Live Wire

Someone much wiser than me once made the case that the best thing about summer in New York City is all the free music, and none of the seemingly thousands of fans flocked around the small South Street Seaport stage to see punk legends Wire last night was likely to argue with that. Not after the reformed, reconfigured band played its first show in almost four years, before an adoring and mostly very young audience. I had seen a few other free shows at my old stomping ground the Seaport, including Luna and Son Volt, but none that even approached the size of this crowd.

"Thanks for not going to see the Eagles tonight," lead singer Colin Newman quipped a few songs into the show, to raucous applause and what used to be called guffawing in an earlier, simpler time. "When we started out in 1977, the Eagles were one thing: The Enemy!" More catcalls, general hilarity, and then from our 3rd row "seats" my friend Steve shouted out "Hotel California"! to near-universal peals of laughter, before Wire, 3 Men and a Girl now in the revamped lineup, launched into another brutally primal rhythm in remarkably tight fashion for a band that was returning after such a long layoff.

At one point the bass player mentioned that they had played CBGBs 30 years ago, and he understood it was no longer there. "It's a boutique now!" yelled Johnny Hags, obviously fueled by our short but productive pre-show stop at the Killarney Rose on Pearl Street. Oh yeah, we were on our game all night.

The band played mostly new stuff, with a few old chestnuts like a blistering-fast "1 2 x U" toward the end there. But no "Dot Dash" to our disappointment. It's always like this whenever I go see old punk bands in their new guises; I was pissed last year when the Speedies didn't play "No Substitute"; devastated when The Slits chose to ignore "Heard it Through the Grapevine" a few months ago at the Merc Lounge; and then last night, no "Dot Dash" -- an incredibly catchy raver that rightfully takes its rank among the best songs of that great 1977-79 period of British Punk. Of course the odds are against hearing all the old stuff, especially if you consider that when Wire releases its new album, appropriately titled Object 47, it will be the band's 47th record of its long career. Now, not all were full length or probably even new material, but still, it's a big back catalog from which to choose their nightly set list.

In Wire's case, me and Steve were hoping their set would be saturated with songs from their seminal first 3 albums (Pink Flag, Chairs Missing, 154) -- Dot Dash, Mr. Suit, Ex-Lion Tamer, Reuters, Lowdown, Outdoor Miner, I Am the Fly, It's So Obvious, Three Girl Rumba: incendiary bursts of offhand brilliance, punctuated throughout with great hooks, complete songs that lasted just 50 seconds, a minute, 1 minute and a half. As one of the band once famously said when asked why the early numbers were so short: The song ends when the lyrics run out.
"Dot Dash" comes with a bit of a back story. The DJs at the long-defunct punk club Hurrah's used to play the song, but we had no idea who it was; all we knew that when the song came on we would all hit the dance floor with a vengeance because it was just impossible not to, moshing about before they had a name for it, arms and limbs flailing in an orgiastic release of energy. But then later when we asked the DJ what song he had just played, all we got back was an indiscernible mumble barely audible above the din of the club. "It sounded like he said White Horse," someone would guess, while another thought he heard High Horse. This went on for a couple of months, until someone in our crowd stumbled on the great early punk compilation album The Rare Stuff, and we found out the song was called Dot Dash and it was by a group called Wire. And the rest is some kind of history.

"Who knew that Wire was a jam band!" -- Steve again -- and indeed for most of the night Wire seemed to be in some kind of trance while playing their uber-minimalist brand of industrial hardcore, like a mutant Phish crossed with Joy Division.

The opening act was called Die! Die! Die! and they too had a little Joy Division in them. The lead singer jumped into the crowd a few times--apparently that kind of stuff is big in their native New Zealand, but luckily their feedback-drenched set of punk-by-the-numbers cartunes was mercifully brief. There's a video of one of their songs from last night on YouTube (see post below) and I swear I can see myself out among the crowd, along with my buddies Steve and Johnny Hags and the rest of the assorted nouveau-hip right near the front of the stage, with their accouterments of hipsterism -- the fluffy sideburns, the tight trousers, the roll-your-own-cigarette crowd. But hey, everyone's gotta start out somewhere, and one could have done a lot worse than a free show off the river in the fresh night city air among one's fellow denizens of the demimonde.

