Jinn & Tonic

After my recent griping about limpid lounge jazz, I went to see Marc Ribot's Ceramic Dogs at Tonic on the Lower East Side. Now THAT'S what I'm talkin' about. Pure fire and vitriol. Something like Mahavishnu Orchestra in a knockdown streetfight with Velvet Underground. Ribot, whom I've admired ever since encountering his angular stylings on Tom Waits' Rain Dogs album, rocked back and forth practically bent double, whipping out the most tortured licks this side of Albert Ayler. The octopus on drums thwacked anything within sight, often using a drum synth (or something) to alter the pitch of the percussion as he played. The bass player alternated between bass guitar and low end moog that made bottles rattle in the back of the room. The colors in their crayon box included free jazz, heavy rock, funk, delicate ambience, Cuban, and out-and-out noise.

This was the first time I'd been to Tonic and I was impressed with the venue. A fairly good-sized room and no one around me chattered endlessly when they should've been listening. There was some first rate graffiti in the restroom as well.

Caffe Vivaldi

Went to see Stephanie Rearick at Caffe Vivaldi in the Village. It's a rather quaint little cafe/bar around the corner from Bleecker, which means it's out of the path of the hordes & therefore relatively quiet. Stephanie Rearick is a singer & pianist with a gorgeous voice & knack for playing multiple instruments at once. Her website makes mention of both Debussy & Joni Mitchell, which is about right. She also did a cover of a Leonard Cohen tune. She started out the show with an a capella performance, multitracking herself with a sampler & building up to practically a whole choir. When she started in on piano I wished I was sitting at a different angle to see the movements of her fingers because it sounded like she was executing some fancy Chico Marx maneuvers. Opening up for her was Marla Hansen, whom I recently saw play with the Inlets, strumming a viola like a surrogate ukulele & singing wispy ethereal tunes, some of which were covers that took a while to recognize because they were done with such a personal style. Unfortunately the waitresses kept walking back & forth in front of the stage & the front door was rather squeaky so whenever someone came in or out, it was a little disruptive.

I left during the next third act, which was a jazz trio. They were technically competent & all that, but modern lounge jazz just does nothing for me. It sounds so safe, especially with song titles like "Feeling Good" & "With Me." I don't want happy feelgood jazz. I'm not there to have a good time. I wanna hear bleeding souls being retched out. I wanna see Charlie Parker with a needle still dangling from an engorged vein stumbling off the bandstand. I wanna see rivulets of blood pouring from Coltrane's skull as he tackles a passage with every ounce of concentrated strength he can muster. I wanna see Monk summoning tormented ghosts from other worlds which only he can glimpse. Maybe I'm just old fashioned that way.

Sleeping With Your Head in the Fridge

The sweltering heat has slowed down my urban explorations. I've been spending a lot of time camped in front of the pathetic little window fan, trying to move as little as possible. Not even the rain seems capable of cooling things down.

Yesterday I walked by Gramercy Park - the only remaining park in New York that isn't open to the public. Residents in the immediate area are bestowed with a key to the garden, while the rest of us lurk woefully on the outside, peering through the fence with smudged faces. Actually it's not even that spectacular of a park. There are plenty of others scattered about the city that would do just as well. This one does contain a statue of Edwin Booth, esteemed Shakespearean actor. His brother, John Wilkes, earned some notoriety of his own. The townhouses on all sides of the park are lavish, & scraggly dressed vagabonds can expect to be glared at with suspicion.

Much preferable is The Ramble, a densely wooded area located deep within Central Park. Wooden bridges, still ponds, steep twisting paths, gurgling brooks, stone arches, a variety of birdlife - it's surprisingly easy to forget you're smack dab in the center of the largest city in America. That is, until you suddenly come around a bend & spot the gothic structures which line Central Park West looming over the treeline.

Art With a Capital F

Paid a buck to get into the Whitney Museum during their Friday evening "pay what you want" hours. Currently there is an exhibit of Edward Hopper on display on the fifth floor, & Hopper has always been one of my favorites, particularly his New York scenes. One of his paintings on display was the gloomy New York Movie, which I once used as desktop wallpaper. Another painting featured was Soir Bleu, which I used to think was early Picasso.

On the first floor was a smaller exhibit on Alexander Caulder's magnificent circus creations - animals & performers made of wire, cork, & debris. This was accompanied by a charming film showing the sculptures in action.

On another floor, however, were four paintings by a swindler named Ad Reinhardt. These four paintings were stark black canvases. Yes, minimal art. I had to listen to the audio feed for this one. A nasally voiced twit explained how it's not so much what is there but what isn't there that is important. I propose we take it one step further & have no canvases there at all. In fact, in three steps we can have no museum & really save the tax payers some cash. Once upon a time you didn't have to explain why art was good - you could just look at it & think "wow." Subject matter, degree of skill involved, etc. It just seems demeaning to have four black canvases hanging in the same building as Edward Hopper, toted as on an equal par. I googled this Ad Reinhardt charlatan only to learn these black canvases are primarily what he's known for. He's a "conceptual artist."

