Anyone brave enough to leave the tourist gulag of Midtown Manhattan knows that New York is to pretentiousness what the Vatican is to Catholicism, what Washington, DC is to politics, what South Baltimore is to crack, and what Sylvia's is to chicken and waffles. Can't count how many conversations like this one I've had since I matriculated a couple years ago: "friend: ____ just opened/is playing tonight. Wanna go? Me: F*ck that ****. I saw ____ like, four months ago." Followed by a couple seconds of awkward silence before we decide to opt for the (probably much less expensive) smoke-in-someone's-basement-and-then-loiter-at-7-11 option, followed by a sense of smugness that only a seasoned New York aesthete can recognize or feel..

These are probably tough interactions for the other person to stomach, since they add a layer of cultural and geographic snobbery to the New Yorker's already sordid reputation. Embrace it, I say: starting this week, I'll be giving you the lowdown on various snobbish things happening in various places in this great land of ours--and by "this great land of ours" I mean New York, and, occasionally, places other than New York.

Soo...

Last night's snobbery: The River to River festival has a good claim on the title of best annual event in New York City (by the way, the worst annual event in New York City is next weekend's Salute to Israel Parade, which has all the liveliness of a shiva minyan). It offers a summer of awesome free events at some of the coolest places in New York, and the programming is unpredictable in the best sense of the word. To wit: last night's kick-off concert featuring pioneering English punk act Wire, the mid-70s art rockers who have been forgotten by all but the most ardent music geeks.

Luckily New York has untold thousands of ardent music geeks, and it felt like every one of them was at South Street Seaport last night. It was Wire's first concert since 2004, and it showed: lead singer Colin Newman was reading lyrics off of his iBook screen, and the band was slightly off-cue until playing an inspired double-encore.
 
But New York music fans are an unforgiving lot, and I was appalled by just how non-plussed the audience was by one of the most influential bands of all time. I usually hate getting shoved at concerts--call me naive, but I think they're more for, y'know, seeing bands and listening to music than they are for beating the crap out of total strangers.

But the crowd not only passed on a chance to riot to punk royalty, which is an opportunity I would have happily and enthusiastically seized. Instead it sat on its hands for a couple of hours, and even some of the aging hipsters in the crowd--ones old enough to have seen Wire play CBGBs in the mid-70s--were grumbling. "These guys are old and bitter" said one after the set wrapped up, which is a statement that really beggars understanding. 

Because, music snobs, if it weren't for ,Wire, there would be no Liars, no Yeah Yeah Yeahs, no Mission of Burma, no No Age, no Against Me!--basically, none of the bands that give punk rock the artistic legitimacy it needs to continue as a dominant musical form. While the Ramones and the Sex Pistols barely knew how to play their instruments, Wire could play them and play them well, which seems pretty mundane in the post-Dinosaur Jr. era, but was huge in a time when punk was a still-nascent blend of musical amateurism and blind rage. Would Mission of Burma had written songs about Max Ernst if the members of Wire had stayed in art school? Probably not.

The sheer disrespect was pretty disgusting, given that infectious art-punk has had the indie kids gleefully wetting their pants for awhile now. Then again, I'd expect nothing less in a city as culturally schizophrenic as this one. Scenes sprout up as quickly as they die, and yesterday's punk-rock mecca is tomorrow's faux-vintage boutique (case in point: CBGBs, the punk-rock mecca whose former location is now occupied by a faux-vintage boutique). It's a constant state of transience that breeds an unforgiving impatience, so getting stuck at a sub-par Wire concert must to some people seem like the cultural equivalent of getting stuck in midtown traffic. Although this is utter bullsh*t, for reasons I've just explained.

Tonight's snobbery: Those of you in the New York area should hit up the annual (and totally free) Bang on a Can Marathon, a 12-hour festival curated by the Bang on a Can All Stars. Contemporary music feels irrelevant outside of a few uber-pretentious circles (I mean, if John Zorn assaulted you on the street, would know know who he was unless he said "hello, my name is John Zorn?" I mean, I sure wouldn't), but if you want to hear stuff that's at the cutting edge of the cutting edge, the World Financial Center is the place to be. Get there are 6 PM tonight, leave at 6 AM tomorrow morning. You'll probably make a few friends along the way.

And if you're in Philadelphia, it's bloody imperative that you get to Kaiju Big Battel at the Trocadero on Sunday night. If you were as glued to Power Rangers as I was in 4th grade, Kaiju will be a long, hilarious nostalgia trip. And even if you weren't, the combination of violence and monster kitsch is irresistible. As someone blown away by the last Kaiju event in New York a couple months ago, I say tag this a can't-miss.

In general snobbery: Be afraid, everyone. Be very afraid.