty was pounding, because I knew what was about to happen. A friend of mine from New York saw The Who earlier that year when they made their American debut at the RKO Theater, and he filled me in on all the show’s closer. With his Fender in check, Townshend hit it with “My Generation.”

The opening chords fevered up my imagination. Townshend was now in furious mode; he was twirling & whirling his musical life away as his singer spewed his lyrics at the audience. And this was an audience that was receiving messages from California all summer long to wear flowers in their hair and to make love not war. The Who would have none of it, as Roger Daltrey indicated:

People try to put us d-down
Just because we get around
Things they do look awful c-c-cold
I hope I die before I get old

“I hope I die before I get old” was not a dispatch that could have come from the city by the bay or a missive from some Grateful Airplane type hippie group selling peace, but a cannonball that could only have an explosive aftereffect. And it sure did.

Townshend lifted the Fender above his head. He grabbed it by the neck, and abruptly began to smash his guitar on the floor of the stage. A few seconds later, Keith Moon started to kick his drum kit about. He received aid from Roger Daltrey, as the front man picked up his microphone stand, and started to topple any and all percussive instruments within sight. Townshend moved toward his amps, and belted them with his guitar. All this activity created a monstrous sound, which was only enhanced visually by the sight and smell of smoke coming from the debris ridden stage. I have never been in battle, but on that particular night, I knew what war must sound like. As me and my friends exited Convention Hall, I began to wonder what it would be like when that band became a headlining act.

Exactly eleven months later, I headed down to South Philly to find out. As I was leaving the house that night, my father said I should bring an umbrella, because a major storm was predicted for later that evening. Like most things dad said to me regarding rock and roll shows, it just went in one ear and out the other. Plus, nobody who was cool ever carried an umbrella back in the day. When I got to JFK, Mandala, a Canadian version of Blood, Sweat, and Tears, who were somewhat popular in the land of the maple leaf, but relatively unknown here in America were playing on stage. They didn’t even receive any advance billing on tickets or in any of the advertising for the concert. They did nothing for me.

Up next: Pink Floyd. They opened their set with “Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun” and it sounded just like the record, which was a huge compliment back in the day. Yet their live sound was more expansive, dreamy and very atmospheric. The second song of the set was “A Saucerful of Secrets.” As Pink Floyd were playing, the sky grew dark and the temperature dropped very quickly, and then the rain came. Floyd kept playing, sparks began to be visible near David Gilmore’s amp, and then unexpectedly, a roadie type came running across the stage, cupped his hands over Roger Waters’ ear, and told him something. Waters did not look happy. He thereupon told the audience: “They want us to leave the stage, but we’ll play through eight feet of bloody water if we have to!” At that moment, the heavens opened up, and sheets of rain overspread the stage.

The members of Pink Floyd played on, however, a few minutes later, the sound died; somebody pulled the plug; the show was stopped and the members of Pink Floyd left the stage. Then someone came to the center microphone and announced that the show would not continue. We were left with no Troggs and no headlining performance from The Who. Everyone went home drenched to the bone. The next day I heard from a friend that there was an announcement on the news that there would be no rain date. The City of Philadelphia was the promoter. As a consequence, my hometown let me down. If only they had spent a little more of their then vast treasury on a cover for the stage, I would have got to see the bloody Who as the headliner!

In the aftermath of that disaster, Philly got out of the rock promoter biz. The next year, New York Jazz promoter George Stein was hired to put on the “Summer Pop Festival” which he booked inside the Spectrum. One of the opening acts for that engagement was another up and coming British band called Led Zeppelin. The Who finally headlined Philly in 1969 at Electric Factory, and in 1982, they were on top of the bill at JFK for the full 104,00 capacity. As for myself, I left the open air concert experience behind. Wherefore, my musical mantra ever since that rainy night in South Philly has been: “No Roof … No Rock !!!”

