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Thursday, October 15, 2009

A Day Off

“Whenever I watch how a man behaves when he is alone, I always conclude that he is ‘insane’ – I can find no other word for it.” Maxim Gorky

I think Maxim was on to something there because if anyone were to actually follow me around they’d probably come up with the same conclusion. People in New York look like they all have some sort of purpose, a place to be, somewhere to go; from within the tunnels of the subway up the stairs and onto the streets, the go-go-go. I observe the rush-hour crowds racing through Manhattan like they’re on a conveyer belt, and then there’s me, taking my sweet time, walking around aimlessly like I’ve done for countless years, zig-zagging through streets and alleyways looking for not sure what.

When I first started to write about the tunnel, I wasn’t really sure what would come of it. I just feel like I’m exposed to interesting stories down there and would like to share with whoever has an ear. So today, we’re out of the tunnel, just stumbling around New York.

I left the house around one this afternoon with the idea of checking out an Arts Festival that was going on underneath the Manhattan Bridge in DUMBO. But with the steady drizzle falling I changed my mind while transferring at the Atlantic/Pacific subway stop. Then for no reason other than the fact that I’ve never been there, I took the 6 train to East Harlem. I got off at the stop on 125th St. Shortly after I realized I should’ve at least done a little bit of research about the neighborhood, as far as where the historical spots are; maybe the area where Langston Hughes hung out, The Apollo, the Cotton Club, Malcom X’s ‘hood, but I really had no idea where I was. I think most people might find that uncomfortable, the whole not having a sense of order or a plan, but I just go with the flow, let the street take me where it wants to.

I hit Lexington and walked in the direction of Upper East Manhattan, on the way passing vacant lots, dilapidated graffiti-laced bodegas, public housing projects, rickety basketball courts, rims dangling. Stopped into a little Spanish bakery and got a cheese glazed croissant to keep me going. The area seems to make quite a change as you hit the 90’s of Upper East. Fancy high-rise apartments with old door-men dressed to the tee, nanny’s pushing around strollers, little rug-rat dogs you could fit in your wallet nervously walking around. It’s hard to believe you’re even in the same city.

I decided to head on down 2nd and 3rd Avenues and noticed some interesting old Jewish deli’s with knishes and various salmon spreads and matzo ball soup and other foreign culinary items I’ve never heard of. I get out the journal and start to compile a list of New York places I want to visit. Some that make it are Sables on 2nd/78 St., a couple of Hungarian markets on 2nd/ 80th, Jimbo’s Hamurger Place 1st/54th, Clover Delicatessen, Paddy O’Reilley’s (Irish bar with only beer being served Guinness).

It’s Sunday and now I’m filing among the football watching hoards. Every bar seems to cater to a different team and has crowds of those city’s natives screaming and getting drunk. I write down drink and food specials for like-minded folks on a budget: a sushi place that has all-you-can-eat for 20 bucks, a bar that serves 6 beers in a bucket for ten bucks, a BBQ joint that is all-you-can-eat and drink ribs and beer for 2 hours at 20 bucks a head. There’s Indian eateries on 28th and Lexington and a tiny French Bakery/Restaurant a block down, the cook sitting in a chair outside. It’s empty inside. He’s dressed in all white with a big old cook hat. He has an enormous white beard with lamb chops and as I walk by I think what a great picture this would make, but I’m not a photographer so I write it out in my mind.

Somewhere off of 2nd Ave. I went into a convenience store to buy a lottery ticket. Out of work, money going fast, I’m figuring I’m in need of a little luck. Instantly I’m greeted by a very strange man. He grabs my leather-bound, brown paged journal out of my hands and says, “What, you some kind of Kerouac?”

I grabbed the book back and told him I wasn’t no damn Kerouac. I said the journal was from Ghana. It was given to me many years ago and sat idle until recently. He mentioned something about reading a book about two guys that rode bikes around Africa. This guy had an awfully weird look in his eyes, not just drunk, but that psychopath, I’m going to follow you around the corner and cut up your body with a butcher knife, look. All of his comments were followed by an awkward silence.

Stupidly, I asked him what he did.

“I’m an IT guy, programming, my life is boring, I keep a journal too, but it’s boring. But things are different now. They don’t want me around. They’re trying to get rid of me.”

