So Many Reasons Why

Beautiful Notes

"The thing to me that's most inspirational about Charlie Parker is that he felt that you could only redeem yourself for bad things by doing something that was beautiful. He felt that he could give the world beautiful notes."

Words from Kansas City Lightning by Stanley Crouch

Photograph of Charlie Parker with Tommy Potter, Miles Davis, and

Max Roach at the Three Deuces in NYC circa 1947 by William Gottlieb

A Separate Piece

"There is a common superstition that ‘self-respect’ is a kind of charm against snakes, something that keeps those who have it locked in some unblighted Eden, out of strange beds, ambivalent conversations, and trouble in general. It does not at all. It has nothing to do with the face of things, but concerns instead a separate peace, a private reconciliation." -Joan Didion, Slouching Towards Bethlehem

A simple observation, her good natured ribbing did it: all about my beloved black socks. It was more than just the socks, but it was a reminder; the ends were very far from the surface.

Black socks. Bridges. Endless talk. The curl of her lip… That night.

•

We all shouted "ammonia man" as he clawed at his eyes. Then he stood in front of me wearing a weather-beaten leather vest and big black m.c. boots; hair all slicked back and a deep olive complexion. He asked me his name. I said it, and he hit me. It was a test and I failed. Standing there in front of the candy store shivering from the cold, the shame I felt was nearly unbearable.

I knew the reverberations of that punch would shake right through the neighborhood, and I'd live with it for a time in the spotlight, and for years to come in my own dark corners. There were many moments to come after that snowy day that I'd get hit, literally or otherwise. Many more days and nights of shame, sending me into a dizzying spiral of doubt without reflection.

He asked me his name, I answered and got hit so hard it took my wind away and left me shaking. Why then did I spend time with him the next day, blurring the edges? What was I trying to prove?

•

Her hand reaching out across a scarred, beer-soaked table, wrapping itself in mine. That breathtaking curl of her lip. It all turned into everything I desired and was lost before I could even understand it.

Black socks... How could that ever sum it up?

Words and photography by Lee Greenfeld © 2020

Not Everybody Else

Walter Lure

Rest In Peace

"There was definitely a whole community thing going on. It was the New York scene and we were a part of it, whether it was hanging out with Debbie Harry or David Byrne or whoever. There were rivalries later, but it was pretty diverse between bands like Talking Heads and Television, who were almost diametrically opposed to The Heartbreakers. We didn’t even have any management at that time. The main thing was that we’d all been brought up with — and ate, drank and breathed — solid, fast rock'n'roll. That’s what we all loved. I guess you could call us the only authentic rock band in the city."

At What Price Is Freedom?

“How many more of these stinking, double-downer sideshows will we have to go through before we can get ourselves straight enough to put together some kind of national election that will give me and the at least 20 million people I tend to agree with a chance to vote for something, instead of always being faced with that old familiar choice between the lesser of two evils?”

Words from Fear and Loathing On The Campaign Trail '72

Hear Me Singin' Through These Tears

Beautiful version of one of Dylan's greatest songs, which captures, and maybe even amplifies the powerful raw ache of the original. (The video is visually stunning as well.) Taken from Emma Swift's sterling new album of Dylan covers, Blonde On The Tracks.

Save The Post Office

Beyond the fascistic electoral interference, defunding and sabotaging the United States Postal Service puts seniors and others who depend on the mail for their prescriptions at risk, as well as threatens the survival of countless small businesses and puts the 500,000 jobs at the USPS itself in jeopardy. (The USPS is also the second biggest employer of veterans in the country.) Everyone needs to step up and fight this fucking insanity. Don't just sit there... Do something!

Acknowledgement

Photograph by Danny Clinch

The Best Laid Schemes

"I don't want to play around no more.

I see that black cross painted on your door."

It was a Sunday afternoon, and we all sat at the side of the warehouse in a semi-circle, as if around a campfire. A.S. explained the initiation rite, and we listened intently and with respect. (A.S., which stood for ‘Always Stoned,’ was a tough, older Puerto Rican hard-rock dude from the projects who happened into our little scene.) He had us each of the four of us roll a blunt, filled not with the shitty tre-bag stuff I was used to from Murder Avenue, but with the step-up nickel-bag green that we never copped as every dollar counted. After we each rolled our own personal stuffed blunt, A.S. had us each light it up, take a toke and pass to the left. Essentially this meant that the only oxygen we got was the brief moment between puffs. We continued to do this until the blunts were extinguished, and we were so incredibly zooted that standing was not even remotely an option.

