Monthly Archives: February 1998

J.S. Bach's St. Matthew Passion, New York Philharmonic, Kurt Masur, 1998

18 Wednesday Feb 1998

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2/18/98ce
–55 West 13th Street, Manhattan, New York, noon on the third of several grey, cloudy rainy days

Last night I heard the New York Philharmonic perform the St. Matthew Passion, by J. S. Bach, under the direction of Kurt Masur at Avery Fisher Hall (formerly Philharmonic Hall) at Lincoln Center.

The space is considerably less well designed than the Opera Hall in the same Center.  I have not yet visited the Alice Tully Hall space which completes the three.

Crossing the plaza and passing the small fountain as you approach the high-ceilinged, great glass front of the Metropolitan Opera House, two very large canvasses painted by Marc Chagall are visible from all directions.  They are something like 50 feet high and 30 feet wide.  The main stairway of the Opera House passes between the two pieces.  The Avery Fisher Hall is the auditorium to the right when facing the Opera House.  It is lower and more box-like, though it too has a tall, glass-fronted facade.

The Philharmonic Hall is long and rectangular.  The seats are arranged in horizontal rows forming a long rectangle from the stage back to the main doors on the floor of the auditorium.  Above these seats there are four tiers of balcony seats.  The box seats on the side are smaller and a little cramped.  They provide only an angled view of the stage and so one must continually turn one’s head to see the orchestra, the balcony seats in the rear of the auditorium are maybe 100 yards from the stage, but the line of sight is good and straight on from any of the seats in the back of the Hall.

Last night’s performance marked the second time I have heard the St. Matthew Passion by Bach.  I checked it out in San Francisco in 1997ce (see previous material).  This time, the stage set was completely different and the orchestration was somewhat changed as well.

The choir consisted of Thomanerchor Liepzig (The choir of St. Thomas Church, Leipzig) that Bach himself led, several hundred years ago.  They were perhaps 90 strong and provided the choir solo voices for the Apostle Peter and other parts from within their number.  They were split and arranged on benches at stage front left and front right, featured prominently.  The orchestration consisted of a small chamber group surrounding the conductor and a harmonium.  The harmonium was played by the director of the boy’s choir.  The chamber group was comprised of a cellist, bassist, first and second violins, and reeds.  On a platform behind the group were the six soloists.  The secondary strings and flutes and reeds were placed in the rear of the stage behind the soloists and Mr. Masur stood on a raised platform just to the right of the harmonium.

The performance was microphoned and amplified but the volume was far too low to enjoy complex changes in dynamics.  The sound in the corner seats in the rear boxes where we were (went with D.) was good but could have been louder and with more dynamic variance.  The seats were angled hard and somewhat cramped so we had to turn our heads to face the stage stereophonically.

The New York Times ran a review of the performance from the weekend past on the morning I saw the show (cf.: NYT, FEB 17, The Arts, p.4, aside: Siva Vaidyanthan on the cover for an unrelated story regarding a lost scrap of paper written upon by Mark Twain). The article said the work was among Masur’s first with the Philharmonic and suggested the changes and alterations (i.e. using St. Thomas Church choir from Liepzig) were Masur’s continuing efforts to come to know the music of Bach.

The performance was at a quick tempo, not workman-like, but regular. There were some lovely voices in the context of the piece, including the mezzo-soprano whose work was so beautiful.  The tenor who handled the part of the Evangelist may have been a little tired from a weekend’s worth of performance.  He was good, though.

The quality of live music performance in New York City is generally extremely high. Everywhere I go I hear bold, confident, passionate performances.  The players are eager and well-prepared.  In New York, the level of energy and play and quality of sound by any given performer is so much More More More than anywhere else I have been in the US.  There is little doubt or wavering.  The performers have in the context of their relationship to the venue and the audience, a certain confidence that frees them to try to be their best.  Or maybe they are scared witless and just playing their asses off so they can “make it in New York.” But it doesn’t “fee’” like the latter.  Rather it is just the general level of play, that the town attracts the nation’s best.  That is how it feels to me so far. (so why is the coffee so bad?)

The performance had some interesting moments:  the second mezzo-soprano solo in the second part, is predecessed and accompanied by an instrumental sectional.  There is a relationship here between the melody here and the melody of one of the six Violin Concerti for Violin and harpsichord.  The theme is augmented and then toyed with slightly, but check it out.

