Songs from the Empty Chair

I sat at my chair wondering where to start.

This image of an empty chair kept on gleaming in my head.

In Andy Warhol's chair (1985-86),
Caffe Vivaldi founder Ishrat Ansari

At a cafe, I recently took pictures of every chair in daylight.

It dawned on me  these chairs represent an entire community and history.  More than 100,000 artists have sat in them.

A chair was once even used as a drum.

I  photographed Josh Taylor from his chair so he could see what he looked like from his own point of view.   

No one has sat where I am more than Josh.

It’s discernible that every regular has had a regular seat – at least in memory. Like band positions on a stage. 

At the window (1st table from the corner) is Marcus Mumford's chair, where he sat after singing with Oscar Issac. 



The next year Coen brothers' Inside Llewyn Davis -- in which Oscar stars as a singer in Greenwich Village -- won the Grand Prix for the 2013 Cannes Film Festival.  

Mumford's chair is also where Rachel Epp sat regularly with Mary Jennings. 

Every cafe chair has had a person on a poster.   

Rachel once told me she wanted to give  Beautiful Like This  (a song about a surviving farm where she grew up) to Farm Aid.

It has a cool line about seeing things from a  "passenger seat."  I listened while in Josh Taylor's seat.

A video made from our conversation was suddenly shared farm-to-farm in upstate New York, tweeted weekly for months.  Responses came from so many people we'd never met - including Mark Ruffalo and Mariel Hemingway. Next thing I know, Farm Aid is coming to upstate New York. I kept on flashing back to our first conversation. The seat gleamed like magic.  

At Rachel’s regular seat, friends of Jeremy Sisto (Law & Order, Six Feet Under) once shared a table. Sisto dialogued with them from stage before he closed with a rousing Just Cuz.

Al Pacino sat at this table too eating a salad when he first frequented Caffe Vivaldi.  So did Ethan Hawke on a night his daughter Maya sang, and he later joined her on stage. 

Nearby,  Maya's mom Uma Thurman sat in the middle row  across from Andy Warhol’s chair.

Warhol's chair was across from here. 
He snapped pictures in daylight. 

A half circle of people once huddled around Al Pacino sitting by the fireplace. He then declared he would direct his debut feature film here (Chinese Coffee). Bette Midler celebrated her birthday there. Rob Reiner (When Harry Met Sally) and John Cusack once sat around there too. This might be New York’s last public fireplace in a cafe.

Bob Dylan sits on a piano chair
looking towards Jones Street
where he was photographed
for a 1963 album cover 

In the corner table by pictures from Woody Allen's Oscar-winning Bullets Over Broadway (1994),  writer Joseph Brodsky sat with his glass of wine. The world press came to interview him here after he'd won the Nobel Prize.  That’s just one story.  In a community, every story is just one thread of a  tapestry.

It is possible Woody Allen has sat in every chair here. He did shoot two movies 15 years apart here: Bullets Over Broadway (1994) and, more recently, Seinfeld co-creator Larry David sat outside Caffe Vivaldi for Woody Allen’s Whatever Works (2009).

There was once a bench  outside 32 Jones Street on which many singer-songwriters sat. There's a mystical wind blowin' down Jones. Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan was photographed on Jones. It’s why Steve Earle moved to Jones. 

9 Jones 

But these days, guitar players stand and wait on Jones before going on stage at Caffe Vivaldi. For Robert Johnson’s Centennial, Jeff Buckley guitarist Gary Lucas stood here before he went on to play some amazing finger-picking guitar.  At Josh Taylor's seat,  I saw why Rolling Stone called him "one of the best and most original guitarists in America."

* * *

At the chair jetting out most from the round bar,  the Closer, aka Erik Frandsen,  arriving at last call, would sit on Monday nights playing the last song, his guitar unplugged.  I often sat at that chair in my earlier years here. The Grammy Awards once asked me to storyboard a photo community illustrating the meaning of music and this is where I sketched the concept. 

