New Year's Eve 2005 @ CBGB
by Stephen Bailey
December 31, 2005

I rarely ever venture out for just any New Year's Eve bash for obvious reasons. The insanity, the crowds and especially the amateurs ... as was evidenced by this dialogue on my ride down to the PATH station:

Man: "Oh I take the bus all the time."
Woman: "Really? I took a bus once in Virginia."

Santa Claus was on the bus with me for a little while. He wasn't in uniform and got out at Second Street–just a tad south of his North Pole headquarters. The odd dialogue behind me continues:

Woman: "Plastique is a good name for a girl."
Man: "I always preferred C4 for a boy."
Woman: "How about Pipe Bomb? Ha ha! Sorry, I'm a little buzzed already."

So why this trek into hell tonight? This is an historic occasion. The beginning of a new year and the end of an era. It's old news now that CBGB has struggled and lost it's battle to remain at the legendry 315 Bowery location. Though they have negotiated an extension through October 2006, there is no longer any doubt that it will have to move. Tonight, as has happened several times thru the course of 2005, the Hoboken music community has gathered together to show our love and support of this legendary dive.

The bus arrives outside of the PATH station and I soon discover that it's emptiness was deceiving. Thankfully I entered thru the back since, for some reason, hordes of pre-drunk party-goers stood motionless and confused before the turnstiles on the other side of the station. The best I could figure was that they don't normally travel via the PATH so they were tripped up by figuring out how to pay. Downs on the equally crowded platform there was a train that inexplicably left the station empty causing a group groan. The next train arrived from Journal Square nearly full. Another groan vibrated from the platform as the crowd for some reason kept their place for a moment. I took advantage of this delay and pushed my way in. I found a pocket of space among a small group of friendly folks. The train took a few moments to get going. Finally, it jerked and squealed and jolted as if the engineer was in some kind of hurry. I laughed and joked with those around me about the whole situation as our bodies involuntarily mingled in the moment.

Thanks to the jovial mood, it was not very hard to squeeze my way thru the car towards the door as we approached my stop. I politely shimmied passed the variety of beautiful people, ugly people and those ugly people that think they are beautiful. It was a quick hop up to the street and back down to the subway at 14th Street. After nearly getting on the wrong train (I swear I need a compass), I made my way to the downtown 'F' where the mood is remarkably different. It's quiet. No one here appears to be going anywhere but home after a long day of work, school or whatever. Suddenly it seemed I'd been transported in time to what could be any old rush hour. As if it was no longer New Year's Eve. I will admit that the quiet calm was a nice change.

As I walk out on to Second Avenue and Houston making my way over to Bowery, my mind wanders about tonight. I'm trying to have no expectations. New Year's Eve tends to always be a let down. It's been so hyped up over the years that a person feels like a loser if thy don't get that midnight kiss or that special proposal or whatever. I for one made it a point not to invite anyone other than friends. I really had no need or want for mixed signals spoiling my vision of this night. A simple party with some of my drunken cohorts from Hoboken to bid farewell to CBGB and this year is just what I needed. No more, no less.

Most everyone I spoke to as this night approached agreed that 2005 sucked. Natural disasters, another Bush inauguration, commercial greed sucking the life out of NYC, venues shutting down and so on. Not to mention personal baggage that so many of us are anxious to unload. So the only symbolic expectations I may have for this night is to ring out the old and bring on the new ... in more ways then one. Even this piece that I'm typing represents my return to writing for MurphGuide.com. Another new beginning.

I paid my $20.00. Yes it was a bit steep considering there were no drink specials. I didn't mind. After all it normally costs $10.00 to get in here, I'm gonna see six bands and besides, those so called open-bar New Year's Eve parties tend to be way over priced. This night would actually wind up being cheaper than any of those. I was greeted by the ever festive middle finger of Lava of High Speed Chase followed by the ever festive smile of his band mate and organizer of this shindig Gibby.

The heat was blasting down from the ceiling when I heard our emcee Jim Testa of Jersey Beat announce the first act. I quickly made my way to the famously disheveled, condemned-home-chic backstage area to drop off a few layers of my clothes and my bag. As I came out I saw Jim in his makeshift tux of jeans, jacket and bow tie. I gave him a New Year's hug and took out my camera. He said, "I think as much as I'm gonna miss the bands here, I'm gonna miss taking pictures." It is true that this is one of the best stages anywhere to take pictures.

