Nixta Sinks

Chico's Gramophone

I ought to write something about the Musical Box, since it's pretty much (as The Sherman Foundation pointed out yesterday) my second home.

My history there began almost as soon as I got to New York, when He Who Must Not Be Named introduced me to a local dive that he'd found. That is to say, it appeared from the outside to be something of a dive. As a matter of fact it was completely unmarked. A curtained window, an inset door, and a garbage bin from under which a rat peered at me with what I took to be a ravenous look of contemplation (or contempt - it began with contemp though), and behind which graffitti covered corrugated steel shutters extended the height of the ground floor. To the left a Chinese take-out. To the right one of those brick walls that in war footage people are lined up against and shot - what looks like the side-wall to a warehouse. To add the final touch of flair, kids in baseballs caps trying to sell me coke, crack and weed.

So it was that with mild trepidation I stepped through the door into a blood red lounge packed with an eclectic crew of East Village likely lads, bright young things, fashionistas; rock'n'rollers and suits. At that time though, it was nothing more to me that another branch of New York's marvellous culture. Was it subculture? Was it culture? How could I tell? I had literally just moved in that day. He Who Must Not Be Named (HWMNBN) lived around the corner and, as if sent on a scouting mission from Denver a few months previously, had decided that I should visit the place. He was greeted from behind the bar as an old friend and we were ushered into the handshake of a young Irish jack-the-lad by the name of Damo. Damien Lumsden. Perfector of Chocolate Cake shots (invented I recently found out, by Tao). Illegal smugglee from Ireland by way of Canada. Best bartender I've seen, and with the scrawny looks of a car thieving rock star to boot and a penchant for fat chicks. Ah, little old Damo, how he and HWMNBN destroyed one-another over the next year and a bit, but what fun it must have been for them.

An evening of splendour was spent in the Musical Box at the hands of Damo. Delicious shots from Bertie Bott's, fine beers, and of course what the place is famous for, an excellent set of music...

Back then the bar was owned by two people: Johnny B, and Brendan. I know little about either of them of specific nature, and barely knew either of them despite the fact that I ought to pay them rent on occasion. Brendan had many friends in the music business. Johnny B owned other bars around town. Now, the stories and politics behind the bar, which the delightul effervescent effusive Kenny has managed all along, are beyond me to relate, and I'll probably not be objectively informed or balanced in relaying them. Suffice to say, the owners fell out about the same time Damo made an enemy of Johnny B and was disemployed, and the smoking ban came into effect in New York. This conspired to leave Johnny B the only owner, Damo on his way back to Ireland, and the bar largely empty: Many of the clientele had been invited by Brendan. In fact, it was Brendan who named the place, after an early Genesis song off Nursery Cryme, and interestingly it was apparently Tao's recognition of this fact from his massive musical knowledgebase that decided Brendan on hiring him.

The bar is doing well, but still recovering from the breakup etc.. We have got to know Tao since Damo left. With Damo there, Tao was the scary and mysterious "other" bartender we'd see from time to time. There was Jacqui, who left to open her own bar in Brooklyn, and a delightful fiery Spanish (I think) girl whose name I now forget. There was crazy-ass Gilad, and there's still the lovely Greta and we have Scotty (without whose influence I would not be reading the surprisingly good "Rambo: First Blood"). All of them made a great effort to make us feel at home, and with time we became great friends with Tao (taking a trip to Greece with him last summer). And of course there's Jimmy, the Toilet Nazi.

The bar is a core part of my life here in New York. It's with great pride that I take people there and introduce them to Kenny, Scott and of course Tao. I don't ask much from a bar. In fact, I'm very unadventurous, but for me The Musical Box hits the nail on the head (good music, plenty of booze, out of the way, picky clientele), although it's starting to get frequented by NYU students since NYU started housing them in this part of town, but I strive to make them feel uniquely unwelcome. They're students after all. They're here to learn, and it's surely best to teach them the harshness of life sooner rather than later, no?

And now they have a smoking area decorated by Chico.