New York throws punches. It has giant fists, and it throws punches. Sometimes the fists miss you. Sometimes the fists are just a jovial joke, landing softly on your shoulder, accompanied by a smirk. Sometimes they hit you in the stomach. We have not had terribly dramatic things happen, but we have certainly experienced drama—from within NYC culture and without. I cannot really go into the details, especially without consulting Adele—but let's say there are ramifications to being what other people consider “too” social. In addition, there are a whole set of rules and regulations in the bar scene that we were just unaware of. We dove into a culture we were not socialized into, and attempted to see “from the native's point of view.” We thought we understood what was going on, but we didn't really fully grasp it. That happens a lot in life, though. Everyone has their individual narratives, and the other people around them fit into their individual narratives, while they fit into the other people's individual narratives. Sometimes it seems that two or more people know each other so very well that the narratives are intertwined—sometimes it seems that way to one person's individual narrative, while the other person--say, a husband--has been having extra-marital affairs for 10 years. Do narratives ever intertwine?
We're both sick of the city. We're both out of money. To immerse ourselves in the scene, we needed to “do as the Roman's do”-- i.e. spend a lot of money on drinks. It's not the niche that either of us want to be in. We both don't even like alcohol much. I dislike it more than Adele does. I love being healthy, climbing mountains, eating vegetables, dancing, collaborating on fun projects, playing music, bike-riding, laughing – I do not need alcohol to do these things. The kinds of people that I want to meet and socialize with are generally not those who frequent bars. But, how can you become a musician without this scene? It seems so dreadfully important—this is where people meet and socialize, this is how people develop a fan-base. I probably won't become a musician, then. It will forever be a hobby of mine.
These are the years that are set aside in life for experimentation, and I definitely feel like this month (or these three weeks) has been an incredibly rewarding experience and experiment. It's important to push your boundaries, to push your comfort zones. I would not have chosen to live in Washington Heights, but it has taught me to be much more conscious of race and class. For once in my life I am living somewhere where I am the minority. I am one of very few white faces in a sea of brown, and my family is by no means rich, but we certainly have more money than the people who live in this area.
Last night I went on a walk by myself as the sun was setting. I walked across the Washington Bridge and just looked out at all of the buildings—the New York skyline. I watched as the hazy twilight turned to dark, as the lights in the buildings flickered on a couple at a time. They looked like stars—the buildings were like individual galaxies containing them. The cars zoomed by, brushing me with the air that they were displacing. Car horns, helicopters. But I still heard silence. Behind everything: silence. I guess it was the silence of distance—the buildings were so far away, reflected onto a body of water that I'm sure is filthy, but looked glimmeringly pristine. There are so many busy little people in those buildings. So much stratification of wealth from one area to the next area—buildings that were only a few inches away in my line of vision. I saw the big picture. I was, for a moment, distanced from New York—no longer attempting to be a part of the scene, no longer a temporary resident... temporarily an on-looker. It reminded me of the movie Baraka. This whole experience, in fact, reminds me of that movie. I'm not sure how I feel about it, but I know that I miss farms and woods and animals and smiling faces. I'm ready to go home. I'm ready to re-establish myself and re-find myself in Germany.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
strategy and success
I try to focus on the lines of a Hannah Arendt essay, The Concept of History: Ancient and Modern, as the 1 train wobbles from side to side as it bolts from the 42nd street stop towards downtown. I am heading to a free Ashtanga yoga class at Yoga To the People on St. Marks near NYU and I am really starting to enjoy these moments on the subway to sit and think, or read, or just stare at people and make up stories. As I read the Arendt and imagine what the concept of history was like for Herodotus (documenting the Persian wars in order to preserve that which owes its existence to man let it be obliterated by time, documenting actions of people so that they have meaning, greatness over time, and do not just rot and fade, forgotten in one generation, two three) I extract from the jerky train completely, from my life as a pretend trying- to-make-it musician in New York, from my worries about groceries, from Adele. Just humans on my mind, abstractly, and why they do what they do.
And I especially like the extraction, the escape, because it keeps me from getting too absorbed, too consumed, by our project of trying to make it as musicians in New York. Lee Ellen and I came to New York with the intention of playing as many open mics as possible with the end goal of getting at least one full set at a decent venue. Our tactics for achieving this goal were varied and deliberate: solid and impressive performance, strategic Myspace friending, emailing important folks, crazy costumes, cunning coquetry (to say the least...), and just unashamed self-promotion. And after three weeks of piano pounding, guitar schlepping, and diplomatic dealings we have achieved our goal. We are playing an hour set at Bar 4, our now favorite open mic venue in the area, this Thursday at 8.
I know that I will look back on this whole experience when a more analytic eye—probably as I prepare for my Fulbright over the next few months—and see more clearly the patterns of action, intention, strategy that go into making it as a young female rock artist, but for now I will merely outline and sketch what I know went into our very quick and successful initiation into the Brooklyn music scene. Like I said, being talented and having good stage presence and good music is a must. Without this you have nothing to market. Then there is being friendly, number two most important. Talking to the other musicians, audience members, bar tenders, complimenting, questioning, exchanging info. Having business cards and a Myspace page is an absolute must. Flirtation comes into this as well, when appropriate, but you have to be careful here so as to not lead people on and then let them down. You may gain five points, but you lose ten when they think you might be flirting with everyone else in the bar as well. Crazy costumes is a plus, so long as it is timed well and doesn’t turn into a boring gimmick. Then there is getting the venue staff involved...in our case, it was getting the bar tender to beat box on one of our songs...
Jeremy Spangler is excited to join us for our show on Thursday, so we should really be able to rock it out as a three piece—drums, electric, piano. We had a practice today with Jeremy playing hand drum and table (he will have a full kit at the bar tomorrow, but couldn’t haul it up to our apartment), and even without the full ensemble we were sounding pretty tight. Tomorrow Lee Ellen and I are going to try to put together some cool costumes (we want at least two costume changes), hopefully one pair of costumes consisting of a carrot and an onion, run the set a few times, and then head over to Brooklyn to get ready. Hopefully all our city-dwelling friends will come out to support us and it will be a successful show.
Other than musicking and contemplating the nature of human history we have been really milking the city for what it has to offer during these glorious summer months. Last week we saw two free orchestral performances in Prospect Park in Brooklyn—the first night the New York Philharmonic and the second night the Kronos Quartet. Sunday we went to a free show at the Williamsburg Waterfront park and saw a great band called the Dirty Projectors play to a crowd of at least a thousand hypnotized hipsters. Three girls and three guys, crazy time signatures, vocals that can easily be mistaken as horn parts. What more could you want? Our friend Agne from New College visited last weekend after returning from travels in France, England, and Iceland. In France she was living on a monastery, thinking and writing and conversing about the monastery community and focusing specifically on the vows of silence these folks take. Being around Agne is always a joy, and having a third person really freshened up the dynamic between me and Lee Ellen, who for good and bad are starting to get into the same cycles of up and down moods and all the spindly irritability that comes with that. We are working on our relationship like any dedicated romantic couple and are already stronger friends for it. Saturday the three of us went to Brighton Beach and ate Lithuanian food and told each other stories about our fellow sun bathers. Beautiful.
Lauren Edwards has become our trusty third sidekick and is our most dedicated and enthusiastic Thank You Senator Fulbright fan. Right now she is interning with some famous artist who makes large sculptures and installation with taxidermied animals. On Monday the three of us and Dana went to a sketch comedy show at the Upright Citizens Brigade that Chris, Ronan, and their friend Will Callahan were in. Fucking hysterical, brilliant intellectual sketch comedy. I still can’t believe I’m seeing Chris perform, brilliantly, at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade in New York to a full audience when I so clearly remember The Sound of Music at FHS...
It is impossible to capture everything, but I guess that’s the nature of history. Herodotus knew it, Arendt knew it, I know it, but there is still the desire to write it all down. Catch experience, the past, cryogenically preserve it and file it away so that we can pull it out at look at it at family dinners.
Patrick is here with me. He surprised me last night at Bar 4 with silly putty and puzzles and plants in the audience. I am elated.
