Flaming Pablum

Skeleton Key at CBGB, New Year's Even `97

Back in 2016, I described my love for the band Skeleton Key thusly…

As I mentioned above, I’d first heard of Erik by way of his band Skeleton Key, who were easily one of my favorite discoveries of the `90s. Like a hiccupy cross between, say, early Devo and Pussy Galore — or maybe a less scowly Cop Shoot Cop — Skeleton Key made a gloriously skewed-but-tuneful cacophony. Like both C$C and Pussy Galore, the band featured a distinctive percussionist — initially a spiky haired gent named Rick Lee — who smacked the shit out of a variety of found metal implements, among them pots, pans, a fire extinguisher, a child’s red wagon and various other sundry items. In addition to Lee’s clamorous arsenal, the first iteration of the band also featured powerhouse drummer Steve Calhoon. In front of those two were guitarist/vocalist Chris Maxwell and bassist, vocalist, bandleader and former Lounge Lizard Erik Sanko.

That particular line-up of the band recorded an e.p. and one full album — the truly amazing Fantastic Spikes Through Balloon — before attrition started to take its toll, leaving Erik as the only mainstay from the original four. He kept the band going, though, recording two more consistently distinctive albums that retained the band’s signature brand of propulsive rock racket.

Indeed, the original line-up for Skeleton Key dissolved around 1999, although Erik kept the band going through 2012. In the interim, Erik also toured with Firewater and released a solo record, but his primary focus has been his work with the creative collective, Phantom Limb. Following their days in Skeleton Key, Lee and Calhoun formed Enon with John Schmersal from Braniac for a bit, but not sure what they’ve gone onto since. Guitarist Chris Maxwell currently pursues a solo career and, I believe, does music for the animated show “Bob’s Burgers.”

But back in 1997, the original line-up of Skeleton Key was just an insane live band that was not to be missed. Bizarrely, very little video evidence of that first line-up exists, beyond a weird appearance on MTV (see that old post). But a YouTuber called Mike’s Music Archive uploaded a live show quite recently taped at CBGB, and it is amazing to behold. See that below.

This was recorded on the New Year’s Eve of December 31, 1997. The Jesus Lizard was the headliner. I first posted this video on Facebook, and Erik mentioned that at the very end, Danny Elfman of Oingo Boingo emrges from the dressing room.

Anyway, … enjoy!

Exhuming 'Recent Things'

Back in August of 2008, I posted an entry dubbed “Recent Things.” This was essentially just a series of photographs I’d snapped with my still-quasi-new digital camera (not iPhone) to offset a series of photo posts I’d portentuously titled “Things That Are No Longer There,” and variations thereof. I stumbled upon that latter post this morning, and was struck by how many of those things – a decade later – are themselves no longer there … or at least not how I’d left them, so to speak. Let’s review, shall we?

This, as the sign says, was Bleecker Bob's. I devoted almost as many posts to the slow demise of this storied stronghold of punk vinyl as I did to the untimely vanishing of the Cedar Tavern. In any event, it closed in 2013 and, contrary to original plans, did not turn into a rock'n'roll-themed frozen yogurt emporium, but rather a fair-to-middling Japanese restaurant I dined in in 2015. Read that account here, should you honestly care. 

This is a shot of my then-four-year-old daughter Charlotte standing cherubically in front of what had been the fabled Moondance Diner at the bottom of Sixth Avenue, just north of Canal Street. About year after this photo was taken, the Moondance closed (its physical manifestation moving out west to Wyoming, if memory serves) and a giant, fuckoff hotel was erected in its footprint. I sneer every time I walk by it ... which is daily. 

This is the former exterior of Marty's Cool Stuff on LaFayette Street just north of Bleecker. The shop was a complete, unmanageable mess, but Marty did indeed have the odd bit of genuinely ...er... "cool stuff." The only lasting bit of ephemera I have that I'd prized there is this orange metal sign that says "Smiths Overalls." It hangs just above the interior transom of our front door. Today, this is part of the noxious streetwear flagship, KITH. 

