Williamsburg Music Center — Local services in New York

Walking into the iconic Williamsburg Music Center on June 27th felt like stepping through a portal. It feels like sound had been living there for decades, clinging to the walls.

The space is curated and cared for by people who treat the music with reverence. Everyone who works there whether setting up a mic, pouring a drink, or adjusting the lights moves with purpose and pride. You feel that you're in the presence of something communal and protected.

The crowd that night was beautiful: elders who have followed the music for years, young heads tuning their ears to something real, musicians in quiet awe, and neighborhood folks who just knew where the good stuff would be. There was a reverent hush before each song and an eruption of joy after every solo. Everyone was in it.

And then there was Gerry Eastman.

Perched at the center of the band with his guitar, he didn’t command attention, he invited it. There’s a generosity in the way Gerry plays: it’s never about ego or flash, it’s about deep listening, about creating a pocket big enough for everyone to step inside. The night unfolded like a round robin of musical communion. One player would take the lead, and the others would build underneath, catching the rhythm and running with it. Young musicians leaned into the moment, watching Gerry, waiting, learning. Veterans added texture and nuance, nodding as the groove found new shapes. The emotional high point for me came when they played Gerry’s own composition, Native Son. Hearing Native Son in that room, with that band, you could feel the lineage in it, the love, the experience, the novel’s story, his story, his family’s story, maybe even the neighborhood’s story, all expressed without a single word.

The vocalists that night were electric. One moment in particular carved itself into my memory: a gorgeous woman in a black turban and striking red lips stood at the mic and offered a wordless vocalization over a Coltrane composition. Her voice, pure and ecstatic, soared and spiraled with the band, like hearing someone translate the unspeakable into sound. Every singer that night left an impression, but she summoned something cosmic.

What stays with me is the joy that filled the room. The kind that can’t be faked, the kind that spills over, into your bloodstream and your memory. Even now, days later, I can still feel it, I still hear the sacred order/disorder of spontaneous creation. I’m already aching to return. I know that next time the music will be different, the players slightly rearranged, but the spirit of the portal will remain. That place and that man are living proof that the real stuff never dies. It just...

Phenomenal jazz!Came in on a whim and was highly impressed. There was a trumpet towards the end that was really good. The chemistry between all the players is incredible. This is a very talented group and they all have such a unique style. If you are in the area swing by! (I think they play on Friday nights and some Saturdays) Such swing and swangy jazz, I left full of energy. It is clear that all the players have a passion for music and have had time to practice their craft. I will...

I would call this place a wonderful gem in the neighborhood if it wasn't for Gerry Eastman, a narcissist sellout whom calls himself a "legend" because of celebrities he may have known, while playing the role of gentrifying the area and deliberately helping raise prices for his own benefit while real creative people go on starving for basic human rights and necessities. Legendary...