pidgen pidgen burning brite in the bus stations beyond the nite . . .
Ray-Ray's Morphine Experience in NYC
by: Ray-Ray
(reprinted with permission from ME: Bitch Rag! c. 1995)
Morphine @ Irving Plaza, NYC
Saturday, June 3, 1995
So, my good buddy from high school, John, invites me to his graduation at West Point, and promised loads of fun in the City if I went up. The only real problem was money: $5.25 an hour just doesn't leave much for vacation expenses, you know. I thought and thought. I called Greyhound and Amtrak and carefully recorded all the prices and compared them to see what might be my best bet. Finally, I got another buddy from high school, Nina, to agree to go, too. Her boyfriend, with whom she lives, was being a real dick and didn't like the idea of her going up there with me. He has no female friends and doesn't understand how Nina and I could be just friends. Oh well, fuck him, I thought.
She was excited, always loving to go on vacation and get away from her dreary waitressing job in Miami. I owe much adulation to the fine folks of Discover; without them, I would never have gone to New York, and would never have seen one of my favorite bands, Morphine, who played on Saturday, June 3rd at Irving Plaza.
The tickets were charged and Nina and I had round trip tickets for New York; we would be landing at La Guardia airport in northern Queens on June 1st at about 11 a.m. Good timing, 'cause we had to catch a series of buses and trains in order to reach John at West Point and arriving in the evening might've been a bit intimidating.
Well, everything went well and we arrived at La Guardia a few minutes early and scratched our heads when we stood at the gate and wondered what to do next; I knew that our next destination was the Port Authority. But, I couldn't remember if John had said we could walk that or if we needed to catch a cab, or what. So we went outside, carrying our bags over our shoulders, probably looking like seriously lost tourists by the way our heads looked all around us in amazement; as if we'd stepped off a spaceship and landed on the Moon. No, it wasn't the Moon--it was much scarier--it was New York.
A skinny little black guy came up to us and asked us where we were going, I said, "Port Authority," trying to sound confident, like I knew full well where I was and where I was going. I think he saw right through me. He pressed a few buttons on this hand-held contraption and it spit out two receipts for some chartered bus to the Port Authority. Ten bucks, each one read: Nina smiled and said, "No thanks." Ten bucks--fuck that, we needed to save as much as we could; the plane tickets cost enough, and work for the both of us had been slow the last month and we didn't have much. Also, dumb-ass me had bounced like three or four checks over the last few weeks at 29 bucks apiece: no, things would be tight, and we knew it would be expensive once we got to explore the city. Nina had about 80 bucks on a card, and my Visa was maxed out . . . had to save. So, the skinny little guy crumbled the receipts up and told us we could catch the public bus--number Q33--for a buck twenty-five and it would take us where we needed to go. OK.
So, we lugged our shit to the bus stop and caught the bus with a portly Asian guy who said he was going our way, too. We caught a train--the 7--to Grand Central, and walked up the stairs to the railroad station. It was beautiful--wood-paneled and well-lighted, clean floors and a high, high ceiling. We got two seven dollar tickets to Garrison station, where John was to meet us at 3 o'clock. Walking to the train, it looked just like the scene in Carlito's Way, where Al Pacino got killed: dark, save for the long fluorescent bulbs that ran down the length of the dock. When we sat down, I ate a granola bar and Nina read Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, by Hunter S. Thompson; a book of mine I'd just finished and told her it was the funniest book I'd ever read. She reads any book I recommend, I've always liked that about her.
We got to Garrison station about forty minutes early, and just sat there enjoying the scenery: mountains with miles of greenery; and it was pretty hot--no change from the Florida weather. Too bad, thought: I'd been hoping for cooler weather. Nina was happy--just the right temperature for her.
John arrived late, as usual, and smiled big and hugged us outside the old green Volvo his folks had borrowed from a friend in Queens. His little brother and sister were in the back seat; Nina squeezed in next to them. His mom was in the front seat, passenger side. We said all our hellos and talked the usual just arrived chit-chat--how we saw the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building from the plane, and how we almost got lost at Grand Central.
The next few days were pretty uneventful: had a couple Long Island Iced Teas at the hotel lounge that John's dad bought me; went to the West Point graduation (pretty boring); got to see the campus, which was beautiful, including a graveyard where I saw Custer's tomb. Wow. John took us to the Church, which boasted having the world's largest pipe organ. But there was a bunch of weddings scheduled on Graduation Day, so we got kicked out immediately. Oh well.
It was June 3rd, John had graduated, moved his shit out of his room and we left for the City in the Volvo; we arrived about an hour or so later and were dropped off somewhere, none of us knew, at a subway station. Just before descending the stairs, I heard an angry voice yelling: "Git out, I'll kick yo fokin' ass." Then I saw him kick the back door of a moving car and wave his hands up in the air. The car drove on and he was apparently going down to catch a train, too. I was a bit scared; I walked fast, bought our tokens and dropped mine in and hustled to the train which was about to leave.