And I especially like the extraction, the escape, because it keeps me from getting too absorbed, too consumed, by our project of trying to make it as musicians in New York. Lee Ellen and I came to New York with the intention of playing as many open mics as possible with the end goal of getting at least one full set at a decent venue. Our tactics for achieving this goal were varied and deliberate: solid and impressive performance, strategic Myspace friending, emailing important folks, crazy costumes, cunning coquetry (to say the least...), and just unashamed self-promotion. And after three weeks of piano pounding, guitar schlepping, and diplomatic dealings we have achieved our goal. We are playing an hour set at Bar 4, our now favorite open mic venue in the area, this Thursday at 8.
I know that I will look back on this whole experience when a more analytic eye—probably as I prepare for my Fulbright over the next few months—and see more clearly the patterns of action, intention, strategy that go into making it as a young female rock artist, but for now I will merely outline and sketch what I know went into our very quick and successful initiation into the Brooklyn music scene. Like I said, being talented and having good stage presence and good music is a must. Without this you have nothing to market. Then there is being friendly, number two most important. Talking to the other musicians, audience members, bar tenders, complimenting, questioning, exchanging info. Having business cards and a Myspace page is an absolute must. Flirtation comes into this as well, when appropriate, but you have to be careful here so as to not lead people on and then let them down. You may gain five points, but you lose ten when they think you might be flirting with everyone else in the bar as well. Crazy costumes is a plus, so long as it is timed well and doesn’t turn into a boring gimmick. Then there is getting the venue staff involved...in our case, it was getting the bar tender to beat box on one of our songs...
Jeremy Spangler is excited to join us for our show on Thursday, so we should really be able to rock it out as a three piece—drums, electric, piano. We had a practice today with Jeremy playing hand drum and table (he will have a full kit at the bar tomorrow, but couldn’t haul it up to our apartment), and even without the full ensemble we were sounding pretty tight. Tomorrow Lee Ellen and I are going to try to put together some cool costumes (we want at least two costume changes), hopefully one pair of costumes consisting of a carrot and an onion, run the set a few times, and then head over to Brooklyn to get ready. Hopefully all our city-dwelling friends will come out to support us and it will be a successful show.
Other than musicking and contemplating the nature of human history we have been really milking the city for what it has to offer during these glorious summer months. Last week we saw two free orchestral performances in Prospect Park in Brooklyn—the first night the New York Philharmonic and the second night the Kronos Quartet. Sunday we went to a free show at the Williamsburg Waterfront park and saw a great band called the Dirty Projectors play to a crowd of at least a thousand hypnotized hipsters. Three girls and three guys, crazy time signatures, vocals that can easily be mistaken as horn parts. What more could you want? Our friend Agne from New College visited last weekend after returning from travels in France, England, and Iceland. In France she was living on a monastery, thinking and writing and conversing about the monastery community and focusing specifically on the vows of silence these folks take. Being around Agne is always a joy, and having a third person really freshened up the dynamic between me and Lee Ellen, who for good and bad are starting to get into the same cycles of up and down moods and all the spindly irritability that comes with that. We are working on our relationship like any dedicated romantic couple and are already stronger friends for it. Saturday the three of us went to Brighton Beach and ate Lithuanian food and told each other stories about our fellow sun bathers. Beautiful.
Lauren Edwards has become our trusty third sidekick and is our most dedicated and enthusiastic Thank You Senator Fulbright fan. Right now she is interning with some famous artist who makes large sculptures and installation with taxidermied animals. On Monday the three of us and Dana went to a sketch comedy show at the Upright Citizens Brigade that Chris, Ronan, and their friend Will Callahan were in. Fucking hysterical, brilliant intellectual sketch comedy. I still can’t believe I’m seeing Chris perform, brilliantly, at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade in New York to a full audience when I so clearly remember The Sound of Music at FHS...
It is impossible to capture everything, but I guess that’s the nature of history. Herodotus knew it, Arendt knew it, I know it, but there is still the desire to write it all down. Catch experience, the past, cryogenically preserve it and file it away so that we can pull it out at look at it at family dinners.
Patrick is here with me. He surprised me last night at Bar 4 with silly putty and puzzles and plants in the audience. I am elated.
Monday, July 13, 2009
cupcakes, coconut juice, and concrete containment
After a mere 11 days in the city, Adele and I both woke up on Sunday morning going box crazy (concrete box crazy, to be exact), dreaming of wide-open, grassy fields with trees and breezes and quiet and the occasional small furry animal scurrying in the bushes. In other words, we started dreaming about the opposite of where we are living and what we are experiencing: concrete, trash, anonymity, constant white noise, shouting, car horns, traveling hours upon hours in dark holes underground. This inspired another bout of laughing, but certainly not as tremendous as the ones earlier in the week. We were exhausted—coming home late night after night, damaging out feet by walking constantly on concrete.
On Friday we were the partial hosts of a robot-zombies themed dance party. (it was really Dana's party with all of Dana's friends, but we live here...). Up the road from our house, on the way to the A train, there are a lot of little clothing stores that are really vibrant, and cheaply priced—Adele and I purchased our “Zombot” costumes there: skin-tight silver pants, glow-in-the-dark neon underwear with skulls (to wear over the pants), and bright neon shirts, which we later sprayed with silvery paint (our “robot blood”). There were a fair amount of people dressed up, and it was a relatively successful party with much dance-able music. We were super loud (dancing with thumping thuds, screaming “don't stop believing”), but no neighbors complained. Let the white kids have their fun? Thank You Senator Fulbright also performed about 4 songs that evening to the drunken masses (well, probably like 10-15 people)--it went over well, but we didn't have any mics, and people were being, well... drunk... so, we were screaming our pretty little harmonies. I also realized about halfway through the evening that Adele, Lauren and I were the only ones barefoot—A cultural trait of NCF?
Saturday we decided that we needed a healthy day apart. We independently prepared our things, and then I asked Adele “so, what are you going to go do?” She answered, “I'm going to go to a cafe to do some work”... “.... me too...” I said. We didn't end up going to the same cafe. We had plans to meet up later at a substance-free dance party called “Barefoot boogie”--an extension of “Dance New England.” In Northampton, there is a branch called “Dance Spree” that Adele, Patrick and I went to before we left for NYC.
After sitting in a cafe for a couple hours, I went to Maoz vegetarian falafel place to eat supper. About half-way through my meal, I looked up and saw a crazy, short, blonde girl squishing her face at me in the window – Miss Nina Barraclough, accompanied by Camilo, and his sister, Carolina. They were just passing through the area on their way to eat at another falafel restaurant. Later, after I got off the train for Barefoot Boogie, I was walking down the street and passed a Starbucks, did a double-take and saw Adele sitting at her computer in the window. New York, New York – it's a helluva town.
I forgot to mention that Adele decided it would be a wonderful idea to immerse herself in the local culture of our area on Thursday by meeting one of the street vendors near our apartment and consuming some of the fresh juices that he was pressing. She engaged the man in a delightful conversation in Spanish (or so I heard, I wasn't there, and can't understand Spanish), and then decided upon coconut juice. She consumed it greedily, concluding that it tasted kind of funny, but that it was worth it. Her stomach only started bothering her later. By the next day she was in full-on-food-poisoning-pain. She didn't throw up or anything, but she definitely looked a little down and spent a long time in the bathroom. This was a lingering problem for a couple days.
Barefoot boogie was pretty good—there were a lot of friendly free-spirits, although we didn't socialize very much. Lauren Edwards came, and we all boogied barefooted to a strange mixture of popular hip-hop and “world-music.” It was raining by the time we were going to leave, and the train that stops closest to our house is currently being renovated. We were offered a ride by a socially inept 28 (or so)-year-old massage therapist. We hesitantly, and skeptically assented. When arriving at his car, I made sure to check the locks on the doors. At first, I closed the door, and it seemed that there was a child-safety lock on and I sort of freaked out, but then realized that there actually wasn't. Adele and I remained focused on the streets we were passing, and the roads we were taking to get back. Ultimately, he was innocuous, but I was definitely playing out the story of sociopath-murderer in my head. He told us how he had lived with his grandma for the last four years of her life in her uptown-commune-apartment, how her death had been hard for him, how he studied botany in continuing education, and is really excited about somehow connecting massage with his passion for plants and herbs. I don't remember his name, but he was lean, had short, dark hair, and was wearing a dark blue and beige Hawaiian-patterned shirt, and black slacks. His gait was nervous, his eyes were brown and a little shifty. Although he took his eyes off the road to gaze back at us in conversation a little too often, he was a pretty good driver—not speeding or going through any red lights. He dropped us on the corner of our street, and we will most-likely never see him again.
