twi-ny talks

twi-ny talk: JAMES MASTRO / DAWN OF A NEW ERROR

James Mastro will launch his debut solo album February 21 at Bowery Electric (photo by Dennis DiBrizzi)

JAMES MASTRO ALBUM RELEASE PARTY
The Bowery Electric
327 Bowery
Wednesday, February 21, $18.76, 6:30
www.theboweryelectric.com
www.jamesmastro.net

I first met James Mastro in the late 1980s, when he had a side gig as a freelance proofreader and I worked at a small publisher and used to assign him work. I already knew who he was from his time in the iconic Hoboken band the Bongos; he would go on to form Strange Cave and the Health & Happiness Show before joining Ian Hunter’s Rant Band in 2001.

Mastro started playing in New York City when he was teenager in the late 1970s, eventually performing with Patti Smith, John Cale, the Jayhawks, Alejandro Escovedo, Richard Lloyd, Garland Jeffreys, the Feelies, Jesse Malin, Amy Speace, Jill Sobule, and Robert Plant, among so many others throughout his career. He opened Guitar Bar in Hoboken in 1996 as a place where musicians could not only shop but play live and hang out. He has now followed that up with 503 Social Club, an art gallery that hosts live events, including recent concerts by Sobule, Freedy Johnston, and Bobby Bare Jr.; Jon Langford performed there with friends amid his paintings on the walls.

At long last Mastro has made his debut solo album, Dawn of a New Error, out from MPress Records on February 21. The title has multiple meanings, referring to the state of the world, Mastro’s shift to being the main man, and, at least to me, those old days when I was hiring him to find mistakes in kids books. Longtime Smith bassist and New Jersey native Tony Shanahan produced and plays bass and keyboards on the LP, which ranges from jangly pop, acoustic folk, and romantic ballads to gospel and country, celebrating such influences as the Beatles, the Ramones, T-Rex, Roxy Music, Bob Dylan, and David Bowie. Reilly and Hunter each appear on three tracks, with Hunter as “the voice of god” on “The Face of the Sun.” Mastro takes on faith and religion in “My God,” death and loss in “Never Die,” true love in “Gangster Baby” and “Three Words,” and fake news in “Right Words, Wrong Song.” “Trouble” was inspired by Dr. Seuss and Levon Helm.

Mastro will have album release parties on February 21 at Bowery Electric and February 24 at Transparent Clinch Gallery in Asbury Park. We recently spoke over Zoom, discussing music, art, family, hats, and stepping out into the spotlight.

James Mastro plays with Ian Hunter and R.E.M’s Peter Buck and Scott McCaughey of the Baseball Project at the 2011 Hoboken Music & Art Festival (photo by twi-ny/mdr)

twi-ny: We’ve known each other for thirty-five years. Back in the late 1980s and early ’90s, I would send you freelance work while you were out on the road. What was that like to be playing in bands and proofreading children’s nonfiction books?

james mastro: I had a family to feed, by any means necessary. And luckily, I was doing two things that I love to do: playing music and reading books. So it was a good marriage.

For us too; you did both exceptionally well. How has the road changed for you since then?

jm: With Ian Hunter, it definitely got a little bit more comfortable. The things I love about it I still love, always trying to take the dirt road as opposed to the highway. Touring can be a drag, but you can also make it incredibly great and fun. We would plan out an agenda every time. It’s worth it to get up an hour or two earlier to take a little trip and go see a museum or something crazy that a friend told you about.

twi-ny: Back in 2011, you very generously played at twi-ny’s tenth anniversary party with Megan Reilly at Fontana’s, which is gone. New York City has had such a turnover of music venues. Are there specific clubs that you miss from the old days? Obviously, I think we’re going to mention Maxwell’s.

jm: CBGBs especially will always hold a place in my heart, just playing there as a teenager and getting to see some of the bands that inspired me to play and getting to play with some of them. So CBs and Maxwell’s, yes; huge holes that were left. I miss Fez under Time Cafe a lot; it was just a really special place. Usually what makes a place special — I was thinking about Maxwell’s this morning and CBs — are the people that ran it. Maxwell’s, I remember, was one of the first clubs that would feed you, no matter who you were; if you were playing there, they would feed you, which for a musician is huge. You may not get paid, but at least you knew you were getting fed. [Maxwell’s owner] Steve Fallon always treated musicians well, Hilly Kristal at CBGB. It starts at the top if you have great people running a space.

twi-ny: Maxwell’s was such a fan-friendly venue. I saw your bands, Robyn Hitchcock, the Mekons, Bob Mould. So you played that tenth anniversary show with Megan, who sings backup on several songs on your new record. What is it about you and Megan that gels so well over the years?

jm: I think she’s one of the finest singers out there right now. I mean, her voice just kills me. It’s kinda like beauty and the beast. I’m not crazy about my voice, so anything that will complement it, like a voice like Megan’s, I love singing with. And just musically, she’ll show me a song of hers and right away I don’t even have to think about it; these parts come out because the way she writes is so dreamy and from a special place. I connect with that so well. The other day she and I just did a rehearsal together, the two of us playing and singing for my show coming up. And I was just thrilled. I’d be happy just doing that too. She’s a very special person musically, and as a person. Just very talented.

twi-ny: On “Three Words” she really just takes it and builds to that finale.

jm: It’s like from the purr of a lion . . . She starts off so subtle and by the end of that song, she takes it to a place I never would’ve thought of going. I don’t think that that song would’ve made it on the record if she didn’t sing on it. I really think she sells it.

twi-ny: You’re very self-deprecating about your voice. On the record you say a couple of things that really lends insight to you. I’ve been listening to you play for decades. I’ve seen you in bands that you lead and bands that you’re the guitarist, the backup vocalist. So to hear you front and center on an entire record and writing songs that sound very intimate and personal, I’m learning things about you that I never knew.

jm: Therapy begins. [laughs]

twi-ny: On “Right Words,” you sing, “The lead singer at the mic wants so badly to be liked.” And on “Three Words,” you claim, “I’m not a singer and I can’t write songs.”

jm: Mm-hmm.

twi-ny: But clearly you can sing and you can write songs.

jm: Mm-hmm.

twi-ny: Humble as ever. What’s it like to finally have a solo album under your own name? Songs you wrote, songs you’re singing lead on. Why now?

jm: Good question, Why now? Well, I’ve really enjoyed being a side guy all these years, and especially when you’re working with someone like Ian Hunter, or Patti or John, anyone I’ve worked with, Megan. So it’s been nice to go in and try to contribute and watch how other people work. It takes a lot of pressure off. Running a band is a pain in the ass; you gotta make sure the drummer doesn’t get arrested —

twi-ny: Is that a Steve Holley problem?

jm: No, no, not at all. [laughs] At that time in my life, it was very nice to just take some of the responsibility off. Even though I started recording these songs before Covid just kind of as fun, with no pressure or no idea of making a record, when Covid hit, that really made me realize, Well, I’ve got time on my hands. Everything is kind of slowed down. Let’s take a look at these songs and see if we have an album here.

twi-ny: So the songs were already written?

jm: Yes, they were. Most of them were either recorded or just about finished. Tony Shanahan had just opened a studio in Hoboken. He called me up and says, Hey, I wanna just check out the room and the gear and see how things go in here. Do you have any songs? We’ll record. I was like, great. So we went in and it was just me, him, and, for the first few, Louie Appel on drums. Three friends just playing some songs.

I’d show them the songs right then and there. There was a great spontaneity and contribution from them. And it was really fun, so we just did that over a course of a few years, on and off, whenever the studio was open.

twi-ny: No pressure.

jm: No pressure.

twi-ny: So now, not only are you front and center, on lead vocals, you’re turning to people like Ian Hunter to participate. Ian hasn’t been performing because he’s got tinnitus?

jm: Tinnitus, yeah.

twi-ny: What was his reaction when you asked him to be on the album?

jm: He did one track, “Right Words, Wrong Song,” and it was perfect. It’s exactly what I wanted. He sounded just like Ian Hunter, you know? And then he finished that and he’s like, What else you got? And so he sat and I locked the door right away.

twi-ny: Oh, so he was with you in Tony’s studio?

jm: Yeah. He came down to do that. So we played him songs. He is like, “Oh, I hear a part on this. Let me try this. This is great.” He’s a very musical guy, a very giving guy. And so for me, having the guy that inspired me to pick up a guitar sing on my record after I worshiped his, it was a nice little payback.

twi-ny: And then you get to direct him in a video. You directed it, you star in it, you’ve got Tammy Faye Starlite, you’ve got Ian, you put on these great wigs. To me it’s a throwback to the early days of MTV. Is that what you were going for?

jm: Definitely. I think it was a mix of early MTV and the Colbert show and The Daily Show. I guess you could say it could be a serious song, but I think sometimes you can get a point across better by being a little irreverent about it.

twi-ny: It looks like it was fun to shoot.

jm: It was a riot. I usually backpedal at things like this. I’ve been asked to be in other videos, and I’m just like, Oh, no, I can’t. So I went into this with a little trepidation, but we had a great time.

twi-ny: How often before have you gotten to act without a guitar in your hand? Has that happened a lot?

jm: You know, since high school.

twi-ny: So you have a little acting bug inside you?

jm: It’s a good career to have to fall back on if music doesn’t work out. It’s a good safety net. Do some acting.

twi-ny: It looks to me like you’re sitting right now in 503 Social.

jm: I am. Yeah.

twi-ny: In 1996, you started Guitar Bar, which revolutionized the music scene in Hoboken. And now you’ve expanded it with 503 Social Club. How did that get going?

jm: Well, all these projects are done for selfish reasons. Guitar Bar was because I just got tired of going into New York to buy strings, and Social Club, it just popped up. A friend of mine told me about this space that became available for rent, and he’s like, You gotta go see it. The last thing I need is something that takes more sleep away from me. But it was just crying to be something. There are so many talented people in this area and there’s a lack of venues, be it for artists or musicians. So I just felt, let’s give it a shot. It’s selfish because I get to see my friends’ artwork up close and see my friends play. So it’s a labor of love, but it’s been really fun, and the feedback’s been great.

twi-ny: You had a big night there with the great and mighty Jon Langford.

jm: He’s a dynamo in every way. I love his artwork, and so he had a great show. I thought he was just gonna come in solo, but he brought half the Mekons with them, Sally [Timms] and some of the others. And they just tore this place apart.

twi-ny: I’m mad that I missed that.

jm: I understand. Well, he’s coming back. So the fact that I can get people like that here . . . it’s very fun and special for me and inspiring.

twi-ny: Speaking of inspiring, you’ve been married for thirty-one years, you’ve got two daughters, and at least one of them is a musician.

jm: Yeah, Lily is in Long Neck, her professional name and band. [Daughter Ruby, a London-based sound designer and filmmaker, edited the “Right Words, Wrong Song” video.]

twi-ny: So is music just in the Mastrodimos blood?

jm: Neither of my parents were musical. Both my brother and I were, and, my kids by default. There were always guitars in the house, music playing.

twi-ny: Is your wife musical?

jm: She is; she doesn’t play, but she sings great. She has no desire to do that. I truly think the kids get their talent from her, not me.

twi-ny: On February 21, you’ll be at Bowery Electric for the album release party. You’ve told us that you’re gonna be playing with Megan; who else will be joining you?

jm: It’s a great band and people. I’m really happy to be playing with Tony, who produced the record and has been with Patti Smith for years.

twi-ny: He’s doing a special Lunar New Year show with Patti at Bowery Ballroom on February 10.

jm: Yes, I will be there.

twi-ny: Awesome. I will be there too. So you’ve got Tony.

jm: He and I have been playing together for thirty-something years. So that’s easy. Dennis Diken from the Smithereens will be on drums. Megan will be singing, playing some guitar, and I got her playing some keyboards. She’s excited about that. The other guitar player, Chris Robertson, he’s in a band now called Elk City; he was in the Psychedelic Furs side project Feed and played with Richard Butler, just great, another friend. If I’m gonna do this, I want it to be fun for me, and if it’s fun for me, hopefully it’ll be for everybody else. These are good mates to be in a room with.

twi-ny: Okay, so one last question, something I’ve always wanted to ask you. You have always worn hats onstage; how many do you have, and how did the hat thing get started?

jm: I always wore boleros or something. I just I love that era. My dad used to wear hats, and I love that era when you look at old photos of Yankee Stadium, and men are in suits and in hats, like the whole crowd is at a baseball game but they’re dressed to the nines. So I just always have loved hats. How many do I have? Not as many as you would think. Not as many as Alejandro Escovedo — talk about a snappy dresser. I aspire to be him when I grow up. He and I are always going out hat shopping when we’re on the road.

twi-ny: Oh, speaking of which, you’re about to go out on the road with him again.

jm: I am. Yeah.

twi-ny: He previously played with the Rant Band when Ian couldn’t tour.

jm: Right. Alejandro’s got a new album coming out too [Echo Dancing], and it’s really a great, interesting record. He’s kind of revisited some of his old songs but totally deconstructed them. I don’t want to say it’s techno, but it’s unique and great. So it’s gonna be a little different from what people might expect from him. It’s kind of what John — he’s worked with John Cale also — it’s what John would do. Nothing was sacred to Cale. We’d go onstage and he’d be like, You know what, let’s change this song (that we had done the night before). But he would just totally revamp it. And I love that. Nothing should be set in stone. So that’s kind of what Alejandro’s done. I’ll be playing with him in that, but I’m also opening the shows acoustically and, depending on what town we’re in, if I have some friends there, I’ll ask them to come up and join me.

