For the second time this summer, I endeavored to spend my evening seeing The English Beat. And once again, I was thwarted in my effort.
One of the best ska bands there will ever be, The English Beat has been reassembled by Dave Wakeling with contemporaries from The Selector, and The Specials, and they perform songs by all three bands. Everything I've heard and read says that the show is a blast and an event not to be missed. After never finding the right time in Boston, I've now missed them twice in Southern California. The first time was in LA back in July, that story will be posted on here, along with a collection of LA stories at some point. And then tonight in Del Mar, foiled again.
When I arrived here at the end of the June, I saw an ad and circled September 3rd as the day I'd definitely see The English Beat. Today was the day. I adhered to all the local radio ads saying "Fridays at 4 at the Del Mar Racetrack, this week featuring ska legends The English Beat." I looked up the show online today, it said 'start time 3:30pm.' I was at the track at 3:08 in order to get in for the $6 racetrack admission.
I made my way down to the infield and watched what I thought was the final race. I looked in my program, but didn't see any of the horses names on the race card. I looked at the eighth race, no. The seventh race, no. The sixth race, nothing. Maybe the program has all the weekend's cards listed and I'm on the wrong one? Nope. It was the first race. Eight more to go. Show afterwards. I was four and a half hours early for the concert.
So now I was in a predicament. I have no connection to anything out here. No one is looking for me, waiting for me, wondering about me. I have nowhere to go and nothing to do. Though I didn't think it was likely I would make it through the whole race card, I figured I should stick it out.
I settled in and watched the races. The track is in its final week of the season, and it was far less crowded than it was on opening day. Consequently, I could move freely throughout the arena. I watched a race from the infield, another from the grandstand, another behind the box seats. I went out to the terrace bar. I watched the horses being trotted around before their race. Stopped for a hot dog and a beer, felt good for a little while. Trying to absorb the culture, I have to admit I find the track very exciting. It's a thrill to feel the anticipation of each race culminating in the thundering hooves coming down the stretch for a finish full of cheers, exaltations, and cursing. Every now and then, you can hear the same enthusiasm and/or rage when there's not a single horse out on the track, because the closed circuit tvs are broadcasting races from other tracks around the country and you can bet on all of them. At the back of the grandstand, I heard one lady calling through a full roster of bets (in hushed tones) to a bettor or bookie on the other end. I could not comprehend the vernacular, full of short hand and idiosyncrasy, but was still stimulated by the sound of it.
With all the time on my hands, I studied the race card and decided to make it interesting. I'd found a couple of horses I could believe in and approached the betting stalls, "I'll take two on Adriatic Moon to place and two on Engine Sixty Nine to win it." With money on the line, the race was far more captivating. If I'd reversed my bet, I'd be rolling. Turns out, I got it opposite. Adriatic Moon won. Engine Sixty Nine, after breaking out in the lead, came in third. Still, I won $5.20, and made a full $1.20 profit over my initial bet.
With four races to go, I quit while I was ahead. Sticking around another 3 hours before the show, where concessions ran from $5-$9 didn't seem worth the trouble. Off to Ocean Beach to meet The T Man. I have a date with The English Beat some time in the future.
p.s. that's Adriatic Moon in the winner's circle.
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