[kj] New York Report! BEER
Thomas Kennedy
gathering@misera.net
Fri, 24 Oct 2003 18:41:58 -0700 (PDT)
--0-564224978-1067046118=:55733
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<The only American beer I can drink (and love) is Pabst
atta boy. (only on tap, though)
Tom. : )
Christof hamille <wessidetempest@hotmail.com> wrote:
You don't get a hangover from "yankee" brew? Good beer god, the vast
majority of it is swill and it gives my horrid hangovers. Candaian beer is
worse (for me). The only American beer I can drink (and love) is Pabst.
When I was in Germany every single beer I had (which was many) was great and
no hangover. I would wake up and not feel a thing. I was quite younger.
Maybe it is different being here and choking it down all the time.
I probably will be falling off the wagon for the Halloween show. Can't wait
; )
Chris
>From: "Dirk Kingerske"
>Reply-To: gathering@misera.net
>To: gathering@misera.net
>Subject: Re: [kj] New York Report!
>Date: Fri, 24 Oct 2003 01:17:37 +0200
>
>Sitting here at some internet cafe at 42nd street I have to admit that it
>was a damn fine night last night.... looking forward to meeting alex and
>colsey tomorrow at the habitat for a nice tour de yorke neuf .... won't be
>too sure about the diggler thingy, yossy :o)
>btw.... american beer is great... it's so watered that you can't get a
>hangover...... time to go drinking,
>
>
>dirk
>
>p.s. enjoy baltimore and the rest of the best... hopefully longer than the
>nyc gig and an exploding, moshing kraut..... crowd i mean!
>
>
>
>>From: The Exorcist
>>Reply-To: gathering@misera.net
>>To: gathering@misera.net
>>Subject: Re: [kj] New York Report!
>>Date: Thu, 23 Oct 2003 13:53:29 -0500 (CDT)
>>
>>Hello To The gaythering Folks!
>>I'm not as a prolifc writer as sir Alex is. However, I must admit
>>that after many months, I've come to the realizatin of the gaythering,
>>and now understand the utter fascination with Rob's arse!
>>
>>Alex, point #2, it's Brooklyn, ye drunken sot!
>>
>>Point #3, Yosef is fine. But I use Yossy. And being that it's hard
>>for ya to remember all these names. Just stick with shmo!
>>
>>#4, I hope to have the pics posted by tomorrow evening.
>>
>>#5 To all you brits, and europenis's. You have no idea what dedication
>>to a band means. You did not have to suffer through listening to utter
>>trash , seeing some dumbass Naked Cowboy (apperantly some guy in his
>>underwear with a non to impressive build is considered "COOL" these days.)
>>paying 7 dollars a beer and being surrounded by a group of folks who seem
>>to think that music is anything you can fart out of yer ass!
>>
>>Mind you, The naked cowboy guy, I think is a sign from "the god that Dirk
>>does not belive in" to intensify the belief of "The Gsythering" as we so
>>lovingly found out.
>>
>>All in all, I wish the set was longer. The show still kicked ass. And I
>>have never met a nicer group of folks like this in all my experience.
>>(was it the gay thing?).
>>
>>Hopefully we the gaythering shall have one more meeting before they all
>>run off.
>>
>>It's been an honor a pleasure and a most enjoyable experience.
>>
>>Best Wishes to you all..
>>
>>Yossy
>>
>>(ps. Dirk, puts Dirk Diggler to shame! We should have put him on stage to
>>show the naked cowboy what a pathetic shmuck he reall is! (pun intended!).
