"D.A.H. ... F.T.E." -- LeRoy

For all intents and purposes (or malcontents and porpoises), Wheatus played Homecoming last night at the Luna Lounge in New York City. The last time the loyal fans and the talented foursome of Wheatus were together was March 1st. Nearly a month ago, our last glimpse of Wheatus was accompanied by the memorable words of promoter John Lennon, who introduced the band as the "Columbia Records recording artists: [dramatic pause] WHEATUS!" In my clouded cinema of my memory, the movie plays itself out as such: The crowd goes wild at the introduction, then the sounds and the screams sound different and decline. The noise and ruckus congeals and moves further away from my ears, as if the whole concert and audience are suddenly speeding away down a long hallway and the noise become dissonant and softer. Until it all becomes black.

I am on Ludlow Street. Time, space and experience is nonexistent between Wheatus concert shows. So much has happened in-between these two events, but so easily we have made the leap from the Continental in March to the Luna Lounge, tonight, on April 8th, 2000. I am part of a group of five friends and brothers this evening; joined by my fiancee, her friend Mary, Mary's boyfriend John, and the man we will refer to simply as the Greek, or Greek Wafer. The Greek has come calling into Astoria this evening, driving a transport borrowed from the land of Mad Max (pre-Thunderdome). The five of us had earlier piled into the roomy interior of his Bonneville, and found we would have had enough room had the Greek not removed the high-calliber armaments. The right side window had been replaced by a sharp plastic shank, which stuck out at such an angle perfected towards the aggrandizement and possible mutilation of bicycle messengers or deliverymen. Additionally, the Greek proudly demonstrated the single windshield wiper mechanism, which - unlike the Mercedes, full-sweeping version - only took care to service a 2X2 window of vision for the driver. I praised the modifications that the Greek had made to his once-auto, now-machine, and made a mental note to later seek out the mechanic that the Greek saw for State Inspection. The ride into Manhattan was uneventful. Parking on the streets south of Houston came easy. The five of us exited the Bonneville and walked a few block.

We were on Ludlow Street. Again. Once inside the Luna Lounge we prepared ourselves to greet any fellow Wheatus performance-goers and considered what we were about to see. Two months ago, Wheatus has played a farewell of sorts to us all. Wheatus was no longer a secret we shared among each other; a secret we had made every possible attempt to share - and it seemed to be working. Wheatus was now a signed band. The space between tonight's show and the last was a giant recording session for Wheatus, their first album having been recorded over the past 60 days. It was hard to imagine what kind of concerts and performances were to be had in the months to come (and especially what kind of venues). But, tonight we all anticipated an intimate night of Wheatus, and we were all going to get it - except for Mary and John.

Mary asked the group of us if we wanted drinks, and I recall asking her for a glass of water. About two minutes later she returned with a surprised look on her face and no glass of water for me. We asked her what had happened. "I don't have my I.D. with me and they told me I have to leave," she explained, and we quickly found ourselves wearing similar faces of disbelief. Mary is quite obviously a woman over the age of twenty-one, and in any case, we imagined a lack of I.D. would mean a dry night for one - not immediate dismissal. We tried to negotiate and argue with the limey bastard who came over about fifteen minutes later to kindly explain in a horrible British accent: "I'm sorry, luv - but yoo jes' can't stick 'rund. E've got the cops upon us and such, dearie." It was everything I could do to prevent myself from breaking a bottle on the wall and holding it to his throat while screaming at the 'bloody giggy' to utter nary another mutilated word. Regrettably, John and Mary had to leave and decided to grab a coffee across the street for the time being with my fiancee.

