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| late 19th Century Red Hook |
On a hazy night threatening rain, I trekked to the Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn for the first time. With its proximity to the New York harbor, Red Hook is (was?) perhaps best-known as a hub of shipping for the city. Though its recently become home to an Ikea store (accessible by ferry), the Sixpoint Brewery, and numerous boutiques and gourmet shops, this corner of Brooklyn is still solidly middle-class and ethnically diverse. The gentrification creeping toward it from the north has been held at bay so far (although Ikea’s amphibious landing was an audacious flanking maneuver, if I do say so myself. But let’s hope it’s more of an Anzio, and less of an Inchon.) However, hipsters do infiltrate and exploit the neighborhood’s secret treasure: a flotilla of food trucks that serve impeccable Latin food at the neighborhood ball fields. On weekends, apparently. Partly, I took this trip to see the band We Are Scientists (the source of the pin on my messenger bag that mysteriously reads “W. A. S.”) play an outdoor concert; but the majority of my motivation came from seeking out and eating the best
papusa (or three) in the city. I’ve seen WAS twice before, but I’ve never had a papusa. So you can understand my priorities in this matter, and my disappointment upon discovering that the field adjacent to the stage—where I expected the circle of food trucks—was empty.
I found a sign advertising the return of the vendors for the summer, but no sign of the trucks themselves.
With time and hunger to kill, I moved on to my back-up plan. Yes, I was sure of my destination, but not so sure how to get there. However, I possess a certain knack for finding places in this city when I only have a vague idea of their location. So after walking away from the park, I came upon Van Brunt Street and found on its corner the cafe/bar
Fort Defiance. Named after a fortress built during the Continental Army’s ill-fated defense of New York City in 1776, Fort Defiance has a reputation as purveyor of unique cocktails, good beer (like Sixpoint from down the street—talk about local!), and noticeably above-average pub grub. I had expected to just pick up a delicious muffuletta (a sandwich just about as native to New York as a papusa), down a pint, and be on my way. However, the dinner menu had only, well … dinner options. I reluctantly turned down the heavy lamb dish and beer, and instead selected something more of the season: grilled mackerel, with a cocktail of Darjeeling-infused honey vodka, lemon, and prosecco. The mackerel, onions, and grainy mustard were very good (the accompanying freekah and fava beans, not so much), while the cocktail was light and refreshing. Hard to believe I had that kind of a meal while sitting at a dark wooden bar that wouldn’t seem out of place in an English pub, or in a neighborhood that twenty years ago was one of the country’s most crime- and drug-ridden. But rather than linger with another drink and a good book, I was out the door and on my way back to the park (a trip that was considerably easier than before—funny how that works.)
The opening band was in mid-set when I returned to the stage, so I took the opportunity to check out the nearby waterway. And this is what I found:
Desolate yet alluring, right? Or maybe not. But soon enough the guys from Brooklyn making noise on stage departed, making way for an altogether better “Brooklyn band.”
We Are Scientists provided what I’d expected: rockin’ dance-punk, with the tight play and wit of a seasoned band. (Their longevity, showmanship, and instrumental skills were frequent sources of comic relief.) But unexpectedly, I soon felt myself drift back to my first concert in New York, on a cold late November night. Before moving to the area, I had only been collection of music I do now; actually, I even have difficulty just fathoming the vast difference between the role of music in my life then and now. In high school and college, I never considered myself enough of a fan of any band to be willing to buy a ticket to see them in person. I just didn’t get it, and I didn’t care. But oh, how I would come to appreciate the experience of live music. And because of that WAS concert at Irving Place mere months after I’d started life in the a new city (as well as a Josh Ritter concert I saw that previous winter at DC’s famed 9:30 Club—a concert I still listen to via NPR!), I haven’t gone a month without going to at least one concert. I still recall how, on that frosty night, I just sat in my empty bedroom and listened to their albums on repeat while slurping Cup o’ Noodles.
But in the open air of Red Hook Park, I just nodded along to the familiar riffs. And though nostalgic for that previous concert, I held no fondness for the crowd surfers landing on my head or the stoned soccer moms standing behind me. No, this concert was just fun, plain and simple. Although this was the third time I’d seen them, only now did I appreciate their talented ability to reproduce live renderings of studio effects. But I’d always enjoyed their witty between-song banter—which I assumed, ever since that first concert,
every band possessed; this presumption has not held true, much to my dismay. Rare is the good band that can take their music seriously after all these years, and themselves not so much. Though the neighborhood* was new, the
music on this night was refreshingly familiar.
*I still need to go back to Red Hook for papusas, a visit to the Sixpoint brewery, and a refreshing drink from
Sunny’s bar. Any takers?
