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The Tris McCall Report

 

January 29, 2004

The deep freeze continues. It's about twenty degrees in full daylight on Montgomery Street, and the wind off the river is slicing through my jacket like a meat cleaver. I'm bundled up in my black parka, tartan scarf over my face, hood over my head. I look like the Michelin Man's evil twin. But I'm not alone -- everybody coming in and out of the government building (30 Montgomery) is a sack of animated fabric, too. Winter means never having to show your face.

Satisfied I am not a bomb-wielding terrorist (or just a crank), the security guard gives me a visitor's pass and leads me to the elevator. He doesn't ask me my official business. Which is just as well, since I have none. I'm here, nominally, to pick up a copy of the WALDO ordinance and the Urban Land Institute's report on the Power House Arts District. Really, though, I'm motivated by the same curiosity that compels me to open doors I really shouldn't -- I want to see what the city planning office looks like.

No goblins or leprechauns on the fourth floor, just bad carpet, fluorescent lighting, and catacombed hallways. Pretty standard government building stuff; the shabbiness of the public sector articulated in ugly paint, cheap wooden doors, low ceilings. The Bureau of Vacant Buildings is to my left, the Division of Commerce a little farther down. Hey, the door to the Jersey City Zoning Department is in front of me -- nobody's coming, I could just pop in, look around, pop out. But wait, look at this! -- it's one of those glass-encased 3D neighborhood models, four feet long and renderd with remarkable detail. At first I'm sure it's Harborside, but the closer I look at it, the less I recognize the streets, buildings, and land-use patterns. It's like a dream language that appears to make sense but evaporates upon close examination; an architectural background tape that degrades into static. Where are these parks, these pedestrian thoroughfares? At the edge of the case, the office wiseguy has affixed a post-it note: "Proof that Columbus was wrong". Yeah, well, he didn't sail around in little glass cases.

The Planning Office is a mess of bustle, tweed dividers, towering stacks of paper, inscrutable maps. From inside a cubicle, a testy voice is kvetching about variance and zone regulations. Some of you will know what I mean when I say I am reminded of Arthur Weasley's dingy corner in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office (and the rest of you ought to get reading, you've got thousands of pages in front of you). There's a lurid color-coded map on the wall of every zone in Jersey City; hypnotized, I am tempted to swipe it and run away as fast as I can. Silly turtle, just talk to one of these nice people. I introduce myself to the first person I see; she's harried but sweet, and she moves with typical Jersey City generosity to an enormous filing cabinet filled with city plans. "What do you need it for?", she asks twice. "I'm writing about it", I finally answer with a big smile, charm cranked up to eleven. Hey, it's no lie.

Back out to Montgomery Street, my backpack full. I've got a copy of the glossy ULI report, the thirty-five page redevelopment proposal, and four land-use maps for the Power House Arts District. Guess I know what I'm doing when I get home. I can't head south yet, though, I've got someplace to go. Jim Testa has asked me to hang up a poster at Uncle Joe's for his Monday show with Paul Crane, and I think I'll take the opportunity to drop by 111 First Street and do a little impressionistic investigation.

Grinding my way through the gray snowbanks on Washington Street like an idiot icebreaker, teeth gritted against the wind. If the plans in my hand are ever realized, this neighborhood will be easily accessible to pedestrians. Right now, it's a great place to get hit by a truck. Watch your footing there, Sir Edmund. The sidewalk around 333 Washington is pretty clear, though, freshly shoveled in the vicinity of its glass door. My new Marauder's Map (and the big Cushman & Wakefield sign on the window) indicate this is new commercial development, but the blank windows advertise vacancy. I detour up the steps to examine the list of tenants. There ain't too many. This is the WALDO district -- this building and others were supposed to be put to use by artists. I would argue that the New Jersey School Construction Corporation is, in fact, engaged in an artistic project, but I somehow doubt that this is what ProArts had in mind in 1997.

Icicles cling to the rusted fire escapes dangling from 111 First Street. It's a huge building -- four stories at least, and the size of a city block. Surely there are several entrances, but I'm heading back to the devil I know. A commensurately-shaped mural on the corner of Washington & First reads "Heart of The Arts District". It's all of the arts district, as far as I can tell. Across First, abutted by the light rail tracks, the crumbling face of 110 First sluices brick and steel into a vacant lot. The city, I am told, attempted to purchase 110 several years ago; this was with the intention of converting the building into artists' lofts. For reasons I haven't yet been able to discover, the initiative came to nothing, and the old factory remains silent and unoccupied.

111 First Street is neither silent nor unoccupied; the foyer is ringing with purposeful activity. An old artist with a white beard carries in several planks of wood. A couple pushes a cart filled with canvas and paint; another guy with a big bag from Hudson County Art Supply rudely cuts in front of them at the door. Mind on his sculpture, I see. I can hear, faintly through the ducts, some basslines I immediately recognize as Hot Hot Heat. Hmm, they've got good taste here. Posted on the wall is a yellowed news clipping from a 2001 Jersey Journal probing Mayor Cunningham's tangential role in a New Gold Equities lawsuit seeking to overturn WALDO. The second half of the article is torn beyond recognition, and I can't really get the gist of it.

The stairwell is spacious, inviting. Damn, this building is huge; every floor seems to offer dizzying possibilities for exploration. Many have obviously chosen to weather or defy the rent hikes. Hey, here's the Yoga Shunya studios; I wonder if these guys are being forced out, too. They're not painting, they're stretching. Even investment bankers like to do yoga; it helps them work off the doughnuts and cheeseburgers they eat on the trading floor. Lloyd Goldman ought to know that.

Sunlight streams into the fourth floor from huge, panelled windows. It's white, quiet, a little chilly, softly beautiful. The doors are massive, but not imposing -- some have descriptive text posted, others offer little more than an intriguing name. I know nothing about visual arts, but here is a language I immediately and intuitively grasp; a play of signifiers, an exploration of the meaning of public space and representation. Along a wall is a shrine composed of detritus, objects unearthed from a building site, a few flowerpots, dolls. A sign peeks out of one of the pots: WALDO, it reads. Is it hopeful, or resigned?

