NEW YORK, NY- Language is both so capacious and so limiting. “Love,” we say, “hope,” we write, and the words call up a vast configuration of memory and meaning within which it’s hard to find a foothold.
When Jesse Malin last performed in New York, in March 2023, it was to a capacity crowd at Webster Hall. Midway through the set, he leapt off the stage and climbed over the barricade to wade through the crowd, the impossibly long microphone cord held aloft by elated fans.
Two months later, a rare spinal stroke—doctors don’t know what caused it—paralyzed him from the waist down. Since then, he’s been fighting step by step, literally and figuratively, to get back on stage.
On December 1st and 2nd, Jesse played his first public concerts since the stroke. The Beacon Theatre audience—folks who traveled from as far as Argentina, Australia, Europe, and Japan—was as elated and reverent as any I’ve ever seen. Weeks after the shows, videos and photos continue to fill my feed.
Rolling Stone aptly referred to the nights as a comeback that is “testament to the human spirit.” “[O]ne hell of a comeback,” American Songwriter echoed. The Village Voice called the beloved musician “New York’s own patron saint.” Two of my photographer friends covered the shows for Brooklyn Vegan (night one here, night two here).
This is just a small sample of what’s been shared. I’m left wondering what I can add.
The past nineteen months feel like a series of hazy Polaroid shots. Like a time-lapse of calendar pages flying off. If I feel this way as a bystander, I can’t begin to fathom what Jesse has been carrying. Months in a Buenos Aires clinic. The isolation, both linguistic and geographic. (As he quipped at the shows—this, for someone who didn’t like to go above 14th Street.) A grueling schedule of physical therapy. Gaining strength on the walker and working on sit-to-stands. Vocal practice, band rehearsals, interludes in studio to record a new single, “Argentina.”
Amidst all this, two of Jesse’s longtime friends/managers, Diane Gentile and Dave Bason, spearheaded a benefit album—Silver Patron Saints: The Songs of Jesse Malin. It features contributions from a staggering and musically diverse set of artists—to name just a few: Bruce Springsteen, Billie Joe Armstrong (Green Day), Counting Crows, Elvis Costello, Lucinda Williams, Rancid, Spoon, Susanna Hoffs (The Bangles), and the Wallflowers. The oft-repeated adage, “Tell me who your friends are, and I’ll tell you who you are,” rings clarion here.
When the Beacon shows were announced this summer, December felt far away. But time is a trickster, especially when agency over how we spend our hours is snatched away.
Somehow, suddenly, December 1st was upon us, and we gathered beneath the proscenium arch of the historic theatre. It was the first of two nights filled with care and respect at a depth, breadth, and nuance that defy description.
The curtains rise, and there’s Jesse in a smartly tailored suit and signature newsboy cap, with guitar in hand. His voice sounds stronger—more resonant, more expressive—than ever. He’s seated, and his bandmates are, too. It’s an unspoken communication of respect. And everyone is playing at another level of focus and emotion.
In the wings, artist friends hang onto every note. In song and in Jesse’s Queens-to-Lower-East-Side (and beyond) tales, each word carries to the farthest reaches of the theatre. When the light occasionally swings around to illuminate the audience, you can see the transfixed expressions. Some phones held aloft, even more eyes bright with tears.
**************************
I’ve been reflecting for a while on the notion of palimpsest. It’s a term for parchment that’s been scraped clean and written over (paper was scarce in ancient times), but still bears traces of the original text. The concept holds for cityscapes and history. “Well, I’m up on 24th Street, and I’m looking at a life” —the intro to “Meet Me At the End of the World Again” (from 2019’s Sunset Kids) references the loft/club of Giorgio Gomelsky, who managed The Stones and produced The Yardbirds, and whose fingerprints are on the stories of many others, including Jesse’s. Giorgio opened his doors to a whole generation of musicians, letting them put on shows, rehearse, and throw parties. Today, Chelsea would be unrecognizable to the artists who came to Green Door shows in the late 80s, squeezing past regulars of the S&M club (called Paddles, naturally) that occupied the ground floor.
But stories persist even as physical structures change. Narratives as powerful as Jesse’s—of a city that both shaped and is shaped by him—resist erasure. Through songs and stage banter, he conjures these characters and scenes. In this way, we can be in dialogue with the past, pulling it into the present and understanding it in a new light as our understanding of our own selves shifts. In this way, the past is not the past.
The same holds true in experiencing music. With each listen—whether through headphones or at a live show—we’re putting pen to paper of memory/feeling. Within the space of a concert, we encounter traces of our past selves, and in that meeting, we’re altered.
