1-16-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #14 (Musician-Restaurant Worker. . . in Soho, NYC)

On Prince Street in Soho, between West Broadway and Thompson, a hip little record store called Rock’s In Your Head was nestled on a sleepy block across from the famous Vesuvio bread bakery in the late ‘70’s/early ‘80’s.

A nice guy named Ira ran the record store – which also carried all the latest music press. You could either buy it there or on St. Mark’s and 2^nd Avenue, at the Gem Spa. Because I lived closer to Rock’s once I moved out of St. Mark’s Place – and because Shaun Brighton lived on Mercer Street in Soho – well, we were frequent visitors to Rock’s In Your Head.

I sold ice cream and cold beverages in a small booth in the back of the record store one summer. . . I don’t know why Ira hired me to do that, but it really was a godsend, whatever little cash came from it. Thanks, Ira!

Anyway, at Rock’s In Your Head, Shaun and I would bump into other musicians there, like the guys from the dB’s, Will, Gene, Chris, and Peter. We’d share info about opportunities to earn $ onstage and off. One tip: try getting a job at the Spring Street Bar/Restaurant. Two dB’s already worked there; I’d try my luck, esp. since it was my stomping grounds.

Nervus Rex was spawned in Soho, in Shaun’s parents, the Krushenick’s, loft. We spent a lot of time talking, plotting, planning the band. . . and it took about a year before it was ready in any way, shape or form to play out and have a real gig. Shaun’s father, Nicholas Krushenick, was a well known artist who did “hard edged abstract” paintings, with lots of jagged black zigzags around the border. . . he was a fan of Vasily Kandinsky, the Russian abstract expressionist, and so Shaun’s middle name was Vasily. He picked the name “Brighton” because it was “B-right-on,” sounded English, and wasn’t Krushenick. Apparently (I found out years later) his father strongly discouraged an art career for his son (although Shaun was very gifted at art and design) so Shaun changed his name to Brighton, learned guitar, sang and started writing his own songs. The band would benefit from equipment the Krushenicks bought for us (nice electric guitars and amps).

I learned so much about art in general and the downtown art scene at the time, specifically, by being around the Krushenicks. It was like being on the inside of a small, almost incestuous scene, where people smiled when they saw you at openings and shows, but behind the scenes was a lot of gossip, in jokes, and sometimes, backstabbing. Being new to all that, I listened and joked a little, but knew my place was definitely peripheral.

More about the early Soho art scene later. How about the restaurant scene?

Prince Street always had Fanelli’s, which was popular. And the Broome Street Bar was part of it. Cupping Room Café and Lucky Strike were also part of the ‘70’s/’80’s eateries, as was the fancy French restaurant, Raoul’s, on Prince Street.

But the coolest place to eat and drink for a few short years had to be the Spring Street Bar. Always in need of another gig, I did indeed take the dB’s (Will & Chris) advice and asked if they needed any help. Had I worked in bars or restaurants before? No. But I WAS 21, and kind of cute, truthfully. I was willing to learn, and my schedule was flexible. So I was in!

They made me their “shelf girl.” Now, the shelf at Spring Street Bar was a little section off the bar, one step up, triangularly shaped, with about six small tables. I had to wear some sort of uniform, and take drink orders only. So I was a cocktail waitress. Only, I didn’t drink and had very little idea of what anybody was ordering. Come to think of it now, it’s really laughable, and kind of sweet that people would hire SUCH a neophyte and non drinker.

Sure, I caught on quick, but the mistakes that I made were none that somebody with experience would have ever made. . . but that wasn’t the point. If you were sincere, dependable, willing to learn and looked good, the management and the customers were happy with their little “shelf girl.”

When my section was slow, I’d wander the restaurant and watch the other waiters because they were invariably entertaining. One little guy, a very gay and expressive dark haired young actor, was asked by somebody at one of his tables how one of the dishes on the menu tasted. He cocked an eyebrow, took a step back, bowed his head forward a little, lifted index finger to his open mouth, and made a pretend-puking motion.

