Where culture and transportation converge
From the monthly archives:
Flip flops, freckles, and frappes. High summer has arrived. While v.. http://tinyurl.com/l5×54b #
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Flip flops, freckles, and frappes. High summer has arrived. While vacationers flock to beachfront getaway, city dwellers miss out on some of the best of summer symbols — lemonade stands, ocean views and lazy summers on the porch swing. But not this season as the porch swing sways in Bryant Park. Rocking swings, Adirondack chairs and the ever iconic porch swings are part of the “Porch” installation designed by Nancy Thiel Architecture + Design. It’s an outdoor living space open through September to the public for leisurely reflection. Small bites and specialty cocktail add to breezy ambiance, with a menu prepared by beer ‘wichcraft’s Tom Colicchio.
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Lincoln is brave. Embarking on a ride and drive in Manhattan is no small undertaking. Yet, last Thursday they invited a group of regional media to test out their two newest models on the mean streets — the 2010 MKZ and the 2010 Lincoln MKT. Lincoln has upped their game and are not shy about showing it with product as they determine their niche in the marketplace.
Is the MKZ an Acura TL or Lexus ES 350? I’m not sure that it has to be. The current climate is making people reexamine their driving habits, so who’s to say how the roads are going to look after this skimming? It’s a changing marketplace that no pie chart can claim to predict with any degree of certainty. While price is certainly a factor, it feels like Lincoln is stil a period of reinvention. Let’s say that they’ve produced a contender in the toughest of times.
Perhaps Lincoln’s confidence in the wily East comes from a quickly revised redesign, including a more sedate and familiar body shape than the 2007 version, creating symmetry to the MKS. Once upon a time Lincoln flirted with calling MKZ Zephyr, heir apparent to a Ford legend. They’ve back pedaled into letter titles so the Z name is where we are — slightly confusing with the more elite MKS, but everything takes some getting used to in product title.
The addition of noise isolation technology shined on stretches of the Van Wyck, land o’ blaring horns and bumps. While the MKZ has Ford Fusion under pinnings in the 3.5 liter V6, the handling feels different, particularly in the steering column.
MKZ’s interior is fly — white stripes create clean edges, smart dash and a tastefully assorted instrumental panel. Materials were unobtrusive, no overshooting here in an effort to appear fancy. Think premium, not luxury — a solid position for a toned-down era. Also worth noting is that MKZ runs on regular, unleaded fuel.
I drove through tony Greenwich through the New York tri-state region until the lunch change. Worth noting that in the chic suburbia of Armonk, MKZ got love from the residents and workers at Mariani Gardens who had never seen such a Lincoln.
After lunch, I climbed behind the MKT, part II. Here we have another precarious mood — testing out a new car after a long morning. But Lincoln seemed to know what it was doing. I had no preconceptions other than the dozens of vehicles I’ve romped around in this tough category. MKT had a clean slate.
First impressions: The MKT crossover vehicle might not bear an exterior resemblance to the Ford Flex, but if I closed my eyes, I could channel Flex — and this is a good thing. We’ve been fans round these parts since our associates’ close dealings on Flex turf. The similar stride are due to the fact that MKT and Flex share an underbody.
MKT is a versatile performer, power is where it needs to be and the EcoBoost is a feel good trait on the AWD vehicle I tested. (It’s not standard, but it’s the way to go.) Most importantly, the interior was comfortable. I feel like this kind of vehicle is designed for long days behind the wheel, and nothing on the inside seemed to get in my way. Sometimes what you don’t notice speaks to a vehicle’s confidence. Clean and smart.
Navigating through Columbus Circle back to the homebase at the Essex Hotle, people gave MKT respect, the telltale mark of an appreciated new design. Lincoln passed the New York City nail biting test.
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Yesterday, at about 5:30 pm on my walk home from the subway, the news spread on the streets. “Beat It” and “Never Can Say Goodbye” streamed through open windows and people tearfully called their friends obliviously shouting, “Did you hear? Michael Jackson died.” A man rode in the elevator with me, shook his head, posture stooped, and rubbed his eyes. “I never imagined losing him,” he whispered, noticeably stricken. For a moment, the world stopped as people processed the news, still in disbelief. Michael Jackson, gone?
But, despite mixed reports, the tragedy was real and as the details slipped out of 24-news coverage, the speculation, the commentary and the reflections began. Soon, itunes jammed up as people rushed to download their favorite Michael Jackson songs to replace dusty albums that were long gone, sold off to record collecting fiends. We all had our Michael Jackson moment, a memory of some way this man’s music had touched our lives, which superseded his personal struggles and the lurid gossip that trailed him until the very end.
Michael Jackson was the consummate artist. Michael Jackson was music at it’s best. Michael Jackson was the epitome of what an entertainer should be — excellent, creative, and fearless. He had it, that indescribable gift of artistry. Joe Jackson coaxed it, Barry Gordy captured it, Quincy Jones cultivated it — the makings of a born star. We lost someone yesterday afternoon, on June 25, 2009 integral to 20th century American history. With the passing of Michael at age 50 we said goodbye to the end of an era.
