Sharing the Love

Fueled by an Industrial sub eaten in the sunshine at Coppola's, I was ready for anything.

First there were two brothers reading.

I was the first arrival upstairs at Chop Suey and convinced the guests to open the window and let in the afternoon warmth.

Steve Wishnia's book, "When the Drumming Stops" was technically fiction but it drew on his own experiences in the NYC music scene.

"It was love at first pluck," a character said about his $200 Fender guitar purchase.

Sounds like something my formerly prickly friend Paul would say.

His characters took their music seriously, one defending his love of a song because despite its dance beat, it had noisy guitars.

Rock and roll is supposed to make you dance, we were reminded.

How many times have I heard that?

There was a reference to "thirteen perfect notes in four bars," a terrific descriptor, and a "helicopter in a  cave buzz" (which sounds an awful lot like my beloved "music from a cave") and having "captured the spirit of Coney island in 2:49."

No mean feat, that.

His brother Ken, who'd written the mystery "23 Shades of Black," began by explaining where he found inspiration, which once was in a church in Ecuador where he noticed that the hymn numbers on the board reminded him of baseball card stats.

It takes a certain kind of mind, if you know what I mean.

His heroine was a female cop, coincidentally Ecuadorean like his wife, trying to make it in the male world of an '80s-era NYC police force.

Considering it was a man writing in a woman's voice, the words rang surprisingly true.

After his reading, he talked about the luxury of youth, saying he had written the bones of his first book in six weeks, back before he had drains like wife, kids and job.

Squander it while you can, kid, he advised the youngest member of the audience.

Because the group was small, the discussion afterwards was more like a conversation which eventually included all of us and I admitted how I earn a living.

They immediately jumped on it, asking me to recommend a vegetarian restaurant they could walk to afterwards.

In thanks for my suggestion, I was awarded the book giveaway, "Send My Love and a Molotov Cocktail: Stories of Crime, Love and Rebellion," in which Ken had a story.

It was an awfully nice gesture considering I couldn't afford to buy any of their books, interesting as they sounded.

Then it was down to the Bottom for Fado Nasso's CD release show at Globehopper.

I'd been invited by Brian, the bass player, whom I knew from Marionette and some jazz permutations, but I also recognized Leah, the guitarist, from a performance at Classical Incarnations.

Upright bass, classical guitar, voice and occasionally violin were playing up against the big front window, while the afternoon sun slanting through the glass door made for musical chairs (and sofas) when it became too much.

We found a table and sat back for what's affectionately known as "Portuguese blues," melancholy songs of love, longing and the sea.

Singer Bernadette, in a long dress and shawl, opened her mouth to beautifully sing songs like "I Heard That You Forgot Me," which she explained she'd be singing to the guitar.

It was while she was singing "I Wouldn't Even Confess to the Walls" that the woman behind me said in a stage whisper mid-song, "It's so quiet in here. I feel like I'm in church."

Obviously some people have never been in a listening room environment.

I only glared a little at her, but come on, honey, you can't tell that every breathy Portuguese note of this music isn't meant to be heard.

"I find the words are useless when the silence speaks much better," Bernadette sang achingly before reminding the crowd, "Just so you know, fado goes much better with wine."

Um, what doesn't?

For tonight's show, she said, "CDs are only $5 and we'll mow your lawn for you," pointing at poor Brian.

During the break, people made a bee-line to get CDs, no doubt struck by the beauty of fado and the bargain basement deal they were offering tonight.

The second set began with only Leah and Bernadette, who were the group's original members.

The beautiful "I Have Fado in All of Me" preceded a song by renowned fado singer Ana Maura (coincidentally playing UR this week) before we had to leave.

I could have listened to fado for hours, but Ian MacKaye was in town.

Yes, that Ian MacKaye, as in Fugazi, and playing at Plant Zero with his partner Amy Farina as the Evens.

Post-post-hardcore. It was really non-negotiable.

Walking in, I found a lot of "Y" chromosomes, as expected, and only a few friends, but every one of the people in the room had a look.

It was a look that said "How the hell did we get Ian MacKaye doing a show on a Saturday night for five bucks?"

Most people were seated on the floor in front of the raised stage with rugs and lamps, a drum kit and a stool on it.

As soon as Ian and Amy came out, he looked at us and told us to stand up because it was a raised stage.

A mass arising followed.

"It's 8, let's have a show!" he commanded and we did.

It didn't take any time for me to figure out that he wanted us upright because it was easier for him to make eye contact that way.

"If you weren't here, this would be a practice," Ian said. "So let's make this a show. If you want to sing along, do it."

"Doesn't this feel like a show, Ian?" Amy asked from behind her drums.

"It's getting there," he admitted, taking up his well-worn baritone guitar again for "Cut From the Cloth."

Maybe they found their voice while shopping
The price was hard to beat

Because MacKaye is not shy about sharing his strongly-held opinions, most songs got introductions by way of issues.

Of a song about cops on which he wanted us to sing the refrain, he said, "It doesn't mean they're bad people. It's just observational."

Between songs, a male voice called out, "I love you, Amy!" to which she answered, "I share the love."

When she had technical difficulties with her mic, they stopped mid-song.

Then Ian asked if they should pick up the song at the chorus or restart and the audience was asked to vote.

Chorus got a few shouts and starting back at the beginning got major support.

"Okay, we'll start with the chorus, then," Ian joked. "It's the American way."

Before doing "Dinner with the President," he spoke of awards and those who proffer them, but ended with, "It's a dance song."

I saw no dancing, although much grooving in place.

Next he went on what seemed like a tangent about a childhood friend inviting him to a matinee, a concept he couldn't appreciate until he went.

Why would anyone want to go inside during the afternoon when they could be outside?

"When I got out at, like 5:00, I still had the whole night ahead. It was great. So tonight we're going to play for an hour and then sell CDs and vinyl and you can still have your whole night ahead. Isn't there a techno rave at Steady Sounds or something?"

Their last song had a refrain that seemed to sum up the duo's take on life.

We're not lucky, we're blessed,

With a Saturday that ranged from punk memories through Portuguese blues to post-post-hardcore, I'd skip the blessed and call myself lucky.

Damn lucky.