Flaming Pablum

Revenge of the Great Music Geek Survey

I spotted this survey on Erik's weblog, and thought it would make a fine third installment to an ongoing series that started with this and this. So, let's have at it....

1) What song or album did you have to listen to multiple times before deciding whether you liked or disliked it:

I don't think it was ever a question of not liking it, but I remember being so surprised by Paul's Boutique by the Beastie Boys when it came out. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it seemed a quadrillion light years away from the comparatively slackjawed License to Ill. I vividly remember sitting in the studio of W.F.U.V. with my pal Rob B. (he, like myself, had landed a d.j. gig at his college radio station, in this case Fordham University in the Bronx) and we dropped the needle on the 12" of "Hey Ladies" (which predated the album by a few weeks). Between the Commodores samples and the cowbells and all those layers, it was so dense -- we were blown away. It was light years ahead of the stentorian stomp of "No Sleep `Til Brooklyn." When the album came out, I ended up immersing myself in it (I remember driving with my friend Tim back to visit the college we'd just graduated a few months earlier from, and listening almost exclusively to the tape of Paul's Boutique the entire way). I now count it as one of my favorite albums of all time (as do many), but I didn't quite know what to think of it when it first appeared.

2) Inaugural entry into the Academy of the Overrated:

Sorry, but I simply don't get the Arcade Fire. I've listened, and despite the purple-prose and lavish praise from Bono and Bowie and everyone else, as far as I'm concerned, they're crap. COME AND GET ME, INDIE-ROCK DORKS!

3) Favorite sly or not-so-sly reference to another song within a song:

I love how the Professionals' "The Magnificent" apes the staccato guitars of Public Image Ltd.'s "Public Image," given that the song is basically a bitter kiss-off from ex-Pistols, Steve Jones and Paul Cook to their then-former lead singer, John Lydon.

4) Favorite Stax/Volt song:

"Soul Finger" by the Bar-Kays

5) Your favorite music video:

There are several that I love simply because the songs themselves are so great, but in terms of the perfect marriage of sound and visual, I'd have to go with "All That I Wanted" by Belfegore. I've still yet to see it bettered.

6) Nas or Jay-Z?

I'm not an especially huge fan of either of them, honestly. That said, Jay-Z has made more singles I'm fond of (notably "99 Problems," "Dirt Off Your Shoulder" and "Big Pimpin'") than Nas has, although Nas' track "Made You Look" is better than anything Jay-Z's ever done, if you ask me, but….y'know, what the fuck do I know? Also, Jay-Z has released a lot of stuff that I cannot stand, so I'll go with Nas.

7) Song or album that, despite being from a genre you don't typically follow, led you to appreciate that genre's possibilities

Being a NYC boy, I've never felt a great affinity for any of that so-called Americana stuff, but Feast of Wire by Calexico (who arguably belong in that category) is simply a great, great album regardless of how it's pigeon-holed.

8) Favorite Rolling Stones song

I'm actually a massive fan of some of the `Stones' later tracks, like "Where The Boys Go" from Emotional Rescue and "Too Much Blood" from Undercover, but if I had to pick a single song from the band, it would have to be "Monkey Man" from Let It Bleed. There's no arguing with Keef's guitars on that.

9) The Clash or the Ramones?

Oooh. Toughie. But I gotta go with my hometown heroes, the Ramones.

10) What song can make a shitty day seem less shitty?

"She Sells Sanctuary" by the Cult

11) Conversely, what song can make you wish you were deaf, at least temporarily, whenever it comes on the radio/TV/grocery store PA?

"Lovin' You" by Minnie Ripperton. It makes me want to rip off my ears and feed them to jackals.

12) Favorite James Brown song:

"Get Up Offa That Thing"

13) Beck or Bjork?

Oh, please -- it's not even a contest. Bjork EVERY. DAMN. TIME. I've never understood the adoration Beck enjoys.

14) What is the most inventive usage of a sample you've ever heard?

Probably the seamless meshing of the "Jaws" theme with the stabbing shower-scene strings from Bernard Herman's score to "Psycho" used in "Egg Man" on the afore-mentioned, Paul's Boutique.

