Rockwood Music Hall (New York, New York)
California
St. Anne (Of The Silence)
Milk & Honey
The Last Time
I Can See Clearly
Killing The Blues (featuring Emily Zuzik)
Rio
I’ll Be Waiting
Live Forever
Summer Teeth
It was hot this morning. Africa hot. Panama hot. Walk twenty blocks to work then change your shirt hot. Walk on whichever side of the street is in shadows hot.
All of which is worse with an acoustic guitar is slung over your shoulder.
My freshly-repaired Martin DXE15 was slung over my shoulder this morning on account of this evening’s rehearsal for tomorrow’s Rockwood Music Hall show. I texted Chris en route; poor guy was working from home sixteen hours post op. Wisdom teeth.
“Hope you’re hanging in there,” I typed walking down Ninth Avenue. “If you wanna bag on tonight, no sweat. If you want a smoothie instead of a 40, understood. If you wanna share your Vicodin, better yet.”
Chris, God bless him, even managed to make it to rehearsal before me. In fact, all of the guys were there, and ready to go even as I raced down Seventh Avenue at rush hour this evening, and burst into the studio from the street clutching aforementioned guitar (and 40s). Two patch chords, a nine volt guitar and half a Budweiser later, I was ready to rock.
Chris, it should be noted, was spot on (even with the Vicodin). In fact, his “I Can See Clearly Now” solo was nearly incendiary.
Come to think of it, maybe it was because of the Vicodin.
Either way, you should come to tomorrow’s show; Vicodin and sweat-inspired surprises are guaranteed.
How I Lost My Wedding Ring At Rockaway Beach (And Still Had A Good Time)
I downed a quart of Gatorade, peeled off my sweaty running clothes, took a long, hot shower, and joined the revelry.
It was barely noon but already Abbi, Chris, Meg, Renee and Marlyn were getting their party on. And why not? The sun was breaking through the clouds, and the Atlantic Ocean was just a few feet away.
We convoyed down to the beach loaded to bear: a cooler full of ice, beer and pre-mixed vodka cocktails, chips and salsa, sliced fruit, folding chairs, towels, bocce balls, a frisbee, and a basketball. We set up shop just shy of the 77th Street jetty, unfurled our towels, unfolded our chairs, and settled in. I took off my baseball cap and sunglasses, placed my wedding ring on my lap, and began applying SPF 45 to my shiny dome.
Seconds later, I spotted a tiny, blue children’s ball — the kind one buys for ninety-nine cents at the grocery store — out of the corner of my eye, and stood to grab it. Four paces later, I tapped my ring finger with my thumb as I have a thousand times before. And it hit me.
Oh shit. My wedding ring.
I didn’t say a word, but quickly pivoted in place, and retraced my steps. I ran my fingers through the sand, then began raking it with both hands. Nothing.
“Guys,” I said, “we have a problem.”
Soon enough, all eight of us were on our knees, desperately clawing at the sand. The others offered supportive words and empathy. I was silent and nauseous and silent. Minutes passed. Then twenty. Nothing. Finally, Abbi called it.
“I think it’s time to find someone with a metal detector.”
I walked to Renee and Marlyn’s apartment alone, my stomach twisted in knots. Life slowed to a crawl: the traffic, the elevator, my brain. Upstairs, I began Googling like mad: Rockaway Beach Police, Rockaway Beach Lifeguard, Rockaway Beach Metal Detectors, Rockaway Beach Hobby Shop, Rockaway Beach Bike Shop, Rockaway Beach Bait Shop, Rockaway Beach, Rockaway Beach, Rockaway Beach…
Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing and nothing. No one know a thing. No one knew anyone else. No one had any idea.
An hour passed, then two.
Finally, Abbi called me.
“Honey, come back to the beach,” she said. “It’s been two hours. You’ve done your best. We’ll get another one. It’s ok.”
I’d sweat clear through my t-shirt. I was sick, angry, frustrated, endlessly beating myself up. How could I be so stupid? How could this happen after such an amazing morning? I ran twenty miles this morning, for God’s sake! Why!?!
I don’t need to remind you (but will) that my parents divorced when I was ten-years-old. I waited until I was thirty-five to get married. Sure, the ring was just a hunk of platinum, but that wasn’t the point. It’s a symbol. I wanted to wear this ring forever.