Wheatus took the stage. The screams were louder than I had ever heard them before. To my surprise, they would only get louder. The group addressed the adoring fans as they would a long lost friend. After simple pleasantries, they spread the word that they had just completed their album (roar), were heading down to Nashville tomorrow to do some finishing touches (roar!), and rumor had it - that KROC in Los Angeles gave 'Dirtbag' a spin in the prime afternoon hours (ROAR!). And with that, Wheatus ripped into 'Hump 'em, Dump 'em.' Hands began clapping and feet began shuffling along to Wheatus's lead of 'here we go again, another hump 'em, dump 'em situation' and holding their breaths as Brendan wailed: 'here we go ag-aiiiiiiiiin.' Wheatus was evidently at play this evening as a critical carry of drummer Pete's crumpled into dissonance. With a pause filled with hilarity, the band just picked it up where they left off and brought the song back around again. The hard-hitting opener was followed by the casual strumming of ""Wannabe Gangstar," which brought the sound down a notch so the screams of adoration could be heard. Cries for each of the members names could be heard, alongside general calls for 'Wheatus!' and other fans naming particular songs like 'Love is a Dog From Hell,' 'LeRoy' or 'Teenage Dirtbag.' 'Wannabe Gangstar' (and it's 'you better go back to Commack' refrain) softly carjacked its way into the hearts of all in attendance this evening - perhaps especially so in the mind of a classmate of Brendan's who was overheard after the show telling a friend in the men's lavatory about his 'buddy Brendan: He's from Commack, you know!' (To that good fellow: Brendan (and brother Pete) both hail from Northport. It's Bob Costas and Rosie O'Donnell who are from Commack).

The true feeling of what the past two months had done to Wheatus was not evident until after 'Wannabe Gangstar,' when Brendan and Rich began:

In 'Punk Ass Bitch,' the true cooperative effort that Wheatus has matured into, finally reared its harmonious head. In the steps leading up towards the chorus, the entire collective of Wheatus operated as a single unit. Pete hammered the beat on his drum kit. Phil practically went through his own instrument with his forehead. Rich pulled his macho stance and plucked fat-ass notes from the thick strings of his bass. And Brendan choked his guitar as they worked so tightly together towards:

Wheatus went on to play a 16 song set to the constantly growing appreciation of a packed roomful of fans. As the band entered the homestretch and last number of songs, the band had grown to a deafening volume. As they entered their penultimate number, 'Freak On,' The cheers, calls from the audience, and banter of applause made me long for the earplugs I knew were sitting in my top desk drawer; a freebie from an earlier Wheatus outing - and a gift I wished I had remembered to bring with me this evening. Everyone began to rock-out and prove to Wheatus that there would be no freaking from the onset with ANYONE else but Wheatus. Without a doubt those four left the Luna Lounge early this morning knowing that they had truly assembled a small army who knew who they had to freak with.

As the final 'Song that I Wrote' was dedicated to 'Arash' ('GHADISHAH!!!' went the crowd), it was announced that this was to be the last song, and with that came a moment of reflection. Here was Wheatus, just like old times, at the Luna Lounge. Assembled before a crowd of friends like always, only this time there were quite a number of new friends mixed in with the old.

When it is over, like always, we go home.

This morning, I awoke to a surprise snowstorm. As I went to the porch to remove the plants that had been placed there yesterday in the face of warm weather, my thoughts sped immediately to the foursome I knew was heading towards warmer weather. For a moment my mind entertained a wholly MTV version of the drive down (with "Hey Mr. Brown" setting the theme). The back seat of a brand-new, red convertible held both Pete and Phil. Pete tickled the door frame or the middle of the seatback before him with his dancing sticks. Phil was shaking away with his head as his eyes did a dance of their own, looking unattached to the sockets that should be holding his peepers in place, his hands beating every different surface within reach and pulling their secret sounds from within. Riding shotgun I saw a laid back Rich Liegey. With an arm reclined along the top of the white seat and his other hand upon the windshield's corner, he rode along looking very smug; his fingers visibly playing out the underlying rhythm. And in the driver's seat of the convertible I clearly saw Brendan steering the group. Although he was hidden beneath a pair of blue-lensed sunglasses and a Kangol cap to match, it was evident that his eyes were trained an a spot far ahead in the distance, and they stared ahead with an intense concentration and determination as his lips mouthed the words of the soundtrack. If asked what he thought Nashville would turn out to be, I am without a doubt he would answer me: "Only the beginning."