The Pianobabbler's New York Tales - vol. 8: Apothegms and Epigrams and Fractionated Fillips
August 03 2009

The Pinobabbler has amassed these thoughts and observations over the past months in New York:

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Edith Wharton (The Age of Innocence, Ethan Frome) is the perfect canonical novelist to read in New York. She write about the city, in a way that allows you to live in its past while existing in its present.

Plus, she's one of the English language's smartest writers intellectually, emotionally, and stylistically. Speaking of Monsieur Riviere in The Age of Innocence, who has chosen a life of mind over money:
"...he had lived in a world in which, as he said, no one who loved ideas need hunger mentally... [The novel's main character Newland] Archer looked with a sort of vicarious envy at this eager impecunious young man who had fared so richly in his poverty."

Perfect.

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The Pianobabbler visited The Stone. It's a new music club. Both the club and the music are new. It's booked by avant edge jazz guy John Zorn.

Me'chelle Ndegeocello, the bass player and vocalist was to be playing. No show. Her collaborator Brandon Ross did show. A well-known guitarist, composer and vocalist. Accompanied by three other established musicians. Beautiful music.

It struck the Pianobabbler: The Stone, The famous Stone, is just a room. A room with chairs, a piano and a sound system. A small sound system. It holds about 50 people. Much like another famous jazz club, the Village Vanguard. So inglorious in their glory.

Which proves: it's not the container, but the contents that matter.

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"One of the great things about visiting the so-called big leagues is a surer sense of where you stand yourself." - Arthur Fish, writer and lawyer

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The Pianobabbler went to another well-known jazz club. The 55 Bar in Greenwich Village. Friday night. Clubs put their best acts forward on Fridays. The bar was filled for a man who plays piano and sings.

Well... his piano was a keyboard. No matter. He played poorly. Uninteresting chords occasionally ceremoniously interrupted by uninteresting cliches. And his vocals were from the distress bin in a second hand shop. Sad.

The point: New York is normal. There are good, bad, great, and most grievously, mediocre musicians here. There are just more of them.

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Street musicians. Lots of them here. Many, not all, are A1.

On the subways, people routinely announce to a car full of riders, after the doors close, that they need money for this or that reason (just out of jail, permanently disabled by an acid attack, and so on.) Riders are inured to this. Few look up. Fewer contribute.

Twice now, the Pianobabbler was riding when an older man, small and easy to overlook, started singing to hustle some cash. Once 'Up on the Roof' with a colleague twice his height. Once "Under the Boardwalk" with only a cane to accompany him.

His singing, a cappella, was rich and deep. Rhythmic. Pitch-perfect basso. He altered lyrics to great comic effect. He delivered charmed banter. A tough audience. But he won them over. All in under 2 minutes.

One of the best musical performances the Pianobabbler has seen in a while.

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