This is the former entrance to 9 Second Avenue, just steps to the south of the Mars Bar (also gone, of course) on East First Street. Largely derelict and abandoned by the time of this photo, the building's significant back history was lovingly told in an amazing documentary called "The Tao of 9 Second Avenue." I wrote about it here, but it's well worth seeking out. Today, the spot in this photo is part of a TD Bank branch.  

 

Fittingly just around the corner from the shot immediately above, this is the north-facing exterior of the old Mars Bar on East First Street between Second Avenue and the Bowery. A constantly shifting and captivating canvas for murals and spontaneous expressions of colorful street art, this strip of East First Street was always one of my favorite spots in Manhattan. It's all gone now. What's in this space now is that TD Bank, a chic condo's chilly lobby and -- last time I checked -- a business called The Alchemist's Kitchen. 

Believe it or not, this is Extra Place on the northern end of East First Street, just steps to the east of the Bowery. Yes, down at the end of that arguably forbidding dead end was the rear of CBGB. Many an atmospheric photo of punk luminaries was snapped in this forgotten byway. Today, it's a comparatively straight-laced and squeaky-clean strip of neatly appointed -- but frequently empty -- storefronts.

This last one probably doesn't need a lot of explanation. That's Charlotte, again.

NYC: Nice & Surreal in `68

Here’s a strange one.

Courtesy of the Kino Library, I half-expected the video below to be yet another one of those banal reels of stock footage of New York City in the 60’s. Technically, that’s what this clip essentially is, although there are elements that really make it stand out from the rest of that pile.

I have no clue as to what this footage was shot for –- nor can I explain the odd bits of dialogue that come from the military chaffeur. The camera appears to be loosely following the expolits of a dashing-but-concerned journalist, of some variety. But there’s an overall surreally claustrophobic and almost nightmarish quality to this video, and that largely comes courtesy of its score.

While I am an unapologetic fan of a lot of progressive rock like King Crimson and Yes, I have absolutely never warmed to the keyboard noodling of Keith Emerson. I mean, I don’t wish him ill or anything, but there’s something about his pronounced penchant for sternuously masturbatory organ fingering (yes, I know -– sorry) that just drives me away. That very sonic blight is well to the fore in this clip, as the soundtrack is none other than Emerson playing his instrumental version of Leonard Berstein’s “America” (more famously from the Broadway play, "West Side Story") with his then-band The Nice circa 1968.

According to Wikipedia, Emerson evidently intended this iteration of “America” to be “the first ever instrumental protest song,” predating –- I suppose -– Jimi Hendrix’s similarly incendiary rendition of the Natioal Anthem at Woodstock by a year or so. While that all may be true, in the context of this filmstrip, The Nice’s trek through “America” provides something of a jarring juxtaposition to the visuals, although maybe that was by design the entire time. 1968 was indeed a fractious era of American history, so perhaps it’s only fitting.

If you can handle Emerson’s organ (yes, I know….sorry, another cheap shot), you may enjoy.

What's On Third?

...with apologies to Abbot & Costello.

Yesterday, our good friend and longtime fellow anachronistic bloggity-blogger EV Grieve posted an update on the status of the northeast corner of St. Marks Place at Third Avenue. Many might remember the news from about a year back that a large segment of that block -– including spaces fomerly or currently occupied by concerns like McDonald’s, the Continental, Korilla (formerly about nine other things since its storied iteration as St. Marks Pizza, above, as caught by Matt Weber in 1985), that corner news-agents/smoke shop, the since-shuttered Papaya King, among others -– would be razed to accommodate a new, seven-story tower of office space, because -- yeah, wait for it -– we needed that.

Well, plans for same, at the moment, seem squishy (see Grieve’s post for details), although most of the businesses on that plot have already closed up shop. The McDonald’s has been gone for a while, pushed out not just by this plan, but also the advent of the ever-aromatic/pungent (depending on your opinion) Shake Shack across the avenue. The Continental seems to have received a stay of execution, for the moment, although, if I’m being honest, I haven’t set foot in that particular joint since they dismantled the rear stage and stopped hosting live music.

