Rockwood Music Hall (Stage 2)
Posted: May 8, 2012 Filed under: Lower East Side | Tags: TUESDAY TOILET TALK Comments Off on Rockwood Music Hall (Stage 2)Heading to Rockwood Music Hall late Thursday night, I worried that The Hipstones did not qualify to be featured here. Their jazz credentials are rather questionable, with a sonic description that cites “Marvin Gaye and a whole lot [of] modern day.” But this is my blog and I can write about whatever I want. And who’s to say what qualifies as jazz? That is, unless you are one of a couple prominent and outspoken trumpeters. If this makes the purist in you uneasy, don’t worry; The Hipstones, I hear, can be traced back to the acid jazz tradition.
Having given myself that pep talk and congratulating myself on being the maverick that I am, I walked into the room and cringed at the volume level. Thinking to myself, “What is this, some kind of rock concert? It’s too loud in here!”—my natural instinct was to plug my ears. It turns out I’m more of a jazz snob than I thought.
Standing by the entrance, as far away from the band as possible, I enjoyed the harmonizing of voice (Anthea White), trumpet (Josh Deutsch), tenor sax (Dylan Heaney) and baritone sax (Tim Stocker), as the drummer (Jordan Perlson) laid the groove. Theirs was a true dance music, what jazz used to be, encouraging a brave couple to get down on the floor as a guest dancer shimmied in a flapper dress onstage.
The frontwoman wore black plastic onion ring earrings as big as her face, a red dress with cap sleeves, black tights and metallic pumps covered with sparkly studs. Why was each piece of her outfit noteworthy when the supporting vocalist/ pianist (Mark Palmer) looked to be yet another bearded hipster with square rimmed plastic glasses in a newsboy cap? Perhaps the objectification of woman is so prevalent in our culture, from ads at the bus stop to comments made in jest in sermons, that I automatically sum up a woman by her physical attributes.
But the lead vocalist, Anthea, certainly had more going for her than just her outfit. With her bubbly energy and announcements made in her girlish voice, she reminded me of Minnie Mouse. I glanced over and was pleased to see Mickey peeking out from the tee under the bassist’s (Chris Tarry) plaid button-down. Speaking of which, our men’s room correspondent, KMac, will be working for the big cheese this summer. After my last mention of him eating tubs of ice cream with a plastic fork, he began to think that he’s “the star of [my] blog,” so I have been giving his ego time to deflate. Though he has fallen out of favor, he may be able to redeem himself if he gets me a ticket to Disneyland. And anyway, KMac would have disliked the sole restroom at Stage 2, since he hates trendy bathrooms.
The equipment scattered around the restroom confused me at first, and I almost thought I had stepped into the gear room. Once my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw that there was both toilet and sink, so indeed, I was in the bathroom. Right across from the bathroom was a ladder with a danger sign, in addition to curious little doors and a general air-conditioned, staged tavern-esque feel that made me feel as though I was inside an amusement park.
Though the head mouse may reign supreme in most regions of our McWorld, a different creature rules in Australia, where The Hipstones are from. No, I’m not referring to kangaroos or koalas, but the ubiquitous dunny budgies of Australian outhouses. A dunny budgie is an affectionate term for a fly that dwells in a toilet (aka dunny), named after a little English bird. What a nice way to pay tribute to your former colonizer. Frontwoman Anthea tells us how to say, “Where’s the restroom?” like an Aussie –
Bar Next Door
Posted: April 24, 2012 Filed under: Greenwich Village | Tags: TUESDAY TOILET TALK Comments Off on Bar Next DoorAfter having gotten lost inside Macy’s and having been accosted by a large, unruly dog on my walk down 6th Ave., I almost passed the place when I turned on my heels at a sound that registered as jazz, to see a plaque that said “Next Door.” I hurried inside and balked at the sight of the cave-like room, until the polite waitress seated me in a corner. Then, I pondered if I could touch the ceiling and why the table was sticky.
The clearance must have been 6’10” at most. I know this to be a fact because a guy who said he was between 6’7” and 6’8” nearly scuffed the ceiling with his hair. I gradually settled into this dark, cozy room and tried to look like a normal person, having vichyssoise with a side of bread. Unfortunately, I couldn’t suppress my smirk at the sight of two of my favorite boys playing music. The group was led by Benny Benack III, who is usually a trumpeter, sometimes a singer, and always a ham.
“I’ve had too much ham today,” said Mark, refusing pizza that Benny offered him. Mark Whitfield Jr. (drums) also declined chocolate mudd cake. He does like cranberry ginger ale, dolphins, Duke Pearson’s ballad “You Know I Care” and purple.