“No,” I said. “I’ll call you in a few minutes.”
I changed out of my swim trunks and back into my running clothes, laced up my Asics and headed back onto the street. I raced toward toward the boardwalk, my eyes focused like lasers on the beach. I scanned for over forty blocks, growing more and more hopeless with each passing minute. And then I spotted him: a distant, hunched figure slouching his way northward along the edge of the water. I bound through the deep sand waving my arms.
“My name is Benjamin Wagner,” I said, peeling my sunglasses from my face. “I jogged here from Hell’s Kitchen this morning and met my wife and some friends. Like a knucklehead, I dropped my wedding ring in the sand a few blocks back and wonder if there’s anyway I could convince you to help me find it.”
“Oh, I dunno,” he said. “I’m on a mission.”
He was in his late sixties, gray hair, weathered skin. He carried a metal detector in his right hand, a seive in his right. He wore an orange baseball cap, blue-mirrored sunglasses, fingerless gloves, and neoprene booties.
“Sir, you don’t understand,” I said, digging deep for empathy. “This is my wedding band it’s really important.”
“Oh, I dunno,” he repeated. I’m on a mission. But if you write down your phone number, though, I’ll give you a call tomorrow.”
“Is there any chance I could get you down there today, like, in the next two hours?”
“No, no,” he said. “I’m on a mission. But if you write down your phone number…”
“Well, I ran here,” I said. “I don’t have a pen handy. May I program it into your cell phone?”
“Oh, I dunno how to use this thing. Do you have a pen?”
“I’ll find one,” I said, jogging away. “I’ll be right back!”
I found a Rite Aid a few blocks away. I purchased an indelible marker and mini-notebook with cash back, sprinted for the beach, and carefully wrote my name and number on a piece of paper.
“Sir, I have a number of dollars bills fresh from the ATM that I’m prepared to give you if you’ll help me find my wedding ring right now.”
“How much?”
“What’s your name?”
“Sig.”
“Sig,” I said shaking his hand, “My name is Benjamin Wagner.”
I raced forty blocks back to 77th Street, leaping over pails, castles, and scribbles in the sand. Meg was reading in her chair. Abbi waved from the surf. Seconds later, Sig appeared on the boardwalk. I ran to meet him, then walked him back to our spread.
“Show me the money, will ya’?”
“Sig,” I said, crestfallen, “My handshake is my bond.”
He pulled on his headphones, and began sweeping his metal detector above the waves of sand. Seconds passed. Minutes. It felt like an eternity as Abbi, Meg and I stood by staring. He paused, dove his seive into the sand, and sifted. Nothing. He dug again, sifted, then reached into the shovel as I stood breathless. When he removed his hand, my wedding band was around his pointer finger. My head fell, relieved, as Abbi bound toward him with a kiss on his cheek. We shook again. Sig walked away. Meg left us alone. I cried with relief.
“I want to wear this ring forever,” I said.
Meg came back, smiling. Chris and Renee trudged through the sand from the handball court. Marlyn brought lunch. Abbi poured me a drink. I began to laugh again, and have a good time.
Rockaway Beach Or Bust
I’ve lived in New York City for nearly fifteen years, but have only recently begun to gain some sense of its true cultural and geographical diversity.
Once again, I spent Sunday morning running the city. Last week, my goal was Hell’s Kitchen to Coney Island. This week, it was Rockaway Beach or bust. Our friends, Rene and Marlyn had invited Chris, Meg, Abbi and I to join them for an afternoon of sun, and sand and salsa. The goal, then, was to jog some eighteen miles through Manhattan and Queens to their apartment where Chris, Meg and Abbi would meet us and commence tomfoolery.
I set out just before sunrise. Like last Sunday, the air was warm, heavy and damp. (Once again, I’d bonked my planning: Saturday morning was cool, dry and gorgeous.) The sun struggled to break through the high clouds and a low, marine layer as I traipsed over the 59th Street Bridge.
I carried with me an iota more trepidation than the weekend prior. For starters, the distance was greater. Moreover, though, it was completely foreign; I’ve run through Brooklyn a few times, but have scarcely scratched the surface of Queens. What’s more, I wasn’t sure how my body would take to such a long run so quickly after the last.
