OCTOBER 12, 1998 BY JIM WINDOLF
THE BALLAD OF BURT AND ELVIS
ELVIS COSTELLO AND BURT Bacharach climbed aboard the stage in the basement of the Virgin Megastore on Union Square. It was not the hippest room in town.
The Virgin Megastore is a monstrosity. A disk jockey sits in a booth, overlooking the floor like a cheap god. There are tables where you can have coffee and croissants. There’s an escalator. It’s part state-of-the-art record store, part hell.
“This is the first time I’ve played in a concert hall with an escalator in the middle,” Mr. Costello said into the microphone.
Mr. Bacharach, 70, tinkled the first few notes of “Toledo,” a bouncy ballad from the just-released album Painted From Memory. The new duo seemed tentative, not quite acquainted with each other or the song. Mr. Bacharach played in an easy, decorative style that might have sounded mushy to fans of venomous Costello songs like “Pump It Up” or “I Want You.” And Mr. Costello was singing in a voice that could easily put off fans of Mr. Bacharach’s work with pop divas and “divos” like Dionne Warwick, Dusty Springfield, Tom Jones and Luther Vandross. But then he sloughed off his jitters for the third song, “Painted From Memory.” It’s a ballad about an artist who paints a portrait of his ex-lover, only to imagine, jealously, that “those eyes, they smile for someone else.” Mr. Costello brought the song to life. It was raw. It was great. So this record store basement might not have been the hippest room in town, but that didn’t matter anymore.
After writing one song with Mr. Bacharach for the 1995 movie Grace of My Heart, the monumental ballad “God Give Me Strength,” Mr. Costello had asked Mr. Bacharach if they might continue the collaboration for his first Polygram album. Soon he was meeting his hero for songwriting trysts in New York hotel rooms.
Some reviews for Painted From Memory have called it a masterpiece, some have called it crap. “It’s very hard to avoid them completely,” he said.
Wasn’t he curious to see what they were saying about Mr. Bacharach? “I’m more than familiar with the casual rudeness of modern writing and the overfamiliarity of people who imagine that through the price of admission that they get a license to insult you personally. And I would be very unhappy, and I can be extremely vindictive, about people who do those things needlessly, particularly when it’s visited on somebody who’s perhaps not expecting it, whereas I’m kind of expecting it all the time. I would be sad to see that done needlessly and mindlessly to Burt, somebody I really admire and who I’ve invited into a world that is slightly different in the way things are appraised. I don’t think it’s healthy for people to be completely critically inoculated, but it’s about time that people started to recognize the real substance of his music.”
MAY 25, 1998 BY WOODY ALLEN
THOUGHTS OF A KNOW-NOTHING FAN
I AM ALWAYS ASKED TO WRITE ABOUT BASKETBALL. PEOPLE labor under the mistaken impression that, since I attend the Knicks games and have done so regularly for over 25 years, I’ve learned something or that I have insights and observations that are worth listening to, but they are wrong. I have only opinions and feelings based on nothing much but emotions, and I have gripes and theories, often crackpot. Mostly, I sit quietly at the Garden hoping for a close game, hating the blowouts, even if it’s the Knicks on top, enjoying the fans, marveling at the dancers and barely tolerating the endless insipid promotional stunts during timeouts.
When asked why it is so important that the Knicks win, since at the end of the game or even the season, nothing in life is affected one way or the other, I can only answer that basketball or baseball or any sport is as dearly important as life itself. After all, why is it such a big deal to work and love and strive and have children and then die and decompose into eternal nothingness?
To me, it’s clear that the playoffs or 61 home runs, a no-hitter, the Preakness, the Jets, or human existence can all be much ado about nothing, or they can all have a totally satisfying, thrilling-to-the-marrow quality. In short, putting the ball into the hoop is of immense significance to me by personal choice and my life is more fun because of it. Not that I ever thought of becoming a basketball player. My height was insufficient for a serious career, although to this day, if I play in a game with kids 8 years and under, I am a tremendously effective shot blocker.
