Youssou N'Dour @ Nokia Theatre, 11/22/07

Youssou N'Dour and his band at about two thirty in the morning, not even sweating.

One of the few things that Youssou N'Dour bothered to say in English during his "Grande Valse" on Thanksgiving night was, "This is a celebration of Africa!" He and his eight member band powered through a three and a half hour show that ended at four in the morning. The show had everything: a beautiful voice, a band attuned to Youssou's every move, drummers with boundless energy, a packed crowd in their best finery, dancers onstage like dervishes, jokes in Wolof, and a little violence and unnecessary force by security.

Caetano Veloso @ Nokia Theater, 11/19/07

Overexposed camera phone shot of Caetano Veloso's immaculate show on Monday

While waiting for the Caetano Veloso show to begin with the rest of the standing room crowd, I had the sensation of being privy to the inner workings of a secret underground organization. It was as though all the Brazilians in New York, who normally blend in with the rest of us incognito, had by silent agreement convened at the Nokia Theater, shed their U.S. selves at the coat check, and were enjoying a moment of unmasked felicidade.

Caetano, their friend, lover, and long companion, bounded onstage at 8:45 pm to flashing lights and loud guitar. After his first song, an upbeat cut from his 2006 rock album “Cê,” he moved front and center and opened his arms to the crowd. It was like he was drinking us all in. Already smiling at the whoops and screams from his audience, he said almost in a whisper, “Obrigada...thank you.” And he had us at hello.

Although Caetano played many old favorites that had the veteran crowd singing along, “Cê” was the heart of his show. A good example of Caetano’s current sensibility is “Homem,” a track from his new album. After singing a laundry list of biological functions and stereotypical feminine characteristics -- from menstruation to fidelity -- that he didn’t envy, he hit on two major exceptions: “I only envy your longevity and your multiple orgasms, multiple orgasms, multiple orgasms.” Every time he sang “multiple orgasms,” lights at either side of the stage blinked and, ah, throbbed, in time. Like a twisted childrens’ song, it was simple, to the point, and unafraid to tell the uncomfortable truth.

Caetano has mastered charisma to the point that he seems like he’s doing almost nothing out of the ordinary onstage – he’s just “being himself” up there. He just happens to be a brilliantly lunatic sixty-five year old. He told an anecdote in English about giving a long interview about his political views, which were published on a Brazilian website. He began with the aside, “In Brazil, I am very famous,” (cheer from crowd), “for talking too much.” He said that when he read the extensive responses to his views, he found that both members of government and the opposition were united in hating him. This comment provoked screams and applause. But he admitted, “Only one comment tore across my heart. It was the one that said, ‘I wish you would just shut up. And especially stop playing the guitar,’” before immediately launching into a solo acoustic guitar set, starting with “Cucurrucucu Paloma.” A Spanish song that Caetano performed in Pedro Almodovar's "Talk to Her," Caetano’s falsetto version elicited devoted swaying and singing along.

It’s hard to discuss Caetano’s latest album and his tour without mentioning the gossip that he divorced his wife of twenty years in 2004, if only because he references it himself: "Cê" is an unfiltered meditation on how much he hates and yet still loves his ex-wife, as well as an exploration of his own sexuality. Much of this latest tour – from the jean jacket and hip sneakers, to the band whose combined ages might barely add up to his, to his impromptu strip tease exposure of his torso while dancing around the stage like Mick Jagger – is also a way to confront these themes. How honest is that? A sixty-five year old divorces his beautiful wife who’s twenty years his junior, and then he writes and then performs a rock and roll album where he references his skin, getting loose, and his dick, still hard.

come on of the week

Walking home from the subway just now, I passed by a 1991 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme, with a spoiler, idling outside the bagel shop. Down to the matte burgundy paint, it was just like the ride my dad used to sport back when he only bought American cars. I heard shouting coming from the car, and I glanced inside the rolled down window and accidentally made eye contact with the white guy in the passenger side. He was wearing a white hoodie with a black pattern. He looked at me and said, "Hello!" I returned my gaze to the sidewalk. As I continued walking, I heard him shout into the night, "I LOVE ASIANS!"

