The Tris McCall Report
The Kids Will Have Their Fun:
Live Musical Performance in Jersey City
When I first came to Hudson County, there was no place in Jersey City for an independent rock group to play. This was the mid-Nineties, now -- before Ibby's came to Grove Street, before the Harborside towers, the light rail, and the Liberty Science Center. I was a young rocker, and my friends were, too: we were Jersey-proud and tired of dragging into NYC. We were hungry for local shows. For a while, the Hard Grove Café looked promising, but then again it was a diner; no stage, no lights, nothing but a little clearing for the groups in front of the counter. We wanted to work with it; really, we did. Then the Schundler administration lowered the boom, and there was no more music at the Hard Grove. It made no sense to us that in a city of a couple hundred thousand -- many of whom were visibly creative types, experimentalists, weirdos -- nobody could manage to jump through the necessary hoops to open a venue.
But as a very wise man once told me, the kids will have their fun. What late-Nineties Jersey City lacked in official clubs, it made up for in private parties, warehouse sets, and rock and roll in strange places. I remember a late-night blowout at the crude industrial end of Monitor Street; four bands, art on the walls, and hundreds of kids crowded into a cold and drafty brick building, broken windows gleaming in the moonlight. I recall an acoustic performance in a Barrow Street brownstone; neighbors and passersby who'd seen the band in the second-floor window lining the staircase and hanging out on the fire escape. Then there was the Downtown gallery that set up a makeshift stage in its backyard: the hottest day of the summer, a tent with bands, a screen, a video projector, and a city lot crammed from fence to fence with sweaty, dehydrated, but enthusiastic listeners.
I have no idea whether these shows were city-sanctioned, or even legal. My best guess is that they weren't: they were spontaneous celebrations, and the sort of below-the-radar musical events that are bound to occur in creative towns with no other outlets for performance. Jersey City has never had a shortage of bands, and bands have a knack for making openings for themselves. Still, with no official recognition, it was difficult for a local scene to gather traction. Underground art can be vital and exciting. But when you're constantly worried that the knock on the door could be the nightstick of a patrolman coming to shut you down, eventually anxiety overwhelms aesthetic concerns.
Fast-forward to 2004. Faces have changed, but the complexion of the city hasn't. Uncle Joe's Bar (154 First Street) has given local groups a reliable performance option. But for every three Jersey City bands playing at Uncle Joe's on any weekend night, there are another three hundred and three left sitting on their guitar cases. Some of these groups are going to play New York City or Hoboken, but others aren't -- they will look to create their own performance spaces closer to home. And just as they were in the mid-nineties, these "special events," warehouse performances, and semi-private parties are regularly packed with appreciative listeners. Jersey City can easily sustain several additional clubs -- - the audience demand is here; the rockers are here; the creative spirit is here.
Unfortunately, the anxiety is still here, too. The specter of the Hard Grove battle still haunts prospective clubowners. Nobody was ever really sure whether or not the Cunningham administration was supportive of live music. Bars have had difficulty getting cabaret licenses. Despite the successful events at City Hall, there remains a pervasive misapprehension that the local promoters at the Waterbug Hotel collective are at odds with the city government. The continued indecision over the fate of the Powerhouse Arts District has fostered suspicion of the government among rockers and local artist groups. And now that the we face a new administration and months of sustained uncertainty, worries will only escalate. We're partying, singing, and dancing, but we're doing it with fists and teeth clenched, waiting for the hammer of the state to fall on us and smash it all up.
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Uncle Joe's was once a gay bar. Not the type with a disco-ball and a door policy; this was an unpretentious model unlike those represented in situation comedies. The modern Uncle Joe's retains the unpretentiousness, but little of the sexual ambiguity -- the late-night crowd of area hipsters is part of a rock scene that's mostly straight, white, and male. Still, it's something, and something is always better than nothing.
Bar owners have a tendency to cry poverty. Uncle Joe's management has been loath to plow profits into internal improvements -- two years and countless monumental shows into the story of the space, there still isn't any stage in the performance room. Bands continue to set up on the floor in front of the fireplace, and audiences crane their necks (especially on the crowded weekend nights) to catch a glimpse of the musicians. This isn't the sort of arrangement that encourages a gender-balanced crowd: girls can't see over the tall trees, and will often throw up their hands and retreat to the bar space. Yet, to be fair, the authors of the Uncle Joe's story have done their best to work around the limitations of budget and available hardware, constantly tweaking the set-up, the soundbooth, and scavenging equipment in time-tested Jersey style from studios, friends, and well-meaning volunteers. This is how Maxwell's started, too.