The section I awaited, had remembered from the last performance, was the simple harmony (or is it even unison?) calling out of the name of Barrabas.  It lacked the impact it had in SF.  There, the choir erupted in the name of Barrabas so loudly and strongly, one could hear the maddening crowd calling the name.  Here the section passed relatively quickly.  The tempo was speeded up and even-handed without such lingering drama.  Perhaps that is an aspect of performance here or by Masur.

He was beautiful to watch.  Had a relationship with the music as he conducted.  His body language, his expressiveness coaxed, pushed and pulled on the sound.  It was nice.  Masur’s an older man, balding (big centered patch over grey, evenly-cut hair all around), with a big frame.  maybe 6’2” or 3” tall.

<Break>

 

J.S. Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, New York Philharmonic, Kurt Masur, 1998

18 Wednesday Feb 1998

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2/18/98ce
–55 West 13th Street, Manhattan, New York, noon on the third of several grey, cloudy rainy days

Last night I heard the New York Philharmonic perform the St. Matthew Passion, by J. S. Bach, under the direction of Kurt Masur at Avery Fisher Hall (formerly Philharmonic Hall) at Lincoln Center.

The space is considerably less well designed than the Opera Hall in the same Center.  I have not yet visited the Alice Tully Hall space which completes the three.

Crossing the plaza and passing the small fountain as you approach the high-ceilinged, great glass front of the Metropolitan Opera House, two very large canvasses painted by Marc Chagall are visible from all directions.  They are something like 50 feet high and 30 feet wide.  The main stairway of the Opera House passes between the two pieces.  The Avery Fisher Hall is the auditorium to the right when facing the Opera House.  It is lower and more box-like, though it too has a tall, glass-fronted facade.

The Philharmonic Hall is long and rectangular.  The seats are arranged in horizontal rows forming a long rectangle from the stage back to the main doors on the floor of the auditorium.  Above these seats there are four tiers of balcony seats.  The box seats on the side are smaller and a little cramped.  They provide only an angled view of the stage and so one must continually turn one’s head to see the orchestra, the balcony seats in the rear of the auditorium are maybe 100 yards from the stage, but the line of sight is good and straight on from any of the seats in the back of the Hall.

Last night’s performance marked the second time I have heard the St. Matthew Passion by Bach.  I checked it out in San Francisco in 1997ce (see previous material).  This time, the stage set was completely different and the orchestration was somewhat changed as well.

The choir consisted of Thomanerchor Liepzig (The choir of St. Thomas Church, Leipzig) that Bach himself led, several hundred years ago.  They were perhaps 90 strong and provided the choir solo voices for the Apostle Peter and other parts from within their number.  They were split and arranged on benches at stage front left and front right, featured prominently.  The orchestration consisted of a small chamber group surrounding the conductor and a harmonium.  The harmonium was played by the director of the boy’s choir.  The chamber group was comprised of a cellist, bassist, first and second violins, and reeds.  On a platform behind the group were the six soloists.  The secondary strings and flutes and reeds were placed in the rear of the stage behind the soloists and Mr. Masur stood on a raised platform just to the right of the harmonium.

The performance was microphoned and amplified but the volume was far too low to enjoy complex changes in dynamics.  The sound in the corner seats in the rear boxes where we were (went with D.) was good but could have been louder and with more dynamic variance.  The seats were angled hard and somewhat cramped so we had to turn our heads to face the stage stereophonically.

The New York Times ran a review of the performance from the weekend past on the morning I saw the show (cf.: NYT, FEB 17, The Arts, p.4, aside: Siva Vaidyanthan on the cover for an unrelated story regarding a lost scrap of paper written upon by Mark Twain). The article said the work was among Masur’s first with the Philharmonic and suggested the changes and alterations (i.e. using St. Thomas Church choir from Liepzig) were Masur’s continuing efforts to come to know the music of Bach.

The performance was at a quick tempo, not workman-like, but regular. There were some lovely voices in the context of the piece, including the mezzo-soprano whose work was so beautiful.  The tenor who handled the part of the Evangelist may have been a little tired from a weekend’s worth of performance.  He was good, though.

