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August 26, 2007

West Village: In a House of Blues, a Safe Harbor

IT'S 8 p.m. on a summer weeknight, and so far there is only one patron at Terra Blues, a cozy second-floor nightclub on Bleecker Street in the West Village. The customer, a skinny man sitting hunched over the end of the bar at his regular seat, sips a Diet Coke through a straw as the first mournful notes of the club's resident bluesman, Junior Mack, spill from the stage.

The man's name is Victor Roland, and for the past decade, he has been coming to Terra Blues virtually every night. He arrives around 8 p.m., in time for the first set, and is usually gone by 11. He has become as much a fixture as the mahogany bar or the dimly lighted stage.

Mr. Roland is 63 and mildly developmentally disabled. His adopted home is just a short walk from his mother's apartment. He lived with her until she died, at 93, in 1999, and he still lives there, now with the person he refers to as "the cousin," a relative who keeps an eye on him.

"She came here once," Mr. Roland said of his mother, his tremulous, high-pitched voice hard to hear above the music. "She wanted to see it for herself. And you know what? She told me: ‘It's fine. You have friends here. It's O.K..' "

New York has many Terras Blues, and many Mr. Rolands. For all its hard edges, the city can be a soft touch, a town where public places like clubs, restaurants and banks turn their bar stools and lobbies into living rooms for the lonely, the elderly or those who, like Mr. Roland, are needy in other respects. They become more than regulars and are often attended by an assortment of faithful friends.

In the case of Mr. Roland, one such friend is Duggins King, co-owner of Terra Blues for the past 13 years. Mr. King, a transplanted Texan in his 30s, has developed a teasing, affectionate relationship with Mr. Roland. Mr. King and his wife, Solange, have baked cakes for Mr. Roland's birthday, which is often celebrated in the club.

Once — an event etched in Mr. Roland's memory — Mr. King let him play guitar onstage with Mr. Mack. Mr. Roland, who learned to play both banjo and guitar as a child, has also occasionally played on his own at the club, performing standards like Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues."

The other evening, sitting alongside Mr. King at the bar, Mr. Roland sadly recalled the evening not long ago when the club was closed for construction and he had to go to what he described as a "rock 'n' roll" club instead.

Mr. King laughed.

"Rock 'n' roll messes up the swing, right, Victor?" he said.

Mr. Roland smiled.

"Oh, I know I'm not going to get there what I get here," he said. Turning to another patron, he explained: "Duggie's been very good to me. I'll tell you why. For the first drink, I don't have to worry. But I give a tip anyway, because they're serving."

"And because the girls are pretty here," Mr. King added.

"Yes, they're pretty," Mr. Roland replied solemnly. "But it's still a business, you know."

"Who's your favorite?" Mr. King asked.

Mr. Roland paused and squinted. "Jill," he said finally.

"Ah," said Mr. King, as the strains of Jimmy Reed's "You Got Me Dizzy" filled the air. "Jill was many people's favorite."

Jill is gone now; a few years ago she moved to Germany. But on his own occasional trips, Mr. Roland does not forget the current staff, bringing them back small gifts, like little condiment jars from hotels.

Jenny Rocha, a dark-haired young woman who was tending bar this evening and who has known Mr. Roland for seven years, said he once gave her a key chain. "It was really sweet," she said.

Mr. Roland's family has its roots in Europe. During World War II, his parents escaped from the Nazis and managed to reach Haiti, where Mr. Roland was born. The family moved to Long Island in 1947.

In talking about his earlier life, Mr. Roland sometimes reveals an unexpected toughness. When his mother fell ill, for example, but refused to consent to an operation, he was determined to convince her otherwise.

"You know how long it took me?" he asked. "Four hours."

Nor is the club the only fixture in Mr. Roland's life. There is also Matt Umanov's guitar store on Bleecker Street, where Mr. Roland is well known and has his guitar tuned for free. He also works five hours a day at a center on Vandam Street for people with developmental disabilities, where he assembles and packs plastic clothespins and other small items. The earnings supplement the annuity his mother left him.

It was at this last workshop that Mr. Roland met his girlfriend, Era Leshem. She has already made an appearance at the club, where, according to Mr. King, Mr. Roland "has worked it out so she gets a free Diet Coke, too." Mr. Roland's birthday is Sept. 3, and he is full of hope that he and Ms. Leshem, who occasionally sings, will get to perform together on stage.

Mr. King has ruled nothing out.

"I remember my father came here from Texas," Mr. King said. "He said to me, ‘Is that man still coming every day?' And I said, ‘Yes, he is.' He said: ‘Good. Make sure he keeps coming.' "

Source: NYTimes