I quickly left to run to the bathroom so I could laugh my ass off.

Such was my introduction to restaurant life.

1-15-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Forward to 2012 and how the Times have Changed – New and Improved Survival Job # 1001: Abby’s Place

Well, except for doing music sofar in this life, I’ve been appreciated for writing. Mazel Tov, right?

And so now, in the name of making a living, I have to say that something else, new and sweet, is happening in my 2012 world of survival jobs.

There’s a little place, down in Essex by the Marina. Used to be called The Crow’s Nest, and it was definitely a dive – not clean, didn’t smell good, food wasn’t too edible. All that has changed, including the interior, which is totally unrecognizable. Other than looking great, it smells clean and good. It’s at 37 Pratt Street and everybody should start flockin’ to this sweet new (Aug. 2011) Essex restaurant, Abby’s Place.

Prices are reasonable, all meals are served Thursday – Saturday. Other than that, breakfast and lunch are served with bells on (closed Mondays). The kitchen staff is talented, funny: they have a good time, and food made in those conditions tends to smile, too. Lucky customers have heard mirthful imitations of South Park episodes wafting from the kitchen along with tempting aromas of coffee, cinnamon, bacon, and a clam chowder that’s unrivaled.

Again, welcome to Abby’s Place. They welcomed me with open arms and a jovial, kindhearted attitude. I was having a coffee with Joell Jacob after a walk one day, and the place was packed (a Thursday lunch in late December).

“Uh, do you need any help?” On the way out, I inquired of the bespectacled twenty-something man who’d been waiting on us, cooking, and keeping down the fort in general.

“Do you have experience?” I nodded, the memory of a lifetime spent in and out of jobs working at bar/restaurants (The Spring Street Bar, Chinese Chance in NYC), members clubs (The Main Squeeze in London, England), upscale martini bars (Lupo’s), and family places with ketchup on the tables (the Pattaconk). I recently worked a little for The Villager, so my food service industry know-how had also had a recent update.

This young guy, Brian, introduced himself as the General Manager, who said they’d just cleaned house. I just needed to meet Abby. A few minutes later, a tall, thin, serious looking, dark haired woman with a ponytail and black horn-rimmed glasses – an ageless person – appeared from the kitchen. She was in a hurry, but after about 5 seconds, Abby said, “I’d like to talk with you. Can we exchange numbers and talk tomorrow?”

“Sure.” Long story no longer, I saw they needed help, I offered it, and they accepted! I started to wait tables there, part time. They gave me the best shifts, appreciated my work with increasing praise and fed me lavishly (the food is REAL good). What a lovely change – er, improvement!

I mean, what a lovely change from so many previous jobs, where I wound up feeling like shit. Cool change.

Sometimes, the right survival jobs just come along. I admit, I’m always workin’ it. . . but when a hunch really pans out, and the pushing seems to pay off, whew! Sweet relief.

Also, having a bunch of freelance stuff to work on (INK, Shore Line Times, Coastal Homes), a new album by Amalgamated Muck to finish planning. . . and a few other interesting things going on. . . I’m getting ready to hit another stride.

I’m feelin’ pretty good right now – the family’s all fine, too. But don’t worry, I’ll get right back to other times, other places, other early jobs with Trixie, “the Rex,” even the Washington Squares – next blogs.

Thank you, Abby Miner. And thanks to all who are reading and following my “survival jobs” blog.

1-14-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #12 (More Back to Trixie Days with Lou Reed)

Like I said, the day I interviewed Lou Reed, that was an entirely different story. . . and certainly one I enjoy retelling:

I can only imagine that the editorial staff of the Village Voice was having a pretty wacked-out editorial meeting one day in ‘75, because Richard Goldstein – not even a music editor – approached me to interview Lou Reed for the Village Voice. My first interview as a rock writer! Wow.