See also:

Band On The Rise

Unforeseen Musical Directions

Frequent Mutilation

New Wave Nostalgia

Die! Die! Die! | NYC @ Seaport | May 30th, 2008

Wire | NYC @ South Street Seaport | May 30th, 2008

Free Willie!

HERE WE ARE, just a short New York Week after the Mets swept the rain-shortened Subway Series 2 to zip, yet it's the team from Flushing on the proverbial ropes, suddenly losers of 7 of 8 games, while the Bronx Bombers seem to have found their hitting shoes, winning 5 of 6 in the last week.

The Mets had to feel good as they rode the rails out of town, except for the fact that their business trip would unfortunately take them to Atlanta, where predictably the Braves took all four games. Then the Mets took their sorry show to Colorado, where they won just a single game of three against a putrid Rockies team, before finally returning home, only to drop the first game of the homestand 7-4 to the resurgent Florida Marlins.

At just 23-26, the Mets now trail the 1st Place Marlins (30-20) by 6 1/2 games.

All the negativity both on and off the field has flooded the radio waves with scores and scores of grieving Mets fans, who seem to forget that their team has sucked far more often than it has not sucked in their checkered history. Yet these Mets fans have focused all their misguided ire on one Willie Larry Randolph -- probably my favorite Yank growing up, manning 2nd base and usually batting second on those great late 1970s teams.

Now, to be fair, the Mets do have a losing record now going for more than a year, but since you can't fire all 25 players, it's easier to just fire the manager. But like their fellow crosstown underachievers the Yankees, it's the general managers who, despite basically unlimited resources, both assembled remarkably flawed teams despite the litany of talent you could cite on both teams. But it seems like all the pressure is on Willie Randolph to win games, with very little left over for Mets GM Omar Minaya.

As for the Yankees, due to some early-season injuries, backups at catcher, first base and third base have had to fill in and play far more than anyone could have expected or indeed hoped for. They are getting nothing at catcher since Jorge Posada went down, with Jose Molina, one of the 14 or 15 Molina brothers in major league baseball, not even close to hitting his weight, at .216 with no HRs and just 5 RBIs in almost 100 ABs.

When A-Rod went down, that had a ripple effect, such that no-names like Morgan Ensberg (.203 in 75 at-bats) and Chad "Impacted" Moeller (13 for his last 49) saw significant action.

And then there's the troublesome middle relief as well as late relief now that the phenomenal Joba Chamberlain is officially headed to the starting rotation. LaTroy Hawkins and Kyle Farnsworth are worse than unproven -- they've both shown a disconcerting predilection to Fuck Things Up when you count on them for anything close to an important game situation. That Bridge to Mariano just got a lot more rickety, my friends.

Throw in lack of team speed, a suspect starting rotation that, except for Chien-Ming Wang, is by turns too young or too old, an average outfield defense, and the problem of throwing out runners when Posada and his sore shoulder returns, and I don't see how this team goes on any extended winning streams like last season, or accumulates enough series wins against the mediocre teams to mount any sustained threat to the Hated, Detested Red Sox of Beantown.

The other New York team has its own set of problems and baggage, and as a Yankees fan how could I possibly be more happy watching and listening to the disaster unfold. I know it's still early in the season -- but it's not very early anymore, is it? To win the division, the Metropolitans will have to pass over and contend with three fairly good baseball teams, namely:

The Atlanta Braves; still the thorn in the Mets' thin skin, never more so than after their 4-game series sweep last week.

