believed he would feed off their smarts, their energy. Rejected in America, but loved in Europe, identifiable by his music, his personaâabove all else he would write great songs. In the years prior, heâd lost track of those hopes.
No longer.
What he decided onâhis great projectâwasnât a whole record, but one song that perfectly defined the thing he loved most: that is, New York City. And no matter how long it took or how many failures arose in the course of his trying, he would fulfill this mission. Maybe his thinking was narrow, foolish, quixotic, but he began work on the song. Meanwhile, he and Paula were growing closer. She was proud. When they first met, she thought his music ordinary. The way Henry spoke about his latest project, she changed her mind. Perhaps he was a smart man after all. She became less convinced of this over the next year when his song was never written. Henry blamed New York. He was too much in love with the city to write honestly on the subject. In truth, he felt so much anger. Greed seemed to be doing in its beautiful spirit, this time for good. Yet he couldnât make this clear in music, not with any real success. Eventually he gave up.
But what was happening here on the piano? It took him several minutes before he even realized that a song was coming together under his fingers. He stopped playing to write down words intermittently, the lyrics lacking the catchiness there in all his earlier writing. He sang:
Impotent, I blame the powers,
That have without conscience,
Watered-down the streetscape,
(I.e. he who has erected a,
Residential tower fast and cheap,
So as to fill it with new,
Paying residents,
Removed a century old deli,
For the sake of a bank,
Moreover, torn down historically,
Important theaters and,
Inserted chain-pharmacies in their stead),
They have demeaned our intelligence,
Street by street, and left,
My cock timid and confused.
We are all of us down to one ball. (x3)
Boom-bop-bop-bop-bop-bop-boom.
Arranging the songâsstructure, its piano lines and vocal melodies, his state was euphoric, though mentally unsteady. In a hard-thinking pose, with his hands spread wide over the piano keys and his face hovering just above them, he felt a strong pressure in his head. Fearing an aneurysm he grabbed his coat and went out into the night. The streets were empty. It was one reason he lived by the U.N., it became a ghost town after hours. And if every New Yorker went home to convalesce after a long hard day, then the silence here was equal to the ocean air recommended to the consumptive.
Henry brought all his new material to J. Van Gundyâs, a bar on 40th. Just as more details could be gleaned about a song by listening to its recording, to play it live, for people, in a public setting, brought its own new understandings. Parts which worked and those which didnât became evident. Why this was true, Henry didnât know. It just was. And J. Van Gundyâs had a piano. It wasnât a great instrument, but it was in tune, there wasnât a single dead note and the worn down keys felt good against Henryâs fingertips.
He entered, the heavy front door swinging back, closing Henry in. From behind the bar Orion Doherty looked up.
Schiller, how goes it? he said.
The room was quiet and dark, fetid, warmer than the outside air, but it agreed with Henry. The same two men who drank here day after day, old with silver hair, they came from neighboring villages in Italy, were huddled drunk at the bar. Beside them a man with a short bourbon-wet mustache was asleep on his feet. No one else was present. Henry ordered a beer. His eyes were on the piano at the back of the room. He wanted to go to it and play his new song, to find out if what he had was any good. Certainly Orion would let him. He always gave Henry access to the instrument. All he had to do was ask.
Orion looked like Pavarotti or Francis Ford Coppola. Hirsute, corpulent, olive-skinned,
No longer.
What he decided onâhis great projectâwasnât a whole record, but one song that perfectly defined the thing he loved most: that is, New York City. And no matter how long it took or how many failures arose in the course of his trying, he would fulfill this mission. Maybe his thinking was narrow, foolish, quixotic, but he began work on the song. Meanwhile, he and Paula were growing closer. She was proud. When they first met, she thought his music ordinary. The way Henry spoke about his latest project, she changed her mind. Perhaps he was a smart man after all. She became less convinced of this over the next year when his song was never written. Henry blamed New York. He was too much in love with the city to write honestly on the subject. In truth, he felt so much anger. Greed seemed to be doing in its beautiful spirit, this time for good. Yet he couldnât make this clear in music, not with any real success. Eventually he gave up.
But what was happening here on the piano? It took him several minutes before he even realized that a song was coming together under his fingers. He stopped playing to write down words intermittently, the lyrics lacking the catchiness there in all his earlier writing. He sang:
Impotent, I blame the powers,
That have without conscience,
Watered-down the streetscape,
(I.e. he who has erected a,
Residential tower fast and cheap,
So as to fill it with new,
Paying residents,
Removed a century old deli,
For the sake of a bank,
Moreover, torn down historically,
Important theaters and,
Inserted chain-pharmacies in their stead),
They have demeaned our intelligence,
Street by street, and left,
My cock timid and confused.
We are all of us down to one ball. (x3)
Boom-bop-bop-bop-bop-bop-boom.
Arranging the songâsstructure, its piano lines and vocal melodies, his state was euphoric, though mentally unsteady. In a hard-thinking pose, with his hands spread wide over the piano keys and his face hovering just above them, he felt a strong pressure in his head. Fearing an aneurysm he grabbed his coat and went out into the night. The streets were empty. It was one reason he lived by the U.N., it became a ghost town after hours. And if every New Yorker went home to convalesce after a long hard day, then the silence here was equal to the ocean air recommended to the consumptive.
Henry brought all his new material to J. Van Gundyâs, a bar on 40th. Just as more details could be gleaned about a song by listening to its recording, to play it live, for people, in a public setting, brought its own new understandings. Parts which worked and those which didnât became evident. Why this was true, Henry didnât know. It just was. And J. Van Gundyâs had a piano. It wasnât a great instrument, but it was in tune, there wasnât a single dead note and the worn down keys felt good against Henryâs fingertips.
He entered, the heavy front door swinging back, closing Henry in. From behind the bar Orion Doherty looked up.
Schiller, how goes it? he said.
The room was quiet and dark, fetid, warmer than the outside air, but it agreed with Henry. The same two men who drank here day after day, old with silver hair, they came from neighboring villages in Italy, were huddled drunk at the bar. Beside them a man with a short bourbon-wet mustache was asleep on his feet. No one else was present. Henry ordered a beer. His eyes were on the piano at the back of the room. He wanted to go to it and play his new song, to find out if what he had was any good. Certainly Orion would let him. He always gave Henry access to the instrument. All he had to do was ask.
Orion looked like Pavarotti or Francis Ford Coppola. Hirsute, corpulent, olive-skinned,
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