Fellers In The Cellars
George Tabb Benefit #3 9/8/06, CB’s Lounge
Can I just say one thing, here? Rhetorical, maybe, because this is my site and I’m writing it and all. See, I usually avoid making such observations out loud because I’m not too smart about politics and therefore not very eloquent, but it makes no fucking sense to be spending god-knows-how-much money to be sending troops over to Iraq when we have people here in NYC who were affected by 9/11 and are still dealing w/the aftermath. Yeah, X number of people died, but the number of people affected is staggering. Wives lost husbands, husbands lost wives, children lost parents, parents lost children, siblings lost siblings, coworkers lost coworkers, friends lost friends, etc etc. It makes no goddamned sense for us to be continuing this cycle in another part of the world when people here need help. 9/11 was 5 years ago and we’ve been at war for 3. And what are we gonna do about it when these kids get back from Iraq all fucked up and there’s no money left to help them? Or if they don’t come back? Wives lost husbands, husbands lost wives, children lost parents. . . .
Arright, sorry about that. I feel a little better now. And now back to our regularly scheduled bands that which suck and those that don’t.
I hit the ATM and started feeling nauseous, yet I reminded myself that I was late and to just ride it out. Back upstairs I reminded myself that there’s no “I have a tummy ache” in Hollow Sidewalks. Then I told myself that it’s the benefit that counts, not the bands, and besides, I’ll definitely be seeing WWIX.
The subway car was pretty empty and it smelled of fire. I looked up to see a guy opposite me, who was probably playing with a lighter before I got on.
“Are you going into the city?”
“Yeah.”
“You going alone?”
“No; I’m going to meet some friends.”
Pause. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but you’re very beautiful.”
I got there in the middle of SMUT, who, of course, were sounding better’n’better. While I’m glad that people were running around, using my chest to push off and get back into the mosh area is never the right answer. I could point out that just because the song says “There’s gonna be blood” doesn’t mean that you should smack me in the nose and mouth with your elbow, but I won’t because this is a punk show and I shouldn’t’ve been standing behind the pit.
I thought I remembered the lineup and set times correctly, but after a bit of time for the set changes and Vanessa Daughter of Satan (no comma), who set the show up, was fretting that the show is running late. Why couldn’t it be running late before I got there so I could’ve seen all of SMUT? Charm School, who were supposed to be on @ 12:30—as in after WW9 and after I left—massacred a Ramones song. Dead Dean started off with a punk rock clown coming onstage in a top hat and giant prop sunglasses and a squirting sunflower. An interesting character, but then he kept lighting his coat sleeve on fire and hanging spring-loaded mousetraps from his nipples, and the traps were also lit on fire from time to time as Dead Dean played. Vanessa, a second punk chick, and a guy shared one mic to do some backup, but, predictably, the set didn’t get better without the punk backup singers or firestarter. More time wasting, Vanessa tried to do a raffle, more asking for extra donations in between saying the F-word.
Since all the time slots seemed to be fucked up (Test Specimen was supposed to have gone on after SMUT), I figured nothing was going to go as planned. So I was surprised when Tuff Jeff jumped onstage a little after 11 and set up immediately. I figured they pulled rank because of who they are (were?) and/or were tired and couldn’t wait any longer. Or maybe the bran muffins were going to kick in.
