The Tris McCall Report
May 31, 2004
On Memorial Day, one thing we might soon be having to remember fondly is Uncle Joe's.
There's no need for alarm, necessarily. But reliable sources on the street say that the rock club has been sold to Greentree Construction for 1.6 million dollars. If you haven't been following the minutia of the Powerhouse Arts District closely, you probably wouldn't know that Greentree is also the developer at 140 Bay Street. 140 Bay was promised as artist's housing, but the prices for condominiums there start at $399K for one bedroom and one bath. That's not "artist's rate", for sure. Unless the city and/or the developer has a plan to reserve some of those units for low-income residents -- and nobody is sure if they do -- it's safe to say that the only artists living in that building will be hobbyists or celebrities.
1.6 million dollars is not a lot by development standards, but it's nobody's chump change, either. If Greentree really has bought Uncle Joe's, it's anybody's guess what they'll want to do with the building. But it's a safe bet they won't want to leave it alone. More details as I get them, folks.
May 27, 2004
I think a few people read yesterday's posting and thought I was endorsing Sandy Cunningham for mayor. I don't know much of anything about Sandy Cunningham: I heard her speak once at the Hyatt on the waterfront during the inagural meeting of the Council on Arts and Tourism. To go from that brief encounter to a full endorsement isn't something I'd do under any circumstances, let alone ones as awkward as these.
What I meant was that I would expect Sandy Cunningham to stand for mayor, and I'd expect her to be a formidable, if not unbeatable, candidate if she does. This expectation of mine comes from left field, but it's a left field where the grass of prior political happenstance grows deep and green. The wives of beloved politicians who die suddenly can be awfully tough to beat -- they've got a sympathy card to play that instantly wins them the respect of the community. And for those seeking administrative continuity (and to that number, we can probably add most of the current top-level city employees), you can't do better than passing the baton to the second member of the first family.
My friends in Missouri, of whom I have none, would be quick to remind us that had Senator Carnahan not been nominated to fill the Senate line held by her deceased husband, the Democratic Party would have lost that seat. Jean Carnahan wasn't a dynamic speaker, a charismatic presence, or -- to be blunt -- a decent candidate, but the grieving public likes to reward a suffering family. It's hard to vote against a widow. From my brief exposure to Sandy Cunningham, it's pretty clear that she is a pretty good speaker, she does have some charisma, and she would be a very articulate and persuasive candidate. All machinations aside, if she throws her hat in the ring, I don't see any of the other contenders being able to mount an effective challenge.
Last night, a few people assured me that Cunningham II could never happen. That just made me more sanguine about its chances. I wouldn't bet against it, and neither, it seems, would the Jersey Journal. In a typically vague article ("immense reversal of fortune for SOME within the administration.... immense pressure by SOME within Cunningham's inner circle..."), the Journal reveals that there have indeed already been attempts to draft Sandy Cunningham to fill her husband's place. They'll just escalate from here.
May 26, 2004
There are more cars in the City Hall lot than I've ever seen. They park on the grass between the tarmac and Marin, they overflow the auxiliary lot across Montgomery Street. That's one hell of a crowd inside the old building today; folks paying respects, or maybe jockeying for position, giving tributes with long knives drawn. If you are a Jersey City politician, I can't imagine you'd want to be anyplace else.
The news vans line Grove Street. I can see the NBC peacock perched next to the Channel 12 truck. This doesn't happen for your average water main break. In front of the City Hall steps, a crowd has gathered; mostly African-American, they look up at the big doors and columns in anticipation. Are people waiting for some kind of an address? Is there going to be one? Most of the news reports today have been unhelpful. The Jersey Journal's website links to the a dispassionate, bare-bones Associated Press piece, and encourages readers to vent frustration in the forums. As of five PM, the Reporter still leads with a story about road repairs. Suddenly without a head, Jersey City finds itself, perhaps unsurprisingly, also without a voice.
Purple ribbons have been tied around the trees surrounding the City Hall commons, and a crane from the Department of Cultural Affairs adorns the front facade with bunting. Flags fly at half-mast. A reporter, windbreaker fluttering in the unseasonable chill and wind, straggles aimlessly along Montgomery Street. He's looking for somebody. So is a middle-aged woman, walking toward City Hall and dabbing her eyes with kleenex. I can't tell if she's mourning Mayor Cunningham, or if she's just fighting off allergies.
On the west side of Grove, across from Holidays and the Merchant, municipal employees scrape the political posters off of lampposts. They'd been wheat-pasted on there by the Hudson County Democratic Organization -- about a week and a half ago, their menacingly effective fliering teams came down in the night and threw bright red Menendez posters all over the block. They were there to say a loud good morning to Mayor Cunningham; a retaliation of sorts for the Mayor's impish endorsement of featherweight congressional challenger Steven Fulop. This was more angling and infighting in a three-year battle between these two mammoth figures in Hudson County politics -- two self-made men, both party faithful, ever at odds.
Today, one of those figures is gone. We don't know how Jersey City is going to roll with this punch. We do know it's a haymaker that none of us who are active in the community were ready for. There will be prognostications over the next few weeks or so, but nobody will know for sure until a special general election in November settles the issue. Even those addicted to political theatre, and the thrill of combatants in the public sphere, have to feel pangs of remorse: it wasn't supposed to end this way. Maybe those scraping down the posters are Cunningham's men, removing the name of the late mayor's political opponent in a show of solemnity. Maybe they're Menendez's guys: now is no time to run the risk of appearing to be in bad taste.
I've been asked to speculate on where we go from here. I can't; I don't know enough. The rumors on the message boards say the City Council meeting set tonight has been cancelled. Maybe L. Harvey Smith will be every bit as solid and dependable as Glenn Cunningham was. Maybe Bret Schundler will see this as further encouragement to try to reclaim City Hall. Maybe Menendez will look to put his stamp on the one municipal government in Hudson County that he's never been able to dominate. But if I had to guess, right now, I'd say this -- I've been watching politics my whole life, and it wouldn't surprise me a bit if the last name on the local posters didn't change. Come Christmas, we might all be talking about Mayor Sandy Cunningham.
May 25, 2004
Mayor Cunningham died last night, at the age of 60. Harvey Smith, who I know nothing about besides his title as City Council president, will be acting Jersey City mayor until the council picks somebody new.
I don't know what this will mean for the city. I don't even know whether any of the people associated with the Cunningham administration will keep their jobs. For now, I just feel terrible for the Cunningham family, and their friends. To say this was unexpected is a massive understatement.
