The All-Seeing Eye

On the border of Bushwick and Ridgewood — in what is technically that faraway borough known as “Queens” — is a venue called “TV Eye.”

I’d heard about a concert there featuring “bricoluthier” Ken Butler on Sunday, Dec. 11. Butler performs on “hybrid” musical instruments made from sports equipment and other everyday objects.

Billed as “a night of wild sounds and artist-made instruments,” the concert included four other performers. However, I didn’t make it until the end…

5:40 p.m.

I leave my Harlem apartment. The trip, Google maps tells me, will be 55 minutes door-to-door. If I’m lucky. The concert is supposed to start at 7 p.m.

6:40 p.m.

I get off at “Halsey Street.” It’s a dark, drizzly night. I follow Google maps blindly, like an obedient, leashed dog.

I walk down a deserted alleyway, past a dentist office and auto repair shop. “Great, I’m gonna get mugged,” I think.

Then, I see it. The eye. Large and blinking.

Not in “eye” way but in the “lights” way. Because it’s a neon sign. Other than this shining, Masonic symbol, the door is unmarked. But I know I’m in the right place.

6:45 p.m.

The bar is empty except for a bearded bartender and solitary slumped figure. Their forms illuminated by a leg lamp like the one from A Christmas Story.

“I’m here for the concert,” I say.  

“Ok,” says the bartender, totally unconcerned.

“Should I just wait here?”

“Uh huh”

7:00 p.m.

I decide to get a beer. “What’s this one?” I ask, pointing to a skull-shaped tap.

The bartender says something unintelligible.

“I’ll have that,” I say, reaching into a bowl of matchboxes that stare back at me. Behind the bar, a sign says, “earplugs $2.”

7:10 p.m.

The ticket-checker arrives. He is head-to-toe in black leather, cowboy boots clacking on the wooden floor.  I’m glad I, too, wore my studded leather jacket. I look the part.

“The doors aren’t open yet,” he says, placing a band around my wrist.

“Do you know when they’ll open?”

He just shrugs.

7:20 p.m.

Strange sounds seep from behind the closed door. But otherwise, the bar is still empty. Could I be the only person attending?

7:30 p.m.

The mysterious beverage has gone straight to my bladder. I look for the bathroom.

The stall is covered in colorful graffiti. Stickers touting punk bands and marijuana dispensaries. Another eye watches over the “Employees must wash hands” sign.

7:40 p.m.

I get a second beer, mostly out of boredom, this time opting for the “EyePA.” 

8:00 p.m.

Like clockwork, people begin to swarm the bar. How did they know the concert would start late?

The doors open to reveal a back room. The small stage — standing room only — is covered in pink and purple sequins.

8:25 p.m.

The concert starts. The first act is Butler. Somehow, I didn’t imagine him as a middle-aged man in an Adidas tracksuit.

He pulls out a tennis racket violin and hockey stick guitar. Musical monstrosities that he bows, plucks, and slaps.

Using a Looper, he layers Arabic-inflected melodies over crunchy rhythms.

“I’ve got one more song,” says Butler. “It’s got a surprise.” He pulls out an umbrella, which he whacks with a bow.

Then, with a scream from the audience, he unfurls the umbrella. (Bad luck indoors!) By opening and closing it by degrees, he’s able to alter its mouth harp-esque pitch.

The last surprise: Butler begins playing a bow… with another bow! Music-making reduced to its simplest elements.

9:00 p.m.

The second act is Dan Friel. Seated at a launchpad, strewn with Christmas lights, he whips his curly blonde hair to some of the gnarliest sounds of the night. A mixture of EDM, VGM, and heavy metal.

I’m glad I brought my own earplugs for the higher-decibel moments.

9:30 p.m.

The third act Lia Mice, whose dazzling dress matches the stage. She plays (what appear to be) touch-sensitive PVC pipes, which she grabs at almost desperately. The first (of two) songs seems to last an eternity.

10 p.m.

I hear scuffling sounds from behind the closed curtain. What’s taking so long?

10:15 p.m.

I don’t find out. I decide to call it. I’m starving. I’ve been at the venue for over three and a half hours.

Time doesn’t feel real. None of it feels real.