It’s my pleasure to join the Ask A New Yorker team. I’m a lifelong city boy and write about what I’ve seen, heard and done in my story blog, “Yorkville: Stoops to Nuts.” I have favorite blocks, buildings, trees, water fountains. I also have a favorite recurring live music event.
Loser’s Lounge is a bi-monthly tribute show based in New York City where local talent passionately pays homage to the pop music greats of the past. Loser’s Lounge was started in 1993 by session keyboardist Joe McGinty (Psychedelic Furs, The Ramones, Ryan Adams) and psycho-cabaret singer Nick Danger. Originally a piano singalong night at the Pink Pony Cafe on Ludlow Street, Loser’s debuted at the Fez nightclub with A Tribute To Burt Bacharach. House band the Kustard Kings led by David Terhune joined the show in June 1994.
I never leave a Losers Lounge performance without a grin on my face. After 10 years of sold-out shows at Fez, Loser’s Lounge now packs ’em in regularly at Joe’s Pub. The next show is Oct 13, 14 & 15 at the brand spankin’ new Joes’ Pub ~ a battle of the bands ~ Phil Collins vs. Peter Gabriel.
The Losers Lounge has deeply influenced my writing. Here’s a short tale I wrote after a Losers show in December 2008.
Whipped Cream and Other Delights
Whipped Cream & Other Delight
Tony Zajkowski crooned at the Loser’s Lounge tribute to Burt Bacharach last week at Joe’s Pub.
You say this guy, this guy’s in love with you.
Yes I’m in love, who looks at you the way I do?
Tony nailed the tune with his duel fuel & prop martini glass. As always, Joe McGinty, David Terhune & the Kustard Kings delivered. Hal David was there in spirit and the song reeled me back.
1968 ~ I worshipped Julie Wilfinger from St. Joseph’s grammar school, but Julie loved Julio Marcovich. Julio had a high end Grundig portable radio with titanic speakers. It was FM radio’s second year and WNEW was playing our music virtually commercial free. The classic radio with the wood grill and stainless steel knobs was catnip to the girls. Julio wooed Julie with his music maker.
Julie had smooth olive skin, a tomboy’s energy and charm, and two scoops of peach ice cream that made regular appearances when the top buttons loosened on her man’s tailored shirt ~ her summer uniform with cut off shorts and white sneakers. Glasses on a cute girl’s face turned boys to mush. Julie’s glasses were always a little crooked on her nose and perfect that way. Julie liked wrestling the boys, when she sweat her skin glowed. If I made her laugh she lightly touched my nose. I craved that. Down the park, she’d let you take you her up on the swings, and she was the only girl who would take the boys up on a swing. All the other girls thought that was outrageous, but she didn’t care. Because everyone knew, she belonged to Julio, and Julio belonged to her. My heart broke with this knowledge.
Julio carried the radio on his shoulder like a shipping crate and Julie held his free arm. When they passed me sitting on the stoop alone, Julio would give me a nod, he was two years older than me and owed me no greeting at all, so the nod was generous. Julie gave me a little smile, and then they’d be gone. I’d half sing under my breath… “Say you’re in love, in love with this guy, if not I’ll just die…”
Julie kissed me once when she was drunk at a St. Stephen’s dance in March 1969. I banked the kiss.
1965 ~ Herb Alpert’s released his Whipped Cream LP and the record world exploded. I was in 5th grade and needed to know what was going on, and the only place to know what was going on was the basement of Woolworth’s Five and Ten on 86th Street in Yorkville. Every Friday and Saturday night, my brother, Rory, and me would go there to discover the new releases and go through our favorite records.
We stood in front of the record counters for so long, both of us would have to pee bad, but they never, ever, let you use the bathroom in Woolworth’s. It was waste of time to ask, so Rory and I did the “pee pee dance.” We’d bounce up and down in the aisle, going from record row to record row, keeping our legs moving to hold it in. This drove the Woolworth’s clerk crazy.
“Stop dancing!”
“We’re not dancing.”
“Your legs are going up and down fast, that’s dancing.”
“We’re looking. The music in our heads is making our feet move.”
“That’s dancing.”
“I can’t dance, my Dad said I have no rhythm. Look at me.”
“I can’t dance either,” Rory added.
“If you don’t stop you’ll have to leave.” Then the clerk stormed away.
We never left, we never stopped… we kept going through the records, rarely buying one. Only when we were close to death from holding it in, did we stop the pee pee dance and run home.
That’s half of the Whipped Cream story.
Look at the record cover above. Christmas Eve arrived early when this Lp came out. Because, that picture of Dolores Erickson lathered in whipped cream was the best Playboy cover ever, and I could look at it for as long as I wanted, without someone yelling at me me to put it down. In the candy store and the barber shop we weren’t allowed in the men’s magazine areas, but now, Herb Alpert puts out an album cover better than any Playboy I’d ever seen. And all I needed to do was use my imagination and that album cover became my favorite picture of all time. When we looked at copies of Whipped Cream in the store, they were manhandled so many times the plastic on each album was worn or torn at the corners.
A Taste of Honey, a good song, Beatles did it too, but it was so besides the point. The Whipped Cream album cover was the thing, and any boring Yorkville night was less boring, when we got to look through the records, find the naughty covers and torture the store’s clerk.
1962 ~ I was eight years old, sitting on my 83rd Street stoop with nothing to do and no friends around to do nothing with. I felt blue. I had my grandfather’s grey plastic eight transistor radio to my ear, listening to the Scott Muni show on WABC. A song came on I’d never heard before, and the horns went right through me… I was in Spain at a bullfight and the crowd was full of senors and senoritas, dressed up fancy, all roused up and ready to dance. After the song, the DJ said, “that was Lonely Bull by Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass.” I was happy and confused. Glad to be alone, thinking about this new song that tickled my ears and took me away to somewhere fantastic. The horns sad notes warmed me up, made me feel better and I wondered, how does music do that do you?
December 2008 ~ Tony Z pulled the Joe’s Pub audience in on the song’s final verse. I was back at the show, and I sang along…
I need your love, I want your love
say you’re in love, in love with this guy,
If not, I’ll just die.
… as the horn faded away, I felt Julie Wilfinger touch my nose.
