There are certain things we expect of common spaces, reliable markers to help us move through the public sphere. If were at a shopping mall, we expect signs telling us where the exits are.
In the mid-1980s, I lived on Ft. Greene Place in Brooklyn, a sketchy block in a neighborhood that mixed the grand and the rough-and-tumble.
Until last fall, neither Williamsburg nor Bushwick, two neighborhoods with vibrant music scenes, had rock radio stations to call their own. To what can we attribute this?
Coney Island is beautiful in winter. Really. The boardwalk is well populated by elderly Russians pickling in the sun, surly teenagers, and tourists anxious for an off-season taste of Nathans Famous (no lines!).
Weve lost a lot of music-related folks over the past few months: writer Harvey Pekar, saxophonist Fred Anderson, Dutch bandleader Willem Breuker, the great Abbey Lincoln, and composer, trumpeter, and friend Bill Dixon.
When I was in the eighth grade, my music class consisted of singing off-pitch choral exercises and learning to play Hot Cross Buns on the ear-piercing recorder.