Going Continental

There's always been something desperate about the Continental. Consider those framed photos that line the wall of musicians onstage, along with the sign over the bar declaring "ALL PHOTOS WERE TAKEN HERE."

Anyway, I'm having trouble getting excited over the Continental's blatant bid to replace CBGB's as our town's premiere punk-rock hangout. The most punk-rock thing about the Continental is how it's always the bar most likely to leave my name off the guest list.

But the space never lost its original geriatric vibe, and remains a great place to drink during the day. I also got to see a really good Midwestern rock band called Cutters there back in '99. They couldn't have found another club in Manhattan with the low standards to book their ordinary rock.

Except for CBGB's, of course, so maybe The Continental really does have a proper claim. The club's trying to prove it tonight with a big show to celebrate the release of Best Of NYC: Live At Continental, Vol. 1, the first of two live compilations recorded at the club. The night's ambience is all very celebratory-but not so much that I'm willing to get stiffed again on the guest list. Then I feel bad about beating what turns out to be a $5 cover charge.

Maybe it's charming that the Continental doorman has never heard of their publicist. Incompetence is punk! I'd usually leave those definitions to George Tabb, but he's busy fronting Furious George when I finally get inside. It's pleasant to see George back, but that's the only reason to have arrived early. I won't be hanging around to see the big L.E.S. Stitches reunion-most likely because I'm one of the many people who didn't know they'd broken up.

I make it back to the Continental around midnight, when the one-off Trigger's All-Stars are bashing out a short set of classic rock tunes. It's actually kind of fun. They only lose me when one of the rotating singers announces that the Continental is the "only real rock club in New York."

Cheetah Chrome is a lot more irritating with his metal act, but he gets Handsome Dick Manitoba to provide some star power by coming up to do some songs. That's some classic NYC action. Manitoba even arrives with a police escort, as per his role as King of New York.

I've been socializing outside for longer than that, and I'm sad to report that the crowd is mostly old rockers bitching about how they're not going to pay a $5 cover charge for nine bands. Keep that in mind the next time some club owner is complaining about high rents.

I manage some sympathy for the Continental here, despite the club grandly referring to the low cover as a bid "to give something back to the fans." This is the same club that used to make the fans suffer through a strict policy about no re-admittance.

And let's concede that those Live comps are pretty good. I'm more likely to hate the reviews that'll follow-starting with Liz Ciavarella of something called Metal Maniac, who starts her predictable screed by pretending that St. Marks Place wasn't "feeling the effects of mindless consumerism" back in 1998. Or 1990, for that matter. Hey, delusion is punk and metal!