[kj] New York Report!

[Pat Tofield]

Alex....fantastic report...

....halfway through......


...just ordering some food for the next stage......



LOL....Pat

-----Original Message-----
From: gathering-admin@misera.net [mailto:gathering-admin@misera.net] On
Behalf Of Alex Smith
Sent: Thursday, October 23, 2003 9:42 AM
To: gathering@misera.net; gathering@misera.net; gathering@misera.net
Subject: [kj] New York Report!


God Bless Chock Full'o'Nuts Coffee, by gosh.

Incidentally, those of you looking for strictly gig details and a
set-list
are going to have to earn it, or wait for a less flowerly and
self-serving
report from someone else. 

Right. First comes the apologies. There is a troubled, private, roiling
rubicon of near-pantsless drunkenness that I have been handily known to
happily cross on many an occaission, whereupon after which I am
churlishly
renowned for expressing my outbursts of good will and bonhommie via
striking
various compadres on the shoulder, solarplexus, nape and/or sternum
harder
than they'd necessarily prefer, let alone expect. Suffice it to say,
this
point was swiftly passed in the very early hours of this morning, and if
Tale-tellin' Todd "Fluw" Wulfemeyer, Yosef "excitable" Exorcist,
Teutonic
Dynamo Dirk, Sir Michael "Don't Call Me Claude Rains" Coles, veritably
bulky
brick shithouse "New Guy" Mike and/or Ted "ask me another Prong question
and
you're going head first into the toilet" Parsons wanted to beat the
snots
outta me in due course for it, I wouldn't hold it against them. Still,
could've been worse, right? At least my pants stayed on, right? (please
tell
me they did, fellas). All's well that ends...well, nevermind.

To quote Cat "Death to the Infadels" Stevens, morning has fucking
broken.

Wow. Quite an evening. At around 4:30 pm, after putting on my needlessly
silly spikey belt and blow-drying my hair just so, I bounded out the
door to
the now-fabled (well, not realy) Central Bar wherein I met....well, no
one
at first (though that didn't stop me from bellying up to the bar and
igniting proceedings with a bang in the form of a pint of Yuengling, the
first of way too many). In short order (though not in short stature),
the
estimable artisan we all know and manfully adore as Mike Coles arrived
(in
stylish leather coat, replete with "Laugh at Your Peril" badge) to -- as
loathesome pop harpee P!nk might've said -- get this party started.
After a
bit, whilst the stoically sage-like Coles regailed me with yarns of olde
involving the protoplasmic origins of Malicious Damge like a learned
druid
schooling a wide-eyed peasant lad, in walked three leggy ladies who
extended
a lithe, seductive didjit at my red MALICIOUS DAMAGE CLOCK shirt.
"Alex?"
asked the brunette. Turns out that this was big Cliff's wife, sister and
sister's friend, all looking very sexy and tatooed and post-punk and all
that. Suddenly, it was a genuine...er...gathering.

Shortly afterwards, in walked the Hamburgian force of supernature that
is
Dirk K. and his trusty sidekick Tim (himself also sporting the red
Malicious
Damage clock shirt), and out went the girls (not as a result, mind you,
but
for the purposes of going home, changing and showering). Reduced again
to a
quartet of males, our little pirate ship settled in for more beers
(Coles
drinking Corona, the rest of us opting for Yuengling at my dubious
suggestion). For those that give a toss, Devilish Dirk came swaddled in
the
now-ancient Gathering t-shirt, rocking it "old school" as the bretheren
of
the hip hop community might say (though, he was quick to point out, he
sported an Extremities t-shirt underneath). Why Dirk saw fit to wear two
t-shirts when one would've handily sufficed still eludes my
comprehension. 

After ordering some man-sized plates of charred animal flesh, loving
adorned
with cheese and chips, the garishly-painted doors of this fine
establishment
swung wide yet again, and in strutted Todd "Fluw" Wulfemeyer, straight
from
the mean, blood-splattered streets of Albany (our fine state's capital
city,
for those of you keen on that sort of trivia). Bravely sporting the
eye-catching and temper-tempting "drowning Liberty" t-shirt, his
Fluwness
gamely ordered himself a plate of "bangers'n'mash" (how Brit of him) and
a
pint of Guiness and mucked right in. Having heard that the Exorcist,
red-headed Robyn and various other folk were going to be late and would
try
to find us at the venue, it seemed our little gang of avengers was now
fully
assembled. 

