Veritas rockus.
Hearing NYC live last night in the 30s-ish theatre in Crackville at Interpol gig was waking dream.
And for the first time ever in my unshockable rock demeanour, near-lifetime of hanging at gigs, backstage tales beyond belief of rockstar hijinx, fraternizing with boys of all rock genres, I shut my eyes during a show to let every molecule of this one song hit me like light therapy (and, speaking of capturing light, shot a few phonal images of the stage and one of them, I pointed out to Laura, resembled images of the WhiteSnake rock inferno a few years back = computerized lights ablaze like so many foam cushions sparked by pyros) and felt emotion well up. Momentary bon voyage to Perfect unshockable rock demeanour.
Proud to report that fellow Interpol people and I drained all scotch out of the Dome. Laura went to refresh and came back with the bad news so it was onto other items.
Had a hell of a time finding the right crack-addled boulevard and wended through the numbered streets and at one point we were approached by a youngish man with wild eyes holding onto a piece of paper like it was real important. Which way to the border, he queried. Like I knew. But I had a guess U-turn, make a left and look for Rainbrow Bridge signs like a pro. And onwards we drifted. Mid-gig I looked at ticket and fuckinlo, behold there was a clue - address.
After the gig Laura and I learned some fun facts about the practice of crack from a humourist manning the front podium of a sketchy gas station. First he pretended to know no english. Then he informs us he lives in Rocheter. Then he points out the copper scrubbing pads avail in shoppe are in high demand in the neighborhood as they're used for stuffing crack pipes. Then he pulls out some small glass "pens" from behind counter. "Pens"? Um, hell no. Crack pipes.
Poetic, life-enhancing, perfect set and encore from Interpol.

Love's Encore.