Flaming Pablum

Top Ten Scary Songs for Halloween

10. "Waltzinblack" by the Stranglers - The opening salvo from the Stranglers' 1981 oddball sci-fi opus, The Gospel According to the Meninblack, this hypnotic instrumental sets the stage for the `Glers' strange tale of an alien infestation, but it would also make for excellent music to polish butcher knives by, as you cackle-along with the legions of chipmunked-voiced martians whose maniacal giggling threatens to overtake the latter half of the track. Sublimely evil sounding.

9. "Saturday Night Special" by Fad Gadget - A creepy little ditty about shooting people played on the devil's calliope.

8."22 Going on 23" by the Butthole Surfers - From the Locust Abortion Technician album, this track is a dreadfully depressing exchange between a distraught caller and a radio talk show host about the emotional fallout after a sexual assualt, set to a plodding, tuneless dirge. Disorienting bad trip music.

7."Bela Lugosi's Dead" by Bauhaus - A bit of a cliche? Certainly, but they just don't come any Halloweenier than this dark gem. Hard to believe that this was the band's first single (some might argue that they'd never go onto better it). Though more celebrated for Peter Murphy's portentious hollering and Daniel Ash's effects-laden guitar, I've always found Kevin Haskins' relentless woodblock-tapping and David J's sternum-quaking bass pluckings to be the creepy star of this show. That said, when Ash fully breaks into that signature, lilting riff (at exactly 02:19 on the studio version), a thousand bats wake from their deathly slumber to deliciously blacken the skies. Perfection.

6."11 Moustachioed Daughters" by the Bonzo Dog Band - I must credit the great Ned Raggett from the ILX boards for hipping me to this groovily creepy invokation of Satan from the Bonzos' gloriously silly 1969 album, Urban Spaceman. Sure, it's as giddy and goofy as the band's standard fare, but there is the slightest, disconcerting whiff of brimstone just beneath the surface.

5."Let There Be More Darkness" by Robyn Hitchcock - Though more renowned for his penchant for quirky pop, ex-Soft Boys vocalist Robyn Hitchcock can also apply his surrealist wit to malevolent effect, as on this atmospheric sketch of a song (played with what sounds like bongos, a distorted bass guitar and peculiar snippets of found-sound). It's rather hard to describe. So click here to hear it for yourself.

4. "Epilogue" by Skinny Puppy - You could really choose just about any song by this band for inclusion, as it was generally their business to be jarring and creepy and distasteful at every turn. This particular track, however, always appealed to me. Clocking in at only a minute and ten seconds, this gloomy sound collage samples some ruminations about the Shroud of Turin (presumably from a film. Anyone?) to uneasy efffect, before turning your speakers into Satan's waiting jaws, gaping open to consume your unwitting soul.

3. "Frankie Tear Drop" by Suicide - Another quasi-predictable choice, but Suicide's dismal tale of a hopeless factory worker who kills his own family then goes to Hell is disquieting in its abject suffering, especially as Alan Vega starts to scream like a tortured soul.

2."The Tenderness of Wolves" by Coil - You could really pick any track off this album, Scatology, as the entire record makes for entirely uneasy listening (a fine runner-up selection might the unspeakably distasteful creep-out, "The Sewage Worker's Birthday Party"). What makes "The Tenderness of Wolves" so disturbing for me, however, is the baying and crying in the intro before Gavin Friday starts to sing, conjuring to mind the "baby" in David Lynch's "Eraserhead". Unsettling.

1."Hamburger Lady" by Throbbing Gristle - I work two overnight shifts a week here at the office, and for much of the shift, I'm the only person on the floor. I'll usually put on some music to help pass the time, but this track (off D.O.A.:The Third and Final Report of Throbbing Gristle) is STRICTLY VERBOTTEN, as it never fails to completely creep the bejesus out of me. It arrives slowly like a viscous liquid seeping under your door, punctuated by ominous electronic humming and what sounds like strangled weeping. Gristler Genesis P_Orridge then starts to tell the tale of a woman in a hospital burn unit who is completely charred from the waist up. Both utterly harrowing and strangely compelling.

