Where I’m Going

I wasn’t sure how the band would go over in the East Village. But sure enough, they had them dancing — square dancing, no less — on Avenue C.

It’s been quite a week having The Nadas in town. Hard workers, all, but there’s not nine to fiver amongst ’em. They’re noon to fivers. Five a.m., that is. Juggling my corporate life, my marathon training (3-6 miles a morning four days a week, one long room, one morning in the gym, and one of rest), finishing up “Heartland,” and — oh yeah — sleeping, well, something had to give. Mostly, it was the sleeping.

Still, exhaustion wasn’t gonna keep me from the guy’s last New York shows, no matter how over-committed, or over-tired I was feeling. I have a lot of friends who play music. They’re all great: Casey Shea, Amy Hills, Jeff Jacobson, Chris Abad, Bryan Thompson, Deen Goodman. But on my iPod, one band rates with U2 and REM, and it just so happens they’re my friends. I know I write about ’em alot, and it’s not cuz they’re my label chiefs. It’s because they’re good men who write great songs. And put on one hell of a show, whether it’s for eight people in an empty club on a rainy night in October, and 3500 fans in an ampitheater on a sweltering night in August.

We walked into Alphabet Lounge seconds before the band started in on “California III.” Alphabet’s not the city’s best venue; the restrooms are basically on stage, and there’s a railing between the audience and the band. But the woman who books it is a friend of mine, and a sweetheart. And the guys made it sound good.

I wasn’t sure that they could do it, but they won over the hipsters. I thought the audience would fall silent if Jason mentioned the band’s big