Flaming Pablum

Back on the Beat?

In news that probably matters most to those of us trapped on the cranky side of 35, it seems that the Police have finally decided to reunite. While I count myself as a longtime fan (see this somewhat recent, almost-prescient post of a couple of months back), I can't help thinking that this undertaking would've made more of an impact about ten -- or even five -- years ago. But, under the auspices of ringing in the band's 30th anniversary, Sting has finally decided to return Stewart and Andy's phone calls. Sweeping all of Sting's shit-talking under the rug (especially that stuff about how he felt that the Police were so "limiting" as a three-piece rock band, only to go onto a drab solo career of releasing countless blandly mawkish albums of dreary faux-jazz-rock milksop with all the energetic bite of tepid tapioca), the then-blonde-now-balding trio haven't finalized nor signed any contracts regarding a full scale tour as yet, but it's looking likely. In the short term, the band is slated to open proceedings at this year's Grammy Awards on February 11th.

The smart money says they'll play "Roxanne." Place your bets.

Unleashed in the (Upper) East - Pt. 2

So, I went back up to the Upper East Side yesterday. Peg spotted a listing in the real estate section of the Sunday Times about an open house for an apartment on E.91st between Lexington and Third (a two-bedroom, two-bathroom duplex with a patio in our price range, no less). It certainly sounded promising. So, around nap-time for the kiddie-kids, I hopped on the 6 train at Astor Place bound for my old neighborhood, to check the place out.

I don't get back up to the Upper East Side too often these days. In simpler times, I made it up to Central Park pretty regularly to pitch for the TIME Magazine softball team, but didn't have the opportunity this year (and being that all my old comrades from same have just been unceremoniously given the keys to the street, I dare say that those happy, surprisingly athletic, booze-drenched days are now officially over). As I mentioned in this post, when I left the Upper East Side in 1996, I never really looked back, de-camping to implausibly cooler accommodations downtown. With the various changes in my circumstances, my opportunities to stroll around the byways of the neck of the woods I grew up in are few and far between. But, presented with this new possibility, I figured that the time was right once again.

The apartment itself, I'm somewhat sorry to report, wasn't really right for us. While yes, it was technically a duplex, it was basically one tiny, cramped studio on top of another tiny, cramped studio, awkwardly fused by a treacherously steep spiral staircase made of cold, unrelenting metal (which would be a nightmare with two under-3 year olds in the house). The downstairs was as cozy as a set-piece out of "Das Boot", and there was simply no way in hell we'd be able to cram all of our crap into the place (what with Peg's sprawling collection of books and my stupid, unwieldy garden of compact discs). The patio was nice -- and the notion of private, outdoor space is such a luxury -- but it simply wasn't nice enough to make me overlook the place's myriad limitations. The couple showing it to me could not have been more pleasant, informative and accommodating, but they realized as much as I that it wasn't for us. Thanks, but no thanks.

Thanking the couple and wishing them good luck, I took my leave of the place and decided to go for a walk, heading west towards Central Park. The Upper East Side gets a bad rap, albeit sometimes deservedly so. Inarguably, it can be grim, uptight and devoid of all semblance of character. But in the Upper 80's and Lower 90's, once you cross Lexington, it can be quite lovely and neighborhoody. I'd suggest that the stretch between East 86th Street and Lexington Avenue and East 96th Street and Fifth Avenue is pretty idyllic (if thanklessly whitey and, in many instances, insufferably affluent). Granted, I'm a bit biased -- having lived there until about 1983 -- but the place does still exude a pleasant vibe, though it's only gotten ritzier and more exclusive in the ensuing years.

I strolled by a succession of familiar haunts including my old building on 93rd street. When the doorman was momentarily turned the other way, I took the fleeting opportunity to peer into the ground-floor window of the apartment that belonged to one of my old friends from the building, David R. (also presumably long-gone from the premises). Staring into what was once Dave's parents' living room in the late 70's and very early 80's, I recalled hours spent in there watching "Battle of the Planets" and listening to Kiss records, the signature strains of "Detroit Rock City" immediately filling my ears.