For Trixie A. Balm to interview this legendary curmudgeon seems pretty wacky now in retrospect, doesn’t it? I mean, here I was, a kid really, OK eighteen but I looked fourteen, and dressed like an original young hippie/eccentric, very thrift store, with straight, waist-long light auburn hair. I loved Berlin and Sally Can’t Dance, and knew almost nothing about Reed’s previous group, The Velvet Underground. He would have hated to talk about it, anyway (his publicist, Barbara Carr, warned me not to bring the Velvets up – as if I could, given my lack of background and youth!).

SUNY Purchase classmate and photographer Ron Fortunato was in tow as lensman, and we drove down from SUNY Purchase one exciting day to be subjected to Mr. Mumbles himself, Lou Reed, as he vented, vented, vented.

Being my very first interview, I’ll bet editor Goldstein was either feeling very silly or assigned it on a dare from a colleague. . . whatever happened, the piece didn’t run in the Voice so Danny Fields, bless his heart, suggested I send it to the VV’s competitor, The Soho Weekly News – and thank God SWN ran it!

In the large conference room at RCA records, Lou tilted his chair back, pointy Italian motorcycle boots crossed on the table, mirrored shades and three-day stubble on his chin. A real punk poseur. The interview was going, er, just grimly until I broke down and started to cry in anger and frustration. I never could have planned it; instinct took over and I blurted out at him, “You’re not the only person, y’know, who’s gone through shit, who’s been in the mental hospital, who’s suffered –“ Bless his innter sensitive nature, Lou became at once kind and even articulate. He actually dropped his whiny, surly pose, sat up, and acted like a human being, mumbling slightly less, but HUMAN. After the interview, he invited me to a rehearsal his band was doing at SIR studios in the West ‘50’s. . . . of course I went!

Scratch a Pisces, get a cold fish or a Christ-symbol – I suppose.

1-13-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #11 (Back to Trixie Days with John Cale and Sweet Jane Friedman)

Well, everybody in this life knows a little about self-medicating, and maybe even more about theatrics on the stage, but perhaps none knew it so well in the seventies as that alluring Welshman, John Cale. All I knew is, I walk into this place down in Tribeca BEFORE it was even called Tribeca -- the Lower Manhattan Ocean Club – on Chambers Street, I think. There’s a long bar in when you walk in, to the left, and maybe some small tables (deuces) to the right. The bar/restaurant is long, like a shotgun shack. Tables are filled up, the bar is packed four deep, and the hum of business is punctuated by ringing cash registers.

It’s a hoppin’ night at the Ocean Club; artists, hipsters, musicians, scenemakers – the regulars -- and of course, the music press all cram the joint. At the far end of the room, a small stage is set up and a show has started. The music’s loud, but it’s good, “Dirtyass Rock and Roll.” Or maybe the song was “Leavin’ It Up To You.” And on the stage is the greatest entertainer of the scene – yes, I’ve seen it now and even though the Ramones are very compelling, they don’t have this man’s charisma and passion. Or sexiness.

Giving his all at the Ocean Club that night was that one-of-a-kind, mesmerizing madman, musician John Cale. He had dark hair in a sort of Prince Valiant haircut, a long expressive face, big, dark, doleful eyes, a baleful expression when not howling like a werewolf, black leather jeans, and “Man Maryjanes” (!!) on his feet. (This was the era where Capezio shoes -- dancer’s shoes – briefly reigned as the epitome of cool rock footwear. They were soft and light and felt almost like wearing nothing on your feet. . .)

I’d never seen anything like Cale in his glory. This possessed composer and singer played rock ‘n’ roll guitar, piano or bass while he blubbered and slobbered and slurred his words, almost seeming to have a nervous breakdown on the stage. It was electrifying; this guy was amazing! I don’t really think I’ve seen anything more intense since. I really had no idea of his past with avant-gardist LaMonte Young, or his stint on viola and vocals with the Velvet Underground, or his work with Garland Jeffries.

He was rumored to have gotten the nod to produce Patti Smith’s first album, so of course I wanted to see him in action and decide for my Trixie self whether he’d be worthy of working with the queen of the boho poet rock goddesses (Patti, of course).

