You Betta Work: Music, Madness (the state) and Living Just Enough For the City

My laptop is falling apart. On any given morning in the past month and a half, I've rolled out of bed, skipping the bathroom entirely, to head straight to the living room futon, the place where the outdated Mac relic usually sits just where I last left it, awaiting my frenzied fingertips. In the past week alone, four major keys have jammed alarmingly, and the front panel, which sweetly obfuscated a Terry Gilliam-esque tangle of micro-guts, finally popped off (after having made discomfiting grinding noises for years, whenever I'd close the unit).

Is this all because I've been workin' the Muse, wrenching from myself, day and night, the stellar arcs of prose and firm whacks of barbed eloquence, the likes for which Kurt Vonnegut is well-noted? Is it due to my rabid insistence upon keeping in nauseatingly firm e-contact with all my many acquaintances, near and far? Is it because I've been cagily fending off literary agents, who e-mail me with busy constancy, dribbling solicitations on behalf my latest, greatest chapbook of Road Poetry?

You've got to be kidding me. None of the above. It's because my laptop is OLD. I was pretty excited (read: validated) to find out that Matt Iarrobino, the kindly light-boy for The Disco Biscuits, is cursed enough to have the same model (sans glimmering ladybug stickers, exposed entrails and gummy buttons). I'm sure that, in its heyday, the Macintosh 540c PowerBook was a hell of a stunner. It's got a pretty big screen for the newest of the old PowerBooks. It's got an internal modem, probably one of the first PowerBooks to sport mobile connections. And, unlike the hulking behemoth PowerBook Duos, Mac's first strike at the portables market in the early 1990s, the 540c weighs in at a none-too-hefty eight pounds. Super-light...for 1995.

But regardless of decay, life plows on endlessly. Furtive-nosed, I sneak amongst the corridors of circumstance and the motions of the stars, and somehow, manage to survive without being struck too dumb by thunders of misfortune. (not yet anyways)

Last we spoke, I was jobless, reclining, and, somehow, smilingly regarding the featureless and quixotic floating puzzle of my life's Y2(K)-landscape. Just back from the swimmy fantasies of New Year's Bisco-Run in Philly, things looked set. Then, I'd wait for the potential job to come, get the job, start working the job, let the job run its course.

Depending on how much it sucked or didn't suck...I could be there forever. Sounds good, right? RIGHT?!

I quit my job at Columbia University for a reason. Granted, it was the best not-so-bad job a freshly graduated, double-major dudette could find. But, though not piquantly or exquisitely, it sucked. Why? I'll tell ya: my hands were gonna fall off. Imagine lifting somewhere in the neighborhood of 35,000 new books since I began working there (no the money was not good enough for me to be busting my ass joylessly, like I had been for three years. After living in the big city by tooth and nail, you eventually get to really thinking about your parents, and the goddamned so-called "work ethic." You realize that, yeah, money ain't a thing...but then you look in your wallet. Even tumbleweeds, you decide, might be welcome there.

Don't get me wrong; I'm all for a well-placed day of toil when the returns are commensurate with that which has been expended, eg. money for work one deems fulfilling, wholesome, spiritually on-point and non-draining. However, when I've put a microscope down to the edge of almost every pursuable pursuit which falls under the definition "work" in our modern world, about 80% of it seems like it could (and surely would) potentially suck. For whatever reason, many of the things in today's world which could constitute "work" happen to suck.

In quitting my nine-to-five job one day, due to the nebulous urging from a moving literary source, I discovered, finally, that my life was really up to me, and although I've currently got fifty cents in my wallet, I will always remember that. I knew when I strolled onto Broadway, out the ivied walls and marble gates, I was leaving to re-enter the streets I'd known as a child: huge, glassy, bright and somewhat inaccessible, even suddenly, in moments, to well-steeped natives. I was about to be tossed on the seas of unsureness, and would surely get pushed around by the repressed mountain of fear and shaky self-esteem, which was doubtlessly bound to rise up in such a freaky situation. When it came right down to it, though, I didn't think twice. Something was telling me simply to jump towards the choppy tides like a nude Mexican cliff-diver, to close my eyes and just feel the torrid, harrowed scrape of "not knowing" against my naked flanks.

I recovered fairly quickly from missing one rather choice job opportunity at the Fashion Institute of Technology. Apparently, the potential employers at the new library could sense the fickle fire and Harry Houdini escapism of a creative soldier of fortune, in the darkness of my innocently blinking eyes. I'm writing now from the coat-check in the basement of Wetlands Preserve, New York's self-proclaimed "Most Jumpin' Joint." For the past two weeks, I've been employed here, the place which I've jokingly called "My Other Living Room" for years.

