I never planned to make a music video. Like a lot of things that are happening in my life right now, the circumstance simply presented itself in a way that made it impossible for me to say no. My filmmaker friend Monica Scharf wanted to use one of my songs for her short film. In lieu of payment, I opted for something I could use to promote my music, something that I knew I couldn't hope to afford without a (major) label and a sizeable budget behind me. After our initial meeting, I remember thinking, what the heck, it can't hurt. It's not costing me anything. And it's something I need-or so I'm told. I certainly didn't have the wherewithal to do it myself.

My experience with video and film has been almost completely pedestrian, literally: I happen upon a shoot, sometimes unraveling in the middle of the sidewalk as I'm on my way somewhere, and like everyone else that's being herded to the other side of the street, I stop for a moment to see if there's anyone in it that I recognize. At least, that's what I used to do when I first came to the city. When that happens now, I could care less. I know that I'm inches away from being in/doing a movie or a video of my own, so the allure is lost on me. I'm like, you people are in my way.

I must have looked like such a tourist when I first moved here. Whatever.

In a matter of weeks, a date and time was set, a location and a crew was found, and whatever problems or misgivings I may have had dissipated into the ether, like magic. We shot the video at a place called Celsius, in Gramercy. That neighborhood tends to creep me out. It feels tonier than the Upper East Side's old money along Fifth Avenue, probably because it borders the Lower East Side and all the ethnicity that neighborhood is supposed to represent. (The gargoyles hovering over me don't help much, either.) It's like a strange little patch of historic exclusivity in the midst of normalcy, like Morris-Jumel Mansion and it's surrounding 18th century row houses in the middle of West Harlem. But there's no mansion-museum in Gramercy. Just stunning 19th century architecture, thin, shriveled up, pasty looking white people in expensive clothing, a West Indian nanny here or there with her charge (what exclusive neighborhood would be complete without that?) and of course the centerpiece: Gramercy Park, the only private park that remains in NYC. It has a big black high spiked iron fence to keep you out-or keep them in, if you prefer. That little park is under lock and key, just like a cage in the zoo. Only a select few have access. Its all so very "Sneeches on the Beaches." Interesting, to walk by and look at them, looking at me. From their perspective, I suppose it looks like I'm the one that's in a cage and on display.

I guess everything really does depend on how you choose to see it.