Urban Folk: issue two

I want to start by thanking everyone for the great response we got from issue one. I’ve learned so much about
this city and the scene from doing this, and I’m thrilled to know we can keep going with it. In this issue you’ll
find out about some amazing artists you might never have heard of, and hopefully learn more about some that
you have. It never ceases to amaze me how alive and inspiring the community is here and I consider myself
lucky to be a part of it. The more we continue to support each other, the better it will get. Feel free to drop us
a line to pitch a story, tell us how we’re doing, tell us off, or just say hi. I want to thank all the contributors,
advertizers, and everyone who helps to keep this thing going. Enjoy! -Dave Cuomo, Editor

we want to hear from you: urbanfolkzine@gmail.com

on the cover: Erin Regan www.erinregan.com cover photo and design by Jamie Ferri
In This Issue:
Wayne Penlon – dave cuomo tells a village icon’s story
Get in the Minivan – brook pridemore gives tour advice and reminisces
Jeff Jacobson – paul alexander looks at a local heavyweight
Stain Bar – krista madsen tells her story of d.i.y. bar creation
Exegesis Department – with dan penta of cockroach
Kirk Kelly – jonathan berger profiles an antiFolk originator
Subway Stories – dave cuomo gets busted and rejected
Poetry Page – jonathan berger, tyrus gray, arlene cassarino, dave cuomo
Paul’s Perspective – paul alexander goes in the studio and battles with his producer
Alec Wonderful – alec gets nostalgic for past fanzines
Air Wasn’t Air – fiction by krista madsen Be an Urban Folk friend!
CD Reviews – amy hills, pantsuit, and more... myspace.com/urbanfolkzine

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 If You See Something,
Say Something
Wayne Penlon finds his voice underground
of Curacao in the Caribbean, Wayne walks into a
pharmacy. The girl behind the counter gives him a once over
and continues eyeing him as he makes his way through the
little shop. Wayne is defensive at the girl’s accusing stair
and resents the way she so obviously and rudely assumes
he is there to shoplift. He browses the sun tan lotions while
she continues to check up on him periodically. He takes his
purchase up to the counter and squares his shoulders ready to
prove her suspicions wrong by proudly paying for his item.
She looks at him confused for a minute more before ringing
him up and finally says “Hey, are you from New York?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Yeah, I used to work at the Dunkin Donuts on Christopher
St. I’d see you playing down there every day on my way to
work. That was some of the most beautiful guitar playing
I’ve ever heard.”
I met Wayne at the Caffe Vivaldi. He seems confident
with the wisdom of someone who’s seen enough ups and
downs to be comfortable with his position. I can hear this in
his playing. His lyrics tell of lives, people, and places that
are familiar, and he tells their stories with a calm wisdom
of understanding. His guitar playing is filled with expertise
and cool passion. He starts telling me his story from the end,
as a subway performer who is eager to share his experience,
and someone in the midst of a leap of fortune in the world
outside of his adoptive home in the West 4th St. station.
After years of perfecting his craft he is in the studio with a
well known and well connected producer, recording his first
solo album. It is an album that he is only now ready to make
By Dave Cuomo
when after many years of going where ever the music winds
were blowing, he now understands who he is as a musician,
how he fits in the tradition he has become a part of, and how
to sing for his adoptive home of Greenwich Village.
Before the island of Curacao and the W 4th St. subway
station Wayne was busy making himself heard in Rochester,
New York. In the early 90’s the scene was beginning to
dry up there, and though he had written a few songs of his
own he was finding his luck more as a sideman in various
projects. He did not consider his songs anything more than
a personal means of expression, written for himself rather
than any audience. He was content as a sideman and band
member. He knew Ani DiFranco and played shows with her.
He played with Bill Lambert and they recorded a college
friendly album that enjoyed a 35 second spot on “All My
Children.” He was part of the punk eclectic band Woody
Dodge who had some breaks opening for Hootie and the
Blowfish and other up and comers. It was in this band that
Wayne would meet the man who would end up having a huge
impact on his life and music, Jeff Buckley, who in a round
about way would lead Wayne underground to find his solo
voice and the talent that puts him where he is today. Woody
Dodge was approached by BMI for a record deal only to
find themselves in the studio asked by the suits behind the
glass, “Could you maybe sound a little more like Lover
Boy?” Amused and frustrated, the band stopped working
with the label, but was soon being eyed by Virgin records.
Excited, they made their way back into the studio only to
have the executives once again asking if they could sound a
little more like Lover Boy. The project that Wayne seemed
to enjoy most was playing guitar in the Kate Silverman
duo. They opened for Patty Larkin and Paula Cole and
Wayne felt comfortable and happy as the sideman to her
ambitions. Pretty soon the band members in Woody Dodge
found themselves getting older and having families and the
confining jobs that come along with such responsibility.
Kate Silverman too found herself getting frustrated, and as
Wayne tells it she was looking to become a personality in
whatever way she could so she went off to become a radio
DJ. For Wayne it was never about becoming a personality or
trying to make a name or a career for himself. He was just
looking to become a better guitar player.
Wayne was profoundly affected by meeting Jeff Buckley
in Rochester. He says that along with the most amazing
voice he’d ever heard, Jeff had an aura about him that could
be felt. Jeff too was appreciative of Wayne’s musicianship
and encouraged him to start playing in New York City.
With Rochester slowing down, Wayne took him up on this
and began making excursions to the city to make contacts
and check out the scene. When his projects began falling
through upstate, he made the move. He took a job as the
guitar department manager at the legendary Manny’s music,
which he considered an honor. In his time there he witnessed
the store’s decline and found himself the last person to hold
the job before it was bought out by Sam Ash in 1999. “They
weren’t just buying a name, they were buying an institution,”
he tells me. It wasn’t long before differing philosophies led
Wayne to seek other employment.
One day on a whim he answered an ad in the back of
the Village Voice for a guitarist wanted and soon found
himself rehearsing with Henry Cory. Cory ran a semi
national children’s radio broadcast out of Nashville until he
was ripped off by management and walked in one day to
find his office and equipment entirely sold out from under
him. He had come out to New York after that to care for
his parents and try to escape the limitations of children’s
music by playing contemporary folk. He wrote poppy,
ballad type songs that were designed to be appealing. Wayne
would then take these songs and polish them to completion.
Comfortable again as the sideman Wayne worked well with
Henry. Together they found the Fast Folk Club with its scene
and magazine that Suzanne Vega, John Gorka, and Christine
Lavine came out of. But as with much of what Wayne was
used to encountering, this scene too was in a decline and on
its last legs.
About this time things began looking up for Henry and
Wayne. Far from escaping children’s music, they were
offered a deal to create an animated show for Nickelodeon.
Negotiations went well and everything was all set to go into
production when something terrible happened. It’s often
forgotten all the small things got lost in the fray of 9/11, but
a children’s animated show, and a big break for Henry and
Wayne was one of those small things. Immediately after the
tragedy the production crew was laid off and Henry never
heard back from the network again. Heartbroken by what
had happened to the city and with his show, Henry called
Wayne from a Nashville bound car to say goodbye.
Wayne found himself out of work again, Henry having
been paying him for his time over the last couple years.
Luckily Wayne had an independent streak that had begun
to surface itself during his time in New York. Wayne was
not a complete stranger to the idea of street and subway
performing. He had played mandolin on the street with
bluegrass bands, and also talks about a report on NPR he
once heard when he was younger about New York’s subway
performers making a decent living. Intrigued, he had filed
the idea away in the back of his head for a rainy day. Despite
the ease and familiarity of working with Henry, a new urge
had been awakening in Wayne in their later days of working
together. He found himself wandering underground not to
play, but merely to study the art and craft of the job. How
does one perform for that kind situation, how do you deal
with cops, and what could you expect to make? How free
must it feel to sit down there and play the days away for a
passing audience. These men impressed him and the idea
of performing alone intrigued him. He still did not consider
himself a solo performer or a songwriter, but he felt the call
to take a station for his own. He was intimidated though.
How to play in front of strangers so that they would not only
want to hear you as they pass by, but to appreciate and even
pay you? This was a hard thing to imagine.
When Henry left, taking Wayne’s livelihood with him,
the idea became a little easier to picture. He started at the
W 4th St station just trying to get his feet because he figured
Greenwich Village, with its history and lore, was the most
logical place to play. Looking for better money and bigger
crowds he moved up to Grand Central Station playing at the
end of the S train. Here the idea began to work out and he
found himself starting to make enough money to get by. But
the musicians from the Music Under New York program,
with their time scheduled spots and permits, kept bumping
him, so he tried playing out in front of the turnstiles only
to get booted by the cops. The competition was frustrating
for Wayne so he made his way back to the Village and the
W 4th St tunnel. Here again he found the same problems of
competition, until one day a Guatemalan man, whose name
Wayne can’t now remember, approached him.
“You’re pretty good, you want to make some real money?”
the Guatemalan asked. The next thing Wayne knew his solo
career was on hiatus as he fell once again into the role of the
sideman, riding the trains playing La Bamba in the cars with
a man who had smuggled himself into the country and was
a husband and father to four different families in the city.
Not content just to play La Bamba they also worked out a
Santana medley that Wayne would play on mandolin. In this
medley he would lose himself and go out all out, playing on
his knees, using the bars inside the car, playing behind his
back, putting on a real show. They would do this from 7 in
the morning to 9 at night and pull in $100 - $300 each a day.
When they grew bored with their limited repertoire, Wayne
learned to play along on some traditional Spanish songs that
would haunt and delight the commuters. This went on for
a month well enough until one night he got a call from the
Guatemalan asking Wayne to bail him out of jail, where he
was stuck for getting drunk and beating up a girlfriend. He
knew Wayne had the $2000 because they had been working
together and he knew what they had made, which made it
all the more awkward when Wayne offered a roof but no
money. They tried working together again after that, but
the Guatemalan’s attitude toward Wayne had changed and
things never went back to the way they were. Wayne’s final
gig as a sideman soon ended and he knew that the time had
come for him to become his own artist.
On his own again Wayne wasn’t quite sure what to do
next. He tried riding the trains playing solo mandolin, but
this didn’t get nearly the response that he was used to from
working with the Guatemalan. He tried singing sea chanties
on the train down to South Ferry thinking he would get a
rise out of the tourists, but unfortunately no. Not knowing
what else to do he went back to W 4th, where need and
circumstance kept driving him. Mostly Wayne played
covers and instrumentals. He had a couple originals, a few
love songs and a song to his inspiration, Jeff Buckley. In
an attitude reminiscent of early Dylan, he didn’t give these
much thought and considered himself a guitarist, not a
songwriter. This was about to change though, as one day
he was playing down in W 4th when the voice hit him. He
was back at the station where he always found himself when
things fell through and he had no where else to go, just
strumming the music that was on his mind when
he found himself singing, “Been down this road
so long.” Right there in front of the tourists and
commuters, it all burst out of Wayne’s throat. He
didn’t write the song so
much as he found it. It
would be a year before
Wayne would finish
his next song, a song
about a homeless
man called “Little
John,” but from that first
heartfelt spontaneous moment he
now knew he was a songwriter
in his own right.