Benny is a self-proclaimed legendary ping pong champ, avid golfer, former high school junior varsity baseball player, fantastically imaginative yarn spinner and the ultimate middle school sleepover talent. And that’s just in his own words, from an unsolicited interview. I think we can safely add narcissistic to his list of traits.
Raviv Markovitz (bass), the only one without a generational suffix in his name, rounded out the trio. I hadn’t met Raviv before this but I quickly gathered that his name backwards is Ztivokram Vivar and that he roots for the Red Sox and likes watching Sports Center. Also, according to other sources, he is the sweetest guy ever and can rattle off a long list of chick flicks to watch, if you’re in the mood.
You may be wondering why this matters. Why does it matter that Coltrane loved to eat sweet potato pie? Or that Miles Davis wore Brooks Brothers suits? When these twenty-somethings just barely of drinking age step into their roles as the next jazz legends, you can say that you heard it here first.
There is a bathroom each for women and men at the Bar Next Door, down an unlit and narrow hallway (see the first photo). A very fat person would not be able to squeeze through to get to the bathroom, nor a would a very tall person be able to fit under the ceiling. Being a short and petite person, I was able to make it to the women’s bathroom at the end of the hall. It was similarly dimly lit and grungy, but not without flourishes, like a nice round mirror and an advertisement for tarot readings by Janet.
Benny did tell us how to say, “Where’s the restroom,” in what he claimed passed for native speech in France. Not because I was incredulous, but because I’m a good journalist, I cross-checked the information with Lucas from France. I learned that it should be “Où sont les wc,” not “Où est le wc,” but will give Benny the benefit of the doubt and include his French below, followed by that of Lucas. Perhaps his translation is some local variation on Canadian French.
Highline Ballroom
Posted: April 10, 2012 Filed under: Chelsea | Tags: TUESDAY TOILET TALK 1 Comment »“Green, black, orange or chai” said the server, to which I replied, “No peppermint?”
Having read that peppermint tea could relieve me of my newfound allergy symptoms, I settled for orange with some disappointment, as I watched singer Theo Bleckmann at Highline Ballroom. I happened to sit myself down at a table with the bassist’s wife, and she welcomed this Cali girl to New York, the city of extravagant pollen count.
New York, the great equalizer. A city where both young and old, rich and poor, can be found on public transit, sniffling and suffering from itchy eyes. As the train doors closed on the Cathedral Parkway station, I turned to catch a glimpse of two-time Grammy nominee, Gerald Clayton, walk by blowing his nose.
The men’s and women’s room sinks are connected, below on either side of the dividing wall. There are four stalls, a small table with an assortment of lotion and fragrance, a dingy clear plastic chalice full of hard candies and a lady waiting to turn on the faucet, pump soap and offer you a paper towel, hoping to be reciprocated with a bill in the tip jar. There was a man on the other side of the sink to fulfill the same role, as if in a mirrored, alternate universe, though whether the men’s side also had a mini fragrance bar or not is a mystery.
A woman walked into the crowded restroom and asked, “Are you in queue?”
Just one word can give you away.
Saturday marked the US release of Theo’s Kate Bush CD, with Henry Hey (keyboards), Caleb Burhans (violin/guitar/vox), Chris Tarry (bass) and Ben Wittman (drums/percussion). I have seen him perform in various configurations from solo to as a member of John Hollenbeck’s large ensemble, and this band now rivals his duo with Ben Monder as my favorite. The music, already engaging from beginning to end, benefited from the colorful changing lights, fog machine and giant disco ball on stage. I would avoid the place if you are prone to epileptic seizures.
Even though their calendar includes Chick Corea and Robert Glasper, Highline Ballroom is not a strictly jazz venue. Then again, Theo Bleckmann is not a strictly jazz singer. Nor is this a blog about jazz.
Theo was responsible for creating the space alien language in the movie, Men in Black, and he tells us how to say, “Where’s the restroom?” below —
untranscribable space alien language
Somethin’ Jazz Club
Posted: March 27, 2012 Filed under: Midtown East | Tags: TUESDAY TOILET TALK Comments Off on Somethin’ Jazz ClubThursday was another prematurely warm night where I needed to go on a brisk walk and eat ice cream. Except I was fasting sweets, so instead I watched KMac consume ice cream with a plastic fork from a nearby halal cart. I also waved a fork around, in case he felt self-conscious about holding two half-gallon tubs of Edy’s on the steps of Columbia. When our assiduous men’s room correspondent stirred to go watch a movie at home, I got up to head to my assignment at Somethin’ Jazz Club (To be fair, he shed snare drum etudes for four hours that day, while I practiced zero hours).
