The World's Biggest Kiddush

That would have been my preferred title for the post, but I am not losing sleep over it.  I have another article on the Faster Times:

http://www.thefastertimes.com/blog/2011/11/10/kosherfest/

Though originally I was going to write a piece with a larger scope in mind - where the kosher industry is now, recent scandals - I am happy to have stuck to the KosherFest event itself, which really was a remarkable experience.

I'd really appreciate if you checked out the link and article and if you're feeling frisky, leaving a comment on the Faster Times website.  You can even pass it on to friends - really, it's okay.

Thanks for reading.

iOccupy

"Last American Who Knew What the F-- He Was Doing Dies," read The Onion's take on Steve Jobs's death this past week.  A fitting tribute because Jobs was a brilliant innovator and business leader, and because most great technological breakthroughs happen elsewhere these days.  Apple was the exception, and its products have had a profound impact on the way we connect to each other, for better or worse.

Jobs was not, however, quite the Zen visionary as captured in so many obituaries this week.  As Mike Daisey, whose off-Broadway play about Jobs opens this week, points out in his NY Times op-ed, Jobs exploited cheap labor in China, and by creating proprietary hurdles for most Apple products, he turned Apple's original open-source philosophy on its head in order to create his empire.  Steve Jobs was no more or less ruthless than most CEO's of major American corporations, but people loved him because they fell in love with the products he introduced, creating a brand loyalty, ruthlessly enforced or not, that most companies could only envy.

iPhone, iPod, iPad, iTunes, iMac: So many people this week credited Jobs with decentralizing the power institutions of the world and putting it in the hands of the individual.  The genius of embracing one's inner i.  The advertising campaigns exhorting us to be heroes, to think differently, to switch.  Ultimately, however, Jobs gave us products that homogenized our world, aggregated our preferences, and left us with more entertainment but no more empowerment than we had before.  There are exceptions of course.  iMovie, Garage Band and iPhoto became invaluable tools for some new artists.  Apple's promise, however, was that we would no longer be lemmings (to Microsoft).  We could have our own voice and make a difference in the world.

The day after Jobs's death, I attended a taping of the Colbert Show.  Before the taping began, Colbert came out to answer questions from the studio audience.  He was introduced as "the greatest living American."  Colbert answered questions out of character but was just as smart and funny as he is while performing.  One audience member asked Colbert if he planned on writing more segments about the Occupy Wall Street movement.  Colbert got very serious.  He said they had done one story about it but that he didn't want to do any further material because "I think they have a good thing going there, and I don't think my  talking about it on my show will be good for them."  Though he had answered the question in a personable manner, I got the sense that Colbert didn't want to joke around about Occupy Wall Street.

Colbert didn't want to joke about Steve Jobs either.  He created a funny but ultimately heartfelt tribute to Jobs that reflected Colbert's own love for Apple.

Colbert's guest that night was Jason Amerine, a Green Beret who served alongside Hamid Karzai in the early days of the Afghanistan war.  It was an unusually somber interview by Colbert's standards, and Amerine's humorless demeanor didn't help.  There was an unusual sincerity to the conversation.  Colbert: "When people say 'thank you for your service, is that the right thing to say? Is there something else?"  Amerine: "It's the right thing to say but for us it's difficult because we think of those who died, those who are still serving overseas, or who are recovering in hospitals from serious injury.  That's what makes it so hard to know what to say."

When the Colbert Show was over, my friend and I decided to head down to Occupy Wall Street.  As we approached Liberty and Broadway I heard the drum beats.  There was much more: A media center, a 24/7 political rally, an information table, a kitchen and mess hall, an area for displaying protest signs and, on the Church Street side of the park, a hippie drum session, longhairs dancing a multiculti boogie while people banged on drums, tambourines, railings, garbage cans, park benches.  My God, this is really happening.

I saw chaos, but also focus.  There was a nerve center organizing general assemblies, coordinating with local civil rights groups, labor unions and liberal orgs.  Yes, there were people high as a kite, there were love-ins, there was revelry.  But many more people were talking about the issues of the day, telling bystanders why they were there and what they hoped to accomplish.  This idea that the protesters do not have a coherent message is garbage.  They are more clear-eyed and informed than most of the people who would be happy to dismiss them.

