MoMa. Ground Zero. Prohibition nerves.

Day 10: Monday, October 9th 2017.

We stroll through the park and make our way to the Museum of Modern Art where Lari, who seems to be a man of the world and of nowhere in particular, gives us tips on getting around. It’s Columbus Day and it’s raining so MoMa is busy today, very busy. We slowly make our way round and jostle for position to see the great Degas, Monets, Picassos and such like, all with crowds around them straining to get selfies. Why? Not sure. That famous thing again? This is me near something or somebody famous? What does that say, what’s it for? To show my friends? I didn’t paint it after all. ‘Go figure’.

Like the famous locations we ‘know’ already, the great works of art too have their own, ready-made wow factor built up by years of exposure, documentaries, greetings cards, biscuit tins and received wisdom. It’s difficult to really ‘see’ them without predjudice. And so I become a little ambivalent about strolling past so many Great Paintings.

But we’re just leaving the gallery when I’m hit by a painting I don’t recognise. I say hit because the almost overwhelming emotion that wells up inside me is really surprising. Funny how art can catch you that way sometimes. It’s ‘Christina’s World’ by Andrew Wyeth and I react to it as if I’ve been given some very bad news about someone very close. It’s such an enigmatic yet still figurative painting; full of mystery, yearning and a story to be told.

Reading about it afterwards I can see why I reacted but at the same time I couldn’t have known the reason why the young woman in the painting is sitting on the grass looking up at the house. Or perhaps the artist is so brilliant he told me why she was there?

I took lots of photos in the gallery but oddly I thought the best ones were taken through a window looking down at pedestrians hurrying along the wet, narrow sidewalk clutching colourful umbrellas. To probably mis-quote Thoreau or Degas, “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see”.

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Lunch with Lari and Tiina at Connolly’s Bar & Restaurant across the street. Fish and chips, Irish/New York style. Yum. Then catch the subway to Ground Zero.

I heard a comedian once say that when you first hear New Yorkers in conversation you think there’s a God Almighty fight going to break out at any time. They tend not to listen patiently to one another, waiting to interject with polite observation; it’s more like listening to the pre-amble of a title-fight, whether the subject is Trump or tonight’s dinner. We sit on the subway listening to a young couple ‘arguing’ and who at any moment will surely explode into violence. I scan the compartment wondering which of us, if any, will step in and break up the fight. Then the wind changes and they are laughing together in easy harmony. Disaster averted. I chat with a less demonstrative woman sitting next to me about her work, property prices, social justice, wages and such like and we manage to avoid coming to blows thank goodness. Jane chats to a small boy and his grandma; it’s his birthday today so he’s probably in a good mood and they too avoid heated confrontation.

I grab a shot of the man sitting opposite, who could either be ready to pull a gun on me if I as much as make eye contact or he’s just checking on his next stop. The latter’s more likely to be honest.

Well. Ground Zero. A ‘must see’? Why? Goulish interest? Paying respects? Thank God it was them not me? Confusing thoughts and emotions. The tour begins outside St Paul’s Chapel, hemmed in by the giants of glass, concrete and steel towering above us. We thread our way like ants though these monuments to money and power. The twisted, jagged metal of the towers’ remains have been removed and a new transport hub now sits incongruously amongst these towers of Babel. Called The Oculus, it looks like a 21st century dinosaur crouching in a forest of behemoths. This being the USA the outstretched wings of the Oculus also contain The Westfield Shopping Mall. Or, the shopping mall also contains a transport hub.

It’s certainly an impressive piece of architecture but just maybe what was the site of one of the world’s highest profile, live on TV tragedies could have been turned into a consecrated place of reconciliation, understanding, learning and love? Not just another altar to consumerism. On September 12th 2001, the day after the Twin Towers were destroyed, Mayor Giuliani advised his citizens to go about their normal business, “..go shopping, be with your children…” Maybe it’s the American Way? Default to our comfort zone, retail therapy in action? Dispiriting all the same.

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The tour continues through Brookfield Place, another gigantic mall where a diamond-encrusted motorcycle sits gleaming in a window with the Oculus crouching in the background. Not totally sure of context here.

As we near the end of the tour I still have no sense of where the Twin Towers actually stood; the ground they occupied seems hidden in the forest. Eventually we almost stumble across the monument, curiously unexplained by the otherwise skilled young guide. The names of all those who perished are etched into the walls surrounding the cavernous footprint of each tower and water permanently cascades down the walls, disappearing into the darkness at the centre.

A curiously disappointing and unsatisfactory experience for me. The enormity of the event and the opportunities it might have provided – phoenix, ashes and all that – seem to me to have been lost.

Subway back home and prepare for my NY debut (as if I’d thought about anything else all day)

……………………………………………

I didn’t bring a guitar away with me but secretly hoped I could borrow one from Bruce Springsteen perhaps, or if not, one of the other open mic perfomers. We arrived at the Prohibition Bar at what I hoped was a reasonably cool time; not too early to appear overly keen, not too late to have to get one of the later slots. The room was dark, fairly empty and we sat at the bar and ordered drinks. I needed a beer. By the entrance door was the signing-in book and so I approached the girl who was taking names.