Still, I couldn’t resist. Last Sunday’s run was a blast, as much fun as I’ve had in weeks. I felt free and adventurous, independent and strong. I loved seeing the city wake up. And — like so many years ago in college when I taped a photograph of Telluride’s Mt. Ajax on my desk and pledged to climb it that summer and then did just that — there was a satisfying component of goal-oriented accomplishment to the whole thing.
“Why are you running to Rockaway Beach,” my soon-to-be brother-in-law asked me Saturday night.
“Because it’s there,” I answered.
There I was in Sunnyside, then, running on a quiet street parallel to Queens Boulevard. I passed a young, Latina couple leaning on a car kissing obliviously. A local baker threw up his corrugated steel shutters. Another shop owner hosed his sidewalk. There were neon signs, bodegas and fly-by-night emergency rooms, sure. But it quickly felt different than Manhattan, lower-rise, more residential, and far more ethnic. I passed dozens of sketchy motels and used car lots, then the gargantuan New Calvary Cemetery, relishing the diversely-named headstones: Giordano, Pyeong, Czarnecki, and Vasiliev.
I turned onto Woodhaven Boulevard at about mile seven. Just up the hill from the LIE, a dozen senior citizens sat outside a retirement home, most infirm, blank-faced and slack-jawed. I smiled and wished them a good morning, suddenly cognizant and grateful for my health. The boulevard was wide and quiet, save for a few early-risers and dog walkers. I passed an awesome, authentic-looking pub, Woodhaven House in Rego Park, made a note to myself to return there for a pint someday soon, and pushed onward into the hazy sun. I ran past Forest Park, Queen’s 540-acre answer to Prospect and Central Parks, through Woodhaven (where, it seemed, no yard was complete without a statue of The Virgin Mary or Saint Francis), Ozone Park, across The Belt Parkway (which, having driven it before and felt miles from anything I’d ever known, made me smile) into Howard Beach.
Woodhaven Boulevard yielded to Cross Bay Boulevard. The air turned briney. Bait shops and diners outnumbered bodegas. And soon enough, I spotted fishing boats and pleasure craft dotting Shellbank Basin, Jamaica Bay’s northernmost inlet. Russo’s On The Bay, a huge, low, lavish banquet hall, was the last, great structure before I began ascending Cross Bay Bridge, and spotted it across the bay: John F. Kennedy International Airport.
The Cross Bay Bridge spans nearly four-miles of Jamaica Bay, touching down in Gateway National Recreation Area and Broad Channel, an island more Long Island than Five Borough. It is less than two miles from the 5000-acre airport’s southern runway, so my crossing was punctuated by massive jets roaring overhead.
I ran through Broad Channel, corresponding on Facebook with friends from Brooklyn to San Francisco to Philadelphia, all cheerig me onward. Chris called and inquired to the weather. “Not much of a day for sunbathing,” I said (failing to mention the sporadic raindrops I was dodging), “But not a bad one for lobster rolls and beer!”
I practically cheered when I spotted Rockaway Beach as the end of the bridge. As with last week, Rakim’s “Don’t Sweat The Technique” hit my iPod just as I stepped onto the boardwalk. My Garmin read 18.26M, and I had time to kill before Chris, Meg and Abbi made it by car, so I tacked on an extra mile and a half of boardwalk for good measure.
The boardwalk was flanked by stark, almost-Soviet high-rise apartments. The beach was wide, empty, and punctuated by patches of dune grass. The Atlantic was cold gray, topped by white-capped waves. A teenager in a red-and-white striped sweater sat alone on a bench, huddled against the wind. A handful of surfer’s struggled against fast-breaking waves.
At twenty miles, I made for the edge of the water, stripped my gear, and walked into a rush of waves. I dove beneath, and swam through the darkness a while. I climbed out onto the sand, then lay down in the surf, my feet elevated on an old pier mooring. I crossed my arms behind my head as the rush of a million tiny bubbles exploded around me. A massive 747 soared overhead. And I exhaled.
Corner Office Concert Series, Vol. I
I’m rarely one to turn down an opportunity to perform, no matter how odd the venue.
