I have been to many concerts in Central Park over the years, but I think the (long-awaited) The Black-Eyed Peas do-up will probably go down as my favorite. And I knew they'd come through. Skeptics believed there would be no follow-up to the washed-out performance in summer. The concert, intended to benefit those in poverty and in association with The Robin Hood Foundation, happened just a week ago on what started out to be a gorgeous autumn night. The Manhattan skyline, under a somewhat red sky was breath-taking and the grass had been freshly-cut. I love that smell, it reminds me of my dad; cutting grass is one of his favorite pastimes. I've heard that 60,000 people attended. There was a huge crowd, but not so big that it was possible to move around quite a bit - which I did - dancing the whole way through.
The concert was part pop-rock music, part laser light show, part DJ-ed party fest and part fashion show with Alexander MacQueen-esqe outfits making interesting entrances and exits. I would go as far as to say that the entire show was rather elegantly done, in fact. The Peas are a class act and have brought so much to their audience. I'd long forgotten about Where Is the Love? Their more recent music, like Imma Be, I Got a Feeling and Boom Boom Pow, coupled with their futuristic fancies (and top mashups!) are destined to be dance classics in years to come.
A little less than two hours in, the rain began. First a light drizzle began, which didn't seem to affect the crowd. The music was so entrancing that revelers started tossing those glow in the dark rings into the air, causing a sort of UFO effect. But, then the monsoons started. My sister Sharmin, like many other fans, had to leave her umbrella at gate security and decided to make a fast getaway. Our friend Anthony and I (like many other fans!) managed to sneak our portable umbrellas tucked away in our bags into the concert and happily opened their tops and continued dancing-dancing-dancing. I felt bad for those that were forced to leave. One savvy goer asked Anthony if she could stand with him under his umbrella, which he graciously agreed to.
The show did go on. Fergie was right--lightning didn't strike twice--and those of us, as she also put, that stayed for the duration are the "true party people!"
I leave you with: Time of My Life (Dirty Bit): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JwQZQygg3Lk
Friday, October 7, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
Visiting the 9/11 Memorial
I didn't quite know what to expect or how I would actually feel as I made my way to the 9/11 Memorial this evening. I've never really been down to the site since that tragic day. I never had a desire to go back; not that I didn't want to pay my respects. Every now and again I think of my neighbor, Rob Peraza, who perished that day.
NYC and the architects did a beautiful job. These hallowed grounds now house two massive pools with cascading waterfalls cased in charcoal marble where both the North and South towers of the Twin Towers stood. They are lined with the names of the 2,983 people that perished in the blasts and on the hijacked planes.
Indeed, it is a day like JFK's assassination, in that everyone in the City and around the country can recall where we were and what we were doing at that moment. I remember it well. I was at the Institutional Investor offices on 52nd and Madison; my very first gig as a journalist. I chased down a position with them, not having any financial reporting experience (or reporting--outside of college) whatsoever. But, their ad in the New York Times said you could move to London or Hong Kong after a year--that was enough for me. Tom Lamont, our ornery, hotheaded editor in chief was patrolling the aisles, telling people not to be alarmed, that there has been an accident - a plane flying into the Twin Towers. After the second plane hit, it was obvious this was no accident. And after both towers collapsed, we all sat stunned. There were TV screens in an office, and many of us crammed together to watch the coverage. I remember moving out to the balcony and looking down the avenue--at smoke billowing through the air where the Twin Towers stood; now a gaping black hole--or gaping wounds as they remained for 10 years. I'll never forget trudging home, only about 20 blocks a few avenues over for me, along with the rest of the New Yorkers that had been told to go home that late morning. There was a collective sadness and shock. I was so glad for the Blackout in the summer of 2003. This was the second time I had experienced a long trek home by foot with other New Yorkers, only there seemed to be a fun, sort of joyous feeling--parties in the streets--as we city folk dealt with the power outage together. I choose this memory over the other one whenever I can.
After amlessly searching for Rob's name, I finally asked a police officer at the site for directions. He showed me how I could search for it on computers that have been set up for that purpose.
