The Tris McCall Report
What still remains.
September 30, 2004
The Jersey Journal has reported that there will be a mayoral debate tonight. Good going, guys, scheduling it for the same night as Bush-Kerry; that ought to really drive up the ratings. It'll be held at the Loews, and that might be a little uncomfortable for Harvey Smith. Perhaps he can explain the inexplicable, and let everybody know why, after years of supporting the lease handover to the Friends of the Loews, he now opposes it.
I will try to videotape this.
September 29, 2004
Don't bother marching to the County Courthouse tomorrow -- the 111 Artists won't be there. New Gold tried to force the hand of the Tenants Council and get everybody out of the building on Tuesday. Lawyers were called in, and a Superior Court judge threw the case into mediation. So the tenancy cases have been postponed, and nobody knows when the mediator will hear the sides.
Mediation may sound very Judging Amy, but when you stop to think about it, what it implies is that the courts, too, are looking to work out a deal. That brightens the picture considerably: we were assuming all along that Judge Theemling had no interest in compromise. I'm glad this has happened. I'm not sure if it was a mistake by the Goldman team, or just more legal maneuvering, but until we figure out otherwise, I think this has to be considered a minor victory.
I wish I could write more about this, but I am so busy with Studio Tour stuff that I can't take the time. I am going to be much more lucid -- and hopefully very relieved -- on October 4.
September 28, 2004
Pretty cool, huh? If you've been wondering what's gotten into me, and why I'm suddenly making good posters for the first time in my life, all credit goes to David Reynolds. You might know Dave as the drummer for Spiral Jetty, or Prosolar Mechanics, or, more recently, Wooden Ghost. He's been rocking around New Jersey for years now, and he's also been designing really good fliers for the bands he's played with. He's put them together in an online portfolio. Check it out -- and next time you need a poster made, drop him a line.
The Loew's Theatre is the great sleeping giant of Jersey City.
When you're looking for examples of opportunities missed by the municipal government, you don't start with the waterfront. You don't even start with 111 First Street. You start with the Loew's. Jersey City has a world class performance space, right in its belly. Right now, that space is used, primarily, to screen old movies that everybody has already seen. It is a mind-blowing misallocation of resources.
To truly understand how dramatic a misallocation it is, you've got to visit the theatre. The Loews was built in 1929, and was at the time a state-of-the art facility: rococo detail and filigree on every wall, more than a thousand seats, an orchestra pit, a "wonder organ", and sightlines that will leave you breathless. The atrium is three stories high, and almost everything inside is covered with gold leaf, marble, gilt paint, or crystal. To an audiophile, the acoustics are heaven on earth.
When God, who is a music lover, meets the chief figures of the municipal government at the pearly gates, he will ask them to justify the performance schedule at the Loews. He will point out that any sane city would, if given such a resource, fill it with musical acts every night. He will point out the sadness of a music venue wasted; he will read from a list of shows that could have been, but weren't. He will not be happy.
The Loew's Theatre is in Journal Square. It isn't a few blocks from public transit, or down the road from a bus stop. It's right across the boulevard from the Journal Square PATH Train Station. Take the escalator to street level, wait for the light, cross. You're there. From Greenwich Village, it's just as quick to get to the Loew's as it is to get to Northsix. It might be quicker.
On Friday, October 26, Bob Mould is playing at Northsix. Surely he will sell out the room. But if you gave old Bob his choice, where do you think he'd rather play -- a crappy black box with questionable sound and a bunch of risers reminiscent of a high school auditorium, or a palatial stage that makes the Beacon Theatre look like a VFW hall? I think he'd choose the Loew's. We could speculate that many New Yorkers would probably prefer to see him on that palatial stage than in that crappy black box, too.
But hell, we don't even need to speculate. Conor Oberst played at the Loew's in February 2004, and the hall sold out. New Yorkers took the PATH Train to Journal Square, crossed the street to the Loew's, and learned that Jersey City was not, in fact, on the far side of the moon. This seemed, at the time, like a prelude to great things. A sellout meant more shows, right? More shows meant more people would learn about the Loew's, right?
But since February, there haven't been any other rock shows at the Theatre.
You could blame City Hall, if you were looking to blame somebody. They were supposed to turn the lease to the theatre over to the Friends of the Loew's, the organization that's handling the restoration. Something or other is holding up the transfer, and nobody knows quite what it is. Inaction by the municipal government is mystifying, particularly because the Theatre is just sitting there in Journal Square, doing next to nothing. At the very least, you'd figure the mayor would want to use it for ostentatious campaign events.
To be fair, though, I'm not confident that the Friends of the Loew's are going to know what to do with it, either. They've done the hard work to get the Theatre operational again, and as far as I'm concerned, that entitles them to have the first crack at managing it. But there isn't anything preventing the group from hosting performances in the Loew's right now. They don't; they screen Frankenstein flicks instead. This doesn't augur well.