Other signs may be part of the found environment, but they don't belong to the artists. A threatening, chastising letter from the Devon Management Company scolds residents for leaving objects in the hall. Hey, this wanderer wants to see that stuff. Doors of galleries stretch for an impossible distance, red exit signs burn above doorways in nooks, a stretch of corridor has been filigreed with photographs. It's a massive dormitory of ideas, a chemistry experiment conducted with wood, paint, and imaginative exertion. I am so utterly interpolated into the logic and rhythm of the building that it takes me about twenty minutes to realize I'm lost.

It's a big building. I try one staircase down, and it leads to a dark corridor, and an abandoned atrium, blacked out, used for storage. A door opens onto a vast outdoor courtyard, but nowhere near the street. A sign marked "Warren St. exit" brings me to a fire escape that even I won't risk. And everywhere there is evidence of artists' long-term residence: a certain visual care taken even with the cast-off, striking beauty down every corridor. I need to get home, but I can't deny it, I'm loving this; secretly hoping every doorway opens not onto First Street, but to another corridor softly burning with the collective energy of creative thought.

Me, I can understand why people have become emotional about this building. It may be falling apart, terms of occupancy may have been violated. None of that really matters. A resource like this can't be imposed or dictated by a planning office. The best a planning office can do is create the conditions under which a magical environment can take root. The Power House Arts District is a wonderful initiative; one we all ought to hope happens in full. But it's just paper and 3D cut-outs, lines in the sand, space cleared for a spark to take flame. There is already a flame burning here in Jersey City, a genuine arts district; not something small, nascent, and powerless, but a force puissant enough to fill an entire city block. Let's not waste the asset.

 

January 28, 2004

"Cool" Jersey City takes yet another hit. This just in from Daniel Hyland at the superb housewares store Space 27d:

After an incredibly disappointing September and October, and an even worse November (we had 3 people in the weekend of Thanksgiving), we (3 partners) finanically could not stay open regular hours during the month of December. We did keep our regular hours the first week of December, and after sitting in the shop 40 hours and another week going by without a single person coming in to shop, we decided to reduce our hours to evenings only during the week. December was our worst month to date, and for that reason we have begun liquidating our inventory.

I appreciate your kind words about our shop, but in defense of Space 27d, and many other small business owners that I am friends with, the reality of doing business in JC is that this is still a bedroom community. For Jersey City to become anything other than that, more residents need to not only say that they will do as much of their shopping locally as they can, even if it may be a bit more effort.

Sadly, we can no longer continue to keep Space 27d open- we are all incredibly disappointed that we are closing. And we had big dreams for becoming "pioneers" in JC development. We will be closing Feb. 29th for good. We may be a lost cause, but their are several other businesses in JC that are currently experiencing the same difficulties, at the verge of closing their doors -- some which you also mentioned in the same column. So it would be good, especially in this typically slow time of year for you to use your medium to remind JC to get off their asses and support the other small businesses. Thank you for your patronage and support of our store -- we appreciate you mentioning us on your website.

(All inventory at Space 27d is up to 60% off until the closing date, so get it while you can. New hours: weekends only, Saturday 10-6, Sunday 12-6.)

This is heartbreaking not merely for the usual economic development reasons, but because Space 27d really was a superior store; much, much more stylish (and cheaper!) than Battaglia's in Hoboken, and aesthetically competitive with anything in Manhattan. It's exactly the kind of place we should be fighting to keep in the community. Coupled with the closing of the Euro Cafe on Grove Street, this really hurts.

As always, there are really cool things happening in Jersey City, but since there's no central clearinghouse for info on the town, nobody ever knows what's going on. You all heard me rage about the city website situation, but it's beyond that. We need a real local arts paper. If it sounds like I'm gearing up for another Shame piece, well... just watch this space.

 

January 27, 2004

Those of you who are habitual readers of this site know well that I'm no populist. However, yesterday's piece on 111 First Street was read by many who aren't habitual readers, and if they came away thinking that I was advocating class warfare against developers and landlords, I can't really blame them. I've been hot under the collar this month, and at times, I've really let the rhetoric sail.

Yesterday was one of those times. I defend my incendiary prose, because you can't talk about public planning and public priorities without stomping around a little, and also, I know (most of) you enjoy it when I stomp around. And these issues are emotional ones, and it's wrong to pretend that they don't make me want to tear my hair out in frustration.

But let me clarify. Many artists, leftists, and plain old weirdos view development and city planning as the work of Satan, and they consider those involved in those industries little better than corporate criminals. Me, I have been arguing for years that artists are part of the urban development industry: they're the R&D arm of the real estate business. We roll in to town, do our thing, give a disused old neighborhood some style and cache, and then drive up property values to heretofore unseen levels. This creates more tax money for the city, increases tourism, helps spur local business, etc. For our services, we generally receive the back of the municipal government's hand: we get priced out of the neighborhoods, move elsewhere, and the cycle begins again.

I'm not asking for handouts. I'm not even asking for a hell of a lot of respect. I'm asking for an acknowledgement -- by artists, landlords, developers, and the local governments that have to harmonize them all -- that a symbiotic relationship exists, and I'm asking for policies that build from a recognition of that symbiotic relationship. Any battle between artists, developers, and urban planners is just downright stupid: we ought to be natural allies, and we ought to be working together on long-term projects to gradually raise property values and to make our cities true destinations.

The troubling thing about the 111 First Street situation -- besides the horrendous and unconscionable rent increases, I mean -- is that those acknowledgements have been buried beneath the acrimony. The owner of the building is behaving as if his artist-tenants are his adversaries, and consequently, the artists have been forced to return the disparagement. It's up to the city government to step in and say, hey, this just isn't right; we need artists and developers to communicate and compromise, because it's in the long-term interests of our city.

