As a hillbilly, I often feel out of place when I ride New York's subways.
Riders are cranking Ice-T on their headphones. If they happen to hear a snippet of my Sam & Kirk McGee bluegrass songs playing, I get strange looks.
Most wear black jeans, black T-shirts, black jackets and black boots. I wear blue jeans and a orange T-shirt with "Tennessee" emblazoned boldly across my chest. To paraphrase The Most Interesting Man in the World, "I don't always wear shoes, but when I do, I prefer tennis shoes."
So it was with great joy I learned that one of my Southern kin hitched a ride on the D-train the other day: The noble possum.
Seeking warmth (who isn't in New York these days) it cozied up to the heaters placed under the seats and took a nap. Several policemen were dispatched during the train's run to shoo it out the door, to no avail. It wasn't until after the train had completed its northward run and was in the Bronx railyard that the possum split.
My guess is, it was worried the train would take it even further north.
Sadly, I found out about this hot new Southern group's visit to the Brooklyn Bowl too late to get tickets. They performed last night. Gonna have to do a better job of keeping track of when my fellow countrymen travel north of the Mason-Dixon line. Maybe we can put GPS chips in mandalins and banjos?
For weeks prior to 9/11, I had been counseling my friends in the PR and advertising profession that anyone who tried to pitch a story or run an ad tied to the tragedy of 9/11 was stomping through a minefield with lead boots.
I was wrong.
I watched a remembrance special sponsored by State Farm, and prior to the start of the afterwards commercial-free event, I saw this short video, directed by Spike Lee:
All I can say is, I couldn't have made a better message about how resilient the city is, how it has worked to recover from that day, and what it is about New York that makes it unique and special. If you can watch this an not feel at least a little tightness in your chest, I feel sorry for you.
If you're interested in some of the behind-the-scenes stuff, here's two short videos for you:
I mentioned in a previous post that most of the musicians you find performing in the subway system here have to audition for a permit -- the remainder, those semi-talented kids who jump from subway car to subway car trying to avoid MTA cops, are unlicensed.
The auditions take place every year at Grand Central Terminal, and the range of musical acts is usually pretty diverse. This year's winners, who you may see as you switch trains in Times Square or Herald Square, include an opera singer, Brazilian musicians, an oboe trio, a harpist, a country singer and a swing band.
One of the great things about commuting in Manhattan is that you get free entertainment on the trip to and from work -- if you travel by subway.
With the warm weather and the arrival of spring, the number of entertainers in the subways has jumped exponentially. Their numbers will crest during the summer, when the flux of sweaty workers will mingle with the crush of sweaty tourists. Add music and you have the perfect maelstrom of suck.
It’s important to note that all subway entertainment is free -- you’re not obligated to contribute a dime for it unless you choose. The term for performing in public for donations is called “busking.” When I first encountered the term six years ago in London, it was on an underground sign that proclaimed “No Busking.” I assumed it was British slang for spitting.
Subway entertainment in New York City falls into three categories:
Singers and musicians
Panhandlers
Preachers
One’s more annoying than the other two, and I’ll give you a hint: It’s not the panhandlers.
Singers & Musicians - These are usually found in one of two venues: In the stations, and on the subway cars themselves. Station performers for the most part are pretty good, fairly enjoyable, provide nice background music for your frenetic rush to the office and are often worthy of a dollar bill dropped in their hats or guitar cases. Some singers are also worthy of mention, and are clearly hoping to be “discovered.”
Musicians tend to congregate in the more heavily trafficked stations, like under the Roy Lichtenstein in Times Square/42nd Street (yes, there’s really a Roy Lichtenstein painting in a subway station). They also like Herald Square and the 4th Street Station where most of the subway lines cross. You won’t find them in the Financial District (Wall Street types aren’t the share-the-wealth crowd). I have a favorite band I see now and again at 42nd Street that has eight members and does very impressive Beatles covers.
These performers have to get permits and schedule their appearances with the MTA, and only about 100 permits are issued every year. Singers are always interesting, and are usually very, very good or very, very bad. The good ones, I think, are hoping to be discovered.
On the other end of the spectrum are the solo artists who work the trains. These performers most likely work without MTA sanction. They’re highly efficient, most jumping onto a car right as it gets ready to leave a station, playing a 90-second tune, working the length of the car for donations and then jumping off the car when it pulls into the next stop. Some work a full train, just jumping into the next car and repeating the process.
A cappella singers seem to be popular on the cars, and some are good. I suspect they’re hoping to be discovered. There are groups that would put any doo-wop group to shame. There are also people who aren’t very good, and they’d probably do better using the second form of entertainment to raise money.
Panhandling - Begging in the subway can be jarring to the first-time visitor, but after you’ve lived here for a little while you get used to it. Most of it is passive, with people simply standing on the platform and holding a sign or placing it in front of them while they sit in a corner. I’m always impressed with how nearly lettered and clear the writing on these signs are. I can’t figure out how people with such perfect penmanship can’t find employment.
For those who prefer a more proactive begging system, there are the subway car beggars. They’re a model of process and efficiency, and I don’t usually chip in. You know you’re about to be hit up because as soon as the subway doors close, you here the classic opening line belted out loud enough to hear on both ends of the car “Excuse me everyone ... “ Usually this is followed by a hard-luck story and then a quick pass through the car with a cup or hat and a dart off the car at the next station before an MTA office shows up to shoo them off. But even panhandlers are more tolerable on trains than the last form of entertainment.