So I’m looking forward to it. Traveling with good friends and playing music, what could be better, you know?

twi-ny: You’re just having a ball, right? Just loving life?

jm: It may sound like a cliché, but if I wake up in the morning, it’s a good day. Anything after that is icing on the cake.

[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can follow him on Substack here.]

OUR CLASS

Our Class recounts a 1941 Polish pogrom and its aftermath (photo by Pavel Antonov)

UNDER THE RADAR: OUR CLASS
BAM Fisher, Fishman Space
321 Ashland Pl.
January 12 – February 11, $68-$139
www.bam.org
ourclassplay.com

“I’m going to have a copy of this play put in the cornerstone and the people a thousand years from now’ll know a few simple facts about us — more than the Treaty of Versailles and the Lindbergh flight. See what I mean?” the stage manager says in Thornton Wilder’s 1938 Pulitzer Prize–winning drama Our Town. “So — people a thousand years from now — this is the way we were in the provinces north of New York at the beginning of the twentieth century. — This is the way we were: in our growing up and in our marrying and in our living and in our dying.”

In Igor Golyak‘s potent new revival of Tadeusz Słobodzianek’s 2008 play, Our Class, at BAM Fisher’s Fishman Space through February 11 as part of the Under the Radar festival, the first and second acts start with the cast sitting in a semicircle, holding and reading from scripts, as if copies of the play have been recently unearthed from a cornerstone, revealing a terrifying story that is not as widely known as it should be, and all too relevant to what is happening in the world today.

Inspired by actual events that occurred in the small village of Jedwabne, Poland, Our Class follows a group of ten Polish students, five Jewish, five Catholic, all born in 1919–20, from childhood to young adulthood to old age, although several don’t make it through a 1941 pogrom.

The audience is shown immediately when each character dies; their birth and death dates are written in chalk on a large, multipurpose blackboard. I preferred not to look too closely, instead learning their fate over the course of the narrative, but Golyak and Słobodzianek clearly want you to know who is going to live and who is going to die in their early twenties, in awful ways.

Richard Topol plays Abram Piekarz, the only Polish Jew who got out in time (photo by Pavel Antonov)

Richard Topol portrays Abram Piekarz, who serves as a kind of stage manager. Topol has played similar roles in such important plays about antisemitism as Indecent and Prayer for the French Republic; here he introduces each scene, which are called “lessons,” shuffling props, directly addressing the audience, blowing harp, appearing all over the theater (including in the aisles and on top of the blackboard), and remaining in touch with his fellow classmates after he moves to America and studies to become a rabbi.

At the start of the show, the characters share their hopes and dreams: Dora (Gus Birney) wants to be a movie star, Rysiek (José Espinosa) a pilot, Zocha (Tess Goldwyn) a seamstress, Zygmunt (Elan Zafir) a soldier, Rachelka (Alexandra Silber) a doctor, Jakub Katz (Stephen Ochsner) a teacher. Very few get to achieve their goals.

The first crack in the friendship between the Jews and the Christians occurs in the wake of the death in 1935 of Marshal Józef Piłsudski, who had encouraged minority cultures in the nation. While Jakub is honoring the marshal’s accomplishments, Heniek (Will Manning) mockingly declares, “The marshal’s a prick with a circumcised dick. / His power he loved to abuse. / He married three times and committed his crimes / And sold all us Poles to the Jews!”

Later, the Christian students hold a prayer service in school, which upsets Menachem (Andrey Burkovskiy), Jakub, and Rachelka, who chastises Władek (Ilia Volok) for throwing rocks at Jakub’s sister.

And then, during a party for the opening of a local cinema — made possible by the Soviet occupation of Poland — Rysiek shouts, “Death to the Commie-Jew Conspiracy. Long live Poland!” He leaves, but when a few of the Christians insist on dancing with Jews, it becomes increasingly uncomfortable.

It’s not long before blood is spilled and people are being brutally murdered.

“Classmates are like family. Better than family,” Zygmunt proclaims.

What happened was no way to treat family.

During the pandemic, Golyak and Massachusetts-based Arlekin Players Theatre broke out of the pack with innovative, interactive livestreamed productions, followed by The Orchard, a hybrid reimagining of The Cherry Orchard with Jessica Hecht and Mikhail Baryshnikov.

Golyak (chekhovOS /an experimental game/, Witness) directs with a frenetic energy that is intoxicating; your eyes are always searching for the unusual, the unexpected. In Our Class, adapted by Norman Allen from a literal translation by Catherine Grovesnor, you won’t find characters just sitting and talking; there is constant motion and action throughout the space. Text is added to the blackboard. Victims are represented by balloons on which the actors draw faces. Two figures watch from overhead. Ladders are dragged across the set, used for multiple purposes. A soccer ball that previously brought the classmates together on their team is turned into a weapon.

Cameras and monitors are pushed onstage, projecting live recordings on the screen and the blackboard, then rolled back to the wings, where actors wait and watch intently when they’re not in the scene. At times there is too much happening all at once, complicated by anachronistic video usage, although it also firmly reminds us that this could happen again, as evidenced by the current rise of antisemitism around the world, particularly following Hamas’s terrorist attack on Israel on October 7.

At three hours (with one intermission), the play is long, but any shorter and its lessons might be lost, and in any case, Golyak never lets it slow down. (Prayer for the French Republic is also three hours but doesn’t feel like it.)

Ten classmates learn more than they ever bargained for in New York premiere of Tadeusz Słobodzianek play (photo by Pavel Antonov)

The cast and crew, who hail from Russia, Ukraine, Poland, Israel, Germany, and the US, are superb. The set is by Jan Pappelbaum of the Schaubühne, with realistic сostumes by Sasha Ageeva, stark lighting by Adam Silverman, original music by Anna Drubich, immersive sound by Ben Williams, choreography by Or Schraiber, and projections by Eric Dunlap.

Topol (King of the Jews, The Normal Heart) is exceptional as Abram, the only one who got out of Poland before the 1941 pogrom; he imbues Abram — who in many ways is a stand-in for America, which entered WWII only when Pearl Harbor was attacked — with a soft, affectionate tenderness. Both Topol and Abram are genuine mensches.

Birney (The Sign in Sidney Brustein’s Window, The Rose Tattoo) will break your heart over and over again as Dora, Espinosa (Take Me Out, Fuente Ovejuna) will infuriate you as the bigoted Rysiek, Silber (Fiddler on the Roof, Hello Again) will shock and annoy you as Rachelka, Goldwyn, in her off-Broadway debut, will charm you as Zocha, and Volok (Gemini Man, The Gaaga) will utterly confound you as Władek. Burkovskiy (Solar Line, The Flight), Zafir (Arcadia, Everybody), Manning (Breitwisch Farm, Just Tell No One), and Ochsner (The Maxims of Panteley Karmanov, Everything’s Fine) round out the excellent ensemble.

Perhaps the best thing about Our Class is that it doesn’t preach at the audience; it has a message and a point of view but is not teaching us about good and evil.

In Our Town, Emily asks the stage manager, “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? — every, every minute?”

“No,” the stage manager replies.

And that’s a shame, because no one should have to go through such horrors again.

[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can find his personal essay on Our Class here.]

twi-ny talk: MAI KHÔI / BAD ACTIVIST

Mai Khôi returns February 1 to Joe’s Pub with the final iteration of Bad Activist (photo by Nate Guidry)

BAD ACTIVIST
Joe’s Pub
425 Lafayette St.
Thursday, February 1, $15-$25 (plus two-drink or one-food-item minimum), 7:00
publictheater.org
mai-khoi.com

Back in September, I attended a friend’s wedding in rural Pennsylvania. Sitting at our table was a woman who was introduced to us as Mai Khôi, the Lady Gaga of Vietnam. We discovered later in the evening why, when, in full makeup and costume, she performed a song written especially for the occasion. The groom, Alex Lough, is an experimental musician and teacher, and the bride, Hanah Davenport, is a singer-songwriter and urban planner; at one point the party broke out into a Greenwich Village–style happening with a series of avant-garde presentations.

Born Đỗ Nguyễn Mai Khôi in 1983 in Cam Ranh, Vietnam, Mai Khôi was an award-winning pop star whose activism infuriated the government as she advocated for freedom of expression, LGBTQ and women’s rights, and the environment and against censorship, domestic violence, and Donald Trump. She also got into trouble by announcing that she did not want to have children.

She’s been playing music since she was six, in her father’s wedding band and later in clubs. She released her first album in 2004, and ten more solo records followed between 2008 and 2018; as her fame and fortune exploded, so did her concern for the welfare of the Vietnamese people. She challenged the police and the government, leading her to have to play secret shows for her fans. Shortly after the release of the 2019 documentary Mai Khôi and the Dissidents, which screened at the Human Rights Watch Film Festival, she fled to America; she currently lives in Pittsburgh with her personal and professional partner, Mark Micchelli.

“Even though Mai Khôi primarily sings in Vietnamese, you can always understand the intention she’s trying to convey,” Lough, who is producing her upcoming album, explained to me. “Her band has a refreshing approach to protest music, like we haven’t heard since Rage Against the Machine. She has an incredible emotional range, from delicate sadness and vulnerability to screaming and extended vocal techniques. She is also able to freely move between her role as the frontwoman to blending in with everyone; it’s rare to see that kind of versatility in a vocalist with such a commanding stage presence.” The record will feature such tracks as “We Never Know,” “Innocent Deer,” and “The Overwhelming Feeling that We’re Already Dead.”

On February 1, she will return to Joe’s Pub with the biographical multimedia Bad Activist, which details her life and career through music, photographs, video, archival footage, and more. Directed by Cynthia Croot, the seventy-five-minute show features such songs as “Reeducation Camp,” “Just Be Patient,” and “Bitches Get Things Done,” with Mai Khôi joined by Alec Zander Redd on saxophones, Eli Namay on bass, PJ Roduta on drums, and music director Micchelli on keyboards, playing a mix of experimental jazz rock, folk, and deliberately cheesy pop; Aaron Henderson is the projection designer. Although the work has been performed and workshopped over the last four years at small venues and universities, this iteration is the debut of the full, finished production.

I recently spoke with Mai Khôi and Micchelli over Zoom, discussing music, repressive governments, cooking, and why she considers herself a bad activist.

twi-ny: The three of us were at the same table at Alex and Hanah’s wedding. How did you first meet Alex?

Mark Micchelli: Alex and I met in September of 2016; we were in the same cohort at the University of California, Irvine, where Alex finished his PhD and where I did my master’s. I moved out east, if you can call Pittsburgh east, first in 2019, and then he moved to South Jersey in 2020. And so we’ve been musical collaborators since 2016 and been around the world. We’ve done gigs throughout California and in Pennsylvania, Florida, Ohio, New Hampshire, and South Korea.

