“So was it the greatest night of my life?”

posted by Emily Gordon

It was pretty damn great. Seeing and hearing Earl Scruggs and Steve Martin (pictured, with Pete Wernick; all the musicians there were fantastic) playing banjo together did indeed turn out to be sublime, as sad as Martin happily advertised the banjo sound to be, and transforming for an audience that needed some lullabies. I found myself tearing up again, but not about mortality—just in that pleasurable/bemused wrench of recognition because the songs tap into such essential human problems, states of mind that don’t have much to do with trivia, posturing, or irony. Plus, it was sweet to see New Yorkers left so in the dark about steamboat paddle-wheel and fox-hunt imagery. For once, we aren’t the last word.

I think it was like a little vacation to feel that way for a few hours. I wished my mom, who introduced me to all of this great music, could’ve seen it, but I recorded a tiny bit of “Earl’s Breakdown” on my phone (sorry!) to play for her. The crowd, afterward, echoed my thoughts: Isn’t it something that Steve Martin, who writes plays and acts and contributes to the art world and seems to do everything so thoughtfully and stylishly, decided to learn this incredibly difficult instrument as well, submitting happily to the ribbing of his superiors? Huh. Cool guy.

After a drink at the Algonquin (no apologies) with real journalist Simon Houpt, I sneaked over to Ricky Gervais for a while after all, and I dig Nancy Franklin even more now that I’ve seen her in person. She played the straight man to Gervais so slyly and with so much humor of her own that I do believe he didn’t even get that she was setting him up for about ten minutes. Then they were an ace team. Gervais seems to have mellowed since the Office DVDs, and that’s nice to see. The new show, Extras, looks pretty good—a little Curb Your Enthusiasm-y. Which is fine. It’s not Tim and Dawn having the gaze of the century, but it’s fine. It’s a pretty funny title for any post-Office show, come to think of it. After a masterpiece like that, maybe everything is just an extra offering, take it or leave it, may as well enjoy it. (That sentence was typed in Gervais’ accent.)

Then I sped to the cartoonists, who were putting on a show that took the cake. It really did. It also took the pie and threw it, took the cupcakes and skewered them, and took the muffins and beheaded them. Those guys are funny, and I’ll tell you more about them later. There was more surprise bluegrass, too, in the form of Matt Diffee, Eric Lewis, and Marshall Hopkins‘ jaunty, tight trio; during the instrumental section, there were cartoons about heaven (the song was about heaven) projected above them for us to enjoy while we were listening. That’s a great thing to do. More music should have that.

I love how much love and work these guys (some women, most of the younger sort; Carolita Johnson really is that great-looking in person) put into their night, how public the face of the cartoonists is to their understandably enthusiastic followers, how energetic and determined they seem to be. I’ve been talking to writers about this a lot lately, and we all agree we need to revive the tradition of hanging out with visual artists more, and spending far more time in museums. That crowd may do their share of whining ‘n’ suffering, and/or joking ‘n’ drinking instead of making something, but not nearly as much as we do. Let’s hear it for sketches!

John Updike said something about that in his talk with David Remnick—”I felt the yen to write more keenly from looking at paintings than from reading other people’s work.” As the New York School (of poets) knew so well, the smell of paint is invigorating to the writer’s mind. Or the smell of painters, maybe. Anyway, here’s our mission. Let’s choose to accept it.

Tomorrow (yes, meaning later today): an analysis of the audiences for all these events. They were markedly different. Hold your clichés—you might be surprised! In the meantime, buy Jennifer L. Knox’s book, A Gringo Like Me. These poems will knox your socks off, and that’s no lie.

25 September 2005 | events |