>>He's also quiet the ladies man, though he needed some motivation from
>>Senior Alex. *grin*
>>
>>
>>On Thu, 23 Oct 2003, Alex Smith wrote:
>>
>> >
>> > 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
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> > _______________________________________________
>> > Gathering mailing list
>> > Gathering@misera.net
>> > http://four.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/gathering
>> >
>>
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<DIV><The only American beer I can drink (and love) is Pabst</DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV>atta boy. (only on tap, though)</DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV>Tom. : )</DIV>
<DIV> </DIV>
<DIV><BR><BR><B><I>Christof hamille <wessidetempest@hotmail.com></I></B> wrote:</DIV>
<BLOCKQUOTE class=replbq style="PADDING-LEFT: 5px; MARGIN-LEFT: 5px; BORDER-LEFT: #1010ff 2px solid">You don't get a hangover from "yankee" brew? Good beer god, the vast <BR>majority of it is swill and it gives my horrid hangovers. Candaian beer is <BR>worse (for me). The only American beer I can drink (and love) is Pabst. <BR>When I was in Germany every single beer I had (which was many) was great and <BR>no hangover. I would wake up and not feel a thing. I was quite younger. <BR>Maybe it is different being here and choking it down all the time.<BR><BR>I probably will be falling off the wagon for the Halloween show. Can't wait <BR>; )<BR><BR>Chris<BR><BR><BR>>From: "Dirk Kingerske" <DIRKINGERSKE@HOTMAIL.COM><BR>>Reply-To: gathering@misera.net<BR>>To: gathering@misera.net<BR>>Subject: Re: [kj] New York Report!<BR>>Date: Fri, 24 Oct 2003 01:17:37 +0200<BR>><BR>>Sitting here at some internet cafe at 42nd street I have to admit that it <BR>>was a damn fine night
last night.... looking forward to meeting alex and <BR>>colsey tomorrow at the habitat for a nice tour de yorke neuf .... won't be <BR>>too sure about the diggler thingy, yossy :o)<BR>>btw.... american beer is great... it's so watered that you can't get a <BR>>hangover...... time to go drinking,<BR>><BR>><BR>>dirk<BR>><BR>>p.s. enjoy baltimore and the rest of the best... hopefully longer than the <BR>>nyc gig and an exploding, moshing kraut..... crowd i mean!<BR>><BR>><BR>><BR>>>From: The Exorcist <EXORCIST@TRIFOCUS.NET><BR>>>Reply-To: gathering@misera.net<BR>>>To: gathering@misera.net<BR>>>Subject: Re: [kj] New York Report!<BR>>>Date: Thu, 23 Oct 2003 13:53:29 -0500 (CDT)<BR>>><BR>>>Hello To The gaythering Folks!<BR>>>I'm not as a prolifc writer as sir Alex is. However, I must admit<BR>>>that after many months, I've come to the realizatin of the gaythering,<BR>>>and now understand the
utter fascination with Rob's arse!<BR>>><BR>>>Alex, point #2, it's Brooklyn, ye drunken sot!<BR>>><BR>>>Point #3, Yosef is fine. But I use Yossy. And being that it's hard<BR>>>for ya to remember all these names. Just stick with shmo!<BR>>><BR>>>#4, I hope to have the pics posted by tomorrow evening.<BR>>><BR>>>#5 To all you brits, and europenis's. You have no idea what dedication<BR>>>to a band means. You did not have to suffer through listening to utter<BR>>>trash , seeing some dumbass Naked Cowboy (apperantly some guy in his<BR>>>underwear with a non to impressive build is considered "COOL" these days.)<BR>>>paying 7 dollars a beer and being surrounded by a group of folks who seem<BR>>>to think that music is anything you can fart out of yer ass!<BR>>><BR>>>Mind you, The naked cowboy guy, I think is a sign from "the god that Dirk<BR>>>does not belive in" to intensify the belief of