The quality of live music performance in New York City is generally extremely high. Everywhere I go I hear bold, confident, passionate performances.  The players are eager and well-prepared.  In New York, the level of energy and play and quality of sound by any given performer is so much More More More than anywhere else I have been in the US.  There is little doubt or wavering.  The performers have in the context of their relationship to the venue and the audience, a certain confidence that frees them to try to be their best.  Or maybe they are scared witless and just playing their asses off so they can “make it in New York.” But it doesn’t “fee’” like the latter.  Rather it is just the general level of play, that the town attracts the nation’s best.  That is how it feels to me so far. (so why is the coffee so bad?)

The performance had some interesting moments:  the second mezzo-soprano solo in the second part, is predecessed and accompanied by an instrumental sectional.  There is a relationship here between the melody here and the melody of one of the six Violin Concerti for Violin and harpsichord.  The theme is augmented and then toyed with slightly, but check it out.

The section I awaited, had remembered from the last performance, was the simple harmony (or is it even unison?) calling out of the name of Barrabas.  It lacked the impact it had in SF.  There, the choir erupted in the name of Barrabas so loudly and strongly, one could hear the maddening crowd calling the name.  Here the section passed relatively quickly.  The tempo was speeded up and even-handed without such lingering drama.  Perhaps that is an aspect of performance here or by Masur.

He was beautiful to watch.  Had a relationship with the music as he conducted.  His body language, his expressiveness coaxed, pushed and pulled on the sound.  It was nice.  Masur’s an older man, balding (big centered patch over grey, evenly-cut hair all around), with a big frame.  maybe 6’2” or 3” tall.

<Break>

 

David Dinkins Lecture, Mingus Big Band, NYC, 1998

13 Friday Feb 1998

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2/13/98ce
–55 West 13th Street, Manhattan, New York, noonish on a Friday

Yo, I was set up …  by Mingus
and knocked down  … by The Mingus Big Band
over gin and tonics at the Fez.

Last night after work I went to a lecture by David Dinkins, former Mayor of New York, sponsored by The New School.  It was a part of a series of lectures taking place this semester entitled, “Media and Race Relations.”   Dinkins feels like a really positive old guy.  Very forthright and direct and even-handed.  He read a prepared speech and then fielded questions from the crowd of maybe twenty or thirty people on hand.  The speech was rhythmic and well-paced, addressing the topic in general terms and peppered with a couple of extemporary examples.

He did not say anything too unusual, said what the ex-first-Black-Mayor-of-New-York-City-who-was-embattled-throughout-his-administration-and-who-lost-re-election-by-the-same-slim-margin-he-won-by-first-time-round might be expected to say, that, and I’m paraphrasing here, things under the current administration pretty much suck … unless you’re rich.  That the crime rate being down is a good thing, but that it was his previous administrations programs that were primarily responsible.  That the current Mayor is a bully.  He defended himself against the main controversy of his term.

He is a politician after all and was obliged thus to say some things about America and “this great City,” and so on.   He spoke eloquently about the disparities of this city, though.  Mentioned that the infant mortality rate on the Upper East Side of Manhattan is 5.4 per 1,000 live births and in Fort Green Brooklyn, less than twenty miles away, it is 24 per 1,000 live births.  A frightening and sad statistic.  He mentioned another statistic that I found staggering: regarding the media and it’s treatment of women and women’s issues.

In a recent media study, he reported, it was found that when a person is referred to in the Main section of the paper, 86% of the time it is a male person, in the business section 85%, and in the Metropolitan sections 76% of the time references are to men.  Of the occasions when women are mentioned in the paper, more than 50% of the time it is as a perpetrator of some crime or in some other negative connotation.

These numbers are weird and I can not understand really how they are conceived.  I’d like to look into that.

It’s funny how a thought becomes a statistic becomes a fact and a part of social truth.  Paz:  “the North American … substitutes social truth for real truth which is always disagreeable.”  Labyrinth of Solitude, 1950.

The lecture was good.  I look forward to the next one in the series by the Reverend Al Sharpton.

(Afterward, I came back here to the office and edited the third draft of “Mahmoud Singh.”  It’s a good first story for New York.  I feel tired of it now though.  It doesn’t breathe enough.  Need to make a new one.  When?  When I get some peace of mind.)

