He had the same baby face, only with a full beard and long dreads, and his big eyes widened as he scanned the room and saw me sitting at one of the little tables. It was pianist Victor Gould’s gig at the new venue Mezzrow and the late set Friday was the first that I had really heard him play since we graduated from the arts high school in Los Angeles.
At the end of the night, Victor introduced me to his sweetheart as having been the student director for the vocal jazz ensemble back in high school. I had all but forgotten about that and was dumbfounded that was what my classmate would remember about me nearly a decade later. What I remember about Victor was that he walked slowly and had a nut allergy but I’m sure that he has not forgotten about his allergy.
I was always amazed that he made the two-hour train ride commute each way from Simi Valley to school. I lived ten minutes away and got placed in detention, affectionately called Lunch Bunch, for being tardy every day. I thought about these things, listening to the duo and taking sips of my tea. All the musicians hanging out and the fact that my tea came in a San Antonio mug painted with red peppers and flames made Mezzrow an endearing venue and I felt moved to donate a mug to their collection.
The bathroom is located to the right of the bar with the door framed by bead curtains. If you pull the hot water faucet forward in the conventional fashion, you will get an anemic trickle of not-quite-hot water. To get an adequate flow of water going, push the cold water faucet away from you. And please press down on the tank lever to ensure that the toilet flushes completely. I heard through the grapevine that there is a secret bathroom in addition to this one.
Mezzrow is a piano room so I didn’t quite understand why it was named after a clarinetist. I looked up Mezz Mezzrow and read on Wikipedia that he insisted on being put in the colored section of the prison while incarcerated. Do you recall what happens to One-Sixteenth Black of The Mau Maus in the film Bamboozled?
Victor called standards as they went and when he called “Easy to Remember,” bassist Eric Wheeler couldn’t remember it so they segued to “Con Alma.” For the second set, a saxophonist joined them. This tenor player had a way of making you trust him through his playing – when he played out, you didn’t feel that he would abandon you for cerebral nonsense and when he played in, you knew that he wouldn’t resort to clichés. I was like – who is this guy? It turned out he was Tivon Pennicott and I was glad to catch him again at a house concert Sunday with the Smalls Monday night quinet, one of the few truly enthralling bands I’ve heard. Anyway, if you want to hear jazz piano, go see Victor Gould, go to Mezzrow.
Today’s translation of “Where’s the restroom?” comes from Sheng from Malaysia. Sheng, who is ethnically Chinese, told me his Malay sucks but that he did receive an A+ in Malay class. If you trust grades to be an accurate reflection of one’s abilities, then say this –
“Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.”
I often paraphrase these words from Mary Schmich in the Chicago Tribune when discussing the ineludible influence of unique cities on individuals. Having lived in the Bay Area for several years, I know what it means to start turning soft. And now that I’ve lived in NYC for a few years, I’ve begun to catch my facial expression hardening instinctively at a passerby’s beckon.
So when a stranger offered us bananas as we passed Riverside Church at the onset of our walk down to the People’s Climate March yesterday, I refused and relented only when my friend accepted after an “Are you sure?” But by the end of the march at 34th Street and 11th Avenue, I was grabbing a homemade vegan sandwich and cookie from some lady without hesitation or a second thought.
I think my faith in humanity began to be restored during the 3.8 miles marching in the tremendous crowd. As soon as we reached the rear end of the organized march at 86th Street and started wading through the groups of people preparing banners and rallying, my eyes began to well up in the same way they can at the beauty of an orchestra or a great chorus of voices. And when the timed silence was broken by the palpable roar cascading forward — that — that was something you can’t watch on YouTube or replicate without hundreds of thousands of people.
Hundreds of thousands of people, of course, means very long lines for the limited number of toilets. There were porta potties, called “Port-o-Johns” on the People’s Climate March website, usually in clusters of two. The organizers also provided giant water coolers at a handful of locations and did an excellent job of coordinating such an enormous event. They did a remarkable job getting the word out too. It may have been because I was already looking with interest but I noticed their advertisements all over, including in subway cars and community centers.
There were many spectators for the quasi-parade: bewildered families trying to make their way across for a leisurely Sunday morning in Central Park, photographers and journalists there to report on a historical moment, and people sitting on the sidewalk in front of Upper West Side apartments in lawn chairs I didn’t know they had. I had seen cool things like a 3D chocolate printer and a giraffe robot at the annual Maker Faire the day before, but nothing came even remotely close to being as fascinating as the people at the People’s Climate March.
