I saw them at CMJ

Red lights are flickering. Two skinny girls with their trim bellies showing are dancing provocatively in the middle of a low ceilinged room for all to see. Others wait at the bar for their expensive drinks as I sit on a church pew complete with a cushion that appears to be blue in all of the wash of red light adding atmosphere to the smoky room. It's a Wednesday night, but in Manhattan you never can really tell the difference.

Some band I'm told is quite crappy is waiting to play downstairs, but I've already spent my $7 for a cover charge on much better music. I'm here to wait for my friends to get their equipment hopefully so we can go to some place quieter, more suited for conversation. If I get asked again for a light or a cigarette by another over decorated with makeup girl I'm going to head back out the door. There is nothing art gallery about this place and I'm still trying to figure out why people are lined up outside with ID's out while a guy I had never seen before motioned me in. He was in here already, he said pointing to me as I practically hid behind my taller friend with the fancy collection of passes on his hip.

My friend Tim had moments earlier struck up a conversation in Mandarin with a couple of guys he recognized from a magazine photograph as being in a Chinese punk band. They had tried to get into the same club we were now sitting around in twiddling our thumbs, but for whatever reason hadn't dressed the part. Their spiky hair and punk rock threads that blended in so well at CBGB were somehow threatening in this cramped environment and their passes no good, even with the all girl punk outfit screaming and thrusting in the basement below.

That mix of bar hoppers and typical night owl with music geeks, industry experts, and starving bands traveling hours by van only to park illegally and play a half hour set that competes with about 20 other bands of a similar genre playing in the city at the same time is what CMJ is essentially about. A show that any other day of the year would be just another show is suddenly special and even the ones who are out drinking in their normal spot and have no clue what the term college music even means seem in the know.

"Did anyone get signed yet?" joked Joey Sweeney of The Trouble With Sweeney in between songs a few blocks away at CB's Gallery, the upscale version of the legendary punk rock club next door. Leave it to the cynical music critic and writer from Philadelphia to hit the nail on the head. It is after all a comical display in some ways, bands all playing with the hope that a record exec. will happen to stumble across the next big thing. Trouble With Sweeney of course are hardly a band impressed by the terms industry or expert panel. They end the Burnt Toast Vinyl/Fanatic Promotion night in true working class indie-pop Fishtown fashion. Being only the first night of the musical extravaganza, it's hard to tell whether Sufjan Stevens, who played earlier, will generate a buzz he so rightly deserves or Denison Witmer will be mentioned in the scattered press coverage.

Whether that matters or not, those in attendance ultimately have the chance to go home with stories of all the random people they encountered upon and for the bands the chance they had to hop from place to place taking in other acts they'd otherwise not get a chance to see save for the off chance their labels arranged a tour.

A friendly and all too familiar face playing guitar for Saxon Shore, who rose to the occasion of the night with a set of instrumental music elegantly fitting the candled sit-down atmosphere. A wild World Series game in Florida seen on store window television sets walking between clubs and a surreal speechless encounter with as big of a rock star short of Elvis Costello as there is in my indie-rock world. A chance to mourn with my friends from Boston who understand my pain seeing the Marlins instead of the Cubs still playing. Another friend in from Los Angeles.

Was it music that I came here for?

-Matthew Ralph

2002 White Elephant Productions