Today he tells me
that most of his living
doesn’t come from just
playing underground alone, but
rather teaching gigs and private parties that he’s picked
up while playing down there. What draws him back to W
4th every week isn’t the lure of getting paid, it’s the chance
to practice and play in front of an audience. His ambition
has always been to simply become a better guitarist, and
listening to him you get the feeling of a man on a quest for
perfection. People say of him that he knows how to make
a guitar sound acoustic, how to bring out all the melody
and tone that the wood is capable of. He is known for his
impressive arrangements of instrumental pieces. He will
spend all day working with a piece, improvising and trying
different parts, following it out as far as it will go so that
if you were to listen to it as it happened it might have a
symphony’s length. Then he will go back and whittle these
down piece by piece until the shorter arrangement is packed
with exactly the melodies it needs and not a bit more. He
says that playing down there will make you intuitive. Like
his song “Up Down” which he wrote from the inescapable
rhythm of people trudging up and down the steps going
about their day. The songs he writes today have a feeling
of someone who knows their streets and his own place in
the history of them, with the Village and New York and the
people who live here being at their heart. The public service
poster that reads “If you see something, say something” has
become Wayne’s inspiration for writing. He wants to write
with an understanding of the city and the Village’s history,
with the sensibility of Dylan or Fred Neil. “Folk music isn’t
supposed to be about ‘me, me, me,’” he says. Wayne sees his
job more as writing and singing about the world he is a part
of, the New York and Greenwich life and history where he
now comes from.
Wayne has built a nice life for himself underground.
Through playing W 4th St., giving guitar lessons, and side
gigs that he picks up from passersby he makes a reliable
living. For a while he did a Saturday night residency at the
Village Bistro, and was even able to pull in an
audience from the subway crowds. I asked
him if he had considered auditioning for
the Music Under New York program,
and he seemed unconcerned.
“Why would I?” he asked me,
pointing out that cops will still
tell you to move on when
they want to even if you have
your banner and permit, and
that nobody knows who the
“industry professionals”
who judge the auditions
actually are anyway. Through a
friend who is in the program, Wayne
had actually looked into the idea before,
but in a situation reminiscent of his
studio experience with Woody Dodge,
they told him they were most interested
in him doing a James Taylor tribute for
his act. In the end he is content as things
are, he gets by and plays underground
on his own, and has the freedom to
concentrate on the most important
thing, perfecting his craft. What more
could he want?
 Enter Roy Halley Jr., chief audio engineer for 60 Minutes
Two and son of the legendary producer. Wayne was
underground playing when Roy approached him a little over
a year ago, mesmerized by his arrangements and original
songs. Initially he hired Wayne as a guitar teacher, but this
quickly turned into the two of them collaborating to make
Wayne’s first solo album. This means free studio time for
Wayne and the chance to work with someone who knows
their way around both the control booth and the industry. It
is the break that Wayne was never counting on or waiting
for, but one that he is not going to squander. Listening to him
now, one gets the impression that Wayne knows he’s come
full circle with the album he is currently recording. Having
gone from sideman to front man, Wayne is now comfortably
in command of where his music is going. He would like
this album to showcase more than just his impressive guitar
playing and arrangements, although it certainly will do that.
He would like it to be part of what he calls the “Village
songwriter ethic.” Something he sees Van Ronk, the Village
folksinger who was one of Dylan’s inspirations, as a primary
example of. This means songs about people, their stories,
and the big picture that overarches them all. He says the
songs he has for the album are gems that were handed down
to him by the muses with little or no effort, and will include
instrumental pieces and folk songs about people and the
Village. He sees it as an album that will honor rather than
mimic the Village tradition.
While this album will be in a sense Wayne’s masterpiece,
a culmination of everything he’s done and been a part of
throughout his life, it is not the last word for him. He is
already looking forward to the next album. He would like
to put together a band, and in more evidence of how far he’s
come, he would like to trade in his solo work for a truly
collaborative effort in which he is neither sideman nor front
man. He would also like to free himself from the limitations
of acoustic guitar and see how it feels to go electric. He will
probably always play in the subway to cut loose and create
new music, but he wants to be a part of something larger as
well. He says he wants to see something like Jeff Buckley
come through and give the scene a kick start. He doesn’t
want it to necessarily be himself who does it, but he wants
to be a part of whatever does. The way the city looks today,
and with the way Wayne’s album and career are shaping up,
it is a good bet there will be a lively scene with Wayne right
in the middle.
Get in the Minivan
some things to help you on tour
1. No gig is too small.
When we played Asheville, NC for the first time, the only
gig we could get a hold of was an open mic night with an
acoustic in-the-round-type hootennanny. We didn’t know
anybody in Asheville, so we were facing the prospect of
sleeping in the van, in the second week of February.
My fellow songwriter on that tour, Chris Martin, realized
he was developing strep throat, so Dan and I dropped him
off at an emergency care center. We hiked over to the
bar anyway, and found ourselves warmly recieved by the
Deadheads and their Jim Croce covers. One guy had dreads
and Dan said, “That guy’s got dreads, he’ll give us a place
to stay! Guys with dreads are always nice.” I knew a guy in
high school who had dreads, and he was a dick.
Anyway, we’re playing these songs, these old tunes, and
Dan asks the waitress to point us to a cheap motel. She offers
her place instead, and we ended up staying in her house for
two nights, our whole stay in Asheville.
I don’t like the word “serendipity,” mostly because of that
awful movie with John Cusack. Also, cause I once tried to
by Brook Pridemore
get a job at that “serendipity” place.
So, through a moment of serendipity, we ended up being
connected with some of the coolest people in this little town.
What seemed like a wash-out, turned out to earn us some
friends we’ve had ever since. The point is: play every gig.
Even if it’s just the bartender, you probably at least get some
beer out of it.
2. Stay comfortable/ find a distraction.
You’re gonna be crammed into a small space with a
bunch of strong-willed people for an extended period of
time. You’re gonna get on each others’ nerves. The first
time I went out, I kept a journal of everything that happened.
Mostly funny stuff, but also how the gigs went in different
places. It was an excuse to bury my head in something
and not talk to the other guys if I didn’t feel like it. Tour
journaling got pretty dull after the first trip (although it’s an
easy way to talk shit about whoever gets on your nerves), so
I do a lot of reading now. I think Michael Azzerad’s book
“Our Band Could be Your Life” should be required reading
for all music people.
Another time, we were in Baton Rouge, and were
invited to a crawfish boil. Have you ever been to one of
these? There’s like a hundred pounds of bugs on a table,
and a bunch of people standing around pulling them apart.
I don’t eat meat, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to
pull apart a bunch of dead bugs. They even had a crawfish
liberation ceremony, where they keep one live crawfish,
and show him all his dead brethren. Then they give him
a name and set him free. They let me name him, and I
called him Steve.
Anyway, I ate about half a ton of crawfish. It was the
first meat I’d had in a long time, and I was sick for two
days. My point is, touring is a really bad time to try and
change regular things about your lifestyle, like going
vegan, or quitting smoking. Personally, I’m a drunk.
3. What goes on the road, stays on the road.
It’s like Vegas. There’s just some stuff you don’t talk
about at home. After a trip, I find myself acting really
abrasive to the people around me, for no real reason.
I will tell you that one person I’ve toured with earned
the nickname “Foghorn,” for reasons I will not go into.
www.brookpridemore.com
Jeff Jacobson
Heavyweight? Undisputed.
by Paul Alexander
Despite the fact that he appears as polished as artists who he also said collaborating with Beck would be a dream
have been playing the New York City acoustic songwriter come true. Still, before having reached these lofty goals,
scene for years, recent finalist in the annual Williamsburg he has already recorded an album with Rus Irwin, making
Live Singer Songwriter Competition, Jeff Jacobson, has respected producer Phil Ramone’s cut to remain in Rus’s
really only been playing shows as a solo singer/songwriter band and play electric guitar on a major label album, later
for just over a year. It was December of 2003 when Jeff touring the country as the band opened for Roxette. He even
played the Baggot Inn’s Underground Music Online Sunday go to play with Rus on the Tonight show in 1991. After his
open mic, and had the first song he ever played in public time with Rus, Jeff continued to do session work as a guitar
recorded live and selected for inclusion on the UMO’s “Best player in Phil Ramone’s personal rolodex, playing on many
Singer/Songwriters of Greenwich Village” compilation other albums including Laura Branigan’s “Cover My Heart”
CD. After that, it was only after many Wednesdays at the album for Epic.
DTUT open mic that Jeff Jacobson finally booked his first Besides winning over audiences almost every evening
solo show – April 26th 2004, when Larry Oakes helped him in some musical manifestation, Jeff has also been working
secure a gig at CBGB’s Underground Lounge. All this after with music everyday since he answered an ad in the
Jeff took a ten year hiatus from performing in public at all,
solo or otherwise, to transpose and compose.
Jeff got his first guitar when he was only five. After many
Long Island afternoons with an acoustic guitar, by age twelve
Jeff had discovered Van Halen, the electric guitar, and an
obsession with becoming a great guitar player. Honing his
music theory skills in high school and further developing
them in college at NYU through course work and private
lessons, Jeff became more than a great songwriter and guitar
player, he became a well rounded musician.
Jeff Jacobson’s eclectic songwriting draws from his many
phases of listening. From early on Jeff played classical
guitar, though he began his independent musical exploration
with heavy rock. His first concert experience was the Black
and Blue Tour of Black Sabbath and Blue Oyster Cult, only
later becoming a fan of R&B music, such as Prince, Stevie
Wonder, and James Brown. Somewhere along his journey
as a fledgling virtuoso, Jeff also discovered the blues, which
he admires because he feels that the blues greats create a
lot within a limited rage of possibilities, counting Stevie
Ray Vaughn, Albert King, and Albert Collins as some of
his favorite bluesmen. Eventually, Jeff was drawn to jazz,
which he appreciates for its lush melodies and harmonies,
and like R&B, its elaborate and varied chord voicings. Jazz
also shares Jeff’s appreciation for the freedom of form, Village Voice in 1989. Jeff transcribes regularly for both
something Jeff was drawn to in college when practicing Hal Leonard Publishing and Cherry Lane Music, though
his classical repertoire. Jeff had been known to add notes he has worked for other companies in the past. Jeff’s job
to pieces he was practicing because he thought it “sounded entails getting a CD and then painstakingly analyzing every
good”— blasphemy to his classical teacher who held the second of the recording in order to notate all of the vocal
written music as the messiah. lines and all guitar parts, complete with chord voicings and
Jeff includes Van Halen, Stevie Wonder, Duke Ellington, fret positions, both in musical notation and in guitar tab.
and Count Basie in his list of major influences, along with According to Jeff, sometimes the job of transcribing an
jazz saxophone player Michael Brecker, who he champions album is easier than others, as the last Jack Johnson album
for creating so much passionate and meaningful music he transcribed only required him to notate a lead vocal part
within the vast vocabulary of jazz. In the future, Jeff would and several different guitars, while he recalls transcribing
love to have the opportunity to work with Brecker, but Queen’s album, “A Night at the Opera,” as one of his hardest
tasks yet. Transcribing albums may sound like an ideal job
for someone as musically inclined as Jeff, but because of his
daily onslaught of musical microanalysis, listening to music
is often tedious for Jeff, and when he first returned to the
music scene, he wanted to listen to other people, but had to
work very hard to do just that – listen and not analyze.
