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.
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.
posted by heather @ 8:10 PM
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