Rob and I were never great friends, but friendly enough that learning of his death deeply affected me. After working through the tragedy--literally, as I covered the space and had to write about it from a Wall-Street's-loss perspective, I was ready to shut the world out and rest at the weekend. I can't remember how I learned about it, but I remember crying for several days. In fact, there was a candlelight vigil for all of the people that died in my neighborhood soon after. My sister and I sat down for a coffee afterwards at Cafe Mozart and the lovely waiter (Goran, whom I now know as he works at the restaurant below my apartment) kindly and patiently waited for me to state my order through uncontrollable sobs - I smile when I see Goran now.
Rob and I met on our stoop on a beautiful summer day. I sat down next to him to pet his dog, Otis and we bonded after that day. He was always so bright and cheerful. He told me he had plans to move to Colorado in the near future because he wanted to give Otis a better life, which I thought was incredibly sweet. We'd known each other a few years when he told me he had decided to stay. He'd met a girl and things were getting serious. He had only been working at the World Trade Center for two weeks when the terrorist attacks took his life. Since the memorial opened, the world, I am happy to say, has learned more about his life. His dad, Robert Peraza, had been photographed at the spot where Rob's name lies, grieving. It's become an iconic image--spread virally around the Internet--of family members and friends paying their respects at the site. Rob's story has been told in many news outlets, like ABC, The New York Post and even some UK papers. I never knew he spent a semester in South Africa during college--the year Nelson Mandela was freed--and when I run the NYC Marathon next year, a part of me will do it for him as well as he had planned to run it in 2001. I read in these reports in the last few days that Rob had written a four-page letter to his family a month before the attacks, expressing how happy he was. This wound is open again on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, but I feel happier feeling a bit closer to Rob.
I felt calm at the site, which can only be a good thing. Though, admittedly, I shuddered a bit as a helicopter hung over our heads for a good while. I lived through the July 7 bombings in London, as well (I was based there as a journalist for four years). I was trying to get on the Tube that day, as it was all transpiring and was not in a protected environment at all--at one point a helicopter, an ambulance, the words flying through someone's mouth of "a bomb!" and then seeing a MI-5 looking man with dark sunglasses walking quickly and purposefully down the street remain etched in my memory. Helicopters hanging low seem very ominous to me now.
But, I was glad I had the opportunity to visit the memorial. No one is forgotten and still much loved. There are some names that add things like: "and her unborn child" which is enough to break anyone's heart. Pictures of firemen next to their names. Teddy bears. Flowers. Notes of prayers among the endless sea of names.
Emotions can run the gamut there, but I felt a sense of peace. I hope all visitors to the site who lost a loved one feel the same.
NYC and the architects did a beautiful job. These hallowed grounds now house two massive pools with cascading waterfalls cased in charcoal marble where both the North and South towers of the Twin Towers stood. They are lined with the names of the 2,983 people that perished in the blasts and on the hijacked planes.
Indeed, it is a day like JFK's assassination, in that everyone in the City and around the country can recall where we were and what we were doing at that moment. I remember it well. I was at the Institutional Investor offices on 52nd and Madison; my very first gig as a journalist. I chased down a position with them, not having any financial reporting experience (or reporting--outside of college) whatsoever. But, their ad in the New York Times said you could move to London or Hong Kong after a year--that was enough for me. Tom Lamont, our ornery, hotheaded editor in chief was patrolling the aisles, telling people not to be alarmed, that there has been an accident - a plane flying into the Twin Towers. After the second plane hit, it was obvious this was no accident. And after both towers collapsed, we all sat stunned. There were TV screens in an office, and many of us crammed together to watch the coverage. I remember moving out to the balcony and looking down the avenue--at smoke billowing through the air where the Twin Towers stood; now a gaping black hole--or gaping wounds as they remained for 10 years. I'll never forget trudging home, only about 20 blocks a few avenues over for me, along with the rest of the New Yorkers that had been told to go home that late morning. There was a collective sadness and shock. I was so glad for the Blackout in the summer of 2003. This was the second time I had experienced a long trek home by foot with other New Yorkers, only there seemed to be a fun, sort of joyous feeling--parties in the streets--as we city folk dealt with the power outage together. I choose this memory over the other one whenever I can.