Mai Khôi: In 2020, I got a fellowship at the University of Pittsburgh and I was invited to work with Mark. We began with my project Bad Activist.

mm: I had actually gotten an email from the University of Pittsburgh that said there’s this Vietnamese singer-songwriter who’s looking for a pianist who knows something about jazz and Southeast Asian traditional music. And I said, Well, no one’s qualified for that job, so I may as well try. When I was told that I’d have to learn the music in three weeks, I knew I didn’t have time to learn it in that amount of time. I drafted an email to basically politely decline and say, find another pianist. And then I thought I should actually look up what this person’s music actually sounds like. And now we own a house together.

twi-ny: When was the last time you were in Vietnam to either see family members or play a secret show?

mk: Oh, when I moved to the US at the end of 2019. I have not been able to come back to Vietnam since.

twi-ny: What will happen if you try to go back? Would they arrest you?

mk: Yes, they could arrest me. They could detain me. That’s what happened with an activist friend of mine. So, yeah, it’s still dangerous for me to go back, so I’ve chosen not to. My friend had the same situation, like me. She left Vietnam for two years, and then when her mother got sick, she wanted to come home, but the police arrested her, and she is now in jail. They sentenced her to three years.

twi-ny: What family do you have in Vietnam?

mk: My mother, my father. And I have one brother who lives with them.

twi-ny: If they left the country, say, to visit you here, would they be allowed back in?

mk: They don’t have any plans to leave Vietnam.

twi-ny: But if they did, would the government let them return?

mk: If the police want to arrest you, they can arrest you any time. But I think my family will be safe because they’re not involved in activism at all. They did try to convince me to not get involved. From the beginning, the police came and investigated them. After many visits to my parents’ house, they realized my parents have nothing to do with activism, so they leave them alone.

twi-ny: Are you in contact with them either over the phone or via social media? I know you’ve accused Facebook of being in bed with the Vietnam government.

mk: My parents still use Facebook; that is the main thing we use to see each other every day. Of course, I know the police always follow my Instagram and my Facebook and try to hack into them. But it’s okay. I still know how to use Facebook to spread my word and deal with the situation. Someone like my parents or other friends that are not activists, they will not comment on any sensitive things I post on Facebook. They don’t like some of the posts about politics anyway.

twi-ny: You’ve said, “No one can stop me.” Has the government come to you and said, If you take back some of the things you’ve said, we’ll leave you alone?

mk: They did try that in 2016 [when I was applying to run for the National Assembly]. They sent a person to talk to me to give me that deal. Like if you withdraw your nomination campaign, the system will make you even more famous. That was the deal, but I didn’t take it.

I refuse to talk with them about those kinds of things. When the government detained me a couple of years after, they asked me some questions and I just gave them information that’s already public.

twi-ny: What are some of the main issues you are rallying against, in Vietnam and America?

mk: You will see this when you come to see Bad Activist. I am focusing on freedom of expression. And recently, I’m doing some advocacy work for climate activists. Because I’m here, it’s easy to lobby Congress and the State Department, to work with the US government. [ed. note: Mai Khôi met with members of Congress last summer, before President Biden traveled to Vietnam.]

Also, I was surprised by the brutality of the police here, so I want to fight against that. It’s very similar with the police in Vietnam. In New York, when the Black Lives Matter movement happened, I went to the protest every week. I really feel the brutality of the police everywhere is just the same.

twi-ny: On February 1, you’ll be at Joe’s Pub, where you performed two earlier versions of Bad Activist in 2021–22. What do you think of the venue?

mm: They treat you super well. They know how to work with performers.

mk: In 2020, they started to work with the SHIM:NYC team for artists like me, to give us a chance to perform in an iconic venue in New York like that. [ed. note: SHIM:NYC is “a creative and professional residency and mentorship program for international musicians who are persecuted or censored for their work; are threatened on the basis of their political or religious affiliations, ethnicity, sexual orientation, or gender identity; have been forcibly displaced; need a respite from dangerous situations; or are from countries experiencing active, violent conflict.”]

mm: We do have City of Asylum in Pittsburgh, which does something similar.

twi-ny: What makes you a bad activist?

mk: There’s some moments that I realized maybe I’m a bad activist because I am first an artist, but because I was born in my country, a country that’s not safe for artists, I decided to become an activist to protect my right to be an artist. So that’s why I don’t have good training to become a good activist. Sometimes I upset people. And sometimes I organize some things that aren’t . . . I just think sometimes I feel I’m a bad activist.

mm: I’ve had a lot of conversations with Khôi about this, and I feel like everyone who sees the show has the opposite feeling of Khôi about her and her activism, but everything she says is genuine. And I think the broader point is that despite her activism and since she has fled to the States, the situation in Vietnam has only been getting worse. And so I think reflecting on that failure is something that the show tries to come to terms with and talk about and that’s why the name is framed that way.

mk: Yes. So the point is, whether you’re bad or you’re good, you at least try to be an activist, to contribute something.

Mai Khôi has been playing music since she was six years old (photo courtesy Mai Khôi)

twi-ny: Activism these days seems to be more dangerous than ever.

mk: I don’t know. I just do things that I feel are the right thing to do and I do them. I always believe that doing the right thing will lead you to something good, even when you have to pay a price for doing it.

twi-ny: What’s next after Bad Activist?

mk: We have some ideas for a new project. It will be based on the activism and culture that I carry from Vietnam to here.

twi-ny: What do you do when you’re not making music or fighting the power?

mk: I have a hobby: cooking.

mm: Khôi is as good a chef as she is a vocalist, which is really unfair.

twi-ny: What are your favorite dishes to make?

mk: Bún bò huế (spicy beef and pork noodle soup), cá kho (caramelized and braised fish), and mì quảng (Quảng noodles).

twi-ny: One final question: Will we ever hear the song you wrote for Alex and Hanah again? And does it have a name?

mk: “I Hear the River Calling.” I don’t perform that song. It was a gift to them. But it might go on an album in the future.

[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can follow him on Substack here.]

HOPE BOYKIN WANTS YOU TO HAVE THE BEST DAY EVER

Hope Boykin makes her Joyce debut with States of Hope (photo courtesy HopeBoykinDance)

STATES OF HOPE
The Joyce Theater
175 Eighth Ave. at 19th St.
October 17-22 (Curtain Chat October 18), $52-$72
212-691-9740
www.joyce.org
www.hopeboykindance.com

“You have the best day ever,” Hope Boykin told me at the end of our lively Zoom conversation a few weeks ago. And I set out to do just that, as it’s impossible not to be affected by her infectious positivity, encased in a warming glow.

A self-described educator, creator, mover, and motivator who “firmly believes there are no limits,” the Durham-born, New York–based Boykin began dancing when she was four and went on to become an original member of Dwight Rhoden and Desmond Richardson’s Complexions, performed and choreographed with Joan Myers Brown’s Philadanco!, then spent twenty years with Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater, first under Judith Jamison, then Robert Battle. A two-time Bessie winner and Emmy nominee, Boykin was busy during the pandemic lockdown, performing the “This Little Light of Mine” excerpt from Matthew Rushing’s 2014 Odetta for the December 2020 Ailey Forward Virtual Season, making several dance films, collaborating with BalletX and others, and preparing October 2021’s . . . an evening of HOPE, a deeply personal hybrid program at the 92nd St. Y that investigated Boykin’s truth and her unique movement language.

Next up for Boykin is another intimate presentation, States of Hope, running October 17–22 at the Joyce. Boykin wrote, directed, and choreographed what she calls her “dance memoir,” which features an original score by jazz percussionist Ali Jackson, lighting and set design by Al Crawford, and costumes by Boykin and Corin Wright. The work, in which she explores different parts of herself, will be performed by Boykin as the Narrator, Davon Rashawn Farmer as the Convinced, Jessica Amber Pinkett as the Determined, Lauren Rothert as the Conformist, Bahiyah Hibah Sayyed or Nina Gumbs as the Daughter of Job, Fana Minea Tesfagiorgis or Amina Lydia Vargas as the Cynical, Martina Viadana as the Angry, and Terri Ayanna Wright as the Worried.

On a Wednesday morning, Boykin, evocatively gesticulating with her hands and smiling and laughing often, discussed transitioning from dancer to choreographer, making dance films, seeing Purlie Victorious on Broadway, avoiding ditches, and seeking radical love in this wide-ranging twi-ny talk.

twi-ny: You are in rehearsals for your Joyce show. Where are you right now?

hope boykin: I’m at the 92nd Street Y. I got here early because I was a fellow for the Center for Ballet and the Arts [at NYU] for 2022–23, and then they extended it through the academic year, then they extended it through the summer, but they have new fellows now. And so I will never take an office space and stairs down to the studio for granted again.

Now that I’m a New Yorker, I can say I was schlepping all of the cameras and the computers and the music, and so I found a corner here in the newly renovated Arnhold Dance Center. I give everybody a warmup at 10:15 before we get started. So I’m here early.

twi-ny: I’ve previously interviewed Matthew Rushing and Jamar Roberts, who are two other longtime Alvin Ailey dancers who became choreographers for Ailey while they were still dancing with the company. When you started at Ailey, did you anticipate becoming a choreographer in the way you have?

hb: I don’t think anything was in the way that I had; I definitely didn’t have that thought. I was always making work because at Philadanco!, Joan Myers Brown put into practice a summer event called Danco on Danco!, and so she allowed dancers in the company to choreograph on other dancers in the company, then in the second company, and there was also an evening that would showcase D/2, the second company. The concert was in a small theater. I mean, she gave us tech time and rehearsal so we could see our work on a stage.

That also happened at Ailey once I got there, but I feel like I was able to really create work there. And then I was also an adjunct professor and did choreography at University of the Arts. And so I was choreographing and then seeing things on stages there. But never would I have thought that I would wake up in the morning and say, This is what I do for a living. I mean, it’s a little bit wild. And then in this stage now, having the opportunity to do things under my own name — having commissions is incredible.

It’s not just satisfying because you’re able to travel, but you’re able to meet people and you’re challenged with different environments, you’re challenged with different artists, different genres of dance, and so that’s wonderful. But having your name on it, being responsible to make sure that everyone’s paid on time, having a physical therapy schedule, will that schedule work with the schedule that I made, it’s a different animal.

twi-ny: In some cases you’re choreographing on friends and colleagues you’ve worked with for years, and in other cases you’re working with completely new teams you’re not as familiar with. Is one harder than the other?

hb: That does get a little bit difficult.

twi-ny: You have to boss friends around sometimes.

hb: Well, yeah. You just have to remind them what you want and that as much as they know you and want the best for you, you may not have the answer for why you’re doing something right away, but they have to trust you. And they do. They ultimately do.

Sometimes, it’s funny; you still have to watch your words when they’re people who you love. I love to talk about the found family. And when you have people who are committed to you and they want the best for you, and they maybe think that their opinion’s going to help . . . what really helps above all is their support, not having to pretend or perform when you’re in front of people who don’t know you. You have to show up. You have to do the smiling thing. I mean, we always have to watch our words, especially now. I’m super conscious of how I speak to other artists, but I feel like I’ve always been conscious of that because of things I didn’t like. So I wanted to be one of those people who could tell you the truth and tell you no and tell you I don’t like that, let’s fix it.

twi-ny: Right. Tell them, “I still love you.”

hb: Exactly, “I still love you.” And so I feel that it’s easier for me. We were away during our technical residency in the Catskills, and I just had a yucky morning, and three of the women who I knew I could cry in front of and that they would pray with me did. We started late that day. I was weeping. I said, “I need some help.” They put their arms around me in a group, and then the day got started after that. It was just heavy times. But when you have people who’ve known you, they can also pick up some of the slack when you don’t feel a hundred percent; they fill in the rest.

twi-ny: In your PBS First Twenty episode Beauty Size & Color, you talk about “renegotiating and forcing a change of narrative,” which relates to something that comes up a lot in your work. You talk about finding your own path, that your path is different from someone else’s path. Are we on the right path as a society?

hb: Yes. It’s so interesting. Lately, especially because I’ve been applying for grants — I don’t mean foundational grants, I mean the creative grants — you are competing against hundreds of applications. You’re lucky if someone recognizes your name; maybe recognizing your name will move you forward, but maybe it also won’t. They’re really just trying to look at the topic. And if my topic of what I want to make is not radical enough, if it is not wild enough, if it is not socially piercing enough, if I’m not saying the words that people want to hear from a huge activist, I mean, I’m not saying that I’m not. I’m just saying if those words aren’t the words people want to hear, then it feels like I’m not in those rooms.

So I want to be clear about that. But it feels like you’re not chosen. And I think that love is the most radical thing we should work on. If we were radical with our love, we wouldn’t watch someone fall and then just look at them. We would pick them up. If we were more radical with our love, we would have compassion for those who didn’t have homes. If we were more radical with our love, we would not necessarily need to walk into a school with some sort of weapon. I’m going to tell you when it changed for me: There was a woman who looked fine. She did not look homeless. She was a young white woman, and she was walking in my neighborhood — I live in Harlem, but it’s gentrified. And then she pulled down her pants to take a wee.