MB made 9:00 reservations for us at the Time cafe and Fez Supper Club.

While I was waiting for him at the school, I was chatting with the security guard and a young woman who was also waiting, to meet someone after class.  I said to the guard, “You’ve heard of home-sickness, right? … what do you call it when you have no home and yet you feel a sickness? That is, you have no place to be homesick for but you feel a sickness for a home that exists in your mind?”

The young woman said, “Identity Crisis.”

I waited for MB at my building until ten minutes to 9, then we hopped in a cab to the club at Great Jones and Lafayette streets in the East Village.  Arrived right at 9 and went in.  “Time” is labyrinthine with an upstairs glass-walled, fishbowl restaurant and then a blue archway leading to an inner red-boothed bar, both filled with the pretty people and then a stairwell down into the sanctum, a blue walled hallway leading to the supper club known as The Fez, where we were met by a beautiful young bronzey Black woman wearing a wireless headset who was responsible for seating us.  Girl was fine and had a sweet smile.  I said to her, looking as deeply as I could into her eyes in the darkness of the low-ceilinged club, “it must be difficult walking around with disembodied voices in your head.” and I smiled.  She looked puzzled at first and then was actually interrupted by the voice in the headset to which she responded first and then smiled that beautiful smile and said to me, “Yeah, it gets a little confusing when it’s busy.”  Fine.

We sat and ordered a round of drinks.  MB had the usual.  I was hungry and ordered some Salmon which was not great.  It was boring and tasted like nothing except the sauces and spices which were hardly placed on the plate.  Even the supposed blackened salmon with wasabi-vinagrette that sounded so nice was boring food, and too expensive.

The deal on the gig was that the cover was $18 and there was a two-drink minimum, but you could stay for the second set once you were inside.  Dinner was not included and we were wearing serious critics ears after dropping so much bread for the much-hyped Mingus Big Band.  Much of it was choice of course, because I wanted to estimate the place, quality of the food, seating etc.

I spent three bucks on the coatcheck and 18 to get in and 63 on drinks and dinner.  That’s $84 for the two of us with the show included.  We were there at 9:00 and the show started at 9:30.

The set up:

The Mingus Big Band is a Workshop group that plays the music of Charles Mingus.  They opened the set by telling us they were going to play some music they hadn’t practiced fully, that they hadn’t looked at in a long time.  It was odd.  The performance started with a chart called, “Slippers,” and they were literally signalling and calling out changes and sections to one another.  It felt crowded and unrehearsed. They were working shit out while they played.  It gave MB and I pause.  We figured we had been taken.  $18 and the drinks for this?  We are new to New York, him a year and a half and me a few months, we didn’t know any better than to attend the Mingus Big Band, thinking we’d hear some Mingus wicked-like.

They were struggling their way through the shit when I actually wrote on a napkin at one point, “MINGUS DONE 20 YEARS and STILL KICKING ALL Y’ALLS ASSES”

The band also recognized their benefactor, Sue Mingus who was in attendance, a blonde, short-haired (business cut) older white woman with a kindly, smiley way about her.  Then they introduced a Mingus contemporary, one Mr. Howard Johnson who played in a Mingus septet at one point and who charted an arrangement of “OP,” a tune originally written for Oscar Pettitford.  Mr. Johnson was to direct the band in playing it.  He introduced it with some discussion about his relationship with Mingus and then actually took a moment to remind the band of some changes and notations.  Again it was odd.  Like a practice session.

They flubbed the shit out of it so badly they had to be counted into the “D” section.  It was almost comical. But occasionally our thoughts crept to how much we’d paid to see the show.

The set break came and we decided to take a little stroll around the block.  We got back to try to find some better seats, since the second set was less crowded.  The sweet hostess with the headset made a little small talk with me and smiled that beautiful smile again.  She led us to a pair of seats front and center.  Many people left, but there were several sticking around for the second half.

The Knock Down

Bam! How can I describe the second set to you without explaining that we were HAD!  The dark, low-hanging ceiling of the Fez filled out with the radical sounds of Mingus!  It was crazy.  It was like a different group came on.  They were wild and soloing like crazy and just out of this world.  Hollering and yelling and playing tight tight tight Mingus licks like they weren’t even the same band as the first set.  It was too much.  MB and I kept staring across the table at one another and laughing.  They completely turned us around.  It ended with a raging take on Better Get Hit in Yo Soul which knocked the doors off the place.  It was two different gigs:  a rehearsal/workshop and a straight ahead performance!  Cool.

