PLEASE KNOW: Since friggin' EARLY NOVEMBER, 2020, my blogging service, Typepad, has been grappling with a recurring cacheing issue that is manifesting itself with multiple broken images across fifteen plus years of posts, here. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not a huge deal, but it’s really burning my fuckin’ toast.
I’ve been liaising with Typepad for weeks and weeks, now, but they don’t yet seem to have a grasp on the magnitude of the problem, much less a timeline as to when it might be solved. All I know is that it’s a bad user experience for you, the reader. Please just know that I’m aware of it, and trying to remedy the issue with all stealth, although it’s largely out of my hands.
About 12 or 13 years back, a compatriot of mine named Tim B., who used to host his own excellent blog, Stupefaction, launched a collective blog called The New York Nobody Sings, which was ostensibly designed as place where the merits of less celebrated songs about New York City could be floridly extolled. Myself and a clutch of other likely suspects regularly contributed to the project until, one day, Tim decided it was time to close up shop. In short order, The New York Nobody Sings stopped singing and vanished from the web. Or so I thought.
As it turns out, just because a website is dismantled, that doesn’t mean there aren't still shadowy vestiges of it still out there. While foraging for content for the officially unofficial Cop Shoot Cop Facebook page (which I run), I stumbled upon the excellent Internet Archive Wayback Machine, a handy little site that does pretty much just what you expect from it. If you have the original URL of the site you’re searching for, you just plug it in and — if the fates are smiling — that lost, inaccessible website wakes from the proverbial dead, more or less.
As such, I dialed up The New York Nobody Sings and was able to exhume a few of the pieces I’d written for it way back when. Many of them are floridly overwritten, but what were you expecting? I've tried to spruce them up with some of my photographs. If possible…. enjoy.
PIE IN THE FACE
I first heard of The Pop-O-Pies in the summer of 1984 during a bike trip through Massachusetts, staying at a succession of slug-laden camp sites and dreary youth hostels. One of the guides was this hirsute stoner named Mike who, upon learning that I was a big fan of hardcore bands like MDC and the Circle Jerks, asked if I'd ever heard of this strange San Francisco punk band renowned for doing idiotic cover versions of the Grateful Dead's "Truckin'." This being an era long before the dawn of the iPod, Mike proceeded to regale me with warbling a cappella renditions of Pop-O-Pies songs like "The Catholics Are Attacking" and "Fascists Eat Donuts." Suffice to say, my curiosity was piqued.
When I got back to the city, I immediately set out to find the Pop-O-Pies on vinyl. In very short order, I tracked down a copy of their 1983 debut, The White EP (featuring the above songs as well as two needless versions of "Truckin'") at long-since-departed 99 Records on MacDougal Street. Not so much a proper band as a loose collective of musicians rotating around one Joe "Pie" Callahan, the Pop-O-Pies fleetingly counted future members of Faith No More, Mr. Bungle and Dead Kennedys in their ranks. Later that same year, The Pop-O-Pies' second slab of vinyl, Joe's Second Record was released on San Francisco hardcore label, Subterranean Records. Along with yet another rendition of "Truckin'" and some truly dubious forays into rap, Joe included a quick little ditty called "I Love New York," sort of San Francisco's answer to The Randoms' "Let's Get Rid of New York."Though the Pop-O-Pies were Bay Area to the bone, the song's lyrical insights totally captured the New York experience. Here they are in full:
You work your ass off around the clock just to pay for a place to live. You think you might have a real good time if you had some time to give.
The people treat you ugly and they act like royal snot. They think it's chic to be a geek, and get taken for everything they've got.
New York, New York, New York.
I pay extra for those piss-stench halls, $10 for a six of Bud. Blow a hundred at CBGBs, just to check out the local crud.
I hate those hipster idiots that cop junk in the heroin parks. And all those idle wealthy brats that hang out on St. Marks.
New York, New York, New York.
OK, I'm a hard core punk from NYU and I can tell first hand about the poor, politically oppressed, working-class peoples of the world. 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4.
Lost landmarks like CBGBs notwithstanding, I'd say the sentiments expressed herein still ring true today. Incidentally, you can find out more about the history of the mighty Pop-O-Pies on their official website.
I WILL WAIT, … EVEN IF IT TAKES A LIFETIME
Personally speaking, I never considered The Bee Gees the enemy. Oh sure, growing up as a nascent rock head in my tween years during the late 70s, I'd been dutifully conditioned by my chosen subculture to hate all things disco (despite the fact that my then-favorite bands in KISS, Queen & Pink Floyd would all cut their own disco-informed singles shortly thereafter), but I also lived in a household with an older sister. Oblivious to the narrow mores and thinly-veiled prejudices of strident rock fandom, my sister had more than her fair share of disco records, most notably the oeuvre of Donna Summer, the fabled soundtrack to "Saturday Night Fever" and several records by the brothers Gibb -- all of which she'd play regularly. I never considered that stuff a threat of any kind. My folks even had an eight-track of one of the `Gees' early, pre-disco albums, that being Idea (the cover of which used to freak me out). So while much of the the rest of the world may have reviled them, I always kinda dug the Bee Gees. It wasn't until the early 90s, however, that I realized that they were prophets.
