There Goes the Neighborhood
Wonderful, Exhausting, Evolving New York
There was a wild story in the New Yorker about the theft of the Elvis bust that used to be in the window of Jones, our formerly beloved bar. That incarnation of Jones, with its curiously bright orange facade, closed in 2018 and it was a blow. Their special was a drink called the Shaggy, basically a Dark and Stormy, but with spicy ginger ale they had delivered every week from North Carolina. The food wasn’t bad either—they served a good jambalaya, if you can believe it, which is even more remarkable because the chef was from Tibet.
Jones had Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling, a good jukebox and a bartender who played bass in Pavement. If we were friends between 1998 and 2018 then we had a drink at Jones. Oh, and I was walking down the Bowery when I got a call saying Abrams had agreed to publish Men and Style. I went around the corner and into Jones to celebrate my first book deal. A good bar can measure the benchmarks of your life.
When Jones closed it felt like the end of an era. Of course, it’s easy to forget that there were eras before our era. And Jones has evolved into a barometer for the fortune of the neighborhood. Basquiat once lived across the street in a loft owned by Andy Warhol. Now we’ve got Zero Bond and apartments for models with beauty brands.
This Elvis statue—donated by an artist who worked there as a waitress— seemed to represent the old way. As the restaurant got fancier the Elvis remained a link to old downtown and its former authenticity (dangerous word!). Some old-timers felt the new version of Jones used the statue for credibility they hadn’t earned, like wearing a vintage concert t-shirt for a show you didn't attend. Who gets to decide what’s the real version of a neighborhood, of course, is directly linked with when they arrived. We think history starts with us.
One irony is that in its latest incarnation Jones isn’t even Jones. It’s a wine bar called Elvis and they’re not even allowed to display the statue. That’s because all things Presley are owned by the bloodsucking Authentic Brands Group, which buys estates and zombie brands and licenses them. After all the thieving drama Authentic Brands, in their infinite wisdom, says the Elvis bust infringes on the King’s copyright. (Incidentally, you have Authentic Brands to thank for the fact that there’s a Sports Illustrated Resort—we’re a long way from Tom McGuane gracing the pages fishing for permit.)