Ray IS a Persuasive Dude

When the buzzer rings, I leave Ray up in his apartment and run downstairs to open up the heavy double doors to let Gerry the bass player in.

Gerry's bushy, black beard is beaded with moisture from the snow falling in giant flakes from the slate gray sky, and our greeting is a wet one as I clap him on the shoulder and water sprays everywhere.

As he follows me up the stairs, we discuss the new song (which, I explain, sounds like a Cure b-side from the Faith-  or maybe Seventeen Seconds-, era) but my mind is elsewhere, mulling over a question: Why did I automatically run downstairs to open the door at somebody else's apartment?

Am I so obsequious that I simply do someone else's bidding without being asked?

Dressing Up and Annoying the Neighbors

"I think it's time to bring this out," Ray says as he disappears into his coat closet, emerging with a mod-ish looking jacket patterned in two different sizes of black and white houndstooth, black leather patches on the shoulders and elbows, oversize shiny-metal-zippered pockets, and a wide shiny black vinyl belt that cinches the middle. He puts it on, along with a scarf on his head that, together with the jacket, makes him look like a cross between a Latino Little Steven and Austin Powers, or in other words: awesome.

As we continue to play through the night, the noise rises around us, until finally Ray's guitar howls distorted joy into the void over a dance beat that would have made New Order proud circa 1985, Gerry hammers a bass line into the ground, and I grind out a support system of power chords to help launch the whole thing into orbit.

We finish and begin packing up, listening to the playback, enjoying the sounds that we couldn't hear at the time of their creation: blissed-out, buzzed, pleased with ourselves, happy.

11-5-10 Happy drums

After a particularly good rehearsal from which I leave buzzing lightly and newly optimistic about our prospects, Ray and I ride the subways downtown from his place in Harlem. At one stop, two drummers heave into the car, hoisting conga drums and foldable chairs behind them, which they set up in the pseudo-vestibule before beginning their patter.

"Keep the energy up and full of love," says the one in the skullcap with the star of David dangling down onto his forehead while the other adjusts his drums and smiles widely, "because it comes back down to you amplified."

They beat their drums in a groove reminiscent of "Oye Como Va" and I give them a dollar as they leave.