After the uncollected diptychs of Herman Melville.
I. Saint Nick’s
It lay not far from the northwest entrance to the 145th Street station of the A-B-C-D trains.
A nondescript brown door, open dusk to gloam, a few up from the fish-n-chips place, Devlin’s, I think it was called. You heard it before you saw it. Then the light coming from inside. A few steps down. Always down.
The whole place blinked like a jukebox. Smelled like a warmed-up tube amp. (I also smelled: gasoline, perfume, leather, piss, cigarettes.) People, rubbing against you like starving cats. Nobody could help it; the place was too small; there were too many of us; there was no fire code to speak of.
There was no no-talking policy. There was an anti-no-talking policy. The music had to fight its way into the here and now or it wasn’t heard at all. It was never given carte blanche, the way it is in the shrines to the south. The legendary toughness of the Harlem crowd: Show me. Prove it.
The tables between the bar and the band were mostly (though never entirely) occupied by tourists. The foremost tables were pushed right up against the musicians. There was no bandstand, of course.
Oh, hell, I give up. I have no coherent memory of this place anymore. Only bits and pieces. And I can’t go back. It must be almost a decade since they shut the door of the St. Nick’s Pub. Maybe I should abandon Melville and write more like Joe Brainerd, even if that means the memories are mixed up with other memories from the eight years I lived in Harlem. Like this:
I remember the talking drummer dancing while he played, one hand fluttering against the drumhead. The bass player had a small gap between his front teeth, and hair I envied.
I remember the paunchy geek dancing by the bar, all sharp elbows and sharp chin and Fabio hair. When the percussionist headed for the door between sets, the geek gave him such a good-natured whack on the arm you’d have thought they were old friends. I only heard the last words the percussionist said: “Just don’t hit me again.”
I remember the bandleader walking around with a collection plate, people talking into his ear.
I remember the harmonica player in the D.R. wifebeater pumping his arm like he was blowing a train whistle, the women shimmying at the table in front of him.
I remember the drunk airline pilot trying to pick up a woman by the door.
I remember the bartender made me a special whiskey sour one night. It took him a good five minutes, walking from one end of the bar to the other, for this and that. I have no idea what he put in there. Maybe he was taking me for a ride. It tasted good.
I remember the Japanese barmaid. And wondering what the connection was between the Japanese and Harlem. There was a Japanese sax player one night, too.
I remember my neighbor, telling me the dresser we were thinking of buying in one of the other apartments in our building had belonged to the Japanese woman seen cradling Malcolm X’s head in the famous photo from his assassination. Possible, but I wish my neighbor’s wife had been there; she was good at calling him on his bullshit.*
I remember standing at the bar hearing Greg Porter sing “1960what?” for the first time over the PA, and somebody saying he was a St. Nick’s regular made good.
I remember the jazz pictures tacked or taped up around the pipes and such. Bird next to the fire extinguisher. Lady Day over the payphone. There was a picture of Lionel Ritchie, too, and a painting, “The Man,” though I’ve forgotten who The Man was, or what He looked like. Just that He was present.
I remember the cutout H-A-P-P-Y B-I-R-T-H-D-A-Y on a string behind the bar. The bibs made of napkins they tied around the neck of your Sugar Hill beer. And Christmas lights, of course.
I remember the food, on a table just past the bar. Paper plates and a checkered plastic tablecloth. You can only really hear the music if you know there were paper plates and a checkered plastic tablecloth.
I remember a horn solo. A broken diva. And a keyboard player who moved his body like a marionette, rolling his shoulders, flattening his hands against the keys …
I have no coherent memory of this place. But I do have the distinct impression I heard better music here than anyplace else in the City. Maybe anyplace else period. That this place was closer to the spirit of music, closer to the essence of what music is. Even with Sugar Hill turning to salt, the bitter taste of highrises going up over bulldozed lots, the gut-renovated brownstones, the lives cast into dumpsters up and down 145th Street (“you can fit a whole neighborhood in a dumpster,/ if you really try”), all the real-estate bullshit that throttled and continues to throttle the spirit of music (and pretty much everything else) in the City, there was still this little unvanquishable mecca.
I’m know, I’m romanticizing. I don’t care.
It may be history now, but it was so adamantly not historical—not a place interested in preserving some PBS image of jazz, but present and vital, there in the African diaspora community that I have now been away from for as long as I lived there.
I was holding these notes for a celebration, a reopening. Instead, they have become a piecemeal elegy. I had to dig them out of old journals. Some of them were no longer legible. They’re not enough. They’re all I have. They don’t add up to anything. They ease my longing, a little.
* E.g.: “Jimmy Baldwin! Jimmy! Honey, remember when I introduced you to Jimmy?” “I remember you pointing him out to me from across the room.”
*****
II. Saint Vitus
It lies not far from Gowanus Canal. But that is immaterial.
“Meet Me at St. Vitus.” An anthem, & a bit of Satanic doggerel, in honor of St. Vitus Bar’s successful Kickstarter campaign and impending not-really-post-pandemic resurrection. Sung, obviously enough, to the tune of “Meet Me in St. Louis.” Music by Kerry Mills. Lyrics by Helldriver, who would like to acknowledge the assistance of Profs. Hafen S. Bergius and Baciyelmo in preparing this authoritative edition.
Ahem.
