Notes From the Working-Class

I stumbled upon Keith McNally’s memoir in my usual awkward, almost bumbling fashion. I happened to be in New York City with a friend. I had long promised to take her to Balthazar for breakfast. Four empty tables away sat a man alone with his laptop and a book. Astonished that he sat at a table for so long without being gently prodded to get on with it to make room for the next guest, I struck up a conversation.

My neighborhood in the north end, called Down the End by the locals, trilled and thrummed with the unerring twang of guitars. Every boy on the block, talented or not, musically inclined or musically challenged, had mastered the three simple chords to play Wipe Out on the guitar with unerring frequency, regardless of the season or the time of day. From garages and basements, yards, parks and parking lots, impromptu jam sessions broke out into the ubiquitous street sound of drums humping under the sturm and drang of electric guitars.