To recap briefly for those who don't know, Cunningham was elected mayor in 2001. He beat Tom DeGise, a politician from the Heights, who had the lukewarm support of the Hudson County Democratic machine. He became the first African-American mayor in the history of Jersey City, and he appointed other African-American community leaders to important government positions. In tone and composition, his administration couldn't have been more different than that of his predecessor, Bret Schundler -- a Wall Street expat who seemed intent, for better and for worse, on transforming Jersey City into an extention of lower Manhattan.
The Cunningham Administration was poised to be pivotal. Because of the untimely death of the mayor, it'll be remembered instead as transitional. We will recall:
The opening of the new Medical Center here on Grand Street, and the decision to allow the old Montgomery Center to slip into obsolescence or condominium-hood, whichever comes first,
The ULI report and the Powerhouse Arts District initiative, and the controversy that ensued over it,
The fight over whether or not the Friends of the Loews could obtain the lease to the building they were renovating so assiduously,
The raising of the Goldman Sachs tower, and further expansion along the waterfront,
Ceaseless fighting between this Jersey City administration and the county Democratic organization headed by Rep. Robert Menendez,
Establishment of a Council of Arts and Tourism, headed by his wife, Sandy.
He was, in many regards, such a solid figure -- so genial, and easy-going -- that this news is almost impossible to digest. It seemed like he'd be in Hudson County forever, in one capacity or another, and that he was just settling in to what would surely be a long run at the helm of Jersey City. I think we're all in a little bit of shock this morning.
May 22, 2004
Gallery 58 (58 Coles Street) is smaller and nicer than I thought it would be. Just last week, I'd watched Scott Sjobakken's art projected on slides at the Museum, and I've seen the posters publicizing his exhibition here plastered all over town: the gas masked toy soldiers and their big guns. Jeez, another excellent and inexhaustible posterer. Is there a course you can take on that?
Anyway, while at the museum, Hilary, who is sharper-eyed than I am, said she'd seen Sjobakken's work before. She thought she remembered his pencil sketches of garbage bags from the walls of 27d, the local housewares store that closed (regrettably) after Christmas. Yet she wasn't sure until we got an e-mail from Amy Blair, former 27d employee, publicizing the show. Well, that makes sense -- Blair was responsible for those ridiculously comprehensive 27d postering campaigns. See, hang around Newark Avenue long enough, and it will all start to add up.
Red letters on the plate glass, red brick behind the doors, and high white walls featuring Sjobakken's work. The trash bag series is on the north face, the detailed paintings of Star Wars action figures and plastic, heavily-armed soldiers is on the south. There aren't too many people here yet -- it's only seven o'clock, and we're early to the party as usual. It'll fill up fast, I'm sure. This is the first event and exhibition of the year at Gallery 58, and they're going to keep the party going until ten PM, when everything moves over to L.I.T.M.
Gallery 58 is to the Jersey City Museum as Pete's Candy Store is to Northsix: much smaller, more intimate, less professional, better integrated into the neighborhood. The front room of the exhibition space isn't much bigger than a standard living room. This isn't an institution, this is somebody's home. A faux-curtain made of strips of plastic divides the front of the gallery from another room. We push through it. In the back, a deejay is playing nu-metal at earsplitting volume. There's a refreshment table covered with wine, snacks, and see-through plastic fliers for Hudson County Art Supply. Next to the concession, a clothing rack sells Sjobakken shirts displaying silk-screened Hefty bags. Andy Warhol, or perhaps Ron English, would be proud.
This room is part of the Sjobakken exhibition, too. The north half of the chamber has been transformed to resemble the interior of a gigantic trash bag. Translucent plastic lines the walls, and empty Stella Artois boxes, crumpled papers, styrofoam cups, and a beat-up but beautiful old filing cabinet are strewn all over the floor. A video projector mounted on the ceiling casts an image of a baby onto a white sheet in the center of the arrangement. Just like Shandor Hassan's exhibit during Mayday, people aren't sure whether to step into the art, or respect the invisible wall.
"Just throw your cups on the floor", says our new pal Hala of Hala Twentieth Century Fashion (326 5th Street), helpfully. She's hosting, circulating, trying to make everybody feel at home. She asks me about the magazine, and I don't really know what to say; I'm not sure when it's coming out, and I don't like being so nebulous about it. I hem and haw nervously. Thankfully, she's a little more gracious -- she makes a joke about "Another PSA" being an appropriate song for the event, you know, what with all the garbage bags and everything. Ha, a little Tris McCall humor. I don't tell her about the song I did about the baby discovered in the trash; that was a long time ago, she won't know that one.
The main exhibition space is filling up. It's hot in here -- what's it going to be like by ten at night? I notice the Sjobakken sculptures: an "angel chair" with a picture of a distressed baby on the cushion, a cuckoo clock filled with munitions and a scythe swinging where the pendulum should be. Imperial stormtroopers, impassive and menacing in their white suits, stare down from the walls. A series of four pencil sketches of cigarette butts are scrunched into the corner. A pope poses ostentatiously, arms stretched; next to him, Darth Vader mimics his posture. Which is an action figure, and which is animated? Waste, disposability, plastic surfaces, mortality, the amusement of violence, Sjobakken covers all bases in a few canvasses.
I'm impressed by the coherence of the event. Hala and Amy pass around chocolate guns on hors d'ouvres trays; they've got big smiles to go with their candy weapons. They're making sure nobody leaves without getting the point. I admire that. Daniel Hyland, former partner in 27d, is here, too; he's kibbitzing with other small-business owners from Antheia and Hudson County Art Supply. Hey, I'm just happy he didn't jump town. We've got our own off-the-wall chamber of commerce going here; all we need is Carla from Balance Salon and Jelynne from L.I.T.M., and we could have a hell of a meeting. Well, I'm sure Carla will be by later, and this crew will be swinging over to 140 Newark before too long.
Not me, though, I don't do afterparties. Back out on Coles Street, the corner bar has gas lamps burning. There's a hipster crowd out on the street; girls in spring dresses and guys with t-shirts and sandals, talking on cellular phones. No amusement park to rise cold and stark, but Latin music spills out of doorways and restaurants. It occurs to me while walking that tonight's installation, enlightening though it was, was probably the least ethnically-integrated event I've yet attended in Jersey City. Probably coincidental, and no reflection on Gallery 58 or Scott Sjobakken, but this was the closest thing to Williamsburg '01 we've seen around here.
Just west of Grove, Mercer Street is a high-rent district; elegant brownstones peering out between the canopy of trees. Classy Marco & Pepe now has competition a block away -- in the space that used to be the J.C. Winston's, a copycat restaurant called Mercer & Barrow has set up. Hmm, the pizzas (or crostinis, as they're calling them) look pretty good. Nobody's inside tonight, but the outdoor bar is crammed: next door, at 68 Mercer, a new vintage clothing store is having a grand opening event.