CLICK HERE FOR TEN MORE SCARY SONGS!

Happy Halloween

Boo!

Song O' the Next Day: "My Pile of Leaves" by the Hot Corn Girls

Since yesterday's tune uploading seemed to go so well, I'm going to "take things to a whole `nother level," as the hip kids say, and post another `choon for your listening pleasure today. I've decided that the only music I'm going to upload here should be of a sort that is out of print or otherwise impossible to find, so if you're waiting for me to bring you something by, say, Killing Joke, I'd strenuously advise against holding your breath. As before, if you are or represent an artist whose music I've posted and you do not want it shared, let me know - it will be removed immediately. The music is here to for evaluation purposes. I will always link to a place the music can be purchased if one is available. In the instance of today's track, I'm friends with half of the now-defunct band (who, I'd imagine, probably wouldn't give a good gosh darn anyway), but if so (Dean, if you're out there), just give a shout and it'll vanish from this site like the those nutty kids in the "Blair Witch Project".

Today's song comes from the Hot Corn Girls, an endearingly amateurish quartet of Lower East Siders who date back to the mid-90's. Being friends with Joanne their bass player and Dean Rispler their drummer (a punk rock rennaissance man who'd later go onto play for bands like The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black, Murphy's Law, Tiger Mountain and the Brought Low, as well as becoming a sought-after producer in his own right), I was fortunate enough to catch the band performing live a couple of times (notably at the Pyramid on Avenue A and again at Under Acme on Great Jones Street). Rounded out by one Bob Limp on vocals and the enigmatic Squeaky on guitar (an erstwhile member of the similarly inclined Japanese band, The Chimpanzees, despite not being Japanese himself), the Hot Corn Girls were both hilarious and surprisingly catchy, as this tune handily demonstrates. Through the benificent affiliation with the Chimpanzees (whose lead singer, Naoko Nozawa a.k.a Diarreah Naoko, was -- evidently -- a hugely popular television comedienne in her native Japan and Bob Limp's girlfriend), the HCG were fleetingly financially solvent enough to be able to go into the studio and cut an album. Look at My Bum came out in 1994 on Stingy Banana records, graced with a suitably pervy cover photograph by transgressive shutterbug extraordinaire, Richard Kern, and fifteen luridly surreal tracks with largely improvised, unintelligible lyrics. Despite their wilfully challenged aesthetic, the sound (produced, once again, by budding knob-twiddler Dean Rispler) absolutely crackles with depth and definition (not things normally associated with humble East Village bands).

I belive the song titles were assigned to their respective songs with Burroughsian arbitrariness, so don't bother listening for the song's title in the already indecipherable and quite-possibly-not-sung-in-any-language-known-to-man chorus. Incidentally, I'd have posted a picture of the band or the sleeve if I could find one on the `net, but I was unsuccessful in that pursuit and have yet to purchase a scanner for such things. Suffice it to say, a Google search for "the Hot Corn Girls" didn't turn up anything I could re-produce here (especially if you have your Google filters turned off) without offending a whole lot of people. So, without further ado, herewith "My Pile of Leaves" by the Hot Corn Girls. Download hot_corn_girls_my_pile_of_leaves.mp3

Incidentally, the name "Hot Corn Girls" itself does not refer to any deviant sexual practice but rather to a book by Solon Rovinson called "Hot Corn - Life Scenes in New York" from 1854 (the source of the illustration at the top of this post). The Hot Corn Girls themselves were Irish-American immigrants who peddled hot corn in the streets. There's also the arguable theory that the Hot Corn Girls doubled as murderous prostitutes who slew their johns. I'll defer to the historians over that one. If you're as smitten with this track as I am, you can still find copies of Look at My Bum if you're willing to search for it. In fact, there's a copy for sale right here. The Hot Corn Girls went onto record another 7" single before splitting. Dean Rispler went onto work with dozens of other great bands. Joanne got married and left NYC. Bob went off to Japan with Nozawa where they perform as the tastefully named Ass Baboons of Venus. No idea what happened to Squeaky.

