The Tris McCall Report
June 23, 2004
The last time I was in City Council chambers, Lex Leonard was in charge of the proceedings. No such luck tonight. Lex is one of the movers in Downtown culture for sure, but tonight, I'm here to see the real big boys and girls: the nine Councilmembers, the city clerk, and whoever has balls enough to step up to the lectern and address the new mayor. Two days from now, this chamber will once again become an extension of the Waterbug empire, but tonight, the only poetry in this hall will be the inexorable rhythm of motion and procedure.
At least that's what we're hoping. The meeting was supposed to start at six o'clock, and it's a quarter after the hour now. Mr. Cardwell's planning board hearing at the Museum began punctually -- I were all of two minutes late, and I felt like I missed the opening action sequence and chase scene. That meeting was held in an air-conditioned lecture hall with padded seats. The City Council chambers has its own charm and character, but it's crowded in here, and the fans are ineffective.
We're here to debate the merits of Tsereteli's infamous "Tear Of Grief" statue. In case you don't know about this controversy, Zurab Tsereteli is a Russian artist who has contributed a gift sculpture to stand as our tribute to those killed in the attack on the Twin Towers. Trouble is, the statue is ugly as hell, stands about ten stories high, and would dominate and probably ruin the ambience of the Owen Grundy waterfront pier. Jersey City's municipal government has made a big deal out of our status as an arts town, but didn't bother to consult with any of the area arts groups before committing to the Tsereteli proposal. None of this vexed the Cunningham Administration any, though: as a matter of fact, spokesman Stan Eason suggested that local artists were opposing the monument out of jealousy. New Mayor L. Harvey Smith is supposed to be against the sculpture, but nobody knows for sure.
Hey, there's Harvey Smith now. I've never seen him in action before. He's walking around the pews, shaking hands, demuring to old ladies, smiling. First impressions: slow-moving, friendly, maybe a little insecure. Well, that'd be what you'd figure -- he must be worried sick about political skullduggery all night and day. Some of his moves have been controversial for sure -- he sacked many of the Cunningham people and replaced them with his own appointments. But there's no trace of irritation or anger on his face as he moves through the house; gentle smile, man of the manor.
It's 6:23, and there's still no sign of the City Council. People are fidgeting in their seats and fanning themselves with the agenda. A few New Jersey City University art professors are passing out leaflets opposing the Tsereteli monument: there's a picture of the sculpture and a big red X over it. Subtle. The door to the chamber is wide open, but we're not getting much of a breeze. Beyond that, I'm starting to feel like New York City booking agents are running this meeting. Why are they making us wait so long? Is this standard operating procedure for the City Council? It seems like it must be: guys in suits are milling around the room, and seem in no hurry to take their seats. If the Constitutional Convention were run like this, we'd still be colonies.
With nothing better to do, I look over the agenda notes, and attempt to memorize the names of the Council members. I've never found a reliable ward map of Jersey City online; I know I'm in Ward E, but I couldn't pick my councilman, Junior Maldonado, out of a lineup. Mary Donnelly, on the other hand, I recognize from the Planning Board meeting. Hilary's sense of Protestant justice is offended by Harvey Smith's twin roles: how, she asks, can he be City Council president and Mayor at the same time? Isn't that a conflict of interest?, she asks me. Hell, no, this is Hudson County. Around here, politicians gather offices like crazy philatelists collect stamps.
Holy crow, it's 6:40. When is this meeting going to start? The woman next to me, wearing a large Cunningham pin, suggests loudly that they're trying to drive us away. She may be right, but I'm guessing it's just the opposite. I think it's more like waiting for an arena rock show. They don't want anybody to leave; they're running late because they're certain people aren't going to leave. When you're the biggest show in town, you can make people sweat before raising the curtain.
Ten minutes later, the clerk finally calls the room to order. He discourages us from chatting, and reminds us that the fans are on because it's hot in here. Uh, we got that. We're warned that we'll be thrown out of the chambers if we have side conversations, and then we're led in a flag salute. No mention of milk money or our homework, though.
The meeting begins with an award presented to a retiring policeman who has walked the beat in Jersey City for twenty-five years. He's awarded a plaque. All the councilmembers seem to know him personally. Ward F councilwoman Viola Richardson delivers the speech in his honor; she's smiling, but I can't hear a damned thing she's saying. She's nowhere near the microphone for most of it, but even when she approaches her device, it just crackles lamely. Forget about Victory Hall or Uncle Joe's, this is the local venue that needs to be wired for a superior sound system.
After the presentation, Mayor Smith rises. He's no longer the friendly supplicant that he was a half-hour ago; now, fists on the desk, he's loud, firm, direct. He disappoints a good fraction of the crowd by insisting that the Tsereteli monument will not be discussed tonight. Smith asks for a show of hands: how many people here tonight are present to discuss the "Tear Of Grief"? I look around; and a little less than half of the room has thrown their hands in the air. They're not waving them like they just don't care, though -- and that's because they do care. Some raise up the pictures of the crossed-out monument in silent protest.
Smith is unfazed. He points out that the discussion of the monument is not on the agenda. To save us all some time and suffering, he says, why don't you guys come back at another time? He doesn't specify when. I expect to see a mass exodus of disgusted artists to the door, but almost nobody leaves. Hmm, they must be here for something else as well.
I don't wonder for long. The fireworks begin when Steve Lipski, councilman from Ward C, stands and nominates Harvey Smith for mayor. At first, I don't understand what the problem is, but then it becomes clear: Lipski is an old Cunningham ally, and he's tacitly challenging Smith's right to hold both the Council Chairmanship and the mayoral office. Hey, Hilary, somebody has taken up your instinctive objection!
