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By Jeff Randall Saturday, Feb. 10 | The Siberia Bar | New York City |
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HOME | UPCOMING EVENTS
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By Jeff Randall Saturday, Feb. 10 | The Siberia Bar | New York City |
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"Some of you have been saved
for a number of years, some perhaps a year, and some just months or a few weeks. Being
saved from sin is wonderful! Old things fade away - and all things become new, I am so
glad you're saved! But to be a good soldier in the service of our Lord Jesus Christ, it's
not enough just to be saved. There is much more for you! You need to be baptized with the
Holy Ghost!" |
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These words were proclaimed from the man-made mountaintop known as the Great Church of Times Square a little over a decade ago. Although this sermon was probably intended for a captive audience in a classroom or standing church, I like to imagine them spewed from a bullhorn at the intersection of 41st and Eighth, or somewhere thereabouts. Down in the real Times Square, where humanity is still on display in all of its glaring ugliness. You see, even in the "New Times Square" there is still room for suffering and desperation. In 1990, I'm sure it was worse. And David Wilkerson was most likely some sort of self-anointed prophet of hope. I imagine that he stood on street corners during the first Bush administration and hurled insulting dogma at X-rated theater patrons, stumbling drug addicts and gutter trash. I've never met David Wilkerson; and, God willing, I never will. But I have met Chris Heine. Heine sings under the auspices of a different Holy Ghost. This isn't a spirit, it's a mesmerizing and explosive Brooklyn-based band that is also three-fourths Nebraskan. The Holy Ghost - the band, not the spiritual entity - performed on Saturday, Feb. 10, at the Siberia Bar in midtown Manhattan. The Siberia Bar is a dingy, charmingly dilapidated, railroad-style hangout that is located in the 50th Street subway station on Broadway. According to local legend, the space the bar now occupies used to be a document drop-off point for KGB spies. In something of a tribute to this history, the graffiti-laden walls of the bar are underscored by bold red Soviet-style artwork and slogans. The small, stage-less space affords one side of the room for both the band and stacked cases of beer and discarded bottles. Couches line the walls and the hard, exposed floors do little to keep the place warm in the winter. The bar has been something of a Manhattan home for the Holy Ghost for the last nine months. Coincidentally, the Great Church of Times Square looms out across the plaza from 51st and Broadway, its neon cross beaming brightly and plainly visible from the sidewalk in front of the subway station. Or maybe it's not a coincidence. The Holy Ghost works in mysterious ways, you see... Anyway, back to the band. I first met Chris Heine in the mid-'90s, when he was tooling around Lincoln with a dark, sleek rock outfit most of you probably knew as Opium Taylor. I caught one of the band's shows at the Seventh Street Loft and was duly impressed. The band's tongue-in-cheek name gave little insight to its sound: a mass of slinking bass lines and swirling guitar riffs, nervously held together by a slightly off-kilter rhythm. The band staggered and swayed, lurched and pulled back, embraced the soft-loud dynamic and then choked it into submission. The center of it all was, of course, Chris Heine. He was the singer, after all, and singers catch the glory in our language-obsessed culture. Eyes closed and slightly shaking, he physically embodied what the music seemed to be saying. He'd step away from the microphone between vocal spats, leaning backwards and shuffling around arhythmically. Then, when his turn came up again, he'd step up and wail his words. "Well, goddammit," I thought. "I'm hooked." Sadly, Opium Taylor is no more; but the sonics the band purveyed are still available in a modified version through the Holy Ghost. A little more mature, a little more controlled, and a little more literate; when performing, the four members of the Holy Ghost fill the room with the power of a much larger band. One guitar, one bass, one voice and one drum kit hardly seem capable of raising such a sound. But there you have it. On Saturday, Feb. 10, at about 11:30 p.m., the Holy Ghost stood before a packed room and let the demons loose. Chris said he had a cold, but seemed to be in fine form as he showed no signs of strain or codeine-doped sluggishness, even with the vocals played high in the mix. Guitarist Alec Ferrell, the one band member who doesn't hail from the Cornhusker State, led the charge with his loose playing, which somehow conjured images of Marc Ribot playing punk rock. He moved with the music as though suspended from strings, only occasionally planting his feet wide in a stance that reminded me of my deep-seated regret for not growing up in the era of guitar heroes. Kent Heine was more still, but his bass never seemed the slightest bit stagnant, as he and the drummer -- the one and only Matt Focht -- formed an unbreakable backbone upon which the rest of the band stood (dare I say "an unholy rhythm alliance"? No, I dare not). OK, here's where I admit I don't know any of the band's songs. I have heard "Dance," which seems to be the only MP3 I can get to play on my computer. Anyway, they played "Dance," because I recognized that song. They played a lot of other songs, too. Quite good ones, actually. They also played "Thunder and Lightning." I had never heard it before, but I distinctly remember that title. Isn't this supposed to be about the songs? I suppose I could mention that it's been a long while since I've seen people dancing at a concert; and there were people dancing at this concert. It wasn't the mindless pogo or ruthless riot-style dancing that we all grew up on, either. It was honest-to-goodness dancing, complete with sympathy for the groove and couples in slow grinds. It was probably 50 degrees in the Siberia Bar that night, but by the end of the Holy Ghost's set, there was practically sweat on the walls. That's a damn good thing in my book. Rock and roll came about so kids could have something to dance and fuck to. And even in the dirty recesses of New York, a few short blocks north of Times Square, fucking in public is still frowned upon. So, the kids danced on Saturday night at the Siberia Bar. Maybe they went home and fucked with electric, fuzzed-out ringing still in their ears. I can only vouch for the dancing. So, that's my review. That's the story of how I was baptized with the Holy Ghost. Let's all get down and pray that the Holy Ghost will bless us soon with a full-length album that will capture some of this sweat. According to the band, the next few weeks will be spent in closed-off rooms with microphones present; that means recording, which means an album is coming. In passing, I should mention the opening band, Pony Express. They played a nice little set of blues-inspired candy pop without the snide sarcasm that, regrettably, many such bands wallow in. They also did a cover of "Bring It On Home to Me." They brought it on home. And their singer looked a lot like Ralph, a friend of mine from back in high school who is now in the process of becoming a priest in the Roman Catholic Church. Will the religious references never cease? THE END -- Jeff Randall
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THE HOLY GHOST WEBSITE: http://www.deathtrapbaby.com/theholyghost/default.html
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