As laboriously lamented in this old post, I was lucky enough to regularly witness a slew of suitably slovenly bands grace the stage at The Continental back throughout the 90’s, some notable high-decibel culprits being the legitimately incendiary Nashville Pussy (above), The Unband (below), The Upper Crust, The Lee Harvey Keitel Band, The Bullys, The Pleasure Fuckers, Furious George and the Candy Snatchers.

The loss of St. Marks Pizza was also worthy of its own post, which I thought I’d done, but evidently not. Or, if I did, I can’t find it anymore. In any case, it closed in 2003, and the neighborhood was pointedly the lesser for it. I also remember their slices being way better than those prized at more rhapsodized pizzerias like Stromboli's two blocks to the east.

I also strangley spent a week living in that eyesore of a dormintory right next to the old McDonald’s back in 1993, which I spoke about in this ancient post. The building hasn’t aged well, but it’s still standing … despite what many of the architecture students who lived inside it, at the time, were predicting.

In any event, regardless of what’s to transpire for ths busy plot of the East Village, it already seems somewhat undead. That said, I’m sure I’ll pine for this decrepit iteration of it once the new buildings start going up.

When I think of that particular strip, I invariably think of going to those live shows at the Continental. Herewith a smattering of that era, replete with live footage captured in that venue.

Harley & Glen

If you're a fan of the same stuff I regularly post about here, neither of these dudes should be a mystery to you. But, in the interest of clarity, this is an episode of Harley Flanagan's YouTube/podcast thing. Harley is the living embodiment of New York Hardcore, having cut his teeth as a tween playing drums in the Stimulators before forming the Cro-Mags. His is a legend that looms large.

Glen E. Friedman, meanwhile, is the incredibly prescient and endearingly outspoken photographer that documented the crucial gestation period of skateboarding culture (see out "Dogtown & Z-Boys" if you're unfamiliar with same) and some of the most iconic photographs of the then-still-percolating eras of hardcore punk and Hip-Hop. You've doubtlessly seen his handiwork on album covers by Public Enemy, the Beastie Boys, Slayer, Minor Threat, LL Cool J, Ice-T, Suicidal Tendencies and countless others.  He was also, for a time, my next-door neighbor, strangely enough. 

In any case, it's an illuminating chat. Enjoy. 

Blogger vs. Vlogger

Over the weekend, I turned 51. I wasn’t going to mention that otherwise, as it’s a fairly incidental number. Turning 50 was arguably worth talking about. 51? Not so much. But in relation to this post, it’s entirely pertinent.

Along with being old, in the way and out of touch with the youth, I’m also evidently a hypocrite. I say this as many of the criticisms that I’m about to lob at the unwitting subject of this post could just as well be lobbed at me. That makes me a stinky hypocrite. Guilty as charged, your honor.

I’ve been blogging here for a little over thirteen years. Even that very word … blogging… feels irretrievably anachronistic. It’s a dated term steeped in since-antiquated technology and waning, increasingly sepia-toned cultural significance. I might as well be a ham-radio enthusiast.

But primitive tools notwithstanding, I blog about my interests, my insights and my individual circumstances. I document my proclivities, pet peeves and predilections, and not always alliterartively. That I do so is based on the rather strenuous presumption that absolutely anybody should fucking care about what I have to say about these topics or any other. The guy I’m writing about here basically does the same thing, only via YouTube. He’s a vlogger.

Enter Bretti Conti, Millennial YouTuber and self-styled entrepreneur, “creator” and “influencer.”

Conti, I suppose, uses YouTube in a comparable manner to the way I use my particular blogging service, documenting his doings via regular entries. From a strictly technical perspective, his videos are slick, resourcefully making full use of a variety of cameras, mics, lenses and even a drone. The end results, from what I’ve observed, are well-edited, sharp, and replete with signature branding. In regards to this aspect of his presentation, I applaud Conti’s proficiency. Had I access to the same tools, I have grave doubts that I’d be able to produce something of comparable quality.

So, yeah, while he does a great job in that respect, it’s the content of his entries that make me wince. But then again, …. I’m old. What the Hell do I know?