"The Gsythering" as we so<BR>>>lovingly found out.<BR>>><BR>>>All in all, I wish the set was longer. The show still kicked ass. And I<BR>>>have never met a nicer group of folks like this in all my experience.<BR>>>(was it the gay thing?).<BR>>><BR>>>Hopefully we the gaythering shall have one more meeting before they all<BR>>>run off.<BR>>><BR>>>It's been an honor a pleasure and a most enjoyable experience.<BR>>><BR>>>Best Wishes to you all..<BR>>><BR>>>Yossy<BR>>><BR>>>(ps. Dirk, puts Dirk Diggler to shame! We should have put him on stage to<BR>>>show the naked cowboy what a pathetic shmuck he reall is! (pun intended!).<BR>>>He's also quiet the ladies man, though he needed some motivation from<BR>>>Senior Alex. *grin*<BR>>><BR>>><BR>>>On Thu, 23 Oct 2003, Alex Smith wrote:<BR>>><BR>>> ><BR>>> > God Bless Chock Full'o'Nuts Coffee,
by gosh.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Incidentally, those of you looking for strictly gig details and a <BR>>>set-list<BR>>> > are going to have to earn it, or wait for a less flowerly and <BR>>>self-serving<BR>>> > report from someone else.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Right. First comes the apologies. There is a troubled, private, roiling<BR>>> > rubicon of near-pantsless drunkenness that I have been handily known to<BR>>> > happily cross on many an occaission, whereupon after which I am <BR>>>churlishly<BR>>> > renowned for expressing my outbursts of good will and bonhommie via <BR>>>striking<BR>>> > various compadres on the shoulder, solarplexus, nape and/or sternum <BR>>>harder<BR>>> > than they'd necessarily prefer, let alone expect. Suffice it to say, <BR>>>this<BR>>> > point was swiftly passed in the very early hours of this morning, and
<BR>>>if<BR>>> > Tale-tellin' Todd "Fluw" Wulfemeyer, Yosef "excitable" Exorcist, <BR>>>Teutonic<BR>>> > Dynamo Dirk, Sir Michael "Don't Call Me Claude Rains" Coles, veritably <BR>>>bulky<BR>>> > brick shithouse "New Guy" Mike and/or Ted "ask me another Prong <BR>>>question and<BR>>> > you're going head first into the toilet" Parsons wanted to beat the <BR>>>snots<BR>>> > outta me in due course for it, I wouldn't hold it against them. Still,<BR>>> > could've been worse, right? At least my pants stayed on, right? (please <BR>>>tell<BR>>> > me they did, fellas). All's well that ends...well, nevermind.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > To quote Cat "Death to the Infadels" Stevens, morning has fucking <BR>>>broken.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Wow. Quite an evening. At around 4:30 pm, after putting on my <BR>>>needlessly<BR>>> > silly spikey belt and blow-drying
my hair just so, I bounded out the <BR>>>door to<BR>>> > the now-fabled (well, not realy) Central Bar wherein I met....well, no <BR>>>one<BR>>> > at first (though that didn't stop me from bellying up to the bar and<BR>>> > igniting proceedings with a bang in the form of a pint of Yuengling, <BR>>>the<BR>>> > first of way too many). In short order (though not in short stature), <BR>>>the<BR>>> > estimable artisan we all know and manfully adore as Mike Coles arrived <BR>>>(in<BR>>> > stylish leather coat, replete with "Laugh at Your Peril" badge) to -- <BR>>>as<BR>>> > loathesome pop harpee P!nk might've said -- get this party started. <BR>>>After a<BR>>> > bit, whilst the stoically sage-like Coles regailed me with yarns of <BR>>>olde<BR>>> > involving the protoplasmic origins of Malicious Damge like a learned <BR>>>druid<BR>>> > schooling a
wide-eyed peasant lad, in walked three leggy ladies who <BR>>>extended<BR>>> > a lithe, seductive didjit at my red MALICIOUS DAMAGE CLOCK shirt. <BR>>>"Alex?"<BR>>> > asked the brunette. Turns out that this was big Cliff's wife, sister <BR>>>and<BR>>> > sister's friend, all looking very sexy and tatooed and post-punk and <BR>>>all<BR>>> > that. Suddenly, it was a genuine...er...gathering.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Shortly afterwards, in walked the Hamburgian force of supernature that <BR>>>is<BR>>> > Dirk K. and his trusty sidekick Tim (himself also sporting the red <BR>>>Malicious<BR>>> > Damage clock shirt), and out went the girls (not as a result, mind you, <BR>>>but<BR>>> > for the purposes of going home, changing and showering). Reduced again <BR>>>to a<BR>>> > quartet of males, our little pirate ship settled in for more beers
