First Night/Frost Bite/Worst Night

If we continue to have these frigid, early winters, I am recommending the above for the new title of First Night Charleston. And since we seem to relish being different from other cities, let’s start celebrating New Year’s in April like the Romans used to do, which would certainly increase our chances of warmer weather—or maybe just have the entire event in Citadel Mall.

My wife and I and our friends, Joe and Judy, trudged through the 22-degree night from the Gaillard to the King Street Christmas tree and back to the Maritime Center, respectively, although I was occasionally slowed by the feeling that icicles were forming on some of my internal organs. Of the events that we attended, two were outside and one (in a garage) may as well have been. At the peril of being called a Warm Weather Wimp or a Cotton Belt Coward by Hoary-breathed Minnesotans and New Englanders, I must confess that it was, at times, less than enjoyable standing benumbed on frozen asphalt for an hour at a time and watching equally cold performers trying to coax dulcet tones out of nearly crystallized instruments with lifeless fingers and petrified lips. In fact, I’m surprised there were no reports of musicians leaving parts of their lips or tongues stuck to their instruments similar to that kid verses the flagpole incident in Gene Sheppards’s “A Christmas Story.”

As for the events themselves, two bands, two singing groups and an improv troupe, if I were giving out grades for entertainment value, they would range from F to A+. I’m certainly no musician and I don’t expect Broadway caliber performances for an average ticket price per event of $2 each, but the first event we attended almost put an instantaneous but premature end to our Arctic Odyssey at 4:16 p.m. I have nothing against senior citizens, especially since I happen to be one myself, but when the venue for a musical entertainment event is a geriatric residential facility, that should be a tip-off to any rationally thinking person that any audience members holding up their cigarette lighters here will be less a tribute to the performers than a vain attempt to quell the aroma of human mustiness, and all attempts at mosh-pit diving are certain to result in an epidemic of broken hips rather than endless opportunities for group groping. The group, whose name I won’t divulge for fear of retaliation (prune-pelting can be very painful, especially if the puts are not removed), was composed (nearly decomposed) of four middle-aged females, who harmonized jazz, swing, blues and big band and show tunes a cappella.

In truth, they were really not that terrible, and I can actually recall being a big fan of Manhattan Transfer in the 60s, but this was more of a derailment than a transfer—with injuries, and the 45-minute performance seemed more like three excruciating hours. (Grade: F)

Al thought I usually enjoy Gospel music, this group, who shall remain nameless along with the rest, despite having some great individual voices, in my opinion, had too many intractable soloists who were given to gratuitous outbursts of a flavor that ranked somewhere between “Star Search” and “Amateur Night at the Apollo.” (Grade: C)

The improv group, which I’d seen a couple of years ago, had all new actors this time (two males and two females). They were good, but one of the male actors was so much better than the other three. It was like Jim Carrey appearing with one of those awful SNL casts of a few years ago. Plus the venue was in a garage-like building surrounded by roll-up doors, and we had to stand up because there weren’t enough seats. The most talented performer even made a comment about their appearing in garages throughout the South. (Grade: B)

The bluegrass band consisted of a mandolin, a guitar, an upright bass, a banjo and something called a dobro. Although I’m not a bluegrass devotee, I really enjoyed their act. Everybody in the crowd was stomping their feet, yee-hawing—including myself—and dancing, with some opportunistic guys humping instead of swinging their partners—which did not include me. I have a bad back. (Grade: A)

The best and simultaneously coldest even was a band (2 pianos, 2 horns, a sax and a drummer) composed of University of Dayton students, who performed on an outdoor stage next to the King Street Christmas tree. They played pop favorites from the 70s and 80s with the two pianists taking turns at singing. They sounded great and played with a great deal of enthusiasm. Most of the audience was college age, but as the group continued to play, more and more older people began showing up and, eventually, there was a large clapping and dancing crowd, along with a long conga line of students that snaked its way through and around eh rest of us. Again, there were intermittent acts of spontaneous humping in the guide of dancing, although I began to think that his may be a new dance, with which a well respected member of the “out crowd” such as myself was simply unfamiliar. Who cares? This group was terrific. (Grade: A+)

We all left at 11 p.m. to celebrate the New Year in the toasty confines of our den instead of sticking around to watch the fireworks display and further challenge the gods of Hypothermia.

While overall I enjoyed First Night Charleston, if next year’s weather is anything like this one, we’ll be spending it indoors with our usual, fun-loving friend, Dick Clark. At least next year there will be some added interest and intrigue in seeing what drops first…NYC’s big ball or Dick’s facelift. And just like Madonna said, “There’s nothing worse than a Dickless New Year’s Eve.”