And it struck me that, in his way, he did. I felt that he deserved points for his enthusiasm. So much so that I turned around and walked back. His name is Sascha. He reiterated his love for Asian girls. He even knows all about them. For instance, I mentioned that I was from Queens, and he pumped his arm, "Yes!" and enthused, "I knew it! All Asians are from Queens!" His friend gave him a disbelieving glance, and he replied to him, "What? It's true! They're all from Flushing! Are you from Flushing?" I said, more or less, yes. And he threw back his head and chortled again, "Yes! I knew it!" Does anybody want to date this hilarious kid? I can get you his number. Any other Asian girls from Flushing in the house? He's local. He lives in Greenpoint. He could also probably borrow his friend's Olds for the night.

like a guru, but white

I took a yoga class with a teacher with a shaved head. He's thin, lanky, and walks like a yogi, meaning that he places one foot in front with an even and thoughtful pace. He looks like a guru, but white. He chants in an exacting hindi accent. He also gives explanations and reasons for movements but then ends with "So ignore what I'm saying." I was in a shoulder stand, looking at my reflection to see my posture, and he came over and said, "I think that your mirror watching has gotten in the way of your pose."

run meat talk laugh sweat move beat

Sometimes a great day will sneak up on me by accident, undeserved and unplanned. Today was the New York Marathon, which I can see from my window. The runners go down bedford avenue, and everyone in my neighbhorhood gets a good long gander at the human river right around mile eleven. I ended up missing the leaders in both the mens' and womens' divisions, but I knew just as it was happening because there would be a roar from the streets, of a quality more spontaneous and magical than the cheering before and after. Still, I managed to make it out to catch a a meaty chunk of the hoi polloi, clad in various moisture-wicking gear in every conceivable color, checking their digital watches, their aerodynamic and cushioned sneakers crushing the green poland spring water cups spotting the asphalt. It's funny how much the crowd running resembles the crowd standing and ogling. Runners with digital cameras slung on their wrists slowed down to take snapshots of interesting spectators. Runners had to make elbow room for each other and failed and bumped into each other. An older male runner was momentarily run off the street by a zealous young thing who was trying to veer in close to the sidewalk for water. Locals were clumped on the sidewalks, pretty much elbow to elbow right in front of my street, some were excited and clapping for people with their names emblazoned on their chests, or noting other salient characteristics ("NYPD" was a favorite cheer). Others stood staring, almost uncomfortable with the passing unnatural phenonenon, and others still had forgotten about the runners and were just joking with one another, like it was just another Sunday on the stoop. The runners' expressions exhibited similar range: some faces stretched into smiles at every homemade sign and spontaneous whoop, some faces were buried in watches or turned to a conference with a neighbor as they ran in unison, and many wore blank looks, the looks of folks preoccupied with a grand mission and looking for the answer somewhere beyond their gaze.

I live in a Dominican neighbhorhood, and there was a lot of love for the Spanish-sounding names. As I walked ten blocks south, underneath the BQE, the crowd thinned out momentarily and then orthodox mothers with silk headscarves toting groups of young children began to mix into the crowd, and then it was entirely taken over. I passed by the hasidic supermarket, and I recalled how I had once passed by on a saturday and regretted its being closed for the sabbath. I was tempted to go in, but then I remembered that I'd been with my now ex-boyfriend then and that he'd had some exciting reason for wanting to see the interior. I didn't have such a reason, so I just passed by it twice, once going and once coming, and glanced inside seeing the black-hatted personnel, but didn't enter.