As a finalist in the annual Williamsburg Live Singer
Songwriter Competition, Jeff has been receiving accolades
from people across the city, and paired with his membership
in a band with growing fame, the Undisputed Heavyweights,
Jeff is beginning to notice people not only coming to shows,
but returning for more. He prefers to play venues where
people come to listen to music, not just to have a beer. Jeff
finds it much harder to play when he is only the background
music, finding that places like the Rockwood Music Hall, the
Kavehaz’s Monday Singer/Songwriter night, the DTUT’s
Wednesday open mic, and the Sidewalk Café are his favorite
places to play primarily because people come to them for
the music.
Many people have become Jeff Jacobson fans over
the course of his relatively short playing out, but Amy Hills,
host of the DTUT’s open mic, has know Jeff since he arrived
on the scene just over a year ago. Amy sees so many great
songwriters every week, yet of Jeff she has
said, “When it comes to his songwriting he
brings more to the table than anyone. He
has a wealth of experience and knowledge
about the guitar and music theory and how
things should or shouldn’t sound that I
cannot begin to understand. He looks at the
guitar and sees a playground, and I just see
a guitar…he makes it look so easy but he
practices and decomposes and reconfigures
and has more drive and determination than
almost anyone I know. There is a reason
why he has only been performing his material for a year or
so and has achieved the success he has. He works hard. He
deserves it. Actually, he deserves way more, but he doesn’t
have the god awful ego and selfishness—he’s cursed with
kindness and humility and patience.”
Since the Williamsburg Live Singer Songwriter
Competition, Jeff has been joining fellow finalist Jaymay
on stages across the city, most recently the Living Room.
Additionally, Jeff still regularly plays solo shows, drops in as
a guest artist with other friends and songwriters around town,
and rehearses and performs regularly with his most serious
collaborative project, the Undisputed Heavyweights.
As a member of the Undisputed Heavyweights, a group
which includes Jeff, Casey Shea, and Wes Verhoeve, Jeff
has been amazed at how organically the group has come
together, genuinely songwriting as a collective, and playing
great music to an ever increasing audience. Founded to fill
out Ed Purchla’s CD release party at the Sidewalk Café,
Jeff and the Undisputed Heavyweights began their myth at
midnight that first night, and have gained momentum every
minute since, hosting their own “Heavyweight’s Night”
at Piano’s Lounge, playing regularly at Rockwood Music
Hall, making the trek to play in Philadelphia, and generally
impressing audiences anywhere they go.
Being intimately familiar with the fret board, Jeff realizes
that virtuosity can bore, and both as a singer/songwriter, and
as a guitar player, he reminds himself to focus on being a
good musician, and tries not to focus on just a great guitar
line, asserting that “attitude affects how you play.” Jeff
even suggests to friends and fellow performers, “Just do
your thing,” assuring them that if they stick to that, there’s
no reason to be nervous, as nothing could go wrong when
you “enjoy who you are…enjoy it for the moment, and keep
going.” According to Jeff, the secret to success in front of
an audience is to, “Assume you are good and stop trying.”
Although Jeff does not place overt messages in his songs,
as some songwriters may, and he does not have some agenda
which fuel his songs, he does feel like many of his songs
revolve around finding courage to do things you didn’t
think you could do, not giving up, coming to terms with
who you are, and accepting oneself. Inspired not by other
music, though indebted to other musicians for turning him
onto the art, Jeff Jacobson finds his inspiration in a need to
feel alive by creating a song, in reading the autobiographical
stories of others who have spent their lives overcoming their
own struggles, and especially in his friends
and family, such as his nieces, who recently
inspired the song “Castles” after returning
from a trip to Spain.
Besides continuing to build a fan base one
person at a time, and undoubtedly continuing
to wow listeners of all shapes and sizes at
every turn, Jeff would love to begin playing
larger venues in the city, such as the Beacon
Theater or the Bowery Ballroom, and he
has plans to release several CDs of his solo
catalogue, even shooting to have one available
by the end of this summer. Still, beyond the music, Jeff
has been pleasantly surprised by the warmth and support
he has found in the NYC acoustic songwriter scene, calling
many of the people he has met at various open mics close
friends—often attending shows of all the artists featured on
his website. Bringing more to the New York City singer/
songwriter scene than merely virtuoso guitar playing and
memorable songs, Jeff Jacobson’s humble yet awe inspiring
presence has helped foster the warm and supportive scene
Jeff has blossomed within, and despite a breakout first year,
there is undoubtedly much more groundbreaking music to
come from the undisputed heavyweight.
Jeff Jacobson: jeffjacobson.net
Undisputed Heavyweights: betterthanelvis.com
The Big Onion
breaking through the layers to create Stain Bar
by Krista Madsen
We all have our theories on far. I looked on Craigslist to
what constitutes a New Yorker. see what the going rate was for
Some say five years here, others commercial spaces in my area
say never. For me it took opening of south/eastern Williamsburg
a bar in the further reaches of and called the number for 766
Williamsburg, becoming a real Grand. This was it. But I had a
member of a neighborhood, flight to catch.
learning how to tear down walls Instead of looking at homes
and build new ones, cranking up or doing anything at all related
and down the squeaky metal gate to my surroundings, I used my
every day, shoveling the walk trip to New Orleans as a means
when it snows and attempting to to hole up anonymously in a
grow something in a metal-filled room of a former orphanage
dirt patch. and churn out a fifty-page
Before all this, I was going business plan, spreadsheets,
south. For several years I had market surveys and all. I
been reading, researching, signed up for every credit card
taking classes, and even buying I could, dizzied myself with
knickknacks for the arts/wine building code regulations and
lounge I had in my head. I knew liquor laws, bought temporary
the name, Stain, and the logo, tattoos with the Stain logo,
the red ring a wine glass leaves created a website, and started
on a napkin, the décor and the contacting local vineyards to
theme. But the overwhelming see if they would donate some
difficulty of this task, with the wine for the benefit parties I
added impediment of no money would throw to raise money. At
or experience, was crippling. It began to seem simpler and the end of two weeks in which I slept little and ventured out
slightly more realistic to do this instead in New Orleans, of my room only to seek out Internet access or a $2 po’boy
perhaps the only other place in America I could ever imagine from the nearest gas station, I did it up New Orleans-style
living. As a writer I’ve never been willing to hold down any at last by getting a real tattoo of the Stain logo on my arm, a
career-oriented full-time job and have made a rule against pack of cigarettes and a bottle of wine.
office work, which means that for the sake of my “freedom” I signed the lease for the going-out-of-business Price &
I’ve always worked far more hours in menial positions for Style (a sad clothing store that seemed to feature WWJD
far less money, and I was pooped. Despite my debt and tee-shirts, clothespins, plastic vases, and brown nylons, all
next-to-nil bank account, I somehow managed to get pre- of which were now mine) based on the weather really. The
approved for a mortgage that could buy maybe a plastic- few times I came to check out this wreck, the sky was a
covered shed in Bensonhurst or…a two-story, two-bedroom, miraculous shade of blue and the view to the church from
two-bathroom Victorian cottage with a red door, a lush front the junkyard of the backyard looked like it belonged in
garden, and a porch swing just a ten-minute free ferry ride some European village. My friend calmed my jitters by
across the mythic Mississippi from downtown New Orleans. saying it didn’t matter what the inside was like, it’ll be dark.
But something still tugged. I had built a life for myself in Phil from the hardware store came to change the locks and
New York in the past nine years, this was my home and I’m he, on the other hand, peered up at the base of the second
no quitter. Perhaps I could live in my new cottage seasonally floor bathtubs you could see from the huge rotten hole in
or not at all? I had already subletted my apartment for the the ceiling, and surmised I was insane. People were also
month of May and booked a flight when I finally mustered starting to say I was brave, and I do believe signing the lease
the courage to call one of the phone numbers I had amassed in the first place was brave (or crazy), but the rest of this
from “For Rent” signs I saw during my regular jogs. I three-month adrenaline-fueled renovation was out of pure
looked at one place in Greenpoint – spacious, exposed brick, necessity. Now there was officially a gun to my head saying
perfectly clean – but part of my dream life entailed riding GO, and AS FAST AS YOU CAN, a grueling race I had to
a girlie bike with a basket to my bar, and this seemed too win because I no longer had any choice. It was the hardest
thing I’ve ever done, yet somehow I now get all nostalgic
because it turns out sitting every night in the bar I’ve created
is far more challenging.
A crow bar half the length of me became my friend, along
with a long series of unexpected and lifesaving volunteers. I
was homeless for another two weeks and dragging luggage
from friend’s place to friend’s place when I stopped by my
apartment to get my mail and ran into Chris, the unemployed
actor still subletting my room. He just wanted to drop by the
bar and see what I had gotten myself into, but maybe pity or
concern or simple good samaritanship set in and he wound
up spending weeks of extremely long days helping with the
demolition, broken up only by Dominican Bakery snack
breaks and Negra Modelo. I like to refer to this time as the
Dark Ages, or Vietnam, as my brother and I had yet to rewire
the place and it’s the closest I’ve been to war. I thought we’d
remove the wall paneling and the dropped ceiling with its
grid of fluorescent lights and just paint the place, instead, the
removal of one layer revealed another and another until it
felt like archeology, each new store through the years – and
apparently there were a lot, perhaps this place was cursed
– seemed to feel the need to cover up rather than expose. I
was hoping to discover some grand artifact or time capsule,
instead there was rat shit and in the layer I figured belonged
to the ’70s I found a can of Tab and a rainbow poster. A hole
above the back door was stuffed with bottles, chicken bones
(I’d like to think it was chicken), and corncobs. I discovered
tin ceilings, tin doors, woodwork, a cool curve in the wall,
plaster bolstered by clumps of horse hair, the original chain
pull windows that were broken and cardboarded over
decades ago, patches of ornate wallpaper, and so many
different coats of paint it peeled off like fabric. Growing
anything in the garden required sifting deep into the dirt. We
discovered various rusted metallic objects including what
seems to be a 38-special. In the curiously oblong pile of dirt
in the basement I dug up a boot as
the sole light flashed randomly on
and off and I repeated in order to
convince myself “I’m not afraid,
I’m not afraid.”
My demolition trash, mixed in
with roomfuls of clothes hangers
and clothing racks that the landlord
happened to overlook removing
before I began, was reaching the
ceiling and the walls and threatening
to outgrow the room. I pulled a nail
out of my foot and decided it was
time for a dumpster and a few hired
hands. I thought this would take a
day and a $1,000 but it took weeks
and more money than I like to
think about. For fucking garbage.
When one of the biggest dumpsters wasn’t enough, it got
to the point after many man-with-a-van rides to the dump,
that I solicited the help of a few local thugs and rented a
U-Haul. They lowered the project to new illegal depths, but
garbage became my white whale and I would do anything
at this point to see it dead. Between them dumping bags in
abandoned lots, we started burning wooden trash in a pyre
we created in the backyard with the old air conditioning
ducts that lined the ceiling. Were it not for the drug addict
in army fatigues tending the flames and the six engines from
the Fire Department making a visit, it would have felt like
camp.