*QUICK ADDENDUM*: About an hour after I posted this, I actually ran into Dean Rispler on 6th Avenue (having not come across the great man in a couple of years). He's no longer playing with any bands, but is still involvea sideline as a D.J. Here's Dean playing with the Brought Low in 2002.

Song O' the Day: "All That I Wanted" by Belfegore

So in keeping with my cranky post yesterday about feeling like a crotchedy old man who fails to realize that his generation's music really belongs to everybody (despite the hippyish claptrap stigma of that sentiment), I'm taking a new leap with this site in the hopes of transforming you -- the lucky reader -- ideally into you -- the lucky LISTENER! Perhaps the first of too many or possibly a one-time deal, I've decided to disregard prudence and better judgment and post an mp3! HONEY, WAKE THE KIDS!

So, onto today's song -- and, I should point out, any mp3s offered are here for a limited time. If you are or represent an artist whose music I've posted and you do not want it shared, let me know - it will be removed immediately. The music is here to for evaluation purposes. I will always link to a place the music can be purchased if one is available. Today's song of the day comes from a criminally obscure little trio once known as BELFEGORE. Comprised of one German, one Yank and one Canadian, Belfegore (named after a Teutonic demon on a German television program...for kids) had a very brief run, only managing to release two albums (the first, A Dog is Born being especially hard to find). Their eponymous second LP (see the "hello, sailor" album cover above) surfaced in 1984. It caught my attention via the startling video for the song I'm serving up to you, "All That I Wanted." Directed by maverick lensman, Zbigniew Rybczynski, the clip for this amazing track was a gloriously nauseating four minutes and fifteen seconds of dizzying motion, following a horde of terrified citizens running down a pier in Lower Manhattan from some unseen, unspeakable menace. While I was busy patting myself on the back for the idea of posting this song, a simple Googling swiftly revealed my abject lack of originality, as Eric of "Lost Bands" beat me to it by a good year and change. Oh well. As Eric rightly points out, Belfegore went the way of all flesh not too long after that album's release (rumour has it that the band's vocalist, Meikel Clauss, is now a physical therapist). Belfegore has, as of yet, never been released on compact disc (purportedly due to some royalty disputes between band members). "All That I Wanted," however, has surfaced on the (very) occasional compilation (notably the promo-only Blast - Modern Rock Sampler Volume 38 and the recently-released Retro: Active, Vol. 4 Rare and Remixed, although in both instances in remixed form).

While Eric nicely suggests that Belfegore's influence on the "Goth and progressive rock bands that followed is undeniable," I'd beg to differ on that point. As galvanizing as Belfegore's racket is, I wouldn't call their music especially original (being that they lift heavily from the likes of the mighty Killing Joke, with whom they shared the assistance of lauded Krautrock producer, Conny Plank). That bit of pilferage notwithstanding, "All That I Wanted" has long been an absolute favorite of mine that still gets me grinning today.

Enough of my yappin'.

Download belfegore_all_that_i_wanted.mp3

Incidentally, if you enjoy this track -- and, dammit, you oughta -- you can purchase it in remixed form on the afore-mentioned compilation, Retro: Active, Vol. 4 Rare and Remixed.

Only the Young May Scrum

My wife and I had our respective oats unsolicitedly served to us for a round of forcible feeling recently when we innocently stepped into Ralph Lauren's newly opened emporium, Rugby just down the road from us. Not to be confused with oily Mr.Lifshitz's other brands like Polo and the utterly ridiculous RRL (preppie ranchwear), Rugby seems to strive for some elusive middle ground between Abercrombie & Fitch and the implausbily cooler Fred Perry, albeit iced with an inexplicable jolly pirate patina. Curious, we entered the shop to find out more. With almost every garment on display emblazoned with a jaunty skull & crossbones, Rugby's merchandise immediately appealed to me (my fomer brother-in-law once described my wardrobe as an ill-considered marriage of Brooks Brothers and CBGB). While I'd sooner wear a Klansman's robes than willingly sport a textile branded with that shitty Polo jockey, I found the Rugby duds to be pretty damn snazzy.

