As soon as we stepped off the PATH I told Tom to make sure he didn't go balls up after too much draft beer in plastic cups because I would seriously consider leaving him in Hoboken. It'd been fifteen years since my last Hoboken-a-go-go topped off with a Belgian waffle at the diner alongside the church crowd, but I vaguely distinctly remember the pitfalls inherent in one square mile of bars. Where even the menfolk hold each other's hair while they vomit curbside.
Four bands that hadn't played together for a decade mostly remembered their old songs for a reunion show at Maxwells. The MellowTraumatics did it up right. Poppily songs, tight play, sultry singer. The crowd went wild.
An unbenownst-to-me star of Ugly Betty fronted the next band and several music critics in the press box had a field day. Me and Glenn agreed there are two forms of inaccessible: the math rockers and sludge-core maniacs who are actually decent musicians but hellbent on some sort of inexplicable musical tirade, as opposed to the simple, guitarded honkledoonkeys. Ugly Betty Crew fell squarely in this latter category. Ugly Betty boy isn't famous enough to be that self-indulgent.
We stayed through Band Three, which rocked. In a frisky early 00 kind of way.
On the train ride home I sat next to an Asian kid in black sneakers. He read rows and rows of Chinese characters on an iPhone with a brutally smashed screen. I spied on him.