The Philadelphia Phillies, who put up 20 runs and 15 runs in their last two games, so they just may be swinging some hot sticks right about now.

And then the surprising Florida Marlins, now an astounding 10 games over .500 and showing no signs of cracking.

All of which point to the Mets having to fight tooth-and-nail all season long just to get into the playoffs. And given their fragile mental state, I don't see that happening. On top of an epic late season collapse last year, when they blew a seemingly insurmountable 7-game lead in the NL East, they have not been anywhere near the powerhouse club that many had predicted after acquiring perhaps the best young pitcher in the game, Johan Santana. They have played down to the level of competition so often already this year that it's hard to tell just where the Mets are. Seemingly all the pieces are in place: formidable batting lineup, solid starters, good closer. But they just don't seem to add up so far.

So it may be time to Free Willie: even though he played for the Mets late in his career, it was just never a good match. I'm sure Randolph just wanted to get his foot in the door after waiting for his chance to manage for so long, and the fact that he could stay in New York probably seemed like a positive at the time, as did the Mets' roster and payroll. But now that the Mets Nation has proven to be the world's largest outdoor insane asylum, there's no way Willie survives the All-Star Break.

It's time for a clean break. The Mets fans obviously don't appreciate one of the classiest guys not just in baseball but throughout sports. No, Mets fans, so used to all that success over the years, are demanding a winner, and heads will roll if they aren't handed their World Series trophy soon.

GM Omar Minaya has had carte blanch to acquire all the pieces of the puzzle that contenders need. He hasn't been charged with building the farm system, with just Jose Reyes and David Wright anything like homegrown talent on the roster, and both of those signings far predated Minaya's arrival. Instead, during his tenure he has brought in high-profile, big-bucks veterans like Carlos Delgado, Pedro Martinez, Paul Lo Duca, Orlando Hernandez, Billy Wagner, Carlos Beltran, Moises Alou, Tom Glavine and now Santana -- giving the Mets the illusion of championship talent without the chemistry or cohesion that championship teams always seem to have.

For me the one good thing about Randolph getting the ax is that it would make rooting against the Mets just a little bit more enjoyable. Even for a rabid anti-Met hater like myself, I would sometimes find it difficult rooting for Willie to fail. Once he is removed from the equation, rooting against the Mets will have no more restrictions. And at the end of the day, isn't that what New York sports fan dementia is all about?!

Rotten In The Apple

Sure, there's all kinds of real bad news taking place all over the world, from cyclones in Myanmar and earthquakes in China to the continuing never-ending atrocities in Africa and the Middle East, but for sheer awful recent disasters I choose to parochially focus on the just-past, disastrous Subway Series, with the New York Yankees dropping two games against hated crosstown rivals The Mets. By sheer luck I missed the entire series, shortened as it was.

Friday's game was slated to run on free TV for one of the few times this season, so naturally it poured all day, making the rain-out cancellation a foregone conclusion by gametime. Then I missed Saturday's game, having driven way upstate with some friends, whose new house contained not a single working TV. Not that the ballgame would've been on anyway, I'm just trying to paint the word picture for you.

And then Sunday, the game was an ESPN deal, start time of 8:00, and by the time I got a score on the radio it was 4-0 Mets, right after the Carlos Delgado home run that was and then wasn't, so I returned to the Office marathon on NBC, never to return to what was ultimately a horrid 11-2 loss to the Mets.

The Yanks picked right up swinging & missing versus the Mets, fresh off their feeble 26-132 effort in 4 games against the much-improved Tampa Bay Rays, a team obviously being held back by the Devil in their name all those years.

It's shaping up as the kind of season where you just hope the whole slate of games gets rained out, because guess what -- this team is not coming back this year, not this time. I know that technically last year they had a worse record before righting the ship and catching fire, almost winning the division after spotting Boston a huge lead most of the season. But that was last season. This is now. You tell me where the pitching is gonna come from. Ian Kennedy and Phil Hughes? That much-heralded duo has as many wins combined as do Ted Kennedy and Howard Hughes. And that would be none, as in zip, nada, zero.