An instructor from the New School is the bass player in the band and he had a student come up and jam on harmonica at the gig, too.  It was right on to be associated with the cat.  Big-ass shoes to fill, and he did so respectfully and with modesty.  Even had some skills, too.

The deal

The Mingus Big Band plays at the Time Cafe in the Fez Club.  $18 for both sets OR with student ID, $10 for the second set only!!!  They’re saving the shit, man.  Go second half!!!  And find yourself the soul of Mingus kicking through a 15-piece, sweet-ass, tight-playing, booty-kicking band.  The food’s overpriced unless you get something like hummus or chips, and the two-drink minimum is worth it if you’re coming in that late anyway.  Mingus Big Band, a nice time.

So yo,  I was set up and knocked down by the Mingus Big Band over gin and tonics at the Fez.

Afterward we walked for a while and ended up at the Coffeeshop on Union Square for a bite to eat, then I cabbed it home.  Expensive nights are all too much fun in NYC.

Peace.

<Break>

working vacation

First Visit to the Metropolitan Opera, 1998

10 Tuesday Feb 1998

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2/10/98ce
–55 West 13th Street, Manhattan, New York, noon

It’s a Tuesday morning and last night I saw the inside of the Metropolitan Opera House at Lincoln Center for the first time in my life. I saw the Met production of Die Zauberflote by Mozart.

Lincoln Center is really beautiful.  The main entranceway holds a grand staircase placed between two very large canvasses by Marc Chagall, bright colors and swirled lines.  The interior of the Opera House is all golds and red velvet.  I did a sketch at intermission of the stage lay out.  Our seats were pretty far back and high up but the view was perfect.  The performers are un-mic’ed and yet their voices and the music carry so beautifully through the hall.  The place is intimate despite its size.  It has five rows of box seats up the left and right sides of the stage.  Everything is covered in red velvet.

The seats are equipped with Met Titles which appear on a small digitized computer screen placed in a railing before each seat.  the titles provide simultaneous translation of the Opera.  They can be turned on and off and will pick up at any given line as the production proceeds.  Gracefully designed devices.  You cannot “read” the screens on either side of you because of the angle of placement, however if you lean forward you can see in the dark theatre the seat by seat staggered glow of gold letters on screens before the seats below you. Marvelous technology which makes the production much more enjoyable for audience-members who do not speak German or Italian or etc.

“Die Zauberflote” means “The Magic Flute.”  Ignoring the racist positioning of the White European in a position of superiority over the Moor and the general glorification of white over black features, light over dark which is established in the piece, the opera is a light-hearted romance about love and human longing for companionship.  Papageno the clown and his Papagena provide the comic climax in the pa-pa-pa-pa scene which I saw first in the film “Amadeus.”  There are high arpeggiated sequences by the Queen of Night who handled them with flair, and long tender arias by both Pamina and Tamino, the leads.  There are also noble arias by the baritone who plays the King, Sarasanto.  There are even roles for three young boys who play guiding angels to the hero, Tamino.

The racism in the opera isn’t about current ideas of race hatred, it is simply the ignorance and attitudes of an era gone by – lyrics by Papageno glorifying the beauty of the white, blonde-haired Pamina and several about the ugliness of the Black Moor.  It is frustrating that such lines will exist in the context of a Meisterwork by a man like Mozart for so long.  Frustrating to me at least whose face is brown and more like the black-faced white man who portrayed the Moor, than the blonde-blue eyed woman who played the princess.

The experience was a good first one for me at the Lincoln Center and with the Metropolitan Opera.  The tickets were expensive ($66) and we were treated to them and to dinner – at the Italian restaurant Fiorello, just opposite the theatre on Broadway – by Alex and Sally, a lovely elderly couple who are friends of R. who works in my office.  It was a good time.  But I find socializing difficult.  I had the seared tuna in capers, onions, roasted peppers and sundried tomate.  (boring though it sounds nice … It was tasty but predictable).

