hollow sidewalks

seeing shows so you don't have to.

Monday, July 24, 2006

One Year Shot To Hell

So. Yeah.

It’s been a year since I started doing this site. It was originally a quote/unquote book, but that was getting hard to do. I felt like I was writing in a vacuum and nothing was getting accomplished and I was repeating myself like crazy. Whenever I wasn’t at a show, I was writing. If anything, it covered the NYC music scene from 2003-2005. And those were some pretty good years, music-wise in NYC. I’ve heard it referred to as “a book about The Spunk Lads.”

Well, “a book about The Spunk Lads” didn’t exactly help them when they needed it. And I didn’t think it was right/fair/whatever to continue in the same genre without my main inspirators and instigators. Starting the site would be a challenge and hopefully help me focus when I tell a story. The weekend I started this, and it feels like ages ago, I saw some pretty cool bands and thought, What’s the point in sitting here and not letting anybody know about them until way after the fact? And besides, if I’m going to write about music and not get paid for it, I’d rather do it for myself and not Joe Cool in Williamsburg soliciting articles for his upcoming webzine on Craigslist. 500-800 words a week, unpaid for now, but after the site takes off you’ll be compensated for helping us get off the ground—that is if we still use your submissions when we can hire established writers. Been down that route already, 10 years ago, when I interned at a startup music magazine. I’m not going there again.

Thus, Hollow Sidewalks was born.

And now I know why there are so many people looking for contributors to their blogs on Craigslist. I’m only one person doing the work, waiting outside venues, in the rain, in the heat, getting cursed at by drunken patrons, paying for the tix, paying for the film, paying for the developing, killing my back, hearing all these bands, going to work, getting hit in the eye with burgers, not cleaning my apartment, writing, doing the work, waiting outside venues. . . . And it’s not like I know how this is going to end. It’s not like I’m writing The Great American Novel and can stay in one Saturday and write up to X point where the characters did Y and know that I got a lot accomplished. And not every show becomes a story, yet I write about them and never finish the piece—I have 2 started from June that are really long and unfinished.

And I didn’t mind it. It’s my calling. I mean, right? What I was born to do.

So what happened?

Dang if I know.

I guess there was just a weird vibe in the air. We’re losing the Continental and CBGB. There are all these weird, big shows and reunions coming up. I tell myself that music in NYC didn’t grind to a halt when Tramps and Brownies closed. It just feels like everything is changing, and being who I am and what I cover and in the way I do—I guess I just picked up on that vibe. I saw the Move-To-Philly ads: Because CBGB is leaving and TRL isn’t. Maybe. Yet I’m very stubborn and there is a desire to see this through and see what happens and write about it. I’ve always been the first to get there and the last to leave. And then I thought, Maybe there’s a reason all these startup music sites don’t want me to write for them for free. It doesn’t matter if I put the Clash and Art Brut down as my Top 10 instead, they can tell how old I am by my resume. All I have are closed-down venues and broken-up bands. Or I’m just not a good writer. But this is what I planned to do. (But it was mostly the 1st one I was worried about.) And all these “I like the band but I don’t love them” posts is going to get old after a while. And then I thought: Wait a minute. I don’t enjoy doing the things I used to, like going to shows and writing and taking pix. My hobbies. That sounds familiar. Maybe the music is getting to me.

So it was the 4th of July weekend and I spent it going to shows, getting to bed late, sleeping late, and writing and it was great and when work came around again . . . I don’t know. I couldn’t take it. Throwing up and all. Coincidentally—or not—that Friday, at the start of the weekend, I got back my last batch of Spunk Lads pix ever. There was just such a finality to it, almost a year later. And now I know why I never dealt with that last year. It hurts like hell. And that’s just characteristic of how I deal with stuff: I don’t, because it hurts too much and who needs that. No matter what my problems were, there was a Spunk Lads gig to look forward to and to take my mind off things and make it all better. It was escapism on many levels. But my problems are still there even after the show is over. And I still can’t find a freaking job. And I think I’ve come to a realization: I need a digital camera.

I did try to fix that expandable post summary thing. Was up ‘til 3AM working on it. With the new computer, it doesn’t look too bad. On my Mac, whenever I looked at my site, the sidebar was at a different level than the posts and I thought that they’re 2 different fields and long posts makes them not line up. So I was hesitant to announce the site to others until it was fixed because it looked funny. No, that’s not really it.

The thing about the pix: That’s really frustrating. None of these photo hosting sites lets you edit in that program, (that I know of, maybe since I haven’t pursued that in a while, something’s changed) so I have to edit, save to the desktop, and then upload. And no, I still can’t afford DSL. Okay, I get it: I’m not a photographer, but I’ve come to take my hobby more seriously and find things about my pix that I like, and with Buzznet, where I started the Obligatory Photo Section, you can’t copywrite the pix. You can on Flickr, but that service is $40/month. So in the meantime, I’ve got pix of pretty much every band from !!! to the Zambonis. And I was thinking that if people just want to look at the pix, once they’re up then I can get the site out there and make it known.

And one more thing. To RebelMart and Blackout Matt who, for some reason, like reading the words (pink though this is) and not just looking at the pictures. . . . Scott, there wouldn’t be a book if it weren’t for you. Probably not even this site. Thanx for all of your inspiration and instigation. Matt, my first and only commenter, I thank you for that. If WWIX found out about this site I assume that’s your doing. I’ll try to be better about that stuff.

So, yeah.

Like I said, I have no idea how this is going to end.

Reunion Song

Go Apeshit/Bugout Society/Go!//ABC No Rio//7/8/06

You guessed it, another sunny Saturday spent inside a venue. I almost didn’t go, even though I’d planned on it when I saw the show listed and it sounded cool. About their bass player/guitarist, The Gamp: “Complained constantly (still does), tried to get Get A Life back on the air. . . . His greatest all-time complaint was after the only BOS appearance in The Carolinas, we decided to make a stop at the Mason Museum in Fredricksburg VA, Gamp complained that we ruined his perfect evening of 1st run Fox Sunday Sitcoms by showing interest in secret societies. He lost a crappy Charvel guitar in Providence and blew up a crappy Peavey amp in Albany in the early 90s. Best decisions he never made, musically speaking.” M.C. Charlie Boswell “sang/shouted/taunted and danced with audience members, sometimes all four at the same time.” How could I not go to this?

I could clean my apartment. I could write and then stare at what I wrote and reread it and procrastinate about posting it. I could go outside. I could play Freecell on and off. I can sit around and be miserable, as I have for the past few days. No, if I don’t go I’d be worried about myself, as I have been for the past few days. So I went, but I left my camera home. Yeah, I’ve got 400 film and that place is bright enough most times that I don’t think I need 800, but I’m not up to buying even more film, even in the name of being a photographer.

Max was outside when I got there. He told me that he heard about my blog.

Y . . . eah. Well, about that. But I hear music playing and get nervous, so I head in. He’s trying to call his friend, who is playing w/Bugout Society but was asleep at the moment. Go! is rehearsing because they don’t remember their songs. They stop at 3 and I sit around with nothing to read and hope it starts soon.

A woman comes in and starts “Oh my God!”-ing as she hugs people. I wonder if I am her and she was me. Besides the fact that she looks kinda Jewish. I feel nervous and take deep plastery, musty breaths as she sits on the floor with Go!, folding lyric sheets and they talk about the old days and what’s inside their hollow sidewalks. She took her mother to the Lower East Side: “I mean, there used to be piles of feces around. I told her stories about the old days . . . The last old-school hangout in Williamsburg closed down. . . .” Jim Testa, of Jerseybeat: “I had a 2-bedroom apartment around the corner from Maxwell’s when it first opened and that was $88/month. . . .” (Or did he say a 1-bedroom? Whatever it was, the point I’m trying to make is that it was shocking to the point that I blanked on the actual details.) The girl, again: “There are fewer venues these days and 10X as many bands. Remember when we used to do this. . . .”

The singer for Go Apeshit is one of the girls who volunteers at the shows. They’re all screamy hardcore. She says that this is a great opportunity to learn about the building, which No Rio acquired in the free and clear on the Fourth, since there were so many different ages there. The kids should listen to the older people because they know what’s going on and the older people should listen to the kids, because even though they never saw a show in the basement it doesn’t meant that they don’t know what’s going on. Me? I’m neither. Though I thought about volunteering there for a show.

Bugout Society have that vintage 90s NYC punk sound with songs about hanging out with bums at Gray’s Papaya—“And these were real bums, not the ones with trust funds!” And then the White Castle starts flying, turning the show into a punk rock food fight. I got beaned in the shoulder with a frozen burger and shortly thereafter, I could’ve sworn a burger was going to whiz past my ear. That’s what I pictured happening and I could even hear it whizzing by as it grazed my ear, but it instead hit me square in the eye. “I guess we’ll still never be known for our music. We were gonna cover My Sharona, but we didn’t want to be known as the band that did My Sharona.” They apologized later: “Somebody brought frozen burgers, but we swore off that years ago.” The general consensus was that the place smelled better regardless of the White Castle wreckage. “It smells like meat in here! It’s not even vegan to breathe!” “It smells like the inside of a taco.” I heard them telling someone later that they got back together for the George Tabb benefit and landing this show was a coincidence. They probably won’t play again.