And I said to myself, Excuse me, what are you doing? I didn’t judge; she looked perfectly fine. But at some point she was not able to walk into a place and say, May I use the bathroom?

twi-ny: Or someone said no.

hb: Or someone said no. I checked myself in the moment; instead of me saying, How dare you! I should have said, How could I help you? But please understand. I did not think that first; I thought that third or fourth after all of the other things. But if I were more radical with my love, maybe I would’ve said to her, How can I help you? Is there something I could do? I don’t know what her situation was.

twi-ny: Exactly. You don’t know.

hb: And so I want to speak about this love and trying to understand why I felt the lack and why I felt like I was in constant competition with things that I could not control. There are a lot of things I could control. So once again, let me be clear. I’m not trying to be a hypocrite, but if I’m in competition with you simply because you’re bald — I’m usually bald.

twi-ny: I know, I know.

hb: It’s a little bit long today.

twi-ny: Yeah, mine too. Mine too.

hb: But if that’s the case, I’m in the wrong business. I love to go into new studios and tell people, if it were about being tall and blond with a bun, I would not have been working for over twenty years. But I did. Which means that there is room for me; which means that there’s room for you. Now, it doesn’t feel like a lot of room at the time, but if I can make room, if my path is this wild and then I am able to do this, then that means someone else can come in and then they can, and then we can, and then they can. And then we can.

Even on Broadway right now. I went to see Purlie Victorious.

twi-ny: I saw it last night. Unbelievable.

hb: Unbelievable. I’m sure that they thought that the musical, Purlie, was going to be a better moneymaker. What’s the reasoning behind us not seeing that? Yes, the musical, yay, we’re not cutting it. Yay. We love a musical, song and dance. But that piece of art. That was written, what? More than sixty years ago?

twi-ny: Yes. And it felt like it could have been written yesterday. The friend I went with, she saw the musical with Cleavon Little and Patti Jo. She even brought her program from 1972, and she asked, Why is this a musical? Now that she’s seen the play, it’s like, wow.

hb: Yeah, I’m friends with [Purlie Victorious star] Leslie Odom Jr. And he was like, “You think Ms. Jamison wants to come?” I said, “Yeah.” So I called her and she said, “You mean Purlie? I said, No, I mean Purlie Victorious. She said, “Purlie.” I said, “No, Judy. The prequel.”

twi-ny: And to be that funny sixty years ago about this topic. We laughed our heads off while facing this truth.

hb: It’s unbelievable. All of that to say there is a radicalness that can change our view on what truth is. Do you know what I mean? And I’m not thinking in this log line; I call it my log line. It doesn’t really explain the work, but I say in this evening-length, fully scripted new dance theater work. It’s not new because I’m making something no one has ever seen. It’s new for me. It’s a new way for me to express myself. It’s a new way for me to make work that I feel deserves to be spoken about just because it’s my experience. And once again, here I am trying to broaden a path that I feel like other people just need to — I don’t want them to walk the way that I walk. I just want them to feel they’re given the ability to actually walk forward and not feel stunted.

twi-ny: Kara Young, who plays Lutiebelle Gussie Mae Jenkins [in Purlie Victorious], she’s like a dancer at times; she speaks volumes with her body even when not saying anything.

hb: She’s studied and trained in all the disciplines because you can’t move like that, I’m sure, without that agility and understanding. [ed. note: Young studied at the New York Conservatory for Dramatic Arts.] It’s not just being flexible; it’s about awareness. I don’t know all of her story, but I could say I can’t imagine that she didn’t. But I do know that Leslie studied at Danco. That’s where I met him when he was fifteen or sixteen years old. So I know he’s a mover. And his agility — that scene where he kept running back to the window, oh my God. Oh my. The timing. I was like, look at my friend. But anyway.

[ed. note: . . . an evening of HOPE opened with Deidre Rogan dancing to Odom’s rendition of “Ave Maria.”]

twi-ny: One of the things you say is your journey is yours, and your journey is yours. We’re not all on the same journey, even if we’re spending an hour and a half or two hours together in a safe space. Your recent work, first with . . . an evening of HOPE, a beautiful and fascinating thing to experience, and now with States of Hope, is very personal. It can’t get much more personal. You’ve taken this other meaning of your name — the work is very much about moving forward, evolving; hope is an essential theme. And now you’re baring your soul out there. Every choreographer and dancer puts themselves into it, but you’re putting Hope Boykin into it. Is that difficult to do?

hb: It is and it isn’t. Sometimes people are like, “Oh, it must be very healing.” And I was actually having to hear it every day. Getting it out was the part that was the healing part’ hearing other people voice these things has become something a little bit different. Matthew Rushing came to Bryant Park to see me perform a solo. The year before I was rained out; everyone was able to perform except for me. It started raining more. So then the next year, I was just going to do the same work, but no one was available. So I ended up dancing it; I did a recorded voiceover, and then I performed. He was like, “Wow, you really laid it out there. You all right?”

Because not only was it my voice, but you were watching me and hearing my voice. That was sort of the turning point for me. I had taken this memoir writing class during the pandemic here at the 92nd St. Y. And that was also another way that I understood that I could tell my story differently, that I could use prose as well as those poetic sounds. I call them my poetic moments. But I could speak. And I said, Well, what if I turned this around? I was acquainted with Mahogany L. Browne, and I was telling her I wanted to work on this project. And she was like, “Oh, sure, I can help you.” And so she’s called herself my script midwife, and she basically said, “Give me your text.” And she said, amongst other exercises and examinations, “How do you feel about this from this person’s perspective? Write this from your mother’s perspective.”

So then she is teaching me how to take a situation and bring it in together so that these perspectives can have a conversation. Then we named the people, and then the people got ideas. And then instead of them actually having names —because at first I thought they might have names; I just thought that we would hear their characteristic in their name. And she’s like, “Are you sure?” I’m like, “Yeah, I think this is the best way.” And then all of a sudden I was able to have one of them speak to the other. But that’s exactly what’s going on in my mind. Should I buy that purse? It’s pretty expensive. Well, did you pay the rent? Yes, I paid the rent. That’s the logical person. Well, did you buy groceries? Yeah, I bought groceries, dah, dah, dah. But you have that bag. You have another bag that looks just like that bag. So all of these ideas are floating around. Well, should you get it? Because if you just save that money, maybe you could put that money away. That’s the worry. You know what I mean? Maybe you could put that money someplace else. And then the Angry says, of course I buy the bag. I’m worth it. I want to buy it. And so all of these ideas — I’m not going to say people, but these states, these parts, these slivers of me are living together.

twi-ny: You’re talking about the Determined, the Conformist, the Cynical, the Convinced, the Angry, the Daughter of Job, and the Worried.

hb: And the Worried. Yes.

twi-ny: All parts of you and parts of other people in your life.

hb: Yes. Parts of me hearing other people. There are parts of me, but they also represent experiences that I’ve had. Matthew, when he was creating Odetta, he told the whole cast, “The turning point for me being able to make this piece was realizing that all of the people and all of my influences were inside of me, that they’re all an ingredient. And so there’s no point in trying to pretend that this doesn’t have some Ailey in it. It doesn’t have some Judy in it. It doesn’t have some [Ulysses] Dove.”

[ed. note: Boykin performed the “This Little Light of Mine” excerpt from Odetta for the December 2020 Ailey Forward Virtual Season.]

He said, “I’d be ridiculous to think that all of those influences weren’t coming out of me.” Because we’re always trying to do something brand new, right? But there’s nothing new under the sun. So we have to just know that all of those people are a part of me. So when my mother makes a statement to me, I make that statement to another person, who’s younger, because I learned that lesson. If I fall in the ditch — I’m from North Carolina; we had ditches. So if I fall in the ditch —

twi-ny: We have potholes here.

hb: Right? But if I can tell someone, “Hey, there’s a ditch about three feet from there, just go around it,” and they don’t listen, then they’re like, “Hope told me about that ditch.” It won’t be, “I didn’t know there was a ditch there.” And so all of those people have played a part of who those characters turn out to be and will be. It’s interesting, and it’s challenging, but I want to do it. I feel it’s important.

twi-ny: I’m looking at the seven characters, and I guess you’re the eighth.

hb: Oh, yeah.

twi-ny: All of us fit into every one of those characters. I was even thinking about the Book of Job the other day. So, in choosing the dancers, did you have ideas for who you wanted for each part? Did you have auditions, or did you say, Oh, I already know who’s going to be doing this and who’s doing that?

hb: There were a few people that I knew I wanted. There was all dance first. There were people who I know dance and then act; one of the dancers is on Broadway right now. Some of them have been in movies and television, but I’ve met most everyone through my relationship with the Ailey organization. Two of them are former students of mine from USC. So everything is dance first. And I let people know that we have to read and we have to act. And I let them know that I’ll help you do that. Not because I can, because I know people who can.

twi-ny: Well, that’s key.

hb: Yes, it’s key. Yes. And so a couple of the dancers had never read before. So I said, I want you to read this. And then I would say, “No, try reading it with this tone; here’s the back story for that person. Read it like this.” And then once the nerves are gone, and once they understood, all of a sudden the person who can physicalize pain without speaking can now speak pain and physicalize it at the same time, in my opinion, is probably going to be better than the person who has to learn to move. Because we do. We go onstage hungry, experiencing loss. I’ve danced directly after my father’s funeral. There’s just this thing. We are just experiencing things, but we don’t get to say it. So imagine if I can scream, “I’m still angry! I’m still angry!”

Hope Boykin will get personal in States of Hope at the Joyce (photo courtesy HopeBoykinDance)

Watching them do that is just amazing. The sweetness of Daughter of Job says, “Well, are you sure this is the way you want to move?” And then Cynical says, “Well, I don’t know.” So it wasn’t an audition per se, but some of them I needed to let them know, “I do need you to read this. I need to understand.” But I think it’s perfectly cast. I think there are challenges to everyone’s level. Another friend of mine said to me, “You realize that actors ask why. And dancers say okay.” So now I have to have these dancers ask me why all the time. And I’m like, “Can you just try it?”

twi-ny: At the Joyce, of all places. This is the big time for them, for all of you.

hb: It’s a big time for me. And I am excited and nervous, but it’s successful already because of the people in the room. It’s successful because they’ve already not just agreed but taken on the weight of this work in a way that is just — I’m just really blessed.

twi-ny: It’s got to be so gratifying for you.

hb: Yes.

twi-ny: You have said, “I’ve waited, sometimes patiently, for my turn, permission to be given. Who have I been waiting on and why? I can’t wait anymore.” What’s the next, as you call it, “hope thing” after the Joyce?

hb: I have some projects that are simmering, and they’re the ones that you can’t forget about, the ones you don’t need to write down, the ones that you are, like, Oh, I can see this happening.

You mentioned Beauty Size & Color. Three of the four cameras that were used to film that I own, the microphones are mine, the lights are mine. I mean, of course I had support from the spaces that we were in, but there’s something about being behind the camera that is so thrilling, because as a person who moves bodies in space, I see dance on film in a way that is scripted, much like what I’m working on right now with States of Hope.

So that’s just me dropping a little bit of some simmering plans, a scripted dance film that is moving while speaking. It’s not just moving instead of the word, but they’re working in tandem, which is why this States of Hope process feels difficult because everyone has to learn their lines, then you block them in the space. Or we work with choreography in the morning, and then I say, Oh, we’re going to do this choreography with this scene. And at first it’s like, Well, I can’t say that and do that. And then it’s like, Oh, okay, maybe I could say that and do that. Well, you know what? Then all of a sudden they’re literally moving and speaking at the same time. So the layers upon layers upon layers of trying to add to this presentation is what the challenge has been. But I’m happy right now. I don’t think it’ll be complete. I don’t think it’ll be finished by October 17. I think that I will still have to add and see things that I was like, Oh, I should have done that. But I have time.

twi-ny: So you’re still a little worried, who is one of the characters, and you’re happy, who is not. The happy person is not one of the people. But you’re not angry either.

hb: I’m not angry. [laughs] No, I’m not angry.

[Mark Rifkin, who wants you to have the best day ever, is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can follow him on Substack here.]

WE DON’T DO IT ALONE: LISA WEINERT AND NARRATIVE HEALING

Lisa Weinert laughs during conversation with Carla Zanoni at Narrative Healing book launch (photo by Anita Ng Photography)

LISA WEINERT CONVERSATION AND BOOK SIGNING
Shakespeare & Co
2020 Broadway between Sixty-Ninth & Seventieth Sts.
Thursday, September 28, free with advance RSVP, 6:00
shakeandco.com
www.narrativehealing.com
www.lisaweinert.com

Lisa Weinert knows how to bring people together.

