The Cold Facts

It is not yet officially winter but winter weather has arrived as it usually does by the onset of December in these parts. Due to the vagaries of scheduling, it seems that musicians and shows I want to see live are at nearby venues during December, January, and February more often than the 25% of the time one expects by chance. Last night I was in NYC to catch Samantha Fish at The Cutting Room. (She was there last July, too, so winter has no monopoly on my preferred performances: just an outsized share.) The show was good, of course, yet, strangely enough, standing in line in the cold for doors to open (late) is not as much fun as it was when I was 18.

Frankie waited in line too long

Fortunately, the temperature last night was just borderline freezing, which is positively balmy compared to those of some of my line waits in the past. Two stand out in particular. One was in 2004 outside The Bottom Line in the Village where Richie Havens and Janis Ian were on a double bill. It was a windy January night with temperatures in the negative single digits (Fahrenheit). By the time the door opened I had ceased to feel my feet; my fingers – despite being deep inside pockets of a fleece-lined coat – felt as though they were pierced by needles. The true winner, though, has to be the night of a Motörhead concert some 30 years ago at Roseland – a venue, incidentally, where my parents once jitterbugged to Benny Goodman. The penetrating wind on that subfreezing eve maintained a high-pitched whistle. Again my feet went numb and this time so did my fingers, which no longer functioned as fingers. I couldn’t complain, though, for I had lost my power of speech. The combination of a numb face and chattering teeth meant I literally (not figuratively but literally) could not articulate words.

Only one person of my own acquaintance ever died of hypothermia (though one is enough) and it was not in line for a rock concert. I was a few steps along the path however. Whenever someone insists on standing out in the freezing cold, the body’s first response is to protect core temperature by constricting capillaries and blood flow to extremities: hence the numbness. As your body continues to shed heat you reach the boundary of hypothermia at a core temperature of 95 (35 C). As core temperature continues to drop, mental functions become unreliable: assume any decisions you make at this point will be bad ones. At least you probably won’t be scared: at a core temperature of 91 you won’t give a damn about much of anything. At 90 you might not be unconscious technically, but you might as well be. At this point, if you don’t get someplace warm you are on your way to joining Ötzi the Iceman.

The good news is that all this generally takes longer than the wait in line to a concert. Even if hypothermia does overtake you, if help comes along there’s a chance of being revived even from a core temperature in the 60s. All the same, I wouldn’t recommend the experience. I’m glad I caught Motörhead in its heyday. (Founding member Lemmy Kilmister died in 2015.) Nonetheless, faced with a similar wait today, regardless of the artist I’d abandon that line and find the nearest coffee shop.

Motörhead – No Class