At closing, Monday nights, Erik has sung duets and played guitar with Kate Sland who poured last drinks and sang from behind the bar. 

 Erik Frandsen took Josh Taylor's seat this time!

Erik is still at the heart and soul of Greenwich Village music.  I think the late Dave Van Ronk - whose memoir inspired the latest Coen brothers film - would readily bestow Erik the title of Mayor of MacDougal.  Besides Joel Zighel who operates Jones Street Wines nearby,  Erik might be the only Village local who regularly plays here. Long ago, he recorded with Bob Dylan when Dylan was local. More recently, Erik has appeared on The Colbert Report as a funny man. Blues players have told me Erik is the reason why they play guitar. And one night, I saw Erik play slide guitar for Robert Johnson’s Centennial hosted by vintage guitar connoisseur Zeke Schein who found the 3rd known photo of Robert Johnson. That was once only and I’ll never forget it.

It’s good to know the best values of Greenwich Village are still being passed around this café. There’s no cover, no minimum drinks and no RSVP. Only open access. You just come right in and freely listen or play. And you’ll meet people you’ll know for life.

I used to get a bar seat at 7 pm on Open Mic Mondays. But now you have to arrive 5:15 pm  before the café opens 5:30 pm to get one. Blame it on hosts Kate Sland and now Tracy Thorne whose songwriting I love and personalities will show you a new life. You’ll be outside of yourself. 

I first saw Kate Sland sitting in Josh Taylor's seat waiting for her shift to start. That was nearly 7 years ago.  I don’t think I’ve seen her sitting since (working 3-5 jobs here).  She served every chair drinks/food somehow within the ticking time of 1-2 songs before calling up the next Open Mic artist. That was after washing dishes (once upon a time), doing sound and talking to patrons. That night, she also sang Jeff Buckley’s Mojo Pin and  Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. 

Years later, I’d sit in Josh Taylor’s seat and see Jeff Buckley’s guitarist  Gary Lucas play Mojo Pin. Magic got summoned. 

Producer-guitarist Will Hensley also sat at Josh’s chair when Tracy Thorne first asked about working together on an album. They’ve since released I Am That.

On my birthday, sitting in my regular chair, I wondered how far I'd come. And this is true, I sat next to someone on my left from my birthplace. And, on my right, someone was born on my birthday. I’ve had a lot of strange intersections here. I once waited for friends driving from Memphis 24 hours to get here and a man from Memphis sat next to me. In San Francisco, I once bumped into someone who regularly sat next to me at this café.

Music vagabonds drift in from all over the world - as far as Paris, Scandanavia and Tokyo -  like some magnetic force is here.   It must be music ley lines or something. 

* * *

I watched Caffe Vivaldi's live daily webcast from Canada for Kate Sland’s going away to California. So did folks from Sweden. Johnny Boy from Hoboken stood on a chair aiming high as he sang Kate Sland's  song Aim Low. True to his own song, he might've been the "Last Man Standing" on a chair singing  a song here.

Every chair here has a story.

Layers of people have sat on them. I would hazard to guess that Kristin Hoffmann sat on the piano bench most. Kristin Hoffman  just celebrated her 10th year here…400+ sets. 

Kristin Hoffmann on the wall 

Her long-time friend NLX once went from this piano seat to catch a Canada-bound bus seat in Midtown. Somehow she made it in 14 minutes, 30 seconds before departure. 

Before the Closer was here, I once saw Dani Mari after closing. Lights out, she sat on the corner bench, where everyone piles guitars now. She started fiddling around on her guitar, whispering words, before heading home to Philly. Next thing I know,  there are two rows of chairs huddled around that bench as she sung.  It was like you could hear your soul in dialogue with that song. I’ll never forget that feeling.

So next time you sit in a radiant chair, you never know what new history will manifest.  Every square foot here has a story. 

Country Free

Often, we see the country for what it has: majestic beauty.  Hues that only a people-less nature can offer.

Lately, I’ve been pondering what it doesn’t have. And I think it contributes equally to this sanctuary for the soul.

