The Pianobabbler's New York Tales - vol. 7: Handwashing Pizza Music Happy
July 27 2009

The Pianobabbler is a fervent handwasher. But nothing prepared him for New York. Never have I had to was my hands as often as I do here.

Scrub scrub. An hour on the subway. And lo: grime again upon the fingers.

You have to get around in New York. And to get around, you have to get your hands dirty. It's a demanding city.

Pizza and some astonishing music tell the tale.

Pizza. My friends, and superb musicians, vocalist Yoon Choi and bass-dude Michel Bates,have been telling me about di Fara Pizza in Brooklyn since I arrived. Yoon took me there once. But Dom, the 60-something owner of di Fara decided he would close that day. OK. That's how it works.

We return two weeks later. He's opening at 6:30 p.m. tonight. He says. At 6:50, we're still waiting in a lineup outside the closed doors. But at last we're in.

It's a modest place, this legendary pizza joint. Very modest. Very modest. Teeny. Looks like a burger joint from the 1950's. Not much updated since. 40 people pack the place. A few retired tables with failed chairs. Scattered and unmatched. One chair for every 3 people. Tensions erupt.

Behind the counter Dom, in his 60's, is a Zen pizzamaster. He makes dough three times daily. Simple ingredients. Simply assembled. Art is simple choice. Dom reaches down, not looking, and grabs some bunched basil leaves. As he holds them with the sprezzatura that bespeaks craft, his right arm floats up, takes hold of scissors, arcs down, slides into the basil, snip, snip. snip, the green scatters just so on the pizza. Pizza as art.

It finally arrives. We've been sweltering in a corner for 40 minutes. The pizza triggers every taste synapse. But it's not mere food or ingestion. It consumes you as a whole experience, more than you consume it. Pizza as art.

On to the Rockwood. A newer, hip music room. 40 minutes by train to the Lower East Side. (My hands are filthy again.) Just another storefront among the Chinese food shops and dollar stores. Through the window, the Pianobabbler sees 50 people standing, packed, beers in hand, heads bob, listening, listening.

Josh Dion. He plays drums and keyboard. And he sings. His own songs. Electric bass, guitar and piano make up the band. Simple songs. Straightforward, thoughtful lyrics. Somewhere between folk and rock. Fock.

Astonishing. A supreme musician. His drumming is tasteful, creative. He proves that much remains to be done in 4/4. His songs dance. The moves are familiar. Yet in sequence, they shock with surprise. His singing is raw, passionate. Josh Dion makes art of the everyday. Like Dom's pizza.

A tip jar is passed. Josh asks for a $5 minimum. We put in $20. His music deserves millions.

As so often is the case in NY, Josh plays only one set.

We leave for home, aglow with the gifts memory has been given tonight.

I look at my hands. They need another good scrubbing.

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