My Grandma Evelyn, combined with the Beatles and the Monkees, was probably responsible for getting me into music in the first place. As well as being an incredibly talented lounge pianist, she was a charismatic, unique woman whose presence filled any room she was in. Although my father and mother separated (and eventually divorced) when I was yet an infant and my mother's parents took it upon themselves to raise me, I visited with her often. After all, she lived only a few blocks away from where I was growing up on Manhattan's Upper West Side - she on West End Avenue at 94th Street, me on 97th between Broadway and West End. When I was small, she showered me with gifts of toys and clothing - I think she felt sorry for me being 'abandoned' the way I had (which was far from the truth as my other grandparents were spoiling me green). Eventually, when I was 9, we moved to Detroit where we would stay for the next 8 years. I don't remember how often I called or wrote, but when I returned to NYC I was a very different person, naturally. I was snotty and rude and didn't have time or even the slightest care for family... I hacked my hair into uneven Johnny Rotten snarls and dyed it black (at first) and finessed it with KY jelly. I wore dark rings of smudgy kohl around my eyes and enhanced my natural translucence with something called Mannequin Makeup - a chalky whitish foundation with an undeniable sickly blue tint to it that Lazar shared with me. My shredded pin-infested clothing was covered in hand-written political slogans and I wore combat boots everywhere. When I turned up to Evelyn's flat this way, after not having seen her in 8 years at least, what could she do but pinch my cheeks and exclaim gleefully "you look ADORABLE!"... so much for freaking out the status quo.
As I delved deeper and deeper into the anti-scene of the lower east side of the time, I had precious little time for visits or even phonecalls with Grandma anymore. I did call her long enough to borrow $200 from her when I was trying to secure a new flat though. At one point she gave me a far-out purple sectional sofa she said was too soft for her to get out of... which I had for years. I never paid her back either, by the way. I was a crappy grandkid. She once said to me "the only time I ever hear from you is when you have bad news", which was pretty accurate (back in the day I never called anyone unless I needed something, spoiled creep that I was). She resented the lack of contact, just keeping in touch to see how she was doing, more than anything. Over the years I would receive intermittent feedback through my father (yet another wildly inconsistent relationship I failed to maintain) that Grandma was not very happy with me... which didn't give me much incentive to call her anyway - the vicious circle was firmly established.
Back to the happy memories. She got me interested in piano when I was still a toddler, she played so beautifully, as I sat beside her on the bench she would teach me melodies to peck out on the keyboard. I thought she was really cool! Ironically we had both played at New York's famous Peppermint Lounge; me once in 1982 and she during the 1960's. She even had the guts to come down to Max's Kansas City with my mom to see me play (at what is the now-infamous Even Worse recording where I am very, very obviously drunk). Her cooking was not so great (as my father, uncle Larry & I can all attest), not that she cared... in case you couldn't tell by now she was not a typical gran in the least... but she did turn me on to melba toast (I have a package in my bread bin as I type this) and I do have recollections of some fine Chinese restaurant dinners. Her husband Joe used to take us down to Little Italy for spaghetti in what had to be Mob restaurants. I have vivid memories of accented men in 3-piece suits with cigars and big rings telling me how cute I was. In addition, her tales of showbiz in the glamorous sixties always enthralled me... like the way the beaded false eyelashes women would wear would break apart on stage and thousands of tiny beads would rain down all over place in the middle of your performance, potentially blinding you in the process... What else? She simply adored Clint Eastwood ("Now there's a MAN!" she would say as she pointed to a huge print of him she had behind the study door). Anyway, I haven't spoken to her in at least 14 years and she went to the great beyond thinking I'm a piece of crap. If I have suddenly become even more blase and self-effacing than usual, well you know by now that is my way of copping out when I don't wanna get too deep. Obviously I feel at least a modicum of guilt and remorse, otherwise I wouldn't have penned all this dribble now would I? Tra la la, tra la lee...
Here's looking at you, Grandma. Thanks.
(As I work out the HTML for this page it bears mentioning that I have a fuzzy-brained single malt hangover, so there's bound to be some bad code here & there)