Whatever my limited preconceptions, they were blown out of the water. The show was crazy intense, but being the avid young reporter, when intermission came, I shimmied my way downstairs to the impromptu “backstage” (a storage area under the restaurant) and eyed Cale from across the room, talking with Jane Friedman or Lenny Kaye. Friedman would look at him adoringly from time to time; I think they were doing more than working together -- but who could help falling for that inarguably magnetic, magnificent man?

Every now and then, I’d notice (or imagine) Cale’s eyes on me, boring into me from across the dank, dark basement backstage. This was a rare occasion where I couldn’t speak. . . Cale was SO larger-than-life to me. . .

A few months previous, I’d interviewed his old partner-in-crime in the Velvet Underground, Lou Reed. I’d never seen Reed live in concert – and he was certainly more commercially successful at the time than Cale, having had a hit record with “Walk on the Wild Side.” I had no idea about the Velvets (yet), but I really did like the music that both Cale and Reed made (“Sally Can’t Dance” was one of my fave elpees), so it was only a matter of time before I checked out the Velvet Underground in retrospective and became one of their biggest fans, after the fact.

In the second set, David Byrne from the Talking Heads joined Cale onstage, and things calmed down as far as intensity went. Cale was a good enough musician and team player to listen to and acknowledge another singer/focal point onstage, although Byrne played theoretical second fiddle to Cale’s big presence.

I left the Ocean Club later that night , running and screaming out the door after that introduction to John Cale’s music. I’m not sure why; sometimes when things got really intense I couldn’t stand it (and maybe an illegal substance pushed me over the edge?). At any rate, that was a memorable night.

As for the day I interviewed Lou Reed, that was an entirely different story. . .

1-12-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #10 (Patti Smith Weighs in on Education; Sweet Jane Friedman)

All right. In my last entry, I mentioned some musician friends on the scene who earned life experience credit at the alma mater of CBGB’s in the late ‘70’s (Chris and Tina of the Talking Heads, RISDEE grads), and Snooky Bellomo (NYU student).

At CBGB’s – the place I could usually be found on weekends away from SUNY Purchase in ’74 – ’76, I met Patti Smith and her manager, Jane Friedman, through James Wolcott, the hugest Patti fan ever (at least, at the time). Patti had the greatest way of being instantly intimate with people. I thought she might have been pulling my leg about a lot of stuff she made up about her past, but I do admire anybody who can make up a good myth.

She dubbed me “Our new Ninja” upon signing a copy of Seventh Heaven. I was taken aback when she told me I shouldn’t be going to school: “Go out with all the smart guys! Learn from them! Who needs college? It’s bullshit.”

While thinking in my heart how I had an unspoken promise with my father to graduate with a college degree and he had just died a month before I started, I blurted to Patti, “But I LIKE school! I LIKE learning!. . . “ and then, like Mother Superior, she absolved me and my sin of caring about something uncool. Fair enough.

Patti was really nice to my sister Carrie too, when I introduced them at My Father’s Place (a club) in Roslyn, Long Island, when the Patti Smith group played on a double bill with Television in ’75. I recall Patti borrowed a little corncob pipe from my sister for, um, you know. . .

People like Patti – and many other smart musicians I know – weren’t gung-ho for school but were still great learners and had a constant thirst for self-gathered knowledge. These autodidacts are definitely on the right path for them, but as for me, I like a little more structure and focus. I’m kind of all over the place, when left to my own devices. . . but of course, we all learn in life what we need to (and if you try sometimes, you get what you want, too?). There’s still some of that ceaseless autodidact in me, too. I just like having validation, a degree (or 2 or 3!).

Jane Friedman (Wartoke Concern, Patti’s manager) was a great person who treated me kindly and with immense respect. Somebody told me she was the girl Lou Reed wrote “Sweet Jane” about. When I visited Jane Friedman at her family’s in the Village that Yuletide (they were Jewish; what the hey), at a holiday open house, Jane took me aside and made a special effort to make me feel welcome by giving me a palm-sized round mirror backed with a myriad of tiny seashells, in a circle. Decades later, I still consider that little tchotchke one of my prized possessions.