Not just from a technical point of view. Sure the lighting is key and the off-kilter angle of the stage allows you to stand in a variety of spots to get good shots, without disrupting the show. What you also have here is built in character like the pocked-up face of an old man ripe with stories from a difficult but fruitful life. The history here is plastered in the layers of stickers, posters and graffiti that adorn the walls. It rings in the rafters and wafts in the air around the toilets. Toilets that I swear attract more shutterbugging tourists than some museums.

End of October began their set as a duo. Singer Marc has paired with a new partner named Kristen. Pretty girl with a voice that fits nicely with Marc's style. Later she would tell me that they've only been working together for about three weeks and she's beginning to write more with him. I'm looking forward to hearing that stuff soon. After one song, a throng of players climbed on to the stage. Odd, since End of October is rarely larger than a trio. Even before Kristen came aboard, there would usually be Marc and Greg on keys and percussion. Occasionally there'd be one other guest jumping in. Tonight they were joined by Rad from High Speed Chase on guitar, Paul from Crewman Number Six on bass and another guitar player whose name I didn't catch. The only thing missing were drums. It didn't really matter though since their country-tinged folk-rock sound held up fine in its own. I asked Paul after the set how long this line-up had existed. He said, "Oh, about a week."

At this point I needed another drink. I joked that my goal was to get drunk and fall down the stairs after midnight. Thankfully that never happened. On my way back to the bar I ran into my old friend Delia others who I had not seen in forever. Along with here were Charlie, Stacey and a quiet fellow introduced to me as Charlie's cousin George. They are all friends with Gibby as well. This reminded me of that theory behind the movie 'Six Degrees of Separation'. In this case, the constant is Gibby.

Up next came Butterspy. Gibby and I were discussing the noticeably different sound to their first tune. Apparently they'd been listening to much more Black Sabbath circa 'War Pigs' of late. Gibby said he figured it was the growing influence of drummer Greg who joined the band back in the summer. Their second tune would lead us back to more of the familiar Butterspy funk but the harder edge did add a nice, new texture overall. We both agreed that this should prove to be an interesting step in their evolution.

Time for another drink. I made my way back to the bar and was thrilled to see my friend John (aka '1/2 Steve' from my Ireland Trip). We had met for drinks at Social before Christmas when he mentioned that he may come to CBGB. I also ran into Freeda and her friend Clarissa who, despite only knowing me for a few moments, placed me in charge of watching her coat. "I'll kick your ass if anything happens to it," she threatened. Of course I took a moment to look at her and in my mind realized that such a fate would be more pleasure than punishment. In fact I'm pretty sure I told her as much.

I stepped outside for a smoke. Sadly I still find it hard not to smoke when I go out drinking. While out there I chatted it up with a couple of tourists about the impending doom of CBGB. One of the bouncers was out there too and he cleared up a couple of items for us. First was the fact that the landlord Bowery Residency Committee (BRC) did not raise their rent to get them out. They instead were pulling whatever tricks they could from their sleeves to get the club out of the space. Another was to claim that the club owed them back rent, which turned out not to be true. The reality was that the BRC apparently never wanted the club in this spot when they moved in upstairs in the late nineties. This would explain their unwillingness to accept when CBGB actually offered to take on the rate hike. As for the BRC's unpublicized plans for the space, this person is certain that they will use it for offices.

When I came back in, Jim Testa had handed me his camera and asked me to snap of a couple of shots of him. He had a special New Year's gift that he wanted to share with the crowd after the Butterspy set. He picked up his acoustic and led us all thru a mini-medley of Green Day's 'Good Riddance (Time Of Your Life)' and the Ramones' 'Questioningly'. Yeah I'm sick of the Green Day song too. I have been since it first hit way back when. Still I have to confess to the lump in my throat. There was something very special about this man singing those words in this place on this night. As with many of the folks here, Jim and Jersey Beat are woven into the history. The reality of the eminent closure of these rickety doors hit me hard.

At one point Delia expressed her need to hear some metal, punk or things otherwise amped up ... this being CBGB and all. The next two acts, Crewman Number Six and High Speed Chase, certainly brought the heavy. They were loud, tight and afterwards it was agreed that each had what could be described as their best sets in a long time. Yet another in a list of magical moments.

Midnight was drawing near and the bar staff was handing out the obligatory noisemakers and plastic flutes of champagne. John and I noticed the digital clock behind the bar said 11:58 and began to get restless. By 11:59 we assumed the toast position, raising our plastic a bit higher. I think the bartenders noticed this and, to assure there would be no premature toasting, turned the clock around. This left it completely up to Mr. Testa to count us down. And then, just like a giant sigh of relief, 2005 was over. Kisses, hugs, lumpy throats all swaying, smiling and toasting. I'm not sure if this is a result of many years of Guy Lombardo brainwashing ... but right now my mind is remembering hearing Auld Lang Seine. I can't say if it actually happened.

