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ON RECORD
Drop the needle anywhere
The streets, the stoops and the clubs are New York's. The records belong to the people who made them. The people are ours. Step onto the turntable in the record store and the whole shop turns round you. Stand on the photographer's mark on Jones Street and the snow stops for a square picture, then walk on and somebody takes your arm. Walk left and right in front of the tenement on St. Marks Place and the tenants change. Chop the corner of Ludlow Street on a sampler. Push the silver clouds, peel the banana slowly and sit three minutes for a screen test. Survive the pit on the Bowery while the flyers rewrite themselves behind your back. Keep the break going on two turntables in the Bronx until the room goes off. Hold still on East 126th Street and fifty seven musicians pose. Walk to the point of the Vanguard and the trio swells, and so do you. Rub the stump at the Apollo before you take the stage, or meet the Sandman. Then look straight up the Chelsea stairwell.