[Photos of The Beatles backstage at JFK by BOB BONIS courtesy of NFAgallery.com]

EDITOR’S NOTE: Sad, sad news. We received word on Sunday that Tom Sheehy, aka The Colonel — longtime Philly music publicist/scenester/historian, storied music biz vet, barroom philosopher, perennial guest list fixture, late-blooming recipient of a Ph.D. in 20th Century American History from Penn, colonel in the ‘MMaRmy, and frequent Phawker contributor — passed away this weekend. This week we will honor his memory by re-posting some of his greatest Phawker hits. Today we’re re-posting The Colonel’s 2011 remembrance of seeing The Beatles at JFK in 1966. MORE

BY COLONEL TOM SHEEHY It was forty-five years ago today, that The Colonel went to see them play. Now they’ve never gone out of style, and on that summer night they truly raised a smile. So let me introduce you to, the act you’ve known for all these years, the one and only Billy Shears Beatles live at JFK stadium in South Philly on August 16th, 1966. Anyone who was alive in the year of our Lord 1963 knows exactly where they were, and what they were doing on November 22nd of that year, because that was the dreadful day that our beloved president was assassinated. You would also remember what you were doing just 11 weeks later on the evening of February 9, 1964 when the Beatles made their American television debut on The Ed Sullivan Show. It must be said that this American life was never the same after the brutal murder of JFK. The aftermath of such horror caused a breach of the collective trust the American people and it shattered any faith they once held in their leaders. The American Illusion had revealed itself to be just that, and nobody was more acutely aware of this reality-check-from-the-barrel-of-a-gun than the nation’s youth. The stateside arrival of the British invasion, spearheaded by The Beatles, gave us a new illusion to lose ourselves in.

THE TICKET

I grew up in a predominately Irish-Catholic working class neighborhood where everyone’s dad provided the family with the fruits of hard manual labor. However, there was this small pocket of homes populated by what we called “the rich kids.” Their fathers wore ties and worked in an “office” and ferried their families around brand new cars. Class resentments dominated and divided social life when I was growing up. If you were working class, the rich kids wouldn’t even acknowledge your existence, and vice versa. However, I was able to negotiate a path between both classes because I had knowledge. Dennis Casey was one of the rich kids. He went to private school, but like many kids in the rich neighborhood, he sought me out, because of my extensive musical knowledge and my legendary record collection.

One night, Dennis called me up to tell me he’d heard I had the new Rolling Stones single and would I mind stopping by his house so he could hear it. I had the hook up, you see. An English pen pal hooked me up with the Heanor Record Club in England which enabled me to send away for new singles and albums before they came out in the States.

When I showed up at Dennis’ house, he told me his parents weren’t home which meant we could blast their “Hi-Fi” down in the family room to our hearts content. A Hi-Fi console set was something only the rich kids had, and records never sounded better than when they were turned up full blast on one of those very expensive systems. However, something went wrong that night. Dennis’ father came home early from the Country Club, and he started to yell down the stairs. We assumed he was pissed because we were abusing his beloved Hi-Fi, but the reason for his excitement was something else entirely. He called us upstairs to the living room, and said to us, “Do you boys want to see that group The Beatles?”

“Yes sir, we do,” I responded instantaneously.

Then Mr. Casey handed each of us a ticket. “Mr. Casey sir?” I said, “this ticket has a hole in it. Why is that, sir?” Mr. Casey looked at me with a certain sense of antipathy and said, “Tommy, these tickets are comps.” I had no idea what he was talking about. “What are comps sir?” He then told me: “They are complimentary tickets. They are free to us.” Dennis’ dad was a big time Democratic Committee man, so he had access to everything. Not only was I ecstatic about the chance to see The Beatles, but I was completely fascinated by this concept of the “comp.” I felt like I had been let in on one of life’s great secrets. I made a mental note of this, and in years to come, the comp ticket became one of my best friends.

