Paris in May. D. Grey

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      4

      New York

      Early 1960s

      After entering Yale University and except for his room and board, Ken no longer needed the support of his parents. He was a diligent, responsible student, and although not a standout in the mathematics department, was thought of as a good student. By the end of his first semester, when his versatile piano talent was recognized, Ken Carle was sought after for a variety of student activities requiring a piano. Before long, other student musicians began to call, and soon the Ken Carle Trio was born. Music students and faculty alike often brought instruments to Ken’s monthly jam sessions in the student center, where the level of musicianship was high, and an enjoyable time was had by all. Toward the end of his first year, club, bar, and restaurant owners in Hartford and beyond began to visit the campus to hear what the buzz was about. It was not long before playing in the local clubs provided him resources enough to explore the music scene in Boston and New York. Yale had been the perfect choice to nurture his analytical and musical skills. While there, he worked with many kinds of music and played with musicians of all types. He was known and he was requested. By the end of his fourth year, he thought he might be ready for the real challenge: New York City. Ken was prepared to fulfill the promise he made to the man whose essence was with him daily—his teacher, guru, and inspiration, Bootsy Johnson.

      It wasn’t much, just what he could afford—a two-room basement apartment on Norfolk Street just off Houston and relatively close to bus routes and train lines. In one room, his bed was flanked on one side by a stove, sink, and refrigerator, and on the other side, by the toilet and washbasin. Maneuvering in the room was difficult, but it was separated from the living room by a wall with a window. The place was different than anything he had experienced, but for what he intended to do in the city, it was adequate and affordable without having to appeal to his parents. With enough room to watch TV or invite a few friends, it wasn’t what he was used to, but it was all Ken needed.

      “When I start making money, I’ll move to a better place,” he would say to himself with absolute certainty.

      The Lower East Side was inhabited by second and third-generation immigrant families and young people who worked or aspired to work in the arts. Musicians, craftspeople, performance artists, painters, and visual artists of all types trolled the streets, eating establishments, and bars. Creative people were everywhere, and Ken inhaled the atmosphere and wallowed in the possibilities for artistic collaboration. For Ken and other young talented people, the atmosphere on the Lower East Side and every other place in Manhattan crackled with opportunities and hopes for a future in their chosen art. But most of all, the Lower East Side was affordable, and struggling youths could follow their inclinations.

      A few days after settling into his new digs, Ken found a restaurant and a bar close to his apartment that would soon become his hangout and practice venue. The place had a small stage and an acceptable piano. If no one was scheduled to play at the bar, Fat John, the owner, would let Ken play. John was the grandson of Ukrainian immigrants who came to the neighborhood and never left. Over the course of three generations, they bought property and opened businesses, legal or otherwise.

      “John!” Ken would say. “You’ve got eight tables and a thirteen-stool bar. I see five people. One sleeping and the other four have been nursing a beer for the past hour. You should let me liven the place up.”

      “You can play kid, but don’t expect to be paid. I’m not making any money tonight. At this rate, I’ll start losing weight.”

      Ken walked to the piano and began experimenting with musical styles that would work in Fat John’s dull, undecorated, stale-beer-smelling joint. After a few minutes, two people came through the door.

      “John,” said Ken, “do you mind if I place a tip glass on the piano?”

      “If you can get tips, you can keep them,” said Fat John.

      Ken walked into the small kitchen and took a large pickle jar from under the counter.

      “If you want your money to smell like pickles, sure, you can use it,” John joked.

      Ken settled down and began to play a wide range of jazz-inflected songs. In the next half hour, four more people wandered in. But unlike the usual customers, they came because they heard the music.

      “I do take requests,” announced Ken. “But it has to be music played in America.”

      The few people in the bar began to make requests, and when a piece finished, a dollar or two was placed in the pickle jar. Wisely, Ken continued to take requests, and as more people entered the bar, more bills appeared in the jar. People were sitting at the bar, and the waitress was serving Fat John’s limited finger food and drinks at the tables. Conversations at the bar and at the tables were animated, and the usually laid-back, advice-dispensing bartender was working at close to full capacity. The place was abuzz, and much of the conversation, which was not often heard in the bar, was about music or popular piano players and their styles. Ken and Fat John listened carefully to conversations and noted the tunes being played. Looking around the room, it was clear the patrons were as young as the piano player, and what they liked, he played. Ken had been in the city less than a month and found an audience he could play to.

      As a tune ended, an attractive lady approached the piano and asked if she might sing a song.

      “I would love it,” answered СКАЧАТЬ