My neighbhorhood is also a gentrifying neighbhorhood, in fact, the neighbhorhood that is the poster child for the demographic term. So there were also many folks eating brunch al fresco, as well as a very long line at the artisanal coffee shop. But otherwise, the marathon had the effect of blurring the usually more salient line demarcating new and old residents. We were all together, bound by the contrast with the queer folks running through our neighbhodhood on their quixotic personal quests, interrupting our lazy sundays.

This year, spectators were wearing t-shirts and drinking iced coffee. This is just the latest evidence that seasons are starting to lose meaning. The NYC marathon had been the undisputed harbinger of winter for me (see post from November 2006): spectators on the sidewalks clap their hands on the streets to stary warm, for the first time in the season I see people wearing earmuffs. Now I don't know what the hell season it's going to be.

I had lunch with my parents today, at an amazing Korean restaurant in Flushing, across from the Temple Beth Sholom on Northern Boulevard, called San Soo Kap San. They feature a kalbi barbecue made of cubes of angus beef grilled on a wood charcoal briquets. It arrives with plenty of fresh lettuce, shredded scallions, sliced hot peppers and garlic, and miso paste, which are assembled into big bite-sized "lettuce burritos" as I've charmingly heard them called. It's hard to have much conversation while eating, between the open flame on the table, the vigilant monitoring of the sizzling meat's degree of wellness, the beef and vegetable plating, the fist-size lettuce wraps that must be eaten in one chipmunk-cheeked mouthful.

So it was a good thing that I had had my serious conversation with my parents in their Lexus SUV, during the ride over. Serious and also hilarious: whenever my dad and I really get going in an argument, it always cracks us up. Something about the seriousness that we need to inject into our voices, our "persuasive" tone, after a while we have to start winking at each other under the cover of this faux piety. And that's when it gets funny like sketch comedy. He tried to invoke the "real world" and his worldly experience. I demanded that we have an ontological discussion to define the "real world" and suggested that "real" is a relative concept anchored only in the individual identity, and inextricably tied to place, time, culture, and generation. Then he dropped Doctor Zhivago, I flipped it and then countered with Virginia Woolf. By the end of the Virginia Woolf conversation, we were just slapping our knees and trying to finish our sentences without snickering. The whole time, my dad was driving on the Long Island Expressway and then in Flushing local roads, dapper in a yellow v-neck sweater over a cream dress shirt, and tied together with a sportjacket in burberry plaid. I thought it offset his salt and pepper crewcut, which could almost be described as severe, even military, with a nice softening effect.

Then in the afternoon I took a samba class. It was the first samba I'd done in over two weeks. I had no business doing well. But thanks to the randomness of life, it was the most fun I've had in weeks, and some of the best dancing I've ever done in that class. The class is run out of the Alvin Ailey Extension, and classes are in a room with wall-to-wall windows, like every room in the immaculate ten story structure on the corner of Fifty-Fifth and Ninth Avenues where Ailey lives. Samba slash Afro-Brazilian, as it's called, is taught by an effervescent carioca-turned-nove-iorquina named Quenia Ribeiro. She's accompanied on the drums by Nick Bermelin, who also happens to be her boyfriend, and a rotating roster of supporting percussionists, usually a dashing Brazilian named Jean-Marie and a cool and quiet Japanese man whose name I will find out next time.

Samba dance is hard. The rhythm is overhwelming but deceptively elusive. Finding your paces is like trying to double dutch jump rope through the drum beats. Yet today, the combinations that Quenia quickly demonstrated spread through my body with a cool logic, and my critical mind closed its eyes. My chest, arms and thighs were aloft but plugged in to the supporting ground. Sweat poured off my body like it was burning toxins. We performed samba douro, a fast low slung hip-grinding dance from Bahia. Then the pert samba do rio meant to be danced with a peacock's strut. I felt connected, and at the same time like I was dancing just for myself. I think that's what I most love about dancing in general: it's comes alive only in the group, but it's simultaneously the most daringly individualistic activity. Like sex.

