Flaming Pablum

The Friday Round Up

It's been a fairly busy week, which is why there've only been fleeting updates here on the `Pab. I'm also woefully behind on two freelance projects, but life is just a bit complicated these days. I don't have anything too riveting to impart here anyway. But for the sake of bringing proceedings up to date, here are some tidbits.

* Bada Bing:  Evidently, "The Sopranos" came to a close on Sunday. Honestly speaking, while I love me some mob movies, I never bothered to get into the slavishly feted series, not least because I don't subscribe to HBO. A former co-worker leant me the first season on video at one point, but I couldn't digest all of it in time to catch up, and the last thing I need is another reason to race home to watch television (or buy a Tivo). People seemed to be really broken up about it. For those of you that do care, we over at the job published some fine articles on the subject, along with a couple of follow-up pieces regarding the celebrated inclusion of Journey's "Don't Stop Believin'" in the final scene. Frankly, I'd have chosen "Separate Ways" myself, but whatevs, as the hip kids say.

* Mission Accomplished: Further demonstrating my abject paucity of hipness, I was nigh on thrilled to receive a package from Amazon UK this week containing two of the three new re-issues by one of my old favorite bands, The Mission (or The Mission UK as we Yanks were forced to call them). I'm usually quick to assert that this band's material hasn't aged quite so well, despite the fact that my allegiance to them was insufferably unwavering from 1987 until 1990 (or whenever Masque came out). That said, some of this stuff has really held up. I mean, it's still dated, hopelessly histrionic, often syruppily over-produced and the lyrics read like stapled-together clichés, but I still have to give it up for all those windswept twelve-strings and e-bowed guitar washes. It may inarguably be a shameless rip-off of Echo & the Bunnymen's "Over the Wall", but I'm still prompted to do the wavey arm dance every time I hear "Wasteland." And "Tower of Strength" sounds as fantastically over-the-top today as it did in the balmy, carefree days of my junior year at Denison University, when I would punish the listening populace of the school's radio station with endless airings of same (when they clearly would rather have been hearing The Grateful Dead.) Finally, the inclusion of live versions of "Wake," "1969" and "Shelter From the Storm" make me want to put on a pair of black Ray-Bans, a purple crushed-velvet waistcoat, and unhealthy amount of silver bracelets and wander around the moors. Now if I could only find a moor. Check out this clip of the Mish in their prime running through "Severina" on live television.

*You Hear It First: In other music/entertainment news, here's a quick run-down of some of the items we featured over at the Job this week that I got a kick out of: Kelly Clarkson's career is falling apart, Emo is the New Hair Metal, "Robot Chicken: Star Wars" is awesome, the new "Fantastic Four" movie is, unsurprisingly, a big pile of crap, and -- most importantly (well, to me), there's a new Danzig box set. There ya have it.

* Virtual Insanity: Hot on the heels of last weekend's stroll around the Lower East Side, a co-worker recently turned me onto this new project. Okay, maybe I'm just a cranky old man, but instead of going to a "virtual" Lower East Side, why not go to the real one? Maybe I'll change my tune about VLES once they finish tearing down, paving over and building even more luxury condominiums over the actual Lower East Side, but until then, it just seems a bit silly.

* Dora, I Abhor Her: I've whined about my pronounced disdain for children's' programming here many times, which is why I find this clip from SNL's "TV Funhouse" so damn funny. If you've ever had to sit through an episode of "Dora The Explorer" (much less hear your own children parrot its many songs at you) you will certainly enjoy.

* Walk On: Speaking of my children, the littlest member of the household is now officially walking. Not especially steadily, granted, but walking all the same. All concerned parties are pleased, especially him.

* The White Knuckle Express: As we've been long threatening, this coming weekend will finally - barring any last minute breaking developments or heretofore unseen impediments - find myself behind the wheel of our own (well, temporarily) rented Zipcar to brave the Long Island Expressway for a (hopefully) relaxing weekend in the country. Fingers crossed.

"I Hate Milk" by Air Miami

TITLE: "I Hate Milk"
ARTIST: Air Miami
ALBUM: Me. Me. Me.
RELEASE DATE: 1995

I don't, actually. Hate milk, that is. But I'm learning to. The wife certainly hates it. I hate sour milk, but I'd imagine it's an infinitesimally small and frankly strange demographic that doesn't. But with two little kids in the house, milk is everything. It is also everywhere. On the kitchen counter, in the sink, on the floor, in the living room, all over the rug. Both of our kids collectively imbibe a cow's worth of the stuff every day. Oliver ends up spilling and dribbling most of his all over the place. I've stopped asking my wife on my way home from work if she needs me to pick up any milk at the deli. The answer is always "yes." We always need it, as we are always running low.