We'd heard initial reports that the band themselves (or at least Raven)
might come and find us at the Central Bar, but those rumours revealed
themselves to be sadly unfounded. After shovelling down our grub and
hoisting a few more frothy beverages, we decided to ship out, leaving
the
comfy confines of the Central Bar (and inexplicably repeated airings of
"Roundabout" by Yes on the soundsystem) behind us. Two city blocks and
one
corner later, brightly lit marquee of Webster Hall came into full
view....as
well as the rather worrying sight of a big line-up (or "que" as you
Brits
might say). Dutifully taking our place at the back of it (much to our
collective grumbling), our little brood of scowling Gatherers spied the
crowd for any familiar faces. None found, but I spotted (and rather
brazenly
accosted) a rather large looking gent sporting the CONFIRM YOUR WORST
FEARS/Central Point shirt, which I immediately pointed out to
said-shirt's
designer, Mike Coles. Turns out this big dude's name was John, and he
did
indeed procure that handsome garment through the Mal.Dam site, though he
seemed to scoff at the notion that Mike Coles actually remembered the
order.
Why would we lie?

In due course, we ticket holders were allowed to jump the line (whilst
the
indie-rock loving, CMJ-badge-holding hordes in their ironic cardigans,
sensible shoes and trucker caps) were left to wait in the damp. Fluw,
meanwile, vanished for a bit to prize his ticket from the wilcall line.
In
we went.

Back in the day, Webster Hall was formerlly known as the Ritz and played
host to every great band worth a damn in the 80s, the Joke included.
Sometime around 1989, however, the owners of the Ritz pulled out of the
operation and the venue morphed into Webster Hall, a niteclub in the
same
style as the then-hip Palladium and once-prominent Danceteria. I hand't
been
in the great room's interior since about 1994 when Redd Kross played
(live
music is a scarcity at Webster Hall, let alone decent live music). The
main
floor we shuffled into looked a bit like a high school prom, complete
with
dangling disco ball. We gawked around in a state of bemusement, ordering
ourselves another round of beers (fuckin' SEVEN DOLLARS for a bottle of
shitty Budweiser!!?!?!?!?) and looked around for other Jokers. Fluw
reappeared and we all repaired to the side bar for a bit. 

Finding precious little excitment at said side bar, we ambled upstairs
to
take a gander at the crowd and see the stage. Once assembled, as if on
cue,
the lights dimmed and out strode a hirsute quintet of irritating hepcats
who
apparently call themselves The Fever, who proceeded to launch into a
headache-inducing racket that couldn't have been more retrophillically
derivative if earnest attempted. After giving them a brief sporting
chance
(much to our furrowed-brows, shaking heads and expressions of abject
disdain), we collectively decided to spare our hearing and repair back
downstairs. 

More beers followed. Dirk's buddy Tim found himself an easy chair near
the
television and settled in to soak up some baseball. The rest of us
chatted
amiably with a variety of CMJ characters. After a spell, in walked Yosef
(i
believe I'm spelling that correctly), otherwise known as The Exorcist
(why
he calls himself this, I do not know, but suffice it to say he was not
wearing a priest's collar nor, to my knowledge, in possession of any
holy
water). I wandered about looking for other Gatherers. We spotted Cliff,
himself toiling under the crack of Killing Joke's roadie whip, along
with
the drum tech from New Zealand, who looks like he could easily slit one
up
and down with a bowie knife before you could say "Picnic at Hanging
Rock".
Chatted with them briefly before they were summoned back to the trenchs.
I
wobbled over to a little table in the back of the room where I'd spotted
Bob
Mould (shorn of hair and in suprisingly fit shape) and expressed my
admiration, however somewhat insincerely. Never one to miss a
promotional
opportunity, he slipped a BLOWOFF flyer in my hand (his new electronic
project) which I then proceeded to discard almost immediately upon
leaving
the room. Sorry, Bob.

Time passed. In my further wanderings, I was met by "New Guy Mike" and a
lurker who disquietingly announced my name in a somewhat sinister tone
named
Adam (I think). The merch table was hawking the clown shirts, a bag of
Colesy badges and a new, heretofore unspotted design dubbed "Stone Face"
(basically a pic of Jaz's face taken from the "Seeing Red" video, not at
all
unlike the homemade design Mik Raven posted some time ago). Like the
dutiful
fanboy, I bought one (treating the unsuspecting hordes to a thoroughly
unsolicited viewing of my bare, pasty, pale torso as I slipped it on
under
the read MAL.DAM clock shirt) By around 10:30, we figured it would be
prudent to secure a spot up by the stage, just in time to catch a set by
the
band VHS or Beta (and, honestly, can you think of a sillier name for a
band?)

VHS or Beta basically play a discoey approximation of Gang of Four and
sport
hairstyles that recall a Small Faces-era Ron Wood. I didn't think they
were
entirely terrible (I think Coles tolerated them as well), but needless
to
say....they're no Killing Joke.