I'll tell you what I think. I think the Loew's Theatre is so beautiful, and so grand, that it induces a kind of conceptual vapor lock in the minds of Jerseyans. We've been told for so long that we don't deserve this kind of opulence -- that everything spectacular and pretentious belongs on the other side of the Hudson, and we're to content ourselves with Uncle Joe's -- that we can't even imagine what it would be like to have an operational performance space of this caliber in our community. We look straight through it. When we're shown the Loew's, we don't see it -- we think it must belong to somebody else. It doesn't. It belongs to us. Let's start using it.
I'm going to write about the Loew's Theatre tomorrow, because today, I want to do something that I wish somebody had done for me when I first moved to Jersey City. Over the next month or so, you're going to hear a lot of discussion about our wards -- what mayoral candidate is strong in which ward, who comes from what ward, etc. But it's hard to find anybody Downtown who knows which ward is which, or what the significance of the divisions is. Websearching isn't any help. I'm not going to put this into a metatag, but I do hope Google's spiders can properly archive this if I spell it out in proper keyword fashion:
The Six Wards of Jersey City
Ward A: "Greenville" is often a catch-all nickname for the neighborhoods south of Journal Square. Ward A begins at the Bayonne border and stretches up Ocean and Garfield Avenues to Caven Point and the lower reaches of Liberty State Park. These neighborhoods are African-American, old-line Irish; the architecture is dominated by unspectacular stand-alone two- or three-story houses, and most of the residents are lower-to-middle income. Ward A is represented in the City Council by Peter Brennan.
Ward B: The West Side. West Side Avenue is considered crummy, but Lincoln Park is certainly not. The cluster of handsome professors' homes around New Jersey City University also gives the lie to Ward B's seedy rep. There are substantial capital projects in the works for much of this ward, and it's home to many growing ethnic communities: Filipino, Latino, Indian, Arabic. Assemblyman Louis Manzo is most associated with the West Side, but Ward B City Council representative Mary Donnelly appears to be standing firm behind L. Harvey Smith.
Ward C: Journal Square. This was once the commercial downtown of Jersey City, and it still seems like a major retail center -- though most of the signage looks at least thirty years old. Here, Kennedy Boulevard and Bergen Avenue are at their widest and brightest, lined on both sides by brick houses and medium-density apartment complexes. The Loew's Theatre isn't the only landmark in Ward C that's in the process of rehabilitation -- Journal Square is the site of a major urban renewal effort. Ward C Councilman Steve Lipski surprised many observers by throwing his hat in the ring for mayor. His bid looks like a longshot.
Ward D: Jersey City Heights. On the palisade overlooking Hoboken, south of Union City, Ward D contains some of the most beautiful blocks in town. Central Avenue is the commercial center, and the treelined streets to its west are dotted with large two and three family houses. To the east of Central, the Heights turn poorer, but no less vital: Palisade Avenue is Latino and home to many new Americans. Palisade and Ogden Avenues offer spectacular views of the New York skyline. The Councilman here is William Gaughan, a supporter of Jerramiah Healy. Both Councilman Healy and County Executive Tom DeGise are based in Ward D.
Ward E: Downtown. This is the richest part of Jersey City, for sure, but it's also polyglot: there are housing projects here, and we've got our share of crime. Fans of classic city architecture have labored to preserve Ward E's stock of Greek Revival and Italianate brownstones, some of which were constructed in the eighteenth century. It's the largest ward, but it's not always the most influential, since many who live in the new condominium developments along the waterfront don't bother to engage in civic discourse. Junior Maldonado, our councilman, is supporting Jerramiah Healy for mayor.
Ward F: Bergen-Lafayette. This inner-city ward encompasses the venerable neighborhood east of the old railyards, and stretches west toward Martin Luther King Drive. Ward F is the most African-American of Jersey City's subdivisions, and launched the political careers of Glenn Cunningham, L. Harvey Smith, and mayoral candidate Willie Flood. Parts of Bergen-Lafayette are quite poor, but there are blocks of beautiful brownstones here, too. Viola Richardson represents Ward F in the City Council.
September 22, 2004
I've made a few alterations to the Studio Tour music schedule. The 111 Jam Band is now opening the festival, which seems only appropriate.
Speaking of 111 Jam Band members, I roped Matt Pass into providing music for Thursday night's Tour opening party at the Loew's Theatre. If you're in the vicinity of the Theatre, stop by. I'm not sure what to expect, but it ought to make for an interesting Journal entry tomorrow.
We can argue about real estate, and gentrification, and development politics, and the role of arts communities in urban renewal. I may have a different take on these from yours. I know I differ from most of the tenants at 111, who are far less libertarian in their sympathies than I am. Reasonable people disagree about politics; that's a given, and I can live with that. But I hope you'd be willing to stand with me against cruelty, because cruelty drags its dirty blade across all positions and ideologies. Today, I want to relate an anecdote: one of hundreds of anecdotes in a saga of a thousand little interlocking stories. But it betrays a heartlessness that I think is all too characteristic of New Gold Equities, and it's that cruelty that makes the crisis at 111 First Street a personal story for me.