<BR>>>(Coles<BR>>> > drinking Corona, the rest of us opting for Yuengling at my dubious<BR>>> > suggestion). For those that give a toss, Devilish Dirk came swaddled in <BR>>>the<BR>>> > now-ancient Gathering t-shirt, rocking it "old school" as the bretheren <BR>>>of<BR>>> > the hip hop community might say (though, he was quick to point out, he<BR>>> > sported an Extremities t-shirt underneath). Why Dirk saw fit to wear <BR>>>two<BR>>> > t-shirts when one would've handily sufficed still eludes my <BR>>>comprehension.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > After ordering some man-sized plates of charred animal flesh, loving <BR>>>adorned<BR>>> > with cheese and chips, the garishly-painted doors of this fine <BR>>>establishment<BR>>> > swung wide yet again, and in strutted Todd "Fluw" Wulfemeyer, straight <BR>>>from<BR>>> > the mean, blood-splattered streets of
Albany (our fine state's capital <BR>>>city,<BR>>> > for those of you keen on that sort of trivia). Bravely sporting the<BR>>> > eye-catching and temper-tempting "drowning Liberty" t-shirt, his <BR>>>Fluwness<BR>>> > gamely ordered himself a plate of "bangers'n'mash" (how Brit of him) <BR>>>and a<BR>>> > pint of Guiness and mucked right in. Having heard that the Exorcist,<BR>>> > red-headed Robyn and various other folk were going to be late and would <BR>>>try<BR>>> > to find us at the venue, it seemed our little gang of avengers was now <BR>>>fully<BR>>> > assembled.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > We'd heard initial reports that the band themselves (or at least Raven)<BR>>> > might come and find us at the Central Bar, but those rumours revealed<BR>>> > themselves to be sadly unfounded. After shovelling down our grub and<BR>>> > hoisting a few more frothy
beverages, we decided to ship out, leaving <BR>>>the<BR>>> > comfy confines of the Central Bar (and inexplicably repeated airings of<BR>>> > "Roundabout" by Yes on the soundsystem) behind us. Two city blocks and <BR>>>one<BR>>> > corner later, brightly lit marquee of Webster Hall came into full <BR>>>view....as<BR>>> > well as the rather worrying sight of a big line-up (or "que" as you <BR>>>Brits<BR>>> > might say). Dutifully taking our place at the back of it (much to our<BR>>> > collective grumbling), our little brood of scowling Gatherers spied the<BR>>> > crowd for any familiar faces. None found, but I spotted (and rather <BR>>>brazenly<BR>>> > accosted) a rather large looking gent sporting the CONFIRM YOUR WORST<BR>>> > FEARS/Central Point shirt, which I immediately pointed out to <BR>>>said-shirt's<BR>>> > designer, Mike Coles. Turns out this big
dude's name was John, and he <BR>>>did<BR>>> > indeed procure that handsome garment through the Mal.Dam site, though <BR>>>he<BR>>> > seemed to scoff at the notion that Mike Coles actually remembered the <BR>>>order.<BR>>> > Why would we lie?<BR>>> ><BR>>> > In due course, we ticket holders were allowed to jump the line (whilst <BR>>>the<BR>>> > indie-rock loving, CMJ-badge-holding hordes in their ironic cardigans,<BR>>> > sensible shoes and trucker caps) were left to wait in the damp. Fluw,<BR>>> > meanwile, vanished for a bit to prize his ticket from the wilcall line. <BR>>>In<BR>>> > we went.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Back in the day, Webster Hall was formerlly known as the Ritz and <BR>>>played<BR>>> > host to every great band worth a damn in the 80s, the Joke included.<BR>>> > Sometime around 1989, however, the owners of the Ritz pulled