On one railing someone had taped an American flag, the fifty stars replaced by the logos of 50 American corporations.  Apple was on the flag, alongside McDonald's and Coca-Cola.  I wondered what Steve Jobs would have said about the protesters.  Here was thinking differently.  Here was the elevated i.  All of the media center protesters were working on iMacs.  But would Jobs have approved?

We walked around for a long time Thursday night.  We talked to some of the organizers.  We donated money to the kitchen fund.  Finally we had to leave.  We stopped by the information table.  My friend found a flyer announcing that Yom Kippur services would be held at the protest site at 7 PM the next night.  I decided right away to return on Friday.

---

For seven years I worked on the 53rd floor of One Liberty Plaza.  The building is notable for having the best bird's eye view of the World Trade Center site.  I spent a lot of time facing west, looking over the slow-moving construction of the new WTC buildings.  Not once did I turn south and look down at Liberty Square/Zuccotti Park.  The square was just a place you walked through to get elsewhere.  Other than a weekly farmers market, I don't remember any event ever being held in the square.

Now, less than a year after I took a job in Midtown, this little, nothing park had become the epicenter of a political movement.  The irony of the location was all I could think of as I got off the train Friday night and walked across Broadway to Noguchi's red cube, where the Kol Nidre services had already begun.  I had expected a handful of Jews, maybe a singing of the Kol Nidre prayer and not much more.  Instead I came upon hundreds of people gathered in a large circle while 4-5 rabbis led from the middle of the circle.  

The righteous shall flourish like the palm tree.

They shall thrive like a cedar in Lebanon.

The spirit of the protesters, the spirituality of the voices in prayer, overwhelmed me.  This year I had gathered with others for more than my own reckoning.   

The circle continued to grow.  Across the street the drums continued to thump.  Organizers were leading a declaration of their demands as we started the Al Chet:

And for the sin which we have committed before You by hard-heartedness.

For the sin which we have committed before You by false denial and lying.

And for the sin which we have committed before You by a bribe-taking or a bribe-giving hand.

For the sin which we have committed before You in business  dealings. 

For the sin which we have committed before You by [taking or  giving] interest and by usury.

For the sin which we have committed before You by running to do evil.

It felt real.  It felt, period.

I hopped back on the train to Brooklyn in time for the deafening quiet of my synagogue's Kol Nidre service.  A congregant played the cello, fomenting a sense of gravitas.  We sat.  We stood.  We sat again.  The rabbi spoke well, explained the history of the synagogue and the hard times it had faced since the current building opened more than 100 years ago.  I went home that night wishing the synagogue had held services in Zuccotti Park.

The next night I broke the fast in New Jersey.  As I sat down for my first bites, someone across the table mentioned Occupy Wall Street.  "They're a bunch of Americans who live in a capitalist society and are anti-capitalism," he said.  "They don't have jobs so it's easy for them to sit around and do nothing."

I left the room rather than debate the point.  I thought of one of the signs I had seen at the protest site: WE'RE JUST A BUNCH OF DIRTY LAZY HIPPIES.  Two out of three, perhaps.  Lazy?  I don't know anyone personally who would be willing to sleep outside in a public park for weeks on end, motivated only by their political convictions.  It puts the Tea Party to shame.  It puts all of us limousine liberals to shame.  Occupy Wall Street is doing the heavy lifting.  Copycat protests are sprouting up across the country.  This is real.  This is what political change looks like.  Be part of the 99% and support the young leaders who are taking a stand against corporate greed and wealth consolidation.  Support Occupy Wall Street.  

We Don't Have to Talk

"Will you still need me, will you still feed me..." her singing voice is softer, more childlike than her speaking tone.

"...When I'm 64!" I'd sing on cue, with a flourish.  

She would chuckle.  I'd say something else, try to make her chuckle again, maybe a little scream of laughter.  She'd tell me she's getting old.  Then she'd tell me which politician was pissing her off or which athlete was cute.  She would tell me about the latest movie she saw at the Uptown, or what Bobby the Cleaner said about the hated Red Sox, or her latest Indian dinner.

"So howya doin' kiddo?"

She would have said all these things on her birthday, if she could still talk.

My Aunt Jessica turned 64 this week.  She lives in an assisted living home in Maryland.  She is clean, safe and well fed.  She doesn't get out much.  She doesn't talk, not anymore.  Dementia has ruined her life.  We could talk about the how: How did this happen at such a young age?  Or the why: why why why why why.