We swing inside. The storefront isn't big, but it's vibrant enough: wood floors, huge glass-paneled windows, a well-dressed and well-heeled clientele washing Carr's water crackers and brie down with white wine. I remember performing in this space years ago, and later watching Ron English paint a naked woman while Dan Koncelik of the Fixations played "Fur Elise" on a nylon-stringed guitar. That was a tripped-out art event, and in keeping with the usual Jersey City continuity, there's at least one tripped-out artist here tonight: Kevin Spyker, frequent Waterbug compadre, mans the CD player and spins DeeeLite remixes.
The clothing has been hung chromatically: the reds are to the right, the blues straight ahead, the men's patterned shirts hanging over in a corner. I pick up a postcard on the counter. It's for Nyugen's orc collection, which I saw on slides at the Museum immediately following Sjobakken's display. He's a Waterbug poet, too. Small downtown, small businesses; tight we are, quick with associations. One goes under, another opens up; an artist becomes an enrepreneur as entrepreneurs strain for artistry.
Out into the night, we cross Grove, back in the direction of Paulus Hook. In the courtyard in front of City Hall, a man in a bowtie curses into a cellphone. Mist from the Hudson crawls up Montgomery Street, reaching over parked cars and rooftops, curbsides and nightcrawlers. It mutes us, in this quiet dark; it splays the streetlights, diffusing their glow into a wet watercolor yellow.
May 19, 200
just like tom kean's blues.
they don't need no welfare state in livingston everybody builds their bod everybody pulls their quad but the hour is getting late in livingston better spare the child than spoil the rod tried to raise the big tent here in jungleland someone left the cake out for the flies i have no regrets about the bungled plan this gentle nudging left us polarized i've been lost in the shopping mall i've been counting the cost i got my disinvitation card i had it embossed when the grass is green in summer highland park it's hot enough to dry the hackensack i can't play both sides like some long island shark the die is cast i won't be coming back i rise above adversity hey guys why couldn't you high rise drew university someone's gotta get screwed i been lost in the shopping mall i got rolled in the hay i'm tired so tired of fighting sir shut up and do as i say.
May 18, 2004
It's come to my attention that some people actually go out of their way to visit the Jersey City places I talk up on this site. Let me give you guys another to visit: the Antheia Flower Shop at 218 Montgomery Street, right off of Grove. It's probably not accurate to call it a flower shop; they mostly sell arrangements. But the flowers they do have are beautiful, and the shop is, too. I can't even imagine a store more appropriate to the middle of May. Check it out.
May 14, 2004
Three links worth checking out:
Charles Chamot's art 365 project: a free piece of digital art sent to your inbox every day.
Elisabeth Ssenjovu has been a hell of a warrior for Newark culture. She used to book local acts into the PAC. I don't know if she's still doing that. Even if she doesn't, she still knows she has the best last name in the galaxy. Anyway, lately she's been sending around an e-mail schedule of Newark events. It's exactly the sort of thing we ought to be doing in Jersey City. If you want on the list, get to her through NewarkArts, or write directly at events@newarkarts.com.
Shootout was featured yesterday at Splendid. I should stop being a dumbass, and put all of these nice press notices in one central location. That way, the uninitiated can be really, really impressed with me.
May 13, 2004
So that was a very mean review yesterday. Since I rarely ever write mean reviews, I know it was jarring for people to read it. I am sure the artist, when she comes upon it, will think I am a shithead who missed all of her points. But in the same way I write about the inspiration I feel when I hear something like Scenes From The Interior, I felt I had to explore the deep revulsion You Call That Dark was generating in me. It's so rare that I hate an album that when I do, I know there's something very powerful working there. And the more I listened to You Call That Dark, the more annoyed and angry I was getting. That's a rare reaction from me: usually I will warm to any perspective and any voice after a few passes.
Okay, enough about that. Let's round up two other things:
- I left copies of Jersey Beat at the Ground and Subia Cafe on Jersey Avenue. If you're hanging there, and looking for something to read, it's better than the New York magazines. I tried to drop copies off at Holidays and the Comfort Bistro, but both were closed. Hell, even the Subway sandwich restaurant by the PATH train is undergoing renovations. Jersey City -- you never know if it's open for business or not. Anyway, if you want a copy of Jersey Beat for your public foyer, let me know, and I'll drop one off for you. This issue of Jersey Beat, incidentally, features a glowing review of You Call That Dark, written by Jim himself.
- Our projected release date for our magazine has been pushed back until the first week of June. I'm starting to feel like my own unpublished article about rock options in Jersey City is getting out of date: Shaun Towey, for instance, no longer books at Uncle Joes, and the hugely successful music events at 111 First Street on Mayday probably merit a mention. Well, maybe I'll write an addendum and post it here.
May 12, 2004
This one got a little out of the usual boundaries of Friends & Neighbors (read: it got sociopolitical), so I decided to run in on the TMR instead:
Artist: Kate Jacobs
Title: You Call That Dark
From: Hoboken. Kate Jacobs has been in and around the Mile Square City for years. I don't know if there's any farm experience in her background, but she's been a Jersey city resident long enough that I'm suspicious of some of the sentiments articulated on this album, many of which could easily have come from the office of Senator Chuck Grassley (R-IA).
Format: Full-length LP. Thirteen tracks in forty-one minutes. It blows by quickly.
Fidelity: Typical WFUV quality. There's something cold and digital-sounding around the edges of You Call That Dark, but it's probably just an accident of the mastering. It's hard to imagine the author of "Tall Buildings" -- someone who'd sing a line like "sometimes a whole life is lived on just one farm" without a trace of derision -- going down to anything but two-inch tape.
Genre: Very traditional singer-songwriter. Jacobs leans toward country music at times, and a few members of the crew I associate with Laura Cantrell (John Graboff, Mary Lee Kortes) are on hand. But this isn't a country record.
Arrangements: Acoustic guitar, piano, electric bass on most songs, drums (sometimes brushed), traditional instrumentation like dobro and mandolin, but not as much of it as you'd expect. You Call That Dark gets very tender and stark in places, and surprisingly raucous in others, and it's at these extremes where it's most successful. The piano-and-voice "Helen Has A House" hits with great integrity, and "God Bless Ione", a rocker complete with huge cymbal crashes, is energetic and engaging. It's when Jacobs settles into the middlebrow comfort of typical singer-songwriter arrangements -- as she does too often -- that You Call That Dark bogs down.
