Little Brett, Big City

Since this is Thanksgiving time, I wanted to share something a little different, a little special. Last week I mentioned Oleta Adams, the beautifully talented vocalist on the Tears For Fears album Seeds of Love . For me, she's the best part on my favorite tracks "Woman In Chains" and "Badman's Song."  I've always loved Oleta's story. The guys in Tears For Fears discovered her performing at a Kansas City Hyatt Regency during their 1985 tour behind  Songs From The Big Chair . Two years later, they invited her to join the band as they recorded Seeds Of Love . She later went on tour with them, opening each date as the supporting act, then staying on stage for the band's main show. (Thanks, Wikipedia.) Oleta successfully released her debut solo album in 1990. I just found her flawless performance of "Get Here" on Carson in '91. If you don't recognize the title, you will certainly know the song as soon as she starts singing. We may n...

  The news last week about Tower Records re-opening (online) triggered happy memories about visiting their store right by NYU on 4th and Broadway. I rode the subway down to campus each Saturday my first year in New York, feeling more at home there among the students my own age.  Washington Square Park was like an urban beach where guys with concave chests played Hacky Sack, street magicians worked the crowds for tips, and stoners strummed guitars, singing their parents' folk songs. Poorly.  If needed, my first stop would be a haircut at Astor Place Hairstylists , the New York icon that just announced that it's closing on November 25 after 75 years. Another victim of today's pandemic. The sprawling subterranean shop was like a daytime club where barbers of all ages yelled at each other in all languages while swaying to booming dance music or Latin rhythms. Magazine cutouts and Polaroids of celebrity clients like De Niro, Warhol, and Sinbad plastered workstation mirrors. T...

  After my first night of surprisingly restful sleep at the Y, I ventured out again for an early lunch. A cart at the corner had a "Deal Of The Day" -- two hot dogs and a Coke for $2. I then walked down the street to savor my score on the huge concrete steps in front of the post office that took up the whole block.  Above me was the U.S. Postal Service creed carved above dozens of granite columns:  "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." Perseverance. I liked that. I was probably going to need a lot of that on my own appointed rounds here.   Suddenly, dirty-colored pigeons swooped down in front of me. Then beside me. Then all around me. I stamped my feet to scare them off. Rats with wings! Across the street was the Penn Station taxi line I stood in just 18 hours before. The McDonald's from last night was in the next block. I hadn't exactly expanded my universe yet. Would I ...

30 years ago, I took a train from Lima, Ohio to New York City with my resume in the World's Heaviest Briefcase and the address of the Sloane House YMCA on West 34th Street close to 9th Avenue. The building is now home to the Sloane Apartments and the neighborhood itself edges the glitzy new Hudson Yards complex. Hudson Yards Photo by Rhododendrites/Commons.Wikimedia But in 1989, I didn't dare go over to 9th Avenue. Even in the daytime, it looked desolate. I always turned right whenever I walked out of that YMCA towards brighter, louder 8th Avenue. I was starving before I checked into my room that first August evening. So I threw my bags down on the little bed and immediately ventured out again. As I left the building, I put my wallet in my front pocket and assumed the stance of a seasoned New Yorker - downcast eyes, sullen face and a resolute stride like I was late for something. Even though I had no idea where I was going.  I wasn't afraid, just...out of my element and hy...

  I keyed into my dark room at the Sloane House YMCA and felt for a switch on the wall. An overhead light clicked on. Nothing scurried across the floor or bed. Good start.  The powder blue room was about seven feet wide. I bet I could lean to my left, touch that wall with one hand, then push off to touch the other one with my right hand.  I dropped my bags and the World's Heaviest Briefcase on a twin bed along the left side. A cheap pine armoire filled one corner at the foot of the bed. A wide, white Formica shelf on the right served as desk and home base for a 12-inch black and white TV. I didn't see any cable.  The far wall was bisected by sooty oilcloth drapes. I opened them, fully expecting a brick wall or an old man clipping his toenails like you'd see in a movie. But the actual sight caught my breath. I had a clear view straight down to the World Trade Center towers. Their windows were lit up pretty strongly for a Saturday evening. A beacon at the tip of Manhat...

  When I saw my photo in Rolling Stone magazine, I thought God was telling me to move to New York. Here I am in the October 6th, 1988 issue. A poor man's Bowie, sitting with other members of my "History of Rock and Roll" class, part of my pop culture minor at Bowling Green State University. (Group photo below) At the time, BGSU had one of the only academic popular culture programs dedicated to America's most influential global export.  Far more serious than it sounds, the course laid out how rock was born from the blues and country (and folk, and gospel, and jazz...) and exploded during the cultural revolution of the prior four decades.  Sure it was fun, but it was also a lot of papers explaining how America's greatest export reflected the good, the bad, and the angst in our society.  Rolling Stone decided to spotlight the program and sent writer Anthony DeCurtis to observe our class and interview some students afterwards. I was invited and even got quoted in the...

Oh, how I missed MTV when I stayed at the YMCA. My room only had a black-and-white TV, no cable.  I kept up with music thanks to the AM/FM clock radio I had packed to wake up for early job interviews. New York's airwaves in September 1989 were broader and funkier than northwest Ohio's, thumping with Latin, dance, and R&B. I liked it.  After my first couple days in the city, I heard a familiar voice over big, syncopated beats. Janet Jackson had returned with "Miss You Much," produced by music partners Jimmy Jam and Terry Lewis. It sounded like home in my hot box of a room over a sketchy stretch of West 34th Street.  Another distinctive voice pumped out of my clock radio too: Madonna, cherishing the joy a particular boy was bringing her. Sweet, like a 60s pop song, it sounded like a calculated pivot from the boldness of "Like A Prayer" and "Express Yourself" earlier in the year.  It wasn't until I moved in with my roommate two months later th...