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.
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.
posted by heather @ 11:27 AM
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