For starters, the country doesn’t often have headlines beyond stories like “the wild chives and buttercups” are out.

Photo by @NYFarmer from Twitter 

That’s quite a contrast to Toronto, a city where political intellect focuses on a Mayor and his association with crack. Or some crazy thing people have done causing outrage. 

There’s not much politics for the mind out here. You couldn’t even make it up.

Less people also means there is less a feeling of inequality or injustice – unless we’re talking about dial up connections and internet access.

Sanctuary from media is soulful.

It is beautiful.

One national columnist I knew pondered how far he’d have to travel to hear no news. “That’s a vacation.”

A place where the news is seeing each drop of rain, each snowflake falling, each leaf blowing in the wind or a ray of sun hitting the water. Where we feel the pulse of life.

I have gone up to 11 days without spending a dime. I can even work 15 hours uninterrupted.

In the City, I can’t recall a day that happened. The City is set up to tap into your pockets and time like a suction cup. There seems to always be the next obligation of the day, these days, twice at once.

The seduction of bars and live events – or a constant desire to leave home to socialize…leave 4  walls closing in…compel the cabbing, the driving, the cycling, or public transit to the next stop.

In the country, there is only one stop – here.

No rush hour or New York minute. No competition for attention. Only the timeless state of being.

The eyes pay attention if there’s purple suddenly in the field. Animals roam freely unleashed.

No pre-defined path for circulation 

You can hear a heartbeat and see the stars.

It would be hard to see man-made rules top of mind.

The nearest traffic light is miles away. There’s not even a No Parking or No Stopping sign, from this time to part of next time.

There is no timeline. There is no need to even parallel park.

I can’t even remember the last time I saw a stranger in angst saying, “I had a bad day.”

Road rage between walkers, bikers and drivers – the country has no such collisions. There is no need to shoot someone the bird. We’d be grateful to just see another person.

The pre-conceived guarded behaviour against unruly behaviour is let go.

People at the nearest gas station, liquor store, DVD rental stop, and post office all know me even if I haven’t shown up in 6 months. Sometimes I think I see them more than good friends I know in the City.  Everyone is so busy in the City. All the time. Double time.

In the country, the manufactured pre-occupations are gone. The strangeness of strangers or distance of friends in their own world, non-existent.

The sun rises every morning. And it is noticed.

Later in the night, a firefly visited 

Flashback

Flashback - 2002. We knew each other nearly 4 yrs that year. Well, it doesn't seem like our conversations have gotten older since. Maybe just life's chances with each chance. And a chance adds up to less than 1 day and not even 1 minute...and maybe for only 1 second. And these seconds tick fast like a heartbeat.

Clarity

" What you don't have you don't need it now, 

What you don't know, you can feel it somehow..." 

People who keep it real, keep you young.

I woke up New Year’s Day on a sofa with an epiphany.

Suddenly, I was seeing so clearly.

It was just a physical or mental act (not sure which) of looking far out. No different than how a quarterback sees down a field to go for a 90 yard throw. A Hail Mary.

In spite of all the noise in front, a path just opens.   

I was suddenly seeing past the womb of my world.

* * *

In spite of all the creativity to find inspiring truth, I was stuck. There was no clarity to breakthrough. Knowledge changed nothing.  Surroundings kept you in one place.

There’s a loud crowd of confusion in front. And suddenly, you’re focused on it. No leadership to leave.  A lonely mind that knows too much, suddenly says too little and does even less. 

Enveloped in mixed signals, circumstantial needs, concerns, or egos starving for satisfaction, a surrendering philosophy prevailed.

* * * 

Time changed  life like melting ice. 

* * *

Sometimes there’s a political or philosophical bent. Beating beaten paths or beating something to death.  Templated on road maps. 

Then there’s your own womb from which it can be hard to see past. Or escape.

There’s a past that keeps you there, defining your status quo.

There are hardships making barriers seem most visible daily. Handcuffed to the present.

Sometimes it feels like the world is caving in. Punched in the gut.  Breathe.

Adversity. What is still done counts, defining the meaningful.