Now, a favorite crackpot notion of mine is the following: I think the Knicks never regained their past championship form because they sinned by trading Walt Frazier to Cleveland. I can’t prove this, but those who have read “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” know what the shooting of that bird did. Not that Frazier was an Albatross. Quite the contrary. He was, in my opinion, the greatest of all Knickerbocker players, and he was for a time not only the soul of the team but one of the spirits of this city.
I recall him after a routine night of superb basketball, tooling around in his chauffeured Rolls, dressed, to put it mildly, like an extrovert and lighting up the various night spots of Manhattan like he had just lit up the Garden. Clyde came up with the Knicks and was a major cog in the peerless machine that took two championships. It should have entitled him to tenure in New York forever. Dealing him to the Cavaliers upset some balance in the cosmic order, and the fruit of this curse could be felt from the days of Spencer Haywood, through Bob McAdoo, Michael Ray Richardson, Lonnie Shelton, the Bulls, the Rockets, Rick Pitino, Hubie Brown, Mike Fratello, last year’s brawl in Miami, many heartbreaking late baskets by Reggie, by Michael, even by Sam Cassell.
Incidentally, I should mention here that I’m totally prejudiced toward a guard-oriented or small forward-oriented game. I’ve never enjoyed center-focused basketball, and watching Wilt Chamberlain, great as he was, or David Robinson or Shaquille O’Neal get the ball down low and put it in is not my idea of a thrill. That’s why, when Patrick Ewing got hurt, the Knicks became a much weaker but much more exciting team. There’s no question Ewing is the franchise player and one of the greats in all the years of this sport. Can you imagine if he had been properly staffed over the past decade? Picture the Knicks without him. They would have languished near the bottom.
Illustrated by Drew Friedman
Now conjure up an image of Patrick over the past decade on the Bulls. With a center like Ewing, given their team, Chicago would have gone undefeated. Ewing would be my all-time Knick center on a team comprised of himself, Walt Frazier, Earl Monroe, Dave DeBusschere and Bernard King. Some might lobby for Willis Reed and while I’d want him on my team, I wouldn’t start him. Yet as soon as Ewing was lost to injury the games became thrilling, often being decided by a point or two in the final seconds. The guards ran the club, the guards and Larry Johnson, a forward of incredible agility (and fragility) with super moves that make him, like Hakeem Olajuwon, an unusually exciting low post player. (Olajuwon is the one center who has been some fun for me to watch perform over the years.)
As far as the other Knicks guards go, I think both Charlie Ward and Chris Childs have certain fine individual skills and could learn from one another. If a science-fiction machine were available to combine both these guards into a single player, New York would have its great point guard.
And finally, what can one say about Charles Oakley? Or can one say enough? Oakley has been a consistently tremendous ballplayer for New York who contributes mightily night after night, season after season, and actually gets better with age. Of course I’d hate to wake up in the middle of the night and find him hovering over my bed with that look on his face, but on the court he’s worth every cent they pay him.
I also admire the Knicks’ coach, although I, like Larry Bird (one of the many ways we’re similar), am a firm believer in the limits of coaching. It has been said that a good coach is someone who, if you give him a good team, will not screw up with it. I’ve always felt, if Jeff Van Gundy had coached the Bulls over the past decade and Phil Jackson guided the Knicks, that for the most part the record books would stand pretty much the way they are written today. The truth is, I always believed that I could hav
e coached the Lakers in the years of Magic Johnson, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and James Worthy and if not me then certainly my mother.
Having given you a number of my emotional feelings about the Knicks, a team I love, let me give you a few of my less socially acceptable notions.
