Flaming Pablum

Working for The Clampdown

Last month, Stereogum reported a story about Democratic presidential hopeful Andrew Wang’s musical preferences, his alleged status as an “ex-Goth” and his challenge to Beto O’Rourke to have a “skate off.” Today, new candidate and current ineffectual New York City mayor Bill De Blasio went on CNN and started waxing rhapsodic about his fandom of the Clash, how much London Calling means to him and his “hidden” love of ska.

Listen, practically *NO ONE* is more stupidly fixated with ridiculously minutia-laden music discussions than I am, but if you’re honestly inclined to vote for somebody because they were allegedly once in a punk band, really enjoy Funhouse by The Stooges or consider themselves “the first ex-goth” candidate, you really need to take a long, hard look at your priorities.

Personally speaking, I really don’t give that much of a damn what music my president listens to, as long as they’re not a raging, megalomaniacal moron like the current occupant of the White House.

Before you write me off as a cynical bastard, allow me to clarify. In no way do I mean to diminish the power, the sentiment and the resonance of the songs of, say, The Clash. To express affinity for the principles Joe Strummer’s lyrics emphatically espoused and to recognize the fiery conviction with which those lyrics were delivered -– to understand the urgency of both the music and its message -– is certainly commendable. I do want my politicians to be that cognizant, aware and appreciative of those ideals. But, by the same token, their fandom of certain bands should NOT BE ENOUGH to earn your support. In the current fraught, divisive age that finds our nation astonishingly out of step with the rest of the world on myriad key issues, the next president needs to have his or her eyes on the prize. Their record collection shouldn’t matter to you, at this stage.

Just for laughs, I took a look at Barack Obama’s 2018 playlist on Spotify, and it pretty much made my point for me. Opinions may differ, but from where I’m sitting, Obama was a solid, damn smart, scandal-free, eloquent and thoughtful leader with his heart in the right place. Did he make mistakes? Certainly, but when viewed through the prism of our current Hellscape, it’s damn hard not to miss him.

Turns out our former commander-in-chief listens to a lot of shit I personally wouldn’t play at a dog. But I’d have him back in the White House in a heartbeat.

Also, not for nothing, but fuck off, De Blasio -- don't sully the Clash with your abominable egomania. 

What An Excellent Day for an Exorcism

The Last Laugh: Interborough Killing Joke

Considering all the bandwidth I’ve devoted to the telling of this tale, I should at least cap it all off.

Last night was the second evening of Killing Joke’s two-night stint in the New York area for this leg of their 2019 mini-tour (culminating in the incongruous environs of Las Vegas later this month). Both New York gigs were at comparatively intimate venues, Manhattan’s Le Poisson Rouge and Brooklyn’s St. Vitus. Despite being one of the busiest weeks of my year at the office, I went to both shows and had a blast both nights, reconnecting with old friends and making several new ones. I am now tired, hungover, sore and all that goes with that, but I’m incredibly glad to have made it to both shows ... and back again. 

I took a pile of pics on both nights (the shot above is from Le Poisson Rouge), but was astonished to find that the whole show from last night is already viewable online. I’ll spare you my bug-eyed, purple prose and let you watch for yourself (until it’s yanked from YouTube). Pay special attention to the percussive powerhouse that is the mighty Big Paul Ferguson on drums ... in feral form, as always. 

Killing Joke …. still laughing at your peril after all these years….

The Punchline: Killing Joke Comes Back to NYC

Regular readers might remember a series of posts, last year, that unspooled a weepy, tragicomic epic poem about my endeavors to witness my beloved Killing Joke’s 40th Anniversary tour. For those who were fortunate enough to miss those laborious entries, here’s a quick recap.

I’d procured tickets for their September gig at nearby Irving Plaza, only to later learn that a work event would have me in Nashville on the very same day. I managed to get my company’s travel representative to move Heaven and Earth to get me plane tickets that would get me back to New York in time to catch the show. However, an uncaring God intervened by way of a prohibitive thunderstorm, which diverted my plane to the chilly barrens of Syracuse. By the time we were back in the air again, the show was already underway. By the time I got out of the airport and back to Manhattan, the show was over. I did not make it.

While I was congratulated for my work on the Nashville project, I was inconsolable for having missed the Killing Joke show, assuming that given the significance of the anniversary, they weren’t likely to undertake a tour this way again. Fate briefly smiled on me in the form of a cash bonus – a reward for my hard work in Nashville. I took said cash and immediately spent it on plane tickets to catch the final two dates of the tour in England.

In November, the day my flight was to depart from New York City to London for these shows, God again tried to take a giant dump on my plans by conjuring a freakish fucking blizzard -– in NOVEMBER, once again -- that ground the city to a virtual halt and delayed several flights – notably my own.

I did, however, eventually get out and made it to both of those shows, which were amazing. Should you give a damn, you can read all about that chapter here.

Further mocking me from on high, our sadistic deity then saw fit to bring Killing Joke not only back to New York City, but for two goddamn shows, one of which in my very fucking neighborhood. Hilarity.

So, yeah, tonight they’re playing at the comparatively intimate Le Poisson Rouge. Tomorrow night, they’ll be tightly ensconced in St. Vitus. Both of these tiny club shows are sold the fuck out, but guess who got tickets?

I mean, honestly, how could I NOT?

Details to come.

Here's a shaky bit of the last show in London (I did not shoot this)...

Tompkins Square `67

A far cry from today...

Ghost Riding Downtown

The Old New York Tumblr, which I’m quite fond of, posted the below picture today, and it struck a chord for a couple of reasons.