Indeed, much of the club's initial cache was imported from our legendary neighbor to the north. Chris Ward, one of the original booking agents, served for years as a doorman and ticket-taker at Maxwell's. There he learned at the right hand of the master, Todd Abramson: how to identify groups with aesthetic value and local draw, how to attract national touring acts to New Jersey, how to be challenging and hip without being alienating. Ward's connections gave Uncle Joe's an immediate aura of respectability. He brought name indie acts to First Street, and reversed some of the traffic into Brooklyn. New Yorkers began crossing the river to see select shows in New Jersey. It wasn't much more than a trickle, but it was a well-cultivated trickle.
Ward's booking aesthetic was consistent: he liked 'em loud, distorted, and bare-knuckled. In 2002, as Maxwell's became a regular home for the folk-rock and emo-pop of Andy Gesner's Artist Amplification collective, Uncle Joe's dialed up the volume for much rougher fare. This decision, was, on the face of it, insane -- the Uncle Joe's performance room is half the size of Maxwell's, it's wood paneled, and particularly prone to caroming treble frequencies. At times, rhythm guitar in that space feels like an assault. Yet the coherence of the Uncle Joe's schedule -- and the indisputably high quality of the heavy indie rock bands that Ward brought in -- gave the club an indelible identity. Uncle Joe's felt Jersey: two-fisted, smash-mouth, maybe a little raucous, neighborhoody, leather-clad, comfortable, ostentatiously unfashionable.
Chris Ward left Jersey City in late '03. He passed the reins to Shaun Towey -- also a former Maxwell's employee -- who began slowly reorienting the club toward poppier performances. Joe Condiracci, another Maxwell's expat and the original pioneer of shows at the space, now hosts a Monday night acoustic open mic. The 2004 gig schedule retains an indie band focus, but shuffles in power pop, acoustic bands, weird electronica, jazz Sundays. "It's not that we tried to make the room go 'quieter side,'" jokes Towey, "it's just an acknowledgement that it's easier to see a show there when it's not so loud. It's hard to take that stuff night after night."
Towey is gone now, too -- his principal commitment has always been to the Ankles, the indiepop group he fronts. But his successor Billy Filo concurs. "It's such a small place, and it's got wood walls, and you see these bands come in with huge Marshall amplifiers. It's like: what are you guys thinking?" He is, however, protective of the hard-rock reputation built under Ward. "Some of the best shows we have here are still by the heavier bands. A group like Rye Coalition is going to sound good anywhere. Even if we've softened things a bit, this is still a rock club."
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Both bookers speak in tones that feel slightly apologetic. That goes with the territory. A gig at Uncle Joe's always comes with caveats: there isn't much room for equipment, stage illumination is almost nonexistent, and the sound, though improved, is still an occasional problem . The bar's website, at the time of this writing, still advertises a show on November 23, 2003. Towey, Filo, and Ward have each, in their ways, fought against the popular assumption that Uncle Joe's -- with its fireplace, its gazebo, its desert skull and spacious backyard -- is more of a cool hangout than a world-class indie rock performance space.
They've battled it to a draw. That they've done this much -- that they've taken an obscure back room, a pool room, really, on a less-traveled road and turned it into a rock and roll epicenter and locus of cultural ferment -- is remarkable enough, and should be celebrated. But then they've got that other monster to contend with: that infamous beast that stalks this side of the river, hemming in projects, fostering paranoia and self-doubt, limiting scope, breaking connections, throwing static and indeterminacy into our conversations.
The Jerseysaurus gets up to all kinds of nefarious business, and has many tactics: whispering campaigns, anonymous calls to the city zoning board, the natural nagging insecurity of the creative. Here at Uncle Joe's, the monster closed down efforts to host summer outdoor gigs in the bar patio: a move that would instantly distinguish the club from all other rock spots in the NYC area. "The outdoor shows aren't going to happen," sighs Towey. "The club had problems with neighbors." Who complained? The guys don't know for sure. "It's hard to believe," says Filo with a shrug. "I mean, who even lives out here?"
The monster does. Its tracks can be found all over downtown -- in restaurants, cafes, warehouse spaces, wherever the architecture of creative projects is being blueprinted. For instance, the Jerseysaurus has a healthy percentage of culturally-aware Jersey City residents believing that the Waterbug Hotel collective is in conflict with the municipal government. The group hasn't been hosting many of its spoken-word/music events at its original 143-45 Columbus space, but that is, according to head Bug Lex Leonard, a decision he made, not one enforced or encouraged by the city. "We have every right to be here and do our thing- we've got a certificate of occupancy that says so," attests Leonard. "Everybody knew what we were going to do with 143-45 Columbus: friends knew, the landlord knew, the neighbors knew, the Del Forno realtors knew, the city government knew. We rented this space to be a studio and performance gallery."
