Confessions of a Yummie (1987)
I was born on October 27, 1958 in Trenton, New Jersey. Like many others of my generation, my first musical instrument was a tennis racket. I used to pull my hair straight down over my eyes and run around, strumming the racket, shouting, "Yeah, yeah, yeah!" at the top of my lungs.
At the tender age of 8, I received my first real guitar. It came with some free lessons at the music store. The first lesson consisted of instruction in the correct and proper method of holding the instrument; the second was how to carry it through doors and around obstacles. The guitar soon found its way into the family attic.
Just before my Bar Mitzvah, I heard a rumor to the effect that playing the guitar was one sure way to impress members of the opposite sex. I promptly dusted off the ol' git-box and bought myself a "how-to" book. Though my social life didn't improve any, I had succumbed to a most debilitating habit that would prove my eventual downfall -- music.
At first, my repertoire consisted of a handful of American and Jewish folk songs, with a few bluegrass tunes thrown in for good measure. As I grew into a "political" teen-- complete with requisite long hair, faded blue denim jacket and flat-top acoustic guitar-- I picked up a choice selection of what Woody Guthrie called "hard-hitting songs for hard-hit people:" Woody's Dust Bowl Ballads, songs of the American labor movement, the Wobblies (the IWW, Industrial Workers of the World), the struggle for civil rights ... even some old Yiddish, Italian and Spanish anarchist anthems.
And then I heard something over the radio which would change my life forever-- old-time country, early blues and Louisiana Cajun/Black Creole music off of scratchy "78s" from the 1920s and '30s. A voice deep inside exclaimed, "Hot Dog!" and I was hooked.
Soon after, I discovered that there was a whole wide world out there full of great music traditions: Hawaiian, Irish, Scottish, Jamaican, Cuban, Puerto Rican, Greek, Turkish, Arab, Chinese, Senegalese, Nigerian, East Indian, Balkan, Spanish Galician, Mexican... the diversity was vast, the variety infinite.
It became clear that learning all I could about these fine old musical gems and spreading the good word of traditional music would be my life's work.
My family was less than enthused.
In my 18th year, I met folks who not only shared my peculiar taste in music but had actually been playing the stuff for years. I was awe-struck. They took me under their collective wing and made me one of their own.
From my new friends and mentors I learned how to spend my last cent on vintage instruments, records, photographs, chatchkas and anything else that was old and dusty. Likewise, they shared with me such valuable arcane knowledge as how to "busk" on the streets for nickels and dimes; play all night, without stop, until sunrise... or 'til your fingers begin bleed; mix gin and tonics; and other secret mystic arts associated with NYC's old-time music enthusiasts.
So now I'm a Yummie (i.e. Young Unemployed Meandering Musician) who works odd jobs-- everything from retail sales to contract urban archaeology-- to make a buck or two while I strive to perform the music I love.
I've fiddled down Broadway in a horse-drawn hay wagon at the height of mid-town traffic; provided musical accompaniment for murder, arson, adultery and a half dozen other criminal and perverse acts against humanity and nature in an Off-Off Broadway play; played on the Brooklyn Bridge with 39 other old-time musicians to accompany 40 modern dancers as they "tripped the light fantastic" across the walkways from Manhattan to Brooklyn, twirling long colorful streamers, in a performance art piece celebrating the Bridge's Centennial; and solemnly performed Jewish klezmer and Scandinavian ceremonial fiddle tunes, decked out in an extremely colorful Hawaiian shirt and fresh flower lei --actually flown in from Hawaii the day before-- for a wedding ceremony in Connecticut... to list but a few of my memorable gigs.
While I am, with all due modesty, an accomplished, veteran performer with a few credits to my name, by far the greatest honor and compliment I've ever received came from a very inebriated older denizen of the boulevard. After one of my many appearances on the greatest concert stage in the world, the sidewalks of New York, the disheveled gentleman in question, in his quaint slurred speech, declared:
"Boy, I'd give up a drink anytime of the day to hear you play!"
-- Shlomo Pestcoe, 1987
Illustration Credits:
Shlomo as a 19th century fiddler. Historic Richmondtown, Staten Island, NY, c.1988. (Ridley Enslow)