There were people I didn’t understand, like the woman marching in three & a half inch heels and the man who brought his bicycle along. Then there were people cashing in and selling souvenirs for an event where many of its participants are calling for the end of capitalism. It’s the kind of unsurprising and ubiquitous paradox that I still find jarring. I recall a guest with an “Occupy Wall Street” pin on her messenger bag stepping into the elevator during a stay at the Trump Soho. I first questioned her presence there then wondered what I was doing there.
There were others still holding signs with topics unrelated or only tangentially related to the cause such as the Red Sox, ISIS and Esperanto. I requested a translation of “Where’s the restroom?” from Neil, who was holding the Esperanto sign, and learned that the restroom translates into the “necessary room” in the constructed language. It seems an appropriate translation for an international movement where toilets are vital to the mobilization.
I hope the heads of state at the climate change summit are listening. I hope future generations have the chance to experience the distinct differences between currently sinking Manhattan and San Francisco.
Apparently, everybody hangs out on 26th Street between Broadway and 6th on Friday nights. Passing the time with a friend, I saw five other friends while strolling around the block on the weekend. One of them was my bass-playing pal Jeff who was about to go play at the Flatiron Room. He told me our friend and guitarist Adam would also be playing and convinced me to come to the gig with his characteristic unabashed and genuine enthusiasm. So I showed up to the posh room, feeling underdressed in jeans and boat shoes.
Even though the Flatiron Room sounded familiar and boasts live jazz nightly on its announcement outside, it hadn’t made it onto my radar of venues. The retro room felt upscale and like a solid place, not a shoddy spot covered with faux-luxurious decorations. Classic heart-shaped bistro chairs circled the tables toward the front and bottles of whiskey were visible overhead and all around.
The jazz quartet framed by the lush curtains on stage felt like an extension of the decor, a life-size piece of artwork with choreographed figures creating ambience. Or sort of like a cuckoo clock but with jazz musicians appearing for forty-five minute sets on the hour. I naturally thought of Erik Satie’s furniture music, music as wallpaper, music not to be listened to. From where I was in the middle of the venue, latching myself onto the wooden standing table inconspicuously so that I wouldn’t be prompted to order overpriced tea, I struggled to hear the band.
But the muted volume mattered not. With a gardenia over her ear, the anonymous singer called to mind images of Billie Holiday and made gestures stereotypically associated with jazz/cabaret singers. While everyone seemed to be enjoying the atmosphere, most seemed oblivious to the music. I scanned the crowd and saw that there was a gentleman that appeared attentive – it turned out he was Jeff’s dad.
For such an elegant place, the Flatiron Room had subpar toilet paper of the cheap variety. The thin toilet paper clashed with their lavish paper towels and the sepia portraits on each of the three stall doors. You can see in the photo that the paper towels were overflowing from the trash. An employee came in to tidy up the restroom while I was in there so the mess may have been because the basket does not have the capacity to hold an adequate amount of trash and spills over between cleanings. I would recommend a larger wastebasket there to maintain a neater restroom.
I was giddy to find that I could take adequate pictures of the dark room on my phone using my keychain flashlight on the impromptu review and discovered that the music from the stage is clearly audible through the speakers while in the bathroom. Taking in nostalgic melodies that teetered between keys, I admired the nice wall lamps and vintage portraits with the same potential for creepiness as porcelain dolls.
Sutong, who majored in Albanian language in China, studied abroad in Albania and came to NYC for grad school, tells us how to say “Where’s the restroom?” in her adopted language, Albanian –
I recently went to camp at the Santa Cruz Museum of Art & History (MAH) and spent several days and nights with museum professionals, arts consultants, community organizers and the like, convinced that this year’s theme of social impact assessment would have something to do with the themes I explore on this toilet blog. After breaking up into teams, each team identified a social outcome to measure at a local site in Santa Cruz. Teams tested hypotheses ranging from watching films at the Del Mar Cinema increasing civic pride for locals to people with a shared affinity in a specific artist being more likely to interact with strangers at the Kuumbwa Jazz Center. You can read about the projects here – my team project is the one with the typo that says “pubic art” instead of “public art.”
I found that many of the questions that the teams raised to formulate the hypotheses were of the sort that I think about when I review sites for JAZZ TOILET: Who is coming to these places? How is the organization serving its community? How is the community defined and who is excluded? Is this venue positively or negatively impacting the arts economy? How does the location and layout attract/repel certain populations? What relationship does the listener have to the music, to the venue?