The deal with gaining the title to the building is that it’s going to be demolished and then rebuilt. They’re going to expand the performance space, and put in an AC. Hopefully a window as well. Man, a lot of anarchists just smell bad. My nose got stuffy, my palms were sweaty, and I had a headache.

“We are the Go! Experience, the Go! cover band!” Getting back together was an accident, Mike BS tells us. Somebody from Germany contacted him because he wanted to use the name. “And then I thought, Could we? Should we? So the moral of the story is that if you use an old band’s name, they might just get back together.” He’s also in touch with people trying to find out-of-print Go! albums on eBay, happy that people are trading for his albums, or understanding that people are trying to unload them. “You’re getting rid of your Go! albums? That’s okay; people change.” So it was fitting that a band that played ABC No Rio back in the day got back together and played this show now that they acquired the building. They promised to be back next year. And of course I didn’t have my camera on me. It felt weird not having it. It’s almost like I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I wanted to go to Sin-e later. That was the plan. I never made it. I haven’t been there since January. Crazy, I know, but I didn’t go. My sinuses from the stuffy show and all, plus my back was bothering me. That’s it.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

True Story.

Only because it was so freakin hot did I sit down as I waited for the train. The train sat inside the tunnel, taunting me, because I was late as it was. There’s an announcement that Con Edison is cutting service. There’s no R to Queens and the W is out.

A man comes over to the bench, sits down, and says hello. This isn’t good. So I say hi and he asks if I’m keeping cool. Not good indeed. So I say I’m trying, there was already a mini-brownout at work. He was stuck for 20 minutes the other day with no A/C. Then he asks me what I do and I tell him. He’s impressed. Women who get kidnapped and stuff, right? He tells me he knows the owner of Legshow, and do I know what that is. Even though I could pretty much guess, I say no. I don’t know why.

Pictures of women’s legs in fishnets stockings and high heels, stuff like that.

Oh, fetish pinups.

One day, someone from the Russian mafia came in and demanded that she sell the magazine. She said it wasn’t up for sale, but he said, “Oh, yes, it is.” He offered the woman $8M and she sold the mag and bought a house in Westchester. They put out books on Bettie Page and all these WW2 pinups and now the guy owns all of it. He met her on the bus and she was going to meet Xaviera Hollander.

What the hell is this guy’s problem? Does he talk to random women taking mass transit hoping they have some sort of weird job? I look at his hands. Married. It’s not you, it’s me. I’m just not into married men. Goddamn train, and not because I’m late for my appointment. I just need to go 1 stop and it takes forever.

He asks me where we get our stories and asks if he can submit. I tell him he can. “And you’ll tell me how bad it is?”

I can.

“That stuff’s pretty tame by today’s standards, right? I bet it used to be pretty taboo. I remember that from when I was growing up.”

“Yeah, we get letters all the time about how women had to read it in the closet or under the covers by flashlight.”

He asks me where my office is and I tell him the cross streets and he asks again where that is. The train pulls in as he tells me that he’s read all of the Happy Hooker books and they’re so well written.

Well, this is where I get off. Well, this is me!

On the way back there are 10-20 minute delays and the clock in the station is flickering on and off. Going home, in addition to the 10-20 minute delays and no W and V, the R isn’t going into Queens, so take the F at 34th St., which is going local. So does that mean there’s no E? If they say take the F, I’ll take the F and besides, who the hell wants to walk through to the E in this heat?

I was thinking to bring my sneakers to work in case I have to hoof it back to Queens. Y’know, I wouldn’t mind it so much because I need exercise and it’s something to do. (Not a jinx. I’m just saying.) Of course I realize that I’m on the downtown F only after the doors close and they make the announcement that 23rd St. is the next stop. Of course, that could be why it wasn’t such a sardine can. At 23rd, the booth worker announces that there’s no V. Or is that no E? “There’s no E?” a woman asks. “No E!”

I notice the white tubing hanging overhead. Someone wrote Bush Be Lyin in the grime. To the left of that is Be yourself or die trying (Shit, I just looked at this in preview mode and realized that that rhymes.)

There are massive delays and major congestion up ahead. And cutting service is the way to help that? No, I heard wires were catching on fire and transformers blew. Actually, power was out along Queens Blvd. in Sunnyside. No traffic lights and everything. The subway was packed and the train was slow. I started hyperventilating at Jackson Heights and arrived home depleted. At least there’s nothing new there.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

When The Punks Go Marching In

S.M.U.T./Above All Hope/The Disaffected/The Radicts/The Ghouls/Abrasive Wheels//CBGB//7/2/06

Another sunny Sunday spent holed up in a dark venue all day. I’ve never been to one of those Sunday shows. The ad said doors at 5 and the listing said 8pm. Maybe they meant get there at 8 and you’ll be in time to catch the headliner. So I didn’t know when to leave, but planned on leaving at 3. Didn’t happen. I left at like 3:30, and then still had to get film. I also wanted to pick up a battery just to be on the safe side. Since the only place that I knew to go was the 8th St. Duane Reade, the only plan of attack was taking the R local, and then the 6 down. I tried to think of other routes, but it was pretty much pointless. It was 4:30 when I first got to 8th St. to pick up the film and if they happened to be out, I’d be screwed and cursing myself for being late/not picking the film up in Queens/not having a digital camera and being in this mess to begin with. I was in luck with the film, not so with the battery.

Those stopping by to take pix of CBGB were in luck since there were actual mohawks loitering in front of the place, in addition to the kid in the Ramones shirt and the kid in the CBGB shirt. I ducked, since I’m not punk rock enough. One group went next door, came out with a shopping bag, the man now in a CBGB shirt and he stood in front of the doors posing with his new Live At CBGB album. I couldn’t tell, but I think they were speaking German. The guy from next door (on the left) comes out and squints in my direction and stares at me, or maybe he was just squinting in general and I happened to be there and I can’t tell if he recognizes me or not. At least he wasn’t arrested. Now I see that there’s a sign that says no loitering in front of building, but he was loitering next to the building. An announcement comes from a loudspeaker on the left about no loitering and a woman yells back, “’Ay! Shut the fuck up! We don’ live here!” A punk announced to the group he was with that he wanted to get fucking drunk this weekend. The older man they were with pretends to slap him across the face. “Are you the band dad?” asks the kid in the CBGB shirt. No answer. I try to catch some chill off the windows, but no luck. Another kid with a mohawk hands the older man his cell phone and says, “Talk to my dad. He thinks he’s in Brooklyn.”

The gray-haired man listens and says, “Okay. The doors aren’t open yet. No, you’re not supposed to go to Brooklyn. You’re at Smith-9th Street? Well, you just missed 2nd Ave. . . .” I have no idea how Smith-9th is “just missing” 2nd Ave., but ok. The kid in the CBGB shirt shouts to take the 6 to Bleecker. “No, he’s in Brooklyn,” the man explains. “There’s an X over the station at Smith-9th? Get back on the F and go to 2nd Ave., then ask someone where Bleecker Street is. . . .” The son explains to the crowd that they’re from Long Island, but his father used to know how to get to any venue when he was younger, used to come into the city all the time. I tell the man that the 2nd Ave. station is 2 blocks thatway, but take the F to Bway/Laff and walk through to Bleecker and come down the block. The man hangs up and explains the problem: The dad is afraid to ask where 2nd Ave. is. The kid in the CBGB shirt has the answer: “Take the F. I always take the F. Or the V.”

“The V doesn’t run on weekends.”
“I know the B doesn’t run on weekends.”
“I said the V doesn’t. And it doesn’t run into Brooklyn.”
“Oh. I always take the Q or the F. Whichever comes first.”
The Q to CBGB. Now why didn’t I think of that?

How is it that you become too afraid to ask where 2nd Ave. is? How is it that you can’t look directions up on the Internet? The kid in the CBGB shirt is helpful. He directs everyone next door for shirts, explaining that OMFUG stands for Other music for underground gormandizers. Go next door, they have it written out. He announces doors aren’t open yet to everybody looking to go in regardless of the gathering crowd. The kid who planned on getting drunk yells at another guy, teasing him about his sunglasses. “Take them off! You look like a lame . . . wad! A lamewad! Okay, I went there!” It’s 5:25 and we hear the first band is stuck in traffic. Stuck in traffic? You guys live in Astoria and Brooklyn. How the hell are you stuck in traffic? I live in Rego Park and I managed to get here on time. Doors are at 5. You’re supposed to be here before that. I will never again complain about my commute and the R train. And it is so fucking hot. And late. I didn’t eat much before I left, and that was 2 hours ago.