Smith stands and delivers his rebuttal. It's addressed to the gallery as much as it is to Lipski, and it leaves no doubt about who's in temporary but definitive charge. He makes recourse to a state succession law, but at base, his claims aren't about procedure, they're about personality. "I am handling the situation with no difficulty", Smith insists. "We have a stable situation in Jersey City". Smith seems hung up on the expressions "situation" and "moving forward"; he uses them four times in three sentences. To be fair, they are catch-all euphemisms, and he's not really measuring his discourse at the moment. "There is no caretaking going on in the mayor's office. We had a good review from Moody's because of the stability of the person talking to you right now." Applause thunders all around me. My God, we're sitting in the middle of the L. Harvey Smith cheering section!
Viola Richardson, representative of Cunningham's old ward, rises to the challenge. She's much more direct than Lipski was -- she won't pussyfoot about giving the new mayor the honor of an official title. She speaks precisely; straight to the chase, and with great passion. She's cheered on by Cunningham supporters (including the woman to my left, who's pretty brave to be sitting in such hostile territory). She's plainly worried about Smith accumulating too much power: she asks for checks and balances. Some of the guys behind us attempt to shout her down. Gah, this is getting heated.
A few more barbs are traded, and then it's time to vote. I'm getting no clearer picture of our Junior Maldonado, since he's not here tonight, but the other eight are, and they're ready to roll. Mary Donnelly and Councilman Brennan both vote with Smith, and do so with little fanfare. Lipski reads excerpts from a letter about the Friends of the Loews, and votes for his own resolution. Smith, again, firmly rebuts Lipski to growing crowd approval.
To the mayor's left sits Councilman Gaughan, who leans back in his chair like a warlord who's just secured his kingdom. He speaks with none of the urgency or nervousness that has characterized the discourse of the rest of the councilpeople. His attitude is that of the veteran ward heeler: shrewd, poised, patient. I don't know anything about Gaughan, but he gives an impression of great power. He strenuously supports the mayor, looking at the dissenters as he does, and accuses them firmly of political hypocrisy. A furious Richardson rises to denounce him, claiming that if there was dissention in Jersey City under the Cunningham administration, it was because the late mayor was so busy taking the knives out of his back. She squares against Gaughan, eyes blazing. Holy crow, is there going to be a gunfight?
Instead, she leaves the table: she doesn't walk out, but she does retreat to the far corner of the hall. It's hard not to be sympathetic to Richardson's energetic defense of Cunningham and, by extension, Ward F -- especially because she's clearly in the minority. Commissioners Healy and Vega both vote with Smith; Vega goes so far to say he believes the current mayor is "uniquely qualified" to lead Jersey City through this time of crisis. Meanwhile, Gaughan is unflappable; he takes the opprobrium and barely moves in his seat. Rule #4080 for aspiring politicians: when you're on the winning side, you don't ever have to squirm.
The clerk counts the votes, although there's no need: Lipski's resolution is rejected by a 5-2 tally (Smith abstains). Dejected, the Cunningham forces begin to file out of the hall. We stick around for a few more votes, but it's clear that the main event is over. After the third straight unanimous acceptance of a minor municipal ordinance, we figure it's time to go. Out in the lobby, by the staircase, a few disappointed artists have gathered: the discussion is still about Tsereteli, despite the slugging match we've all just witnessed. One woman asks what the shouting was about. We explain. She seems bemused; she's got no problem with Mayor Smith holding two offices -- since he opposes the monument, perhaps he can expedite its removal if he's got more power. Spoken like a true Hudson County-ite, I think to myself. Frank Hague held court here for thirty years straight. Viola Richardson notwithstanding, we're not squeamish about caudillos.
June 21, 2004
Sometimes it's important for us all to remember that we are big geeks. Today, I have replaced the picture of the Goldman Sachs tower with a pen drawing of Elric of Melniboné. The meaning is the same, although one of the phallic symbols is more blatant. Rock!
June 20, 2004
Community Round-Up
June 18, 2004
So the magazine I was working on finally came out. I wasn't told where it would be, so I was surprised as anybody when Aaron Jackson announced its release from the stage at Rolon's last night. Aaron had gotten his copy from the museum. To answer your question, I have no idea whether there are any copies left over there.
I don't know if there are any copies left anywhere. I distributed what I could get my hands on, which wasn't much. Needless to say, I feel pretty disconnected from the project. Funny, considering how much of it I wrote.
I've held off on posting my articles here on the site, just because I didn't want to blow the surprise. But now that the magazine has hit the streets, in one form or another, I see no harm in posting my big one about the lack of good performance options in Jersey City. I've dressed it up as a "Notes From The Front" piece, which is sort of what it always was, anyway. So if you didn't luck into a magazine yesterday, but you still want to read the argument, it's up on this site in perpetuity.
June 17, 2004
Michael Bochner wrote me, angrily, about my June 15 entry. I'm not sure what it was he found objectionable about the two paragraphs I dedicated to his account of Henderson Lumber Company's struggle with Jersey City (unless he didn't like being called "burly", which I completely understand). Still, if I gave him the wrong impression, chances are I gave others the wrong impression, too. So I'd like to set the record straight, and perhaps write a little bit more respectfully about the Bochners and their problems.
I felt their presentation contained the most sympathetic claims I heard all evening. I also thought it was wonderfully written -- I wish I could have quoted more of it, since much of the syntax was elegant and forceful. I found the presentation too compelling to walk out on: I listened to page after page of Bochner's letter, even though it was making me late for my own practice.
