Flaming Pablum

Readin', Writin' & Ramonin'

Because I'm ultimately a slow, stupid and easily-distracted reader, it took me forever and a day to finally finish Simon Reynolds' excellent-if-strenuously-depressing "Retromania" (which I wrote about here), but it was truly worth it. In any case, I've currently sank my fangs into the less intellectually-challenging but equally entertaining "Commando," the autobiography of Johnny Ramone.

True to the late guitar-slinger's notorious style, Johnny's prose is dry, succinct and largely devoid of sentiment. His blunt insights are pretty hilarious on occasion (whether that's intentional is debatable). Every now and then, Ramone betrays his famously frowny demeanor and says something from the heart. I was bemused, for example, to learn that he considered fabled KROQ DJ Rodney Bingenheimer a "sweet guy" -- who knew "sweet" was in Ramone's vocabulary? But for the most part (or so far, at least -- I'm about halfway through), Johnny comes across as the iron-willed control freak and needlessly disagreeable punk icon of yore. While lovably cartoony in that capacity, make no mistake -- through much of the book, he reveals himself to be a stubborn, insensitive bastard and a hatefully intolerant xenophobe, albeit fiercely loyal and pointedly consistent. I imagine that he must have been quite a challenge to deal with during the Ramones' glory days.

Obviously, if you're a fan, "Commando" is required reading, but the book also features some amazing photographs and is rife with Johnny's hilarious top ten lists. Go check it out.

Cite the Source

Who can name it?

Nobunny Does It Better

I was quite a busy little bunny today. Over at The Job, I penned yet another rumination about the travails of parenting and the mythology of Easter (you may remember me discussing my previous one from last week). Please avail yourselves to it here, but be warned -- it deals in unflinchingly frank terms about the Easter Bunny. If you're not prepared to face up to some hard truths, you'd be better off not clicking.

On other fronts, I also penned a quick little story about the oddest book title of the year: "Cooking With Poo." Should that get your mouth watering, click right here to read it.

Incidentally, I found the frankly disquieting photograph above when I did a Google image search for "Disturbing Easter"

 

Please Kill Me ... Again

This is probably news to no one, but for some inexplicable reason, I was blithely unaware of it. “Please Kill Me” by Legs McNeil & Gillian McCain – a.k.a. my favorite book of all goddamn time (eclipsing even geekier titles like “The Martian Chronicles” by Ray Bradbury and “Low-Life” by Luc Sante), has its own web presence, featuring news, stories and profiles and pictures and all sorts of neat-o stuff (and, of course, you can indeed buy yourself a “Please Kill Me” t-shirt.) If you’re as big a sniveling fanboy of this book as I am, you need to go check it out with the quickness.

I’ve mentioned it in passing here before, but I had the distinct pleasure of working with Legs McNeil back at SPIN in the balmy days of 1989 (a saga I tried to encapsulate here). I’ve run into him here and there over the years, and he always gamely pretends to remember me (c’mon, I was an intern… I’d have forgotten me too!) In any case, the man's a living legend, so go check out his site.

The picture above, meanwhile, was snapped of m'self and my daughter Charlotte back in 2007 at the Two Boots Pizza over on West 11th Street. I coveted their autographed "Please Kill Me" poster, and made elaborate plans of how I might sneak it out the door without them noticing. More recently, it seems someone may have succeeded in that venture where I failed, as it doesn't appear on that wall anymore, alas.

Retromania and the Return of the Joke

I alluded to it fleetingly back in September, but I finally got ahold of Simon Reynold's latest book, "Retromania: Pop Culture's Addiction to Its Own Past," and am about halfway through it. In typical Reynolds fashion, it is a beautifully written albeit strenuously depressing rumination on the current state of our pop culture, wherein advances in technology have permanently altered the manner in which music is experienced. We now exist in a scenario in which all recorded music is virtually at our fingertips at every conceivable minute. That which was previously remote, inaccessible or lodged firmly in the past now coexists in a crowded hodgepodge of readily attainable -- and subsequently devalued -- media at the behest of attention-deficit-disordered consumers accustomed to perpetual convenience and immediate gratification. Put simply, the sheer amount of music currently available is not so much a bountiful feast as an overwhelming glut, potentially robbing the listener the opportunity for meaningful emotional resonance. It's a sad picture Simon paints.

