So, today was the day I was scheduled to have my Nerve Conduction Velocity test on my feet. As you may remember from this recentseries of weepy posts, I’ve been having escalating problems, punctuated by stiffness and numbness. Should you care, you can go back and read those posts, but in a nutshell, my podiatrist – Dr. Doolittle (not his actual name) – was having a hard time determining whether my problem was Morton’s Neuroma (basically an inflamed tumor on a nerve) or whether it was peripheral neuropathy (an irreversible condition that basically can only get worse and spread). Obviously, I’m hoping for the former and not the latter. I was told that an NCV test should clear up that mystery, so he went ahead and gave me an order for one.
The new problem, however, is that NCV tests come conjoined with EMG tests, which are electromyography examinations that measure electrical activity in a muscle’s response to a nerve’s stimulation. This is achieved via sticking big, fuckoff needles directly into those muscles which, Doolittle informed me, is usually “quite painful.” With that in mind, he wrote directly on the order to “only perform the NCV test,” sparing me the big, fuckoff needle portion. I appreciated that.
So, after Doolittle gave me that order, I wasn’t able to schedule an appointment for my NCV/EMG (without the EMG) for about three weeks. Over the course of those three weeks, meanwhile, my feet continued to be stiff, sore and numb. It’s usually worse in the mornings, for some reason, but the problem does not seem to follow a discernible pattern. The worrying numbness persists, in any case, so I was greatly looking forward to making some progress and determining what, exactly the problem was.
Today, after carving out some time from my workday (already not ideal), I limped across town to the podiatry building (same spot as Doolittle’s office) to have the velocity of my nerves conducted. I walked in, however, and the specialist assigned with handling the task brusquely said it couldn’t be done. Having only the NCV part of it wasn’t an option. It's a package deal. Special orders do upset us. If he were to even try doing only half, there was somehow a chance my insurance wouldn’t cover it and, if I understood him right, he might not get paid for it. That sounded a little farfetched, but I just reiterated that I was simply following the directive from Dr. Doolittle who – oh so conveniently – was not in the office. The specialist was getting all attitudinal about it, so I just said, “Look, I have another appointment with Doolittle in two weeks, so let’s just hold off until then, and we’ll take it from there.”
I made sure I wasn’t charged for these shenanigans, and then went back to my office, where I was sadly able to attend a meeting that I’d been looking forward to missing.
Regarding a certain news story of the day, it should be pointed out that to "86" someone just means "get rid of" or "kick out." The term originates, funnily enough, right here in downtown NYC. Beer enthusiasts of a certain stripe might remember age-old West Village watering hole Chumley's, which was a delightful speak-easy that dated back to the 1920's (don't look for it today, it collapsed and then went through a noxious bespoke makeover, because people suck). If you were ever perceived to be over-served or simply making an ass of yourself at Chumely's, you were forcibly shown the door. That door was 86 Bedford Street. GET IT? It is NOT an allusion to any sort of nefarious foul play.
In fact, here I am with my fellow former TIME Magazine News Desk comrade, Mitch circa 1994 or so, within the walls of Chumley's. While not quite yet making asses of ourselves in this picture, the pair of us were almost certifiably over-served here, so we were invariably within behavioral proximity of a warranted 86'ing.
Back in 2007, I penned a slavishly overwritten paean to the infernal majesty of King Crimson’s signature piece, “21st Century Schizoid Man,” in the wake of a debate I’d waged at my then place of employment, i.e. MTV News Online, about the Crimbos’ indelible influence on what would become heavy metal. Then as now, I maintain that if you can’t hear the, to my mind, UNMISSABLE similarities between “Schizoid” and Black Sabbath’s epic “War Pigs,” you’ve clearly got your head completely up your own ass, but I digress.
News came down, this week, that King Crimson maestro Robert Fripp, an incomparable musician and notably difficult character that also played on seminal albums with David Bowie, Brian Eno, Peter Gabriel, John Paul Jones, David Sylvian, Andy Summers, Blondie, Talking Heads and even fuckin’ Daryl Hall, has recently suffered a heart attack, resulting in two separate surgeries and a stay in intensive care. As recounted in this story in Rolling Stone, the famously iron-willed Fripp being who he is, he still managed to play a scheduled gig, afterwards.
