Maxwell’s
Hoboken, NJ, 3 July 1997
Review by Mira Shin
Stepping through the swinging doors of the backroom of Maxwell’s, a local bar/club in Hoboken, New Jersey, I walked down the open floor and sat directly in front of the stage. After having speed-walked 11 blocks from the exit of the New Jersey Path Trains coming from New York City to the club, there was no way in hell anyone was coming between me and my Jim. The stage was small; a single podium adorned with stickers of bands like the Sneaker Pimps stood alone in the middle of the stage, microphones strategically placed near the podium and at the sides. Doors had opened at 9 pm, and people began to fill up the vacant floor. The “opening act” was an eccentric man, resembling Perry Farell, with an electric violin, who called himself Zef (of ILLtet), backed by a bassist and a percussionist on bongos and bells. Together they created some pretty trippy sounds, the violin notes echoing through the thumps of the bass and rhythm of the drum, and Zef speak-singing his poetry. He dabbled in a little bit of freestyle verse, then played some more of his wicked violin. I thought their performance was good, and despite the bantering of a heckler in the audience whose clapping and yelling nearly drowned out most of the audience’s, they kept their cool.
After waiting about an hour following their performance, at around half past midnight, Jim slowly walked to the stage, carefully trying not to step on anyone along the way. At first glance, I was shocked. I had seen Jim speak last summer at Central Park, and he was nowhere near as skinny as he was this night. Dressed in slim black pants and a black shirt and vest, he looked fragile, but that trademark hair of his still shown as ginger as it had in his youth, which mitigated my fear slightly. He climbed on stage and adjusted the microphone to reach his mouth. I guess Jim sensed the audience’s concern because he immediately explained to us that he was very ill and was supposed to be in the hospital at this moment. The audience gasped in unison, and Jim, being the charmer that he is, cracked, “But I’m not dying!!” We relaxed after that.
Jim opened his set by reading an excerpt from one of the two new novels he is working on. Then he read from the other novel. He followed by reading “Eight Fragments for Kurt Cobain,” a poem that most of us knew by heart and were reciting along with him under our breaths. Jim read some of his poems of more recent years, such as “Dance Floor,” and “For Virginia.” His most crowd pleasing poems including one about the cat who “didn’t need a name,” that he had while living in California during the seventies, a three-line poem that read, “Alright…Buddha can have a backstage pass…but all of his friends have to pay,” and a song he wrote, inspired by an episode of COPS, about a boy who sniffed paint. It was so wonderful to see that throughout the reading, Jim was able to maintain his sense of humor and completely capture the audience in the palm of his hand, even with his vulnerable health. Absolutely amazing.
With a half an hour remaining in his set, Jim called up Lenny Kaye, guitarist extraordinaire, to back him up while he sang some of his classic Jim Carroll Band tunes. Jim warned the audience that his head wasn’t all together and that he hoped he would remember all the lyrics. Jim did just fine. He took some songs such as “Wicked Gravity” and “I Want the Angel” at different tempos, which was totally refreshing. “The Beast Within,” was done brilliantly despite Jim’s assurance that the song sounded better on record. Jim closed with a slow and mellow version of “People Who Died,” which was completely different from the fast, punk-driven hit of 17 years past. The pace he and Lenny took allowed the audience to sing along with them, and pretty soon, the whole room was chanting, “Those are people who died, died…they were all my friends, and they died…” I had goosebumps!!
Jim Carroll is, quite simply, the man. Still producing magnificent poetry and prose through the decades, there are few people out there who can hold a candle to Jim’s genuis as a poet, writer, and performer. I went through hell to come see this man, but I would do it again in a second. After the show, my dream came true. As Jim was walking out, I caught up with him, stuck my hand out, and introduced myself. Jim’s handshake was very firm and he was very nice about it. I asked him if he had a pen so that he might sign my copy of Fear of Dreaming. I followed Jim to the side of the bar and he fished out a blue pen from his bookbag. He asked me to repeat my name and I spelled it out for him. While he was signing, I told him how much I loved him and his work, and about the ten page research paper I wrote about his life. He laughed and said, “That’s great.” I told him how I got a lot of help from Cassie Carter and he said, “Oh really?” After he was finished, I grabbed him and said, “Please don’t forget my name.” And he laughed again, and said, “Okay I won’t.” The whole time I was with him, I was holding in my complete and utter excitement. When I stepped outside of the place, I screamed on the top of lungs. I hope I didn’t wake up everyone on Washington Street, but my night had been so unbelievably and absolutely perfect. Just like Jim Carroll.