Sometimes I had to emerge from my dark cave and
attempt to wear the trappings of normal citizenship (harder
and harder to pull off these days as I was becoming known in
the ‘hood as “The Girl With the Dirty Pants”), and circle the
rings of Hell known as City Hall. Red tape is a euphemism. I
went to one window and they sent me to another window, as
this automated voice reads incomprehensible numbers over
the loudspeaker, and around and around again until one lady
asked for my ticket number and sent me back to the first
window to get one and so on. Finally, some kinder gentler
person took me under his wing and set me up with a teller
who would actually talk to me for a second. I came to collect
a Certificate of Occupancy for my building, but apparently
it didn’t exist, so I had to create one. This man sent me on a
scavenger hunt to do so, involving many offices and trains
to places like East New York. When I arrived back from my
two-day journey, flushed with my folder of ten found items
of maps, pictures, plots, someone closed their window in
my face. “But you close at 5,” I whelped. “Not today.” The
next day I came back only to discover that all I had done was
futile, my building did in fact already have a certificate but
it wouldn’t fly for a bar so I needed to start over in the office
of… My roommate at the time happened to be an architect
and I dragged myself all hangdog and demoralized to his
office. His boss mandated No More City Hall for You, as
he phoned a liquor lawyer, an expeditor and began drafting
plans for my work permits. All this “help” amounted to
more money than my DIY self
was prepared to pay, but in the
end I’m sure my time was better
spent on that eight-foot ladder,
where I was beginning to feel quite
comfortable.
As the core of this place emerged,
I felt if I squinted I could see what
it must have been. The first record
I found of this building in my
expeditions through government
offices was from 1915, when
the retail space of the four-floor
tenement was a liquor store. Back
then a liquor store would have also
been a bar, but then Prohibition
happened. I learned from the owner
of the laundromat next door that our
buildings date back to 1890. My dad independently came up
with the same year when he saw the handcut wooden beams
holding up the basement predating mechanized saws. My
brother pointed out the entire history of electricity on the
basement ceiling from the first delicate
wires to today’s sturdy rat-proof BX.
The name “Leon” is spray-painted in
the basement and the back wall of the
garden and I often wondered who and
how long dead Leon was. One day,
Leon showed up and said he and five
Ukrainian siblings grew up upstairs
in a two-bedroom railroad. He
described the long series of grocery
stores that would get shut down in
the ’80s when they started selling
crack, and the dead body he once had
to step over to get in the building,
which was for sale not long ago for
a few ten-thousand dollars. Then the
bad clothing stores began, and the
ladies who illegally cut hair in the
back room, putting the “Style” in the
Price & Style. At least they weren’t
referring to the tee-shirts.
I relish these stories, dead bodies and all, and I take pride
in knowing that I too am playing some minor role now
in the history. Through this trial-and-error education in
plastering holes, sheetrocking, plumbing, electrical work,
demolition, perseverance, the kindness of many, and simply
magic, I have changed a piece of New York, bringing it
both full circle and somewhere else entirely. My goal has
been to create more of a community
center than a bar, with an obsessive
commitment to local products (wine
and beer from the state), talent and
events (open mics, art openings,
theme parties, craft nights, readings).
Now I’m trying to read as many
New York history books as I can in
order to regale patrons in the wee
hours with tidbits like how the first
subway was propelled down a short
tube by a fan and other stories that
make this city more of an endlessly
layered onion than a big apple. I’ll
never know a fraction of all there is
to know about this city, but I thrive
on the continual challenge of a place
that never lets you be complacent.
You’re a New Yorker, I think, when
you choose to be.
www.stainbar.com.
Stain Bar, open daily, is located at 766 Grand Street (L to
Grand), in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. 718/387-7840.
Owner Krista Madsen is the author of the novels Degas Must
Have Loved a Dancer, and Four Corners (out in July).
Exegesis Department
Justify the music
with Dan Penta of Cockroach

Dan, why the hell did you write this song?

Devil Come Madness
I woke before the birds. In a darkened room. On a mattress made of
In the padded room cold white viynl. Wrapped in a white sheet and a heavy blue blanket. I
Where I was born was pregnant. A nest full of hatchlings. I was chewing my food and
with a million thorns spitting it back for them to eat.
To a black eyed boy
From a cotton amnion When I was 17 my parents had me institutionalized. They had no choice
With cheap vinyl lining really. I was a weeping wreck. Everything was beauty to me. I felt
intense strife between people. It shattered me.
How could I compete
With the ancient glue And when you’re out there all alone, you’re really alone. Friendship has
The quire shreeked expired. Blinding white bulbs now less than dim. This is where loyalties
“Motherfucker, shoot!” die. They can’t help you now. Except they do.
I did
They locked me up for being crazy I was reading The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test. Freedom. This freak flag.
Proud deformity. Running free. Like in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s
From the day-glo tree’s Nest where he sees that dog escaped from the kennel sucking in the night
where they hung my head get hit by a car and die there in the street. A bloody death. But he dies
The maggots fed on asphalt bread free.
Her fuzzy creepers snuff you like a faggot
I knew this girl Laura. Sometimes she was there. She had this pair
Devil come madness of creepers with fuzzy leopard print. The grace of her snuffing out a
You’re on your own cigarette on her front lawn. It struck me then.
Devil come madness
No one knows I had forgotten the code. The numbers you punch to move unnoticed
Devil come madness thru the sane world. Psycotic, I had my own equations. What if you took
No one ever knew you every dare. “Shoot, Motherfucker!” Well you asked for it.

I wanna touch you but I can’t even say hello No one really knows what it’s like to be anyone else. I tried to break
I wanna touch you but i can’t even say... through but the walls were nothing but air. I knew this other girl back
You know there, later on. She told me people come and go. She was saying of
course that it was time for her to go. And she was right. Goodbye.

hearthmusic.net
Profiles in AntiFolk
Kirk Kelly, model citizen
by Jonathan Berger
In the beginning, there was Kirk Kelly. Actually, if you picking fruit on Long Island, where he worked “an honest
count - as many of us do - the beginning to be when the Anti- day’s work, for a half a day’s pay” (hear all about it in
Hootenanny started way back in the mid-eighties, then even “Working in the Vineyards”). It got him started playing union
before the beginning, there was Kirk Kelly. Back when some rallies and picket lines. Working as an airline reservationist,
jacked-up punk kids were kicked out of the West Village he became shop’s steward, and has been working in, for and
acoustic clubs for playing too loud or saying ‘fuck’ too around unions ever since.
much or mohawking their hair
or just not sharing their drugs,
Kelly was there. He was
kicked out, too. It’s strange
to imagine Kelly abandoned
by the West Side established
folk scene, considering how
traditional so much of his
material is. After all, Kirk
Kelly is a leftist. Kirk Kelly
sings traditional folk songs:
union songs, celtic songs,
political songs, all that stuff.
Kirk Kelly is an activist, and
he covers Joe Hill in his sets.
Despite his credentials
as a card-carrying folky, he
was ousted by Folk City for
promoting some East Village
show. So, along with fellow
rejects Lach, Roger Manning,
and his then-girlfriend
Cindy Lee Berryhill, Kelly
went East, and discovered
AntiFolk. His vocation and art feed off one another, as evidenced
Kirk Kelly founded the Folk Brothers with Lach – even by May 12th’s Go Time!, an irregular entertainment series
recorded a cassette back in ‘85. If you’re very good and that Kelly hosts. This one was to support the organizing
attentive to the schedule, you can still see them play their campaign for the IWW/Starbuck’s Union. As MC and
annual “rehearsal” at the Sidewalk Café. They don’t play curator for the event, Kelly selected acts he’s known during
often, and they’re sets are shambling, absurdist events, but his over-20 years performing in the City. Zero Boy, John S.
they’re a lot of fun. The two acoustic players obviously Hall and Seth Tobacman were old friends. Cover girl Erin
enjoy each other and the two or three songs that they’ll only Regan and Beau Johnson are newer vintage. Together, they
perform together. all did their part to raise awareness of labor movements and
Kirk Kelly was there at the start, and, it seems, he’ll be help fund the IWW’s effort to unionize Starbuck’s.
there at the end. Of all the original AntiFolksters, Kelly During Kelly’s own set, he revised an old Joe Hill song,
is alone in his continued presence within the community. “Rebel Girl,” as a rollicking sing-along, performed the
Lach, of course, does the same, but he’s in charge of a club, traditional “What Do you Do with a Drunken Sailor” with
and, in essence, a scene. As a member of the scene, only new lyrics about Fighting Wobblies, and sang his own usual
Kirk remains. Only Kirk abides. set-closer, “We Won the War,” written about the original
Perhaps it’s Kirk Kelly’s relationship with communities Gulf War, but obviously, just as resonant today.
that keeps him involved. His professional life is, after all, Kelly has been called “The Billy Bragg of NYC,” and
informed by his folk-singing history. He’s a unionizer. there’s much truth to that. Just like Bragg, Kelly has the
It started organically. He’d spent time as a day laborer, same first and last initial. Just like Bragg, he has five letters
in his last name. Just like Bragg, he does not record as often
as he should. And just like Bragg, Kelly mixes “pop and
politics” on a regular basis. Just like Bragg, of course, he
runs the risk of being heard as too much of a firebrand, and
not enough of a troubadour. In both cases, the love songs
resonate more strongly than the political. There is probably
nothing more powerful in his set that “Shenagh Says,”
recording a breakup. Kelly’s more recent “New City,” about
the changes in a regentrified New York, is also great, as are
innumerable others. His pop hits are best though, just like
Bragg.
Back in the day, Kirk Kelly was one of the first AntiFolk
artists to expand beyond the East Village. His first album
was on punk record label SST in 1988. Entitled Go Man Go,
it did about as well as you’d expect an acoustic record to do
on a punk label. His next album, 1997’s New City (after than
song mentioned above) came out on Kelly’s own Mugsy
Records, as will future releases (based on the math of his
recording history, we should expect something new late next
year).
Kelly explains his reasons for independence: “I realized
then I had to do it myself. The entertainment industry is give voice to that identity. America’s popular culture must
organized the same way that the old robber barons organized tell the real story of its people and reflect its true identity.
the railroads.” This is the mission of MUGSY Records.
Mugsy Records has other artists, including Kelly’s other Kirk Kelly has got lots of gigs. Between rallies, solo
project, Paddy on the Railway, which features the Violent shows, Paddy on the Railway, and occasional Go Time!
Femmes’ Brian Ritchie. The other bands, presumably adhere Events, he’s always in gear. And his albums are available
to Kelly’s ethos: In order for us to become who we want to over at Mugsy Records. There’s no reason not to check out
be we must know who we are and no political revolution can this Architect of AntiFolk.
endure without cultural revolution. America belongs to those
who build it, fix it, run it, clean it, protect it, feed it, care for
it and educate it. In the work we do we forge a common mugsyrecords.com
identity and it is the work of its most progressive artists to

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record label, open mic, club, radio station, studio,
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Subway Stories
tricks of the trade
VI. I Get Busted
I got cocky. Cops can
be dicks, but sometimes a
ticket is just evidence that
you don’t know when to
shut your mouth and move
on. 110th St. had become my
home. I had been playing
there long enough to know a
lot of the regular crowd and
they were generally friendly
and keeping my bills paid.