As I mentioned back on that post from 2007, I’ve been a fan of Fripp and Crimson’s wide body of work ever since first discovering them in college, so news of the great man’s brush with mortality – and this after already losing names this year like Rick Buckler of the Jam, David Johansen of the New York Dolls, Brian James of The Damned, Al Barile of SSD, Dave Allen of Gang of Four, Clem Burke of Blondie, David Thomas of Pere Ubu and Mike Peters of The Alarm (and I’m probably forgetting someone) – found me reverently rediscovering the myriad joys of Fripp’s robust oeuvre, which led me to the curious video below.
With audio culled from a recording of “21st Century Schizoid Man” captured at London’s fabled Marquee club in 1969, a YouTuber named Samuel S. appended some fancifully rudimentary animation that looks like a fittingly head-warping amalgam of Charles Schulz’s “Peanuts” gang and Episode 8 of David Lynch’s “Twin Peaks: The Return.”
Right after graduating from college in 1989, I started reading all about this new British indie band called The Wonder Stuff. I think it may have been in SPIN (where I’d shortly go intern) that I first read a small feature on them, accompanied by a band photo revealing them to be hairy, cheeky chaps who looked worthy of ridicule and contempt. But after reading some rapturous reviews of their debut LP, The Eight-Legged Groove Machine, I picked up the cassette of same on a whim, … and was completely hooked. Like a more contemporary version of the Buzzcocks, the Wonder Stuff – at the time – practiced a blend of concise, guitar-driven pop, rife with big hooks and lead singer Miles Hunt’s signature brand of witheringly acerbic wit. I was an instant fan and evangelized their greatness to my little gaggle of similarly inclined idiots. You can read more about this fertile period of British indie pop on this ancient post.
Over the next couple of records, the `Stuff gradually moved away from the very sound that first recruited me, but I actively followed them through their first run for four studio albums and innumerable EPs, seeing them live several times (most notably at the Marquee in October of 1990 for an acrimonious show wherein bottles were thrown and the cops showed up). After embracing a more produced, accessible sound that owed more to The Waterboys than the aforementioned Buzzcocks, they dissolved by the middle of the `90s, only to return to active duty several years later. Sadly, original bassist, Rob “The Bass Thing” Jones* died shortly after leaving the band after their second album, Hup, and drummer Marin Gilks passed away in 2006.
I remember getting quizzical stares from my then-new colleagues at MTV News when I confessed that I’d actually flown overseas to see their reunion shows in London in 2000. Whatever. I regret nothing.
In any case, here in 2025, while a re-constituted version of the Wonder Stuff is still going (they released five more albums after formally reforming in 2004, albeit with an entirely new line-up), I cannot say I’ve followed their trajectory as closely. That all said, when I spied the video below, recently, I did audibly gasp. Released sometime after their second LP, Eleven Appalling Videos was a compilation of their early work that I had on VHS (never released on any other format), featuring various promo clips and footage of the band dissecting same in between.
If you’re even remotely curious, do please enjoy…
*After quitting the band, Jones moved to New York and got a job at Tower Records. I remember encountering him behind the register, on occasion, and he absolutely never wanted to talk about the Wonder Stuff -- much less anything else – with the likes of me.
Back in May of 2019 – one short year before the COVID lockdown hit New York – I posted an exhaustive little entry documenting the historical trajectory of the Hamilton-Holly House at 4 St. Marks Place. Colloquially named for its most famous tenant, Eliza Hamilton – widow of Alexander – the address became better known, throughout the `80s and `90s, at least, as the home of fabled punk haberdashery, Trash & Vaudeville, one's best option for procuring things like bondage trousers, brothel creepers and Dead Boys t-shirts. A St. Marks Place landmark, of a sort, its signature neon was fleetingly featured in the opening montage of "Saturday Night Live," and was also a place of employment for neighborhood punks like the late Fran Powers. It was in the downstairs chamber of Trash wherein Scorsese met and recruited Fran and his punky peers to serve as extras in the Club Berlin scene in "After Hours," as floridly discussed at great length on this old post.