The planned Power House Arts District is a step toward that rapproachment. Yet I am unconvinced that the municipal government understands the symbolic importance of 111 First, and its value as a linchpin of the Studio Tour. The effort to develop "gold coast" properties along the waterfront will not be crippled if Mr. Goldstein's property is never converted into a condo. But the arts scene and the Studio Tour may well be severely damaged should artists be flushed out of its flagship building.

This ain't a level playing field; artists and arts collectives do not tend to have thousands of dollars in a defense fund and attorneys at the ready. If planners and developers screw up and decide they're going to be shortsighted, it's up to the city to act as our advocates, and make sure we're not being exploited. We're in this together; we can work together, if we don't let greed and self-interest dictate our choices.

Damn, I got inflammatory again.

 

January 26, 2004

Next week is all about our Critics Poll and 2003 in review, but today we're talking about the threat to the existence of the Art building at 111 First Street in Jersey City. If you don't know where this building is, you might know Uncle Joe's, which is also on First Street. 111 First is roughly two blocks east of Uncle Joe's, toward the Hudson River, past large warehouse/storage buildings. It's an enormous space -- big enough to house the studios of a few dozen visual artists. It's red brick, vaguely unkept-looking, and advertises its former industrial use proudly. It's exactly the sort of building in which you'd expect there to be visual art being made.

Continue walking east from Uncle Joe's -- just past 111 First -- and you will cross over the light rail tracks toward a completely different kind of architecture. Here are high-rent and insular condominium complexes and big box retailers, squatting territorially on the waterfront with their faces toward the river and their backs turned to downtown Jersey City. These buildings are so visually different from the district around 111 First and Uncle Joe's that walking across the tracks feels like stepping across a conceptual faultline. Here's that feeling -- so prevalent in New Jersey cities -- of contiguous builidings oblivious to the existence of their next-door neighbors.

Anyway, I digress into architectural reverie. The big box retailers and the condo complexes are there because they offer the city a tantalizing quick-fix: lucrative property taxes. Uncle Joe's and 111 First surely pay property taxes, too, but not on the scale of BJs Wholesale Club or whatever new self-contained community K. Hovnanian and his pals want to shoehorn into the waterfront skyline. Like all Jersey cities (and cities elsewhere) we're cash-strapped; without help from the state or federal government, we often find ourselves making deals against our better judgement, and shunting long-term investment in property values and quality-of-life issues where the payoff isn't instantaneous. Yes, like arts communities.

This September, the owner of 111 First Street jacked up the rents on the studio spaces in the building astronomically -- sometimes by as much as 150%. Nobody's exactly sure why these draconian rent increases were imposed, but the city government was sufficiently alarmed to step in and negotiate a temporary stay. In December, the stay lapsed, and artists were forced to comply with the rent increases or hit the road. The president of the Tenants Association for the building, himself a local artist of distinction, told me that many studio owners had already been driven out of 111 First by the rent hikes, and others would surely follow.

As I said before, there's no way to know for sure why owner Lloyd Goldman has decided to raise the rents so dramatically. It's safe to say, though, that local artists are people who, by definition, are not going to be able to weather a sudden 150% rent increase, and consequently Goldman's intention simply must be to flush the artists out of the building. Combine the 111 First debacle with the ongoing struggles at Waterbug Hotel and Space 58, L.I.T.M.'s difficulty in obtaining permission to host performances, and this January has been a rough month for the local arts renaissance.

If your Jersey libertarian impulse is kicking in right now, well, I wouldn't be shocked. Goldman owns the building, so he can do anything he wants with it, right? Well, sure. But citizens also have the right to pressure their governments to fashion communities in a manner that's beneficial to everybody -- not just millionaire developers. The condominium complexes and big box retailers along the waterfront aren't public resources; in fact, their presence imposes a public cost. They're not integrated into the commercial downtown -- culturally, they're space stations clinging to the lip of colonized territory. Their presence, their proliferation, reinforces the sense of a city divided.

If the current municipal administration is serious about developing Jersey City as anything other than a glorified bedroom community for Manhattan commuters, they must move now to save 111 First and other initiatives like it. In the coming days, I'm going to write more about the Jersey City government's ambivalent commitment to its arts scene -- the WALDO and PowerHouse Arts initiatives, and their possible effect on the composition of the community -- but for now, I'm unconvinced that our decisionmakers fully understand the long-term power of this asset. An arts presence and arts scene is a public good; it draws consumers with disposable income to downtown businesses. The cache of hipness is worth zillions of dollars in property values. Events like the Jersey City Studio Arts Tour (seriously threatened by the troubles at 111 First) integrate neighborhoods and generate a sense of place and identity. Fresh-looking businesses such as Hudson County Art Supply, Balance Salon, L.I.T.M. -- the kind of retailers we should be looking to attract and retain -- depend on the presence of a stable arts community from which to draw customers and build relationships.

People ask me why I'm so fascinated with Jersey City. Jersey City is at a tipping point. Potentialities are present on every city block, in every ordinance, in every public utterance, in every plan and scheme. We could become a city divided: condo complexes looking toward Manhattan for cultural value, and a drab cluster of poorly patronized businesses around the PATH stations. Or we could become a scene of genuine artistic ferment, multi-cultural and vibrant, encouraged by a municipal government and real estate companies who realize that their short-term discomfort is massively outweighed by the potential long-term gain. Look, this isn't a Cassandra piece (I hope), and the arts scene here isn't going to fall apart if 111 First Street shuts its doors. It will, however, make our task a little more difficult, a little more onerous, our town a little more colorless, a little further away from the dream we all share of a genuine Jersey version of the cultural glories of New York City. And for the artsists who are forced to relocate -- who have lent their creative energies to Jersey City and whose imaginative labor we should be fighting to retain -- their relationship to this community may be forever broken.

