The show at Don't Tell Mama last Thursday was fun and exciting. We have some video footage, so I'll do a full report soon. Meanwhile, I had another of those unbelievable Sundays. I will include the full diary entry below. Here is a summary in case you don't want or can't read the whole thing.
SUMMARY: Steve's Sunday took an unexpected turn when Gavin informed him they were hired to lead a peace march. After busking and resting his voice, Steve, in his pink satin jacket, met the eccentric Tony at the New York Historical Museum, learning they'd be playing with a saxophonist named Tequan from St. Thomas. The "march" ended up being a lively, impromptu street performance near Central Park, where they jammed on Beatles songs, chalked peace messages with passersby, and spread good vibes before Tony concluded the "gig." Steve reflected on the unique, adventurous nature of his life in the city, taking such serendipitous musical encounters for granted. SUN JUNE 22
Gavin texted me that we had been hired to lead a “peace march from Lincoln Center to Central Park.” And something about going to Frederick Douglass’ statue and singing “Rise Up, Frederick Douglass, Rise Up.” (?)
I wondered, “Wow! How did a choir at Lincoln Center find out about that song?” I remember Bill Goffi told me he had tagged our St. Clement’s video to choirs around town after hearing it at our Juneteenth show.
Confused and excited, I went early down to Union Station to find out.
It was humid/hot and rainy when I first got out. My bag was heavy but I went past the subway entrance at 43rd and 8th, turned the corner and went to the 7/11, past the homeless man who stands there and opens the door for you so he can beg for change on your way out.
I pushed past him and up to the Indian man at the counter asking if he had an umbrella. He did. I left my last one at Don’t Tell Mama.
Down in the L station, between the two trains, Gavin had set up farther down because they’ve now turned on the big overhead fan. He said the hurricane force hurt his ears.
I went and tested it. He was right. The fans are hanging in cages which are coated in that black-crusted oil/dust that permeates the ceiling and pipes in the yellow-painted station.
And they feel fantastic. First day of summer and it’s a hot one. But you can’t sing under it.
Gavin was sitting, backed up to a round metal trash can, facing a staircase, Two hot white girls in very short shorts suddenly started dancing freely while trying to sing along to All My Loving, which I sang directly to them. They were keeping up the hook,, but I didn’t know if they actually knew the song.
As we ended, they said, “Tell us the name of the next song so we can look it up.”
I think we sang Blackbird. They sang and made videos of themselves dancing. If I were straight I probably would have found it extremely provocative. Gavin’s only comment was they seemed very free.
Finally, they took a group selfie with us and disappeared into the train.
But we were facing away from the larger space. We moved to the other side of the black canister and suddenly, we had a platform filled with patrons coming and going.
I recall a hot young 20s couple with big smiles. He was in shorts and had such beautiful legs I had to keep looking away from them! Gave us a dollar.
But after about 45 minutes, I could feel my voice was tired. I was tired. My left ear kept popping on my m’s and n’s, which makes singing Hey Jude’s chorus na-na-na’s painful. It’s a sinus thing but it happens when I’m tired.
I knew if we were gonna do some big event, I’d need some rest.
I quit after an hour, then trained home. Gray L to Blue C to 42nd. 20 minutes to a half hour. Jim was asleep so I crept onto my beloved couch and fell promptly to sleep. (And scared him later when he went to pet the cat and the couch moved.)
As I rose, I wondered what was expected of us.
All I knew was to be at CLARA, a restaurant in the NY Historical museum on 77th and Central Park West. Jim and I had been there before for an Al Hirschfeld exhibit. Nina (whose name is inscribed in each of Al’s drawings), was there.
Out front on the landing as you enter the door? A life-sized statue of Frederick Douglass. I snapped a selfie.
Inside, through glass doors, past the two security guards who looked in my bag, I turned left into CLARA.
It looked very elegant. A very, kind attractive young woman approached me so I told her I was looking for a group. She asked me what name. I said, “I don’t know. Some guy named Tony.”
She continued, “We don’t have a reservation, and we’re about to close.” She was trying to be helpful. “Across the hall is the cafe in the gift shop.”
Over there, the girl and guy behind the counter offered me a glass of ice water. Everyone was being so nice.
Then I remembered I was wearing my bright shiny pink satin Sgt. Pepper jacket with the bright yellow epaulets, dangling fringe and gold buttons surrounded by sparkly lines of embroidered rickrack.