15) Robert Christgau once wrote that "All good rock and roll risks fascism simply by generating mass energy, and much of it flirts with sexism simply by exploring the music's traditional subject matter. Sometimes the risks are worth it, sometimes they aren't." What are your favorite examples of the former and the latter?

Christgau talks so much shit, he needs a mouth-diaper.

16) Favorite Miles Davis song:

Can't say I'm familiar enough with the man's work beyond the odd Honda scooter commercial.

17) Favorite song about comic book characters

"Sgt. Rock" by XTC or "Ghost Rider" by Suicide. I'd say "Iron Man" by Black Sabbath, but they kinda got it wrong, plot-wise (the protagonist of their classic song is most assuredly not Tony Stark).

18) Betty Davis or Millie Jackson?

Joan Crawford.

19) Your favorite, or most despised, lyrical cliché:

Anything involving the word "crazy"

20) Guns 'n' Roses' Appetite for Destruction -- yes or no?

It's a fine album, but I don't remember thinking it was as revolutionary as it's been made out to be. Regardless of the fact that the band wore CBGB and T.S.O.L t-shirts in the video for "Sweet Child O' Mine," I've never heard anything especially "punky" about the album that spawned said single. Again, there are great songs here, but there were great songs on that first Faster Pussycat album too.

21) Favorite Wu-Tang verse:

I picked up Enter the Wu-Tang (36 Chambers) on the strength of "Method Man," which I still love, but I'll be damned if I could recite any of it from memory.

22) Inaugural entry into the Academy of the Underrated:

Talk Talk. Cursed by their skinny-tied origins, their final two albums, Spirit of Eden and Laughing Stock (which owe absolutely nothing to their synth pop beginnings) are absolutely sublime (especially the former), yet they get such little respect. Boggles my mind.

23) Your favorite rock song to not use guitar (or favorite jazz song to not use piano, or favorite rap song to not use samples/scratching)

Any number of early selections by the mighty Cop Shoot Cop (two basses, one drummer, one sampler, no guitar, no apologies). They added a guitarist much later on (namely former Swans-roadie, Steve McMillen), unwittingly scuttling their gimmick.

24) MF DOOM or Madlib?

I honestly don't have a dog in this race, but I know MF Doom put Brak and the Aqua Teen Hunger Force on one of those albums he did with Danger Mouse, so I'll go with him. I also like that he wears a creepy metal mask.

25) Your favorite live album

There are many to choose from, but I'd have to go with It's Alive by the Ramones, which is essentially their first three albums played harder, faster and sloppier. Honestly, everything you really need from the boys is right there.

26) What alternate take/demo version/remix do you like more than the original version?

I much prefer the b-side version of "Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud" by David Bowie (available on the Sound + Vision box) to the version on Space Oddity. Likewise, the German version of "Heroes' (that being "Helden," also on the Sound + Vision box) completely wipes the floor with the original version.

27) Favorite song on which Duane Allman plays guitar

I dunno. "Whipping Post" maybe? I was never a fan.

28) Portishead or Massive Attack?

As much as I love Dummy, I'll have to go with Massive Attack here.

29) Your favorite Captain Beefheart song title

"Old Fart at Play"

30) As a music fan, what do you want from a music critic, or from music criticism? And where do you see music criticism in general headed?

Oh cripes, who could care? My favorite music critics have always had an informed voice, but they didn't lord their knowledge over you or bury you in needless esoterica. All I ask is for them to write well and convey what's interesting and exciting about music. The best music criticism, to my mind, is the kind that piques your curiosity to hear what's being written about. That's really all I want. Whet my appetite.

Status Report - 3.29.07

In an effort to dispel the ominous nature of my recent posts, I'm relieved to report that one of the situations I've been alluding to has reached a fruition of sorts. Basically, without being too vague, someone very dear to me spent the last week in the hospital. That individual was released today, is now back at home and the situation has stabilized in a manner that is manageable.

The other situation (the "frankly ludicrous" one) doesn't look like it's going away any time soon, and it really wouldn't be prudent for me to talk about it here, but I'll be happy to tell you all about it over a few beers next time I see you.

Thanks for your patience and support. And now back to our regularly scheduled, idiotic programming.

The Holding Pattern

I've heard from a lot of folks in the wake of those unfortunately cryptic allusions I made a couple of posts ago. Suffice to say, I'm still not really at liberty to go into a lot of detail right now. We're in a sort've holding pattern at this very moment. But thank you for your support and concern.

