Scott McLennan is leaving the Telegram after 15 years of writing for them. He's a great music writer and a even greater guy. I can recall being damn excited to be sitting down for my first interview with him in the mid 90's and being happy to realize that he wasn't an intimidating journalist but actually he was someone that was just as in to talking about music as I am.

I'm looking forward to reading what he does next and wish him the best of luck with everything.

I thought the first column would be the toughest. It was about 15 years ago when the features section editor at the time handed me a stack of press releases that had been gathering dust awaiting my arrival, a few cassettes, and some of those pink telephone-message slips killed off by universal voicemail. His basic instructions were, “Write something.”

Here is a link to Scott's goodbye article

Positively Worcester
Time for a change, and the Flock strikes at midnight
Scott McLennan

I thought the first column would be the toughest. It was about 15 years ago when the features section editor at the time handed me a stack of press releases that had been gathering dust awaiting my arrival, a few cassettes, and some of those pink telephone-message slips killed off by universal voicemail. His basic instructions were, “Write something.”

If memory serves, I came up with something about the band Route 20 reuniting and Shirley Lewis singing at Gil-rein’s. Within a few days I made connections with the band Flubber, caught up with folk singer Les Sampou about her CD release show at the Coco Bean coffeehouse, and a column took shape.

Shutting down the operation is proving much harder. Rather than meeting new people and building acquaintances, I am desperately trying to thank and reminisce with hundreds of music disciples who made writing this column a remarkable experience for me.

I am giving up the best seat in the house for no special reason other than to act on a belief that change is good, and that I’ve never been too comfortable with feeling too comfortable.

To answer the most frequently asked question of the last couple weeks: There is no favorite show, no best record, or all-time greatest band. If you want scores and records, read the sports pages. Music is far too elusive, far too magical to calibrate like that. The mere fact that I have been compelled when necessary to write a glowing review of the typically daft Stevie Nicks or to likewise pan my otherwise beloved Grateful Dead were the sorts of experiences that reiterated time and again the importance of going into the concert hall with an open mind and open ears.

While “bests” and “worsts” are not really important, I can tell you that honestly the better part of the job was watching and listening in Worcester, as defined by the city proper plus a boundary out toward the Bull Run, a gem of a music room in Shirley, up into the renegade jazzbo enclaves of Leominster and Fitchburg, and down toward the Southbridge scene that built its own musical Taj Mahal in the form of the Artists Development Complex.

True, it was very cool to have awesome seats whenever favorites such as Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, The Stones and The Dead came through; or when special occurrences transpired, such as Stevie Wonder’s return to concert work; or being front and center for the arrival and ascent of important new talent such as Tool. But better still was to be within spitting distance of Chillum (which typically meant getting spat on, accidentally of course); or to be close enough to try to figure out how many strings were on the instrument Bob Jordan happened to be strumming at the time; or to revel in the pop genius of Huck’s Scott Ricciuti and The Curtain Society’s Roger Lavallee; or to bask in both the talents and war stories of one-time tour hounds such as lighting guru Barney Peloquin and guitarist Cliff Goodwin, who have come back to Worcester and freely share their battle-hardened talents; or to witness the passion behind the business operation that turned The Palladium into a local outpost for a broad spectrum of alternative music from around the world.

In a nutshell, what made being the entertainment columnist for the Worcester Telegram & Gazette the toughest job in the world to walk away from can be summed up in two words: The Flock.

Only in Worcester can you witness such as thing: Seven fabulous talents better known for their work in other bands donning outlandish costumes every Thursday and proceeding to perform spot-on covers of songs from the first golden era of MTV. And only in Worcester would such an act literally pack a place at the stroke of midnight on a Thursday night.

But that’s what happens. Go to The Flock’s home base of The Lucky Dog Music Hall on Green Street at 11 p.m. on a Thursday and there is no trouble getting a drink and a finding spot to watch the openers, which change from week to week. But by midnight, the club is shoulder to shoulder with people, mainly young people for whom Friday morning is not such a tough beast to conquer. As the Flock has grown in stature (nabbing awards this year in both The Pulse and Worcester Magazine music polls), its vibe is being picked up among followers. Hence, on a recent visit, it was cool to see one fellow dressed in his finest “Miami Vice” white suit.

People danced with abandon as The Flock (and you do know the full, unprintable name, no?) plowed through such gems as “Der Kommissar” and “Take Me On.” By the time The Flock lurched into “White Wedding” sometime after 1 a.m. of the cresting Friday, few bones were left unshaken. And amazingly, every silly wig, prop, pair of sunglasses, and nattily tied bandana was in place on the bandstand (which welcomed an onslaught of women eager to dance among the band members; a guy tried too, but the effect was not the same).

And the reason the mob loves The Flock is simple: the men beneath the wigs are pros of the highest order. The Flock’s bassist Stinq is better known as Matt Laboef, an encyclopedia of funk grooves (and who once delivered a CD to me disguised as a sandwich wrapped in tinfoil). The band’s guitarist Andy H. is the aforementioned Roger Lavallee, the triple-threat monster who can produce a record, play a guitar, and write a song all so well others sometimes are left wondering why they bother. Keyboard player Kaiser Googoo is Billy Beck, who fiendishly reconstructs those 1980s synth parts, going so far as to procure the era’s signature silly instrument — the keyboard shaped like a guitar. The Flock’s trumpeter Waldo is Steve Lefebvre, another huge talent who has been involved in projects as diverse as locally produced performances of Duke Ellington’s “Sacred Concerts” and a one-off gig playing with Lynyrd Skynyrd at the DCU Center. Drummer Philled C. is Brynn Mutch, a veteran of the genre party having played in the popular metal hommage Mullethead. The Flock has a manger, Fill S., who is Anthony Biernacki, and he somehow pulls together the show the way the perfect slogan on a lapel pin makes the outfit. Then there is singer Simon L., the alter ego of Erick Godin whose contributions to the Worcester music community would fill these pages, not just this space. As a founding proprietor of The Lucky Dog and musician whose work cuts through numerous projects, Erick has cultivated a giant heart and soul, as well as an enormous and sharp sense of humor, which explains how all that talent mutates into something suitable to front The Flock.

You gotta see this, and the best place to see it is right here on Green Street in Worcester. That’s what made this job so great.

In leaving, I retire my Frank Zappa mantra used whenever I needed to stay grounded: “Rock journalism is people who can’t write, interviewing people who can’t talk in order to provide articles for people who can’t read.”

Instead, I will carry on with FZ’s more calming, “Information is not knowledge. Knowledge is not wisdom. Wisdom is not truth. Truth is not beauty. Beauty is not love. Love is not music. Music is the best.”

Thanks everybody.