Suicide City;

[bhanesidhe]

...And there was the time at Coney Island High where I got my jaw nearly knocked off, it still cracks painfully when I yawn. That place was as tiny as a tent and full-up with kids. You wouldn't think a teen girl, not yet over 100lbs at a full height of 5-feet, could hold her own in the mosh-pit of a metal show, you know, of that caliber. But that's just how you do. And Wednesdays were THE Night, capitalized, on account of weekends putting tourist and local authority on extra-hate mode for anyplace that held "All-Age's" shows. I could go on about age-ism and the NY-scene but instead I'll explain the guy with the rollerblades.

He held his own mid-pit. I could see most everything, clinging from ceiling off some low hanging pipes behind the speakers at the edge of the stage, if you could call it that. Anyway, I was proud for him and man you'd think he couldn't hold his own being on wheels but he made an epic mess. And then there was a surge and he went down. I dropped down to help him up, me and a bunch of others, laughing and lifting. Equal parts comradely + ass-kickery make for the best sort of show but then he swiveled, I guess. And I had to swing back fast to keep his skate from taking out my eye. Instead I cracked my jaw on the pipes, so hard my brain would reverberate for days. Kept laughing though. It was a riot.

It was one of my favorite places in all of New York at the time; of course it was permanently closed within a week. It's the Co-Op on St. Marks place now. To paraphrase LCD Soundsystem "New York, I love you but, wtf..."

Real New Yorkers... [NOTE: I say "Real" and "Not Native" since they ain't synonymous. Plenty of people turn up here cuz they need to. Some get swallowed whole, some get crushed, some get tossed out as soon as they get off the bus but some flourish. They're made Real by it. ...Some unfortunate sods even get so accustomed they can't function any place else. I'm one of them, just so you know. Born and raised here, hungry for it, can't really behave myself anyplace else, etc.] ...They grow accustomed to bittersweet soul-crush that is your City changing. New York nurtures her own, forges a thing of beauty; a perfect club (Coney Island High), an awesome thrift shop (the original, pre-fire "Family Jewels"), the ideal hangout (Siberia Bar)... but once its exposed, seen the light of day, its gone and before you can ask "is that a Starbucks?" Disapparated. And it breaks your heart.

BUT it also galvanizes you, to seek out and discover, to create, to share and to start the process all over again.

...And now we move onto "Suicide City". I was working a convention in Jersey, not my favorite place to be. As a 'native' New Yorker, I'm a bit of a bridge-and-tunnel bully. I like to twist them in the wind, give 'em wrong direction to the Path Train, the usual. So being on their turf is about my least favorite place to be despite having out grown my bullying tendencies. fatpuppy/Katie wanted to see "..." play, I knew the Milcreek Mall (and the surrounding areas) well enough to do the breakfast and lunch rounds for all our artist-tables throughout the con. So we kept good company. We were on that line for hours, laughing and fussing, waiting for our 'first-come-first-serve' tickets. I was going to hover and hold our bags and coats. It's not that I don't like a live show, but if it isn't standing room only, if I can't push to the front, if I can't get my primitive on, if there's no catharsis, then it just isn't a proper show. A show certainly but it may as well be puppetry. And have you seen footage from most of them shows in Japan. 6ft barriers, roped off partitions. Etc.

As we came threw the door, security told each of us "There Is No Moshing. If you're caught moshing you will be removed." So, yeah I was designated coat-holder, fine with that.

And then the opening band hit the stage. I didn't get there name at first cuz I had my headset in. They looked colored by kaleidoscopes, could have been the lighting, could have been Cos-Players but I turned my iPod off and wedged the coats into a partition by the front row. There were hundreds, maybe thousands of impatient anime geeks waiting for their favorite imported j-pop band to take that stage. But instead there were these Muppets front and center. Except it was more then front and center, they were also along the sides, in the air, off the wall, in the crowd, thriving along making a crowd of strangers jump and move and sing a songs no one knew the words to. I laughed so hard and loud; I clung to Katie and had to ask if she spiked my drink, not that I would have minded. Grinningly she told me "Val if you're drunk then I'm wasted, cuz holy-hell did that chick just flip," which of course JennCity had. They covered "Burn" as their last song and countless feet moshed along. More than security could restrain for sure.