1-11-12 Survival Jobs etc. – Starter Job #9 (Liberal Education background– towards a Creative Writing/English BA)

Before indulging in more tales of rock & roll, sex & drugs and all that good stuff back in the day, my Education Career deserves some attention – though, of course, R&R does play into it at times, as does the vagaries of boho slum life (before the lower east side got gentrified!).

First of, many back then asked why I was in school. Like, why bother? All we did was make music, wait on tables, bartend, work lower level clerical jobs, and dream of making it big. What possible use could a sheepskin have for people like us (the REAL new bohemians)??

Okay, here’s a BIG CONFESSION: I am a snob. Not your usual snob, but an intellectual snob. Coming from a highly intelligent, ambitious-achiever family (parents with advanced degrees before it became fashionable, aspiring to highbrow culture), education was key.

As little kids, we went to school with the assumption that we’d be top of the class. I fell short by one or two kids (that Joyce Avellino! That Irene Buatti!), but other than that, almost without effort I got great marks & report cards that were commented on with, “Hmmm, that 92 is pretty good, but why didn’t you get over 95?”

You see, that need to achieve academically was drilled into me, early. Besides, I LOVE learning, and although schools are flawed places to learn, at least there’s structure – and the proof that you’ve accomplished something (a diploma, transcripts) that’s meaningful in the world at large.

I started out at Saint Anastasia’s kindergarten, then went to grades 1 through 8 there, too (only one block away from our house in Douglaston, it was certainly accessible – besides, we got to go home for lunch, as “walkers”). After that, I attended Bishop Reilly High School for less than a year (I hate, hate, HATED it), caught “mono” in April, then was kicked out (I planned it all along) for insubordination – and refusing to participate in religion class, one of the freshman requirements. Oh well. I exulted in my victory to attend public school and not wear a UNIFORM every day, as I had all through school up to then.

Sophomore year of high school, I got to go to Benjamin N. Cardozo High School (“Cardozo”) in neighboring Bayside. I wore what I liked, sure, but I had to walk up to the expressway (about ½ mile) and catch the 17A bus to Springfield Boulevard. We didn’t have a school bus; it was public transportation all the way in NYC. It wouldn’t have been too bad, but I was in a bad place back then (drugs, bad companions, severe dieting). I cried, had severe headaches, couldn’t concentrate. I also lost forty pounds in one year – which made me a mess. And I still didn’t think I was skinny, yet. On my 16^th birthday, my parents took us out for a fancy French dinner that I couldn’t eat, then drove me to the psychiatric hospital and had me committed for six months.

If you have come up with the diagnosis of Anorexia Nervosa (hysterical lack of appetite), BINGO! Long story short, I finished out sophomore year of high school in Hillside Hospital. My junior year was spent at a boarding school for recovering troubled teens, the Lake Grove School (on Long Island). Had a great geometry teacher, Arnie Pederson, who was ancient, very patient, sweet-tempered, and a Swede.

Back home to Douglaston, I spent my senior year of high school back at Cardozo. Classes were large (over 30 per), and the graduating class must have had about 1,000. I don’t recall attending graduation, but I earned my H.S. diploma, no problem. I had an 89 average or so, and applied to several state schools, my preference being for SUNY Purchase because it was artsy and that suited me to a T. (If a school had a reputation as a party school, like SUNY New Paltz, that was too scary to contemplate – partying was bad news for me in my fragile physical and psychic state.)

IF I HAD BEEN really together and put some thought into it – picking a school for me was a very quick and annoying task, not anything I was thinking hard about – I’d have tried to go to Sarah Lawrence. Not only is it more prestigious than a SUNY, my hero, Joseph Campbell, was teaching there and I could have studied with him. . . I coulda been a contender! But, that’s just a small regret . . .