I’ve played basements, attics, porches, open fields, backyards, street corners, art galleries, cafeterias, gymnasiums, and worse. If you wanna’ hear, odds are I’ll give ya’ something to listen to.
So when my colleague, MTV 360 EVP Ross Martin, emailed me a link to NPR’s Tiny Desk Concerts and asked if I’d be interested to do the same in his office (a corner office, natch) for his website Something Burning, I quickly and enthusiastically obliged.
Surely Ross has bigger things planned, I reasoned. This is one of the guys behind mtvU’s Woodie Awards, the only show that awards “the music voted best by college students.” The show and the channel are like the farm leagues, spawning breakout players left and right: Death Cab For Cutie, Vampire Weekend, Santigold, Asher Roth. I expect to big names perform in his northwest facing corner office (you can see The Meadowlands from there, for God’s sake) any day now. When he followed up his email with a phone call, tellin me he finds my music “really compelling and authentic,” hell, I was more than happy to be his guinea pig.
The truth is, I fight pretty aggressively to assure that my colleagues know there’s more to me than overwrought PowerPoints, obsessive data crunching, and Future of Journalism speeches peppered with punk rock references (although they could do worse). For whatever reason (you could ask a professional, but I imagine it was something to do with my reluctance to fully embrace my corporate reality), my elevator conversations are perhaps overly concerned with marathons, triathlons, documentaries, and rock shows. Which led me to Ross’ office.
I’d planned to pop down around three forty-five on Friday afternoon. I figured the week would be winding down by then. My departmental meeting would be over, and I’d be slipping out of business and into weekend mode. Ross called about thirty minutes early, though. “Can you come now?” he asked. “I have some people I want you to meet.”
I hit send on an email soliciting a budget for our forthcoming Outside Lands coverage, and bound down to his office where I found Ross and six strangers chatting away. “Holy moly,” I said. “This is gonna’ be a rock show!”
His guests included a few of our work colleagues, a new, as-of-yet unannounced mtvU VJ, plus two star college athletes (who, if I knew anything about sports, I would have known) and their speed coach. We talked about running for a while as Ross had an assistant fetch a (pretty decent) Takamine acoustic guitar some visiting rock star left in the Music Department, then somehow transitioned into our little show.
It wasn’t my best, or my favorite. The performance I’d planned (well, thought about in advance, anyway) was for Ross’ camera; it could start and stop on command. Suddenly, though, I had half a dozen spectators (including three teenagers, yikes) in a confined space awkwardly (though enthusiastically) onlooking. What’s more, the brain (my brain, anyway) doesn’t transition well from logos to eros (aka “math to art”). Making matters worse, Ross requested something “fast,” which (as you know) leaves me just a handful of my songs. I chose “California,” and went for it. It wasn’t half bad. “I Can See Clearly Now” — the Johnny Nash hit made famous by Bob Marley, Jimmy Cliff and Gladys Night (which I discivered via Hothouse Flowers) — went over even better (because “slow” is more my wheelhouse). I hacked through a version of “Wonderwall,” packed up the guitar, and awkwardly extricated myself from the scene.
Ross uploaded the uncut videos to his website shortly thereafter. Within a few hours, comments on the post exceeding the number I receive in a matter of weeks. One commenter even said, “He is fairly hot, hotter than I thought from someone in News. And almost as hot as Sway!”
So there’s that.
“California” from Ross Martin on Vimeo.
“I Can See Clearly” from Ross Martin on Vimeo.
Halfway Between The Moon & Me
Lately, it seems like I go weeks without picking up my guitar. Not so these days.
On Thursday night at nine o’clock, Chris Abad, Tony Maceli, Ryan Vaughn and I return to Rockwood Music Hall to perform our first prime-time, full-band, full-on rock show in months.
Thursday’s set has at least one major surprise (hint: it’s a song named after a state), and an excellent special guest: singer/songwriter Emily Zuzick. Last time Emily and I shared a stage, we were belting out Duran Duran’s “Rio” at a smokey, steamy Syracuse University house party. If I recall correctly, the floors was shaking from all the dancing, and one poor soul fell down a steep flight of wooden steps. (Of course, Boone’s Farm Strawberry was involved, so I could be wrong.)