But wasn't the loft shut down after complaints? No, says Leonard. "The reason we've cut down on the shows here is that there were a few people -- neighbors, now -- who were relentless in sabotaging our project." These weren't outsiders, either, apparently. They were friends, or ex-friends, with very personal axes to grind. Leonard's story, corroborated by spoken-word impresario and fellow resident Aaron Jackson, should be painfully familiar to those with experience in close-quarters loft or dormitory living -- or anybody who has ever attempted to promote under-the-radar arts events. "They actually performed here a week before they complained -- they invited friends from out of town to see them. They helped build the stage. We were willing to work with people; we wanted to have a building meeting. They didn't want that."
It may surprise some that city government officials strongly concur with Leonard's account. Jersey City Cultural Affairs liaison Greg Brickey speaks glowingly of the Waterbug initiative, and clearly admires the project. "I've been over to the Waterbug, and I've loved it. They impressed me not only by the quality of the performers they pull together at their shows but also by their pragmatic and realistic approach to organizing and policing their events. They go way beyond the call of duty to get along with the neighbors and to stay out of trouble. Lex and I have had very blunt conversations about what will fly and what won't." Brickey's faith in the Waterbug famously extended to an invitation to host a performance in City Hall itself -- an event that brought incendiary poetry, free jazz, acoustic guitar, African percussion, and hundreds of curious locals to the council chambers.
Brickey dismisses the surveillance rumors as insubstantial and unwarranted. "As far as the municipal government monitoring the Waterbug -- look, I've been very disappointed recently by paranoia about our administration. That includes," he continues, "some very self-defeating paranoia from my friends at 111 First Street. The Schundler administration got all the great arts district PR, but did nothing to make it happen. There has never been a mayor or city government in Jersey City more supportive of the arts than the Cunningham administration."
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Well, maybe. The dark walls and nineteenth-century portraits of the City Council chambers do make a spectacular backdrop for performance. But City Hall is not a live music club. Ultimately, the next administration -- whatever shape it takes -- will be judged not on its ability to shoehorn music into unconventional spaces, but on its ability to attract and retain quality performance venues. On this score, the record of nearly all Jersey City administrations of recent vintage have been found wanting.
Why is that? To host a one-off performance here isn't difficult: a promoter obtains permission from City Hall for a special event. But a club can't operate sporadically -- reps, and regulars, aren't built that way. A cabaret license is necessary for a sustained run of live performances of any kind -- and getting a cabaret license in Jersey City has always been politically problematic. Cabaret licenses are obtained through the Alcoholic Beverage Control board -- an organization that moves with the speed that its bureaucratic name implies -- and must then be voted on by a City Council with an enormous docket.
This process also holds for bars hoping to install deejay booths -- spinning records is considered a live performance. This strict regulation has left local turntablists sitting on their crates, has shut down deejay nights at restaurants and bars, and has strongly discouraged new venues from opening booths of their own. The designation doesn't hold up under scrutiny: since restaurants and cafés are allowed to play their own CDs over speaker systems, the deejay prohibition begins to look like a manifestation of fear of hip-hop and dance music culture. Since any property owners within 200 feet of the applicant are informed of a cabaret license request, all it takes is one NIMBY resident or business-owner with a grievance to gum up the works for months.
Full disclosure and open deliberation is good Democratic policy. This is a city of close quarters, and boundaries need to be respected. But municipal policy needs to be assessed by its outcomes as well as its intentions. If the intention of the city's glacial procedure was to arrive at a healthy, equitable compromise between those who want live music and those who demand peace and quiet, the current Jersey City nightlife policies are a tremendous failure. No such compromise has been reached; instead, authorized nightlife has been shut down. Even a cursory glance at the neighborhoods surrounding the PATH hubs -- natural breeding grounds for performance venues -- - proves that the effect has been draconian. Bars rarely host live music, restaurants don't have deejay booths, and only Uncle Joe's -- surrounded by vacant lots and empty warehouses -- has managed to maintain a regular slate of performances.