Subterranean Redux

Stop the Press!

I'm happy to report that rumors of the demise of Subterranean Reccords have been greatly exaggerated. As I'd mentioned in the earlier post, I shot off an e-mail to the shop's address just to find out a bit more information. This morning, I fielded the following note from Michael Carlucci (a.k.a. "Winter Hours" himself):

We are definitely NOT closed. Just a new front. I was late getting in today. Sorry about that.

Thanks Alex,

Michael
Subterranean Records, NYC

Well, thank the deity of your choice for that. Better yet, get your ass down to Cornelia Street and buy an assload of discs from the man. You'll thank me later.

Oh, and the name of the place before it was Subterranean was Hideout Records. Below is a pic of Michael rockin' out with Winter Hours.

Feeling Subterranean

I've had a head full of trouble for the last several days. I can't really get into the details, but there have been two developments in my life this week that have completely thrown me off balance. The first is an annoying and frankly ludicrous situation that sprang out of something at The Job. It will invariably make for a great anecdote that we can all laugh heartily about sometime hopefully very soon, but at the moment, I'm not finding it very funny. The other is on the familial front and significantly more troubling. Like I said, I don't think I should really get into either of them here (sorry), but when the time is right, perhaps I'll divulge. Maybe remind me at some point.

In any case, as a result, I've been a bit shell-shocked, depressed and in a bit of a haze as I wait for the respective resolutions of both situations. But, y'know, life goes on, especially when you have two little people crawling around your apartment, wondering why Daddy is looking so glum. Feeling a bit stifled this morning, Peg and I loaded the kids into the strollers and sought out an accommodating bistro wherein to treat ourselves to brunch (not always an easy feat when you've got a three-year-old and a one-year old in tow). As we headed West -- smarting at the still wintery chill in the air -- we remembered that the Cornelia Street Cafe on --- wait for it -- Cornelia Street was once very nice to us when we brought little Charlotte there about two years ago. That became our destination.

Cornelia Street was the first location in Greenwich Village that I ever spent a decent amount of time at. A friend from grade school, Walt, lived in a then seemingly-newfangled condo on the otherwise old-wordly street with his father for a while in the mid-80's. His dad's apartment was on the second floor and looked out over 6th Avenue, directly across from those fabled basketball courts that attract so much hoopla (pardon the awful pun). As such, Cornelia Street was my base of downtown operation for a while (given its proximity to shops like Bleeker Bob's, etc.). It was actually on Cornelia Street that I first heard Killing Joke. I remember Walt and I sitting in his dad's living room, watching some cable access show (it might've been George Tabb's Destroy TV, but I'll never be sure) and the video for the `Joke's "Eighties" came on (from that instant to this day, my very favorite song of all time). I vividly remember standing up and being glued to the screen. Minutes later, I raced across the street to a tiny, basement level record shop and bought the 12" single. That little record shop -- I don't recall what it was calling itself at the time -- became Subterranean Records.

Much like the shops I detailed in this weepy, sprawling post, Subterranean became a regular stop on my weekly village-pillages (usually accompanied by my friend Rob B.) True to its name, the shop was a dank, cramped little hole in the wall, with stacks and stacks of records (and, later, compact discs) furtively stored and displayed around the cave-like interior. The place was run (and, presumably, owned) by this dude who Rob and I came to refer as "Winter Hours" (if only because that was the name of his band, and we were never polite enough to ask him what his actual name was --- turns out it's Michael Carlucci). We'd duck down into the shop, rifle through the selections and climb back up and out into the sunlight. It was a great shop that -- like I said about 99 Records in that other post -- when you stepped into it, it really felt like you were entering some underground network, rather literally.

I hadn't been to the shop in quite some time, let alone down Cornelia Street any time too recently. When Peg and I turned off 6th Avenue today, I was immediately struck. Around the steps leading down to the shop was now a high, locked gate (see pic below, taken with my crappy phone). The shop's beat-up sign was noticeably missing, and there were absolutely no signs of life nor activity. The possibility that yet another of my beloved record shops has closed was an extra little kick in the teeth to my already maudlin mood.

