2 Jews Beat Poets-Act III: Suite For Furby On Shofar In D Minor; The Last Pre-Tour Date Before The Actual Tour Begins!

It's Sunday morning, right about 8am; my cellphone has already buzzed three times. It’s my big brother Louie, leaving behind messages something to the effect that the Chicago Cubs have just been shut out of the divisional playoffs by the red-hot Arizona Diamondbacks the night before.

I’m up early because today is the day I’ve been waiting for a couple of months. Two performance dates; the first is set for the late afternoon downtown at the Chicago Cultural Center as part of John Cage's Music Circus Chicago 2007, with me and my boys…Furbies that is, plus the band, $2 Cockroach and the other is the evening date, the first night of the 2 Jews Beat Poets 2007 tour at the Green Mill.

It’s slightly after 8:30, as I run outside and make a few final phone calls to both Rat Niptik, the bassist and Dr. Wes Heine, the electronicist, to make sure they are on their way; both reassure me they are.

That’s the only trouble I’m having this morning, is making the calls; both the clouds and the wires don’t seem to want to cooperate. By the time I leave my apartment, it’s closer to 9am.

Walking to the El never seemed so exciting than today, as my backpack is tight, full of flyers, poetry chapbooks, my spoken word CDs and a full water bottle, with a dark green duffel bag slung over my left shoulder while dragging behind me and ever as noisily the baker’s dozen Furbies. It seems longer than usual walking to the El that is and I gather, that it’s probably due to the weight of everything that I am carrying, but all the discrepancies aside, everything else seems okay.

But of course not.

The real trouble begins. As I get to the corner of Main and Sherman in Evanston, I begin to notice the back of my legs and shirt are getting wet and I can’t figure out why, until I put my pack down and realize the water bottle wasn’t shut tight enough.

It’s leaked all over my backpack, causing everything inside to get wet, no drenched including the new and older poetry chapbooks, flyers, business cards and most importantly, the instructions for my band-mates to follow, when we perform this afternoon.

When I finally reach the El station, the security guard tells me that my backpack is leaking and I, out of spite, tell her “My oxygen tank inside my backpack has just exploded and if I don’t get another one soon where I’m headed for, I’ll simply die.”

She doesn’t believe me, as she angrily tells her friend on her cell she was gabbing to for several minutes before it looks like as I came in, that she has to call her back because of my wetness, silently grabs a mop and wipes the cement floor from where I’ve just passed through and shoots me a dirty look. I just smile.

Once I get upstairs, I rearrange my backpack and salvage what I can and put the rest into my duffel bag. The Furbies are still causing a ruckus, but nobody seems to notice, as the Purple Line train pulls up and I get on.

The only person who seems to notice the disturbance they are making is an older black man, who stares at the suitcase in which they’re housed in to see if I really do have an Asian child locked inside.

The train makes one more stop and then pulls into the Howard El. I wait about 10 more minutes until a long empty Red Line train pulls into the station, opens its doors and lets its waiting passengers in.

As more people get on the train, I notice they are carrying signs. Then it hits me; I forgot today is also the day of the Chicago Marathon, a smorgasbord of sweaty runners and their own personal cheering squads to encourage them toward the finish line.

Many are wearing homemade tee shirts with their runners of choice name emblazoned on it, while still others are holding placards and banners to wave up and down at them like a bunch of idiots one usually seems at a sporting event or the Today Show in New York, in order to get on TV. As we arrive at the Belmont stop, scores of passengers load in and I am beginning to feel the crush of frantic human traffic all trying to get to the same place at once and my third problem kicks in.

Claustrophobia.

I feel like a sardine in a tiny tin can on electric wheels. People are talking loudly to each other inside the car, when all of a sudden, my cellphone rings. I look at the number and I see it’s Wes. I tell him that the Furbies were nervous and have peed on me. A couple of people listening to my phone conversation look at me and laugh.

I tell him I’m on the way, but I’ll need to end the conversation as the train is going underground, so I tell him I’ll be there in about 10-15 minutes tops.

Meanwhile, I devise a plan on how I’m going to get out of the crowded train of over 300 plus, a train car that probably is only supposed to hold 100 at the most.

We stop at North & Clybourne, Clark & Division, Grand and Chicago, less people getting off the train and more are getting on. I start to sweat, in hopes I will be able to get out of the packed train with ease.

A few passengers nearby help me out; they will pass my luggage to me and all I need to do is try to finagle my way out of the car. At last, the train pulls into the Lake Street station.

I jump up, grab my luggage and in a loud, projected voice, I yell, “Out please, out please!” swinging my duffel bag like a giant purse, thereby smacking 10 passengers in the process. I apologize and smile as I get out of the stopped sardine can. At last, I am out!