“Who’s they?”

It’s at this point I should get the hell out of here, but I’m curious so I feed the conversation.

“You know who they are.”

“Well, New York’s a crazy city,” I say, trying to lighten the conversation.

“This wasn’t in New York,” he says angrily. “This was Seattle. It’s not crazy. Things have been this way for over 30,000 years. It’s the way the heard works. The creative process has changed!”

The Arab cashier is annoyed. This guy still hasn’t paid for his six-pack and a line is forming.

“Right, right, it’s always about money.”

He whispers to me, “He’s a good guy though. I was going to bring in a purple broom today and sweep the front but it’s already clean. Usually it’s dirty.”

Next in line was an MTA worker. He was buying a bunch of lottery tickets.

The strange guy turns to him and asks what station he works at. He works security for the Long Island rails.

“Ah, you don’t need security. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Actually, you got terrorists to worry about. Bombs, someone dropping cyanide down into the subways.”

“Well, that wouldn’t happen if I was on the train.”

“Oh yeah?” the old man says curiously. “What would you do?”

“I’d be the passenger. That’s what I’d do and I’ll tell you, it wouldn’t happen.”

Dead-pan silence and he’s staring the old man straight in the eyes as if to say, yup, that’s right buddy, I ain’t shitting you.

“Well, I guess New York needs more folks like you.”

I pondered that thought after a moment, raising my eyebrows. Then the MTA worker walked out and the crazy man followed him. I picked my lottery numbers, said a little prayer to Saint Paul, or was it Christopher, well, one of those guys. I gave the cashier a grin, but he was in no mood for it. I suppose he dealt with these people every day for year after year and had grown tired of folks like this. I went to a diner down the street, got a cup of coffee, a slice of apple pie, and wrote it all out.

Monday, October 12, 2009

Day 19

Hungover, barely able to sit on the stool, but I try to play through it. For most of the day no one paid much attention. Like my homeless friend down by the rink says, “I need a new game.”

Later on in the day I was in an open G tuning, just kind of noodling around, making up an ambient song in a bastardized blues progression, you know, feeling it. A Spanish looking guy approached and said what I was playing reminded him of a Spanish guitar player who mixes Flamenco with new-age type music.

Alejandro is a bartender at an exclusive members-only bar in a hotel off of 54th St. in midtown Manhattan. Super rich and well-known folks only allowed. The likes of Kissinger and Ted Kennedy hung out there. He’s from Ecuador, but came to New York about thirty years ago. He's been behind the bar for over twenty years, says it’s too good of a job for him to leave. I ask if he needs a helper. Unfortunately, he doesn’t. I mentioned Andres Segovia, the great classical Spanish guitar player, and he told me that Segovia's brother actually played once at a club he worked at.

For the longest time Alejandro was trying to think of a modern virtuoso Flamenco guitarist, who did some sort of collaboration with Sting. He says what he plays is absolutely amazing. But he’s stumped. He can’t think of the name and I’m clueless. It’s right on the tip of his tongue and driving him crazy. Eventually, he left, frustrated. Five minutes later he came back running towards the tunnel. A good thirty feet away he yells, “Paco Lucia!” He was so happy he’d remembered his name. His good deed for the day had been done, and as I laughed he walked away from the tunnel with a little skip in his step.

Day 18

The park is quiet since kids have gone back to school. Hardly anyone comes through the tunnel. I ought to move around, maybe go down into the subway, but I’ve grown attached to my little spot. I only played 2 hours today. Came away with six bucks. Went over to the fountain by the boathouse and practiced some new songs: couple of Blind Blake tunes, Henry Thomas’s Fishing Blues, Windy and Warm which I’ve heard Chet Atkins do, another John Prine song.

Day 17

Today was a good day money-wise. Sunday and folks were in a good mood. Can’t remember much too exciting, but I had fun. Walked over to where Valentine hangs out. We started talking about various musicians. I mentioned Sonny Rollins and we started singing the melody to St. Thomas, Monk, we sang Straight No Chaser, then to the Russians, Tchiakovsky, whom I didn’t really know, so I sang one of Brahms Hungarian Dances, and Brahms wasn’t even Russian, but I figured, geographically speaking they were somewhat close. We go into the writers. Gorky. Tolstoy. Checkov. Mayakovsky.