Jessica Goldstein has been, at various times, a shy kid, a Phi Beta Kappa student, a Congressional aide, a resident of San Francisco, an owner of a little red convertible, an accountant, a Yankees and Redskins fan, a Sidney Poitier groupie, a Ms. Pac-Man addict, a puzzle lover, at public television hostess, the greatest Trivial Pursuit player I have ever known, a chain smoker, a Chardonnay drinker, a stock guru. a piano player, and a true friend to her three nephews.

She has also lived the private life we all carry within ourselves, the inner voice which cannot be captured in words.  And there is a chance that my Aunt Jessica continues to live that private existence even after most of her external connections have been stripped away. 

When I talk to her on the phone or visit her in person, she gives signs of recognition.  If I tell her a story she enjoys she'll say "exactly! exactly!"  If I mention a sports team or politician she likes, she might make an "mmmm hmmm" sound.  She is thus still connected to the world around her; tenuously, silently, and like a final scene in a Charlie Chaplin movie, trapped inside a bubble of light shrinking quickly, the darkness closing in around her.  

If she can understand me then she still possesses thoughts, and therefore memories, and if so then maybe her days are still full.  Is that good?  I don't know.

My brothers and I never called her Aunt Jessica.  We used the Yiddish word for aunt, Tante, which quickly became Tanti and eventually, Tonsil.  Tonsillitis.  Tonsillectomy.  She loves it. 

I used to tease Jessica that she was “one of” my favorite aunts, but really she is the only relative I knew well outside of my immediate family.  I have no uncles, no first cousins. Tonsil never married, never lived with anyone, never had kids.  Being our aunt is the best and most important thing in her life. 

Tonsil was, for a long time, the person I could confide in above all others.  Her sympathy and advice helped me get through the tough moments.  I would have been lost without her.

At some point I got more preoccupied, needed her less, but she also started acting strangely, drinking more.  She stopped visiting me in New York, would cancel weekend trips at the last minute citing some bizarre excuse.  She lost her job, watched some of her closest friends die from AIDS, cancer and other ailments.  She filed people’s tax returns out of her apartment, supplemented that income with her stock earnings (she made a killing off Disney and Coca Cola), lived frugally, sold her car, and that worked for a while.  Until things started to fall off the cliff, and I won’t recite the events that led to my aunt losing her freedom, her apartment, her entire life, other than to say it was either get her in a home or wait for the inevitable, and it wouldn’t have been a long wait.

I called Tonsil on her birthday.  Our phone calls last 9-10 minutes these days.  They used to go 90-100.  I do all the talking now.  The phone at the assisted-living home rang three times.  A man answered the phone.  I asked for Jessica Goldstein.  The next thing I heard was the man, in the background: “Say hello.  Say hello.  Say hello.  Say hello.” Don’t you think she wants to??? 

I started in.  “Tonsil, it’s Josh!  How’s it going? Doing okay?  How’s the weather?  I heard it’s been raining down there.”  And off we go. 

On her birthday I got three laughs, two “mmm hmmm”s and zero “exactlys,” which might not be coming back.  She listened to me talk about the kids, my brothers, sports, politics, movies, whatever I could think of.  While I rambled on I thought about writing a screenplay in which a teenager is forced to watch his dementia-afflicted grandfather once a week, during which time he ends up sharing his deepest secrets or maybe even a crime committed, the grandfather’s silence proving therapeutic, the son coming to relish these one-sided conversations until…

I could cast Sidney Poitier as the grandfather.

I said goodbye to Tonsil, wished her a happy birthday again, and listened to her put down the phone on the table and walk away, no doubt back to the couch in front of the TV and her spot alongside the left armrest.  She’s at least ten years younger than anyone else in the home.  Her birthday was last week.  She’s 64 years old now.  There isn’t much more left to say.

Never Forget What?

As the articles, video tributes and Facebook posts continued to roll in this weekend I wondered: to what end?  People have their hearts in the right place.  They want to connect, to a moment and to each other.  People talking about where they were that day, what they felt, how they coped on 9/12/01.  It's natural and good and maybe even cathartic in small doses.

