The Cold closes out an era
by Katheryn Krotzer (6/25/82) Times-Picayune
_____________________________________________________________
To some, it was just another spin on the musical wheel of fortune; just one more singer leaving one more band, and another pair of go-go boots biting the dust.
But to those thousands of young New Orleanians who over the past few years had spent many a Saturday night - dressed in tight jeans or miniskirts, striped T-shirts punctured by Squeeze and Split Enz buttons, and danced-out Nikes - sweating the night away at the foot of the Cold's ever-changing stages, it was more than that.
It was the end of an era.
And that's why a sell-out crowd of over 2300 squeezed onto the Riverboat President last Friday night to say goodbye to the Cold's departing keyboardist and lead singer, Barbara Menendez. Those who follow the local pop/new-wave scene were shocked a few weeks ago when the blond belter announced she was leaving the darkly glamorous world of smoke-filled music clubs for domestic happiness and normalcy.
Admittedly, Babs is not the city's finest keyboard player.
And her voice wouldn't shatter a glass in a Memorex tape commercial.
But she had an appeal, and certainly an energy, that invited an audience to like her, root for her, imitate her. During her years with the band, boys tended to gravitate toward her (and her miniskirt's) corner of the stage, and girls found themselves mimicking her dance style - wringing out the hems of their skirts, clutching their heads in mock desperation, bouncing their way across the dance floor.
Those who had made it onto the boat (about 100 fans who had waited to buy tickets at the door were turned away) and survived the shock of the closed bar ("What?" exclaimed one ragged-headed teen upon seeing the "No alcohol will be sold" sign. "But I've never seen the Cold sober before!") gathered around the stage as usual, waiting for the band to appear.
People of all ages, ranging from small children to teen-agers to those a little bit older or even a lot older, packed together, sweatily passing along the idle rumors and bits of gossip that worked their way through the crowd.
"My brother has a cousin who knows Kevin, and he says that she's getting out because the guys are
forcing her to leave."
"I heard that she's moving to California after she gets married."
"Well, you know they got some sort of girl from LaPlace to replace her."
"Nope, they got rid of her."
The concert began like any other Cold performance. One by one the five musicians - guitarists Kevin Radecker and Bert Smith, bass player Vance DeGeneres, drummer Chris Luckette and Menendez - whose names have been inscribed on walls throughout the city walked onto the stage to adjust microphones, check instruments.
Cheers grew louder when Babs appeared - clad as always in a black miniskirt, but with hair shorter than in the past, nails polished and slightly longer than usual. The band moved through two sets and three encores (a total of about 50 songs), digging up some tunes which fans thought had been put to rest, leaving out others which the audience expected to hear ("Girls Never Know", "Never Alone", "Hawaii 5-O").
Menendez accepted flowers, opened cards on stage, pinned on the buttons which were thrown to her. She tried not to cry when the band played "Memories." She thanked the audience for coming. She hugged Vance, threw her arms around Bert, looked back at Chris, kissed Kevin.
And then she was gone.
Realizing that it was over and there would be no more encores, the drained but satisfied crowd disbanded and dwindled away, heading for the door, or the bathroom, or the bar for a soft drink.
All except for one girl, leaning against a pole, crying as if Barbara Menendez's departure from the Cold was the most wrenching moment of her life.
by Katheryn Krotzer (6/25/82) Times-Picayune
_____________________________________________________________
To some, it was just another spin on the musical wheel of fortune; just one more singer leaving one more band, and another pair of go-go boots biting the dust.
But to those thousands of young New Orleanians who over the past few years had spent many a Saturday night - dressed in tight jeans or miniskirts, striped T-shirts punctured by Squeeze and Split Enz buttons, and danced-out Nikes - sweating the night away at the foot of the Cold's ever-changing stages, it was more than that.
It was the end of an era.
And that's why a sell-out crowd of over 2300 squeezed onto the Riverboat President last Friday night to say goodbye to the Cold's departing keyboardist and lead singer, Barbara Menendez. Those who follow the local pop/new-wave scene were shocked a few weeks ago when the blond belter announced she was leaving the darkly glamorous world of smoke-filled music clubs for domestic happiness and normalcy.
Admittedly, Babs is not the city's finest keyboard player.
And her voice wouldn't shatter a glass in a Memorex tape commercial.
But she had an appeal, and certainly an energy, that invited an audience to like her, root for her, imitate her. During her years with the band, boys tended to gravitate toward her (and her miniskirt's) corner of the stage, and girls found themselves mimicking her dance style - wringing out the hems of their skirts, clutching their heads in mock desperation, bouncing their way across the dance floor.
Those who had made it onto the boat (about 100 fans who had waited to buy tickets at the door were turned away) and survived the shock of the closed bar ("What?" exclaimed one ragged-headed teen upon seeing the "No alcohol will be sold" sign. "But I've never seen the Cold sober before!") gathered around the stage as usual, waiting for the band to appear.
People of all ages, ranging from small children to teen-agers to those a little bit older or even a lot older, packed together, sweatily passing along the idle rumors and bits of gossip that worked their way through the crowd.
"My brother has a cousin who knows Kevin, and he says that she's getting out because the guys are
forcing her to leave."
"I heard that she's moving to California after she gets married."
"Well, you know they got some sort of girl from LaPlace to replace her."
"Nope, they got rid of her."
The concert began like any other Cold performance. One by one the five musicians - guitarists Kevin Radecker and Bert Smith, bass player Vance DeGeneres, drummer Chris Luckette and Menendez - whose names have been inscribed on walls throughout the city walked onto the stage to adjust microphones, check instruments.
Cheers grew louder when Babs appeared - clad as always in a black miniskirt, but with hair shorter than in the past, nails polished and slightly longer than usual. The band moved through two sets and three encores (a total of about 50 songs), digging up some tunes which fans thought had been put to rest, leaving out others which the audience expected to hear ("Girls Never Know", "Never Alone", "Hawaii 5-O").
Menendez accepted flowers, opened cards on stage, pinned on the buttons which were thrown to her. She tried not to cry when the band played "Memories." She thanked the audience for coming. She hugged Vance, threw her arms around Bert, looked back at Chris, kissed Kevin.
And then she was gone.
Realizing that it was over and there would be no more encores, the drained but satisfied crowd disbanded and dwindled away, heading for the door, or the bathroom, or the bar for a soft drink.
All except for one girl, leaning against a pole, crying as if Barbara Menendez's departure from the Cold was the most wrenching moment of her life.
