Published in Sunday Times Travel Magazine, October 2003

Soul survivor

On the other side of the tracks in New York, William Ham Bevan discovers that Harlem is the new Manhattan must-see

‘HEY, you’re great folks. Come along back to my project and I’ll make you all pregnant!’ bawls the friendly, dreadlocked wino slouched against the Subway railings, brown-bagged liquor bottle in hand, while we fidget with our street maps.

As the sole male in our party, I wonder whether I am required to defend my fellow travellers’ honour – and whether I’m included in the proposition. Fortunately, one of my companions sweetly declines, and our suitor grins a wide, gap-toothed grin. ‘Well, you gotta ask. You all have a nice day, now.’

It’s an appropriate welcome to Harlem, a place whose bark is far worse than its bite. I’m here to take a walking tour around the neighbourhood, having identified the other members of my group at the Subway station – not difficult, since they were the only other white folk around.

On paper, Harlem has been on the up for several years, and is poised to follow the now celebrity-ridden Meatpacking District as the city’s next big thing. Crime rates halved during Mayor Giuliani’s tenure, allegedly making it safer than many corners of London. Inward investment has brought in the chains that had previously shunned the enclave of Manhattan north of Central Park, including Starbucks, HMV and the ultimate American comfort blanket, Disney. And Harlem is now the office address of the 42nd President, William Jefferson Clinton – even if there are as many theories about his motivation as there are yellow-cab drivers.

Blotting out the reputation of New York’s most notorious ghetto was never going to be easy. One organisation committed to doing so is the Harlem Association for Travel and Tourism, and we meet our guide, Anthony Bowman, at its headquarters.

We head out toward Malcolm X Boulevard, and Anthony points out the signs of Harlem’s renewal. On all sides, newly painted hoardings conceal some work of demolition, rebuilding or refurbishment. One plot of land, between tenement blocks, has the incongruous sight of a welly-booted, thirtysomething couple tending an allotment patch – The Good Life transplanted onto the set of NYPD Blue. ‘That’s Green Thumb,’ Anthony explains. ‘Where there’s a derelict lot, the Green Thumb programme means local volunteers can claim the land, and renovate it as a neighbourhood garden.’

An old saying about Harlem is that there is a bar on every corner and a church on every block; but it’s the latter that are the true linchpin of the community. We amble past the Canaan Baptist Church, where Martin Luther King’s acolyte Wyatt Tee Walker still combines preaching and politics from the pulpit, and the First Corinthian Baptist Church, now housed in what was New York’s first purpose-built cinema. Its facade, with the massive cross held out on struts over the sidewalk, gives the impression of a huge, Jesus-themed bingo hall.

The churches are thriving, thanks in part to hordes of gospel tourists each Sunday. Surely some worshippers object to being made to feel they’re there to be gawped at? I ask. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ says Anthony. ‘All people should come to Harlem, see what’s happening, and join in. There’s a unique energy here, and we want to share that.’

Some of Harlem’s celebrated jazz joints have fared less well. We pause in front of Minton’s Playhouse, where Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker invented bebop over late-night jam sessions with house pianist Thelonius Monk. The club has long been closed, but its sign sparkles with the evidence of a recent polish. Anthony tells me that a consortium led by Robert de Niro had begun to do the place up before it was discovered that the nearby presence of a rehab centre meant no liquor licence could be granted. It’s not the last story I hear about the puritan pettiness that has come to characterise New York’s licensing bureaucracy.

For all the historical landmarks, most of Harlem is surprisingly suburban. One moment, we’re gazing down a wide avenue to the Masjid Malcolm Shabazz mosque, founded by Malcolm X. Then we duck into terraces of brownstone townhouses that are so perfectly Sesame Street, I half expect to find Oscar the Grouch holding forth from a trash can on the sidewalk. On the edge of Marcus Garvey Park, kids shoot hoops on a basketball court. I make mention of the Harlem Globetrotters. ‘Ah, they were nothing to do with Harlem,’ says Anthony. ‘They came from Chicago. The name was chosen by their white manager to emphasise blackness.’

We make our way through the Malcolm Shabazz market, which houses some of the street traders that were swept off 125th Street as part of Harlem’s recent clean-up. Among the units selling cheap T-shirts, ethnic clothing and costume jewellery is the stall of Harley the Buckleman – designer of bespoke belt buckles to the stars. His business card nonchalantly cites three of his clients: hip-hop star Jaheim, gangsta rapper Killa Cam and former leader of the free world Bill Clinton.

Behind the market, Anthony draws our attention to a run-down stretch of 115th Street. Here, every August, the United House of Prayer for All People conducts a mass baptism by firehose. ‘Hundreds upon hundreds, all dressed in white, dripping wet,’ Anthony says. ‘Can you imagine it?’ Later, I wonder whether this is some sort of reclamation, a reference to the water cannon once used to subdue unarmed Civil Rights protesters; but no, it turns out such events have been going on for more than 50 years. Best to leave the social history to those who know what they’re talking about, then.

The walk ends on 125th Street, between icons of the old and new Harlem. On the one side, the imposing new shopping mall that has brought in Starbucks’s cappuccino and Disney’s cuddly toys; on the other, the Apollo Theatre, whose amateur nights, with their notoriously unforgiving audiences, kick-started the careers of Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday and Sarah Vaughn.
Having bonded with my fellow walkers, I join them for dinner at Sylvia’s on Lenox Avenue. The founder, Sylvia Woods, has long been recognised as Harlem’s queen of soul food. We gorge ourselves on smothered chicken, pork chops and barbecue ribs, and the others raise a solemn toast to the late diet guru Dr Atkins for granting them absolution from nutritional guilt – just so long as they steer clear of the evil carbohydrates in the cornbread.

Rolling out of Sylvia’s, I discover we’ve saved the best for last. The Lenox Lounge, 20m away, is an immaculately preserved fantasy of Art Deco, with its period frontage, mirrored panels and polished chrome booths. In the front lounge, a chilled crowd sit around the bar, but we press on into the Zebra Room, named for the eye-warping wallpaper print. It must rate as one of the world’s most famous jazz venues, but each Monday is a jam session in which all performers can take part.

To our surprise, we’re the only people in the room, aside from the four-piece band: cornet, keys, bass and drums. The pianist nods in acknowledgement, then barely seems to notice us again. The groove that had started before we came in is still going on when we creep back out to the front bar, 20 minutes – and four solos – later.

And this typifies Harlem. In a city not known for understatement, it holds on to a quiet, patient confidence that another renaissance is on the way to match the 1920s jazz explosion and the birth of Black consciousness in the 1960s. All comers are welcome here – and it’s a warm, genuine welcome, as a certain ex-president has discovered. No excuse, then, not to check it out for yourself. And should you need directions, listen to Duke Ellington’s advice – and take the ‘A’ train.