Henderson Lumber Company sit on a lot that would be cut in two by the Arts District. This, alone, shouldn't happen. Beyond that, the company has been in the neighborhood for more than thirty years. Property owner's rights -- specifically, the right to self-determination -- have to accrue to anybody who has made that kind of a protracted investment in the Downtown. I also share the Bochners' intense distaste for the blight designation, and for any other planning designation that might have seemed as if it was disparaging their business practices and sense of aesthetics. I understand why it's a political necessity to prove that the neighborhood is blighted, but when I look at the warehouse district, I don't see blight: I see attractive, functional buildings.
Ultimately, Henderson Lumber Company wants the same thing that the 111 Artists want: they want the spaces they've created with their own sweat and willpower to be left unmolested by powerful forces looking to reshape the neighborhood according to their own plan. They want to be listened to and respected, and they don't want to be driven out of a city that has benefitted from their investment in it.
Independent business owners and artists should be natural allies. I hope my own notorious flippancy hasn't made it any harder for that alliance to happen.
June 16, 2004
So the planning board voted that the Powerhouse District is indeed an area in need of redevelopment. That means the proposal goes on to the City Council. It's a small victory, but one worth celebrating.
All that really happened was that the committee gave a vote of no confidence to New Gold Equities' most absurd claims. Still, that was no done deal. And if nothing else, the planning board showed that it wasn't going to be pushed around or intimidated by a bunch of lawyers with deep pockets. That's a good sign. So let's all take a moment and exhale. Then it's right back at it, my people.
You're supposed to wear white on very hot days. Hopefully, my white shirt makes me look professional, or a little less like a bum. Not that I ordinarily care, but I'm headed to the museum for the Powerhouse Arts District hearing, and I don't want to call undue attention to myself.
I'm running a little late. I'm supposed to head out to a group practice at Karen Meehan's place in Williamsburg. Luckily, this hearing begins at 5:30. Unless the presenters are exceedingly long-winded (right, like I should talk), I ought to be on the PATH train with time to spare.
This meeting is about the District and whether or not it has any right to exist. But the decision will have reverberations for the future of 111 First Street, so the Tenants Association has asked supporters to show. Tonight, New Gold Equities -- Lloyd Goldman's company -- will again attempt to get the city to swallow their plan for the redevelopment on the building. Last week, I did some work on the 111 counterproposal: I helped some of the tenants a little bit with grammar and syntax. But that's not why I'm here.
Now I know I'm late -- the hearing has already begun. Or, rather, the dissention has started. The chairman of the planning committee is taking objection to the agenda: he's attempting to narrow the parameters of the meeting. He's clearly pissed off about it, too; he's asking the three people seated at the other side of the stage for better communication. I'm not sure what the stakes are to this argument, or whether it has anything to do with the difficulties of municipal government in a time of transition. I just know it's taking up time. I'm feeling for the 111 artists, sitting together in the back rows, probably nervous, waiting for the committee to make its ruling.
They do roll call. Roll call? Jeez, there are nine people up there. It's superfluous, but I'm grateful -- it's nice to know who I'm looking at. For instance, one of the committee members is Leon Yost, whose name I associate with the Landmarks Conservancy. He sits at the left hand of the chairman, whispering in his ear. Councilwoman Donnelly is on the board, too: I recognize her name from the sign on her reserved space in the city hall parking lot. I'm trying to figure out if the tall, hawkish man at the left side of the stage is city planner Robert Cotter. He's in front of a easel and a black and white map with a target on it. Is it the logo for a superstore, a bulls-eye for developers, or both?
The New Gold Equities team is up first. Mr. Seide, the company's lead attorney, is sworn in -- he raises his hand and takes the oath. He addresses the committee, which means his back is to the audience. There's a microphone onstage, but he won't speak directly into it. I strain to hear him.
Seide is a veteran lawyer. He could be sixty years old; he looks like a very well-attired owl. He carries a manila envelope filled with papers. Seide proceeds to open the folder and enter, one by one, about forty thousand documents into the public record. Each one is passed to the clerk, who assigns it a number and hands it to Donnelly. Is this a filibuster, or is he just trying to put us to sleep?
The chairman is losing patience. Haven't we seen some of these exhibits last time?, he asks. Seide is undeterred. He calls two of his associates: Brian McPeak and Michelle Berliner. They're both reasonably young, but they carry themselves like old men. McPeak has prepared a report that contradicts the ULI findings and its recommendation for the creation of a special arts district. "The WALDO zoning", we are told "has destroyed any ability to develop property. The area is developing anyway - there is no need for any special district."
Berliner holds the floor, but refuses to talk into the microphone. Finally, some of the artists at the back of the hall shout and insist that she speak up. She's giving statistics on the occupants of the 111 building -- statistics I am sure that the tenants will challenge. Berliner claims there are only 60 artists in the building. Damn, ma'am, I met more than that on my first visit. You and your pals ought to hang out in Jersey City a little more. 59 tenants are, according to her count, "non-artists", and 7 are "unknown".
Unknown? What the hell does that mean? That's not me asking, that's the committee: they want an explanation about how the occupations of New Gold tenants can be "unknown" to the company. Well, explains Berliner, there are many illegal sublets at 111. Councilwoman Donnelly and the chairman point out that if the New Gold wants to get rid of subletters, they can just go up to Newark Avenue and start eviction proceedings. "That's not the route we chose to go", insists Berliner. "We point out that everybody there is on a month-to-month lease." She implies that the firm can evict the artists outright at any time. "We choose instead to work with the artists, and move forward with them." Then why the threatening language?
The council wants to move on to the public hearing, but Seide won't relinquish the floor. He wants to show the plans for the hypothetical redevelopment of the building. The architect, Peter DeWitt, is present, and has big renderings. We can't see them, of course: he holds them up for the committee, their backs to the audience. We only get the spoken description. It's one we've heard rehearsed several times over the past months: New Gold will knock down the Warren Street side of 111 and the interior space, rehabilitate and retain the other wings, and construct a huge residential tower in the center of the plot. The outer ring will remain artist studios (albeit at a higher rental base) and the interior will be luxury apartments and a huge parking garage.
