Maybe You Could Just Apologize?

Imagine your Bloguero's shock when he discovered that according to Conde Nast Traveler the city of his birth, Newark, New Jersey, is rated the most unfriendly city in the United States. Right. And Jackson, Mississippi, he learned,is one of the most friendly? Please. Stop. This is total bs. He wasn't going to dignify this latest insult to the Brick City with a comment. But listen. A few surly employees at the airport do not an unfriendly city make.

Au contraire. If you're from Newark, and in the broad, wide world you meet someone else, someone you didn't know before from Newark, the comradery is instant. Your Bloguero, in fact, everyone, even people from Short Hills and Summit and Livingston, knows Newark is tough. And has crime issues. And housing issues. And employment issues. And corruption and education issues. Your Bloguero is not telling you it's the Garden (State) of Eden. Not at all. But all of those unpleasant attributes, and others your Bloguero chooses not to dwell upon here, mean that when members of the vast Newark diaspora meet in other places, far from Springfield Avenue and Market Street, we're happy to be alive. And we joke, that's right, we joke about coming from Nurk. That we must be like those legendary cockroaches, able to weather nuclear winter and climate change and bad juju and every damn other thing, including Newark winter and its public transportation, and we're filled with gratitude that we're making it, that we're out here, doing whatever we're doing. We're escapees. But all of that does not make the city unfriendly. It does not. It just makes its people friendly.

To be simple, Conde Nasty is taking a cruel shot at the city of my birth. And they do that because they have no clue. And they are entranced by the myth of Southern hospitality. They don't know that behind that smiling, nodding, gracious, Southern demeanor is usually somebody who at the slightest provocation will stab you through your jugular vein with a fork and then tell you, "Oh sir, let me help you with all that blood there."

The other thing to be said is that Conde Nasty is no Philip Roth. They don't know the difference between having character and being bland.

Newark: Too Darn Hot

”He remembered. And he thought that a man’s memory was a pointless game created by idle gods.”

Paco Ignacio Taibo, The Shadow of the Shadow (Sombra de la sombra)

Yesterday, Newark, New Jersey, the city of my birth, set an all time heat record. It was 108. That qualifies as undisputably miserable. And ridiculously hot. And crazy making uncomfortable. And, as well, absolutely a danger to your health, both physical and mental. I’m sweltering somewhere else. But upon hearing on the radio that the record was set, my memory, that pointless game created by idle gods, took me back to the early ‘50’s in Newark.

I remember that particular record setting day well. A real scorcher. I think I was told it got to 103. It was unbelievable, even to a kid who had access to a kiddie pool and a garden hose. My mother was worried that it was far too hot for the kids to play outside. As if playing was something anybody felt compelled to do. But being inside was impossible: it was like a furnace. We didn’t have air conditioning. That was a luxury only for the well healed. It was like that other icon of wealth, color television: unattainable. Don’t even think about it. I think we had some box fans we got at Two Guys From Harrison, a store that folded before it could morph into a big box. That was about it for cooling the house. I don’t remember ever opening the distant fire hydrant: too much trouble with no tools, and too far away. I remember when we first got the fans. What a relief. What did we do before then when it got really hot?

I think we did nothing. Or as close to nothing as possible. I think we sat patiently in the shade. And drank iced tea. Or Royal Crown Cola. Or were supposed to. I remember my grandmother saying that it was far too hot for the kids to run around. They’d get all sweated up. Like we wanted to run around. No, they should sit in the shade too. Fat chance. I remember the day. I was wearing a bathing suit and sneakers. I went from hose to pool to hose to shade to pool. Repeat and start over again. The adults sat in the shade and moved as little as possible. Eventually, they would say, it will begin to cool off. Eventually. That qualified as wishful thinking. They’d say it was too hot to cook. The fact is that it wouldn’t really cool off. But you could lie down with the fan blowing right on you and eventually you’d fall asleep.

And then I heard the bells. The ice cream truck. Headed down Bond Street, through the glare of the heat rising from on the black street pavement toward us. If ever there was a day when Lester’s white truck was an anticipated relief. Yes, he had chocolate pops. And orange ice pops. And cherry too. Yes, but it’s so hot, kid, that they’re all kind of melty, you know what I mean? So what. We don’t care about that. We want some. Yeah, can we have them? Yeah, it sure is hot. See you tomorrow. So we sat in the shade and gobbled them down as fast as we could. And, of course, we got sticky chocolate and sticky orange all over us. Our faces. Our hands. Our bare chests. Our bathing suits. No matter. We were cool for an instant. And happy. And the mess was just another reason to sit in the pool. And get the hose.