A local arts scene is a rare flame, a small flame that needs to be carefully tended. It's a resilient flame, but that doesn't mean its okay to underestimate the winds that constantly threaten to snuff it. If the municipal government remains indifferent, that flame will eventually go out. It'll be swamped by the demands for quick solutions to economic problems. The presence of the PowerHouse Arts initiative is a good sign -- a sign that our municipal government has an inkling of what's at stake here. But for now, it's still little more than a waypost.

Tomorrow, we'll look at this further. Today, copy this petition into your e-mail, and send it to 111 First Street. Consider it a small investment in the long-term health of the city.

 

January 23, 2004

I'll be writing more about this over the next few days, but for now, I want you to trust me that this cause is worthwhile. The existence of the great arts building on 111 First Street here in Jersey City is being threatened by the usual pressures of development. For reasons we've already covered, I am not entirely convinced that this local administration understands why, exactly, the preservation of the arts building -- and buildings like it -- are crucial to the long-term economic well-being of Jersey City. In case they need a reminder, I am strongly urging you to copy the following petition into your e-mail program and send it to Tenants111First@Yahoo.com. They'll get it to Mayor Cunningham:

PETITION TO SUPPORT THE PRESERVATION OF 111 FIRST ST., THE LARGEST ARTISTS COMMUNITY WEST OF THE HUDSON.

In Support of the Artists and Small Business People of 111 First Street, Jersey City, NJ, in Their Struggle to Avoid Eviction, and Obtain Affordable Rents and Long-Term Leases

To: The Honorable Glenn D. Cunningham, Mayor

From: The People who care about 111 First Street

We are troubled that unconscionable rent increases ranging from 50% to over 150%, together with the landlord's building plans which mock the ordinances, destroy the historical integrity of the building, and result in the probable forced removal of all tenants from the building during demolition and construction phases, will terminate not only the artists but the Annual Artists Open Studio Tour as well. Therefore, we hope our collective support for the artists will be a powerful and inspirational tool that will encourage you to reject the landlord's plans, and focus instead on the ways and means to guarantee the longevity of all the tenants of 111 First Street, thus securing the integrity of the Arts District in the process.

If the landlord has his way, it will result in the destruction of the largest concentration of artists in the State of New Jersey and render the Arts District a charade. We therefore urge you to continue your praise-worthy efforts in working toward the goal of achieving affordable rents and long-term leases for all tenants at 111 First Street. If Jersey City, as represented by the Cunningham Administration, is successful in this important endeavor, your vision for the continued growth of this important cultural resource will be achieved. Sincerely,

_______________________________ SIGNATURE

______________________________ PRINT NAME

______________________________ ADDRESS

______________________________ PHONE # / EMAIL

111 First Street Tenants Council Tenants111First@Yahoo.com

 

January 22, 2004

This just in from Lex at the Waterbug Hotel. Gah, I was afraid something like this was bound to happen. I'm pleased to report that shows are proceeding as scheduled, but as you can see, the situation is tenuous:

Hello, Lex here. Well folks, it seems like The Waterbug Hotel is under attack. Apparently the downstairs neighbors have a problem with our crowd (you), our musical guests (you) and the subject matter of our artists, namely our spokenword artists (you). We at The Bug have taken several steps to preserve harmony with the neighbors, but it seems like the fact that we’ve become an all-accepting/non-discriminatory cradle for free thought and expression has somehow irked certain tenants of our building to the point of wanting to shut us down.

Why? I wish I were given an answer, but there appears to be none – or at least none that would really justify the harsh criticism and constant threats that have been directed to The Waterbug Hotel and its members (you). But again, ask yourself why? Perhaps it is the fact that The Waterbug Hotel is uncompromising in its dedication to free thought and expression. Perhaps it is the fact that The Waterbug Hotel is non-commercial and can’t be bought or sold. Perhaps it is the fact that The Waterbug Hotel is a valuable asset to our lovely community’s budding art scene. Perhaps it is the fact that some Waterbug members are not college graduates and others are; some unemployed and others are; some not very mature and others are.

I wish one of those neighbors would really just approach us directly for an explanation or a solution – but no. They’ve waged some sort of (using a very timely word one of them mentioned in an emotional message left on my voice mail) WAR… LOL – against The Bugs - LOL. Well, folks, if ya can’t find an answer that can justify the relentless persecution that The Waterbug Hotel is enduring then I salute and thank you for your support and if it gets to the point that The Waterbug Hotel is forced to leave the present location we invite you to join us wherever we go – for they may drive us away from 143 Columbus but they could never drive us away from you. BUT, don’t hesitate to express your sentiments about this situation to appropriate parties.

Lex, man, what appropriate parties do you mean? I doubt it's the neighbors. Sic me on 'em.

 

January 21, 2004

A few more reflections on the Iowa caucuses, and then it's back to rock and roll, I promise:

 

 

 

 

 

 

January 20, 2004

One of my earliest memories dates back to around '77 or '78; I remember my Aunt Nat telling me that you never know, the next president of the United States could be a black woman. Aunt Nat represented the progressive wing of the family, see. Twenty-five years later, Iowans went to their caucuses to pose for the C-SPAN cameras and to sit around looking ridiculous. There had, in fact, been a black woman in the field, but after scraping the glorious ceiling of zero percent, she'd withdrawn. On Martin Luther King Day 2004, our choice was the same as it'd always been: grim looking white guys with Anglo-Saxon names and bad haircuts.

As with most white guys, their opinions about things didn't actually differ all that much -- the best way to tell them apart was by affect and place of origin. The putative frontrunner, for instance, hailed, notably, from a garbage can somewhere on Sesame Street. Not to be outdone in the Muppet stakes, irascible, wide-faced, bright orange Ernie and tall, minutia-obsessed, vertical-haired Bert had also thrown their hats in the ring. The big story in Des Moines, however, concerned the late surge of Mister Rogers, gaining in the polls by promising everybody a ride on the trolley to the Imaginary Kingdom of small-town, neighborhood America.