A few weeks ago, just before the ill-fated City Council meeting that crushed the spirit of a packed chamber, vestiges of a hurricane tore through Jersey City. There was substantial flooding all over town -- you may have had water in your basement, too. The roof at 111 First Street is notoriously porous (the management company doesn't bother to fix leaks), and rain fell into several studios by the bucketful. That morning, a tenant who has been active in community outreach for years and who has used a studio at 111 First Street to produce artwork of no small beauty, returned to the space to find it soaked. Inches of water covered the floor. Much of this artist's equipment -- some of it priceless and irreplaceable -- was doused and possibly ruined. Seeking to salvage as much as possible, the artist dragged the equipment into the covered hallway, and began the heartbreaking process of sifting through the detritus and drying and tending to a life's work.
A representative of New Gold happened to be in the building that day. No minor figure, this -- anybody closely familiar with the controversy at the bulding would have recognized the New Gold rep. And as has happened so many times over the past few months, the New Gold operative stopped the artist and forced a conversation. I would like to report that this conversation was atypical. But I can't. In content and spirit, the conversation was interchangeable with hundreds of others. The only difference this time was the severity of the crisis, and the starkness of the consequences.
The artist was bluntly told by the New Gold representative to get the equipment out of the hall. When the artist explained that the studio was flooded, the representative replied that if the soaked gear wasn't moved, it would be thrown in the garbage. Desperately trying to save the labor of a decade from water damage, the tenant's work and tools of trade were now being treated as though they were rubbish. The artist complained about the leakage, and reminded the representative that New Gold's sole management responsibility was to insure there wasn't any water damage. "That doesn't matter", replied the rep, smugly, "you're not legal tenants".
I tell this story not just to break your heart (if you have one to break). I tell it because it illustrates the relationship between 111 tenant and 111 landlord in bold strokes; the frippery of PR campaigns and public statements, street fairs and judicial hearings stripped away. Here you have the nucleus, the kernel; a microscopic, atomic representation of the viciousness and disregard of New Gold Equities for its tenants. Here is the relationship, without ornamentation: the struggling artist, clinging to a life's work, and the wealthy landlord, treating it like trash.
The next time you read a press release from New Gold Equities insuring the community that the landlord is committed to patronizing the arts, I want you to remember this anecdote. The next time Bonnie Friedman runs an article in the Jersey Journal guilelessly presenting Goldman's master plan for the city block, I want you to see the viciousness behind the value-neutral language. Please remember the value New Gold placed on an artist's work in a moment of peril.
Eviction is a cruel business, and there will be enough cruelty for all of us to bear this month. The state gives the landlord the right to that cruelty, within the parameters of the law. There's nothing we can do about that. But in the private ledger -- the one we carry in our hearts -- there is no such right. We should be unanimous in our condemnation of this behavior, and we should never forget the easy, smug contempt with which a billionaire out-of-towner treated our best, our brightest, our bravest.
Now that it all seems too late, I can cop to certain things. For instance, I can admit that I was never hopeful. But then I'm a pessimistic person; I hide my low expectations behind an energetic exterior. My fear, from the outset, was that the emphasis on landmarking was going to wreck any chance the artists had of staying in the building. The way I figured, passing a preservation act would force the landlord's hand -- knowing he couldn't develop the building would make him speed up his efforts to drive everybody out. That's exactly what happened. It set up a situation where Lloyd Goldman needed to beat the clock in order to reap any value from his property -- and inaction by the municipal government made it easy by dragging down the minute hand.
Most of the people who've labored on behalf of the Powerhouse district are ardent preservationists. It was impossible to turn down their support: the arts community at 111 needed local outreach, and here were organized citizens willing to go to bat for the Powerhouse. So it was an artists/preservationists coalition that went to battle here, and it was an artists/preservationists coalition that got whacked.
In retrospect, it's clear to me that we could have gotten whacked all by ourselves. We didn't need to conflate the rent issue and the need for Jersey City to maintain the artist community with a demand to designate the warehouse district a historic resource. For many, the designation looked like a tool to stay Goldman's hand -- curtail his ability to make alterations, and force him to the table. Perhaps that would have worked if we had acted quicker.
But it's more likely that it never would have worked. Once a building is designated historic, the state demands thirty days before the ruling goes into effect. Walk by 110 First Street -- or the ring of forlorn-looking bricks that used to be 110 First Street -- and take a good look at what an owner can do to a building in thirty days. New Gold flexed its muscles by driving cranes into the courtyard at 111 and demolishing the smokestack. If the City Council ever did declare 111 First Street a historic building, I think we all know damned well that Lloyd Goldman, resourceful and merciless sculptor of public space that he is, would make the most of his thirty-day window.