I work my way up the stairs and out onto the upper sidewalk. Down State Street I trod, with luggage and Furbies in tow until I get to Randolph and hang a left and go east. I whip out my phone and call Wes. He’ll be there in 10 minutes, can’t seem to find parking. I tell him no worries.

It’s nearly 11am.

I get closer to the Cultural Center and take a short cut. As I get closer to the steps of the building facing the Michigan Avenue side, I see Rat is already there, waiting.

We talk and go inside to the designated “Green Room” area and sign in. I get a couple of water bottles and we settle in with the varying groups of people. They tell us, that if we leave, our gear will be safe, but Rat wants to see the space we’ll be performing in and asks me all sorts of questions, questions I can’t answer for the moment, as I myself haven’t seen the space up close either.

I tear out a couple of pieces of paper from a yellow legal pad and begin writing out an instructional set list for myself to direct with. It is similar to the one I emailed only days previously to Rat and Wes. My phone rings; it’s Wes; he’ll be there in 5 minutes to unload his gear and then go look for a parking space somewhere in the already altered parking situation in the Loop.

Rat and I head outside and wait for Wes, who shows up shortly thereafter. We grab his gear and wait inside. About 20 minutes later, after Wes has found a parking space, he comes back and meets us and together the three of us ride the elevator to the 4th floor, where we park our gear and move around a little.


We all come back into the space about 2.30pm with our requested gear; an extra table for the Furbies. Meantime, curious onlookers want to get inside the suitcase where they are housed temporarily, to see them all.

As the time gets closer to our slot, I notice that the group ahead of us shows up late, making us even later.

That doesn’t please one man, an older and presumably Jewish gentleman who has come to the show just to see me perform and insists I tell them to stop playing, just so he can see me perform and then move onto another performance he wants to see.

I politely tell him I can’t do that and it only makes him angrier and insists I do it. I tell him it’s not my call and sure enough, he flashes me a “dirty Jew” look, the kind of look I used to get by non-Jews when I attended grade school in the middle 1970s.

We begin setting up shop and about 3:10pm, we begin performing Suite For Furby On Shofar In D Minor. Rat and Wes take direction very well, as they fly hard on their instruments, trying to get my little Furbies to speak up.

After a couple more minutes and a few more set changes, the Furbies are taken out of their suitcase cage and placed onto the table, one by one.

A crowd forms, waiting to see what will happen next.

Not much does, as the Furbies actually cooperate with me, Rat and Wes for a change.
This almost never happens when they remain silent.

A true miracle indeed.

The performance ends. We take our bows and then let the Furbies bow.

As if they ever could.

2 Jews Beat Poets-Act II: Strangers In The Night

There’s a certain special affinity I held for audiences that came to our shows all throughout our 2 Jews Beat Poets Tour 2007 earlier this month; they were all strangers.

I get along easier with strangers. God only knows it’s harder for me to get my friends to come to any of my shows and when they do come it’s a total surprise.

As in unexpected.

Planning for this tour was a challenge; a challenge I was up for and succeeded at with flying momentum.

But when it came to friends coming out to a show; well, that was virtually harder than taking candy away from a baby and giving it to Jesus Christ.

Lots of people promised they’d come out to support me, but…always that big but; they couldn’t. Something about having to work late into the night and getting up the next morning and then were the promises of co-workers who said they would come and didn’t bother to show up.

I quit asking co-workers a long time ago wherever I worked; just would mention it sort of off-the-cuff to closer co-workers than others. Enough had seen me to know what they wouldn’t be getting; something atypical of what they’re used to seeing.

So, when it came to this tour, I sheepishly and perhaps foolishly blabbed about it a little too much to co-workers. Enough people knew about it, but hell! Only two people showed up; my bass player came to two gigs, other than the pre-tour Sunday show at the Chicago Cultural Center in downtown Chicago during the John Cage festival, amidst the overheated runners from the annual Chicago Marathon, that became national news due to the death of a runner from Michigan and mismanaged plans.

Then there was the man I’ll refer to as “Dizzy Diz.” He’s the man that pushed me to try a class at the Peoples Music School in the Uptown neighborhood of Chicago this past summer.

Dizzy Diz came to the Green Mill show the night of October 7 and had his socks knocked off; raved about the show as far as I remembered; he was impressed. A music man himself, one of the few men I can talk to at the spit sink almost daily about music in any form and he understands where I’m coming from.

Because I took up trumpet at the Peoples Music School, he calls me “Miles” or “Mr. Yiddish,” which other people refer to me as.


They see my work on YouTube and seem to get enthused, but to make it to a show?

Impossible.

Something always comes up. Excuses like, “I had to wash the cat” or “I saw you & Mykel (Board) performing, but I just didn’t bother to come in.”

