"New York State Of Mind" by Billy Joel
A regular coffee, a bagel, and The Village Voice.
“Some folks like to get away / Take a holiday from the neighborhood / Hop a flight to Miami Beach or to Hollywood / But I'm taking a Greyhound on the Hudson River Line / I'm in a New York state of mind”
“The Stranger” was one of the very first tapes I had of any album. “Movin’ Out”, “Just The Way You Are” and of course, “Scenes From An Italian Restaurant” are burned into my cells whether I like it or not. “New York State of Mind” is not on that album, though. I just heard it on the radio a lot.
Over a kid growing up Upstate, New York City exerted an inexorable pull. Five hours and several galaxies down the road, everything was happening there. My town wasn’t “nothing”, but the City had “everything”. I was desperate to live there.
Y’know, to be somebody.
“I've seen all the movie stars in their fancy cars and their limousines / Been high in the Rockies under the evergreens / But I know what I'm needing and I don't want to waste more time / I'm in a New York state of mind”
I used to care about where someone said they were from, but at some point I shifted away from caring about that.
Just like a letter going through the mail, knowing where a person is on their way TO tells you a lot more. Especially in New York City, where the vibe comes directly from all the generations of people who arrived from other places. It remains the quintessential immigrant town, people show up there from every corner of the world.
It’s those people who make the City what it is.
“It was so easy living day by day / Out of touch with the rhythm and blues / But now I need a little give and take / The New York Times, The Daily News”
Being “from” somewhere means that you bring a piece of that place with you, everywhere you go. Someone “from New York” likely has confidence, giving them an edge over other people. Or at least they believe that. This turns some people off. “City hicks” tend to stick out when they’re not hiding in a sea of faces.
I got into the habit early on of saying that I was from Upstate. I’d usually need to follow it with a clarification that I was from much further Upstate than Poughkeepsie, and that the State is actually pretty country that far up.
“It comes down to reality / And it's fine with me 'cause I've let it slide / Don't care if it's Chinatown or on Riverside / I don't have any reasons / I've left them all behind / I'm in a New York state of mind”
I burned a lot of good years, trying to make something work in New York City when I lived there, on and off, for about 20 years. Despite long periods of exile to other places, I kept coming back.
The first two times I moved away from NYC, it was because I flunked out. Just couldn’t hang on anymore. 9/11 and 2008 lifted the wool from my eyes, exposing my vulnerability and lack of preparation. I had taken some good rides, but never could shake the feeling that I was a couple of hot meals away from a life on the street.
The third time I left felt more like a graduation. No diploma or anything, I just let the place go. Rather than feeling once again that I was failing to integrate there and could still “make it” if I tried just a little harder, I just admitted that The City ain’t a fit for me any more and that’s ok. Let the young idealists keep showing up in droves to grind it out. I haven’t felt the pull for years now.
These days I live in the Mojave Desert and I never find myself in a New York state of mind. I prefer the quiet sun.
But if there is one song that’s really missing a version by Sinatra, it’s this one. “New York State of Mine” is the ballad counterpart to “New York, New York”. The guy in this song, by contrast, isn’t trying to accomplish anything in The City, he just wants to be there. He needs a little give and take. A regular coffee1, a bagel, and The Village Voice.
Seems to me he doesn’t just want to travel back to New York, he wants to travel back to the 20th Century. I guess I’d want to go too, if I could bring stock tips for my younger self, tell him to go to therapy and then return to the present with a few vintage guitars.
I only know of two ways to order your coffee in New York City: Black and Regular. Black is black, strictly for maniacs. “Regular” means cream and two sugars. There may be others, I’m no expert.
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Thanks. I’ve had this song in my head, too, and I do have a reason. A show at the Whitney that I need to get my butt down to.