After amlessly searching for Rob's name, I finally asked a police officer at the site for directions. He showed me how I could search for it on computers that have been set up for that purpose.
Rob and I were never great friends, but friendly enough that learning of his death deeply affected me. After working through the tragedy--literally, as I covered the space and had to write about it from a Wall-Street's-loss perspective, I was ready to shut the world out and rest at the weekend. I can't remember how I learned about it, but I remember crying for several days. In fact, there was a candlelight vigil for all of the people that died in my neighborhood soon after. My sister and I sat down for a coffee afterwards at Cafe Mozart and the lovely waiter (Goran, whom I now know as he works at the restaurant below my apartment) kindly and patiently waited for me to state my order through uncontrollable sobs - I smile when I see Goran now.
Rob and I met on our stoop on a beautiful summer day. I sat down next to him to pet his dog, Otis and we bonded after that day. He was always so bright and cheerful. He told me he had plans to move to Colorado in the near future because he wanted to give Otis a better life, which I thought was incredibly sweet. We'd known each other a few years when he told me he had decided to stay. He'd met a girl and things were getting serious. He had only been working at the World Trade Center for two weeks when the terrorist attacks took his life. Since the memorial opened, the world, I am happy to say, has learned more about his life. His dad, Robert Peraza, had been photographed at the spot where Rob's name lies, grieving. It's become an iconic image--spread virally around the Internet--of family members and friends paying their respects at the site. Rob's story has been told in many news outlets, like ABC, The New York Post and even some UK papers. I never knew he spent a semester in South Africa during college--the year Nelson Mandela was freed--and when I run the NYC Marathon next year, a part of me will do it for him as well as he had planned to run it in 2001. I read in these reports in the last few days that Rob had written a four-page letter to his family a month before the attacks, expressing how happy he was. This wound is open again on the 10th anniversary of 9/11, but I feel happier feeling a bit closer to Rob.
I felt calm at the site, which can only be a good thing. Though, admittedly, I shuddered a bit as a helicopter hung over our heads for a good while. I lived through the July 7 bombings in London, as well (I was based there as a journalist for four years). I was trying to get on the Tube that day, as it was all transpiring and was not in a protected environment at all--at one point a helicopter, an ambulance, the words flying through someone's mouth of "a bomb!" and then seeing a MI-5 looking man with dark sunglasses walking quickly and purposefully down the street remain etched in my memory. Helicopters hanging low seem very ominous to me now.
But, I was glad I had the opportunity to visit the memorial. No one is forgotten and still much loved. There are some names that add things like: "and her unborn child" which is enough to break anyone's heart. Pictures of firemen next to their names. Teddy bears. Flowers. Notes of prayers among the endless sea of names.
Emotions can run the gamut there, but I felt a sense of peace. I hope all visitors to the site who lost a loved one feel the same.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Telling Rick Springfield He Was My First Concert Experience
Meeting Rick Springfield was one thing, but actually getting to tell him that he was my first concert experience took it to a whole other level.
Strangely, I've been elated for days--perhaps it's as simple as meeting one of my favorite pop rockers from the 80s. I can't quite put my finger on it. Or, better still, that meeting has brought me back to good times in my childhood that I hadn't thought of in some time. Music has a way of bringing back memories--nothing in particular, just the fondness of appreciating certain musicians and bands, I suppose.
Of course, seeing Rick Springfield live as a teeny bopper--and remembering well when he came back onstage for the final encore decked out in leopard-print spandex and red converse sneakers--this will forever be etched in my memory. I pretty much told him so the night we chatted.
I attended a discussion with Rick (as though we are on a first name basis) last week through the Hudson Union Society with my sister Sharmin here in New York. It was an intimate gathering where we sat and listened to Rick talk about his life. He wrote an autobiography, Late, Late at Night, that had been released last year. In it--and during the discussion, Rick addressed his lifelong battle with depression. I was touched at how open he was about an attempt at suicide at 16, and, now as an adult who has enjoyed a celebrated career, how he works hard to be mindful of what he has--pointing out the sufferings of many in Afghanistan (as one example) as a reason to be grateful.