Generally, by some series of miracles, I've been set to tread the borderlands between three exceptional examples of "Jobs That Don't Suck." Each day, adjusting hours and awaiting direction, I've tip-toed along the colorful fringes of these establishments, with as graceful a dance as I can manage. Simply seeing shows and rabidly thirsting after the ecstatic vibrations of tones in my ear-hole over the years, I've found myself knowing some pretty interesting and cool folks. Something about power has always fascinated me, but in this case, I've been drawn into a web of some of the kinder folks in the business which, happily, doesn't suck at all.

I met Jake Szufnarowski in mid-December, standing outside on a chilly night on the portico outside Wetlands' main entrance. Aware that there was a new man on the case in Chris Zahn's shoes, I wasn't sure who exactly was doing the booking for my favorite NYC place-to-be. (Wetlands' old talent-buyer Zahn had left at summer's end, to become the eagle-eyed and wily manager of The Disco Biscuits.) Soon after, a slew of excellent shows appeared, as Jake began to hone his particular vision of what Wetlands should sound like from night to night, on the cusp of Year Zero-Zero.

On December 16, 1999, an incredible photosonic improv threesome from Toronto called the New Deal were unleashing their first headliner in the Big Room (as opposed to Wetlands' own Lounge, the metal-ceilinged hotbox of legend, beneath the streets and planks). Baltimore's opaquely shined, ton-heavy Lake Trout were supporting on the main stage, but not "supporting" as such, in Jake's genius stroke of "interlocking sets." Band #1 plays the last song of their set, as Band #2 takes the stage, with members of each switching instruments till Band #1 has become Band #2. Repeat twice, and you have four (or more) full hours of completely engaging improvised tonal glory.

From the turnout of that evening alone, I figured Jake knew what was up. I later discovered that he's been working at Wetlands for centuries or something, drooging his way through, working the door, kinda like I am now. Even coat check, for me, emphasizes a certain honor, since I can sit here (it's a gorgeous 45 degrees out tonight, despite February), listening to the choice organ grinds of the first of two bands on the bill tonight, NYC natives The Mighty Imperials. Headlining tonight, with costumery, funk and N'awlins hot zydeco-stompin', are Wild Magnolias (that's New Orleans, to you!).

Because Jake Szufnarowski is a cool, helpful guy, warm-hearted, down-to-earth with an eye for connections, I'm sitting here right now, rocking on my stool and goosing to flat, snappy snares and watching people's light-colored clothing day-glowing in the psychedelic corridor before me. Things are beginning to heat up, and it seems a rowdy crew of wasted Tulane alumni have overtaken the club, with coats in tow. Everybody wins yet again.

Long before we took off to hit the asphalt for a road spill with those pesky Disco Biscuits, I also had a few Wetlands fly-bys with the ever-witty and benignly deadpan scene doyenne, Tara Doran. Tara and I officially met in a New Jersey Transit bus en route to our buddy Tom's house in Fair Lawn, NJ, heading in to take off for State College, PA, grabbing at one in a mad slew of East Coast Biscuits shows last September. Before that, she was another of the ubiquitous and familiar-seeming faces backstage at last summer's Gathering of the Vibes, baking in the heat and diggin' the atmosphere.

We became fast friends, trading stories on tour whilst truckin' and nearing sleep on unfamiliar surfaces, and later reconnoitered beside the Wetlands Bus (the real-life Volkswagen van parked in the main space of the club) over the months at various shows. Somewhere between Fall Biscuits tour and this moment, Tara also took on the role of Office Manager in the upbeat HQ of New York City's Phoenix Media Group, also the home of Phoenix Rising, the record label under whose umbrella have gathered such hot acts as Foxtrot Zulu, The Big Wu, and local legends like The Dude of Life.

Tara, knowing I was adrift on the brackish ocean of the Unemployed, invited me into Phoenix's mellow Chelsea offices a few days last week, so I could see what the place was all about, and maybe lend a hand, pursuant to perhaps doing some part-time work there. Not surprisingly, I found yet more familiar faces, such as Eric Bernstein, The Disco Biscuits' head road scoundrel. He moonlights as Phoenix's resident systems operator and all-around computer mensch. Jonathan Schwartz, the label's Publicity pundit, and I recalled one another immediately, yet another perennial Wetlands denizen to bump into in the mix.