out of the<BR>>> > operation and the venue morphed into Webster Hall, a niteclub in the <BR>>>same<BR>>> > style as the then-hip Palladium and once-prominent Danceteria. I hand't <BR>>>been<BR>>> > in the great room's interior since about 1994 when Redd Kross played <BR>>>(live<BR>>> > music is a scarcity at Webster Hall, let alone decent live music). The <BR>>>main<BR>>> > floor we shuffled into looked a bit like a high school prom, complete <BR>>>with<BR>>> > dangling disco ball. We gawked around in a state of bemusement, <BR>>>ordering<BR>>> > ourselves another round of beers (fuckin' SEVEN DOLLARS for a bottle of<BR>>> > shitty Budweiser!!?!?!?!?) and looked around for other Jokers. Fluw<BR>>> > reappeared and we all repaired to the side bar for a bit.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Finding precious little excitment at said side bar, we ambled upstairs
<BR>>>to<BR>>> > take a gander at the crowd and see the stage. Once assembled, as if on <BR>>>cue,<BR>>> > the lights dimmed and out strode a hirsute quintet of irritating <BR>>>hepcats who<BR>>> > apparently call themselves The Fever, who proceeded to launch into a<BR>>> > headache-inducing racket that couldn't have been more retrophillically<BR>>> > derivative if earnest attempted. After giving them a brief sporting <BR>>>chance<BR>>> > (much to our furrowed-brows, shaking heads and expressions of abject<BR>>> > disdain), we collectively decided to spare our hearing and repair back<BR>>> > downstairs.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > More beers followed. Dirk's buddy Tim found himself an easy chair near <BR>>>the<BR>>> > television and settled in to soak up some baseball. The rest of us <BR>>>chatted<BR>>> > amiably with a variety of CMJ characters. After
a spell, in walked <BR>>>Yosef (i<BR>>> > believe I'm spelling that correctly), otherwise known as The Exorcist <BR>>>(why<BR>>> > he calls himself this, I do not know, but suffice it to say he was not<BR>>> > wearing a priest's collar nor, to my knowledge, in possession of any <BR>>>holy<BR>>> > water). I wandered about looking for other Gatherers. We spotted Cliff,<BR>>> > himself toiling under the crack of Killing Joke's roadie whip, along <BR>>>with<BR>>> > the drum tech from New Zealand, who looks like he could easily slit one <BR>>>up<BR>>> > and down with a bowie knife before you could say "Picnic at Hanging <BR>>>Rock".<BR>>> > Chatted with them briefly before they were summoned back to the <BR>>>trenchs. I<BR>>> > wobbled over to a little table in the back of the room where I'd <BR>>>spotted Bob<BR>>> > Mould (shorn of hair and in
suprisingly fit shape) and expressed my<BR>>> > admiration, however somewhat insincerely. Never one to miss a <BR>>>promotional<BR>>> > opportunity, he slipped a BLOWOFF flyer in my hand (his new electronic<BR>>> > project) which I then proceeded to discard almost immediately upon <BR>>>leaving<BR>>> > the room. Sorry, Bob.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Time passed. In my further wanderings, I was met by "New Guy Mike" and <BR>>>a<BR>>> > lurker who disquietingly announced my name in a somewhat sinister tone <BR>>>named<BR>>> > Adam (I think). The merch table was hawking the clown shirts, a bag of<BR>>> > Colesy badges and a new, heretofore unspotted design dubbed "Stone <BR>>>Face"<BR>>> > (basically a pic of Jaz's face taken from the "Seeing Red" video, not <BR>>>at all<BR>>> > unlike the homemade design Mik Raven posted some time ago). Like the
