My friend Jake smuggled me into the Michael Monroe Band show at the John Varvatos store last night: Monroe, two former New York Dolls, Danzig's old drummer, and Ginger, The Wildhearts' lead singer, who's stepped back to guitar duties.
Monroe is 48 and built like a tall Iggy Pop. He's also got Iggy Pop's undying manic energy. He didn't cut himself on purpose, but did ram his head into an overhanging light while rocking atop a speaker. The bleeding didn't stop the rocking, or even slow it. The Hanoi Rocks stuff killed, and the new stuff killed too. Monroe even broke out a saxophone, which doubly killed it, because how many 1980s Finnish glam rockers blow brass? (do people say that, blow brass?)
After the show, the MC erupted with spastic enthusiasm. “Thank you Michael Monroe!” The crowd got down with that. “Thank you John Varvatos!” Surprisingly, the crowd also got down with that. Then the MC looked down at a random on the side of the stage. “Thank you Steve!” That fared pretty decently, and under the CBGB-circumstances, it's best not to close with John Varvatos.
A few seconds too late, someone yelled “Thank you rock and roll!”. Put through the sarcasm translator, I'm pretty sure it'd come out “I can't believe you guys forgot to thank Rock and Roll. He's standing right over there. I'd go hang out with him, but I've got this other party I've got to hit...”
I was supposed to catch another show at the Mercury, but we lingered outside forever, talking to:
Tommy Rockstar (seriously – it's on his business card): Tommy has four of five G&R autographs tattooed on his shoulder. He's only missing Izzy, who's apparently a recluse. Axl's signature's scrawled lower than the rest, because by the time Tommy got it, Axl hated the rest of the band; Tommy was afraid he wouldn't sign if he saw their names, so he covered them with his sleeve.
Nite Bob: He's been a sound man since the year before I was born (1971). He's done a lot of big shows, but I can't remember which.
Ginger: He loves playing guitar, and doesn't care if he never sings again. He's sober right now, and said he's only had the craving twice since he quit: once while watching a whiskey commercial, and once as he walked past a bunch of winos. Jake pointed out that twice was a lot, since Ginger's only been sober ten days. Everybody laughed. Both Ginger and Michael Monroe skipped their own afterparty, and headed back to their hotel.
***
Finally make it to the Mercury -- right after my guy's band finishes up. Standing at the bar, I considered faking like I'd caught the show, but that opportunity quickly fell apart. No hard feelings though: the rate of people actually seeing their friends' bands is so low, even showing up late is commendable.
My band buddy headed back inside to catch Love Drug. Me and Jake drank with the bartender, Noah*, who as Jake's intern back when he'd booked for Wetlands had asked permission to bring in an unknown, unsigned band. Jake had said sure, wtf, and The Shins had played the basement, for four people. Noah's birthday loomed at midnight. It sucks to work on your birthday, but taking shots and telling stories about the time you stashed The Shins in the basement make it much more tolerable.
We also talked to Maggie, an Aussie who's been working the door for 20 years, and living in an EVill squatter community for around the same. Her first Thanksgiving in America was spent at..I think a Dead Kennedys show. She had no heater for 18 years (they had a fireplace, for which they'd “chop wood”, and snag pallets in Chinatown). She didn't have an AC until she bought one with cash from winning a Strom Thurmond dead pool. The first time Jake worked with her, Jake put on a $5.98 Metallica tribute. He handed her a sack of pennies, and demanded that she hand back 2-cents change to ticket buyers. She grudgingly agreed, then later paid Jake his $300 cut, also in pennies. She's currently co-writing a book about creative eco-living, with a woman who lives in a bubble in New Mexico. Not a biodome – more like the John Travolta movie.
I got two texts, from this Montreal girl I'd met at the Yacht Rock show.
Text 1: “Me. Jay z. Black people. Drugs. Danger.”
Text 2: “Plus capri sun.”
I had to work today, and I'd been drinking tequila like a high schooler. I tried to cut my losses, but on the way home, I ran into Tommy Rockstar and his buddy Aaron, who owns Trash out in Brooklyn, and who just graduated law school. Crazy. I did that too. May he practice as little as I have.
They dragged me without protest to 3 of Cups. Tommy told me a story about his 90s band heading to Australia as the lowest act on the Warped Tour totem pole. Their drummer, who they'd recently hired and nicknamed “Alien” because he was just so fucking out of it, started a riot during a for-the-bands set by his favorite-band-of-all-time-holy-shit-i-psychotically-love-these-guys Suicidal Tendencies, then disappeared, only to resurface after having somehow passed out on a pile of glass. As a result of this, he actually had glass up his butt. But it was too close to showtime to hit the hospital, so he had to play, with glass up his butt, cushioned by a bunch of circled towels.
The last song I remember hearing was Britny Fox's “Long Way to Love”. Thank god then that even in 2010, it's a short way to rock. Shit is even on business cards.
*Also in the band Sam Champion
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