Just Another Manitoba's Monday
Yo! Scunt/Blackout Shoppers//Manitoba’s//11/13/06
(Hell, everything's gonna be a nostalgia trip w/me, I guess.)
It’s never a good thing when I get to the subway platform in the morning late, as usual, because I couldn’t get out of bed, as usual, because I’m stressed, as usual, and got to bed late, as usual, because I was at a show the night before, as usual, and find the platform mobbed. Perhaps it was the tail end of a go back to start because the trains aren’t passing go and by the time you get back to start everything would’ve been go.
In other words, everything’s going wrong.
But that’s okay. WWIX and Blackout Shoppers that night. During lunch I tried to find a flyer for the show, heading down 6th until 23rd, but I couldn’t find one. I would’ve taken the one from the window at Passout, but I figured they needed it to promote the show.
And then the email came that afternoon that Dr. Max Strum has fallen ill. Perhaps all the PCBs at New Paltz have caught up with him. Shit, no. I went to New Paltz. Whoever will the opening act be? Maybe they couldn’t get one on such short notice. And besides, I heard about the cops cutting SMUT short because of “noise complaints” (seriously, why live above a bar if you’re going to be such an ass about these things?) so I figured maybe there wouldn’t be one so the Shoppers could go on earlier and finish earlier and besides, it was raining all day, but the show better not be cancelled.
So I figured to stay at work at least a little later before they yell at me for coming in late and “Well, if you paid me decently I’d be able to get some sleep at night instead of tossing and turning and kicking the cat all night,” is never the answer. Well, it’s never the right answer. Of course by the time I got to the subway, there was some previous incident. An R went express.
It was about 7 by the time I got back. Put my stuff down, peed, fed cat, left. Thankfully the F came right away at 74th and ran without incident. Yo! Scunt, from Jackson Heights and (perhaps some toilet in) Flushing, opened. Their drummer wore a shirt that said: No job, no money, no car, but I am in a band. Well, 50% of that is true for me. Then again, Christine said that I should learn to play the drums so I can be their alternate, legal-age drummer. Yeah, but if I’m in the band, I can’t see the band.
“We’re on the Lower East Side, so I assume everyone here is from the Midwest. . . .”
And then I realize that by the end of the night, I would’ve seen 12 bands in 3 days. Lessee, that’s 12 bands in . . . I don’t know, how many hours? 36 hours. No, wait. I know this one. 64. Wait, band’s on.
To someone’s call of “Oi!,” they respond, “We’re from Queens. We say ‘yo.’ ”
Well, I’m from Queens and I say oy.
The Shoppers started off with mic troubles, (“Way to break stuff, ya douche!” someone yelled) and the place got really warm as they wiped the floor with us bastards. All of a sudden I got a strong whiff of I don’t know what it was, maybe air freshener from the bathroom or somebody’s perfume, but my nose started burning and I got a headache. Or the Shoppers were making me sick. (No, when I came back from doing the laundry I started sneezing vehemently after putting in the detergent. My sinuses are still bothering me.)
Justin accidentally spilled his beer on his head and I was trying to get Matt’s camera from him, lest it gets messed up. Still, its better that he spilled his beer on his head instead of on the floor because there’s less chance of him messing up the camera that way. I was trying signal Jon to take the camera and he managed to, so we don't miss this. Beer cans were flying. It was part crowd surf, part enthusiastic winning team hoisting up a teammate, but Seth was airborne at Manitoba’s. I couldn’t get over it. Apparently, neither could Kevin—I wish I’d brought a camera not only to capture that moment, but Kevin leaning over the bar, head in his hand, shaking his head in disbelief. Hell, I couldn’t get over it.
“When are you guys gonna start?”
72 hours. 3 days=72 hours. I knew that. (Yeah, of course I had to double-check that yet again to be sure before I posted this. Y’know, now that I spent an hour and a half trying to log in to the Google version of this and ranting against Google, Blogger, and myself for switching over because I can’t log in anymore and changing my password and then realizing that it was because I didn’t completely activate the new password. What can I say, it was like 1 in the morning.)
