Margo warned me that they wouldn't listen and how difficult that can be when you're playing your heart out, but I needed the practice, so what the hell.

From Annapolis we doubled back to NYC where we parked in front of the Museum of Modern Art on 53rd just across the street from Paul McCartney's first floor, street side apartment. There were lights on in his windows, but, alas, no sign of the Beatle.

We were invited for a private tour at 4p.m.,soundcheck in the garden at 5p.m., show time not until 11p.m.

The occasion was a gala 90th birthday party for David Rockefeller attended by 850 well-turned out friends, family members and trustees of the museum, including Henry Kissinger and Kitty Carlisle Hart, no sign of the Beatle. With tables going for as much as $90,000 the MOMA raised $3 million from the event.

David is the last surviving grandchild of John D. Rockefeller. In April he bequeathed $100 million to the museum.

Our job was to play for 30 minutes in the sculpture garden as the proverbial hired band (for the kids) and, to be fair, there was a faithful handful who stopped to listen in amongst all the strutting and preening and pecking and whatever else was going on in the garden beneath the white draped canopies.

One of them was Justin Rockefeller, David's great nephew, who works in PR at the MOMA and who gave us our tour. He's been a CJ fan since Trinity Session and he was a very knowledgeable tour guide. He reacquainted me with the likes of Picasso, Johns, Manet, Kline, Pollock (and a few other displaced Europeans whose names I can't spell) and I thank him for that. There is a return trip to the MOMA in my not too distant future.

Justin also selected our set list and introduced us. He chose Southern Rain, Good Friday, Common Disaster, Sweet Jane.

After the show a west coast lawyer (sounds like a familiar tune) in his sixties congratulated us for a sound that he said he hadn't heard since Grace Slick joined the Airplane. He told us that we had a big future ahead of us and that, if we work hard, we might get somewhere. I did not have the heart to tell him about the last 20 years of music that he has missed. I guess exclusivity works two ways: The walls were closed and secured around the garden. The few inside were unable to see out, and the many of us on the outside couldn't see in, and none of us had any idea of what we were missing.

On to DC!