302. DRUMBEAT
I lived a lot of
midnight life in
New York City;
it was all I knew.
This one interesting
guy, on 31st, right
along Broadway,
he had a loft that
his father had
turned over to
him - this was
a white guy -
and all he ever
did was run
black-guy jazz-night
jam sessions there;
most all the time.
I never knew how
his father had
gotten onto this,
or what was involved,
and I didn't care. I'd
met him, the guy,
not the father, who
was dead, at the
Villager Restaurant
one night. There was
a waitress-counter girl
there, named Tre,
actually it was
Theresa, by whatever
spelling, but all I
knew her as was Tre.
She used to say
her Italian father
(I thought they
were Greek, but
this worked better
for her story, so I
never called her
out on it) had had
five kids. He was a
dumbstruck immigrant
without much command
for the local language,
so he called each kid
by their number,
birth sequence
number. She was #3,
thus 'Tre'. Good joke
but I never believed
a minute of it. It was
the same kid of
joke, to me, as the
Spanish fireman
joke with the kid
named Jose. How'd
he get that name?
'My father was a
fireman and he
named the the boys
he had in the order
they we're born. I
was the first -
'Hose A', the next
was 'Hose B', and
so on.' Har har.
When I met this
loft guy, anyway,
in this restaurant
- they sold paintings
there, right off their
walls, diners and
patrons got a glimpse
as they ate, for 20
bucks or so - we
hit it off and became
friends. I started going
to his loft, first by
invite, and then
whenever I felt.
It was always open
- beer, smokes, real
Jazz-guy booze,
reefer, whatever
you wanted. I never
did the hard-ass
stuff, but there
was speed and
cocaine and pills
and everything,
plus a pretty nice
coming and going
of babes, black and
white, and all ages
too. They were always
having combos playing,
people would just
jump in or out, with
their instruments or
those of others. Piano
players always soloing
away, keeping a
keyboard accompaniment
always going - horns,
drums, etc. The drum
guys were the best.
Jazz drumming is
like no other. It's not
so much about 'time,
as it is 'breaking' that
time. It doesn't want
that rollicking steady
of regular music,
or especially of
rock music. There's
more pure breakout,
an antic-level that's
different. Notes
between beats,
drum hits where
most people expect
silence or a single
tap. It's just different
and it's more like work.
For sure. The jazz-drum
is a different animal,
totally. It's just another
language. All these
guys, they were
pretty tight, they
all spoke together,
as one, but they
were all speaking
differently. I guess
that's what 'good'
jazz is, an unspoken
thing, the whole
errant tribe, out,
just rolling along
the plains together.
Frenzied. Induced.
High. The women
came in, but they just
sat around, all thin and
wiry, even the black
ones, which is not
like today. Back then
most everyone was
skinny, and the more
serious and really
beat you were, the
skinnier you presented
yourself. 'Be Bop' had
its own clientele for
that stuff and mostly
these black babes
they really kept to it.
None of the fat Aunt
Jemima stuff going
down. The white girls
too - a lot of really
tight, skinny red skirts
and flouncy shirts.
Open collars and
necks, cleavage
and stuff galore.
They were really
hip, hip to something,
I never knew the
whole story - lots
of cigarette smoke
and stuff, dark rooms,
lipstick. A lot of times
there'd be people
making out and things,
on couches on the side,
or some real serious
stuff too, in other side
rooms. Once or twice
some real bad-ass
sex scenes. I mean
not just two people.
Listen, I was there
for the music, and
I fetched too - they
needed something,
or wanted something,
I'd be the creep that
got sent out to get it.
All those late-night
stores and stuff.
I didn't care; it was
all new to me, it
was getting November
cold, I was having
fun. Shit, I was having
the time of my life.
Forget all that
Avenel crap.
-
Growing up a
normal schmuck
suburban kid in
a highway dumb
town like Avenel,
what did I know?
There was no sense
of presence, no
feeling for being
somewhere. Not
a touch of a town
or village feel;
just a bunch of
creepy fakes calling
the highway home.
Pushing off their
brats to a new
schoolhouse
down the road,
hoping for the best,
and forget the rest.
Humping with the
husband, whatever.
Like Nietszche's
'Eternal Recurrance'
stuff, it just kept
happening. Same
old crap, over and
again. Be fruitful
and multiply. Man,
the parents in my
neighborhoods
were sure good
at math. Brat-punk
kids everywhere.
You know when
you're 8 or 10,
awkward, nothing
seems right, nothing
really fits, you're
always wanting to
be doing something,
get going, find out
more. That's what
the 600 of us were
at any one time,
getting jammed
through the strainer
of Schools 4 & 5.
Nobody knew
anything really,
us or them. We
were so crazy we'd
have block against
block snowball fights,
like massed killers
armed with icicle
swords and snow-ball
hand grenades, just
itching to see what
it really felt like to
kill someone. You
could easily go home
from one of those
neighborhood brawls
dead. Alive too, yeah,
but dead. Take no
prisoners, kill 'em
all. There might
still be missing
children, from
those days.
-
Look at me -
that all ended
me up 8 years
later in some
preposterous jazz
loft crazy-ass
orgy house sideshow
in the middle of
New York City.
Anything I learned,
I learned on the fly.
I stole. I ran junk,
here and there,
for people. I never
knew half the time
what I was involved
with. 'You take this,
you go to 58th, #521.
Guy there, Frankie,
he'll see you - you
walk over near him
- don't look up, don't
look at him. Make a
noise, fall on the
sidewalk and drop
that. Move around,
like something hurts
- that's to get anybody
around looking to you,
not to Frankie. Keep
it busy, count to 15
maybe. And then
just get up, shut
down, and walk
away. Do it, and
come back here -
there's a twenty here
waiting for you.'
That sounds complicated,
or not, but it always
worked. Stupid as
all get out, but it did.
I always got paid;
just never wanted
to know anything
more. A few times I
went upstairs to places
- problem was, for
me, the damn buzzer
systems always caused
me trouble, and by
the time I finally got
myself in the people
there were already
annoyed at me. But,
no matter. I just
always said
something stupid,
like, 'somebody
was watching ,' or
'there was two
cops walking along.'
That made them think
I was really into this
stuff, experienced
and all, and knew
what I was doing.
-
You can never take
anything at face
value, or not much
anyway, in New
York. Most people,
the harmless ones,
they're just going
about their work,
it's a boring, daily
grind for them and
with no enjoyment.
It might as well be
Trenton or Montclair.
Others are just passing
through or visiting,
along from somewhere
else, vague and stupid.
It's the lifers there
and the natives you'd
need to watch for.
They were a deep
and hard and steely
bunch. They never
spoke the truth,
everything was
always part of some
ongoing operation or
scam - they all were
connected, making
money on this or
that, and in spite
of anything else
they wouldn't think
twice about clonking
you on the head
with a bowling
pin if it would get
them a hundred bucks.
And that could probably
be arranged, so watch
out. Everything was
always on alert. Anybody
new there - one day, one
month, one year, or five,
was a sitting duck. The
trick was just not to
let on what you're
situation was - lie
your ass off if you
had to, make up a
story, but let them
know you've been
around and knew
the drumbeat.
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