John knew where we were going, I didn't. I just told him and Nina that we needed to be at Irving Plaza to see Morphine. The doors were opening at 8:30--so I figured they'd get on after ten some time. We strolled down the streets of the West Village, passing all sorts of clubs and cafés. John pointed out Jekyll and Hyde's, and said that he'd been there once and that it was real cool inside--like a torture chamber--but that it was expensive. There was a long line anyway. We walked a few more minutes, just soaking up the happening Saturday night scene of the Village--a hell of a lot more exciting than Orlando, and even Miami, in my opinion. New York was It, all right, no doubt about it. We stopped in the Mona Lisa Café for something to drink. Nina and John got some fancy-ass chocolate espresso something-or-other; I got a simple "American Coffee"--the true test of any coffee shop was whether or not their coffee--just a basic, unadorned cup of java--was good. We also bought an "Assortment of Cookies" for the low, low price of $2.95. The drinks came, then the cookies: five cookies. They were OK--but something you could get at any grocery store bakery--and 3 bucks for 5 cookies; that's 60 cents a cookie! Shit . . . oh well, I thought. I'm on vacation, I guess; and Nina paid the tab anyway. The coffee was bitter--not good, I put lots of sugar in it. However, I did get a refill that was SUPERB, let me tell you--just right. I smiled and held my cup in front of me and told John and Nina, "Now this is a good cup of coffee!" I was in a better mood.
It began raining heavily, but stopped by the time we were done, and the manager gave us scarce directions to Irving Plaza, where Morphine were getting on soon, I figured. It was about nine or so. We walked in the direction we were told and asked a couple times along the way to make sure we were on the right track. New Yorkers seem to pride themselves on their directions. They walk so damn fast everywhere and seem a bit rude, but if you stop someone on the street, you'll more than likely get a smiling, confident face that'll give you directions to Hell, if you ask.
We got there and I could hear them playing already; the guy at the door said they'd played about three songs so far. We bought our tickets and I rushed into the club, John and Nina tagging slowly behind; neither of them had actually even heard of Morphine. "It's a cool, jazzy band, with a sax and no guitar player--they're pretty dark," I told them. They didn't care--they were game for anything. Good, 'cause I'd been wanting to see them for a while, ever since I heard their Cure for Pain CD, a while back, and their new album which they were on tour for, Yes. They never came to Florida, so this was my only chance.
The club was packed. We stood on the side downstairs, but thought it better to go upstairs and watch from the balcony. It was. I got lost in the dark tones and deep growls of the baritone sax. On a few songs, he played two saxes at once. This turned the whole trip around for me. It grounded me a little and made me forget about everything that was bugging me at home (financial difficulties), and erased the last few boring days surrounded by conservative, uptight West Point parents and relatives who talked about nothing but their experiences in war and how proud they were of their son or daughter for kissing enough ass for the last four years to graduate with honors and receive commissions as second lieutenants.
The band performed all my favorites, but one, "I'm Free Now," from Cure for Pain. Mark Sandman, the bassist and singer was cool throughout the performance, announcing before the first and second encore that they were about to play "technically, the last song of the evening." They didn't leave the stage till after the second "encore," and came back again for one more song. It felt so good to be back in touch with something familiar, being so far from home; the concert raised my spirits for the remaining days. And John and Nina said they enjoyed it, too. Good.
I needed a clean shirt for the next day; at least, this was the excuse I used for myself to buy a T-shirt. But my main objective was done, I saw Morphine. The rest of the trip was pretty laid-back; we went wherever, whenever: walked down Times Square; strolled through the East Village and saw junk sculptures; slept on a rock in Central Park and watched ladies walk their well-groomed dogs.
The last day, Monday the 5th, John bought Nina and me lunch at this vegetarian joint in Chinatown. Good meal . . . free meal . . . superb meal! Nina got a cab in Queens, where we stayed the last few days, to La Guardia. The cabby was probably younger than me, and spoke little English--fare was $8.50, gave him a ten, and made our way to the terminal. We got there about 5--an hour before the plane would take off. Nina called her asshole boyfriend in Miami to tell him she was at the airport and heading home; he told her he was glad she was finally going to be home and that he didn't want her hanging out with me anymore. He's always hated me, anyhow. Fuck him. I told her he was an asshole and had no right, but she was upset and dreaded getting home from a tiring trip just to argue with him 'cause he was jealous she was having fun with two guys in New York. Hell, she'd called him twice a day for Christ's sake! I guess that time, drunk off her ass, with me laughing "Bob, I wuv you," from the hotel lounge, didn't make things any better. Fuck him. We had a great time. The City ruled, Morphine changed the whole trip around for me, and I can't wait to get back to New York real soon.
video of the very show I attended:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXnGxASoXn0&feature=PlayList&p=931810529826AA88&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=100