Proceeding onto Lex, my head still filled with water-colored glimpses of my childhood and incongruous Kiss riffage, I wondered how strange it would be if we did indeed move back up there (illogically presuming that we could even find the right space for the right price). Would it be weird to return to the very streets I used to walk on as a child now with my own children? While it's still the same city, this portion of the Upper East Side could not be more different from our current neighborhood downtown. It would certainly be a jarring transition for my almost-3-yr-old, whose entire little life revolves around University Place and the playgrounds of Washington Square Park. We'll see.

Heading back towards the 6 train with Kiss still playing in my head, I was reminded of an article I'd recently read on some ridiculous Kiss fansite. Evidently the old wooden door pictured on the sleeve of the strenuously maligned Music From The Elder album is from the church on the North side of East 86th Street between Park Avenue and Lexington. Sure enough......

The Vader Sessions

Okay, granted, I'm already on my fourth beer of the evening, but I stumbled upon this piece of idiotic genius and almost wept. Please do enjoy....

Five Things Worth Splurging On

Look, I'm all for being frugal. Cheap is good! If the generic meets the same demands as the name-brand, by all means, save the change and go with the no-name. Hell, some of my favorite beer is the cheap stuff. And as far as I'm concerned, Oscar Meyer bacon is simply way more satisfying than the gourmet kind (apart from that bacon appetizer at Peter Luger's in Williamsburg, which is -- put simply -- the most succulent thing you'll ever put in your mouth). But in certain circumstances with certain items, the only person you're hurting by being a penny-pinching tightwad is yourself. Herewith a list of goods and services that -- to my mind -- more than warrant the extra expenditure. You work hard for your money, dammit (well, some of you do, anyway). You're entitled. Live it up:

5. Shoes: This one the wife suggested, and it certainly rings true. Despite the fact that I wore cheap Converse Chuck Taylor high tops for the majority of my youth (such are the travails of having the Ramones act as one's fashion ideal), the cheap and shitty option when it comes to footwear is only going to come back to haunt you. For a start, think of your support (Chucks, to continue with the example, do nothing for the benefit of your arches, and if ya get'em wet, you might as well be walking around town with smelly, wet towels wrapped around your feet). It should also be noted that many people look to someone's shoes first when compiling their first impressions. Shoes say a lot about the person. So why not put your best foot forward, eh?

4. Detergent: Those of you who've met me in person might scoff at this one, but I do try to look my best whenever possible (whether or not I succeed is, of course, another matter --- and "best" is clearly a relative term, anyway). Regardless, since we've all now reached an age wherein we're able to dress ourselves and pick out our own clothes, doesn't it make sense to treat our clothes -- the garments we've personally handpicked to represent us, our tastes, our lifestyles, etc. -- to the very best? We've experimented with some cheap-o detergents in our house over the last few years that have left each and every article of clothing I own smelling either like a taxidermy lab or a neglected bowl of degrading potpourri, and there's really no reason for that. Spring for the good stuff and do your clothes and yourselves a favor.

3. Coffee: I don't know about you, but my affinity for coffee completely sails past the parameters of merely "enjoying" it and gallops deeply into the troubled realm of absolutely "requiring" it. While I never really drank the stuff until some time after my college years, I've since become hopelessly addicted to the stuff. A couple of years back when the first of my children arrived on the scene, the whole notion of a good night's sleep went permanently out the window. As such, coffee took on a role comparable to that of blood or oxygen. If I don't have it, simply put, I'll promptly expire. With all that in mind, why should the first thing I put in my mouth in the morning be something that isn't entirely excellent? If I'm doomed to be a slave to the stuff, I'm going to at least make it palatable. Drinking good coffee makes it seem like less off a vice and more of a luxury.

2. Toilet Paper: Without going into too much needless detail, cheap toilet paper can be flimsily inefficient and/or unpleasantly abrassive. Any arguments? Shouldn't those moments of your day -- the ones where you are alone with your thoughts and tending to your most sensitive of body parts in ideally the most private of circumstances -- be ones wherein you should feel the most comforable? Are you that cheap that you'd opt for saving a buck or two over having to apply sandpaper to the tenderest areas of your anatomy? Spend the extra dough and go for the downy-soft two-ply stuff. You and your butt will thank me later, especially if you've been indulging in some ill-advisedly cheap....