“America #1. Good country. Best schools. Musicians up here,” Valentine says raising his arm up high. “Russia no good. President no good. All KGB. No money. All musicians leave Russia. No good music.”

“My English no good. I take all tests long time ago. I’m citizen, but English no good. Only talk to Russians, no English, you understand me? You understand?”

He tells me he’s getting good practice by speaking English with me. He teaches me some crazy sounding Russian words, ones I can’t remember, but that means horrible looking face, something not just ugly but that you hate and despise. He makes an Icibob Crane face as he does this. I’m not sure why but I teach him the Spanish phrase, “Manana, manana.”

As I leave he says, “See ya Set’. America #1. Ah yes, America #1.”

His arms are raised and a big smile displaying very old jagged teeth is painted across his face. A little kid walks by him and he plays, “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”

Day 16

Today I met one of the most, intelligent and entertaining people I’ve ever come across. His name is Barry, older Jewish guy from Brooklyn. I forget his Hebrew name, but it’s meaning is Bear, so he took on Barry for his English name. He appeared like some sort of apparition, I didn’t even see him walk up. Suddenly he’s asking me if know any Fred Neil songs. Strange because I know very little of his music, but another guy I used to see sometimes in the park off of Burnside in Portland, Brian was his name, really hard on his luck, no money to his name, living in a shelter with all the drug addicts and he didn’t do any of that shit but he needed a place to sleep and he was tired, real tired, tired of it all, saying he was almost to the point where it just wasn’t worth it, this whole thing, this fucked up life and I tried to talk him out of it, but he was just in that way, but Brian knew all about music, an encyclopedia, he knew every Stones song and could tell you about every fingerpicking bluesmen. He knew African, Indian music, it went on and on. Where are you Brian? I hope you’re making it. Anyway, Brian told me Fred Neil was one of the greatest folk singers. He’s probably most well known for writing a song that was in the movie Midnight Cowboy, “Everybody’s talking about me, they don’t hear a word I’m saying…” He was a big influence on the New York folk scene in the 60’s, but fell of the map, moved to south Florida and then made his life mission saving dolphins.

Barry’s probably around 60, in good shape, very animated. He has a thick deep, New York accent. He tells me he does voice-over work, commercials, movies.
“Oh, shit,” I say. “Are you the guy that does the previews? A man, a woman, alone in the world, against all odds.”

Barry laughs and says he does some of that. He then goes into a Rod Serling impersonation, squints his eyes and says, “No, I would do it like this. A guitar player, the troubadour of the tunnel, a mere eight dimes in his case, when all of the sudden, it turned into gold.” He sounded just like Rod. I started to sing out the theme music for the Twilight Zone. All we needed was the backwards flying clock.
Barry says, “That guy was a genius. He used to dictate all his stuff to some hot young woman while sitting in a recliner next to a pool with a martini in his hand. Talk about imagination.”

Barry moved to Los Angeles in the late 60’s along with his brother. They wrote songs for some Motown artists, big-time artists like Smokey Robinson and Stevie Wonder. He sings another song of his he wrote that he had in mind for Lou Rawls. I can’t remember the words, but I can definitely picture it as an R&B hit.

He has an uncanny ability to recite lyrics and poems in their entirety, Buddhist quotes, he talks in this cool cat-like rhythm that brings to mind the Beats. He recites a tongue and cheek song he wrote about a country guy roaming around New York. He then goes into Yeats, Dickens, the Dalai Lama. He’s an encyclopedia of knowledge. Barry’s also is working on a screenplay and goes into detail about all the different characters in it. He asks me not to tell anyone about the story, so I’ll leave out the details, but he has me laughing as he goes into acting out each character, as if he’s performing a one-man show on Broadway.

We get to talking about kids. I’m telling him how they seem to really like the guitar, and also about their lack of inhibitions, how they feel music truthfully and innocently, which as we grow older sometimes we lose. He tells me about a project he did in a school in Harlem called “No Adults Left Behind,” a spoof off the “No Child Left Behind,” law from a few years back. In it kids, maybe 1st or 2nd grade, interview one another discussing the deepest of philosophical questions. What is love? What makes you happy? What makes you sad? Why do people fight? Why do people hate each other? Kids respond with the simplest, honest answers. It’s a great video. Go to You Tube and type in No Adults Left Behind.