Quickly now to last Wednesday to cover the lecture entitled “Lawyers of Political Prisoners in the United States,” at the Benjamin Cardozo Law School and pulled together by Michael Kasner and BALLSA (maybe it’s black and latin-american law students association??).   A panel discussion hosted by Kathleen Cleaver and featuring Johnnie Cochran, Lennox Hinds, Leonard Weinglass and others.  A powerfully inspiring lecture by a group of lawyers who care about people.  It was meaningful on many levels.

Got straight dope on the cases of Assata Shakur, Mumia Abu Jamal, Dr. Mutulu Shakur, geronimo ji Jaga and others.  Some heavy statistics:  there are now 600,000 lawyers in the US.  Of these 90% work for 10% of the wealth.  “That leaves 10% for the rest of us.”  Maybe 600 work in areas like political prisoners rights and etc.  Stats about Mumia’s case that are still overwhelmingly frustrating to accept.

A letter from Assata Shakur to “his Holiness,” Pope John Paul II on his visit to Cuba in response to a request of the Pope by the New Jersey State Police to help them extradite Assata Shakur  Too much.  Lennox Hinds was fantastic.  He spoke so eloquently of ethics.  It was truly inspiring and the lecture was packed with people.

I need a haircut, gotta take a

<Break>

Karmic Rubber Band

09 Monday Feb 1998

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2/9/98ce
— 55 West 13th Street, Manhattan, New York, noon

Today is a Monday in February and the sun is shining in New York through clear skies.  It is cool but not cold and the blue in the sky is high and whitened by a thin wintriness. These events are from last week:

Karmic Rubber Band

B., my neighbor down the hall is a recent arrival in New York City from Austin, Texas where he has been for the last 6 years.  Prior to that he lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.  Now he’s 27 and lives in our warehouse building in Greenpoint, Brooklyn and works in Manhattan at a retail bookstore (a national chain) and at The Bottom Line club.  Last week, he had friends in town visiting from Baton Rouge.

MT., 27, and JO., 22, punks traveling from Baton Rouge to New York and back in a little, two-door, Honda CRX within which they were also sleeping, were staying alive by eating peanut butter sandwiches and MRE’s – Meals Ready to Eat, military rations purchased by MT.’s father, a soldier – while on the road.  They were young scrappers who had taken to living in condemned buildings in Baton Rouge to keep from having to get too many jobs.  They had been on the road for a month or so.

I met them briefly the night before last Monday morning when I ran into them in the hallway outside B.’s door.  I asked them that morning what they were up to.  They were building a frame for B.’s bedroom wall.  I offered them some marijuana to help them stay focused and get through the task.  They accepted, so I left them with a small amount of weed and my pipe and lighter and headed off to work.

I got into work and had a message from my friend M. who was taking the day off from work and planned to be downtown near my office.  We made plans to meet for lunch.  By 3:00, I hadn’t heard from M. so I decided to get some lunch for myself before my 4:00 meeting with the Vice President and several members of the Accounting department.  I walked out of my office, though, and saw M. just walking towards me in the street.  He had just gotten to the building.  It was the first coincidence of the day.  I took M. around the corner to Bar 6 on Avenue of the Americas for lunch.

Afterward we made plans to meet in the evening and I went back to work while he strolled off to the East Village.  At 4:00, I went with C., the manager of the department in which I work, to the meeting with Accounting.  It went all right and when I returned it was already 5:30.  M. was waiting outside my office building for me.  I brought him up to check out where I work and then we went walking.

We ended up at St. Mark’s Bar in the East Village, enjoying high-flying alto solos by Bird over quartets and quintets of swinging rhythms and over our heads as we sipped a couple of cold beers and talked about music and art.  I went to the bathroom.  While I was in there, M. got the high sign from a fellow at the bar.  When I joined them, we all went outside to have a smoke.  Out on the sidewalk we made a smoker’s circle. M. and I introduced ourselves to our host, R. who produced a fat little joint to pass.

R. is a light-skinned brother with a thin, evenly-groomed mustache.  He has short, carefully styled hair and full lips that part to reveal a glowing set of teeth when he smiles.  We all laughed and chatted as we passed the smoke, talking about all manner of things.  Somehow the conversation came around to my space in Brooklyn.  I mentioned that I was living in an unfinished warehouse space, that I was working on it to build a live/work studio.  R., suddenly looked at me strangely as he pulled on the joint that had just been passed back to him by M.  After exhaling, he asked if I was living in Greenpoint.  I was surprised that he guessed.  All I had said was that my place was in Brooklyn.