On Sunday we got dressed-up as hipsters to go to a hipster part of the city (Williamsburg) to play an open mic at a venue called “Pete's Candy Store” (candy not included. I'm guessing it used to be a candy store, and they thought it would be quaint to just keep the sign). In preparation, we were sitting on our couch in the living room, and Adele asked Dana “Do you have any hipster clothes we could borrow—do you know what's in style?” She gave us some advice (plaid) and then gave us free reign over her wardrobe. We played it cool on the couch with our laptops until she left for her run. Adele looked at me, I looked at her, then we both jumped up and ran excitedly into Dana's room and began peeling back the layers upon layers of dresses, and designs. Did we mention how cool Dana is? I'm talking cool cool – she's “in style,” she's an exceedingly friendly, costume-designing actress who just got a job designing for the Independent Film Channel, and we had been anxiously waiting to have access to her clothes for 12 days... especially since I packed really light. God, I've turned into such a girl.
Anyway, we got to Pete's Candy Store, and although the general area around it was hipster-mania, there weren't very many inside of the bar, and especially not in the open mic. Long and short of it, we ended up just sticking out as hipsters. I was wearing light blue skinny jeans, converse sneakers, a long red plaid shirt, accompanied by an unnecessary thick black belt, a side-ways pony tail and big sunglasses. Adele was wearing a blue plaid shirt, jeans, converse sneakers, and a green cap. Whoa, man, cool. The set went alright... except for the fact that the guy hosting it called Adele “cupcake”... there was a hush and tension in the room, but Adele still had her food-poisoned stomach, and so blood didn't spill this time... I was waiting for it, though. Maybe next time! Dana, Dana's boyfriend (Ronan), Ronan's roommate (Andy) and Lauren Edwards came to watch us. It felt really awesome to have a group of friends supporting us. It's great to have a network.
On the train-ride home, we bore witness again to another in-subway attempt at pan-handling. This time the man explained how embarassing it was to be homeless and ask for money, and how he was doing it only as a last resort. He wasn't very good at it, obviously, because no one gave him money. I think he picked the wrong train. The A-train in uptown is not full of rich people, after all. We have seen a lot of people get on and off attempting to spread messages or get money. My personal favorite occurred when I was alone, on my way back from fixing my guitar, and getting conned by a 19-year-old-oh-so-cute-and-oh-so-passionate-new-school-student trying to get me to sponsor a child in a third-world country (he knew all the right intellectual answers to my quandaries and... I still have to go online and cancel it. I don't have income! What the fuck!) Anyway, back to the train. A relatively normal looking dark-brown-haired late-twenty-something guy with a long, black beard stepped onto the train. His posture was a little hunched, but all-and-all I wouldn't have taken him for a fanatic. The doors closed, and he began his passionate speech about how we were all damned and going to hell, he paced the train back and forth, waving his mini-bibles around and telling us that we shouldn't poison our minds with sinful pleasures like books, movies, and premarital sex (and education?). He was gesticulating wildly, and then, as we approached the next stop, he attempted to hand out his bibles, but no one took them. Do people actually get turned to Jesus by subway fanatics? I wonder.
Adele and I are currently writing a song using the “fucking A” train and trying to some how match metaphors to turn it into a shape-shifting woman. It's really painstaking, but I think it's going to be a good song. That's our song-writing process. Painful, but rewarding... (like childbirth? No... not quite).
We saw an awesome dance performance in Prospect park in Brooklyn as a part of celebrate Brooklyn summer series. It was a $3 suggested donation. I'm going to let Adele describe it, though, because I don't feel like it. It was like a NCF reunion, though... We went with Nina, Camilo and Marcus Michaelson, ended up in the same place in line as GiGi and Jason S., and were sitting two rows back from Gabriel Defazzio and his friend.
Signing out!
--Lee Ellen
On Friday we were the partial hosts of a robot-zombies themed dance party. (it was really Dana's party with all of Dana's friends, but we live here...). Up the road from our house, on the way to the A train, there are a lot of little clothing stores that are really vibrant, and cheaply priced—Adele and I purchased our “Zombot” costumes there: skin-tight silver pants, glow-in-the-dark neon underwear with skulls (to wear over the pants), and bright neon shirts, which we later sprayed with silvery paint (our “robot blood”). There were a fair amount of people dressed up, and it was a relatively successful party with much dance-able music. We were super loud (dancing with thumping thuds, screaming “don't stop believing”), but no neighbors complained. Let the white kids have their fun? Thank You Senator Fulbright also performed about 4 songs that evening to the drunken masses (well, probably like 10-15 people)--it went over well, but we didn't have any mics, and people were being, well... drunk... so, we were screaming our pretty little harmonies. I also realized about halfway through the evening that Adele, Lauren and I were the only ones barefoot—A cultural trait of NCF?
Saturday we decided that we needed a healthy day apart. We independently prepared our things, and then I asked Adele “so, what are you going to go do?” She answered, “I'm going to go to a cafe to do some work”... “.... me too...” I said. We didn't end up going to the same cafe. We had plans to meet up later at a substance-free dance party called “Barefoot boogie”--an extension of “Dance New England.” In Northampton, there is a branch called “Dance Spree” that Adele, Patrick and I went to before we left for NYC.
After sitting in a cafe for a couple hours, I went to Maoz vegetarian falafel place to eat supper. About half-way through my meal, I looked up and saw a crazy, short, blonde girl squishing her face at me in the window – Miss Nina Barraclough, accompanied by Camilo, and his sister, Carolina. They were just passing through the area on their way to eat at another falafel restaurant. Later, after I got off the train for Barefoot Boogie, I was walking down the street and passed a Starbucks, did a double-take and saw Adele sitting at her computer in the window. New York, New York – it's a helluva town.
I forgot to mention that Adele decided it would be a wonderful idea to immerse herself in the local culture of our area on Thursday by meeting one of the street vendors near our apartment and consuming some of the fresh juices that he was pressing. She engaged the man in a delightful conversation in Spanish (or so I heard, I wasn't there, and can't understand Spanish), and then decided upon coconut juice. She consumed it greedily, concluding that it tasted kind of funny, but that it was worth it. Her stomach only started bothering her later. By the next day she was in full-on-food-poisoning-pain. She didn't throw up or anything, but she definitely looked a little down and spent a long time in the bathroom. This was a lingering problem for a couple days.
Barefoot boogie was pretty good—there were a lot of friendly free-spirits, although we didn't socialize very much. Lauren Edwards came, and we all boogied barefooted to a strange mixture of popular hip-hop and “world-music.” It was raining by the time we were going to leave, and the train that stops closest to our house is currently being renovated. We were offered a ride by a socially inept 28 (or so)-year-old massage therapist. We hesitantly, and skeptically assented. When arriving at his car, I made sure to check the locks on the doors. At first, I closed the door, and it seemed that there was a child-safety lock on and I sort of freaked out, but then realized that there actually wasn't. Adele and I remained focused on the streets we were passing, and the roads we were taking to get back. Ultimately, he was innocuous, but I was definitely playing out the story of sociopath-murderer in my head. He told us how he had lived with his grandma for the last four years of her life in her uptown-commune-apartment, how her death had been hard for him, how he studied botany in continuing education, and is really excited about somehow connecting massage with his passion for plants and herbs. I don't remember his name, but he was lean, had short, dark hair, and was wearing a dark blue and beige Hawaiian-patterned shirt, and black slacks. His gait was nervous, his eyes were brown and a little shifty. Although he took his eyes off the road to gaze back at us in conversation a little too often, he was a pretty good driver—not speeding or going through any red lights. He dropped us on the corner of our street, and we will most-likely never see him again.
