Jazz in Central Park, Scott Metzger et al. at Psychedelic Sangha, Subtonics at Letlove Inn
It feels like we’re turning a corner, the beginning of the beginning if you will. This past weekend was so normal in so many ways, but it was more of the new normal, one that I’ve grown very accustomed to and one that I’ll surely miss if ever the old normal returns.
Just two days later, I’m all too happy to put a little more conviction behind the statement that started my last review: Tuesday April 20th was the proverbial poster child for the new normal that lies ahead and the corner has, in fact, been turned. With a heavy dose of Vitamin-D, and nearly eighty-degree temperatures, New York City rolled out the welcome mats and greeted me with a giant hug and a prime parking spot on the corner of 72nd/5th. As I entered Central Park to partake in some late afternoon jazz, the smell of 4/20 was heavy in the air as New York openly celebrated legal weed on this, the Highest of Holidays.
I was overwhelmed with emotion as the last time I entered the Park was almost two years ago to the day when my father died in Mt. Sinai hospital. So much has changed since then on both a personal and global scale, and the day was heavy with emotion. My dad delighted in the company of people and was always the life of the party, living his life boldly and with exuberance. I’ve reflected on this considerably: living BIG and for the moment were his way, and they were also his greatest gifts to me. I was in the park to see music, but really I was in the park to see people, and often I wonder whether they’re one and the same. At the very least, music is the impetus that drives the gathering and the two are inextricably linked. I’m sure my dad would’ve approved.
En route to my destination, I had to find a bathroom and went over Bow Bridge and down the stairs to Bethesda Terrace and ended up at the Boathouse. Noticing all the performers singing and dancing and doing their thing on the way there, I walked a little more slowly and enjoyed them on the way back, this time walking under Bow Bridge and through the archway, stumbling upon a lovely violin-esque (I don’t know what it really was) performer who was facing the fountain beyond the vaulted arches. As I paused for a few moments of this little performance before the performance, I realized that I was enjoying complete silence amidst the noise, thoroughly enchanted by the City’s spell in a moment of perfect contentment.
2021/4/20 Anderson Brothers @ Rumsey Playfield, Central Park, NY
Alighting upon Rumsey Playfield, I just barely realized that the last time I stood on this spot it was home to the Central Park Summerstage and Kikagaku Moyo was opening for Khruangbin in June 2019. I’m sure we’re closer to that moment right now than at any point in the last year and the feeling of being back was pervasive in that instant. But even as I was overcome with the feeling of being back, I was highly appreciative that the stage at which we were back was still part of the new normal, represented on this occasion by an underground but completely public gathering with jazz club level talent. Enter twins Peter and Will Anderson, virtuosic saxophonists who have graced world class stages at Lincoln Center, Kennedy Center, and The Blue Note. While we are certainly inching closer to a return to those venues, open air performances like this are the silverest of all linings, the pandemic gift that I hope we never have to return, all for the price of whatever you can throw in the hat. The Anderson brothers led a quartet that includes a trumpet and percussion and while my focus was mostly on the company, I can say without hesitation that these are ethereal performers worthy of both my full attention and a cover charge on some future date. Also, a little public love to Josh Ras for coordinating both the musicians and the gathering. Bravo.
4/20 High Holiday Bardo Bath w/ Scott Metzger, Tony Leone, & Jeff Hill @ Judson Memorial Church
As I shuttled downtown for show number two, NYC rolled me from arm to arm in the giant welcome hug that was free and easy street parking and I found another perfect parking spot in front of Washington Square Park. Another wave of people using another city park, now perhaps feeling the relief of the long-awaited guilty verdict for the murder of George Floyd at the hands of a Minnesota police officer. The jury’s decision will never undo George Floyd’s murder, nor does it represent justice by any stretch of the imagination; rather, it was a small but necessary step towards accountability that hopefully can be a building block towards lasting change. The fact that sixteen year old Ma’Khia Bryant, a Black girl from Columbus, OH, was shot dead by a police officer almost simultaneously to the verdict being read leads me to think otherwise. But I will hold on to hope because hope is fuel and without fuel activism will wither and die and I simply cannot allow that. It is the work of White people to dismantle White supremacy and it starts by looking inward and first acknowledging and then shedding our White privilege. Then and only then can we move forward with liberty and justice for all and it wasn’t at all lost on me how different this street scene would have been had the verdict unfolded in any other way.
