Willie Mays and James Chance
Two New York legends never ran into each other, I'm sure. But they ran into a lot of other things.
The first time I became aware of Willie Mays was when I was ten years old, watching the San Francisco Giants play the Cincinnati Reds on NBC’s Game of the Week. Bobby Tolan of the Red hit a long fly ball to right-center that looked like it was heading out of Candlestick Park. Two Black men converged by the fence and jumped in the air, trying to catch it. Willie Mays, who was 39 at the time, stuck his glove over the fence and snagged the ball, robbing Tolan of a home run for the second time in that game.
Bonds’s shoulder crashed into Mays’s chest and the two of them fell in a heap. Mays was knocked unconscious and lay still on the field for some time. Then Bonds held up his teammate’s glove to show that Mays was still holding onto the ball.
Afterwards, Bonds’ son Barry told his father, “I don’t like you. You hurt Willie.”
Eight years later, I went downtown on the night of my high school graduation with a couple of friends. A band called James Chance and the Contortions was playing at CBGB. I’d been to the club many times before because my older brother Steven managed a band called the Cramps. The Cramps were not shrinking violets. When they played a gig at Napa State Mental Hospital in California, several inmates tried to make a break for it.
But Chance and the Contortions were taking it to a whole other level. Their music was the scratchy kind of atonal funk known as No Wave. Chance played the saxophone like the instrument had caused him some deep unforgiveable trauma and sang like he needed therapy for it. In performance, he took the extreme confrontational style of Iggy Pop and Lux Interior of the Cramps to a whole other level. He’d leap off the stage and climb on fragile tables with his horn, then get knocked off and keep playing with his mouth bleeding. This would be a calm night for him.
On the night I saw him, he kept running over to the table where I was sitting and slapping one of my friends. Eventually, I found this tiresome and hit Chance in the face with my beer mug. I do not wish to exaggerate. I did not hit him very hard. And I was already done with my beer.
For the record, though, my memory is that Chance sang from the stage for the rest of his performance and mostly stayed in tune. In truth, it was actually a great one-of-a-kind show; an experience I’m glad I had and never needed to repeat.
Needless to say, millions of people mourn and remember Willie Mays. Many fewer people mourn and remember James Chance, who died on the same day. But they both belong to lost eras of New York, when it was a city of wild possibilities and inexpensive excitement. For some younger people, it may still be that place – or it may become that place again.
Just as important, these were two guys who always went to the wall. Mays was an athlete of astonishing natural talents. But you always sensed he was pushing himself to play to the absolute limits of his abilities – and beyond. I guess that’s why some begrudgers criticize him for playing past his prime with the New York Mets. But screw ‘em. He was Willie Mays. He never coasted and he never dogged it and he never relied on mere grace and style. The game where he got knocked unconscious by Bonds was not particularly significant. But he was all in and he left everything he had on the field.
In his twisted, fucked-up way, I suppose James Chance was the same. I don’t listen to his music very much – why would you want to hear him play saxophone when John Coltrane and Ornette Coleman made records? – but I still remember the wild-eyed look on his face and the blood dripping down his shirt when he returned to the stage that night. Whatever it is he was trying to say, I truly believe he was willing to give everything he had for his art.
I wouldn’t say that people don’t have conviction now. In fact, judging from the Internet and January 6, I’d say there a lot of people who have too many convictions. But there aren’t that many who can channel that passion and abandon into sport and art. I’m glad I got to see two guys who could.
I knew the owner of CGBGs, Hilly Krystal. He was mystified by the success of CBGBs.
My first recording to be issued commercially “Evenings At The Village Gate John Coltrane with Eric Dolphy”, recently topped the Jazz charts! I am equally mystified. Not by John Coltrane, but by this recording of himself.
I forwarded this one to my brother in CA. He's such a huge baseball fan Willie Mays especially. Your WILLIE MAYS AND JAMES CHANCE piece will resonate with a lot of people.