A woman in a Grateful Dead shirt and vines tattooed on her feet and ankles takes her place in line with two teenage girls. If I were them, I would’ve told the mother that the shirt was not acceptable; maybe they were so happy to have a parent in attendance and able to go that they didn’t complain.

6:25, almost an hour after start time and still no sign of Cutie Calamity, S.M.U.T decide to go on as a 3-piece, without their singer.

“We’re MUT. We’re really called S.M.U.T. but our singer is still stuck in traffic--”

People boo. I still don’t know how she’s “stuck in traffic.” This is terrible. It should not have happened. Here’s their big chance and they blew it. I really couldn’t hear the vocals, but maybe that was the point, or Xtene’s mic just wasn’t set up for lead vocals. It sounded like Ripley was playing louder to compensate for the awkward situation. A few songs in, someone yells that they rock as a 3-piece. I don’t know if he’s being sarcastic, and I don’t know if the people booing are being sarcastic. This is terrible, because Erin really has a great voice for this style of punk and I can hear what they’re missing. I turn around to see of Erin is on her way and it looks dark out. Either it’s going to rain or it’s getting dark already. She gets in at like 20 to 7, and she’s in the shirt from the punk festival they played the day before in Connecticut. Oh. Right. I totally forgot. It’s terrible that it happened for such a big gig and maybe those who follow the sched closer knew that, because Abrasive Wheels played the CT festival also. Also, maybe those who never saw S.M.U.T. before didn’t know that they’re from NYC, because to me “stuck in traffic” kept sounding like the dog ate their homework.

After, Christine asks me how bad it was. I didn’t know what to say, to be comforting or tell her that it sounded off, and besides, what’s done is done. It doesn’t matter that I was looking forward to their set because we can’t turn back the clock.

“You can tell me. I know it was bad.”

I think about what my horoscope said for that day—to be sensitive and in touch with my feminine side, be supportive and if I don’t have anything positive to say, hold my tongue. And besides, I wasn’t worried about what angle I’d take; I was more worried about how I got to be known for the truth when it comes to these things. Then again, it’s probably because she knows me.

What were we supposed to do? she asks.
“It was very punk rock.”
It was entertaining; we did what were here to do. We were told to entertain.
I heard Erin telling someone that she was about to pop an eyeball and shaking, our first and only gig at CBGB and I’m stuck in traffic.
“Your first, only, and last. . . .”

Above All Hope were setting up and one of the mohawks who were outside before is onstage. He gets down, putting his hand on my shoulder, and pushes himself down. Thanking me doesn’t make it any better.

I knew I’d seen one of the other bands on the bill before. I was thinking it was the Ghouls because the name sounds familiar, but Above All Hope and the Disaffected were on that Punk Aid show. (And it should really say a lot if they all start sounding the same, but in 20 minute blasts all punk probably would.) The Disaffected I know I missed and Above All Hope didn’t really stand out, but they were great on that show. I felt like I could say that I finally saw a punk show at CBGB. They had the kids totally tearing the place apart and pounding their fists on the stage.

The Disaffected had the kid who announced his drunken intentions earlier playing guitar. Max Wasted. His finger was broken and he couldn’t play. And the dog ate his homework. With 1 song to go he walks offstage. So their singer starts freaking out and they say they’re done. Or could they get somebody from Above All Hope to fill in? C’mon, that last song is not that important. It’s not going to change what I think of you guys. “Ever get the feeling you’ve been ripped off?” the drummer asks. They finally get the other guitar player on board and nope, that last song did not make any difference.

“Punks don’t die, they just get older!” says Todd Radict.
“And then they steal the good seats!” said Renee Wasted, sitting on top of the locker. The spot I wanted for that show but knowing me, I’d get stuck up there.
“Punks don’t die, they just smell that way!” counters their guitar player.
“When I was you guys’s age, whenever we saw a band we liked, we used to dance,” he explained, and then started pushing kids to get them moving.

After their set and being pushed around, I try to make my way to a spot where I won’t get clobbered or broadsided by bathroom-goers. And 2 punkers asked me where the bathroom is. Uhm. Or maybe they were testing me since I was nowhere near as dressed-for-punk as they were. To my left is a middle-aged guy with a beer gut and a Leftover Crack shirt, videotaping. I wonder if this was the guy who was lost in Brooklyn, showing up at the last minute all smiles because it doesn’t matter that he got lost on his way there, he’s there now. I was expecting him to tell me that his kid’s in the band and that’s why he’s videotaping. Or to say, “This shirt? I don’t know what it means, but my kid told me to wear it and I’ll be okay.” All of a sudden from behind him, a woman says, “Did you hear what I said? I said, ‘Look at that little girl’s big boobies!’ ” Of course the man trains his camera on the girl in the Dead Kennedys halter, much to the amusement of the guys nearby. And she starts up again about the girl and I’m getting ready to smack her because she’s really loud, not to mention drunk. But even though she’s pretty little herself, she’s wearing a Black Flag belt buckle so obviously she means business. Two girls went behind the locker to either pee or make out and the PA is behind there, so there were problems with equipment and crew freaking out and nobody was allowed on top of the locker after that.

2 songs into Abrasive Wheels’ set I had to move behind the pit, and I don’t know what they were talking about with the shitty sightlines because I saw fine. But probably for a soldout show that’s basically standing still like Joan Jett I can see what they mean. People were still walking right into me and not apologizing. Y’know, it would be punk rock to apologize or say excuse me since nobody did. Being polite can be a whole new trend.

Okay, stop me if you’ve heard this one before: UK punk band formed in the summer of 76 . . . had a great impact on the punk scene . . . left a stain on the punk scene and are said to have helped pave the way for a lot of today’s punk bands with their clever, catchy songs . . . regrouped the band and decided to carry on where they left off some 20 years prior . . . still finding a lot of people that are not aware of their return, and of course who are not aware of them at all!! Welcome to punk’s best kept secret. . . .

No? Good, because sometimes I feel like I’m repeating myself here.
Abrasive Wheels had 2 top-selling punk albums in the 80s, so that is a new one.
Walking back to the F on First, I see a hollow sidewalks sign is across the street.
Huh. Another one in that neighborhood.
Y’know, maybe it wasn’t just dumb luck that I called this site Hollow Sidewalks.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

How I Spent My Rock & Roll Vacation

(Night 2)
Conjugal Visits/Tarantinos NYC/Supertones/The Isotopes//Otto’s Shrunken Head//7/1/06

(Yeah, that looks like I’m taking a vacation from rock n roll, don’t it?)

If there’s anybody out there who wishes that there’s a band that does for baseball what the Zambonis do for hockey, I got good news and bad news. Good news: They’re called the Isotopes. Their logo apes the Ramones’ and says Punk Rock Baseball Club. Bad news: They’re in Canada. (And how is it that we have 2 hockey bands and they have the baseball band?) Good news for those who missed The Isotopes @ Otto’s: It was a different Isotopes. Sorta bad news for at least one who saw the Isotopes @ Otto’s: It was a different Isotopes.

I thought about Sin-e for some post-punk even though it’s $10, but when I saw the lineup for Unsteady Freddy’s Surf-rock Shindig—free!—that made up my mind. Yeah, I saw Tarantinos NYC and they’re pretty much what you see is what you get, but Isotopes? Sounds cool. I looked them up and when I saw the Canada bit, I figured maybe. (Somehow I don’t think ambient/techno/experimental would play Otto’s, not to mention the Georgia bit.) They could come down from Canada for a “midnight” slot over a holiday weekend. But I did a search (which is pretty much the only reason why we {I} need Myspace—usually if I don’t know the band’s website, and in case bandname.com isn’t it, usually putting bandname and then band was it {things you learn by doing random searches on “spunk lads” circa 2001}, but “Isotopes band” would probably still produce unwieldy things that have nothing to do with a rock band) and wrote The Isotopes, the band from Rochester came up. Okay, yeah, that’s cool, and how could a band called Supertones be bad?

I left late. Conjugal Visits, eh, whatever, but they were on at 9 and I left after 8. I haven’t been doing well lately and the weather is making it that much harder. Or easier for me to give up, whichever. Seinfeld wasn’t on, but NASCAR was. Dick Cheney was on and I never got this, but there’s a prayer invocation before the race. Uhm, separation of church and state, people? What if there’s—no, screw it, I don’t think there are any Jewish NASCAR fans who would be offended by this because I don’t think there are any Jewish NASCAR fans to begin with. I’ve always felt that 1st Ave. has the best graffiti; all those years of using that station (oh, ok, getting off there) for Brownies proved it. This time around someone left some pretty cool spoken word on the billboards. That’s pretty badass to just leave your poetry where anyone could take it, and write verses like crazy and not worry about getting caught or anything. Heading east on 14th (see, that one I know otherwise it would’ve been “walking down 14th”) I pass an ambulance that says Party Emergency and there’s a skull-and-test tubes logo on the side. Oh, yeah.