What's this record about?: I could write a book. So could Jacobs. As a matter of fact, she probably has; somebody has to crank out those bestsellers about farm foreclosures and small rural lives spent in quiet desperation, and Jacobs is nothing if not an effective essayist. Her characters here spend long nights and have sad goodbyes, they walk in fear across green grass, they have to sell their livelihood and that means no more apples for the villagers, and look over there, they're putting up a condo complex down by the riverside that used to be pristine before the suits ruined it all. Everything on You Call That Dark is old and fragile, brittle like a New England winter -- Helen's china came from her great-grandmother and the barn is falling down, the backwoodsmen keep all of their busted autos in the field, and the old man better pass on the knowledge of the plants to the kids before he kicks the bucket. I'm being crude. But I can't help it, I'm tired of humoring these arguments and archetypes, the whole rural-hardschip schtick. Four years ago, if I were to have written this review, it would have been totally different: we were coming off two presidential terms of rampant urban growth under a national administration that, to be fair, gave the New York metro area every advantage. In the late nineties, I was arguing that we have to take rural concerns seriously, because what if that other half of the nation assumed power? If we weren't listening to them, would they ever listen to us? Well, we found out, and it's been uglier than I could have even imagined. I cannot imagine Kate Jacobs is a Republican -- all of her songs solicit identification for the poor farmers and country-dwellers displaced by urban growth. But in 2004, this isn't a class war we're having. We're having a national dispute about our culture, and whether a bunch of dudes from the farm get to set the American agenda. New Jersey is the occupied territory -- you have to drive an hour from Washington Street to pick berries. C'mon Hoboken, let's show a little pride here. Okay, end of screed: Jacobs is a skilled writer. I just wish she was on our side.
The singer: Jacobs has a little of Emmylou Harris's thin scrawl, but she's nowhere near as expansive. At times, she can sound treacly, precious; this can be a problem when the subject matter is intentionally sentimental. The production exacerbates the situation: Jacobs' voice is so foregrounded that there's no escaping every resigned sigh and wistful inflection. If somebody is going to sing something like "a field, an orchard, and a barn/a hundred year old apple farm" without a trace of irony, you really do want it pushed back a bit in the mix. Otherwise, we really are on The Waltons. Part of the reason that "God Bless Ione" is the best track here (if not the best) is because the cymbal washes pinch Jacobs' voice and render it less inflective. She can still sound overly cutesy -- check out the read on "de Tocqueville", for instance -- but pushed back a little into the tapestry of sound, her heartstring-tugging isn't quite so oppressive.
The band: They settle too readily into an adult-contemporary groove, but at times, the performances are impeccable. The lead guitar on "Lavender Line" is as aching as anything on When The Roses Bloom Again, and Joe Ruddick's piano part on "Helen Has A House" matches the song's proper, quiet intensity perfectly.
The songs: You Call That Dark is divided between songs boasting mild but clear melodic inventiveness, and others with tunes and chord progressions that you'll feel you you've heard a thousand times. I'm no stickler for originality, but Jacobs pushes the envelope for acceptable reiteration on "Pete's Gonna Sell", "Your Big Sister", and "Tall Buildings". It's not that the melodies seem so threadbare, it's that the original sources were so... treacly, yes, that's the only word for it. When Jacobs is willing to play around a little, it almost always bears fruit. The rephrased and almost circular verse melody of "Helen Has A House" moves into a gospel-influenced release; the quick cascading changes on "God Bless Ione" rush dizzily by in a helium high. Elsewhere, Jacobs likes to play with the chromatic scale, and her group has an ear for rich harmony. She's at her best when she drives herself to come up with something fresh, and her musicians are more than capable of rewarding her innovation.
What differentiates this record from others in its genre? Kate Jacobs named this album You Call That Dark, and didn't give us a definitive answer about how to phrase that aloud. But I think she wants the accent on the third word; i.e., Incubus, Limp Bizkit, you call that dark? Those songs about how your parents are mean to you, that's as evil as you losers get? Jacobs has no time for minor league pop-out horror. Her great skill is channeling some of that rural New England fatalism -- a fatalism that looks creepier than death -- into the pop song form. And it's not only the crypto-euthanasia anthem "What A World, What A God" that features the bony hand of imminent oblivion: song after song, Jacobs' narrator tells her subjects of their insignificance, irrelevance, and obsolescense, as persuasively as any devil. "You are small", she sings, "tend your garden". In "Your Big Sister", she gently offers "a little time in hell will help you grow". She doesn't say in which direction. Best of all, is "Let Dusty Be Your Guide", a crafty little wrist-slasher addressed to another woman: "Praying he's alone is fantasy/there's someone else, they're having fun/You're by yourself and she has won." Here's the punchline, the final bit of advice, and, in a sense, the thematic center of the album -- "just suffer hard as you can/then you'll be safe". Get Janis Ian on the phone!
What's not so good?: See "The singer". The uneven songwriting and arrangements wouldn't bother me so much if Jacobs wasn't so far up front with her bouquet of ideologies.
Recommended?: Kate Jacobs is a very literate and internally consistent writer. While she falls into rural-hardship cliche here and there, I won't deny her storytelling talent, nor her ability to be genuinely moving. But I have to be honest, here -- if I had protracted exposure to this album, it would probably annoy the hell out of me.
Where can I get a copy/hear more?: This album is available through Bar/None Records, which means it ought to be available at your local hipster record store. But if you're going to get it, I encourage you to come to Tunes in Hoboken -- where there will surely be copies -- and draw your own conclusions about the perniciousness of the "tall buildings by the river's edge". There's a pretty big ambient discourse right now about how Hoboken is no longer a cool place to be; how it was once an arts town but now it's all about yutzes with painter's caps and rapacious developers in suits. It's very possible to see You Call That Dark as an intervention in that debate, and, especially, to see "Tall Buildings" as the most concrete musical articulation of the local zero-growth position. I share some of the reservations, but I think Hoboken is getting a really bad rap lately. Every day, a new pseudo-artistic business opens up on Washington Street; a new band walks into the Guitar Bar and gets new axes for a new project. It is an arts town. There are still artists and musicians in these brownstones. And the persisting (and deserved) interest in Kate Jacobs music is further proof of this.
May 10, 2004
I have to make my first amendment to yesterday's post: the first issue of our magazine won't be out on the 21st. It'll be out at some point after that. Our turnaround time got a little too tight. That's the bad news. The good news is that it's basically finished -- all the articles are done -- and that all we have to do is figure out how to headline it, lay it out, and make it look sharp.
So yesterday I didn't do any work on the magazine at all. I saw most of the Yankees comeback against the Mariners, and I then watched the three-hour TV Survivor finale. I'm glad Amber Brkich won. Jeez, talk about a lazy evening. Okay, it's Monday, so it's right back to it....
