City Bound

Happy July, y'all. Sorry for the relative lull in posting, but it's been a busy few days. It's also the Summer, which invariably means that everyone's spending less time in front of their computers (or at least should be). It's hard to believe that it's July already. Personally speaking, it's even harder to believe that tomorrow, July 2nd, will be the one year anniversary of my unceremonious discharge from the ranks of MTV News. I should probably not dwell on it, being that I'm very fortunate to have landed on my feet and gotten reinstated at long last into the work force since then, but the memory of that day and the ensuing experience still stings. I walk by the building in question every day and even though I'm in a better circumstance, I can't help but bum out a little. What can I do? I'm a hopeless sentimentalist.

Speaking of hopeless sentimentalism, if there's one thing that summer does for me it's take me back. There's something about the heavy, humid atmosphere and the dense, aromatic air of summer in New York City that instantly reminds me of countless summers of my youth, when days seemed to last forever and the nights even longer.  Thanks to the magic of YouTube, I've been especially reminded of the summer of 1986 of late, and have been in a weird state of unshakeable nostalgia as a result.

Rewind to that July. I'd just completed my freshman year at Denison University and was looking forward to another summer of washing dishes at Ina Garten's  gourmet eatery in posh-o Westhampton, The Barefoot Contessa. It was pretty far from being a prestigious gig, but I'd done it the summer before, and it had proved to be pretty lucrative. I was living in the stuffy attic bedroom of a group house owned by a friend of the family out in Quogue. Being that I wasn't really into the whole scene out there at the time (no tennis playing prepster, I), I spent the majority of the summer shuttling back and forth between Quogue and the city. Basically, I'd work for four days at the `Barefoot, hop on a city bound train and then spend three days back in Manhattan, doing apprentice work for a graphic designer for extra cash and blowing most of my money on records, Punk Rock shows and beer. Life did not suck.

Earlier that Spring, my Mom had been dating this gent I'll call Angus. I didn't really know too much about the guy, other than that he seemed somewhat eager to win me over. Mom must have told him that I was a bit of an ardent music fan, which prompted Angus -- who evidently considered himself to be a similarly inclined afficianado -- to somewhat unsolicitedly make me a mixtape. While I respected that (myself being guilty of forcing countless mixtapes on myriad friends and acquaintances), I was somewhat less that gracious about it. Dubbed "It's Getting Hot," the tape in question boasted several extended dances mixes by acts like Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam, Shalamar, Nu Shooz and Culture Club. Being a slavish devotee at the time of acts like Black Flag, 7 Seconds, Motorhead and Killing Joke, I was decidedly unimpressed by the gesture. I'm not positive, but I believe I may have smashed the cassette with a hammer, unspooled the actual tape and returned it to Angus with some snotty note attached like an obnoxious brat. I'm sure I chalked it up to my deeply held musical convictions, but no matter how you slice it, it was uncalled for. Amazingly, Angus overlooked it. 

When the summer arrived, I got another call from Angus. He'd apparently seen the future, and that future was the compact disc. As such, he was purging his reportedly massive collection of vinyl records. He asked if I'd be interested in taking them off his hands. Thinking back to the contents of that desecrated cassette, I half-heartedly agreed to oblige him. Again, he took my adolescent petulance in stride. We set a date for pickup and the deal was done. A couple of days later, I walked down to Angus' plush Fifth Avenue apartment building with my friend Jeff. Waiting for me in the lobby were three massive crates of records. I couldn't believe my eyes. Somehow, Jeff and I managed to cart them back to my Mom's place, and we cracked'em open.

Either Angus had undergone some sort of musical lobotomy between buying these records and making me that mixtape, or I had severely misjudged him. Inside these bursting boxes were countless Punk, New Wave and Post-Punk gems by acts like Siouxsie & the Banshees, Pubic Image Ltd., Swans, The Blasters, Ultravox, Romeo Void, Bow Wow Wow, Nina Hagen, Toyah Wilcox, Rip Rig + Panic, Pigbag, Fingerprintz, Shriekback, Nash the Slash, The Au Pairs, Glenn Branca, Altered Images, The Motels, Martha + the Muffins, The English Beat, The Psychedelic Furs, The March Violets, The Teardrop Explodes and so much more. It was a staggering library of music, and I could not believe that he'd parted with it so easily -- least of all as some of this music remains out of print today. I called Angus back shortly afterwards and thanked him profusely. This was a greater gift than I'd been worthy of.