After contemplating the sea of nameless strangers in the park as I processed all those thoughts, I turned the corner to find far more familiar faces than one would expect outside a show that only accommodates forty-two people. Entering a dimly lit church with vaulted ceilings and ornate archways above stained glass windows, each participant found their way to a yoga mat, laid out in six rows of seven. For the most part our entry was silent – though perhaps subdued is a better word – to match the aura of the space. For whatever reason, most people don’t like to be front and center which works really well for me because, well, I do. So even though the room was more than half-full when I entered, there was a mat laid out literal inches from Metzger’s pedal board that had my name all over it. I emptied my pockets, took off my shoes, rolled up my scarf as a pillow, and entered a state of shavasana.
I had a vague idea of what to expect, but for those who may be unaware, the following was taken from Psychdelic Sangha’s about page:
WELCOME HOME spiritual misfits, freaks, seekers, psychonauts, weirdos, rebels, counterculturists, and anyone who digs psychedelic culture!
“We are Psychedelic Sangha (pronounced “sang-gha”); a diverse spiritual community comprised of heterodox Buddhists, Hindus, Heads, and beyond. We share a common commitment to practice (i.e. meditation + yoga) and a belief in the spiritual value of art, music, and responsibly-used psychedelic substances. It is our mission to facilitate spiritual-arts event programming with a focus on integrating and exploring non-ordinary states of consciousness. Psychedelic Sangha is not allied with any single guru, tradition, school of thought or “religion.” We reject religious dogma and promote cognitive liberty—the human right to alter one’s own consciousness on the path to liberation and enlightenment. We facilitate exploration through immersive interdisciplinary events designed to foster artistic interplay, dissolve barriers, promote consciousness expansion, and provide safe community for individuals interested in art, music, and meditation.”
Full disclosure: I didn’t read any of that until I uncovered it in my research for this writing and the choice to include it was based on my heavy identification with the words and the illumination they provided in my post-analysis of the event. In retrospect, the sum total of my expectations were a meditative experience with what I thought would be ambient improvisation centered upon tone-heavy guitar.
The program began with a guided meditation which was well-received in my prone and 4/20-ready state and as the leader faded out, soft percussion faded gently in. I was completely horizontal, arms out, hands open to the sky, legs before me and socked feet inches from Metzger’s physical space. As my eyes were closed, the first sensation I had was that of proximity. I mean I really felt the music: percussion coming up to me through the floor; the vibration of the upright bass strings reverberating across my skin; the sonic waves of Scott’s guitar coming straight from his amp to my brain, as if bypassing the usual processing circuitry. More than music, this was an experience and it wasn’t happening around me so much as it was happening to me. Various thoughts came and went, and I welcomed them all. Omitting the personal stuff, I’ll share an early vision of being by a wooded stream, running water cascading softly in a silvery orb with technicolor hues, so vivid they were almost cartoonish. I flitted in and out of this space periodically over the ninety minute (?) session and it was one to which I was always happy to return.
At around the halfway point, I opened my eyes, changed position, did some yoga poses and stretches, and found myself to be uncomfortably close to Scott when I was upright so I shrouded myself in a scarf. After a short spell, I returned to my prone state and noticed the sound coming at me from all three-hundred sixty degrees as opposed to being right in front of me, almost as if the setting on the room was switched to Dolby-Atmos. I finished the evening in child’s pose, scarf still protecting me from the room as the music faded out and the meditation leader slowly faded in. My only awareness of time was taking a few pictures when I switched position and noticing we were at the forty-five minute mark. Otherwise, time was completely suspended.
The music never lost its sense of purpose or cohesion and the musicians were never lost. As such, neither was I. While I was expecting the duration to be somewhat of an ambient sound bath, certain segments had more distinction, almost as if the trio experimented with different songs although I wouldn’t actually classify anything they played as a song itself. They were more like different directions, forks in the road. Sometimes I recognized instruments, sounds, and tones. Other times I didn’t. Sometimes I heard stuff that sounded like other stuff, mostly with respect to Scott’s guitar work. There were noticeable hints of the influences that no doubt informed the style and sound that has become hallmark Metzger. The understated dominance and elegance that is Jim Hall’s jazz guitar, the psychedelic noodling that is Jerry Garcia. Metzger also did Metzger, often expressing himself with the distinct sounds of Wolf! that are synonymous with his play. I listened to a trio of records today as I wrote – Aoxomoxoa, 1-800-Wolf!, and Jim Hall Live. In the liner notes of the Jim Hall LP, I found a quote that not only resonated with the entire Psychedelic Sangha experience but also describes so much of what I’ve come to love and enjoy about Scott’s playing over the years.
“Improvisation is just a form of self-expression, and it’s very gratifying to improvise in front of people. I feel I’m including them in what I’m doing, taking them someplace they might like to go and haven’t been to before.”