1. Sushi: Chances are that if you're looking to save money, you really shouldn't be entertaining the notion of eating Sushi in the first place. Sushi should be expensive. The proper preparation of Sushi is a culinary art form that dates back centuries, and one that really shouldn't be practiced on the cheap. With uncooked fish being the primary ingredient, suffice it to say, care should be taken in the extreme. That which is cheap of price often -- if not usually -- equates with that which of cheap of quality, and low quality seafood is simply not something your innards are going to take kindly to. As tempting as an "all you can eat" sushi buffet sounds, only fools rush to that table. There are precious few foodstuffs more unpredictably volatile than raw seafood (and I can tell ya some stories, if ya don't believe me). Respect the purity of the concept of Sushi with a regard for your fragile digestive system and go for the high-end fare. Trust me.

Brand New Year, Same Ruined Ear

Maybe it's psychosomatic, but the perpetual ringing in my right ear seems to have spiked again. Perhaps it's due to a particularly stressful stretch at The Job (although, honestly, when isn't the job stressful?). Maybe it's the weather or that I've unwittingly doubled my intake of salt, sugar, caffeine and alcohol (all very possible). Or maybe I've been being reckless with my iPod again. I sometimes foolishly find myself gradually turning it up and up and up during my walk to work. Then, at the end of the day, on my way out of the building, I'll flip it back on again, and the volume practically blows the eyeballs out of my skull. It's like that frog in the boiling pot of water that doesn't know it's slowly being cooked. In my rush to best experience the music, I'm forgetting the perils of high volume. Like a jerk.

So, I'm taking a break from the `phones for a while and am back on a regimen of that homeopathic "remedy," RingStop (for whatever that's worth). I did actually take precaution on Friday night seeing Mission of Burma (and should do for every rock show I go to), but at this point, that's kinda like slapping a band aid on a gushing stab-wound. The damage is kinda already done.

As I mentioned here, I'd gone in for a new poke-around, seeing a new ear doctor and taking another battery of tests. That was all well and good, and some new information was gleaned, but no real solutions were achieved (not that I was really expecting any, honestly). I'm supposed to go back and see the guy in a few months, I believe, but -- again -- I don't expect him to have come up with some miracle answer. I'm still meaning to try acupuncture, but haven't the first, foggiest clue as to how to go about that. Do I just open the phone book? I'd think not. If someone's going to be sticking needles in my head, I think I'd feel a little bit better if he or she came with some sort've recommendation from someone I trust. We'll see.

But the reason I think it's bugging me the most these past few days is oddly because of success in a totally different department. As I'd mentioned in this recent post, my wife and I were gritting our teeth in preparation for moving our son Oliver (10 months old) out of our room and into his big sister, Charlotte's (approaching 3 yrs old). While there have been a few bumpy nights, the operation has largely been a surprising success. The two of them have been sleeping in there with relative ease, and not waking each other up (despite still rising really damn early). The problem here, however, is that now that they're both in one room, two rooms away and behind a closed door, I can just hear them over the riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing in my right ear. I really have to positively strain to hear Oliver when he's crying in there, and it worries me that one day I might not hear him and/or Charlotte in there when something's genuinely wrong. Nine times out of ten, when something's really wrong, trust me -- they cry loud enough that you'd never miss it, but the thought of not being able to hear them is really stressing me out -- which in itself is a problem, as stress also purportedly worsens the ring.

So, yeah, tinnitus sucks.

Mission of Burma in NYC, 1/19/07

I managed to catch the mighty Mission of Burma Friday night at Irving Plaza, this time promoting their second post-reunion album, The Obliteratti. I met up with my old comrade, Hot Johnny (sadly, just one of several friends who were recently shown the door by TIME Magazine, my former employer) for some pre-rock drinkage (and some entirely dubious plates of shrimp cocktail and buffalo wings) at Pete's Tavern before showtime. Pete's Tavern may be a storied Manhattan institution (renowned for being both the haunt of O.Henry and the first bar David Lee Roth went to after being busted for buying crappy weed off an undercover cop in Washington Square Park in 1993), but their finger food kinda sucks balls. But, y'know, the beer was cold, so why complain?