I have it from a very good source -- really, the best, most even-handed and reliable source in town, as far as I'm concerned -- that New Gold recently made it clear to the municipal government that they would consider dropping the eviction cases against the tenants if the city voted against historic preservation. Never mind that the Council would be foolish to trust a landowner who has lied to them at every turn -- this sort of policy blackmail can't make our elected officials happy. But let's forget about Lloyd Goldman for a second, and consider the actual goods offered in the exchange. Would we give up on the dream of the historic warehouse district in order to keep the community at 111 First Street intact? I believe we'd be stupid not to. As it's been pointed out time and again, 111 First Street is the Powerhouse Arts District. There aren't any other arts buildings in the area. If the choice we have is between a standalone Arts Center in an unwelcoming neighborhood, and a designated Arts district with no artists in it, what arts-friendly resident wouldn't opt for the former?
An arts district can't be created by a city planner, or the recommendations of the Urban Land Institute, or by any government organization no matter how progressive it considers itself. An arts district can only be made by the artists themselves. We're not fighting a battle here to gain a district we don't have, we're fighting a battle to keep a district we already have. Right now, we're foolishly slugging it out for the right to create a district on paper, when an actual unrecognized district -- populated by actual artists -- is getting wrecked. We're paying the price for waging the wrong war.
If I had it to do over, and Lord I wish I did, I'd try to sit down with everybody, and make it absolutely clear that the objective was not landmarking, or historic designation, or some dream of a phantom district that was only ever a reality in the minds of urban planners with no relationship to Hudson County. The objective was the welfare of a community that has enriched Jersey City immeasurably. That should have been the focus. We should have ignored the chimera, and kept our eyes on the goal.
Some pissed-off reflections:
- I believe that in a year or so, when we look back at the remains of what used to be the Arts Center at 111 First Street and we ask ourselves (or just those of us who are still here) what the hell went wrong, we'll be able to trace the thread back to a critical decision: the hiring of Robert Cavanaugh. Before Cavanaugh was hired on to represent Lloyd Goldman's interests, the artists at 111 First Street were making some decent headway in their grassroots PR campaign. In inches, and with great effort, the tenants were showing residents why their vision of the district was sensible and reasonable, and why the New Gold proposal wasn't in the best interests of Jersey City. That changed after Cavanaugh's office began their own PR campaign -- a better-funded aerial assault from a better-connected source. Maria Zingaro Conte's byline at the Jersey Journal started gravitating to other beats, and Bonnie Friedman's name took her place. Over the past two months, Friedman's work at the Journal has done more to unravel the good image that the arts community labored to build than any landlord-friendly judge could have ever hoped. By printing -- time and again -- Cavanaugh's line without subjecting it to any reasonable scrutiny, her articles managed to turn much popular sentiment against the artists. Hey, mom, Mr. Goldman wants to offer the tenants below-market rates in a super-duper new building! What sort of crazy, selfish artist could object to that?
- Lloyd Goldman co-owns the lease on the World Trade Center and the Sears Tower. The artists at 111 First Street sell paintings and photographs every so often. We were never going to win a protracted legal battle or a big PR war. Our only hope was that locals -- and, in particular, local publications -- would understand the stakes and the consequences, and rally around the Arts Center. I'm pleased to say that there was much popular support for the building, but the papers really let us down. I already mentioned Bonnie Friedman's role as a mouthpiece for Robert Cavanaugh, but let's not stop there: The Hudson Current is supposed to be our local arts paper. There's been little coverage and absolutely no advocacy of the arts community in its pages. If we were in New York City, the Village Voice would be all over this story; exhorting the community to fight the power. While Rome burns, our arts weekly runs self-indulgent vanity pieces about bus trips with teenagers.
- A few months ago, I joined the staff of a magazine that promised to uncrock some of these problems by offering a platform for intelligent commentary about Jersey City. That sounded great. Unfortunately, after releasing one poorly-circulated issue, that magazine has essentially dissipated. The editor hasn't been present at any of the decisive City Council meetings, or at any of the rallies or events to save 111 First Street. I'm not even sure if he's in town or not. At the most crucial moment imaginable, this magazine -- this platform -- was nowhere to be seen. The voice we were promised didn't even make a peep. I regret the time I wasted on this project, and I deeply regret encouraging others to participate in it. We should have been working on something sustainable -- something that had the capacity to make a difference in the debate.
- Just the facts, Jack, in case you don't know them. Mayor Smith's big meeting with Lloyd Goldman -- the one he tabled the historic designation resolution to make time for -- turned out to be a predictable bust. Goldman allegedly asked for a stupefying $30 million for the building, and yes, there's everything you need to know about his idea of "market rate". A few days later, everybody at 111 First Street recieved final eviction notices. They're going before Judge Theemling, described by many as the worst possible jurist they could have possibly drawn, on September 30 -- two days before the Studio Tour. Even those who were scheduled to have their cases heard by Judge Fast have been reassigned to Judge Theemling's docket.
- Draw your own conclusions.
- Out of respect for the tenants at 111 First Street -- several of whom have seemed resolute about controlling the outflow of information from the building themselves -- I've refrained from posting much of what I know. I'll continue being respectful and highly selective about what I publicize, but since these are desperate hours, I'm loosening the clasps on my own muzzle. This page will be updated every day, from now until the Studio Tour. Since nobody else is bothering to, I'm going to do my best to keep you posted. There's nothing left but straws to grasp at, sure, but that beats plummeting into the abyss.
