New York City and The Lyric of the Week Award

The lyric of the week award goes to NYC singer/songwriter Mike Doughty, whose new record Golden Delicious was released this week:

“I wrote a song about your car, I wrote it with your hips in mind.”

Speaking of Mike Doughty, a funny thing happened to me the first time The Princes of Hollywood played New York City. We were covering Doughty tune, “American Car”, an old favorite that we re-worked with folk instruments and big, three-part harmonies. I introduced the song by saying this: “here’s a song by our favorite New York songwriter Mike Doughty”. We played the song and the show continued without much ado.

After our set I was milling about by the bar, probably drinking something viciously over-priced, when I was approached by an unassuming, average-build, moderately Caucasian individual. He said he really enjoyed our set and asked when our new record would be coming out (A Change of Venue had not yet been released, as this was February of 2007 –Ed.). We made small talk briefly about he music, our new record, the weather in NYC in February before he paused to inform me, without any lead-in whatsoever:
“Just so you know, it’s not really cool to say ‘negro’ around here…you know, in the city were a little more careful…”
I just stood there, my face as blank as a new sheet of paper, completely incredulous.
“You know what I mean…?” he continued.
Me: still nothing. I simply did not understand. An awkward moment passed before I finally managed to stutter, “I beg your pardon?”
“You know, during your set you introduced that song as being by your ‘favorite negro songwriter’…”
“I…I mean…when did…so you think…what?” was approximately my answer. Harlan had wandered over to our conversation at this point, and seemed as puzzled as I did.
“What song was this?” I asked, figuring he must have been watching another show and mis-recognized me. I was beginning to regain my senses.
“You know, the one about the car, American car something or other…”
Harlan and I seemed to reach a moment of realization simultaneously, as we both began to explain, rather embarrassedly and emphatically that I had said “NEW YORK songwriter,” definitely not Negro songwriter.
With the crisis adverted, things got stale in the conversation rather quickly. And them something weird happened: I got pissed off.
I first I thought the guy was simply a concerned citizen, diplomatically calling attention to erroneous statement made in a public setting, but as the dust settled on the debating of my possible use of an ethnic slur while on microphone, I began to feel otherwise. It was as if the whole of New York City had taken a big dump of pomposity and arrogance right onto my lap. Oh, these poor Midwestern boys, our audient must have thought, they’re so behind the times. I imagined at that moment all of the denizens of New York City quietly snickering at our ineptitude, assured in their smug self-indulgence that while they may have problems, at least they live in the “real world”, not some backwater shit-hole like Ohio, where bigots roam free, incest happens frequently, and everyone rides into town on tractors. He even referred to his New York as “the City”. What a dick. I didn’t think to tell him that I was born in the state of New York, not far from his idyllic burg, his fortress of political correctness.

I lingered on these thoughts even as we left the bar, trudging through the snow back to our brownstone Bonita (to quote David Mead) in Brooklyn, my head full of brimstone and ire. And while I continue to find myself confused and incredulous of the incident, I still love New York City, it’s vigor and cancerous energy—it really is an intense and wondrous place. So here is my deal, New York City: if I agree that you’re the best, can you stop pretending like the rest of the world doesn’t exist?