**************************
I can’t seem to place the run of the show for these two nights at the Beacon neatly on a timeline. The writing and re-writing of memory and meaning is less archaeological dig and more of a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle that dislodges the linearity of the narrative. Both nights started with two guest songs, followed by Jesse and the band. Jesse then took a break while guest artists performed covers of his songs, before returning to close the night. But as I review photos and write these words, the feelings remain illegible. Instead of a play-by-play, I offer these impressions from rehearsal to curtain-up to post-show.
I think it all adds up to the idea that life is, at times, unspeakably hard because it’s unbearably beautiful. To be sure, there’s nothing poetic about suffering; I don’t think the act of making art somehow metabolizes the pain. What I mean is this: We experience joy and loss in proportion to the love we hold. There’s a place where sadness and gladness converge to tell us that what is happening in this moment, in this room, is so special as to be sacred. I hope these images and recollections can help locate us in that place.
Rickie Lee Jones’ choice of “Cycles,” performed with Don DiLego on guitar, was fitting for a night about tenacity in the face of unimaginable challenges: After winter comes the spring / so I think I’ll stay awhile / and see what tomorrow brings.
Hers is a singular voice, like a songbird returning from some faraway place. Rickie shared a brilliant smile as she walked offstage, sporting a red beret. I had missed the memo on headwear—the afternoon before, Lucinda Williams wore a subtly sparkly black one to rehearsal.
Speaking of rehearsal, Alejandro Escovedo—a masterful storyteller as adept at fiery punk as poignant ballad—is surely one of the best-dressed guys in the biz. Even at soundcheck, he looked like he just walked off a film set—a brooding silhouette in a dark coat and fedora. (He played “Sensitive Boys”—a perfect opening for the first night.)
After the opening guest songs, the curtain was lowered as Jesse and band took the stage. Cue The Stones’ “Memory Motel,” with the curtain rising as the song faded out. Whoops and hollers of anticipation from the audience.
Stage lights bright: I don’t know how you found me here—
Jesse shared later that he played “I Would Do It for You” with tears coming down behind his shades.
Sidestage at most shows, there’s a low murmur of folks half-watching, half-chatting. Not so on these two nights. I can still feel the hush of the guest artists standing shoulder-to-shoulder, spilling out into the hallway, wedged between guitar racks and guitar techs. All eyes on Jesse, listening with a quiet intensity.
After performing the Rolling Stones’ “Wild Horses,” Elvis Costello clasped Lucinda Williams’s hand to help guide her offstage.
It reminded me of a similar gesture a few weeks earlier when Lucinda played a show in New Jersey. Back in the dressing room, I perched in the corner while Lucinda and Jesse chatted. Before we left, she leaned over and placed her hand over his. I didn’t hear the parting words, but that moment—she’s smiling softly as he gazes down, taking in her words—speaks to a humanity beyond any spoken language. It may be a tired metaphor, but this is how we get through the darkest stretches of night: by extending a steadying hand, unasked.
Steadying hands and steadfast friends. On night two, Butch Walker kicked off the evening, and he poured himself into “Aftermath.” Something about the interpretation (played a couple of steps up, I think) went straight to the aching heart of the song—it’s such a long hard road, such a long hard road / to hold on, and move on. It was as beautifully devastating as his rendition of “In the Modern World,” later in the evening, was exhilarating.
I spoke of the respect evinced by Jesse’s bandmates playing seated. That respect was amplified as the guests who joined Jesse sat beside him: Steven Van Zandt (Bruce Springsteen’s E Street Band) for “Turn Up the Mains” on the first night and Diane Gentile on “Greener Pastures” both nights.
The power of those songs—different as they are—shows how the potency of music extends beyond the kineticism of performance. We look forward to the day when Jesse jumps around again on stage. But even with everyone seated, the muscularity of “Mains” and the poetry of “Greener Pastures” remain unaltered. In the audience, we feel as much as we hear the snarling defiance of the former and the stark beauty of the latter. It’s a communion between the musicians on stage, between the artists and the audience, and between the storyline of the song and the stories we carry inside us. We go to shows to be enclosed within the sacred space of songs performed live, and Jesse and his band and friends gave us that gift in abundance.
I refer to storylines in songs. On those nights, I think we all experienced each song in a new light. In hearing “Revelations,” I was struck by the repeated line, like a conjuring of faith: Everything’s gonna be okay / gonna be alright / gonna be okay.
And it is gonna be okay, even if it’s near impossible to see what’s around this corner or the next. I felt this when Lucinda Williams sang “New York Comeback,” accompanied by Doug Pettibone. She wrote the song after a stroke in 2020. On night two at the Beacon, it felt that she was not just narrating her own story but also sending out a prayer for her longtime friend and collaborator. (Lucinda co-produced Jesse’s album, Sunset Kids, along with Tom Overby; Jesse shares writing credits on Lucinda’s 2023 Stories From A Rock N Roll Heart.)