I was kinda late to the table on Mission of Burma. I first heard about the band when I picked up one of the last few issues of fabled New Wave `zine, Trouser Press in 1981, prompted by a cover story on Devo (my abso-fave band when I was a freshman in high school). While the Devo piece was alright (finding Mark Mothersbaugh and Bob Cassale interviewing William S. Burroughs, an article I didn't understand or care for at the time, but would love to re-read again now), the pages of that issue were jam packed with bands I'd never heard of (and would later go onto love). In any case, there was a small feature on Mission of Burma, featuring a photo of the band standing against a wall, holding their arms in a manner reminiscent of those shots of celebrated death penalty recipient, Gary Gilmore. Regardless, because they didn't dress like the Dead Boys or the Plasmatics, I immediately assumed -- wrongly, of course -- that they probably weren't very interesting (nor should people be calling them "punk rock"). I'd continue to hear their name as I further immersed myself in music fandom, but never gave much thought to their artsily oblique album covers or seemingly po-faced humorlessness. They didn't seem like the band for me.

By the time I got to college, I'd discovered a slew of bands who -- despite the fact that they refreshingly didn't sport mohawks or wear spike-laden leather jackets -- were largelly more inventive (and summarily more interesting) than the yawnsomely predictable bands who'd adhered to narrow punk rock uniformity. These were bands like Gang of Four, Husker Du, the Mekons, the Feelies, the Minutemen (and later fIREHOSE), the Meat Puppets, the Fall, the Replacements, etc. etc. Mission of Burma ranked solidly among this class of band.

By this point, the band had split up (after vocalist/guitarist Roger Miller's crippling tinnitus had forced him to retire from playing live -- another reason for me to like them), but I managed to see `Burma drummer, Peter Prescott's new band, the Volcano Suns. The `Suns seemed like an entirely cheerier affair than Burma, and their live show was hyperkinetic and spirited (I remember catching them opening for the Wedding Present at CBGB at the crux of the 90's). I'd heard `Burma's "big hit," "That's When I Reach For My Revolver" (later covered by Moby, to no great effect), but -- honestly -- the song's always sorta bored me. But motivated by my appreciation for the Volcano Suns, I worked backward and picked up The Horrible Truth About Burma, a live album culled from their final tour (the fact that they covered "1970" by the Stooges, from Funhouse was a major factor). The Horrible Truth... is an amazing album (despite it's entirely uninspiring sleeve). I also warmed to the band via Michael Azerrad's amazing book, "Our Band Could Be Your Life: Scenes from the American Indie Underground 1981-1991," which is entirely required reading for any serious music fan, as far as I'm concerned. Go pick it up right now!

In any case, I've been playing catch-up with Mission of Burma ever since. When I heard they were reforming a couple of years back, however, I didn't have high hopes. So many bands of that era were reforming -- from Bauhaus through Wire and beyond -- but the end results weren't always that inspiring. I didn't get around to picking up their reunion album, Onoffon, but have heard great thing about it. I did recently get hold of The Obliteratti and it completely rocks, bolstered by a savvy balance between catchy melodicism and the band's aggressive attack (largely thanks to Peter Prescott's brutish drum battery). I heartily recommend it.

And last night, they were a force to be reckoned with. Since fellow-tinnitus sufferer, Roger Miller famously wore rife-range-suitable ear-protection on the band's final tour in 1983, I took precaution and also wore weapons-grade ear plugs, but I was surprised to find that Roger didn't sport the headset this time around (although there was a plexiglass barrier separating him from Prescott's drum kit -- which, I'm guessing, has something to do with it). Having never seen them when they were a going concern the first time around, statements like "they sounded as if they'd never been away" ring a bit hollow, but they played like a band on fire. I can only imagine what they must've been like in their prime.

In any case, a splendid time was had. Incidentally, I snapped the photo at the top of this post with my crappy cell phone. I assure you that it is indeed Mission of Burma, although from the look of it, it could just as easily be the Wiggles, but I guess you'll just have to trust me.

Punk's Not Dead…It's Just Enjoying a Higher Quality of Wellness and Security

By this point, we've all spent more than enough time bitching about our favorite music being farmed off to commercial endoresements, be it Iggy's "Lust for Life" to hawk Carnival Cruise lines or Zep's "Rock'n'Roll" to sell Cadillacs. But this latest example is a real bone in the throat.