Let's rewind a bit. In the Summer of 1992, I made the ill-considered decision to involve myself in an office romance. I was working at a glossy monthly magazine at the time -- I was in editorial, she worked in production -- what could go wrong? For a fleeting few, sweet weeks, life was good. The girl -- let's call her Faith -- rented a somewhat squalid apartment over on Upper Broadway, a neighborhood I wasn't at all familiar with. As such, Faith and I spent many a balmy, beatific summer evening strolling up and down those streets, holding hands and gazing moonily into each other's eyes. It was, of course, way too good to last.
In exceptionally short order, Faith decided that it would be a good idea for us to go back to being "friends." Needless to say, I wasn't exactly chuffed with this idea, but what choice did I have? I played nice for a while, secretly crushed that our status had changed so dramatically, but it became increasingly more difficult with each passing month. Having to work together didn't make matters any easier. During my downtime, I found myself taking entirely needless bike rides over to the Upper West Side. My friends were getting concerned. Things reached a fever pitch at the magazine's Christmas party (great choice for a confrontation, eh?) when I dramatically exclaimed my dissatisfaction with the arrangement. It did not go at all well.
Life got quite grim after that. Going to work was a heartbreaking chore. I spent most of my time sulking, listening to Nine Inch Nails' then-recently released Broken e.p. (a fitting cocktail of spite) and wallowing in self-pity. My friends tried to shake me out of it, but it was little use. I was committed to fixing what now seemed hopelessly beyond repair. When I saw Faith at the office, it was dreadful and awkward. On a good day she was passively polite. On a bad day, she was rude bordering on hostile. Still, I was hopelessly committed to putting it back to the way it was.
My friend Rob reached the end of his tether. He and some of my other comrades grabbed me by the lapels and dragged me out one evening to try to knock some sense into me. Over a meal at a cheap-o Chinese restaurant (also on Broadway) during a snowy January evening, my pals read me the riot act, trying to shock some sense into my love-clouded mind. Repairing to a nearby dive bar on Broadway, my boys crowded around me, berating my futile, torch-carrying tendencies as I pumped coins into the jukebox. I still wasn't listening. All I wanted was to get this girl back. Nothing else mattered.
Poetically, "Nights on Broadway" by the Bee Gees -- from their 1975 album, Main Course -- came trilling out of the jukebox. Sure, it's a classic, but when was the last time you really sat down and listened to it? After that rockin', piano-charged intro that sounds like the theme song to a 70's cop show, Barry Gibb and his brothers launched into an uncharacteristically dark narrative that hit me in a whole new way. If you excise that funky bass, those mellifluous harmonies, Robin Gibb's angelic falsetto and those treacly pianos in the middle-eight, what you're essentially left with is the creepy manifesto of the jilted stalker.
Let's review, shall we?
Here we are In a room full of strangers Standing in the dark where your eyes couldn't see me
Well I had to follow you Though you did not want me to That won't stop my loving you I can't stay away
Blamin' it all on the nights on Broadway Singin' them love songs Singin' them straight to the heart songs Blamin' it all on the nights on Broadway Singing them sweet sounds To that crazy, crazy town
Now in my place There are so many others Standing in the line; How long will they stand between us?
Well I had to follow you Though you did not want me to That won't stop my loving you I can't stay away
Blamin' it all on the nights on Broadway Singin' them love songs Singin' them straight to the heart songs Blamin' it all on the nights on Broadway Singing them sweet sounds To that crazy, crazy town
I will wait Even if it takes forever I will wait Even if it takes a life time Somehow I feel inside You never ever left my side Make it like it was before Even if it takes a life time, takes a life time
Blamin' it all on the nights on Broadway Singin' them love songs Singin' them straight to the heart songs Blamin' it all on the nights on Broadway Singing them sweet sounds To that crazy, crazy town
In all his grimacey days, Trent Reznor could never come up with anything as desperate and disturbing as that stuff. It seemed to come right out of the pages of John Hinkley's diary, replete with a disquieting patina of denial on the part of the high-piped protagonist. Whose fault is it? Why, it's those crazy New York City nights' fault, of course. Even more creepy, it seemed that the Bee Gees were singing my own sordid story right back to me in worryingly vivid detail. I stood at the jukebox, staring incredulously into the machine while my friends assumed comedy Travolta poses behind me. It was, as they say, a moment of clarity.