Now, Oscar the Grouch is the favorite Muppet of many kids, principally because he appears to speak a kind of truth to power -- he mocks the hegemonic and treacly idiocy of Big Bird, Gordon, Grover, and the rest of the smiling gang. That's valuable. But the reason Oscar stays in his garbage can is because it's safer that way: cynics are most valuable as voices from pigeonholes, not maniacs running around getting trash all over the street. Listening to and laughing along with Oscar's complaints is one thing -- actually asking Oscar the Grouch to lead the party is another matter altogether. Last night, Iowa Democrats resoundingly rejected government by Oscar the Grouch, opting instead to try their luck with Bert's stoicism, Mister Rogers's hyperdriven optimism, or some amalgam thereof.

Fans of Oscar should not necessarily fret. He's still got more money in that garbage can than all the rest of the field put together, and the Great American Crank Network is wide and deep enough to insure him a starter base of ten per cent anywhere he goes. But for those who'd anointed Oscar the nominee-apparent, last night's humbling defeat sent them back to The Count for some fresh tabulations. The trouble with Oscar, it seems, is that it's not always appropriate to act grouchy; for instance, (Earth to Oscar, Politics 101 calling) when enemy dictators are captured it should not be an occasion for grimacing or sour grapes. The incumbent president is volatile and combative enough; Democrats, said the Iowan voters, would do well to choose somebody who had mastered his aggressiveness and who might throw the enemy's unpleasant tendencies into relief.

Bert, for instance, is a docile Muppet -- watch him, he often looks incapable of moving his limbs. However, while the incumbent acts the part of the war leader from the safety of his Presidential chair, Bert actually logged hard time sloshing through rice paddies in Vietnam, saving the lives of his comrades-in-arms. Actually hauling these veterans out of the closet and trotting them out on the campaign trail to stump for Bert might seem crass to some, but the move obviously resonated for anti-war Iowa Democrats. They were willing to forgive, for instance, the fact that Bert had actually voted to authorize the President to start the current conflict.

Oscar's many admirers may grouse about poetic injustice, but I believe Iowans were just being shrewd. It is very hard to impugn the patriotism of a Vietnam vet. If the President's men are banking on a repeat of the Saxby Chambliss-Max Cleland nastiness, two years and two thousand casualties later I think they might find themselves in for a rude awakening. Vietnam symbolizes the humbling of America, and for those who believe that the current administration could use a lesson in humility (and there are many), nominating a purple heart recipient would simultaneously remind voters of the horrific price of armed conflict and the potential consequences of national arrogance.

Bert must now prove he can win in the shadow of Oscar's garbage can. The Oscar campaign may be looking more and more like the NASDAQ bubble every day, but grouchiness creates its own formidable momentum. What's more, Bert is about to find himself faced, for the first time, by another candidate with impeccable military credentials. If Bert's vote gets split, it could prove an opportunity for Mister Rogers to gather support before the campaign moves to his Neighborhood for good. Anybody who claims to have an insider track on the outcome is lying; there's no telling how this all will break. For a battle of ugly cartoonish white guys, it's sure gotten interesting.

 

January 18, 2004

I'm going to talk more about politics tomorrow (and then get off the subject, don't worry), but for now, I find myself quietly pulling for Senator Edwards in the Iowa Caucuses. I think an Edwards win -- and a Gephardt defeat -- would be the most interesting outcome, and have the most salutary effect on the party.

 

January 17, 2004

Back and forth through the snow, tromping my way into Manhattan. I've already fucked up and left my wallet at home once; wasted $1.50 getting onto the PATH platform before realizing there was no way the Mercury Lounge would let me in without identification. Forget that I wouldn't be there to drink, and that I sure don't look like a teenager -- the regime there is taking itself seriously as an institution these days. Ecch. Tonight's ticket is ten dollars, and that's just too much for a rock show. But then this is no ordinary event: this is the Vitamen debut on the Merc stage, and it's a cinch that it will be special.

Getting there is the problem. The J train isn't running uptown this weekend, and here I am in the byzantine Fulton Street Station, racking my brain for alternatives. I hop a number four, but that's an express to 14th St; I've got to get out at City Hall to switch to a six making local stops. Hmmm, this business of commuting in from Jersey City isn't quite as attractive without JMZ service. I miss one train when I can't get my MetroCard to work properly; a number six pulls out of the station just as the turnstile finally reads something other than "please swipe again." Do you know how in slasher movies there's always the woman who gets stabbed to death because she drops the car keys or because she can't get the front door open? I'm that woman.

On the six like Jennifer Lopez, stop at Spring Street and Lafayette. A light snow is falling. I race up to Houston through the snowflakes, my little hood down over my eyes. I look like an idiot, but I am not checking for appearances. At the Mercury Lounge, there's a line; not down the block, sure, but still big enough that Michael Alig would take notice. Man, that's quite a job promoting this performance, Jesse, Matt, Dave, hats off to you. Inside, it's wall-to-wall rockers. It takes me a good three minutes or so just to force my way past the bar and into the live room. I miss much of the first song, but I can hear the band is a little tighter than usual -- it's a huge crowd, and I doubt Matt Hyams and Jesse Blockton have ever stood so far from each other on a stage.

Crowds at the Merc, in my experience, tend to be dead; something about the hangar-like atmosphere of the interior and the staid decor. Nonetheless, it's apparent that this audience is feeling something big. By the third song, the Vitamen have warmed to the task, and are hitting their marks flawlessly. The vocal harmonies -- ridiculously sophisticated by NYC indie standards -- are made crystal-clear by the Merc sound system, and are dropping the hipsters in their tracks. The guys have dispensed with the usual stage gels and have, instead, wrapped white Christmas lights around their microphone stands. Their faces dimly illuminated, sparkly white light throwing shadows of the instruments over the front of the stage, Jesse Blockton's impassioned declamations and impish, self-aware smiles: all shrouded in the half-light, outlines of sound and meaning and the edge of a dangerous alchemy.