The station manager and
other attendants saw things
a little differently though, telling me to move before the
cops came and got me, and generally being snotty and rude
about me playing there. Having read way too much rhetoric
about fighting for our first amendment rights as subway and
street artists, I didn’t want to be pushed around. Standing my
ground, I would always politely inform them that the law
was on my side and keep playing.
One night one of the younger attendants came out
and threatened to call the cops. I went through my usual
routine of telling him the law when he threw up his hands
in exasperation. “Goddamnit, I have a headache and a long
shift and that shit is just too loud in there!” he said, pointing
towards the booth. Knowing I needed the money, and not
wanting to lose my platform, I simply moved over a few
steps and kept playing.
Not ten minutes later two cops showed up. “Do you have
a permit?” they asked, already more unfriendly then most
transit cops I had dealt with.
“I don’t need a permit.”
“You don’t tell me what you need, either move along or I’ll
write you a ticket right now.” Usually I would, but something
told me that between the cops and the station attendants, if I
left now I might lose my platform for good. Not that arguing
with a cop had ever gotten anyone anywhere.
“Yeah, what for? This is perfectly legal. You have to know
that.”
“Don’t tell me the law, you move on or I’ll write you a
ticket for playing here without a permit.”
“You can’t and you know it.” My face was getting hot,
and my adrenaline started going (it never helps that cops are
always taller than me), but I think also I was a little curious.
What exactly was he going to write me up for? I figured they
had to have some kind of an actual offense to bust me on, or
were they just going to make something up? It was time to
by Dave Cuomo
find out. “I know the exact
law. It’s transit code section
1050 c something. I can
read it to you if you want.”
“What are you, a fucking
lawyer? You read me the
law and I’ll write you a
ticket.”
“For what?!”
“I already told you!
Fucking lawyer.” By this
point a crowd had gathered
to watch, and I will say in
my defense that between
the rush of arguing with a
cop and the tension and energy the crowd brought to things,
I began to lose my head.
Pissed and exasperated I grabbed a copy of Urban Folk
issue one and opened to the part where we had printed the
transit code about subway performing. Loudly and with my
finger raised sternly in the air I quoted him the law while
the crowd around us watched on. When I was done the cop
shook his head and laughed. “All right, give me your ID.” I
handed it to him, my blood still boiling, but also curious as
to what they were going to do.
I watched with some amusement of my own as he and
his partner stammered around with the ticket for a while,
whispering back and forth, and apparently not knowing
what exactly to do. My ego rising, I began thinking I might
have actually won this round. I pictured them handing me
back my ID sheepishly and taking their leave when they
realized they had nothing on me. After some time of letting
my smugness rise, watching them whisper over what to do,
a man I had seen sitting off to the side in a plain hoody
got up and walked over to the cops. He was now wearing a
police badge around his neck. He leaned over and whispered
something about a certain section of transit code 1050.6 c,
no playing within 25 feet of a token booth. The cop nodded
and finished the ticket and handed it to me.
I felt stupid. My pride vanished instantly and I felt about
two inches tall. Of course the cops had won, was there ever
any doubt? Anything you ever do in life, a cop can find a
way to bust you for for if they want to. This wasn’t about
first amendment rights, it was about me annoying a station
attendant and a cop doing him a favor. I took my $25 ticket
and left, knowing I would never bother to fight it or pay it.
Of course I told the cops that they were wrong about the
distance, and that I would measure it (I did actually measure
it later, and it turns out I was just barely too close, but they
didn’t know that when they wrote the ticket). “See you in
court,” he laughed, knowing neither of us would go to a
hearing over $25.
As I left the station a high school kid stopped me and asked
for a copy of the magazine. “Man, that was so cool how
you printed the law. And then you read it right to the cop
like that. Man, that’s awesome!” I felt far from awesome.
I felt like a kid too big for his britches that hadn’t done his
homework before opening his big mouth.
“Sure man, thanks,” I mumbled and walked off.
I tried playing 110th St. one more time after that, standing
as far from the booth as I could while still being near the
people. The crowd was great, but within a half hour two
cops showed up. Extremely friendly this time, they told me
it was really loud in the booth and hard for the attendant to
work, and would I mind doing the guy a favor and moving
down to a different platform? They were being honest and
friendly and I’m really not in the business of trying to ruin
someone’s day, so I complied and haven’t been back since.
It was a shame losing the spot that had become my home,
but no matter how well the crowd and I got along there, the
nagging feeling that every song I play would be annoying
someone took all the joy out of it. I said goodbye to the
station and set out to find myself a new home downtown.
VII. The Audition
All too often it is too late before we realize the sheer joy
that performing can be. In the last verse of my audition I felt
it. When all the anxiety had faded, when I remembered that
I already knew these chords, knew this song, knew how to
say what I was trying to say, I was finally left in the moment
to just play. Alone in the middle of a circle of stone faced
judges in the corner of an enormous room with all of its
excited performers, supporters, and press, I felt the weight
of it all as something great to be a part of. I sang them a
song of revolution and hope. I called it out to a hundred foot
high ceiling with all the passion that had brought me to New
York in the first place with the idea that I had something to
Dave Cuomo + Jes Cuomo = Cuomo!
tuesday 6/14
10pm
at the Sidewalk Café
(NE corner of Ave A & 6 St.)
performing their full length album -Three Chord Plan of Redemption
hear the songs; myspace.com/davecuomo
dave@cuomogroup.net for album info
say if anyone walking by wanted to listen. I played as hard
and well as I ever had and in the final moments of the song
I lost myself in the dance in front of the judges knowing I
would forever miss the pure joy of singing off the stone in
that great room. I struck the last chord hard, and without
thinking I took a sweeping bow as the applause washed over
me.
I sat in my room with the envelope in my hand, not really
wanting to open it. Jennie was sitting next to me smiling,
telling me its thickness could only mean good things. It didn’t
feel that thick to me. Most of my emotion surrounding the
whole thing had faded. In the weeks since my audition I had
talked and thought about it too much, and felt I had made
my peace with whatever they decided. I could play freely
wherever I wanted no matter what any panel of judges said.
Still there was something nice about the idea of New York
City putting my name on a banner and asking me to play for
them. I hated the fact that opening the envelope was going
to either make me feel like I really might be as good as I like
to think I am, or that I had failed and was still just struggling
along with no sign of things getting any easier. Who were
these anonymous “industry professionals” to have that kind
of power over me anyway?
I’ve heard both sides to the Music Under New York
program. To some it is an attempt by the city to control the
free world of subway performing. Other see their banners as
something to be proud of, an endorsement by the city, and
an easier way to make a living underground. For me it was
a way to tell myself that what I do really is a legitimate job
just as valid as any other. Also, it sounded like an easier way
to make a living. I was tired of the hit or miss days, never
knowing when you went down if you were going to find
a good spot, or even if you did, if the crowd would be in
any kind of a generous mood that day. I saw the permit as a
way to provide some sense of reliability and reassurance to
what I was doing. The transit board has set aside twenty or
so places in the subway system they consider to be the best
playing spots and every week a schedule is drawn up for the
artists in the program and they can pick specific times to play
at each location. Other performers can play at these spots as
long as there is not a scheduled artist there. Auditions are
held once a year in Vanderbilt Hall at Grand Central Station
for a panel described only as industry professionals. Each
year around 250 artists apply, of which about 70 are asked
back to the live audition, and around ten of these are finally
admitted. Once granted, the permit is valid for life.
When the first envelope came
I was excited. I felt confident,
but still a little scared. In all
the demos I had ever sent
out, I had never heard back
good news. Still, I had also
never been rejected after a live
audition. All I had to do was
make it to Grand Central and I
would be fine. Jennie sat next
to me anxiously while I tore
into it and pulled out the letter.
“Congratulations!” was about
all I got to read before rolling
over and laughing happily.
Entering Vanderbilt Hall I was greeted with an excited
buzz. It is an enormous room, and I got goose bumps at
the thought of the acoustics in a place with hundred foot
high ceilings and pure stone walls. As I took in the sight of
performers milling around with any number of imaginable
instruments whishing each other luck and mumbling to
themselves, supporters gawking along the sidelines, and
all the press sticking their cameras and microphones in
everyone’s faces, my dark mood and fears began to fade
and give way to a calm determination fueled by the energy
surrounding me. Jennie had come to meet me and I found
her with moist eyes. I appreciated knowing that this felt
important to her too. We were ushered over towards the
judges to wait my turn. There were about twenty of them
seated in a semi circle facing the corner like some grand
council. There was a wooden flute duet taking their turn
before me, and I felt a little guilty for wishing them to sound
dull so that I might come across as fresh and exciting after
them. They finished and I took my place in the middle of
the semi-circle. The judge’s faces were impassive and gave
away nothing, except for an older man seated right in front
of me beaming from ear to ear. I greeted them confidently
and started into my song. I started slow with a song that
I knew would rise, hoping that by the time I hit the high
dramatic Spanish bridge at the end that the judges would
be able to rise with me, and we could take the trip together.
Immediately after, I would launch into a fast and powerful
rendition of Dylan’s “When the Ship Comes In,” the most
empowering song I know and one with lyrics that say most
of what I would ever like to say in a song. As I went through
the buildup of the first song, I knew I was thinking too much
about the judges. I also knew that by the time I reached the
Spanish bridge I wouldn’t be thinking about anything except
the feeling I had when I originally wrote the part one night
during an insomnia fueled madness, endlessly repeating
those same chords over and over, singing as loud as I could
on the bank of a little river with no one around to hear.
Finally I made myself open the letter, with Jennie gripping
my arm excited. We scanned through the parts about how
hard the decision was and how wonderful all the performers
were, looking for the familiar
“Congratulations!”
“Oh no,” Jennie said after
a minute. I placed the letter
down and laid on the bed. I
had been telling people that
if I didn’t get in I would be
surprised more than anything
else, because I really thought
I had shown them whatever
it was they might be looking
for in a subway performer. I
found myself less surprised
than hurt. Immediately my
head began filling with bitter
rationalizations about how the program is just interested in
gimicky bullshit like one man cover bands or a guy playing
bad organ music for mechanical dancing dolls. Besides, I
don’t need anyone to tell me that I can play underground.
I’ve been doing it for the better part of a year. Really it’s just
an unnecessary system set up to try to control the free world
of subway performing. Of course a week ago I had been
walking around loudly singing the praises of the program
and the audition. For a moment I thought I should take it
as a sign and go get a real job. But honestly I’ve come too
far to go and do that any time soon. I’d have to just take the
rejection for what it was and continue on.
In the days immediately after my audition I notice a
change in my performances. Something about the feeling
of grandeur I got while playing in Vanderbilt Hall hasn’t
completely gone away. I feel like I passed some sort of a
test as a performer and will always be a stronger player for
it. Now whenever I wonder how to play for an audience, all
I have to do is picture myself in the middle of those judges
and I instantly find my feet and voice. I think it took playing
in a place as grand and historic as Grand Central Station
to remind me that every song you play can carry that same
weight and importance if you let it. Setting up my case
and tuning my guitar in Union Square I look around at the
commuters and smile at them pleasantly. Some smile back,
some don’t. I strike up a C chord and sing out a song for
both.
www.myspace.com/cuomomusic
 Poetry Page
AUGUSTULUS Don’t Play with Tachyons
(for Danny) if You Can’t Afford the Time!