My head is full of questions, some seemingly too fluffy to be answered with hard data. MuseumCamp has taught me though that we can answer those questions by formulating hypotheses in response, identifying indicators, developing and using creative evaluation tools to measure the indicators, and analyzing the results.
Moreover, conversations and moments at the Santa Cruz MAH have resparked my career as an artist, which has been largely dormant in my early retirement as a resigned twenty-something this past year. Place and posture can exert great influence on creativity and I discovered the museum to be an inspired home. Feeling tired, I sat down on one of the two painted chairs in its three-floor elevator; the act of sitting in a museum elevator spurred me to think that my Brazilian Jazz duo should perform in elevators.
A term often applied to bossa nova in a derogatory fashion, it would be interesting to turn “elevator music” on its head and provide world-class bossa nova to anyone that enters the elevator. Live elevator music would be the antithesis of elevator music. If you see a person with a MuseumCamp patch on her backpack scoping out elevators in Manhattan, that’ll be me. Please feel free contact me if you have suggestions for elevators or are interested in having me in your elevator. And as they say on Craigslist, serious inquiries only.
Other than learning that the immeasurable is measurable and feeling rejuvenated creatively, I came back from camp thinking that when I grow old, I would like to be one of those people that pronounces the words humor and human with a Y instead of an H sound, just like my team mentor Paul Harder. My sister advised against it, however, and said that I would have to also pronounce the word schedule without the hard C sound so now I’m on the fence about it.
Finally, my only regrets from MuseumCamp are the following: not walking to the beach to see the seals; forgetting the proper pronunciation of the word lanyards; and not getting to meet all ninety-nine of the other happy campers. Thanks to Fractured Atlas for sending me to camp, Nina Simon and Ian Moss for being the best camp counselors and fellow campers for sharing much of themselves. Camp buddies for life!
Feeling a bit burnt-out after last month, I’ve decided to take a summer vacation and so there will not be a post for July and maybe even August. A bit of a personal update, but what’s not a personal update on here?
I’m thrilled to be heading home to California tonight for Museum Camp at the Santa Cruz Museum of Art & History. I hear we will be learning about social impact assessment and exchanging lanyards. I’ve never done formal research in social impact and haven’t made lanyards since elementary school, so I’m sure it will be an enriching experience.
I hope that you, too, are having an enriching and enjoyable summer.
I sat down to dirty looks from the gentleman and lady on either side of me as I squeezed myself into a table at Blue Note. The house looked nearly packed for Michel Camilo’s first set on Tuesday so it’s not like I could have chosen to sit elsewhere but I guess they wanted to make their discomfort known. Save the occasional jab, I was able to divert my attention to the music once the charismatic pianist walked on stage.
Of the shows I have covered this month for the Blue Note Jazz Festival, Michel Camilo is the only artist whose music I was familiar with beforehand and knew what to expect. I used to listen to his solo album because it was mysteriously on my old computer but his voicings and harmony sounded crunchier than I recalled. And I hadn’t realized the incredible extent of his percussive playing until I saw him live. I think he may be one of my favorite piano players.
I figured there wouldn’t be much new information since I had previously reviewed the restrooms but I had missed at least a couple crucial attributes. The black floor tiles in the women’s room are reflective; I could see more than just the silhouette of the person in the next stall. I suggest not peering too closely into the tiles to respect people’s privacy. It was on this visit that I also noted that the restroom doors are smaller than standard interior doors.
Upon exiting the loo, I had to wriggle through the line of fans by the green room and heard a man walking up saying, “This doesn’t look like the men’s room line.” You should check that you’re not accidentally in line to greet the musician, if you find yourself at the end of a suspiciously long men’s room line at Blue Note.
It’s been an enjoyable but exhausting month reviewing four times as many venues as I usually do, while my routine workload remains constant. On weekdays, I go to my full-time day job, where I do bookkeeping, keep toilet paper stocked and draw flies on my whiteboard, before heading uptown to work on my indie band’s EP at night. The last session, I discovered blood on the white coconut bar I snatched out of my bandmate’s freezer, confirming my suspicion that my gums were bleeding.
On weekends, I make an extensive list of the work I need to get done for myself then do nothing but nap and run outside while thinking about grammar. I often stay up into the wee hours on Sunday nights, editing radio segments with tissue in my nostril to stop my nose running from my New York allergy, since I work faster with both of my hands free. More than one friend has applied the word glamour to the work I do but I might call it something else.
