It certainly was a good time to take a break from pandemic paranoia. I hadn’t gone all Gumby at 45rpm on a dance floor in forever and a day and I needed that release like nobody's business (anyway I tested negative for COVID-19 later in the week so all’s well that ends well, as some widely-quoted playwright once said).
That evening’s festivities began with Nick standing on a stage with a new-fangled tablet thingamajig that he used to pluck selections requested by revelers from the interweb and then blast them at his guests. Admittedly it did take me more than a minute or two to get into my version of a groove; early on a run of contemporary crap which might have been some new iteration of electro sent me into cranky old man mode and I went outside to walk it off.
Once I was barely within earshot of the sound system I heard Iggy Pop’s “Lust For Life” begin blasting away in the distance, truly enough to make me weep as I knew I wouldn’t make it back before that sublime song ended. Save your sympathy though, as I made up for that faux pas by requesting “I Want to Be Sedated” and my favorite Ohio Players funk workout, “Fire,” once I got back to party central.
As the time the killer opening of “Fire” exploded out of the speakers I lurched headlong into doing my approximation of the cast of Gilligan’s Island on the set of Soul Train. It had been maybe forty years since I last got spasmodic to that number but I was too much into that West Coast Zen “be here now” bag to get wistful about time passing. I was however rather taken aback that nobody else seemed inspired by Ohio’s finest funk ensemble to engage in much more than a rather listless shuffling of feet. Oh well, you can’t have everything (as Stephen Wright observed, where would you put it?).
My excitability dial went up to eleven when “I Want To Be Sedated” came on, and I suspect my ricocheting around like Bugs Bunny on crack had something to do with a veritable Ministry of Silly Dances suddenly materializing around me. Arthur Murray would have been traumatized by the moves I witnessed as we bounced around and off one another. Nick was soon having cheap laughs at my expense by repeatedly insisting that subsequent Leo Sayer (oh my gawd) and Bee Gees selections were in fact Ramones numbers. Not funny, my friend, not funny! Nonetheless I did my best to channel a grade-z Saturday Night Fever knockoff on the barn’s wooden floor. That effort to wow the rubes met with limited success but I was enjoying myself too much to notice and, as some quack MD told me back in my twenties, when the dancing fever hits you have to let it run its course. Bonus fun fact: just days after abandoning the traveling cane, I put my still-healing ankle to the ultimate test and it passed with flying colors.
The joys of paying wildly flailing tribute to go-go dancers of yore were enhanced by jabbering with people I hadn’t seen in decades. Who knew that hanging out with like-minded survivors of the 1970s and ‘80s after a year spent living mostly hunkered down in quasi-seclusion could be such a blast?
The whole shebang, including the next morning’s over-caffeinated breakfast, was tons of fun. I’ll certainly return next year for another middle-aged teen dance party as long as I can find some crackpot foundation to subsidize my sleeper car bill.
The next phase of my grand tour began when my brother Jim picked me up and drove us back to his spacious abode. I spent three nights in my Northwest Connecticut hometown, which I will refrain from disclosing the location of due to that persistent paparazzi problem. A good time was had by all, or at least by me, as I got to hang out with my only biological brother, my non-biological sister, a niece, a nephew, a great-nephew, and several others. Alas, the aforementioned non-biological sister (and next-door neighbor for the first seventeen years of my life) had all her kids over for a potluck at least partly in my honor without double-checking whether I would be around that day so I missed in person contact with some favorites, but at least that gave me something to complain about for the rest of the trip.
I made splitsville from Sticksville via yet another train, arriving in New York City in time to make a matinee of High Sierra at Film Forum. My mid-town Manhattan friend (and fellow veteran of many blurry nights at Chet’s Last Call and The Rat) Colleen seemed to enjoy that Raoul Walsh-directed Bogart vehicle as much as I did. It didn’t hurt that W.R. Burnett, author of the novel the movie was based on, wrote the script with John Huston. I hope I’m not giving away too much plot detail when I admit that ever since I saw the movie as a kid I’ve thought it wouldn’t be so bad to spend your last moments on earth behind some boulders on a rocky crag, pinned by police rifle fire and scratching out “TO THE COPPERS:” on a note you’re leaving behind.
