Methadones - Putting On A Clinic (by Jay Hale)

To say that Dan Schafer has been around the proverbial punk rock block just might qualify as understatement of the year. A vital cog in the wheel of the legendary Screeching Weasel, its “offshoot” band The Riverdales, as well as frontman for Sludgeworth, The Mopes and, currently, the Methadones, Schafer has been in nearly as many bands as Mike Morgan has baseball teams. While the relatively unknown Morgan laced ‘em up for a record 12 different clubs, Schafer seems to have finally drawn a line in the sand.

“I’ve always wanted to keep active, but this is it,” he insists in regards to the Methadones. “This is the last one; I won’t do another band.”

That, as they say, remains to be seen.

While Morgan only played about four full seasons in the south side of Chicago during his uneventful 22-year career, Schafer has been a Cubs fan since birth. And wouldn’t you know he trudged into Boston sporting his finest Cubs T-shirt during an all-important, late-September Red Sox-Yankees series that held the city in a choke hold. He wasn’t trying to be ironic or gloat that his beloved Cubbies were now the home of former Sox icon Nomar Garciaparra, Schafer is just a die-hard baseball fan with his finger on the pulse of New England. That passion would certainly come in handy as the evening progressed.

The night of September 17 was not ideal for a long car ride — something the Methadones learned very quickly as their van journeyed north from Pittsburgh. Visibility was fleeting on Interstate 95 thanks to a torrential downpour and once the band was within seven miles of Boston on the Massachusetts Turnpike, all four lanes became a shining red sea of brake lights. They were in no danger of missing their show at the Abbey Lounge but the ride had lasted long enough. Like half of the other travelers doing the stop-and-go shuffle eastbound into Boston, the Methadones flipped on the Red Sox AM radio broadcast to make the closing miles of the trip somewhat enjoyable.

The early scene at The Abbey didn’t resemble that of a punk show at all. Nestled up to the bar in a room adjacent to the stage was a small cast of characters drinking whiskey on the rocks with cheap beer chasers complaining about the nearly one-year-old city-wide no smoking ordinance and, of course, the Red Sox. Boston slugger Manny Ramirez just had a home run, which would have given the Sox a bit more breathing room at Yankee Stadium, called back. A few minutes later, Ramirez, not known for his defensive prowess, returned the favor by making a Michael Jordan-esque leap against the unforgiving left field wall to rob Miguel Cairo of a sure round tripper. That improbable catch made even the most haggard bar rail skeptic lower his guard at least for a brief moment.

Not all of the skepticism in the small club that night pertained to baseball. Last spring when the Methadones made their first appearance at The Abbey they were the headliners capping off the night after a few hard drinking and popular local acts. The crowd had mostly popped in to check out the hometown faves and by the time the Methadones hit the stage well past midnight, everyone in the club was liquored up and sloppy.

About three songs into their set, the Abbey’s power shorted out so the band proceeded to pound beers in the downtime. Then shots were purchased and subsequently knocked back with authority. When the electricity was restored, the Methadones played with a newfound energy and the room erupted in booze-fueled mayhem. Guitarist Mike Byrne kept stumbling into the front row on the right side of the stage, nailing each guitar lick note for note as Schafer belted out the lyrics. Somewhere in the back of the club, glasses and beer bottles were smashed as the audience surged toward the stage in a final caterwaul, crashing upon the mic stands like a tidal wave of drunken buffoons. The stage power zapped out for a final time and designated drivers were in short supply.

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