A speaker, teacher, and author born and raised on the Upper West Side, Weinert attended Ethical Culture Fieldston, among other schools, and graduated from Barnard with an English degree. She worked in corporate book publishing before starting Narrative Healing, a wide-ranging program that uses storytelling “to heal and transform lives.”

Everywhere she goes, Weinert, who exudes a natural warmth and charm, builds communities of friends and colleagues, who mingle and then form bonds and relationships of their own. For example, it was through Weinert that I met Make Conscious founder Jessica Kung, who I wrote about in my most recent Substack post.

Weinert’s program consists of lectures, classes, workshops, and now a book, Narrative Healing: Awaken the Power of Your Story (Hachette Go, July 2023, $30), arranged around six cycles: Awaken, Listen, Express, Inspire, Connect, Grow. “In my earliest memory of writing, I am nestled under my covers, in a kind of bedsheet cocoon. I am seven, and I am spilling my guts out. I am sending an SOS into the universe,” Weinert writes in the introduction. “When I am writing, I feel heard and seen. My journal is a portal to something larger than myself contained within me, and I am hooked.”

Weinert shares personal stories from her life, along with those from more than two dozen contributors, in such chapters as “The Best Protection Is No Protection,” “Quiet Wildness,” “Mindful Eavesdropping,” “How You Do Anything Is How You Do Everything,” “Talk to Animals and Plants,” and “The Message That’s Needed Most.”

You can become part of Weinert’s ever-growing community on September 28 at 6:00, when she will be at Shakespeare & Co for a book signing and conversation with Knopf VP and executive editor Jenny Jackson, author of the novel Pineapple Street. [ed. note: Jackson can no longer attend the event; in her stead, writer, poet, and journalist Carla Zanoni will join Weinert.] From October 13 to 15, Lisa will be joining Jamia Wilson, Kim Thai, and Dr. Lewis Mehl-Madrona for a three-day retreat, “Listen to Your Ancestors: Bring Their Voices to the Page,” at the Omega Institute in Rhinebeck. And on October 17 at 6:00, she will take part in a virtual conversation with gun violence survivor and Everytown Survivor Network director Keenon James, hosted by Brooklyn-based writer Susan McPherson, author of The Lost Art of Connecting.

Lisa, who lives in Chelsea with her husband, photographer and educator Barry Sutton, and their ridiculously adorable Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Ocean, recently spoke with me over Zoom, discussing storytelling and trauma, writing by hand on unruled paper, the mind-body connection, getting married in Central Park during Covid, and more.

twi-ny: You’ve been writing since you were seven years old. Do you still have any of those old notebooks and journals?

lisa weinert: I don’t have writing from when I was seven, but I do from when I was twelve, and I pretty much have every single journal since then.

twi-ny: Do you ever look back at them? And if you do, what’s the feeling to see your younger self doing what your older self is eventually going to do?

Lisa Weinert started writing when she was seven years old and has never stopped (photo courtesy Lisa Weinert)

lw: That’s such a sweet question. I referred to them quite a bit when I was writing the book. I went through a process . . . I had them in different places and I laid them all out and I actually organized them chronologically and labeled them. I think it did a tremendous amount to provide them with so much care and order.

I read through them thinking I was going to find some kind of gem or aha moment. But there weren’t so many surprises, I think at this point I’m very well acquainted with my younger selves; they’re like very good friends. So it was more like hanging out with some buddies.

A childhood friend once said to me, “You’re just going to be one of those people that you’re going to wake up in your forties and have so many unpublished books that are just in boxes because it’s just writing all the time.” And I think that’s a little bit the case. In rereading, I find there’s a lot of stuff where I’m like, Oh, I could probably do something with that now.

But I can say about my earlier journals, I found in a number of places, I would circle something with an arrow and it would say, “Don’t forget this” or “Read this,” and I had such a sense that I was going to read it again.

twi-ny: I still have my fourth-grade notebook. In it is a story I wrote called “If I Were a Pencil.” When I look back at it, I’m like, okay, first of all, there I am using the conditional subjunctive properly at ten. And I’m also writing about a pencil and what do I do? I become a managing editor for children’s books, using a pencil to write and to correct authors’ grammar and punctuation, or at least used to before the pandemic and working electronically from home.

lw: So beautiful. And in fourth grade!

twi-ny: Another thing I noticed in looking back at my writing was my handwriting. Did you get any feel for your handwriting?

lw: It’s very important to me to write with unlined paper. I find it very constraining, like somebody’s telling me what to do with lines. I’ve always written with big black artist notebooks and I like to write oftentimes in different shapes and do big circles or squares and end up drawing. So there’s a really dynamic quality oftentimes.

I think my handwriting now is practically illegible. Almost every morning I write by hand for a period of time. And when I’m working on something, my first draft is always by hand and then I type it into the computer. A lot of it is pretty illegible. I trust that the parts that are meant to be read will be legible.

twi-ny: That’s a good point. I scribble on lined paper and have trouble staying within the lines.

lw: I hate the lines. I feel like I’m all of a sudden in a dictatorship with my creative life. I want to be able for it to be big or small, whatever I want. Sometimes I just want to put a couple of words on a page.

twi-ny: Right. Yes. So in your case, the act of writing, especially since you say that you might add little drawings, it’s like the physical act of writing is a work of art in and of itself before it goes into the computer.

lw: Oh, definitely.

twi-ny: When you type words directly into the computer, you don’t get that. You can look at your words and know when you wrote them and what you were feeling when you wrote them.

lw: I’m an incredibly fast typist. I can type a hundred words per minute. Writing by hand slows me down in a way that’s really important.

twi-ny: You were born and raised primarily on the Upper West Side.

lw: Yes, we moved every couple of years. I had, I think, eleven different residences by the time I was eighteen. It was a combination of wanderlust and trying different things and opportunities. And I think my parents didn’t quite realize that it would have an impact on us in a certain way. This resulted in me seeking out consistency where I could find it and also in a really close relationship with my siblings.

twi-ny: You started Narrative Healing around 2014?

lw: The trainings began then. That’s when I started my yoga teacher training. And the first iterations of this workshop were actually a result of the five-hundred-hour yoga teacher training I did with YogaWorks. I brought together some writers and yogis and started exploring this kind of connection. But my program at Kripalu in 2016 was when this program really launched.

Lisa Weinert signs a copy of Narrative Healing for her mother at book launch (photo by Anita Ng Photography)

twi-ny: When did you decide to write the book? Did someone come to you and say, You need to put this in a book, or did you say it yourself?

lw: It was both things. On the one hand, as we’ve been discussing, I always had this fire to write, and to write a book. And with Narrative Healing, there was so much momentum to the program. It was just one of those moments in life where a lot of things were integrating and synthesizing within me, and these opportunities were coming my way. I had a brief conversation with a program director at Kripalu, and six months later I had a conference with 150 people; I was teaching a version of ths program at Wesleyan University for three years, and I had an event at the Rubin and so many other moments of synergy and opportunity. I saw the kind of impact it was having on people’s lives and that people were coming back and noticing the kind of feedback I was getting.

The desire to write a book was born from what books are meant to do. I wanted to be able to reach people who didn’t happen to be in the room with me. And it kind of came down to that. And I wanted to be able to endeavor to make the program really mobile and personal. So wherever you are, you could try it and explore with friends.

I was also really inspired by the publication journey of The Artist’s Way after interviewing Julia Cameron, learning more about that publishing history. I’ve been a fan of her and her work, but what really inspired me was releasing work into the world and letting it do its thing. What I started seeing in my program was people were coming and participating, and really deep, amazing friendships were forming rather quickly. They were staying in touch independent of me for years, and with me. But that was really it. People did ask me, and students would say, “Where’s the book? I want the book,” that kind of thing. But that was really the idea behind it.

twi-ny: I’ve experienced what you’re talking about in the friendship that Ellen and I have developed with Jessica Kung, who we met through you. You have a way of curating events to have people really become part of them and meet other people. At your book launch, Ellen and I both met people who we work with but had never met in person.

lw: That’s so cool. Yeah, that’s what happens. That’s the real magic of this whole thing.

twi-ny: Did you write most of the book during the pandemic?

lw: Totally. I basically worked on the proposal in 2019. I spent a long time with the proposal. It was a really big transition moving from a live experience to what worked on the page, especially in terms of accessibility. Because when you’re teaching and you see what’s happening with someone, I just immediately amend my instruction. So writing it all out was a big thing. And then Covid hit, and with what it was like to live in the city, and the protests, and BLM, I did a huge pivot with the proposal and the book and really changed the format in some significant ways. I wrote the entire book during lockdown, essentially when my husband was experiencing severe health challenges. It was a challenging environment when I wrote the book.

twi-ny: Yes. You discuss this a lot in your book, how writing is a solitary pursuit. You’re at a computer or at a desk writing by yourself, and now you’re by yourself during a pandemic where it’s not like you can, after you’re done, go out with friends; you can’t. Did you find it more difficult to write under these conditions?

lw: Despite having the book out now, and publishing two pieces in the last couple of weeks in MindBodyGreen (“How We Listen Matters — Here Are 7 Tips to Help Get Better at It”) and the TueNight Social (“Why Is Publishing Making Authors Sick?”), I hadn’t written very much before, period. I’ve been writing all the time, but I had not written for other people. I really hadn’t. When I was writing the book, the world around me offered me tremendous drive and focus. I live in downtown Manhattan; there were sirens everywhere. There was a very extreme situation, and within my home there was a lot of stress. So I had to really do my own personal practice to find the focus that I needed. I felt tremendous drive and I was really grateful for that.

I sensed I must really have to write this if I’m able to write it under these circumstances. I was very protected by the cocoon nature of that time period. There was a fearlessness that happened. I didn’t realize or think about how vulnerable the writing was or how much I was revealing or how the tone of it was; I was just really focused on being truthful. And I was teaching online at the time, so I was really clear about my students and who I was talking to.

twi-ny: I can feel in reading the book, and knowing you, there are times I’m like, oh, she went there. I wasn’t sure you were going to go there. And so really it’s a very open book about who you are and how the program works. Among the elements it deals with are the body and trauma. And so here we are in a pandemic, stuck inside, and we’re more aware of our bodies than we’ve probably been in a long time. We live near Bellevue, so we heard the —

lw: Sirens. Oh, that’s right. You’re right there.

twi-ny: It was scary. We live on one of the busiest streets in the city, and it’s suddenly a quiet street, an empty street, except for the sirens. It makes you aware of your health, your body; you’re worried about anything and everything, like, Oh my God, do I have Covid? So one of parts of the book that I just love is your focus on the body. The natural idea is that we write from our mind. But what you’re saying is that it’s your body that’s always telling a story. That was a revelation for me.

lw: Yeah, me too.

twi-ny: I have a lot of weird pains that doctors have trouble diagnosing. But my chiropractor always says that pain is your friend. It’s your body telling you that something needs to be fixed. So those two things, your take on the body and my chiropractor’s, made me really listen to what stories my body’s telling me. How did that come to you?

lw: I think you just really described it. I think the first thing is, there’s a lot of consequences to not listening to the story of our body. It can become a very ephemeral kind of conversation pretty quickly, but in a very practical way. If you’re not listening to the messages your body’s telling you, you’ll quickly find yourself in danger and at risk. You can think of it like walking through life with earpods and not noticing what’s around you.

And there was a eureka moment for me. I thought everything happened in my head. I’m from a very intellectual family; I had a career in corporate publishing, working with ideas and stories all the time, and I felt very confident about it. I kept getting promoted. I had this idea that I knew everything about this kind of thing.

Like you, I had a moment of physical pain. I had a really scary medical diagnosis that turned out to be false, but I didn’t know it at the time. And I discovered in that moment that I was unable to access my voice. And this diagnosis wasn’t because I didn’t advocate for myself. The point is I had the experience of really knowing that when I’m actually paralyzed by fear, it’s really hard for me to articulate what I think. I didn’t think all of this at the moment, but once I was recovering from that experience and I had major surgery, I started thinking that a lot of the storytelling that I knew that was in my head was useless. What’s the point of all of this if I don’t know the rest of this?

I had always wanted to do a deeper dive into yoga. It’d always been a big part of my life; when I started my yoga teacher training, I started learning from masterful teachers these concepts that our body is carrying stories and that our body carries stories both in narratives but also in the form of tension and hunger and desire and pain and all these other things. And that these are essential parts of living an integrated life as being sensitive and having an active conversation between those things because our mind and our body are actively connected. And I started studying this and learning and becoming really like, Oh my goodness, I’m just on fire about it. And then working with writers over the years who were writing narrative consistently, I think writers are more disembodied. We’re just head on the page and isolated.