* * *

Clarity is more important than independence.

The dream is past this womb.

Seeing past it – just the physical act of doing it -  made me look in places I never saw in the womb.

I reached out and people reached back to pull me out.

The crowd of confusion was still there. But suddenly, the horizon of illumination was clear. The noise no longer mattered. Far out connectivity began. 

A New World manifested itself. 

Illumination of Space 

The Android Dream of Electric Sheep

Homage to Philip K Dyck 

who predicted this in 1968

In recent years, “virtual self-esteem” has grown dramatically in a world where nourishment at work and at home are in steep decline.

A virtual  “like” has become the most popular human activity on the planet—even more popular than real love.

Reality can’t compete with the speed and volume of virtual responses.  

Text Messaging is more frequent than hearing a real voice. Facebook instantly notifies you when someone liked you (virtually), became a friend (virtually) or added a comment to recognize what you did (virtually). 

* * *

Foursquare makes you feel like a virtual mayor of some place, giving you badges of honor like a Boy Scout or Girl Guide for doing nothing but check-in. 

One badge you need to stitch on after you do a good deed. 

The other you can just drink enough beer and become Mayor.  

* * *

Virtual self-esteem has driven addiction to social media. 

To be sure, there are meaningful posts and comments, but social media does not measure meaning or depth. 

It is more about the status of what you are doing – which can be as banal as saying how cold the weather is or complaining about something free like social media. 

It’s recognition for literally doing nothing. Free anytime, free anywhere. 

This is especially enticing for the lonely and recognition starved in today’s fissured world where one third are working at home alone.

How many views, how many friends, how many followers, how many notifications, how many mayorships, how many comments to notice you in the feed...it's how social media measures. But it’s a strange way to measure oneself.

Substance doesn’t matter in a virtual world. People complain more online about the meaningless than face to face. 

“Speed is the most important feature.”  People want frustration recognized fast. People want recognition fast. 

Feelings today are expressed more virtually today than in person.

It’s a democratic system. But even the brightest minds don’t spend every waking hour doing something substantial. Most hours are spent otherwise. And this is reflected democratically in social media. But what happens to us when we intake everyone’s fast thoughts virtually every hour? If TV can be called the “idiot box” what is social media that is “idiot proof”?

Social media is ultimately a system of rewarding people for doing very little. “The path of least resistance.”

Even the art of instantly making a good picture or giving you status for the shortest possible thoughts are instantly rewarding. You’re published!  

Social media rewards you for something that  ironically will also be instantaneously forgotten tomorrow or even in the next hour. Do you remember what you wrote 2 days ago?

Permanence is not a factor in virtual socialization.

This is driven partly by the artifice of internet metrics. The brightest digital inventors are heavily swayed to get the most eyeballs, unique visitors, and views in the fastest way possible without asking people to do much.  

Heavy lifting is a cardinal sin in the internet world. And so inventors “dumb down” what you need to do. You don’t even have to pay personal attention to anyone you invite to an event or cause, there is automated spam.

This sounds like a scathing critique but I was tasked with looking honestly at how people get attached to social media. Specifically, I was looking at how social media scales in popularity most--independent from what's meaningful in a virtual world.

Instant recognition is a key factor in virtual popularity. Giving a virtual “like” makes someone’s day more than anything else in frequency. I wouldn’t even know what is second most.

The most popular human act in the world. 

And today someone's suing believing they own the rights to this act. 

In HR, it’s no secret that recognition is more important than money. It’s also why titles like VP, of this and that, duplicate redundantly or don’t actually say what you do. It’s for recognition.

There is good of course in social media beyond virtual recognition.

There are clearly great benefits in long distance interaction, connections made, mobilization, awareness, daily dialogue, information, creativity and sharing moments. Revolutions have even started online.

It’s also free. 

But is it just me?

I see friends everyday online, but suddenly years pass without having seen many friends in person. Though I want to in person, I feel I have online. Before virtual connectivity, I think I made a greater effort to see people  more to stay connected.  I had a physical address book for visits. Now I don’t even have addresses. People have also gotten far more busier to meet in person. I no longer know anyone who isn’t  busy.