On Sunday we got dressed-up as hipsters to go to a hipster part of the city (Williamsburg) to play an open mic at a venue called “Pete's Candy Store” (candy not included. I'm guessing it used to be a candy store, and they thought it would be quaint to just keep the sign). In preparation, we were sitting on our couch in the living room, and Adele asked Dana “Do you have any hipster clothes we could borrow—do you know what's in style?” She gave us some advice (plaid) and then gave us free reign over her wardrobe. We played it cool on the couch with our laptops until she left for her run. Adele looked at me, I looked at her, then we both jumped up and ran excitedly into Dana's room and began peeling back the layers upon layers of dresses, and designs. Did we mention how cool Dana is? I'm talking cool cool – she's “in style,” she's an exceedingly friendly, costume-designing actress who just got a job designing for the Independent Film Channel, and we had been anxiously waiting to have access to her clothes for 12 days... especially since I packed really light. God, I've turned into such a girl.
Anyway, we got to Pete's Candy Store, and although the general area around it was hipster-mania, there weren't very many inside of the bar, and especially not in the open mic. Long and short of it, we ended up just sticking out as hipsters. I was wearing light blue skinny jeans, converse sneakers, a long red plaid shirt, accompanied by an unnecessary thick black belt, a side-ways pony tail and big sunglasses. Adele was wearing a blue plaid shirt, jeans, converse sneakers, and a green cap. Whoa, man, cool. The set went alright... except for the fact that the guy hosting it called Adele “cupcake”... there was a hush and tension in the room, but Adele still had her food-poisoned stomach, and so blood didn't spill this time... I was waiting for it, though. Maybe next time! Dana, Dana's boyfriend (Ronan), Ronan's roommate (Andy) and Lauren Edwards came to watch us. It felt really awesome to have a group of friends supporting us. It's great to have a network.
On the train-ride home, we bore witness again to another in-subway attempt at pan-handling. This time the man explained how embarassing it was to be homeless and ask for money, and how he was doing it only as a last resort. He wasn't very good at it, obviously, because no one gave him money. I think he picked the wrong train. The A-train in uptown is not full of rich people, after all. We have seen a lot of people get on and off attempting to spread messages or get money. My personal favorite occurred when I was alone, on my way back from fixing my guitar, and getting conned by a 19-year-old-oh-so-cute-and-oh-so-passionate-new-school-student trying to get me to sponsor a child in a third-world country (he knew all the right intellectual answers to my quandaries and... I still have to go online and cancel it. I don't have income! What the fuck!) Anyway, back to the train. A relatively normal looking dark-brown-haired late-twenty-something guy with a long, black beard stepped onto the train. His posture was a little hunched, but all-and-all I wouldn't have taken him for a fanatic. The doors closed, and he began his passionate speech about how we were all damned and going to hell, he paced the train back and forth, waving his mini-bibles around and telling us that we shouldn't poison our minds with sinful pleasures like books, movies, and premarital sex (and education?). He was gesticulating wildly, and then, as we approached the next stop, he attempted to hand out his bibles, but no one took them. Do people actually get turned to Jesus by subway fanatics? I wonder.
Adele and I are currently writing a song using the “fucking A” train and trying to some how match metaphors to turn it into a shape-shifting woman. It's really painstaking, but I think it's going to be a good song. That's our song-writing process. Painful, but rewarding... (like childbirth? No... not quite).
We saw an awesome dance performance in Prospect park in Brooklyn as a part of celebrate Brooklyn summer series. It was a $3 suggested donation. I'm going to let Adele describe it, though, because I don't feel like it. It was like a NCF reunion, though... We went with Nina, Camilo and Marcus Michaelson, ended up in the same place in line as GiGi and Jason S., and were sitting two rows back from Gabriel Defazzio and his friend.
Signing out!
--Lee Ellen
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Fucking A Train
Lee Ellen and I have entered the stage of spontaneous and uncontrollable fits of stir-crazy laughter. Yesterday we were trying to practice some guitar and vocals only versions of a few songs (the place we were planning on performing that night didn't have a piano and I didn't feel like doing the Casio-rucksack dance all the way to Brooklyn for a second night in a row), and we didn't get passed “The carrot and the onion sit and think...” before we both burst into jaw-hurting, chest -shaking, I am unable to stand fits of laughter. What was it? The coming home every night at 4 AM? the walking on concrete all day? the drinkin?, the getting up on stage after carrying our instruments all the way across New York only to realize that we are only one talented act out of...dozens..and dozens..? There is also just something supremely humorous about repeating in slow-mo lyrics like “to realize their place in the vegetable hierarchy...” while trying to figure out new vocal harmonies. “VEGetable...VegetAble....can you slow that down some more?.....VEGETABLE HIERARCHY” Whatever it was we could hardly get through the three songs we were keen on performing that night due to incapacitating guffawing.
At six o'clock we headed out, figuring that giving ourselves two and a half hours to get to the Livingroom Lounge in Brooklyn would be plenty of time, and that maybe we would even have enough time to frolic in a Brooklyn park and fill up our water jugs with Brooklyn tapwater, which by the way happens to be amazing. Compared to the tap water in Manhattan, Brooklyn water tastes like it's straight from a natural spring in Missouri. Evidently people actually buy Brooklyn tap water and ship it all over the country to make New York bagels... I bet you didn't know that.
We waited forever for the fucking A train but at least got the inspiration for a new song—waiting for the fucking A for fucking on first principle. The train came and Lee Ellen pulled out her sketch pad (she has been averaging two sketches a day, which I must say are quite good....my portrait is very Adele-like) and I kept working on lyrics for the new song. It got a little awkward when a middle aged black man sat down very close next to me as I was scribbling lines about “her ass and her thighs” and “tactile tactics for fucking you on first principles.” We arrived forty minutes later at Jay Street, which was supposed to be our transfer stop for getting on the R. We hop off the train, which is quite full by this point, and gaze around the station....no R train signs anywhere. We panic, decide this must be the WRONG Jay street, and squeeze back on the A-train. A few more stops come and go and we start thinking that was probably the right Jay street after all; then I had a moment of brilliant insight and remember that we were supposed to get out of the station at Jay street, walk a few blocks, and THEN get on the R. Damn. By this point the A has turned express and we are passing stop after stop, getting farther and farther into the heart of Brooklyn. I nudge Lee Ellen: 'We are the only white people on this train.' There is a young black man pushed up next to us in our car listening to his iPod who seems to be thinking the same thing—he looks at us, looks around the train, looks back at us. I wonder exactly what he was thinking. Probably something along the lines of...they are either lost or crazy, or both.
The A train finally stops at the Nostrand station and we ascend the station steps to cross the street to catch the Manhattan-bound A train. It's already 7:45. We exit the station with a sea of dark skin folks and enter into a new country... We were in Latin America when we descended into the subway and now we are in the ghetto-ist black ghetto I have ever been in. There are two sirens (police and ambulance) greeting us as we enter the streets, mountains of trash, a police officer running to break up a fight and storefronts in every direction of obscure fast food chains and wonderbread-selling grocery stores. We see the subway entrance on the other side of the street and cross quickly to enter. Deja vu. The same army officer guarding the station as before. The same turnstyles. A flash back to the disorientation I felt at the mirror maze in Luzern, Switzerland. Back on the same side of the fucking tracks. 7:50. We head out again, feeling like we are emerging from the trenches into a grenade zone and cross the street in the other direction as a pimped out black Cadillac slowly bumps up beside us.
We finally make it back to Jay street and wait for the R for twenty minutes. “Please be armed at all times” the women on the intercom soothingly tells us “and keep all small electronic devices hidden.” Oh Brooklyn. The R finally arrives, 8:25, and we hop on, convinced we can still make the open mic sign ups which start at 8:30. Our ears perk and our tails start wagging when we see the 25th street stop and we prepare our bags...Lee Ellen and I turn to congratulate each other. Five second later, we look out the windows of the car again only to see the light sof the 25th street stop slowly dwindling. “It...skipped our stop” I smile at Lee Ellen. “Sure did, Adele!” We both feel another laughing fit closely approaching and decide it would be best to get off the train at the next stop to ride out the laughter and catch the next train back to Manhattan.