Other teams got better, the Yankees just got older and fatter.

According to ESPN Radio, Mike Piazza just announced his retirement. Wouldn't it be a nice slap in the face to Mets fans if he goes into the Hall of Fame wearing a blue Dodgers cap instead of a blue Mets hat? Just asking...

Alas, Mets lost Game 1 of their twi-night doubleheader to Atlanta today, falling to the mighty Tom Glavine 6-1. Guess all that Mets Momentum lasted about 12 hours. How great is that.

I do think Yankees, 20-24 entering tonight's game, go on a mini-tear right about now, what with Alex Rodriguez returning, as well as just the whole law of averages saying they can't get any worse. But it still won't be enough to climb back into the division race. No, the hated Red Sox are gonna run away with this thing. Just one man's considerably informed opinion. But then you knew that...otherwise why would you be here?

But whatever run the Yankees are destined to go on, the start of that run will have to wait until tomorrow, because get this: the Yankees are already down 9-fucking-zip to the Orioles, top of the 2nd inning! That's scary. Recently resurrected Mike Mussina gave up 7 runs, although only one of them was earned. They still count, and by golly the tabloids are gonna have a field day tomorrow if this blowout remains in force. Mussina has been replaced by Ross Ohlendorf, if that makes you feel any better.

This is also not the night for the Yankees to improve on their sorry 0-22 mark in games when they trail after 7 innings. Doesn't say much when a team literally never comes back in late innings.

Just had dinner. Now it's 10-0 Orioles after a Kevin Millar long ball off Ohlendorf. Could use the forfeit rule just about now. But that's not the worst news. Between bites of my roast chicken, I hear the Birds' pitcher has plucked Derek Jeter in the left wrist with a fastball, and he has to leave the game with what very well may be a serious injury. So it's A-Rod cometh, the Captain goeth...that's the kind of year it's been, and that's the kind of year it's likely gonna remain. If you're a true Yankee hater, now is the time to tune in the radio broadcast on WCBS, where John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman are no doubt taking it very personally indeed.

I mean, drowning in last place, it's not like the Yankees can afford to tread water with Boston in the division. David Ortiz has really started to come on. After his embarrassing start, he's hitting .250 and now has 10 HRs. Kevin Youkilis is leading the AL in hitting, they also have a guy called Manny Ramirez who can hit a bit, and there are very few easy outs in the lineup on a given night. As a team the Sox are hitting close to .300 according to my Sunday paper, and I wouldn't be surprised to see them on the other side of that lofty mark in a week or two.


How's their pitching holding up, you ask. Well, last night Jon Lester tossed a no-hitter, an amazing accomplishment given where his career seemed headed when he was diagnosed with cancer a few years ago, even if it comes against the Kansas City Royals. But even after getting no-hit last night, the Royals at .259 are outhitting the Yankees at .255! You won't find a more telling stat, but if you do I'd like to know about it.

By the way, Jon Lester is only 24, and he joins Dice-K (7-0, 2.15 ERA) and Josh Beckett and Wakefield to give the Sox plenty of starting pitching. The bullpen is just as solid, with the supremely annoying but admittedly talented Jonathan Papelbon closing games. You show me any holes on this Boston team and I'll be less pessimistic than I am, but nowhere near optimistic enough to think the Yankees can take advantage of that weakness should it present itself. The Red Sox simply have all the mojo right now, while the Yanks are the cursed, snake-bitten team. The worm has indeed turned, and it's nothing but rotten in the Apple.

So with more than a quarter of the baseball season already gone, as much as it pains me to admit this, the Yankees season looks like a goner. Hey, maybe Brian Cashman can sign Roger Clemens for another $18 million, or slap some pinstripes on the other steroid clown, Barry Bonds.