There's an ad currently in rotation that features "Everybody's Happy Nowadays" by the Buzzcocks. Now, hearing Punk Rock in television commercials these days is certainly no longer surprising, given that many ad execs were in their teens and twenties in the late 70's and early 80's. It's just that in this case, the advertisement in question is for the A.A.R.P, or THE AMERICAN ASSOCIATION OF RETIRED PERSONS.

Color me disgusted.

ADDENDUM:  In the interest of fairness, my fellow Gatherer, John Carville, provided the following perspectie on the issue. I'd love for the implied subversion to have been intentional, but I have my doubts. Still, it's a fair point: 

LOL! That's hilarious! Of course, 'Everybody's Happy Nowadays' is a key slogan in Aldous Huxley's 'Brave New World'. In that novel, 'everybody' is happy because they're taking mind-altering drugs to keep them that way - as well as the system ticking over - somewhat like in George Lucas's THX1138. In 'Brave New World', as one website puts it, 'happiness derives from consuming mass-produced goods, sports such as Obstacle Golf and Centrifugal Bumble-puppy, promiscuous sex, "the feelies", and most famously of all, a supposedly perfect pleasure-drug, soma.'

In other words, Prozac, golf, shopping and Viagra! Say hello to Florida and the mindlessness of the Modern World!!!!

The fact that the lesser demons making that advert chose 'Everybody's Happy Nowadays' for the soundtrack is a piece of Divine Justice, nothing less. So, thanks for the info. I'm afraid you may have drawn the wrong conclusion from it, though!

'Life's an illusion, love is a dream.'

JC
Oslo, Norway

Wake Up! TIME to Die

As I've mentioned here in the past, I should thank my lucky stars that I managed to extricate myself from TIME Magazine when I did, as the axe fell again today, effectively destroying my old department, the Newsdesk, in the process. My close comrades and dear friends of over a decade are now all basically out of their jobs. How the magazine plans to survive -- let alone maintain both its sterling legacy and journalistic integrity -- without the aid of the tireless Newsdesk is a complete mystery. I'd wish them well in their new direction, but I'm much more concerned with the well-being of my fallen friends who -- quite frankly -- deserved much better than what they were meted out.

Crispin Glover in "Not Crazy" Shocker!

I just wanted to post a quick link to my colleague, Larry Carroll's interview with the brilliant Cripin Glover, wherein Crispin ruminates on some of the highlights of his colorful and oft-bizarre career. I was incredulous to hear, prior to this story being published, that several of my co-workers were unfamiliar with Crispin's stupendously strange album from 1989, The Big Problem Does Not Equal the Solution. The Solution = Let It Be. It's long out of print by now, but I believe it's still fetchable on Amazon or eBay (I doubt you'll find any of it on iTunes). In any case, it's entirely hilarious, if not only for his tortured cover of Nancy Sinatra's "These Boots Were Made for Walking'". And "Clowny Clown Clown" is endearingly disturbing on a heroic scale.

I originally owned this album on cassette, until I played it for my friend Sean during a road trip out to Long Island. About a minute into "These Boots….," Sean wrenched it out of his tape deck and threw the cassette into open traffic. YES, IT'S THAT GOOD!

Status Report - 1/17/07

When little Oliver started howling this morning at 6am, it felt like I'd only just put my head down on the pillow about thirty seconds earlier. My skull was pounding and congested, and my bleary condition was impervious to the normally rejuvenating, revitalizing jets of a hot shower. From the kitchen, WNYC spun a disquieting yarn about a catastrophic ice storm that has left many people without electricity and killed 54 in nine states. Attempting to further jump start my morning with the first of too many cups of coffee, I sat down at my computer to find my work e-mail box already running over with news and developments. The day was already racing ahead of me, and it was promising to be a long one. As I was peering out the window, looking out at people on E.9th street walking at acute angles to shield themselves from the bitterly cold wind, I heard my daughter coming up behind me. From across the living room, pushing a tiny toy stroller like a miniature stock car intent on total destruction, she came rocketing towards me, giggling maniacally.

"Daddy, I LIKE JAM!"

Her message effectively delivered, she did a quick 180 and scampered back towards the kitchen.

Perhaps the day doesn't have to suck after all.