On Friday night, Abbi and I fly to Des Moines. We’ll spend the night with The Walsmiths, then head two hours east to Waterloo for a family reunion.
On Sunday, August 16th, my cousin Andy will join me for an acoustic set on the Anderson Erickson Stage at The Iowa State Fair. It’s an afternoon of Authentic Records artists. Andy and I will be joined by cellist Patrick Riley (who’s all over “The Invention of Everything Else”) and singer/songwriter Bonne Finken. And I’m bettin’ we might see a Nada or two to boot.
Then stick around for sets from Bonne, Hello Dave frontman Mike Himebaugh, She Swings, She Sways, Fat Andy, Dick Prall, and The Josh Davis Band. Oh, and there will be corn dogs and butter sculpture.
Meanwhile, The Nadas tribute album, “Crystalline,” is available for pre-order at the Authentic Records Store. My (much-agonized over) cover of the band’s signature song, “Feel Like Home” is tract two on the CD. You can download Hello Dave’s “Let Me Sleep” for free.
Some 2,500 miles later, I’ll settle back into Hell’s Kitchen, and get down to work on this year’s “A Holiday Benefit, Vol. III.”
Rock ‘n roll!
What’s Left Behind To Shoulder Grows Weightless
Sometimes, tragedy brings good things in its wake.
On Saturday afternoon, drummer Ryan’s Vaughn’s girlfriend Kasey’s family vehicle was struck by a drunk driver on South Carolina Interstate 26. Kasey’s father was killed. Her little sister, Allie, was thrown from the vehicle. Her mother, niece and friend sustained minor injuries. The Williams were on their way home to Tennessee after a family vacation in Hilton Head. The drunk driver was later found hours later hiding in some local woods a few dozen feet from the stolen and battered BMW.
I learned of the news via Ryan’s Facebook Status. I remember shaking my head and grimacing, wondering why these random acts of tragedy occur, and trying to imagine the sense of grief Kasey must be managing. It’s unfathomable.
Sunday evening, Ryan sent word that he was pulling together a benefit show on Monday night. I was puzzled at the immediacy of Ryan’s response, and even doubted whether we could make a dent in the Williams’ sure to be enormous medical bills (to say nothing of their grief). Still, I volunteered without hesitation.
Chris, Meg, Abbi and I drove down together, laughing between moments of heading-shaking puzzlement. Why do these things happen? Even as we drove down the West Side Highway, a blue, late-model BMW wove recklessly between lanes leaving behind it a wake of brake lights.
We arrived early and milled about a while. Tony showed up. the Bryan Dunn, Dave Pittenger, Lara Ewen and on and on. There were hugs all around. The production was on-the-fly. “Working stiffs that we are,” I told Dave (who’d stepped up to helm the production) “We gotta be home early.”
“You’re on first,” he said.
Gulp.
By ten o’clock, dozens of Ryan and Kasey’s musician friends: Chris, Tony, Bryan, Dan, Emily Zuzik, Dave, Lara, Jeff Jacobson, Deena Goodman, Brent Shuttleworth, Kailin Garrity, Rachel Platten, Josh Dion, Wes Hutchinson, Martin Rivas, and Jill Stevenson came out. The room was packed as Ryan said a few words. Looking around, it all made sense. This is what we do in joy and grief: we gather, and we make music together.
Ryan took his seat behind the drums. Tony, Chris and I stepped onto the stage having decided just seconds prior (but after an afternoon’s worth of debate) to perform “Dear Elizabeth.” I strapped on my borrowed guitar (it’s strap set for a much shorter man), checked tune (a little sharp), and looked around at the guys.
“Just like old times,” Tony said.
As the elder, rarely-seen statesman (I’m not even sure I’m a statesman, frankly, though I certainly am old) of what Tony and Ryan call “The Scene,” I felt terrific pressure to deliver a solid performance — meaningful, emotive, substantive and nuanced — even as I struck the first chord (an A, incidentally).
And as I sang the lyrics, it was impossible not to hear them through the editorial lens of the moment: this gathering of community in the face a great adversity. As I approached the last verse, then, I relished the opportunity to share this one, tiny shred of insight so magically and mysteriously deliver unto me on the cold, November night that I wrote “Dear Elizabeth.” I’m not even sure I knew what it meant then. But last night, I felt it to my bones, and hoped against hope that — some 750 miles away in Greenville, South Carolina — Kasey, Allie and Connie Williams could hear me.