Gussie got fucked If love is c

early and often the universal constant
by his uncle the only parameter
who adopted him the only thing true
so he could do it more. in a room
with skewed perspective frustrations
Gussie got raped a world that cannot see untitled
by his new dad the same angles
a powerful man hope and joy contracting I had become quite tired
that no one dared contest. to a bottomless stop time well Of my troubled mind
Against his will while the lover’s smile remains So, I sought the advice
Gussie got fucked. a constant upturned Of a wise old friend
90º light cone
He didn’t like it an ice cream cone He advised I exorcise
but it didn’t matter that always holds its shape My demons
because With discipline
at that time Than you were the Tachyon Run them out
with those people who outran c Then embrace my creativity
no one talked about it. broke the parameter’s backbone Make love to life
His uncle had his way called constants stupid ‘Til I’m plain worn out
and Gussie got touched shown right angles dull
Gussie got molested arrived before it was sent So I climbed the flights of fancy
Gussie got fucked. to tell us Counted each step
Eventually we’re going to need a new theory To mark the memories
The assent so high
his uncle died badly
- Dave Cuomo I was breathless
and Gussie grew up
I believed I could even fly
and became as big as his uncle
as his dad. But the discipline
Gussie was the most powerful man wed me to the staircase
anyone had ever seen And the steps were ever mounting
and that’s when the real fucking began. And determination to reach the top
Kept me moving
- Jonathan Berger By then I couldn’t stop.
Afterthought
I climbed for what seemed like hours
What he intended to express was for naught. Then days turned into months
And what sounded?--he can scarcely recall. I realized this staircase was endless
It was some awkward burst of safe words. And I was only given one hour for
But in his mind, he expressed everything. lunch
His mind enlivened with eloquent precision.
The intent mind proposed a touch... So I turned with the intention
and an eager surrender... To make my descent
and an otherworldly sensation... If I ran perhaps I could save my job
and a momentum... But the flight of fancy I had mounted
And he doesn’t even know the entirety of it... Had disappeared into a fog.
The words never came.
- Arlene Cassarino
- Tyrus Gray
Paul’s Perspective
You can’t do it all...
Doing many things doesn’t always constitute doing things
well. In fact, doing many things may actually lead not only
to doing some of those things poorly, but actually sabotage
all of the things you are doing, devour, your every waking
moment, alienate your friends and loved ones, leave you
tired, leave you poor, leave you rich but alone, leave you
wondering how with everything on your plate you ended up
starving for more accomplishing less and two steps behind
where you began — or then again you could just succeed in
all of your endeavors equally well, and make people like me
incredibly jealous.
Since our special first issue extravaganza, I have been
working a day job in order to pay rent and eat occasionally,
running a weekly open mic which I hope some of you come
to checkout, booking showcases, interviewing the famous
and personable Jeff Jacobson, and when I find a free moment,
I’m recording an album…
“Ghost tracks” (Thursday March 24, 2005)
Before anything else can happen in the studio, my
producer and I had to spend some time today discussing
how my songs should be structured, how long the intro
should be, if the musical interlude I wrote really belongs,
change the ending, or modify a bridge, and then, I have to
lay down what Benjy calls “ghost tracks,” or a guide track
for all the other musicians to follow as we build the album
from my solo performance up. After about an hour and the
occasional heated debate, Benjy and I were able to begin
setting click tracks for me to follow for the first three songs
we decide to tackle, “Flood,” “Run to Me (He Said, She
Said),” and “Maybe.” It’s amazing how long it takes just
to determine the tempo of a song you swear you’ve been
playing at the same speed for years.
While recording the tracks, Benjy kind of conducted me
as I was playing, and sometimes it was hard to follow the
click, remember my lines, sing in the new keys we’ve put
a few of the songs in, and make the changes on the fly that
Benjy made as the tape was rolling, but in the end I think we
ended up with decent enough rough versions of the songs
for people to play to. I over sing and over emote a lot on
the tracks, but Benjy wanted me to give the other musicians
a “feeling” of the song. I can’t wait to see how these songs
sound as they begin to flesh themselves out — Benjy’s other
recordings really make it sound as though everything is
happening all at once, as though a solo artist is really in a
band.
Gone but not forgotten (Friday March 25, 2005)
While I was at work yesterday Benjy had a drummer come
by Paul Alexander
into the studio and add the drums
to my first three songs. He seems
overly confident of the drummer’s
ability and he assures me that they
ended up with some really great
work, but I wish I could have been
there to help in the process. I just
hope I can live with the results of
their efforts, since Benj is paying
for the drummer and without more
bread I really have no basis to object to what they’ve done.
After spending more time with the rough “ghost tracks”
and some albums I left to him to peruse, including everything
from the Counting Crow’s “August and Everything After”
to Bob Schneider’s “Lonelyland,” Benjy also had many
“constructive” comments about my voice and my vision for
the album. He reminded me that many of the albums I love
come from the mid-90s and that according to him, my album
has to sound “fresh,” while being more critical than before
of certain vocal tendencies I have and suggesting that we
look into the voice lessons we had discussed at one point
early on.
The Real guitar (Thursday March 31, 2005)
Tonight when I showed up I was more concerned with
my strings staying in tune and not popping off my guitar
than I was with actually recording my parts. Even though
I have been changing the strings on my twelve-string guitar
for years now, it never seems to get any easier, and they
stretch so much for what seems like forever, that since I’d
only changed them two days before and even had to dust
off my old six-string to play at my open mic on Tuesday,
I was really nervous about how good it would sound. Not
to mention the fact that I’ve always been especially self
conscious about my voice and I was still preoccupied with
Benjy’s recent barrage of critical comments, and I was
certain that despite Benjy’s opinion that my album should
sound “fresh,” I still think my album can and should still
possess some of the flavor of all the mid-90s albums which
helped shape my vision of what an album could be, and I
happen to adore.
Still, as it turned out, the intonation of my guitar, my vocal
abilities, and the overall sound of my album really should
have been the last thing on my mind tonight. As confident as
I thought I was with the songs, some of which I have played
for years, I really got a workout tonight as we re-recorded
my guitar parts for the first three songs of my album.
Evidently unbeknownst to me, I play things in my songs that
suggested drum parts that, though probably more interesting
than others I have had put to my songs in
the past, really threw me tonight. All in all I
think I handled my self fairly well, but I’ve
got to learn to shut-up and play. Benjy can
be the warmest most comforting presence at
most times, but when the tape is rolling and
we’re at work, I learned real fast tonight that
I’ve got to just play my part, concentrate, let
my own opinions go, and just listen to his
directions.
It sounds easy enough to just follow
directions I know, and I did hire him for
his professional advice, but he changed the
ending of one of my favorite songs after we
argued about it at length when laying down
the “ghost tracks.” I was so thrown by the
change tonight that I kept screwing up the
ending, and I just couldn’t bite my tongue,
so we ended up arguing over the merits
of both endings, though looking back the
argument really was futile, given that he
was bound to win since he had the drummer to work with people he has experience with for the other
end it his way on the recording. Aggravating as that is, it parts of my album. Benjy really is a great guy and he made
was even more aggravating to have my producer tell me me feel like I’d done a really professional job tonight as I
that it was not appropriate to end the song my way because was leaving. I just hope I can learn to let go even more and
according to him I had just done it that way at some point trust that Benjy knows what’s best. I don’t need to play all
and not really thought about how it should end, when I know of the parts on the album to feel ownership or know that the
I couldn’t have thought more about it. line will be “right,” and so I need to remember that if I want
At any rate, after hours and hours of playing the same this to be the best album it can be, I need to openly accept
songs over and over, the first take almost always blew the my own limitations and inexperience, remembering that I
others away, but for minor mistakes. In the end, between can’t do it all, and know that has to include not making all
the new strings, great mics, and good mic placement, the the decisions.
drums and guitar tracks sound really good. In addition, I
finally even convinced Benjy to let me bring a rough copy palexandermusic.com
to my friend Matt who I really want to have play bass on
the album because he knows my songs and I am sure he is
good enough, despite the fact that Benjy really only wants
WHAT YOU DO IS NOT ORIGINAL;
WHAT I DO IS ORIGINAL
Alec Wonderful speaks of earlier fanzines
by Alec Wonderful
Seeing the new kids do their thing at Urban Folk, I a song-cycle I had blasted out one drunken afternoon,
think back to the good old days, when I was young and about a young wizard and his coming of age. It was the
Wonderful. result of a drunken brainstorming session, but I thought
I used to put out a fanzine, too. It had a slightly narrower the fans should see how I allowed ideas to germinate,
scope than Urban Folk’s, and yet, strangely, it covered fulminate, inculcate in my skull. I called the song-cycle
all things under the sun. It was the print organ of my fan “Harry Warthog, Sorcerer’s Apprentice”. According to
club, which maxxed out in the early nineties at 50 million my subscription list, a Jo Rowling received a copy of
members. No joke. It seemed that certain Indonesian families that first Wonderful News. I’m not asking for royalties
subscribed their ancestors and the unborn, anxious that the or anything; I’m just saying.
club would someday cancel its open enrollment policy. How After that first issue came and went, I had a bunch of
ridiculous! As if I would ever refuse anyone the chance to people begging to submit to Wonderful News. Several were
live with a Wonderful light shining upon them – plus, the ten obviously groupies who just wanted the chance to interview
dollar entrance fee paid for my chateau in New Jersey. me – or, that’s what I thought at the time. This happened
Yeah, I said Jersey. You wanna make something of it? during my short-term addiction to Elmer’s, and sometimes,
Anyway, the fan club, Friends of Alec, they deserved my suspicions got the better of me.
some benefit from membership, something more than the Some guys, like Hunt Thompson, Tommy Wolfe and
sense of belonging they got, knowing they were part of Little Georgie Plimpton, they obviously were just trying to
something greater than themselves. So I started putting out jump on the Wonderful bandwagon. In fact, Bob Guccione
a fanzine called Wonderful News, dedicated to the goings-on Jr. tried to intern with me back then. But I felt I couldn’t trust
of everyone’s number one AntiFolk All-Star, which, in case any of them. One kid caught my eye, though. He’d written a
you’ve been dead forever, is me. To be sure that only the letter to the editor, asking me to come to his hospital and sign
best writing and morst accurate news got into the monthly his cast (he’d broken his leg, apparently, trying to jump my
newsletter, I kept a watchful eye, ensuring complete quality fence). The letter was simply written, but profound. There
control over the product. I wrote the first issue myself.
I thought it would stretch different muscles than writing
perfect AntiFolk song after perfect AntiFolk song. I figured
it would be a test of my creative skills. It wasn’t, really,
because it turned out I filled out the magazine like I fill
everything else: extraordinarily, amazingly… Wonderfully.
So I was disappointed by the lack of challenge, but the
people, they loved it. I mailed it out to certain old friends,
so they could keep abreast of my goings-on. It affected
many in many different ways. Here’s how:
• There was an advice column. I posed theoretical
questions, brain-teasers that have plagued man for
generations, and then I answered them. I believe it
inspired Clinton to run for office. The column was
called Alec Says, and soon afterwards, Lach had this
song, “Stephen Said.” I know that Kirk Kelly’s got
a song called “Shenagh Says.” Brenda Kahn’s got
“Christopher Says,” and Beck, he produced an album
for K Records called Wunderful Sayings. Coincidence?