THE STADIUM

It seemed especially apropos that The Beatles return date to town (their first Philly date was at the now-gone Civic Center in 1964) was at the Philadelphia Municipal Stadium, recently re-named John F. Kennedy Stadium (or JFK for short) in the wake of the assassination. Before it demolition in 1992, JFK stadium was the one venue in the city with bragging rights to hosting both President Kennedy and The Beatles. Kennedy, a Navy man, would come up to Philly from Washington for the annual Army-Navy game. He started a tradition where the Commander-In-Chief would walk across the field at half time and sit on the opposing team’s side of field. The Beatles would also take a momentous walk across the field at JFK the night they performed there. At the time, JFK was the largest outdoor stadium on the East coast with as capacity of 104,000. Allegedly, that was the reason the late Bill Graham chose it for the US leg of Live Aid in 1985. However, when The Beatles were booked there, Promoter George Hamid Jr. who also promoted shows at his Steel Pier in Atlantic City, utilized only about one-fifth of the stadium, which gave him a capacity for 20,000. Tickets were $5.00 for reserved and $3.00 for general admission, and, somewhat surprisingly, didn’t sell as quickly as anticipated. In fact, Hamid was forced to take out a print advertisement in the Philadelphia Inquirer, which stated in very bold print: SEATS AVAILABLE NOW. The ’66 tour’s lukewarm ticket sales weren’t limited to Philly. Most of the 14 dates on the tour had slower than expected ticket sales no doubt due to Jesus vs. The Beatles smackdown that exploded during the first week of August of that year.

THE CONTROVERSY

On August 4, 1966, a United Press International wire story ran in the Philadelphia Inquirer with the headline: “Beatles Manager Rushes to U.S. To Quell Furor.” Indeed, Brian Epstein did cut short his European vacation to try and tamp down the press frenzy that was severely damaging the Beatles brand. The frenzy was triggered by an off-hand remark from John Lennon to a journalist. What Lennon said was, “The Beatles are more popular than Jesus.” He would later explain that what he meant was that in England, and certain parts of Europe, organized religion was waning. This was also true in America, it was true in Philadelphia, and it was true in my life as well. And this would not be the first time that I had to choose between the Beatles and God.

I was an altar boy in the Roman Catholic Church. Once a month, we had a special service for the women of the parish which was called The Sodality of the Blessed Virgin. I served that event every month along with my classmate Raymond Harrison. Back in ’64, The Sodality of the Blessed Virgin happened to fall on the same night that the Beatles were scheduled to perform on The Ed Sullivan Show. I was 13 years old at the time, and I came from a very religious family. Now I had to make the biggest decision of my young life: God or The Beatles? It wasn’t even close: I chose The Beatles. I called in sick to the rectory, but unbeknownst to me my ‘friend’ Raymond Harrison ratted me out to the priests. The next morning, I was summoned to the office of the Pastor. He sat me down in front of his desk, and from his huge chair behind his desk, he bent over and said to me: “Son, are these degenerates your God?” Consequently, I was suspended from the altar boys and castigated by the nuns and other priests at my parish. So when I first heard that John Lennon said the Beatles are bigger than Jesus, I failed to see what all the hubbub was all about. To anyone under 30, this was incontrovertibly true.

Still, the controversy raged, especially in the Bible Belt where they staged massive bonfires fueled by Beatles records and memorabilia. Promoter George Hamid Jr. knew he had a potential catastrophe on his hand. When the Beatles played in Washington D.C., The Ku Klux Klan picketed the venue in their white robes and hoods. Here in Pennsylvania, four state senators introduced a measure in Harrisburg urging a boycott of the Philadelphia concert. The Philadelphia press only fanned the flames. On the Sunday August 14, two days before the show, The Inquirer ran a story titled “Embattled Beatles in Return.” Inquirer staff writer Samuel L. Singer reminded his readers about the noise levels generated by the screaming fans when The Beatles first performed in Philadelphia in 1964. However, Singer suggested that on this visit, “that most of the noise this time is by protesters of all ages who would like The Beatles not to be heard at all, even on the radio.” Other stories tried to placate the populace and assure them that Philadelphia was prepared for any and all eventualities. One story was headlined:  IT LOOKS LIKE A BATTLEFIELD: STADIUM BRACES FOR BEATLES.

THE SHOW

As we arrived at JFK on the night of the show, Mr. Casey told us to ask for a particular gentleman, who ended up being the head of security at the stadium. This man not only escorted us to our seats, which were awesome, but he gave each of us a Beatles program, which of course was “comped.” The concert was billed as an, “An All Star Show” which it truly was. Bobby Hebb open the show. He was an R&B singer from Nashville, who had a huge hit single on the pop charts that summer called, “Sunny.” The sound was wonderful, and Bobby Hebb was a perfect choice to open the show.