On the subject of friendship, I was touched by the earnestness of the guests who emceed. Mary-Louise Parker’s elation in introducing one of her heroes, Rickie Lee Jones. (I love that celebrities also have celebrity crushes.) Fred Armisen, who I remembered from a Christmas-time Clash covers show some years ago, where he sang “Lost in the Supermarket.” Jim Jarmusch and his signature white hair (so fitting, as Jesse is such a film guy). Matt Dillon, too.
And Michael Imperioli. Before the show, I was running in dizzying circles down the stairs (the dressing rooms are spread out over 7 very compact floors), when I pulled up short. Steven Van Zandt, Michael Imperioli, and Danny Clinch were in a thrum of people spilling out from Michael’s dressing room, everyone chatting. I suddenly felt like an extra in Sopranos (where’s Christopher’s neck brace?) meets Spinal Tap (earlier that day, a venue staffer took a wrong turn down a nondescript hallway trying to walk me to the break room).
I’m not actually adept with TV or film references, but I do sometimes imagine a soundtrack as I go about my day. When I hear Jakob Dylan’s voice, I’m reminded of the first time I saw him play live. It was at Bowery Ballroom in 2017, the second of two shows Jesse & band played that day.
It’s a bit tacky to quote myself, but my near-contemporaneous record relays how that day felt like a movie.
“We’re creeping up on 10:20 p.m. [when] we pull up in front of Bowery Ballroom . . . . I follow the band inside. We head down some stairs and up some others, and suddenly I’m gazing out from behind the stage as Jakob and Brian Fallon perform a song together. I forget, for a moment, that I’m holding a camera. How is this real life, I ask myself. The Wallflowers’ Bringing Down the Horse was one of my first-ever music purchases. I still remember that summer afternoon in a record store . . . . Neither the teenage nor the present-day version of me can fully internalize what’s going on.”
The 2024 version of me finds these night at the Beacon to be even more surreal as Jakob plays “Don’t Let Them Take You Down (Beautiful Day)” (from 2007’s Glitter In the Gutter), with Jesse’s band backing him. I would never have chosen this script—not with this terrible dice roll against the best of us. Yet it all plays in front of me like a film—the kind that’s sad, but with an uplifting ending.
I’m too ignorant to be appropriately intimidated by the company I’m lucky to keep. Exhibit A is Cat Popper. In this photo, she’s making me laugh with her pre-show antics. Cat was Jesse’s longtime bass player, and she’s also played with basically everyone else we love (Jason Isbell, Jack White, Levon Helm, Puss N Boots (a trio with her, Norah Jones, and Sasha Dobson), Grace Potter, John Cameron Mitchell, and Ryan Adams, among others). I didn’t know any of this when I first pointed a camera her way. An @catpopper repost of my b&w photo from City Winery in 2016, followed shortly by a charmingly elated (and educational) text from Anthony D’Amato, set me straight. (Anthony is a solo artist and one-fourth of Fantastic Cat, whose contribution for Silver Patron Saints, “Queen of the Underworld,” is a thing of pensive beauty (and exclusive to the vinyl release).)
Cat joined Jesse on the first night for a rousing “You Know It’s Dark When Atheists Start to Pray” (from 2015’s Outsiders). I wasn’t in a position to get the shot, so the outtakes/antics are my only record (I know you don’t mind, Cat, but I’ll make it up to you at the next show).
Speaking of being in position—some have the skill, instinct, and experience to always get the shot. I hope to get closer to that one day. For now, I take inspiration from masters of the craft. When Danny Clinch walked on stage, I saw he’d swapped his Leica for a harmonica. “Go ahead, take my picture,” he jested before a lively yet wistful rendition of “Almost Grown.” (Turnabout is fair play.)
The amount of talent on the stage both nights was dizzying. Adam Weiner (Low Cut Connie), Tommy Stinson (The Replacements), and J. Mascis (Dinosaur Jr.), each brought his own effortless cool.
Drummer Paul Garisto took the mic for “All Bets Are Off,” backed by Randy Schrager, who played with Jesse’s band for many years. There was something so evocative in this rendition, like time sanding down the jagged edges of regret into something that we can hold without cutting our fingers.
On night two, Eugene Hutz and Sergey Ryabtsev (Gogol Bordello) lent their blistering energy, following “Here’s the Situation” with an Agnostic Front cover. Willie Nile tore into a rousing “All the Way to Moscow.” Craig Finn/the Hold Steady moved nonstop with “Death Star.” The hours we spent together still feel like a fever dream.