In what must be the worst-kept secret in the galaxy, I'm part of a small team of writers and designers working on a Jersey City arts and culture magazine. I do this enthusiastically but warily -- I'm aware of the crying need for some actual reporting around here, but I also know that print publication is a brutal game. I'm announcing this now, because it looks very likely that the first issue (a prototype) should be out in a couple of weeks. I'm not sure what we're doing yet to commemorate the release, but I'm pretty sure whatever it is, it's happening at L.I.T.M.
We're calling the magazine Take, which was originally an inside joke between me and me (that's the name of the fictional free weekly in my '99 play Sharpening A Pen). But the rest of the staff liked it, so it stuck. I'm officially doing the music writing, but for the first issue, I also put together an introductory essay.
In the days running up to the magazine release, I'm going to keep posting my reflections here: it can be like one of those ESPN shows where you're taken "inside the huddle", or whatever. Today, the huddle isn't happening -- we were supposed to put together the final edit, but the magazine principal caught the flu. So I'm at home holding my ass, as they say in the journalism biz. My pieces feel finished to me, I'm a crappy editor, and I can barely design an easter egg. So though there'll be a million machinations between today and our projected May 21 release, in a sense, I'm sidelined by my own productivity. I've got nothing to do but wait 'til the thing comes out, and see what happens then.
May 8, 2004
The Jersey City Reporter cranked out their followup to their initial 111 story, distributed to our doorstep by their usual littering method. On the plus side, Kaulessar recaps the history of WALDO and the Powerhouse Arts District for people who don't already know. It's nothing you couldn't get off of the ProArts or 111 First websites, but it's nice to have it all in one place.
On the minus side: Kaulessar includes big quotes by a rep from Lloyd Goldman's office and Jersey City Economic Development Director Mark Munley, but hardly talks to any of the artists in the building. Bill Rodwell does get a one-line reference, and the article concludes with a quote by Kelly Darr. Still, it's hard to tell where the Reporter (or even just the reporter) stands. None of the District's open questions are answered or addressed -- nobody speculates about the future of 111 First, nor is there any meaningful discussion of 140 Bay Street or what the hell happened at 110. When not rehashing the chronology of the ordinances, we get lines like "the history of the arts community in Jersey City has its ups and downs". This controversy deserves some actual engagement and some real digging.
Mayday
It's hot out. I'm dragging down Warren Street in a blue shirt and tie and a leather carrying-case. Chris Butler once stopped me on the street in Hoboken and told me I was the only person he knew who looked like a hipster offstage and a businessman onstage. For most people, he said, it's the other way around.
I feel conspicuous today, but I don't think I'm going to have time to go home and change. It's only two in the afternoon, and I don't perform until ten o'clock, but I'm supposed to host the rock stage. I've also been trying to coordinate an equipment share, and, more importantly, figure out how we can get all of our drums and amplifiers up to the third floor of 111 First Street without breaking all the art in the process. Beyond that, I want to take my time wandering from studio to studio. There are so many artists whose faces I recognize from around town, but whose work I know nothing about. I must have seen and spoken to Barbara Landes ten or twelve times on the street, yet I don't even know if she's a painter or a sculptor.
On Warren, the kids are out in force. Laid-back, wearing scruff and sandals, Saturday-afternoon bleary but ready to go. Older people -- art appreciators, or just curiosity-seekers -- park on the Bay Street side, BMWs parallel parked next to beat-up Hondas with Social Distortion bumper stickers. "Where's the art?" asks a middle-aged and heavily made-up woman, peeling herself out of the passenger's seat of her expensive automobile. Well, it's inside, you have to go inside.
Chris "C-Fury" Banks, the local rapper whose New Beginning CD I reviewed on New Jersey Online, is waiting for me outside the main entrance. He's there with his wife Erica: they want to meet and say hi; they've already been inside the building and done the gallery tour. Not just Banks, I soon learn -- Senator Kenny came down at one o'clock, as did representatives from the mayor's office. Damn, the things you miss when you're trying to figure out whose drums you're using.
Banks is tremendously gracious. I invite him to the rock show, give him a copy of Shootout At The Sugar Factory. Behind us, somebody's cooking up empanadas, hot dogs are on the grill. The Jersey City Museum has set up a booth, too -- Angelina Ebreo is handing out copies of the Spring schedule. Hmm, there's an urban planning symposium scheduled for the weekend of the 15th. Now that's entertainment. In Hudson County, we don't play SimCity, we live it.
Up the steps to the second floor, past an audio installation (by Nicola Stemmer, I'd later find out) of 111 artists discussing their life's work, past the mailboxes and posterboard, past the vending machine with the anti-Bush stickers on it, past wide-eyed mothers with baby strollers wondering where to go. Hey, pick a door and open it. It's a choose-your-own-adventure story, just like life. Me, I'm turning the handle on the left.
The Ron English studio door is open. I knew English from my prologue period in Jersey City, all those years ago: the Fixations backed him at a few art performances, and I'm pretty sure they appeared on one of his "English 101" CDs of songs about, um, Ron English. He's one of the better-known artists in the building, since many of his media and pop-culture satires have gotten rightfully famous. I give English props for remaining overtly political, and the paintings on the walls of his studio broadcast reoccurring tropes of his in vibrant color: evil clowns, corporate logos, cigarette ads, Homer Simpson as Jackson Pollack. There'll be a screening of his movie later tonight in an adjacent gallery; sadly, I'm going to be hosting the rock and roll then. There's so much I'm going to have to miss, and I feel the press of it already. Couldn't they do this every day?
Bill Rodwell's studio is right next door. He's rearranged the white snapshot wall again -- his workspace is as always, bright, vibrant, and inviting. Bill is giving me a hard time about my outfit ("You look like a damn businessman!"), but I'm falling into the photography, reading the cracks between the shots as a rhythm, steady and expressive as a folk drummer. Rummaging through a stack of papers, he hands me a shot he took at my Uncle Joe's show on the 26th of March. I'm smiling self-consciously at my hands, but Robin, right behind me, points her stick at her hi-hat with single-minded determination. Some of us rock, and some of us "rock".
The halls are starting to get very crowded, and the smell of Indian curry (courtesy of Cafe Spice) is wafting down from the stairwell. They've set up shop on the third floor landing; see, even Newport is in on this. I stop at a door covered in posters in cyrillic writing. I know there's a big Russian contingent at 111 First -- Julia Vorontsova, for instance, has something or other to do with the building. Inside, Maria Doubrovskaia and Anthony Fatato are crouched over a large painting -- she's either trying to fit it into a frame, take it out, or move it somewhere. The landscapes on the walls, many in black and white, are reserved but energetic, detailed, animated. I know I don't have all day, but I'm still dallying; I want to take everything in. Doubrovskaia thinks I'm a visiting attorney; she tells me about the prices of the pieces. Hey, Maria, I'm as broke as you are. I have to get rid of this belt and tie, and rumple myself up a bit.