Instead of going to the open mic we spent a nice evening in central park with a fresh salad and our thoughts and conversation. On the way to central park we came across a fire truck and thirteen firemen all more or less engaged in the project of fixing an American flag that had gotten partially detached on the side of a hotel.... seriously dudes? Manhattan and Brooklyn are only minutes apart but they are completely different cities.
On another note, our show at Bar 4 on Tuesday night was really successful. Jeremy Spangler came in from New Jersey to play with us, which really rounded out our sound with a nice percussion section. We got a couple of leads on people who want to collaborate with us and a few new fans who will come see us again.
(yeah, i've never been great with staying in one tense...you know, you are writing about something that happened but once you start to relive it, it's really like it is happening in the present)
At six o'clock we headed out, figuring that giving ourselves two and a half hours to get to the Livingroom Lounge in Brooklyn would be plenty of time, and that maybe we would even have enough time to frolic in a Brooklyn park and fill up our water jugs with Brooklyn tapwater, which by the way happens to be amazing. Compared to the tap water in Manhattan, Brooklyn water tastes like it's straight from a natural spring in Missouri. Evidently people actually buy Brooklyn tap water and ship it all over the country to make New York bagels... I bet you didn't know that.
We waited forever for the fucking A train but at least got the inspiration for a new song—waiting for the fucking A for fucking on first principle. The train came and Lee Ellen pulled out her sketch pad (she has been averaging two sketches a day, which I must say are quite good....my portrait is very Adele-like) and I kept working on lyrics for the new song. It got a little awkward when a middle aged black man sat down very close next to me as I was scribbling lines about “her ass and her thighs” and “tactile tactics for fucking you on first principles.” We arrived forty minutes later at Jay Street, which was supposed to be our transfer stop for getting on the R. We hop off the train, which is quite full by this point, and gaze around the station....no R train signs anywhere. We panic, decide this must be the WRONG Jay street, and squeeze back on the A-train. A few more stops come and go and we start thinking that was probably the right Jay street after all; then I had a moment of brilliant insight and remember that we were supposed to get out of the station at Jay street, walk a few blocks, and THEN get on the R. Damn. By this point the A has turned express and we are passing stop after stop, getting farther and farther into the heart of Brooklyn. I nudge Lee Ellen: 'We are the only white people on this train.' There is a young black man pushed up next to us in our car listening to his iPod who seems to be thinking the same thing—he looks at us, looks around the train, looks back at us. I wonder exactly what he was thinking. Probably something along the lines of...they are either lost or crazy, or both.
The A train finally stops at the Nostrand station and we ascend the station steps to cross the street to catch the Manhattan-bound A train. It's already 7:45. We exit the station with a sea of dark skin folks and enter into a new country... We were in Latin America when we descended into the subway and now we are in the ghetto-ist black ghetto I have ever been in. There are two sirens (police and ambulance) greeting us as we enter the streets, mountains of trash, a police officer running to break up a fight and storefronts in every direction of obscure fast food chains and wonderbread-selling grocery stores. We see the subway entrance on the other side of the street and cross quickly to enter. Deja vu. The same army officer guarding the station as before. The same turnstyles. A flash back to the disorientation I felt at the mirror maze in Luzern, Switzerland. Back on the same side of the fucking tracks. 7:50. We head out again, feeling like we are emerging from the trenches into a grenade zone and cross the street in the other direction as a pimped out black Cadillac slowly bumps up beside us.
We finally make it back to Jay street and wait for the R for twenty minutes. “Please be armed at all times” the women on the intercom soothingly tells us “and keep all small electronic devices hidden.” Oh Brooklyn. The R finally arrives, 8:25, and we hop on, convinced we can still make the open mic sign ups which start at 8:30. Our ears perk and our tails start wagging when we see the 25th street stop and we prepare our bags...Lee Ellen and I turn to congratulate each other. Five second later, we look out the windows of the car again only to see the light sof the 25th street stop slowly dwindling. “It...skipped our stop” I smile at Lee Ellen. “Sure did, Adele!” We both feel another laughing fit closely approaching and decide it would be best to get off the train at the next stop to ride out the laughter and catch the next train back to Manhattan.
Instead of going to the open mic we spent a nice evening in central park with a fresh salad and our thoughts and conversation. On the way to central park we came across a fire truck and thirteen firemen all more or less engaged in the project of fixing an American flag that had gotten partially detached on the side of a hotel.... seriously dudes? Manhattan and Brooklyn are only minutes apart but they are completely different cities.
On another note, our show at Bar 4 on Tuesday night was really successful. Jeremy Spangler came in from New Jersey to play with us, which really rounded out our sound with a nice percussion section. We got a couple of leads on people who want to collaborate with us and a few new fans who will come see us again.
(yeah, i've never been great with staying in one tense...you know, you are writing about something that happened but once you start to relive it, it's really like it is happening in the present)
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Open mimic-ing, calling cats, night walking
Continuing on from where Adele left off her post, we had out first "show" last night. We left the apartment at 6 PM, using out rucksacks to carry our instruments (my shiny, red, smooth, chic electric Washburn, and Adele's newly-purchased light-as-a-feather keyboard). We looked a little funny, but totally RAD at the same time (Exhibiting our ability to think out-side of the guitar-box, or keyboard bag?). The "show" was an open mic at the Sidewalk Cafe, which is the longest running open mic in NYC!. As it is the longest-running, one can make the intellectual leap that it is also a rather popular venue.
The open-mic operating procedure works as follows: a zillion guitar-toting 20-somethings (some 30 and 40 somethings) all show up at the same time (7:30) to a dimly-lit performance space with about 10 candle-lit tables, peripheral-seating, and cement walls. Then, the "DJ" announces the open-mic to the crowd, attempting to get them a little riled up ("This is the most power I get all week! Come on!"). The crowd then "lines up" (or rather amasses in a semi-organized fashion) to pick a number out of the hands of the DJ, correlating to the time that the performer will play that evening (the open mic runs from about 8 pm-3 am). After all the excitement, and the 1-hour commute, Adele ended up randomly choosing the number "33" from the DJ's clenched fist. 33 correlates to about 1 AM, and that is indeed about the time that we ended up playing. We were rather disappointed, as we left our apartment at 6 PM, but we decided to make the most of it.
We had a couple drinks, walked around, went to "Cafe Pick Me Up" to get a pick-me-up, watched some open mic, then headed over to a hip-hop happening on 2nd ave and 5th street at a basement joint. There we met a new-college grad, Jason Grimste ("Broke MC"), who Carlos and Daniel told me to contact. He's a nice kid, and a talented hip-hopper. The joint had a 5 dollar cover charge, and an open bar from 10 to 11 PM--a pretty sweet deal if you like alcohol. Unfortunately, I am not much of a fan of it, yet have somehow been consuming some of it almost every night since we've been here. It feels kind of nasty in my belly and my head. Adele and my new decision is to start "pretending" to be drinking at bars--ordering soda and cranberry juice with fancy straws. The real important aspect is that other people think you are intoxicated. It's a funny phenomenon--people are more able and willing to bond with others, even with only the thought that there is alcohol invovled.
We went to the hiphophappening to hang with Jason, and another new college grad showed up. We were totally representing. It was small, dark, semi-crowded, with a higher ratio of males to females. We're relatively sure that none of the females were actually there to perform (there was a rap contest happening later that we didn't end up seeing because we were waiting to play at the open mic). After about 20 minutes of being there, Jason informed us that there would be a circle outside of impromptu beat-boxing and rapping, and Adele and I went out to join them to do our one rapp-a-tapping song (well, Adele raps, and I "doo doo doo doo"). It was really intimidating--a lot of bouncing back-and-forth between talented stream-of-consciousness, beefed-up male rappers. Eventually, Adele chimed in with her lyricallippage and then we scadoodled back to Sidewalk Cafe.