Before the curtains went up for night two, a photographer whose work I’ve long admired came up to me and thanked me for capturing Jesse so well. I was taken aback. I’d been beating myself up all day, ashamed that my photos weren’t better, encouraging Jesse’s team to submit my friends’ photos, not mine, to the outlets asking for images.
“That means so much to me,” I said in earnest. “I’ve been so down. They’re not as beautiful as Jesse deserves.”
“Trust me,” she said. “They’re good enough.” Her eyes were bright–I think with unshed tears. I gave her a hug, blinking back my own.
I hugged so many people but missed even more. Running around from 3pm to midnight and editing into the wee hours doesn’t leave much time for hellos. Amidst the blur, I saw so many great shirts (including the bootleg turned official “Jesse Fucking Malin” tee), and fan-made bracelets reading “PMA” (positive mental attitude) and various song titles (does this make us the Swifties of punk rock?).
I still don’t think these photos are good enough. But imperfect as they are, I hope they help tell this chapter of the story of a remarkable and beautiful human—a consummate artist and builder of community. No one but Jesse would have all these musician, actor, and filmmaker friends who needed zero persuading to jump on the bill. And all the fans and friends, and nurses and physical therapists, who traveled to share these nights.
Jesse often says that he wants to be the one who’s giving, not asking, for help. And it’s true—he’s been putting on benefit shows for others since he was 12 and fronting his hardcore band, Heart Attack. I’ve been searching for months for a good way to counter this take, which is characteristically selfless but also frustratingly misses the point.
When the acts of “giving” and “taking” help are presented as a binary—one or the other—I feel sadness that shades into outrage. This is capitalism internalized—a pernicious system that’s taught us to think of life as a series of discrete transactions. Buy and sell, produce and consume. This system tells us that we are worthy only if we are productive, and by extension, devalues those living with a disability. (When Jesse spoke with the New York Times last summer and fall, some of this comes through.) This ruthlessness is built into our cities and encoded in everyday language.
Capitalism could not be more wrong. Ecology teaches us that we’re enmeshed in mutually sustaining relationships. That we were always already a part of something intricate and whole. Like the mycorrhizal networks beneath the forest floor, love is never a one-way flow. It circulates, communicates, and sustains. It’s not about any single act of giving or receiving help; it’s about writing our stories together.
And Jesse is nowhere near done telling his, in prose and in song.
I think about everyone who cried during or after the show and what those tears might mean. Relief, perhaps, in seeing how a life-altering event changes but does not diminish the person for whom we hold deep care. Tears of vicarious joy in hearing Jesse say that when he returned from Argentina to New York, he thought he was home—but tonight, on that stage, “now I’m f-cking home.” Tears and deafening applause as Jesse propelled himself out of his chair into a standing position, two hands on the mic stand as he planted his feet. Once steadied, he took one hand off the mic stand, placed that hand over his heart, and then upraised in a clenched fist. As he sings in “Greener Pastures”: We all want somewhere to begin.
This can be the “somewhere” to begin again.
**************************
People often ask if I have a favorite concert experience. I’ve photographed enough shows to have lost count, and I’ve attended even more. Each has been special in its own way, but I’ve never had an answer to that question–at least not until these two shows at the Beacon. Both nights had a rousing, all-guests-on-stage finale (The Clash’s “Rudy Can’t Fail” on Dec. 1; The Ramones’ “Do You Remember Rock ‘n’ Roll Radio” on Dec. 2). As effervescent as those closing songs were, what stays with me is the magnitude of the end of the show, when Jesse moved with his walker to the lip of the stage and thanked the audience.
None of us will ever fully understand what that took, physically and emotionally. And none of us will ever forget how it felt to be in that room, sharing in that moment.
**************************
I love the Counting Crows’ cover of “Oh Sheena” on Silver Patron Saints. The song that Adam Duritz and David Immerglück performed both nights at the Beacon, though—at Jesse’s request—was a Crows one: It’s been a long December, and there’s reason to believe / that maybe this year will be better than the last. I’ve been returning to those words from “A Long December,” and to these lines in Rickie Lee Jones’s “Cycles”: Life is like the seasons / after winter comes the spring.
These songs lean forward even as they narrate the past. They speak of the next year, the next time we meet. A New York comeback, a movie at the Angelika. Days ahead, hangin’ round for better things. A faith that remains unbroken. Tell the story one more time.
This is what I hope we can all hold onto, no matter the odds: that loss does not mean we cannot be whole. That we are always in the process of becoming. That if we so choose, the way forward is also the way home. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other.
*****************************
You can pick up a copy of the benefit album, Silver Patron Saints, on vinyl and CD (both are available on Amazon; if you can, though, please support your local record store). Sweet Relief is collecting funds to support Jesse’s recovery.
Follow Jesse Malin on Facebook, Instagram, and X.
*********************
LIVE CLIPS
