We played Madison Square Garden on 10/11/01, just a month after the attack.
We flew in from Chicago on the 10th, and I set out to visit an exhibition of Fluxus movement works at Art in General (79 Walker Street, near Canal and Lafayette). As it turned out, Canal St. was the demarcation point for the area of lower Manhattan which was still closed to vehicle traffic, so I found myself passing a military-style barricade into an area where there were almost no cars on the street. It couldn’t have been Mr. Happy Feet, so it must have been Mr. Unhappy Feet who led me to walk past City Hall (closed off, white house-style), and the courts buildings, and other places I’d never visited before.
It was clear that this was to be a day of milling and mulling rather than malling and mealing, so I toughed it out despite the still-acrid smell which seemed to come from every direction.
At the Jacob Javits Federal Building, an immense line-up began at the front door and continued to the street and as far as I could see around the corner. It was a queue for the Immigration and Naturalization Service. Nearby, a large crowd had gathered on the street. It turned out that a building had been evacuated for unknown reasons, which its workers seemed to regard as a typical day at the office. They chatted with one another and made calls on their mobile phones and waited to be told to return to work.
Soon I began to encounter a lot of citizens wearing face masks, which made the scratchiness in our throat burn a little more. Fortunately, there was a Starbucks nearby, so we figured a cup o’ Joe would help. I walked in and asked for a grande nonfat latte and the barista said loudly, “I WANT TO GO HOME.” I told him that I’d be happy to write a note for him if it would help and he replied, “Do you think it would?”
Outside, I viewed a command post and staging area and lots more military folks on duty. Several police cars raced by with lights and sirens on full. Then I noticed a bomb squad truck with the door open, so I thought it was about time to skedaddle.
I still hadn’t really seen anything major to write about, mainly because I didn’t know exactly where the World Trade Center used to be. How do you find a landmark when the landmark you use to find things is gone?
I walked on rather aimlessly back to Canal Street, which is always a carnival of pushcart merchants, and was so again today. Of course there were America-themed garments aplenty, but in surprisingly good taste. There were no “My parents visited the site of an unprecedented tragedy and all I got was this lousy T-shirt”-type souvenirs available, thankfully.
I continued into Little Italy, viewed the ruins of the Grotta Azzurra, the now-abandoned site of several happy tour dinners, and continued past the firehouse of Engine Co. 55. Outside was a massive display of flower, candles and other offerings from the neighborhood to a station where many were lost. On the outside wall was a poster for the Fireman’s Ball that very evening. If our show wouldn’t be emotional enough for you, I thought, perhaps you should head over there and try to maintain that cynical and ironic demeanor.
I had emerged from the combat zone sufficiently that when I smelled something burning, it turned out to be the food on a street vendor’s cart. I was now in Soho, which seemed about as normal as usual, i.e. not very. Still, one storefront on Prince Street was jammed, with a line extending out into the street, so I had to investigate.
It turned out to be a place called Here Is New York, offering “images from the frontline of history: a democracy of photographs.” Inside were photos taken by residents of the area, amateur and professional, some of them so gripping that the viewers could only stare transfixed. Along one wall was a bank of IMacs, and one could purchase copies of any of the images, which were printed on the spot using several high-end printers. All pictures were the same price ($25) and all proceeds went to the Children’s Aid Society 911 Fund. If you want to know more, visit their website: www.hereisnewyork.org. The site is still up now, if you wondered.
After this final catharsis, I was ready to poke around in the shops and have lunch.
The next day was our showday, and it was an emotional roller-coaster, but ultimately a joyous experience, with an especially intense audience reaction.
A few days later, I got an email from a woman who said she had attended the show with her husband. It was his first night out after weeks of working every day at ground zero, and she said it was the first time she’d see him smile in a month.
Her description of the joy our show had brought them made me reconsider my concept of our occupation, its importance, and what it meant to people.
Musicians become so involved in the nuts and bolts of what is expected from them that they can become blind to the emotions of those who attend performances. This was a wake-up call for me, one which has endured since.
I can’t find the email she sent—it's in my hopelessly scattershot email archive, but if I could, I would send her a lengthy thank you note. I hope she and her husband are thriving in the midst of our latest tragedy.
And I wish the same for all of our audience members over the last 40 years, who helped all of us, on stage and off, to enjoy our own experience in a deeper way.
Unfortunately, we're no longer out there to send out cheer-up vibes, so you'll have to find your own way to deal with the current situation. I would suggest that we acquire a competent leader,