After several moments of typical holiday revelry, Black Market Radio hit the stage. I had never seen them before and they would turn out to be the treat of the night for me. Sure there were several preconceived notions surrounding them and their front man. Peter Cornell is a dead ringer for his brother Chris (Audioslave, Soundgarden) but I tried to let those thoughts fall away and appreciate them at face value. I'm glad I did because the comparisons can and should stop at the visual. Their sound is both sophisticated and raw. Well written, original sounding songs and a solid performance. I expect big things from them.

Their drummer John Hummel is bit of a local legend. He's the former drummer for High Speed Chase. He's also played with Boomslang. In a funny moment that proves his prolific ways, I struggled to remember the name of one of his bands. He rattled off some names, but nothing clicked. Finally it came to me many, many hours later. I was trying to remember 'The Misery Loves'.

The last band didn't thrill me at all. They were, in my opinion too dramatic and predictable for their own good. There was a bit of an arrogant air about them. Still I want to say something nice for the sake of good karma. They were very well rehearsed and a handful of their fans traveled a long way to see the show.

This seemed like a good time to leave. I looked around for my friends. Fellow Hobokenites Yvonne and Michelle said they were going to ICU Bar. Our friend Sags was tending bar. I don't know what time it was, but they said it would be their until at least 4:00 and took off. After several tries to locate my other friends, John and I decided to leave. I found out later that, in true punk fashion, one of my friends passed out on the equipment in one of the back rooms, puked and was whisked out thru the back door. Yes, there is a back door.

John and I stood outside CBGB, freezing our butts off on Bowery trying in vain to hail a cab. John suggested we start walking towards Houston for a better chance to get a ride. Such was not the case, though not without my trying. I would blurt out at the top of my lungs, "Hey Taxi!" at every car that passed our way. We laughed so hard that, before I knew it, we had walked the whole way to 11th Street and Washington landing right outside of ICU. Imagine my surprise.

Yvonne and Michelle were sitting at the bar and Sags made my night by playing a couple of songs from my band 'Ya-Ne-Zniyoo' over the speakers. After 4:00 we were told to move downstairs. At this point a sweet, cute girl came up to us needing some assistance. "You have to help me. This guy is trying to get me to come home with him." I switched to chivalry mode, turned to her and said, "Well, you're with me. Why would you go home with anyone else?" She smiled and told me her name was Heather. She turned out to be a friend of ICU owner Greg.

ICU is a small spot split into two with a dark, industrial yet comfortable feeling bar upstairs with a performance area and second bar in the basement. That area always has this under-construction appearance under the watchful eyes of a large portrait of Elvis Presley. Greg was nice enough to keep the party going for those of us who migrated down the stairs. Heather and I sat on one of the tall cushioned benches and got to know each other. Yvonne was chatting up some tall, Norwegian looking dude. Sags and Michelle were having what looked like a pretty intense conversation. John was jokingly giving Greg a hard time about not playing his requested songs. And a handful of others sat at the bar laughing and winding down this night.

It was about 6:15 or so when John tries to get me to have one more whiskey and Heather left to crash at a friend's apartment. The next thing I remember was feeling this great shove on my right shoulder. Apparently I had dozed off and John was checking on me. I guess he wanted to be sure I didn't turn out like my other friend earlier. No worries, it was just a long night. And by 7:15, it was time to go home. My groans mixed with laughter as we ascended the stairs out of the basement to be greeted by the light of the early morning. Off we waddled toward the train. Except for Yvonne who stayed behind. Sags, Michelle and I got on the PATH at Christopher and John kept walking to get to his train.

The good thing about coming home at this time is that the buses are running in Hoboken. So no need to take a cab or walk. As I got to the stairs of my apartment, I made a point to notice the time. 7:41 AM. I paused for a moment and basked in the warmth, joy and fun of this night.What better way could there be end 2005 and start 2006 then with friends old and new? I can't think of any. Still there was a hint of sadness knowing what was to happen to CBGB and what is continuing to happen to the original music scene here in the NYC area. I can only hope that someday this will turn around. Until then, please support local music because you never know how long you have.

Cheers,
Stephen

Related Links:
SaveCBGB.org - Show Your Support
StephenBailey.com Photo Gallery
End of October
Butterspy
High Speed Chase
Crewman Number Six
Black Market Radio
Vestascension
Jersey Beat Blog. Who is that pretty bastard at the top of the page?

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I call myself a Cultural Exchange Advocate, which is just a fancy way of saying when
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