The discussion was much less heavy, I should point out. Rick breezed in, still donning converse sneakers and with a distinct rock musician air--slim, in jeans, beaded bracelets--he looks amazing at 61. He's a real salt of the earth type of guy, as my sister so aptly put it. Rick joked with the crowd and was so surprisingly approachable (though I sensed his guard up at the same time--rightly so).
He seemed embarrassed at some of his TV roles, such as appearances on The Six Million Dollar Man and Wonder Woman. Those remain two of my best loved shows from my early TV viewing days, so I couldn't understand why he wouldn't be proud of them.
And who could forget his famed role as Dr. Noah Drake on General Hospital. At times, he playfully indicated he would, actually.
Of his TV and film roles, Rick said: "Right, I could make it as an actor [so I could be a musician.]" But, he did.
What I loved about this night was truly seeing the joy that music has always and continues to bring to Rick Springfield. It's the way he lights up about it--and his deep appreciation for his fans.
I felt that when I made my way over to him; my sister was already by his side and had quietly, but reverantly, told him he was her first concert. I busted in soon after and expressed the same sentiment. I'm amazed at how close he lets people into his personal space--Sharmin and I held onto that moment.
If, as a child and since, I've had any doubts that I made the wrong decision in choosing Rick Springfield over The Police as a first concert outing--that's now been obliterated. Knowing that it actually meant something to him, too, makes it all the more special.
I leave you with Jessie's Girl: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYkbTyHXwbs.
Strangely, I've been elated for days--perhaps it's as simple as meeting one of my favorite pop rockers from the 80s. I can't quite put my finger on it. Or, better still, that meeting has brought me back to good times in my childhood that I hadn't thought of in some time. Music has a way of bringing back memories--nothing in particular, just the fondness of appreciating certain musicians and bands, I suppose.
Of course, seeing Rick Springfield live as a teeny bopper--and remembering well when he came back onstage for the final encore decked out in leopard-print spandex and red converse sneakers--this will forever be etched in my memory. I pretty much told him so the night we chatted.
I attended a discussion with Rick (as though we are on a first name basis) last week through the Hudson Union Society with my sister Sharmin here in New York. It was an intimate gathering where we sat and listened to Rick talk about his life. He wrote an autobiography, Late, Late at Night, that had been released last year. In it--and during the discussion, Rick addressed his lifelong battle with depression. I was touched at how open he was about an attempt at suicide at 16, and, now as an adult who has enjoyed a celebrated career, how he works hard to be mindful of what he has--pointing out the sufferings of many in Afghanistan (as one example) as a reason to be grateful.
The discussion was much less heavy, I should point out. Rick breezed in, still donning converse sneakers and with a distinct rock musician air--slim, in jeans, beaded bracelets--he looks amazing at 61. He's a real salt of the earth type of guy, as my sister so aptly put it. Rick joked with the crowd and was so surprisingly approachable (though I sensed his guard up at the same time--rightly so).
He seemed embarrassed at some of his TV roles, such as appearances on The Six Million Dollar Man and Wonder Woman. Those remain two of my best loved shows from my early TV viewing days, so I couldn't understand why he wouldn't be proud of them.
And who could forget his famed role as Dr. Noah Drake on General Hospital. At times, he playfully indicated he would, actually.
Of his TV and film roles, Rick said: "Right, I could make it as an actor [so I could be a musician.]" But, he did.
What I loved about this night was truly seeing the joy that music has always and continues to bring to Rick Springfield. It's the way he lights up about it--and his deep appreciation for his fans.
I felt that when I made my way over to him; my sister was already by his side and had quietly, but reverantly, told him he was her first concert. I busted in soon after and expressed the same sentiment. I'm amazed at how close he lets people into his personal space--Sharmin and I held onto that moment.
If, as a child and since, I've had any doubts that I made the wrong decision in choosing Rick Springfield over The Police as a first concert outing--that's now been obliterated. Knowing that it actually meant something to him, too, makes it all the more special.
I leave you with Jessie's Girl: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYkbTyHXwbs.