I tried to explain to fatpuppy/Katie later, I hadn't felt that zen after a show since Coney Island closed, I was hoarse but energized, blood singing, adrenaline pumping, all that jazz but working a con in the morning. It was awesome, surprising, confusing, in Jersey for fuck's sake and somehow I hadn't walked out with an injury, which is also confusing since even on my best-days I'm hella clumsy [on account of bad knees]. While trying to encapsulate all this, we stumbled on to members of the band selling their albums curbside, waving their paraphernalia over salivating youths like villains in a cartoon. So, Katie bought me there album, kissed the bassist, nanced around with me and scooped me up when I tripped and sprained my ankle. We staggered happily to the car, committing to memory what we could, happy for the company, in the afterglow of a really good show.

I see a lot of live shows. A lot. We have the CMJ Music Festival here which makes it dead easy to see a show mad cheap. There's Summerstage. Hell, you could walk through Washington Square Park on any given midnight and someone's putting on a show. In any case, that doesn't mean any of them are good. Imagine being served up a truck-full of Ho-Ho's when all you want is a Twinkie. That's right, you get Zombieland! This is what it means to go to shows in NY. Did a little research, discovered this awesome band was Brooklyn based and started a welcome obsession.

But falling head-over heels for something comes with a warning buzzer in my head. From past experience I've learned if you go on about a thing (and on and on and on about it) it makes people ready to hate. And I couldn't have them hating a thing I loved, but I couldn't not share it either. I invited my more open minded sister/syndara, when they played Trash Bar in Brooklyn. The "In Brooklyn" part had her veto the event, which is understandable with her vertigo and I didn't push. I lent her the CD and she gave it a listen and nodded along despite screamy-metal not being her thing. But when I explained that watching them was like clinging to the walls in Coney Island High her eyes lit up. She wouldn't make this show but she'd make the next, and the next, and the next. You get the idea.

Still went to Trash Bar though but with my cousin Sean, a better camera man than me. I told him I aimed to misbehave and I think he mostly agreed to chaperon cuz they had an open-bar. And so it went. It's worth noting here a lot of this night reminds me of why I hate Vodka, just sayin'.

The band was better than good but if you weren't there you can't know. You can certainly have a look though, thanks to my lovely cousin Sean. (<3U Babes.)
But since I'm telling the Val!Version we're going to move along to the relevant 'me' rejoinders. Hung-over but happy I woke up in my 14-year-old niece's twin size bed. Really hate Vodka. But really love my niece Ronnie. She can be mean though, which is part of what I love, so I wasn't so surprised when I woke up in great deal of discomfort, verging on pain. I assumed Ronnie wasn't all that pleased to wake up to a bed-fellow, even if I am a small one.

"Ronnie, get off me." I groan from beneath a swath of sweat and sheets. Nothing. Still loads of pressure on my legs.
"Ronnie!" I say, sounding like I gargled asphalt, "Come on! Get the fuck off my legs!"
"What?!" she shouts back as she bounds into the sunny bedroom.
I sit up, apologize profusely and prop my-broke-self against the wall.
Crystal, my kid in all but womb-hosting, creeps in after her sister. She asks what Ronnie did to make me yell, I explain nothing, I'm just broken and concern wells up in her face.
I unzip the bottoms of my green military pants, from the ankle to mid-thigh, revealing a growing formation of dark orange and purple bruises on both legs. A cacophony of injury from my patella to my pinky toes and I'm laughing so hard I fall over.