September 13, 2004
I added the blurbs. The tone is slick like a press release, and the journalist in me kicks hard against that, but I guess I'm on the other side of the fence this month. I'm sure I'll be back to the snarky copy before too long.
September 12, 2004
I posted the schedule of music I've put together for the Jersey City Studio Tour. I love all of these acts, and I'm proud to present them. I'll be adding little blurbs about each when I get the time.
For once, I'm early. The city council chambers is more or less empty; looks like the expectation is that the house will fill up late. Just like a rock show. Folks file in slowly, many wearing hot pink stickers marked "110'. I take a seat in a front row pew, and fan myself with my laptop. This is no museum lecture-hall -- it's muggy in here.
James Keepnews arrives with bad news. There was a torrential downpour this morning -- close to three inches of rain fell in less than an hour -- and studios on the Warren Street side of the 111 First Street building flooded. Apparently, Nicola Stemmer's equipment was soaked: drums, B-3, recording gear, his poor Wurlitzer. Some 111 tenants feel the roof was sabotaged by management. Whether or not it was, it's another shot to the body of the arts community.
By 6:17, the room is packed. The 111 tenants council sit along the north wall, thumbing through their sheafs like skeptical jurors. (Well, everybody but Ed Fausty -- he holds up a copy of his "Warren's Lair" print. That's probably a better argument than any of us can currently make, exhausted as we are.) Topics of discussion: the mayoral candidates, the agenda, the thick blanket of dust hanging over First Street because of the demolition of 110 First. Councilmembers file in, one at a time: Mayor Smith, Mariano Vega, a jovial Bill Gaughan, Mary Donnelly, impassive Peter Brennan, Steve Lipski with a cough and a styrofoam cup. Is it my imagination, or are we all behaving more purposefully tonight?
It's decision day for the Powerhouse, but it's also campaign season. Today, I saw a poster on Grove Street advertising tonight's meeting -- one with a shot of Harvey Smith's grinning face, and an accusation that he's done nothing yet for the district. "D-Hype", the flier calls him. I hate the strategy, but I understand that people are getting frustrated. Smith's bold proclamations on behalf of the artists have not prevented the smokestack and most of 110 from being demolished; nor has New Gold slackened the pressure on the 111 tenants. Today's article in the Jersey Journal read like a press release from the office of Robert Cavanaugh. It's fair for us to ask -- was the Mayor on the level?
Mr. Byrnes, the city clerk, calls the meeting into session. Hey, hold the phone, where's Jerramiah Healy? He's running for top dog, he really ought to show. Everybody else is here -- is the Councilman ducking this hearing? I look around the hall. The e-mail entreaties seem to have done the trick: much of the Jersey City arts community has arrived to lend their support for the landmarking of the warehouse district. Of course, Mr. Goldman's lawyers are present, too, and they're looking disturbingly upbeat. Perhaps they know something that we don't know.
L. Harvey Smith is talking to us, but we can't hear him. He's speaking in the general vicinity of the microphone, staring straight down, averting the eyes of the audience members. Uh oh. I'm in the front row, but I don't have to be to figure out this act: you could see this bob and weave from a mile away. He's saying something about begging our indulgence. That'd be easier to do if we could hear you, Mr. Mayor. Talk into the microphone, the peanut gallery cries. Rattled, Smith's voice turns gruff, impatient. We have a meeting set up with Goldman's lawyers on Monday, he barks, we move to table the landmarking.
The chamber is in confusion. What just happened?, the woman to my right asks me. Ma'am, Harvey Smith -- that same Mayor Smith who stood up on the City Hall steps and broadcast his support for the Powerhouse and 111 -- just moved to take the historic designation off of the agenda. We're not going to be able to discuss the district tonight. We're not going to be able to take the podium and air our views. Nope, if the motion passes, the fate of everything we've worked so hard on for the past year comes down to a closed-door meeting between City Planner Bob Cotter, Mr. Cavanaugh, and the acting Mayor. He shouts over the crowd that he and Rob (Smith's first-name basis with Goldman's attorney chills me) are determined to move the historic district forward. Damn, we're moving forward again. This is a single vector mayor.
Byrnes reads the motion to table. It's seconded by Lipski and Gaughan, and suddenly the Ward D Councilman's earlier frivolity takes on a sinister cast. Damn, don't we have a friend up there? On cue, Mariano Vega gets up to object. We're frustrating the public by delaying this further; this landlord cannot be trusted in any meaningful way. Vega reminds the council that New Gold continued to demolish 110 and the 111 smokestack while engaged in a bad faith effort to negotiate. At some point during Vega's discussion, Jerramiah Healy enters the hall. He looks bemused, above the fray, unaffected by the sudden tension in the room. Instead of taking a seat, he leans against the table, a half-smile on his face.
