RUDIMENTS, pt. 1,155
(ben folds? five?)
One acquaintance of my later
days then was Charles Folds -
an elderly fellow who played a
nice piano Monday-Friday,
something like noon to three
at Park Plaza, right next to the
Lever Building along Park Avenue,
NYC. He went by the name Chuck
Folds. There was a pop-musician
of some sort, Ben Folds, much
younger, yes, (Chuck was about
70 then), who had a group called
Ben Folds Five, but I never knew
if there was a connection, father
or son or whatever. It's funny how
the initial meeting happened, since
it was all by accident. It was closer
in time to those hoary days after
the World Trade Center bombing,
when everyone was tightly-strung
and the concerns for security and
stuff were paramount. I myself, in
that time period, looked pretty normal,
could pass for everyday people, just
another schmuck, though with a
camera. This day I had stopped
outside the Lever House, which
had an outdoor dining plaza area,
through which the office people
passed and many others sat
at the touristy, outdoor dining
and luncheon tables - people
sitting around (many tables
and chairs, lunchtime, informal
crowding, people just gazing out.
I had stopped a bit to take some
photos of the building and environs,
not people, and this security guard
guy comes blasting out at me, to
shoo me away. With parts of the
building itself as a nice backdrop,
it all made for some nice photo-taking,
no spectacular details or bother, just
quick clicks, per the usual, of facades,
reflections and some people, from
the sidewalk area - not diners. I actually
had figured it from the security angle
already, thinking if there was some
office romancing going on, people
having affairs and sneaking about,
they'd not want their 'photos' taken
for the record, detective work or
not. I was all about privacy!
I saw this security guy schmoozing
with some office-worker lunch babe
at the railing, and thought to myself
something like 'yeah, the uniform
gets them every time' and at just
that moment the same guy comes
swiftly up to me and aggressively
starts saying 'no photos from this
sidewalk, if you have to take them
you can do it from a distance or
go across the street.' Fair enough,
and I figured if that's the day's play
at security and private property
(even of 'public plazas' for which
easements the developer and
property-owner has promised
open access), it didn't bother
me any. I just sort of sneered
back into his face, said 'yeah,
yeah' and moved along. Crossing
the street, southerly, right there is
Park Plaza, or Park Ave. Plaza or
somesuch. I took a few more photos
from that vantage (good shots
high-up, of the building and overhang,
etc.) and went inside to get a coffee
from the kiosk within. On my way
in, I noticed the very nice grand
piano, and then the poster and
then the older guy playing it -
everyone else seemed unmindful
of him. His tip cup had perhaps
8 or 10 dollar bills in it, and he
was displaying a CD and a
short bio-sheet of himself and
his past career. I got my coffee
and went back over to the piano
to just sit around there as a sole
attentive audience. I watched
his hands (great skin, the
whitened and transparent skin
of an older person, perhaps 75
years old, through which veins
and white patches and age marks
can be seen). Nice pianist's nails
- and a fleeting, soft and ready
familiarity with the keyboard he
was playing. His touch - playing
piano myself I am aware of the
touch and the hammer, the
percussive attributes and the
magical soft-grace with which
it really can be done right -
rang true. His fingers ran
softly and smoothly along the
trills and arpeggios of his work;
no harshness, no banging, just a
softened, fleshy tone of warmth.
It is a big room, be aware, and
he is softly at the enter of it,
elevated perhaps three big steps
up, with no amplification or an
amplification level I was unaware
of or could not see. He's an old
jazz guy, perhaps of a 1960's
heyday, as there are photos
of the usual 'greats' around
on the corridor walls leading
to the bookshop which sold
his CD and sponsors his
afternoons there (Chartwell
Books) - Gillespie, Ellington,
Armstrong, and others, men
and women alike - and,
oddly as well, a nice shot of
a young Lou Reed and an
almost-curious shot of the
young Brothers Gibb looking
as if they'd just landed from
an Australian-Mars. When he
took a break I asked 'Chuck'
about things - how was that
piano, how fared the sound
and the touch, did he like the
room, how often did he play,
what selection of tunes, etc.