But not only are you at risk of crossing the street and not seeing the car coming your way, but you’re at risk when you sit down at the computer not really having access to ninety percent of your creative energy, both in terms of actual energy and also memories and associations and senses. I discover every day again and again and again that when I incorporate a little bit of a mindfulness practice or a full yoga practice into writers’ lives, their writing changes in amazing ways — what they write about, how they write, how they feel about what they write. This doesn’t mean that great writing doesn’t happen elsewhere, but particularly for people living with physical pain or emotional pain or confusion, transition — who isn’t living that way right now? This is just a really helpful way to begin to integrate. And I think for us intellectual creatures in the West, writing has a way of acting like a translator between the mind and the body.

twi-ny: That’s a great point. Although I haven’t taken the program, I’m familiar with what you do. I follow your posts on social media and the articles you write, and I’ve told you before that what you do has impacted me in the way you describe. So coming out of a pandemic, I did a deeper dive into my mind and my body. I’ve been writing This Week in New York for more than twenty years, but I never used the word “I.” It’s not about me but the event I’m writing about. And it opened me up to the point where I now have a Substack where I write about extremely personal things. I’m sharing these stories that I’ve never told before. I’ve revealed things about myself that I never thought I would share in public. And people are reacting and responding in such positive ways. So I want to thank you again for that.

lw: Thank you for sharing. That means a lot to me. The other part that I want to add to this is some of the science behind writing as a healing practice. I think intuitively we might feel it or we might notice it in our writing, but this sort of thinking about writing as a way to connect the mind and the body is a two-way street. On the one hand, you might get a source of creativity and flow, but on the other hand, writing slows down and connects us to our mind. We understand as writers, you actually can’t really write clearly unless you’re connecting to your thoughts, but it can create a higher sensitivity to what is happening in the body.

So when you get those alarms, like something happening with the stomach or the back or whatever it is, you will more quickly address it, number one. And number two, there’s tremendous amounts of science, hundreds of research studies, that show a regular, consistent writing practice done in this way has a huge impact on rates of anxiety, depression, loneliness, PTSD, trauma. There’s a lot of research that cancer patients who write regularly recover or react better to the medicine. So while we experience the impact in a singular way, when you start to study it, it’s really astounding how impactful it is.

twi-ny: It is amazing. And you make it clear that the writing doesn’t have to be for publication. One of the things the book gets into is that writing, meditation, and yoga, you don’t have to be an expert at any of those things. You don’t have to be, Well, I’m not going to write a book. It’s not about that. It’s not about getting published. What do you tell people who come to you and say, Oh, well, I don’t write, I don’t meditate, I don’t do yoga. This program, it’s not really right for me.

lw: Well, I’m definitely not trying to convince anyone to do this program. But I’ve been doing some corporate events recently where I’m walking into environments where people are not opting in but it’s part of a company program. I did a program recently at an art school and also at a law firm. I think in both cases people came but they didn’t really know what it was and were fairly skeptical when I arrived. And what I can say is people tend to feel better afterward. There tends to be an experience of relaxation and curiosity, whether people jump into a writing practice or not. I’ve been actually really humbled by how open-minded people are. I think we’re living in a time where people feel so bad and are so full of fear and trauma, and there’s so much division and so much stress.

And what this program offers is something that’s really pretty accessible, welcoming, inclusive, and free. And there’s just not that many things like that that you can try out that will make you feel better. Maybe you’ll take some of the classes, but they’re really pretty affordable. Someone who might not be a great fit is somebody who is really hell bent on having a New York Times bestseller. For those people, I tend to recommend someone who might help you more than what I’m doing. I haven’t ever been in a situation where I’m trying to persuade someone to get into it.

twi-ny: Yes, yes. So the genesis is 2014, and in 2016 you’re really getting into it. So much has happened between 2016 and 2023. Do you find that either the people coming to you or the kinds of stories that they want to share have always been the same, or because of all this daily pressure we’re talking about, racial injustice, the DEI movement, social media, are the students and their stories different from when you started even only seven years ago?

lw: That’s such an interesting question. I think I’ll have to reflect on that a little bit more. When I started the program, it was oriented in a little bit more of a medical way. There were a lot of people living with chronic illnesses, so the shares might be more about illness narrative and trauma, people who are identifying that way. I often teach with groups where I have a sense of where they’re coming from, with gun violence or corporate burnout or whatever it is. So there is what I think is sort of a difference that I wouldn’t have expected. People are very willing to share.

I’ve been in a number of situations where it’s a big group, and by big, I mean maybe more than thirty, but where people don’t know each other. I used to be much more careful about how I would curate the sharing, but we always have some kind of writing in these programs. And I’m finding people just shoot their hands up and have so much they want to say, so much they want to share, and it’s often emotional, about love. That’s what I’m seeing — love, grief. I don’t think the topics are that different, but I think it’s a little bit more on the tip of their tongue.

twi-ny: That brings me back to the essay you wrote for TueNight Social, “Why Is Publishing Making Authors Sick?”

lw: It’s such a great headline. I didn’t come up with it, but it’s really good.

twi-ny: Working in book publishing, I understand it, but it also addresses what we talked about earlier, the loneliness of being a writer, especially once the book is put into production and you’re getting toward the book being published and the marketing surrounding it. So this struck me. You have, from what I can tell, a tight-knit family. I know you have a caring husband, you have a large community of friends and colleagues who you care about and who care about you, but still you write in the article about feeling vulnerable and insecure as the book comes out. It almost seems like it was a surprise to you, and you used to work in the business. What do you think that was, and are there any easy answers to get over it now that you’ve gone through it?

lw: I think what that piece is really about is sharing honestly with people that you trust, which is really what the whole program is about. And the part that was difficult about it had less to do with any realities of my personal life or the skills of the amazing people that I got to partner with on this publishing journey. What I really felt was that the publishing process, the structure of it, taps into attachment wounds. And that with attachment theory, that felt like the real aha! moment, when you have a vulnerable story that you’re sharing and then nobody’s there with you. Your partner and your friends are not with you on the publishing journey because they’re just not inside of you, with you all the time.

It’s not something that you think to share because this wonderful thing is happening, and it’s not something that you’re complaining about. “My dreams are coming true but I feel miserable.” So I was really taken aback by how powerful it was, and it was a deep psychological thing that was tapped into that I know all writers connect with because of the kind of feedback I’ve been getting. During my years of working in corporate publishing, I witnessed authors being like this, and I truly didn’t understand it. I was surprised because I’ve witnessed authors, I’ve coached them, I’ve supported them. And I would be frustrated, honestly, as a publicist, saying, “Why aren’t you doing more right now? This is what you’re supposed to be doing. You signed up for this.”

I used to give talks at writing conferences where I had a line I used about comparing publishing a book to having a baby and that once your baby’s born, you don’t drop it on its head, you’ve got to take care of it. That’s what I would say to authors. But then I started understanding. I wrote another piece for a newsletter for my community that many healthy cultures, after a baby is born, the parent, the mother gets to rest for a while, and loads of other people started the forty days, come in and help. And what I didn’t understand, it started happening to me. I mean, I had some expectation; everyone has a particular story, but the second it was finished, I was profoundly depleted and exhausted. I’ve been working on this since 2016, through the pandemic, and then all the extra stuff you have to do, and now I’m being asked to write extra pieces and go do this and go do that.

I had underestimated the actual exhaustion, depletion I would feel. And also in terms of attachment theory, having that one trusted person who’s your secure person; the way our publishing system is set up, just the dynamic of it, you really don’t have that because you get passed along like a conveyor belt. My husband was very supportive throughout, but he doesn’t know anything about publishing. I have lots of people I’m close with, but what I found was that doesn’t prevent the feelings you have inside of “I’m not doing enough. Oh my gosh, I needed to do a million things as of yesterday and now I’m not taking care of it, and now it’s not good enough and now it’s not going to do this.” I didn’t think I was going to have those thoughts because I thought I knew better. I thought I was immune to that.

And I just was really, really run down. And then I got Covid and got super sick, and I noticed that it was late August, early September when my energy came back and feel very motivated and excited. I’ve written a couple of pieces and I think there’s a real truth to this gestation period, or the fourth trimester, where you need to rest and you need to be taken care of. And what I talk about in the piece in terms of an antidote was something I found very compelling, the idea of having a publishing buddy and somebody who, not necessarily a family member or friend, but somebody who truly could believe in your work. One person you go to, who you check in with daily, someone who can respond and give you support. It’s made me really motivated within Narrative Healing to continue to create creative support. I guess I have so much to say about this.

The other part about the support system is there’s just very little community out there for authors after the book comes out that’s not extremely expensive or competitive, and that’s not what your nervous system needs. Your nervous system needs to feel safe. You’ve done enough. The emails and text and calls I’ve gotten since that piece has come out have really overwhelmed me. And authors who look on paper like they’re killing it are emailing me, “I’ve never felt so alone in my entire life. I thought I was the only one.” And so I think it’s tapped into something. It’s not at all a takedown of publishing. It’s more how we haven’t addressed it enough. What kind of care do you need at this point? And having been through a wedding also, it’s not that different from that, leading up to it, it’s not necessarily a stress-free time for a lot of people, even though it’s a wonderful occasion.

twi-ny: I like the comparison to giving birth because a lot of people now, they celebrate their book’s birth date on Instagram and Facebook. I remember how excited you were when you posted a video of you opening your first box of books. Opening the box to take out that first printed book is, in a way, like a baby coming out of the womb and now it’s out in the world. It’s very moving to watch the pure joy of that. But then knowing that it’s not as joyous the next day, dealing with these other aspects that you didn’t anticipate.

lw: It’s also like that six months later, actually. I think many writers going from such a cocoon state of me in my apartment creating this thing to being out in the world is just a big adjustment.

twi-ny: Yes. You also mentioned your wedding, which my wife and I attended. It was such a wonderful experience. It took place in the North Garden of the Conservatory Garden in Central Park, and you had different people from different parts of your lives share stories about you and Barry under each of the floral arches. We walked around the fountain and listened to the stories; it was very moving and intimate, especially because the pandemic was far from over. But what was it like for a writer who has edited or worked with other writers on their stuff? You’re now listening to stories about you; you are the subject. What was it like walking around and hearing what these people had to say about you and Barry?

lw: In some ways, it was a similar experience. Coming out of Covid, it was the first time I’d been around that many people in two years. And then it was sort of the same when my book came out; I guess I’ve been in seclusion a lot the last couple of years. It was very similar. I think for both the wedding and the book, I had a very big laser focus on service. I never wanted to have a wedding. I’m not somebody that ever wanted to get married. I never dreamed about it, never thought about it. I always wanted to have a book, but I never wanted a wedding. And then I met this person, but also Covid. And I felt this different urgency to — not urgency, but responsibility, of sharing the joy and bringing people together and doing it safely and doing it with care.

And so I felt very clear about why I was there, and it was super-overwhelming. I kind of knew what one or two people were going to say. Other people, I didn’t know what they were going to say, but I totally trusted them. I just remember having my hand on my heart the whole time to just make sure that I was breathing, and that was kind of it. And letting myself off the hook if I wasn’t fully experiencing everything because it was so overwhelming. The book experience has been very similar in terms of things being really overwhelming. The launch party that you came to was almost like a reunion from the wedding. It was so many of the same people, and just trusting others to help me care for this thing, understanding that we don’t do it alone.

[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can follow him on Substack here.]

twi-ny talk: ROBIN WILSON OF THE GIN BLOSSOMS

Robin Wilson is being inducted into the Long Island Music and Entertainment Hall of Fame on August 25 (Zoom screenshot by twi-ny/mdr)

ROBIN WILSON
The Long Island Music and Entertainment Hall of Fame
97 Main St., Stony Brook
Friday, August 25, $40, 7:00
www.limusichalloffame.org/museum
www.ginblossoms.net

Lou Reed, Run-D.M.C., Salt-N-Pepa, the Ramones, Count Basie, Beverly Sills, Pat Benatar, Louis Armstrong, Kurtis Blow, Blue Oyster Cult, Joan Jett, John Coltrane, Aaron Copland, Neil Diamond, George Gershwin, Stray Cats, Barbara Streisand, Billy Joel, Taylor Dane, Simon & Garfunkel.