Junior Maldonado, standing up with a fist clenched, is not happy. Not only are we frustrating the public, we're frustrating some of the councilmembers, he offers. Maldonado reminds us that he's been working on the arts district for years, and he sees it slipping away. We've been in negotiations and it's gotten us nowhere; the more we procrastinate, the further we drift from a suitable outcome. That's irritated my Councilman, sure, but what's really chafed him is that he had no idea that this tabling was coming. He's the Downtown representative, and he believes he should have been consulted. I agree, especially since I'm sure he wouldn't have been any pushover. If there's one politician in Jersey City I've come to pull for, it's Junior Maldonado.
Time to vote. I immediately determine that we're screwed: Mayday attendee Peter Brennan, who I was counting on to support the district, unflinchingly votes to table. Mary Donnelly gives an elaborate and convoluted explanation that I don't follow, and then agrees with Brennan. Lipski brings up the Friends Of The Loews again, and I wish I knew why. He and Gaughan register their perfunctory "yes" votes. Gaughan feels no need to explain his position.
Ward F representative Viola Richardson becomes the first councilperson to vote "no". She came here to hear what both sides had to say; she's really concerned that they're not being able to speak. She sounds annoyed by the proceedings, impatient with the machinations. Jerremiah Healy surprises me by agreeing with Richardson. There is some merit to tabling it, he tells us in his evenhanded way, but we'll defer to the reservations of the Ward E councilman. (That's Junior Maldonado, if you're scoring at home).
It doesn't matter; Mayor Smith has the numbers, and we've lost this round. Mariano Vega, never one to go quietly, makes a few more reasonable proclamations: it's not clear to him that tabling is going to achieve anything, and the Mayor would be much better served should he go into Monday's meeting empowered with the information that the council is behind the landmarking. But Harvey Smith doesn't seem to care about strengthening his hand. He mumbles something, and is again reprimanded by the crowd: speak into the microphone, Mr. Mayor. He does so, bluntly, perfunctorily: "I'm going to vote for tabling". The crowd boos, and a few angry artists offer loud assessments of his re-election chances, but it doesn't matter. The discussion is over.
Back on the steps of City Hall, folks are reeling. Fed up with betrayal, many artists are making their plans to leave Jersey City. Some stand and talk, but there's nothing to say; others have scattered, marching back to 111 in the rain. Kelly Darr leans against the wall, alone, dumbstruck. Suddenly, and irrationally, I'm ashamed of my participation in the city's Studio Tour. For years, the municipal government has used the people gathered here as a symbol of their magnanimy and broadmindedness; now, given a more lucrative offer, it seems prepared to rubbish the community, or let it die on the vine.
I fight it off. We've still got to bring out Hudson County as a great rock area, and I know we will. Yet tonight, all I can see are the shocked faces of these people I've come to care so much about. I knew damned well there was a good chance the issues would be tabled tonight, just as I always knew the arts district was a long shot. Still, there's a difference between assessing probabilities on paper, and responding to the plight of actual people -- all of whom have projects that I've come to respect greatly. I do my best to commiserate and strategize with my usual detachment, but my heart is breaking.
I am tempted to rally the crowd, and to urge these artists to show up at the Mayor's door on Tuesday morning to demand to know the outcome of the Monday meeting. Yet I don't think persuasion is a course that's open to us any longer -- at least not with this administration in office. Local politicians don't have the option to play it dumb anymore: everybody knows what's at stake. Over at 110, a huge machine is tearing through brick walls like a child dismembering a hollow chocolate bunny; at 111, holes in the roof, untended (and maybe exacerbated) by New Gold, are flooding the hallways. Time is not on our side. Any political figure who advocates delay can no longer claim to represent the best interests of the district.
It's late. I don't know where we go from here. If you can, send your love and appreciation to the 111 artists, and let them know how much you value their contribution to our community. It's tough -- and sad -- to imagine Jersey City without them.
September 7, 2004
If you ever want to stress yourself out, try finalizing the lineup for a citywide rock event over the Labor Day weekend. I'll be posting the music lineup for the Studio Tour in a day or two, but I want to say again, if I haven't already made myself clear on this, that my respect for people like Andy Gesner and Doug Forbes continues to grow. I find it tough enough to harmonize the schedules of my own groups. Bringing thirty acts to Jersey City and getting the whole show to run smoothly will tax my organizational abilities to the limit.
One of the two stages we're going to use will be at the Grove Street PATH Train station. That's fine, if a little weird -- hopefully, the bands I'm bringing out there will be able to roll with the unusual circumstances. Load-in and load-out will no doubt be hell for everybody, but the City is providing a few tents. I think we'll manage.
The other stage is in front of 111 First Street, and that's why I've begun to get really worried. We're depending on the artists at 111 to help us out with the stage set-up and sound system, and it's not at all clear that the management won't drive the people we're counting on out of the building before the Tour. I don't know if New Gold Enterprises is going to continue demolition work on 110 that weekend, or if they're going to try to run the cranes into the courtyard at 111. And I'm not convinced the artists themselves won't get fed up and decide not to participate. I'm worried that I'm asking groups from out of town to step into a Situation -- and if they're confronted here by police tape and a management company hell-bent on disrupting the event, it's not going to be fun for anybody.