I tried to say my good-byes and not puke; raising my voice to be heard over the music made me cough. I did find a larger flyer on 2nd Ave. and while did advertise WWIX, it’s also more Justin Melkmann artwork. On St. Marks, a Save CBGB poster hung in a storefront. CBGB store coming soon! was written on it. A white plastic placard said CBGB store. No. Oh, hell no. You can’t put the CBGB store on St. Marks. I mean, as it is, you can buy a CBGB shirt in any of those stores that are already there. You can walk down to Broadway and get one at what passes for Canal Jean Co. these days. Or you could’ve walked down to CBGB from there. Maybe they’re not really putting the store there. Maybe they figured that the area is full of the people who would be looking to buy CBGB™ brand products and they’re just saying, in general, Hey, there’s a CBGB store coming, so get ready. (Holy shit, the gods are pissed off about this because I went to put the trademark symbol in and I went up to insert and Word fucking froze for a second. I was like holy shit, fuck, I didn’t save, and it kept saying not responding. I thought I was gonna lose the last 2 paragraphs.)
Before I caught the train I stopped to pick up something so the puke could anchor onto something in my stomach. As I waited for the train, a woman came right up to me and started talking to me as the express rattled by. Even after the train left, I had to ask her to repeat herself twice before I even caught the gist of what she was saying. My potato chips looked delicious and could she try one?
“You’ve never had a potato chip?” Of course I’m thinking that she could just be shitting me, playing up the Asian tourist bit. So I offer her a chip and she tentatively bites an end, and then puts the tip of it into the mouth of the woman she’s with, breaks it off, and puts the remainder of it into the mouth of the man that’s with her.
“Excuse me,” says the man. “What is the snack’s name?”
***
Now.
Now I know I told one Bloody Dick of The Band Formerly Known As The Spunk Lads that had he and Nick Knickers called their next band The Freedomhaters not only would I definitely go to see a band with that name but they would have no trouble charming this fickle bitch known as the NYC music scene.
So when I saw a Freedom Haters playing Sin-e at 11 that nite I was kinda considering it, because, I mean, let’s face it—even though I thought that Freedom Haters is 1 word. But the good thing about MySpace, aside from letting bands keep in touch w/fans by cutting out the middleman (as in, the “music” “industry”) and bands keeping in touch w/each other, and yada yada, is that I can further assess which bands are a priority to catch, beyond names/logos. Who/what do you consider your influences? How do you answer those stupid obligatory questions? Are there any guys/girls who look like/come off as assholes in the comments/pix of their “friends”? Do they have cool profile names? Which bands are their friends? All that shit is important to me because if I’m checking out a band on MySp at home where I still have dialup, that stupid player ain’t coming up but all the other stuff is. I care not what you sound like if you don’t pass muster on the other fronts. And if I’m checking you out at work, I don’t have time to listen to the songs or futz w/the downloading. This is what the Freedom Haters have to say about themselves: “Freedom Haters: a unique rock and roll trio, featuring electric violin, bass and drums, with shared vocals and abundant electronic manipulations. Their music ranges from concise noise-spiked rock songs to intricate chamber-punk, with room for spontaneous changes of mood and rhythm according to the band’s whim and collective psychological state; and yes, you may also be inspired to dance with strangers.
Freedom Haters’ music is firmly rooted in the traditions of iconoclasts like Igor Stravinsky, George Crumb, and Charles Ives—composers unafraid to give tradition a swift kick in the nuts simply to enjoy the sound of the screaming. Other obvious touchstones include Frank Zappa, Radiohead, Led Zeppelin and Lark’s Tongues in Aspic-era King Crimson.”
What pretentious bullshit. I was kind of tempted to see them and then start following them around because they’re crawling up out of the primordial ooze and it would be fun to watch and witness, but they played Kenny’s Castaways next and that’s a place I intend to never step foot in.
And yes, it occurred to me that the aforementioned rant does sound mighty snobby, but it’s not snobby if you’re right.
Besides, in their blog report the next day, they mentioned playing to an empty club and they were able to hear the bartenders arguing and that one day, they, too, shall wear Uggs ironically. Though that might just be Sin-e these days.
***
Update (3/3/07): While this post is coming up seemingly apropos to nothing, I figured that since the last one was about a Monday night rock show, and a bunch of free rock in NYC on a Monday night—something that, hopefully, won’t be a thing of the past, which I did not realize at the time and I had this on my desktop so why not, I'd rather do something w/it instead of staring at it all depressed and disbelieving—I’d like to point out, while I’m sitting here at home and not at a show I had plans on going to, I’M NOT MAD AT THE COPS FOR BUSTING IN ON MANITOBA’S. I’M MAD AT THE PEOPLE WHO SENT THE COPS TO MANITOBA’S.