Snapped, evidently, in 1968, the image begs a few questions, foremost among them being what the Hell is that on the back of that motorcycle?

Is it a mannequin? A terrified mime? A cadaver? An evil clown? The little kids in the middle ground seem fairly unfazed, but maybe it’s happening too fast for them to really take stock. I fear we’ll never know the answers, here.

Beyond that, though, I really feel like I know this corner, but can’t slap a location on it. I’m assuming it’s the Lower East Side, but I suppose it could also be Brooklyn. It’s obviously somewhere in the vicinity of the Manhattan Bridge (note sign in center of photograph), but I cannot name that intersection.

Can you? Weigh in.

IDLES Take Brooklyn

At the risk of lapsing into just the sort of needlessly florid hyperbole I’m arguably renowned for, IDLES showed up in Brooklyn last night and completely brought the fucking house down. For about the past seven months, I’ve been bleating about the immense greatness of this band to anyone with a pair of ears and a pulse, but have too often been met with blank stares and indifference — even among certain circles who should know better. Months ago, when tickets first went on sale for this gig — at Brooklyn Steel, a cavernous converted warehouse somewhere between Williamsburg and Greenpoint, I believe — I immediately snapped up two, thinking I’d be able to credibly evangelize them to the extent that I’d find a taker for the second ticket in no time. But, no dice. Despite my best, bug-eyed efforts, I couldn’t seem to convince anyone in my immediate orbit of similarly inclined rock heads to take the bait. I ended up selling my second ticket to a grateful fan outside the venue.

Seeing the capacity crowd fill out Brooklyn Steel’s expanse with rapturous zeal was true vindication, and the gig was absolutely nothing short of victorious, finding IDLES ripping through most of their more recent album, the excellent Joy As an Act of Resistance, along with tracks from their incendiary debut, Brutalism, and even a bash through “Queens” from their early EP. No one went home disappointed.

In previous posts, I’ve described IDLES’ live aesthetic as “bananas,” and that does indeed fit the bill, but there’s also a degree of flailing rambunctiousness that crosses the border into strenuous athleticism, personified in dueling guitarists Mark Bowen and Lee Kiernan, who both seem hellbent on giving themselves cranial contusions. How members of the band don’t regularly collide with one another during these frenetic sets somewhat boggles the mind.

But the sheer joy, pardon the pun, with which this band executes its mission is entirely infectious, cribbing elements of virtually all my favorite variants into a burly, clangy, ferocious amalgam of catharsis that is both high-volume and high-spirited. When robustly bearded bass player Dev — who I’d met moments earlier at the merch stand — started lazily playing the bass line for “Peaches” by The Stranglers while the rest of the band assumed the stage, I knew I was right where I was supposed to be. My voice is hoarse from singing along and my face hurts from smiling so damn hard.

So yeah, stop fucking sleeping on IDLES. They are going to rule the world shortly. Get on board or take cover. They come back in October.

See, It's Not Just Me...

Circa 1993, I believe...

Where they're standing in this pic:

International Laughter Day

Evidently, today is International Laughter Day. I don't know anything about that, honestly, but here are three things that made me laugh this week ...

What Was on West Eighth

Over the course of this silly blog’s almost …. Jesus … 14-year existence, I’ve posted multiple entries about doings over on West 8th Street, specifically the strip between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. Time was when this little patch of Greenwich Village covered a vast array of my needs and interests. From amazing record stores like It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll and the original Venus Records to mediocre ones like Revolution Records and Record Factory, there was no shortage of places to procure music. You also had Butterfly’s, should you ever be in search of just-the-right Iron Maiden or Black Flag t-shirt. Across the way was Postermat, which featured a dizzying array of crap --- poster, buttons, badges, décor – aimed squarely at teenage music jerks. There was also the suitably surreal art gallery, Psychedelic Solution and Flip, for all of your New Wavey fashion needs, the 8th Street Playhouse – which was the first place I ever saw “Repo Man” -- and the seemingly ageless Gray’s Papaya, once touted as Lou Reed’s favorite restaurant in New York City, at the end of the block. You also had the amazing video store TLA, and a massive B. Dalton Books (later Barnes & Noble) on the corner, across from Gray’s Papaya. There were also numerous places to buy shoes of every possible description.

In later years, when fortunes started to change for this once-busy byway, there were still places like Disc-O-Rama and Sleep of Reason Comics, but somewhat gradually, West 8th Street had less and less to offer me.

All of the concerns listed above, of course, are long, long gone here in 2019.

More recently, my kids became very fond of The Burger Joint (which left us about two years back), while I enjoy both the odd visit to endeavors like the 8th Street Wine Cellar, Arts & Crafts Beer Parlor and nouvelle-Italian eatery, Aunt Jake’s. My wife quite enjoys cocktails at the Marlton Hotel, every now and then, but I wouldn’t call that a particular favorite of mine.

In any case, blah blah blah… Who cares what I like, right? Fine. Regardless, as happened on University Place, and as is happening on the other side of town at St. Marks Place, West Eight Street is about to be blighted with its own enormous new luxury tower, slated to be plonked right down on the southeast corner of Eighth & MacDougal, finally putting to rest speculation of why that particular row of storefronts has been vacant for so long.

Whatever your memories of West Eighth Street are, get ready for this formerly signature byway of olde Greenwich Village to (further) decimated. Incidentally, the lovingly rendered painting of the intersection of MacDougal and West Eighth above comes courtesy of the great Ephemeral New York blog, and was painted by Alfred S. Mira in 1942. Below, meanwhile, as covered here a few times before, is Lowell Bodger's walk down West Eighth Street from the early 1970s.