This is not the Larchmont group as prophets or clowns; this is the Vitamen as rock stars we're witnessing. It's the force of their musicianship and songwriting we're getting, and it's relentless, brilliant. Stripped of the murk of Luxx and the claustraphobia of Luna, the care and craftsmanship that The Vitamen have always put into their songs is apparent to everybody in the house. The "Don't Cry" chorus is stupefying, carrying an emotional weight that has depth and palpability. This, it occurs to me, is real "emo" music -- not whiny and self-absorbed, not stories about pain, but instead wry, reflexive, impassioned character portraits, true confessions. Funny they are, almost always. But the word I most frequently use to describe the Vitamen is "moving", and tonight, they're moving the crowd. The audience is breathless throughout "Dramatic", and on the cathartic "You May Not Know", Blockton tears into an off-kilter guitar solo that feels like a broadside written in blood and steam.

Immediately after the Vitamen, King Of France almost seems too mannered, too tailored, too proper. But after a song or two, the associative logic begins to set in, and the intellectual force of the trio becomes manifest. In Tom Siler, the group possesses an instrumentalist of dazzling skill and elasticity; he attacks his piano with the precision and force of a champion welterweight. The songs themselves are lyrically ambitious, musically intricate pop tunes: lite radio with food poisoning. "Shake Shake Shake" uncoils itself from a sinuous riff and lashes out at the audience. If anything, the crowd is getting thicker, but I can't stick around for Les Sans Culottes, I've got to get back to Jersey in time for the Milwaukees set at Uncle Joe's. Mishka Shubaly finds me, somehow, in the middle of the crowd. Advantages of being tall, I suppose. He's about to go back out on the road for another tour, but he's got a present for me: the 1988 edition of the Baseball Encyclopedia. Mishka, this is wonderful, it's... also three thousand pages and hardcover! How the hell am I supposed to rock out while I'm carrying this around?

Getting out of the club is harder than getting in. I try not to bonk anybody with my book, but it's hopeless; I crouch down low, sidling my way to the door. The ticket-taker is letting people in one at a time -- we're clearly at capacity now, and the folks waiting on the sidewalk are cold and aggravated. "Are you done for the night"?, the doorman asks me. I nod. "Okay, I can take one person", he says to the shivering couple in front of him. What is this, Sophie's Choice? I thought we did indie rock to get away from this sort of thing.

After the psychotic bustle of Houston Street, Grove and Newark Avenue feel deserted by comparison. Fuck comparison, they are deserted. From the time I get off of the train until I walk into Uncle Joe's, I don't pass a single person on the street. Inside, though, the bar is hopping. Little spots of sedition and activity hidden under a blanket of darkness, that's what we've got on this bank; nothing's changed since 1776. Dylan Clark squats on a stool at stage center under the dim red light -- The Milwaukees aren't doing a rock set tonight, he explains, because their bassist has been badly frostbitten and can't stand. Whaat? Oh, man, only in New Jersey. Well, maybe in Alaska, too. It's all the same to me -- Uncle Joe's isn't always the kindest room for aggressive electric guitar bands.

I am a wimp-rocker (and an enemy to the B-DARG), so it's no surprise to me that I find the Milwaukees much easier to access with the thick electric rhythm guitar stripped away. Clark's voice is a remarkable instrument -- steeped in American masculine archetypes, radio-ready, gloomy, and powerful -- and its contours can sometimes be difficult to discern amid the fury of full-group arrangements. Moreover, his compositional algebra is much easier to locate tonight -- watching him interpret his own material for maximum effect, his chord vocabulary is on primary display. He's asking for requests from the audience, taking gratuitous (and possibly defensive) shots at James Taylor, and generally enjoying himself despite the downcast material. The Uncle Joe's crowd still doesn't know where to stand, but those brave enough to venture into the smoky back room are watching a performance of singular personal intensity. The vibe is broken, Jersey-style, during a quiet solo number when the drummer stands up, walks behind Clark, and pantomimes humping him. We do love our easy gay jokes over here.

I'm pleased to see Stephen Mejias at the bar. I mention to him how grateful I am for his insightful questions at the indie rock panels. Gracious as always, he introduces me to his friends; one, a former affiliate of Multi-Purpose Solution, another a member of Rye Coalition. We talk a bit about Wavemaster Mike Hollitscher, whom he knows as "Hotstrikes" Mike. It's a small rock community, we stick together, we're simpatico.

Night's not done yet. I'm back out on Marin Boulevard. Now the cold and wind is finally biting. It occurs to me I'm still holding the Baseball Encyclopedia, and that it's getting wet. I tuck it under my parka, pregnant with baseball knowledge I am. Not too long 'til pitchers and catchers; all of this will melt away. Brr.

 

January 16, 2004

Maxwell's three hours before the show: the back room is dark and quiet. Stereo Generation has finished their soundcheck, and those kids are in the restaurant now, digging their complimentary dinner. What other club feeds the groups? Damn, I'm usually too nervous to grab my free order of fries, but I know my band appreciates it. Adam the sound-man is here, directing traffic and kibbitzing with the bartender. He's a sardonic guy, and you'd really have to be in order to do his job for as long as he has; band after band, hype after hype on that stage, rolling with it, working with it, coping with people like me. Others wouldn't be so relentlessly upbeat. The bartender, for instance, is blowing off steam -- or maybe just psychologically preparing himself for the long evening -- with a letter-perfect Andy Gesner impression. Ostensibly, it's for Adam's benefit (and Adam is clearly loving it), but the bartender isn't really engaging outward; he's reciting the litany of well-known Andyisms the way you'd sing an overexposed song that you're not exactly thrilled to have stuck in your head.

It's also uncanny. Members of Stereo Generation, wandering into the back room to check out the set-up, are legitimately fooled. "Is Andy here?" they ask. "Nope, just Rich Little", answers Adam. On cue -- because all great rock clubs are essentially sitcoms at heart -- enter Andy with an armload of Artist Amplification compilations and the requisite enthusiasm for the evening. As always, I hope I can deliver for him. I'm more than a little worried. It's freezing out; there's no way I can hope that Brooklynites will make the trip across two rivers in conditions like this.

