Wheels keep on spinning round - spinning round - spinning round

I am a slacker. I'm sorry. Tripp, Jill, and Panos have all given me shit lately about not posting enough and I deserve it. I forget that there are some people who actually read this sometimes and a handful that even look forward to it. It often feels like I'm talking to myself. So I'll be better I promise. The killer is there's been plenty of cool stuff going on lately, no shortage of material. This post has been sitting half finished on my desktop for a few weeks. Sorry it took so long. I'll be better I promise.

In late April Jason and I caught Cake (the band, not the food) playing at the Bowery Ballroom in Soho. I had subscribed to the band's e-mail list about a year ago and have received pitches for secret shows a half dozen times since then, but up until now they were always shows in California or Florida. This was the first one in the area so I was all over it even though it was on a Monday night.

I drove into Manhattan and parked near the club before hopping on the Subway to meet Jason at the New Jersey Transit terminal of Penn Station. Once at Penn I grabbed what I like to call the Championship Heineken. It's a 22 oz. bottle, so named because it's easily brown bagged, great to drink while walking, better than some 40 oz. swill, and makes you feel like a champ in general.

It took the edge off the day of work nicely and the thought flashed through my mind, "The weekend starts here" in the deep voice of the intro to the Fatboy Slim track of the same name. It's something that occurs to me often when I take that first slug of a drink after work or sometimes when I'm cruising down the Wantaugh towards the beach for a swim after work. Usually though it occurs to me at the actual start of a weekend, not on a Monday night. Easy champ, pace yourself.

Jason arrived pretty quickly and we took the subway down to the East Village before deciding to get out at Bleeker and find a restaurant on the way. Bad idea. We walked through the rain for 20 minutes before finding a restaurant right by the stop we should have gotten out at anyway. Plus the food was both bland and expensive. But we had fun anyway and stopped at another bar on the way to the club to pitch a few more back.

Getting into the club was something of an adventure. The tickets were at Will Call but the bouncers outside were completely uncoordinated with the the ticket window inside and they made me leave Jason outside while I got the tickets. Fine. I go inside and tell the girl at Will Call that my friend is outside and she looks at me like I'm stupid and tells me to go get him. Deep breath. Back out to the bouncers, "The girl on the line said we should both go in for will call." "Who are you, where are your tickets, get away from the door." Great deaf and stupid, "I just told you that they're at will call." The guy is clearly getting angry Then go get them at bring them out. The situation is clearly getting out of control, I take a deep breath. "I just did. The girl on the line told me to come out and get my friend." He's not buying it, but he breaks away from the conversation to organize the line. I decide to work on another bouncer. "Our tickets are on will call." He nods and opens the other front door, which is clearly supposed to be just an exit and we walk in without collecting our tickets. We're in, although for some reason I feel vaguely like a sucker, because I paid for tickets I didn't need in the end. There was no way of knowing that ahead of time of course, but still, I feel like if my brother were telling this story he would have gotten in free somehow. Totally irrational I know.

Whatever. We're in. And Mates of State, the opening band is on stage. They sound okay and I'm right up at the bar getting some drinks to keep the vibe going. The club is a sweet little venue, I'd been there years before for a Lo-Fidelity All Stars that everybody seemed to love but me. I just remember the bass player fucking up somehow and then turning around to scream at the roadies in the middle of every song. Even then I was impressed by the club though. It holds probably a few hundred people and features a nice balcony area. Basically if your in the club you are in a good spot to hear and see everything.

So what's going on on the stage? Mates of State consist of a drummer and a very pregnant chick playing keyboards. They share the vocal duties. It sounded nice, but it wasn't really very rockin. For one thing (and I know this is a totally sexist thing to say) you can't have a pregnant chick in a rock band. You just can't. Rock N' Roll is about avoiding responsibility and ignoring the consequences. The pregnant chick is the consequences of the rock n roll lifestyle and you can't very well ignore the consequences when they're right up there on the stage can you? The whole vibe just becomes way to wholesome.

Jay and I go upstairs to the balcony for a better view (he's short) and we stake out a prime spot along the railing where his view is unimpeeded. As the show starts we notice two guys to our right constantly fiddling in a duffle bag lying on the floor. "Jay what are these two knuckleheads doing?"

He noses around and reports back, "I think they're recording the show. There's some kind of electronics in there."

Dope. I'm finagling a free copy out of this somehow. In a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone within fifteen feet, "Dude, that's so cool! Are you recording the show?"

The kid nearest me goes white, eyes darting nervously from side to side. He knows if he doesn't shut me up he's getting busted. He leans in, "Shhh."

I sport my best impish grin and slip into likable dude mode. "Oh sorry dude. I'm just asking cause, you know, I'd love to get a copy if you're digitizing it, I've got an ftp we could set it up real easy. Maybe I shoot you an e-mail or something."

Relieved that I'm not going to rat him out he quickly agrees. "I'll give you my e-mail address after the show, just don't yell too loud, the mics are very sensitive."

"Cool. No problem." This is a lie, I'm at a concert, one of the few places society will not punish me for screaming like a maniac and intend to take full advantage. This kid doesn't need to know that though does he?

Cake come out onto the stage and pick up their instruments with absolutely zero fanfare. They kick off with "Sheep Go to Heaven" and proceed to work their way through about an hour and a half of their material. They songs snap off with a satisfying funky precision and they have a fun off kilter repartee with the crowd. It's a good time overall, if not overwhelming. It also would have helped if they'd played longer. THe way I figure it, a band with four albums under their belt needs to play at least 21 or 22 songs figuring four - five minutes per song on average clocking in with a solid two hour show. You play the biggest hits from each album and at least half of your most recent album, filling the rest in with new material and some nuggets from the rest of the catalogue. If you're doing a show for your fan club or mailing list I'll give you some latitude about skipping a hit or two in favor of older material that you're wider audience isn't aware of, but you still need to put in the length. Two hours. Minimum. And if you only have a handful of radio hits to begin with you should play them. There's no excuse for skipping, "Short Skirt, Long Jacket."

Still, a good time was had by all and the bootleg kid came through in a big way, learning ftp just to send me a copy of the show. It came out pretty well considering it wasn't off the soundboard, but the best part about it is hearing Jason's laugh every time the lead singer told a joke. He has this deep distinctive laugh and since he was the closest person to the mic it cuts right through between songs. It's also nice to have advance copies of the new songs which are really killer. Look out for the anti-cell phone anthem, "No Phone" to be a hit and perennial fan favorite. Also soon to be smoking hot and on your radio is "Too Much (Carbon Monoxide for me to Bear)."

After the show, and ten minutes of walking around the village in an attempt to figure out where the fuck I parked Jay and I took off for home, and a signature William and Mary style late night music and movie marathon that was seriously ill advised with work impending the next day, but still fun.

And I'm outie. Peace