go. Jules attempts to join in with a harmony, although sheâs not really a singer. The song gets sillier and sillier until weâre just laughing. Alan is yipping and barking like a dog.
âWe should record that!â he says.
Fifteen
I n the original 1982, my songs start to fill me with ambition. I want to hear them on the radio. I want to sing them with a band behind me. Drums and bass, piano, cello, accordion, trumpet. Alan and I get together all the time and practice. Iâm less than confident about my guitar playing, so I teach him my songs, and he transforms them from folk songs into R&B ballads, rock songs, and bossa novas.
Thereâs a big songwriter scene at the time on Bleecker Street. We go down there one Monday night and sign up for the open mic at Folk City. After we play our two songs, Stevie, the owner of the club, approaches us. âThat was really good, you guys,â he says. âYou want to play a night here? Iâve got a Sunday open middle of the month.â
Yeah, we do. We talk about what we should wear for days. We assemble the rest of a band and book a rehearsal space to practice. I make flyers to leave all over town and mail to everyone I know.
I have photographs from that first gig. I â m wearing a headband like Madonna circa 1981. Alan looks handsome, his long hair is falling over one eye. Fish is playing keyboards. He played with a lot of up-and-coming singer-songwriters at the time. That â s Mildred, from Gabriel â s band, on backing vocals. Look how young she was. Her round, brown eyes are on me as she matches my phrasing, word for word.
We begin to play pretty regularly at Folk City and the other small clubs on or around Bleecker Street. I have terrible stage fright. Sometimes I shake so hard, I can barely hold my fingers on the strings. Alan covers for me and usually by the third song in Iâm okay. We add a drummer and bass player, once in a while a guy on sax.
Gabriel comes down to the club and sits at the bar. It feels good to have my own thing, to have him come to hear me play for a change, although when I look over at him from the stage, heâs usually talking to some stranger and doesnât seem to be paying attention. Still, he gives me notes about one thing or another. He thinks my songs are too slow, and I should add some up-tempo material to the set. He thinks I should cover Michael Jackson, maybe, or the Police. But I only play my own songs. Every one is about him. One is called âPart of the World.â Itâs about the fact that Gabrielâs concerns are worldwide, while mine are only for the world we make between us. The refrain goes like this:
I, too, want to save the world
The part thatâs yours and mine
Thankfully, itâs been lost to posterity.
I didnât really become a good songwriter until many years later. It takes a long time and a lot of practice to do something well.
But enough of the old stories, Little Fish.
Sixteen
Y ou kick him so hard, it knocks his hand right off my belly. Gabriel looks truly shocked, eyes wide, mouth agape. â¡Coño!â he says, laughing. âSheâs gonna be a boxer. Is that normal?â
I laugh, too. Iâm so happy to have him share in the amazement. âSheâs pretty energetic,â I say. âI think sheâs swimming laps in there.â
âYouâre gonna have to name her after Manny,â he says. Manuel âMannyâ LuÃs is a famous fighter from Gabrielâs country. âEasy there, champ,â he says to you as you give him another little kick.
After that, itâs what he calls you. âHowâs the Champ?â he asks when he calls or stops by on his way downtown. His accent makes the ch sound sort of like a sh .
He makes my apartment feel small when heâs there, makes me feel messy and a little ashamed. Within five minutes of his arrival my clothes are off and weâre on the wicker daybed,
Joseph Lance Tonlet, Louis Stevens