I need a vacation and while I won’t make it as far as Europe this summer, below are travel tips from my Hungarian friend Andrea, who is doing research on international law here and in the Netherlands. You should know that it is customary to exchange three kisses on the cheek in the Netherlands but only two in Hungary. Andrea also explained that while the Dutch would ask for the bathroom in a direct way like “Where’s the toilet,” Hungarians would be inclined to say something more like “Which way do I find the restroom?” –
The bed bug scare is real.
My friend called to say that he couldn’t meet me at The Town Hall after all, in a state of emergency after having found a bed bug in his sheets. I did some quick research on my phone while waiting for comedian/improvising musician Reggie Watts to come on stage, and learned that infestations are prevalent in places with high volumes of people going in and out, including public spaces like theaters.
The Town Hall is a theatre with a venerable history spanning nearly a century that must have greeted an innumerable number of butts in its approximately one and a half thousand extra-plump red velvet seats. The hallways showcase framed compact discs of live recordings at the venue by Mingus, Ornette, Dizzy, and many more. And while it is not a cozy jazz club by any means, Reggie Watts commented that it felt “like a big hug” and was “not too long.”
The architectural fashion must have differed back in the early 1900’s, with random configurations of restrooms, instead of the women’s and men’s room mirroring each other as in modern halls. The Town Hall has a handful of private unisex restrooms and a wheelchair-accessible restroom on the mezzanine level and a men’s room two floors below, down the stairs from the lobby and to your right when you enter. The women’s restroom is in the middle of the mezzanine with five stalls and two sinks, and a sitting room. The men’s room has a water fountain, not found in the women’s room, in addition to the bench for sitting.
Like any reputable and successful jazz festival, Blue Note is presenting a number of non-jazz artists in their month-long event. The Wednesday show was produced in conjunction with JazzReach and reviewed by JAZZ TOILET so it was actually a jazz show to the third degree. Reggie Watts even sang his rendition of “My One and Only Love” and a blues, mentioning that he has always wanted to be a part of a jazz festival. It looks like he figured out the quickest path to headlining a jazz festival — don’t play jazz.
Watts introduced a tune on his Nord Electro entitled Minuet in D, saying it was composed by Miles, played by Coltrane, rearranged by Cannonball, then performed by Joni Mitchell and Pat Metheny. The person behind me (mis)heard and echoed Watts by saying “[Joni Mitchell] in a bikini,” then laughed out loud, which caused me to laugh out loud. I feel that I now fully comprehend the meaning of LOL, having attended this show. What an incredible talent; I was so taken with Reggie Watts that I only thought about bed bugs thirty-seven times during his show.
Once home, I sifted through my sheets for bugs and checked my phone before rubbing my eyes with my hands. Then I fell asleep wondering if I had rubbed fecal matter onto my eyeballs.
Mario, the ukelele-playing lawyer and happy baritone from Naples in Italy, tells us how to say “Where’s the restroom?” in Neapolitan –
I curiously observed the audience at Highline Ballroom on Monday night as they rose to a standing ovation for Postmodern Jukebox, a band that plays modern songs with an old-timey feel. Appreciating this band required more knowledge of pop culture than I have; instead of sounding like imaginative arrangements of played-out pop hits, the music sounded like generic vintage to me, since I knew just three of the fifteen to twenty songs played and had no basis for comparison with the originals.
With a few notable exceptions, the performers presented the kind of talent that is a dime a dozen in this city saturated with the best of the best. I don’t doubt that they were more talented than they revealed, but I couldn’t tell from the thirty-second horn solos and intentionally derivative delivery to harken back to decades past. An accessible and fun show for the greatest number of people seemed to be the point though, and that they achieved with polish and finesse.
Our tech support Jack reviewed the men’s room for us since I only reviewed the women’s room in our last visit. He reported three urinals, two toilets each in its own stall, three faucets, and one washroom attendant wearing a cool hat. The restroom is well-maintained and has a clean, modern design. Jack, who moonlights as an engineer for a leading manufacturer of electronic effects and musical instruments when not saving our blog from crashing, also mentioned that Highline Ballroom has a good sound system.
The leader/pianist of Postmodern Jukebox, Scott Bradlee, must be a smart guy. While many jazz musicians in the city are getting by on gigs that pay fifty bucks a night, he’s likely making living wages by leveraging his viral YouTube videos. His bio says that he has also worked as musical director for Sleep No More, the most popular and trendy of the immersive theatre works in the city. That’s a good gig. Some may call it selling out but if Bradlee is committed to creating what he calls an alternate universe of popular song, then he is every bit as authentic as the jazz purist.
