The plan was a casual but sincere one. Venerable British Punk luminaries, the Buzzcocks (or simply Buzzcocks sans "the," if you're feeling annoyingly pedantic) were to play their umpteen-thousandth NYC show at Irving Plaza Monday night. Having been a longtime fan since first hearing "Orgasm Addict" courtesy of a mixtape from a friend back in 8th Grade, I've felt that the opportunity to catch the Buzzcocks on stage was always one to be seized. Though I was too young to see them in their prime, when the band re-formed with their classic line-up in 1989 and played the New Ritz on 54th Street, it was a positively seismic rock'n'roll experience. I'd coaxed my friend Rob to join me on that venture (by way of making him several mixtapes, needlessly stuffed with many a corking Buzzcock `choon), and that show made lifelong Buzzcocks fans of us both.
Since that afore-mentioned show, every time the band has come to town, one or both of us has attended. We saw them a couple of more times at the New Ritz (at one point in the mid 90's showcasing tracks they'd been working on with maverick producer Bill Laswell that would never, alas, see the light of day). I remember standing dangerously close to the sound system at that gig, which might take partial credit for the Tinnitus I now live with. We saw them several times back at Irving Plaza. I caught them once or twice at the Bowery Ballroom and once at the since-torn-down Academy off Times Square. I even saw them play a couple of numbers to a bemused crowd at an in-store at a long-vanished HMV on the Upper East Side. They've played shows all over this town over the years, and rarely have we been absent for them.
Though Rob and I were both initially indoctrinated to the band's barbed-yet-universal pop via their compilation, Singles Going Steady (not a weak track thereupon -- if you don't own this, your life has been unwittingly dimmed by a paucity of pristine Punk perfection), both of us swiftly set about collecting the band's entire oeuvre. The then-weighty price tag of their box set, Product actually became our standard of value-measurement ("those plane tickets cost about five-dozen copies of Product" etc. ). We picked up each needless live album (the band's catalog of same is truly dizzying) and each successive studio LP (the band became far more prolific in their later incarnation than in their initial heyday). We are Buzzcocks fans. This is largely because the Buzzcocks are virtually the perfect band. They play short, sharp, irrepresibly catchy songs about sexual frustration and romantic dystfunction, sung from a largely non-gender denominational perspective and played with Punk velocity. Every little deplorably rinky-dink band today that dares to refer to themselves as "pop-punk" owe their careers to the Buzzcocks, who tragically never made a great deal of money themselves, comparatively speaking.
Time passed. Circumstances changed. We got older. The Buzzcocks got seemingly much older. Lead singer, Pete Shelley went from looking like a prurient, pint-sized pixie into a more of a punky, rotund Hobbit (to be fair, Shelley's ever-present foil, guitarist Steve Diggle -- blessed with a preternaturaly punky-last name from birth -- still looks largely the same.) The original rhythm section departed to be replaced by some younger guns (the drum stool briefly played host to ex-Smiths drummer, Mike Joyce), but it's Shelley & Diggle that matter (not to knock original lead vocalist, Howard Devoto -- who departed the fold after the seminal, independently released e.p., Spiral Scratch, to form the equally essential band, Magazine). Over the years, the crowds were sometimes thin (much like poor Pete's hair). We kept going because -- well, hey -- it's the FUCKING BUZZCOCKS! They rock. You Don't!
A job change, a wife, a handful of years and two little kids later, I -- resplendent in one of my countless Killing Joke t-shirts (gotta represent at all times!) meet up with my friend Rob again. He's living out on Long Island now. We barely get to see each other these days -- let alone talk, and when we do, we spend most of our time bitching about our respective work schedules. Seemingly long gone are the days when we'd spend afternoons pilaging through Greenwich Village's numerous (and now long gone) record stores or downing several irresponsible pints of beer waiting for our favorite bands to hit a stage. It felt great to be out of the house on a warm Summer's night on my way to see one of my very favorite bands with an old friend.
Guess what? The plan failed. The Buzzcocks SOLD THE PLACE OUT! Sure, they were playing in Brooklyn a night or two later, but I don't do Brooklyn. Bummed but unphased, Rob and I repaired to our old standby, The Cedar Tavern, had a couple of beers and caught up. And it was alright.
As far as the `Cocks are concerned? Meh! We've seen'em. And we managed to see them when it still mattered. And y'know what? They'll be back.
And we'll be there.
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