Next up was The Cyrkle. They were an American band from nearby Easton, PA, who were managed by Brian Epstein. It was John Lennon who came up with their name. They also had a big hit single with “Red Rubber Ball,” written by Paul Simon of Simon & Garfunkel fame. The Ronettes took the stage next, and until the emergence of The Supremes, they were the biggest and best all-female pop group. They sang all of their Phil Specter-produced hits including “Walking in the Rain.” But their set was designed to build up to their performance of what was arguably the greatest single of the 1960s, “Be My Baby.” As they were performing that great song, all of a sudden, a spot light began to shine on the far right side of the stadium sections. What became apparent very quickly, was the sight of The Beatles walking across the field, just as John F. Kennedy once did, and with the Ronettes singing behind them, the four lads made their way back stage. The Beatles entrance from the nearby stands, prompted screams which practically drowned out the end of a stellar performance by The Ronettes, but hey, it was The Beatles’ show.

The question I had going into JFK that night was, what would The Beatles perform from Revolver, which was only released eleven days before the concert on August 5th. They ended up performing 11 songs in 29 minutes, which was a long show by 1966 standards. The show was absolutely terrific. Yes, there was ear-splitting high-pitched screaming of all the teenage girls in attendance, but even with all the distraction, a seasoned 15-year-old concert observer such as myself could hear that there was, without question, one damn good combo playing on that stage. They opened with two songs from the Beatles 65 album. First, a thrilling version of Chuck Berry’s “Rock and Roll Music” with Lennon’s raw vocal in fine form. That was immediately followed up by McCartney taking lead vocal on “She’s A Woman.” Next was one of the two gems of the evening, “If I Needed Someone” from Yesterday and Today, with George Harrison in splendid voice, backed up by those lush Lennon and McCartney harmonies. That exquisite vocal work was further enriched by the choice of “Baby’s in Black” from Beatles ’65. “Day Tripper” and “I Feel Fine” followed and on those particular songs, one could sense how Ringo Star’s drumming style really drove the band. The next selection was “Yesterday.” I have to admit that I was somewhat disappointed in the arrangement of that song, for it was performed with the full backing of the band which made McCartney’s masterpiece sound crowded and a little heavy-handed. “I Wanna Be Your Man” was up next, and while it was interesting that this was the one track chosen from their 1964 repertoire, I still like The Rolling Stones version much better.

The second gem of the night was “Nowhere Man,” one of my all-time favorite Beatles singles of all time. Not only were the warm and layered harmonies spot on, but he highlight of the song (and for me, the entire show) was George Harrison’s guitar solo. “Paperback Writer” was the next to last song and truly great and then The Beatles closed the show with “I’m Down” which was the B-side to the “Help” single. McCartney was in great screaming mode, and Lennon was hilarious as he sat in front of an electric piano, playing with both his hands and his elbows which he ran up and down the keyboard. Ol’ Johnny was having a blast and it was delight to see him smiling non-stop considering the stress he was under in the wake of the mountainous ‘bigger than Jesus’ molehill.

THE AFTERMATH

Rose DeWolf covered the show for the Inquirer. The headline for her review was: “20,000 Greet Beatles and it’s a Scream.” You would never have known she was there, because she said not a word about the musical performance in her column; what she wrote was pretty much a crowd story. She backhandedly gave the show a nod, because she noted that one could actually hear the Beatles performing. DeWolf attributed this to the very loud sound system, and the fact that there were boys in the audience. She calculated that one-fifth of the audience were boys which was unheard of in previous Beatles tours, hence, less screaming and fewer squeals. I can testify to that. Me and my mate Dennis and the other lads I saw did not make a sound; we were the pensive lot you could say; we were there to hear the music.