I did a little research when I got home. I found their website, but it doesn't look like it's been updated since 2002, and there's nothing else out there. I called the number, but it just rang and rang. I fear the worst for the place.

In any case, perhaps another one has bitten the dust. Pour one out for Subterranean Records.

*ADDENDUM*

Currenty In Rotation - March `07

  It's been about a quadrillion years (well, actually, about three months) since I've done one of these, so I thought I'd catch up.

TEXT: Since moving little Oliver into his big sister, Charlotte's room a couple of months back, my wife and I have been positively rapturous about having the master bedroom back to ourselves (and all that that entails). One much-missed joy that we're rediscovering is the ability to read before bed again. As such, my bedside table now plays host to a veritable tower of books waiting for my attention. I'm way behind on a few titles I picked up months ago. I've tried reading two books at once, but that just doesn't work for my feeble reading comprehension skills. In any case, I'm currently shin-deep in John Robb's "Punk Rock: An Oral History." Basically it's the long-awaited "answer" to "Please Kill Me" by Legs McNeil & Gillian McCain, the deservedly much-feted oral history of the American incubation period of Punk Rock -- which, as we all know PRE-DATES the `Pistols, the Clash and the rest of the more-celebrated British Class of 1977. In any case, the British counterpart to the argument has long been served by Jon Savage's comparatively impenetrable and needlessly textbooky, "England's Dreaming." Now along comes Robb with a blunt, full-force tome to rival Legs' meisterwerk. I'm only in the opening stages of it, but so far it's fairly entertaining and informative. I'd also been looking to pick up Clinton Heylin's "Babylon's Burning: From Punk to Grunge" (because, y'know, one can never have too many books about Punk). I picked up a weighty copy of Heylin's book at St.Mark's Books recently but put it back down in fairly short order. Any book that boasts such a title (which, by implication, I'm guessing means the musical spectrum that extends from the 70's through to the 90's) and doesn't even mention Killing Joke in its index if flatly not worthy of the paper it's printed on. I should point out at this stage that the `Joke are well represented in Robb's book. So, up yours, Heylin.

FILM: It's still exceptionally rare that I get to the movies these days (although I did manage to go see "300" the other night, more about that in a sec). That said, a friend of ours recently leant us a DVD copy of Scorsese's "The Departed" (it was an Academy consideration copy, or something). Lemme tell ya, if you enjoy seeing people getting pistol-whipped, hit really hard from behind and shot unexpectedly (and, really, who doesn't?) then THIS IS YOUR MOVIE! Hot damn! And while I've never forgiven him for that dreadful remake of my beloved "Planet of the Apes" (which, I suppose, was really director Tim Burton's fault), Marky Mark Wahlberg is outrageously entertaining in this film. Hell, even Leo DiCaprio hands in a fine performance. It also features Alec Baldwin (who simply just has to show up to completely steal a scene) and one of my faves, Ray Winstone (of "Sexy Beast", "Quadrophenia,' "Ladies & Gentleman...The Fabulous Stains" fame). From start to finish, this movie completely rocks. Peggy even loved it (although she watched most of it from behind a pillow). Even despite the fact that the story line has been beaten to death (from "Donny Brasco" through "State of Grace" through "Goodfellas"), it still completely delivers.

But let me just say, if it's violence you're after, look ye no further than "300." I'd been massively psyched up to see this film since first reading about it months ago, and was finally let off the leash last night to catch it on the big screen. So much has been written about this film already that it seems needless for me to attempt to encapsulate it here (but please check out my revered colleague, Kurt Loder's hilarious review of it by clicking here). Suffice it to say, "300" is every bit as over-the-top as has been described, and it makes the more ludicrously violent battle scenes in "Braveheart," "Gladiator," "Lord of the Rings," "Henry V" -- to say nothing of the big grandaddy of'em all, "Alexandr Nevski" -- seem like outtakes from "My Dinner With Andre". I honestly cannot express how much I enjoyed this film. It truly deserves to be witnessed on a great, big fuck-off screen, so DO NOT wait for the DVD.