Just basic questions which
he answered with great
aplomb and finesse - about
the piano, which he thought
was just-almost 'not rugged
enough' to take a beating ('it
couldn't take it, you're not
going to play Rachmaninoff
on this') but 'just right for this
room, where the acoustics
are soft and the sound nicely
carries.' He then said 'recognize
that last tune?' (no, I did not) -
'theme to Gone With the Wind'.
Well, anyway, that's how it
started. Now I make it a point
often enough when I can, to
stop and see Charles, who's
usually always there. Slowly,
slowly, slowly do I work through
a hundred questions I have to
ask him. We talk. He's always
expansive and alive to me -
and alone. I've never seen him
with anyone, which kind of bothers
me in its way - all these chippish
people about, sitting and yapping,
cell-phones and computer tablets
running on, eating, drinking, lost
away in the maw of a great unholy
city, and there - right with them -
sits a part of the vast past of the
place, of which they know nothing
and apparently seem not to care
to know. As reader, yes, I can
already imagine the more smug
of you entitling yourself to attack
me for presumptive attributes -
'how do you know they don't
know of the past? How can you
say they don't care to? How do
you know he's alone?', as such.
To which I already reply 'rubbish!'
I know it because I see it and I
can say it. As for the rest, shove
it. Charles Folds - (any musical
relation to Ben Folds? Son? I
do not know, nor care, though
I actually dislike that 'Chuck'
nickname appellation) - is my
representation here of what
I'm trying to say : that we have
already zoned out any makings
of the real past and soundness
of the life that went before us
and cleansed our selves and
our societies of any of the
marvelous overflows these
pasts provide, merely so that
we can 'successfully' and with
ease sink into the present
state of mopey affairs whereby
the new and the latest pap has
precedence over any other story
or storyline. It's that same gummy
pap which entitles any cheap
rent-a-cop guard to sidle up to
people and declaim spaces as
'off-limits' to normal activities.
Knowing nothing of the larger
situation behind the agreements
and deals entered into to sacrifice
such urban space and place into
plazas and gathering points of a
popular urban use - 'you can
have our land, but you can't cut
us off.' It's like that Woody Guthrie
song with the verse that never
gets sung - 'This Land Is Your
Land', etc. You have to read
the lyrics, or perhaps find a
really true rendition of it, one
that's not just happy-talk
boosterism, that talks about
'off-limits' and private property
and the 'us' in USA being cut
out of and forbidden from
our own lands and places.
Someday listen to it.
-
It may be no big matter, as
perhaps I make too much of
it, or 'doth protest too much'
or any of that, but - as it is
said - 'iconic' places sometimes
cause their own displacement.
The Lever House, to my mind,
should not now be the sort of
place contained by simpletons
such as this part-duty security
guy. On the face of it, the entire
situation is shameless, and that's
all I'm going to say - you can
leave it to yourself to make up
your own mind about what
portions of our legacy and
heritage we've turned over
to stupidity, paranoia, fear
and unknowing control. And
then, once you've done that
and, perhaps, decided that
all of that is OK with you,
then at least take a look at
the quality of the people we've
turned it over to, those
knuckleheads and the
know-nothings advancing
and promoting (and enforcing)
this situation. As in today's world,
some twenty years later, those
who are given the supremacy
over us usually turn out to be
the worst of the breed. Lording
over us in some framework of
their own working, which has
the 'situation,' as it goes, all
misconstrued and every point
lost. By that we live.
-
Watching and talking with Mr.
Folds, not just this first time but
every time, was a complete pleasure
and held, for me, a richness that
sang of older NYC. Where I wanted,
right then, to be - in the unfolding
arms of a welcoming committee of
the living past that still had some
semblance of grace, beauty, and
finesse. All gone now.
-
part 2, next. 'Chartwell Books'
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