Barry goes on to tell me about mind expansion, how sight actually contains seven different senses. It’s all a little over my head, but I find it quite interesting. He’s really into the original meaning of words. Etymology. How words original meanings definitions change over time into the words that we have now. We talk about dreams and Eastern thought. He says that Hindu religion believes that music creates lights and the Jewish believe that for an angel to move from one place to another you have to sing it a song. He’s an ever-flowing fountain of words. At one point a group of about fifty women dressed in white, all shapes and sizes and races, files through the tunnel, in single file, doing some sort of yelling singing and dancing. Barry places his hands together and bows in Buddhist fashion. He then looks at me and shakes his head as if to say, “Isn’t life fascinating?”

As he stands at the beginning of the tunnel I tell him he should set up shop there. Be the riddler. Folks can’t pass through unless people answer with the right answer. He laughs and sings another song he says he wrote. It’s all about taking the “high road.” An hour and a half later, Barry the beat mystic, the Buddhist philosopher, heads home.

Day 16

Today I met one of the most, intelligent and entertaining people I’ve ever come across. His name is Barry, older Jewish guy from Brooklyn. I forget his Hebrew name, but it’s meaning is Bear, so he took on Barry for his English name. He appeared like some sort of apparition, I didn’t even see him walk up. Suddenly he’s asking me if know any Fred Neil songs. Strange because I know very little of his music, but another guy I used to see sometimes in the park off of Burnside in Portland, Brian was his name, really hard on his luck, no money to his name, living in a shelter with all the drug addicts and he didn’t do any of that shit but he needed a place to sleep and he was tired, real tired, tired of it all, saying he was almost to the point where it just wasn’t worth it, this whole thing, this fucked up life and I tried to talk him out of it, but he was just in that way, but Brian knew all about music, an encyclopedia, he knew every Stones song and could tell you about every fingerpicking bluesmen. He knew African, Indian music, it went on and on. Where are you Brian? I hope you’re making it. Anyway, Brian told me Fred Neil was one of the greatest folk singers. He’s probably most well known for writing a song that was in the movie Midnight Cowboy, “Everybody’s talking about me, they don’t hear a word I’m saying…” He was a big influence on the New York folk scene in the 60’s, but fell of the map, moved to Florida and then made his life mission to saving dolphins.

Barry’s probably around 60, in good shape, very animated. He has a thick deep, New York accent. He tells me he does voice-over work, commercials, movies.

“Oh, shit,” I say. “Are you the guy that does the previews? A man, a woman, alone in the world, against all odds.”

Barry laughs and says he does some of that. He then goes into a Rod Serling impersonation, squints his eyes and says, “No, I would do it like this. A guitar player, the troubadour of the tunnel, a mere eight dimes in his case, when all of the sudden, it turned into gold.” He sounded just like Rod. I started to sing out the theme music for the Twilight Zone. All we needed was the backwards flying clock.
Barry says, “That guy was a genius. He used to dictate all his stuff to some hot young woman while sitting in a recliner next to a pool with a martini in his hand. Talk about imagination.”

Barry moved to Los Angeles in the late 60’s along with his brother. They wrote songs for some Motown artists, big-time artists like Smokey Robinson and Stevie Wonder. He sings another song of his he wrote that he had in mind for Lou Rawls. I can’t remember the words, but I can definitely picture it as an R&B hit.
He has an uncanny ability to recite lyrics and poems in their entirety, Buddhist quotes, he talks in this cool cat-like rhythm that brings to mind the Beats. He recites a tongue and cheek song he wrote about a country guy roaming around New York. He then goes into Yeats, Dickens, the Dalai Lama. He’s an encyclopedia of knowledge. Barry’s also is working on a screenplay and goes into detail about all the different characters in it. He asks me not to tell anyone about the story, so I’ll leave out the details, but he has me laughing as he goes into acting out each character, as if he’s performing a one-man show on Broadway.