We sat there and exchanged the usual stories — graffiti tales, which girls put out, fights — laughing our heads off, and mean-mugging anyone who walked by our little motley crew. A.S., while obviously high, was in much better shape than the rest of us, and presented a plan to make some quick-dough. He worked nearby as a custodian of sorts in the office of a theater, and said there was a safe there that was filled with cash. The plan was simple: we roll over a hand-truck, he loads the safe on to it, and we wheel it to the alley behind E-Rock’s house, which was two blocks away. A.S. said he knew how to get it open easy.

Now you’d think being as stoned as we were we'd make a plan to do this on a later day, but no, instead we promptly wobbled over and got to it. I recall feeling like there was a small amount of thick air between my sneakers and the sidewalk which helped me glide down the street. Getting the safe to the alley was easier than we’d imagined, with us not even catching a glance from anyone walking by. Once we got back there, things took a turn for the worse.

After much work, sweat, and blood — A.S. ripped his hand wide-open trying to pry at the safe with a crowbar — we got it open. Much to our surprise, there was no cash but hundreds of canceled check and perhaps $200 worth of subway tokens. We shurgged, laughed a bit, and divvied up our score.

•

Of those of us there that day, all but myself went on to get involved in varying degrees of crime. (Though I did my fair share of petty wrongs.) Last I heard, A.S. was robbing people via an elaborate set-up scheme using the personals pages of the Village Voice, leaving his victims beaten and tied-up in their own apartments. Some real next-level shit. E-Rock ended up a gun runner and a junkie, eventually catching a pretty serious bid. Once he got out of jail, he seemed to turn himself around, cleaning up and getting a civilian job. Eventually his demons caught up with him, and he turned back to drugs, dying homeless and alone. I still think about him often. Johnny Correct — who I was closest with as he felt like the little brother I never had — also ended up doing a bid after cutting someone's face up badly with a tin can. We lost touch once he went away, but ran into each other a lifetime later and he's doing alright, repairing vintage radios and growing vegetables somewhere in the midwest.

Words by Lee Greenfeld © 2020
Photograph by Carl Purcell, 1955

Names, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the
author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

The Time Before

I miss hanging out with my friends, dining out, DJing, booking shows, going to shows, and spending hours in a record store. I miss working and earning dough. I miss sitting down at my local for my ritual mid-week, head-clearing martini. I miss having long, face to face conversations, the kind you never want to end. I miss museums, galleries, and movie theaters. I miss the time before I actually knew people who went in for absurd conspiracy theories, proclaimed themselves to be smarter than actual scientists, or outed themselves as boot-lickers. I yearn for pre-pandemic America so much it hurts.

Forever

"New York is best seen with innocent eyes. It doesn't matter if you are younger or old. Reading our rich history makes the experience more layered, but it is not a substitute for walking the streets themselves. For old-timer or newcomer, it is essential to absorb the city as it is now in order to shape your own nostalgias. That's why I always urge the newcomer to surrender to the city's magic. Forget the irritations and the occasional rudeness; they bother New Yorkers too. Instead, go down to the North River and the benches that run along the west side of Battery Park City. Watch the tides or the blocks of ice in winter; they have existed since the time when the island was empty of man. Gaze at the boats. Look across the water at the Statue of Liberty or Ellis Island, the place to which so many of the New York tribe came in order to truly live. Learn the tale of our tribe, because it's your tribe too, no matter where you were born. Listen to its music and its legends. Gaze at its ruins and monuments. Walk its sidewalks and run fingers upon the stone and bricks and steel of our right-angled streets. Breathe the air of the river breeze."

Quote from Downtown: My Manhattan, 2004

One Thing In Common

Still relevant after 39 years.

All Of Us Once Were

James Silberman

Rest In Peace

Fare thee well to a behind-the-scenes literary giant who was responsible for publishing and/or editing greats like James Baldwin, Hunter S. Thompson, and E.L. Doctorow, among many others.

The Dark End Of The Street

"This coffee falls into your stomach, and straightway there is a general commotion. Ideas begin to move like the battalions of the Grand Army of the battlefield, and the battle takes place. Things remembered arrive at full gallop, ensuing to the wind. The light cavalry of comparisons deliver a magnificent deploying charge, the artillery of logic hurry up with their train and ammunition, the shafts of with start up like sharpshooters. Similes arise, the paper is covered with ink; for the struggle commences and is concluded with torrents of black water, just as a battle with powder."

The Dark End Of The Street coffee is a collaboration between AITA's Mr. Lee and the Oak & Crow Coffee Co. You can purchase it here.  [Photograph by Luke Ratray]