The Roots: Selflessly Perfect

I just got back from the most awesome -- in the dictionary sense of the word -- concert of my life.

The Roots rocked the house at the Highline Ballroom, and it was mostly thanks to their brilliant selflessness. Some of the premier jazz talent in New York City (read: in the world) took the stage with ?uestlove and Black Thought and set the crowd in motion with its fervent swing.

A few highlights stick out in my mind:

The stage boasted at least 20 different musicians over the course of the show, with maestros switching in at every instrument -- keyboard, keyboard 2, bass, guitar, guitar 2, drums, saxophone, trumpet, trombone, and mic. There were frequently at least 10 people on the stage at once.

For the last half of the show, three people (including ?uestlove of course) were simultaneously jamming on the one drum set -- seamlessly.

Finally the show came to a beautiful, perfectly climactic end... and then the keyboardist went into a Michael Jackson song -- the buoyant I Want You Back. Having expected to be done, legendary drummer ?uestlove gave him an exasperated look before diving into the beat with the kind of gusto only a recently deceased immortal can inspire.

Halfway through the instrumental ecstasy, the guitarist realized something was missing and jumped boldly to the mic, bringing the song fully to life.

The song came to its natural close, and the keyboardist stood up for one tantalizing moment -- then hit the cool opening notes of I'll Be There. ?uestlove looked at him in tired wonderment; then sure enough, right on time he came back in. Someone we hadn't seen ran on stage from the back and started singing with authority. On the chorus he turned the show democratic, pointing the mic out to the delirious crowd.

"I'll be there... I'll be there!!!"

"Where there is love, I'll be there..."

Too soon, the song came to its epic, glorious end. ?uestlove played the end like it was really, really the end. And it was.

Except for the insatiably generous energy of the keyboardist. No sooner had the song come to its climactic end than he set off into Rock With You. ?uestlove rolled his eyes in disbelief, waited a few beats and joined in. The house went crazy.

Last night Alison and I discovered a new NYU dining hall. This one allows the diner to collect unlimited amounts of food. Being the glutton that I am, I didn't realize I was full until I found myself halfway through my third plate of food, my innards bursting with dull, painful agony. At that point I decided the rest of my food would be more useful to others than it would be to me.

So I brought the rest of my tofu teriyaki to Tariq. It was my second time bringing him food. I felt determined to please him, after watching my first food delivery crash and burn. Once again Tariq was talking to some friendly people I'd never seen before when I plopped down next to him and eagerly put the styrafoam container in his lap.

"What did you bring me this time?" he excitedly drawled.

"I got you some tofu; it's good," I said. I gave him the fork I'd taken from the dining hall.

His simple response made me feel truly appreciated: "Man... you cool. And he brought a fork!"

Then, "Ay, you got a dollar?"

I wasn't sure how aghast to be. "Man, I just gave you some food and now you're gonna ask me for money?" I not-really-jokingly jibed him.

"Yeah man!" he volleyed back.

"What are you getting with this money?" I asked.

"Some beer, man!"

Then I realized I was squabbling over a dollar with a homeless man who'd accepted me at some level just minutes after first laying eyes on me. He'd opened my eyes to another social dimension of this park that I otherwise would have blinded myself to.

Still, there was something that bothered me. Tariq turned back to the people he'd been chatting with when I arrived. Sitting on his other side, I could see how it would be a bit awkward for him to talk to all of us at once. But I suddenly felt passé, like I was the exciting new guy but not anymore. Like Tariq has been living on the streets for decades, and he's seen my type come and go -- the open-minded, middle class white guy who feels cool, urban and gritty for hanging out with relatively happy homeless guys. Tariq directed a story at the others about some rich girls who had summoned him excitedly to the street one night and bequeathed him a trunkful of leftover, gourmet catered food. It sounded grand. I stood up, bid him farewell and walked home.

I got to the park late tonight, about 10 minutes before its midnight closing. I scanned the crowd of new characters huddled around the music, finally feeling at home again when Tariq emerged and cheerfully greeted me.

Tonight was less idyllic than other nights have been. There was another "nut", according to Tariq, but he was a lot less appealing to me than Steve or Harv. In very little time, I found myself breaking up a fight between him and an exasperated regular.

A police van rolled up to disperse our crowd just as the two men's tempers subsided. The nut asked a fellow hobo for a sip of his drink, and was turned down. All I remember is what rang out into the dark, empty night as I walked away from the smattering of stragglers.

"No one ever gives me anything, and you wonder why I fuckin' do heroin! Look at my arm!"