We get to talking about kids. I’m telling him how they seem to really like the guitar, and also about their lack of inhibitions, how they feel music truthfully and innocently, which as we grow older sometimes we lose. He tells me about a project he did in a school in Harlem called “No Adults Left Behind,” a spoof off the “No Child Left Behind,” law from a few years back. In it kids, maybe 1st or 2nd grade, interview one another discussing the deepest of philosophical questions. What is love? What makes you happy? What makes you sad? Why do people fight? Why do people hate each other? Kids respond with the simplest, honest answers. It’s a great video. Go to You Tube and type in No Adults Left Behind.

Barry goes on to tell me about mind expansion, how sight actually contains seven different senses. It’s all a little over my head, but I find it quite interesting. He’s really into the original meaning of words. Etymology. How words original meanings definitions change over time into the words that we have now. We talk about dreams and Eastern thought. He says that Hindu religion believes that music creates lights and the Jewish believe that for an angel to move from one place to another you have to sing it a song. He’s an ever-flowing fountain of words. At one point a group of about fifty women dressed in white, all shapes and sizes and races, files through the tunnel, in single file, doing some sort of yelling singing and dancing. Barry places his hands together and bows in Buddhist fashion. He then looks at me and shakes his head as if to say, “Isn’t life fascinating?”

As he stands at the beginning of the tunnel I tell him he should set up shop there. Be the riddler. Folks can’t pass through unless people answer with the right answer. He laughs and sings another song he says he wrote. It’s all about taking the “high road.” An hour and a half later, Barry the beat mystic, the Buddhist philosopher, heads home.

Day 15

A homeless guy came up and pissed right in front of me, not enough to get any spray, thank God, but he didn’t even bother to go behind a bush. The Vietnam vet who hasn’t showered in a year and is trashed by noon at least knows enough to go at least out of sight of the kids. Later on the homeless guy told me to give him three dollars. I had two bucks in the case after and hour and a half. It was that kind of day.

Monday, October 5, 2009

Day 14

Today plodded along. More rain. Fall’s coming fast. Once again, compliments on acoustics, but after nearly three hours I had ten bucks in the bag. I’m feeling tired, not sure why, the whole not working thing can get you into a lazy mood. At one point this couple that looked they had just walked out of a Manhattan lawyers office…Italian, Spanish guy and Vietnamese woman? She was grabbing onto his arms facing him and he was pushing her away. I figured they were just horse playing, but when she turned around her face was read and drenched in tears. She was hysterical. The struggled continued through the length of the tunnel.

Over by the stairs the man yells, “That’s it! We’re through! You’re gone!”

She screams, “No!”

Then they were gone. I could still hear them somewhere atop the stairs. Then the man reappeared. Then the woman was back. Screaming, crying, more grappling. It reminded me a lot of how an ex-girlfiend I lived with for three years was when we split up. They were memories I really didn’t feel like re-experiencing so I tried to think of any songs I knew with make-up lyrics in hopes that it might lighten the somber mood. After an hour they walked back to my side of the tunnel. They had their hands around one another. The man glanced at me with a somewhat embarrassing expression and then they disappeared into the crowds. I called it quits shortly after.

I found a tree over by Wollman Rink. A fella' I see quite often in this area peddling random wares for the tourists approached me. I’d say he’s fifty something, and though not dressed badly, I can tell he’s homeless. First time I walked by him he said, “You all right brother? Need a map?” I’ve seen him out in the rain, a garbage bag for a coat, trying to make a buck. The tourists aren’t paying him much mind so he comes up to me. He’s got a sleeping bag with him along with a stuffed backpack. Tells me he’s staying temporarily with his sisters, a single mother in a project in Harlem.

“Too loud there. You know who it be too. Them young girls. All screaming, carrying on at three in the morning. Couple of them all right looking, but they ain’t all that. They always leaving their bottles out in the front too. Cops be coming over now. I’m tired man. Real tired.”

“And they be having them construction workers right outside the window all the time. You know those platforms that window guys use. These guys be putting something in the bricks to make the rain water run off better. Always outside the window like they could just walk right in the room. Can’t even smoke a joint or nothing. The ladies be loving it though. You know they love to tease. It’s true. Walking around all naked, especially the woman below, she fine too, oh man, she got these laborers hanging out there all day, some of them don’t do nothing. I seen their checks though. Thousand bucks a week. I be lucky if I make five hundred in two weeks.”