Back at 4 St. Marks Place, here in 2025, the “garden level” is still empty and dormant, whilst the second floor now plays host to a gallery called Art Gotham, which is certainly preferable to yet another bubble tea emporium or vaping venture.
The reason I’m dredging all this back up, however, is because my friend Susan Fensten posted a remarkable photo on Facebook, recently, that I felt really compelled to share. I asked if I could re-purpose, and she gamely said yes.
Here’s how she set it up…
St. Mark's Place. 1969. Photo by David Gahr. (35mm Negative my collection.) We lived across the street at 7 St Mark's Place up until 1967. The rent was $41.00 a month! I love this picture so much for many reasons, one of them being that my mother bought an old carved wooden bed frame for $8.00 from this store right before we moved uptown. She painted the bed pink and orange.
So, anyway, here is that photo below. Obviously, by 1969, St. Marks Place had already accrued a reputation as something of a bohemian hotbed (what with the fabled Electric Circus, which would have been in full, psychedelic swing across the street, and hallowed jazzbo hangout, the Five Spot on the corner of Third Avenue), but this photo still exudes such a faint whiff of folksy quaintness.
As just mentioned, my son Oliver and I went to go see DEVO on Tuesday night at the lovely Brooklyn Paramount, and standing amidst the sold-out throng of devotees, my view of proceedings onstage was again repeatedly impeded by multiple idiots insisting on trying to video large swathes of the performance. It keeps happening.
Even at my arguably lofty height of 6'1", my line of vision was regularly interrupted by the dopey attempts of fellow patrons to capture seemingly as much as they could, even if the end results were going to be unwatchably unsteady and plagued with patchy sound. Hell, there was even a woman a few feet in front of me who -- presumably because of her short physical stature -- was holding her phone up with the video function on, but not actually recording – she was basically using it as an ersatz periscope to see the stage. This sort of shit drives me absolutely crazy (as I’vementionedbefore).
At the very real risk of laboriously repeating myself (too late), the fruits of their inconsiderate labor are invariably going to look and sound like absolute shite, but maybe they don’t even care about that. Perhaps it’s simply more about asserting, over social media, that “HEY, WORLD, I WAS HERE AT THIS PLACE DOING THIS THING!” and presenting the visual evidence, regardless of its demonstrably low quality. Look, I’m absolutely no fucking stranger to oversharing my stupid shit all over Facebook and Instagram, let alone this blog. I am entirely guilty of presumptuously showcasing far too much of my comparatively insignificant activity to a (so far) patient and forgiving world. I understand the impetus to do that, however silly, but whipping your phone out at concerts still fails to take account for the ripple effects.
Put simply, by constantly holding up your shitty smartphone to capture video of a performance (let alone tweaking the screen to zoom in and sharpen, etc.), you are inevitably going to be either literally obstructing your fellow concert-goers’ view, or you’re going to be replicating the television-in-a-dive-bar effect. Ever notice when you’re sitting in a dark bar with a television on that your eyes repeatedly fixate on the screen (whether the sound is on or not)? Ever been trying to sleep on a plane and be distracted by the jackass across the aisle and two rows up from you who insists on watching “Fast & Furious XIX” in an otherwise slumbering cabin? It’s the same thing with a smartphone. However small that little, lit-up rectangle might seem, it’s going to be unwittingly attracting all nearby eyeballs. It’s just the way we’re hard-wired, now.
Some will charitably lambast this sort of behavior as a lack of situational awareness – i.e. they are simply too conditioned to be busily satisfying their desires to consider how their activities might be impacting those around them. I’m not quite so forgiving. I’d sooner characterize it as brazen situational indifference. However dim they might be, I still give them enough credit to be able to discern how their shenanigans might be annoying. It’s not that they’re not cognizant of it, it’s that they are simply and selfishly do not give a fuck. I find that unacceptable.
This is when I usually tap someone on the shoulder and – with all the courtesy, restraint and thoughtful diplomacy that I can muster – ask them to put their phone down and simply “enjoy being in the moment.” And lemme tell ya, I’ve been to plenty of goddamn concerts. I have an overstuffed, three-ring binder full of old tickets stubs. I’ve been to more shows – from big-budget productions in enormodomes and arenas to clandestine, guerilla-style gigs in makeshift, underground basements – than my audiologist would ever recommend as advisable, but I captured video at precious few of them. I’ll take a few pictures, every now and again, but that’s usually it. I’d rather simply soak in and savor the experience in real time. Everyone should try that, sometime.