For those like me -- slavish fans of specific bands or minutia- addled collectors -- the entire topography has changed. In an exchange in which the tactile is becoming essentially obsolete, the once-firmly established rhythm of the record release is vanishing. Time was when it was all about the wait. If you gleaned through the music press that a favorite artist of yours was soon to release something new, the vigil began in earnest. You'd anticipate the single or album to arrive in stores or -- in later years and for more popular bands -- the video to enter rotation on MTV. Maybe you'd score an advance copy of the album at a used record shop, invariably pawned by some notoriously desperate and underpaid music critic (I recall prizing a pristine copy of Sinead O’Connor’s I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got a full two weeks prior to its official release date this way). But there was still actual legwork (as in, the movement of your legs) involved, as opposed to sitting on your butt in front of a computer. Half the reason I’m as completely familiar with Manhattan as I am is from spending huge swathes of my youth combing through this island’s s former abundance of record and disc shops. That was part of the fun.

Nowadays, there is no patience for the wait and practically zero reason for the layperson (read: passive fan) to ever visit one of the comparatively few, remaining disc shops. Flat, sonically-compromised mp3s are leaked way in advance. Even in the official realm, you can hear snippets of unreleased tracks on iTunes and Amazon ... quick spoilers of an album the painstakingly selected song chronology of which the majority of consumers aren't likely to respect anymore. The whole process has been sliced and diced in the name of absolute convenience. How boring.

Personally speaking, I’d much rather visit a struggling, independent disc shop and give them my money instead of ordering something online. But that’s me. I guess I’m old fashioned that way.

Just as one fleeting example, I still vividly remember scouring my downtown circuit of NYC record shops in August of 1986, desperate to find a copy of "Adorations," the first single off of Killing Joke's yet-to-be-released Brighter Than A Thousand Suns. Just when I'd thought I'd have to wait another week for the import to arrive in shops, I happened upon it in the new releases bin at Venus Records, when it was still housed on West 8th Street just off 6th Avenue. I recall sitting on the stairs that led up to the shop afterwards and peering at the sleeve of the 12" and wondering what had happened to my band. They looked like they'd received a makeover from Spandau Ballet! Still, I hadn't heard a note off it. There had been no advance sneak peek for we fans. We dutifully waited.

Twenty-six years later (phwoar....let's let that sink in, shall we?), my beloved Killing Joke is still at it, with a new album about to drop out of the pipeline. I've already heard two complete tracks off of it, and -- if I want -- I can hear those afore-cited snippets of songs simply by clicking here. I have actually resisted to the urge to do that. I'd rather experience the whole album properly, so to speak.

That said, I cannot ignore the video for "In Cythera" (lovingly directed in signature style by Malicious Damage mainman Michael Coles, long absent from the Killing Joke fold). It was leaked on YouTube last week or so, then was taken down and then came back and then wasn't available in this region and blah blah blah. But, again, in this day and age, where there's the will, there's invariably a way. Here it is, for the moment, anyway, via the Stickam site.

 

Video chat by Stickam.com

Slay It Forward

Just prior to departing for the airport last Monday, I jogged over to Shakespeare & Co. on Broadway to grab something to read for my five days at DisneyWorld. I didn't have a huge amount of time to peruse, so I went right for the selection of Continuum's 33 1/3 series. I've spoken about this series before, but I completely love these books. Having already read their editions on My Bloody Valentine's Loveless, the Rolling Stones' Some Girls, Television's Marquee Moon, AC/DC's Highway to Hell, Led Zeppelin's IV and the Beastie Boys' Paul's Boutique (among a few others), I settled on D.X. Ferris' trek through Slayer's watershed thrash opus, Reign in Blood. It was arguably an incongruous choice of reading material to complement a trip to "the happiest place on earth," but I relish such dichotomy.