Yet I was not feeling nostalgic.  I was there on 9/11, three blocks away from the World Trade Center.  I was unharmed.  I knew people who died that day, but not anyone I loved.  The day was scary and overwhelming.  It is the most important historical event of my lifetime, and I witnessed it.  But the anniversary and the looking back wasn't speaking to me.

When the Holocaust Museum opened in Washington D.C. in 1993, the Washington Post published a letter from my father, a Holocaust survivor.  My father questioned the merits of a museum dedicated to the memory of the genocide against Jews and other groups at the hands of the Nazis when another genocide was being conducted in Bosnia and Herzegovina, at a time when the United States and United Nations were not yet willing to combat the Bosnian Serb Army.

Have we learned from 9/11?  Darfur happened in the years since 9/11.  Half a million murders, millions displaced.  The killing of innocent people in Iraq, people and a country who had absolutely nothing to do with 9/11.  At least 100,000 civilians have lost their lives since the Iraq campaign began.  And we sent soldiers to die in a war that didn't have to be waged.  Those lives were worth every bit as much as the lives lost in 9/11.

How many lives have been lost due to ongoing environmental disasters, many of them preventable?

What are we never forgetting?

This is how I felt as I rolled my shopping cart down Seventh Avenue at 8:38 this morning on my way to the food coop, slightly resentful of the "healing power" of remembering, tweeting away our guilt and grief while Rome continues to burn.

Right next to the Park Slope Food Coop is Squad No. 1 Firehouse of the New York City Fire Department.  As I turned onto Union Street I saw that both fire trucks were parked out front.  There were 20-30 people gathered around, many of them brandishing cameras.  I slowed down, took off my headphones and turned off the iPod.  The front door to the fire house opened.  A dozen firefighters walked out onto the sidewalk.  They joked and chatted amongst themselves as the crowd hovered closer.  At 8:46 they formed two lines facing, and saluted each other.  One firefighter read a short statement about 9/11.  Squad No. 1 lost twelve firefighters on 9/11.  A wooden statue stands between the fire house and the food coop, the names of all 343 firefighters who died that day inscribed on its base.

The firefighter finished reading the statement.  Another salute.  The firefighters exchanged handshakes, hugs.  Someone from the crowd yelled his gratitude, and others seconded it.  The firefighters disappeared back into the squad house, never acknowledging the bystanders.  A private ceremony on the open sidewalk.

The moment triggered my own memories of 9/11/01.  I suddenly felt some of what I felt that day.  It reminded me how much we carry emotionally, just below the surface, and how small moments can summon up even deep and ancient feelings.

But my moment was not a tribute.  I was reminded how inept I feel when it comes to making the world a better place.  How inept our political leaders are.  How jaded and comfortable so many of us are, unwilling to sacrifice or too busy to do more.

I continued on to the food coop.  At 9:03 AM I remembered that we were out of organic string cheese.

I will never forget 9/11.  When will we start remembering what we have to do?

A Greek, An Indian and a Jew Get Into an Elevator...

Recently Archie asked me what S&M meant in Rihanna's hit song by the same name.  Normally I'd be as flustered as any other parent confronted with a similar question from their six year old child, but thanks to something that happened to me 15 years ago I had an answer ready.

In 1996 I was working for an insurance company in Newark.  The job wasn't anything great but it was a fun work environment: lots of young, fun-loving and weird people with plenty of idle time on their hands.  One day I got on a down elevator with two co-workers.  One was Sanjay (not real name), an Indian male in his late 20's who worked in IT.  The other was Hercules (real name), a Greek guy who bore a strong resemblance to John Belushi until he opened his mouth.  Not only was Hercules not the funniest guy around, he was pretty weird to boot.  Every once in a while he'd come by my desk and ask me "should I do it?  Should I do it?"  No intro.  Invariably I'd give him a puzzled look, get no further explanation, and reluctantly reply "go for it man, go for it."  That was pretty much all I knew about Herc.

So it's Sanjay, Hercules and me on the elevator.  Hercules immediately starts packing his Marlboro Lights against his arm: PACK-PACK-PACK-PACK-PACK.  I never understood that move.  Sanjay is in the other corner, and he cannot keep his head up.  I asked him if he was okay.

"Oh I am so tired, so very tired!" he said.

Herc leveled his gaze at Sanjay.  "What you need," PACK-PACK-PACK, "is a little R," PACK-PACK-PACK, "and R," he said.

