Sweet Tea in NYC

We All Have Wings, We Won't Need Legs to Stand

I have been reluctant to write about the Sufjan Stevens performance John and I attended on Sunday night at Town Hall, only for the fact that my meager description could never do the evening justice.

Let me say, I have been to some amazing shows. I have seen just about every musician I have a great love for at least once. Going to shows has been my part-time job, for whatever reason. One of the major reasons I moved to New York was solely for the music; the guarantee that everyone will come through here, and I will hopefully get to go. After Sunday, however, I'm ready to retire.

It was - by far - the best show I have been to since I moved, and probably the best show I've been to ever. Sufjan Stevens is an absolute nut. And I mean that in the warmest way possible. He seems so genuine, and that comes across in his music. He had a fifteen piece band, all of which were wearing butterfly wings and masks. He had someone actually start the show by playing a saw. Yes, as in "I'm going to saw this tree down." A saw. It was beyond incredible.

He announced the themes of the evening were flight and transcendance. He spent the time in between songs telling stories about his family and the tour. He played the banjo and piano and made me feel like I wanted to laugh and cry all at once. During "The Man of Metropolis Steals Our Hearts," Superman blow up dolls were dropped from the ceiling and into the audience. During "The Worst Christmas Ever," he did the same thing with Santa dolls. Everything was bright and alive and he made everyone feel as though we were all part of something; part of the show.

As I said, my words don't depict the evening accurately enough. It's really one of those "you had to be there" things. You just have to go and see for yourself.

I Am Getting Old and Have Never Been Punk Rock

There is a fact that has been made abundantly clear in recent weeks: my party days are over.  I have been hesistant to accept this fate as, once upon a time, I made a name for myself as the girl who was still dancing long after everyone had gone home or passed out. There was a time when Chaundra and I ventured out every single night of the week, even if no one else was out.  We created a party for ourselves at all times.  These were good, but obviously fleeting, times.  A person cannot maintain that kind of lifestyle after a certain point.  The cut off date varies, I'm sure, but for me, things began declining midway through 22, and last night - not even a month into 23 - things pretty much came to a halt.

John, Chaundra and I ventured out for the Continental's final throwdown last night.  I switched my shifts around at work so that I would have today off, assuming last evening would be epic, like the days of yore.  The Continental is a legendary East Village punk club that is closing its doors this weekend for good.  Now, let's face facts, I am not and have never been punk rock.  Yes, like most girls I know I went through a "punk" stage in high school, but that really really doesn't count.  I have a lot of friends, however, who are into punk and live that strange lifestyle.  God bless them, but it's not for me.  The closest I get is The Clash, The Stooges and Velvet Underground.  [Would VU even count?  I have no idea what the strict definitions are.]

So what was I doing at the Continental last night?  Jesse Malin was playing.  It was my second time seeing him; the first was at the Mercury Lounge, right after we moved to the city.  I guess because he's kind of a punk rock guy, the Continental asked him to help them go out in style, and had this been a year ago, I would have appreciated last night a lot more.

Immediately it was made clear when we walked in that we were clearly not cool enough to be in the Continental.  Brooklyn and East Village hipsters mingled with aging gutter punks.  Two groups of people I have a deep and passionate loathing for.  But we weren't there to make friends, we were there to hear Jesse Malin, which is always a good time.  By 11 or so, Chaundra and I had pushed our way to the front.  Despite prominant no-smoking signs, the air was thick with smoke.  Everyone was rude and pushy; someone spilled whiskey on Chaundra and my back was covered with vodka.  We were not happy.  A year ago, these things wouldn't have bothered me; we would have been giddy to see Jesse Malin.  Now, I just wanted him to get on the damn stage already so I could go home and go to bed.

When he finally came on, things got much better.  People were slightly less pushy, and the music was good enough to distract from any annoyances.   He and his band rocked it, and as per usual was full of stories.  One of the major highlights of seeing Jesse Malin is that he is known for telling bizarre stories in between songs.  After about an hour and a half, however, my feet were killing me and John and I were ready to go; tired of being the only sober one in a sea of drunk punks.  It wasn't even 1am.  Jesse vowed to make it a long night, and as much as I wanted to, there was no way I could stick it out until 4am, so we left.

Sometimes I am sad that this crazy party-girl phase is coming to an end.  Sometimes I am happy.  I have no regrets, of course.  I have relished every late night with my friends that I've ever had, even those that sometimes ended in tears or vomit or both.  It's part of being a kid.  You do it now, so that you don't do it when you're forty.  Nobody wants to be "that guy."  And you know who I mean; everyone knows one.  It amazes me that I would rather hang out at home or go to dinner with friends and then call it a night.  The Katie of three years ago wouldn't even be friends with this Katie.  Go figure.  I am happy for who I am, and I am happy for who I was.

At any rate, I am getting old.  I am not punk rock.  And my party days are officially over.  But I can still have a good time; the good times just end a lot earlier now.