The absurdity of the plan, and its essential disingenuousness, is apparent to the crowd. I turn around, and I'm surprised to see it isn't only the artists who are laughing at the New Gold team. It's obvious that the current tenants would be driven from the building -- even if anybody could afford the rents, who could work in a redevelopment zone?
The chairman lets Seide make a closing statement, but then turns the microphone to the audience. Ed Fausty is first up. After the stiff, formal presentation by the attorneys, his earnest demeanor is disarming. He wants to show that the New Gold characterization of the neighborhood -- developing without municipal assistance, according to a private plan -- isn't precisely accurate. He's taken pictures of empty floors at the Morgan Building. I'm wondering if they've been snapped with the same care and eye for detail that highlights his art photographs.
Bill Rodwell follows, and he's terrific. You can tell he's mad (his hand is shaking a little) but he keeps it in check: he stays poised, and eloquent. He insists that Berliner's numbers are way off -- there are well over 100 artists working in the building. Rodwell points out that the Tenants Association had proposed a trade with New Gold and Jersey City: in exchange for the freedom to develop the mostly-abandoned 110 First, the developer would drop their plan to retrofit 111. New Gold responded, says Rodwell, by filing a plan to demolish 110 and throw up a luxury residential tower on the property. This indicates, he suggests firmly, their fundamental disrespect for the district.
Both 110 and 111 are historic buildings, and we're reminded of that by ProArts president Kathryn Klanderman. She makes sure the ULI report is in evidence, and quickly sits down. Kevin Mayer, James Waddleton; one by one, residents approach the microphone to give support for the district. It's inspiring. But it's also seven o' clock already: I'm going to be late for practice. I wish I could stick around and see the conclusion. Okay, fine, one more speaker, one more speaker.
Two burly middle-aged men approach the committee. These are Michael and Paul Bochner, proprietors of Henderson Lumber Mills on First and Grove. They're angry, disgusted; they feel the city has ignored their claim. They have no objection to the Powerhouse district -- they're just furious about its expansion onto their property. Michael Bochner begins to read from a livid but articulate letter. Well, hell, I can't leave now. They've been in Jersey City since 1971, they've suffered through crack dealers and gunfights. They predate the residential development; they made an investment in the city before any of the residential towers were downtown. The Bochners pay $45,000 in property taxes annually; for this, they've been repeatedly ignored by the city. The proposed parameters for the Powerhouse district cuts their lot in two, and makes it impossible for them to develop it. (How do they want to develop it?, I wonder to myself.)
At times, the Bochners seem angrier over the aesthetic designation than they do about any economic loss they've felt. Bochner is pissed that his business has been called blighted: "characterizing our buildings as dilapidated is insulting". He clearly takes pride in their appearance, and he delivers a litany of improvements and oversights. It's bracing. This is what the junkies call terrific political theatre, but I can't stick around for it. I want to see how the committee votes, of course, but I can't skip out on practice. I push up the steps and out into the Museum foyer, where an employee asks me how the meeting is going. He wants to know if it's going to end anytime soon; he's looking to close shop and home. I couldn't say, but I know the wheels of government turn at a millstone's pace. As the fate of the arts district is being decided, I'm bustling down Montgomery, toward the tubes and Williamsburg beyond. Fingers crossed, I board the PATH train.
The first thing you notice when you meet Nicola Stemmer is that he's a generous guy. He's big, open-handed, friendly, upbeat. On Mayday, he threw open his workspace -- the pro-quality Nine Lives Studio -- to everybody playing music that day. One at a time, all twenty of us filed into Nine Lives, picked up an acoustic guitar or piano, and banged out a song. Of course, that meant we only got about a half-hour to track, but that was part of Stemmer's point: he wanted to prove that art could be made under any conditions, on the fly, in a pinch. He wanted to capture a moment.
We weren't sure what Nicola Stemmer was going to do with the recordings he made of us. Now we know. Together with other 111 artists, he has made, I kid you not, a CD box set. The project -- twenty tracks, each recorded live in the studio on a schedule reminiscent of the PATH lines at rush hour -- is so audacious that all I can do is tip my cap. But he's asked me to do more: he'd like me to write liner notes as well. I'm honored. I just hope I can do justice to a two-CD collection that epitomizes both the spontaneous indie rock spirit and the defiant "anything is possible" vibe of Mayday.
He's not the only artist in the building whose work I'm trying to take the measure of. Both Ed Fausty and Shandor Hassan have asked me to write prefaces or commentary on their photography. I gave the Fausty project a shot last week, but I didn't like what I wrote, so I threw it out. I thought it felt too much like a piece of rock criticism. Visual art requires its own vocabulary and its own discursive rhythms. It's okay to be an outsider (I think), but I don't want to be disrespectful. Last week, Shandor loaded me down with books: Walker Evans, The Americans, histories of photography. They're helpful, but they don't reorient me quite as much as I want.
I'm giving Fausty's work another shot today. I'm on the fire escape in the central courtyard of the 111 building, waiting for noon - I've already set up an appointment to meet him at his studio then. A young Russian woman is smoking a cigarette one story down. She shakes a can of spraypaint, and aims it at a pair of green shoes. Across from me, a pigeon picks at an ivy vine draped over the railing. It sways in the faint breeze, disinterestedly, the beak of the bird hammering at its spine.