I’m not saying friends or co-workers show up; they do, but it’s a more often scenario that some won’t come for one reason or another. I am guessing that the individual, who doesn’t show, probably believes it’s all the same; the doldrums of poetry; their inability to comprehend it or even grasp something that is not conventional or bad memories from their educational careers, perhaps.

Maybe it’s professional jealousy. I’ve run across that before and it’s a main reason I don’t mention it to certain colleagues I’ve befriended in the past. They seem to want to support you, but not really; words might soothe and stroke the ego, but in making it a known presence, actions count and by not showing up, the presence statement is almost louder than mere words alone.

My favorite among these folks, is the newly-self-styled film-maker with a Sony camera purchased from Best Buy, whose original use for the camera was for baby films, but has since graduated to fantasy baseball league documentaries and whose new film I’m in; the story based on his life (ugh!) and he had the nerve to tell me, “I’d love to support you, but I have to get up early and go to work.”

Like I don’t daily?

Still, he expects me to be part of his film, while taking off from my regular 9 to 5, cutting into my schedule and work for free.

I don’t think so.

It’s because of that school of thought, that I rely heavily on the kindness on strangers. It’s a way to build-up audiences. Try out new material; see what works and what doesn’t work. I can be myself in front of strangers, which is why I greatly enjoy performing outside my home territory.

They won’t know my work and will most likely be hungry for something innovative and different.

And that’s what I tend to work for, whether it’s an art party in Seattle, Washington, an open mic in New York City, a featured performance in my hometown of Chicago or a couple choruses of throatsinging amongst the silent cactuses and howling coyotes in the deserts of Arizona.

They will listen; listen with intent and curiosity, willingly and hoping to come away with something they haven’t heard before and apply it to their own lives.

That’s my intention. Expect the unexpected. Only then will one learn what is brought to the table and eat.

Eat heartily, that is.

2 Jews Beat Poets-Act I: Origins Of A Tour

There’s a time in everyone’s life when you learn a new skill. Mine? Booking a spoken word/performance tour! Never did I think that I would do that, but here I am on the road, somewhere on the road, touring with Mykel Board, headed toward our first destination tonight in Bloomington, Indiana, after having spent the first half of the week performing in Chicago. But let me back up a bit, tell you a bit of history between Mykel & I, tell you about our performance history, a bit of booking experience and a bit of everything else in between!

It’s spring, 2007 & Mykel…no wait, let me back up even further to last fall, 2006, when I arrive in New York City to do a few gigs. Mykel meets up with me as I arrive at the venue via taxicab, with a driver who absolutely hates his job. Don’t we all?

The venue is a small studio on Times Square; I’m one of three features, while Mykel gets up on the open mic portion and reads some of his work. Vivianna Grell the host dubs Mykel, “Mykel Board The Bard.”

That same week, we perform at a friend of mine’s bar, Grey Lodge Pub in Philadelphia, a performance that took us five hours to drive to due to an unusually hard and long torrential rainstorm. That same afternoon, a light plane flying along the Hudson River, piloted by New York Yankees pitcher Cory Lidle and his flight instructor takes a wrong turn and smacks directly into a 42-story apartment building on the upper east side of New York City, killing both men instantly.

Not knowing if it’s a terrorist attack or not, United States President George W. Bush takes no chances and sends fighter jets to protect New Yorkers. The plane accident ties up traffic for hours…

But back even further to Madison, Wisconsin and Chicago, Illinois, late May, 2005. Mykel’s just published two new books, I-A-Me-Ist & Even A Daughter’s Better Than Nothing and is on a book tour filled with up with Illinois & Wisconsin tour dates.

It’s Mykel who encourages me to go back out on the performance circuit once more after a few years of sitting out, if for no better reason, for at the moment escapes me. He tells me he’s got a gig at the Reversible Eye in Chicago and wants me to be a part of it. So I agree to do it. We both do seemingly well, the audience is extremely polite and attentive and well; looks as if I’m hooked on performing again!

A few days later we drive up to Madison, Wisconsin with another friend, where I open for Mykel at Rainbow Books with a little throatsinging that ends up scaring away four potential audience members. Mykel doesn’t seem too pleased by that, but I figure if I can scare them away here, I can scare them away anywhere and do whatever I please in terms of performance.

Some hours later, Mykel goes on his way and I head over to an open mic with my friend and play an unmemorable, no-rules game of Scrabble in which I get the title for my next (and third) CD, I mean of course, the word, holfatzib.

I discover later that night, as my car radio stops working and to amuse myself and in order to keep myself awake, I sing at least 100 different versions of “Take Me Out To The Ballgame,” I realize that I am digging what is transpiring...