There’s nothing sadder than a middle-aged woman dressed up for rock. She had these arm warmers with straps and chains, and that made it obvious that she was with somebody in the band. Before Vanessa could introduce them, Jeff posed like he was about to strum his guitar and his crew took a couple of pix with their camera phones and digital cameras. When Vanessa went to get onstage, Chuck gave her a hand and Vanessa gushed, “Ladies, this one’s a gentleman!” Y’know, totally bullshitting him and patronizing him. She got onstage and Chuck pulled her close, whispering something in her ear. She just glared at him, an “If I wasn’t the emcee and trying to get donations, I’d kick your fucking ass” expression hidden by her smile. I was thinking about telling Chuck that I still had those pix from their gig in December, but don’t have the money to get them developed. Because I figured he’s an easy mark and I do need the money for film developing and besides, some strange guy on the subway told me I’m beautiful, but that meant I’d have to talk to him in the first place. Tuff Darts (and, yes, I just typoed that as Tuff Farts—trying to go fast here and catch up) sucked on all fronts. It was scary just sitting that close to the stage; the vortex was pulling me in and I had to do everything I could to stay put. But since I was staying put in order to catch WW9, that meant I’d have to suffer thru Tuff Farts. Ugh. It was even worse than the Continental set. Of course Chuck sang “Your Love Is Like A Nuclear Waste.” Or “A-Nuclear Waste,” like he just has to put his stamp on the song. Jeff said his solo album is available at Tower (uh, that’s not something you should say out loud—especially to this crowd) and to buy it because he needs the money. Yeah, so does George Tabb, so go fuck yourself. Those writeups in the Voice about the reuniting punk bands and their puffy, balding asses playing CBGB for one last time definitely applies to the Tuff Farts. Between Chuck’s showboating and Jeff’s mushy putz routine, it was ghastly. Of course, they were the only band thus far to express shock that there was a time limit on their set. What, did they think that because they were (are?) “punk legends” they could go on for an hour and do a bunch of encores? “Oh. Well. There are a lot of bands. Let’s just say that.” (“I didn’t like the show; I didn’t like you; you just stunk.” {That episode of Seinfeld where Jerry’s dating Bette Midler’s understudy in Rochelle, Rochelle! is on and Jerry said that the best thing about dating an understudy is that you don’t have to go backstage and kiss their ass if they suck.})
“Wasn’t that hot?” Arm Warmer Lady gushed to me as she went up to claim her guitarist.
After their set, Chuck came over to the couch where I was sitting to pack up and of course I’m thinking he did that because I was a woman sitting there alone and he’s in a band. Oh. Was I supposed to giggle and strike up a conversation with him and be impressed that he’s a musician? Jon came over, about to go “Wasn’t that the suckiest suck that ever sucked?” and I had to point to Chuck standing next to me, lest he said just that right in front of a member of said sucky band. He also said that the juxtaposition of seeing Tuff Farts followed by Reagan Youth is interesting.
Oooh. Reagan Youth were next. Whoopie, the kid from Distraction is filling in for the original overdosed singer, which seems like a good job for him since he seems very pissed off all the time. So I guess I’m totally punk rock now that I’ve seen Reagan Youth. I was still on the couch and piles of punx kept falling on me. I put my foot out, hoping to kick one in the balls when they landed on me. Then I moved to the curve of the backrest and perched there. Then I worried that they’d fall on the opposite end of the couch and I’d go catapulting across the room.
So by the time World War 9 took the stage, an hour past their midnight set time, they were out of it and seemingly running on the fumes they’d probably been huffing, so it doesn’t really matter how Max said they were starting off with Preteen Supermodel and announced their free stuff, and then played a different song, getting to Preteen Supermodel later in the set. Or maybe it was just me. And then Vanessa tried to auction off a DVD player in the middle of their set. I mean, literally right in the middle. Couldn’t she have done that in the middle of the Tuff Darts’ set? Or at least during set changes?
Test Specimen, who was to be on at 9:30, were setting up at 2 when I left. I did stop to pick up the book, wrapping the money in a note since nobody was at the merch table and putting it in the donation box. I explained that I wanted to buy the book but nobody was there, which is probably a good thing since Vanessa promised to show her titties (well, more than she already had all thru the show) if we’d buy a book.
So, yeah, the Avengers were playing next door and they sounded awesome. Since I probably won’t get around to it, I got the Maxwell’s ticket for 9/9 when I saw on NYCPunk that the CBGB show was $20 and the Maxwell’s show was $13, before the tix for CBGB even went onsale. That guy, Brian, from Manitoba’s was all, were you at CBGB? And I told him about the mixup and he tried to figure out which site I saw the wrong info on. He said the problem with Myspace is that all of a sudden everybody’s a professional and they don’t know how to do anything. It worked out because I was able to go to the benefit, but the Jersey/Maxwell’s crowd was understandably lame and that made the show a total bummer. And Midnight Creeps were on the CBGB show and the Maxwell’s show had a late show and I couldn’t get my ticket stub back after because they were trying to kick the early crowd out to set up for Priestess so they didn’t put them out like they usually did. Which is a complete and utter insult to me, I go thru all of this and I don’t even get a ticket stub back? And then Penelope said they were having a secret show at Trash—$7. Gah! But of course I had to get up early the next day and had already spent $13 on a show I could’ve seen for $7 and with a better crowd.
Don’t miss the next post where I suddenly land a better job, have less stress, more money, less stomach problems, can actually get some fucking sleep because I’m not up all night worrying, and review a Coldplay concert. USA! USA! USA!