It was obviously a good deal more complicated than this, but I do feel I owe some credit to the Bee Gees in shocking me out of my self-destructive stupor of unrequited love. I moved on. Faith moved on and eventually away. We saw each other again a few years later, and I wondered how I'd ever gotten to that crazy point to begin with. Time healed the wounds. But I still don't think I could have gotten there myself had it not been for the Bee Gees.
Crank it.
HANGIN' OUT DOWN IN THE CITY
In recent weeks, we lost one of New York City’s most beloved bohemians, Jim Carroll. While Carroll is remembered as a renaissance man of effortless cool, he first found fame documenting his life as a delinquent druggie teen (albeit an eloquent one) in “The Basketball Diaries,” a watershed effort that acted as a catalyst for later exploits in poetry, art and music. Beyond its placement in the pantheon of New York City cool for its hip cache, it should also be required reading for its gritty depiction of hopeless teenage degeneracy. Carroll willfully lived through hard times, and captured them vividly.
But Jim Carroll wasn’t the only bad-boy-made-good from New York City’s mean streets. Though his vocation took him off in an entirely different direction, flamboyant KISS guitarist Ace Frehley walked a very similar line. Born only a couple of years after Carroll, one wonders if they ever crossed paths on their respective, substance-assisted trajectories. Though Carroll was from Manhattan and Frehley hailed from the Bronx, might the Catholic Boy and the Space Ace and have encountered one another and compared notes?
In any case, where Carroll exorcised the demons of his youth in print, Ace chose to put them into song via “Hard Times” on Kiss’ somewhat strenuously maligned 1979 album, Dynasty (notorious for the band’s universally-loathed “disco” single, “I Was Made For Loving You.”) Though it boasts one of the lamest, most laughable rhyme schemes in all recorded history, “Hard Times” does manage to paint a convincing portrait of aimless juvenile depravity of the sort still readily on display today. I believe Ace intended the song to be a cautionary tale, being that he asserts towards the tune’s crescendo that he’s finally “on the right track,” but the truth of the matter wasn’t quite so rosy. The notoriously booze-friendly guitar-slinger was ousted from Kiss’ ranks only a few short years after the release of Dynasty, following a 1982 car accident (I’ve heard that he drove his car through the plate-glass window of a Westchester liquor store in leafy Pleasantville, but that might be purely conjecture.) But in 1979, Ace’s hard times were a distant memory.
GET UP, GET OUT…
Sure, there are plenty of Rolling Stones songs that cite New York City ("Honky Tonk Woman," "Harlem Shuffle," "Doo Doo Doo Doo Doo [Heartbreaker]," "Shattered" and, of course, "MIss You" spring immediately to mind), but, to my recollection, they've never cut a song that references such a specific New York address as they did on "Dance Pt. 1," the opening number off their transitional album from 1980, Emotional Rescue. Ten seconds into the somewhat strenuously funky track, Jagger starts lipping off to Keith, rhetorically postulating as to why they're "standing on the corner of West 8th Street and Sixth Avenue." Why indeed?
It's a fair question, I suppose, being that said main drag into the most traveled area of Greenwich Village hardly seems like the hippest stretch of real estate for the fabled Glimmer Twins to be loitering (although they were known to favor a block just across town a couple of years later). I'd imagine the explanation for the location is that portions of the Emotional Rescue album were recorded just up the street at Electric Lady studios. Still, I've always loved the image of Mick & Keith in full on flouncy rock fopp mode, striking any number of ridiculous outlaw poses in front of Gray's Papaya, wondering what to do with their evening.
The previous album, Some Girls, had found the Stones capably keeping up with the times, crafting soon-to-be classic rock radio staples like the afore-cited "Miss You" and "Shattered" that stylistically borrowed from the pulsing disco and raging punk rock of that era. Emotional Rescue, however, was lambasted as more of a forced effort, one that breathlessly strove to mimic the more organic sound of its predecessor. While not as maligned as later tepid endeavors like Dirty Work or the entirely needless A Bigger Bang, Emotional Rescue is rarely touted as a stand-out effort in the burly Stones catalog.
It's rare, but it happens. This is one of those times.
The album was released in June of 1980. At the time, I was thirteen years old and had been sequestered largely against my will to a camp in the verdant environs of Maine called Great Oaks. All of the kids at the camp were split up into a dozen cabins, each named after a state (I lived in "West Virginia," a cabin almost-immediately re-christened "West Vagina" for the purposes of tirelessly prurient juvenile comedy). Each cabin was commandeered by a counselor. My cabin's counselor was a Swedish twentysomething named Eric, who had long, shaggy blonde hair much like that of his more celebrated countryman, Bjorn Borg. Eric was also a Stones freak. While he tolerated the endless airings of Pink Floyd and Ramones tapes that we'd insist on playing, there were fewer things Eric enjoyed more than hearing the Stones. So when he got his hands on a cassette of Emotional Rescue during a field trip, it was pretty much solidified that we'd be listening to precious little else for the remainder of the summer (although Joe's Garage Act I was also a West Vagina favorite, if memory serves). By the end of the summer, I knew Emotional Rescue back to front. To this day, I still think it's an excellent album.