Maybe, except I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe
in me, and Yoko. But that’s another story.
• Jann Wenner started retooling Rolling Stone around
then. His fonts are suspiciously like mine.
• One of my articles was about the genesis of ideas. I cited
were footnotes, and the typing was moderately accurate.
When he healed up, I invited him to my chateau in the South
of Jersey and asked if he wanted to work on Wonderful News
with me.
I swear, watching grown men weep is always a turn-on.
Long story, short, that young kid that I gave a break to?
Turns out his name was Dan Brown. Or Jonathan Safran
Foer. Or Norman Mailer. Or Michael Glass. I’m never too
good with names. But he helped me out for a while, and I
gave him the experience he needed to pull himself up by
his bootstraps, become the writer he always wanted to be. I
don’t need thanks. I don’t mind that he – whoever he is – has
yet to dedicate any works to me. I don’t even mind that my
lawsuits were denied due to “inadmissible evidence.” I’m
the kind of guy who’s totally willing to suffer in silence, so
long as everybody knows about it.
Anyway, I eventually saw that by editing my own fanzine,
I might have given the kids the best possible product, but they
missed out on something important. The fans, they didn’t
get the chance to express their own love and appreciation of
Alec Wonderful themselves. What would the fans do without
a chance to make their own personal macaroni sculptures of exchange – coincidentally, the number of subscribers that
their heroes? Or their own insipid epic poems singing my were receiving Wonderful News at that time. I think back on
praises? I just couldn’t do that to them. that money fondly.
So I sold controlling of Wonderful News to News And I never wrote another article for another fanzine ever
Corporation, which promptly dismantled my infrastructure again.
for parts, selling them to the highest bidder. I’m not one to
meddle, but I think they made a cool fifty million on the
Air Wasn’t Air
fiction
I met him in May and saw him die in February, when
what looked like air wasn’t air. He and the others pelted like
a slanted hailstorm against the glass, and fell. Dead upon
arrival, I surmised from my own stupored position on the
cold grass, no trace of any external injury. He fell near me,
as if I was his idea of heaven, or home.
I want to believe it happened so fast he had no time to
register the reflection of himself in the glass before it knocked
him senseless, no time to see me either, squawking to get
his attention, too late. Just replete with berries, impossibly
happy with the memory of crimson color and sweet juice, he
crashed into the windows of the office buildings enclosing
our courtyard. The office workers too deep in their cubicles
to emerge on time to stop these dozens upon dozens from
bursting their blood vessels all in unison like some opera
chorus reaching crescendo.
Better this way surely, leaving me when there were still
so many things too good to be true. Before the dissolution
that would surely set in, bitterness, regret, onto-the-next-
bird but still the hurt. We counted our love by more berries
than your average couple, more months. There are many
reasons to feel blessed. But that day, mine was a drunken
grief, unsure of the line between my nauseous belly and my
broken heart.
May to February, it was as fast as that, but longer than our
kind can usually lay claim to, when the fledglings disperse
and the practical union has run its course. In the beginning, in
the spring mating dance, we hopped back and forth, passing
our berries between our beaks. Soon I squeezed our five
eggs from my body into the nest we made. He perched on a
branch overlooking this position I was stuck in, incubating
for two weeks, and fed me the berries we love most, always
berries, and flower petals, beetles, weevils, ants, cicadas,
caterpillars. Soon there were young ones to feed and we
caught insects at first, then onto berries by the second day.
In a month’s time, our babies were gone, unlikely to return
again, perhaps we’d recognize a note or a feather someday
and feel a tinge but never be sure. He could have left then
too, all duties done, but I begged him to do better than that,
could we not surpass our biological clocks, I asked with my
buzzing trill, he called it. Begging. His face that black mask
we all have, particularly hard to read, particularly at times
like this.
Come with me to the Carolinas, I said. Let’s go south.
It’s a gregarious flock, I would have seen him regardless,
moving in on next year’s mate, and I would have had to
admire the orange striped tail of the male in front of me just
to spite him, but instead – and I could have never dreamt for
this – he stayed by my side as we flew ahead of the coming
by Krista Madsen
snow. He hinted that he knew a place for us to summer in, a
veritable paradise of berries.
You and your berries, I joked, always with the berries,
trying to seem light and humorous when tangible waves of
adoration and relief rolled through me and I had to flap even
harder to steady myself in the formation.
Other couples only had berries on time for the children,
the whole mating thing timed so the berries are ripe for the
babies. But we always had berries, nine months of fruit,
an abundance of berries. And the way he served them to
me, beak to beak, like passing bits of his red heart, until I
suppose there was none left to pass.
***
I am all eyes, all nose, all taste. I can sense the berries
before any of them, far off in the inscrutable distance, in
the future, in the past. And the desire for the fruit becomes
larger than anything, engulfs the world, until the sun itself,
all burnt in the winter afternoon, looks like the best and
biggest berry of all, and we fly closer and closer, and I lead
them. Until we burn too.
We burn on the inside. But it burns in a way that reminds
you which organ is which and where and how inside you
are insides, not just this idea of self, soft and soulful, but
real, blood and guts, acid, churn. All else recedes. The
hunger is insatiable, impossible, overpowering, simplistic,
until suddenly there is fullness beyond repair, and no
recollection of how you let it go this far. There was no set
path between not-enough and too-much, no markers, no
stopping mechanisms. Our species, if I can blame it on
the species, should be fat or extinct, but we’re birds, and
whatever piggishness we have is somehow accounted for
in the formulas and the hyperactive digestive patterns and
the way it all just is. So we consume, we are engines of
consumption, and when presented with a field of berries, we
will continue eating them until the supply is exhausted. If the
berries are late in the season and softened by a few too many
frosts and temperature increases, they will be fermented but
we will eat them all the same. Until we fall drunk off the
branches with whole berries clogging our throats, our entire
systems steeped in this toxic ambrosia, falling to the grass
until we groggily retrieve our bearings and do it again. Or
we will have the fuzzy confidence to think we’re fine and
stagger off toward wherever it is we think we need to go,
only we will go about it clumsily. Being always in a flock
and never just isolated incidents unto ourselves, others will
follow, until before we know it, we smash against whatever
it is we’re smashing against and just that snapping sensation
of something breaking inside and the clarity for a second in
which all one can think is how clear they seem to be thinking
and then: nothing.
I led us to this, we, she and I, all of us. I knew from a few
states away that the berries weren’t right, that the buildings
surrounding this courtyard of holly bushes were dangerously
close with their panes and panes of illusionary glass. Glass
is always a problematic material for us. Holly berries, a rare
treat, not particularly desirable to most species, but how
could they not be. The red is so vibrant it shows through
my eyelids when I blink, when I sleep. The fruit is female,
pollinated by the male, and I desire her. There is one black
slightly protruding dot on each round globe of red as if an
all-seeing eye. Looking at me looking at it. Unblinking. The
skin breaks in the mouth, there is no lust like this, washing
the pallet with this bittersweet rush, sour and sugary, and the
one impulse is more, more, more. It’s not just me, the more
takes over us all. The more threatening the fruit, the more
rancid, the greater the tangled pull, the more the more, and
it becomes an addiction, all we need. She is a glutton for it
as much as I. The more I fed her from the first moments of
our early courtship, the more it justified my own habits, the
more it disguised the truth of the matter, that berries are all
to me. All to all of us, like it or not. And I’m tired of the hope
and delusion of something greater than this, the imposition
of meanings and feelings and words on what is only smell,
taste, sight. I am tired too of the reality of the smell, taste,
sight. The inevitable pressures of patterns beyond our
control and how we so falsely believe, must believe, we can
control. The only way I could fly outside of the cycle was by
stopping the cycle. I knew the ends. I led us all to this, a few
of them my own children even, former mates. We are only
eyes and beaks and bellies full of berries. En route to our
images in the glass, we will be dead already.
But I saw her for a second, drunk in the grass, as I led
my intoxicated army elsewhere. Too drunk to join us, and I
hated her for that.
***
We stuck blue tape in Xs on the windows but the damage
was done. Fifty or so dead birds in the courtyard, another
fifty stunned, devastated, but alive. Smear stains here and
there with a bit of brownish feather stuck to the glass. Cedar
Waxwings, I surmised from their markings, as I ate Pringles
from the personal-size can I buy every day from the vending
machine in the break room. Lucy and I were the
first to hear the ruckus, being the closest to
the windows at our adjoining workstations,
for this view we usually consider ourselves
lucky. I have ten cats at home, two parrots,
a gimpy-legged mutt of unknown origins,
a turtle named Shelly, and a few bird
feeders I position myself in front with
identification books and binoculars, so
Lucy was particularly gracious with her
tissues when I started to weep for the dead.
I try to find the beauty in things, the way the
Xs sort of add some color and pattern to our barren
décor, like tilted crosses all in a row. And from the
list I find online of edible and inedible plants, I figure
maybe some poet could turn them into a rhyme…narcissus,
amaryllis, bleeding heart, belladonna, datura, destroying
angel. I love the names. Whether male or female, these
birds have the same bold coloring, rare, it seems, for the
bird kingdom. So they all seem male to me – and dare I say
– sexy even, with their regal, svelte bodies of satiny finish,
like taut pre-pubescent schoolboys playing soccer on the
fields adjacent to our building.
After the media left and the area was cleared, it’s
impossible to return back to labeling tabs on manila folders
with this recent carnage in the courtyard, so I surf the web
in the remaining fifty minutes until quitting time, seeking
out facts on the waxwings, fantasizing about what I would
eat if I too were blessed with a digestive system as fast as
that, or how decadent it must be to go on an annual food
tour from Canada to Costa Rica. They can strip a field of its
fruit in minutes. Perhaps the way to avoid such catastrophic
incidents as this in the future, I realize, is if I myself gather
next year’s berries before the birds arrive. Sieve the seeds,
spice the pulp, sweeten the pot into some kind of jam. But
despite my efforts, I can’t find any edible berry resource
willing to suggest the toxins of the holly berry can be cooked
out entirely, most websites warn against human consumption
altogether.
As I wash down the last chip in my third can with a swig
of Diet Sprite, lamenting how fast these chips go, I follow
links to other recipe sites and find myself clicking my way
to instructions on fowl. Why let this beautiful specimen go
to waste, this stiff yet surprisingly light bird I snatched from
the lawn and placed in my empty lunch baggie when no one
was looking. But I can find nothing on the cedar waxwing as
far as cooking suggestions, and I imagine it’d be a bitch to
pluck. He, I don’t know if it is a he, but like I said, they all
seem male to me, he seems content there, confidant even, in
clear plastic between the correction fluid and the emergency
Skittles in my desk drawer. Lucy would have something
to say about this I’m sure. But she is too busy IMing her
Internet lover to notice me now, her hot pink fingernails
clicking the keys.