Obviously, asking someone to put their phone away doesn’t always go down so well. More often than not, I’m unsurprisingly instructed to go fuck myself, although, on one occasion, I had two German dudes at a Depeche Mode gig apologize to me profusely for the remainder of the show, which was almost just as annoying as them waving their phones around.
While this all may paint me as a curmudgeonly luddite of the variety that yells at clouds and invites you off his lawn, rest assured that I am not the only one. Bob Dylan and Glen Danzig – and how’s THAT for a duo? – are in lock-step on the issue, and take measures to prevent phones at their shows (although if you’ve seen our Glen wheeze through some of the more recent festival appearances with the Misfits, you might well understand why he doesn’t want that captured on video). There was also this great moment of Nick Cave – ironically captured on someone’s smartphone:
Bless him.
The other bad thing about cell phone videos of concerts it that, quite often, the end results can showcase shortcomings you may not have noticed while enjoying it in the moment. What one might recall about a celestial guitar solo can be coldly eviscerated by a telling bit of video evidence to the contrary. Not every show is going to be pitch-perfect and smooth. Once again, ask Danzig about that. Not everything requires that level of documenting.
The DEVO show Oliver and I witnessed on Tuesday night in Brooklyn was, of course, captured on video and posted, I believe, later the same evening by an enterprising YouTuber who calls himself Tito Santana. You can watch it here, should you care to.
Beyond this blog, I’ve raised this issue with friends and colleagues, and no one seems to be as bent out of shape about it as I am, which I guess isn’t too surprising, given my penchant for complaining. While I was putting this post together, however, I came across THIS ANCIENT POST from 2008, wherein I get all hot and bothered about having to even own a cellphone.
I remain out of step, but at least I’m somewhat consistent.
For that last show at Pier 17, I brought my then-16-year-old son, Oliver, making DEVO his very first concert, too. The boy returns this very day from his first year at Trinity Dublin in Ireland, and tonight, we are going to see DEVO at the Brooklyn Paramount.
The picture in the frame was taken by the great Allan Tannenbaum, who captured it at the 1981 show that was my first concert. He lives in TriBeCa, and I bought a print of it from him several years back. He’s also got a great retrospective show happening at the Morrison Hotel Gallery that is well worth everyone’s time.
Hey all. Again, please pardon for the relative slowdown in posting, but life’s just a bit busy, these days. My kids return from college very soon, so we’re getting ready for that. Work is typically crazy. I’ll have another brain-busting update on the fucked-up feet front, soon, after I take my dreaded NCV test …. ahem, “Nerve Conduction Velocity” … next week. So, y’know … get excited for that.
But real quick, I spotted the below two items recently, and figured I should share them.
I’ve posted several entries, over the years (see below), speculating about what John Lennon loved most about living in New York. I mean, obviously, what’s not to love, especially if you’re living in the fuckin’ Dakota, but what specifically did he love? Did he have a favorite pizzeria? Did he go to gigs at CBGB? What’d he get up to here?
I’ve gotten a little bit of that picture, but I came across the video below, put together by Strange History X, that delves into John and Yoko’s relatively brief tenure living in the West Village, specifically on Bank Street. Here’s the blurb:
Step into the world of John Lennon as we explore his life in New York City’s legendary Greenwich Village. From the vibrant streets to the bohemian spirit, discover how this iconic neighborhood shaped the former Beatle’s creative and personal journey in the 1970s. We’ll dive into the stories behind his move to the Village, his time with Yoko Ono, and the eclectic energy that fueled his music and activism. Imagine the Village through Lennon’s eyes—peace, love, and rock ‘n’ roll await!
Enjoy…
Speaking of the West Village, I read a wholly dispiriting (but not especially surprising) piece in New York Magazine’s The Cut about how – in the wake of the one-two punch of “Sex & The City” and fuckin’ COVID-19, the very same West Village depicted in the video above is now little more than the stomping ground of a nation of matcha-sipping “influencer” girls. Make of that what you will and click here to read more.