Trouble is, there's no good place to do it. I don't think people here would necessarily freak if they thought I was taking off my clothes, but that's not exactly the sort of attention I'm looking to draw. I slip into the courtyard. Marc Sloan is leading an ambient group with a bizarre-looking instrument of his own invention. Hey, holy crow, that's Brian Dewan on cart machine! I blab to a bemused couple hanging over the wrought-iron railing about the massive effect Dewan had on my own thinking and my own direction. "I came out of his show thinking: everything I'm doing is wrong". They nod blankly at the crazy man. God, I have turned into a techno-hippie -- must be all the direct sunlight.
Along with what seems to be a senior-citizen's bus troupe, I press into John Donovan's small but gorgeous studio. His huge paintings of geometric blocks of color make for arresting eye-candy when viewed individually; seen together, facing it on four walls, it approximates the sensory overload of a psychotropic experience. An orange-haired septuginarian to my right looks about ready to topple from dizziness. Have a seat, have a cookie, see?, he's left cookies out for us. Nothing halts an acid trip quicker than a nice cookie. At the back of the studio, whispered voices discuss the fate of the building. "We're taking it day by day", a frazzled-looking artist says absently. "Best of luck", answers a tall old man in a blue suit.
Back in the hall, sun streaming through the cracks in the huge split-panel windows, Jersey City Cultural Affairs czar Greg Brickey is leading another Cunningham operative around the building. He's just outside the door to the Andrzej Lech photography studio; inside, the still, mystery-shrouded black and white images of landscapes and lonely roads, adorn walls that are accustomed to hangings. "This is an amazing event", I offer, a little hysterically. Brickey concurs, and then disappears, flush with official capacity, into the large crowd examining the photographs.
Around every corner, a surprise. A man-sized sculpture, created entirely out of jellybeans, is fixed in motion outside the studio space earmarked for tonight's storytelling session. That's another thing I'm going to have to miss, unfortunately, but it doesn't mean I can't duck in right now. Waterbug regular Bex Goyette (whose Yummy Bunnies have adorned the walls of the Ground for most of the spring) sits on the sofa, eating and kibbitzing with other artists. There's a video installation projecting a man's face on a far wall, a reinterpretation of the Last Supper with pimps and hos replacing the disciples. Or maybe the disciples were pimps and hos.
I want to see Lisa Portnoff's studio -- I know she repairs subway mosaics, and I'm obsessed with trains, kilns, and little colored stones. Of course, I want to eat the stones as well as look at them, but let's put my own fixations aside for now. But Portnoff is coordinating the food concessions for the event, and when I get to her studio, the door is locked. A sign on the wall reads "This area reserved for the Waterbug Hotel". Ah, well, maybe she'll be back later. Norm Francoeur has transformed stretches of the third-floor hallways into a phantasmagoria of angled shafts of colored light -- illuminated by his box-sculptures, the twisting corridors feel like rabbit-holes, conduits to parallel universes. Norm's is the light by which we see Jersey City; if love is the message (and it is), it's one we read by his ingenious beacons.
I can hear the music playing. On the second floor, an old wood-shop has been converted into an acoustic soundstage; Julia Vorontsova and Kevin Spyker will be playing there later. From the courtyard, strains of wild jazz stream through the cracks in the windows. Distantly, I can hear Galway pipes and percussion -- is that a bodhran? Elizabeth Onorato has converted her studio into a performance space for an Irish traditional band. Her paintings are stark, rough, edgy; black and white scrawls coupled with explosions of color. She thanks me for all I've done for the Mayday event. All I've done; Elizabeth, are you kidding? I'm just honored to participate, and I hope I don't screw things up too badly.
Next door, Bruce Morozko is disputing a visitor's claim that trying to teach art in the public schools is a loser's game. His distinctive, disturbing humanoid sculptures are all over the room; they populate the space like silent, coolly evaluative visitors from a more imaginative planet. I take a card, sign the guestbook, and slip out. Turning the corner, I catch up to a crowd standing outside Shandor Hassan's studio door. There's a big "Keep Out" sign on the wall -- does he want us to stay away? Oh, no, no, that's just Shandor being Shandor: see, look at all the signs covering the sculptures, "wet paint", "keep off the grass". He's playing with the mechanics of written discourse and prohibition. I think. Two girls creep inside, careful not to touch anything. Shandor's amazing "wrecked barn" sculpture squats in the center of the room, mouth open like a hungry animal. At the back of the room, there's gorgeous photography of Jersey City -- shots of the elevated light rail, streaks of color vibrating like electric paint.
I'm not sure where Shandor is, but I know I need to find him: part of my objective here is to be sure the rock performance space is open, and there's an easy way to wheel equipment inside. I check the door of the room, and sure enough, it's locked. Errgh, what now? Might as well contintue the gallery tour. A precocious child ushers me inside Nancy Cohen's studio -- the artist's son, it turns out -- and I forget my concerns. Surrounded by fragile silver-white and grey sculptures, I'm as fascinated as I've been all day. Cohen is a glass wheelwright as well as a hammock-maker, and her wheels are meant to be brittle, precarious. Standing at dangerous angles are archways that look frighteningly like the detritus left standing after the collapse of the Twin Towers. The arches make noise, the son tells me; go, on, listen to them. I do. Sure enough, there's a poem trapped in there. Or coming from there. Or coming from elsewhere; huge, man-sized radio antennas picking up frequencies from past experiences.
Cohen excuses herself -- she leaves the gallery in the care of her son. I'm Lucky, he tells me. Hi, I'm Tris. He looks at me with great pity. No, no, my name isn't Lucky; I'm just lucky -- lucky that I get to see and touch these sculptures while they're being made. Well, of course you are, kid, I won't argue with you there. Following other children, I take the center staircase up to the top floor. They're headed for a printmaking workshop run by Nancy Wells. Her studio is beautiful: kids and grownups running around, rolling paint on styrofoam plates. I'd like to participate, but I'm already running out of time: I need to be at the freight elevator in an hour to unload my equipment for tonight. Again I wish this event could extend over several days: I feel like I'm not giving any of these artists the close attention they deserve.
Back out in the corridor, headed toward the light. A spacious gallery opens up on dimly lit photographs of naked bodies, arranged atop each other on beds. This is Riichi Yamaguchi's studio, and the contrast between the clean lines of the sunny space and the refracted, dim fluorescent light of the photographs is provocative. He is interested in the representation of alienation, but I find the photographs erotic despite the evident critique. I stand there wondering about the relationships of the people in the photographs: do they like each other? Do they like each other's bodies? Well, people with beautiful bodies are for photographing nude, and I'm for.... um... whatever it is that I'm good at. What's that again?
