I emerge from the Delancey/Essex station into a damp Lower East Side night. I’m minutes late to meet Martin Rev, nervous and woefully unprepared to talk to one of my all-time music heroes. His 1985 masterpiece Clouds of Joy has become the soundtrack for my current dystopian 2020s noir. Honking horns and screeching tires bleed through the mix and syncopate against the rhythm. As I cross Houston, I manage to catch my leather cap before it blows off into oblivion like a sad childhood balloon.

I continue my trudge up Avenue A and reach the cozy 96 Tears. I order a “Fortune Teller,” a rye cocktail served with a Chinese fortune fish on the side. I unwrap the fish and both sides curl up. This apparently means I’m in love? The bartender lights up when I tell him who I’m waiting for.

I revere Martin Rev as much as any musician currently walking this fucked-up orb. In addition to his canonical work with Suicide, I’m also a fan of the solo catalog. He continues to record regularly and electrifies stages worldwide with his brand of mechanical funk. His one-man band is