I get curious as to how he makes this much money, but I don’t ask.

“That’s good work. I need a new game.”

“I was staying with this other guy. He does a coke and all that, don’t care, but he one of them types, think he’s all better than everyone else, ain’t no use for that, plus he tells me I can’t have no woman over at the place. Fuck that! I say, what, I just going to stare at you all day? No way. You got to be able to have a lady over. It’s cold, but shit, I’d rather sleep in the park.”

I pass out, using my guitar for a pillow. When I wake up it’s dark, the park’s relatively empty, and an old Asian lady is sleeping right next to me.

Day 13

Sunday: Crowded, came away a little more money than the weekday, with no job anything helps. A Jewish college girl sat off to the side in the tunnel for a couple of hours listening to me. She then moved right in front of me. Think she had a crush on me. I can’t say I was attracted to her, but she was nice, enjoyed her company. She said she was doing her homework, but I doubt she got much done. Sitting there for that long, she got a small glimpse of what the tunnel’s like, the kids hopping around, me bullshitting my way through songs I don’t know the words to, the slow time. I joked around with her. She found it all quite interesting. She didn’t have any cash, but she wanted to write me a check. I said it wasn’t a big deal, but she insisted. She made it out for 15 bucks and in the For section she wrote “A wonderful afternoon.”

Later on I was playing and a photographer was taking pictures of me. I get a lot of this, probably three to four serious photographers a day. She goes to Fashion school, studying photojournalism. Her dad was with her, also taking pictures. I sang Freight Train for them. It just so happened that the father had been a freight train operator in upstate New York. He asked if I knew the Wabash Cannonball, an old country song about the adventures of a mythical train, Roy Acuff and Carter Family and many others have done this song. I knew part of it, but not the chords. In front of me the dad started singing the song acapella. I tried to follow what he was singing. Like nearly every country song, the chords were C,F,G and within ten seconds I had the song down. His daughter smiled and took pictures. It was pretty damn cool. Part of the playing in public thing that makes it fun is being able to spontaneously adapt to your crowd. It makes it more fun for the folks and yourself. Music has something magical in it that the spoken word doesn’t, and in those moments when you can get it right, it makes it all seem right.

Day 11 and 12

It’s rained the past couple of days. Not much good for business. The homeless folks hang out in the tunnel to keep dry. Earlier there was a younger couple; I’ve seen them in here before. I think they’re on drugs. They were screaming at one another for off and on, then hugging, then passing out, then yelling again. I just do my thing.

Day 10

Another slow day. I’m realizing this isn’t quite as much fun without all the interaction. Notes of interest: I had a nicely dressed couple pass by and tip me, then they went about thirty feet into the middle of the tunnel and a very passionate make-out session ensued. It’s times like these when I wish I knew a sweet romantic Spanish song, you know, maybe some Segovia. Unfortunately I don’t so I played a John Prine song about coal companies destroying the land in Kentucky. No wonder I don’t make much.

I’ve decided I’m going to take the next two days off and look for a “real” job, whatever that is. I’ve told myself this numerous times in the past few weeks, but I’m serious this time. I’d also like to practice some new songs. Doc’s Guitar, I Saw the Light, You Got to Reap What you Sow, If I Were a Carpenter, some more Carter family, maybe a couple of Rolling Stones, Jimmie Rodgers, Blind Blake if I can ever figure one of his songs out. I pack up early and head over to the fountain by West 4th St. and watch the people on the benches and the mice scattering around in the bushes and at their feet

Day 8

Not very many people in the park. I imagine after the three-day weekend folks took a break. I think school is back in session so maybe the number of families on vacation is dwindling. The sky was overcast today and the weather has cooled off quite a bit. I played for about three hours and came away with 10 bucks. Early on I had a group of high school kids, all Central American, but from the Bronx. They were real friendly and curious about the whole street musician thing, how much I made, where I was from. I let a couple of them mess around on the guitar. After that I pretty much just played for the tunnel.

Day 7

Sunday was relatively slow. Played for about four hours. I was tired today. Some days you got it, some days you don’t. I packed up early. Can’t really think of any events that stand out.