Today I am in search of scaling greater meaning. And tonight I’m going out.

originally titled Illuminations of Virtual Self-Esteem 

Crossing At The Light

Maybe we’re just a couple of cars

Crossing at the light

One look and that’s it

Off into the night

Remembered when I didn’t know a thing

When there were open skies

The road was eternal

No graves for dreams

I was wanted in so many places

But only wanted to be one

The morning air was crisp

But the night got hazy

Suddenly I woke up this morning

And saw no tomorrow

People I knew had come

And gone

The heart was anchored

By some knowledge past

The sails flattened

No wind in the sound

The ship was moored

Like a permanent restaurant

Until health code officials

Would take it away

These places, these faces

Were once dreams come true

Today a Paradise Lost

Waiting for a new dream

To take its place

Fire fire burning bright

Embers floating into the night

Melted Ice

When I was in high school, in art class, I sculpted action scenes on ice influenced by Ken Danby.  Recently, I remembered that inspiration as I mapped where  historical goalie masks were worn. 

Hockey was this cool. 

I was one of those fans who memorized stats on hockey cards. 

Ken Dryden's hockey stick traveled from the Montreal Forum by train to my street on Sunset Avenue in Windsor, Ontario, when I was 4, after a game. And that is how I became a Montreal Canadiens fan.  

While playing defense, I learned from Bobby Orr whose hockey card was the first I ever had. I followed photos of his book showing his moves and Gordie Howe's book on how to use your elbows in the corners. Going to high school by bus, I'd stop in every morning at my neighbor's house. My friend's Dad later became the first referee inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame. And this is a true story. Matt Pavelich was the one who picked up Bobby Orr's puck for that famous flying leap goal and was the only one on the ice not photographed.

Religiously I watched hockey twice a week on TV  - and even listened to games on Radio Canada. I went so far as to learn French (my best grade) to do so. I even wrote speeches in French about hockey. You probably could not even name something else I loved more in life.

Sure there were tough times.  Just ask any Toronto Maple Leafs fan and all the owners they've seen since 1967. The last time they won a Cup, television was still in black and white. And City Hall was at a different location for the Stanley Cup parade. 

And that's nothing for tough times. Just ask any Alan Eagleson client. Just ask Bobby Hull, Bobby Orr, Darryl Sittler or Ted Lindsay.  

Sometimes it got so tough, the game no longer mattered.

Just ask Sheldon Kennedy or boys who worked as ushers at Maple Leaf Gardens. Just ask Theo Fleury. 

There have been  parents wanting their kids to be so perfect nothing else mattered.  

We also know every sudden death on or off ice. It's one of the few places in life where almost every fan knows every car accident, heart attack, skate cut, plane crash or cancer battle involving someone in hockey. Now that's tight-knit.    

* * * 

Through thick and thin, my love for hockey continued strong through all of this. Hockey  gave me something, nothing else did. 

I still arrived at the rink at 5 am before 6 am practice for extra ice time.  I was not a Wayne Gretzky fan but admired his work ethic to skate 3 hours daily on his hockey pond in Brantford. 

Later in life, next to me at a sports bar on Robson Street in Vancouver, I heard a man speak in French on his cell phone and saw scars on his face. I asked him, "Did you play hockey." He replied, "I used to." He was watching Dallas vs Detroit on TV. I then replied, "I used to pretend to be you...Whatever happened to Dan Daoust?"  Habs captain Guy Carbonneau, who taught me how to block shots,  replied, "That was a long time ago."  I then said, "I still remember your last goal."  I re-enacted it at the bar scoring while on one knee on the floor. OT!  He got a kick out of it. That's what dreams are made of. 

Later on in life, I even worked with an NHL team to launch the 1st Pay-Per-View hockey game online. The fans stayed on for four hours!  We added interviews from the Legends of Hockey. They were glued to the screen.    