Through absolutely no fault of his own, Mr. Conti is young and, thus, largely bereft of the type of inherently world-weary cynicism that fuels my own daily existence. He’s a plucky Long Island ex-pat who moved to New York City under five years ago to pursue his dream of becoming an entrepreneur. Informed and inspired by well … things I fucking hate like “Friends,” “Sex and The City” and Jay-Z & Alicia Keys’ still-cloyingly-ubiquitous “Empire State of Mind,” Conti has made over 400 (!?!?) individual videos documenting his travails, multiple aspirations, opinions and a whole lot of skateboarding. To be fair, he also aspires to be a travel blogger, and hops around the globe quite a bit. Most of his videos, however, revolve around his life here in New York City.

If it seems like I’m bending over backwards to give him a fair shake, that’s because I’m trying to. While I find his penchant for tireless self-promotion, “personal branding” and product placement (he started up a skate & streetwear line, of a sort, called Fortune) to be nothing short of insufferable, I cannot fault him for his dedication and enthusiasm. And while I personally find his taste in music to be abysmally abhorrent, it’s his “channel,” not mine. That he’s driven to verbose giddiness by transient food fads and uses “fire” as an adjective are other unfortunate matters entirely.

At the end of the day, I cannot honestly say why I bristle at so much of what Brett Conti presents here, although -– if I had to guess -– I’d imagine it’s the signifier that my New York City and the associations I assign to it are fading further and further into the background as new generations -– like Conti’s -- rise to take their place. As he skates around sipping bubble tea and raving about fraternizing with other social-media “influencers,” I find myself barking at the screen, doling out idiotic factoids about the streets he’s scooting down and the trivial minutia thereof.

One can almost imagine Brett Conti decades from now, similarly furrowing his brow at some new upstart’s three-dimensional hologram-blog, pounding his fist. “IN MY DAY, BUBBLE TEA REALLY WAS FIRE, YOU HATERS!”

Whatever. Good luck to you, Brett.

Check out the full spectrum of Brett's video channel by clicking here. 

‘I Had Very Little Bite, But I Had a Lot of Bark’: Julia Cafritz Looks Back on Pussy Galore

Some of you might remember a while back when I was trying to track down the location of a frankly incidental photograph of NYC-via-D.C. noise-rock band, Pussy Galore from the very late 80’s. During the course of same -– a search that had me exploring various decrepit, shifty and potentially dangerous corners of a few public spaces around the East Village and greater Lower East Side -– one of the band members depicted actually weighed in, that being inimitable band co-founder and storied visceral potty-mouth Julie Cafritz. You can find that here, if you’re so inclined.

While the alumni of that particular ensemble have all gone onto different things, I still maintain that Pussy Galore haven’t ever really gotten their due, not least in the shadow of more celebrated peers like Sonic Youth and SWANS. If you’re not familiar with them, I highly recommend picking up either of my two favorites, Surgarshit Sharp and/or Dial ‘M’ For Motherfucker. Their music is very assuredly not for everyone, but for sheer attitude and noise-as-catharsis, they’re tough to beat.

Earlier this summer, Cafritz submitted to an interview with the Tidal podcast series, “I’m In The Band,” and it’s entirely captivating. In typical fashion, Julie’s completely candid and frequently hilarious. I love her anecdote about Jon taking her through the rudimentary steps of playing guitar. She’s a complete badass. Enjoy.

That’s Cafritz and Jon Spencer up at the top of this post, by the way. I regret to say I don’t know who the photographer responsible is, but …. quick, who can name where they’re standing?

Here’s a bit of their music with Julie on vocals. I used to routinely sandwich this track on many a mixtape back in the day …. which was usually met with puzzlement and derision.