First—I happen to like Reggie Miller. I liked it when he hit the three-pointer that tied the game with the Knicks. It set the stage with a drama that Reggie, who deserves to be a Knick and play in New York, seems to possess. The only thing that went wrong in my fantasy scenario was that the Knicks did not utilize the five-plus seconds they had left to win the game and make the afternoon a thrilling one for New York. If, as Reggie claims, he saw in the eyes of the home team that the heart went out of New York in the overtime, then that is unforgivable. The Knicks had the Pacers in a tie at the end of regulation at friendly Madison Square Garden. It’s a situation wherein they should dismantle their opponents.
Another unpopular archvillain I always liked to watch, and wished in years past was on the Knicks, was Bill Laimbeer. Constantly accused of being a dirty player, he would have been a huge plus for New York despite all the derision he got when he competed against us. I feel that way about Dennis Rodman, too. The fans in Chicago love him and we would, too, if he paraded his psychotic vaudeville here.
And what about Marv Albert? I’d like to see him back doing the New York broadcast. I miss that voice, full of city street urgency. He made the games exciting to listen to, and to deny him his place as the voice of the Knicks is unworthy of those who are empowered to hire. (Not to get off the subject of basketball, but I’m a firm believer that a Baseball Hall of Fame that excludes Pete Rose embarrasses itself.)
And what is all this postgame praying? Those new fashionable prayer huddles—what goes on? They can’t be thanking God for winning, because how do the teams with the losing records explain things? (“The Lord loves our team—He sabotages us so we can get a high draft pick.”) The players also cannot be thanking God for keeping them from injury, because they’re injured all the time. My theory is they’re thanking God for the huge increases in salaries over the past few years. Only a very benevolent Supernatural Being could be responsible for some of those numbers certain players earn.
My favorite player in the league is Charles Barkley. Not only has he been thrilling over the years, but his performances have been original and funny. I find his attitude of wanting a championship ring, but not letting it be a life-threatening event should he fail to obtain one, quite refreshing. He, like Dennis Rodman (although he brings it off with much more flair and aplomb), does not give an inch to the sanctimony that permeates professional sports.
Incidentally, lest the reader not think I’m totally blasphemous in my tastes and feeling, I should point out that I experienced a true religious epiphany watching the All-Star Game this year when the “torch” was passed from Michael to Kobe Bryant. For a minute, I thought I saw angels at Madison Square Garden. My feeling about Kobe is that he is a knockout talent and they should encourage him to play a complete game with assists, rebounds and defense and not use him to come in and make circus shots. But the concept of passing a torch I did find a hoot, no matter how many times the television announcers used the phrase; it’s a concept alien to basketball, which is a team sport, and Michael Jordan has not created a holy order like the papacy, where there is a line of accession. (If the smoke is light gray, the new Pope is Kobe; if it’s dark gray, Grant Hill’s been chosen.)
* * *
Finally, I would not like to end this little rumination without an interview that I dedicate to an old favorite writer of mine, Frank Sullivan, whose appreciation of clichés would have hit a new high had he lived long enough to hear one of today’s basketball players.
INTERVIEW BETWEEN FRANK SULLIVAN’S CLICHÉ EXPERT AND AN N.B.A. STAR:
Int: In the upcoming playoff game, where will your team be staying?
Star: We’re going to try and stay within ourselves.
Int: But you’ll be trying to take your game where?
Star: To another level.
Int: By having your point guard do what?
Star: By raising his game a notch.
Int: And where do you plan on finding the game?
Star: I’m going to just let the game come to me.
Int: By hitting who?
Star: The open man.
Int: And staying—
Star: Focused.
Int: And what kind of minutes will your bench give you?
Star: Quality minutes.
Int: And how would you characterize your aging superstar?
Star: Oh, he’s a warrior.
Int: So why didn’t you win yesterday?
Star: We didn’t take care of business.
Int: What didn’t you get done?
Star: We didn’t get the job done.
Int: Rather than being voted M.V.P., what would you rather have?
Star: A ring.
(With this, the referee, who has been listening to this drivel, awards a double technical and the show is over.)