To wrap up this way-long blog, I studied at three different colleges/universities to earn my degree in Creative Writing (minor in English), the only thing that could keep my attention, the only thing I could truly excel at other than music.

The three higher learning (!! Yes, at times, it really was!) institutions were:

1. SUNY Purchase (4 semesters – I moved to NYC in ’76 & transferred);

2. Hunter College (3 semesters – I lived four blocks away, which was handy);

3. CUNY or City University of New York (final semester – did a creative writing senior project, I wrote, edited, rewrote and finished my first novel, Shrinking, originally No Cal Nut or I Wanna Lobotomy);

4. CBGB’s (I’d say this qualifies as a learning experience – valid life experience, at least).

Speaking of life experience, I sought school credit for my thick portfolio of published work (Trixie A. Balm’s rock writing) because I figured it was a pretty valid request. In the end, I was awarded 18 credits. . . from either Hunter or CUNY. How cool! After four years in college, I graduated magna cum laude, with a 3.42 G.P.A. However, a diploma from CUNY doesn’t impress anybody (whereas a degree from Sarah Lawrence, Vassar or Smith? Hell, yeah!)

Of my rockin’ rollin’ friends who attended the CBGB’s alma mater, Chris and Tina of the Talking Heads were college grads (RISDEE), and Snooky Bellomo of Tish & Snooky’s Manic Panic was an English major at NYU. I was in pretty good company – but one night, Patti Smith made a comment about learning that just astonished me . . .

1-10-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #8 (Forming a popular New Wave Band in the Late Seventies: Nervus Rex)

It sounds kind of overly dramatic to say things like “On that fateful day” and all, but really: it WAS a fateful day when I connected with the young man who posted that Village Voice ad looking for people to start a “Talking Heads/CBGB’s type” band with. 20 years old, shy, blue eyed, always preppily dressed (NEVER in jeans), Shaun Krushenick, a.k.a. Shaun Brighton, was the only child of a well known artist, Nicholas Krushenick, and his aspiring actor wife, Julia. A really sweet but not-smart Collie dog, Cody, completed the family, who lived in an honest-to-goodness Soho artist’s loft at 168 Mercer Street between Houston and Prince.

After a phone talk, Shaun and I met up at CBGBs one chilly night in December. He shifted on his feet and most of his responses were a low-key chuckle, “heh heh” kind of thing. I made him nervous, but he was nervous anyway, very wired, with a quick, very high intelligence. He had a baby face and mop top hair; later on I’d see his Paul McCartney eyes imitation where he pulled down the corners of his eyes to resemble those famous droopy orbs. Shaun was also kind of immature, emotionally. . . not that I was a paragon of maturity at age 21 (or even now!).

Once we met, we talked, and figured out our musical tastes were cool. Then we had to play and sing together, and as nervous as we were, that worked, too. We sounded good singing together. So, over the course of the winter months, we planned this new wave pop band. Six months in, I changed my hairstyle (from reddish brown medium length blunt cut to a dyed black pageboy with bangs – people swore I was partly Asian, which I got a kick out of but no, I was just a rock ‘n’ roll NY mutt).

After much deliberation and study of the British rock papers (New Musical Express – the NME – and Melody Maker were de riguer in our circles), we settled on a band name, NERVUS REX. In true punk style, we chose it because it was on a “Top Ten List of the Worst Band Names” in the NME. We thought, how cool: and how fitting, ‘cause we were definitely nervous wrecks at first.

I also figured that I’d have to phase out my Trixie A. Balm rock writing if I was going to be a pop star – or a pop tart – a working musician and rocker, not a rock writer. I thought it was a question of journalistic ethics. At first my Trixie associations were skeptical of my career change (as was my mother, who was nervous of me being an aspiring writer, too), but then they heard us, were supportive, and came in useful.

Stay tuned to this blog for further adventures of “The Rex” as we fight the good fight for coolness, ‘70’s music, and a piece of the ol’ American pie. . . .