December 4, 2002

THE FIRST TIME I saw the Cynics play, I was lucky to get to the show alive. In blinding rain we had driven through two states in three hours in a car that was unregistered and uninsured. And the guy behind the wheel, Dave Ethier, turned out to be unlicensed, but I had already suspected as much, given his penchant for navigating in varying states of intoxication. So it was not a stretch to suppose he'd had a couple of run-ins, but he knew how to rock, and that's really all that counted. I deliberated the glaring negatives presented when his rally call came, but figured the goal outweighed the potential for disaster. After all, this was the Cynics we were talking about, four tough-sounding and tough-looking longhairs from Pittsburgh.

They recorded infrequently and toured even less; not seeing them would have been unthinkable. And it would be my pilot's ass in a sling if any vehicular unpleasantness occurred. When, between cans of Busch Light, Ethier confided that he'd sent two tabs of acid down the hatch about 30 minutes before picking me up, I reckoned this very well might be the night I died for rock and roll. And I was OK with it.

We eventually got to the show, and we lived to do a lot more stupid shit after that night. But to this day that particular evening stands out in the pantheon of great rock, in part because of small details like assuring Ethier that the yellow divider lines really hadn't floated off the road. More important was witnessing the Cynics' stunning firepower firsthand. They were a heart attack blanketed in fuzz-wail, everything I imagined they'd be, only better. The thing I really took away was how nice they were, nothing like the mod ruffians depicted in the photos. When they found out how far we had come to see them, their singer was so grateful he actually hugged us. And that's when I understood that, despite how huge I imagined them to be, they weren't much different from me. We were all a bunch of losers drawn to a specific type of music that no one else could give a crap about. It wasn't a sad moment – when you see eye to eye with your heroes, it's rather empowering.

After nearly a decade away from the spotlight, they are back with a new album, and of course they sound as dangerous as ever. With the garage revival in full swing, they're actually getting some respect this time. Words like "legendary" and "leading proponents" are getting tossed around, and suddenly Entertainment Weekly wants to do a spread on them. It sure is a long way from that piss hole in New Haven, Conn., where we met the last time – which hit me like a ton of bricks; it's never too late for redemption. You can get kicked around, you can be sold short, but you can also tell the world to pound sand, staying the course until you get what you deserve. The answer was crystalline: I walked into my go-nowhere day job and quit on the spot. There would be no more allowing morons to decide my fate. Like the Cynics proved, living is the best revenge.