I open the Ziploc seal enough to insert my index finger
and give him a little stroke. Sweet, sweet bird, I murmur,
noticing the bit of berry stain under his stubborn beak, or is
that blood? When I replay the scene of what happened today,
I wonder if it was in fact not the reflection of the outside that
did them in but the view to the inside. Perhaps the angle of
the light was such that they could see into our offices,
could see me, were trying to fly in to relay some
sort of message.
Had I known, I would have opened the
window.
Krista Madsen is the author of the
novels Degas Must Have Loved a
Dancer, and Four Corners (out in
July).
CD reviews
in alphabetical order
Cecilia
This
The family Veltz (parents, two sisters, one brother),
have been performing under the name Cecilia for six years
now. They’ve been shopping This for close to a year. It’s a
well-produced release, featuring the harmonies of Allison,
Jeannie, and Laura Veltz. Most of the songs are written by
the daughters and father Ken, who’s the drummer for the
group. The best material features Laura’s lead vocals and
songwriting. The best cuts on the album are “SNL,” about
a crush on Jimmy Fallon, “Be Mine,” pretty much a come-
on, and “Hey,” a boppy number that often closes their sets,
about watching the stories passing on city streets. These are
accomplished players. Under the governance of Ken Veltz,
the songs are strong, though sometimes a little slick. They
sound good, on record, but some of the obvious charm
of hearing the family interact is missing from the album.
I mean, more people watched the Partridge Family than
bought their albums, right?
ceciliatheband.com
Creaky Boards
s/t
Creaky Boards have a sound as
much throwback as it is modern
and hip, possibly slightly ironic,
although there’s no way to tell for
sure. Listening to their full length
I’m most reminded of the lighter
side of the Beatles or Beach Boys
in their later artsy days. Piano and
guitar blend with occasional horns
and harmonica to bring you songs
that range from feel good to angry
to sentimental with strained vocals,
crooning, shouting and everything
in between backed up by frequent
doo wop and call back gang vocals
for good measure. All in all, a
good time. I don’t think their style
comes across as well on the more
serious ballady songs, but this isn’t
all that frequent a problem on the Amy Hills
album. The recording itself can be
iffy, most of the tracks sound home
by the editorial collective
made but decent, some are live, and a couple sound like they
came off a four track tape recorder. Even still this album is
usually flat out fun, rarely taking itself more seriously than
necessary.
creakyboards.com
Tracy Aspden Gibbons
Made Red
This album is a commercial sounding radio ready piece
that feels like it came straight out of Nashville. I think Tracy
is a good songwriter, but it is a little hard to hear from behind
the production what is her and what is the producer. She has
a strong well-trained voice that she uses for good variety
from sweet and inviting to strong and confident on songs
that explore mostly herself and relationships, although I
appreciate the songs that take a critical aim at religion which
makes a bit of sense as she hails originally from Utah. It
has a southern Americana feel, albeit a poppy one, that I
think falls somewhere as either pop-country or alt-country,
although I’m not sure I know how to use either of those
labels correctly. The best thing to say about this album is
that everything on it is done exactly as one would expect
it should be. There is nothing innovative or particularly
interesting done with songs, and instead it has
been made to sound exactly professional and
correct.
cdbaby.com/cd/tagibbons
Amy Hills
Heroine
Songwriting is a lot about choices. In
a world of similar subjects, stories, and
messages, the writer can give these things to
the audience however they choose, and in turn
give the listener any of a number of different
experiences. For so many writers it is enough
to look out on a harsh lonely world and simply
lament. This is why Amy is so refreshing.
Without whitewashing or glossing anything
over she gives us an optimism and hope in what
she sings. She shows us an often lonely and
heartbreaking world and than tells us that while
all that is true, this doesn’t have to be the whole
truth. The opening track, “Baby,” is a perfect
example of this as she sings to a child “What
if you become just like your mother/ second cd, all self produced at no
what if you become just like your small cost to Lesley. The videos and
father/ what if you become more the packaging reflect this, looking
than anyone could ever hope for?” pretty slick and impressive. The songs
Always digging a little further and are fairly simple, based mostly on
deeper, her lyrics are full of wisdom traditional folk melodies sung with a
and insights like in “Aaron’s song,” quirky voice and strummed happily
when she sings, “What happens to on a nylon string guitar with the
babies born in November? it gets occasional accompaniment of lead
cold before it gets warm and that’s guitar, harmonica, or kazoo. Most of
what we remember.” In her presence them clock in at less than 2 and a half
and clear strong voice we get the minutes with the exception of Buttery
feeling of someone wise beyond her Jingle, which starts off haunting and
years, unafraid to sing intimately a bit more complex before building
about friends and lovers and not back into her characteristic fun and
too proud to give us bits of what easy going sound that makes up the
she’s learned along the way. Her rest of the album. The lyrics are cute
sound reminds me of old folk giants and can be funny with personal stories
like Joan Baez in her strong vocal and anecdotes about life, farms, and
presence and crafted acoustic songs, people’s foibles, reminding me a bit of
but she does it in a way all her own Jill Sobule. With titles like “The Shower
that feels outside any one scene or Song,” “The Farmer John Song,” and
genre. The recording is good and “Sittin’ On The Can,” she seems very
clean, just her voice and the guitar, comfortable letting the music come
and I could see room for something
Lesley Littlefield across simple and cute. The recording
more on the arrangement, but with is good, although not as good as the
songs like these I would much packaging. Given the simplicity of the
rather see them stripped down than risk losing them in over songs and the recording, it does strike me as odd that she put
production that wasn’t done exactly right. With melodies so much effort into the videos and packaging. I find myself
that take the listener out and away before coming back wondering if some of that energy might be better served
home, the sound is pleasant and enjoyable and this album going towards the songwriting and arrangements. It’s a long
sits like a good friend on the shelf ready to give enjoyment album at 22 tracks and I find it hard to listen to the whole
and perspective whenever needed. thing straight through seeing as the sound doesn’t vary all
amyhills.com that much between songs, but each song does contain its
own story worth hearing and the overall feeling is good
Keygrip and catchy. Taken in smaller doses this can make for a fun
the unaimed arrow never misses listen.
lesleylittlefield.com
Having only seen frontman Mike Dillala play acoustic,
I was pleasantly surprised to hear the powerful full electric Pantsuit
sound of this album. Catchy, at times heavy, yet not averse The path from the house to the lawn
to the occasional pretty breakdown, this is a good solid rock
album. I’m reminded of Soul Asylum by the way they’ve Wow. I like the Pantsuit CD. I didn’t think I’d like it this
taken songs that work acoustically, and turned them into much. Nan Turner, lead voice and mastermind of the group,
something harder. The harmonies are good and the sound is often sounds precious when she’s not in a collaborative
full and well produced, helping these songs to get stuck in setting. Starting in the all-girl Bionic Finger, then playing
your head and drive you. Punk/grunge influenced and more in the dynamic duo Schwervon, Turner always sounds best
honest than any of the manufactured corporate radio rock to when she has active partners to share the creative burden.
come out in recent years, I recommend this album to anyone This made me anxious when anticipating her band’s debut
like me out there in need of some good catchy hard hitting release, since she’d be calling all the shots. But either I’m
rock. wrong about her needing strong collaborators, or she has
keygriponline.com them here, in Christine Murray (also of the lamented Bionic
Finger) and Tina Harris (who’s been around – if you know
Lesley Littlefield what I mean). Because the ten songs on Pantsuit’s first
little songs album sound great. It was recorded at Olive Juice Studios,
with Major Matt Mason manning the boards, which means
This is a two disc set including music videos on the good, low-fi production choices were made. But it doesn’t
sound messy. It doesn’t sound precious (well, xylophone-
style keyboards on Work Song 2 do). It sounds good. There
are two songs called “Alaska” and “Texas,” each about
the largest states in the nation, each about a different kind
of isolation. The second was co-written by Murray, back
in the Bionic Finger days. Murray also wrote the Pantsuit
theme that closes that album, which suggests, really, that I
was right all along, and that Turner works best with good
collaborators. And they’re cute, too!
olivejuicemusic.com
Pilotbox
s/t
Somewhere between Jack Johnson and Coheed &
Cambria we get the fun eclectic pop of Pilotbox. Songwriter
Michael Schulman has an intriguing voice that I would have
thought had to be digitally enhanced if
I hadn’t heard him sing live. High and
pure it works with the complexity of
his chordings and melodies as well
as his impressive guitar playing.
The bass and guitar backing up
Michael fill out the sound of the clean
recording, enhancing the complexity
with interesting arrangements and
voicings. The music is quite poppy,
but smart in a way that shows
an understanding of jazz theory
and classic pop writers like Burt
Bacharach. The lyrics are abstract
and off beat and when added to the
full sound it gives the brain a bit of a
tickle. The band is at their best when
upbeat, and I find my finger heading for the skip button on
the really slow tracks which don’t carry the same interest or
energy as the others, but this is more than made up for by
songs like “Spinning Like Caffeine” that sounds just like
the name suggests or “Acrobat” which couples a steady beat
with a bouncing off rhythm guitar part that is one of the best
showcases of Michael’s skills as a composer and guitarist.
Really it is a strange and intriguing sound at first that may
take a few listens to fully sink in, but once under your skin it
becomes an undeniable urge that leaves you helpless to keep
from putting on this ep over and over.
cdbaby.com/pilotbox
Setsuo
Cosmic Vibrations
Setsuo is not a bad songwriter by any means. His songs
take us back with an early sixties vibe, reminiscent of John
Lennon and beach songs, with a little bit of lounge or island
sound thrown in. The best part of the album, and the thing
that keeps us most engaged, is the lush harmonies and back
up vocals that fill out the sound and add to the nostalgic
feeling. His lyrics are sentimental, mostly love songs, and
some songs that I think are in his native Japanese which
work quite well. It is always refreshing to hear someone
sing in their native language. His voice by itself is thick
and carries a heavy vibrato, and when coupled with the
equally thick tone of his guitar and the muddy quality to the
recording it isn’t always the easiest album to listen to. The
songs themselves though are solid, and they show a man
with some talent hiding behind the sound.
setsuomusic.com
Sousalves
...to self
&
Messin With Records
Getting both of these ep’s, I was naturally most looking
forward to the acoustic one. My mistake. Messin With
Records sounds like a home practice
recording, useful only to the artist as
a demo to prepare for making the real
thing. Paul Aves’ voice is nasally and
harsh, and the songs are abrassive and
equally harsh, making for a sound that
does not work well with just the voice
and guitar. It sounds at times like
acoustic metal, which is an idea I’ve
always found intriguing but have yet
to hear pulled off well. The highlight
was the second track “dance tango”
which showed some impressive
Spanish sounding guitar work that
made good use of the acoustic.
...to self makes more sense. Snotty
garage indy rock, it better explains
what Paul is going for. Slightly heavy, Alice in Chains
influenced, it can be jarring but this works in the electric
context. His voice too sounds much more appropriate in
this setting. The first song “kings & queens” is the best and
starts it off exciting with an interesting progressive sound
and a good hard beat mixed in with some nice acoustic
layering. Unfortunately the rest of the songs don’t follow
this strong lead, and by the third track we find ourselves
bogged down in a slow and winy drawn out ordeal. Overall
..to self shows some promise and good ideas that need to
be thought out and refined a little before they’re ready for
general consumption.
messinwithrecords.com
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