Well, your fingers weave quick minarets, speak in secret alphabets
I light another cigarette, Learn, to forget, learn to forget
— Soul Kitchen (The Doors)
Alright everyone, we’ve got a (hard-earned) short week in front of us, and not much fodder for the market insights upon which the teeming millions who read these columns rely. Presumably, though, they also enjoy my time-honored digressions (else, why would there be mile-long subscription waiting list?), so let’s get to them, shall we?
After an approximate two-year hiatus, I attended live performances of three Jurassic bands this week, and I thought I’d give y’all my review(s). The first two were a mash up of an iconic, sixties rock and roll show. I paid my ticket to see the criminally under-rated Doors guitarist Robbie Krieger, and was willing to accept, as part of the price of admission, a set performed by the Vanilla Fudge.
The show was a make-up gig for one that was postponed from that wretched lockdown era, with the fabulous Leslie West slated as the original opening act. But West (born Weinstein) met his maker just before last Christmas, and the Fudge stepped in.
They were never my particular jam – mostly because they were almost exclusively a cover band. But I’ll be switched if they didn’t blow the, er, doors off the joint.
Krieger followed, and didn’t disappoint. Of course, he looked like a centuries-old corpse, but that has been true for a couple of decades. His band featured his son on lead vocals, who tried, but failed miserably, to do his best fat Jim imitation, stumbling around, taunting the audience, missing notes in every song, and generally making an ass out of himself. Robbie isn’t what he once was. He loses the musical thread, at times looks bewildered, but overall, he continues to delight.
And something — unprecedented in my experience – transpired at the end of the show. After a rousing encore of perhaps my all-time fave song: “L.A. Woman” the House Lights came on, the band left the stage, and the crowd began to file out. Whereupon Robbie and Co. re-appeared and said: “Hey, where’s everybody going? We ain’t done”. So, about 40% of the patrons hung in there for a bittersweet, final version of “Soul Kitchen”.
I’ve been to many concerts where the audience, not accepting that the music’s over, pleaded for more. But I’ve never seen a band beg the crowd to hang around for more, and it almost made me cry. This was the last show of the Krieger tour, his first in about five years. There’s not much left of him physically. As such, it may very well have been his last ever performance. Seemingly knowing this, he didn’t want to conclude. If it was, indeed, “The End”, however, then, to me, it should’ve been cause for joy and gratitude. His was a 55-year sonic contribution that enriched us all (or, at minimum, those who cared to pay attention).
Riding the momentum of that show, I gathered my energy and saw Dylan at the Beacon on Friday, for about the 20th time. He don’t get around too good these days, but he was in finer voice than I can recall in decades. He mostly played songs from “Rough and Rowdy Ways”, which he released, without fanfare, or even advance warning, during the lockdown. I’m glad I went.
He didn’t do no encore. He took his bows and bounced. But then again, he didn’t have to, because, well, he’s Bob Dylan. Which means that he does what he wants, when he wants, and nothing else.
One song he didn’t play from the new record was “Murder Most Foul” an astonishing, 17-minute recounting of the Kennedy Assassination, and everything after. Pity, because, today, we mark the 59th anniversary of that wretched, world-altering event.
And this Friday would’ve been my son’s thirtieth birthday, a sad milestone that I cannot allow to pass unremarked. But on this subject, I will say no more.
A few weeks back, I cracked a ten-week-old I-Pad (probably my record for device longevity) but was determined to ride it out – for a while. However, when the Home Button crapped out, I had to act.My new device cannot suffer the same fate as the last; there is no Home Button. But the charger fitting is also different. You gotta use the one from your MacBook, begging the question as to who at Apple calculated the IRR on this little stunt, and the P/L figure at which they arrived.
They musta done alright, though, because, after a difficult early autumn, AAPL is back at new highs.
As is Captain Naz, the index over which it lords. In case you hadn’t noticed, the stock and the index are highly correlated.