Word.
(Hell, everything's gonna be a nostalgia trip w/me, I guess.)
It’s never a good thing when I get to the subway platform in the morning late, as usual, because I couldn’t get out of bed, as usual, because I’m stressed, as usual, and got to bed late, as usual, because I was at a show the night before, as usual, and find the platform mobbed. Perhaps it was the tail end of a go back to start because the trains aren’t passing go and by the time you get back to start everything would’ve been go.
In other words, everything’s going wrong.
But that’s okay. WWIX and Blackout Shoppers that night. During lunch I tried to find a flyer for the show, heading down 6th until 23rd, but I couldn’t find one. I would’ve taken the one from the window at Passout, but I figured they needed it to promote the show.
And then the email came that afternoon that Dr. Max Strum has fallen ill. Perhaps all the PCBs at New Paltz have caught up with him. Shit, no. I went to New Paltz. Whoever will the opening act be? Maybe they couldn’t get one on such short notice. And besides, I heard about the cops cutting SMUT short because of “noise complaints” (seriously, why live above a bar if you’re going to be such an ass about these things?) so I figured maybe there wouldn’t be one so the Shoppers could go on earlier and finish earlier and besides, it was raining all day, but the show better not be cancelled.
So I figured to stay at work at least a little later before they yell at me for coming in late and “Well, if you paid me decently I’d be able to get some sleep at night instead of tossing and turning and kicking the cat all night,” is never the answer. Well, it’s never the right answer. Of course by the time I got to the subway, there was some previous incident. An R went express.
It was about 7 by the time I got back. Put my stuff down, peed, fed cat, left. Thankfully the F came right away at 74th and ran without incident. Yo! Scunt, from Jackson Heights and (perhaps some toilet in) Flushing, opened. Their drummer wore a shirt that said: No job, no money, no car, but I am in a band. Well, 50% of that is true for me. Then again, Christine said that I should learn to play the drums so I can be their alternate, legal-age drummer. Yeah, but if I’m in the band, I can’t see the band.
“We’re on the Lower East Side, so I assume everyone here is from the Midwest. . . .”
And then I realize that by the end of the night, I would’ve seen 12 bands in 3 days. Lessee, that’s 12 bands in . . . I don’t know, how many hours? 36 hours. No, wait. I know this one. 64. Wait, band’s on.
To someone’s call of “Oi!,” they respond, “We’re from Queens. We say ‘yo.’ ”
Well, I’m from Queens and I say oy.
The Shoppers started off with mic troubles, (“Way to break stuff, ya douche!” someone yelled) and the place got really warm as they wiped the floor with us bastards. All of a sudden I got a strong whiff of I don’t know what it was, maybe air freshener from the bathroom or somebody’s perfume, but my nose started burning and I got a headache. Or the Shoppers were making me sick. (No, when I came back from doing the laundry I started sneezing vehemently after putting in the detergent. My sinuses are still bothering me.)
Justin accidentally spilled his beer on his head and I was trying to get Matt’s camera from him, lest it gets messed up. Still, its better that he spilled his beer on his head instead of on the floor because there’s less chance of him messing up the camera that way. I was trying signal Jon to take the camera and he managed to, so we don't miss this. Beer cans were flying. It was part crowd surf, part enthusiastic winning team hoisting up a teammate, but Seth was airborne at Manitoba’s. I couldn’t get over it. Apparently, neither could Kevin—I wish I’d brought a camera not only to capture that moment, but Kevin leaning over the bar, head in his hand, shaking his head in disbelief. Hell, I couldn’t get over it.
“When are you guys gonna start?”
72 hours. 3 days=72 hours. I knew that. (Yeah, of course I had to double-check that yet again to be sure before I posted this. Y’know, now that I spent an hour and a half trying to log in to the Google version of this and ranting against Google, Blogger, and myself for switching over because I can’t log in anymore and changing my password and then realizing that it was because I didn’t completely activate the new password. What can I say, it was like 1 in the morning.)
