There’s Nothing to Do in Albany… – Xperience Fiction

There’s Nothing to Do in Albany… – by Liam Sweeny.

This is fiction. The names of certain venues and certain people have been used, possibly to their surprise, to bring this to life.

Two lane city streets can funnel three lanes of satiated spectators if it tries hard enough. A middle aged, disheveled man with a 2AM Kentucky bourbon shadow is picking through the trash for cigarette butts, and he tries to wave over a white Land Rover to no avail. He’s called Johnny Mo’, but no one’s been calling him anything lately. He figures he’ll never get to the Psych Ward, which despite his shabby attire, was not the imposing concrete edifice to mental hygiene off New Scotland Ave. No. The Psych Ward was fifty eager kids hopping basement to basement, band to band, amps busted and bass drums proving that duct tape really does fix everything, Junebug left him cigarettes outside the hospital like Florence Nightingale: The Early Years. She told him about the show and this damn Land Rover won’t roll down their damn window. He’ll let them throw the quarters at his face if it will get him the bus fare to get up to Washington Avenue. He can catch three shows without being out of spitting distance of the UAlbany quad.

He lost his job at Saint Rose when the lights went dim. He was a janitor that was great at cleaning up after the teachers and students that had since become nuke-fried shadows burnt into the halls. He could’ve got another job or he could’ve got enough liquor to drown his sorrows and he picked the latter.

The buses come through. Massive, luxury models; must be Iowa. Must be LSU. Neither will stop and he knows he’ll grab a cop’s attention should he try to make it happen.

He thinks about walking to the Fuze Box on Central. The iconic former QE2, itself a former White Tower, competitor to White Castle, punching way above its weight class and proving it belonged in Albany. It carries the tradition of diversity and welcoming to a new group of kids, and if Johnny hadn’t skipped out on a twenty-dollar bar tab the weekend before, they might have let him into the NCAA after-party.

Johnny crosses State Street at the crosswalk. Almost gets hit since he’s following the law and a burgundy SUV isn’t. He figures he’ll walk toward the MVP Arena to see how much change fell out of people’s pockets. He isn’t disappointed, finding thirty dollars in loose change and folded bills before the security makes it known that they are making it known.

“Johnny M!” He turned around to see Jimmy Barrett, who owns The River Street Beat Shop in nearby Troy and is sporting an LSU bomber jacket.

“Hey my man,” Johnny says. “I’m about to head up by UAlbany, catch some shows. You down?”

“Hey, you know there’s a club on Madison, but you need an invite. It doesn’t have a license, so nobody’s allowed out front. Doesn’t even have a name, people just call it “The Club.”

“What kind of music?”

“Hip-hop, EDM, sometimes some R&B comes in. No rock or anything like that. But hey, live a little. They got good stuff going on. This guy Max comes to the shop once in a while for vinyl to make samples.”

“Damn,” Johnny says. “I want to go. Can you help me get in before you take off for home? I don’t want to keep you out all night.”

Jimmy scratched the back of his neck. “I would,” he said. “But I can’t get in. I’m just a country lawyer. I’m on my way to the Eleven.”

“That’s that new joint off Lark Hall, right?”

“Yup.”

“I’m losing out on stuff,” Johnny says. “I gotta get another job.”

Jimmy adjusted his jacket “I see you outside the hospital bumming change. You gotta pull yourself up. People are hiring, my friend. I heard Putnam Place up in Saratoga is looking for someone to help do sound. You used to do that, right?”

Johnny nods. “Been a while though,” he says. “Last time I was up there, I was working the door at Caffe Lena and  helping them set up and break down.”

“Hit ‘em up. See. And check out No Fun in Troy. I heard their sound guy’s gonna be moving to Baltimore. I don’t know what their sound setup is like but give it a shot.”

Johnny rifles through his bills. Thirty can’t get him to Toga, but it can get him to Troy. He can hit No Fun and catch Laveda, Zombie Guiliani and Dance Cancer on a triple bill, or he can walk up to Rustic Barn Pub on the hill out near Spiegeltown and catch Kilashandra. He hasn’t heard good Irish music since the St. Patrick’s Day Parade. He went to ten shows that day and stayed fifteen minutes at each. Citywide festivals have an added benefit of every bar having a band and an open door.

The big show tonight is Wailin’ Jenny’s at Troy Savings Bank Music Hall. Or as everyone knows it, Troy Music Hall. Which is a treat because the place is so acoustically perfect.

Johnny stands on the corner after Jimmy takes off and watches the last of the spectators file out. People who might be going to the airport or the train station, or the Interstate north or south, to New York City by way of the Catskills or Montreal by way of the Adirondacks. He can’t figure out why they don’t stick around for the party at the Fuze Box. He wishes he is still well enough to know who’s playing in the stone edifice on Central and Quail called The Linda. Or who exactly is playing Lark Hall or The Eleven. The whole warehouse district has bands; at least three of the bars have actual stages and the others have plywood risers and construction grade power strips. Lost and Found had Johnny Rabb with the Neanderthals, a big get for any spot. Before his job ended, he’d crawl from venue to venue on the nights he had off, bar to bar, headliner to open mic. One and only one night he was able to go to every show in Albany.

Johnny waits for the traffic to slow to accommodate his best version of hopscotch and he makes it to North Pearl. He grips the crumpled bills in his hand and as he walks, he finds almost an entire cigarette on the ground. He lights up, takes a deep drag and sits down on a bus stop bench.

He wonders who’s playing down the street at Empire Live tonight.

More from Liam Sweeny…