The New York Subway.

Now, let me set this straight. I like the London Underground. I actually enjoy using it, and am not one of the many Londoners who slag it off every time something breaks. It’s old, things like that are going to happen, and I can accept that- there’s no point in getting stressed about it (unless I get stuck at that signal just outside Seven Sisters when it’s crowded and I’m stood up- for some reason, it just makes me uncomfortable).

I also have a minor obsession with it. Some of you will know about my pointless little trips around it, but don’t worry- I’m not sad enough to be classified as a trainspotter (yet).

One of the things I was looking forward to was getting to grips with a whole different beast- the New York Subway. It’s much bigger than London’s, and it runs 24 hours (something which is, sadly, impossible back home), and should (in theory) be utterly wonderful.

But it isn’t. It’s rubbish.

Granted, it lacks the weirdos that inhabit Paris’s Metro system, but the first hint that this isn’t going to be plain sailing is this free ‘pocket-size’ map.

Not only is it massive, but it’s also ridiculously confusing. For example, let’s say you wanted to go to 23rd St. The logical thing would be to go to 23rd St station, right?

Five different stations, five different lines. Actually, no- make that seventeen lines, because some moron thought, ‘oooh- wouldn’t it be great if four lines shared the same color?’

Well, two things to him. Firstly, it’s ‘colour.’ Secondly, you, sir, are an idiot. It’s the most stupid possible way of mapping numerous different routes. I don’t care if they run on the same track for large portions of the line- some of them don’t actually stop at all the stations on that route! How the hell am I supposed to know that?!

It’s therefore safe to assume, then, that it’s also the same moron who decided not to bother putting up signs on the platforms telling you where you’re going- or even where you are, for that matter. There’s a sign that says ‘Uptown’ or ‘Downtown,’ complete with the terminus, but forgetting to mention where else the trains stop. There are hardly any maps on the platforms (or in the ticket offices either, for that matter), there are express and local trains that run side by side (meaning you need to switch platforms to go in the opposite direction), nobody seems to know which stations the express trains skip (unless you can find the one bit of A4 paper stuck to one of the hundreds of pillars on the seemingly endless and overcrowded platforms), and the whole thing is just disorganised chaos.

There’s no ‘escalator etiquette.’ If you’re in a hurry and want to walk up the escalator (or you just want to go slightly faster than the pathetically slow speed they run at), you can’t. You’ll find your path blocked on both sides by people who aren’t going to move for you. They’re generally the ones who shoved you out of the way to get on the thing in the first place.

Then, there’s the ‘regularity’ issue. Even on one of the four line platforms, it’s not uncommon to sit there for 15 minutes with NO trains whatsoever passing through (either express OR local). And there’s no indicator boards to say how long you’re going to be stuck there sulking, and only the occasional unintelligible tannoy message at certain station, telling you your train is miles away. It’s usually around this point that ‘the subway’ becomes ‘the bloody subway,’ before becoming something slightly less polite.

I’ve tried to get along with it- I really have. I’m generally quite good at getting to grips with things like this, but even after two whole weeks here, the whole thing STILL makes no sense. But the odd thing is that the only people I’ve heard complaining about it have all been British.

So, what does that suggest? Are Americans just more tolerant of things being rubbish, or are the British a nation of whingers? Either way, I’d be curious to see what some of these people are like next time there’s a delay on the Piccadilly.

Question.

How many Les Pauls are in this photo?

Answer: Three.

The legend who gave his name to Gibson’s guitar has a Monday night residency at New York’s Iridium Jazz Club. Every week, he plays two shows to packed out crowds. Oh, and he’s 91.

While I’m not normally phased by the age of a performer (see Chuck Berry last week), I was slightly worried that, at that age, he’d be a bit… rubbish. But sure enough, he can still play lead guitar VERY well. He’s also incredibly chatty, telling stories and making jokes between songs.

He’s also backed up by a more than competent band, who take it in turns to sing. His double bassist even did a song on his own- something I’d never seen before, and never really thought possible. His lyrics also resinated with me, as part of the double bass-playing world.

“If you wanna cause some problems, if you wanna cause some pain, go down to your local airport, and try to put your bass onto a plane.”

Touché.

Anyway, despite it being another BB King’s-style venue (how you can justify charging $50 a ticket, and then imposing a food and drink minimum is beyond me), it turned out to be another fantastic night out. If anybody happens to be in New York on a Monday evening, I’d thoroughly recommend popping along!

The bits that Chris missed out.