Sanjay was puzzled.  "Tell me," he asked, "what is R and R?"

Hercules had the voice of a late night FM radio jockey.  "A little Rest,"  PACK-PACK-PACK, "and Relaxation."  Sanjay beamed, took pleasure in Hercules' mellifluous flow.

I got involved. "You could probably also use some S&M."

Immediately Sanjay exclaimed. "Aha!  Sweets and Money!"

Hercules never looked at me, only at Sanjay.   "I'll explain later."

First floor.   PACK-PACK-PACK.

Little Stars, Bears, Rainbows and Me

[Written Friday, August 5, 2011]

When I started this blog, it was about self-expression  Writing was what I really wanted to do with my time, my next career.  But increasingly I ask myself: who am I writing for?  I have come to realize that I am writing this blog for my kids, so that one day they'll know a side of me I can't express to them directly. 

Today I want to document the place and the people that took care of Archie and Layla the past five years, the families we've met, and where Daddy has been so many nights the past three years.  You see, today is Layla's Graduation Day from the Park Slope Child Care Collective, and it marks the end of a five year relationship with PSCCC.  It hasn't always been pretty, but it has been beautiful.

In Park Slope we love collectives and coops the way Memphis loves barbecue.  PSCCC was formed almost 40 years ago as yet another post-hippie institution in what we now call Brownstone Brooklyn, the yuppies glomming on to what the yippies built, urban bohmeia replaced by Brooklyn Industries.  PSCCC defied gentrification and remained true to core values: Diversity. Socialization. Expressing feelings. Working families.  Volunteering families. Teacher loyalty.  Love.

Platitudes, made real.  Parents who sent their kids to PSCCC raved about it, were a family, looked out for each other, had only fond memories. 

For a very long time the school's impresario, its director, was a woman named Renee.  She was a true throwback: no teeth, no bra, no inhibitions.  She was Woodstock and Hair and Free to Be You and Me embodied in one person, a guide to children and parents alike.  When you visited PSCCC she would talk about the love, the feelings, personal growth, emotional development over ABC's and 1-2-3's. 

And the school delivered as promised, classrooms that were diverse in many senses of the word, with high teacher ratios, teachers who had been there for ten years or more, many of them a product of minority educational initiatives that gave Brooklyn women who had fallen through the cracks a second chance at having a career.  PSCCC was a tireless advocate for these women, and in turn they were "going to love your children all up," the first thing any PSCCC teacher ever said to me, a moment that will stay with me. 

To be a parent of a not-yet 2 year-old, nervous about letting go, trusting a new place, new faces - us, not Archie; at his first school visit, just 16 months old, he offered Renee his bagel and ate a green marker instead, thus guaranteeing his admission.  To walk into a place you instantly knew you could trust was not just a godsend, it was unique.

Archie started school in the fall 2006, then a few weeks later Layla was born, and a few weeks after that, as we sat in our apartment at 5 AM, everyone having been awake for quite some time (as was the norm back then; Archie has the early bird gene), we heard sirens, then more sirens, coming closer to our apartment building and then thankfully, or so we thought, trail away.  Soon enough, we learned those fire engines were headed for the church where PSCCC was located.  A hot water heater had somehow started a fire and the venerable, largely wooden building was quickly aflame, a four-alarm fire that drew the attention of the local news, a fire that could have begun to rage in the middle of the day, during nap time, or yoga, or free play.  But it didn't. Nobody was hurt. 

Still, many families were traumatized and the school was displaced for the rest of the school year.  We used parents' living rooms, then the Old First Church, then a space at Power Play, and finally an abandoned Catholic School in Carroll Gardens that overlooked the BQE.  Through it all, PSCCC didn't miss a day.  Renee, teachers and parents worked tirelessly to keep things together.

A year later, the school was back at the original church space but things were still chaotic.  The parents met and eventually decided to re-form the school board which, as a non-profit entity, the school was required to have.  My “big break”: I was chosen to be board president, a position I ended up holding for three and a half years until stepping down last month.