I spent the rest of that summer slavishly immersing myself in those records, discovering whole new frontiers of music in the process. That all said, not all of the records included in that collection were gold. There were more than a few clunkers, not least by throwaway acts like Josie Cotton, Red Rider, Aldo Nova, Taxxi, Rick Derringer's DNA (not to be confused with Arto Lindsay's visceral No Wave trio of the same name), and erstwhile Meat Loaf vocalist Ellen Foley (Angus was apparently nothing if not eclectic). Another record that arguably belonged in that lame pile was the eponymous debut album from 1981 by a quartet called Novo Combo. 

Novo Combo was the short-lived brain child of ex-Santana drummer, Michael Shrieve. More than slightly modeled after the sleek, taut pop of The Police, Novo Combo attempted to hitch a ride on the New Wave bandwagon. Ultimately, however, Novo Combo was as credibly "New Wave" as, say, Night Ranger. This was largely due to their founder's inarguable roots in Woodstock-era hippy jam-rock (that said, if you don't marvel at Shrieve's adrenalized performance on "Soul Sacrifice" from the film of same, you're just an asshole). Regardless, however contrived, tonsorially embarrassing and cheeseballish as they may have been, Novo Combo did manage to craft at least one amazing, urgent single, that being "City Bound."

"City Bound" found its way onto one mixtape of mine that regularly and aptly scored my weekly treks in and out of Manhattan. While slickly produced and, again, shamelessly reminiscent of the Police (the intro to "City Bound" sounds like a less hyperkinetic rendition of "Regatta De Blanc"), its infectious pulse and unshakeable chorus swiftly made it a sheepish favorite of mine. As I stealthily ferreted myself through the bustle of Penn Station each week (a much more squalid experience back then than it is today), the propulsive beat and world-weary sentiment of "City Bound" fit my circumstances to a tee.  I'm not sure if I ever listened to another track off that record, but for "City Bound" alone, Novo Combo was salvaged from the heap of clunkers from Angus' cache.

Time passed. I went back to school. Mom broke up with Angus for one reason or another. Novo Combo had broken up long before I'd even heard of them anyway. Michael Shrieve had gone onto play with the entirely lamentable classic rock "supergroup" HSAS (that being a clunky acronym for Hagar, Schon, Aaronson & Shrieve -- an ensemble that found the drummer playing alongside ex-Montrose/future Van Halen shrieker Sammy Hagar, Journey's Neil Schon and ex-Foghat/Billy Squier bass plucker, Kenny Aaronson). Novo Combo got lost in the shuffle. That debut album was never even released on compact disc. To this day, it remains out of print.

Twenty two years later, I find myself in a strangely similar routine. Peggy and the kids are now sequestered out at my Mom's place back out in Quogue, and I'm finding myself shuttling back and forth between there and the city. Again, I'm finding myself racing back and forth between the two locales. And every time I make that trip, "City Bound" floods into my head. As such, I randomly did a YouTube search recently, and lo and behold I found it. Here is "City Bound" by Novo Combo. Play it loud and enjoy your summer.

Comments

[m coleman]

I've been obsessing on this lately, how a song can transport you into the past, the random way pop music can shape autobiography. for me it's the disco songs I heard coming out of boomboxxes the first summer I lived in New York. the reggae rhythms and dumb double entendres of Grace Jones' "Pull Up To The Bumper" put me back in 1981, an Ohio hayseed wandering the mean streets.

great post!

[John R. Kenny]

Holy God! - Novo Combo's debut was an absolute rock classic. You COULDN'T have listened to the damn thing, cuz the freakin' song is called "E-Train" damn you-NOT "City Bound". Jesus Christ! "Up Periscope" is absolutely BRILLIANT. "Tattoo" just too cool. "Sorry for the Delay". Man, you need to seriously revisit that one, bro. I've got a perfectly-preserved LP of that recording, and I've ripped it to .mp3, and thus, a very nice little CD. One of my 10 faves of all time.

[Alex in NYC]

Ha! Thanks for your note, John. I appreciate your passion for the music. I strenuously apologize for the title gaffe (tho' wasn't it "E-Train (City Bound)"?) Why it's never been officially available on CD is a mystery (especially considering the amount of crap that *is* still in print). Cheers.

[John R. Kenny]

Maybe I should get out a little more, eh?

[Mike in OC]

Alex, thanks for sharing your memories of the music back in the day.. actually I'm looking at the back of the 'Novo Combo' album right here. No need to apologize to John--the freakin' song is called City Bound ("E" Train) damn you-NOT "E-Train". Jesus Christ! Cheers.