Suddenly, in comes the hurricane that is Tony. I’m standing at a counter against the wall with my ice water in a paper cup.
He rushes up to me and says, “Oh, good. You’re here. Let’s push some tables together there in the corner. I got a saxophone player, too. And some people are coming.”
Ignoring the several groups of ladies already seated, quietly sipping their tea and sandwiches, Tony bulldozed into the corner and directed me to drag some tables together. They were heavy.
As soon as I saw him, I knew exactly who this mysterious Tony was.
THAT Tony!
In our first busking days at Strawberry Fields, he once, out of nowhere, stood up and proclaimed to everyone in the circle, “This guy knows more about the spirituality of The Beatles than anyone on earth.”
Tony is cool. He also never stops talking/suggesting/planning/
He excitedly and as if making it up on the spot, explains he has planned a march, hired us to lead it, and he’s invited people to join us, but he’s not sure how many.
I asked Tony what he wanted us to do. He looked at me and said that he wanted me to do all the talking.
“Talking about what?”
“You know, that stuff you usually say.”
Me: Blank look on my face.
Gavin arrives in his bright green jacket carrying guitar and amp. Soon, we are joined by a sunglasses-wearing Black guy in a maroon polo shirt and black-colored jean jacket. I asked him if he was crazy in this heat. He shrugged and smiled.
He said his name was Tequan and he was from St. Thomas.
The saxophonist! Tony had met him the night before (?). He was stage managing a concert at the New York Society for Ethical Culture. And they got to talking.
Finally, two friends, an elderly couple with great energy joined us at the table. We bonded over her shoulder surgery and his recent hand surgery.
Tony said we may get one more, dialing his phone.
He pulled out two books. One was a compendium of Jewish Comedians and their stand up jokes and the other was a book of quotes by musicians about music.:“From Bach to Tupac.”
He said, “Maybe you can read some of those.”
I looked through it while he told us a joke from his book. Something about a farmer and a Jew.
I saw the workers peeking behind the counter with their phone, taking photos of us. We smiled.
Finally, after trips to the loo, as Gavin would say, we exited the museum, snapped a few more shots with Frederick Douglass and crossed CPW onto the sunny side of the street.
How long is this march? Where are we gonna play?
We walked down to a shady bench between 75th and 74th street. The stone wall at our backs, facing an elegant stately Gilded Age apartment building way across the boulevard with two doormen.
Tony said, “Here. Play here.”
First of all, it’s illegal to play amplified music in NYC without a ticket. But the cops don’t usually approach you unless someone complains.
I was on cordless mic, Gavin to my right with his Telecaster plugged into a small amp. Tequan was to my left on the next bench, bright brassy sax hanging from his neck.
We started with “Love, love, love… All you need is love.”
Tequan was brilliant. I learned later he had graduated music school and moved here from St. Thomas. He had jazz chops and even though we play our songs in different keys from the originals, fitting them to my vocal range, he found the right keys and played some incredible solos!
Tony and friends began chalking up the sidewalk with messages of peace, peace signs, no war, etc.
Passersby were amused. Many took a chalk and wrote something. “Paz Y Amor.” “No más guerras.” (Peace & Love, No more war.)
One guy in particular came along with a camera and began taping us. Then he and Tony had a long conversation on the side.
Meanwhile, people across the avenue waved at us, people in pedicabs pedaling up Central Park West waved at us, people gave us the peace sign, and we just jammed our butts off, the three of us having a blast as musicians.
After about an hour, Tony said, “Okay, I’m ready to go.” And he grabbed his bag, along with two kites he had planned to fly, and took off.
We looked at each other and said, “I guess that means the gig is over?”
The three of us walked down to 72nd, eagerly enjoying a review of our jam session, promising to stay in touch.
I love saxophone.
Got home, found a great chicken meal with peas and gravy from the other night, zapped it and we watched “Slow Horses” until I passed out on the couch. Took my pills at 10, went to bed.
I never dreamed, living in Buna, Texas that one day I’d be here having these adventures and completely taking it for granted, like, of course people meet guys named Tony, march down the street with four senior citizens and sing Beatles songs with your South African guitarist and the saxophonist you just met from St. Thomas.
Doesn’t everyone?
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