One of the things I've always loved of about Manhattan is the abundance of sidewalk musicians. I remember one evening in particular when I encountered in the course of a single stroll a Juilliard violinist, a jazz trio, a rock guitarist with a small battery powered amp, a blind accordion player and a lone singer who looked and sounded like he'd just been transported from a third-rate Vegas nightclub, circa 1962. (I didn't say all of the musicians were good. But the utter awfulness of some of them was part of the appeal.)
I thought of that scene recently while I was visiting a friend in Washington D.C. On a balmy, moonlit Saturday night, as we strolled through Old Town Alexandria, we heard a classical guitarist, a folk singer, and two older men playing bluegrass. All were entertaining. But the most impressive and intriguing by far was a young guy playing a carefully arranged collection of plastic buckets, pots, pans lids, bottles and utensils. He was so talented that I thought it might be fun to interview him, but I soon began to get a sense that his torrents of polyrhythms were going to continue through the evening, without pause. And so, after a few delightful minutes, my friend and I wandered on.
As I was leaving, I noticed that the white plastic buckets—his substitutes for bass drums and tom-toms—were emblazoned with the "True Value" brand. This struck me as noteworthy for a couple of reasons. For one thing, there was the irony. His entire "drum kit," which he likely assembled from local thrift and hardware stores, couldn't have cost more than $20 or $30. It may not have even cost him a dime. Most of the items, after all, could probably be found in piles of curbside waste. And yet he had managed to transform this pile of "junk" into a dazzling array of percussion instruments and play them with all the skill, verve and grace of an accomplished jazz drummer. The other reason the "True Value" name seemed significant is that it was a fair assessment of his offering. The same could be said of the other musicians on the street that night. The most each was hoping for was a dollar here and there from passersby. In exchange, they were freely sharing their harmonies, melodies and rhythms, adding immeasurable vitality to the street life in the process.
This is one of the great things about bigger cities, from Paris and London to Boston and San Francisco. Rents may be high, and restaurants pricey, but on any given evening—and throughout the day, for the matter—the streets themselves are veritable stages where a kind of theater (tragic, comic, absurd and transcendent) unfolds for all to see. And free of charge. Sure it's nice to have some disposable income if you live in these places (In one of the shops on Alexandria's King Street I saw a comfortable-looking pair of sandals that cost $150; in another, a hand-carved-and-colorfully-painted dining room table was available for a mere four grand and change). When I was living in Manhattan, however, the list of things to do for free or minimal cost was endless. The same has always been true of Washington. Perhaps even more so, since it is home to such wonderful gems as the National Gallery.
The day after I returned to Norfolk, I went to a Tides game. Walking back through downtown, my friends and I were struck by the fact that there was scarcely a pedestrian—never mind a street musician—in sight. I was reminded once again of Norfolk's failure to take its urban revitalization to the next level. The lack of street culture—the scarcity of independent retail shops, small, edgy arts venues, buskers, street vendors and public spaces where lingering is encouraged—is a continual frustration.
So why am I still here? And why, for that matter, does my friend in Washington miss Norfolk?
It all comes down to the people, and to the sense of community that we feel here. As I've noted many times before, I'm especially attached to my favorite haunts—the Boot, the Taphouse, Elliot's Fairgrounds, both Naros, A.W. Shucks—but this isn't simply another tribute to Ghent. (I know some folks in Virginia Beach and elsewhere tire of hearing about how wonderful Ghent is. They see such exultations as expressions of snobbery. They misunderstand. It is passion, pure and simple. If a guy says he's married to the greatest woman on earth, no one calls him a snob. They just admire his devotion and happiness. Celebrating your community is no different. But I digress.) This is about Greater Norfolk and the wonderful people here.
People are pretty much the same everywhere you go, of course. The veneer of rudeness that is stereotypically associated with larger cities is just that—a thin covering. Scratch the surface, and, more often than not, you'll find a compassionate soul, someone who yearns for the same things you yearn for.
So what is it about this area that's different? Two things.
First, because it's relatively laid back, people are generally friendlier right off the bat. Sure, there are country clubs and other such enclaves where you might as well be invisible if you don't have the right breeding. But those places are no longer dominant. As a rule, I find it astonishingly easy to make friends in the Seven Cities.
Second, I think it's especially easy for intellectuals, artists, musicians, spiritual seekers and political progressives to develop a sense of community here, precisely because this area isn't very bohemian. When those of us who thrive on the exchange of ideas find like-minded people—or discover places that serve as incubators of dialogue—we relish the experience. We take nothing for granted. I know I don't.
I also know that it's only a matter of time before some of my favorite people leave this area for bigger cities. Many of them already have. I don't blame them, especially if they're younger and/or have never lived in a truly cosmopolitan area. Everyone who craves such an experience should have it. But as long as they're here, building businesses, making art, playing music, and stirring up all kinds of good trouble, I want to enjoy their company as much as possible. In fact, I want to enjoy your company. If you've never stopped by the Boot on Wednesday evenings, or haven't done so in a while, I hope you will. If we've never met, please introduce yourself. I'd love to chat. Perhaps in time we can even cook up some project that will magnify this region's true value. You never know.
—Tom Robotham
tomrobotham@gmail.com