Anesthesia

Twenty years ago today, the music world lost virtuoso bass player Cliff Burton of Metallica. A hippy in bell bottoms who happened to play technical speed metal, his loss is still mourned by fans, especially those of us who were there at the band's beginnings. Back in my hazy teen metal/punk years, early Metallica albums were a listening requirement. And they still get spun on a regular basis today.

The subject line of this entry is the title of Cliff's bass solo song from Metallica's debut album. Well, its proper title is (Anesthesia) - Pulling Teeth, and it's a track that demonstrates the madness and magic this guy could coax out of a bass.

"Living on your knees - conformity
Or dying on your feet for honesty"
RIP Cliff Burton

it

So, I stepped out of the office here on 46th Street to drop into the downstairs deli and buy some trail mix. It was about that time of day when my belly grumbled at me with common annoyance. Once outside, what to my wondering eyes did appear? A "hip logo t-shirt dude" astride "It." What is "It?" It is a Segway. The gizmo was known solely as "It" during its clandestine development and production stage a few years ago. And when "It" was finally unveiled to a kind-of-bewildered public, nearly everyone seemed generally underwhelmed. People shrugged, yawned, and life went on.


How does one act when confronted with an "It"? Well, in my case, I slowed my pace and stared at the spectacle with bemusement and mirth. It seemed the Segway dude was a "group leader" in some sort of "cool camp counselor in the city" manner as he was surrounded by a gaggle of perhaps a dozen chattering teenagers. From his mount he sermonized them with their schedule and walking directions. Of course, he was not walking. He was the leader. And he stood tall and proud (and geeky and alone) raised above the rabble on his heteromorphic mode of transport.

And on that zany metal contraption, he performed an awkward k-turn and proceeded to motor ahead of his charges. The herd of kids milled and followed behind their idiosyncratic Segway Pied Piper as he took them toward Broadway and beyond.

I returned to the office, poured a cup of water from the cooler, opened up the trail mix, and wrote this. Something seems so absurd and pointless about a Segway in the city. In my mind, it fits in much better within the sprawl of suburbia. The Segway is almost as silly as having trail mix for lunch.

sonic

Friday night was a concert night. It had been, well, ages since I'd seen live music. As a matter of fact, the last show I'd attended might have been Luna's second-to-last career performance at the Bowery Ballroom back in February 2005. Yeah, it had been a long time. And I still miss Luna. They were such a substantial and embedded staple of the local scene here in New York. Luna could always be counted on for a few shows a year. That provided a sense of comfort, knowing that this dependable band would always be around for a concert. Well, always was not always, and there is no more Luna, unfortunately.

Pan Sonic (formerly Panasonic, and that is what I generally still call them) still exists, however, and unlike Luna, this pair of experimentalists from Finland bring an entirely disparate musical sensibilty into play. No guitars, bass, or drums - it's pure electronics all the way. Rob, Rich S.P., and I met up at the Northsix venue in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and enjoyed a few pre-show beverages. The concert started late with opening act “Invisible Conga People” (a pretty cool name and actually a very good duo with their sound collage of tribal beats and guitar drone). Pan Sonic took the stage shortly thereafter and put on a riveting minimalist display of esoteric, pseudo-industrial structured noise (how's that to describe their sound?). Rob and I secured spots in front of the stage. The "ripple effect" of Pan Sonic's sound caused our clothes to flutter (seriously) as we basked in the vibration across, and even through, our bodies.

Post-show, our tipsy trio hopped a taxi into Manhattan and made our way to a birthday bacchanal at the Bouche Bar on East 5th Street. There the beer consumption (and spillage) continued. All of the usual suspects were present. It was quite the late night, but I made myself eat and down some water when I arrived home. These days, hangover prevention takes priority despite fatigue and the overwhelming urge to collapse into bed. Though I still felt kind of lousy on Saturday morning, I managed to get my laundry across the street.

And now the weekend winds down as temperatures descend toward autumn and the new week awaits.

grind

It's Labor Day, which marks a three-day respite from the workplace. And right now the day, and the extended weekend, is winding down. It will soon be too-early-to-rise tomorrow, hike to the train, and return to "the grind." Strike up the band and break out the champagne. Er, maybe not - I must head toward the bedroom soon...

Maybe it was the contrarian thing to do, or I felt the need to employ myself in irony, but I did "labor" today. I swept out the (hardwood floor) living room, discarded some accumulated junk from the closet (it's garbage night, anyway), and mopped the kitchen. All of that had been neglected too long. A bachelor pad is one thing, but a den of dust and dirt is entirely another. And now I look, and it's (gasp) clean.

Now, a sedate Monday night. Solitude here, with a visit from recurrent companion melancholy.


Labor Day weekend was mellow. Friday night I was fatigued and lazy, so I availed myself of some entertainment, including Bill Maher's show on HBO. The rain all day on Saturday could have resulted in a washout, but I dragged myself out of the apartment and into Manhattan. I had several drinks with P. and started to fade around 2:00am. I suppose I had not yet fully regenerated from the work week. Of course, despite the "stay at home" conditions outdoors, I always enjoy the city on holiday weekends because it empties out. After drinks, I plopped into the back of a taxi and headed uptown. Gliding along the rain-damp streets beneath sodium vapor lights and the infiltration of omnipresent neon, I peered out at vacant office buildings, gated shops, and sidewalks devoid of pedestrians, and it was then that I felt a resonant connection to the city.

Thus marks the "unofficial end of summer," as Labor Day weekend is known. I welcome autumn. The comfortable temperatures, the brisk air, and the esoteric feeling of change as the season shifts serves to invigorate and reconnect me to a world I often abdicate during the summer months.

Quaalude