DVD: As I lamented here, the very day that Peg and I signed up for Netflix, our favorite local video outlet closed for good, which is a damn shame. Adding insult to that injury, two of the first three films we've rented from Netflix so far have been hugely lame. "Little Miss Sunshine" was fine, but we then rented "Coffee And Cigarettes" by Jim Jarmusch. I should point out that I'm a massive fan of Jarmusch's. "Mystery Train" and "Dead Man" are two of my favorite films of all time, and even some of his less celebrated flicks like "Ghost Dog" and "Night On Earth" have some great moments in them. Enticed by the purported cameos from Iggy Pop, Tom Waits and The Whtie Stripes, I'd eagerly put the film in our "cue" and waited to be wowed. What a letdown. "Coffee & Cigarettes" is absolutely excruciating. Pointless, self-indulgent, plotless, rambling, masturbatory... I simply couldn't bear it. It broke my heart. Similarly, "For Your Consideration," the latest Christopher Guest venture (following in the tradition of "Waiting For Guffman," "Best in Show," etc.) finds his storied ensemble losing steam. We didn't even last through twenty-five minutes of it. Eject! We turned that off and ended up watching "Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason" on TBS, which -- while entirely hopeless and devoid of a point (it doesn't really advance the story from the first film at all) -- was still a thousand times more engrossing than "For Your Consideration."

WEBSITE: I have two to shout about. One that, here at the four year anniversary of the war with Iraq, is more appropriate than ever before. The other appeals the opposite side of the brain. One where nonsense seems to be the order of the day. Kinda like the White House. If you can figure it out, hats off to ya.

TELEVISION SHOW: I've spoken about it before, but the last show to really command my attention was the Sundance Channel's reality show, "Ladette to Lady," wherein a gaggle of boozey, sweary, libidinous party girls with indecipherable accents descend up on prim and insufferably stuffy British finishing school for the puruposes of transforming into proper debutantes. Sound ridiculous? It is, but lemme tell ya -- it's action packed. Nudity, violence, backstabbing, tears and lots and lots of cussin'. It's got everything. You will love it. Check it out.

MUSIC: I've picked up a couple of new discs recently. First up is the eponymous debut by Nick Cave's new "stripped down" band, Grinderman. Flanked by Bad Seeds bassist, Martyn Casey, Dirty Three violinist/noise-maker, Warren Ellis and No Wave percussive all-star and erstwhile Bad Seed, Jim Sclavunos, the dubiously mustachiod Cave is asserting that Grinderman is a proper band with its own identity, but I can't help feeling that it smacks of the Tin Machine syndrome (i.e. Midlife crisis rock from the greying old guard). While I applaud the notion of Cave moving away from the more mawkishly soppy balladry that has marked his work since No More Shall We Part (especially in the wake of the departure of Blixa Bargeld from the band's ranks), the harder approach here just feels a bit contrived. Lyrically, Cave's always been a master story-teller, but with Grinderman, he seems to be assuming a role more than ever before. It's not bad, though. Despite its churlishly juvenile title, "No Pussy Blues" is fantastic, and the guitar coda on the title track (evidently played by Cave himself) sort've echoes the fragmented guitar-bothering rife within Neil Young's score for "Dead Man" (and you know I love that). All in all, while it's not a return to the feral days of the Birthday Party, it is sort've a refreshing, bracing taste of Nick Cave that's been seemingly long dormant.

Next up is the full length long player by the Horrors. Yeah, I've spoken about them here before, and yes they're as derivative as the day is long, but damn if I'm not enjoying Strange House. A sloppy mix of the Birthday Party (again!), the Cramps, Nuggets-era garage Farfisa and even a wee bit of Alien Sex Fiend (vocalist, Farris Badwan is an [un]dead ringer for Nick Fiend),  Strange House is a great, careening train wreck of hoary, hirsute fun.

I've picked up a few other discs lately, notably the new one from the Stooges, but I want to give that a full, proper spin before weighing in. So, stay tuned for that.

Three Years Old

It will be exactly three years ago tomorrow that my little girl, Charlotte, first opened her big brown eyes and soaked in the wide world around her. At the risk of sounding insufferably dumbstruck with affection, she has been the incandescent light of my life ever since. Words simply cannot expres how very much I love her. Happy Birthday, Charlotte.