Mr. Brickey is quick to point out that restrictive ordinances passed under the Schundler administration are responsible for hindering the growth of legitimate performance options. Others outside City Hall agree. Ken Freedman, station manager at WFMU, is characteristically blunt. "Schundler really fought live music," states the free-form radio mainstay. "The battle over music and dancing at the Hard Grove still haunts the city." Will the next administration be committed to fostering a local atmosphere friendlier to local musical groups? This isn't to slight the work done by the Cunningham administration: a municipal government willing to allow its council chambers to be transformed into a performance venue deserves the benefit of the doubt. But Mayor Cunningham held office for several years without effecting any major alteration in nightlife policy. If circumstances do not change, it will be fair to associate the next regime not with the new ordinances it might hope to pass, but with the old laws it cannot help but enforce.
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It is tempting to blame the proximity of New York City for the absence of established clubs. It's also utterly inaccurate. There's no intrinsic disincentive to opening a venue in downtown Jersey City -- commercial rents here are cheaper than they'd be in Manhattan or Williamsburg. And if you don't believe that demand for nightlife options is fierce here, try to squeeze yourself into L.I.T.M. (or even the unobtrusive Keyhole Bar) on the night of a show or special event. Todd Abramson dispelled all doubts about the viability of the Jersey City audience by selling all fifteen hundred seats at the Loews Theatre in Journal Square for a February performance. It was the first rock event held at the Loews in decades, and it was a staggering success.
True, if you're looking to skipper a promotional campaign into uncharted waters, Abramson is the man to call. But his willingness to gamble his reputation -- and a substantial bankroll -- on Journal Square speaks well of its possibilities: the Maxwell's honcho is no fool. He would not have embarked on the venture if he didn't believe that Jersey City is, if not an undiscovered goldmine, at least a reliable source of tin and tungsten.
Abramson's reflections on the sellout are characteristically measured, but behind his reserve is a surveyor's eye, and the appraisal is positive. "I think it's unlikely that Journal Square will become a 'rock-cultural destination'", guesses Abramson, gently mocking my own eager appellation, "but I don't think that would hinder the excitement people will have over future shows at the Loews. I think with more events, people will discover a few more places in the area: for instance, I can see people going to the Canton (920 Bergen Avenue) for some fruity drinks with big straws in them."
Considering the achievement, it is almost certain there will be more musical events at the Loews. Should the Friends of the Loews obtain unfettered access to the lease to the building, the theatre could become Hudson County's answer to Irving Plaza. Minus the ugly stage, bad sightlines, and rotten acoustics, of course. Yet since the February sellout, there haven't been any additional shows in the space. And Abramson notes that activity at the Loews won't necessarily translate into gigging options for Jersey City bands. "Even on the Maxwell's level, almost all national touring acts bring their own support with them. This is even more prevalent on higher levels."
Having a flagship rock venue in town would be tremendously helpful in raising Jersey City's reputation. But a stage devoted to mid-major shows from out-of-town acts won't compensate for the paucity of local options. Jersey City musicians -- and the considerable regional audience that follows those musicians -- will continue to demand performance spaces. And when no authorized spaces are available, well… let's just say, the kids will have their fun.
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Walking into L.I.T.M. (140 Newark Avenue) this past March, for their first full-band performance night, I was reminded again of the subterranean shows and parties I attended in the mid-Nineties. It wasn't the setting that did it. The clean, white-walled, high-ceilinged interior of L.I.T.M. couldn't be further from the basements and abandoned brick storerooms where I watched underground bands struggle with rented equipment and unreliable power sources. Space at L.I.T.M. is apportioned properly: an elevated stage against the back wall , track lighting, gels, and a performance space large enough to accommodate a six-piece group with elaborate instrumentation. The club has everything ready, and everything required -- everything, that is, but a cabaret license. This was a "special event" by necessity, not design.
Surely that was familiar, too; as was the pervasive anxiety -- would we be shut down?; will neighbors complain? But that's not what got me reminiscing, either. No, what brought me back to those days were the looks on the faces of the locals who crammed in the space from glass doors to back wall -- those who angled themselves in their seats, slotted into breaches between the bar and the tables, pushed forward to catch a better look at what was happening. I saw the same hunger there: the same pride in what was happening before us, and desire for a local scene we could call our own.
There's a difference this time around, though; and while it's hard to put a finger on, I believe it's a matter of degree. Surrounded by so many faces, all staring up at the brand new stage in a club as characteristic and cool as anything on the other side of the Hudson, it was easy to think that the conversion of L.I.T.M. -- and the L.I.T.M.s of the future -- into viable rock venues was merely a question of critical mass. With this fever so intense, this applause so fervent and heartfelt, how could anybody stop it? Back out on Newark Avenue, after the lights faded, as the grates of the local businesses came down and the heat of the camaraderie dispersed into the cold Jersey evening, I told myself to hold that spirit, that faith. Now I'm telling you the same thing.