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“Name”

“Err, Pete Conner” (Was it very uncool to include my surname? Probably)

There were only two or three names before mine so I was glad it would be over sooner rather than later. I sat back at the bar as musicians – mainly guitarists – slowly arrived, carrying instruments in battered, road-worn cases, denoting that their owners were probably all Julliard School graduates, they toured the country regularly and had only dropped by to hang out with their friends who were all similarly outrageously talented players. They all seemed to know one another, high-fiving, fist-pumping, man-hugging and generally displaying behaviour expressly designed to intimidate visiting geriatric Limeys with ideas above their station. The MC arrived, hipster hat cocked slightly to one side, and set up his keyboard on the small stage in front of us. The other members of the house band duly arrived one by one, and with casual insouciance slowly set up on stage. They had the look and feel of pro house bands everywhere; hugely talented chameleons resigned to their fate, world-weary from years of backing Stevie Wonder or Beyonce wannabees, usually having to work out a song in the time it takes to mic up the singer. They noodle a few notes to warm up, mutter amongst themselves and then launch effortlessly into ‘Black Cow’ by Steely Dan; a tribute to Walter Becker who had died last month.

They play a few more numbers with the same, seasoned ease and then the MC takes the mic and addresses the audience. His name is Swang. Now, open mic nights are usually billed as inclusive, ‘give everyone a fair hearing’, ‘let’s support one another’ type events. But in an attempt to further undermine my already shaky digestive system he announces, and I paraphrase here;

“You know guys, you kinda know if you’ve got what it takes right? You kinda know if you’ve got talent yeah? Know wha’ a’m say’n?”

From underneath his hipster beret he scanned the room, a knowing, sideways smile on his lips.

I knew exactly what Swang was saying. If you get up here and squawk like a parrot or can only play a third-rate version of ‘Stairway to heaven’ you’d more than likely be laughed off stage and be left with life-long, psychological scars rendering you unable to ever play in front of anyone ever again. I’ve sat through a few toe-curling performances in my time and I’m all for quality-control but I didn’t see that coming. He’d obviously heard quite a few parrots in his time and was just giving us the heads up.

Undeterred I spot a likely candidate who might lend me his guitar and I follow him through to a back room where he is delivering worldy wisdom on songwriting, performing and life in general to a younger performer who looks like he’s been cornered by a terrier. I sit down beside them and it’s clear that he a’int gonna stop talking just because I’ve sat down next to them. I consider challenging some of his dubious rhetoric but think better of it, I do want to borrow his guitar after all. He’s called Emilio and has a grisled, lived-in face. He’s wearing a denim jacket with upturned collar, on his head is what I think is called a pork-pie hat and he has round, John Lennon shades. Not at all cool-looking then.

He is happy to lend me his guitar though. He takes it out of the case and I’m deflated to see it’s a nylon-stringed Spanish guitar, not the steel-stringed dreadnought-style I’m used to. Now had I been a New Yorker, I might have thrown my head back, laughed in a derisory fashion and asked him how the hell he expects me to play that Goddam thing. And then a heated discussion on the merits of Spanish versus steel guitars would have ensued eventually leaving us the best of friends, continuing the debate long into the night over a bottle of bourbon. But I’m English and feel at this stage it would be churlish to refuse. So, song-wise, a bit of a rethink needed.

The performers begin. No-one is booed off thank goodness and the standard is some way below what I expected, so I’m encouraged.

I sing the words to my song over and over in my head. Well the first few lines anyway. I find once I can get that out I can usually relax and let the auto-pilot take over. It seems to be taking an age to get to my slot and each time Swang takes up the mic my sweaty palm grips the guitar neck a little tighter as my fight or flight reflexes battle for dominance. A break is announced and I wonder if I dare have another drink; the fine line between Dutch courage and Englsh stagefright can be a thin one when it comes to performing in front of a room full of New Yorkers all expecting to be entertained on a Monday night out.

The houseband returns to the stage and plays what seems to be a whole concept album before getting back to the order of play. And eventually my name is called. Eek. Just breathe, stay calm, it’s just another band rehearsal, no big deal. But at the same time I want to be fully in the moment; to feel the fear and do it anyway. The American way. When you hang your heart on the line and show your creation to the world you run the ultimate risk of judgement; the risk that someone might tell you they don’t think much of your baby; it’s ugly, or at best, plain. There’s a real ease in singing covers; other people’s songs. When you play a cover version most audiences just hear the original in their heads, they fill in the missing pieces; very often an approximation of the original will satisfy. It’s a quick hit. But singing your own song, one you’ve agonised over for perhaps months, one you’ve plucked up courage to reveal to the world, is an entirely different kettle of fish. It’s difficult enough to produce the damn thing in the first place but somehow it’s not enough just to create it; it has to be heard and shared by others to fully exist. Otherwise it’s just that tree falling silently alone in the forest.

So the song I choose to sing is one I wrote about that safety of singing someone else’s song  –  ‘Can I wear your heart on my sleeve?’ –  which I’ve thankfully now realised is very playable on a nylon-stringed guitar. I’m hoping my “Just flown in from England to do the gig” opening gambit will endear me to the locals.

It’s all over on a flash of course and I actually enjoyed it, which is unusual. Although the crowd duly whooped and hollered in their American way, what I really appreciated was the blessing of Swang’s casual hand on my shoulder afterwards, which I took to mean I passed the audition and didn’t get eaten by lions. Later on, sitting back at the bar watching the houseband, the lead guitarist, a cool, black dude with big floppy rasta hat, nodded towards me, smiled, and gestured that he liked my guitar playing. I’m not exactly Jo Bonamassa so I felt that was high praise indeed.

Walked back home buzzing.

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