During that time PSCCC has faced countless challenges.  In 2009 we discovered that Renee and her husband had embezzled a lot of money, had put us in tremendous financial peril, that we faced legal liability with the IRS, the State of New York, and others.  As a result, PSCCC has had to dig itself out of a hole a mile deep.  The first step was convincing the parents not to abandon ship.  A few weeks after the 2009-10 school year began I stood in front of the parents and told them what we knew.  I told them not to lose faith, that we needed their loyalty.  That the teachers needed their loyalty.  In the end, not a single family left PSCCC that year. (At graduation I will wear the same shirt I wore when I faced the parents two years ago)

There were many obstacles to regaining stability the past two years, but the dark clouds have passed.  PSCCC has largely resolved its tax problems and legal obligations.  We are at full enrollment.  Over 100 families visited the school for 15 open spots during our winter open house.  A few teachers have come and gone but most have stuck it out, and no paychecks were missed.  Parent volunteerism is at an all-time high.  The school has a computer, a website, and a new director.  PSCCC has persevered.

A pre-school's existence is tenuous, however.  There are regulations, narrow profit margins, staffing issues, parent demands, lease problems.  PSCCC will have to be vigilant in order to thrive, but no more or less than any other Brooklyn pre-school.

And after five years, PSCCC will go on without us.  Layla has made such good friends there - Clara and Oviya and Julius and Julian and Soha and Sophia, from Aalioune to Zoe - and she has grown into a smart, fun, funny and caring person, just like her brother.  Not for a minute did I ever have to worry that she wasn't being taken care of and looked out for.  That is a gift for any family.  I trust there will be more great schools and great teachers in Archie and Layla's future. But never again will we, as a family, feel the intimacy that PSCCC gave us.

It is also possible that someday Archie and Layla will be betrayed by someone they cared about, much like Renee betrayed all of us.  Hopefully I won't be the culprit.  Even better, maybe I can be there to give this advice: What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

And to all parents, a reminder: You will never love your children as much as they love you.  PSCCC showed us love and support that was truly humbling.

Last month twelve PSCCC families went camping together.  When it rained torrentially the first night, we went to a diner and made the best of it (“you get what you get and you don’t get upset”).  When we barbecued for dinner, every family made food for everyone else (“sharing is caring”).  Plans were made for next year’s retreat.  A neighborhood is great; a community, even better.

A few weeks ago the teacher surprised me with a thank you party.  Cupcakes, gifts, sparkling cider (it was during school hours) and cards.  It was an overwhelming gesture, thoughtful and generous as one would expect from this group of women.  Parents often talk about the love these teachers show our kids, but sometimes it borders on patronizing.  These women are also smart, thoughtful, intelligent, insightful.  The teachers made toasts.  I bit my lip, hard. 

Near the end one teacher, a woman whose self-esteem is far lower than her talents and compassion deserve, spoke up.  She is now the first-ever teacher representative on the school board.  She thanked me for giving the teachers a voice they never had.    In that moment, I was reminded that I had gotten something I never had as well.

I Get It

Georgia, Ira and James.  

Not exactly Mick and Keith or JohnPaulGeorgeRingo.  

But they are the trio who play in my favorite band, Yo La Tengo.  And having just seen them again last week at the Bell House, right here in Da Slope (is there anything better than being able to hear great music in your own neighborhood?), I am reminded this week not just of why I love them so much, but the importance of going with what you feel.  I want to pay tribute to my favorite band in the world, and will try to do it without sounding like either a Bieber Head or Robert Christgau.

But knowing what we like is more important than ever.  Consider what the internet has done to personal taste.  Now we have five star systems for our literature and music.  We have an Artist of the Day competition.  We have Dancing With the Stars.  Opinions are aggregated so that marketing dollars can be put to their best use.  The Yelping of the arts.  

In the face of all that, well we all need someone we can lean on.  I lean on Yo La Tengo.

         whatever you want from me

whatever you want I'll do

try to squeeze a drop of blood

from a sugarcube

Even now, fourteen years after I first heard I Can Hear the Heart Beating As One in my West Village apartment, my head exploding to Sugarcube, (ever seen the video with the Mr. Show folks?), blown away by Deeper Into Movies, the whole album like nothing I had even heard before, I am still in awe of what Yo La Tengo does. 

The way their songs seem to speed up and slow down all at once.  Hopeful whispers floating over dissonant guitars. A suburban Sonic Youth, smart but not knowing.  Melodic, angry; tender, raw.  Ethereal vocals, shredding guitar solos, thumping rhythms.  