But if you’re looking for an uncorrelated investment, you might consider picking up a share of Green Bay Packers stock, a new offering of which — the first in a decade – was announced a few days ago. It features a correlation of 0.00000% to the Gallant 500 and all other factors/benchmarks, because its post-purchase value migrates immediately to $0.00. Buyers obtain bragging rights, entrance into shareholders meetings and discounts on merch. But that’s about it. You can’t (legally) transfer your share, and, if the team ever sells (which it won’t), you will receive nothing for your investment.
Packshares are therefore the world’s least correlated security, as well as the worst hedging instrument, on the planet – the sports finance equivalent of a Vanilla Fudge original song. Ironically, fans that hate on Green Bay often refer to the squad in mashup between the second half of the band’s appellation, and the team’s name. However, the resulting combo is inappropriate for inclusion in this family publication.
But if the Pack are issuing shares of dubious return prospects to the investing public, they are, at minimum, in good company. As you can discover for yourself on Bloomberg, 2021 is: a) already a record year for IPO deals, which: b) are by and large underperforming the broader market:
At the risk of killing your pre-turkey buzz, a close look at the chart on the left informs us that the previous record year was ’07, which, as I recall, was the last trip around the sun of our pre-financial crisis innocence.
I’m not here to predict that ’22 will resemble ’08, especially seeing as how I scarcely can predict last year’s returns, much less those of next year. But you don’t need me to put you onto the notion that valuations are a bit frothy at the moment. And getting frothier.
And not to pile on or anything, but perhaps the most talked about name in the circles in which I roll – NVDIA – makers of life-essential video gaming chips — is up more than 150% this year, having added a cool $500 Bill to its valuation over the last two quarters – an amount that itself is more than the market cap of all but about ten U.S. corporations.
NVDA is now the 8th largest corporation in the world, worth more than, say, JP Morgan and Bank of America, combined.
Number 1? Apple, which now requires MacBook chargers to power its I-Pads.
NVDA stock a ytd 1.5 bagger; Pack stock stationary at zero. Indices ranging from one record to the next, The Market Fudge factor is thus ascendent. But risks hover. I’m keeping a particular eye on the decision – expected this week – as to whether to re-appoint Fed Chair Jerome Powell. The betting markets say yes but offer a persistent 1/3rd shot to Liz Warren bestie Lael Brainard. It may not matter much from a policy perspective – both are likely to do the exclusive bidding of their paymasters. But if one looks at the current nominee for the other key top financial regulator: boss the Office of the Comptroller of the Currency (OCC), a woman who has stopped just short of recommending the wholesale dismantling of the banking industry, a transition from Pow to Brains might not be met with unmixed delight by the throngs in the investment community.
Then there’s that looming next round of bankrupting giveaways that they’re cooking up in Washington. They’ve a long way to go, but God bless ‘em; they’re giving it all they got.
I’m not sure if any of this stops a rally that looks like a locomotive going downhill. And, at the end of the Fudge set, they did a competent version of Curtis Mayfield’s “People Get Ready (There’s a Train a’Coming)”, so I can’t say that I wasn’t warned.
Still and all, I’m glad that The Fudge continues to bake — in far flung oven-like venues across the country – even if has been largely outside my direct field of awareness. They hit their peak, as they themselves describe, around ’68, when three of their records hit the Billboard 100. They toured that summer, with the opening act being Led Zeppelin, newly formed and on their first American tour. If that’s their main claim to fame, so be it. It’s a better gig than ever has come my way.
Now, though, they are the substitute opening act for Robbie Krieger, in an elegant but small Fairfield County, CT theater, the latter shredding admirably even as his physical presence fades away.
There’s a lesson in all of this, people, but it escapes me for the moment. To the best of my recollection, it was spoken to me in a secret alphabet, after you turned me out to wander, baby, stumbling in the neon groves.
But the clock says it’s time to close… …now. I really have to go… …now. And the best I can offer by way of advice is to light another cigarette and learn to forget.
TIMSHEL