A bag lady lying horizontal on a bench told me those words. It was my first week in New York. I was lost in what I later discovered was the Lower East Side. Her words seemed to come out of nowhere; I didn't see her mouth move. She just stared. I was still lost, my patience was gone, so I walked past the bag lady's bench as I stuffed my map into my back pants pocket. The bag lady didn't say another word, but just stared her sullen stare.

Yeah, New York is Fun City. And the Zantees and the Fleshtones playing the 57 Club on St Mark's Place is Fun City too. Kids were boppin', jumpin', twistin' and shoutin' to this wonderful rock and roll. It was a strange and beautiful night; you could almost feel your sweat dropping to the beat.

I call it the Ukrainian Hop Club because it's in the basement of a Ukrainian Catholic Church. I've never heard of a church with a bar in it's basement, but I'm not one to complain. The club holds about 150 people, and while it is small, the excitement of a night like this more than makes up for the lack of space.

Walk inside and immediatly look towards your right. Notice the overstuffed chair and potted plant. A potted plant? Most New York clubs would suffocate a potted plant, so dank and dark are they. Well, cousin, life hangs out at the 57 Club. The bars stools are worn and comfy, and the young man tending bar seems to have a smile and a good word for all his customers. Every so often he'll even reach over and give someone a big hug. When was the last time you were hugged by anyone at Max's or CBGB's, let alone a bartender?

Hiding the pink walls are posters: Donny and Marie (later, someone will blacken Donny's teeth), John Travolta, Elvis in that plastic white jump suit, an oversized map of the good ole U.S.A. A guitar (acoustic) hangs from the wall as well. Turn your eyes upward and you'll see the Japanese lantarns all aglow, The reds, blues, greens, and yellows celebrate what could be a very bland ceiling.

I heard the Fleshtones' sound check and they sounded miserable. The lead singer couldn't carry a tune, the drummer was much too loud, and the guitar player didn't appear to know what he was doing. I almost split; it was kind of depressing. Luckily, my instincts told me to wait and see what developed. The Fleshtones turned out to be a very good but very young band. They have more sprit than technique, and perhaps more spirit than talent. But, hell, half the bands on the CBGB's-Max's circuit don't have any spirit at all.

Except for Eddie Cochran's "Nervous Breakdown," I can't recall any of their songs. But I do recall the excitement and the dancing and the soaring temperature and humidity in the room. The Fleshtones are a simple rock and roll band, and simple rock and roll bands can be boring. I'm sure that in the right (or wrong) circumstances, the Fleshtones could bore me. But for the Fleshtones at the 57 Club, the atmosphere was perfect for what turned into something like a teenage high school hop. After the Fleshtones' last song and one encore, laughter and smiles and good conversation filled the air. The bar was doing brisk business, while many people headed for the sidewalk and an intake of fresh air. Everybody seemed to love the club and the band. Heartbeats regained their natural pump.

By that time, the Zantees were ready to blast us off into the outer reaches of a rock and roll bliss. The Zantees snagged their name from a segment of the science-fiction/horror show The Outer Limits, so popular in the mid-60s (you know, the "Flying Saucers and Rock and Roll" syndrome.) Anyway, the Zantees are just wonderful. They have a bass player who's a dead ringer for Ray Davies and bounces up and down like a frantic basketball, Miriam on drums is perfect for the 60s sound-a surf/punk/beat fusion. The two look-alike brothers on lead and rhythm guitar are fine, while Billy on lead mike reminds me of Keith Relf. Neat version of "Jeff's Boogie," too.