We're looking to show off Jersey City as a great arts and music town. I'm afraid we're going to end up revealing more than we want to.
September 5, 2004
I hate to keep picking on Louis Manzo, because I'm really nowhere near as alarmed about his candidacy as my last few posts made it seem. Still, when I woke up this morning and found every lamppost on Grove Street plastered with his posters, well, let's just say my opinion of the Assemblyman did not soar. It's not that I find over-postering distasteful -- I lived in Union City too long to be disturbed by the saturation-bombing method of campaign publicity. No, it's that Manzo's posters are terrible; crappy looking black-and-white photocopied things. What does it say about a candidate who doesn't even bother taking the time and effort to make his publicity material look good? Was Louis Manzo so desperate to get his name up all over the Downtown that he was willing to look like a spastic, overeager college-rock band in the process? In the music biz, if an A&R person at any level got a presskit as shoddily-reproduced as Louis Manzo's current campaign poster, I guarantee you the accompanying CD would never be opened.
Jersey City does not look like Hoboken: bands do not cover all available surfaces with fliers. I'm tentative about putting my own posters up on neighborhood lampposts. I feel like I'm violating some public trust by doing so. Next time I'm skittish about hanging my show announcements, I'm going to remember the Manzo postering campaign and how the candidate felt it was completely appropriate to wheat-paste ugly advertisements on every downtown surface. If my own Assemblyman isn't ashamed to behave this way, why should I be?
September 4, 2004
- In the past three weeks, the Jersey City Reporter has given their cover to: Buonocore's announcement, Buonocore's chances, and an interview with Sandra Bolden Cunningham in which she backs Buonocore. Where I come from, we call that an endorsement. Don't insult our intelligence, guys; make it official. There are enough secret motives in this town already.
- The Urban Times refers to L. Harvey Smith disparagingly as "Uncle Harvey", but I think it has a certain pleasing ring to it. This is one insult that I can imagine the mayor turning to his advantage. His avuncularity is one of his greatest assets.
- A few days after our landlord posted his Manzo sign, our next-door neighbor retaliated with a poster backing Jerremiah Healy. Yeah, it's like that already.
- Proof that I rock children. Of course, they're looking in the other direction, but that just might mean they have good taste. Lori Key posted this photo, taken by Alison Ashley. For the record, I don't know what the eminent domain laws are, or whether or not it's a good idea to press for their enforcement.
The Hard Grove is back open. Owner Dominic Santana is still claiming political motivation for the temporary closure of the restaurant. Yet he's not pinning the blame on Mayor Smith; instead, the Jersey Journal reports that "another mayoral candidade" was responsible for the shutdown. Thanks for the blind item, guys; you've got guts.
Santana is convinced that Smith didn't go after him, and that his enemy is somebody else. Well, he should know. Still, it raises another question: what other mayoral candidate could have the authority to close a restaurant? Jerremiah Healy is a member of a council chaired by Harvey Smith; it's hard to see how he could have done it behind the current mayor's back. Willie Flood and the HCRDO are on the outs in City Hall -- they can scream and holler all they want in the pages of Urban Times, but they're going to have to win some elections before they can be shutting down diners. James Carroll is a single policeman without an executive office, and Santana is a big supporter of Ron Buonocore and Sandra Bolden-Cunningham. That leaves one possibility: Louis Manzo. Could Manzo have used his clout as an Assemblyman to shut down the Hard Grove? Jeez, how could that even have worked?
It is still early, and much can happen that would change my mind about the field of candidades. But I am beginning to get a very bad feeling about Manzo. This feeling has nothing to do with his sexuality, and everything to do with his associates and his consequent reluctance to speak out on certain issues. Manzo has been backed by Gerald McCann, the convicted former Mayor and acknowledged political power broker. McCann has never a friend of the arts district -- but he has always been a friend of Robert Cavanaugh, Lloyd Goldman's chief counsel. Manzo hasn't said anything yet about the warehouse district or historical preservation, and even when pressed in off-the-record conversation for his opinions on the subject, he's demurred. Considering who his supporters are, that's reason enough to worry.
Louis Manzo has a long record as a progressive legislator and community activist. During his last run for Jersey City mayor, he opposed waterfront developers and won the endorsement of the Greens. Now, the Greens redefine "out of it", true, but then again, Manzo Mach III was a very different candidate from Manzo Mach IV. I am beginning to think that a Manzo victory (a likely happening) would be the worst possible outcome for those who support the Powerhouse district.
September 2, 2004
On our front gate, the landlord (who lives in the downstairs apartment) has hung a "Manzo for Mayor" sign. This is making Hilary very uncomfortable: we haven't decided who to vote for yet, and she thinks it's rude for him to speak for the entire house. I know what she's saying, and I guess it's true -- he could have stuck it in the window. The sign is weatherbeaten; the words are wearing away. It looks like a leftover from Lou Manzo's first run, all those years ago.