Right now, I've been writing this entry while CocoRosie's sophomore album, Noah's Ark, is playing in the background. I'm not listening to it that carefully, meaning that I'm not trying to figure out what the lyrics are, but I'm loving it. I just downloaded it from itunes, after wanting to do it for months, and I'm so glad I did. I waited until now because I am afraid of downloading music from itunes - it's too easy. I have this feeling that it's just wrong, morally, to have such easy access to music, and that there will be karmic revenge in the form of deep regret from having made an impulse purchase. So actually I waited longer than to buy it than I would have if i had been planning on purchasing the CD via a more traditional outlet. On some level I've been begging myself to let myself download this album. I'm thrilled that I let myself get my way sometimes. I'm already on my third listen, which tells you how much long this post is taking me.

Cabbing It

My first cab ride of the night cost fourteen dollars including tip. A black SUV from the neighborhood car service eased to a stop in front of my house as soon as I stepped out of my apartment. The driver was a woman with a dark ponytail. She kept a running commentary under her breath about the streets. Then she snickered to herself before she got on the Williamsburg bridge. I thought she was talking on her cell phone but later as we pulled up to my destination I saw that she didn't have an earpiece on. While on the bridge, zooming past the housing projects on the Manhattan side, I asked, "How much?"

"Twenty."
"What? Twenty??"
"Oh no, no, TWELVE."
"Ohh...I was like, TWENN-ty??" I shook my head as I opened my wallet.

She thought that was funny, and the novelty of seeing a woman cabbie smile made me happy.

The second cab ride of the night cost twenty eight dollars. I got in, told my young dark-skinned cabbie where I was going, way uptown. I fished out my cigarettes, and then felt around in the bottom of my bag for a lighter, but I couldn't find one and said, "damn." The cabbie looked up at me, so I asked him if he wouldn't mind stopping at the corner so I could jump into the bodega for matches. He suggested that I could instead use the electric lighter in the car, the plug below the radio. He waited for it to warm up and then handed it back to me in the rear, saying, be careful. I accepted it between my thumb and index finger, it was like magic how the end of the cigarette crackled and burned orange in the dark.

The FDR was quiet and the East River slipped by. I said it was a nice view and he said, yeah, Queens, as we watched the Citibank tower and the City Lights building glide past us across the water like ships. I riffed about growing up in Queens and he told me he grew up in India.

"Where in India are you from?"
"Punjab."
I remembered from conversation earlier that night with a Punjabi: "There are a lot of Sikhs in Punjab, right?"
"Yes, I'm Sikh." He glanced back at me with recognition.
I looked at his neatly shorn head of hair.
"But how can you be a Sikh if you don't have a turban? Sikhs aren't allowed to cut their hair."
"Yes, but it's okay." He was unperturbed.
"You're a modern Sikh."
"Right."
"There are a lot of rules for Sikhs, right?"
"Yes, no drinking, no smoking, no eating meat. I am a vegetarian."

As he pulled off the 125th street exit, he asked me, "Do you drink?" And I laughed a belly laugh, "Yes. Definitely." After a few blocks, I asked him, "What do you do for fun then, if you don't drink?"

"I dance."

He danced at SOB's the first thursday of every month. And at house parties, weddings, and anniversary parties. I did the only North Indian dance move I know: the up and down shoulder movement. "Yeah, like that, right?" "Right." He told me I could get the best stuff to dance to, by Bally-Saju, at Virgin records.

He spoke both Hindi and Punjabi. Thank you was shukriya in Hindi, and tahanwaad in Punjabi.

He told me that he used to be chef at Baluchi's, and that even though he was a vegetarian according to his religious dictates, he could prepare meat. "For work, it is okay." He said the best Indian restaurants were in midtown east: Bukhara Grill, and the Baluchi's on Lexington.

Then he was quiet for a minute as we drove through Harlem, and then he said, "Actually, yes, I drink." I said, "Really!?" He paused for five seconds and grinned and said, "No, I'm just kidding. I don't drink."