As the night wore on, the acts of impressiveness on stage began to wear as well. Selecting performers is random, and not related to talent, so I'm guessing people just started getting drunker and tireder. From 8-10 artists can play 2 songs, from 10-11 they can play 1 song, from 11- 1 they can play 2 songs again, but after 1 am it goes back to 1 song. By the time we got on stage, it was back to 1 song. We got up there, and I asked if there was any "gain" to add to the guitar--no luck. We tried to rock it, but there was hardly any vocal monitoring, so our harmonies were off, and my electric power-housing sounded more like acoustic-twinging. Adele's keyboard had no base. All and all it was rather disappointing. People still clapped, but the dimly-lit room was full of some dimly-lit consciousnesses (due to intoxication). We got a welcoming round of applause, but we sluggishly, tiredly exited the stage and slid our instruments back into their make-shift cases. Frustrated. We didn't make as good of an impression as we had hoped, but we made at least one myspace friend from the experience.
The way back home was a little scary, but not scary at the same time. We tried to strategically take trains to manage the shortest walk from station-to-apartment as possible. Did Adele mention we live in the Ghetto? No joke, no exaggeration. It's not very dangerous, as long as you are with someone else, and as long as there are people around. However, it can seem rather intimidating at night time. We entered the A/F/V station, and got a little creeped out at first by signs that indicated the train was not running. It was misleading though--only applying to Downtown access, and not uptown access, which is what we needed (WAY uptown in Washington Heights).
Walking down the stairs, we caught the eyes of two musicians. One of them was obviously drunk and stupefied, but one of them was really nice and helpful--giving us suggestions on wear we could find open mics in the city. We exchanged myspace pages on the train--I checked out his band when I got home, and his page has over 130,000 hits (www.myspace.com/thedigisup) We were all damn tired and sluggish, Adele and I were certainly not being flirtatious, which seemed to deter the drunken kid, but not the helpful kid--always a good sign.
By the time we got on the first train it was already 2 AM. The nice thing about NYC is that there are always people in the train stations, no matter how late it is, which makes everything a lot more safe. We had to wait a while for the second train. We saw a familiar sock underneath one of the tracks, along with puddles of water, a couple rats, and a lot of trash. It's always a lot more humid, sticky, stuffy in the station. With the rumbling of an approaching train, I asked Adele, dramatically, "What would you do right now if that rumbling was actually A GIGANTIC BALL OF FIRE APPROACHING AT THE SPEED OF A SPEEDING TRAIN!?" We decided we would bolt up the stairs. Little did we know what would happen next! A gigantic ball of fire ACTUALLY DID... no, sorry, the train just came, and we got on. It was one of the new, pretty trains. However, after about 10 seconds of riding, a terribly loud and annoying high-pitched beep began going off, and we decided to switch cars. The other people in the car just dealt with it, which we couldn't understand. There was an old Latina woman across from us who just looked pained by the noise, but awfully tired. She held her wrinkled fingers up to her ears, and sort of slouched over her bag. In the other car we met some nice musicians who asked if we had just been busking (which is what they had been doing). We talked about the open-mic scene, and got some new suggestions, then they got off.
Finally, we exited at 1st ave and 181st street to walk the couple of blocks to our apartment. The station is so low under ground that there is not even the choice to take stairs. All that exists are elevators. What would you do if there WERE a burning ball of fire approaching in this situation? I guess you'd get a little singed. Anyway. We entered the big, dirty elevator with about 6 other people, stepping over the puddle of dirty urine inside. I wonder what the circumstances were in the creation of that puddle? Was he alone? Drunk? Were there other people in the elevator? Was he leaning against the door? Did he even realize he was urinating in a subway elevator? Was there a burning ball of fire right outside the door--did he rush to close the doors, and then pee his pants?
Walking at night is completely different here than in Northampton. At my home, I enjoy sometimes taking my dad's car down to Northampton just to walk around at night by myself. It's something that I usually revel in. Darkness changes everything--it makes you see everything in a new "light." All the shapes are different, all the colors are different, all the people are gone, all the noises are dulled. It usually seems more "natural"--what ever "nature" actually is or actually means. It's also really interesting to walk by houses and know that most people are just totally sedated, curled up in fetal balls on cushions, under their blanket-like wombs in the dark.
Darkness in NYC is not like this. There are still plenty of noises, there are still people. Instead of a new light, there is a cloud of fear and apprehension that descends on the streets. Near where we live, the sidewalk trash bins are all over-flowing, there are discarded wrappers and bottles on the sidewalks, some groups of men hanging out on street corners, and sketchy cars driving slowly up and down streets. We walk quickly from the subway stop with intention, covering exposed skin, looking pissed off. I make sure to flex my arm muscles.
My first night here, I innocuously donned some of Kirstin's spandex clothing -- bright green pants, and a bright pink shirt, with a bow on my head. Unfortunately, my dress was interpreted falsely, and I ended up getting "cat-called"--i.e. someone thought I was a hooker. I quickly took out the bow, and put up my hair so that I would look more like I was exercising. No one cat-called me again.
This area is like another country. I like it. It's definitely pushing my comfort level, but not in a way that I find unsettling--more like "character-building." This neighborhood is not that dangerous, it just appears to be. There are a lot of people just carrying out their lives, and there does not seem to be much crime. Everyone speaks Spanish, and we are the only white kids. I think that we get maybe a little bit of respect from people for that, but perhaps also disdain. I'm not sure, as I haven't gotten into any conversations with the people around here. It's just a hunch.
Our roommate, Dana is really awesome. She's an actress and costume designer who works at a fancy wine bar. She's quitting her job, though, because she was just offered a three-month costume designing job for a show on the Independent Film Channel. Pretty awesome, huh? Similar to Adele's description of the terrorist Dinosaur who lives in the apartment, Dana is as cute-as-a-button. Dissimilar to Dinosaur, she does not attempt to make me bleed every day in new and creative ways (I have many scars). I'm really frustrated by this cat. He brings out my violent side. I don't like keeping animals in a situation where they are enclosed/ contained (i.e. house-cats in a small apartment)... I also don't like violent animals... I'm not a big fan of Dinosaur. I don't even think he's that cute. Time for a mass extinction? Just kidding, he's ok, and I'm not going to kill him, I swear.
This is getting a little ridiculously long. I have so much more to write, but maybe I'll save it for next time. Thanks for reading.
--Lee Ellen
The open-mic operating procedure works as follows: a zillion guitar-toting 20-somethings (some 30 and 40 somethings) all show up at the same time (7:30) to a dimly-lit performance space with about 10 candle-lit tables, peripheral-seating, and cement walls. Then, the "DJ" announces the open-mic to the crowd, attempting to get them a little riled up ("This is the most power I get all week! Come on!"). The crowd then "lines up" (or rather amasses in a semi-organized fashion) to pick a number out of the hands of the DJ, correlating to the time that the performer will play that evening (the open mic runs from about 8 pm-3 am). After all the excitement, and the 1-hour commute, Adele ended up randomly choosing the number "33" from the DJ's clenched fist. 33 correlates to about 1 AM, and that is indeed about the time that we ended up playing. We were rather disappointed, as we left our apartment at 6 PM, but we decided to make the most of it.
We had a couple drinks, walked around, went to "Cafe Pick Me Up" to get a pick-me-up, watched some open mic, then headed over to a hip-hop happening on 2nd ave and 5th street at a basement joint. There we met a new-college grad, Jason Grimste ("Broke MC"), who Carlos and Daniel told me to contact. He's a nice kid, and a talented hip-hopper. The joint had a 5 dollar cover charge, and an open bar from 10 to 11 PM--a pretty sweet deal if you like alcohol. Unfortunately, I am not much of a fan of it, yet have somehow been consuming some of it almost every night since we've been here. It feels kind of nasty in my belly and my head. Adele and my new decision is to start "pretending" to be drinking at bars--ordering soda and cranberry juice with fancy straws. The real important aspect is that other people think you are intoxicated. It's a funny phenomenon--people are more able and willing to bond with others, even with only the thought that there is alcohol invovled.