Up on Grove Street, a less well-meaning posterer has struck by night, slapping orange bumper stickers on lampposts. These read "Don't Vote For Looney Lou"; and the word "Don't" is underlined for emphasis. What's so looney about Manzo? We're not told. But on Hudson County message boards, the whispering campaign about his sexuality has caught fire. Manzo's opponents might hope that their version of "Vote For Cuomo -- Not The Homo" turns the trick for them, but I'm not so sure it will. As everybody knows, this is the Year of the Gay Politician in New Jersey. Our town might surprise everybody, and support a queer candidate with broadminded enthusiasm.
Political posters are everywhere. The Hard Grove Cafe might be temporarily shut down, but nobody has bothered to remove the Ron Buonocore posters. His red star shines out of every window. With the lights off, the Cafe looks like a campaign headquarters. Hey, isn't that Sandra Bolden-Cunningham sitting in a chair on the Christopher Columbus side? Wow, now this really looks like a campaign headquarters. The late mayor's wife makes an appeal for strong leadership to a man in a blue suit whom I've never seen before. I say "hi" to her; I just can't help it. Sitting out in the sun with a hat and beige jacket to show her support for the Hard Grove seems like an act of noble self-sacrifice. We make our politicians do things like this, you know -- we put them through the paces, see what they can withstand, and vote accordingly.
L. Harvey Smith is going to have to withstand a ramshackle headquarters. Blue "Smith for Mayor" signs cover every pole and awning of the converted Newark Avenue store -- it looks like a cardhouse built out of posters. Hmm, hope that's not a metaphor. Two older dudes sit out on the sidewalk, registering voters; inside, a little kid sits at a desk and distributes campaign leaflets. I am pleased to see that Candidate Smith has launched his own website. Way to go, Harvey! It's not going to make anybody forget Jenyk, sure, but you have to start somewhere.
Willie Flood is the latest candidate to announce, and she's a little behind the curve; at her HQ on Jersey and Bright, I'm told by a campaign worker (a former Cunningham staffer) that she doesn't have any leaflets yet. A politician without leaflets? That's like a guitarist without his picks, or a priest without communion wafers: you can still do your thing, but you're skimping dangerously on the ritual. Well, not to worry, I am sure she'll have some before long. The Flood campaign has picked out an excellent building for headquarters: the former office of an attorney. It's a little out of the way, though, and I wonder if they've sacrificed visibility for the sake of handsomeness. There's something about the Flood campaign that's not all the way there yet; something hastily-conceived and slapdash. I'm willing to give her a little time, but on September 2, we're already in the stretch run. For five of these candidates, the sands are running out.
My little sister is going to have to find a new place to get her favorite lemon salsa chicken. The popular Hard Grove Cafe has been temporarily shut down because of health complaints. Hmm, this couldn't have anything to do with the big "Buonocore For Mayor" sign on the front door, could it? Or restauranteur Dominic Santana's prominent role within the Buonocore campaign? In fairness to the city, I've been hearing people complain about the cleanliness of the Hard Grove for years now. That said, the timing of the shutdown seems awfully convenient, and it reinforces the speculation that local politicians punish their political enemies arbitrarily.
This isn't the first time Santana has been at odds with the municipal government. In the late nineties, he was constantly agitiating the Schundler Administration in an effort to have the Jersey City nightlife restrictions relaxed. Here's Kelly-Jane Cotter from the Asbury Park Press (Santana also co-owns the Stone Pony) on the Hard Grove proprietor:
...Santana staged a "Let My People Dance" street procession to City Hall in June 1998, in which demonstrators carried a coffin (to symbolize the "death" of Jersey City nightlife) and other props, all in an effort to expand dance club hours beyond 2 a.m...
He was once threatened with a fine for painting purple footprints on the city's sidewalks to lead pedestrians into the Hard Grove Cafe ("Prove that I did it!" was his defense, but he cleaned them up). In 1996, when the city forced him to apply for an entertainment license for live music and dancing at the Hard Grove, Santana read the required ordinance very carefully. He found an archaic clause that prohibited homosexuals from working at a nightlife establishment. The city had no intention of enforcing the clause, but Santana lobbied for an entire overhaul of the law.
Santana has been less of an agent provocateur since his attentions moved further south, and in recent years, the front pillar of the Hard Grove has been a bulletin board for establishment organizations like the police force. Me, I don't like the Hard Grove very much, and I'm not sure I like Ronald Buonocore's candidacy, either. But City Hall must realize that closing down the restaurant of a political opponent in the heat of campaign season looks opportunistic. One of the major knocks on the current administration is that they're thin-skinned, heavy-handed; too quick to play hardball. No matter how merited it was, the shutdown of the Hard Grove will do nothing to improve that reputation.
I smell a rat here, and it's not coming from the Hard Grove kitchen. Mayor Smith isn't stupid; he recognizes how this looks. My guess is somebody or something else is behind this closing, and that this story is much more complicated and unsettling than any of us knows.
In August, things got hot.
It was a surprisingly cool July.
June was busy.
May started with a bang, and then fizzled out.
Scumbaguette took the place of an April journal.
March was clear.
In February, snow fell.
Battle lines were drawn in January.
Nothing ever happens in December.
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