Tao to Go
Jim Carroll at The Great American Music Hall
San Francisco, CA, 20 April 1997
Review by S. Kevin Wojtaszek
It must be tough to be the opening reader for the likes of Jim Carroll. Don Bajema, the writer who did it for Jim’s appearance at the Great American Music Hall in San Francisco on April 20th, didn’t do badly, really. Dressed in an ill-fitting green pocket-T, he read from an appropriately Carrollesque account of his childhood, throwing himself into an emotive frenzy before he was through.
I thought the guy’s stuff was serviceable, and when they brought up the houselights for an intermission, I would’ve bought the book of his that was on sale back by the bar, if I had the money. But as things were, I had to be careful. I don’t drive, which in California makes me some kind of heretic. To get to Jim’s event I had to take public transportation from suburbs tens of miles away, and they’d just raised the fare.
San Francisco is a city built by con-artists. It’s just not safe to carry too much cash, especially in the Tenderlion, where the Music Hall is located. This neighborhood has been a slum since the Gold Rush. You have to push your way through generations of whores just to get in the door. Once you do, you’re met by a battalion of attitudinal theatre techs who conduct you to your table, where you’re serviced by barmaids with hearts of legal tender.
The hall has for long been something of a dinner theatre. When I got inside, it’s gilded Victorian balconies reeked of roasted jalepeno and beer. The crowd was young; I was one of only a handful of people over 40, and although there were a few sullen gay couples, I appeared to be the only unattached gay male.
Sullen’s what the entire audience became, once Dejema finished reading. After all, we were there to hear Jim, and no one much liked the idea of waiting any longer. Soon, things went beyond sullen, and into the realm of threatening. Folks began to whistle, and just as it seemed hooting and chair stomping were about to commence, they lowered the lights, and out stepped the Word made Flesh.
Carroll was resplendently captivating, even before he opened his mouth. His bouncy, confident presence brought earthquakes of applause, followed by a giggly quiet as he fussed with his gear. The audience, which moments before had been hostile, was utterly pacified. He spent several instants crouched on the floor, shuffling through papers and books from his sack. Then he stepped up to the podium to check out the light.
“Does this thing work?” he asked as he flicked a switch. “Cool!”
Returning to his satchel, which he’d placed by a table behind the podium, he crouched again to pour water into a cup that sat on the floor. He stood and grabbed another glass, which he quickly gulped. Then he was back at the podium, where his gritty, wavering voice laughed.
“He takes minutes to pour a cup of water, and then he slugs down a margarita. Way to go!”
The crowd was now his to command. He wore a gun-barrel gray velvet suit with a matching silk tie, an ensemble he joked had been bought from a lesbian dress shop in Manhattan. He was much younger looking than I’d expected, with smooth, ruddy skin that glowed in stage light. His silken hair kept falling boyishly over his face, and his hands were large, yet delicate.
As a native Long Islander, I found it refreshing to hear his thick New York accent resonate through the pseudo-rococo hall. He’s still a Catholic School kid who recites phallic passages with the sly look of someone telling dirty jokes while Sister Mary Brian’s back is turned. His style of delivery was something to behold, as his lanky form bent over the lectern, with one hand on the text, and the other slicing the air, as though to summon the words.
And what words! He read from the novel he’s working on, a piece of magical realism set in New York’s subways and museums, with several narrative asides that had the quality of tales told round a kegger. He also read from his poetry, both previously published works, and stuff fresh from his computer. All his verse had an emotional intensity that was only amplified by his presence.
When he got to his last piece, I believe it was I AM THE RIVER, FOOL, it just carried us all along on currents of imagery that no one wanted to end . But it had to. Jim abruptly announced, “Well, that’s all, San Francisco”, took his bow, and exited stage right, his strawberry cone of hair and hunched shoulders gone from view.
My own Jim Carroll experience of that night didn’t end there, though.
Completely jazzed by what I had just seen and heard, and still having a couple of hours to kill before the last train back to the suburbs, I walked several blocks to a nasty little South of Market gay bar I’ve been hanging out at, of late. It’s a small dive where cutting edge rock shakes young blades as they slice among the beer-bellies. I ordered a draft that was served in a Bell jar, and shoved my way back to the DJ.
“Hey man,” I yelled up at him, “I’ve just come from the Great American Music Hall. I heard Jim Carroll read there. Ya got any Jim Carroll Band stuff ya could play?”
He scratched his shaved head and said, “Yeah, man. Jim Carroll. ‘For Those Who Have Died’, right?”
“Yeah,” I said, “For Those Who Have Died.”
When it started to play, I noticed more than one leather-clad patron take the contents of his Bell jar, and dump it on the floor. Grabbing the nipple rings of one, I asked what that was all about.
“Why, for the brothers who aren’t with us any more,” he said, pointing to the woofers. “You know, For Those Who Have Died.”
“Yeah,” I said, “For Those Who Have Died.”
Through that, with that, in that, in the unity of Jim’s voice merged with the ghostly South of Market revels of Kerouac, Cassadey, and now, alas, Ginsberg, I drained my own draft on the ground.
Way to go, Jim Carroll, way to go.