Those are only some of the artists who have been inducted into the Long Island Music and Entertainment Hall of Fame (LIMEHOF). The next to join that prestigious roster is Robin Wilson, lead singer of the Gin Blossoms, who will be inducted on August 25. Wilson was born in Detroit and raised in Arizona, but he moved to Valley Stream on Long Island more than twenty years ago to spend more time with his son, Grey Wilson, and his ex-wife, Gena Rositano, a longtime stage manager at Saturday Night Live. On Valentine’s Day, 2021, Wilson had a serious fire in his home, forcing him to temporarily relocate to Hicksville, but he returned to Valley Stream, where he played a series of free house shows during the pandemic.

Robin Wilson and Gena Rositano with their son Grey at SNL (photo courtesy Gena Rositano)

I grew up in Malverne but went to high school in Valley Stream with Rositano and have closely followed Grey’s development as a musician in his own right; he is now part of several bands, including the Mercurys, the Afternoon Grifters, and Theo & the London Outfit.

Wilson, fifty-eight, became a Gin Blossom in 1988, one year after the group formed. The band’s major label debut, 1992’s New Miserable Experience, was packed with hits, including “Hey Jealousy,” “Until I Fall Away,” “Found Out About You,” and “Allison Road,” and has sold over five million copies. The follow-up, 1996’s Congratulations I’m Sorry, featured “Follow You Down” and “Til I Hear It from You,” the latter recorded for the 1995 film Empire Records. In addition to performing with the Gin Blossoms, Wilson joined the Smithereens after the 2017 death of Pat DiNizio; he writes songs with the band and alternates on lead vocals with Marshall Crenshaw.

Heavily tattooed and wearing black horn-rimmed glasses, a black T-shirt, and black shorts, Wilson zoomed in from a hotel gym in Indianapolis, where the Gin Blossoms were scheduled to play the penultimate show of their summer tour at the Indiana State Fair that night. After a short break, they’re going back out on the road, stopping at the Paramount in Huntington on September 12.

At the LIMEHOF induction ceremony on August 25 in Stony Brook, Wilson will play a set with a pair of fellow Smithereens, guitarist Jim Babjak and drummer Dennis Diken, along with Joe Jackson bassist Graham Maby and special guest Grey Wilson.

During our talk, Wilson was generous with his answers, giving them careful consideration while being open and direct. Below he discusses fathers and sons, the modern concert experience, cover songs, living in Valley Stream, and more.

twi-ny: We met briefly when your son Grey’s band the Mercurys played the Klub 45 Room in Times Square and you joined them onstage. You played the Gas Giants’ “Quitter,” which was a blast.

robin wilson: It was such a blast.

twi-ny: Grey has also played with the Gin Blossoms. What are those experiences like to have either you jump onstage with him or him jump onstage with you?

rw: Well, it’s a thrill for me because music is the predominant force in my life. And for it to become equally so in my son’s means a lot. It fills me with pride to see him take my lead and to try to follow in my footsteps.

My father was a stuffy Republican accounting professor who wanted nothing to do with me, and we had nothing in common. I never had a moment like that with my dad. There’s no parallel experience that I’ve had with my father. So it means a great deal to me to be able to perform with Grey from time to time.

twi-ny: You went to school where your father taught.

rw: We lived in Tempe. He was a professor at Mesa Community College. Which was nearby. He started teaching there in 1971 when we moved from Detroit to Arizona. And so I grew up on that campus and that was one of my first jobs, working in the cafeteria there. When I got out of high school, I was a student at Mesa. For a long time.

Since my dad was a professor, tuition was free. I went to school there for five years. I never quite got an associate’s degree. For the first few years, I changed my major a bunch of times and kind of floundered around. But by the time I finally found direction, I was studying physics and other of the physical sciences, like chemistry and calculus and geology. And then the band took off, and so I never got to finish my degree. I was very proud to walk into my physics professor’s office one day and say, I can’t finish this semester. Our band is going on tour.

twi-ny: That’s a great excuse.

rw: You know it; it was great. And I remember when I dropped out of college for that first tour, my dad told me, “Robin, you’re a fucking idiot.” [ed. note: After New Miserable Experience went gold, Wilson’s father conceded, admitting, “Robin, I feel like a fucking idiot.”] So I know what it means to my son to pursue music and what it means to dream of a life creating and performing music. I want him to succeed, and I want to give him the tools that he’ll need to accomplish his goal.

twi-ny: I’ve seen Grey play live and on YouTube and Instagram. He’s quite accomplished. He’s got a great stage presence, and he can play that guitar.

rw: Yeah, he can really play. And so I’m always really proud to have him join us onstage with the band. It’s gonna be great to have him performing at the Hall of Fame induction, too.

Bill Leen, Scott Hessel, Robin Wilson, Jesse Valenzuela, and Scott Johnson of the Gin Blossoms (photo courtesy the Gin Blossoms)

twi-ny: The Gin Blossoms have been together for about thirty-five years now, including four core members who have been together since 1992. What is the secret to the longevity of the group?

rw: Well, it’s a combination of factors, the most important of which is compromise. Knowing when to keep your mouth shut and just do your job. That goes a long, long way in the rock band environment. That combined with the fact that we have really good songs and we can go to any city in America and sell a thousand tickets and people can sing along with our music. It’s just such a gift to have been able to accomplish that sort of commercial success that it would be stupid just to turn your back on it. You’d have to be really, really unhappy and miserable to want to just blow the whole thing up just because you don’t want to go do rock shows.

It’s not easy. Most of what we do is the traveling. There’s at least ten or twelve hours of travel for every hour we spend onstage. But that ninety minutes a day onstage makes up for all the other bullshit. And my bandmates and I have been able to put our grievances behind us for the most part and accept that everyone in the band is allowed to have their own experience. So we just try to do our jobs and stay out of each other’s way, not create trouble. And we’re grateful that we could still do it at this level,

twi-ny: Touring has obviously changed since the band started. What are one or two things that stick out to you that are either better or worse than they were in the late eighties, early nineties? Fans are throwing objects at lead singers for TikTok. Have you encountered anything or like that?

rw: Well, that kind of thing has happened randomly throughout our career, but it’s just a random occurrence. It’s not a part of any sort of trend. The main force that makes it different now than what it used to be is this device that I’m talking to you on, the smartphone. When we first started touring, we didn’t have GPS. We had a road atlas that was about this thick.

twi-ny: I remember those.

rw: And that would go underneath the driver’s seat. When we would pull into a new town, we would have to pull that out and look through a map. You had to be able to read a map and find your way through a new city to get to the gig. There wasn’t a way to just pull up Yelp and find someplace to eat. You had to ask if there was a restaurant nearby or physically drive around looking for somewhere you could eat.

And then, of course, the worst thing about the phone, this new media, is social media. It’s just a fucking cancer. It makes everyone think that they’re the star of their own reality show and that everything is about them. I don’t mind people taking pictures of the band while we’re performing. I don’t mind video of the band while we’re performing. But what I cannot stand is when someone will stand right in front of me and take a selfie of themselves. That’s just so incredibly rude and so self-absorbed, and it takes you out of the moment, you know? Here’s a picture of me not listening to my favorite Gin Blossoms song.

I just don’t get it. And again, it’s just so rude. The way I think about it is, imagine if your child was onstage in the school play and someone stood up in front of your child while they were delivering their lines and started taking selfies of themselves and started distracting your child. How outraged would you be? Because this person is doing that. It would make you sick to see someone do that.

We didn’t enjoy concerts any less in the eighties and nineties before everybody had a camera with them. We enjoyed concerts just as much when we were forced to use our brains to remember them. And these people who say, Well, I’m entitled to capture the moment. Well, capture it with your brain, you lazy asshole. It’s so stupid. So that’s maybe the main thing. Like I said, I have no problem with people taking pictures or video of the band, but it absolutely disgusts me to see people taking pictures of themselves while standing in front of the band.

The Gin Blossoms’ most recent album is 2018’s Mixed Reality

twi-ny: As someone who goes to a lot of shows and often is up front, I can tell you it’s also distracting for the audience. If I’m standing behind someone and they suddenly turn around and their face is in my face so they can take a picture of you behind them onstage, it takes me out of the concert for that split second. And so it’s also annoying on that end.

rw: Yeah. But virtually everything else about the concertgoing experience is the same. I mean, how people react to the music and the performers, what the music means to them, the way it inspires genuine emotion. All of that is the same. The thrill of the light show and the sense of community and all of those things. None of that has changed. The only difference is that everybody’s got the phone, and the phone is a way to take you out of the moment.

twi-ny: Over the years, the Gin Blossoms have developed that real sense of community you just mentioned. Your songs really touch people. And I think that reaching them on an emotional level is really part of what’s kept you guys going so strong. I’ve also noticed on the current tour, you’re playing some great covers: Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues,” Sam Cooke’s “Twistin’ the Night Away,” and then one of my favorite old songs, the Plimsouls’ “A Million Miles Away”; I saw them play that at the Whiskey a Go Go back in the early eighties.

rw: It’s just great music. I’m glad you’ve enjoyed those songs. And those are all certainly songs that I love to play. I like to play cover songs; I wish that we actually played more covers. I don’t necessarily want to do more covers per show, but I wish we had a larger repertoire of covers we could dip into. But not everybody in the band really loves playing cover songs. They prefer to play original music. And I can appreciate that.

And so, again, what I was saying earlier, the most important thing is to compromise and not make it so any one person in the band is absolutely miserable about the way the shows are done. Everybody’s entitled to have some fun during the show. So if one guy doesn’t want to play a lot of cover songs, well, his feelings are very important to me. So we try to keep it to a minimum. We find the place where we can compromise on these types of issues.

twi-ny: Which doesn’t always happen in a band.

rw: Yeah, it’s very, very difficult to find that. And it’s especially hard when you’re a young band and you’re just coming up and you’re on the charts for the first time. But part of keeping a band together for thirty-five years is learning how to communicate with each other and learning how to find those compromises and the middle ground.

twi-ny: Speaking of original songs, your last album came out in 2018. Anything you guys are working on?

rw: Yeah, at some point. We haven’t got a firm date set to record a new record. But I would suspect that we are going to be in the studio sometime in 2024, have something done by the end of the year. You know, we’re not super anxious, but some of us already have songs that we want to record, and we know we can’t really go much longer before we start to feel bad about it. We don’t owe anybody anything.

It’s not like we sell a lot of records anymore. But as musicians of a part of a certain generation, we feel like we owe it to ourselves to create new music from time to time to challenge ourselves, to create something that we feel holds up with the rest of our catalog. So we know we’ll do it for our own reasons on our own schedule. There’s no record company hounding us to get it done or anything. We’ll just do it when we feel like it. I suspect that it won’t be too long from now before we get another record done. [ed. note: The Gin Blossoms sold a majority stake in their music publishing rights and artist master royalties in 2021 to Primary Wave.]

Robin Wilson and Willie Nile join Theo & the London Outfit for a Valley Stream house concert under the Arizona state flag (photo courtesy Theo & the London Outfit)

twi-ny: So getting back to August 25, you’re being inducted into the Long Island Music and Entertainment Hall of Fame. What was it like getting that notification?

rw: Well, it was really amusing. I mean, of course I’m filled with pride and it’s very gratifying. But I’ve had such a contentious relationship with Long Island; my being there, my living there is just such a strange, unlikely circumstance. And it took me so long to get used to it. If you knew what my bandmates have heard me say about Long Island over the years, we’d be laughing as hard as we were when we found out about this, because it was just very difficult for me to get used to being and living on Long Island.

But eventually, it did take, and I’m proud of my home there in Valley Stream, and I’m proud to be the only guy on Long Island who flies an Arizona flag on the front porch. I think it’s really funny when my neighbors come by while they’re walking their dogs and they say, “What is that flag?”

twi-ny: What country is that?

rw: What’s funny to me is, that’s Arizona, that’s the forty-eighth state, you know? So I’m there on Long Island representing my home state of Arizona, which I miss terribly. And now I’ve become a big part of this community.

The company that I’m in with this honor is incredible. It’s humbling and very gratifying. And I’m especially proud for my New York family, the Rositanos, all of my nieces and nephews, my ex-wife and my son, my sister-in-law, my brothers-in-law, and their families. I’m really proud for them, of all the Christmases and holidays we’ve spent together, and now they get to take pride in this, and their pride in this means more to me than anything else about this honor. So I’m very excited for my family, the Rositanos, and I hope they can all be there for for the ceremony.

twi-ny: Is that what brought you to Valley Stream in the first place, family?

rw: Yeah. My ex-wife, Gena, is from Valley Stream. She and I met at MTV. She used to work at MTV.

twi-ny: Yes, I remember.

rw: That’s right. You know Gena. And so she and I met doing The Jon Stewart Show on MTV. [ed. note: You can watch that full episode, also featuring Long Islander Howard Stern, here; Gena was one of the stage managers on the program.]

twi-ny: They just had a reunion, with Jon and everyone.

rw: Yes, that’s right, for the cast and crew. In 1996, Jenna and I had Jon Stewart ordained as a minister, and he performed our wedding ceremony in Valley Stream. It was my connection to Gena and specifically my son, Grey, that kept me there in in Long Island. I could have moved home to Arizona. I always thought I would, but when it came time to actually pull the trigger, I couldn’t leave and I wanted to be there for my son.