Lights down, nothing on the stereo. I'm on the right corner of the stage, wiring up my synthesizer in preparation, preparing quick triggers, one eye always on the door. I spent about three hours this morning, creating a battery of new sounds, each one more insane than the last, naming them after various Harry Potter characters. I've got no idea what they're going to sound like with a full band. My propensity is to crank insane shit out of my instruments -- sounds that I think are wonderful, but audiences recieve as, um, a bit inappropriate in a pop song context. What the hell, I've already told myself I'm going to go all out tonight. Since my realization last April, I've reoriented myself back toward performance and frippery, and shaken off the self-doubts and schoolmarmish affect that dogged me through 2002. Not itching to turn on the synth and show off, not eager to pass out pamphlets (for once), not cross, not impatient, not logorrheic. Just quiet and still like the back room, waiting my turn under the lights, ready to rock.

Panels first, though. We set it off with a discussion of indie radio. We're understaffed and imbalanced; I couldn't get anybody from WFMU to come down, Jeff Raspe was busy, and I wish somebody had reminded us to invite Lazlo from Blowup Radio. As it is, we've got no less than three members of the Syndicate on the panel. It's apparent that my task is to keep the half-hour from turning into an infomercial for the state's premeir promo organization. Moreover, I know nothing whatsoever about radio campaigns, and it's got to be clear to the Syndicate members who've made the trip that they're dealing with a neophyte. People who've watched these panels have compared me to Charlie Rose (better than Larry King, I guess), but I feel more like Leslie Visser up there. I've tried to do my research, but I guess I'm representing the perspective of the embarrasingly uninformed.

My bigger problem is that I'm simply not interested in the subject under discussion. The purpose of these information-gathering meetings is generally (to use Doug Forbes's phrase) "helping indie bands help themselves". And I guess that's fine as a direction, but is it ever compelling to discuss? More to the point, do I care? Even slightly? My ultimate objective isn't to explain to a Jersey band how to get their song on establishment radio so they can skip town on endless tour for an establishment label. It's to interest them in applying their talents and creative intelligence toward building a specifically local subculture rooted in local enterprise and aesthetic exchange. In some ways, the three panels we've done so far (publicity, radio play, recording) are geared toward an approach that's antithetical to my desires.

I'm hoping to remedy that with the next panel. In a coup, I've somehow managed to get the famously reticent Todd Abramson, head honcho of Maxwell's, to represent Hoboken in a "summit meeting" of Jersey scenes. I don't want to blindside him with irritating questions, but since he's been present to all the changes in Hoboken that have happened over the past twenty years, I've got to think that if I'm able to draw him out, his perspective will be fascinating.

Turns out Todd is a great panelist; really thoughtful and articulate, but leave it to me to blank on the question of greatest potential importance to Jersey City and Hudson County. I need Stephen Mejias (whose earnest-yet-acidic commentary at the January 2nd panel caused an unlikely controversy among some very thin-skinned bloggers) to bail me out; from the audience, he presses Todd about the plans to bring Bowery-sized rock concerts to the old Loews theatre in Journal Square. Damn, I didn't even know Todd was involved. Guess I could have intuited that; I mean, who else could have lured Bright Eyes to Kennedy Boulevard?

Todd speaks, not immodestly, about the importance of Maxwell's to the resurgence of Hoboken property values and, by extension, its self-image. At that moment, something clicks into place for me -- something I was 99% of the way towards realizing, but here was the final tick of the clock. I remember discovering Hoboken in the eighties: not because I had any instinctive desire to probe the waterfront, but because it was the locus of a club with the most interesting groups in the state. And of course I wasn't alone. You could make the argument that Hoboken would have developed anyway, and of course that's true -- but without the artists' vanguard, would it have attracted such interest among real estate agents hungry for hipster currency? Not likely. When Maxwell's opened, as Jim Testa is fond of reminding us all, Hoboken was nothing at all -- a waterfront town with cheap rents, a couple of decent restaurants, and a crappy view of the city from everywhere but River Road. Maxwell's was the incubator of the movement. It has dotted Washington Street with commerce of all kinds and retrofitted abandoned warehouses into condominium complexes. However you feel about the outcome, the first ripple in the wave that swamped this bank of the Hudson River started right here, on this stage.

Why was I, a Jersey suburban kid, drawn to Hoboken and not the Grove Street area? Maxwell's. I picked up a guitar and chose Hudson County as my home because of my desire to participate in a public culture rooted in performance on the Maxwell's stage. Well, now I've done that; I'm leading discussions up here, for God's sake. What the fuck are you going to do with it, McCall?

For starters, I better rock with it. Again my doomsaying predictions have proven to be groundless; by the time we're ready to take the stage, the room is packed. By the second song, I'm feeling relaxed and natural -- I've told myself to interact more with my groupmembers, and they're making it easy on me by monkeying around even more than usual. Having Mike Flannery on my left is, if it's possible, even more energizing than I thought it would be; he's hyperkinetic, geeky, brilliant, and every time I look over at him, he's feeding me performance ideas. Even the synth sounds I was so worried about turn out to be lovely; just aggresive enough to cut over the band, but not quite so insane that they won't sit in the mix. We close with a towering version of "A Commuter's Prayer" -- Matt Houser driving the point home with thunderous fills, Sasha and Karen poised and precise to my right, Rachel and Regan shaking percussion instruments menacingly, and me in the middle, eyes shut, left hand on the bendwheel and right on the keys, coazing a stuttering, elastic lead out of the Korg.