The stuff was almost appealing enough for me to forgive the Lauren stigma and the ludicrous price tags. Or at least it was until my wife spoke to one of the sales representatives. Pushing our daughter's stroller through the cramped aisles, Peggy engaged a blindingly blonde girl all decked out in in Rugby's collegiate/pirate finery. "Well," sighed the sales-girl somewhat blithely, "Ralph Lauren Rugby is basically designed for a younger clientelle."

Ummm....ouch!

It was suddenly clear that we weren't exactly the target demographic. Zeppelin-sized hint taken, we somewhat incredulously made for the door, but not before I stopped to check out their "music bar". Front and center as you walk in, Rugby strives to appear youthful by hipping potential customers to fresh new music via a counter lined with headphones and compact discs. A nice theory, I suppose, but while we were exiting, I couldn't help noticing that alongside yawnsome indie-rock detritus like the Walkmen and the Shins sat albums by the Ramones, Blondie and even Electric by the Cult (and if anybody cares, my rapturous praise for this silly record is well in evidence here).. I wanted to turn around and confiscate the disc. If Rugby wants to appeal to acne-speckled NYU whistleheads and not bother with we square oldsters, THEN STOP PIMPING OUR GENERATION'S MUSIC!

Argh! Where my Geritol? You damn kids! Get off my lawn!

Noo Yawker in The New Yorker - October 31, `05 issue

Boasting what is unquestionably my favorite cover since I started writing for them back in 2001, this week's issue of The New Yorker includes tastefully edited blurbs of mine regarding The Misfits, Soul Asylum, the English Beat, MXPX, Relient K, Audioslave, Gwen Stefani, Calvin Johnson, Zakk Wylde's Black Label Society and the hopelessly silly Slipknot in the NightLife section of the "Goings On About Town" listings. If you cannot find a copy from a news stand near you, you can check it out online by clicking here. Cheers.

With Friendsters like these....

A few months ago, appropos of absolutely nothing, I threw caution to the four winds and joined Friendster.Com. Despite being about three years behind the curve, I was curious to find out what the story was with this fabled network. Lured in by candy-colored promises of it being "the best way to stay in touch with your friends" and it being "the fastest way to discover the people and things that matter to you most," I signed up, filled out a profile and sat back....waiting for something to happen. Only, nothing did. For weeks, I'd log on and goto my profile, only to be met with the stark, cold statement: "Alex......has no friends." Evidently, no one had taken to the time to look at my profile. No one gave a damn about what my favorite book was (for the record, "Please Kill Me" by Legs McNeil & Gillian McCain) or what my Zodiac sign was (Libra). I soon learned that in Friendster, much like in life, one has to take the initiative. No one's going to hand you anything, buddy. Oh no, you have to take the first step.

Initially, I was tempted to leave it as it was, if only for comedic value. I found it both highly amusing and, when feeling too good about myself, somewhat grounding to log on periodically and be sternly informed that I still had no friends. Eventually, I succumbed. I sent a "Friend request" to my colleague, John, a.k.a. "Hot Johnny". In typical fashion, John took his sweet-assed time in responding, but eventually acquiesced. I now had one [count'em: 1] Friend. Surely now, something was going to happen.

After a while, it struck me that Friendster's only real apparent purpose was to make one feel self-conscious and unloved. Perusing through names and faces, I'd come across folks who had dozens, if not hundreds of names in their cache of Friends. Compounding that, Friendster just introduced a new feature which lets you see who has viewed your profile, sort've like a cyber "caller i.d." if you will. If you weren't self-conscious enough already, now you could wonder why (a) so few people bothered to look at your profile and (b) how come those that did didn't want to be Friends? Moreover, you could no longer browse through other members' profiles without them knowing. I started to feel somewhat obligated to send messages to those individuals whose profiles I'd read, lest they think I was some sort've pervy stalker.

Gradually, I started to seize the day and boldly fired off "Friend requests" left and right. Happily, most were gamely met with positiive responses. But still....nothing much happens. Once you start acquiring names in your list of Friends, it becomes a sort've mad race to add more, if for no other discernable purpose other than to make you feel somewhat more popular (despite the fact that no further interaction really occurs). This is not to say that the folks who've graciously allowed me to count them as Friends aren't actually friends in "real life." They are, but I don't find myself communicating with them via Friendster (and wasn't that the point?)

