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