Can I just say one thing, here? Rhetorical, maybe, because this is my site and I’m writing it and all. See, I usually avoid making such observations out loud because I’m not too smart about politics and therefore not very eloquent, but it makes no fucking sense to be spending god-knows-how-much money to be sending troops over to Iraq when we have people here in NYC who were affected by 9/11 and are still dealing w/the aftermath. Yeah, X number of people died, but the number of people affected is staggering. Wives lost husbands, husbands lost wives, children lost parents, parents lost children, siblings lost siblings, coworkers lost coworkers, friends lost friends, etc etc. It makes no goddamned sense for us to be continuing this cycle in another part of the world when people here need help. 9/11 was 5 years ago and we’ve been at war for 3. And what are we gonna do about it when these kids get back from Iraq all fucked up and there’s no money left to help them? Or if they don’t come back? Wives lost husbands, husbands lost wives, children lost parents. . . .
Arright, sorry about that. I feel a little better now. And now back to our regularly scheduled bands that which suck and those that don’t.
I hit the ATM and started feeling nauseous, yet I reminded myself that I was late and to just ride it out. Back upstairs I reminded myself that there’s no “I have a tummy ache” in Hollow Sidewalks. Then I told myself that it’s the benefit that counts, not the bands, and besides, I’ll definitely be seeing WWIX.
The subway car was pretty empty and it smelled of fire. I looked up to see a guy opposite me, who was probably playing with a lighter before I got on.
“Are you going into the city?”
“Yeah.”
“You going alone?”
“No; I’m going to meet some friends.”
Pause. “I don’t mean any disrespect, but you’re very beautiful.”
I got there in the middle of SMUT, who, of course, were sounding better’n’better. While I’m glad that people were running around, using my chest to push off and get back into the mosh area is never the right answer. I could point out that just because the song says “There’s gonna be blood” doesn’t mean that you should smack me in the nose and mouth with your elbow, but I won’t because this is a punk show and I shouldn’t’ve been standing behind the pit.
I thought I remembered the lineup and set times correctly, but after a bit of time for the set changes and Vanessa Daughter of Satan (no comma), who set the show up, was fretting that the show is running late. Why couldn’t it be running late before I got there so I could’ve seen all of SMUT? Charm School, who were supposed to be on @ 12:30—as in after WW9 and after I left—massacred a Ramones song. Dead Dean started off with a punk rock clown coming onstage in a top hat and giant prop sunglasses and a squirting sunflower. An interesting character, but then he kept lighting his coat sleeve on fire and hanging spring-loaded mousetraps from his nipples, and the traps were also lit on fire from time to time as Dead Dean played. Vanessa, a second punk chick, and a guy shared one mic to do some backup, but, predictably, the set didn’t get better without the punk backup singers or firestarter. More time wasting, Vanessa tried to do a raffle, more asking for extra donations in between saying the F-word.
Since all the time slots seemed to be fucked up (Test Specimen was supposed to have gone on after SMUT), I figured nothing was going to go as planned. So I was surprised when Tuff Jeff jumped onstage a little after 11 and set up immediately. I figured they pulled rank because of who they are (were?) and/or were tired and couldn’t wait any longer. Or maybe the bran muffins were going to kick in.
