Maxwell's

Anyone who's been familiar with Hoboken since 1995 knows that the town has experienced a radical shift in housing prices and overall cultural aesthetic.  During the ten or so years I spent in Hudson County, I was continually amazed at the way developers were able to squeeze in yet another towering condo community into a city that's only one mile square.  Back in my day, there was still a hearty contingent of locals and imported freakers who turned their noses up at the inevitable changes that come with the gentrification of a neighborhood.  From their stools in Kelly's Pub, Black Jack's and Louise and Jerry's, these raconteurs would talk themselves hoarse about the good old days of cheap rent and unsafe streets.  All of that has vanished into the mist of nostalgia.

Among the last holdouts from the "old" Hoboken is Maxwell's, one of my favorite all time rock clubs.  The official "backstage" area was in the basement next to the kegs. Bands would have to walk up the basement stairs, through the bar, and then navigate their way to the stage from the back of the club room while accepting (or dodging) pats on the back or high-fives being offered from the crowd. I always thought that was a great proletariat approach as opposed to the usual way that bands appear from the backstage wings, looking down on their audience from on high.  I remember one night when Anton Newcombe was trying to make his way to the stage when someone by the door to the back room tried to goad him into a fight. Thankfully, Todd A was able to gently coax him away and prevent the possibility of having to refund the entire crowd for a show that was aborted before it began.  The stage was barely a couple of feet off the ground so if you were in the front there was a good chance that you might be playing the role of roadie by helping adjust mic stands that were accidentally knocked down. At Maxwell's, you felt like a more integral part of the show.

I read today that Maxwell's is shutting down on July 31st.  The shift in nightlife trends combined with the fact that much of the Maxwell's crowd has grown older and moved on makes it difficult to sustain a live music venue in Hoboken.  Despite the challenges they've faced for well over a decade, Maxwell's managed to outlive CBGBs, Brownies, Tramps, and The Continental.  This is no small feat. I was lucky enough to see a lot of great shows there over the years- Mike Watt, Guided By Voices, Supersuckers, Dead Moon, Doo Rag, The Dirtbombs, Billy Childish, Reigning Sound, Brian Jonestown Massacre, and more. (Typing that list out just now reminds me of how amazing that place was).

I'm at that age now where I can share memories of adulthood that took place over 20 years ago.  Each vestige of my younger days that slips away is another not-so-gentle nudge towards middle age. I'm slowly getting better at accepting this fact and am grateful for the experiences I had along the way.  Thank you, Todd A and gang, for so many magical nights.

Ponce De Leon Missed Out In New Jersey

Yesterday, I mowed a lawn for the first time since I was a kid. The plot is roughly a half acre. We bought a new lawn mower for the summer place, a little cabin out in the woods of New Jersey. I haven't had the need to mow grass in many years as none of my living places had any grass for me or anyone else to worry about. It appears that lawn mowers have changed a bit since my day. Auto-propel technology reduces the need to push as hard as before though the hilly terrain was still a workout in the noonday sun. Of greater value is whatever technology has been developed that makes starting a gas mower a relative breeze compared to the days of tugging away furiously at the starter rope. It took a gentle tug to get things rolling and by the end, the view of a newly mown lawn felt like a big accomplishment for a holiday weekend Sunday.

The plot of land I mowed sits outside the door of the summer cabin my partner has owned for the last four or five years. From the windows in the living room, you can see the grass and a thick patch of woods whose green lushness has just filled out in time for summer. My partner's cabin is part of a group of about 10 cabins hidden from the main road. If you drive past the entrance to the compound quickly, you may not notice the gravel road that leads into the woods and up the hill to the cabin. We use the word "cabin" because it's easier to describe the place to people than trying to explain the concept of a 1950s prefab Sears house that was ordered out of a catalogue back in the day, shipped out in parts, and put together like an Ikea project on steroids.

The land that all of the houses reside on was bought by a bunch of World War II vets after the war. When they first came out, they would pitch tents and sleep on the land. Over time, they built houses on their plots and ran the community like a co-op. Some people moved on and others have passed away. The last member of the original crew is still alive and until this year, he and his wife were out here regularly, dividing their time among their cabin in New Jersey, a condo in Florida, and an apartment in New York. They're in their 90s and for the most part, they've kept very active lives. Many of the people who have lived here have also been able to enjoy an extensive golden age.

I've talked about this summer community and the residents quite often because I am fascinated by their collective longevity. Initially, I wondered if the water out here is some kind of elixir like what Ponce De Leon was looking for centuries ago. As I've learned more about these people, the answer seems so much less mysterious than that. The wife mentioned above still goes for her morning swim each day in Florida, a habit she cultivated well into her 90s by traveling on a New York City bus to the nearest Y. When she was living in the city she was a member of more clubs and, with her husband, went to more movies and museums than people half her age. Other residents in the community remain active and don't think much about age as they drive around and go about their business as cheerful, optimistic people.

It's not much of a stretch to say that staying active in one's golden years is an important component of remaining vital but there's a little bit more. Having a place outside of New York City forces you to slow down and take a breather from the manic energy that sizzles from the sidewalks. I've always said that I would like to get to a place where I am in New York only during spring and fall. For now, I have some of the summer taken care of bug winter is still a mystery.

The people here in the community are not wealthy by any means although they live comfortably as far as I can tell. They live simply and keep the overhead low which allows them to have a modest summer place where they can escape the hot sticky NYC summer. One of the biggest lessons I've learned lately is that if you keep your spending in check you will have the flexibility to enjoy life more without being weighed down by financial commitment.

There's a lot to be said for keeping balance in one's life. I am typing this from my apartment in the city where I had to endure a one-hour bus ride (standing the whole time), the too-muggy-for-May subway and a walk through the busy streets of Manhattan. As soon as I was off the bus, I was back in the craziness of New York and I could feel the difference from the quiet inner peace I felt all weekend. I've learned from these people that there is a different, healthier way to live that does not involve wealth. Instead, it involves full engagement in life and finding a way to make time for loved ones and for whatever sparks your passion in life. Just as importantly, it involves finding those quiet spaces where your mind can get off its treadmill and relax. I'm a much different person out in the country than I am in the city. Hopefully, by cultivating the lifestyle I've just been exposed to, I can ride things out for a real long time.