And while there are numerous musicians who could pull off the same act, Postmodern Jukebox is the one who made it happen, alongside similar groups like CDZA, on YouTube. From the living room to the performance stage, they have broken through our LCD monitors and are continuing their first live tour in Europe now. Our customary translation of “Where’s the restroom?” in French from Belgian world-traveler and music-loving academic Claire should come in handy on a couple of their stops –
Any doubt I had about seeing Sergio Mendes at B.B. King Blues Club over the last-minute lineup of Brad Mehldau and Christian McBride at Blue Note evaporated as the ensemble sambaed through classics from Tom Jobim, Dorival Caymmi, Baden Powell, Gilberto Gil, and Chico Buarque. A pop concert for the masses who lived through the bossa nova craze of the 60’s, the music, not to mention the artificial fog and row of singers sparkling in sequins, spoke louder than the monstrous plate of pit smoked meat nachos in my face. It channeled the energy of the venue Caneção in Rio, where I once saw the MPB star Simone sing, and brought a piece of Brazil to the heart of Times Square.
The audience could hardly contain themselves. In fact, one lady in the front kept getting up to dance, doing what we all wished we could do. It was almost like an involuntary reaction to the infectious joy that spread throughout the room and when given permission, the crowd eagerly rose to their feet for the hit Brasil ‘66 single “Mas Que Nada” and moved along to the rhythm, despite the limited space between tables.
The group came back on stage for not one, but two encores, and Sergio Mendes even signed a CD a fan handed him before walking off the stage for the final time. More than the fact that I actually wanted to hear encores after an hour of music, I was struck by the generosity of Mendes and his band.
Joining the 9-piece ensemble was a rapper from Oakland wearing a tee that read “Hello New York.” It may be a ploy to appear modern and edgy, but the timeless music didn’t benefit from his rap-singing and beatboxing and I don’t think anyone was there to see him. Still, his name was H2O and you can’t have JAZZ TOILET without H2O. Aside from him, there was another toilet reference gracing the stage. One of the backup singers, Katie Hampton, is known for having sung a Fresh Step cat litter jingle.
The women’s room hadn’t changed noticeably since our last review and had the same colorful floor tiles I admire. My friend Luciana from Minas Gerais in Brazil reviews the phrase “Where’s the restroom?” in Portuguese with us. It should come in useful if you’ll be at the World Cup kicking off this week in São Paulo.
The Delicioso Coco Helado carts have returned; summer is here once again. I grabbed a cup of coconut from a cart on 125th Street before turning up Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard to hear Anne Boccato sing with Gianni Gagliardi (saxophone), Quentin Angus (guitar), Bam Bam Rodriguez (bass), and Jay Sawyer (drums) yesterday. Fitting for a place called Shrine World Music Venue, each band member hailed from a different country, with the repertoire consisting of jazz and Brazilian music.
Arriving in between sets, I got to work right away documenting the two restrooms. Go down the stairs under the restroom sign that emits red light and you will see a door marked ladies on your left and a door marked men on your right. The light switch for the ladies room works the opposite of the standard way; press down to turn on the light and up to turn off. The light switch is conveniently illuminated when off so that you can find it without fumbling in the dark.
A metal basket visibly filled with toilet paper hangs in the corner, putting any concerns about running out of paper to rest. And if you had to sit for a while, though I wouldn’t sit on those toilets without seat covers, you could pass the time looking up at the vinyl record sleeves on the ceiling. They also cover other areas of the venue, leaving gaps where the sleeves were poorly aligned and empty 12”x12” spots where albums might have been before falling off.
Anne’s dad and percussionist, Rogerio, clapped along rhythms from the audience, while his daughter sang and played caxixi at times. The father-daughter connection was pretty cute and reminded me of how I miss my dad. When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a pilot just like my dad. When I became a teenager, I wanted to become a psychologist so that I could argue using jargon against my dad, who was then pursuing graduate studies in counseling. Now that I am old enough to be classified as an adult, I realized that I have become a writer, just like my dad.
I checked out Anne’s brother’s senior show at Cooper Union a couple weeks prior and have heard Rogerio play many times in the past. Now I just have to go to Anne’s mom’s art show and I will be an official Boccato family groupie. Either because I have nearly achieved groupie-status or because they are a wonderful family, the Boccatos gave me a ride back home from the Shrine.
Upon returning home, I hung out with a few friends including Adeyemi from Lagos in Nigeria, a soon-to-be data scientist who loves to sing Frank Sinatra. Ade gave me the translation of “Where’s the restroom?” in Yoruba and explained that literally translated, the phrase means, “Where is the defecation room?” I think I want to start saying that in English.