Ear Inn

In the late 90s and early 00s—my heyday in terms of staying up late—I performed regularly at the Ear Inn on Spring Street near the West Side Highway. In exchange for, I think, $100 per person and free drinks, I and another musician or two moved the tables and folded into a tiny space under a clock—on the left of the aisle in the photo below—where we played my songs and a handful of covers from midnight until 3am on a Monday, which suited me fine because it’s not like I had anything better to do during that window.

In fact, I probably would have been there anyway. That’s because Monday night was the songwriter’s meeting at Jack Hardy’s apartment at Houston St. and Sixth Ave., and a festive subset of the community had gotten into the habit of making a “field trip” to the Ear after a few hours of listening to and thinking hard about songs. The first time, it was just me and Tim Robinson, but it grew to where we had a decent-sized group and sometimes took over a large table in the back or filled the narrow aisle just inside the door that ran from the phone booth past the elbow to the short end of the bar.

Ear Inn bartender Scott Laughlin (L) with an assortment of long-haired singer/songwriters

The impetus for all of this—the field trips and eventually the gigs—had everything to do with the fact that my good friend Scott Laughlin and one of his two main partners, Roger and Victor, manned the bar and booked the music for the years that coincided with the beginning of my career in music. In short, we were in our mid-20s and had the run of one of the oldest and coolest bars in New York, assuming we adhered to certain behavioral norms, which wasn’t hard. Basically, you had to tip well, and you couldn’t throw anyone through the window, though you could argue loudly about songwriting.

We did argue about songwriting sometimes. Was it acceptable to consult rhyming dictionaries? What’s the big deal about major seventh chords? Was so-and-so any good, or was he/she an inauthentic hack? Relatedly, why were we all so under-appreciated? Finally, would Alan Orski ever write a good song? That last question was resolved when he debuted My New Tattoo, but the others are ongoing.

Having an ally behind the bar was a revelation: you only had to leave $20 and you could drink pretty much all night. For me, there was never a “check” or, really, any kind of accountability. Needless to say, that arrangement could be problematic, not only because there was a financial incentive to carry on, but also because they never let your drink fall below half full. Literally, you’d look away for a second and they’d top you off. It was a game for those guys, who delighted in pushing their friends past reasonable limits. I remember when I took my wife there for the first time and she couldn’t figure out what the hell was going on with her chardonnay.

I drank a lot in those days, but no so much when I was “working.” Really, it was a functional reality: you can’t knock back Carlsbergs or even sip Guinness when you’re playing a guitar with both hands and singing with your mouth. The best beers were the two or three at the end of the night, which were solitary—friends having long since skedaddled—but satisfying. Interestingly, none of the musicians who accompanied me at the Ear—Dan Vonnegut on drums, Sal Maida on bass, and David Hamburger on guitar once or twice—were big drinkers, which was probably for the best.

I always enjoyed watching the clientele turn over as the evening progressed. At first, it was a bunch of nattering songwriters and early-evening regulars. Later, there was a second group of regulars—e.g. Billy Sloat, who came in after midnight because he played bass in Broadway shows—and some more mysterious folks who were either artists or drug dealers. Once, Mick Jones from Foreigner was having dinner while I played, and flashed a smile on the way out. And, from time to time, Joe Jackson occupied the end of the bar. On one memorable evening, a mechanic named Frankie—who cared for my co-owned Volkswagen Rabbit at his garage around the corner—literally pounded a baseball bat on the bar in anger because people weren’t listening. Finally, I’ll never forget the sight of Ken Beasley passed out at a table on his birthday, head back and possibly snoring.

When I started playing at the Ear, I had just made Playing God, which meant I didn’t have two long sets worth of decent material, and it made sense and was fun to fill the holes with covers. That was the era of No Depression, Son Volt’s first few albums, Car Wheels On A Gravel Road, etc. and I was into acts that would later be described as Americana. My cover selections, then, reflected my burgeoning taste: The Devil’s Right Hand by Steve Earle, I’m Comin’ Home from Gringo Honeymoon by Robert Earl Keen, and Windfall by Son Volt. We also played a John Hiatt deep cut called Dust Down a Country Road at least once, and something by Townes Van Zandt., e.g. Poncho or Lefty, To Live Is To Fly, or maybe You Are Not Needed Now. Finally, we worked up a couple of songs by friends: Girl by Tim Robinson and Flower Was Gone by the late Rob Wolf, both of which I found irresistible. That was the only period in my career where I played covers: these days, I don’t even pick up a guitar unless it’s to write a new song or practice for a gig. I’m not sure I could play another artist’s song all the way through!

I kept playing at the Ear after I moved out of New York in 2001. I think there was even a night where I played the Living Room and the Ear Inn on the same night, which may sound like efficient routing but was in fact a slight pain in the ass. Eventually, though, my three bartender friends moved on and the next group of aspirants took over. I don’t think I even went to the Ear when I last visited New York in 2016, because my friend Roger had opened his own bar and it was more fun to go there. When I do return to the Ear, I won’t know anyone, and I won’t be performing, because I can’t stay up until 3am. Although, now that I think about it, it might be fun…