WALL POWER

Celebrity Theater on 32nd Street in Phoenix has long been one of Your Humble Narrator's favorite venues in the Valley; I've seen such legends as Tito Puente, Art Garfunkel, Merle Haggard, Frankie Valli and Norm Macdonald perform on that circular stage. I hadn't been to the old-school place in several years, but last week I improbably found myself there, at a concert by Floyd Nation, a popular Pink Floyd tribute band.

Meaning no disrespect to a group that is obviously great of its kind, Pink Floyd has never been a major favorite of mine. Extended Prog Rock noodling tends to have a somniferous effect on me, and I spent much of the evening in the packed, very warm house with my eyes closed, trying to decide if I would be able to tell that it wasn't the genuine article from just listening. I decided I wouldn't. I also got in some lovely catnaps, between applause breaks.

Here are some pics from my phone that do the staging no justice:

This relaxed, pleasant evening was interrupted by one truly exciting highlight, however: Floyd Nation's performance of "The Wall," featuring Phoenix Boys Choir, under the direction of Herbert Washington, as guest artists.

The sight and sound of those little goobers, in their jackets and ties, marching resolutely up onto the stage and joining in the chorus brought the gray-haired, paunchy audience to our feet to sing along. I joined in as lustily as the rest, in my best English accent. It was one of the more hilariously awesome things I've witnessed in a while.

But I must admit that, in the context of this show, I'm out of sympathy with those lyrics.

Don't get me wrong, I understand the physically and psychologically abusive "education" in the British boarding school system that this song was opposing was often a horrifying atrocity. But the self-satisfied elderly American Floyd fans singing along at this show were not the victims of that abuse. In the parking lot at the Celebrity I saw a Trump sticker on an enormous GMC pickup; I doubt it was the only vehicle carrying such sympathizers.

And for people like us, in this country at this time...I think we do need some education. I think our lack of education is itself an opening for thought control.

I'm not even sure, at this point, that we don't deserve, and wouldn't benefit from, a little bit of dark sarcasm in the classroom.

Anyway, at the act break, promoter Danny Zelisko came up on stage and auctioned off two guitars signed by the band, to benefit Phoenix Boys Choir's upcoming trip to Spain and Portugal. They went for a total of $8,000! I bought a raffle ticket for a third such guitar, also benefitting the trip, but apparently I didn't win the precious axe. Go to PBC's website if you'd like to help.

WHO LOVES YOU PRETTY MAMBA

Eventful weekend: Friday evening The Wife, The Kid and I saw Frankie Valli perform at the Celebrity Theatre.

Sort of worrisome to be at a pop concert in which the conversation in the line for the men's room leans heavily on prostate size and catheters. Still, it was a great show. Valli kicked off with the theme from Grease and went on to perform almost all of his standards, as well as some songs with which he's not usually associated; he did an excellent "Spanish Harlem," for instance. He was backed up by four talented young guys in early-vintage Four Seasons drag, and a first-rate band.

Possibly my favorite part of the evening: as we were filing out, a lady in, I'd guess, her early sixties told us that she had bought the 45 of "Rag Doll" for her sister as a birthday present with her baby-sitting money (35 cents per hour, she said), so she and her sisters were tearing up together while Valli did that number. As to the man himself, it's jarringly strange to hear that same angelic doo wop falsetto from back in the '60s, or something pretty close to it, coming out of that little 80-year-old guy. Strange and cool.

Then Saturday morning The Kid, who's working on a report on mambas for school, got to visit some of these magnificent creatures at the by-appointment-only Phoenix Herpetological Society, where Nate the Serpent Curator gave her fascinating mamba information, and she got these terrific pics of them:

While Nate was talking to her I noticed the handsome Ethiopian cobra in a lower cage stretching his mouth wide open. I asked him if this was a sign of aggression.

"No, that's just a yawn," said Nate. "He's getting ready to make my day interesting; I'm cleaning his cage today."

So there's something I learned during that visit: Cobras Can Yawn. Hope it wasn't the company.