* * *

I am not sure when NHL hockey eroded its relationship with me. 

Was the loss of Winnipeg or Quebec the start? Was it The Cup not coming back to Canada (20 years and counting). Leafs fans will also remember how they got cheated on Wayne Gretzky's high stick on Doug Gilmour  the last time the Cup was in Canada (1993).  It was like the NHL wanted to usher a win for Los Angeles. 

Was it bankers and sponsors dominating the rinks? Or expansion to the desert and Gulf of Mexico? Perhaps it was expansion into summer games for a winter sport. Or loyalty getting traded every year for money. 

The word "rival" (synonym "passion") 

has been lost from the hockey dictionary. 

Was it the 2004 strike, with the Cup staying two years in the Gulf of Mexico to remind us what hockey had become: For snowbirds, not ice men. This all added up to one thing. I didn't miss 2012 at all because of the strike. 

Perhaps even climate change causing the slow extinction of outdoor hockey rinks in Southern Ontario had something to do with it. 

Today Gretzky would have nowhere to skate outside everyday.  Hockey talent will erode as a result. 

This is where Gary Bettman is wrong to compare the NHL to other sports. It isn't. 

I've played all major sports and followed them hard as a fan.  To love hockey, we need outdoor ice, and winter magic. We need players and owners who reflect the fresh snowfall and "bring a lunch pail to work" to quote one former NHL GM.  We want to smell hot chocolate not money at the rink.

* * *

The players and owners don't get it. Fans don't care about your multi-million dollar salaries, TV eyeballs or skyrocketing ticket and concession stand prices. The hardcore fans don't care about hockey for status.   Stats yes, status no. We are not bankers or sponsors.  We care about something else.  The Game.

If you were to ask me a decade ago if losing interest in NHL hockey  was in the cards for me, I'd say absolutely not. Are you crazy?  I learned nearly every small town in Canada through hockey because that town had a team. And each player had a dream of being in the NHL. 

So what happened? Maybe I don't matter. I'm getting older. New fans don't remember the past.  I'm not a banker or free agent. I'm not a sponsor, rink ad or video game developer. I'm not even a hockey equipment rep.  I just loved hockey more than anything else in the world. 

When the Chicago Blackhawks traveled on bus to Gravenhurst, Ontario to surprise a grieving GM at his Dad's funeral,  immediately I thought, it's because of this team magic, they will win the Cup. And they did. Then business took over. Players got traded and who knows if they'll ever win in our lifetime again. The Cup is now in Hollywood.  



This is a true story. One day  goalie Andrew Raycroft then on Toronto Maple Leafs came into our sports bar in Toronto's Little Italy after another season over. I told him you gotta sign this card for good luck. It's for my friend Leo, a hardcore Leafs fan. He saw the Leafs win the Cup in 1967. Raycroft then says, Hal Gill must sign it. Gill signed it too and then got traded immediately and won the Cup next season!  

Just before my brother died of cancer at 29,  I recited the play-by-play of the Leafs beating Boston 8-2,  March 6, 2008, just like we did as kids.  It seemed like fantasy as they had never won so handily since...well, we couldn't remember.  I'll never forget his look of excitement and disbelief. "Leafs won, 8-2?!!!" Some of his last words in life. Leo and I earlier at our sports bar  had danced as if they had won the Cup. My brother would leave life on a high note.  The Leafs actually came through! I had driven through a stormy winter from New York to Toronto to make it back on time to see the game.

In 2006, we had a project to photograph true blue hockey fans at Air Canada Centre.  You'd figure it would be very easy to find a hardcore Toronto Maple Leafs fan going to a game.  The photographers took three times longer  to get the job done.  Two-thirds of the fans walking from Union Station to the game wore suits. No hockey jerseys. And this really sums it up. I don't enjoy going to a Canadian bank. 

I don't want to be a Toronto Maple Leafs fan watching the NHL's richest team only care about money and not care about losing. But I do love hockey. Take me to any amateur rink, any day of the week, and you can see my joy. Pure unadulterated joy.