Okay, okay, it wasn’t all bad. I was in my mid-twenties. I was living free and easy in the big city. I had a job that almost paid my bills.
There was a bodega across the street from my studio apartment on West One Hundredth and Manhattan Avenue. Nobody spoke much English in the bodega, and I knew very little Spanish, but all I could afford to buy and knew how to cook was bologna, bread, and beer. So it worked out okay. The people who owned the store were very nice. I think they took pity on me.
There was a jazz bar a couple of blocks away on Amsterdam Avenue. Almost everybody who went to the bar was Black. I obviously wasn’t, but I got to be a regular. I was quiet, polite, and occasionally had a funny line for the bartender.
The place had live music every night. Late one evening, in comes the great Joe Cocker. He saunters up to the house band. They chat. They laugh. They chat some more. Then Joe plops down and plays the piano and sings for about two hours. “With a Little Help from My Friends” (the greatest cover ever), “Delta Lady.” American blues. A lot of improvisational jazz.
It was unbelievable to be one of about thirty people in the room hearing this set. Almost unreal. I really needed to get home because I had ad hell in the morning, but I couldn’t leave.
Best thing that happened to me since I’d worked at the Fillmore East.