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....