Conjugal Visits were basic rawk and Freddy said The Supertones were a virtual surf-rock jukebox; request any surf instro number and they’ll play it. The Isotopes picked the right place to play because if there’s ever a venue where you’d expect to find a Flaming Homer, Otto’s would be it. (Seriously, someone should make them. We all know what the secret ingredient is.) I get the feeling that if The Isotopes’ Handsome B. Wonderful, Trent Steele, Max Power, and Hercules Rockefeller attempt suicide, they would write the note on stationary that says Dumb Things I Gotta Do Today. Not only do they travel in a converted ambulance, they also bring barrels of nuclear waste with them, (hey, pop music’s hard work) so they were adequately prepared to rock. Then again, being from Rochester, home of RIT, Kodak, and IBM, probably would make you nerds of surf who spend too much time in the chem. lab. One barrel of nuclear waste didn’t fit, but they had 2 go-go dancers with them. They call it “brutal surf,” which is short for tight surf-rock instrumentals and sound bites: The Isotopes appreciate your applause, but please keep your middle finger to yourself. Keeping the band together is hard work, but playing a closet in Manhattan makes it all worthwhile. Not to mention their go-go dancers: I’m may be Unsteady, but they’re scaring me. And: Does anybody want to have sex? Now I don’t have to go to a strip club for three days. Or go on the Internet till tomorrow. Oh, wait, it is tomorrow.

In other words, we do not need to have the Rolling Stones killed.

Here's The Wind-Up. . . .

Deck-Of-Jack/Clay Pigeons//Continental//6/30/06

Promising that all will witness the band’s best stage attire ever, perhaps the greatest stage attire EVER to be worn in the history of rock music!, and with a singer, Juiceman, recovering from a microphone-induced tongue injury from their CBGB show a few days earlier in the week, there was clearly no other way to start off a long weekend of rock than with Deck-Of-Jack @ the Continental. I can’t believe how late I left for this; they were scheduled for “10” and I left at like 10 after 9. I got there at the same time another group of guys did. They fumbled with their IDs, so when asked who we were there to see, I had a ready answer. While I was waiting for my change the guy with the MA license in his hand explained: We’re not here to see any band in particular. Do you still have that $5 drink. . . .

First time I saw Deck-Of-Jack (opening for Northern State) they had a gal on turntables, giving them a slacker, Beastie Boys, party feel. This time around they had a drummer, giving their ditties about pizza on the floor with the 3-second rule in effect and Starter jackets a pop-hardcore hip-hop flavor. Since the song about Starter jackets was all early 90s, they kept in the groove with a cover of Nine Inch Nails’ Wish. Since it was their favorite song, they rehearsed it for 30 seconds. CBGB is closing, the Continental is closing, and all of their crew fled the city like its on fire that weekend, so they ripped through Blitzkrieg Bop. “We brought turntables into the Continental, we brought samplers into the Continental, so maybe when the rock returns to New York City they’ll rebuild the stage and let us play here again.” To which one of their friends asked, “Was that your last song?” Their best stage attire EVER was handmade kilts (I asked—the fabric came from Jo Ann Fabric) and Hotrod shirts in homage to their man Rowdy Roddy Piper, the subject of one of their songs. As is their homey who drives the Zamboni.

Since I asked if the kilts were homemade, I had to know what the deal was with the tongue because their email went on to explain that Juiceman had a jackal’s tongue grafted onto his in order to sing, which could’ve just been a metaphor for a silver tongue. He somehow sliced his tongue tossing the mic stand. “Blood was gushing all over. It was glorious. My blood is on the stage at CBGB!”

So while I was talking to them, Clay Pigeons has set up and were about to go so I had to stay. They were your basic hard rock/local rock band. I saw their drummer hanging out during Deck-Of-Jack’s set and their drummer looks like he takes rock way too seriously—in a bad way what with his facial hair and long pony tail. Their singer seemed like a nice guy despite his shirt that said I Hate You, but then again it also had a happy face on it, which fits. It was kind of funny, watching him stomp his foot on the stage like a horse in a pen. And all of a sudden, it was the Continental again.

“God bless Deck-Of-Jack!” their singer said.
“God bless you!”
“And God bless America!”

And in a way, they weren’t that terrible—in that first day of a big vacation, summer way. Even though they brought out a stuffed Energizer bunny during one of their songs and Deck-Of-Jack surfed it through the crowd.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

What The Dead Know

Marni Rice & Le Garage Cabaret/The Shirts/Bill Popp & The Tapes//CBGB//6/28/06

When I saw the gig listed, my first reaction was to go. I’ve been meaning to see the Shirts, since I’ve seen Annie Golden perform with the Rock Revue and I know she used to be in the band. And you know me—I always try to support bands that I get into from other bands. And you know me—I didn’t want to go. Not because I’m trying to keep an eye on the shows I’m going to and the film I’m buying and the film I’d then have to develop. I didn’t want to go because I’d feel like a hypocrite. But when I saw Marni at Joe’s gig and she gave me a card for the show, which she also played, I decided to go. And Bill Popp & The Tapes, who I have never seen and I feel that I should’ve by now. And that’s why, a year to the day after the start of The Spunk Lads’ Farwell Tour, I went to CBGB for the Shirts, celebrating the release of their latest CD, Only The Dead Know Brooklyn. And that’s why, with all this stuff to catch up on, I wanted to have the Epoxies show @ CB’s done.

I was going to say/write this at some point, but I wasn’t sure when to fit it in. First show I saw there: Flux Information Sciences/Skeleton Key/The Jesus Lizard//December 31, 1996. It was 4 below and I got lost on the way, somehow thinking the place was at 315 Bleecker. I don’t know why or how I did this, but I was reading TONY in those days because they’d list venues and the subways to get there and when I saw the trains listed, for some reason I thought I was a being a know-it-all and figured they were wrong. The F for Bleecker St? Huh? So I was running all over in the freeze, in the days before unlimited Metrocards. Or Metrocards in general. Every misstep cost me a token. The woman in the token booth explained how to get there, and she kept gesturing with her hands and pointing. There was something wrong with her hands, like they were burned or something, and in my panic I was staring at her hands and didn’t pay attention. And besides, when people say “It’s over that way, and then go there,” I can’t follow it. I ended up taking a cab the rest of the way, and I was pretty close in the first place. So I used to ignore CBGB as a destination for shows, always telling myself that that place is the place that’s difficult to get to. I had a mental block on it. So if CBGB can’t pay their rent, it’s probably my fault since I passed on a lot of shows there. I can’t remember which band brought me back there. Mental block, indeed.

I picked up an issue of TONY once when they had their music issue and a pullout section that ranks venues all over the city according to talent, sound quality, bar, ambience, facilities, and price. CBGB got like a C or C+. They said drinks were overpriced, considering what the venue is like. Hilly made the Press’s most recent list of 50 despicable New Yorkers. The Voice mentioned the shitty sound and shittier sightlines in their Joan Jett review. Still, when I go to some venues nowadays, I’m like, This isn’t going to last very long. (Cakeshop and the Delancey, for one.) Probably the bands that play there won’t, either. Wait, why am I saying probably? Maybe this is why venues celebrate first and second anniversaries.

I thought the times were weird: 7:00 doors, 7:15 for Marni, 8:30 The Shirts, and Bill Popp @ 9:30, but maybe they were expecting an older crowd who wouldn’t mind, or that’s what it is being a weeknight, so I went there straight from work. Of course the trains were fucked up due to a signal problem in Queens knocking out the V and they announce to take the F instead. Yeah, no shit. Who, at 23rd St. going southbound, would prefer the V? A crowd is gathering and of course it’s sweltering. A short, stocky, middle-aged woman to my left with a tank top that has a picture of a corset on it takes a roll of TP out of her purse and wipes her face. The light on the tunnel wall is weak, yet grows as they continue to announce taking the F in lieu of the V. Now there was a breeze that started off as a tease and really kicked up. At 4th St. they announce that we’re going express; next stop is Delancey. Fucking great. I get up and shove my way out, but right before I can reach the door, there’s a retraction: We will stop at B’way/Laff. Ok, fine. Then another announcement: This is the conductor speaking; we are going express to Delancey, then Jay. Shit, I just want to go 1 stop. And the conductor said we’re going express? Then who said we’re going local? Do you just let random people make announcements? Can I try?

Oddly enough, there’s a chill coming from the doorway of CBGB and I stand there, trying to bask in it. I press up against the door. I stare at the edge of the awning, frayed for a bit where someone cut it. Dude, that’s—no, that’s terrible. Vandalism is wrong. A man with his head shaved except for a strip down the back is sporting scalp abrasions and an unzipped fly, which I notice as he takes paper towels from his plastic bag and sits down with a magazine and a Steel Reserve. He asks me about my tattoo and I tell him that Gogo is the ambassador to Wackyland.

“Well, you’re talking to the co-ambassador to Wackyland. Can you do me a favor because you’re tall and I’m already sitting? Can you keep an eye out for the cops? I’m not supposed to be drinking while I’m on parole. Well, at least I’m not doing dope, right?”