While "Dance Pt. 1" has never been my favorite song on the record (that honor goes to "Where The Boys Go"), I've always dug it. Not just for the shoutout to West 8th Street -- a strip I'd soon-after become a regular on thanks to its then-thriving (and now vanished) network of record stores -- but for its shameless espousal of grooving. While many would decry the band for trying to jump on some sort of disco-rock bandwagon, "Dance Pt. 1" (which was evidently recorded several times -- there are seemingly handfuls of alternate versions floating around out there) is a million times funkier -- and more legitimately danceable -- than similarly-inclined efforts by, say, KISS ("I Was Made for Loving You") or Pink Floyd ("Another Brick in The Wall Pt. II"). I'd suggest that Queen surpassed them in the credible funk department with "Another One Bites The Dust" (released the same year), but blame it on that bassline. And while gratuitously hedonistic, "Dance Pt. 1" still retains Keef's signature dirty guitar, sneerily reminding you at every turn that even when wearing their boogie trousers, the Stones still rocked harder than you.
Twenty-nine years (!!!!) later, Electric Lady still stands on a West 8th Street that is entirely unrecognizable from its 1980 incarnation. Without fail, though, I absolutely cannot cross that corner of 6th Avenue without the opening of "Dance Pt. 1" shimmying into my head. Get up, get out….
OH MY GRACE, I’VE GOT NO HIDING PLACE...
In 1979, I was in 7th grade at a private Catholic boys' school on the Upper East Side. My teacher was this individual I'll call Mr. B, a comparatively hip, young dude whose teaching methods were endearingly less conventional than those of his peers on the faculty. Mr. B's class was a very open environment where spirited discussion was encouraged. A lot of the stuffy formalities of the rest of the school were practically verboten. My fellow students and I were routinely prodded to express ourselves in ways that were unheard of in the rest of the school. If you've seen "Dead Poet's Society," that's a pretty fair representation of the type of atmosphere Mr. B sought to establish. It was a great experience, and we all learned a great deal.
One Friday afternoon, Mr. B had us put our desks into a circle all facing each other (we frequently did this). In the center of the circle Mr. B had a small record player. At the time, most of us were fans of predictable stuff like the Ramones, Black Sabbath, Kiss and the like. Pink Floyd had only just released The Wall, and it was, somewhat unsurprisingly, a huge hit with us, particularly the school-bashing "Another Brick In The Wall Pt. II." Mr. B, however, wanted to turn us onto a record from his relatively recent youth, namely Simon & Garfunkel's 1968 opus, Bookends. We collectively snorted with low expectation.
I had listened to some of my parents' Simon & Garfunkel albums, notably Bridge Over Troubled Water, and found them to be perfectly pleasant, but they didn't speak to my twelve-year-old imagination in the same way that, say, Destroyer by KISS did. In any case, Mr. B dropped the needle on side one and we dutifully listened up. After the few delicate, folky strains of the "Bookends Theme," this unexpected synthesizer blast knocked us back in our seats, followed by a propulsive, loping bass line. The song in question was titled "Save the Life of My Child," and it was uncharacteristically discordant and menacing. We were immediately captivated.
Simon & Garfunkel have written volumes of great New York City songs ("The Boxer," "The 59th Street Bridge Song (Feelin' Groovy)" and, of course, "The Only Living Boy in New York" come to mind initially), but this was different. A dark, cynical narrative about teenage suicide seemingly ripped from the front page of a local tabloid, "Save The Life…" captured that same, strange taste of the city as similarly depicted in films like "The Taking of Pelham 123," "Marathon Man" and "Midnight Cowboy." A scary slice of life from a grim, cynical place. The cacophony and confusion of the song culminate with a teenage boy jumping off a ledge. "At the Zoo" this ain’t.
I went home that day and dug out my mom's copy of Bookends and have cherished it ever since.
MESMERIZED BY WHAT MY EYES HAVE SEEN
A little while back, my fellow contributor EV Grieve and I engaged in a little bloggy competition to see who could cite the most videos filmed in and around New York City. I'm quite surprised that neither of us cited the one I'm presenting below. That might have something to do with the fact that Natalie Merchant is largely frowned upon by tinnitus-addled, beer-swiggin' rockheads like ourselves. That said, I think this video -- and, more importantly, the song itself -- fits this project to a tee.