Acid lullabies.  

try to be more assured

try to be more right there

try to be less uptight

try to be more aware

whatever you want from me

is what I want to do for you

sweeter than a drop of blood

from a sugarcube

Yo La Tengo got their name from the Spanish version of a baseball player saying “I got it” when catching a fly ball.  The name fits because, as they say about baseball, every time you see Yo La Tengo you see something you have never seen before.  They are always trying something new, always giving you a new version of your favorite song, tirelessly mining the material. 

You always know they care deeply about what they do, and despite their years of success approach the music with freshness, energy and curiosity.  At Bell House the band was winding down on The Race Is on Again, Ira playing that irresistible melody, and you could just feel it was taking all his self control not to leap into another riff, a new idea, set the place on fire yet again.   Small songs about love, what we think about lying in bed late at night, minds raging while the world sleeps.

         And that's why

If you're looking at me

I'll try

To be what you want to see

And if I

If I'm ever that lucky

You won't have to be so

You won't have to be so sad

Last night

I was trying to read in bed

I got to watching you sleep instead

Even when I got tired I couldn't stop

Because I love you so

And I pray you know

But I'm not one for praying

You knew I couldn't say that without making a joke

I love that Georgia and Ira have been living and working together for more than 25 years.  There have been other married couples in bands but I can’t think of one that works as well musically as Georgia and Ira.  Maybe Richard and Linda Thompson but that was more short-lived. 

         when I heard the knock on the door

I couldn't catch my breath

is it too late to call this off?

we could slip away

wouldn't that be better?

me with nothing to say

and you in your autumn sweater

Georgia’s talents are absolutely crucial to the band.  She is a fantastic drummer, powerful and precise.  Her lilting vocals give the band its Velvet Underground ambiance.  She carries herself with dignity and humility.  Yo La Tengo called one of their albums Genius + Love = Yo La Tengo, and though Ira is one of my favorite guitar players ever, there’s no question Georgia completes that equation all by herself.

I love the way the band members exchange places during the show, James on drums, Ira on keyboard, Georgia on theremin, whatever the song calls for.  When I hear Ira play keyboard I wonder why he doesn’t do it more. I wonder why Georgia doesn’t sing lead vocals all the time.

I love that the band played its own version of Wheel of Fortune at the Bell House.  The wheel was spun to determine the set list for the first half of the show.  The winner: Songs with a Proper Name. (great set)

I love that Yo La Tengo is true to its Hoboken roots, that the band that opened for them (Antietam) is a New Jersey band that opened for them on their very first tour in 1985.  Yo La Tengo loves to collaborate, and you can tell that when an outside musician steps on stage to play with these guys, it is an honor.  And to this day Yo La Tengo sponsors a fundraiser for independent local radio WFMU 91.1; they take requests all night long in exchange for pledges.  True to their roots.

I love that Yo La Tengo plays all eight nights of Hanukkah at Maxwellís every year.  Eight straight nights of great comedians (Eugene Mirman, David Cross, the woman from Flight of the Conchords, Todd Barry), great opening acts (The National, Magnetic Fields, Alex Chilton), and then a huge, awe-inspiring set they perform for 150 of their closest friends.  It is always an incredible night at Maxwell’s, though as Ira likes to say “the best night is always the night you weren’t there.”

         Driving in the south, the motor's on fire

Let's put it out, before the flames go higher

Monday matinee, in pull we are life's throb

So hard to choose between conceit and rock

Some college in the spring, the sound is all wrong

Reset the mate to our Flamin Groovies song

Driving, night again, they're late, car crash

We'll turn to look unless we're going too fast

I love that Yo La Tengo is something I can just feel.  I don’t know all their lyrics by heart, or even the order of songs on their albums.  It doesn’t seem to matter.  I just get it.  

They ended the Bell House show with Neil Young's For the Turnstiles.  NY used to be my guy, and I still love his music.  Yo La Tengo loves performing covers, but this one was extraordinary.  The anxiety of the original version was replaced with a sense of affection and appreciation.

         All the bush league batters

Are left to die

on the diamond.

In the stands

the home crowd scatters

For the turnstiles.

And here's a can't miss offer: I will make a Yo La Tengo mix CD for anyone who asks.  Shipping and handling included.  Order now...