I’ve spoken here before about Privates, the long-lost cutting-edge live-music venue that formerly stood on the strenuously unlikely corner of East 85th Street and Lexington Avenue. Don’t go looking for it now, as the venue closed in June of 1981 and the whole building was torn down sometime after that. Today, a big yucky condo called The Ventana stands in its footprint, with a Starbucks occupying the space that would have been Privates, back in the day.
But, as mentioned in this post and that post, as Privates, the space played host a slew of at-the-time cutting edge bands like Joe “King” Carrasco & the Crowns, the Revillos, Cyndi Lauper’s Blue Angel, Richard Lloyd from Television, a late, Frampton-less iteration of Humble Pie, and even Flaming Pablum favorites like XTC, The Stranglers and Bauhaus. The whole concept of that last trio of punky bands playing on my childhood home turf of East 85th Street completely blows my mind.
Jessica over at Desperately Seeking the `80’s devoted her half of a podcast episode to an event at Privates wherein the club hosted a special screening of hallowed cinematic ska opus, “Dance Craze,” which doubtlessly prompted scads of skinny-tied Upper East Sides to partake of some skanking in the streets.
Of course, arguably the most famous act to have ever graced the presumably intimate stage of this club in Metropolitan Hill (note: contrary to my dubious reporting in previous missives, the southeast corner of East 85th Street and Lexington Avenue is not technically part of Yorkville, although it is mere footsteps from its westerly border) would have been Joan Jett & the Blackhearts, who recorded the arguably iconic video for “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” within Privates’ four walls.
I talked all about that, of course, on these twoposts from 2016.
Apropos of nothing, however, I recently dialed up the video in question, only to discover that, circa 2022, someone had uploaded a new “Full HD (Remastered and Upscaled)” version which swapped out the original’s grittily grainy black-&-white patina in favor of sharpened, vibrant color and enhanced proceedings with disquieting dollops of AI.
The results restore the full experience of the original music video, complete with preamble and coda, revealing the full interior of the empty club and a tantalizing 180-degree vista of the surrounding neighborhood beyond Privates’ windows at the end. Having never set foot in the place (I would have been a sniveling 14-year-old upon its closure), the ability to see the former interior in such detail is something of a revelation.
It also got me thinking, who are all these kids in the crowd scenes? Were they members of a Joan Jett fan-club? Rockheads bussed in from some outer borough? Any representatives of the 84th Street Bombers? Are there any local NYC punk luminaries to be spotted hidden in the throng?
After watching the genuinely excellent Redd Kross documentary, “Born Innocent,” I caught the last half of Linklater’s “Dazed and Confused” on IFC, last night, which seems to be in regular rotation on that channel. I remember digging it when I first saw it back in … 1993? But I hadn’t really revisited it in a while.
While ostensibly an homage to other period-specific coming-of-age flicks like “American Graffiti” and “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” (although the latter was released in real time without a thought for its power as a piece of future `80s nostalgia), “Dazed…” can’t help but feel a bit forced, at points, in its presentation of `70s-era-signifiers (bell-bottoms, side-burns, center-parts, etc.), and never is this more the case than with the music.
The soundtrack to “Dazed and Confused,” as far as I can surmise, became something of a CD collection staple. I believe I even still own a copy of it, somewhere. But watching the film again last night, my pedantic streak (never far from the surface) kicked in, and I started wondering if it wasn’t just fancifully projected revisionism that the same kids who’d drive around cranking “Rock N’ Roll Hoochie Koo” by Rick Derringer, “Tush” by ZZ Top, “Low Rider” by War and “Slow Ride” by Foghat would have even known about “Cherry Bomb” by the Runaways, who by and large, didn’t get any recognition outside of their native Los Angeles until years later. I mean, correct — the first Runaways album was out, so the chronology checks out, but would Houston, TX kids have ever even heard it?
I should point out, of course, that in 1976 — when this film is set — I was 9 years old, attending a grade school on the Upper East Side and invariably not-at-all versed in what pot-smokin’ teens were listening to in the Lone Star state.
Which ushers in my question: What period-specific film or television series really gets it right, to your mind?
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