It's two o'clock on Sunday afternoon and Brooklyn, much like the rest of New York, is sweltering, i discover as i emerge from the furnace-like subway platform on to Bedford Avenue. The sky over Williamsburg is blue; the air is still, the heat making it flicker and dance over the black asphalt. Potential perils, such as sunstroke or severe dehydration do little to deter me today. I wouldn't miss today for anything. Wiping the sweat off my brow, and lighting a cigarette in defiance, I start towards the waterfront.
The Williamsburg Waterfront plays host to Jelly Pool Parties on summer Sundays in July and August. These one-day festivals are real gems, featuring an eclectic mix of bands, cold beer, dodge ball games and a smashing view of Manhattan across the river. While the event in itself is awesome, what makes today's pool party epic is the headliner; taking the stage at sundown is none other than The Murder City Devils. The superb garage punk group got together in 1996, called it quits in 2001, and have since done the occasional, random show. How i wished to see them. I just never thought i'd happen to be in the right place at the right time. And now, suddenly, hell, this is about as right as it gets. I sit on the grass and prepare to wait.
At six in the afternoon, the air has cooled a little and the white concrete field that makes up a good chunk of the East River State Park is rapidly filling up. An expectant cheer goes up from the crowd, i snake my way closer to the stage. The air is rife with giddy anticipation. And suddenly, there they are - this band whose songs have been the soundtrack of wild garden parties, first crushes and break-ups alike - on stage, right in front of me. Being unable to decide between peeing my pants in excitement and bursting into tears of joy, i instead join the jumping, screaming crowd and shriek at the top of my lungs.
Spencer Moody saunters on stage wearing a straw hat and his signature thick, black glasses; he's not particularly short, but he looks hobbit-like. Like he's just back from planting parsnips in the garden. And his beard, ginger and bushy, is topped off with an impressive mustache (which makes yours truly - a facial hair-fetishist to the bone - sigh in awe).
They kick off, hitting the sea of people in front of them with the big guns: all their best songs, each one making the crowd go a little crazier: Dancin' Shoes, Hey Sailor, 18 wheels... The audience is one big hive-mind of tattooed arms pumping the air, enveloped in a cloud of sickly-sweet smoke issuing from the blunts held in every other hand, bellowing out the apology in unison: I never wanted you to be a sailor's girl, to be a trucker's wife, to be left behind...And it's just like i always thought it would be.
Spencer Moody is furious on stage. He thunders into the mic like it's insulted him. When that's not enough, he shoves the whole thing in his mouth, yelling into it, head thrown back, hands in the air. It sounds exactly like it does on their live album, if not better. In between songs he stands with his back to the audience, the mic balanced on his head. And then he's off again, climbing the drum set, barking into the mic with that trademark raw, haggard rage of his.
The crowd hollers, screams, whistles, claps. Spencer turns towards the audience. His view is of the swelling mass of people before him, the afternoon sun behind them and the Manhattan skyline on the other side of the glimmering river. He smiles and squints at the sun in his eyes: "this is really cool, i love this" he says in a voice that sounds mischievous, with some kind of endearing twang to it; a stark contrast to the whiskey-soaked scream that just before pleaded the case of the Johnny Thunders. Someone taps me on the shoulder, i turn around to see a tall, skinny kid dressed in black, clutching little plastic bags. "You wanna buy a magic brownie?" he inquires, smiling encouragingly. I decline politely and he weaves his way into the crowd, repeating the question to those in earshot - the contraband punk gig equivalent of a baseball game hot dog peddler. i'm loving this.
For a band that's been off the live-circuit for the best part of the last decade, these Devils play well. A stumble on the drums at the first beats of a song earns a good-natured "you fucked up!" call from the crowd. "We're not quite ready", the band smiles in return, taking the time to tune their instruments. A second try yields results, and they're on their game. The atmosphere is amazing. The crowd, consisting mostly of hipster-types the Sunday before, has enjoyed an influx of the punk-minded this time around. Band shirts, Misfits skull tattoos and piercings abound. A pitful of carousers circle round, jumping with careless abandon, skanking furiously, most with eyes glazed over. Sweat flies everywhere, the fallen are set back on two legs, feet point skywards as someone is hoisted on to the shoulders of the audience. i fear for the life of my EOS-350, grasped in my hands, as a screaming Irishman comes sailing into me, headfirst, defying Newton's first law. I half-wish i hadn't brought the camera, in order to be able to throw myself into the pit with all the other crazies, but i figure photographic evidence will be of more sentimental value than an x-ray graph depicting crushed ribs. In the long run, anyway.
Spencer addresses the crowd once more: "We were asked to play this show when the Pool Parties were still by a pool", and again his voice surprises me. I don't know what it is - he kinda sounds like a cartoon character. Like he might burst into a fit of giggles at any minute. "We told them no, we're not gonna do that. You wanna know why? " The audience awaits an explanation. "Cause the stage was too small. We said, get an appropriate size stage, then we'll play", he smirks from the center of a massive stage which dwarfs him entirely, further emphasizing the hobbit likeness. "So thanks to the organizers for getting a better stage - here we are now." The crowd cheers and they roll into the next song.
This has been something else. Something unreal. The sky behind is coloring orange. My voice is hoarse from screaming. My legs are shaking from jumping. My shirt is soaked with sweat - mine and that of all these other crazies packed in front of a stage on a balmy Sunday evening in Brooklyn, seeing a band i never thought i'd get to see live. Suddenly, i'm all too aware of the fact that this is going to be over all too soon. Spencer's wolf-howl brings me back, sending shivers down my spine. Like a pack of primal, deranged canines, the horde assembled in front of the stage answers the call.
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