Done with that rabble, the bunch of us ploughed through the human cattle
to
the front (myself pushing aside a comely wench at the barricade, almost
immediately lapsing into apologies for my boorish behavior, which she
seemed
to buy). That mission accomplished, in very short order, the lights
dimmed
again and....hello, what's this? KILLING JOKE TAKE THE STAGE!!!!!!!!!
Raven
strides right up to the front of the stage, greeting we the grinning
faithful.


Honestly speaking? It's all a manic fucking blur. Jaz in now familiar
Peruvian spider get-up and bug-eyed visage of impending doom, Raven in
camo
shorts, POLIZEI t-shirt, warpaint and signature wool cap, Geordie in
kneepadded "interesting pants" and unbothered expression of coolster
insouciance, Parsons a bald-head machine of stick-flailing death. On the
keybs was a fresh-faced gent named Nick, looking quite the youngster but
handling his duties with aplomb. Rookie roadie Cliff sat aside the stage
in
the ready position, often dutifully scampering about like a ball-boy at
Wimbledon. Some technical problems blighted the early bits of the set,
but I
honestly didn't notice (as I was entirely busy trying to shove the
metal,
cattle-hurding barricades THROUGH THE FUCKING STAGE in a state of
Joke-fueled apoplexy like froth-mouthed epileptic). Herewith the
set-list
(thank you Cliff for the artefact, by the way)...

* "Communion"
* "Requiem"
* "Total Invasion"
* "Wardance"
* "Blood on Your Hands"
* "Change"
* "Seeing Red"
* "The Wait"
* "Whiteout"
* "Pssyche"

>From what I could tell, the crowd was pretty into it (though I would've
liked to have seen a bit more movement). I believe Dirk was chastised by
some figure of authority for attempting to get a pit going. What's New
York
City coming to? Ya can't smoke? Ya can't mosh? It might be time to move
to
the country, methinks. At one brief point (I want to say during
"Change,"
but I might be mistaken) some entirely foolhardy lad leaped down from
what I
believe was the BALCONY onto the stage, whereupon he was summarily
treated
to a roughnecked "bouncer sandwich" and jostlingly bundled off to what I
can
only imagine was a late evening of moist-eyed wound-licking. Silly boy.

And as soon as we were reaching that white hot level of synchronized
band-crowd intensity.....it was over. Thanks for coming. No encore
(which I
believe was CMJ's doing, not the band's). Once we spotted the drum kit
being
disassembled, we knew the proverbial fat lady had chirped.

Stumbling around, trying to organize some semblance of a plan, Fluw and
I
bound upstairs, looking for the band. From behind th stage door, along
comes
Jaz looks suprisingly relaxed, respendent in black with signature
Indiana
Jones hat. Fluw and I dutifully express our boundless gratitude (I
believe I
told Jaz I was thinking of naming my impending child after him). He
could
not have been nicer. Out walks Geordie, looking a bit miffed to be
honest,
though I cannot say why. Fluw and I basically deduce that he is not to
be
bothered. Back downstairs we go and meet red-haired and pig-tailed Robyn
and
her pal Sean, whom we unsuccessfully invite with us to the nearby
Black'n'White Bar for a drink.

Outside the venue, we give a knock on the tour bus and Raven yanks us
inside
for a brief, blurred momment of affable howayas. We mention that we're
all
going to the Black'n'White Bar to continue the merriment. Parsons says
he'll
be along shortly. 

Once back outside, off we go the bar one block away, where we are soon
joined by Ted Parsons, keyboardist Nick Walker (who had to go BACK to
the
bus to fetch his passport to prove his age to the unsmiling bouncer),
Troy
Gregory (!!!!!...who looks bizarrely like a younger version of Jaz)
various
roadies, an ex-Swan (old pal of Ted's) and Cliff's trio of lovely
ladies.
Many, many drinks and photographs followed (watch this space soon for
those)
and it was at this point that I became more of a blabbering loon than
usual,
initiating the afore-mentioned practice of shoulder-hitting, much the
chagrin of my fellow bar patron. Ted Parsons, Nick Walker and Troy
Gregory
were all complete champs and chatted with us like members of the
extended
family. Raven, it seems, has sworn off heavy-bevvy comsumption and
remained
behind to store up his strength for the next gig. I gather the night
before,
Coles saw the band in fighting martini-swigging form, so their batteries
needed a recharging I suppose.

Hours and dollars later, it was all over. The boys in the band repaired
back
to the bus. Exorcist fled back to Queens. Fluw and Colesy repaired back
to
the Union Square Hotel. The German contingent departed for their hotel
in
midtown, and I wobbled the two blocks back to my home, though not before
Cliff handed me the setlist outside the venue (where Coles was convinced
we
were going to pound on the tourbus door to wake up Jaz and Geordie....we
didn't).

And that was that.

Alex in NYC





















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