2-12-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #40 (Summer of Sam & the Big Blackout)

A reader has requested that I write about the Summer of Sam. Hmmm. There are a few things I remember about it. . . Summer of 1977, in New York City. I had moved to “The City” just a year previous, was still in school (attending Hunter College), getting homework done, writing up a storm as Trixie A. Balm, and playing in the newly-formed New Wave pop band, Nervus Rex.

That summer, after breaking up with my other beau, JW, I was dating a young man who lived in the West Village, also wrote for Creem, loved to sing Everly Brothers harmonies and play the harmonica. He was a gentle soul whose initials, BA, were the same as my dad’s.

He didn’t like my being in a band and throwing away my writing career -- although he never seemed to have much positive to say about my writing. He saw that Shawn had designs on me. . . and when the big blackout happened in July (the 12^th or 13^th?), I was at the Krushenick’s loft, rehearsing music with Shawn. The blackout was pretty exciting -- I love candles and flashlights -- and I doubt we were very prepared for anything like that.

I stayed over and slept on the Krushenick’s couch that night -- it seemed too dangerous to go outside, and travel by subway up to East 65^th street (my then address) was prohibitive.

I know that BA was angry at me for not going home, but really, what could I do? And we didn’t have cell phones, so calling people was kind of out of the question. . . anyway, it was kind of a mess (though on a way smaller scale than the city, where looting and burning on Broadway reached epic proportions). I wrote a short story called “But Uptown’s Too Far. . .” and I’m not sure what happened to it, but I do remember writing it as a sort of apologia.

Meanwhile, back in Queens, my mom was worried sick over all that “Son of Sam” stuff going on. . . she always urged me to be careful and carry around mace or something for self protection. I didn’t tend to hang around at night by myself (even though I’d feel alone in my head quite a lot), and going out clubbing meant going somewhere we played, like CBGB’s or Max’s Kansas City.

I do remember the day that Elvis Presley died, August 16, 1977. On a sticky hot summer’s night, BA and I were walking around the village, on Eighth Street, crossing Sixth Avenue. I have no idea why I remembered that particular moment; memory is a tricky little beast. (And Shawn, we only started dating later in ’77, remember!)

My little apartment on East 65^th Street was kind of dark and small -- and I didn’t like being there too much. When I had a deadline -- which was often -- or some homework to do, I would gladly stay in, but otherwise, I’d try to hang out anywhere, even on my building’s stoop. I had no air conditioning, but luckily, it wasn’t roaringly hot in the apartment, being as it was out of the sun and on a lower floor (second floor, in the back, no elevator, of course!).

My neighbor, Kenny, and I became sort of friends. He and his family owned and ran a little newspaper store on First Avenue, around the corner from 65^th Street. He was a small, rather neurasthenic man, who wore glasses, had thinning hair, and was really into “juicing” -- using a juicer to extract vegetable juices.

. . . Not too exciting, but that’s all for now!! Next blog: Meeting Dianne Athey. . .

2-11-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #39 (Spring Break 1975 -- Remembering Lester Bangs)

Before taking off for a life in London, England in 1981 -- a foreign county where they “sort of “ spoke recognizable English -- Canada was the first “foreign” country I visited. To be specific, I visited Canada with a handsome escort. Well, maybe not the Canada of one’s dreams, like Lake Louise or the Canadian Rockies or the gardens of Vancouver Island -- but Windsor is still Canada, even if it’s not a visual treat for the eyes. And maybe not a classically handsome but goofy-handsome companion who talked a good spiel escorted me.

All right, so how’s this: a day trip to Windsor, Ontario, Canada -- with my then-editor, Creem’s own Lester Bangs? It happened one spring afternoon in 1975, when we were at the offices of Boy Howdy’s keepers, Creem Magazine.

Lester looked up from what he was doing, a plan hatching in his ever-active cranium: “Trixie, ever been to Canada?”

“Nah, not really. I mean, not yet.”

“Let’s go have a beer in Canada -- Windsor’s just over the border.”

Oh, goody, I thought: an adventure! And if Lester Bangs wanted to drive to Canada just for a beer with me in tow, I was SO ready to go. I’d somehow finagled a ride from somebody to Birmingham, Michigan, with Lester Bangs putting me up in his house. He had a really nice girlfriend whose name was Nancy, and she was a dark-featured, Greco-American beauty. They were both great hosts for the young, bubbly Trixie A. Balm who felt she needed to make a pilgrimage to the offices of Creem Magazine, the coolest place to write about music & pop culture for back in the seventies. (Georgia Christgau drove back to NYC with me in tow -- that much I do remember, even if who drove or how I got there originally escapes me.)

Lester had a loping step, a large, shambling frame with a plus-sized head (size-wise) to match, and the look of a loopy second cousin to the Frito Bandito. His longish, wavy, dark hair and bushy dark mustache would have been well complemented by a Mexican sombrero -- but then, I’m being a little silly and irreverent. How apropos! Lester and the whole Creem gang was, in principle, irreverent, silly, and even loopy.

I also remember, somewhere on his large head, a bulbous knob or a cyst that stuck out. At least, I was very aware of it. Appearances aside, I thought he was kindhearted, sweet, humorous, possibly bipolar, and insecure. Intelligence? That’s a given! Manipulative? Not with me. . . to this day, I’ll never know why he was so nice to lil’ ol’ me (just a writerly chick from Queens who changed her name and felt like having fun in print, along with the other misfits and brilliant wordsmiths at Creem).

For those of you unfamiliar with Lester Bangs and his work, he is known as the “America’s Greatest Rock Critic” (J. Derogatis). His writing was a combination of gonzo and erudite, both highfalutin’ and raunchy. He did the kind of writing that feels like he was staring at the stars from the vomit-strewn gutters, Rabelaisian in extremis. He died an untimely death, overdosing accidentally on a combination of Darvon, Valium, and Nyquil at the age of 33, in 1982.

So, that day in Windsor, Lester drove us to a bar he knew and liked, and ordered a Molson’s. He expected me to order beer, too, but I asked for a water. I was terrified of consuming beverages with caloric content, and didn’t like the taste of beer and so, I fear, I was a disappointment to him, but hey: thanks anyway, Lester, for treating me with respect and giving me the work I needed to keep going as a young writer.

R.I.P., dear Lester B!!