Election Day
I don't know where the polls are. This freaks me out not just as a red-blooded American who wants to do his civic responsibility, but also as a former resident of Union City. In Union City, see, if you didn't make it to the polls, they come to your door and escort you there, personally. They make sure to put the Column A leaflet in your hand some months before the polling date, and they don't let up until they're all safely re-elected.
The U.C. is Menendez country. At times, Palisade Avenue looked like those depictions of third-world nations where the face of the Commandant is plastered across every billboard. You'd wake up one morning, and the night squads would have painted the sidewalks red with Column A posters: on lampposts, car windshieds, in every other window. Down in Paulus Hook, there's a poster pairing Menendez's name with John Kerry's, right before you hit the Grand Street traffic light. But that's about it.
In case you're new to town, our late Mayor spent the last three years duking it out with Congressman Menendez for control over the county. Cunningham chose to endorse a primary challenger for Menendez this year -- twenty-seven year-old Steven Fulop, a Gulf War vet and Goldman Sachs employee with roots in Ward E. That's our ward. Around here, we're less likely to see Fulop's candidacy as a nuisance run: half of the businesses on Grove Street have put his poster up in their window. Shot from beneath like a superhero or member of Alphaville, smiling broadly, the kid is silhouetted against a blue sky. It makes him look like a refugee from an IT department; one who happened to stumble into a Prozac commercial.
I'm out on Grand, searching for a place to pull my lever. Victory Hall looks promising, but it's locked. In Union City, the polling places were always at the most obvious places in town -- the Doric Temple, the local schools. In case anybody was wondering, a nice man in a black suit would come to your door, often late at night, and explain in detail exactly where you were expected to go, and what you were expected to do there. And that was just in case you hadn't read the countless circulars stuffed in mailboxes by the Stack administration, giving exact details and addresses, making sure to drive the point home with an urgency that bordered on the paranoiac.
The Hudson County Democratic Organization couldn't have wanted this neighborhood to vote too badly: this is likely to be Fulop's stronghold. That could account for the absence of pointers. I'd searched the Internet, but since Jersey City still has no meaningful web presence, I'm out of luck there. I ask a vaguely political-looking (read: old and cranky) man hanging out on the OLC steps if he can direct me. He can't tell me where to vote, but he can tell me who to vote for -- he's backing the reform slate. New mayor Harvey Smith is Menendez's lapdog, I am told; we can't have the North Hudson cronies telling us what to do. Spoken like a true Jerseyan, I say to myself; all self-determination and a big middle finger to out-of-towners.
Downtown Jersey City is alive to Column B. A leafleting campaign, residuals scattered in the gutters, encourages us to back Column B as a token of respect for Mayor Cunningham. Keep on his fight, vote for Fulop and the Democratic insurgents. A big truck, parked by city hall, is covered with Column B posters and a handmade cardboard sign reading "Stop 'Boss' Menendez". Fulop has been arguing that the congressman has become detached from the district, drunk with Capitol power games. Perhaps in retaliation, or just as a show of respect for his challenger, the incumbent spent yesterday afternoon down at the PATH station, shaking hands. I missed the show. I was in Williamsburg, practicing rock and roll.
The City Hall parking lot is as filled as it was the day after Cunningham's death. Nobody's coming in and out of the main entrance, though, so I'm doubting that this is my destination. I wheel around and walk across the lawns. The tributes are still up in front of the main statue, and the purple ribbons of mourning still deck the trees. Glenn Cunningham was out campaigning for Fulop -- at a block party in McGinley Square -- on the day of his heart attack. His last public appearance was spent in an outright challenge to Menendez and the county political order.
A young woman, accompanied by a tall consort (or something) walks toward me. She's radiant; she's got the wide-awake look of a spiritual penitent. It's about ninety degrees and humid out today, and it strikes me that she's almost supernaturally scrubbed. She's got a handful of Column A leaflets, and she gives me one -- not with the menacing surety of the suits in Union City, but with the easy charm of a gospeller. It turns out she's a candidate for the City Council, running on the Column A line. She wants to represent me. She's my neighbor.
Well, hi, neighbor. Where the hell does an earnest citizen go in this district to vote, for you or for someone quite like you? She points to the Gregory Apartments behind the City Hall. I have an immediate meltdown caused by a massive attack of cognitive dissonance: in a neighborhood of brownstones and community organizations, I'm supposed to go to the one gated tower block to cast my vote? The one with the big "Do Not Enter" signs? There's no easy egress from the sidewalk -- a big black fence rings the entire complex. I don't even know how to get in there. Ms. aspiring councilwoman, you and your people are not making it easy on us.
I press on anyway. I'm not going to be deterred here. I came out to vote, and by God, I'm going to vote. I've got the lever-pulling fever; I'm going to aid in this senseless internecine warfare between Democratic factions if it's the last thing I do. New Jersey misses out on the Presidential primary-season madness: by the time the second Tuesday in June rolls around, the party has usually nominated its national candidate. I think Kucinich is still on the ballot for some inexplicable reason. At least Lyndon LaRouche has his well-established insanity as a convenient public explanation for his irrational persistence.
An automobile entrance offers a breach in the imposing fence that circles the Gregory Apartments. Hey, I'm not a car, but I am a juggernaut of electoral zeal. Let me in, goddammit. The complex belongs to an earlier aesthetic of development where lots were cleared for commercial hi-rises and set back from the street by car parks and dull greenswards. This is what sniffy planning groups call "an inefficient use of resources". All together now -- locking up your tower block and throwing away the key does not promote pedestrianism. These days, all the kids want to live in cool-ass faux brownstone buildings like the ones on Essex Street. Unless, of course, they're prematurely middle-aged, and they've retreated to the Hovnanian complexes along the riverfront. In thirty years, those will look as disused as this one does: run-down businesses fronting the black macadam stretches of the parking lot, big windows staring out at nothing in particular.