<BR>>>dutiful<BR>>> > fanboy, I bought one (treating the unsuspecting hordes to a thoroughly<BR>>> > unsolicited viewing of my bare, pasty, pale torso as I slipped it on <BR>>>under<BR>>> > the read MAL.DAM clock shirt) By around 10:30, we figured it would be<BR>>> > prudent to secure a spot up by the stage, just in time to catch a set <BR>>>by the<BR>>> > band VHS or Beta (and, honestly, can you think of a sillier name for a<BR>>> > band?)<BR>>> ><BR>>> > VHS or Beta basically play a discoey approximation of Gang of Four and <BR>>>sport<BR>>> > hairstyles that recall a Small Faces-era Ron Wood. I didn't think they <BR>>>were<BR>>> > entirely terrible (I think Coles tolerated them as well), but needless <BR>>>to<BR>>> > say....they're no Killing Joke.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Done with that rabble, the bunch of us ploughed through the human
<BR>>>cattle to<BR>>> > the front (myself pushing aside a comely wench at the barricade, almost<BR>>> > immediately lapsing into apologies for my boorish behavior, which she <BR>>>seemed<BR>>> > to buy). That mission accomplished, in very short order, the lights <BR>>>dimmed<BR>>> > again and....hello, what's this? KILLING JOKE TAKE THE STAGE!!!!!!!!! <BR>>>Raven<BR>>> > strides right up to the front of the stage, greeting we the grinning<BR>>> > faithful.<BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> > Honestly speaking? It's all a manic fucking blur. Jaz in now familiar<BR>>> > Peruvian spider get-up and bug-eyed visage of impending doom, Raven in <BR>>>camo<BR>>> > shorts, POLIZEI t-shirt, warpaint and signature wool cap, Geordie in<BR>>> > kneepadded "interesting pants" and unbothered expression of coolster<BR>>> > insouciance, Parsons a bald-head machine of
stick-flailing death. On <BR>>>the<BR>>> > keybs was a fresh-faced gent named Nick, looking quite the youngster <BR>>>but<BR>>> > handling his duties with aplomb. Rookie roadie Cliff sat aside the <BR>>>stage in<BR>>> > the ready position, often dutifully scampering about like a ball-boy at<BR>>> > Wimbledon. Some technical problems blighted the early bits of the set, <BR>>>but I<BR>>> > honestly didn't notice (as I was entirely busy trying to shove the <BR>>>metal,<BR>>> > cattle-hurding barricades THROUGH THE FUCKING STAGE in a state of<BR>>> > Joke-fueled apoplexy like froth-mouthed epileptic). Herewith the <BR>>>set-list<BR>>> > (thank you Cliff for the artefact, by the way)...<BR>>> ><BR>>> > * "Communion"<BR>>> > * "Requiem"<BR>>> > * "Total Invasion"<BR>>> > * "Wardance"<BR>>> > * "Blood on Your Hands"<BR>>>
> * "Change"<BR>>> > * "Seeing Red"<BR>>> > * "The Wait"<BR>>> > * "Whiteout"<BR>>> > * "Pssyche"<BR>>> ><BR>>> > >From what I could tell, the crowd was pretty into it (though I <BR>>>would've<BR>>> > liked to have seen a bit more movement). I believe Dirk was chastised <BR>>>by<BR>>> > some figure of authority for attempting to get a pit going. What's New <BR>>>York<BR>>> > City coming to? Ya can't smoke? Ya can't mosh? It might be time to move <BR>>>to<BR>>> > the country, methinks. At one brief point (I want to say during <BR>>>"Change,"<BR>>> > but I might be mistaken) some entirely foolhardy lad leaped down from <BR>>>what I<BR>>> > believe was the BALCONY onto the stage, whereupon he was summarily <BR>>>treated<BR>>> > to a roughnecked "bouncer sandwich" and jostlingly bundled off to what <BR>>>I
can<BR>>> > only imagine was a late evening of moist-eyed wound-licking. Silly boy.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > And as soon as we were reaching that white hot level of synchronized<BR>>> > band-crowd intensity.....it was over. Thanks for coming. No encore <BR>>>(which I<BR>>> > believe was CMJ's doing, not the band's). Once we spotted the drum kit <BR>>>being<BR>>> > disassembled, we knew the proverbial fat lady had chirped.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Stumbling around, trying to organize some semblance of a plan, Fluw and <BR>>>I<BR>>> > bound upstairs, looking for the band. From behind th stage door, along <BR>>>comes<BR>>> > Jaz looks suprisingly relaxed, respendent in black with signature <BR>>>Indiana<BR>>> > Jones hat. Fluw and I dutifully express our boundless gratitude (I <BR>>>believe I<BR>>> > told Jaz I was thinking of naming my impending child after