* * *
OCTOBER 19, 1998 BY KATE KELLY
Ex-Hotshot Banker at Morgan Stanley Faces Fraud Charge
CHRISTIAN CURRY HAD EVERYTHING going for him. Fresh out of Columbia College, he was working as an investment banker at Morgan Stanley Dean Witter & Company during the greatest stock-market surge of the century. He was dining at Le Cirque 2000 and checking out strip clubs like Flashdancers and Ten’s with clients. But in April of this year, everything fell apart.
First, nude photos taken of a visibly aroused Mr. Curry appeared across eight pages of Playguy, a gay pornographic magazine. Soon after the pictures began circulating at Morgan Stanley, Mr. Curry was bounced from his job. And then things got worse. On Aug. 20, in a small park on East 43rd Street, Mr. Curry was arrested on five felony counts, including computer trespass, tampering with physical evidence and fifth-degree conspiracy.
The police say Mr. Curry, who is black, tried to hire someone to hack into the Morgan Stanley computer system as part of an attempt to paint himself as the victim of racial discrimination. He was, according to police, trying to plant racist interoffice e-mails that could serve as evidence in a potential lawsuit against the company. But there was a big problem: The hacker Mr. Curry allegedly asked to help him with this job was actually an undercover New York City police officer.
“He was surprised,” said New York Police Department deputy inspector Robert Martin. “He thought he was dealing with some rogue hacker, and we moved in.”
Mr. Curry declined to comment either on his arrest or on the criminal charges. But his girlfriend, Marisa Wheeler, said he disputes the police claims.
Morgan Stanley has repeatedly said that Mr. Curry was fired for abusing his corporate expense account. The company would not comment on Mr. Curry’s claims of discrimination.
NOVEMBER 16, 1998 BY PHILIP WEISS
Wife Buys $800 Sweater, Drives Husband Crazy!
I WAS TALKING TO MY FRIEND JIM ON THE PHONE when he said that his office mate, who is a friend of my wife, and my wife had gone shopping and encouraged one another to buy $800 sweaters. I don’t think that happened, I said. Maybe my wife’s friend bought an $800 sweater, not my wife. Jim said, Gosh, I hope I haven’t created any problem. I said No, because that had to be wrong.
I only asked my wife about it that weekend. We were driving to Home Depot.
“But I showed it to you,” she said. “That black one.”
I vaguely remembered her coming down the stairs several weeks before. Not that she’d said a word about the price.
Then she said, “Look, this is none of your business, Jim never should have told you that.”
I was stunned and didn’t know what to say (she was driving, she has a learner’s permit). I wasn’t sure whether to fold on it not being my business and burn inside, put it down to my wife’s superior wisdom, or make something of it. But the more I tried to be quiet, the more something rose in
me, my values. “But we don’t do that, that’s beyond extravagance,” I said.
She started to quarrel then; I could sense her quailing just in her cheeks and, seeing the advantage, I poured it on. When someone we know spends money like that, you say it’s gross, I said. That what you could get for $800 was a ticket to India. I don’t know if I could be married to someone who spends that much money on a sweater.
My wife said she’d been planning to return it. Amazingly, she still had the receipt.
Then the next day when I brought it up, she said, “If you say another word about that sweater, I’m going to paint the bathroom in it.”
I went to lunch with Jim near the Flatiron Building.
“It’s not that we can’t afford it,” I said. “But those values are appalling.”
He held up his hand. “I’m sorry. It was naïve of me, but I didn’t know that there existed this sphere in your wife’s life to which you have no entree.”
“But of course there’s that sphere.”
“And you accept that?”
“I don’t have any choice.”
“But what is in the sphere?”
“If I knew what was in it, it wouldn’t be the sphere, would it?” I liked his word. “I have no idea what’s in there.”
The Kingdom of New York: Knights, Knaves, Billionaires, and Beauties in the City of Big Shots Page 31
