A Wintry Mix

That's what they're called this unpleasant blend of rain, snow and sleet that's descended upon us tonight. We're also supposedly having a nor'easter, which seems like an excessively nautical term (yes, I know we're on an island and therefore technically at sea, but it's not very likely that we're going anywhere) for a storm that's blowing in off the ocean.

Though I don't suppose I should sneer so cavalierly at the marshaled forces of Mother Nature, since only five months ago they were responsible not only for flooding my apartment (twice in two weeks), but also for getting me evicted from said apartment (presumably it wouldn't have flooded if I hadn't been living there, or something like that). Now that I'm on the third floor, I no longer worry so much about floods, and have switched to fretting about the possibility of leaks developing in the roof or, more crucially, the entire roof being peeled away and deposited somewhere in Long Island Sound by the next hurricane.

But nonetheless I braved the elements tonight, first for a party in the city consisting of a slap-up meal (I don't really know what that means, but hopefully it means good and/or plentiful, because the meal was both, a re-enactment of the Judy Garland 1963 Christmas special with special guest star Ethel Merman (if you guessed there were drag queens involved in this extravaganza, you can safely append the initials M.O.T.O. to your surname), and some DJ dance music that started out promising but soon turned predictable.

At which time I headed back to Brooklyn on a jam-packed L train (breathing room only, and precious little of that). It was just like the morning commute, only consisting mainly of people who looked rather less likely to have jobs, i.e, half the population of Williamsburg. At one point, the train stopped without explanation and just sat there for about a five-minute eternity; the hipsters spoke loudly and agitatedly of panic attacks and reached as one for their Xanax.

Rather than rely on the none too tender mercies of the G train, I jumped, or rather squeezed out at Bedford, thinking I'd take the B61 bus to Greenpoint, but ha ha, once again the joke was on me, because it never came, and I walked all the way while talking to my old friend Wade on a mountain somewhere in Northern California.

By now the "wintry mix" was in full effect, one minute covering the sidewalk with the sort of slush one would find in a sno-cone (not sure which flavor, though), the next washing it away again. Got to the Lost and Found, where I seem to be turning up rather often these days in time to catch about half the set by the very intense and very good Max Levine Ensemble. If the B61 bus had turned up, I probably would have seen it all, but at least it was an improvement over Gainesville, where I missed it all.

Until David the Spoonboy's (there's a story behind that name, but I don't understand it) conked out, the MLE were on top form. They're a little more hardcore than the bands I normally prefer, but make up for it with surprising dollops of melody and sheer, overpowering energy and enthusiasm. I will see them again first chance I get. Afterward, spent a pleasant little while chatting with the Spoonboy himself, the continuation of a conversation/good-natured argument that started in Gainesville. Very smart guy, especially considering that we disagree on about 90% of everything.

Then it was time to make my way home, and by now the storm was in full effect. Just as I got to Manhattan Avenue, what to my wondering eyes should appear but the elusive B61 bus. Unfortunately, I was no longer going where the B61 bus was going, so I waved it away, and immediately regretted my decision. I could have, you see, taken it to the subway, and even if I had to wait a long time for the train, at least I would be doing so indoors where it was warm and dry. I could have also simply gone downstairs and waited for the G train, but just as I considered doing so, I heard it go by under my feet, meaning there wouldn't be another one for at least 20 minutes.

Instead, I very sensibly (not) waited a similar amount of time in the very windy, very wet and very cold outdoors for the B43 that was going to take me almost directly to my house (well, after the driver parked it literally in the middle of the road and went in to get a coffee and shoot the breeze at an all-night deli). When I got back to my block, drunken hipsters were sliding on the ice that now coated everything, all of which was jolly fun if, like me, you enjoy the spectacle of hipsters falling on their asses.

Speaking of hipsters and asses, the Lost and Found attracts a fair few of them, and tonight a couple of them decided that since the L&F practices a pretty laissez-faire attitude about almost everything, it would be fine if they lit up cigarettes while they watched the band. Maybe I'm spoiled by New York's (and now London's) generally smoke-free bars and clubs, but boy, did those two jerks manage to stink up the whole place for everyone else. A third guy, emboldened by the first two clowns, started rolling up a cigarette for himself, but when he went to light it, standing right next to him, I spoke sharply to him and he slunk away, leaving it unlit.

Why, you ask, didn't I similarly chastise the other two smokers instead of fuming about it off in the corner? Well, they were a lot bigger and meaner-looking, though perhaps I'm confusing "oafish" for "mean." Anyway, regardless of one's feelings about smoking in bars, my guess is that if this trend continues, it's going to end up with the Lost and Found getting shut down. All it takes is one complaint to the city and inspectors will be in there checking it out, and even if they don't catch anyone smoking, they're almost certain to run across any number of other violations which I don't need to name here, but which almost anyone who frequents the place will be aware of.