So I head to the curb and don’t see any cops. Then he asks me about my T-shirt, and I explain that since The Shirts are a 70s punk band from Brooklyn, I chose a shirt from another 70s punk band that lived in Brooklyn.

“Do you live in Brooklyn?”
“No, Queens.”
“That’s okay. I won’t hold it against you. I don’t like Queens because it’s too close to Riker’s Island. Are you a hardcore punk chick?”

We discuss music for a bit and he tells me he that he heard The Shirts was supposed to be good, but he can’t wait for The Business on Monday. He grew up in the neighborhood and was almost killed a couple of times, what with drug deals and other things gone wrong. He once met Joey Ramone, and still has his autograph. He also told me that he used to be the drummer for Hammerbrain and they used to play Punkstock in the early 90s. About how when they found a rehearsal space in East Flatbush and they got there to find two big, rabid-ass dogs gnawing on some sort of carcass and they knew that that was the place for them. About how he used to see Choking Victim at some place in Coney Island. He forgot where and I was trying to figure it out. L’Amour’s. I told him it closed down and he said he’s been away a long time. He missed the big Leftover Crack show because he was still upstate. He tells me some dirty jokes and before one he asks if I happen to be Jewish. I say yes and he says we’ll skip the next one. Another woman comes by and when she lights up, he suggests they buy bulk paper, tobacco, and a cutting machine at one of the bodegas and he’ll roll them because it’ll be cheaper that way. People go in, oblivious to us waiting, and make a U-turn. “Could he have said that any nastier?” they ask upon hearing that doors were pushed back. The guy mutters something and asks me if I’ve ever had that.

“What?”
“Klonopin. It’s like Valium; it’ll calm you right down.”

He takes out a few sheets of paper and tells us that they’re his rap sheet. “No, my rap sheet goes from here to the next building. It’s my diagnosis. 13 pages; man, you know I’m fucked up. I’m trying to get SSI.” At least he’s not shooting up anymore, he says. “26 years of sticking a needle in my arm and I’m clean and sober. 16 months. I wish I could say the same about drinking and smoking.”

It’s a start, I tell him.

A young woman shows up to wait because her mom’s friend from high school is in The Shirts. The guy asks her to speak to her mom and see if he can get on the list, too. He promises to charm the pants off her mother. “My mother will be leaving her pants on, thank you very much,” she informs him. He apologizes and says to please speak to her because he really wants to go. “I live next door and I can hear all the bands play when I go to the bathroom. Of course I live with 50 guys.”

This is the part where you expect me to say that I passed on the show to hang out with my new friend or paid for him to get in, and in an alternate reality that’s exactly what happened. But since the crowd was primarily a sit-down crowd, I hung off to the side on an uneven patch of floor. There was a chair in front of the stage, but I figured taking it would make me look old. Marni’s set is appropriately bohemian enough, and with everyone sitting down it was all East Village café. One of her songs was about trying to track down an old friend of hers who used to go to CBGB w/her to drink when they were 12.

After her set, people start moving up. Marni tells someone that there’s so much character in this place. I was off to the left of the stage, so everyone going to the bathroom seemed to think nothing of touching me as they passed, like I’m the chair that used to be in front of the stage. And The Shirts? They were ok. I mean, yeah, I know they’re a punk band from the old days of CBGB that never quite hit it big like their other scenemates and gigmates, but I always felt that if they were that good, I’d have a CD of theirs, right? They’re like one of those older/classic bands that when they play now, people say, Oh, they’re still doing it? Lookit that. Good for them. Isn’t that nice? I guess I’m more into a different kind of punk. The biggest problem was their sax player. He has this nasty comb-over/weave going on and I don’t understand why/how the rest of the band is okay with this. They need to have a serious intervention. This isn’t one of those situations where the rest of the band jokes to each other in private about how could they get onstage in that getup. Their guitar player is bald; what, is there some rule that only one band member can be bald? Never mind that this is punk rock, this is rock and roll. Who could be that conceited about their age that they could go onstage like that? “How about some old Shirts?” a guy yells. “We are the old Shirts!” Toward the end of their set, I hear the woman behind me say something. I turn around and she’s in the middle of some tirade against me. I can’t hear a word she’s saying, so I ignore her. But she keeps it up: I have an attitude problem, I’m giving her an attitude, I shouldn’t even be there.

Okay. Of all the people to start with at a show, the person ignoring you is never it.

I have no idea what started her off, but she’s complaining to the person behind her and then the woman next to her. As soon as the set ends, she gives it to me in full. Do I have a photo pass, I have an attitude, and I shouldn’t even be there unless I was hired by the band. This is the first time my camera is bothering an audience member. What is it with my camera that just bothers people? Later on her friend apologizes for her; she was drunk and imagining things and she doesn’t know what brought it on. Yeah, I thought so. Still, I’m glad to be on the receiving end of a drunken tirade since she got it out of her system and you apologized for her.

Still, my night is pretty ruined and my back is killing me. The place clears out and I want to sit down, but of the 5 people still there, one is standing behind the tables with a video camera and I don’t want to duck in front of him and besides, there are 5 people in the whole place and if I sit further back, it would look bad. At least I thought so. Bill Popp & The Tapes auditioned at CBGB in 1981, admittedly with a different lineup, they said. Yeah, I see them listed a lot—at Kenny’s Castaways and stuff. They say they’re powerpop, but I always thought powerpop was that whoa-oh-oh stuff. What do I know? They covered Eleanor Rigby, which is pretty much their vein of powerpop. They ended at 11, with my back killing me, and they’re not allowed an encore. That’s sad. They should’ve at least had that.

Outside, 4 cops are standing around by the guy who lives next door. He’s still sitting there, clutching his diagnosis papers. One cop has a black latex glove on one hand. I don’t know what to do. I want to tell the cops that the guy wasn’t bothering anybody and besides, you can’t arrest him because The Business is playing Monday. Then again, the show is $15. How is a guy living in a homeless shelter going to go, or maybe he was looking forward to hearing it through the walls. Still, don’t they have actual criminals to go after? I tell myself not to get involved, and I feel bad for not coming to his defense and not paying for him to get in. Wasn’t I supposed to be keeping an eye out for the cops? Still, I walk away.

Across the street on Bleecker a sign advertising apartments hangs from a fire escape. 1 & 2 bedrooms, $3,184 and up! And up, exclamation point? Shouldn’t you be putting the “and up” in small print? Why are you bragging about how expensive things are? I mean, when you go shopping the “and higher” is usually in small writing.

Monday, July 10, 2006

Hockey Party (Brooklyn Style)

The Danglers/The Zambonis/America’s Sweetheart//Freddy’s//6/24/06


That pic was from 7/10/04. (Take a wild guess which 2 other bands are also on that CD.) Yeah, that means that the Freddy's sched from July that's still on my wall cause there was another awesome show there 20 days later was from that show. I cannot remember the last time I saw the Zambonis before this, (Pete’s Candy Store?) but I do know it was before the new Hockey Monkey and the last time they were supposed to play Freddy’s there was a blizzard and they cancelled. I’d gotten an email from Dave and he told me to call his cell. It was an emergency. How many people did I think would go, besides me, because they had to cancel. The snow was worse in CT. Well, I was all set to go. A little snow wasn’t gonna stop me. In other words, it’s been way too long.

So when I woke up to potential thunderstorms, I was freaking out. What if the roads were flooded? I checked my email all morning, checked their website, checked their Myspace, and there’s something wrong with the Freddy’s site and I can’t get the music schedule. Probably my stupid computer. When the thunder came at 1:15, I was devastated. Well, they better leave now. Of course I’ll have to leave early in case the subways flood, like the time they played the Mercury Lounge. There was a water condition on the tracks on top of reroutes and I ran out of the subway station, fell and hurt my knee, and got there late. I played Chippy all day. OK, if you cancel, you have to give me a lift to Plattsburgh. That’s where the northernmost SUNY is and you don’t want to be doing that. Would they really cancel? I mean, there’s another band coming in from CT. Another downpour started at 5:30. I hope they didn’t call the bar and leave a message, thinking I’d be smart enough to call ahead of time. You’d be surprised how smart I’m not. I was a complete wreck before I left. My heart needs a shot of cortisone! I can’t take this anymore. I saw their orange sticker on the lamppost and it had turned yellow. They have to be showing up.

The Danglers, also from Connecticut, put the psycho in psychobilly. I was sitting off to the side and planning to sneak over to the front seat in between songs, but just then the lead singer jumped on the table. I’m kinda glad Roger ended up missing this because it probably would’ve just given him ideas. Unless bands have jumped on the tables before and I missed it. There was an older couple sitting at the table and the guy just crawled over and sang right in the woman’s face. So be forewarned: Do not sit too close to The Danglers. Because later on he crawled under the table and sang. “This is the soccer rock part of the evening; coming up next is the hockey rock part,” he promised. Well, we’re in the right place for that. Their little sister, Darla, played bass and because we seemed like nice people, she felt she could share with us that she’s carrying their cousin’s child—though later on she said that she wasn’t sure it was his. And their drummer had a tale of Bobby Orr looking for Dave Zamboni outside Freddy’s because he had a message for him: It’s gonna be a psychobilly freakout! Indeed.