We went to the hiphophappening to hang with Jason, and another new college grad showed up. We were totally representing. It was small, dark, semi-crowded, with a higher ratio of males to females. We're relatively sure that none of the females were actually there to perform (there was a rap contest happening later that we didn't end up seeing because we were waiting to play at the open mic). After about 20 minutes of being there, Jason informed us that there would be a circle outside of impromptu beat-boxing and rapping, and Adele and I went out to join them to do our one rapp-a-tapping song (well, Adele raps, and I "doo doo doo doo"). It was really intimidating--a lot of bouncing back-and-forth between talented stream-of-consciousness, beefed-up male rappers. Eventually, Adele chimed in with her lyricallippage and then we scadoodled back to Sidewalk Cafe.
As the night wore on, the acts of impressiveness on stage began to wear as well. Selecting performers is random, and not related to talent, so I'm guessing people just started getting drunker and tireder. From 8-10 artists can play 2 songs, from 10-11 they can play 1 song, from 11- 1 they can play 2 songs again, but after 1 am it goes back to 1 song. By the time we got on stage, it was back to 1 song. We got up there, and I asked if there was any "gain" to add to the guitar--no luck. We tried to rock it, but there was hardly any vocal monitoring, so our harmonies were off, and my electric power-housing sounded more like acoustic-twinging. Adele's keyboard had no base. All and all it was rather disappointing. People still clapped, but the dimly-lit room was full of some dimly-lit consciousnesses (due to intoxication). We got a welcoming round of applause, but we sluggishly, tiredly exited the stage and slid our instruments back into their make-shift cases. Frustrated. We didn't make as good of an impression as we had hoped, but we made at least one myspace friend from the experience.
The way back home was a little scary, but not scary at the same time. We tried to strategically take trains to manage the shortest walk from station-to-apartment as possible. Did Adele mention we live in the Ghetto? No joke, no exaggeration. It's not very dangerous, as long as you are with someone else, and as long as there are people around. However, it can seem rather intimidating at night time. We entered the A/F/V station, and got a little creeped out at first by signs that indicated the train was not running. It was misleading though--only applying to Downtown access, and not uptown access, which is what we needed (WAY uptown in Washington Heights).
Walking down the stairs, we caught the eyes of two musicians. One of them was obviously drunk and stupefied, but one of them was really nice and helpful--giving us suggestions on wear we could find open mics in the city. We exchanged myspace pages on the train--I checked out his band when I got home, and his page has over 130,000 hits (www.myspace.com/thedigisup) We were all damn tired and sluggish, Adele and I were certainly not being flirtatious, which seemed to deter the drunken kid, but not the helpful kid--always a good sign.
By the time we got on the first train it was already 2 AM. The nice thing about NYC is that there are always people in the train stations, no matter how late it is, which makes everything a lot more safe. We had to wait a while for the second train. We saw a familiar sock underneath one of the tracks, along with puddles of water, a couple rats, and a lot of trash. It's always a lot more humid, sticky, stuffy in the station. With the rumbling of an approaching train, I asked Adele, dramatically, "What would you do right now if that rumbling was actually A GIGANTIC BALL OF FIRE APPROACHING AT THE SPEED OF A SPEEDING TRAIN!?" We decided we would bolt up the stairs. Little did we know what would happen next! A gigantic ball of fire ACTUALLY DID... no, sorry, the train just came, and we got on. It was one of the new, pretty trains. However, after about 10 seconds of riding, a terribly loud and annoying high-pitched beep began going off, and we decided to switch cars. The other people in the car just dealt with it, which we couldn't understand. There was an old Latina woman across from us who just looked pained by the noise, but awfully tired. She held her wrinkled fingers up to her ears, and sort of slouched over her bag. In the other car we met some nice musicians who asked if we had just been busking (which is what they had been doing). We talked about the open-mic scene, and got some new suggestions, then they got off.
Finally, we exited at 1st ave and 181st street to walk the couple of blocks to our apartment. The station is so low under ground that there is not even the choice to take stairs. All that exists are elevators. What would you do if there WERE a burning ball of fire approaching in this situation? I guess you'd get a little singed. Anyway. We entered the big, dirty elevator with about 6 other people, stepping over the puddle of dirty urine inside. I wonder what the circumstances were in the creation of that puddle? Was he alone? Drunk? Were there other people in the elevator? Was he leaning against the door? Did he even realize he was urinating in a subway elevator? Was there a burning ball of fire right outside the door--did he rush to close the doors, and then pee his pants?
Walking at night is completely different here than in Northampton. At my home, I enjoy sometimes taking my dad's car down to Northampton just to walk around at night by myself. It's something that I usually revel in. Darkness changes everything--it makes you see everything in a new "light." All the shapes are different, all the colors are different, all the people are gone, all the noises are dulled. It usually seems more "natural"--what ever "nature" actually is or actually means. It's also really interesting to walk by houses and know that most people are just totally sedated, curled up in fetal balls on cushions, under their blanket-like wombs in the dark.
Darkness in NYC is not like this. There are still plenty of noises, there are still people. Instead of a new light, there is a cloud of fear and apprehension that descends on the streets. Near where we live, the sidewalk trash bins are all over-flowing, there are discarded wrappers and bottles on the sidewalks, some groups of men hanging out on street corners, and sketchy cars driving slowly up and down streets. We walk quickly from the subway stop with intention, covering exposed skin, looking pissed off. I make sure to flex my arm muscles.
My first night here, I innocuously donned some of Kirstin's spandex clothing -- bright green pants, and a bright pink shirt, with a bow on my head. Unfortunately, my dress was interpreted falsely, and I ended up getting "cat-called"--i.e. someone thought I was a hooker. I quickly took out the bow, and put up my hair so that I would look more like I was exercising. No one cat-called me again.
This area is like another country. I like it. It's definitely pushing my comfort level, but not in a way that I find unsettling--more like "character-building." This neighborhood is not that dangerous, it just appears to be. There are a lot of people just carrying out their lives, and there does not seem to be much crime. Everyone speaks Spanish, and we are the only white kids. I think that we get maybe a little bit of respect from people for that, but perhaps also disdain. I'm not sure, as I haven't gotten into any conversations with the people around here. It's just a hunch.
Our roommate, Dana is really awesome. She's an actress and costume designer who works at a fancy wine bar. She's quitting her job, though, because she was just offered a three-month costume designing job for a show on the Independent Film Channel. Pretty awesome, huh? Similar to Adele's description of the terrorist Dinosaur who lives in the apartment, Dana is as cute-as-a-button. Dissimilar to Dinosaur, she does not attempt to make me bleed every day in new and creative ways (I have many scars). I'm really frustrated by this cat. He brings out my violent side. I don't like keeping animals in a situation where they are enclosed/ contained (i.e. house-cats in a small apartment)... I also don't like violent animals... I'm not a big fan of Dinosaur. I don't even think he's that cute. Time for a mass extinction? Just kidding, he's ok, and I'm not going to kill him, I swear.
This is getting a little ridiculously long. I have so much more to write, but maybe I'll save it for next time. Thanks for reading.
--Lee Ellen
Monday, July 6, 2009
NYC Summer 2009
Settlers
I finally have a moment to just sit and chill out on the Victorian-style sofa in our apartment on W. 180th street Manhattan. It is Sunday and Lee Ellen and I arrived to New York last Wednesday on a Greyhound from Northampton, Mass, with musical instruments in our hands and amps under our arms. The mean time has been a blur of subway trains, flights and flights of stairs, yoga classes, faces of strangers and old friends, and violent attacks from the most obviously terrorist-bound kitty I have ever met, our fourth roommate for the month, lovely squishy face oh you are so cute but I want to kill at the same time, Dinosaur. I have always loved black cats but I’m starting to think that my predilections only extend to the female sort.