Preachers - I’ve always despised street preachers. I understand their religious beliefs impel them to try and spread their beliefs, but doing so to masses of mostly unreceptive and unwilling listeners is both rude and counterproductive. When you do it inside a subway car where people are trapped and forced to listen to your blather and you’ve crossed the line.
Last week I stepped into the back car of my No. 3 train for my 4.5 minute commute to Times Square. Unfortunately, I didn’t notice the street preacher in the middle of the car blathering on until after the door closed. Usually I have my headphones on and can crank my iPod up to drown out the stupid. This time, I didn’t have them in and couldn’t reach them because the car was sardine-packed.
He went on and on. He kept skirting the line between stupidity and offensiveness. He castigated several of the patrons, saying we are all going to hell, and we weren’t living our lives rights. Who is this uneducated moron, I thought, and how does he know anything about my life? I kept biting my tongue, but after four minutes everyone in the car was tense, annoyed and uncomfortable.
Perfect incubator for comedy, my instincts told me.
As we pulled into my station, he was prattling on about hell again.
“Who wants to go to hell? None of us. Do you want to go to hell?”
“If it’s like this, with me trapped in the No. 3 with you, then I sure I hell don’t!” I blurted out, then stepped out of the car onto the platform. I heard the relieved and appreciative laughter ripple through the car behind me.
To be fair, there's a fourth form of free entertainment on subways: Fights. I haven't seen one in person, but here's one for you to enjoy (Warning: Language NSFW):
If you're getting off the road to nowhere and are thinking about coming to New York to get married, I know just the guy for you.
Actually, this minister's familiar to most of us, although his conducting a marriage recently here in New York was more of a one-off effort for a friend rather than a new vocation. He's artist and musician David Byrne, most famous as the lead singer for the 1980s phenomenon Talking Heads.
About once a week I start having serious withdrawal. I mean, tremors and shaking. Disorientation. Irritation and confusion. The enormity of a Southerner stuck in Yankeeland truly hits me.
It's at that point that I usually go out to the park, crank up the iPod and listen with my eyes closed to some bluegrass music.
Was taking my three beagles out for their morning constitutional in Central Park yesterday, and heard music playing at 7 a.m. through the trees leading to the bandstand. Couldn't figure out who in their right mind would be performing at that ungodly hour. Blew it off, picked up poop and headed back to the apartment.
Gonna be working hard this week and then doing a good bit of traveling next week. August 1 is the day for transplanting myself from good old Dixie to the Big Apple. Much sooner than I thought, but the suspense has been killing me, so perhaps just as well.
More details to come later in the week, but in the meantime, here's a little music to get me and Manhattan Hillbilly followers in a traveling frame of mind. This is Ryan Adams' "New York, New York," and is one of the songs suggested as a 21st Century substitute for old, outdated state songs.
There's definitely a little thing called Southern Rock. But is there such a thing as Northern Rock?
Being a classically trained hillbilly, I can sing along with such staples as Bill Monroe, Grandpa Jones, Johnny Cash or any of the other legendary artists of American music. I can't tell you how many times I've heard this anthem since it came out during my junior high days, but it's gotta be in the millions:
(As an aside, even though I'm a Southerner, I love Neil Young and consider his Southern Man to be a poignant and powerful classic too.)
That said, the question remains: Is there a style of music that is quintessentially "New York City music?"
At first blush, the singer I tend to hear the most when I travel to the city is Bruce Springsteen, but you quickly have to discount him since his creative epicenter is Asbury Park, New Jersey.
You could argue the man who made the song New York, New York famous -- Frank Sinatra -- is the quintessential new York singer and stylist. But again, he's actually from New Jersey.
Let's face it. New York City embraces as broad and varied a musical scene as it does a cornucopia of ethnic cultures. Asian music? Techno? Blues? You can find them all here, and much, much more. But what type of music, what singer could be described as the definitive author of "New York" style music?
I don't think such a thing exists. But if I had to make a case for a singer and a song that best sets a tone for the city with a single tune, it might be this guy and this song:
This photograph of John Lennon is iconic. When he moved to New York City in 1971 he was fleeing the disintegration of The Beatles and the country in which he'd spent all his life.
New York was a new adventure to him. He commented that if he had lived in Roman times he would have moved to Rome. Since the United States was the dominant empire of his time, it was natural he would gravitate toward it's epicenter, New York.
Lennon liked the power of the city. The energy. The clubs. The activities. But he also liked the fact that it afforded him a little anonymity. With a hat pulled over his head and some sunglasses he could walk on the streets with little fanfare. For someone who had been mobbed by Beatle fans for most of his 20s, it was a great feeling.
I don't know how close I'll be living to The Dakota, the well-known and ritzy apartment building where he lived and where in front of its entrance he died, but I have little doubt I'll walk by it often. Sadly, I've noticed it's become a major stop on the tourist routes, and during the summer you can't go by without seeing someone taking photographs of the spot where John was shot and killed.
Lennon's New York years are so iconic, the Rock and Roll Museum's New York Annex even has an exhibit about John's time living in New York:
New Yorkers still have a warm spot for Lennon, and many of them were instrumental in battling Nixon when he tried to have John deported after his green card expired in 1972 and he wanted to becoming a citizen. They liked him because he chose them, and they appreciated the compliment. He got his permanent resident card on July 4, 1976, and would have been eligible to apply for citizenship in 1981.
I've chosen New York too, and hopefully I will love the energy, excitement and opportunity of the city as much as John did.
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