I was in New York City a couple of weeks ago. It was a Saturday night, and a few friends -- not really friends, per se, just fellow lost souls -- and I drove up to watch a band I remember from my youth: Warrior Soul. If you don't remember them, that's no surprise. They didn't do much in terms of penetrating the pop-culture membrane. But they made some memorable, politically charged music that was somewhere between punk and cock rock.
The show starts at 11:30. I stand through some boring opening bands while downing a couple of Red Bulls and a Sierra Nevada. I'd been hiking earlier in the day at a place called the Pinnacle, so I was spent. It was an experience being in the middle of nowhere, on the top of a mountain, at midday, then being in the center of the universe just seven hours later. But I needed the company. I'm lonely, you see ... just like everybody else.
This girl keeps bumping into me. She's young. Compared to me, at an ancient 35, everyone is young, I figure. I'm not sure if she's flirting or if it's just a coincidence, like when you lock eyes with someone in a restaurant and every time you look their way, their eyes meet yours. It's awkward. It's funny. And it's deliciously tense. I move away from her, just to be safe. Unless I'm being paid to do it, I'm not much for small talk.
Warrior Soul takes the stage some time around 1 a.m., and they play till close to 2:30 a.m. Decent set. It makes me think of the first time I saw them live, at the Airport Music Hall in Allentown, Pa., 18 years earlier. (I still can't believe that was 18 years ago.) The more things change ... well, you know the rest. The only remnant from the original Warrior Soul: Kory Clarke, the lead singer. (That's him in the photo.) He still sounds good, puts on an energetic show. Good ol' boy from Detroit. He's got some new guys playing with him, from Iceland or Sweden or Greenland or someplace in the middle of the world I'll probably never get to see.
The show ends, and we take the time to thank the band, to say hi to Kory. I thank him for a great show, and he hugs me. That's cool of him. I figure we'll be heading back to Philly soon. But this is the first time I've spent "quality time" with my companions. New York is to be enjoyed in large doses, by their estimation. We meet a friend of a friend and head to a dive bar 10 blocks away. I don't feel much like drinking, but I do because it's offered: a Blue Moon. I hate beer. It makes me angry. Fortuitously, we head to a falafel shop around the corner. It's the highlight of the night. We spend the next hour talking with Mohammed, the guy who runs the place and makes one hell of a falafel. He tells us about Madonna's multimillion-dollar condo around the corner one minute, and the homeless plague the next.
I love hearing this guy's story. I find, rather quickly, that I'm interviewing him, as if I'm working. I ask about his wife and kids -- he lives in Brooklyn because Manhattan is "no place to raise a family" -- and if the economy is having any effect on business. "No," he tells me. His falafel is too damn good for people to not buy it, he says. (He won't get any argument from me.) He leans against someone else's car and smokes a cigarette. I tend to have an immediate dislike for most smokers. This guy ... I don't care if he smokes or not. I just care that he's happy. Eventually, we part ways. He shakes my hand and thanks me for giving him money.
We -- the two guys I came up with and me -- head back to the crummy bar. Where there are trees, there are birds singing. It's practically dawn. We're back in the bar for 10 minutes and -- thank you, god -- it's closing time. Finally, somewhere around 4:30 a.m., we decide to head for home. Home. Someone flags down a cab and five people cram in. I feel like a kid again.
The night is over, I realize, as the cabbie drops us off somewhere familiar. We're back at the car. We pull out of the parking garage and head south, toward Philly, as the sun starts to silhouette the skyscrapers behind us. I'm in a different world, and I'm leaving it in my wake. Somewhere in the middle of having a horrible night with people I barely know, I was able to carve out a hell of a great night. I smile and take notice of it. This is new, I think.
The driver -- he and I have known each other for 20 years -- puts in a punk CD I've never before heard. And I don't ever need to hear it again. Most punk never appealed to me. He blasts it, probably to keep himself awake. And that's cool. I stuff gobs of neon pink into my ears and close my eyes. I wake up two hours later, back in Pennsylvania, on a beautiful Sunday morning.
It's 6:30 a.m., and it's time for bed. I walk to my car, put the key into the ignition and drive off. Back to the real world.
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