As cool, refreshing and pleasant a tall glass of icy cold milk is while you're eating a stack of chocolate chip cookies, there are fewer things as nauseating as the smell that emanates from a half-full baby bottle of tepid milk that's been sitting in the sink for six hours. Nothing smells quite as bad as milk when it has passed its sell-by date or has seeped into the unreachable folds of a stroller's seat. It's almost like someone vomitting directly into your lungs.

In any event, after looking after my little boy solo last weekend, my aversion to milk has reached a new intensity. To commemorate this, I've selected a bracing little track from the mid-90's by a short lived combo called Air Miami. Featuring ex-members of Unrest (a band I honestly never particularly cared for), Air Miami didn't produce a whole lotta music, but cranked out a few tracks that were complete keepers, this being the best of them. A stealthy little tune rife with staccato guitar bursts, a relentless bass line and a great, parent-worrying chorus, "I Hate Milk" is a track that demands action. I cannot listen to it without scraping my thigh (in lieu of a battered bass guitar) in time with the tune's jittery pulse. I'm not sure they were the greatest band in the world (as this blogger suggests), but for these two minute and fourteen seconds, I can almost understand how someone might consider them as such.

Apart from the song title and a fleeting mention in the opening line, I'm not sure how much the song has to do with actually hating milk, but it still sounds like music to punch cows by. Enjoy.

mog.com

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The Downtown Boys

This weekend, Peggy and Charlotte caught the morning train to Wilmington, Delaware to go visit one of my sisters-in-law, leaving little Oliver and I home to fend for ourselves. We've done it a couple of times before, and back then, it was in the dead of winter. But, we survived then, so shall we survive now. With the wife and daughter out the door at 8am, Oliver and I saddled up this morning for a long, exploratory visit to points east. Generally speaking, whenever we go out with the kids, we invariably head Southwest, nine times out of ten to Washington Square Park. Now, don't get me wrong, I love Washington Square Park. However, as I may have stated before on this weblog, I positively LOATHE the playground there. That's a whole post unto itself, really, but it just puts me in the foulest mood imaginable. We don't generally go east. The streets tend to be longer and narrower in the East Village. There is, however, a nice playground in Tompkins Square Park (previously the fearsome hotbed of the notorious East Village of the 80's). So, being completely tired of the Washington Square scene, Oliver and I pointed our stroller East, heading to Tompkins Square. 

Walking through the East Village in 2007 is still a strange experience for me, especially while pushing a stroller. As I mentioned in this post, the neighborhood has a storied legacy that is swiftly being extinguished by ever encroaching gentrification and the tireless sprawl of urban development. Construction is everywhere. That all said, the area is still populated by sneery hipsters, clinging tenuously to the evanescing image of cool the neighborhood once embodied. I suppose I'm no different in that respect, but even in my ripped up, black Chuck Taylor high tops, my ratty camo shorts and the obligatory black t-shirt emblazoned with a largely forgotten indie band (the Wedding Present, specifically), I must still look to them like the proverbial yuppie douchebag who is cramping their style with my tow-headed toddler. Get over it, kids. Most of the old punks are long gone and all the really cool folks live in Brooklyn now, anyway (although that scene's hepcat cache is swiftly eroding too).

Still, I can't shake the vibe. I used to frequent these streets on an almost daily basis in my single days, taking pictures of interesting graffiti by day and exploring the ever-morphing bar'n'club landscape by night. There are still plenty of bars, of course, but it does still feel like a strange ghost town. Oliver and I stopped into the Tompkins Square playground for a little while, the proceeded further downtown, into the Lower East Side.

Crossing East Houston was a revelation. I haven't walked around in this area in a while, but was genuinely blown away to see that high rise being erected on Ludlow Street. As I pushed Oliver down Clinton street, I passed by the former apartment building of my old friend, Brent. The excellently named Brent Butterworth was a comrade of mine from way back in 1989, when I was interning at SPIN. Brent lived in a somewhat squalid studio apartment on this strip, and it genuinely felt like you were rolling the dice every time you went to visit. Much like the neighborhood to its North, however, the L.E.S. is also undergoing a radical face lift. The strip Brent took his chances living on now boasts a very cool coffee shop (where I procured a pricey cup of iced coffee) and a couple of glitzy wine bars. To bring it back to my musical fixation, these were the streets that bands like Missing Foundation, Cop Shoot Cop and Pussy Galore used to roam. Now it's all gone John Mayer and Maroon 5. Crap!

Oliver and I repaired to a disheveled playground over on Forsyth Street. I'd made a vow to stop and let my boy have some time in every swing set that we came across, so how could I pass by? Forsyth Street still retains the palpable whiff of stubborn decay which, while endearing to my old timey sensibilities, didn't make for a restful experience with my child in tow. A wino about a yard away from us sat barking largely incomprehensible obscenities at anyone within range, and then sobbing. We decided to move on.