Bob told me that every time he finds a band he likes, they end up breaking up. The Zambonis are the last holdout. Story of my life, too. “We’re playing a very small room at a high volume,” Dave announced, and while he worried that they were too loud, it sounded fine to me. Then again, I’m a little hard of hearing anyway and wear earplugs, so maybe I’m not the best one to judge. I think The Fall-inspired Beware of the Trappa had the best reception I’ve heard so far; maybe it’s Brooklyn and their indie rock sensibilities. So while I might not have been the best one to judge how loud the keyboard was, Dave however, was. A few songs in he couldn’t take it with the keyboard and threw it on the ground and stepped on it. Totally stomping on it. Then America’s Sweetheart’s guitar player started ripping it up. Punk rock returns to Freddy’s at last. Bands, take note: the more stuff you break, the less you have to load out and pack up at the end of the night. But it turns out it was just the cord, which Dave could’ve stomped on and spared the keyboard, which toured with Guster. So if Guster ever asks them to tour w/them again, they’re screwed. The Zambonis are going to be on a split 7” w/Harry and the Potters, and wrote (and played) Harry Potter & His Magic Hockey Stick. It ended up being a total sit-down night, which sucked because I wanted to dance, but the dancing section was in the back and no way was I going to stand all the way in the back. I would’ve tried standing but I see the Zambonis so infrequently as it is that I wasn’t about to risk pissing people off and getting bad vibes directed at me, ruining the whole thing—but I danced to Breakaway. Oh, and the new hockey monkey is very cute and considerably less mangy-looking than the previous model. They did Greatest Season for me, because Dave looked like he was sweating the list and I suggested it. Of course because I haven’t seen them in so long I totally forgot Johnny Got Suspended.

I saw America’s Sweetheart at Siberia w/The Zambonis, but it was so long ago after a late night and I totally forgot what they sounded like. They’re female-fronted rock that would fit work for Death Disco, but I rarely see The Zambonis as it is, so I spent half their set catching up. After their set, Dave and Jon joined the Sweethearts and covered Beatles songs, calling themselves Killing The Classics. For the second KTC song, Dave played drums and like a good photog I of course ran out of film. It was Dave’s first turn at the skins and he wasn’t bad. And by not bad I mean better than I would be at the drums.

I awoke at 7 to find my contacts plastered to my eyes and the most recent batch of memories plastered to my thighs.

I guess its proof of how much I love a band if it takes me a while to actually post the review. I still get nervous about it, about putting it out there. I don’t know why. Everything has to be right and good and perfect. And then I want to have other posts after it. I guess I'm still weirded out by this whole thing. It’s sad, but since Brownies and Tribeca closed down I rarely see the Zambonis anymore. I’m getting sad just thinking about it, but maybe it’s just the time for it. 11 years. That’s longer than I’ve been in college, where I 1st heard of them, longer than any job I’ve had, and, of course, longer than I’ve been seeing the bands that I do.

Tuesday, July 04, 2006

Misery Loves Company

Nightmare Of You/The Dillinger Escape Plan/A Fire Inside//Roseland//6/22/06

I know! Nikki Corvette @ Cakeshop! Even though I can’t stand Cakeshop! And the Weekenders have a new band, which is good because I didn’t like the Weekenders that one time I saw them (I love it when bands read my mind and adjust themselves accordingly) and the ever-scattershot Some Action, who I thought broke up. But there’s gonna be cake there!

I decided not to go. Since Nikki Corvette's also going to be at Trash on Friday with other bands I want to see but haven’t yet, I figure I could just go Friday and go to my mom’s on Thursday. Of course now I can’t go to the SMUT or Shoppers shows, among others, on Friday but at least I don’t have to choose. I figure making these small sacrifices now will enable me to get out of other small family events down the line, not to mention the good karma. Evan’s 6-mo-bday is on the 22nd and I spent 3 hours running all over Manhattan looking for his present--one of those subway line beanie bears with an E on it—and of course I couldn’t find one. So I had to settle for some toy at KB’s. Not like he would know the difference or know what an effort went into finding the bear in the first place. Of course they were predicting PM T-storms for Thursday and I said that if it’s pouring torrentially, I wasn’t going to go. I left the toy home because it’s big to schlep and what if it starts raining, besides, I thought I turned the damn thing off and when I shifted the bag in my hands, it makes noise. So when my mom called that morning and they were still predicting rain, I said I’d go. I mostly just wanted to get it out of the way. Hmm, lessee, I remember an early version of the Sin-e calendar had the Negatones for the 22nd. $10 is a lot of $ and the gig is to promote some music website that isn’t mine, but the last time the Negatones played—at that awesome record store party w/WW9 and other bands I already like or am bound to like—it was family brunch day. Of course they weren’t playing Sin-e that day. If I were rich I could’ve run out to Trash to see Modrocket, but I figured, save my money. And of course if something happened at the last minute and Nikki dropped off the bill, I’d be screwed all around.

At 11:30, Liz hands me a ticket for AFI. She can’t go. She has to go to London and told whoever she couldn’t go, but they must’ve printed ticket before it was cancelled. If I can’t use it, give it to someone. “And you’re in the Rock Star Section. The Mezzanine.” And I just happen to have my camera on me, anyway.

Obviously I had no plans of ever seeing AFI, but it’s like finding out someone brought donuts to work—except they’re vanilla frosted, not chocolate kremes, vanilla kremes, Boston creams, or even chocolate frosted. (Mmmm, donuts.) A $25 ticket has just fallen from the heavens and landed in my lap. Hmm, the show is sold out so I’ll have no problem hocking it and I could use the money. But oh my God, the mezzanine! I have dreamed of getting in there, and wonder how one goes about that. But, great. It’s not like I don’t have enough writing to do, I’m going to have to write about this, and I’m trying to work ahead.

Here I am, trying to do the right thing. Liz practically sits right next to me, so I couldn’t call my mom and go into a whole big thing. I write an email saying that I could sell the ticket, but that would make me late. I ended with, Besides, I can’t disappoint you any more than I already have. Meaning, I’m such a screwup here so what’s one more thing that I’m doing wrong? And then again, it’s like I’m over 21 and I have to ask my mommy if it’s ok to go out. I could lie. I have in the past. Cramps, headaches, sinus pressure with the humidity, backaches—all are plausible. But I figure lying would only make things worse. I’m going to have to tell her something she doesn’t want to hear, so the least I could do is tell the truth. I don’t send the email because I know she’s going to call me and tell me she doesn’t understand the situation. Or she’ll say Do what you want to do. Which in my family means Do the right thing or I will remember this for a very long time and remind you of it from time to time. (She’d also remind me that my grandmother once met someone at a dance there. See, I knew there was a reason why I am the way I am. It’s in my blood.)

So when Liz left and in the afternoon and I still had no idea what I was doing and she said, “I really wanted to go! Tell me all about it!” I felt terrible. Of course, if I did go I’d probably feel terrible about not being with my family. This is the story of my life: Every day I disappoint somebody.

I told my mom that I was going to sell the ticket and then be on my way. Or I could always go, since it’s a free ticket. She tells me to go and have a good time. Perhaps out of obligation, I apologize up and down, I wasn’t expecting this, it’s an opportunity, yet I really wanted to be there since we make big deals out of half-birthdays. “Well, do what you want to do. We'll talk later about Saturday.”

What Saturday? I said I couldn't do Saturday days ago.

While CBGB may not be my favorite place to see a show, I hate Roseland. Doors were at 6:45, so I went straight up there. What else could I do? I was thinking I’d need to buy sunscreen just to stand out there. When I went to Roseland for Shane McGowan straight from work I was like, fifth on line. When I went to Roseland for Rancid straight from work, I was a quarter of the way up Broadway. True, that was toward the end of November. When I went to Roseland straight from work to see the Dropkick Murphys, I was on the corner. True, that was the beginning of February. When I went to Spirit straight from work to see Flogging Molly, I was first on line. When I went to Nokia straight from work to see Flogging Molly, I was third on line. So when I got to Roseland and was about to take my place in front of The Color Purple Theatre, I figured it still wasn’t bad for a ticket I just got that morning. Then a security guard comes up to me and asks if I’m going to Roseland. “The line’s over there.” It continued past Color Purple, all the way up Broadway, and around the corner on 53rd, halfway down the block. Pretty much on the opposite side of the front entrance. Probably by the time I get in there, the first band would’ve started. And maybe I should just leave my backpack, because I don’t want to futz around with having them look through it and I don’t want to stand on a coat check line. Then again, maybe by the time I get in there, they’ll be so bored of looking through bags so maybe they won’t think I’m packing a bomb and let me go. Right across the street from where I’m standing is the back door to the Letterman studio. Yellowcard’s gear is on the street. “I hope you guys brought your earplugs, cuz that shit’s loud, says a guy who comes out the side door. “I’ve worked a lot of shows, and they’re not holding anything back.” A woman with a clipboard works the line and asks us if we know of any high school bands. At least one member has to be in high school and we have to know a member’s phone number in order to sign them up for whatever she’s soliciting them for. A kid goes by trying to sell a compilation to benefit the dirt-poor record label that put it out. The women in front of me didn’t look particularly dressed for the show and since I didn’t, either, I wonder if someone handed them the ticket that morning as well. As the line inched along, the girl behind me told someone on her cell: “My mother didn’t believe me that people were going to get here at 12.”