Friday, June 10, 2011
The Black-Eyed Peas, Intuition and Me
Despite the washed-out benefit concert in Central Park yesterday, I have many thanks to give to The Black-Eyed Peas; I now know to always trust my intuition. I've been wrestling with my belief system in this regard for awhile now.
In May, I had heard that the band was going to give a (mostly) free concert in Central Park to help fight poverty in NYC, but you had to win tickets to be able to attend. I logged onto the dedicated site sponsored by The Robin Hood Foundation on the first day that it went live and typed in my information. The wait time was a week or so. I was up against 53,999 other potential winners.
That last morning (May 24) you would learn if you won entry into the concert came. My alarm, which is set to the radio, went off. Lo and behold, the song that was playing was The Black-Eyed Peas' "I Gotta Feeling." My immediate gut reaction was: "I won the tickets!"
I logged onto my email account--no sign. I felt deflated as there was no indication of any confirmation. My gloom quickly dissipated--it was a slim chance in a city of 8 million people afterall. I did mention it to two friends in passing, laughing at the fact that that particular song was playing when I awoke. I was taking a stroll in Central Park with one of these friends and uttered: "I was sure I'd won," proceeding to sing the lyrics as we walked down a dimly-lit, winding path.
When I arrived home about an hour later, around 10:30pm, I logged onto my email account to get caught up on the day's collection of correspondence. There it was--an email from The Robin Hood Foundation. I had won! Four tickets no less! The song--in and of itself to boot--had indeed been a sign.
It made the lead-up to the concert all the more sweet. And then to learn that other acts like Debbie Harry and LL Cool J were also going to perform--need I say more?
I know there are a lot of irate New Yorkers out there who waited and got shuffled around like a herd of cattle (myself being one of them) last night, waiting for the gate to open to be able to get a place on the Great Lawn. Check-in had been delayed due to inclement weather. My sister and I were going together and had already gotten a leisurely start, so we weren't looking as haggard as some. After we were let in, a soft rain began to fall, a much milder version from earlier that day. It actually felt really good on my skin, as it had reached 100 degrees yesterday and I wasn't looking forward to standing in a crowd of hundreds of thousands of people in the stifling heat. The park also looked beautiful; the trees in full bloom, the grasses a vibrant green. As we slowly made our way, we were told the concert had been cancelled, learning later it was due to the lightning--which I can attest was plentiful (and strikingly beautiful). For me--hey it was free. I wasn't waiting for several hours like some people, so I guess I can take this viewpoint. I'll turn up for the re-scheduled performance for sure.
And will always be forever grateful - trust that feeling!
In May, I had heard that the band was going to give a (mostly) free concert in Central Park to help fight poverty in NYC, but you had to win tickets to be able to attend. I logged onto the dedicated site sponsored by The Robin Hood Foundation on the first day that it went live and typed in my information. The wait time was a week or so. I was up against 53,999 other potential winners.
That last morning (May 24) you would learn if you won entry into the concert came. My alarm, which is set to the radio, went off. Lo and behold, the song that was playing was The Black-Eyed Peas' "I Gotta Feeling." My immediate gut reaction was: "I won the tickets!"
I logged onto my email account--no sign. I felt deflated as there was no indication of any confirmation. My gloom quickly dissipated--it was a slim chance in a city of 8 million people afterall. I did mention it to two friends in passing, laughing at the fact that that particular song was playing when I awoke. I was taking a stroll in Central Park with one of these friends and uttered: "I was sure I'd won," proceeding to sing the lyrics as we walked down a dimly-lit, winding path.
When I arrived home about an hour later, around 10:30pm, I logged onto my email account to get caught up on the day's collection of correspondence. There it was--an email from The Robin Hood Foundation. I had won! Four tickets no less! The song--in and of itself to boot--had indeed been a sign.
It made the lead-up to the concert all the more sweet. And then to learn that other acts like Debbie Harry and LL Cool J were also going to perform--need I say more?