Although not my boss, as such, Tara basically tells me what to do at Phoenix. Like the green Buddhist goddess of the same name, she points to the directions in which I can be most helpful. Since I'm broke, and refuse to resort to traditional, grey corporate temp-life, I'm pretty much at the mercy of forces beyond my control, so I do what I'm told. Till I can afford to bitch and moan about it, I respect, for the most part, what folks are demanding of me. So far at Phoenix, I've reorganized the mailroom, participated in several stages of a large mailing of print newsletters of one of the label's bands, and learned how labels promote bands in various markets while they're on tour. You know, all the stuff bands get signed in order to have access to. Behind-the-scenes stuff is weird. But I guess, in order to hear something from the stage, it all has to go down.

During that same Disco Biscuits Fall Run on which Tara and I skulked grinningly through the corridors of tour randomness and gaiety, I sought the golden grail of granola journalism. Musico-literary urges drove me from the Iron Horse Music Hall in Northampton, MA, when I first broached the idea of an interview with the band, till Pittsburgh, PA five days later, when I finally got to sit and chat in a cinder-blocky basement backstage. The charge was laid upon me by Richard Gehr, my writerly pal and parter-in-crimes-of-the-scribes, who contacted the woman who is now my third boss in this zany worldwind of breezes under they rhythms.

Shirley Halperin was nearing her exit from Rutgers University in the mid-1990s, when she and her then-roommate, another New Jersey native, Joe D'Angelo, decided to start a rock 'n' roll magazine called SMUG. From that came an entirely self-generated publishing entity known as Slanted Publications. The current offices of Slanted have evolved and tumbled since then, into a snugly nestled loft space in an old TriBeCa building in Lower Manhattan, upon the grey shores of the Hudson, overlooking old NJ state.

Shirley is a sweet-faced, sharp-minded twentysomething idealist; a hardcore Phishhead from the way-backs, she befriended the band on tour in the early '90s, and consequently maintains friendly contact with the Organization. She splits her time between the spiky-yet-softly-lit office space, Upper Manhattan, and said hip Northampton, MA. Last year, when Richard Gehr got word of Shirley's idea to launch a new magazine called HEADS, chronicling our hybridized supercommunity, consisting of improvisational currents and the human energy they attract and stir in the hearts of many. I e-mailed Shirley once asking about part-time work, a month before I quit my job. She said there was nothing then. She e-mailed me back with a lead the day the FIT job fell through. Some call it "kismet"...

Now, as a result of chasing The Disco Biscuits for a feature in that yet-to-be-released new print mag, I've found myself hurtling through space in the Rickshaw of Invention, a bumpy, person-pulled transport wigg-out of epic proportions, bouncing between sonic swirls, words upon words and new worlds and faces, smiling, holding my heart in my hands, and wagging my head with gleeful unknowing, straight into the future.

Issue #1 of HEADS hits newsstands on June 6, 2000. The Big Wu are on tour. Tomorrow, I work the coat-check again, in support of Black Lily (the groove-hop compilation band sponsored by master-blasters, The Roots). Lance the security guard (who slouches in order to be humble about his massive, bruiser-ish frame: "It's all in how you carry it," he shrugged) will, perhaps, stop in for a second to give me a necessary neck massage. I will make a few bucks, but thank goodness I'm not working tonight, for Kimock's second Wetlands night (with Uncle Sammy supporting in the lounge).

Right now, though, I'm in my apartment, after mellow swaggerings around the Wetlands last night, attempting (mostly unsuccessfully) to squeeze my way through the capacity crowd there to witness some aerodynamic, shuffle-funk slide ergonomics with Steve Kimock and his excellent band (including an almost 2/3 Hot Tuna onstage reunion). I'm heading off the futon soon to take a hypershower...then head out to a cheap studio to jam out again with a bunch of my musical friends.

In a jam last month, with assistance, I managed to orchestrate the Best Jam Ever, rallying the forces of one Marc Brownstein, who had announced his split from the still-extant Biscuits, to pursue other musical avenues on January 11th. In an atmosphere of devastation, Jake and I combined vision and sentiment to bring old Brownie, and some NYC area heads, out of the windward doldrums of sudden change. Marc proceeded to inspire the hell out of a pack of 30 Bisco freaks, not to mention himself, as it turns out. Brownstein's side project, The Maui Project, hits the main stage at Wetlands, on his birthday, this April 8th. They're a superband with a superbassist, other big supports (twitter: Uncle Sammy!) and joyous new deals and surprises. His old band, The (newly revised) Disco Biscuits, will soon smoke the same stage, as they've been known to do. The remaining members, Jon Gutwillig (axez), Aron Magner (keyz) and Sam Altman (skinz), are currently re-organizing, influxin' around, and still tending towards reinventing the wheel. They will re-emerge from the hills of Philly and head towards the Holland Tunnel, this coming March 11th.

I've got skyscrapers, I've got symbols. Living just enough to make some noise may have to be enough for a city this loud.