Located East of Midtown, Somethin’ Jazz is not convenient to get to from the Upper West Side. The longer we waited for the third train transfer, the more I felt that the train would come any minute because we had already waited so long, so we kept waiting a bit longer. But the amount of time you wait for something does not necessarily correlate with its estimated time of arrival; there’s no sense in expecting that the thing I’m waiting for is closer to arriving, the longer I wait. After twenty minutes or so, it was announced that the E train would not be coming at all.
We managed to get to the club to catch our classmates Olli Hirvonen (guitar), Frederick Menzies (tenor sax), Jeff Koch (bass) and Philippe Lemm (drums). Olli billed his quartet as a “Nordic jazz” group, presumably because with the exception of Jeff, members hail from Finland and Denmark, in addition to Holland. Actually, Jeff is the most exotic person I’ve met since moving to the city—a rare native New Yorker (and I don’t mean from Long Island) in a metropolis of jaded transplants and hopeful immigrants.
If Nordic jazz is synonymous with the ECM label, which showcases European interpretations of the originally American art form, which, in turn, began as a synthesis of African and European music, what do you call it when you have Americans striving to play in the ECM vein?
They had two individual restrooms, one labeled women and the other, men. The women’s bathroom was the neatest I have seen here, with a deep green glass bowl sink and sand colored tiles.
Of greater interest was the elevator up to the third floor, where the club is situated. The smallest public elevator I have been in, my friend Pat wondered how Jeff got in there with his bass. Upon stepping out, we ran into a Japanese man looking for a lounge on the second floor. I thought the elevator would lead him directly there but we couldn’t find the down button to get the doors open. Naturally, I proceeded to assume that this elevator was of the sort that only travels up, but not down because it’s easier taking the stairs down.
Make sure to try the elevator, if you visit. Someone demonstrated later that it actually does go down.
“Jazz elevator!” “Why not jazz gas station?” People have been mocking my work in such a fashion. Make fun all you want — I won’t be the one caught without toilet paper in the stall.
Olli teaches us how to say, “Where’s the restroom?” in Finnish —
Zinc Bar
Posted: March 13, 2012 Filed under: Greenwich Village | Tags: TUESDAY TOILET TALK Comments Off on Zinc BarLast week, I went down to Zinc Bar for the Tuesday night jam session. Even though I burped in his face (unintentional) over falafel, my friend Mark let me come along with our friends, Pat and Ivan, and we walked down to the train station under an unusually blue night sky.
Look at the four photos below in clockwise order—once you go through the swinging double doors, they lead to two sliding doors perpendicular to each other, with the mens room on the left and the ladies room on the right. You have to pull with force on the sliding door; the first time I visited Zinc Bar, I thought the bathroom was occupied because I couldn’t open the door.
Once you get the door open, you’ll see (or not be able to see—can you make out Ken® in the photo below?) the dark restroom covered in black tiles, with two stalls housing black toilets. I liked their ornate accessories, from the stand-alone toilet paper holder and elaborately framed mirror, down to the coat hook and the soap pump, but it’s difficult to make them out in detail, because it is really dark in there. It makes me think back to 90 mph van rides through pitch black darkness in the Amazon on unpaved roads, but less exhilarating and less scary, even though the restroom entrance looks haunted in the photos above.
Just as I like being able to see the food I’m having in a restaurant, I like being able to see the toilet seat to make sure that it’s clean, but you’ll find it difficult to do that in this dark restroom. Still, it is not cramped by Manhattan standards and they are stocked with soap, toilet paper and paper towel so it’s a fine restroom to use. And it’s fun going through the series of doors to get to the toilet, from the double doors with windows that lead to the sliding doors, to the wooden doors with slats for the stalls.
Being female, I only caught a glimpse of the mens room in a brief moment where the door slid open; I imagine that it’s similar but different. I wonder how different the world must be through different eyes, in a different body. My life experience and world view would be affected, certainly. How do the perspectives of women and men differ? I can’t tell you, for I am confined to the ladies room.
I also wondered what all the non-musicians hanging out in the club through 2 a.m. on a Tuesday night must do for a living. It was packed in there for a while, making it harder to breathe the farther you got away from the door.
The house band was led by trumpeter Igmar Thomas, with a pianist and trombonist that I was not able to identify, in addition to Obed Calvaire (drums), Harish Raghavan (bass) and Mark Whitfield (guitar). Like father, like son; it was amazing to see just how much Mark, the aforementioned falafel one, resembles his guitarist dad.
Among the handful of classmates I ran into at the jam session, drummer Philippe from the Netherlands tells us how to say, “Where’s the restroom?” in Dutch —