I know there are a lot of irate New Yorkers out there who waited and got shuffled around like a herd of cattle (myself being one of them) last night, waiting for the gate to open to be able to get a place on the Great Lawn. Check-in had been delayed due to inclement weather. My sister and I were going together and had already gotten a leisurely start, so we weren't looking as haggard as some. After we were let in, a soft rain began to fall, a much milder version from earlier that day. It actually felt really good on my skin, as it had reached 100 degrees yesterday and I wasn't looking forward to standing in a crowd of hundreds of thousands of people in the stifling heat. The park also looked beautiful; the trees in full bloom, the grasses a vibrant green. As we slowly made our way, we were told the concert had been cancelled, learning later it was due to the lightning--which I can attest was plentiful (and strikingly beautiful). For me--hey it was free. I wasn't waiting for several hours like some people, so I guess I can take this viewpoint. I'll turn up for the re-scheduled performance for sure.
And will always be forever grateful - trust that feeling!
Saturday, May 28, 2011
The Adventures of Sasha P.'s Speakeasies (and more)
Years ago, I used to frequent a charming, little wine bar on the Lower East Side, called Von -- before it expanded to the much larger space it is now. While sipping on a glass of cabernet sauvignon, you could buy the antique chair you were sitting on. At the time, there was a very sweet bartender, whom I knew only as Sasha. We'd chat, nothing too deep that I can recall, and he'd often comp me drinks - cokes, if I wasn't in a wine-drinking mood.
I remember stopping by one evening, and to my dismay, Sasha was nowhere in sight. When I inquired of his whereabouts, the bartender working that night told me he'd left to open his own bar, handed me the number and location and I left soon after. That bar ended up being Milk and Honey, which was the start to a re-birth of Manhattan cocktails being served up in a speakeasy style establishment. I never followed through to venture to the bar and moved to London soon after. Interestingly, I had heard great things about Milk and Honey while I was overseas,.
I've been back for over four years now and speakeasies have swept the city. Sasha Petraske, as I was to learn his full name, is credited as being the godfather of New York cocktails. He owns numerous bars/speakeasies...so I have decided, in a pay-it-forward style, to visit each one (and ones under other ownership) and pay homage to Sasha.
I take a very romantic view of speakeasies. I love the Prohibition era, which is what popularized these bars that were serving alcohol illegally. Many New Yorkers might not be aware that Theater 80, on 80 St. Marks Place was a speakeasy in the '30s--and Frank Sinatra was a singing waiter there. Dizzy Gillespie used to perform there as well. (I interviewed the original owner years ago, before he died, and he gave me the low down).
Anyway...I made my first trip to Sasha's second bar--Little Branch, on Leroy Street and Seventh Ave. South.
I waited in line with my friend Dan. The door had an elegant brown sign with delicate engaving--we were in the right place. After 10 minutes or so--luckily under a gorgeous, breezy, summery air--we descended a dark set of stairs. I was very intrigued. And quite pleasantly surprised. The place is small and very sweet. Very simple in decor--stark, really, with a small bar to the right and a piano to the left. A trio started up with some live entertainment shortly after we arrived. There's a cluster of tables - booths - there as well. A single candle lights up each table top - giving the place a warm, very inviting glow. It's quite romantic, in fact. I loved that the male staff members were all dressed in vested suits. I felt transported to another era.
I am very much looking forward to my next speakeasy stop. Thanks, Sasha!
I remember stopping by one evening, and to my dismay, Sasha was nowhere in sight. When I inquired of his whereabouts, the bartender working that night told me he'd left to open his own bar, handed me the number and location and I left soon after. That bar ended up being Milk and Honey, which was the start to a re-birth of Manhattan cocktails being served up in a speakeasy style establishment. I never followed through to venture to the bar and moved to London soon after. Interestingly, I had heard great things about Milk and Honey while I was overseas,.
I've been back for over four years now and speakeasies have swept the city. Sasha Petraske, as I was to learn his full name, is credited as being the godfather of New York cocktails. He owns numerous bars/speakeasies...so I have decided, in a pay-it-forward style, to visit each one (and ones under other ownership) and pay homage to Sasha.
I take a very romantic view of speakeasies. I love the Prohibition era, which is what popularized these bars that were serving alcohol illegally. Many New Yorkers might not be aware that Theater 80, on 80 St. Marks Place was a speakeasy in the '30s--and Frank Sinatra was a singing waiter there. Dizzy Gillespie used to perform there as well. (I interviewed the original owner years ago, before he died, and he gave me the low down).