A gruff guard dog of a man sits on a chair in front of one of the main entrances. I'm a Hudson County veteran, so I know what that means: vote here! I don't even need to ask, but I am a polite little turtle, so I do anyway. He grunts. Hmm, that's more than I thought I'd get. Inside, poll operators and name-takers outnumber voters by at least three to one. I get in line. Different booths are assigned to different neighborhoods, and the first letter of your last name designates where you stand and how long you wait. It's just like junior high school, only it doesn't last four years, and nobody is calling me "queer-bait".
In an effort to stanch the butterflyzation of local ballots, the old manual machine has been replaced by a new "hi-tech" booth that uses cutting-edge technology I remember from the hand-held Coleco football game I used to sneak into Sunday School. You press an acetate, and a green "X" appears next to the name of the candidate of your choice. Then, you register your selection by fingering a glowing red button. Welcome to Tomorrowland. I will miss the finality, the pure sonic goodness, of the crunching red lever. I will miss the red velvet in the booths, promising secercy, a kind of cryptic adult experience, the hush of mystery in the process.
I vote for Menendez, and not just because I wrote a song about him. Congressional politics is based on a system of seniority: it takes years for a representative to work himself into plum positions on important committees. Menendez hasn't merely done that -- he's also become the number three man in the Democratic leadership, behind Representatives Hoyer and Pelosi. Even if Menendez was a rotten congressperson, I'd be disinclined to throw away that kind of clout. But he's not a rotten congressperson: he's a very good one. He has frequently been at the forefront of legislative efforts that bring genuine improvement to the county.
His future influence on Jersey City may well be deleterious. That's something to look out for. And we should do that by electing a mayor and a state senator who are independent, pugnatious, and ready to go to bat for our town. We shouldn't do that by ridding ourselves of our proven asset and advocate in Washington.
June 6, 2004
Paulus Hook is "off the". Bwa hah ha hah ah hah ahh ah ha. Thank you, I'll be here all week. We're wandering through a block party hosted by the OLC Church -- the same people who run Victory Hall, the performance space three brownstones north of our apartment on Grand. The church itself is on Sussex Street between Washington and Warren, and the block has been barricaded to automobile traffic. The skies have threatened all day, but there hasn't been any persistent rain.
Still, this probably wasn't the weather they had in mind. The emcee stands in front of the OLC in a top hat and bow tie, attempting to keep everybody's spirits up. I'm wondering if he's the friar, or just an older guy with a the bubbly affect of a happenin' priest. Senior citizen sit tightly on plastic seats, as young professional couples from the new residential contructions along Dudley and Morris Streets wander from table to table, gawking. They look as though they're seeing their neighborhood for the first time. Perhaps they are.
A gospel group has set up on the steps. They've got a great piano player -- there's a standing bassist too, but he's just leaning against his axe, giving the ace some room to blow. I'm wondering if it's the same gospel band that regularly plays Sunday mornings at Victory Hall. On Sundays, you can look out our bedroom window and see African-American women in brightly-colored clothing, walking up and down the block, trailing toddlers in tight-looking suits. There's nothing like that here.
The crowd is appreciative, though. An older woman holding a sign is wandering through the crowd, asking if anybody would like to buy raffle tickets. Many citizens' groups have set up tables, including several I've never heard of. Did you know, for instance, that Hudson County has its own Improvement Authority? Or its own office of Strategic Revitalization? Did you know that the Hudson Transportation Management Association was its own thing? I didn't; now I do. From behind the HTMA desk, a man offers us freebies: a tiny replica PATH car, a pencil made from recycled dollar bills, pens, stickers, buttons.
We're informed that the dog show on the southeast corner of Warren and Sussex has been cancelled for lack of participants. But hey, the Liberty Science Center has brought along a snake and a lizard for the kids to play with, or admire from a safe distance, or run in fear from. They seem like nice guys to me; the reptiles and the Science Center. Food today is being sponsored by the very good House of Cin, a tony deli on the corner of Sussex and Washington, and the Green Cow. The Green Cow?
The Green Cow turns out to be a food market that's opening on the ground floor of the Liberty Towers. Is a Balducci/Citarelli-style grocery about to follow Goldman Sachs to Paulus Hook? Their literature claims gourmet status for the Cow, but these days, that can mean anything from Le Cirque to some guy slathering his burgers with a chipotle rub. We swing by Liberty (Essex & Greene, sort of) to check it out.
It's hard to tell from the street, or from the sidewalk next to the Essex Street light rail stop. The dominant feature of the Cow seems to be its brick oven. Beyond that, there's a long countertop, and a big glass display case that will probably keep prepared foods. My guess is that the Green Cow will be more of a cafeteria and ferry-commuter's pitstop than an upmarket produce stand. I don't think this is going to become a meaningful alternative to the three excellent green-groceries near the Grove Street PATH station -- especially Lee's, our stand-by.
Those green-groceries are inexpensive and community-minded; we'll see if the Green Cow will follow suit. I doubt they'll have a hard time attracting customers: it's a hungry neighborhood we have, and restauranteurs are gambling on our appetites. Across the street from the outstanding La Rustica pizzeria, a new Italian restaurant called Traders (85 Morris St.) has just opened its doors. The menu seems relatively traditional, and the interior of the eatery is decidedly old-school, with carpet and cloth napkins folded inside wine glasses. This is in sharp contrast to Pronto Cena, the more cutting-edge and adventurous Tuscan place over on Sussex. Can adjacent blocks sustain two sit-down Italian restaurants and a pizzeria? We'll find out this summer.
