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by Garry Crystal (writer), February 06, 2007

I was sitting in a bar in New York, the name of which I can't remember but I know it was on 5th Avenue, and I know that it was 5 a.m. because my girlfriend had been announcing the time after each round of drinks bought after 3 a.m. This was becoming slightly irritating to me because as this was my first visit to the U S of A I had been looking forward to sampling the 24 hour bars and clubs and thought, rightly so, that time was not an issue here. I was on holiday after all.

I picked up a copy of The Village Voice and started to scan through in the hope of drowning my personal clock across the table, when I turned the page and saw a picture of Charles Bukowski standing in his kitchen holding a beer in one hand and a smoke in the other with that, “Can life be any easier” grin on his face. The banner splashed across the picture read “BUKOWSKI IS BACK.”

Back from where? It was an advert for a theatre production of South of No North, a collection of Buk short stories and this, suddenly, definitely was next on my list of things to do in the Big Apple. If anything it would keep me out of the bars for a few hours, which in turn would keep my girlfriend happy, as my trip to visit her had consisted mainly of all night Jazz clubs followed by all night comedy clubs and the obligatory many drinks before, during and after.To say she was getting kind of exasperated with this non-stop, four hours of sleep where did the daylight go ride, would be a supreme understatement.

The 29th Street Rep Company is a small, funky theatre just Off-Broadway. Once you've finally managed to find it you proceed up a narrow flight of stairs from the street level and as you come to the entrance and your mind's saying, “this cannot be the place,” you are led into the reception area which is decked out to look like someone's living/kitchen room complete with battered sofas, fridge, toilet stalls etc. We paid our $35 each to a perky little guy who turned out be the Production Stage Manager then waited in the small queue to go into the main theatre. Being used to the large seater theatres of London it was kind of a surprise when we were shown into this 60-seater room with the small stage in front but once the production started you realize the advantage this gives, you can almost touch the actors and concentrate on everything that is going on. It feels like you are actually on the stage with them.

They have the set down to a tee, Bukowski's shabby boarding room; dark, dingy, opera music playing softly and then there he is, sitting in the shadows typing, smoking and slugging from a bottle of wine. It was exactly as I'd imagined it from his stories, but now it was right here in front of me, so real I could smell his grubby underwear.

Stephen Blane who played Buk (and looked pretty much exactly like him) gave it his all and never once went over the top, except when he had to. He showed Bukowski when he was at his larger than life best. He narrated the stories, which unfolded behind him courtesy of the other actors, who took on the various characters in the nine different stories, and they didn't hold back either. I've never heard an audience laugh as much at the humor of, “Stop staring at my tits mister” as Big Bart seduced Honeydew with a huge prosthetic penis bulging through his trousers and you could hear the tension in the air during the story, “A Man” as a drunken George attacks a scathing Constance, screaming out his words in frustration.

The atmosphere during the whole play was one of tension mixed with humor and sadness. They made Buk's stories so alive that for an hour and half you were there, living it and relating to all the emotions running through it, forgetting about all your own non-important problems, and how many films or plays can you say do that successfully.

Two days later I was at another theatre production. A Broadway showing of the Harold Pinter play Betrayed. It had an Oscar-winning actress in the shape of Juliet Binoche and a movie star leading man courtesy of Leiv Schrieber. Although Binoche captured your attention every time she was on stage, the play itself left me slightly cold. Compared to the Bukowski there was no originality, no sparks of tension, no on the edge of your seat what the hell is going to happen next feeling. Writers like Bukowski come along very rarely and when they do, they speak not just for one but for all generations.

People who feel life can feel Bukowski. His words talk directly to them and although I've been to many theatre productions I've never seen one which had the spark and then full blown electricity running all the way through it.

My last day in New York found me sitting in a down and dingy bar, just off Times Square at 10 a.m. I knew it was 10 a.m. because when my girlfriend disappeared five hours earlier she'd left me her watch, although I protested at the time that I didn’t really need one. Now here I was, debating with total strangers the pros and cons of working illegally in America and in two days I would be back in London, sitting in a job I hated, with the clean cut suits taking the usual crap from the boss and I knew I definitely didn't want to go back.

I think it was Bukowski's voice that told me, “Screw it, you know that cat squashed in the middle of the road, that’s us baby, that's life,” but I didn't tell my boss that. I didn't tell my boss that Charles Bukowski urged me to go on drinking all day which in turn made me miss my flight and arrive two days late back for work. I should have, it would have looked more impressive on the written warning which was handed to me with a condescending look, concerning my “seeming lack of commitment,” to my meaningless job. Thanks Bukowski, you’ve just made it doubly hard to return to banality.

Read more articles on: new york , jazz , movie , music

Garry Crystal is a writer for BrooWaha. For more information, visit the writer's website.