Christmas feels heavy this year. It’s been hard to see the joy and light of the season the last few years, but this year feels especially dark. It’s not really a surprise, given the state of things both here in the US and around the world, but the lack of shock value doesn’t take the edge off.
It has been a struggle on a personal level with a series of events that have led to feeling like chapters of my life closing around me. It has been a year full of endings, and here at the last days of the year, there’s been another round of final chapters being written with big changes left in their wake.
Life is like that, I guess. Eventually, it stops giving you things and begins to take them away. Lately, it’s felt like that’s all it does. But it’s the holiday season, and it’s supposed to be about finding light in the gloom. Illumination when the darkness is at its nadir.
I was reminded of the light in a rather poetic way this evening. It has been a particularly sad day, and I was sitting in my den, dwelling on the aforementioned endings. I was making lists of various problems in my head, something my mother cautioned me against doing many years ago. She was right about it, of course, but I still struggle with it, as I was doing this evening.
It’s cold out, and the ground is covered with snow. There isn’t much wind, and everything is still and silent, so I put some music on to cut the quiet. Having nothing in mind, I just hit ‘random’ on a default mix. The first song that came up didn’t solve any of my problems, but it reminded me that they are not insurmountable.
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A few months back, in October, I took a trip up to New York City to see Jesse Malin’s show, “Silver Manhattan.”
Back in 2023, just days after a celebratory concert for the 20th anniversary of his solo debut “The Fine Art of Self Destruction, Malin suffered a spinal stroke. He was left with paralysis in his legs. It seemed such an exceptionally cruel malady for such an incredibly dynamic performer, who ventured into the crowd at every performance, sometimes singing from the tops of bars, but always moving, a wiry bundle of rock and roll energy. The Jam once sang “Keep on moving, moving, moving your feet,” and that has rarely applied to a performer as much as it did Malin.
Malin, more than anything else, is a fighter, however. He battled through the depression and the hopelessness, eventually journeying to Argentina for treatment he could not get here in the US. There, he dealt with pain, loneliness, and isolation, but used the will of a lifelong St. Mark’s Saint to find a way to overcome.
Last December, at the Beacon Theater in New York City, he stood up on his own and sang “She Don’t Love Me Now,” completing a comeback and opening a new chapter.
I was at that show, and it’s a moment I won’t soon forget. I’ve gotten choked up at concerts before, but I’m not sure I’ve ever outright cried. It was electric and inspiring. Honestly, just fighting through what he did and even getting back on stage at all seems like a miracle, but Jesse has always been a guy who seemed like miracles were his stock in trade.
“Silver Manhattan” is an emotional combination of concert and spoken word play. During it, Malin tells the story of his fall and rise, intermingling it with the story of his life. He has always told stories at his shows, or “bits” as he calls them. “Silver Manhattan” took all those bits and laid them out in a coherent fashion that left me feeling both joyful and spent at the end.
There was more that day that made it so memorable for me, and has me reflecting back on it on this cold December night.
I had arrived in the city several hours before the show. I had to drive back that night after the show, and didn’t have a lot of time, but wanted to spend what I did have available in the city. Without any particular destination in mind, I parked my car next to the Gramercy Theatre and took a walk.
I headed towards the Flatiron building and then took a left down Broadway to head towards the Village. It was a lovely, warm, and sunny day, breaking through after several days of cold and rain. It was a Sunday, and the fine weather had everyone out in the street and in a good mood. There was a vibe in the city that felt like early Summer, rather than Autumn.
After a little bit, I arrived at Union Square Park, which was filled with people and vendors. It looked and felt a bit like a block party. As I took some steps into the park, a busker was setting up.
When he began to play, it stopped me dead in my tracks. He sat with a guitar flat on his lap and played it in a way I have never seen. Rather than strumming it as normal, he played it with a series of slaps, taps, finger picking, and more. His hands were a flurry of movements using what seemed like every part of the guitar to make music unlike anything I’ve ever heard.
As he played, it felt like a spell being cast over the park, with a crowd of people slowly gathering around him, all as transfixed as I was.
He introduced himself as Morf, and between songs he regaled the crowd with tales of meeting Bruce Springsteen, traveling with Mumford and Sons, and more. He played familiar songs in a way that turned them wholly into something new and felt like they channeled the sunshine and positivity that the city had embraced for an afternoon.
Eventually, he told a story about traveling through the great red middle of Australia and getting stuck. The song called ‘Driving Fast’ blew me away. Among his magical guitar playing and phenomenal singing voice, he somehow made a didgeridoo vocalization.
He had his case out for donations, but also happened to be selling cleverly designed USB drives loaded up with his music. I picked one up between songs and have been glad I did since.
Before long, as always seems to be the way of things, the cops came to stop him from playing. Someone had apparently complained, and let me tell you, I have never less understood another human being in my life than upon hearing that someone wanted this man to STOP playing. How can you be so separate from humanity as to complain about beautiful music being played, on a beautiful day, in a beautiful place? It remains a mystery to me.
Regardless of why, the performance ended, the crowd dispersed, and the moment passed. But it was one of those moments of pure magic, where the combination of music, environment, and community comes together and touches something beautiful in the universe.
I would eventually make my way back to the theater and see Jesse Malin’s triumph, which, for me, was now forever connected to this other performance. I’ve since found Morf’s social media, and his music is online and available all around. I’ve been sharing it on Instagram as it comes up and hope that someone else sees it and feels that same magic.
It was the kind of day that lives on in my mind, both the music in the park and the courage of Jesse Malin.
*
Two months later, as I sit here in my cold den, ruminating on endings, the first song that came up when I hit the random button? “Driving Fast” by Morf, from the album I bought that day.
The name of that album?
“Beginning.”
Merry Christmas.
SHOUTING STREET 
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