I tried to say my good-byes and not puke; raising my voice to be heard over the music made me cough. I did find a larger flyer on 2nd Ave. and while did advertise WWIX, it’s also more Justin Melkmann artwork. On St. Marks, a Save CBGB poster hung in a storefront. CBGB store coming soon! was written on it. A white plastic placard said CBGB store. No. Oh, hell no. You can’t put the CBGB store on St. Marks. I mean, as it is, you can buy a CBGB shirt in any of those stores that are already there. You can walk down to Broadway and get one at what passes for Canal Jean Co. these days. Or you could’ve walked down to CBGB from there. Maybe they’re not really putting the store there. Maybe they figured that the area is full of the people who would be looking to buy CBGB™ brand products and they’re just saying, in general, Hey, there’s a CBGB store coming, so get ready. (Holy shit, the gods are pissed off about this because I went to put the trademark symbol in and I went up to insert and Word fucking froze for a second. I was like holy shit, fuck, I didn’t save, and it kept saying not responding. I thought I was gonna lose the last 2 paragraphs.)
Before I caught the train I stopped to pick up something so the puke could anchor onto something in my stomach. As I waited for the train, a woman came right up to me and started talking to me as the express rattled by. Even after the train left, I had to ask her to repeat herself twice before I even caught the gist of what she was saying. My potato chips looked delicious and could she try one?
“You’ve never had a potato chip?” Of course I’m thinking that she could just be shitting me, playing up the Asian tourist bit. So I offer her a chip and she tentatively bites an end, and then puts the tip of it into the mouth of the woman she’s with, breaks it off, and puts the remainder of it into the mouth of the man that’s with her.
“Excuse me,” says the man. “What is the snack’s name?”
***
Now.
Now I know I told one Bloody Dick of The Band Formerly Known As The Spunk Lads that had he and Nick Knickers called their next band The Freedomhaters not only would I definitely go to see a band with that name but they would have no trouble charming this fickle bitch known as the NYC music scene.
So when I saw a Freedom Haters playing Sin-e at 11 that nite I was kinda considering it, because, I mean, let’s face it—even though I thought that Freedom Haters is 1 word. But the good thing about MySpace, aside from letting bands keep in touch w/fans by cutting out the middleman (as in, the “music” “industry”) and bands keeping in touch w/each other, and yada yada, is that I can further assess which bands are a priority to catch, beyond names/logos. Who/what do you consider your influences? How do you answer those stupid obligatory questions? Are there any guys/girls who look like/come off as assholes in the comments/pix of their “friends”? Do they have cool profile names? Which bands are their friends? All that shit is important to me because if I’m checking out a band on MySp at home where I still have dialup, that stupid player ain’t coming up but all the other stuff is. I care not what you sound like if you don’t pass muster on the other fronts. And if I’m checking you out at work, I don’t have time to listen to the songs or futz w/the downloading. This is what the Freedom Haters have to say about themselves: “Freedom Haters: a unique rock and roll trio, featuring electric violin, bass and drums, with shared vocals and abundant electronic manipulations. Their music ranges from concise noise-spiked rock songs to intricate chamber-punk, with room for spontaneous changes of mood and rhythm according to the band’s whim and collective psychological state; and yes, you may also be inspired to dance with strangers.
Freedom Haters’ music is firmly rooted in the traditions of iconoclasts like Igor Stravinsky, George Crumb, and Charles Ives—composers unafraid to give tradition a swift kick in the nuts simply to enjoy the sound of the screaming. Other obvious touchstones include Frank Zappa, Radiohead, Led Zeppelin and Lark’s Tongues in Aspic-era King Crimson.”
What pretentious bullshit. I was kind of tempted to see them and then start following them around because they’re crawling up out of the primordial ooze and it would be fun to watch and witness, but they played Kenny’s Castaways next and that’s a place I intend to never step foot in.
And yes, it occurred to me that the aforementioned rant does sound mighty snobby, but it’s not snobby if you’re right.
Besides, in their blog report the next day, they mentioned playing to an empty club and they were able to hear the bartenders arguing and that one day, they, too, shall wear Uggs ironically. Though that might just be Sin-e these days.
***
Update (3/3/07): While this post is coming up seemingly apropos to nothing, I figured that since the last one was about a Monday night rock show, and a bunch of free rock in NYC on a Monday night—something that, hopefully, won’t be a thing of the past, which I did not realize at the time and I had this on my desktop so why not, I'd rather do something w/it instead of staring at it all depressed and disbelieving—I’d like to point out, while I’m sitting here at home and not at a show I had plans on going to, I’M NOT MAD AT THE COPS FOR BUSTING IN ON MANITOBA’S. I’M MAD AT THE PEOPLE WHO SENT THE COPS TO MANITOBA’S. Word.
posted by heather @ 1:03 AM
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