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Local residents and fans crowd tables in the rustic Highland Lakes Country Club to see Glenn Tilbrook, frontman of Squeeze, perform in January.
(Jerry McCrea)
By TRIS McCALL | For INSIDE JERSEY magazine
IT'S A CRISP AUTUMN EVENING in the Garden State, and the light of a low crescent moon tickles the treetops. In the countryside of western New Jersey, the scene couldn't be more appropriate to the season — there's a chill in the air, a twinkling of stars and the long shadows of pines and sugar maples hovering over near-deserted streets.
Yet inside a community clubhouse near a country byway bearing an evocative name — Breakneck Road — it feels more like summer at the Shore. Glenn Tilbrook, the frontman of the British pop-rock act Squeeze, is entertaining a large, heterogeneous crowd of curious seniors, bemused children and devoted fans who roar back the choruses of world-famous singles, and deep cuts, too. A giddy Tilbrook picks up his acoustic guitar shortly after sundown and doesn't stop singing until he's emptied his songbook of its biggest hits.
How did one of the most accomplished songwriters of the past 40 years become the main attraction in a small room in the northeastern corner of Sussex County? The Tilbrook show was a testament to the resourcefulness — and the showbiz connections — of the organizers of the concert series at the Seckler Stage at Highland Lakes. Nearly 50 miles of highway separate the small Skylands town from New York City. But a trio of Highland Lakes residents, with roots deep in the musical culture of Manhattan, have already managed to attract top-flight talent to their adopted community — and they're just getting started.
"I was in a band back in the city and we'd played CBGB," says Michael Gelfand, a journalist who moved his family from Manhattan to Highland Lakes more than a decade ago. "One day, my kids were playing soccer and a woman was sitting nearby with a CBGB shirt on. I didn't think anything of it at the time."
That woman was Louise Parnassa Staley, longtime CBGB booking agent. Like many residents of the Sussex County town, Staley spent childhood summers visiting family in Highland Lakes, and, eventually, the pure enchantment of the lakes and trees convinced her to make a permanent move. (Although the legendary rock club is no longer on the Bowery, Staley continues to commute to Manhattan to work for CBGB, which sponsors and promotes an annual festival.)
Randy Staley, Louise's husband, played guitar in Fossil, a smart, ambitious rock band that was a regular attraction at CBGB in the 1990s. Gelfand eventually shared his vision with the Staleys: world-class talent on the modest stage of the community's lakefront country club.
Louise Staley recruited the performers and Randy Staley agreed to run the sound. Gelfand, a vice president of the Highland Lakes Country Club, resolved to do what he could to realize the concert series. Thus, the spirit of CBGB, a palace of innovation shuttered since 2006, alighted on a small town in the Garden State.
"Nobody wants Woodstock to happen here," says Gelfand, who needed to persuade the club trustees of his good intentions before he could secure the budget necessary to host the series. "But this is a great setting for so many things. It's such a beautiful place. You have all of this open sky around the lake, and its stark blue lake water juxtaposed with the green of the trees. It's no wonder people fall in love with it. It's like the Land of the Lost.
"There aren't many options for entertainment, but people love music here. It's a hungry audience, and during shows, you can feel the energy in the room." Randy Staley agrees.
"We felt that there was a little bit of a cultural void up here," says the guitarist. "There are about 2,000 families living on the lake. We thought it would be a wonderful thing to offer them the caliber of show that they could get in New York City. Concerts are getting more and more expensive, and we could make this work by keeping the ticket prices reasonable.
"It's inspired me to want to start playing music again."
Highland Lakes was designed as a retreat from the city. A group of developers founded the town in 1935, and the current clubhouse was built 23 years after that. (Its stage is named for John Seckler, one of the town's founders.)
Many of the original residences were log cabins and the town remains proud of its rustic aesthetic. The country club overlooks one of the largest bodies of water in a Jersey county dotted with reservoirs and lakes. With its knotty pine walls and circular tables, the complex feels very much like a summer camp for grown-ups. And no summer camp is complete without music.
But there weren't any loud rock bands in the 1930s. Seckler Stage was not built to accommodate guitar players with amplifiers. This meant Randy Staley had a delicate task: The musician and sound engineer had to modify the room without damaging any of its idiosyncratic character. Any alteration to the clubhouse needs to be approved by a club voting board reluctant to make changes to a local treasure. Staley added lights and a professional sound system, but he admits that the effort is still a work in progress.
"The big challenge is taming the acoustics in there," says Staley, who ran a recording studio in Bridgewater before relocating to Highland Lakes. "The low Sheetrock ceiling is a challenge, to say the least. Every single artist that has played the room has asked me to turn the delay and reverb off of the microphones. I have to say the same thing to all of them — there's nothing on their voices."
For a versatile performer like Tilbrook, who is used to setting up in odd corners, this wasn't much of a problem. The Squeeze frontman can make a single acoustic guitar sound like an entire band. Tilbrook's playing is so deft that further orchestration is unnecessary. A louder, more aggressive rock band — one with a live rhythm section — is a different matter altogether, and when Seckler Stage welcomed Chris Harford, a songwriter influenced by the Grateful Dead and Neil Young, Staley had his hands full. Harford brought his Band of Changes, a revolving four-piece consisting of a drummer, a bassist and another electric guitarist.
According to Gelfand and Staley, some of the older members of the community were taken aback by the volume. But many others found the experience exciting. And just like Tilbrook, Harford thoroughly enjoyed his adventure in the woods of western New Jersey. "I remember that night as a great show in a beautiful room," says Harford, who was born in Princeton and whose musical project is also deeply associated with CBGB. "If people were bothered by the sound, I didn't see it. What I saw were children, seniors, all kinds of listeners having a great time.
"It's fun for musicians to play in a place that's out of the ordinary."
If you, Jersey music fan, are wondering why you didn't hear about the Tilbrook and Harford concerts, there's a reason for that. Gelfand and the Staleys cannot promote their shows as freely as can other bookers. The Seckler Stage concert series must first offer tickets to Highland Lakes clubmembers before advertising them to the general public.
The clubhouse looks spacious from the outside, but its capacity is limited: two rooms seat only 200 people.
"It's really for the members of Highland Lakes," says Bob Hughes, the president of the club. "But because the room is still bigger than what we can sell out, it can be open to others, too. We've been lucky, in a way, that all of the tickets haven't been sold to people in the club. We're also lucky that Michael, Louise and Randy all have musical backgrounds, and they've been able to come up with performers that any other community might not have been able to get.
"I've been to two of the shows so far and they've been terrific."
The limited promotional window has meant that the Seckler Stage organizers have had to lean on social media and word of mouth — which, in a funny way, better aligns the Highland Lakes clubhouse with avant garde spaces in New York City than any of the Jersey performing arts centers. Nevertheless, it's working. The crowd at the Tilbrook show was divided between families who had brought Ritz crackers and brown-bag snacks to the venue (there's no food served at the shows) and dedicated fans, many of whom traveled miles to see their hero in action.
"We're learning as we're going," says Gelfand, who grew up in Westfield. "We don't have a budget for advertising, so we're trying to take advantage of all of the free channels that are available to us.
"Ultimately, I'd love for there to be dinner here during the show, like at the Bottom Line or at the Village Vanguard, even though I know that's not realistic right now. We welcome requests and suggestions, and anything that will make this an even more inviting space for visitors and members of the community alike."
For upcoming shows, which are posted on the community website, visit hlcc.org/calendar.
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