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Outside the Cafe Wha?, November 25th, 1965
Elijah is having a smoke outside in frigid November weather. He's at yet another gig, an indifferent crowd. No matter how many gigs he plays or songs he writes, he can't seem to break through. Elijah glances at Marty, the burly bouncer for the venue who is also enjoying a smoke outside. "Hey Marty, have you heard my single on the radio yet?" he asks, releasing a puff of smoke out into the night.
Marty chuckled and shook his head, "Nah, kid, I ain't heard it yet."
Elijah shrugged, took another drag of his cigarette, and said emphatically "I think it's gonna be a hit. It's good stuff, some real folky Phil Ochs shit, you know?"
"Yeah, well we'll see. If it starts playing on the radio stations old farts like me listen to, maybe people will come to your shows. That's what it takes, man. You gotta get your name out there. Marty emphasized, gesturing with his hands toward the city skyline.
Elijah sighs. He thinks to himself, "Yeah, I've heard this all before. I'm talented but I'm not getting anywhere. It's like the city is swallowing me whole. What does my talent get me if no one wants to hear my shit?"
"You got any advice for me?" he asks Marty.
"Advice? Kid, you need more than advice. You need luck, connections, and perfect timing. It's a whole different world here. You've got to navigate it right, or you'll get lost."
Elijah finishes his cigarette and stamps it out with the toe of his boot, "I guess you're right Marty. It's fucking tough out here though."
Elijah re-enters the Cafe Wha? weighed down by disappointment and with a lump in his throat. The ambient sounds of the café surround him, the soft hum of conversations, a nearby guitar strumming, and the dim, smoky atmosphere.
He takes an open seat next to some people around his age and watches a folk trio play their set. They're singing the same old folk songs that everyone in the city sings. Elijah turns to one of the people he's sitting next to and leans in towards him. "You can only hear 'This Land is Your Land' so many times before you want to blow your brains out, am I right?" There's been a growing divide between the more "folkie purists" and the more laid-back people who welcome change in music. Elijah finds himself more on the latter side.
Elijah chuckles and nudges the man, but he just glares at him shaking his head in disagreement before looking back towards the performance. Elijah awkwardly turns his head away, looking down at the floor.
"Shit," he thinks to himself, "I'm not trying to be a dick. I thought that was pretty funny. Must be a die-hard folkie."
***
The next morning Elijah wakes up in his small apartment, still feeling disheartened from the night before. He fumbles his way out of his blanket-strewn bed. Though the night before was hard, he shakes the cobwebs out and looks forward to another day. Sitting down on the edge of his bed, he rummages through his faded jeans that are on the floor. There are only a few more dollars left. Elijah anxiously sighs as he knows his rent is due soon. He picks up his guitar and strums a few chords. Outside his window, the city is waking up, bustling with life. The gentle hum of cars fills the streets, and people hurry along the sidewalks, their footsteps creating a rhythmic percussion that echoes in Elijah's head. Neon signs from jazz clubs and diners flickered to life, casting colorful reflections on the rain-slicked pavement. The distant sound of saxophones and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee from nearby cafes added to the ambiance of these New York streets. He sighs and wonders why he doesn't feel like a part of it. Looking over at the record player on his bedside table, he picks up the 45 of his own single "New York Ferry Reverie," and places it on the player. Strumming along to the song, he recalls the moment when he first debuted and released it.
***
April 23rd, 1965 (7 months earlier)
The Gaslight Cafe, 116 Macdougal Street
Elijah is anxiously waiting backstage before his first performance at the popular Gaslight Cafe. He paces back and forth with his acoustic guitar slung across his back. The wool fabric on his black turtleneck itches and he nervously scratches at it. Another musician is sitting in a chair, green oval sunglasses perched ever so slightly on the tip of his nose. "Man, Dylan really pissed off a lot of people last week at Newport, huh?" the musician says.