Sure, Natalie Merchant may be somewhat insufferably pious, but I have a soft spot for this track. I actually saw Natalie perform with 10,000 Maniacs circa the release of their breakout 1988 album, In My Tribe. I was a junior at Denison University outside of Columbus, Ohio and the band played at the Newport Music Hall on High Street (with a quiet, humble and unknown opening act who'd later go onto her own fame and fortune as Tracy Chapman). Immediately following the 10,000 Maniacs' opening number, Merchant informed the gathered throng that Columbus was a filthy city and that we should all be deeply ashamed of ourselves. This castigation prompted a hearty, beery cheer from the audience, much to Merchant's sniffy chagrin. Proceedings went downhill from there, but she still danced like a whirling dervish.
After she unceremoniously dumped the `Maniacs in the early `90s (invariably letting her less-celebrated band mates rediscover the myriad joys of their day jobs), Merchant carved out a comfortable little solo niche for herself, crafting pleasantly plaintive ballads for fans of chick lit, herbal tea and Merchant Ivory films. A good friend of mine acted as a technical assistant on one of her later video shoots and said Merchant spent much of the day berating the crew for smoking. Good times.
So, yeah, maybe Natalie Merchant is indefensibly twee and worthy of strenuous ridicule, but once again, I find "Carnival" to be a keeper, not least for Merchant's lilting vocals but also for its damn fine guitar parts. The song itself, of course, laments the "all that glitters is not gold" fallacy of the urban experience. I can only imagine the city she's so poetically decrying is our own. The video itself features some lovely, grainy, black n' white footage of midtown Manhattan, Chinatown, Tompkins Square Park and Coney Island. Enjoy.
It’s one of those work days ruled by technical problems, connectivity issues and the seemingly endless wait for elusive assets from marginally communicative colleagues who clearly do not share the same priorities. As such, I’ve had some down time, and this post – dear readers – is the fruit of that down time.
If I’m being honest, I was entirely unfamiliar with the oeuvre of Unit 3 + Venus until earlier today, but I gather this particular track (here captured by Dutch documentarians, if I glean my hearsay correctly) was included on several arguably seminal, early `80s West Coast punk compilations. Despite it not being technically “No Wave,” someone saw fit to post it on the contentious-but-illuminating “No Wave” Facebook group, as it does inarguably share a lot of the same aesthetic as said New York scene.
Enough of my meandering preamble… here’s “I Don’t Like Beer” by Unit 3 with Venus….
Now, as it happens, I very much do like beer, so the fact that this track was able to vault over my firm preconceptions about it is a testament to … something.
In any event, as I dimly understand it, the band was Unit 3, and they did other stuff that did not involve little Venus. That said, Venus later grew up and reprised her moment on the mic with the Long Beach Stingers, who – I believe – count at least a former member or two from Unit 3. This was posted in 2012.
It first surfaced, evidently, in 2014, but I don’t believe I noticed it for a couple of years into its run. I’m talking about a little blog called East Village Today, a snakily contrarian little web-journal that strove to fly in the face of the brazen nostalgia propagated by blogs like my own, as well as more revered sites like EV Grieve, Jeremiah’s Vanishing New York and several others. The blogger behind it all, I gather, was tired of the lionization of the neighborhood’s fading character and applauded development, new amenities and, well, further gentrification.
Obviously, I was not a fan. The individual left the odd comment here, from time to time, but I don’t believe I ever took the bait. I mean, I got what he … or she.. was trying to do, but they were just being a little too trolly about it.
I stopped paying attention, after a while.
In searching for a specific photo, I came back across East Village Today ….er.. today, and apparently the project was abandoned in September of 2018. No goodbye note or anything. The blog and its accompany Instagram page and Facebook page just … stopped.
If I’m being honest, while I always loved The Beat (or, more technically here in the States, The English Beat, not to be confused with an American band I never cared about called The Paul Collins’ Beat), I didn’t really care too much about General Public. Sure, they crafted one ubiquitous single, “Tenderness,” but, for whatever reason, they lacked the jittery pulse of the Beat. I was also a huge fan of that first, eponymous Fine Young Cannibals record, although not so much the second one.
Ironically enough, I actually saw General Public perform, acting as a seemingly incongruous opening act for The Fixx in about 1984, but don’t remember anything other than “Tenderness.” I cannot remember if they played any Beat stuff. I have absolutely no recollection of ever seeing the video, much less hearing the music, of the single below. Someone posted it on Facebook this morning, though, and I was immediately struck by it — not by the sing-songy pop hook, though, so much as the scenery. Based on the vantage points, it seems this video was filmed from within the confines of a top floor of the Puck Building on the corner of Lafayette Street and East Houston, effectively the border of SoHo. This would date back to about 1984.
You can still see the gas station and the car wash. The Adidas building hasn’t been erected, as yet, nor has NYU started building that gigantic space station.