I was right; they didn’t even look in my backpack. All they said was “bags open,” so I opened my handbag. When I was there for the Dropkicks, they confiscated my green plastic spikes. I almost let it go because they take your name and part of your phone number, write this on an envelope, and put your contraband in it and then in a big box that you then have to wait on line to reclaim and it wasn’t all that expensive in the first place. So not only could I have brought in a bomb, I did bring in my camera. There were signs on the door last time I was there, but I think Roseland is if they don’t see you bring it in, then you didn’t bring it in.

Here’s the weird thing about the mezzanine. I was looking at that side bar, wondering how you get up there. I was walking around and saw a staircase with a mezzanine placard next to it. Do I dare? But I have the ticket that says mezzanine, which was the whole point of going, and besides, Roseland is one of those venues where, if you’re not right up front, you’re just in the same venue as the band and you can’t see shit. AFI isn’t my band, so it didn’t matter that I wasn’t going to be right up front and at least I don’t have to work. The small glitch: you have to surrender your ticket to get into the mezz. Seriously, if there wasn’t a chance for me to get it back when I leave, I wasn’t going to go in the first place. What’s the point of my getting a free ticket to a soldout show if I’m not going to leave with said ticket? I thought maybe I’d hear angels on harps and celestial choruses and a beam of light would highlight my path, but no.

The mezzanine is not the side bar, it’s that balcony level. There’s a separate bar up there, tables which were reserved, and the level has its own bathrooms, but nobody’s there and I feel stupid. Like a poseur. I don’t feel special at all. It’s so far away and so far up and so isolated that I consider going back down. It’s higher up than the balcony at Irving. I’m not going to be able to see a damn thing. I feel like I’m at MSG. I see the scaffolding and lighting framing the stage. I try different spots in the balcony. The tables alongside the mezzanine are all reserved. A couple sits down at one of the reserved tables, but then discuss heading “over there.” The bar. They get up and go toward the back staircase. I have no idea where it goes and I don’t want to follow them because I don’t want to look like I’m following them. So I go back to my spot in the balcony that faces the stage. This sucks. How can you get a feel for a band from all the way up there? How can you tell if they’re assholes? How does anybody write about a band from all the way up there? You’re just phoning in a review like for the front section of Rolling Stone and you just making generalizations while in real life you got drunk and hit on chicks, trying to impress them by telling them you’re a reporter. Maybe I’ll go downstairs for AFI. This totally fucking sucks. This is the suckiest suck that ever sucked.

New York City’s Nightmare Of You sound very Mercury Lounge/Sin-e, playing that mopey, gloomy 80s indie rock, and when they started a song that sounded like the start of the Cure’s Lovesong, I wonder if I’ve seen them before. I get the feeling that I have, but can’t remember what I thought of them. Which should say it all right there. If I did see NOY in the past, they’re the type of band that I would’ve called good—but then again, “good” in my book don’t mean a whole lot. A lot of bands are good, compared to a band that would have, say, me, in it, because a band with me in it would undoubtedly suck. Yeah, they’re good, but that doesn’t exactly mean I like them. They announced Dillinger Escape Plan up next and then AFI. Everyone went “Wooo!” and the singer (who used to be in the Movielife) said when they did that the other day, it sounded like testosterone. “It didn’t sound like people; it sounded like balls.”

Admittedly, the only thing I knew about Dillinger Escape Plan is that I’ve heard the name. I kinda liked that part right before the band took the stage because at least there was so much potential and anticipation in those few moments. At least for me. I thought about that article in the Voice, about the aggressive, noisy bands that played a recent anti-war show and they freaked out one of the guest speakers, who referred to one of the bands as the music they play in tanks and didn’t know how a band that aggressive could be anti-war. I just did not get them. Loud, bombastic, strobe lights flashing, I couldn’t understand a single word, and the singer was flinging the mic stand around a lot. The two mosh pits looked like a fight broke out. How can a band that has a song called Panasonic Youth be this bad? They raised NOY to higher levels. And it turns out you can suss out a shitty band from the nosebleed section: Influences: “Influences? Buy T-Shirts and CDs and influence us to keep releasing music instead of just recording it and never putting it out! Go to the following website, steal one of your parents’ credit cards (yes we endorse that sort of thing), and buy some shit. Wait for the CD or shirt to arrive, and then listen to or wear your purchase feeling far superior to all others you see. Because you will be. Those other people are without worth.” Sounds like: “Sounds just like the songs that are streaming in that little player up there asshole. Just like them. Yup. Same band.”

Uhm, that would be comma, asshole.

So I considered going downstairs for AFI, since they were the headliners, but then again, I didn’t exactly want to have to look at the people downstairs. The mezzanine filled up and I didn’t feel so isolated. A worker climbed up the ladder made of cables and poles next to me, and walked into this little cage hanging from the ceiling. Holy shit. I had to hold my breath. No rope. Then another guy went up and went to another cage, and there was a rope next to the ladder. Someone tied a bottle of Minute Maid to the rope and they raised it up. Finally, something cool happened in the mezzanine.

Also, admittedly, I didn’t know much about AFI. I know they just had an album out. I didn’t know until recently that AFI stood for A Fire Inside. Or maybe I did; I just didn’t pay too much attention to it/put two and two together, since all their shirts just have logos that say AFI. I know they’re wildly popular. I mean, they sold Roseland out 2 nights in a row. They’re on the list of popular bands on Interpunk, right up there with A Wilhelm Scream, Blink 182, The Clash, Panic! At The Disco, Silverstein, etc., so I thought they were a punk band. One of their shirts had the HXC logo. (Later, Liz told me that they started out by ripping off the Misfits.) They’re now on Interscope, so it’s like I don’t have to see Nine Inch Nails. They’re kinda sophomoric, as in for high school sophomores—the type who wear fishnets, black nail polish, and think that Edward Scissorhands speaks to them because it’s a metaphor for their lives. “I promise to depart/Just promise one thing/Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep” from their first song, Prelude 12/21. Song titles like Fallen Like The Sky, and Miss Murder: “Can I make beauty stay if I take my life? /What’s the hook, the twist within this verbose mystery?/I would gladly bet my life upon it that the ghost you love/your ray of light will fizzle out without hope./We’re the empty set just floating through, wrapped in skin, ever searching for what we were promised/ Reaching for that golden ring we’d never let go/Who would ever let us put their filthy hands upon it?”

You know—the type of shit I would’ve quoted in my journal if I were 17.

From all the way in the balcony you can see all the illuminated rectangles of cell phones. The entire crowd swayed as one, in one surge of humanity. I knew I’d never get anything with my camera from where I was, but I tried anyway, since I snuck it in. Singer Davey Havok thanked us and our city repeatedly, thanked Sick Of It All for being such a huge influence, and asked who would adopt him because he loves it here. He ended in the classic mope pose, on all fours hunched over, kissing the ground. “New York City! Thank you so very, very much!”

Dude, you’re from Cali. Make fun of our sports teams or something.

In the balcony, there was no line for the restrooms. Downstairs, a girl had on an AFI shirt that said We dance together in misery. Their latest offerings featured each band member and had such sayings as He met his love before he was born. All he wanted was love. As I try to shove my way out, the bouncer who warned us about the earplugs was now yelling for us to get out. “Get your shirts and get out of here! Why do you guys always wait until the last minute to get shirts?” A woman with long, pink hair and black eye shadow was causing a stir by the front door. She was signing autographs and a guy asked another girl to take their picture. Another girl waited patiently for her turn and when the woman turned to her, I thought this kid was going to wet her pants. If Pinkie asked me if I was waiting for her autograph, I would’ve told her how old I am.

So it’s a good thing nobody had any gigs on the 29th, cause I couldn’t go. I don’t care how awesome it would be or who was playing.

Saturday, July 01, 2006

The Future Ain't What It Used To Be

Teenage Bottlerocket/Phenomenauts/Epoxies//CBGB//6/8/06

I had a dream about guitar picks the night be—I mean, that morning. A guy was showing me his collection of guitar picks. One was in the shape of a skull and one was this long, rectangular piece of plastic, yet somehow I knew it was a guitar pick. I may not have known who he was or even what the guy looked like, but I knew he had guitar picks. Weird, maybe, but at least I’m starting to have dreams about music again.