Because instead of using this year and next to get younger and hungrier, we foolishly signed A-Rod, Posada and Rivera to those monster contracts, and for all the bloated payroll this team has no bench, no backups, no chemistry, and very little chance of doing anything this year if their performance so far is any indication. All that's left to make the baseball season is hopefully watching another late Mets collapse, even though it's ex-Yank Willie Randolph who will get all the blame. It's a price I'm willing to pay, especially if it means Mets fans share a little in the suffering Yankees fans are all too familiar with already.

On The Up Escalator Going Down All The Cracks

"You Are the Dummies of Another Frightened Nation, I Am a Candidate For Elevation, But When I Woke Up This Morning I'd Lost All Sensation..." Graham Parker, Empty Lives

Pouring rain all day, just got home, 6pm. End of a brutal week at work. First of all, the other proofreader's been out for the better part of 4 weeks. Not sure why. But it means I'm doing everything related to proofreading, which this week meant coming in early, staying late and bringing work home. And that translates into 40 regular hours and 10 hours of overtime. So that's gonna be a nice check come next week. Plus I did a short 2-hour freelance project on Monday night, that comes on another check. And of course there's supposed to be some sort of rebate check...on the way.

Been at AB for 17 weeks now, so getting through this week, including proofreading an entire 300-page book, another 100-page monthly, and then all the notes for 2 weekly issues, was a major step in the right direction.

I got through it, working through a major toothache the last 3 days, as well as a radically reduced sleep cycle. Got home pretty tired from the Mexico trip Sunday night, and then was up at least by 6:00 AM every day. And then because we were so behind, I took a lot of stuff home with me, 60-70 pages' worth a night, so I couldn't just hit the sack after work and catch up on the sleep I lost on vacation. I can barely keep my eyes open, and I'm not just saying that...

Last week at this time, Friday evening, I was no doubt sipping one of the following: a Corona, a Modelo, an Absolut screwgie, a glass of wine or sangria, perhaps even a Pina Colada, and it was all free, keep 'em coming, no reason to stop now, all inclusive, everything taken care of, just throw the waiter a few pesos to perpetuate good inter-country karma, because I'm like that, and that's the way it is.

Holding Pattern

6:00pm. Just got home from work. And for the first time at this job I had to bring work home with me. The other proofreader has been out for a while, and so it's been busy. My supervisor asked me to stay late, and I said I could stay till 7 or so. Then I remembered the other proofer saying he sometimes brought work home with him when he got swamped, so I suggested I could get more done taking work home with me; he went for it, and now I have about a good 4 or 5 hours' worth of stuff, with some more likely tomorrow.

I know all my loyal readers are as anxious to hear the details about my Cancun trip (which was a blast) as I am to relate them, but unfortunately my workload all but precludes it for the foreseeable near future. In addition to my regular 9-5, it looks like the rest of this week I'll be proofing at home every night and probably into and over the weekend and through to next week. Did i mention that I'm functioning on very little sleep since getting back late Sunday night, rising at 5:30 Monday morning and then 6 today? Well, now I have...

Last night it was a small document for a freelance client, a small ad firm, about 2 hours' worth of work. The next few nights it's overflow from my day job, and then I've already got another big project lined up for my Astoria library research job, and his reports are usually 110-120 pages long, so it usually takes around 7-8-9 hours to get it done, considering I not only have to edit the report but then make the changes electronically on a word doc and send it back to him.

But absolutely no complaints. I need the hours, the money, need the work itself, which they tell me builds character. Over the last month or so, it seems I've had work waiting for me on my home computer almost every night. Gotta take it when it's there, because when it's not there, well, it's hard to take it for obvious reasons. In fact, one of my main freelance clients moved their operations to the Left Coast, so it's unlikely I'll see any more work from them.

Anyway, now I must make like a tree and leave. Put an egg in my shoe and beat it. Or, as one old tomato said to the other,
We Ketchup Soon.