Killing Joke at Webster Hall 10/22/03

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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 flowery 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. 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 really) 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 Malicioud 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 brethren 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, lovingly adorned with cheese and chips, the garishly-painted doors of this fine establishmen 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-temptin" ddrowning Liberty" t-shirt, his Fluwness gamely ordered himself a plate of "bangers'n'mash" (how very 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, the 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 sitty 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 earnestly 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 trenches. 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 Colesy's badges and a new, heretofore unspotted shirt 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 red 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 lass 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, POLIZIE 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 a 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 dance? 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 bounded upstairs, looking for the band. From behind the stage door, along comes Jaz looks suprisingly relaxed, resplendent in black with signature Indian 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 round 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 to 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.