Being a newly acclaimed atheist, I thought the best thing to do would be to check out some places of worship. First up was St John the divine, the largest gothic Cathedral in the world

The Cathedral is beautiful. You know that saying that something is ‘jaw-dropping’….well upon entering my jaw did actually drop quite a long way. So long in fact, that my chin bruised itself on the floor, and I stood there looking profusely stupid, until I managed to pull my mouth back up and hold it together while I raised my eyebrows instead. Inside the roof is so high, that I could barely see the ceiling. There is detailed ornamentation typical of ’supernatural castle on a hill’ type architecture (my favourite), and there are lots of crevices to explore, where darkness clings to the walls. There were also stained-glass windows, and incredibly cool dudes like this guarding the place.

In the summer, they have brightly coloured peacocks strolling about in the ‘peace garden’. But in winter it is too cold for that, so there is just a sculpture of excessive violence. The picture is a bit dark to tell, but there is a decapitated head hanging by a crab’s claw at the bottom.

The next visit was to hear the Harlem Gospel Choir in concert. Ever since I saw Sister Act 2, I have wanted to go to see a full-on gospel performance. Some of my friends already know this, from when I was handed a leaflet in Liverpool which advertised such a thing. I got very excited and convinced a lot of people to come with me, only to find out that what we had actually come to see was a very scary cult. Said cult then turned up at my friend’s house the next day and told him that the tsunami was sent by God to punish evil people, and that if he didn’t join their community, he’d suffer a similar fate. Charles, if you are reading this, I’m sorry.

Knowing that most Christians are lovely, not not a bunch of psychos, I decided to try gospel again and dragged Chris along to sing some hallelujahs.

This time, it was everything I could have expected. They sang Oh Happy Day, had amazing harmonies, wore cool African clothes, and screamed ‘can I get a witness?!’ a good number of times. So I was pretty chuffed. As an added bonus, their show raises money for a variety of children’s charities. So if they are ever in your area, get in the groove and do some hand clapping.

IT’S ALIIIIIVE!!!!!

Hmm. Four days and no blogging? There’s alot to catch up on.

A few days ago, we ticked the obligatory Broadway musical off the list of ‘essential things to do in New York’ with the help of Young Frankenstein.

If you’ve ever met me (and, to be honest, even if you haven’t), I’ve probably told you that seeing Mel Brooks’ The Producers on stage provided me with the single most amazing night of my life. Which it was. And ever since the rumours began that he might follow it up by adapting Young Frankenstein for the stage, I got excited. Finding out it would open in time for me to see it with the initial Broadway cast was rather fantastic.

And so, off we hobbled to the Hilton Theatre, Row R tickets in hand, and I prepared to brace myself for a disappointment. The Producers seemed a natural fitting for the theatre, but Young Frankenstein would require a bit more effort to make it work. And it did.

From the set (the laboratory was absolutely astounding- everything it should be, and more) to the absolutely perfect Puttin’ on a Ritz, it really delivered. It didn’t quite match the previous effort, but then, how could it?

Earlier on in the day, we’d been for a nibble at the Hard Rock Café. I’d never actually made it inside one before, and was astounded by some of the stuff in there. From the entrance, you walk down some stairs and are met with four grey suits worn by some 60’s liverpudlian lads who made quite an impression on the world. One of them, George, even had his guitar hanging on the wall next to them.

Played at the Concert for Bangladesh, this one doesn’t seem to have been used in the Beatles era. But Macca’s Bass is also hanging there. Walk around, and you find the original doors from Abbey Road Studios, Elvis’s suit, the first square guitar Bo Diddley ever made, John Entwistle’s original drawings for the Who by Numbers album cover, and Jim Morrison’s trousers. And we got put next to Madonna’s dress. Typical.

According to the accompanying plaque, Gibson gave Hard Rock 300 guitars several years ago. So they did as they saw fit, cut them in half, and glued them to the wall. While it looks quite impressive, I would have made FAR better use of them. Grr.

But it doesn’t end there. The location hasn’t always been a Hard Rock Café. It was once the Paramount Theatre (scroll back up, and you’ll see the sign’s still there), which housed the premiere of one of Elvis’s films. It was also here that the Ed Sullivan show was recorded, and subsequently where America was introduced to The Beatles. Impressive.

In fact, it proved to be the beginning of an Elvisy day for us. After leaving the Hilton Theatre, we ducked into BB King’s a few doors down, and had a sneaky peek from the box office area at the Elvis Birthday Tribute taking place with the legend that is Chris Spedding.

He wrote this.

New York’s ‘city that never sleeps’ title is, surprisingly, very true. Even the museums are open until around 1am. So, we headed over the road to Ripley’s Believe it or Not, a chain of circus sideshow-like museums, featuring freakish oddities and other relics. And it’s all real.

It also contained possibly the best thing I have EVER seen- a mass-produced Vampire Killing Kit.

In it, you would find a gun, silver bullets, wooden stake, an ivory crucifix and, of course, garlic. There’s also an accompanying inscription that confesses that very little is known of Vampires, but that this set capitalizes on what we do know. And one of these things recently sold at Southebys for $20,000. None of them have probably ever been used.