First published in 2008, Ferris' account of the birth of Slayer's stealthy, stentorian masterpiece goes into loving detail about the enigmatic working practices of then-fledgling producer Rick Rubin and percussive juggernaut Dave Lombardo, as well as some surprising insights about hirsute guitar abuser Kerry King (initially a subdued non-partier) and bassist/vocalist Tom Araya (a staunch Catholic, surprisingly). Founder Jeff Hanneman remains the most mysterious, given the bleach-blond guitarist's private nature. My favorite quote about Jeff comes from Kerry who, speaking about his bandmate's distinctive penchant for discordant guitar chuggage, says Jeff "plays notes that are just angry to be together." Indeed.

The book also delves into Slayer's rise from obscurity, their slavishly devout fanbase (the worryingly-nicknamed "Slaytanic Wehrmact"), their uneasy membership on the Def Jam roster (rubbing shoulders with the Beastie Boys and Public Enemy), the album's uncompromisingly grim album cover, the band's debt to hardcore punk and more. If you're even a passive fan of the album, Ferris' take is an illuminating read.

As I said back on this post, I was initially skeptical of Slayer (having already sworn my allegiance to Metallica, my local heroes in Anthrax and thrash metal's grandaddies in Motorhead and Venom), but my first hearing of Reign in Blood in 1986 (I believe it was "Altar of Sacrifice" which came screaming out of my friend Jeff's dormroom, specifically Araya's emphatic command to "PRAISE HAIL SATAAAAAAAAN) made me a true believer. Sadly, I've never seen them live, and I fear that the time to have done so has long-since-passed. I'm dead sure they're still a force to be reckoned with in that capacity, but I wish I'd caught them at this stage of their development (like, say, at this fabled show at the Ritz). Alas, `twas not to be. Nowadays, they're older, beefier and, in Kerry King's case, balder. King looks more like a professional wrestler these days. I'd rather remember them as they were below....

 

Punks in Pen & Ink

The book came out at least two or three years ago, but "The Official Punk Rock Book of Lists" (which I fleetingly mentioned here) is well worth picking up, not just because it was co-compiled by Flaming Pablum favorite Handsome Dick Manitoba, but for the sheer volume of insightful trivia contained therein. Some time after it's publishing, its sibling book, "The Official Heavy Metal Book of Lists" hit store shelves. It too is also worth a read.

One of my favorite aspects of both of these books, however, is the illustrations by Cliff Mott. Mott's cartoonish caricatures echo a similar sensibility of favorite illustrators of mine like Danny Hellman, John Holmstrom and even a touch of Gerald Scarfe, yet still manage to completely capture the essence of the individuals depicted.

In any case, why am I bringing it up now? Well, because during a random recent Google image search (I was looking for a picture of X guitarist Billy Zoom for a reason that now escapes me), I happened upon a gallery website whereupon you can actually purchase Mott's original illustrations. The gallery show itself dates back to summer 2008, but it looks like the option to buy is still viable, should you be looking for the perfect Christmas present for the unrepentant punk rocker in your household. Even if you can't afford one and are just in the mood to peruse, they're well worth your time. Check it out here.

Shades of Gray

I don't remember exactly how I first became aware of Spalding Gray, but it was probably via his somewhat bizarre turn in the Talking Heads' 1986 film, "True Stories." To be honest, I'd actually seen his big screen breakout in "The Killing Fields" back in 1984, but in all candor, despite the seismic impact the experience had on him, he's on screen for all of about three minutes in that amazing, harrowing film. But yeah -- "True Stories" was probably where he struck me as someone to watch.

I didn't see "Swimming to Cambodia," his celebrated monologue about his "Killing Fields" experience, until way after the fact. I think the next thing I caught Gray in was a broadcast of his performance in Thornton Wilder's "Our Town" on PBS. Around the same time, a friend gave me a copy of Gray's book, "Sex and Death until the Age of 14." Before I knew it, I'd become an avid Spalding Gray fan, and started hunting down his other work. Like an equally neurotic, WASP incarnation of Woody Allen (though not a native New Yorker), Gray exuded a sensibility that I found entirely entertaining and intellectually compelling. Like Allen's, his work certainly wasn't for everyone, but for those that didn't mind his somewhat self-absorbed schtick, Gray's perspective on the world always delivered.

