Crack Babies Christmas

Christmas is a time for reminiscing, for sweet nostalgic get-togethers. And despite its overt rejection of bourgeois values, the world of punk rock is really no different. This year (specifically, last Friday) Valley punkers-of-old were treated to a reunion of one of the most exciting local bands of the 90s: the Crack Babies. Crack shows back in the day were...well, the best rock shows EVER. Twice a month or so, they'd play the Funhouse or the Four G's, and all the south side freaks would gather. It was unlike anything else I've experienced (I'm actually being serious here). We'd all just start buying Yuengling Black and Tan pitchers and filling up the glasses nearby. If you were newly-arrived, you'd buy a pitcher or two; if you'd been there a while, you just kept drinking the beer handed to you. It was the apotheosis of the socialist ideal, with alcohol. Whether you saw the Crack regulars in between shows or not, they were your friends on show nights, and the dancing/mostly-gentle moshing began in earnest by the second or third song. The tiny Funhouse would be so full some of us would be dancing in front of the monitors. If you wanted a place to sit, you had to get there early and never move, but that wasn't really the point anyway. The feeling as Billy Crack began the bass line of a song was indescribable; the entire bar seemed to move in small, unconscious waves. Well, that was in 1995. In 2005, a Crack show is a little like Revenge of the Thirtysomethings. The late thirtysomethings. The Wildflower Cafe, home to this reunion, was a bit small--it seemed all the old guard turned out (many leaving the kids with a sitter)--the drunken slam-dancing by a few zealots nearly took out one of the speakers, as well as several annoyed patrons. There was a steady stream of people crossing New Street between the cafe and Your[sic] Welcome Inn, where beer to go was available. (A word about the official drink of Crack reunions, as determined by my friend Tony and me: Yuengling Lager quarts make great BYOs, and the German stylings of the amber lager go well with the PA Dutchie punk-funk of the Cracks.) As I entered with my companion for the evening, duly-dubbed Eileen Crack, I received several nods from the minions, none of whom I actually know, except in the context of a sweaty bar floor while bouncing off each other. I can't tell you how good that little recognition felt. We were back together, for one night. And yes, many of us don't get drunk too regularly enymore (except those still in grad school), and some of us (and by "us" I mean "them") don't hold our/their liquor too well as a consequence, but it still felt like our old communion. And the boys sounded pretty damned good. The songs were tight, if rushed at times, and the great slow burns and build-ups that would really drive us to a frenzy in the old days were smoothed over by too much anticipation for the old explosion (it is hard to keep one's cool when waiting for that old feeling, I surmise), but Andy was in fine voice, Bill and Odie seemed to work well together, and Captain Bob still worked those cymbals hard. Some old glory was indeed recaptured. (For the record, I didn't partake of the mosh floor. You know, I have to remain dignified now. But there were a few moments...) Will the Crack Babies ride again? Who knows. Should they? Well, I'm not sure. But my ears were pleasantly clogged and ringing this Christmas Eve. God bless the Crack Babies, and God bless us, one and all.

Happy

Chanukkah Kwanza Boxing Day I'd be playing with my awesome new presents (like "Thelonious Monk Quartet with John Coltrane at Carnegie Hall" and "Northern Exposure" season one), if it weren't for all of this friggin grading I still have to do for tomorrow morning.

Merry

Christmas. Nothing like listening to new music, playing new video games, and wearing new slippers in my old bedroom with my old(ish) siblings and new niece. Coffeetown Christmas...

oh so sensitive

More healing through poetry, one of my old standbys: Plaint Spring flowers, Autumn moons, Water lillies still carry Away my heart like a lost Boat. As long as I am flesh And bone I will never find Rest. There will never come a Time when I will be able To resist my emotions. --Chu Shu Chen (trans. Kenneth Rexroth)

Back with booze

Been away a long time, I realize. I guess I haven't been wandering much. Dark times inspired emotional hibernation. And a good bit of whiskey drinking. My optimism, such as it ever was, follows the sun, and closes in upon itself at night. It's funny how I am so affected by lack of sunlight, but I also love cold temperatures. A winter contradiction, and with the shortest day of the year quickly approaching. Maybe I should get up earlier to take advantage of the sun… Small gestures can mean quite a lot sometimes, and one of those improved my mood tonight. Hugh and Lynn were up this weekend from Philly (which was also nice, but not part of my point), and they met Jeanne and myself for dinner at Bridgeworks here in the Christmas City. I've been going there for many years--all the way back to college days--and I used to work at a print shop around the corner where I did some work for the restaurant, so I am acquainted with the owner. I don't go too regularly anymore, so he and I usually greet each other warmly when we meet, and tonight it felt a little like old times, what with Hugh and I hanging there again. Anyway, I got a Jameson's, which finished off the bottle in the bar, and the owner came out to tell me they had some other whiskeys if I wanted another. I didn't intend to, but after dinner Hugh ordered dessert and I didn't, so he brought me a glass of the 18 year-old, 100 dollar-per-bottle Jameson's as my dessert on the house. And I have to say it made me really happy (beyond the effect of the spirits, which were glorious). If you think all booze is the same, have a touch of something like this stuff. And if you want to have a contented life, learn to love moments like that. Another example of the benefits of roots.