Shrine Worship
8 Jan
My visit to The Shrine was a long time coming. This Central Harlem world music venue/performance space/art gallery/restaurant was mentioned to me while reporting in East Harlem a handful of times, and as a journalist I always have to follow-up on a good lead.
The Shrine is modeled after Nigerian musician and activist Fela Kuti’s original haunt. The place pulses with breath and magic and is nothing short of fantastic. Indeed, it is a Shrine: a room-sized alter dedicated to musical greats and rich cultures where those humbled by the beauty of the arts come to worship. The walls are plastered with Disco and Motown record covers – Diana, Aretha, Tina, to name a few – in their huge-Afro heydays. Rainbow letters, the kind used for a child’s birthday party, spelled out ‘Harlem United’ on the back wall. A disco ball and an antique chandelier hung from the ceiling; oddly, each seemed equally appropriate. The black and white patterned tapestry behind the stage lent a homey feel to the space. The only thing that felt out-of-place were the $13 cocktails, but after all, this is Manhattan.
Friends and I sat around picking off of a Mediterranean plate and a basket of plantains. The first performer to take the stage was a Japanese jazz signer who cooed to the audience, “I am so happy, so so happy to sing for you today.” I admit, I was skeptical, but she could scat and croon along with the best of them, even when her thick Japanese accent emerged when singing elongated vowels. Still, her covers of old standards like Blue Moon and Blackbird just didn’t sound liked I remembered. I missed the scratchy recordings of the masters, yet she sang a view originals and I can now say I’ve heard jazz in Japanese. I began to feel nostalgic for a time and place I’ve never known.
The second set was The Plaine Truth, a rock group of incongruous dudes. The classic beats were refreshing, but titles like ‘Pocket Full of Soul” kind of ruined it for me (I’m not sure where I keep my soul, but it sure isn’t in my pocket.) I quickly got annoyed when one of those media types (Oh! The media!) stuck his camera near my face to record footage for a show in Brazil. Who knows? You might catch me grooving at the Shrine on a t.v. set in San Paulo.
It is difficult to define the scene, or know who, if anybody, really belongs: the Rastafarians, the neighborhood locals, the awkward looking hipsters, the beat poet-era cats who exude the deep and vibrant aura of artists. Of course, I wonder where I fit in this breakdown, and I think its strange that I mentally arrange people in a grid of ‘the real deal’ and ‘posers’ on one axis, “true music lover” or “artistic dilettante” on the other. I guess all I’m trying to find, and define, is something authentic. As always.