I am SO lucky to have made such good blogging friends! While I’m away in Italy, missing you all madly of course, several of these good friends have agreed to write a guest post. Today, we have Movin’ Down The Road.

Here’s a cautionary tale about looking for authentic LIVE music in a new city… well, New York to be precise. Enjoy! (And thanks, MDTR!!)

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New York City was our first trip together and we kind of showed up there without much research of where to go or what to do. We just figured we’d walk around and find stuff.

Which we did.

One of the things we knew we wanted to do was to find some good live music. I’m not so sure, once we landed in Times Square, what we were thinking, not doing more research.

First, we were starving. We were with some friends who turned around on the sidewalk and chose a famous deli. It sounded good and simple. And it was. If you didn’t notice that the standard burger was the cheapest thing on the menu, at $18.00. I desperately wanted the $27.00 Reuben.

Times Square was not by any means, the venue for a small intimate club, with a really good band. Before we left it, we took plenty of photos and looked for the naked cowboy (didn’t see him) and noticed landmarks and billboards and lights.

In talking with the cab driver who helped the four of us escape the chaos of Times Square, we decided to go to the meatpacking district (that’s what they call it, I imagine meat hooks and raw carcasses and rivers of blood running through the streets, but it isn’t so), where apparently, according to the cabbie who’d only been in NYC for a few months, there was some good nightlife.

When we got out of the cab, I suddenly felt misfit, amidst well dressed celebrity-like looking couples and groups of gorgeous folks milling around the streets, in and out of snazzy restaurants and lounges. I felt out of place in my black and red Converse All-Stars and striped low rise wide legged pants. I may have looked cute, but these women were something much further beyond that. They likely payed a salon for a blowout before the night began. The men for sure stopped at a spa on their way out of work.

I think I may have at least run my fingers through my hair after some very close interaction with J in the hotel room before we went out for the night. Plus, I was feeling quite “well traveled” from our 5 hour drive from Boston.

Despite this, we headed down the street in hopes of finding something good. Something cultured. Something to ring out to us “this is great hidden music of New York City!”

So, we passed by many places that just weren’t “it”. Places where everyone stood polished and beautiful, to be seen, on the sidewalks, puffing their cigarettes and cigars in a way that made you forget their years were being sucked out of them with the smoke.

We turned a corner and the four of us, very New England-y New Englanders, walked by nothing but old warehouses until we come to this huge building with incredible lighting, music and well, packed with people and, well, we were the only white folks around. Yet honestly, it looked like this was where the only fun was going to be.

We stopped in a small convenience store around the corner where a very small man stood behind the register and the largest man I have ever seen was making a purchase.

And when I say large, I mean he was about three feet taller than me and about six times larger. He stood in the most beautiful suit and overcoat I have ever seen. And he was heading towards the previously mentioned club, back down the street.

J walked right up and said, “Hey, we’re looking for a place with good music (note, a big mistake is that he didn’t say LIVE music) around here.”

Nobody said anything at first and I wondered if he was heard. And then the big huge silent guy turned and made a gesture with his hand towards the door and lowly and quietly said, “Brass Monkey”.

And we were like, “excuse me?”

“Brass Monkey.”

He barely gestured to the door and we finally figured out that if we turned right out the door we’d likely find some place with music.

And we were clearly not going to be invited to his party.

So in our quest for culture and local music in New York City, we find ourselves in this spot that is clearly a sports bar. The largest flat screen television I have ever seen, rising up over the entire room, which was a bar and an empty space for people to stand and some tables and stools.

A stereo was blasting music that I am sure is popular to only college kids. And I think I would be considered old, at the mere age of 35. The music blasted and pounded and didn’t make sense.

So, because we found a table and had been searching for something all night, and stools were discovered for sitting and a waitress appeared out of nowhere and we were ready for some “double Jack”, we stayed for a while.

I couldn’t help but laugh, thinking about the guy’s impression of us, the guy who sent us to Brass Monkey. He took one look at us and probably rolled his eyes into the back of his head (in his mind) and thought “ah, no, not again, some of those damn white tourists, looking for something exciting in New York City!”

And so he sent us to something as uncultured and bland as a sports bar.

In NYC if you are looking for people (uh, meat in the meatpacking district) and a sound system and life sized basketball games looming over your head, Brass Monkey is the place. It’s perfect for that and perfect for some. It may have been perfect for us on another night.

So the rest of the trip, if anything was mediocre and not quite what we expected, we used the term “Brass Monkey”, meaning “mediocre”. That’s what it was. Your standard bar with music and sports and people. Your standard “stuff”.

By midnight, we finally found our way to Greenwich Village and asked a young couple on the corner about live music. They led us to a small place that was packed with people and a guy setting up the stage with his guitar. He was a cover man, which wasn’t necessarily bad. He was good. By the time we got there, it was late and on our third double Jacks. So we stayed for a few songs and then caught a cab back to the hotel.

It wasn’t exactly The Knitting Factory, which we found the following day…and by that time, it was too late because we were going home that night.

Most of all, our 36 hours in NYC proved to be awesome, despite our somewhat near failure to find that one great place to hear good live music. We found our way around and had things to laugh about, the great things, the expensive things, and the crazy things ($27.00 Reuben).
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A year ago (or longer) on This Journey…

Thanksgiving Eve 2009
Show and tell 2007
A day off 2006

November 25th, 2008 | Category: bloggers, travel | Subscribe to comments | Leave a comment | Trackback URL