Lee Ellen is out to purchase a new plug for the quarter inch port on her electric guitar which fell out at some point during our fourth of July Thank You Senator Fulbright photo shoot in the cloisters. We have decided that our indie/pop duo should be Thank You Senator Fulbright because it just sounds cool and, well, because we are so very thankful Senator Fulbright. Our post photo shoot fourth of July plans took us to the Dewitt Clinton park along the westside highway where we met our New College sister alumna Alba to watch the fireworks and the people. New York police have mastered the skill of crowd control and watching them blockade, direct, line up, and manipulate thousands and thousands of anxious, hungry, drunk, patriotic and not so patriotic New Yorkers and New York tourists is fascinating. Unfortunately this crowd control choreography, while beautiful, also prevented our friends Nina and Camilo from joining us on our little blanket territory, which we had marked off and sedulously defended for hours as the crowd grew bigger and bigger. They stood on the other side of the blockade, hands pressed against the chain link fence, as I argued with the police to let them through. This is probably the closest I will get to experiencing the feelings of unwanted refugees in war torn third-world countries—no more room for you! Unlike most choreography, this human organization wasn’t just metaphorically political. But I guess that’s usually the case when it’s not called “dance.”
The fireworks were incredible—the most visually stimulating firework display I’ve ever seen. Five or six launch ports in a row with synchronized explosions—colors, fireflies, wilting fingers, circular patterns, amorphous evolving bacteria. And the accompanying soundtrack was even better—low booms ricocheting off of the skyscrapers behind us creating three, four, five rounds of echo mixed with the delay to create a delightfully disorienting soundscape. This was punctuated by the brilliant remarks of little boy behind us, philosopher in training, with his two already trained parents: “They seem so close but I know that they are far away.” “Yes honey, it’s an optical illusion.”
Thank You Senator Fulbright is (assuming that Lee Ellen’s excursion to the music store is successful) playing at our first open mic tonight at a bar in the east village called The Sidewalk Café. We went last night to check out the space and it seems like a really cool place to make our debut—it’s got an upright piano and a pretty nice stage and a goo bar. Apparently if the manager likes you at the open mic he will invite you back for an hour-long set.
Unfortunately we haven’t had much time to practice since we left Northampton with all of our running around and orienting ourselves. I spent a few days getting my hands on a cheap keyboard, which I got a fantastic deal on Craigslist ($90 for a casio 61 key keyboard, stand, and awesome sustain pedal). We are also putting our roots down with our various pods of friends in the city—the folks from new College (nina and camilo et. al, Alba, Lauren Edwards, and the Fordham crowd)—and exploring our neighborhood. We found an awesome farmer’s market a few blocks away that has IPM (integrated pest management) farmers and a pretty good selection. I think it is safe to say that we are the only white girls living in a ten-block radius of our apartment. “Ay muchachas!” is our most frequent street-side greeting followed by “mira, mujeeeeres” and “chica quiere comphrar maquillaje?” as a close runner up. Yes, we live in Spanish Harlem. Or Dominican Harlem more like. There is trash on the streets, rights there with the stands selling cheap jewelry and mangos on a stick, and everything, everything is in Spanish.
It’s a little scary walking home at night from the subway station (the A stops four blocks away and the 1 is only about a block, which is nice for late night voyages) but I think it’s good preparation for living in Lima, which, as I am starting to gather, is not exactly the safest place to live as a young gringa doing late-night research at bars. Go figure. Maybe I’ll just get in the habit of wearing a tunic over my clothes and walking with lots of intention? Self defense classes probably wouldn’t be a bad idea either.
Now I must get to work on practicing and making a little promotional sign for the back of my keyboard. Our plan is to keep this blog updated with our experiences as neophyte city musicians so that you, our dedicated readers, can keep up with us and so that we can remember these wild adventures when we are old and shriveled. I am especially curious to see if Lee Ellen and I will still be able to stand each other after a month of sleeping in the same hot bed night after night and playing shows night after night, all the while accumulating battle wounds from defending our bodies and possessions from the evil Dinosaur terrorist....
I finally have a moment to just sit and chill out on the Victorian-style sofa in our apartment on W. 180th street Manhattan. It is Sunday and Lee Ellen and I arrived to New York last Wednesday on a Greyhound from Northampton, Mass, with musical instruments in our hands and amps under our arms. The mean time has been a blur of subway trains, flights and flights of stairs, yoga classes, faces of strangers and old friends, and violent attacks from the most obviously terrorist-bound kitty I have ever met, our fourth roommate for the month, lovely squishy face oh you are so cute but I want to kill at the same time, Dinosaur. I have always loved black cats but I’m starting to think that my predilections only extend to the female sort.
Lee Ellen is out to purchase a new plug for the quarter inch port on her electric guitar which fell out at some point during our fourth of July Thank You Senator Fulbright photo shoot in the cloisters. We have decided that our indie/pop duo should be Thank You Senator Fulbright because it just sounds cool and, well, because we are so very thankful Senator Fulbright. Our post photo shoot fourth of July plans took us to the Dewitt Clinton park along the westside highway where we met our New College sister alumna Alba to watch the fireworks and the people. New York police have mastered the skill of crowd control and watching them blockade, direct, line up, and manipulate thousands and thousands of anxious, hungry, drunk, patriotic and not so patriotic New Yorkers and New York tourists is fascinating. Unfortunately this crowd control choreography, while beautiful, also prevented our friends Nina and Camilo from joining us on our little blanket territory, which we had marked off and sedulously defended for hours as the crowd grew bigger and bigger. They stood on the other side of the blockade, hands pressed against the chain link fence, as I argued with the police to let them through. This is probably the closest I will get to experiencing the feelings of unwanted refugees in war torn third-world countries—no more room for you! Unlike most choreography, this human organization wasn’t just metaphorically political. But I guess that’s usually the case when it’s not called “dance.”
The fireworks were incredible—the most visually stimulating firework display I’ve ever seen. Five or six launch ports in a row with synchronized explosions—colors, fireflies, wilting fingers, circular patterns, amorphous evolving bacteria. And the accompanying soundtrack was even better—low booms ricocheting off of the skyscrapers behind us creating three, four, five rounds of echo mixed with the delay to create a delightfully disorienting soundscape. This was punctuated by the brilliant remarks of little boy behind us, philosopher in training, with his two already trained parents: “They seem so close but I know that they are far away.” “Yes honey, it’s an optical illusion.”
Thank You Senator Fulbright is (assuming that Lee Ellen’s excursion to the music store is successful) playing at our first open mic tonight at a bar in the east village called The Sidewalk Café. We went last night to check out the space and it seems like a really cool place to make our debut—it’s got an upright piano and a pretty nice stage and a goo bar. Apparently if the manager likes you at the open mic he will invite you back for an hour-long set.
Unfortunately we haven’t had much time to practice since we left Northampton with all of our running around and orienting ourselves. I spent a few days getting my hands on a cheap keyboard, which I got a fantastic deal on Craigslist ($90 for a casio 61 key keyboard, stand, and awesome sustain pedal). We are also putting our roots down with our various pods of friends in the city—the folks from new College (nina and camilo et. al, Alba, Lauren Edwards, and the Fordham crowd)—and exploring our neighborhood. We found an awesome farmer’s market a few blocks away that has IPM (integrated pest management) farmers and a pretty good selection. I think it is safe to say that we are the only white girls living in a ten-block radius of our apartment. “Ay muchachas!” is our most frequent street-side greeting followed by “mira, mujeeeeres” and “chica quiere comphrar maquillaje?” as a close runner up. Yes, we live in Spanish Harlem. Or Dominican Harlem more like. There is trash on the streets, rights there with the stands selling cheap jewelry and mangos on a stick, and everything, everything is in Spanish.
It’s a little scary walking home at night from the subway station (the A stops four blocks away and the 1 is only about a block, which is nice for late night voyages) but I think it’s good preparation for living in Lima, which, as I am starting to gather, is not exactly the safest place to live as a young gringa doing late-night research at bars. Go figure. Maybe I’ll just get in the habit of wearing a tunic over my clothes and walking with lots of intention? Self defense classes probably wouldn’t be a bad idea either.
Now I must get to work on practicing and making a little promotional sign for the back of my keyboard. Our plan is to keep this blog updated with our experiences as neophyte city musicians so that you, our dedicated readers, can keep up with us and so that we can remember these wild adventures when we are old and shriveled. I am especially curious to see if Lee Ellen and I will still be able to stand each other after a month of sleeping in the same hot bed night after night and playing shows night after night, all the while accumulating battle wounds from defending our bodies and possessions from the evil Dinosaur terrorist....
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