Elijah stops pacing and nods. "Yeah, I was there at the Folk Festival. I couldn't believe all the people getting mad at him for having an electric guitar and a band behind him! I get that's not what they were expecting, but to actually 'boo' Bob Dylan? Crazy man."
The musician continues flipping through his newspaper, "Well, the people want folk singers, not rock and roll singers." He then pulls the corner of his newspaper down and raises an eyebrow at Elijah "You are a folk singer, right?"
"Uhh..yeah, of course!" Elijah responds awkwardly, smiling. "I wouldn't have a gig here if I wasn't, right?"
"Alright, man." The musician says, chuckling, "Well you better play real good or they're gonna eat you alive out there." Just then, a voice comes booming from the stage.
"Hey, Elijah. You're up!"
Elijah takes a deep breath and walks towards the stage. He peeks out from behind the curtain and sees a small but excited crowd. Some of the men are also wearing black turtlenecks and chunky, beaded necklaces, the women are wearing black skirts with black pantyhose. Elijah looks down at his own worn-out leather chukka boots and listens to the MC begin his introduction.
"Alllllright, everybody. We've had a boss night so far, real boss. We have another cat about to come on stage and he's here all the way from Canada. He's only been here in the Village for a few months so let's give him a welcoming round of applause! Dig, Elijah Macdoooougggalllll!"
The audience politely claps as Elijah slowly walks onstage and sits down on the wooden stool placed in the center.
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He begins tuning his guitar and smiles at the crowd. "Thanks for the introduction, Chip," Elijah says, methodically turning the tuning knobs on his acoustic guitar. "Like he said, I came here a little while ago from Ontario. You know, I got tired of living in a cold, snowy place...so I came to New York in December."
A few chuckles ripple through the audience at Elijah's joke. Elijah smirks, strumming a few chords of his guitar. "But honestly, it's been a gas here in the Village so far, and I'd like to play a song I wrote about it all," Elijah says, making himself more comfortable on the stool. "It's called New York Ferry Reverie."
Well, I hopped aboard a ferry, headed to New York town
With the wind blowin' in my hair and the water all around
The skyline gettin' closer, my heart beatin' fast
I knew I had to get there, my dreams were comin' at last
I left behind a cold grey town where nothin' ever seemed to change
Where the folks were always frownin' and the skies were always grey
But I had a fire burnin' deep, a passion for my sound
And I knew that New York City was the place I had to be found
New York Ferry, gonna find my way around
New York Ferry, gonna make some sweet new sounds
Well, I hopped aboard a ferry, headed to New York town
With the wind blowin' in my hair and the water all around
Touching down on Broadway, the journey took too long
But as I looked at the city, I began to sing this song.
New York Ferry, gonna find my way around
New York Ferry, gonna make some sweet new sounds
As the final chords echo through the intimate venue, the smoky air is filled with a chorus of snaps and cheers, the audience expressing their appreciation for Elijah's ode to their city. Elijah, with a contented grin on his face, acknowledges the applause with a humble nod.
Elijah plays for another 20 minutes, mixing mostly traditional folk ballads and some Dylan. After he's finished, he places the guitar gently on its stand and stands up, the spotlight casting a warm glow on his face. "Thank you, thank you," Elijah says, his voice carrying a mix of gratitude and passion. "I'm glad you dug my set. Good night."
Outside the venue, under the glow of neon signs and the distant hum of the city, Elijah finds himself surrounded by people eager to share their thoughts on his performance. A young couple approaches him, expressing how his lyrics resonated with their own experiences in the city. Elijah nods, genuinely interested in their stories. A guy in a leather jacket offers him a cigarette, and they share a moment discussing the history of the Village.
The night air is filled with the sounds of the city—car horns, distant music, and the murmur of conversations. Elijah leans against the brick wall, absorbing the vibrant atmosphere that drew him to New York in the first place.
***
Elijah opens his eyes, back in the present moment as the needle on the record player reaches the end of his single. The room is left in the soft pulse of the record player winding down and Elijah, grabbing a cigarette from his table, lights it up, takes a drag, and sighs deeply.
