Saturday night I went out with some friends to hear bluegrass in a little tiny bar in the middle of nowhere, Brooklyn. Well, actually, it was at the end of a cobblestoned street that led on to a deserted pier from which you could see the nighttime dark expanse of New York Harbor, with the Statue of Liberty gleaming familiarly across. Nothing but desolation and shuttered warehouses all around. Inside the bar, though, it was cozy, comfortable, companionable. The space opened into a round back room, and when you walked in there, it was like walking through the magic door in
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. All of a sudden it was another world, a world of music and jollity and pathos, fiddlers and mandolin players and guitarists and singers jamming away, playing bluegrass and country and Western swing. Most had a familiar look to them, people that sort of reminded me of my parents' friends maybe forty years ago, earnest folk-dancey people, lots of flannel shirts and baggy sweaters. The exception was the transvestite in cowboy boots and short skirt playing an instrument that looked liked the guitar except you held it horizontal and plucked at it--I can't remember the name. [I remembered it! dobro]
We talked to an older man (maybe in his 70s) who had driven over from another borough just to hang out and hear the music. He didn't play an instrument but seemed to know all the songs, would join in from time to time. He had the look of a movie star from the thirties, strong silhouette, clean-shaven, hair neatly combed back, v-neck sweater with broad stripes around the V. At one point he leaned over to me confidentially and said, "You know, people complain about rap music, they say it's hateful to women. Well, listen to this song--the guy takes his girlfriend down to the river and stabs her because she says she won't marry him. If they ever started listening to these songs they'd want to censor them, too." So, then I listened to the words of what I had always thought was a pretty song, something about the banks of the Ohio, and sure enough, there's a rather chilling narrative, in which the woman is murdered and the man is eternally remorseful.
It took a rousing rendition of the "The Bottle Let Me Down Tonight," to which we sang along heartily (next line: "it let your memory come around") to get us back into good spirits.
After awhile the older guy left and his seat near us was taken by a somewhat younger guy, more the age of my friends and me. A sculptor, as he told us. I thought he was cute, although my friends thought he was a little obnoxious, perhaps because he kept repeating the same stories and opinions. Nevertheless, I thought there was something sweet about him, and we had some mildly amusing repartee, although I didn't really have an answer when he described one of the songs as "Proustian."
By that time we were getting ready to leave, anyway. I was creakily getting up from the round booth where we had all been sitting, making my way all the way around the little formica table to get out, since cute sculptor guy was blocking the other side in an armchair that was right up against the booth. As I got up, I grimaced because my knees, which have been very stiff indeed, hurt when I straightened them. We were all saying our good-byes, nice talking to you, see you again, kiss kiss, shake hands, all very polite, and then I mumbled something about my knees. "What?" said sculptor guy. "My knees are shot to hell," I said, in a tone that I imagine as sounding world-weary and disgusted. I thought, so much for my attempts to present an air of feminine delicacy and mystery. Sculptor guy just laughed, though, and took my hand for a moment. Who knows, maybe he likes real women with aching knees.
Maybe he has bad knees, too.