So, smokers, even if you don't care about being jerks and stinking up the place for everyone else, you might want to take your fags outside for the sake of not getting a great place for shows shut down. Unfortunately the two clowns in question tonight didn't look as though they gave a lot of thought to anything, or at least not particularly high quality thought, but I've misjudged people before and perhaps I'm doing it again. In any event, if you happen to be reading this: cut it out, please. It's not big, it's not clever, it's not cool, and it STINKS.

Sunday Bloody Sunday

My trepidations about incipient senility notwithstanding, Sunday saw me put in a solid 12 hours of rocking and rolling, first at Day Two of the aforementioned Carlapalooza, latterly at the Lost And Found Saloon over in Greenpoint.

I didn't see all the bands at the Cake Shop, but of those I did see, my two favorites were, well, my perennial two favorites, the Leftovers and the Steinways. I know you may suspect me of being a one-man hype machine for these two bands, but I don't hesitate to mention when either of them is on less than top form, and have done so at times this past year.

However, this Sunday was not one of those times. Just off a several-week US tour (and having been kept up past 4 am by man-about-town Frank Unlovable), the Leftovers tore into their set at a whole new level of power and professionalism (the good kind of professionalism; i.e., their instruments were in tune, they didn't waste time in between songs, every song was tightly honed and fit into the set like jewels in a flawless Swiss watch). It's almost frightening to see music played at that level in - with all respect to the Cake Shop - what resembles little more than a basement practice space. I imagine it must have been a bit like this to see the Beatles in their Cavern Club days or the Rolling Stones at Richmond's Crawdaddy Club.

But as sensational as they were, the Leftovers didn't even take top honors on this Sunday. That distinction would have to go to the Steinways, who after a lull earlier this year while they developed new material, have re-entered the fray as - in my decidedly none too humble opinion - the best band in the USA today. Yes, I know the Ergs are far better musicians technically speaking - so are the Leftovers, for that matter - and certainly the Ergs have a bigger following, but as simple and unaffected as the Steinways are, there's something that ineffably sets them apart from and on a different plane from all other bands. Think Ramones in 1975 or Screeching Weasel in 1988: almost nobody grasped the full amazing-ness of those bands at the time, or foresaw the impact they were going to have on pop music and culture.

Am I predicting similar greatness for the Steinways? No, because they've already got similar greatness. Are they going to have a similar impact? Too soon to tell, but barring a breakup or one or more members developing a serious drug problem, there's no reason they shouldn't.

Sunday's show, which got underway when singer/guitarist Grath McGrath made a perfectly timed entry after spending much of the afternoon watching football back in Queens, turned out to be one of those magic moments when everybody simultaneously realized, "Hey, these guys aren't just our friends, they're also like this totally awesome band that I'd love even if I'd never met or heard of them before."

I'd seen something similar happen at the 2006 Baltimore Fest, but now there were new songs, new people, and a new level of ecstasy and excitement as virtually everyone sang along and all but threw themselves onto the stage to smother the Steinways in a great big puppy pile of mutual love and affection. Being in the slightly mopey mood that I described in the previous post, I was standing off to the side of the stage facing the crowd, and it looked exactly like one of those photos you see in books about some classic music scene from the past, be it CBGBs in the late 70s or DC in the early 80s, or Gilman Street later on in that decade. It made me feel pretty cool, too, that I knew about 90% of the people in that crowd. Not only are the Steinways a great band; they have the best fans, too.

A sensible person would have gone home after that, but remember who's talking here. Actually, I did go home, but only to grab my bike and ride over to Greenpoint, where the Modern Machines (yes, named after the song by SoCal's The Crowd) were playing along with three or four other bands (lineups and schedules at this rather louche drinking establishment are nearly always subject to great variation).

I'd already seen the MoMacs at the Cake Shop, but they'd mentioned that they'd be playing again that night with a band they highly recommended, who turned out to be the Thomas Function from Alabama, who with their slippery-slidey organ riffs reminded me of a kudzu-and-Spanish moss-encrusted Del Shannon if he'd had Ray Manzarek playing keyboards for him. The singer was so drunk he could barely stand up (at least that was the case when I talked to him afterward), but it was good jolly fun, even if by now it had gotten on toward one thirty in the morning. I thought surely that the party had to be over now, but yet another band, this one from über-punk Crown Heights, leisurely started setting up.

If I were them, I would have got up and started playing as quickly as possible, before what was left of the audience drifted away, but that's apparently not how things work at the Lost And Found. Just when their equipment seemed to be nearly ready, a couple band members nonchalantly wandered outside to smoke. I'd resolved to stay long enough to catch at least a couple of their songs, but this was getting ridiculous, so I hopped aboard my ragged bicycle and made my wobbly way home.