To complete the Elvis hat trick, they had a strand of his hair on display, along with similar strands from various US presidents, and even Napoleon. My personal favourite thing on display, though, was an unintentionally hilarious public safety film produced by the US Government, telling children what to do in the event of an Atom bomb going off. Entitled ‘Duck and Cover,’ you can see it here. Admittedly the version we saw had been shortened to a few minutes, but it’s worth a watch if only for the idea that, in the event of a major explosion leaving a huge radioactive trail, all you have to do to stay safe is jump on the floor and put your hands on your head.

Enjoy!

HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

Happy New Year to you all!! May it bring health, happiness, and novelty head-gear.

Chris and I had a lovely day yesterday, starting in Central Park. Initially I was horrified, as there are roads that run right through it, cutting the park into little segments that are surrounded by cars at all sides. But thankfully this only happened at the outskirts, and after about 15 mins walking, we found ourselves very peaceful and still, looking out over a lake.

The lake is surrounded by huge trees, and a forest path that is home to some very playful squirrals. The tall buildings of New York loom up just beyond the trees. But they are too much in the distance to be unwelcome. They even look protective, like silent guards standing round the park’s edge.

The squirrals are tame and have great fun weaving in and out of fallen leaves, just inches from where you stand. There are birds too, though I don’t know what they are called. They are a little bit bigger than robins, and round like they have had too much to eat. They are a browny reddish colour, and blend in easily with the floor of leaves. It often looks like the earth is jumping, because there are so many of them.

We came across some strange sightings too. A Christmas tree had been decorated with pictures of dogs and cats, with messages left in memoriam by their owners. We found another tree later on, with less significant meaning, covered with hand drawn doodles, an upsidedown foam coffee cup for an angel, and some other rubbish for baubles. Surprisingly it looked quite festive!

Central Park also pays tribute to some good British history. We walked around the ‘Shakespeare Garden’ which has little plaques in the flower beds with quotes from the plays. For example ‘A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet’ from Romeo and Juliet, can be found next to the red roses. There are some beatifully carved benches and a castle, complete with balconies to peer out and brush your hair from. There is even an outdoor theatre which puts on plays in the summer.

Then there is the John Lennon memorial, located in ‘Strawberry Fields’.

The flowers make the shape of the peace sign, while the two pictures show a statue of John on a bench in John Lennon Park, and son Sean with his girlfriend. There is also a ‘wishing’ guitar where you can throw a coin into the soundhole. There was an abundance of pilgrims and tourists here, and a silence punctuated by the clicking of cameras.

So what did you all do you New Year’s Eve? Thankfully I didn’t spend mine as usual, in an over-priced and over-crowed pub, far too far away from where I live. Nor did I succumb to the temptation to go to Times Square and see the ‘big ball drop’. What’s that? I hear you ask. Well, it’s pretty much as it sounds – they lower a really big ball from a tall building and everyone cheers. Then there is much merriment and singing. Well I like the last part, but could do without watching a ball in the cold. So my wonderful Chris and I decided to go and see Patti Smith instead.

Now I will admit my ignorance. Before seeing this woman, I could not have sang you a single song. I knew who she was, and thought she was cool, but that was about it. I now think she is an absolute legend.

She came on stage with a laid-back stride and a sleepy smile. She stood there, boots buckled over jeans, and a long white t-shirt concealing her figure. A loose black jacked framed a hand-drawn peace symbol, while a pair of crinkled eyes looked out beneath a mass of dirty-gold hair. Cheers and horns welcomed her, and she shakes hands and chats to the people in the front row. Somebody shouts ‘Free Palestine’, and with a Dylanesque voice of chalk and glue, Patti takes the microphone and replies, ‘free them all’.

Patti Smith is completely at home on stage. She sings with her eyes closed, as if she is the only one in the room. Her fingers gesture and twirl, like she holds the very melodies in her hands, and can either weave them together, or send them crashing over her head.

Smith performs most songs with her band providing the instrumentals, though she plays rhythm guitar on some numbers, and clarinet on others. Yes, the clarinet, that instrument previously associated with middle class, high school music productions. Now a rock and roll spear that will pierce the eye of sorrow…or confinement…or political injustice, I couldn’t quite catch all the words, but I’m sure she was generally against these three. She had some excellent poetry as well. I would have to read it in detail to say whether I agree with it or not because a lot of it was about God, but there was a brilliant use of assonance and lots of epic grandeur. She is an amazing speaker, one of the founders of angry girl rock. The original PJ Harvey, or a stronger and more rugged Alanis Morrisette. She fuses folk based lyrics with a more electric sound. And her voice alternates between rasping gravel and rich velvet.

I shall leave you with the moment of midnight, when silly string and confetti flew onto the stage, and champagne was handed round the audience.

Merry new year!