As history now informs us, The Beatles knew all along that these two weeks of shows in the States were going to be their last as a live act. The security issues created by their last visit to Japan and the Philippines, and the death threats they received in America — not to mention the night after night of being completely drowned out by the din of screeching teenage girls — conspired to bring that aspect of their musical lives to a close. Little did us Philadelphians know that what we witnessed that evening in South Philly was one of the final live shows the greatest pop group of all time would ever play.

The only known footage of The Beatles live @ JFK Stadium is this 20 minute snippet.

PREVIOUSLY: The Colonel Remembers — Me & Keef

RELATED: The Time The Beatles Played The Philadelphia Convention Center

EDITOR’S NOTE: Sad, sad news. We received word today that Tom Sheehy, aka The Colonel — longtime Philly music publicist/scenester/historian, storied music biz vet, barroom philosopher, perennial guest list fixture, late-blooming recipient of a Ph.D. in 20th Century American History from Penn, colonel in the ‘MMaRmy, and frequent Phawker contributor — passed away this weekend. This week we will honor his memory by re-posting some of his greatest Phawker hits.

We begin with his beloved Rolling Stones and the time he snuck into Keith Richards hotel room in New York in 1969. We will also be re-posting his remembrances of seeing The Beatles at JFK in 1964, seeing Brian Jones-era Rolling Stones at the Steel Pier in Atlantic City in 1966 for the princely sum of $1.90, seeing The Who, The Troggs and Pink fucking Floyd at JFK Stadium in 1968 (ticket price: $1.00!), and lastly being there the night Nirvana honored a longstanding booking at JC Dobbs (where he served as publicist) in 1991, one week after the release of Nevermind made them The Center Of Everything. A show that hundreds, if not thousands, claim to have attended, though in truth only 125 actually were there that night.

He never lost that gotta-have-it fire in the belly for loud, sweaty live-ass rock n’ roll in the flesh. Though he may have been pushing 70 (like his namesake, the actual facts of his life are swathed in unknowable mystery), he managed to die before he got old. For men like Tom Sheehy — self-appointed keepers of the aural memory of the tribe, who dedicated their lives to ‘being there’ and remembering what most have long since forgotten — there is no higher calling. I won’t pretend to know where he is now, but I do know this: wherever it is, The Colonel is on the guest list.

BY COLONEL TOM SHEEHY I know what it is like to be somewhat obsessed with The Rolling Stones at a young age. As I look back on my earlier days, I remember I liked the Beach Boys, I loved The Beatles, but I lived The Rolling Stones. So much so, that it began to affect my grades in High School. Consequently, my Guidance Counselor called my Dad on the telephone to discuss with him my “Rolling Stones problem.” The music of The Rolling Stones connected with me in a way that nothing before it ever had. They got my soul to the point where a priest confronted me with the question, “Son, are these degenerates your god?” I guess on some level they became such an important part of my young life that I converted from a devout Roman Catholic to a committed Rock & Roller.

This passion all came to a head on November 27, 1969 when the Stones performed at Madison Square Garden in New York City. Little did I know, that on that night, I would not only see one of the greatest performances the band ever gave, I’d get to meet The Man himself. For me, Keith Richards was The Rolling Stones and I had to meet him. My friend Harvey and I made a pact: We were going to meet Keith Richards, and all we needed was the perfect plan to actually make it happen. We knew the Stones were staying at The Plaza Hotel, but we didn’t know what floor Keith was staying on; we needed inside information and for that we turned to the groupies.

Back in the 1960’s, the groupies knew everything. They had all the information and the access because they took care of the limo drivers. We then bumped into one we knew, her name was Lizzy from Queens. We told Lizzy what we were up to, so she told us what we needed to know, and that was, Keith was staying on the ninth floor of The Plaza. Lizzy also told us that as soon as the band finished “Street Fighting Man” that night (the last song of the set) the Stones would literally jump into their awaiting limos and rush back to their hotel. There would be no after show backstage hang that night, so time would be tight.

Harvey and I crunched the numbers and calculated that in order to beat the limos back to 59th and Fifth, we would need extra time — and to get that extra time we would have to leave the Garden as soon as Keith hit the opening chords of “Street Fighting Man.” With our plan formalized, we went into the Garden, and saw one of the best Stones shows ever. The Rolling Stones always stepped it up a notch when they played Manhattan. There was and still is a special relationship between that band and that town. It is similar for Philly when Bruce Springsteen takes the stage here. One of the other reasons the Stones seemed on fire that night may have been the presence of cameras.