Alright, here we go. I'm going to write a great novel:

Qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm

There, a conceptual masterpiece. I want that published by Scribners in hardcover & placed on the shelf alongside The Great Gatsby. I'll be expecting my Pulitzer by week's end.

Wise Men Fish Here

Early Thursday morning a drooling loony by the name of Tareyton Williams nabbed two cordless Sawzall power saws from a workbench at the Cathedral Parkway subway station, where some electricians were doing contract work. The power saws ended up in the chest of a 64 year old postal worker who was on his way through the turnstile. According to a witness the victim yelled "he's drilling me! he's drilling me!" After stealing the man's wallet, Williams dumped the saws into a trash barrel & escaped into Riverside Park. The police description for the suspect was "a thin man in his 30s, with earrings in both ears and possibly carrying a teddy bear." Two hours later Williams punched a guy who was out walking his dog, which led to his arrest. The moral of the story, I suppose, is if you are approached by a wildeyed man armed with a teddy bear & a power saw at three in the morning, best to keep away.

I can't help it. All I can imagine is the police surrounding the suspect, barking out "drop the teddy bear, sir!" Instead, the suspect puts a power saw to the bear's throat & cries out "don't make a move or the teddy bear gets it!" A taut standoff ensues. Jerry Bruckheimer purchases the film rights.

Stopped in at the Gotham Book Mart at its new location on 46th Street. Hadn't passed it before because I don't spend much time in midtown if I can help it. First is the famous "Wise Men Fish Here" sign hanging out front. Then there's the million & nine photos of authors that cover the walls. And then there are the books. Shelves upon shelves, from floor to ceiling, new & used, spilling everywhere. I found every book I thought to look up, in one edition or another. A book merchant was having a conversation with a customer about Robert Crumb. Another guy came in looking for 18th century Italian history, which evolved into a whole other conversation. Big name authors like Hemingway & Faulkner had designated sections. There was a whole rack devoted to James Joyce. The joint just reeked of tasty literature. I understand why places like Pig's Bottom, Wyoming need chain stores like Borders - they have no real alternative - but with stores like Gotham Book Mart & The Strand, I have no idea how the chains ever got their foot in the door of New York.

Red Hook

Red Hook, Brooklyn was once a bustling, gritty seaport. These days the ports are empty & the area has been severed from the rest of Brooklyn by the BQE. The streets are mournfully quiet. The buildings appear vacant even when they're not. The waterfront provides a picturesque view of lower Manhattan. Some holiday sportsmen were fishing off a pier, despite the sign warning that fish caught here might not be healthy to eat.

This is where HP Lovecraft lived & loathed so much he wrote a horror story about it. This is where Harlan Ellison joined a street gang to give himself something to write about. Red Hook also served as the setting for shady doings of Last Exit to Brooklyn. Not to mention the place just has a great name, like a pirate's claw dipped in blood. These days gentrification is thinking about settling in. Probably too far from the subway for a full-fledged takeover.

Saw the fireworks from a rooftop in Harlem. They were more distant than I expected. Very few people seemed to be taking advantage of the rooftops & maybe that's why. Lots of grilling being done on the streets below though. In Michigan, Fourth of July was more or less known as "hotdog day," not particularly associated with anything historic. Here on the east coast people take their Independence Day a bit more seriously. I felt a lot of tension on the streets and in the subways throughout the day, as though the city was anticipating trouble.

Ferry Dust

Alright, so apparently I didn't catch Jason Trachtenburg in his proper element. I'm supposed to see the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players to understand what it's all about. A family trio traveling the countryside in a wacky van playing songs dedicated to old slides they pick up at estate sales & such things. Well okay, fine.

Took the ferry to Staten Island. Kept getting asked for directions by tourists. Evidently I look like a hardcore New Yorker. Staten Island was much more dull & suburban than I'd expected. I was hoping for lighthouses & nautical themes. Didn't see a single lighthouse though I understand there are some around. Didn't find the abandoned Women's Ward Pavilion of the Seaview Hospital either, though I wasn't looking very hard. Rode around on a bus trying to get a general gist of the island. Stopped for lunch at White Castle - don't laugh, I hadn't been there since I was about six & I was curious. Tasted like liquid hamburger. Plus there wasn't really anything else around.

Another feature of Staten Island is La Tourette Golf Course, which undoubtedly got its name from the obscene tirades of frustrated golfers. In old radio thrillers there always seemed to be a sinister beach house on Staten Island where our heroine is stalked by a mysterious assailant. I found no such sinister beach houses. Instead I found a lot of very un-sinister driveways with basketball hoops at one end.

Went to the Bohemian Hall & Beer Garden in Astoria with a comrade. A very Oktoberfestive atmosphere. It rained but we were dry under a tent so what did we care. Cheap pitchers of beer & kielbasa sausages. The last remaining biergarten in the New York area, or so they claim.

Getting a lot of reading done on the subways. Finished Middlesex, which I started in Boston but was interrupted. Now I'm delving into The Most of PG Wodehouse - which, being short stories, is of ideal subway length.

Forgotten NY is my new favorite website. A veritable treasure trove of history. I'm becoming obsessed with the idea of visiting the original City Hall subway station, with its chandeliers & vault lighting, though it has been closed to the public since 1998 for security purposes. Someday maybe.