New York Groove

Late jazz, early dog poops.

Today my sweet dog Luci woke up early, which meant that I too woke up early as it’s usually a package deal. She wanted to go outside to remind everyone that she owns the neighborhood, which is to say pee and poop everywhere within a block radius of the apartment. I wasn’t crazy about the idea, but I threw some clothes on anyway and we headed outside at exactly 6:58am, a time only surgeons, sausage makers, and members of the underworld are normally up, I prefer to assume.

I was especially tired because I decided to cross the street last night and catch the Bill Frisell Quintet’s second set at Village Vanguard (not pictured above), which started at an ungodly 10pm, a time when, if I am home, I am usually becoming one with the couch as I attempt to watch a movie for five or six minutes before drifting off to sleep. But last night I was determined to live, so I put on some shoes and bought a ticket at the door, just like a jazz cat might.

Bill had two drummers and two bass players with him. I’ve seen bands with two drummers (e.g. the Allman Brothers) and I’ve seen bands with two bass players (e.g. the Melvins), but I’d never seen a band with two of each and now I don’t think people should play music together any other way. It was a great show. And afterward, at the urging of my friend and frequent Bill Frisell collaborator Petra Haden, I walked up to Bill and said “Hey, Bro,” an inside joke between the two of them that he seemed to enjoy or at least pretend to, which was both enough for me and also a nice way to wrap up the kind of New York evening old books and movies always told us to have, which is to say one that involves sitting alone in a basement listening to jazz while slowly sipping bourbon, a beverage I’m still not sure I really enjoy but like to think I do, and smiling knowingly at crucial jazz moments.

Getting back to Luci, though, after she finished dominating the neighborhood, we headed to Washington Square Park for a little dog run action. We got there so early we beat all our usual dog run buddies to the scene. And, as they entered, I gave them a nod of superiority, the kind that says “I got up earlier than you because I definitely wasn’t up until midnight drinking bourbon alone in a jazzy basement.” It felt good. Really good. I gave them the same nod again when we left and they couldn’t say shit about it. In fact, I’m pretty sure it destroyed them altogether.

On the way out of the park, I noticed about six policemen cornering some of the park regulars that hang out near the chess tables. I tried to eavesdrop but couldn’t really figure out what was “going down,” to use the parlance of the streets. And, since I am a member of the underworld, as evidenced by the fact that I was up so early, I sided with the park regulars immediately and tried to give them a knowing glance (different from the knowing glance of jazz) that suggested that I recognize that the streets are indeed hell. But I don’t think they saw me. Then I went home and made oatmeal as I wondered what other crazy shit Luci and I might get up to today. We are respectively a man and dog without limits. Or maybe it’s the other way around.