General Public went onto make two more albums after this, although neither yielded any particularly memorable singles. The Beat reformed here and there, but lead singer Dave Wakeling had a bit of a falling out with Ranking Roger, who sadly passed away in 2019.
The Puck Building was home to SPY Magazine for a while. I attended a wedding reception there and some corporate shindig or another back in the distant `90s. These days, the view from this window would be obstructed by the giant, terraced building they building in the footprint of the gas station and the since-closed Puck Fair tavern.
Now that the election is over and Trump is well and truly out of office (although his second acquittal is a foul, pathetic stain on this nation that cannot be washed away), I am trying to move away from politics here. But after a number of people reached out expecting commentary on a development yesterday, I am parting with Thumper's rule.
In the plainest language, Rush Limbaugh embodied the very worst aspects of our culture and was instrumental in cultivating the vehement division we collectively suffer under today.
For whatever reason, New York City in the depths of winter always reminds me of The Clash. I’m not entirely sure why. I just have vivid memories of listening to London Calling, Sandinista! and Black Market Clash during snowstorms, I guess.
In any event, given that the climate has prompted this once again, I found myself tracking through the band’s catalog and continue to marvel how well most of it completely stands up.
The video below came out in December, technically, but I thought it was still worth evangelizing. This coming May will be the whopping 40th anniversary of The Clash’s sprawling, 17-date residency at Bonds International Casino in Times Square. While that same year was the year I attended my very first concert, it was not one of those Clash dates, but rather Devo at Radio City Music Hall on Halloween night (see this post for more). I would have surely liked to see them at one of those fabled gigs, but it was simply not to be.
In the ensuing four decades, though, those shows have taken on a weightier significance, marking the band’s further evolution away from their punk roots into more experimental territory. Having stretched their oeuvre on London Calling to embrace established styles like rockabilly, R&B and jazz, the band were now racing forward, incorporating elements of funk and the burgeoning culture of hip-hop into their mix, crafting ubiquitous singles like “The Magnificent Seven” below, which was a thousand light years on from the barre-chord stomp of “Complete Control.”
The video, meanwhile, much like comparable videos for “This Is Radio Clash” and the longer-form documentary-style “Clash on Broadway,” features a host of period-specific footage of New York City that is, once again, barely recognizable to its current iteration.
I wonder whatever became of that banner that draped over the signage of Bond's, and also hung behind the band in the performance footage below. Museum somewhere?
I’ve written about my fandom for the great Julian Cope here a few times (notably here, here and most recently here). An unparalleled songwriter with a knack for seamless pop perfection and drooling rock abandon, Cope cannily straddled both worlds before ripping up the rule book and following his own eclectic muse. Ever since, his musical outpourings have been more erratic and prone to wild tangents of arguably esoteric experimentation. But while his stuff may not always be for everyone, he is assuredly never dull.
The only reason I’m bringing him up again today is because someone just recently uploaded his documentary from 2000, “The Modern Antiquarian.” Based on his sprawling tome of the same name that was published in 1998, this film finds Julian driving around his native Great Britain to explore and expound upon sacred sites of prehistoric significance. While that might sound impenetrably heady, Julian does it all with his signature brand of insouciant cool. As excited by megalithic minutia as he is by a galvanizing record by The MC5, Julian makes the subject come alive. It’s both highly illuminating and frequently hilarious.
Enjoy while you can. Go buy as many Julian Cope albums as can be had.
I first started writing this post in 2017 but, for some reason, chose to abandon it. Being that the band in question was recently re-invoked by a friend of mine, I'm picking it back up and finishing it now.
It’s been said that music is the universal language, and that it can soothe the savage breast. I realize everyone thinks it’s savage beast, but that’s only because they heard Bugs Bunny say it in regards to a rampaging gorilla. The original quote is from Shakespeare. Don’t belive me? Look it up.
I’ve often found that a fine way of diffusing tensions when discussing volatile subjects – like, say, politics, more so than ever, these days – is to simply change the subject, and more often than not, music is my go-to (as is probably readily apparent from this blog). You and I might rant and rage at each other in opposition over whatever political tumult of the day is currently unfurling, but I’m sure we can find some common ground on a musical level. To this end, there are several people I’m perfectly aligned with in terms of our musical tastes, but -- at the same time -- we’re viscerally at odds with each other when it comes to discussing politics. Funny how that works.
I recently had a big fallout on The Gathering (the amazingly-still-going mailing list regarding Killing Joke) with a fellow Gatherer when I dared submit my opinion that Trump is a huge, ridiculous and globe-threatening mistake. Suffice to say, much to my surprise, not everyone in the group felt that way (although this particular spat was more about a certain individual's singular hatred for Hillary Clinton than his espousal of the orange embarrassment). Similarly, I run the non-official Cop Shoot Cop page on Facebook, and after commenting a couple of times about what a fatuous asshat Trump is, I was surprised to find that a few Cop Shoot Cop fans are also Trump supporters. I didn’t expect that.
