Thursday Night Adventures In Chinatown.

There is something to be said about the way in which Philadelphia is laid out. It's a city in which neighborhoods seamlessly blend in and out of each other, all the while maintaining a distinct character. Philly is, after all, a city of neighborhoods. Last night I found myself in Chinatown with a rather delightful agenda: to meet up with old friends.

An old drinking friend and fellow musician, Dave Rossi (ex SGR), got himself into the business of show business and was promoting a show at the Trocadero. I'm assuming the People's Republic of New Jersey unshackled his ankle chain and allowed him to leave his Stalinist outpost in Trenton where he works as a loyal apparatchik to the current regime.


The goal for the evening was a rendezvous with a bespectacled artist friend of mind and for my lady friend and I to make our way through whipping winds and cold tinged scent of lo mein to ultimately arrive at the Trocadero on Arch.

For those that have never been to the Troc, here are some pictures.

The line up went as such:
The Skatalites, The Players Band, and The Raggamuffins.

The players band opened, from what my hungover mind can recall, and they were good but nothing to hang the moon over. The Raggamuffins and Skatalites were fantastic.

The one thing that I've always respected about Dave Rossi is that he can always make sure a bill runs on time and that in and of itself is a hard thing to do.

And now the back story.

My working relationship with Dave Rossi (currently of Phillyska ) and various members of the now defunct SGR goes back four or five years now. Dave and Sean used to give me the call up to run sound for various gigs in and around South Jersey. Beyond that, Sean Hur (ex. guitarist and Hammond aficionado) have jammed together for years now as well (we have also been known to throw a helluva barbecue at my house when the summer weather permits).

The problem is that very rarely do the three of us ever have time to sit down together over a beer and catch up. When we do it is often far too fleeting, and when the chance arose for us to all meet up at length last night, I wasn't one to say no. What all was discussed and the like is between and betwixt the three of us and it would not be gentlemanly to go bandying about the contents of private conversation on the internet via blogs or message boards or the like.


About an hour into my drinking and lounging fellow libertine, and steadfast drinking companion Dave Segal of Wareeka Hill showed up and being a man of refined taste brought him a quite fetching and lovely lady.

As a casual aside, it is often best to have a delightful and comely lady on your arm be they friend or seductive femme. To not have one would be akin to not doffing ones cap in a sartorial gesture of respect to someone that wishes you a good day. It just isn't right not to do so.

Mr Segal and I decided to make haste for the floor after a cocktail or two and enjoy the first band.

As friends do when they've not seen each other in quite some time, we engaged quickly in conversation whilst enjoying the bands. Some thuggish lout decided to interject himself between me and a friend. Doing so repeatedly and in the most harassing of manners I became quite peeved. Truth be told, yours truly is not one for confrontation. It's a big oafish and uncouth. There comes a time in one's life where the need to prove yourself in such ways just comes off as silly, outlandish and in all regards, wholly childish.

Then again, people often perceive kindness for weakness, and that is also impermissible. Being one not to sully their own name nor garments, I called the Bulch over and explained the situation at hand. For those that don't know him, he's the Philly Ska scenes most endearing skin head and built bigger and thicker and tougher than the Berlin Wall.

Much like the Pentagon, I like to subcontract my security.

Upon a return to the upstairs, said two-toned thug was waiting at the bar with a blood alcohol level almost as high as his annoyingness level. At that point he proceeded to regale us with his thoughts on the whole thing in a dizzying spectacle of bravado, arrogance and downright cuntishness

"Hey guys i wasn't trying to be a prick or anything. its just when a band is playing and you stand there talking to yourselves its rude and its not cool to be like that to the bands and thats why were all here you know what i mean"

WHAT?!

"I'm standing there in a sweater tie and suit and i go "i know what you mean but you're wrong because you're a fucking cunt"

At that point I spat on the ground in front of him to show my visible disdain.

The show wrapped up in the most smashing of ways and I made haste for the center of the city.

After a brief scheduling snafu at the Khyber, I returned to my favorite bar and waited for Mr. Segal to rendezvous with me. It was not to be smooth sailing however. The usual set of artisans, drag queens and fashionistas all seemed a bit tightly wound.

As such, upon Dave's arrival, we left for the bowels of South Philly and a night of drunken debauchery at the Republican.

It was a circus as always, topless dancers, drunkards and merrymakers all looking to find a way to close out the night and go home with a buzz, a lay or a bag of whatever substance you could fit in a small ziploc bag.

The night was amazingly short on executives and their blow and the harlots and their hangers on (this isn't to imply that its an establishment rife with prostitutes, more to the point it's a place where the often the drunken ladies that go in there prefer to act the part).

And so as the night closed out and our inebriation faded we sojourned to the city center once again where I took my leave, to retire home where a delicious sandwich and a freshly washed robe awaited me.

Thus ended my evening, which henceforth shall be known as the Two Tone Chinatown and Whiskey Affair.

God Bless and God Speed

Charles