"How did that happen?" - Crys
"Not Sure." - Val
"Were you in a mosh pit? Or did you get in a fight? " - Crys
"Not that I can remember. But, to be fair, I've been through both but never got bruising like this." - Val
"What happened last night? What could have made that?" - Crys, she punctuates with a poke. I swear whole bunches.
"Maybe when I was dropped on the stage?" - Val
"You were on the stage? Did you stage-dive?" - Crys
"No. I was pulled on the stage. But I should have a warning label on my tummy; don't lift, deceptively light and prone to falling. The singer and I sort of... fell." - Val
"Off the stage?" - Crys
"On the drums I think." - Val
"Oh, my god." - Crys
"No, but this isn't that. That didn't hurt. And then the singer picked me up, apologized, patted my head and put me down on an amp for the rest of the set. It was dead sweet, really. These bruises are awesome! Does someone have my camera?" - Val, at this point I starts poking them. Ronnie rummages the bed and hands me the camera.
"So, exactly HOW did you get the bruises then?" - Crys
Without an answer, we get to poking and Crystal shakes her head in disbelief that I could remember every detail, the set list, the venue, the drink's list so clearly but not why the bruising occur. And then it hits me--
"The amplifier! I'm bruised up cuz I had it locked between my knees all night!" - Val triumphs.
"The amplifier? Is that what we're calling these days," - Ronnie triumphs.

I took photos of the kneecaps once they've healed up a bit but I'm left walking funny for days. Crystal just shakes her head at me.

"And that's fun?" she says wearily, "I'll never understand why would anyone want to do that to themselves?"

GOBSMACKED. I don't know if you can hear that echoing through time and space, but that what I was, gob-smacked. How could I have raised my kid to not know the value it is to lose yourself at a great-ass show? How could she not know the answer to that at the all-knowing and world-wearying age of 15? I mean, I had but then I had Coney Island High then. Which meant I was on a mission and "Suicide City" was the means, awesome being the destination.

Well, fuck me sideways if that doesn't sound overly dramatic. Let's take it back a tick.

Next time; I'm in Boston. Another con. I'm productive, inspired, meeting lovely people, making lovely works, being creative and filled to the brim with bubbling hot jealousy, of every New Yorker, ever. Any idiot who was on or near that little island on that day, because Suicide City was filming at CBGB's and it was all-ages and it was free... and I was in MUTHRFUCKINBOSTON.

I get my sister on the phone and I prod, beg, bribe, plead. I immerse myself to the task of groveling. "Take My Kid To That Show!"

But Crystal has an ear infection, she says.
Get her ear plugs, I say.
But I have ALL the kids, she says.
Take All The Kids, I say.
They don't have anything to wear to a show, she says.
You're kid-sized, give 'em your clothes, I say.
I don't have cash to get there, she says.
My money is already on your dresser, I say.
Thinking, she says nothing for a while and I counter with, [and in one breath] But you gotta do this thing! For Me! I'll regret this for the rest of my life and you know me, I regret nothing. They've never been to CBGB's and it's closing. They're losing their birthright, their NY-heritage all cuz once again I couldn't be in two places at once! You know I'll never forgive myself! How much lamer do I have to be!

This isn't an exact quote but it's a fairly spot-on reiteration. She says she'll try. And that's that.

I don't hear from them again till I get back to New York. Barely time to dump my bags before I'm running up the steps to my sister's place. She shows me this photo as evidence and grins.








Mildly sated and mostly proud I ask about Crystals ears.

"You would have been proud of your kid. Tears in her eyes from the throbbing in her ears, but sticking it out for just one more song. And then, just one more song."
"Going to see a punk band, knowing she had an ear infection. Why would anybody want to do that to themselves?" I cackle, like proper-cackle. I poked at Crys about that for months, still do, every time I see her hands waving back and forth on the Live DVD.

Watch on YouTube

Now, someone could try and say something about bringing kids to a show. Go on, say something, cuz once said I'll happily make you eat them words.

It was a belligerent grease stain of a grown-up who started in @ the Highland Ballroom, saying at the kids, (not 'to' but 'at') while waiting in line at the box office, "where'd all these kids come from? This isn't a Jonas Brothers concert!"