Anyway, much like the Friendster service itself, this post has little or no real immediately identifiable purpose other than to solicit other Frienster users. So if you're Friendsterly inclined, why not look me up?

Thought for the Day: 10/21/05

When the superintendent of your co-op informs you that you need a new flushometer for the only toilet in your apartment, run -- don't walk -- to the phone to call the plumber.

Trust me on this one.

Best of Manhattan

Pat Stack is an alarmingly young, web-savvy brigand who toils alongside me in the trash compactor at the Death Star. On his weblog, Pat recently posted his own 'Best of NYC'. That's nice and all, but Pat's only resided in this fair city for a paltry three years. So, being the insufferably big-headed native New Yorker (we're a rare breed, we are), I seek not to so much correct Pat's list, but to bury it in a needless avalanche of holier-than-thou'd righteous indignation. So here goes....

Best Museum: Pat cites the hugely laudable Museum of Natural History on the Upper West Side. While this is indeed a splendid place, rife with myriad examples of rarified fauna and flora and an institution that I could practically find my way around blind-folded (should it come to that), I'd sooner suggest making the trek up to the preternaturally sublime Cloisters in Upper Manhattan. Even if medieval art ain't your thing, the grounds alone are absolutely breathtaking, especially this time of year when the leaves are changing. Seriously, it's not to be missed. Bring a date. Make a day of it.

Best Rock Club: While Pat cites the Tribeca Rock Club, I find that particular establishment to be somewhat uninspired. Of the rock clubs left in Manhattan (and to see a partial list of some former great ones, click here), I'd have to say the finest is probably The Bowery Ballroom (6 Delancey Street). Probably the closest in spirit and execution to the late, great Ritz, the Bowery Ballroom boasts a nice floor with great sight-lines (it's virtually impossible to not see the stage), and not one but three bars from which to procure those last couple of beers you probably would've been better off going without. As an added bonus, the place also has a downstairs bar where industry bottom-feeders and P.R. goons can cluster in bunchs and thanklessly schmooze instead of clogging up precious floor space in front of you and gabbing while your favorite band is busy kicking out the proverbial jams. For less-established bands and more esoteric artists, the Knitting Factory (74 Leonard Street) remains an amazing space (though I still miss its earlier incarnation on E.Houston), so that would be my runner-up.

Best Irish Bar: Picking a "best" Irish bar in New York City is no easy feat, as cheery Eirophillic taverns are plentiful up and down Manhattan's many by-ways. Having never been to Pat's choice, Gibney's in Queens, I'll concede that it's probably a keeper. That said, if I had to choose a single Irish pub in Manhattan, it'd be The Scratcher (209 East 5th Street). A cozy, low-ceilinged wooden bunker, the Scratcher mercifully jettisons the more cliched trappings of the Irish bar (the place is refreshingly bereft of leperchauns and clover) in favor of local atmosphere, the odd bit of live Irish folk music and even a full Irish Breakfast (for those pining for their verdant homeland). You cannot go wrong. Fans of local Punk Rock lore might also enjoy the fact that the Scratcher is just up the road from the spot were Dead Boys drummer, Johnny Blitz and Blondie roadie, Mike Sticca were once attacked by a gang of chain & baseball bat-wielding ruffians who cut Blitz up so bad that CBGB's staged the fabled Blitz Benefit to cover his medical bills (as recounted in "Please Kill Me" by Legs McNeil & Gillian McCain)

Best Falafel: Pat's no dummy. He knows that Queens is a hotbed of more variations of ethnic cuisine than you can shake a pita at, which is why for Best Falafel he cites Pahal Zan (a name which conjures to my mind the fearsome visage of a certain blonde CNN anchor, putting me rather off my food). Being that Manhattan's my beat, I'd sooner steer the falafelly-inclined towards Chickpea (23 3rd Avenue, just north of St. Mark's Place). Though the very same locale used to host the once-great St.Mark's Pizza, the cunning Israelis who run Chickpea make truly outstanding falafel, and do so with the speed and culinary efficiency of combat-hewn agents of the Mossad. Their pita bread is also not to be messed with.