There’s nothing sadder than a middle-aged woman dressed up for rock. She had these arm warmers with straps and chains, and that made it obvious that she was with somebody in the band. Before Vanessa could introduce them, Jeff posed like he was about to strum his guitar and his crew took a couple of pix with their camera phones and digital cameras. When Vanessa went to get onstage, Chuck gave her a hand and Vanessa gushed, “Ladies, this one’s a gentleman!” Y’know, totally bullshitting him and patronizing him. She got onstage and Chuck pulled her close, whispering something in her ear. She just glared at him, an “If I wasn’t the emcee and trying to get donations, I’d kick your fucking ass” expression hidden by her smile. I was thinking about telling Chuck that I still had those pix from their gig in December, but don’t have the money to get them developed. Because I figured he’s an easy mark and I do need the money for film developing and besides, some strange guy on the subway told me I’m beautiful, but that meant I’d have to talk to him in the first place. Tuff Darts (and, yes, I just typoed that as Tuff Farts—trying to go fast here and catch up) sucked on all fronts. It was scary just sitting that close to the stage; the vortex was pulling me in and I had to do everything I could to stay put. But since I was staying put in order to catch WW9, that meant I’d have to suffer thru Tuff Farts. Ugh. It was even worse than the Continental set. Of course Chuck sang “Your Love Is Like A Nuclear Waste.” Or “A-Nuclear Waste,” like he just has to put his stamp on the song. Jeff said his solo album is available at Tower (uh, that’s not something you should say out loud—especially to this crowd) and to buy it because he needs the money. Yeah, so does George Tabb, so go fuck yourself. Those writeups in the Voice about the reuniting punk bands and their puffy, balding asses playing CBGB for one last time definitely applies to the Tuff Farts. Between Chuck’s showboating and Jeff’s mushy putz routine, it was ghastly. Of course, they were the only band thus far to express shock that there was a time limit on their set. What, did they think that because they were (are?) “punk legends” they could go on for an hour and do a bunch of encores? “Oh. Well. There are a lot of bands. Let’s just say that.” (“I didn’t like the show; I didn’t like you; you just stunk.” {That episode of Seinfeld where Jerry’s dating Bette Midler’s understudy in Rochelle, Rochelle! is on and Jerry said that the best thing about dating an understudy is that you don’t have to go backstage and kiss their ass if they suck.})
“Wasn’t that hot?” Arm Warmer Lady gushed to me as she went up to claim her guitarist.
After their set, Chuck came over to the couch where I was sitting to pack up and of course I’m thinking he did that because I was a woman sitting there alone and he’s in a band. Oh. Was I supposed to giggle and strike up a conversation with him and be impressed that he’s a musician? Jon came over, about to go “Wasn’t that the suckiest suck that ever sucked?” and I had to point to Chuck standing next to me, lest he said just that right in front of a member of said sucky band. He also said that the juxtaposition of seeing Tuff Farts followed by Reagan Youth is interesting.
Oooh. Reagan Youth were next. Whoopie, the kid from Distraction is filling in for the original overdosed singer, which seems like a good job for him since he seems very pissed off all the time. So I guess I’m totally punk rock now that I’ve seen Reagan Youth. I was still on the couch and piles of punx kept falling on me. I put my foot out, hoping to kick one in the balls when they landed on me. Then I moved to the curve of the backrest and perched there. Then I worried that they’d fall on the opposite end of the couch and I’d go catapulting across the room.
So by the time World War 9 took the stage, an hour past their midnight set time, they were out of it and seemingly running on the fumes they’d probably been huffing, so it doesn’t really matter how Max said they were starting off with Preteen Supermodel and announced their free stuff, and then played a different song, getting to Preteen Supermodel later in the set. Or maybe it was just me. And then Vanessa tried to auction off a DVD player in the middle of their set. I mean, literally right in the middle. Couldn’t she have done that in the middle of the Tuff Darts’ set? Or at least during set changes?
Test Specimen, who was to be on at 9:30, were setting up at 2 when I left. I did stop to pick up the book, wrapping the money in a note since nobody was at the merch table and putting it in the donation box. I explained that I wanted to buy the book but nobody was there, which is probably a good thing since Vanessa promised to show her titties (well, more than she already had all thru the show) if we’d buy a book.
So, yeah, the Avengers were playing next door and they sounded awesome. Since I probably won’t get around to it, I got the Maxwell’s ticket for 9/9 when I saw on NYCPunk that the CBGB show was $20 and the Maxwell’s show was $13, before the tix for CBGB even went onsale. That guy, Brian, from Manitoba’s was all, were you at CBGB? And I told him about the mixup and he tried to figure out which site I saw the wrong info on. He said the problem with Myspace is that all of a sudden everybody’s a professional and they don’t know how to do anything. It worked out because I was able to go to the benefit, but the Jersey/Maxwell’s crowd was understandably lame and that made the show a total bummer. And Midnight Creeps were on the CBGB show and the Maxwell’s show had a late show and I couldn’t get my ticket stub back after because they were trying to kick the early crowd out to set up for Priestess so they didn’t put them out like they usually did. Which is a complete and utter insult to me, I go thru all of this and I don’t even get a ticket stub back? And then Penelope said they were having a secret show at Trash—$7. Gah! But of course I had to get up early the next day and had already spent $13 on a show I could’ve seen for $7 and with a better crowd.
Don’t miss the next post where I suddenly land a better job, have less stress, more money, less stomach problems, can actually get some fucking sleep because I’m not up all night worrying, and review a Coldplay concert. USA! USA! USA!
posted by heather @ 12:07 AM
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