I rang the bell at 2.40 pm Sunday. No reply. I waited a couple of minutes and rang again. Still no reply. I phoned Joseph’s cell phone and a sleepy voice said he’d had a late night. We’d agreed I’d show at 2.30 pm. “So what do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Can you wait ten minutes?”
“Sure.”
The late November New York sun warmed me as I stood outside the apartment building on Sedgwick Avenue. A young Afro American woman approached the door laden down with clean laundry, pushed her apartment buzzer and was admitted. The buzzer rang again and I went in. I made my way to 3E and Joseph was standing outside the door in welcome.
The acrid, stench of urea, of cat urine greeted me as I stepped over the threshold into the overheated apartment. There was a long corridor, with papers on the floor, leading to Joseph’s black walled bedroom. Half a dozen guitars and a few pentangles adorned the walls and on the floor, a couple of Marshall practice amps and a Peavey were stacked beside a large Emerson monitor. There were several cheap bases, including a Fender Squier P bass and a large makeshift drum kit.
I walked in, put my coat and sweater on the bed and unzipped my guitar.
Joseph had said he had two Les Paul Specials, they turned out to be Epiphones, but hey, I’m no guitar snob which was just as well for when he started playing, it was immediately clear he was miles better than me. He played through a special metal pedal and had a fast technique even though he’s self taught, learned most of what he knows through youtube and has only been playing 18 months.
He was soon joined by two other guys, a bass player and a drummer. What amazes me is that in Europe many young white guys like black american music. Here, young Hispanic or Afro American guys like heavy metal! The other week I was in a school in East Flatbush, Brooklyn, and a young woman said, when I told her I was Irish, “How exotic”. She looked dumbfounded when I told her that living in Ireland, Brooklyn sounded exotic to me. Black American music these days is, I suppose, gangsta rap. Perhaps some young American black people prefer heavy metal to that? These young guys neither smoke nor drink, they are upstanding and kind, so it’s understandable that the ethics of the prevalent music here wouldn’t appeal to them.
Anyway, we jammed for a couple of hours. The bass player was really good, and he drummed a little and played some mean lead guitar, but his bass riffs and technique were excellent. The drummer was more enthusiastic than good, and Joseph, after 18 months playing could hold his own. The weak link was me, and they didn’t ask me back. I could just about play pentatonic riffs, didn’t know any of their numbers, which hardly mattered because I could pick up the chords quite easily, it was all in Am or Dm. But I couldn’t really add to anything they were doing, except playing a few rhythmic riffs.
However, I really enjoyed it and I take my hat off to them for being so friendly and for being not remotely unkind.
I even learned something too, and this morning, as I practiced, I was noticeably more adventurous in what I was attempting and actually brought it off too.
ydigydig Awareness, Enjoyment, Knowledge, Understanding, human brain, ydig
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