him). He <BR>>>could<BR>>> > not have been nicer. Out walks Geordie, looking a bit miffed to be <BR>>>honest,<BR>>> > though I cannot say why. Fluw and I basically deduce that he is not to <BR>>>be<BR>>> > bothered. Back downstairs we go and meet red-haired and pig-tailed <BR>>>Robyn and<BR>>> > her pal Sean, whom we unsuccessfully invite with us to the nearby<BR>>> > Black'n'White Bar for a drink.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Outside the venue, we give a knock on the tour bus and Raven yanks us <BR>>>inside<BR>>> > for a brief, blurred momment of affable howayas. We mention that we're <BR>>>all<BR>>> > going to the Black'n'White Bar to continue the merriment. Parsons says <BR>>>he'll<BR>>> > be along shortly.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Once back outside, off we go the bar one block away, where we are soon<BR>>> > joined by Ted Parsons, keyboardist
Nick Walker (who had to go BACK to <BR>>>the<BR>>> > bus to fetch his passport to prove his age to the unsmiling bouncer), <BR>>>Troy<BR>>> > Gregory (!!!!!...who looks bizarrely like a younger version of Jaz) <BR>>>various<BR>>> > roadies, an ex-Swan (old pal of Ted's) and Cliff's trio of lovely <BR>>>ladies.<BR>>> > Many, many drinks and photographs followed (watch this space soon for <BR>>>those)<BR>>> > and it was at this point that I became more of a blabbering loon than <BR>>>usual,<BR>>> > initiating the afore-mentioned practice of shoulder-hitting, much the<BR>>> > chagrin of my fellow bar patron. Ted Parsons, Nick Walker and Troy <BR>>>Gregory<BR>>> > were all complete champs and chatted with us like members of the <BR>>>extended<BR>>> > family. Raven, it seems, has sworn off heavy-bevvy comsumption and <BR>>>remained<BR>>> > behind
to store up his strength for the next gig. I gather the night <BR>>>before,<BR>>> > Coles saw the band in fighting martini-swigging form, so their <BR>>>batteries<BR>>> > needed a recharging I suppose.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Hours and dollars later, it was all over. The boys in the band repaired <BR>>>back<BR>>> > to the bus. Exorcist fled back to Queens. Fluw and Colesy repaired back <BR>>>to<BR>>> > the Union Square Hotel. The German contingent departed for their hotel <BR>>>in<BR>>> > midtown, and I wobbled the two blocks back to my home, though not <BR>>>before<BR>>> > Cliff handed me the setlist outside the venue (where Coles was <BR>>>convinced we<BR>>> > were going to pound on the tourbus door to wake up Jaz and <BR>>>Geordie....we<BR>>> > didn't).<BR>>> ><BR>>> > And that was that.<BR>>> ><BR>>> > Alex in
NYC<BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> ><BR>>> > _______________________________________________<BR>>> > Gathering mailing list<BR>>> > Gathering@misera.net<BR>>> > http://four.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/gathering<BR>>> ><BR>>><BR>>>_______________________________________________<BR>>>Gathering mailing list<BR>>>Gathering@misera.net<BR>>>http://four.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/gathering<BR>><BR>>_________________________________________________________________<BR>>Schützen Sie Ihren Posteingang vor unerwünschten E-Mails. <BR>>http://www.msn.de/antispam Jetzt Hotmail-Junk-Filter
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