Anyway...I made my first trip to Sasha's second bar--Little Branch, on Leroy Street and Seventh Ave. South.
I waited in line with my friend Dan. The door had an elegant brown sign with delicate engaving--we were in the right place. After 10 minutes or so--luckily under a gorgeous, breezy, summery air--we descended a dark set of stairs. I was very intrigued. And quite pleasantly surprised. The place is small and very sweet. Very simple in decor--stark, really, with a small bar to the right and a piano to the left. A trio started up with some live entertainment shortly after we arrived. There's a cluster of tables - booths - there as well. A single candle lights up each table top - giving the place a warm, very inviting glow. It's quite romantic, in fact. I loved that the male staff members were all dressed in vested suits. I felt transported to another era.
I am very much looking forward to my next speakeasy stop. Thanks, Sasha!
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Dancin' in the Streets - NY Dance Parade 2011
This is the second year in a row that I have quite serendipitously happened upon the New York Dance Parade en route to the Union Square Greenmarket. I was in the subway passage at Union Square, about to exit, when I heard--and felt--the pulsating sounds of house music above me. Walking up the steps, I turned to look up Broadway to see a mix of people on a float - Tom & Zach Get Married - pink chapel, pink haired people dancing under the hot sun.
I couldn't decide if this was their after-party and was partly hoping it was--they just looked so into "the scene."
I love this city. I love these truly New York moments. I loved that I was experiencing a club atmosphere on the streets of Manhattan - happily recalling some of my well-spent college days club-hopping (I still miss The Red Zone). Following Tom & Zach were groups like Sisters in Motion, women dancing on old school roller-skates; pole dancers; the "Fully Focused Dance Group," which was a group of kids, essentially, boogeying down to the Black Eyed Peas; the KC Marching Falconers - which resembled a high school marching band--sans the instruments but with plenty of rhythm; a Jamaican Dance Hall Group.
Young, old, gay, straight, black, white, Hispanic and more--this parade is small--and I gather relatively unknown (at least I keep missing the memo on it). I did a bit of research and learned it's in its fifth year and showcases 74 forms of dance.
The description on its website made me smile:
Our mission is to promote dance as an expressive and unifying art form by showcasing all forms of dance, educating the general public about the opportunity to experience dance and celebrate the diversity of dance.
For more information on how we’re changing the world through dance, click here for a downloadable overview. Come check out who’s already registered. Is there a dance you don’t see? Is there a group that should be apart of this? Get them to join us!
I couldn't decide if this was their after-party and was partly hoping it was--they just looked so into "the scene."
I love this city. I love these truly New York moments. I loved that I was experiencing a club atmosphere on the streets of Manhattan - happily recalling some of my well-spent college days club-hopping (I still miss The Red Zone). Following Tom & Zach were groups like Sisters in Motion, women dancing on old school roller-skates; pole dancers; the "Fully Focused Dance Group," which was a group of kids, essentially, boogeying down to the Black Eyed Peas; the KC Marching Falconers - which resembled a high school marching band--sans the instruments but with plenty of rhythm; a Jamaican Dance Hall Group.
Young, old, gay, straight, black, white, Hispanic and more--this parade is small--and I gather relatively unknown (at least I keep missing the memo on it). I did a bit of research and learned it's in its fifth year and showcases 74 forms of dance.
The description on its website made me smile:
The parade route starts on 21st street. In honor of the earthquake victims, the parade will kick off with a Japanese Group. We will then progress in the history of dance order and boogie our way down Broadway-- Hula, swing and samba our way past Union Square and into University Place. At Eighth Street we will Salsa, Tango and Waltz East into Saint Marks Place and our Grandstand in between 3rd and 4th Aves. Our House, Techno and Disco floats will have afternoon shoppers wigglin as they watch us get down in the heart of the East Village. A straight shot from there brings us to DanceFest in Tompkins Square Park. At DanceFest we will come together and watch free dance performances on stage and at specific sites throughout the park--Free dance lessons are offered or you can enjoy a Dance Party.