I was in the lobby, late of course, when I decided not to tempt fate and went back for my umbrella. Waiting for the elevator again, I told myself that making myself exhausted so that I sleepwalk thru the day is no way to deal with my problems. And besides, how can I enjoy shows running around like this? But I don’t listen to myself. I mean, we’ve had this conversation before.

Walking down Bleecker, I see a group of young guys standing around outside CBGB. Maybe they’re there to buy shirts. I hope they’re there to buy shirts. They ask me to take their picture. I back up all the way to the curb, leaning against the van for a duct-cleaning company, to get the awning in for them. “Hollywood Summer Tour 06! Wooo!” they yelled in lieu of cheese. Thrilled with the shot, they thank me and one guy says, “I think I saw a Starbucks that way.” (I would put in a parenthetical aside that I’m not making this up, but it should be obvious that I’m not.) They said doors were 7:38, and I spent over an hour ducking out of the way of countless digital cameras. Whoever happened to be walking past took out their digital camera and went at it. I lost track of how many people took pix of the CBGB awning that nite. Either that, or prepsters went in only to be referred to the Gallery. Seriously, people, one is 315 and one is 313. Can’t you read?

Or:
“Ooh, Joan Jett!”
“Tonight?”
“No, last night.”
“Is this where they sell the T-shirts?”

Not to mention the oblivious kids walking in as if I’m standing there for my health. There’s a reason I’m standing outside. The place ain’t open. I try to ignore the fact that the area to the right of the door smells like piss. 5 biddies go in and are sent next door. Look, if people who are dressed like me don’t usually go to see whoever it is that you’re going to see, then you’re in the wrong place. I’m surprised the staff didn’t put up big signs on the door: Prepsters, your show is next door! If you’re looking for shirts, go next door! but I’m sure the guy who processes the crowd enjoys making up sarcastic comebacks in his head for all the stupid people. Seriously, you’d think people would want to avoid looking stupid, but apparently not.

And:
“I thought they were supposed to shut this club down.”
“I guess they changed their minds.”

The popular pose for standing under the awning for pix? Flashing a peace sign. Or flashing a peace sign while on your cell phone. I move out of the way and notice a case on the window sill. It’s rectangular and black, yet too small to be a drumstick case. I tell myself not to get involved, but what if it belongs to a band member and they put it down while I wasn’t looking and forgot about it? I don’t want somebody to steal it. I don’t want to open it, since it could belong to a band member and it’s not my business what’s in it, but then again that’s the only way I can find out who it belongs to. I ask a Phenomenaut, who says he doesn’t think it belongs to anybody in the bands. So I open the case. Ah. Must belong to one of the locals. Great. Now watch. A cop patrolling the area is going to find it and think CBGB is a drug den and try to close the place down sooner it’s all going to be my fault.

One girl comes out of the Gallery with a glossy, black shopping bag embossed with a silver foil CBGB logo. A double-decker bus goes by and tourists wave at us. I give them what I hope is my best “get bent” face. A few women and their Hot Topic daughters carrying big Trash & Vaudeville shopping bags go in and ask about the time of the show, who’s playing, and then head next door. Are they going to drop their kids off at the show and then come back? Later they come out, CBGB shopping bags in hand. A man asks someone what the bands playing that night are like. The woman, who works there, tries to describe the bands, but then refers him to me. “Like them,” I say, pointing to Roxy Epoxy in her hand-embellished bondage pants, military-style jacket, black tie with orange polka dots, and day-glo pink makeup.

It turns out that the 7:38 door time announced really meant “7:30, 8.” Soundchecking begins and a group of kids yell, “Oh my God!” and run inside, only to be met with, “We’re not open yet!” To which one of them replies, “That guy really needs to calm the fuck down.” Do they honestly think that a crowd of people there for the show would be standing outside if the show has started? I mean, seriously. Just think: This is the future of America. And I wasn’t that crazy for getting there that early. The band that was supposed to go on first never showed, or maybe there wasn’t supposed to be an opening act even though one was posted.

CBGB isn’t my favorite place to see a show. The floor in front of the center mic is uneven and my back hurts from standing there. Or, my back is bad to begin with and by the time I get in and over there, the floor doesn’t make things any better. But I didn’t mind it so much because CBGB is an appropriate place to see these bands, and not just because CBGB is where I saw the Epoxies for the first time, but because these bands, like CBGB, operate with certain, set years in mind—whether it’s 1977 or 1983. Or even 2077. The Phenomenauts and Epoxies played the Teenage Pajamas From Outerspace! tour last summer, and this was my first time seeing Teenage Bottlerocket. Their first song, Radio, practically bled Ramones with the “Radio-oh-oh” chorus, and it made me laugh. Probably not the response they were looking for, but seeing them at CBGB I couldn’t help it. There should be a rule about bands like this playing there. They said they loved CBGB, since they don’t have clubs like it in Wisconsin, where they’re from. But as is the case with a lot of this pop-punk stuff, all the songs start sounding the same after a while and unless you’ve seen them before/have the lyrics committed to memory, it’s hard to tell where one stops and the next one starts. And 2 others also sounded like Ramones songs.

The Phenomenauts, for those of you keeping score at home, is the band-with-upright-bass made up of rockabilly space cadets. They always start their set with a countdown to blastoff and their surfy, garagey, synthy songs also fit the sound-and-club of a different time vibe. They shoot off glitter cannons (and the smoke machine, which bothers my sinuses) and a leaf blower rigged with a roll of toilet paper on the end (which is awesome) and sing songs about the year 2000 and defend Earth’s honor with Earth Is The Best. When they jumped on amps to play, I noticed the peeling, black ceiling. They end by saluting us and reminding us of their motto, Science and Honor, and it’s easy to imagine that some experiment of theirs gone wrong is the reason for the décor. I mean, yeah, they’re fun. Yeah, they’re gimmicky. Yeah, I have a CD of theirs. Sure I’ll see them again. They’re more of a prepackaged Man . . . Or Astroman?, with their flight suits and creepers. Whereas MOAM? went for a lot of “found” stuff with sampling 50s sci-fi movies and they were more lounge/exotica, the Phenomenauts are giving it to you and not finding anything.

By the time the Epoxies went on, anticipation was building. As the band played Roxy on I was getting all excited, thinking that something big was going to happen and a rock goddess was going to come onstage or . . . something that would blow us all away. So when Roxy came out wearing the same thing she was wearing when I saw her hanging out with the bands outside beforehand, it was kind of a letdown. Kinda like seeing the man behind the curtain. Seriously, you’re Roxy Epoxy. Put something else on. You can’t just get onstage wearing what you were wearing earlier. Put some effort into it, fer feck’s sake. They started with Radiation Everywhere and it got weird(er) from there. Their first full-length is so definitive—the sound and the look, (Blondie/Devo/X-Ray Spex,) the philosophy all laid out. The second album feels like something is lacking, even though the sound, the look, and the philosophy hasn’t changed. It’s like, How can you top the first? You can’t. What’s the point in even trying, because it’s a yardstick by which all your future albums will be judged. I felt the same about their former labelmates and former tourmates The Briefs with their second album, but in the Briefs’ case, they’d changed rekkid labels and there was a personnel change, so there was always that as the reason why. But both bands are still fun and put on a good show, so I go. Except the problem (the weird thing I’d mentioned earlier) is that I did feel a little . . . lost? No connection? I don’t know. It’s like suddenly there was this annoying presence in the room, almost like another person onstage, or like the asshole with no concept of personal space at a crowded show, or the annoying guy in a pit. Plus, Roxy is total motion right from the start. I didn’t even bother taking pix the second and third time I saw them, because what was the point? The stage shows are always dark with tube lighting, strobes, fog machines, etc. They’re one of those live bands and it’s pointless to try to pin her down in a still shot, because what’s the point? Especially backlighting, which slows the shutter down. Her mic kept becoming unplugged and it was hard to hear or maybe it was the sound or the way they had things turned up or down. Shortly after the first song I fell forward and then I lost the date on my camera. Is it broken? Battery dead? After the past few days, I wouldn’t be surprised about a dead battery. Set the flash wrong in the dark and that’s why the shutter is slow? No time to figure it out, there’s a show going on. And crazy dancing behind me, sending me crashing into the stage. The edge of the stage is really painful as my thighs keep cracking against it. I expect the heels of my palms to be scraped from stopping my fall forward. Still, there’s no place else I’d rather be, no other place in the audience to see a show. I kept hitting Shock Diode’s bass every time I clapped my hands over my head, and you’d think I’d remember to go low, but no. But tucked along the face? Picks. I totally snagged one and he never noticed. It’s red and is embossed with the word Brain and I don’t have any red picks, so I’ll always remember which band I stole it from.

Say what you will about how great it is that CBGB will close, but it’s so weird. The downstairs and the bathroom look like what you’d find inside/under a hollow sidewalk. Or inside a body. Or a ghost station. Maybe the upstairs already does, as well. But I just had this feeling of building buildings on top of buildings, like Legos. Of losing—something, I don’t know what—but not necessarily of loss.