Oh, that's right, it's wandering into galleries. I take a turn into a small pink jewel-box. I don't know who the resident artist is, but she's definitely Russian. The paintings are bright, decorative, moving -- many are of human figures, bent or otherwise twisted, in amorous duress. All of the conversation in here is in Russian. I feel like a capitalist spy. Back out in the hall, I climb the final staircase to the gallery and studio shared by Barbara Landes and Paul Sullivan. Turns out Barbara is neither a painter nor a sculptor: she's a printmaker. Her prints hang on the walls of the space, arranged artfully, sun pouring in from top story windown to animate the colors. Sullivan shows me Barbara's printing presses. They're behemoths; they seem bigger than Barbara herself. I'm overwhelmed, as I always am, by the beauty and detail of these spaces, the available light, the chaos and warmth, the testament to human imagination inscribed into these walls, passageways, secret rooms, and chambers shaped by whispered charms.
Kelly Darr's studio is at the other end of the fifth floor. When I arrive, she's on roller-skates, greeting visitors by name and directing traffic. I want to stop and say hi to her, introduce myself -- but I'm running out of time. Down the steps I go, past the table display for Janam Tea, past the community gallery with its brochures for ProArts and the Conservancy, past the Chamot Gallery, elbowing past hipsters and grandmothers, baby strollers and boys with guitars. Yet I know I can't leave until I've seen Ed Fausty's studio -- his photographs moved me so much at the Museum that I wanted to see the actual digital prints. It's Fausty's photo that serves as the visual signature of the building at the 111 First website: his rooftop images communicate so much of the otherworldliness of the building. Which isn;t to say his photos are escapist or ephemeral: he never forgets to emphasize the industrial roots of the structure, and of the surrounding neighborhood. He's able to reflect back the magic and the terrestriality of the space.
My Mayday arts tour ends in Ed's studio. But for those still unaware of the importance and unique and indelible character of this building, the investigation begins here.
May 5, 2004
I got some interview questions about 111 First Street and WALDO in the mail today:
Q: What is your connection to WALDO?
TM: At the turn of the decade, I was living in Union City. I knew there existed something called WALDO in Jersey City, I just didn't know where it was. I asked Jersey City artists I knew, and they didn't know where it was. I did websearches and found nothing. There's a Waldo Street in Jersey City, up on the palisade, and I sorta figured that might have something to do with it.
By the time I moved to Jersey City in November '03, WALDO was lapsing, and the Powerhouse Arts District concept had taken its place. I got the Urban Land Institute report from the planning office.
Q: Do you live in the district?
TM: I don't. I live on Grand Street between Marin and Van Vorst. But since I've spent so much time at 111 First, I've become familiar with it.
Q: What do you know of the history of 111 First St. and 110?
TM: I know that New Gold Equities advertised it as an arts building fifteen years ago, and I know that many of the artists currently there have been at 111 for all fifteen years. I know the process of retrofitting and improving that building goes on daily -- and it's the artists themselves doing that work. I know that when they moved in, basic amenities like heat, running water, etc., were all serious issues. That was probably dealable -- it was probably community-building to have everybody pitching in to, say, fix the ceiling of a big gallery.
I've heard various things about 110. It was supposed to be arts studios, and then it wasn't. Nobody I speak to is really sure why the project stalled.
The thing to remember is that there was no WALDO or anything like it when the artists first moved into 111. WALDO and the Powerhouse were a civic recognition of an already extant condition -- there were artists in that building. City governments under Schundler and Cunningham saw 111 as a potential opportunity. "Well, we have artists in this space. What can we do with that? Can we spin it so we market Jersey City?" Really the same thing anybody would do if they were in municipal government.
But the government initiatives are fundamentally parasitic. I don't mean that pejoratively, I just mean it as a fact. WALDO and Powerhouse are arts districts to the extent that 111 First Street exists within the district. Take away 111 First, and you've got no district. Take away the district, and you still have 111 First Street. And it'd still be great.
Q: I am most interested in the zoning and land-use issues. What do you think of the city's ordinance?
TM: I think ordinances can be best judged by their results. If there's been no move to create an arts district beyond what the 111 artists have already created, well, then, it's fair to say the ordinances are toothless. If New Gold Equities succeeds in driving artists out of 111 First, then the ordinances aren't worth the paper they're printed on. In theory, the Powerhouse initiative looks pretty good. But really, I'm not sure we need a big overarching urban plan to make Jersey City an arts town. As anybody who spends a few days downtown can probably tell, Jersey City is an arts town. What we need is support from the city government for the artists that are already here. WALDO and the Powerhouse are roundabout ways of giving that support. My fear is that they aren't direct enough.
Q: Why don't you think any new residential rental development has occurred?
TM: There's a new residential project going up in the district on Bay Street (140 Bay), between Warren and Marin. I am not sure if it's going to be artists' residences or just condos with bigger ceilings (i.e., "arty lofts").
Beyond that, there hasn't been additional artist-specific development because the city government hasn't pushed hard enough for it. It's okay: the city government has a lot to do. I do think they should be looking to work with the artists at 111 on ways to buy that building, refurbish it, and develop the ground floor into arts-friendly businesses. It's a really obvious move, and one we can all make together.
What isn't fair is to expect the artists in the district to do the work of real estate people. Artists aren't there to build a district on a municipal map, they're there to paint, sculpt, make prints, etc. If a plan has failed to develop, it's the fault of the planners, or those whose job it is to execute the plan. Too much of the development burden has fallen on the shoulders of the artists.
Q: How many warehouse buildings within the district are actually occupied with residents?
TM: I know Queen Latifah purchased a building in the district, and if you walk by, there's tons of hip-hop posters up. There are lots of little recording studios on Morgan. Uncle Joe's is in the district, and that's the only rock club in town. But your question is about residents, and right now, it's not a residential district. It could be.
Q: My feeling is that government attempts to get private landowners to go against market forces is doomed to failure and will result in the kind of land-banking and speculation that is currently happening in the WALDO. What are your thoughts?
TM: Bill James once wrote something great about using statistical models for small, situational phenomena. He said the resulting formula were like ultralight aircraft -- they might fly, but you're not going to see him up in one.
I think if you're talking about a huge economy, it's a sucker's bet to go against market forces. But the Powerhouse Arts district isn't a huge economy -- it's a few city blocks. If the municipal government really wanted to put its back into transforming those blocks, it absolutely has the muscle to do so. It's a question of priorities: in a city government strapped for cash and time, what squeaky wheel is going to get the grease? So far, WALDO and the Powerhouse have not been that squeaky wheel.