Best Bridge: I've absolutey no idea why Pat chose this category. As far as I'm concerned, the only good bridge is the one that keeps the tourists out, and sadly that bridge doesn't exist. Failing that, I'd opt for the endearingly shoddy-looking Williamsburg Bridge.

Best "Complete-Package" Bar: To each their own, I suppose. There are way too many outstanding bars to choose from. I suppose it really depends on the company, but my first choice would probably be the Horseshoe Bar (aka 7B..108 Avenue B). A slightly seedy corner watering-hole, 7B has been featured in films as diverse as "The Godfather" through "Crocodile Dundee". Should you be a sports dork, there's a TV (with the sound mercifully turned off). The back room boasts pinball. The jukebox has an amazing variety of gritty punk rock (not to mention selections by Killing Joke and Cop Shoot Cop), and the wait-staff are endearingly tatooed and surly. Failing this, I'd invariably choose my old local neighborhood spot, the Cedar Tavern. Ya can't hear the jukebox and the fries stink, but it's everything you'd ever need in a bar, refershingly devoid of cliques or hipster stereotypes.

Best Sushi: Without question, Japonica (100 University Place). The Ebi Tempura Rolls alone are worth slitting a random bystander's throat for (y'know, should it come to that).

Best Comedy Club: I have no real opinion on this matter, although I used to go to The Comic Strip (1568 2nd Avenue) when I lived on the Upper East Side. Some friends and I used to go from time to time. Problem was, as the evenings wore on, the quality of the performers would gradually diminish. Six comics in, and chances are you'd be enduring the undercooked comedic stylings of a hapless first-timer. Next thing you know, you were locked between insensitive hecklers and flumoxed novice comics who'd yet to perfect their spontaneous comebacks. Comedy is tough stuff, and I have big respect for those who pull it off. When you're in a band and you bomb, you can pass the blame onto a thousand different factors (not least your bandmates). When you're a comic and you bomb, there's just you, a mic-stand and a brick wall. It takes balls, that's all I'm saying.

At this point, Pat ran out of categories, but promised to return to his list. In the interim, I'll throw a few out and hope he takes the bait.

Best Pizza Parlor: New York City Pizza has attained an almost mythic status in culinary respects. By and large, its repuation is well-earned. In my humble travels, I haven't tasted better pizza in any other city (and that inlcudes Rome, whose pizza re-defined lame). That said, for every amazing corner pizza restaurant here, there are six dozen mediocre-to-attrocious ones hawking damp, tasteless slices of grease-besotten lard scrapings. Relatively recently, there's been an upsurge in 'high-end' pizza joints, with places like Mario Batali's Otto (1 Fifth Avenue), John's Pizza (408 W.44th Street) and tasty newbie, Piola (48 E.12th Street) serving up gourmet pies. I love that stuff (especially Otto), but when it comes to a great, simple slice, I must add to the horde and cite Famous Ray's Pizza (465 6th Avenue). I used to swear by Nino's on the Upper East Side (Madison Avenue between 91st and 92nd streets) and the late, great Joe's Pizza just off Carmine Street, but fate has cruelly wiped both establishments off the map.

Best Book Store: So many great book shops have gone the way of all flesh in recent years, but Shakespeare & Co. (716 Broadway) remains my personal favorite, not least for its meticulous displays, great selection of music and film related books (second only to See Hear on East 7th Street) and varied array of British imported titles. The staff can be a bit snobby, and it always kinda smells weird when you first walk in, but you can find practically anything you need here. Purists might cite The Strand several blocks up, but I find it too dusty and confusing (although their rare book room is mighty cool). St.Mark's Bookshop (31 Third Avenue) is also quite a hotbed of literary resources well worth checking out.

To be continued....

"And we buy leather pants."

Sent to me by my friend Rob, this item for sale on eBay.com comes with a description so rich in pathos and self-deprecation that it provided my Tuesday afternoon with much welcomed mirth. May it do the same for you. Scroll down and read the Q&A as well.