Deep in the heart of Bushwick lies the Halsey stop. It is on the edge of three huge cemeteries: the Mt. Judah, the Trinity and the Knollwood Park. It is where gentrification has yet to spread. On Eldert St., where MTV is supposed to be going in a few months, for God knows what, is probably the new McKibbin lofts. Here, the folks are into partying, living cheaply or just plain being in the cut.
My homie Matt Cross lives here. He is a superb guitarist, but what sets him apart from the hundreds of other guitar-shredders is his lyrics. He would be the lovechild of Tom Waits and Bob Dylan, musically.
So we were at his beautiful apartment/condo/dorm and we went to the third floor to see this dude named Rahul, who seems to be pretty cool and intelligent, due to the Financial Fortunes book that he had on his shelf, and the bottle of Medoc he was sipping, after the cork disintegrated and he had to push it into the bottle to pour some wine; and this huge black dude, who was probably six foot and weighed three hundred pounds, but had the highest sweetest falsetto, and who sweated profusely when he picked up and cradled a large-bottomed pink Zoo York-sweatpants-wearing girl in his lap. He asked me if I wanted to be his driver, since he couldn’t drive after six ‘o’clock after crashing into a schoolbus while picking up a spilled tube of Percosets.
Anyway, if you ever get a chance to go to the Halsey stop in Bushwick, do it. And check out Matt’s next show.