The afore-cited "Swimming..." is obviously his most beloved monologue, but my favorite piece of his remains "The Terrors of Pleasure," which Showtime or HBO or one of those outlets taped in 1988 and the Comedy Central used to show all the time. I remember repeatedly watching it with my mom during my post-college years. It's a shaggy-dog rumination on Gray's attempt to buy a rustic country house in the Catskills wherein to compose his Great American Novel. Though spliced with fleeting snippets of film, it's largely just Spalding sitting at his signature desk, unspooling his quirky yarn. It's still steeped in his typical bouts of existential dread, but it's comparatively breezy and totally engaging. I still own it on CD and VHS, actually (though I no longer own a VCR). Regrettably, it was never put out on DVD, even after his passing. Strangely, I can't find any of it on the `net either.

From that point on, not only did I make it a point to see Gray's performances (my mom and I saw both "Monster in a Box" and "Gray's Anatomy" onstage), but I also used to spot Gray himself around town. I shared a revolving door with him (I was entering, he was exiting) at a court house downtown, leading me to speculate how he'd behave during a spell of jury duty. I also spied him once or twice in SoHo back in the early 1990s (before its makeover into the pricey, outdoor shopping mall it is today).

Time went on and I kept up with Gray sporadically. I think the last thing of his I read was "It's a Slippery Slope," which documented his foray into skiing and his new phase as a parent. I always meant to pick up "Morning, Noon and Night" from 2000, but never got to it. Then came news of his car accident in Ireland that left him scarred and irretrievably depressed.

When word first started circulating in 2004 that Gray was missing, like everyone else who'd followed the man's career, I was particularly saddened and expected the worst (there being a well-documented strain of suicidal thought in Gray's story). By the same token, when the news came that his body had been recovered and that he'd evidently thrown himself from the Staten Island ferry one night into the dark, impossibly cold waters of New York harbor, I couldn't fathom it. How do you do that? How do you bring three children into the world and then check out on your own will like that? I pray that's a realm of depression I'll never know. Regardless, it was a desperately tragic end to an extraordinary life.

Eight years later sees the publication of his journals. I spotted the book (edited lovingly by Nell Casey) on a recent trip to Shakespeare & Co. and couldn't resist. I'm currently only about a third of the way into it, but it's somewhat exhaustive and, well, truly depressing. Though Gray would often let what seemed like huge swathes of his deep-seeded neuroses into his work (often solely for comedic effect), those eloquently confessional moments on the stage, the page and the screen only hinted and the deeply unsettled, roiling storm of doubt, confusion and crisis that was perpetually spinning in the man's head.

If you're a fan of Gray's, it's assuredly interesting, but at the same time, I'm worried that it may forever alter the way you experience his work. Approach with caution.

The photograph at the top comes courtesy of the Galinksy NYC blog. Strangely enough, that memorial tile can be found in Tompkins Square Park. I always considered Spalding more of a SoHo guy than an East Village type, but go know.

Below, meanwhile is the original trailer for "Swimming to Cambodia." I put up a great NYC-centric snippet from same a little while back as well.

Cheers to you, Mr. Gray.

If These Streets Could Talk ...

Yes, I know -- the world needs another book about how cool late 70's NYC was like Manhattan needs another bank, but this one does look pretty cool -- and, as we all know by now, I'm a complete sucker for this sorta stuff. "Love Goes to Buildings on Fire" by Will Hermes puts a magnifying glass over the New York City of 1973 through 1977, and slavishly documents every bit of cool minutia (down to specific street addresses) in loving detail. I can't wait to pick it up, m'self. Click here to read more about it.

Speaking Frehley

Allow me to geek out for a moment.

Ace Frehley dropped by the TODAY Show this week to promote his new memoir, "No Regrets." Under normal circumstances, I'd launch into a laboriously over-detailed account of my life-long KISS fandom here, but I believe I've that's all old news by now. Anyway, as a senior editor at TODAY.com for the past year or so, it's been the rare day that there's been a guest on the show who has had such a seismic impact on my life, so I pulled a few strings and went downstairs to try to meet the man. He was entirely cool, gamely signed my book, gave me a couple of guitar picks and posed for a photograph. I frivolously suggested we replicate the ol' "Elvis-meets-Nixon" pose. He enjoyed that. Anyway, it was certainly a highlight of my year.