And so I’m a Long Island guy now, go figure. And my son, he is in a couple of bands that play around Long Island, Brooklyn, Queens, and whatnot. And then he’s also a DJ on the radio station at Nassau Community College, WHPC 90.3; his show is called “Alternative to What?” It’s Tuesday nights at 7:00, so everybody tune in and hear my son on the radio spinning the alternative hits. That’s 7:00 on Tuesdays, WHPC 90.3.

twi-ny: Excellent. I do want to ask you one other thing, and it has to do with Valley Stream. I was born in Brooklyn and went to school in Valley Stream. And so my wife has listened for decades to all the things I’ve said about Long Island, probably some of the same things that you would tell your bandmates about Valley Stream before you moved there. As a teenager, I couldn’t wait to get out of there to come to New York City. But a lot of my friends still live in Valley Stream and the surrounding area and love it. You’ve really settled in, huh?

rw: Yeah, I really have. You know, It’s a great little town. It’s got tons of great pizza; Ancona’s would be my favorite. There’s really great Pakistani food everywhere. It seems like we have a really large community of really good immigrant cooks everywhere. It’s a very diverse community.

twi-ny: That was not the case when I went to school there.

rw: On my block alone in Valley Stream, there are three families from Guam. You know, I went my entire life in Arizona without ever meeting anyone from Guam. And there on my street in Valley Stream, there are three families from Guam. So there’s something about it. My theory is that these families are moving to America, and they land at JFK with all their bags, and they get out to the curb and they look around and they go, Well, let’s buy a house. And they end up there in Valley Stream.

And I think that’s part of the strength of our community, the diversity and the variety of food and of viewpoints and such. I know that it wasn’t always like that; when I first moved to Valley Stream it was a very different place, in terms of the racial makeup. I very much enjoy how diverse and cool it is now, and how many different cultures are represented just on my block alone.

It’s great to be part of the community. I love my neighborhood. I love all my neighbors. I got to know everybody during the pandemic. I was doing shows for my neighbors during the pandemic; I would be out in my front yard and I would put on concerts. I am really happy. I’m really proud to live there. And so I hope that they can take pride in this honor too.

twi-ny: You recently played a show with Willie Nile and Grey at your house.

rw: Yes, indeed. That was the first one I had done in a while. And so if anyone’s interested in seeing the livestream performances that I’ve done from my home studio or in my front yard, you can go to the Gin Blossoms official YouTube page and see the shows I was doing for my neighbors during the pandemic.

It was the best part of the pandemic for me, performing for my neighbors; it really meant a lot to me that I was able to bring the neighborhood together in a time of isolation. I really enjoyed the pandemic. I mean, obviously it’s not something you would choose to happen, but I managed to make the most of it.

I enjoyed being home for the first time in my adult life. I enjoyed being home for more than a few weeks at a time. I really enjoyed getting to know my neighbors and performing for them, and spending time with my son. I made a lot of carnitas and I played a lot of video games, and I created a lot of content for the Gin Blossoms YouTube page. That’s really kind of when I truly became a citizen of Long Island, during the pandemic.

So, hi to Gena and Grey and all the Rositanos. I’m looking forward to seeing you guys soon. I’m gonna be home for a couple of weeks, for the first time since last winter. I actually have more than five days off starting next week. So I’m looking forward to spending some time in the studio with my son and riding my bike in Valley Stream State Park, just relaxing and enjoying my home.

twi-ny: Well deserved. And congratulations again on the Hall of Fame. I don’t know who’s going to have more fun, you or Grey, but it’s great for both of you.

rw: Definitely Grey; everything’s more fun for Grey than it is for me.

twi-ny: Thanks, man. This was great.

rw: No, thank you. Peace and love for everybody on Long Island. Rock away!

[Mark Rifkin is a Brooklyn-born, Manhattan-based writer and editor; you can follow him on Substack here.]

EBONY G. PATTERSON: . . . things come to thrive . . . in the shedding . . . in the molting . . .

A vulture spies human feet under a wall of plants in bloodred pond in Ebony G. Patterson installation at NYBG (photo by twi-ny/mdr)

. . . things come to thrive . . . in the shedding . . . in the molting . . .
The New York Botanical Garden
2900 Southern Blvd., Bronx
Tuesday – Sunday through October 22, $15 children two to twelve, $31 students and seniors, $35 adults, 10:00 am – 6:00 pm
718-817-8700
www.nybg.org
ebonygpatterson.com
online slide show

“I’m going to give you a show that you’ve not had before,” artist Ebony G. Patterson promised New York Botanical Garden curator Joanna L. Groarke upon preparing for the exhibition “. . . things come to thrive . . . in the shedding . . . in the molting . . . ,” which has just been extended at NYBG through October 22, 2023.

The Jamaica native has done just that, presenting a wide-ranging display that incorporates sculpture, installation, video, collage, and an interactive element, “Things to Be Remembered,” which asks visitors to answer the question “What have you . . . missed . . . felt . . . loved . . . learned . . . witnessed . . . needed . . . heard . . . that you never want to forget?”

“Ebony is the first visual artist to create art at the garden through an immersive residency,” NYBG CEO Jennifer Bernstein said at the preview in May. “This exhibition celebrates the allure of the beautiful while contemplating what lies beneath the enticing surface, the complex tensions of the natural world, and how they reflect the entanglements of race, gender, and colonialism.”

The exhibition features nearly five hundred black foam turkey vultures congregating around the lawn outside the Enid A. Haupt Conservatory and inside the massive greenhouse, as if they’re anticipating a kind of destruction, along with hand-cast glass sculptures of body parts and extinct plants, out in the open and hidden within the confines. You can also hear Patterson’s voice in the soundscape. In the LuEsther T. Mertz Library Building, there are works from Patterson’s “studies from a vocabulary of loss” series, consisting of framed collages with cut-paper flowers and reaching hands, plastic insects, feathered butterflies, and such words as liability, should, wreckage, and goodbye kiss.

The library rotunda is home to . . . fester . . . , a stunning ten-foot horizontal piece laden with woven jacquard fabrics, vertebrae, hand-blown black and white glass plants, and more than a thousand red gloves spreading out onto the floor; yet more vultures hover on ledges above floral patterned wallpaper. Visitors can walk inside the three-channel video installation The Observation: The Bush Cockerel Project, a Fictitious Historical Narrative, in which costumed characters wander through a primordial garden, climate change surrounding the proceedings like, well, vultures.

In putting together the show, Patterson, who lives and works in Kingston and Chicago, was concerned with loss, healing, and regeneration; the intersection of art, horticulture, and science; living and dead plants as ghosts and skeletons; and the materiality of objects, recognizing that both Jamaica and America are postcolonial societies facing problematic issues of income inequality and social injustice.

“What does it mean to think about the word gardens associated with places that are working-class spaces in contrast to a place that is a wealthy neighborhood?” she said. “What does it mean to think about a garden as a site of survival, as a site of social survival? What does it then also mean to think about gardens as it relates to communities that are given particular kinds of care in terms of what is thought of as a space of investment of possibility, and what does it also then mean to think about those gardens that are not given consideration for possibility of care but thrive regardless because that is what happens in nature? Things live on, irrespective of what one puts in nature’s way.”

The centerpiece of the exhibit in the conservatory is an immersive structure topped by a white peacock, as if the rest of the installation bursts from its feathers, ending in a bloodred pond in another room where a wall of plants has seemingly fallen from the sky, a pair of white glass legs sticking out like the feet of the Wicked Witch of the East after Dorothy’s house crushes her in The Wizard of Us. Patterson, who had never before been to NYBG before beginning this project but is a regular at the Hope Botanical Gardens and the adjoining Hope Zoo Kingston in her hometown of Kingston, had only recently seen a rare white peacock there for the first time in her life.

“In seeing this peacock, the peacock was in molting, and it was in a dark enclosure, and the peacock just kind of hovered in the space, ebbing and flowing,” she explained at the preview. “It almost seemed like it was a haunt. And so thinking about what the peacock is — this incredibly beautiful bird with all of its pageantry — and to see it at its ugliest moment remained with me for a year. And so in thinking about that, I couldn’t help but think about the question of what does it mean to witness your ugliness. And so for me, unpacking the garden, in a moment of molting, in a moment of transformation, is about witnessing our collective ugliness, that even in the ugliness, beauty is possible, and in that possibility, we will always find new ways ahead.”

Ebony G. Patterson’s “studies from a vocabulary of loss” are framed collages containing words amid flowers, hands, insects, butterflies, and other elements (photo by twi-ny/mdr)

Patterson was also inspired by her residency at Crystal Bridges Museum of Art in Arkansas, where she developed such works as . . . bugs, reptile, fruit, and bush . . . for those who bear/bare witness.

At the preview, I had a chance to speak with Patterson, whose other projects include “Gangstas for Life,” “Disciplez,” and “Invisible Presence: Bling Memories,” a performative piece with embellished coffins.

twi-ny: The first time you ever came to the New York Botanical Garden was in 2019. What were your first impressions walking the grounds?

egp: At the time, there was a show by Roberto Burle Marx [“Brazilian Modern: The Living Art of Roberto Burle Marx”], who is a Brazilian artist.

twi-ny: Oh, I loved that show.

egp: Yeah, I mean, the sense of sprawl, and there’s a particular kind of splendor that also exists here, as a place like this does because of its expanse. And then also too because part of its mandate is to create a space of beauty. But then I think the other thing that I was also struck by was the demographics. So I was also also very aware of, oh, who are the people that spend time here? Who are the people that spend a lot of time here? And then I had to say that in thinking about the project, I thought about those people a lot. I thought I would hear stories about women who would come during particular seasons, to see particular flowers, and fussing about the fact that a flower doesn’t grow the same way the next season.

But I think about those people. And also too in terms of how this is such a heightened visual experience. Not everybody goes to museums. For some people the garden is their ultimate visual experience. So what does it mean also to disrupt that for a person so that they also think about this place differently in the same way that one would think about an exhibition very differently when one goes to a museum? Each exhibition presents something different. And I sat with that a lot over the course of thinking through the ideas here.

twi-ny: And you were given pretty much carte blanche to go and do what you needed to do?

egp: Correct. Yes. And the gardens . . . I mean, there were some things that I had proposed that I wanted us to explore that were a little difficult to do, given the time. So there is carte blanche and there is carte blanche, right? But that being said, a lot of this is truly a collaboration because as much as I use plants and I think about using plants in relation to history, all of the knowledge about what it means to grow a plant at a particular time, what it is, how it lives with something else, is not something that I consider at all.

And I come from a place of thinking about things as a painter. So I rely very heavily then on the knowledge of the people who are here, in the same way that I would rely on the knowledge of somebody who works in glass. I love glass materially, but ask me, can I go and forge it, do what’s necessary to make it whole myself? No. Can I sew? It’s the same . . . We all rely on the knowledge base of other people to make things possible, and artists are no different in that history.

twi-ny: Mentioning museums, “Dead Treez” was at the Museum of Arts & Design in 2016. Do you see a direct link between the NYBG show and that one?

egp: Oh, absolutely. When MAD gave me that opportunity in the Tiffany Galleries to make a garden inside their galleries, that was such a huge shift in my own practice. But then also too for MAD, it was a new point of departure for them, for them to be inviting an artist to curate a selection of objects. But then I had the show that was also running concurrently [“. . . while the dew is still on the roses . . .” at Pérez Art Museum Miami], and I was like, “How do I make these two things speak to each other?”

So I think for me, the Museum of Arts & Design project that I did in those Tiffany cases is essentially the seed that’s continued to grow over these years. It’s the very thing that ended up also growing the Pérez show, which was centered on this notion of thinking about a night garden. And then what does it also then mean to pull that all out into the living space? But also, too, the garden isn’t an art institution, but then at the same time, doing this at an art institution just would not be possible, it just wouldn’t.

[For a more personal look at the arts in New York City, follow Mark Rifkin on Substack here.]