“If you haven’t been to the Beat Museum... you don’t know Jack”. So read the sign at the North Beach Beat Museum as I arrived for the 94th birthday celebration of the late Jack Kerouac. I found an eclectic group cozying into the upstairs of the ramshackle boutique. Even among a crowd of two dozen, there were lit geeks, musicians, activists, students, and hippies--both original and modern--all mingling, as if they all knew each other. “Welcome, it’s great to see you all,” announced owner Jerry Cimino, “I recognize most of you.” Apparently they did all know each other. I decided to remain on the periphery of the crowd, perusing the collection of Beat artifacts and paraphernalia: Jack Kerouac’s flannel jacket, Allen Ginsberg’s organ--the musical variety, the 1949 Hudson used in the 2012 adaptation of On the Road, and oh so many Beat-authored books, letters, and artwork from the entire pantheon of San Francisco Beat boys, big and small. My attempts to remain incognito were foiled by a weathered and wild-eyed old hippie in a red leather hat. Having locked eyes with me from across the room, he shouted “Hey, you look like a hipstorian!” With the small crowd watching us, I chuckled sheepishly and asked, “what’s that?” “Well history was invented in seventies, but hipstory…” He launched into an explanation that I, for the life of me, could not follow. But he was kind and he shone when he spoke, even if I didn’t know about what exactly. It was perhaps the most Kerouac-esque event of the whole evening. At last we were interrupted by Cimino, this time to officially kick off the party with a reading from Kerouac's Visions of Cody. I’ve never read the book and with no context given for the passage, I found it exceedingly difficult to follow the frenetic free-association of Kerouac's words. Cimino had suggested to the Dharma Bums--the band that was setting up--that they provide musical accompaniment, but Kerouac's spontaneous rambling proved too unpredictable to set a rhythm to. After plucking a few strings the band gave up and got refreshments. Throughout the reading, party-goers cried out with cheers of “yeah, yeah!” and “mmhmm”. Some were channeling the spirit of Kerouac, who was known to holler in a similar manner. No fingers snapping though. Actor Geoffrey Pond, of Subterranean Shakespeare, performed a monologue adapted from the scene in The Dharma Bums in which Kerouac recalls the night Allen Ginsberg's first publicly read of "Howl"--the now famous Six Gallery reading. Pond took Kerouac’s words verbatim and unabridged from The Dharma Bums and gave them life with changing accents and wild gesticulations, tailored to specific characters. Pond comically swigged from a Carlo Rossi wine jug, like the one circulated at the Six Gallery reading. Only Pond’s jug was filled with water he had dyed indigo, not violet. Pond forgot his lines at one moment and, perhaps not wanting to bastardize the words of Kerouac, apologized and silently scanned his memory for an awkward minute rather than improvising his way forward. In its entirety, Pond’s performance was captivating and felt authentic to the Beat spirit--at least as far as someone born in 1987 can tell. After the readings there were cake and cookies and a round of “Happy Birthday”. We collectively fumbled the “happy birthday, dear….” line, some of us going for the full name, while others sang “...dear Jack”, clearly feeling that they were on a first name basis.
Throughout the event there were musical mini-sets performed by the self-described “raga-reggae-rock” band The Dharma Bums. Though their name comes from Kerouac’s novel, their songs focused on Buddhism—which Kerouac took great interest in—and the Tibetan political cause. Days before they’d played on the steps of City Hall for a Free Tibet rally and years ago they played for the Dalai Lama in his living room. When asked how His Holiness liked the concert, front man Phil Void admitted that it was hard to tell. “He’s not much of a toe tapper,” he said, but added “we did get some head nodding towards the end.” The concert turned into a funky sight. Void, who looked the Buddhist part with his a robe and ragged beard, was joined on stage--okay, the front of the room--by a dancing man in a Stetson hat and denim. I’d later learn that he was Giovanni Vassallo, head of the Bay Area Friends of Tibet. Vassalo was clearly a big fan; he sang along to the blistering anthem “Rangzen” (the Tibetan word for freedom), if only a half second behind the band. Vassalo was soon joined by the old hippie in the red leather hat. Together they danced. A colorful cast of characters, right out of Kerouac’s world.
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