"What the fuck happened?" he says out loud to himself, taking another look at the record sleeve. "There seemed to be momentum after the Gaslight gig and I thought people were gonna buy the single, but it never happened. It's almost like one day I was on the brink of breaking to the next level but now I'm still slumming it at dive bars, trying to scrounge up enough money to eat."
While sipping his coffee, Elijah picks up the day's newspaper and, while leafing through it, he sees an article about the wave of groups making noise in San Francisco. Groups fusing pop and folk into a new sound that's capturing the attention of the West Coast scene. Elijah feels a spark of inspiration as he reads the article.
"Maybe this is the kind of opportunity I've been looking for. Frisco looks hip. Real hip. Maybe this is where it'll all happen." he thinks to himself, smiling widely at the newspaper.
Elijah starts researching the scene in San Francisco, learning about the groups that are making waves and the venues that are hosting them. He scours newspapers for reviews of the latest happenings in the West Coast music world, immersing himself in the sounds of the emerging folk-rock fusion and the revolutionary scene thriving in the Haight-Ashbury district. Finding himself dreaming of sunny skies and open highways and imagining the thrill of performing for audiences that are hungry for new sounds and experiences, he decides that he's going to pack up his guitar and head west.
Elijah walks to the Cafe Wha?. It's not open yet but Marty always lets him hang out and drink beer there. Marty grins as Elijah sits down. "Why do you look so serious, kid?" Marty asks.
"I gotta tell you something, Marty." Elijah nods his head slowly. "Yeah, man. So, this will be the last time for a long time I'll be here. I decided I'm gonna hitchhike to California and try to make it there. There's a scene happening that I need to at least try to be a part of."
Marty cracks open a beer, hands it to Elijah, and thinks about it a bit. "Shit, that's a big move, kid. You sure about it?"
Elijah nods, "Yeah, I'm done with this city. It's just not working out for me, like I'm just spinning my wheels here, you know? I need a fresh start, somewhere new and exciting. California sounds perfect for me, man. I think it's where I need to be."
Marty smiles. "Well, I wish you the best, kid. Don't let anyone hold you back, okay?"
Elijah finishes his beer and stands up, he shakes Marty's hand and heads back to his apartment to pack up his life. He sprawls out a map on his cluttered apartment floor, tracing his finger along the winding roads that connect the East to the West. He takes a deep breath and looks out the window. He can't help but sigh with relief at the thought of leaving behind the relentless chill of the city.
"It's been a tough year here in New York," Elijah speaks out loud to himself, "I don't know what's gonna happen out west, and I'm gonna miss this city in a way, but I'm sure as hell not gonna miss bitter winds and icy sidewalks or the gray skies that seem to linger endlessly. I think the indifference of the guarded, distant, stubborn, and stuck-in-their-ways people I'm gonna miss the least. See ya down the line, NYC." Before leaving his apartment, he decides to write a letter to his mother.
"Dear Ma,
I'm happy to hear you're still doing better than when I first moved away. I didn't want to leave you in the hospital, but we both you're the boss, so when you told me to go follow my dreams, I wasn't going to say no. I'd like to say I already achieved my dreams here after only a year and some, but...it's been hard. People are hard here. I don't want to sound like I'm giving up, because I can just hear Dad's voice in my head every time I get to that point, but it's been a struggle.
I'm writing you to tell you that I'm leaving New York and hitchhiking to San Francisco. I know that sounds crazy and it's on the other side of the country, but I already have everything mapped out. I have a few bucks left so I'm gonna hitch a Greyhound bus ride to Chicago and take it from there. I know, I know. I'll be safe, don't worry.
I don't know what you'll say to Dad about all of this. I don't think he'd be happy about it, but then, I don't think he'd be happy if I came home either. Just tell him whatever. You're always good at knowing what to say. I just want to make you proud.
Your little angel,
Love, Elijah