Time and again, without fail, Scott Metzger takes me places, and I’m extremely grateful that our completely polar forms of self-expression exist in perfect harmony on opposite sides of the same stage.
A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. This one paradoxically had zero steps.
Subtonics @ Letlove Inn, Astoria, Queens
A triple? On a Tuesday? What?!?!?! Most of you probably already know that #mywifesasaint, but she does have her pet peeves, the biggest of which is my EZ-Pass bill. And let’s not forget that we’re all a little out of practice. So after a full year with absolutely zero charges on my EZ-Pass, I’ve been living a little lately and just got my first reload charge in over thirteen months and it happened to fall on the last day of our credit card bill when Diana is hyper aware of our spending. Long story short, my wife now charges me for river crossings so I figured in for a penny, in for a pound … may as well get my money’s worth. So after what seems like an eternity of hearing about this idyllic spot with a shapeshifting band in Astoria, Queens, I set off on my maiden voyage to the Letlove Inn. Another perfect parking spot on the desired corner and the parking trifecta was complete.
It’s funny that after years of hearing about this place I really hadn’t put together a mental image of what it may look like and yet it still managed to meet my expectations exactly. A smallish rectangle with a bar on the long edge and a small stage on the short edge, The Letlove is a typical, cozy neighborhood bar with probably ten or twelve of us present for the first set and another dozen or so for the second, all socially distant by party.
Okay, the Subtonics. To the best of my understanding, the Subtonics are guitarist Costas Baltazanis and whomever he feels like playing with/whomever shows up. Some nights that can be as many as seven or more musicians with keys and horns; this past Tuesday was a trio with bassist Panagiotis Andreou and drummer Joel Mateo. There was a very Krantzian feel to this trio, perhaps attributed to the nature of the instruments, the space, and the residency itself, but more so in terms of sound, at least at times, and quality. Also, I went in knowing that the guitarist was the show but left a huge fan of the bassist and drummer as well, who at various moments completely stole my both attention and my heart.
The set began with some gentle guitar, solo work, until Costas visibly created a bass line on his guitar that he then handed off to Panagiotis with a little glance and a lot of sorcery. Panagiotis ran with it, Costas veered off in a different direction, Mateo subtly joined in on percussion, and the build was underway, growing and shifting larger and larger until the trio was literally flying on a monster drum beat that had me pounding on the vinyl upholstered bench that thankfully I didn’t have to share with anyone. Costas introduced the musicians and their birthplaces, two Greeks and a Puerto Rican, and it’s funny in retrospect to reflect upon how much of Mateo’s sound had a very Latin association. He used the rim of his drum heads to create a sound that was very much the professional equivalent of playing upturned buckets with drumsticks that, quite frankly, drove me wild. Panagiotis’ bass was a headless five-string, as eye popping in all its splendor as Costas’ Fender Strat was in its worn and weathered glory. I was quite taken with each of these men in turn, and the sum of their parts was well worth the long wait and the anticipation of finally having arrived at this place.
The second set saw the addition of a few more friends to the crowd and an extra jolt of energy that the musicians certainly appeared to have felt and run with. Starting similarly to the first set, the sound built with a drone-like quality until the bassist woke up with pedals and effects and bass bombs that would’ve felt at home in an underground rave. Panagiotis was kind of facing back towards the band, but when he turned I was in his line of sight, bouncing around in my seat like a possessed madman, and he caught my eye and knew he had me. I could sit no longer and stood to dance for the final fifteen minutes or so, finally able to find bodily expression in the lunacy taking place before me. It got intense at the end there, for all of us, and it was obvious that after many years of a weekly residency followed by over a full year without, these men were beyond thrilled to be back home, doing what they love for a small but enthusiastic and visibly appreciative crowd.
Why does it always seemt to take till the very end of a show for a room to be freed from its collective inhibitions? Well, that’s what happened to the entire collective that was the Letlove Inn, and Costas created a little ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-baaaa-ba-ba singalong with a few guitar notes. With his encouragement, we all joined in with gusto until the music faded away and the entire bar was on its feet in an “Not Fade Away”-esque sing out. Many folks I know have been coming here for a real long time, but this was apparently a first and it felt special, so much so that after it ended, it started up again and we almost succeeded in coaxing another song out of the trio. 1,466 steps (all right at the end there).
A perfect day from start to finish: a summer day in early spring … NYC in all its glory … lots of music and just as many friends to share it with … God, I live for days like this!
I only have a few pics of the friends who shared the day, but some are better than none (and a few couldn’t be posted – ya know, cuz 420).
nice shirt bro. #feetfam
great and accurate capture of a special three-fer. (hey that rhymes with reefer)