When Vitus got home from the pub
To dismember the corpse in his tub
He called Apollyon
But his wifey was gone
Without leaving him one shred of grub.
A note had been stuck by his wifey
To the door with an old butcher knifey
It ran, “Vitus, my dear, a demon growled in my ear,
Said he would buy me a shot and a beer,
So I’m off now to start my new lifey.”
“Meet me at St Vitus, Vitus
Meet me at the show
Don’t tell me there’s a darker place
A hundred miles below
“We’ll dance the selfsame Vitus
Till our feet swell with elephantitus
the blood runs from our eyes
and our flesh liquefies
If you meet me at St Vitus, Vitus
Meet me at the show.”
Vitus grabbed his spikes and his leather
And an umbrella for the balmy weather
Abbath drove the train
Through the gaslit subterrane
Of the region referred to as nether.
Some hell-wench was working the door
her forearms all slathered with gore
She said, “What’s that? The show?
It’s as sold as my soul,
And don’t try that I’m-on-the-guest-list shit, either.”
So he showed her three sixes branded
To the top of his behornéd head
Said she with a grin,
“Why didn’tcha say so? C’mon in!
Elevator’s on the left. Push nine.”
He’d gone four, five, six circles down
When he cried, “What on earth is that sound?
Like a Cerebus-pound
Or some cursed Injun mound
Where the infants are ground
Where the demons are crowned
And the fire’s kept stoked all year round, all year round,
And the fire’s kept stoked all year round.
(And what’d she write on that note that I found?)”
“Meet me at St Vitus, Vitus
Meet me at the pub
Don’t tell me there’s a finer partner
For drinking than ol’ Beelzebub
He’s got a hollow leg—or three—
And cheeks as red as a cherub
So meet me at St Vitus, Vitus
Meet me at the pub.”
Then opened the door on a scene
From a nightmare well-leavened with spleen
The sludge-stench of unguents
Crotchless-Todd-Rundgren pungent
And the nuts of Ted Nugent
Roasted more than was prudent
By enslaved, undead culinary students
Told the presence of all things unclean.
In a booth was his dear wifey pressed
In a bodice of leather was she dressed
Asmodeus to her left
His hoofage all cleft
With Jaeger her invertedly blessed.
Took Vitus his Jaeger sans chaser
When the music hit him like a Taser
The bartenders all carved
“SLAYER” into their arms
With the blade of a dull, rusty razor.
Said he, “Well, it’s not what I’d planned …
But can you beat that motherfucking band?
I’m shutting my Bible
For if I don’t, I’m liable
To wind up worse off than the damned.”
Now he’s stuck in this place all eternity
For the devil has proved his paternity
And the music’s sure fine
be it punk, thrash, or grind
Or sui generis a-reek with slatternity.
Soooooooooo … [everybody!!]
“Meet me at St Vitus, Vitus,
meet me at the show
Don’t tell me there’s a darker place
A hundred miles below
“We’ll dance the selfsame Vitus
till the angels all spite us
the demons be-(k)night us
to acts of violence incite us
like Andronicus Titus
to executions invite us
rabid mambas to bite us
pestilence to blight us
If you’ll meet me at St Vitus, Vitus
Meet me at the show.”
[de rigeur blistering electric something-or-other solo; then, climactic reprise:]
“Meet me at St Vitus, Vitus,
meet me for a beer
don’t tell me bangers are banging
thrashers are thrashing
moshers are moshing
eyeballs a-popping
bunnies a-hopping
Azathoth a-flopping
anyplace but here, but here,
anyplace but heeeeeeeeeere!”
[Clap. Clap. Clap.]
[follows a list of variants from previously published versions]
1-5] VX(+((0))): When Vitus awoke all hungover/ Looking like death unwarmedover/ He rolled over in bed/ Kissed a severed head/ And cried out, “Who bisected my lover?”
8-9] R!sq&i: Vitus, by goll,/ Quart’ring corpses is dull,
54-60] ^^^ugh^^^: Here be rituals dominated by victuals/ Unidentifiable meat-substitutes on the griddles/ While Norman Castavets/ Plays his bone castanets/ To a tune on thirteen out-of-tune fiddles.
92-95] sNogg?eeeeee: Call up the demons/ And theorems by Riemann/ Pour out our libations/ With baskets of crustaceans
[follows a comment box for suggested new verses, as per the original. don’t be shy, now. and don’t be f—-d, either, writing doggerel is d—-d hard!]
[In fact, here is a little story perfect for a new verse, open to the first versifier who dares: “It was the frontispiece of an old, smoked, snuff-stained pamphlet, the property of an elderly lady (who had a fine collection of similar wonders wherewith she was kind enough to edify her young visitors), containing a solemn account of the fate of a wicked dancing party in New Jersey, whose irreverent declaration that they would have a fiddler even if they had to send to the lower regions for him, called up the fiend himself, who forthwith commenced playing, while the company danced to the music incessantly, without the power to suspend their exercise until their feet and legs were worn off to the knees! The rude woodcut represented the Demon Fiddler and his agonized companions literally stumping it up and down in ‘cotillions, jigs, strathspeys and reels.’” (John Greenleaf Whittier, The Supernaturalism of New England, 1847 (Oklahoma UP, 1969), p. 50; Whittier’s emphasis)]