It was just too hot for anything else. It was too darn hot:

The Newark Space Flight Center

He used to sit on the couch on Sunday afternoon and fiddle with the TV. The TV at the time was an RCA. It had a tiny, oval black and white screen, and it was in a huge, heavy oak case. It looked like furniture. Only it wasn't. He’d sit near it and click from channel 9, the Dodgers, snap, snap to channel 11, the Yankees, and then, snap, snap the Dodgers again, and snap snap, back and forth. The clicking made it so he probably wasn’t able to follow either game. No matter. He seemed to enjoy it, and best of all, it made him impenetrable to conversation, it made him out of bounds. “Pops,” I’d ask, “Can I have a soda?” "What?" "A soda?" “Ask your grandmother.” Snap, snap. The adults would make sure that he wasn’t disturbed while snapping.

He deserved these moments of peaceful, summer, Sunday afternoon isolation. After all, in addition to his job as a pharmacist, he was building a rocketship in the backyard out of a 1949 Dodge and several piles of strange, shiny metal he got at a dilapidated warehouse on Freylinghuysen Avenue. There were piles of wires in the yard. And welding equipment. And tools. And gauges. And aircraft rivets. And a high scaffold. He worked on the ship and smoked his cigars. He paced around the piles of material muttering to himself and gesturing. Clouds of smoke. Banging. Sparks.

Building a rocketship was an enormous, messy, time consuming task. But it wasn’t unusual in Newark. Not at all. Other people in the Weequahic Section were building their own rocketships, too. “This rocket,” he told me, “is going to be the best. It’s going to be really special. We alone are going to Mars. Why would anybody want to go to the moon like these other people? These moon people don’t have the right vision. I bet these moon people are Giants fans. Or Republicans.” Smoke from the cigar. Muttering. All of this made no sense to me, but he was quite convincing. “Well,” he asked, “Am I right about this? Of course I am.” That was the kind of question he liked.

When a teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I told her I wanted to be a scientist. What I meant was that I wanted to fly to Mars with my grandfather in the rocketship. I’m pretty sure that back then the word “astronaut” wasn’t yet in use. At least in Newark. She didn’t ask me to elaborate about my scientific aspirations. No. She gave me a weird look. Why didn’t I want to be a fireman or a cop like my classmates? Why indeed. I guess she didn’t know about the rocketship. Or that I was going to Mars. I didn’t need to concern myself with petty, terrestrial concerns. I was worried instead about how to navigate the rocket so that I’d be able to make the return trip safely. I was pretty sure that nobody wanted to get stuck on Mars, especially because they couldn’t figure out how to get back to Earth.

When the summer was coming to an end, Pops still hadn’t finished the rocketship. I thought it would be done by then, but it wasn’t. There were still enormous piles of sheet metal and wires and parts, and the frame from the Dodge in the yard. The rocketship was beginning to shape up, but it had a long, long way to go. “Pops,” I said, “I thought we’d be ready to take off by the end of summer. Looks like we’re not going to make it, are we?” “Oh,” he said. “You know, kid,” he said, “This project, overcoming gravity, going a long way off this planet, finishing a safe rocketship, that’s going to take a while longer. I’m going to keep working on it. Meanwhile, I think we should start watching the Giants, they have this kid named Willie Mays, who’s going to be one of the best ball players ever. Am I right about this? Of course I am.”

Death In The Time Of Cholera

Haiti, ravaged for centuries and suffering long before its enormous, destructive earthquake, now braces for a huge cholera epidemic. The cholera epidemic on Saturday had already killed more than 200 and there are more than 2600 reported cases. Today the news is still bad. The NY Times reports:

Diarrhea, while a common ailment here, is a symptom of cholera. And anxiety has been growing fiercely that the cholera epidemic, which began last week in the northwest of Haiti, will soon strike the earthquake-ravaged Port-au-Prince metropolitan area.

“It travels with the speed of lightning, I’ve heard, and it can kill a person in four hours,” said Jean Michel Maximilien, a camp leader. “So of course we are all on edge.”

For now, the cholera outbreak, with more than 250 deaths and more than 3,100 confirmed cases, has been contained to the central rural regions around the Artibonite River, 60 miles north of the capital. But Port-au-Prince is tensely preparing for its arrival in the densely populated slums and tent camps here, with treatment centers being established, soap and water purification tablets being distributed and public safety announcements stressing hygiene. ...

Since the January earthquake, this devastated country has been bracing for a secondary disaster — a hurricane, an eruption of violence, an outbreak of disease. But nobody anticipated that cholera would make its first appearance in 50 years. It was “the one thing we thought we were relatively safe on,” said Imogen Wall, spokeswoman for the United Nations humanitarian coordination office.

Because so many in Haiti teeter on the brink, and because a cholera epidemic in Port au Prince and the rest of that beleaguered nation can be so horrible, this is a good time to make a small donation to Doctors Without Borders, who are already on the scene and providing treatment.