I wound up catching two other Bogarts at the Film Forum (The Enforcer, with Colleen, and The Caine Mutiny, with Wilson, my brother’s eldest son and my tallest nephew) but unfortunately neglected to see Summer of Soul for a second time on a big screen (it’s on Hulu but the theatrical experience with a good sound system takes it to another level when you’re talking about music that transcendent).
The main reason I choose my least favorite east coast season to visit NYC was not cinematic. In point of fact (an annoying phrase but I’ve always wanted to use it), a big exhibit of Alice Neel work I just had to see was leaving the Met on August 1. I made damn sure I made reservations for my buddy Andy, my sister Susan, and yours truly; when the big day came I could barely contain my enthusiasm as we entered the museum.
Susan and Andy were somewhat overwhelmed by the number of paintings but I refrained from calling them wimps for exiting the show at least a half hour before I did. I’m nothing if not magnanimous, and besides I couldn’t focus on anything but the work of the great Ms. Neel, who has now replaced LeRoy Neiman as my favorite painter. Unlike Neiman, she took part in most of the progressive political struggles of her lifetime (1900-1984), so she was cooler than that hack too.
The show was an embarrassment of riches, though toward the end of her life Neel said she would have gotten more work done if she’d had a wife. You can get your own impressions of her output from the documentary at the link below or any coffee table-worthy book of her art in your local library. I won’t attempt to do justice to her artistic influence as I’m not an art critic who can thrill you with obscure references and impenetrable academic language. I will however note that Need was at least partly a model for the eccentric bohemian painter in Kenneth Fearing’s classic crime novel The Big Clock, a wonderful character played by Elsa Lanchester in the film adaptation of the book. I have to confess that I yelped with glee when I encountered Neel’s wild portrait of Fearing in the final room of the show. Done in the early 1930s at the height of Fearing’s proletarian poet period, it’s the painting I would have most liked to swipe for my bedroom wall.
The show’s ephemera included an April 1979 interview Ms. Neel did with Night magazine. Though she struggled with depression and didn’t get the recognition she deserved, it shows she had a nicely dour sense of humor. To the question “Did you ever participate in an unrequited love?”, Alice (by now I feel we’re on a first name basis) replied, “No. I ruined more mens’ illusions than anyone living.” Asked what she thought of “the beautiful people” (it was 1979, after all), she responded, “I would hate to be one of the beautiful people. You have to smile all the time.”
I had a good time after the Met too, getting in more hangout time with family and friends in the Big Apple and Rhode Island before driving to Maine with Susan. I could wax rhapsodic about the beauty of that state’s rocky coast or explain in great detail the art of wrangling a tent big enough for Lawrence of Arabia, but I’d rather finger away from the delete key by winding this sucker up. Let’s just say I really look forward to subjecting you all to the interminable power point presentation I’m putting together about how I spent my summer vacation. If you’re waiting for that to happen in California, don’t forget to vote against the recall of Newsom — no more Trumper victories please!
RIP Charlie Watts and Jack Hirschman. I never met Charlie but did quite enjoy seeing him perform with the obscure British band he drummed for when he wasn’t leading his own orchestra. I did meet Jack and feel lucky to have done so: a great guy, a great poet, and a great activist.
I promise that next time I will be back with plenty of newsworthy material swiped from only the finest print and online sources in order to help you stay on top of the national zeitgeist and all its attendant nausea. I made an attempt at beginning that “research” process by queuing up a long Intercept podcast on Afghanistan but then thought better of it and went to a vast online trove of late 1950s Bob and Ray broadcasts instead. You might want to do the same.
NOTES
More on the sublime Alice Neel: https://vimeo.com/ondemand/aliceneel
Bob and Ray therapy: https://archive.org/details/bob-and-ray-1948-08-26-roving-reporter-ray-goulding/Bob+and+Ray+-+A+Selection+of+Skits+2.mp3
Brilliant advice from Sen. Ron Johnson: https://www.rawstory.com/ron-johnson-drugs/
You can’t stand in the way of progress: https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2021/aug/26/san-francisco-millennium-tower-sinking
Mr. Samarov’s book shelf: https://shop.dmitrysamarov.com/
Summer of Soul! My favorite movie of the year, no kidding for once:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-siC9cugqA