To which our 7-year-old crisply replied, "No, it's Suicide City, dummy." And you know, there is no arguing with logic that straight-forward, much as you might like. Being loud /aggressive is one thing, but needlessly mean is another. So I wouldn't say anyone was sad to see the lad was escorted out early in the evening, what with all his falling down drunkery. But it no ones fault but his own he couldn't manage to keep his footing. [Side Note: Totally worth my broken toe.]

This leans really hard into my personal pet-peeve of 'Pseudo-Ageism/Why NY Scenesters are lame'. I mean, there they are decked out to the tens, cringing and seething if someone has the nerve to, you know, dance in their personal space, or shout too loud, or breath their air. It's too easy for them to haul their faux-rage behind the criticism 'Kids These Days'. Why go to a show to stand around, pose and gawk? The band is up there, pouring out life and there they are, scensters, sat in the middle, doing fuck all, bein' a nonce. Deplorable.

I'm not saying "Don't Go" I'm just saying "if you're not meant for the pit, you best be clinging to the walls". [Otherwise known as the "Gordon Gano" Rule - "When I say dance, you best dance motherfucker" - from Dance Mf Dance.] It's just courteous.

When I busted up my knee Suicide City was performing at a pub on 56th Street; I double-braced the offending appendage brought my cane out for a spin and dug myself in at the edge of the bar. Sure I wanted to shove my way to the front, as always, but this is was clearly a 'cling to the walls' scenario. No, not cuz I was laid up but cuz the place was small and it changes the energy to have something immobile front and center. That isn't to say I didn't bring my then-husband kuchisake_onna/Rach, and her then-husband littleorangecat/Debs (imported direct from Hackney), to aid with the jumping/shouting/dancing/screamy bits of the evening. Equal part vicarious and pro-active, me. Sadly, not everybody is so forward-thinking as one patron sat stubbornly mid-crowd, on her stool, slowly sipping her beer.

It was upsetting. And not just to me, made evident by Kalle, singer and fore-running, shouting at the offending slag. "Why is she just staring at me? Jenn she's being mean!" which wasn't very different in tone and inflection when months later, my kid leaned over the railings at the Highland Ballroom and shouted at the audience "Why're you idiots just standing there? MOVE!" Same sensibility, same spirit, same candor. Music is all really about a likeness of being anyway.

Obnoxious and messy as they can be, I'll always prefer all-ages shows cuz of this. It's not even an age thing. It's elemental and base. So, somewhere on stage you have "Punk!Thundercats" as kuchisake_onna/Rach immediately and accurately coined them, musical Pans coaxing into trench for Lost Boys. Not the bestest band in the world, not even the bestest music in the world but for a minute there quite possibly the greatest show on earth.



...And then it's over. I could go on further into my experience but this would quickly turn into a love-letter. And I'm a sober-mess today so I'm not having it. To summarize; the bastard child Pied Piper of Hamelin and Slipknot came and went. Will I miss 'em? Sure, but that's New York for you, and I feel really lucky to've been a part of every minute of that magic I could grab. Doubly-blessed that I got to share it with the people that I love best... (which is a real miracle since their musical interest veers greatly between Trance and Radio Disney.) But ask any one of them what's the best live show they can remember and there is no hesitation. That's Suicide City; equal parts rabble rousing and love-making.

Watch on YouTube

...hmm, it did get a bit "love letter-y" in the end. I could tag on how I get that they're certainly not everyone's cup-of-tea or what have you but they were my crack, so fuck off.

Watch on YouTube

So, to Suicide City... wait, what's the line: I hate to see you go, but I LOVE to watch you leave. Salud!

---

Honestly, I could review and list each and everyone of their shows I attended, committed firmly to memory, but then I'd just sound like was bragging about my scars. So I won't ...but I could.

Comments

[fatpuppy.livejournal.com]

They're so amazing.
Love you love you.

(sry, posted from a different account before <3)

Love you x2

[bhanesidhe.livejournal.com]

They were so amazing. They were crazy-awesome. I'm gonna miss 'em. They've all gone on to do other stuffs. Last Thursday was their last show. Wish you'd been there.

[I noticed that, v. mysterious. ^^;]