'The Boho's Lament'

Taylor Talks

Apart from an entry back in 2014 when Taylor Swift was dubiously named the “global ambassador” to New York City, I’ve rarely invoked the pop star’s name on this blog. Yes, she’s a globally beloved celebrity worth a quarter of a billion dollars, but she does not factor greatly into my life in any major capacity. My kids are not fans of hers, but that’s none of my doing. My son isn’t particularly fussed about any contemporary pop music, as far as I can discern, while my 14-year-old daughter continues to stop short of expressing affinity for any specific pop artist to me, although I do know that she likes Dua Lipa. When I’ve flown Taylor’s name of the flagpole, she basically shrugs. I think if Taylor Swift ever had plans on indoctrinating my daughter, that time would have passed by now. Whatever.

As I mentioned in that earlier post, I may not give a lot of thought to Taylor Swift’s music -– not that I would genuinely know anything of hers beyond “Shake It Off,” which somehow infiltrated the battlements of my awareness -– but I don’t really feel that her music is in any way for me to begin with. I don’t begrudge it, necessarily, but I don’t expect to relate to any of it either. Her songs don’t really offer a perspective that applies to me. I don’t want to make any sweeping generalizations, but I don’t think her fanbase includes that many folks in their fifties, but maybe I’m mistaken. Hers are still tunes for teens, as far as I can surmise.

More recently, however, Taylor has broken her long, tantalizing (to some) silence on the topic of politics, encouraging her fans via Instagram to register to vote in the impending midterm elections, also throwing her own support behind the Democratic candidate in her home state of Tennessee. This deviation from her otherwise career-length refusal to ever opine in the arena of politics purportedly broke hearts across the internet, dispelling the evidently widespread myth that Miss Swift’s allegiance was with conservatives. `Fraid not. Suck it up, kids …. or should I say, shake it off? Apparently Taylor skews to the left.

Personally speaking, Taylor Swift’s political leanings don’t really mean anything to me, although I suppose I’m happy to hear she’s not a Trump-supporting idiot. That said, Taylor’s single declaration has palpably galvanized a growing army of new voters. Read for yourself.

Asked about same in the last day, Donald Trump -– ever petty –- expressed that he now likes her music “about 25 percent less.”

Now, honestly, Trump taking a swipe at Swift for daring to voice her dissenting opinion or failing to express the fealty he’s constantly in search of isn’t surprising. That’s what he does. He’s embarrassing and small-minded. It’s not even shocking anymore.

No, the part that struck me – however incidental – was his lame put-down, asserting that Taylor’s political beliefs have lessened his enjoyment of her music.

Do you genuinely believe Donald Trump has ever voluntarily listened to Taylor Swift’s music?

Also, Trump’s assertion that Taylor “doesn’t know anything about” Tennessee’s Marsha Blackburn is pretty galling, not only because Taylor specifically cited why she’s not supporting her in her post, but also just Trump’s knee-jerk dismissal of the notion that Taylor is a sentient, cognizant adult.

So, yeah, I guess Taylor Swift’s alright with me.

Trump? Not so much.

What You Remember

I can't remember the exact circumstances of why I was where I was on that day during the Summer of 1984 -- my former grade-school classmate Walt's father's apartment on Sixth Avenue in Greenwich Village -- when I heard the song that became my favorite song of all time, but I can tell you what I was wearing; a black -- dare I confess it -- Motley Crue shirt -- a Too Fast for Love- era one that depicted a pair of handcuffs threaded through a crudely-rendered skull's eye-sockets.

That delightful garment was paired with an ill-considered pair of ratty, plaid shorts and a pair of black Chuck Taylor high-tops. Upon hearing the song, I immediately repaired directly across the street and down the stairs (above) into what was later called Subterranean Records on Cornelia Street (vanished circa 2008), but was -- at the time -- called Record Runner (not to be confused with the Record Runner that would later open up a block to the west) and feverishly purchased the 12" single of the song.

Now, as seismic a moment as that was for me, it's ultimately a ridiculously trivial instance, in the grand scheme of things. But consider how many details of that moment seared themselves into my memory.

To me, those incidental details feel absolutely indelible -- and they pertain to something as comparatively silly as entertainment. Imagine, if you will, then, how indelible the critical details of a *traumatic* experience --- like, say, attempted rape -- feel.

I continue to firmly believe the specifics of Dr. Ford's recollection.