If you look at the history of Hudson County -- really one large city that has been divided unwisely into little fiefdoms -- there has always been substantial land-banking along the Hudson River. It happens until a municipal government steps up and works with businesses and community groups to get a plan done. Because you can't expect real estate speculators to keep the public good in mind. You can expect the government to, and you can hold them to the terms of that expectation.
May 4, 2004
Still no time. I'm starting to feel like that friend of mine who always claims to be insanely busy. Yech. I'm neglecting my review-a-day site, too. Ah, well, I can see the clouds clearing somewhere in the distance.
In the meantime, Katherine from the Current wrote for my reaction to MayDay. I'll just post my full response here:
"It was fantastic. It was the best time I've had since the Hoboken Independent Music Festival in November 2000. It shared an essential characteristic with the IMF: many people working on projects, who don't necessarily know what each other is doing, getting together and learning what each other is doing. Consciousness was palpably raised. I think that on May 2, the sun rose on a different Jersey City: one more aware of our own possibilities and expanded horizons.
The music and late-night parties were great, but I think the best part of the event was wandering from open gallery to open gallery early in the day. The interiors of those spaces were phenomenal -- in some ways, those interior spaces overshadowed the art itself. The work spaces that these tenants have managed to create are mind-blowing in their intricacy and singularity. I also got to see studios and work I've never seen before: Nancy Cohen, Ed Fausty, Elizabeth Onorato, Lisa Portnoff, Barbara Landes & Paul Sullivan. Each distinctive and unforgettable.
You could look at 111 First Street as one gigantic collaborative piece of public art -- the collective imaginative exertion of so many interesting citizens. I felt honored to lend my own voice, my own perspective, to that project.
I think most attendees who were new to the building learned what a valuable and crucial resource 111 First is. I think they also learned that this isn't a clique -- this was, like Waterbug at City Hall, multicultural and polyglot, welcoming and carnivalesque. Kids were there, senior citizens were there, dogs were there. We were made to feel welcome -- and made to understand that this was our home as well as theirs. Those of us who stuck it out all night were treated the most freewheeling, spazziest, friendliest, grooviest parties imaginable. And we owe that to the great people who put this event together: Shandor, Elizabeth, Lisa, Norm Francouer and his amazing lightboxes, Henry Sanchez, Nicola Stemmer, the list goes on....
Now the task is to keep the vibe going throughout this summer: extend the Mayday spirit throughout 2004. I think we can do it. I'm up for it."
May 3, 2004
Nope, I still can't sit and write at length. It's killing me -- I feel like a drunk with DTs. I have about ten minutes between articles, though, so I'm jumping on for a quick round-up of Jersey City publications.
The Waterbug Zine is out. I'm pleased to be listed in the "Staff Writers & Correspondents" section. Hey, Lex, which one am I? It's a small-form publication -- about five inches by three and a half. It's pocket-sized, if you've got big pockets. The nice-looking inside is black and white, and the front cover is decently-glossy and two-color (the other color is orange). What you get: Lex's history of the Waterbug, an interview with FunkieJunkie Superstar, the favorite Waterbug deejay, a quick capsule on -- and nice picture of -- Julia Vorontsova, Ernie de Zavala's passionate piece on 111 First Street, a cafe roundup by Barbara Nasto, an interview and Tiger Beat-style center spread of Aaron "Middlepoet" Jackson, a recipe, some featured poetry (Jackson, Michelle Provenzano, Bex Goyette), a piece on Waterbug inspirational figure Hamlet Manzuetta, pictures of the 'bugs. It's free, and it's a limited run, so be sure to get your own copy of what's sure to become a JC-culture collector's item. Also, I'm pleased to see the guys are listening to Graceland and Songs From The Big Chair. They know what's up.
One of the things I learned from the Waterbug zine -- Nyugen Smith has his own website. Stylish! Nyugen, a clothing designer and artist, displays, among other things, a line of clothes inspired by the orcs of Lord Of The Rings. We are unafraid to express ourselves.
The Reporter publications have begun to shape up a little. There's still almost zero analytical writing of any kind in the papers, but they've begun to notice the communities they cover. The new editor at the Hudson Current, Katherine Heinrich, actually seems interested in the county, and has, over the past few weeks, written responsible articles about Kate Jacobs, Charles Chamot, and the Mayday Festival. I know that many of you who read this space are suspicious of the Current, but let's give her a chance.
Meanwhile, a writer I don't know, Ricardo Kaulessar, has broken the Reporter's conspicuous silence about 111 First Street. His piece is newsy and dispassionate, but he interviews Bill Rodwell, Elizabeth Onorato, and Shandor Hassan, and he recaps the WALDO controversy. He promises an extension of the article next week. Okay, pal, I'm reading.
Carol Van Houten -- whose name Kaulessar should spell properly -- has updated her Constant Reader site for the spring. It's replete with cherry blossoms. Any Van Houten update is good news in Jersey City.
The new Jersey Beat is out!
That was more than I meant to write! Oh, well, kid can't help it. I could write about Jersey City all day and barely scratch the surface of what deserves attention around here...
May 2, 2004
At about eleven o'clock last night, as the band Chariot was moving their gear offstage, I took the microphone and exhorted the crowd -- and it was a big crowd -- to keep the party going all summer. This was part of my job as host and toastmaster, and I have seen enough rap shows in my life to know when you're supposed to egg people on. But really, I didn't have to. Everybody involved in the Mayday Arts & Music Ferstival -- including and especially those artists whose studios are in the building -- were attuned to the vibe we were generating. If we felt the earth shake a little last night, that wasn't because of the wild dancing to the amazing American Watercolor Movement set (well, not just), it was a physical manifestation of our collective power.
One day soon, I am going to have a little time to write my reflections on the event. Today is not that day: I'm going to be in the studio from noon to midnight. But I'll carry with me the same imperative that you probably feel, too, if you were there: to extend the celebration and expression as long as we can. We're going to sustain the Mayday spirit all summer.
May 1, 2004
Hi, hope you had as much fun reading Scumbaguette as I did posting it. Now that I've said my piece in lyrical-style, it's back to that old straightforward pseudo-journalistic tone. Much happened around Jersey City while I was typing in lines for Andrew Gilligan, Bhopal, and Broccoli Rob. I may get a chance to recap April in the next few days, but today (as I'm sure you know) is the Mayday festival, and I'm going to be at 111 First Street. We'll see how that goes. Expect a big round-up soon.
The script Scumbaguette was my journal for April.
Here's the March Jersey City Journal.
The February Jersey City Journal.
The January Journal.
December Journal.
Jersey City Journal (original flavor).