Although we have lived within a ten minute walk of Washington Square for almost twenty-five years, spending time there with my kids when they were young, and have a long history with the area, each time I walk past or through it, I think of my old friend Tom—or Tommy as we called him as kids. We knew each other from early childhood and were close friends through much of our teens. Beginning in the mid-1960s, when we were 15 or so, we would often hang out in the Village, wandering the streets, mixing with NYU students, old bohos, folkies, and the pre-mainstream counter-culture. In the Square, we would listen to music, sometimes joining in, people-watching, listening to political speeches, and joining the frequent demonstrations which seem to continue to this day. I don’t think Tommy’s parents were too happy with the demonstration part of our outings. We would stop in bookstores, record stores, and occasionally hear live music at one of the many clubs that flourished in the area. There was a small café—a greasy spoon–on Sheridan Square, only a couple of blocks away, which had great deep dish apple pie, which we could afford, even on our limited means. Or we would have a coffee at Caffe Reggio. My family too has a long history with the area around the Square. My grandmother lived for a while at the Waverly, a down at the heels residential hotel right on Waverly Place. My parents, who lived only a few blocks from where we live now when they were first married, also haunted the Village. A few minutes away from the Square was the shop where my mother had sandals made by the legendary Allan Block, which she wore for years, long leather straps winding up her legs. And on 8thStreet, where I would housesit one summer while in college in a typical Village apartment, bathtub in the middle of the kitchen, next door to Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Lady recording studio, there were small quirky shops, long-gone now.
On one seemingly ordinary day, we were just wandering around, seeing what trouble we could get into, when we found ourselves standing on 2ndAvenue and 6th Street, in front of what was, as of that date, the Fillmore East. Bill Graham opened the Fillmore East in what had originally been a Yiddish theater, following his Fillmore Auditorium in San Francisco, but that night, March 8, 1968, opening night, we stumbled on it by accident. At least I remember it as an accident. While it looked modest from the outside, it was a huge venue, having a few thousand seats. We walked up to the ticket booth, bought two tickets and walked in. Soon after, we were sitting down, not knowing who was playing or what to expect. The opening acts were Tim Buckley and the great blues guitarist Albert King. I don’t think I had heard Albert King before, at least live, but I loved his playing—he played left-handed, just turning the guitar around—and his signature song, “Born under a Bad Sign”, from that night on. Then, louder than loud, the headliners started up, bass, drums, guitar, and finally a wail that could be heard for miles “Ooh Yeah”–her hair wild, her feet stomping, Janis Joplin was playing New York for the first time and she blew the city wide open. Her band, Big Brother and the Holding Company, was shambolic— Sam Andrew’s solos seemed wandering and unfocused–and they could not keep up. But maybe no one could have. Janis just could not be contained, raw energy, totally possessed by the music. Tommy and I looked at each other, and everything we thought we knew about music was changed.
I had listened to blues growing up—my father liked some blues and I had also explored a range of styles, Chicago blues, Mississippi blues, some acoustic, some electric. But the combination of 1960s rock and blues, played really loud and raw, with nothing left in reserve, was different. I had heard but not yet seen Jimi Hendrix or Cream or some of the other players changing popular music. It was a year of massive turbulence in the U.S., Vietnam, civil rights, the Columbia strike, the Chicago Democratic convention, lots of great music amid the turmoil. But that day, even fifty years later, remains vivid in my memory. I don’t know how it happened, but, in those days before merch was everywhere, I ended up with a poster of that appearance (picture below)–maybe I pulled it off a wall–which, somewhat the worse for wear, I keep stashed in my “60s trunk”. I would see Janis a number of times after that day, I think the last ones being at the Festival Train concerts in Canada in the su
mmer of 1970 (that is another story or two), but then she was gone. So too, I saw many more shows at the Fillmore, some memorable, some not. Sadly, Tommy too died way too young. And years later, watching Janis’ 1967 performance at Monterey Pop on a DVD, Mama Cass in the front row, gaping, then mouthing “holy shit” when Janis blew up the joint. Not a flame, but a raging forest fire.
