I celebrate the mile square city, city of songs old and new—and about to be sung.
Magic geometry of a city, I sing, of its walkable grid dotted with green parks and trees, swathed between the roiling muddy Hudson (our Mississippi) and the gentle-sloped beginning of that geological wonder—the mighty green Palisades—fringing our western frontier.
I sing of the sad-faced young Frank Sinatra, sitting alone on the docks. Respite from the crowded streets with their sounds and smells and immigrant hustle bustle. Look at little Frankie. He’s lost in a daydream, gazing at the Manhattan skyline, imagining a better world for himself. One day he’ll sing a song about that city.
But he wasn’t the only beautiful dreamer from here. Stephen Foster, the first great force in American popular music (and Elton John of his day) lived on the corner of Sixth and Bloomfield. Listen close, on a summer evening, for the gleanings of his creative spirit whispering down through the ages: “I Dream of Jeannie with the Light Brown Hair,” “Camptown Races,” “Oh Susanna,” and yes, “Beautiful Dreamer.”
Because I am the song of Hoboken, and my business is to make beautiful dreamers.
I sing of Maxwell’s—Maxwell’s, the only Hoboken music venue advertised in the NYC cultural papers—a key gig on the road to fame for hundreds of dreamy young Jersey bands, hoping for their future glory days; the memory of Bruce Springsteen’s own “Glory Days” video filmed here in 1984 still very much alive: more so now that I chose to include it in this poem essay. R.E.M., before they sang about losing their religion, played here too. That was them in the corner.
I am the frozen music of Hoboken architecture. A treasure trove of historic, 19th century brownstones—in brick, happy pastel colors, or serious brown—with beaux arts period details like tin ceilings and hardwood floors; thick, curving oak banisters; windows that sparkle and enchant the sidewalk passerby (especially at the holidays); ornate and charming doors; and wrought iron fences holding strong since the days Abe Lincoln slept in his own bedroom at the White House.
I am the song of possibility. Of starving artists and writers—young and old, including me!—toiling away on their latest masterpiece. The song of a cake boss who became famous. Of young brokers up at dawn, headed to Wall Street on the PATH train or ferry, hoping to bag the elephant or bring home a bear. War stories over beers at a cozy corner bar after work. Is it a coincidence that the 1987 film Wall Street, which captures not only the crooked side but also the magic glorious rush of capitalism, begins with our Frankie’s “Fly Me to the Moon?” In other words, please be true, in other words, I love you.
Which brings me to the song of love! The love of couples old and young, holding hands along the river with its spectacular skyline view, stopping at Sparrows to make tonight’s dinner extra special with a bottle of wine. Cooling off on a warm evening with an ice cream cone (invented in Hoboken) at Ben & Jerry’s. I am the love of parents for their children—a tiny parade of strollers down Washington Street on Saturday morning—and the love of nannies for those same little tots during the workweek, headed to Symposia Bookstore for the morning puppet show. Their love gifts will bear fruit in the memory of their charges for years to come.
Finally, I sing of Hoboken’s love for tradition, symbolized by the St. Ann’s Feast in July, when our famed Italian downtown comes alive for Prince Spaghetti week. Ahh, the Christmas lights festooning the welcoming banner, the smell of sizzling sausage, the music of street bands, and the booming sound of distant fireworks (like an ancient call to community) leading you onward to the Feast!
Go, now, and sing your own song of Hoboken.
– John Bredin