And as the lights fade and the house music resumes, I climb down from the stage and into the audience to watch the Planet Janet and Mike Tichy sets. For many years -- some of which Maxwell's was under ownership that I found positively sacreligious -- I refused to break that fourth wall even for kicks; I figured I didn't want the experience of climbing up on that stage and looking outward until I was deemed worthy to take that podium. Even now, crossing the barrier from the stage to the club floor is a tactile experience; something like a step from one consciousness into another. This sounds silly to you, I'm sure, but listen: Todd Abramson is right. That stage was -- and is -- an engine for the economic and aesthetic transformation of an entire city. When you're up there, it's your hands on the levers of the cranes. You're laying the power lines. And if you love Hoboken, it's a responsibility too important to shrug off. If this stage was powerful enough to construct a place, it's powerful enough to tear one apart if the machinery is given over to poor handlers.

January 12, 2004

SHAME

Journalists are often told that, to get people to read their story, they ought to lead with an eye-catching, snappy headline. I want you to read this story, so my headline is: SHAME. This, is, sadly, only Shame Part I; it's my shameful duty to bring you several Shame articles over the next few weeks. I shouldn't have to -- other people ought to step up and point this stuff out. But they don't. So I have to.

Jersey City is not the biggest town in the state, but it's a strong number two and a functional number one. You'd figure that a great multicultural city like ours would have a strong web presence. We don't. The websites that purport to serve Jersey City are totally embarrassing. They are a crying shame, and I am going to keep using the word SHAME until I am no long ashamed to do a web-search on my own town, a town that deserves better than it has.

Right now, you probably think I'm being pedantic, or that I'm in a black mood or something. Well, yes, I am in a black mood. I'm in a black mood because Hudson County, much as I love it, causes me to feel SHAME, and shame is not a pleasant feeling to have. There are days for ruminative, poised theoretical articles on the state of the state, and today is not that day. You with me so far? Okay, let's get into this.

We start with the official city site. Hope you like Mayor Cunningham's face. Yes, that's right; that's all of it. Go on, click around in disbelief. There is no content, there are no links, there is no there there. You do get a tacky-looking animation on the words "under construction", and a statement at the bottom of the page that reads that items on the page can't be duplicated without the consent of the City of Jersey City. Are you kidding me?? What items? The picture of the mayor? Hell, I am stealing it right now:

There. I hope they come and put me in irons for my heinous infraction. No, seriously, I do hope they come after me, just so that I can tell them to their faces that the most prominent city in New Jersey ought to have some goddamned content on its website. Is that too much to ask? Teterboro has about sixteen residents; they've got a website. Okay, it's not the most smashing piece of web design in the galaxy, but at least it exists.

So the city government doesn't have a functional site. So what?, that must mean that private sources are picking up the slack, just like they're supposed to do in the deregulated U.S.A. Guess again. Jersey City Online bills itself as "everything you want to know about Jersey City". Is this true? Judge for yourself. For instance, if you are the sort of young, hip, cultural citizen we ought to be striving to lure or keep, you'll probably want to click on the link marked "recreation". Well, actually, that isn't true; you're probably looking for links to live music, shows, restaurants and cafes, but take what you can get.

Not what you were expecting, was it? Summer rec department schedules? For 2002? Jesus H. Christ and Mary in a handbag, that's the best we can do? Poke around long enough and you're bound to turn up a link for music, but what you'll find there is worse, if you can believe it. I'm so flabbergasted by this page that I'm not going to dignify it by reprinting its contents here. You're just going to have to click the link above. And please, do not forget to feel my pain.

It goes on. jerseycityi promises "events and happenings" alongside their bone-dry lists of numbers of municipal departments. No luck. The Nightlife Guide turns out to be a directory of phone numbers for fifteen bars; no context is given for any of them, and most aren't even linked to anything. A link exists for "arts & music", but comes up completely empty; "community events" turns out to be press release copy for the Liberty Science Center. Out of date press release copy.

Call me crazy, but it seems to me that a website ought to refrain from launching until they've got some actual content to share with the rest of the world. These sites have the Jersey City name on them; they are representing our city to residents and visitors alike, and what they are saying is "nothing's happening here". For the love of your neighbors and the nascent cultural scene here, please, get on the stick.

The Historic Downtown website avoids the tacky design decisions and shameful reluctance to update, but if you're looking for content, you're really no better off here. The "shopping" link on the pull-down menu leads to another white-pages list; few links and no context, no reason for an uninitiated websurfer to want to check out any of these enterprises. The restaurant list is even worse: an ugly, incomplete grid that screams "I don't care". Guys, give me your password and two minutes of time; I'll fill in the goddamned blanks for you.

Again, links lead to empty pages that have been "under construction" for weeks. The news archive stops at July 2003. The only thorough content on the entire site is the mission of the Special Improvement District. Let me offer my unsolicited amendment to this piece of wooden prose: the mission of the SID ought to be to attract hip and active people to downtown businesses. You do that not by drawing multicolored district maps or foregrounding the Board of Trustees, but creating the sense that there's ferment and activity taking place here. You simply do not need a degree in urban planning to figure that out. You don't have to be a marketing czar to realize that a functional and reliable website is a crucial component in this effort.

I am pleased to see JC loyalists weblogging. But blogs are a personal and narrow record of experience, and when folks plunk "Jersey City" into search engines, they're not going to get Bridges & Tunnels, or The Illuminated Donkey, or The Tin Man, or the Tris McCall Report. They're going to wind up at the sites I excoriated above, those shamefully incomplete online representations of the state's most complete city.

If it seems like I typed this screed in a hysterical fit; yes, I did. But I write today out of love, pal. I love New Jersey -- I love it more that you can even imagine. I am shamed and tired; tired of our paltry self-representations, our inability to embrace online technology as a community-building enterprise, our refusal to imagine ourselves the legitimate intellectual peers of those characters on the other side of the Hudson. Yes, we do need functional city websites -- yes, we do need discourse about our projects, yes, we do want to make our enterprises look cool, happening, hip.

Web citizens of Jersey City, I want to hear from you. If you love your town like I do, we need to pool our resources and knowledge. I know you're out there reading -- webcounters don't lie. Get in touch.

January 11, 2004

I've added a Topic Index to this website. Why don't you try it the hell out?

Go back and check out the Journal from December.

Write to me.