I cannot imagine growing up without Michael Jackson. All I wanted for my eighth birthday was to see Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video. The VCR was new to the scene, and for my first sleepover party, my parents rented the machine and the iconic Jackson video on a clunky VHS tape. I was through the roof! Back then I was a shy girl and I remember this birthday to be a social turning point as the girls and I bonded over our adoration of the king of pop. The 14-minute video sent chills up and down my spine as we watched it again and again, cringing at Vincent Price’s ominous voice over, but when it got to the part where Michael moved I was mesmerized. I wanted to dance like that, too. I wanted to sing every word. We practiced our moves for the rest of the night imitating the funky ghouls and ghosts.
“Thriller” was the first story on the screen that was set to music that wasn’t a musical in the traditional sense –it was song on film, and still the best musical video made. We all felt it coming in the coolness of “Billie Jean,” the first hit single from that album, catapulting him into his own Milky Way. The Michael Jackson fever spread, and as a young girl I had it bad — with my very own red zipper jacket and sorry attempts to moonwalk. I played dress up with one glove. “Billie Jean,” “PYT,” and “The Girl is Mine” were on constant rotation on our record player.
Two years, later when Michael wrote “We are the World,” I saved my allowance up to donate to the USA for Africa cause. I proudly sang the melody he penned at the top of lungs during the school talent show. Michael Jackson was my musical hero. As I grew older, tough guys and edgy girls wouldn’t confess to loving Michael, but I still did, particularly when he tugged my heart with truisms like “Man in the Mirror” and “Black and White.” Michael Jackson sang about the kind of world that I wanted to live in – where everyone blended in. It didn’t matter what he looked like, Michael made me want to dance. I knew about the Jackson 5, from “ABC” to “The Love You Save” and understood that this was a Motown act. To Detroiters like us, this was hometown music. Our Jackson 5. I flirted with Jermaine’s music, and loved, Janet, the most, memorizing the choreography to “Rhythm Nation,” but it was Michael who took me there, who brought me to Janet who made Jermaine interesting. It is Michael who I still play on a regular basis counting “Rock With You” and “Starting Something” as my all time favorite songs.
When we drove to Chicago and we passed through the stretch of Gary, Indiana that borders I-94 and smelled the foul stench of industry, I was impressed by the fact that this was the real birthplace of the Jackson family, a Midwestern dream of stardom realized out of the factory ashes. While the good people of Gary probably wouldn’t like my drive by view of their town, it is all I know of it — steam pipes and “Going Back to Indiana.”
Perhaps Michael the performer eclipsed Michael the man who had to live with himself, the child star who never was spared a quiet minute without the watchful eye of the spotlight. A kid who never knew what it was to wander amok became the eccentric out-of-touch shadow of a man whose actions were inexplicable and elusive and uncomfortable. Despite, his bizarre behavior and his problem’s functioning off the stage, what seemed saddest to me about Michael, is that some point his spotlight became far removed from the microphone. At some point there were no new Michael Jackson classics. At some point he stopped singing for our generation. At some point, Michael stopped for singing for us.
What Michael mastered in youth was the perfect popular music song — he made classic records — and our memories of his best years are already preserved. It is here that we will return in coming days to eulogize Michael. Like Elvis Presley, his later life trouble will fade as his music plays clearly and his actions are imitated by performers who just don’t quite have it like he did. I’m waiting for the Michael Jackson Sirius radio station and the blockbuster film.
A few months ago, I passed by an outdoor screening of Michael Jackson videos in Brooklyn. As the music flowed, and the videos streamed a crowd gathered and people marveled at how much music he had left us with. People were clapping and singing and dancing to a sweat — soaking in the essence of Michael. What started out as five became ten and soon twenty. It is this Michael Jackson who we cannot deny.
Michael first brought us together and moved us with the power of the song in the 1970s. In passing, he leaves us with his final gift, that only a star can shine on his fans, some who aren’t even born yet. He will bring us together again. Michael Jackson, we will rock with you all night, dance you into day.
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Motown. Barry Gordy. Diana Ross. The Four Tops. The Temptations. Marvin Gaye. James Jamerson. Tami Terrell. Stevie Wonder. The Jackson 5. Detroit artistry never fails to make me breathless — and it’s all wrapped up in Motown — the definitive sound of the Motor City.
From the vantage point of a front row seat, I watched and listened the Detroit Free Press pay homage to it’s native soundtrack at the wrap party for Motown at 50. In an ambitious effort to explore the culture of Motown, a team of Free Press staffers produced 50 videos, investigating the ins and outs of Motown’s legacy. They dove into the vault combing through original masters, they toured the caverns of the Gordy mansion in the Boston-Edison section of Detroit and they gathered hours of footage interviewing dozens of the artists, producers, engineers and employees that made Motown the iconic record label and sound of an era. The newspaper staff screened 10 of their favorites out of the 50 for a discerning audience of about 100 at the Boll Family YMCA, including Duke Fakir of the Four Tops, Dennis Coffey and Kim Weston. The mood was intimate, magnified by heartfelt moments, like when James Jamerson’s daughter Penny thanked the editors and producers for their efforts to preserve her father’s memory.