And then there's Philip Roth's most recent book, Nemesis, that explores a polio epidemic in Newark, New Jersey in 1944. I finished reading it last night; I had read the reviews when it came out earlier this month. If like me you know Newark, and particularly the Weequahic area, the book brings back memories of the 50's and early '60's. And Bucky, the main character, is as familiar to you as any other kid you played stickball with. If you don't know that particular Newark, maybe you don't quite get the book in the same way.

The epidemic in Newark, like the threatening one in Haiti, has its many mysteries. Nobody knows exactly how it is spread. Nobody knows what to do to stop it. Flight seems a good idea, until the disease and death arrive anyway. There is seemingly no escape. There is no way to predict who will become ill and who will be untouched and who will die. And in Haiti the options, because of the grinding poverty are far fewer. Treatment will remain mostly unavailable. There will be many more fatalities even if the outbreak can be isolated in Antibonite. What a horror.

My heart goes out to Haiti. And to those who are there now. May the epidemic be contained. May they all be well.

Please make a donation to Doctors Without Borders. This can help.

A Love Supreme, Love Supreme, Love Supreme

John Coltrane (1926-1967)

Last night I found myself on a Continental 757 heading again for Newark, city of my birth, one of those tough places, a gritty, rusty place I return to repeatedly.

To my amazement, one of the audio selections available on the flight was John Coltrane's seminal 1964 recording "A Love Supreme." This album is one of Coltrane's greatest works, and it is repeatedly listed as one of the greatest jazz albums of all time. Why was I amazed? True, it was the 48th album of the 50 available. It should have been first. True, it was the 2002, redigitalized version (I am such a snob). It should have been the original vinyl. But forget all of that, there it was. I hadn't listened to it from beginning to end without interruption in more than 30 years. So yesterday I listened again to "A Love Supreme." What a delight.

The recording has four parts: "Acknowledgement" (which contains the famous Love Supreme, Love Supreme mantra), "Resolution", "Pursuance", and "Psalm." The recording (can we still call it an album or make believe it's classical and call it a suite?) is the culmination in many ways of what Coltrane began in Giant Steps and Chasing the Trane. It's modal. It's free. It's totally inventive. It's astonishing. "Psalm," the final part, the part I love most, is what Coltrane calls a "musical narration" of the devotional poem he included in the liner notes. In other words, Coltrane “plays” the words of the poem, but does not actually speak them. In this you can hear the sounds of devotional sermons of African-American preachers, Jewish and Muslim chanting, African singing, sounds of the street, the hum of Newark or Philadelphia, the voices from Coltrane's heart. Coltrane's solo ends with him playing the words “Elation. Elegance. Exaltation. All from God. Thank you God. Amen.” I say, "Amen, Amen, Amen."

What a striking, incredible performance. How can it be that 44 years after it was recorded, "A Love Supreme" remains so fresh, alive, exciting, expressive, deep?

A Love Supreme was recorded one December evening in Rudy Van Gelder's legendary studio in Englewood Cliffs, N.J. Pianist McCoy Tyner remembers the unusual, almost magical atmosphere surrounding the session. "Rudy that day dimmed the lights in his studio. I'd never seen him do that and it sort of set an atmosphere. There was just something very, very special about that particular session."

Drummer Elvin Jones says Coltrane "never wrote out any music for us. When he played we more or less had to imagine, or feel, how to interpret the song. And it got to the point where I felt I was almost part of his mind, almost telepathic in a way."

The quartet, which also included bassist Jimmy Garrison, needed little more than the seed of a melodic idea when it hit the studio. Tyner adds: "We had been playing some of that music and we didn't know what it was going to be until we got into the studio. And then it all came together."

Coltrane constructed the suite's main theme around a simple four-note pattern — based on the words "a love supreme."

Source.

The playing of the quartet on this recording is unbelievably wonderful. From the very first sound of a gong on "Acknowledgement", through the initial four notes Garrison plays on bass, through incredible drum solos by Elvin Jones (how can he do all of that?), through McCoy Tyner's unbelievably complex piano dexterity, to Coltrane's final, mind altering solo, the quartet at once plays together and individually, and it stretches the music out beyond anything rote, beyond the anticipated, beyond the possible, into the ionosphere. Remember please that this is music from the era when jazz players were justifiably revered for their genius. The skilled playing, the inventiveness of the improvisation, the faith of the players in each other, their mutual support of the themes culminates in my head shaking slowly, side to side, bliss, joy, ecstacy, nirvana, Om ah Hum.

As I fly toward Newark, my birthplace, with this quartet in my ears, I remember the Newark of the '60's. The riot. The killing. The incessant crimes. The discrimination, poverty, unemployment, oppression, racism. The Projects. The desperation. I can hear all of that in this music, welling up, speaking out, clenching its fist, and then opening it again in transcendence. And I wonder, "What would Coltrane have made of Obama?"