We crossed over the Bowery and onto Spring Street, passing by 190 Bowery and the now boarded up 11 Spring Street, formerly a vast canvas of compelling street art. Soho tends to be even more stroller-phobic than the East Village, so Oliver and I gradually made our way back through the Village, stopping by a few more little playgrounds along the way before heading home for lunch.

Tuckered out from our long morning, Oliver's napping at the moment. A musician friend of mine is actually playing at a venue we walked by this morning, but with no baby-sitter prospects available, I doubt I'll be able to attend. In all likelihood, this weekend will just be about me and my little boy. And, of course, our beloved city.

mog.com

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It's Official -- I'm an Old New Yorker

According to Time Out New York. And if said periodical's editors would like to come and regularly babysit for me, I'll happily go check out more live music, thanks very much. Bastards.

My New York age is 40

This New York age puts you-generally speaking-into the old-age category. Don't worry-this isn't a bad NYC age to be. Your tastes are more refined and developed, and people have always told you that you're mature for your age anyway, right? Still, you may want to see more live music (check out Studio B) and should probably visit Superdeluxe.com. Olde English is funny at any age.

What's your New York age? Take the Time Out New York quiz and find out!

Toothopolis Calling

As I blearily stumbled into our bathroom this morning, I was instantly struck by the gleaming new tube of toothpaste on our sink. Crest's NEW PRO-HEALTH FORMULA. Is this to suggest that all previous incarnations of the age-old paste weren't pro-health?

Thump Up the Volume

I have to say, despite what I said here, the new White Stripes track has indeed been growing on me (like a candy-colored fungus).  I still wince when the widdly prog bits come in, but like I said, I'm starting to dig it. I'm also entertained by the recent flap between testy Jack White and a witless Chicago disc jockey, as discussed by my colleague James Montgomery in the latest installment of his column, Bigger Than the Sound. Check that out, when you have a moment.

It also doesn't hurt that the video for "Icky Thump" rocks in a big way.

"Some One" by The Clean

TITLE: "Some One"
ARTIST: The Clean
ALBUM: Vehicle
RELEASE DATE: 1990

Okay, this one's a little random. I was having a discussion with my colleague Jane this afternoon and somehow the topic of long distance flights came up. Jane expressed that she had no desire to ever visit Asia, as it would involve an ungodly amount of time in the air. I asked whether she'd care to visit, say, New Zealand. Somehow that resulted in a discussion about "kiwi pop," and Jane confessed to not knowing anything about said musical phenomenon. In all candor, I don't know much about it either, but do recall, back in the very early 90's, hearing about a clutch of NZ bands who'd carved out a little post-punk niche for themselves, summarily dubbed "Kiwi pop" by the music press. Among these bands were The Chills and The Clean. I'd received a copy of The Clean's debut album, Vehicle, via the good graces of a Rough Trade publicist by the first name of Vickie (I honestly cannot remember her last name). In relatively short order, I ended up playing the hell out of the thing, and this song -- "Some One" -- is easily my favorite of the bunch. In any case, Jane had never heard of'em, and I told her she'd probably love'em, so for Jane -- here is "Some One" by The Clean. Hope she digs it.

The Clean broke up sometime shortly aftewards, I believe, and lead singer David Kilgour pursues a solo career to this day (that I've never bothered to follow). In any case, I adore "Some One" for its blunt, almost idiotic simplicity. Here's hoping you will too.

mog.com

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Lift Up Your Spirits

Life got ya down? Here's a reason to carry on. At long last, the official Killing Joke website has re-launched!

Best. Video. Ever!

God Bless Cop Shoot Cop!

Pour One Out For The Dead Boy

Seventeen years ago today, the one and only Stiv Bator died from injuries sustained after being hit by a car in Paris, France (I remember hearing that it was actually a garbage truck that struck poor Stiv, but that may be the stuff of legend). For those not in the know, Stiv Bator was the original lead singer of New York-by-way-of-Cleveland Punk Rock legends, The Dead Boys and, later on, the Lords of The New Church. Not a fan of that stuff? Well, ya might remember Stiv from John Waters' "Polyester" (wherein he played an obnoxious hooligan -- quite a stretch) and as the lead singer of The Blender Children in the undersung John Cussack vehicle, "Tapeheads."

I was lucky enough to catch the Dead Boys a couple of times in the late 80's, when they'd play their annual "we need the money" X-mas reunion show at the old Ritz on 11th street. It was always a furious mess, but huge fun.  I was also quite into the Lords as well, and -- oddly -- ripped a bunch of their stuff to my iTunes only yesterday. Truthfully, that stuff hasn't aged quite as well, but ya can't go wrong with the Dead Boys, notably such campfire classics like "Sonic Reducer," "Son of Sam," "I Need Lunch," "Detention Home" and "Caught With the Meat in Your Mouth." Go fetch thyself a copy of Night of the Living Dead Boys, bask in the caterwauling feedback and raise a tallboy to poor Stiv.

Cheers to tireless rock scribe, Joel Gausten, for raising this to my attention.