I guess the takeaway from these two anecdotes is to stick to discussions about music, but I still find it very hard to reconcile how someone could listen to the lyrical content of both of those bands and still be a Trumpublican. I mean, Trump practically personifies everything these two estimable ensembles vehemently revile and rail against – gluttonous excess, avarice, monied exclusivity, corporate privilege, authoritarian oppression, back-room collusion, etc. How does one listen to, say, Killing Joke’s “Money Is Not Our God,” “Age of Greed,” or “Blood On Your Hands” or even fucking “America” (a dreadful single, but almost directly about Donald Trump at every turn) and not connect the dots? Cop Shoot Cop’s “Surprise, Surprise (The Government Lies)” has never been more timely than 2017, and “Lo.Com.Denom” is practically a hate-letter to your avergae Trump supporter. I just don’t get it.
Anyway, I’m digressing. To get back to my original point, I was frankly shocked, this week, to stumble upon a crazy rare interview with a criminally under-celebrated musician I’ve literally admired for decades from a source I would never have imagined.
Beyond the fact that I think the organization he works for is absolutely poisonous, Fox News personality Greg Gutfeld tracked down the elusive “Wild” Bill Carter from the mighty Screaming Blue Messiahs. If you’re unfamiliar, the Screaming Blue Messiahs emerged in the middle of the 80’s, playing a furiously bug-eyed amalgam of surrealist guitar rock that essentially paired the best elements of British Pub rock (ala Dr. Feelgood, The 101’rs, etc.) with British punk, their secret weapon being Carter’s incendiary guitar antics (like an even more frenetic Wilko Johnson) and his convincingly unhinged songwriting. They only made three proper LPs (Gun Shy, Bikini Red and Totally Religious) and even scored a novelty hit, that being “I Want to Be Flintstone,” which wasn’t really indicative of their full-throttled potential. They split shortly after the release of their third record.
Personally speaking, I hadn’t discovered Dr. Feelgood as yet, so The SBM really sounded like nothing else to me when I first encountered them. Between the power-house rhythm section, Carter’s choppy, staccato guitars and Carter’s oddball lyrics, they swiftly became one of my favorite bands. Those first two records alone practically scored my college career – “Wild Blue Yonder,” “Someone to Talk To,” “Talking Doll,” “Smash the Marketplace,” “Killer Born Man,” “Sweet Water Pools,” “Jesus Chrysler Drives a Dodge,” and my senior year off-campus house favorite, “Big Brother Muscle,” were in constant rotation. Very regrettably, I never got to see them play live, but by all accounts, they were nothing short of explosive. And then … they vanished.
There were a few bootlegs and dubious live recordings about, but after Totally Religious in 1989 (not the strongest of the three albums, although “Four Engines Burning” still fucking rocks), they were done. I remember thrilling to discover Wild Bill playing guitar on a track on Robyn Hitchcock’s Invisible Hitchcock (adding some serious combustion to “Eaten By Her own Dinner”), but by and large, he pulled something of a Syd Barrett after that.
------- This is where I stopped with the original post. ---------
What I didn't mention above is that I actually reached out to Greg Gutfield to chat about the Screaming Blue Messiahs and we exchanged a few fleeting pleasantries. I was basically applauding him for his good taste and for the wherewithal to chase down Bill Carter for an incredibly rare interview. I don't believe I got into politics, at all, which was probably for the best.
In the wake of this incident, Greg Gutfield continued to be a fatuous shill for the GOP, and I believe was recently given his own late night talk show on Fox, which I can assure you I'll never watch. That said, were he to pivot to music, maybe that would give me a reason, but I find myself so entirely at odds with him on pretty much every other subject under the sun that I don't know that I could stomach it.
The Screaming Blue Messiahs, meanwhile, continue to languish in relative obscurity. The did get another major endorsement, however, from none other than Bruce Springsteen, who cited them, back in October 2020, in a list of favorite songs about cars. Here's what he had to say about them...
“The Screaming Blue Messiahs were formed as a power trio in 1983 in London by guitarist and singer Bill Carter, bassist Chris Thompson and drummer Kenny Harris. They released three terrific major label albums: Gun-Shy, Bikini Red and Totally Religious. They garnered wide critical acclaim and, unfortunately, limited commercial success, particularly here in America. They however, without a doubt, were one of the great bands of the ’80s.”
Cool, right? I've never been a huge fan of Bruce's music, but I entirely respect the guy (and agree with his politics).
I should probably post one of their bigger singles, but screw that. Here's probably my favorite song of theirs.
Play loud. Enjoy. Be good to each other. But know that Trump belongs behind bars.