“What’s left behind to shoulder grows weightless,” I whispered. “You get used to it.”
* * *
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Coney Island Or Bust
As the crow flies, Coney Island is a mere fourteen miles from Midtown Manhattan. Unfortunately, I am neither a crow, nor do I fly.
Last Monday morning, NY1′s Pat Kiernan forecasted Sunday as a “perfect beach day.” Which is when I hatched my plan to run to Coney Island, meet Abbi there, and spend the afternoon lounging in the sun and exploring Brighton Beach.
I spent all weekend preparing, which is to say, I didn’t do anything at all but sit around carbo-loading and drinking lots of water. I was in bed by nine last night, and up this morning just before five o’clock.
The moment I stepped outside, I knew Pat (or, more likely, his NY1 Meteorological Team) had miscalculated, and I’d picked the lesser of the two weekend mornings; where Saturday morning had been crisp, clear and cool, this morning was damp, cloudy and warm. Nonetheless, I acquired a signal on my GPS watch, pressed play on my iPod, and set out southward.
The City is especially sketchy just before sunrise, and this morning proved no different. Kids staggered drunk from clubs and couples made out on corners, while the homeless crowded every available doorway and vacant bench. In Times Square, handful of Latino teenagers stood in the neon light posturing, flirting and laughing. A single police car oversaw a late-night film shoot. A few blocks further south, a young couple stood in the center of Broadway apparently explaining something to another officer.
The blocks ticked away quickly. Soon enough, I was heading east on Canal towards the Manhattan Bridge. As I crossed, the sun poked through the clouds between blue girders as the subway rumbled past. In Brooklyn, I passed Junior’s and pointed myself up Flatbush Avenue. I smiled as I passed the coffee shop where, some two years ago, I stood with Abbi debating whether we should move, looked back at Manhattan and said, “It’s just so far away!” It didn’t seem very far this morning.
I popped into a corner store and gelled just before Prospect Park, pausing long enough to stretch and Tweet. The sun just over the Brooklyn Public Library, its gold hieroglyphs glowing against the clouds. I passed the Zoo and the Botanical Gardens. Flastbush was silent along the park save for a fleet of tow trucks working overtime. In Prospect Park South, I threaded myself through a family crowding the sidewalk as they wished their teenager at camp. I young mother held her wide-eyed baby. And elderly man in a wheelchair stared as I jogged passed. I felt strong, but alien. They looked at me like Paul Revere or Phidippides, waiting for me to share some alarming news. I just smiled and said hello.
Were it not for my Blackberry, I might have ended up in Sunset Park. I searched and zoomed and studied the map as I ran, though, and soon enough had navigated along Coney Island Boulevard (where I greeted a gathering of elderly Pakistani gentlemen) some twelve miles to Ocean Boulevard. The wide, tree-lined street was inviting and familiar; I’ve run at least a half-dozen Brooklyn Marathons in the opposite direction. I passed yeshivas and temples, young men in yamakas carrying their kittel in a clear plastic pouch, then strayed from the boulevard to the adjoining Gravesend neighborhood. The houses were large, imposing, and seemed deserted.
I was soaked clear through, but felt strong. Before long, I spotted familiar looking apartment buildings ahead, and knew I was close. I crossed the Belt Parkway and descended into Brighton Beach. The tiny, Russian neighborhood was bustling there beneath the F Train subway tracks. Every advert, sign and storefront carried the Slavonic alphabet, except Starbucks.
I turned onto Surf Avenue, then climbed the stairs toward the boardwalk and looked out over the slate-gray Atlantic Ocean grinning. I ran to the base of the Astroland Parachute Jump, then headed out onto Steeplechase Pier to issue my final Tweet: Hell’s Kitchen To Coney Island Run Update: Coney Island 17.02M.
Moments later, I walked into the cool, briney waves to float awhile. Thunder rolled off in the distance. Rain began to fall. It was barely eight thirty in the morning. I slipped into the cool silence beneath the waves while the city and its inhabitants — my neighbors — slowly woke from a dreamless slumber.