Our mission is to promote dance as an expressive and unifying art form by showcasing all forms of dance, educating the general public about the opportunity to experience dance and celebrate the diversity of dance.
For more information on how we’re changing the world through dance, click here for a downloadable overview. Come check out who’s already registered. Is there a dance you don’t see? Is there a group that should be apart of this? Get them to join us!
I revelled in the joy--you can't not with such fanfare and celebration around this discipline.
The parade ended with Pacha, one of the house music floats. When the music died, it was as if we (inadvertent club goers) were dispersing from a good night "on the floor," as Jennifer Lopez would say.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Conversations about Dance
Bumming a cigarette during the first intermission of a New York City Ballet performance tonight proved to be quite fruitful. Not because I had a smoke in tow (with a generous offer for another during the next intermission), but because Stu, the kind gentleman (and cigarette benefactor) with whom I had become aquainted with, managed to encapsulate for me just why I love this dance company so much.
I've been a regular at The State Theater (I still call it that, though now it's the David H. Koch Theater) for roughly 14 years. I've never been able to articulate why I am drawn to it--chalking it up to "well, it's New York's own." I was still growing up in my early 20s--especially from a cultural standpoint, so I was growing up with the company--Damian Woetzel (I ran into him on the subway a couple of years ago--to his surprise, I recognized him), Jock Soto, Nikolaj Hubbe, Heather Watts--they were some of my idols.
But, tonight, while Stu and I were talking about dance, he pointed out that he prefers NYCB to American Ballet Theater, because there is much more dance--movement--to watch by virtue of the fact that it's a repertory company. ABT does produce lavish, beautiful story ballets, but the dancing, at times, gets overshadowed by the productions, he said. "The costumes get in the way," he added during the second intermission when I pressed him about his penchant for dance. I never considered that. Yes--NYCB--through George Balanchine and Jerome Robbins and the newer generations of balletmasters--do offer more excitement, innovation in dance. It's always been such a visceral experience for me in watching NYCB. I thought about this while I watched Opus 19/The Dreamer and particularly the finale, Fearful Symmetries, which incorporated more modern dance.
I loved to learn that Stu became a patron of dance through romance. He dated a ballet student in New York back in the sixties. They'd see all the companies that were based in the city or were passing through...something about her being a student of Martha Graham. Apparently, she and Stu didn't see eye to eye on Graham's particular style, though he didn't indicate that's why they broke up.
I'm glad she gave him the gift of dance.
Through a cigarette and a handshake, I now understand why I will always love NYCB.
I've been a regular at The State Theater (I still call it that, though now it's the David H. Koch Theater) for roughly 14 years. I've never been able to articulate why I am drawn to it--chalking it up to "well, it's New York's own." I was still growing up in my early 20s--especially from a cultural standpoint, so I was growing up with the company--Damian Woetzel (I ran into him on the subway a couple of years ago--to his surprise, I recognized him), Jock Soto, Nikolaj Hubbe, Heather Watts--they were some of my idols.
But, tonight, while Stu and I were talking about dance, he pointed out that he prefers NYCB to American Ballet Theater, because there is much more dance--movement--to watch by virtue of the fact that it's a repertory company. ABT does produce lavish, beautiful story ballets, but the dancing, at times, gets overshadowed by the productions, he said. "The costumes get in the way," he added during the second intermission when I pressed him about his penchant for dance. I never considered that. Yes--NYCB--through George Balanchine and Jerome Robbins and the newer generations of balletmasters--do offer more excitement, innovation in dance. It's always been such a visceral experience for me in watching NYCB. I thought about this while I watched Opus 19/The Dreamer and particularly the finale, Fearful Symmetries, which incorporated more modern dance.
I loved to learn that Stu became a patron of dance through romance. He dated a ballet student in New York back in the sixties. They'd see all the companies that were based in the city or were passing through...something about her being a student of Martha Graham. Apparently, she and Stu didn't see eye to eye on Graham's particular style, though he didn't indicate that's why they broke up.
I'm glad she gave him the gift of dance.
Through a cigarette and a handshake, I now understand why I will always love NYCB.
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