ADDENDUM: Stumbled upon this live footage after posting, and it would be a shame not to include. Totally on display here is Carter's playing style, which comes almost directly from Wilko Johnson. It's beautiful....
In the grand tradition of this post, I was originally going to launch a new quest to divine the cover location of the Plasmatics’ first album, New Hope for the Wretched (above), but the answer came quickly and was nothing I was ever going to have been able to solve on my own, so I’m just going to share it all here now. Oh, you're welcome.
Despite being technically the band's first album, New Hope for the Wretched was the last Plasmatics studio album I was to attain, not including a few compilation discs they put out posthumously in the last two decades. As I’ve mentioned elsewhere on this blog, I came to own this particular album in a fairly dishonorable way. Here’s a very brief explainer about how that happened, as unspooled on this ancient post.
I'm really not proud to admit this but I once shafted a local used record store over a Plasmatics record. They were selling a copy of the band's debut LP, New Hope For The Wretched as a deluxe picture disc (the vinyl platter looked like someone had vomited radioactive slime all over it), but the shop was asking a king's ransom for it. Like a dick, I slipped that record out of its sleeve and swapped it with another record. I brought the picture disk -- now sheathed in a different album's cover -- to the counter and paid pennies for it. I was never a bad kid -- I didn't make a habit of ripping stuff off, but for some reason, I had to have this picture disc. Decades later, I still feel guilty every time I walk by the shop in question.
That last line is true. To this day, I still feel compelled to go into the shop in question (still there, amazingly) and confess my wretchedness, pardon the pun. It’s forever tainted my ability to fully enjoy the record in question, given its inexorable ties to my bottomless wellspring of guilt.
Regardless of how you come to New Hope for The Wretched, you should know, going in, that it’s really not for everyone. Still finding their way, at the time, the band was obviously having a problem in trying to make their album match the sensationalized impact of their live show. Let’s face it, songwriting was never their primary strength.
Playing a loose approximation of what had become known, by that point, as “punk rock” (although, by the time of the release of this record, the Clash had already stylistically branched out with London Calling and Sandinista, Sid Vicious was already dead, John Lydon was making way more experimental music with Public Image Ltd. and The Ramones were recording with Phil Spector), the songs are energetic, if not especially inspired. Standout selections like “Monkey Suit” (see below) and “Butcher Babies” are entertaining enough, but one could credibly suggest that their efforts on later records were a bit more successful, in this capacity.
The most inspired moment probably comes during their cover of “Dream Lover,” originally by Bobby Darin. Their version boasts a noisy gimmick that unwittingly borrows a page from the burgeoning No Wave scene that would have been going on, at the time, in that during an extended passage of the recording, the musicians were isolated from each other and could not see or hear what each other were playing — the ends results being as discordantly cacophonous as you’d expect. You can’t say the Plasmatics didn't try.
This all said, much like their kindred spirits in KISS, the Plasmatics' early records were still overshadowed by their penchant for violent and prurient spectacle, and New Hope was no exception, which might handily explain the knowing ludicrousness of the album’s cover, featuring the band posing in and around a suburban backyard pool, appearing as if they’ve just driven a car into it and also destroyed a nearby television set for good measure … as you do.
After I’d posted my findings about the band’s Tribeca headquarters last week, my comrade Bob Egan of Popspots NYC fame challenged me to tackle finding this location. As it happened, I did find the below bird’s eye view of the location shoot, but it didn’t really give that many clues.
From there, I went directly to the source. Many years back, I used to work side-by-side with a woman at a certain media outlet who, for the purposes of this narrative, I’ll call Gwen. Gwen was a whip-smart colleague who was a remarkably versatile journalist and also the quintessence of a no-nonsense, common-sense-espousing mom. Despite this, not only did the younger iteration of Gwen spend a formidable amount of time in the nascent New York hardcore scene, but she also dated — for a spell, I gather — Richie Stotts, the guitarist of the Plasmatics. I initially found this hard to reconcile, given the impeccably professional manner in which Gwen comported herself, but when pressed on the subject, she could (and still can) rattle of period-specific minutia like a genuine insider. Gwen is no poser.
As such, I asked Gwen if she might know the location, and without missing a beat, she cited Sunshine Park, a former nudist colony Plasmatics manager/svengali Rod Swenson had evidently been a member of in the mid-70’s. Don’t go looking for Sunshine Park today, though, as it closed in 1983 after neighbors complained and health violations were cited. Some folks just have no sense of fun.
I then did some further snooping around came across a tweet from the … ahem…. American Association of Nude Recreation that linked to this creepy photo below. By 2009, evidently the campground had fallen into a state of neglect and was being reclaimed by nature. Is THIS the very same pool, I wonder? See more pictures of the abandoned Sunshine Park campground here. I have no idea what goes on there — if anything — today.
Recent Comments