Changing Avenue A

Much like this recent post, I received another random e-mail out of the blue this weekend alluding to a pic in the Vanishing Downtown Photo Album. Evidently, the age-old Pyramid Club on Avenue A is not closed. I fielded a note from one Chip Duckett who promotes the "1984" party there. As fate would oddly have it, I was down in that neck of the woods this past weekend and noticed that a sign was back  up on the edifice of the old spot. So, sorry Chip. My bad. The Pyramid's still open for biz. Go and tell'em I sent'cha.

However, while the Pyramid might still be there, I was shocked and saddened to spot that Sal's -- the slightly ramshackle pizza parlor that has held court on 7th and A since the year of my birth -- has evidently closed up shop (some cryptically scrawled signage in the window suggests it has moved). Regardless, I have many fond memories of bleary late evenings, standing outside of Sal's, gnawing on their slices after any number of dubious East Village misadventures. It's not that their pizza was especially superfantastic (the best pizza in Manhattan is a needlessly lengthy and slavishly detailed post for another day), but it was sort've a neighborhood institution. It was not at all uncommon to see various neighborhood luminaries at Sal's, from members of local hardcore legends, Murphy's Law through the late Jeff Buckley. I, for one, will miss it. I'm sure they're going to turn it into a nail salon or something.

Elsewhere on A, things continue to morph. Peg and I loaded up the kids in the stroller this past weekend to go check out the bargains at this charming antique/junk shop on East 9th called The Upper Rust. Afterwards, we strolled over to Tompkins Square Park to let Charlotte lose in one of its playgrounds. As we walked in, I spotted none other than local legend, Richard Blum a.k.a. Handsome Dick Manitoba himself. Some little kids were around him (calling him "Richard"), so I can only imagine these were nieces and nephews. In any case, I sheepishly approached him and introduced myself as a big fan, and he surprised me by saying he'd remembered me from the bar. We chatted for a little bit, mostly about the current status of his ongoing war with his neighbors. I'd mentioned that I'd written something about it on this blog, but he said that he stopped reading blogs, as too many people were out there in the blogusphere writing nasty things about him (which made me sad). Honestly, maybe he was a reckless loudmouth back in the 70's, but if even Jayne County can mend fences with him after their infamous clash, surely everyone else can get over it. In any case, in the other instances wherein I've met the man, he's always been a cool, thoughtful and generous gent. Give him a break and go get a drink at Manitoba's.

Afterwards, after chasing little Charlotte around the playground (on some of the same stretch of pavement that played host to the infamous Tompkins Square Park squatter riots in the Spring of 1989) we loaded our kids back into the stroller -- like the yuppie douche bags the new crop of freshly-scrubbed, newly-inked "punk" youths who still flock to the area invariably perceive us to be -- and rolled back West.

The Revenge of The Cube

In 2005, when construction started on that luxury condo on Astor Place, the beloved Cube went missing (technically for repairs). It's back now, of course -- although Astor Place itself looks quite different in the wake of that big glass phallus. So much for wide open space.

In any case, here's another, far more entertaining reason why the Cube was missing for all those months. Cheers to Glen for passing this on.

Last Word on the Cedar Tavern

I've pretty much said all I need to say about the disembowling of the Cedar Tavern. Earlier in the week, I walked by the site, and the door on the front, wooden edifice was open. The picture below is what the interior of the Cedar Tavern looks like now. Shortly before I took this picture (with my crappy cellphone), my nextdoor neighbor leant me a copy of the book, "Dry" by Augusten Burroughs (you might know him as the author of "Running With Scissors"). In any event, "Dry" takes place in this neighborhood, and a passage early in the proceedings captures the essence of my favorite bar far better than any conceivable photograph. Take it away, Augusten....

A few hours later, I walk into Cedar Tavern and feel immediately at ease. There's a huge old bar to my right, carved by hand a century ago from several ancient oak trees. It's like this great big middle finger aimed at nature conservationists. Behind the bar, the wall is paneled in this same wood, inlaid with tall etched mirrors. Next to the mirrors are dull brass light fixtures with stained-glass shades. No bulb in the place is above twenty-five watts. In the rear, there are nice tall wooden booths and oil paintings of English bird dogs and anonymous grandfathers posed in burgundy leather wing chairs. They serve a kind of food here: chicken-fried steak, fish and chips, cheeseburgers and a very lame salad that features iceberg lettuce and croutons from a box. I could live here. As if I didn't already.

That was then. This is now.