I had no idea who was filming the show, or for what purpose, but as the set progressed, the anxiety level began to rise, because for two guys among those 18,000 fans, a strategic mission was about to be launched. The documentary the Stones were shooting at Madison Square Garden that night ended up being called Gimme Shelter. You can see me when the camera pans the audience, I look like the pensive Stones fan, taking it all in for the sake of posterity. The audio recording made that night was later released as an album called Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out!

As the Stones hit it with “Honky Tonk Women,” my hearty started pumping because I knew our cue was next. At the end of “Honky Tonk Women,” Charlie Watts took a few extended drum rolls. Jagger smiled and said, “Charlie’s good tonight ain’t he.” It seemed like forever between songs, but I had my eye on Keith Richards’ hand. All of a sudden, there it was, that opening chord to “Street Fighting Man.” I looked at Harvey and we both turned around and started moving through the crush of humanity that was shoved up against the stage. It was like swimming through a formidable tide with people looking at us as if we were crazy to be leaving the Garden at that intense moment in time.

The subway ride uptown could have been dubbed: Operation Intense. Harvey and I didn’t say a word to each other on the train. The only sound I heard was of the wheels of the subway car scraping across the tracks. The posters on the wall of the subway car looked more vibrant than ever before and the ride seemed like it took forever, but the train finally stopped at 58th Street and the two of us tore ass up the steps out of the subway station and ran right towards the Plaza. When we arrived, we did a quick check through the glass door windows. Not a soul was in sight, so we darted through the entrance and began ascending the fire tower. It was very dark in there. It was simply a circular stairwell that was dimly lit and at every floor there was small sign indicating which floor. The steps were steep and I thought we’d never climb all the way to the ninth floor, but we did.

We were both out of breath, but we had to remain quiet so that we were not discovered. The door between the fire tower and the hallway had a lace curtain, so we could see the elevator. All of a sudden, the light above the elevator lit up, and the bell rang just as the elevator door opened. A huge guy who looked like a linebacker for the New York Giants got out and then he turned around and grabbed four black leather guitar cases, two in each hand. Just then, Keith Richards emerged from the elevator right behind him looking exactly as he did on stage at the Garden. Harvey and I then opened the door to the fire tower and said hello to Keith. The guy holding the four guitars, who was obviously Keith’s bodyguard, shouted at us, “Get the fuck outta here!” Keith looked at him and said, “No, they’re cool man.”

We then introduced ourselves to Keith. I told him we were from Philadelphia, and as much as I liked the show at the Spectrum earlier that week, I thought that tonight’s show was far better. Keith smiled and said, “Yeah, tonight was a really good one wasn’t it.” Harvey then asked Keith to sign a photo he had taken, and while Keith was doing that, I asked him who was filming the show that night. Keith explained to me that they wanted to make a documentary of the band on tour and in the studio. He said they shot a lot of behind the scenes footage, but New York was the only time the band was captured while performing in front of a live audience.

Harvey then told Keith he thought that he was the greatest guitar player in the world. Keith smiled and said thanks, but he added, “I think you should go downstairs and tell Mick Taylor that.” I had forgotten that the other members of the band were staying at the Plaza as well. I guess that was because I really had no interest in meeting them. I then asked Keith if I could take a photograph of him, and then get one of he and I together. I shot one of Keith, and just then, Sam Cutler, the tour manager showed up and asked Keith if everything was alright. Keith told him everything is fine and then he took my camera, handed it to Sam Cutler, and told him, “Take a photo of the two of us.” Keith and I posed, and Sam got the shot in one take [pictured, above].

Keith then asked me, “Do you have any rolling papers?” I told him sorry, but I do not. I didn’t do drugs so I had no papers, but boy I sure wish I did that night. Cutler came back and told Keith that he had to go into a meeting with him. So, we shook hands and said thanks and goodbye. Mission accomplished!