Across Washington Street, construction on Morris continues. The ground floor of an incipient office building (at least that's what it looks like it's going to be once it's finished) is already claimed by an Amelia's Bistro. No information on what the restaurant will be like, but they do have a vaguely distasteful cherub logo on their "coming soon" banner. A few doors west, the Daily Grind coffeehouse will be opening in a refreshingly non-renovated storefront. Daily Grind, Traders, the Merchant: are you sensing a theme here?
A block north, the OLC party continues. There's a singer-songwriter onstage now; she's struggling to keep up with her backing tapes. An older longhair plays one of those Eighties jazz guitars without a headstock. It's so absurdly dated that I find myself digging it. And if you stand just so on Sussex Street, you can imagine that the brownstones and rowhouses stretch on like this forever -- that there isn't a modern office-block aesthetic encroaching on the nineteenth-century purity of the Paulus Hook neighborhood. That's probably why they chose this street for the party: it's the only place in the Hook out of site of the cranes, and away from the sound of new money rushing in.
June 5, 2004
The Balance Salon (18 Erie Street) epitomizes Jersey City style. Look for yourself: there's not much on the website, but you can see a few shots of the interior. If you've been around town for awhile, you'll probably recognize some of these visual tropes: the lightboxes, the faux-chandeliers, the brightly colored folk-baroque flourishes. Throw in some exposed brick and the patterned wood floor, and you've got the quintessential hip Jersey City business.
Today, the barber's chairs are swung around to face the rear window. Karen Davis of Boomslang (a boomslange, if you were wondering, is a South African tree snake) has set up in the middle of the room with her acoustic guitar. It's not picked up, and she has no microphone. Luckily for us, her voice is huge enough that it barely matters. Rock and roll in strange places, and under strange conditions: that's going to happen when the city won't allow anybody a performance license.
Davis is imperious and undeterred. That's what I like about her; that and the songs. Playing without bass and drums behind her, it's easier to hear what a fine rhythm player she is -- she's got a great sense of time, and she strums like she's slamming down the gavel. She asks us to visualize the title of Grim Faced Coloured Folks In Fancy Clothes, and then she plays all three songs on the EP. The choice of covers is telling, too: two Neil Young numbers, a sped-up and accusatory "Powderfinger" and an icy read on "Down By The River".
Davis finishes, and immediately proceeds to the massage table. There's a good way to hide after performance: go face down into one of those big backrub chairs. I ought to remember that. Carla Anderson, Balance's public face, is doing the hair of young woman who brought in a glossy magazine to guide her. Carla set this event up, and on the face of it, it's a good idea -- music, styling, drawing a crowd to a Downtown spot that everybody ought to patronize.
But like the Subia Cafe on Jersey Avenue -- another hip business that has recently tried to host singer-songwriters -- this is not a performance venue. Certainly it could be one: it's comfortable, welcoming, it's got a great vibe, and Anderson is a very energetic host. Balance needs a dedicated space for the singer (at the front of the salon, maybe?), a couple of decent microphones, a mixer, and some speakers. But most importnatly, like several other places that have hosted ad hoc summer events, Balance needs authorization and support from an unfathomably skittish city government.
Like L.I.T.M., Balance is another great "could be" of Jersey City. There's tremendous potential here, but the city needs to cultivate an atmosphere where that potential can be reached. And if an even halfway-decent venue for acoustic music were allowed to open Downtown and keep a regular schedule of performances, I guarantee you it would be packed solid, night after night.
Aaron Jackson has gotten plaudits for his poetry. But Jackson also deserves credit for the way he runs his events. I've been to four Waterbug Thursdays at the Keyhole (7 Erie Street) and they're probably the best organized and most enthusiastic open mikes I've ever attended. Jackson keeps the vibe consistent. In his genial way, he makes sure attention is focused on stage, and he doesn't let people talk through the performers -- at all. The first thing he does when opening the night is insist that everybody turn off their cellphones. He doesn't grandstand or go for cheap applause, but he will encourage the audience to be appreciative and keep the infectious energy going. This town is full of charisma. Jackson is one guy who's applying his charisma toward the public good.
The Hudson Current noticed. Editor Katherine Heinrich featured the Waterbug Hotel on the cover of this week's edition. Rock! Coupled with the recent cover story on the Chamot Gallery, we've got a trend going here. More evidence that the Current, under Heinrich's leadership, has noticed that Jersey City exists: Victory Hall/Art House host and spokeswoman Christine Goodman is now backpage poetry editor. Even Mayday at 111 First got an article. The Current is still all features and no criticism, but let's give Heinrich credit for starting to turn that creaky vessel around. Hell, I'll even pardon her roach motel joke. After all, they asked for it.
June 2, 2004
Anybody want to buy a rock club?
I called the number on the Green Tree site to try to find out what I could about the Uncle Joe's rumors. I got voice mail for the condominium development, and a promise that a sales representative would answer my message. Um, no thanks.
Hiking out to Bay Street wasn't much more help. Nobody on the construction crews seemed to know anything. I tried both numbers listed on the little placard on the chain link fence -- (732) 824-4084 and (201) 418-9888, in case you're interested in trying them yourself. Both gave me recorded messages.
I even wrote to the agent handling 140 Bay for local agency Armagno (the other broker handling the properties is called Chelsea Realtors, but they're in Hoboken). That seemed promising: he got back to me in a couple of hours, and told me he'd find out what he could. If he did, he didn't tell me about it: I'm still waiting for that reply.
Over at Uncle Joe's, the only thing the employees are certain of is that the property is up for sale. There's some consensus on the price tag: 1.6 million dollars. That number didn't come from nowhere. But is it a buyer's or a seller's price?
