

His pal, Dave Heskes of Cheshire, Connecticut, worked at the Oakdale Theater in Wallingford for years, and saw Tom Petty, INXS and the Monkees, among others, from a comfy backstage perch. The Daves are sampling the Liquid Gold, the Cold Cousin Brewski, the Kolsch–a far cry from what Swenson was sipping that sultry day in San Antonio.
“It’s a little higher class of beer here,” he says with a hoist of his sample glass.
Across the room, Ray Schroeder of Tarrytown found a higher class of beer—Captain Lawrence’s Liquid Gold–while checking out an oldies bill (Mickey Dolenz, the Turtles) at Tarrytown Music Hall. He’s enjoying the new oatmeal stout from the pilot system, and hoping for a strong selection when seeing Yes at Westbury this weekend with his brother. “He flies up from Florida whenever Yes or Rush is playing,” Ray says.
Across the table, John Lobosco’s tastes run a little edgier. He mentions a semi-private performance by the Ukrainian gypsy punks Gogol Bordello at some downtown New York apartment five years ago. The band tapped a troupe of gymnastics-performing dwarves to accompany them on stage. Ukrainian beer flowed like the Danube. “It was amazing…mind blowing,” John says with a smile.
The Violent Femmes are on the tasting room stereo. “Please, please, please, do not go-ohhh,” implores the singer. The AC is humming and the room smells of hops; no one is moving toward the door and sticky swelter beyond it.

Beer—good, bad or other—is often integral to the concert equation. “When people get together, they want to listen to music, they want to drink beer, they want to enjoy themselves,” says John McKee, an army officer from Yonkers who’s enjoying a Captain’s Reserve Imperial IPA. (“Mo’ hoppy, mo’ better,” he says.) “It enhances listening to music—it’s as simple as that.”
John may never take a beer, or a concert, or hanging with friends, for granted again—especially after a painfully dry year in Afghanistan, when he and his fellow soldiers would sit around at night, discussing their favorite beers. “It was rough,” he says.
Pleasantville won’t likely feature staffers spraying the mosh pit with hoses—or even a mosh pit, for that matter. Fences won’t be torn down to make bonfires, and you probably won’t need to sell PB&Js to make your gas money home.
But for good summer music smack in the middle of Westchester—and first-rate beer to boot—you could do worse than throwing down a blanket at Parkway Field this weekend.