Fifty years later those who’ve been there the whole time are nearing their twilight years, and at this crux in history, it’s worth noting that to witness their reactions was news in itself. Where will some of them be at year 60? Nothing’s promised, but this surely comes at a time when many are alive, vibrant and vivacious — sage in mind and outlook. While the master tapes exist as documentation in a dusty vault removed from the community they were created in, the charisma, humor and devotion these individuals exhibit in person is something to behold. They are Detroit treasures who recognize the enormity of their contribution, but remain low key and reflective. With each shot of archival footage or offhand quoted quip, they giggled, murmured under their breath and clapped along with the sound they cultivated.
It’s quite remarkable to be a small part of this series that provoked such an out pour of appreciation and emotion from the subjects. I asked a few movers and shakers for their perspective on Motown including favorite songs, artists, and the overall impact of a musical movement on a generation.
Here’s a sample from one respondent:
MIKE BANKS: Musician and leader of Detroit techno collective Underground Resistance
Motown is what Joe Louis was to boxing, what Jesse Owens was for track and field, what Obama is for all of us – it was the dream realized.
Motown is a story of joy and pain, but certainly a blueprint for Detroit techno. Of what can be done with nothing but hope, hard work and brains. We never doubted we could change the world because of Motown.
It’s a great question — with so many responses on so many level — What does Motown mean to you?
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What defines Ford from the Big Three, what has always defined Ford, and what will continue to define Ford, is that when it comes down to it, Ford is a family business. While most of the day-to-day business is run by a diverse network of executives, managers, and supervisors, the familial hand that guides them is still present in the peripheral with a 40 percent vote on the Board. At all levels of management, mention of the family name prompts hushed tones and allegiances to loyalty.
In many ways, this unspoken tenet is what pains workers who leave the company, but can’t quite shake their Ford blood. While other corporations have their fairweather CEOs as stand-ins for leaders, the Ford family’s behind-closed-doors involvement lends itself to a fascinating business model of the American dream realized. Ford represents capitalism, keeping it in the family and taking one for the team. Like any family, the Ford’s have had their ups and downs, their ins and outs, but somehow they remain bound, and omnipresent.
Today New York Times takes a rare glimpse into the family politics, with Bill Vlasic’s recount of a meeting that takes place every three months among the Ford kin at the Dearborn headquarters.
“After my father died, people in the family needed to start talking,” said Edsel Ford II, [click to continue…]
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I’m all too happy zipping around metro Detroit in a 2010 Ford Fusion Hybrid, soaking up the better days of June. The secret of Detroit is late June. June always finds a way to sneak up with its big, gaping blue skies, rising thermometers and the lush rose petals peeking out. For these stalwart Michigan folks that have endured an especially hard winter, June is relief and refuge. June is weddings, graduations, endings. June is when real summer begins and life is best savored.
In many ways, the Fusion Hybrid is the right car for this June — it feels warm, inviting, familiarity mingling with possibility — exactly what this town and the people who drive it’s cars need. I feel it on 12 Mile Road in Farmington Hills at the bank, in a sea of big white SUVs at the AMC Livonia on Saturday night and on 7 Mile at Marygrove College. Here is a low key sensation — not too opulent, but with just enough mustard to stand out from the econo-set.
The Fusion Hybrid is not flashy, nor is it polarizing, nor mysterious. Fusion Hybrid is a functional gas engine electric hybrid, which in theory, aligns it with everything a well designed car should be. Form meets function. TheeExterior is low key and refined, no obnoxious bulbous slopes or odd-ball LED headlights. On the inside, Fusion is clean in a way that a hybrid needs to be, starting with the gauges.
Hybrid drivers need to know their fuel economy. When big trucks fly by with big horsepower, the satisfaction of driving a hybrid is dervied by the magic number on the gauge boasting high fuel economy. Without even trying to drive mindfully (slow acceleration, easy on the brakes) I averaged 38 mpg. (The company boasts a range of 41/36 mixing highway and city.) Ford has outfoxed Toyota and Chevy in this class.
To find out where I was at required no switches to flick or Nav system fiddling, just a quick glance near my speedometer serving as a gentle reminder that I was out for the Earth and my pocket, too, in this aggressive driving town.
What counterbalances the fuel economy feeling is a healthy, responsive engine cranking out solid 0 to 60 mph numbers (under 8 seconds), and here lies another Fusion feature that gets high marks. Hybrid driving should not feel like a golf cart. Otherwise, I might as well all jump on a bike and sweat it out to get somewhere on time.
And while the extra $3300 is a hard sell in a tough economy, I think it’s like everything else. It takes patience and time to get in the game. Eventually when those gas bills creep up, when Al Gore makes a compelling sequel, or when Obama opts for tax credits that compensate, this sort of expense will make sense. Some of us will be happy enough to sit on seats made out of recycled material, soaking up the June UV rays, quietly cruising the streets.
Come on Detroit haters, got to give the Blue Oval a gold star on product planning. Jerry Garrett from NYTimes.com and I are in agreement on this one.
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