Beyond that, everybody's account seems to contradict everybody else's. One guy I spoke to told me that the plan was to relocate Uncle Joe's elsewhere -- to take the liquor and cabaret license closer to the river and pedestrian traffic, and out of the increasingly theoretical Powerhouse district. But then I was told, no, Tris, that's impossible: the cabaret license comes with the sale of the property. The new Uncle Joe's owner will control the licences.
I'm not sure what to think. I'm getting the creeping feeling that a deal/sale is in place, and it's only going to be sprung on the public once all of the details are solidified, and it's too late for any well-meaning rockers to do anything about it.
Anyway, we are, no doubt, living through a real estate price bubble: The Economist says so, and so does Hilary's dad. But if you've got 1.6 million dollars under your mattress, consider buying Uncle Joe's anyway. You'll be saving more than just a rock club. You might be saving a district.
June 1, 2004
It's safe to say that nobody's really sure what's going on with Uncle Joe's -- even if it isn't safe to say much else. The general consensus among people I've talked to over the past few days reinforces the creeping apprehension. Nobody knows if the rumors are true, but everybody assumes that if they are -- if Green Tree Construction really has bought Joe's for 1.6 million dollars -- the new owners are about as likely to keep it a rock club as they are to offer artists rent-free living space at 140 Bay Street.
As I scrambled to find out what I could, I unearthed some interesting comments. One guy a spoke to -- a rocker -- was sure that Green Tree wanted the property so they could raze the club and offer prospective tenants at 140 Bay an extra garage. Nobody ever called Uncle Joe's a paradise, but should they pave it and put up a parking lot, I think the city will have a big yellow taxi-ful of angry musicians on their hands. Another regional businessman assured me that he had been offered the building last year for $600,000. "I was a fool, obviously", he told me, "I could have made a million dollars."
I wish he had taken the deal. He's entrepreneurial, and he's got a stake in the warehouse district. Does Green Tree Construction? We can only speculate. What we know for sure is that Green Tree has a stake in 140 Bay Street: it's their building, their renovation project, their asses on the line should the market for property in the nascent Arts District dry up. Of that we can be certain. But do we know anything else about the possible new owner of the only rock club in town?
You might. And if you do, I wish you'd tell me. There's almost nothing on the net about the company -- the JCEDC identifies Green Tree as a Hoboken firm, but offers no address or phone number. The official Green Tree site is nothing more than a commercial for 140 Bay. Their renovation of the old warehouse has been efficient and comprehensive; the new brick façade is very handsome, and the new windows should be large and clear. If only the renovators' intentions were as transparent.
It's tempting to think that Green Tree must be a bunch of good guys because of their interest and investment in the Arts District. They could have developed property anywhere, but they chose 140 Bay Street: hardly the most attractive block in Jersey City. Plus, they've got that vaguely environmentalish name: they can't be half bad, can they?
Here's hoping. The sacrifice involved in developing in the Arts District isn't what it seems -- only a negligible percentage of new units have to be dedicated to low-income residents. As I reported yesterday, a no-frills 1 bedroom/1 bath apartment at 140 Bay will run you $399,000. Bigger luxury units are going for almost double. Such prices may be "market rate", and may please the armchair economists among us, but they absolutely will prevent the building from becoming an integral part of any Arts District. Area artists will simply be priced out.
Green Tree seems to understand this, and, forebodingly, they do not seem to mind. Click again on that official website. Check out the splash page, the description of the neighborhood (complete with a restaurant that isn't even in Jersey City), the discussion of the proximity of commuter transit. It's apparent that this building is not being marketed to artists -- and not the least because the word "artist" fails to appear on the main page of the site. 140 Bay looks to be a typical condominium development, albeit one that throws a few bones to a local pressure group in order to satisfy the zoning conditions.
If that's true, the city must intervene. It is their Powerhouse plan; their reputation on the line. An arts district cannot be built without artists. Everything else is fungible. If artists are forced out of the neighborhood, if their buildings are leveled to make way for empty replicas, poor approximations, then the Powerhouse will become the white elephant its many detractors already believe it is.
I know all about Queen Latifah's retrofitted firehouse, and the studios in the Morgan building. All of that is great. Still, There are only two buildings in the current Arts District where people are doing work that is profoundly integrated into the fabric of Jersey City. One is the 111 First building, and we know very well (and regret strenuously) that it is under siege.
The other is Uncle Joe's. Two nights ago, I didn't fret about its future. I may yet have no reason to. The stories about Green Tree might be speculation; phantoms generated by a fevered community worried about developocracy and erosion of public space. We've suffered a hit recently: we're all upset about the death of the mayor. Trauma generates its own phantasms.
Yet some rumors have the ring of truth to them. This is such a rumor. Property values in the warehouse district are mounting, and it isn't inconceivable that the 154 First Street lot that Uncle Joe's occupies is now a hot commodity. If Green Tree really has purchased the property for $1.6 million, I'm forced to echo the apprehensions of the rocker I quoted above: at that price, there's no way they'd keep it a dirthead rock club. That's a price tag with bigger ambitions attached.
Again I regret that our local papers either cannot or will not keep us posted on these developments -- and yes, that last word is loaded. But that's an old story, and I doubt it's one with a happy ending. I can only do what I can, and I promise to stay on top of this, even if it turns out to be a false alarm. With parameters, players, and expectations in the district shifting constantly, and with new projects for every block thrown up on the drawing board daily, this is no time to fail to be on our guard. Constant vigilance, as Mad-Eye Moody would say. Better to get a jump start, and to be organized when the hammer does fall. The Save Uncle Joe's movement starts tonight.
Read the excellent May Jersey City Journal
The script Scumbaguette was my journal for April.
Here's the March Jersey City Journal.
The February Jersey City Journal.
The January Journal.
December Journal.
Jersey City Journal (original flavor).