He was holding the joint, now-half smoked.  He smiled and said, “Do you know a guy named B.?  It was incredible:  8 million people in New York and we get pulled out by a guy who knows my neighbor.  He was a co-worker of B.’s at the The Bottom Line.  We couldn’t believe the coincidence.  I laughed and said, “It’s even more perfect because just this morning I gave his friends a little bag to get them through the day.”  We looked at each other and for just half a second locked eyes and then collectively looked down at the joint.  I looked down at it, thinly burning with ashy flecks across it’s orangey tip in R.’s hand. “That’s my weed!”  I half-shouted.  We broke up the circle and fell away into individual peals of laughter, three high-flying brothers smoking a j. on the sidewalk in the Village and cracking up

The coaccidence was dazzling.  Over in Brooklyn in the morning, I give away a small bag of weed to my neighbor’s friends and not ten hours later in Manhattan, a co-worker of his, unknowingly and independently gives my friend the high sign and ends up sharing a joint with me.

A couple of nights later, on the eve of their departure to Baton Rouge, I took MT. and JO. to dinner.  I figured the two young punks would need a little better food than MRE’s to sustain them on the long journey back to the deep South.   B. came along with.  We went to the little Thai place in Greenpoint a few blocks from our place.  When I told him the story of meeting his friend R., I ended by saying, “Hey man, I know I can trust you as my neighbor.  I mean I lent you something and I got it back within less than a day, a borough away … I mean your shit is tight … you’re like a karmic rubber band.”  And we all laughed and had a good time.

After we smoked the joint down, we went back in the bar to finish our beers.  Then M. and I made our way out to my place.  We hung out, smoked some more pot as I cleaned up and we made plans to go to St. Nick’s Pub.  My hot water still wasn’t working then and I was really funky, so I asked M. if I could stay out at his house that night and he readily invited me to do so.  I grabbed up some clothes, threw them into my work bag and M. and I were off to Harlem.

BROTHER CAME FLYING OUT THE SUBWAY DOOR …

… BALD HEAD shining, hollering, “Milky Way, Man, Milky Way!” paid the guy, got the candy and got back on the train before the doors closed.   And we made our way on to 145th street.  That’s what I wrote down on the back of a business card on the way up to M.’s.  with brother unwrapping that thing all casual-like and munching on it as we rolled along.  I’ll tell you the things I’ve seen on the New York City Subway one day.

We went up to M.’s place on 145th around the corner from St. Nick’s so he too could change clothes.  He had a message on his machine from a woman he had met the week before who reported she would be at St. Nick’s that night.  Earlier, after I had given the young punks the weed and come into the office, and before lunch with M. and my series of coincidences and coaccidents, I had written myself a short journal entry:

I have been having crazy nights.

… Just Long Enough

St. Nick’s Pub has an open mic jam session on Monday nights hosted by MC Murph and produced and promoted by Berta Indeed Productions.  It features Patience Higgins and his quartet, who host some of the baddest local talent cutting one another in solotime and occasional newcomers and amateurs as well.

When we arrived things were sounding a little cheesy but they straightened up a bit and before long we were sitting and finding grooves as various soloists made their way through Parker charts and other standards.  We weren’t there twenty minutes when M.’s friend arrived with her two girlfriends T. and J. – three chocolate-colored, gorgeous women who turned every head in the house at one time or another.

M.’s friend is beautiful.  She is thin and curvy, about 5’6” tall in heels and she has a bright smile that she shares when inspired to do so.   She is a poet and spoken-word artist who performs regularly in the New York area.  Her friends are equally beautiful but uniquely so.  T. had long cornrows and a round, gentle face.  J. was an Amazon.  Well over 6 feet in heels, she was tall and lanky and moved with a gangly beauty that gave her ebony arms a mystical quality.

J. was kinetic.  Her arms moved smoothly and hypnotically, yet quickly and out of her own control.  We all sat together, listened to the music and talked.  J. and T. stood up often and danced, with one another and alone, bringing a desire to the hearts of everyone present and filling the room with the magic of music’s power to move a body and soul.  They were sexy and nimble and moving sensually, energized by the swelling music that filled the little joint.

T. even arranged with MC Murph to sit in.  She wanted to sing. It was her first time singing at St. Nick’s.  She did “On Green Dolphin Street,” and after a little timidness in the first go around came back after the solos to finish strong and clear with only a slight, wavering tremolo to reveal what may have been any nerves on edge.  She sang clearly and held her body still to the microphone staring evenly into the audience, smiling at her friends occasionally.  We all enjoyed ourselves.

I am new to this place, to these people.  I’ve learned it’s foolish to try anything too soon.  So I was keeping quiet.  Listening to the music and relaxing.  I ached to let these three women know how much I admired their shapes and styles, but knew how stupid I would sound saying so.  But it’s good, I think, to let people know you notice their beauty even if time and space conspire against doing anything about it in the now.  If you have an opportunity, you’ve got to seize it.

J. was talking with us all at the table when she managed in the whirling motion of her long, beautiful arms, to knock over her drink.  She pulled her chair back from the table, startled, as we picked up her drink and patted at the table with napkins, telling her not to worry about it.  “Oh, God, my arms are just too long,” she apologized as she scooted back from the table, “I’ll just move back here.”

Quickly and for perhaps the first time all evening I spoke up, “No baby, your arms are … just … long enough,” I said, looking directly into her eyes, “come back over here and we’ll just move your drink.”  I ordered another round for her and the other women and we were all too smooth for words.

M. and I strolled in the cold, back to his place.  On the way I teased him about his friend.  He kept saying, “She’s not my girlfriend!” and when he did I heard the desire behind it.  We both knew how nice it would be if she were.  Before going to bed, we listened to both sides of the Abbey Lincoln album he had bought earlier that day down in the Village.  Her voice rang rich and sweet through the Harlem night as I drifted off to sleep on M.’s comfy old couch.

And that’s the story of last Monday.

<Break>

Tuesday I woke up at M.’s house with a bit of a headache from the gins-and-tonics the night before.  Predominantly from the gins, I’m sure.  I decided to skip work so I called in sick and stayed in the city.  I caught the D down to 59th street and then went walking over to the Upper East Side.  I had lunch by myself at a little French bistro – ordered a seared Tuna – and bought a couple of back pocket journal/sketchbooks.  Then I strolled over to Gracious Home on 72nd and Third and picked up some paint brushes.  I went home and slept.  That night I was in, listening to Mingus and watching ships pass the Manhattan skyline as the lights went on in the City.

Wednesday I got up and went to work to try to achieve something, anything.  It was good.  I managed to make.  There was the lecture … gotta get that lecture covered.  It has too much to handle poorly.

Thursday I took off from work again, rainy and cold weather and the hot water finally on.  I hung out with the visiting kids from Baton Rouge, made a dope deal (scored a $50 quarter bag of some weak-ass shit) and built a shower curtain set up (a “d” rod with a hanging cord to a metal ring in the ceiling of the bathroom).  I took the Lousiana punks for their going away dinner that night.  Had a hot shower for the first time in my space on Friday morning.

Friday was D. and being out and acting silly – drinks at Bar 6, dinner at L’Orange Bleue (430 Broome Street), drinks at bar ñ and then on to Soho.  A late night walk through the East Village and ending up at a little cheesy brazilian bar called Anyway with a guitar duo who couldn’t keep time but could finger-pick like a couple of Brazilian freaks.  We laughed and acted silly and misbehaved and were just happy together which we hadn’t been in months.

Then the weekend has been an explosion of food and drink and joyous celebrations of a million senses.  My fortune cookies and horoscopes are all overwhelmingly positive and my mind is confused about what I am supposed to be doing.  I keep going with the flow.

My new roommates have a 1971 Ford Gran Torino of a metallic green color with a white hard top.  It is a beautiful old machine.  I now have keys to that machine and on Sunday we loaded up into that low-riding cruiser, crossed the Queensboro Bridge and came into the city.  We went to Pongal, the South Indian place in the twenties and then to this really cool sake bar downstairs on 9th street at 2nd in the East Village, it’s called Decibel.

Cruising on a Sunday afternoon.  In the green machine.
New York:  Manhattan.  Brooklyn.  Queens.

mtk 1998