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If you're feeling a bit of an indefinable tension in the air today -- as if the earth itself might vomit at any moment -- that's invariably because today is Killing Joke founder/drummer Big Paul Ferguson's birthday. Celebrate accordingly by pounding your fists against the ground and drinking heroically.
In other `Joke related developments, check out this recent-ish interview with the great Jaz Coleman on Vive Le Punk. Killing Joke met Lady Di? The mind reels.
My friend John at The New Yorker recently ran this item on their website about the further spiraling fate of the former site of CBGB. As he reports, the fabled alley behind the storied rock club (pictured above with the brothers Ramone) is to become a "pedestrian friendly mall." You can read more about this hotly-contested strip of real estate right here.
TITLE: "Love Kills"
ARTIST: Joe Strummer
ALBUM: Sid & Nancy: Love Kills- Music From the Motion Picture Soundtrack
RELEASE DATE: 1986
Under normal circumstances, I like to tie in some personal anecdote to my ruminations about the songs I praise here on the Pablum Playlist, but I don't really have one in this particular case. All I can say is that I was walking up 6th Avenue earlier this week on my way to my new job, and this track came blasting through my headphones at the corner of 34th Street, and it completely made my morning. So, I thought I'd share it with you.
"Love Kills" isn't the late, great Joe Strummer's finest hour -- by a looooooong stretch -- but it's still a favorite of mine. The song was originally conceived and executed as the title track to Alex Cox's largely indefensible and slavishly revisionist 1986 biopic, "Sid & Nancy" (the film's distributors, evidently, didn't like "Love Kills" as a title for the film). It appeared on the soundtrack LP and also as its own single and 12" e.p.. For some inane reason, it didn't surface on compact disc until 2001, packed alongside a couple of truly cringe-worthy renditions of punk standards by the otherwise entirely respectable Gary Oldman (who portrayed Sid in the film) and far too many songs by some go-nowhere favorite band of Alex Cox's called Pray for Rain. Joe Strummer did not elect to slip "Love Kills" onto his first solo album a few years later, Earthquake Weather either. As such, it was a tricky tune to track down for a while.
After some very big, of-their-era gated drums (smacking out more or less the same rhythm that ushers in "Girlfriend is Better" on the live Talking Heads album, Stop Making Sense), Strummer's signature slashing, choppy chords (see also "Clash City Rockers," "Capital Radio One," "London Calling" etc.) detonate a somewhat moronically simple melody. It's almost as if Cox pulled Joe aside and asked him to compose the most slack-jawed stomp imaginable. It comes across with all the subtlety of a ball peen hammer to the back of the head. BANG-BANG-BOOM/BOOM-BANG-BANG/BANG-A-BANG-BANG-BOOM/BANG-A-BANG-BANG-BOOM etc. For the rest of his days, Strummer would never again make music this clangy, heavy and simple. Coming hot on the heels of Joe's catastrophic attempt to reinvigorate The Clash without Mick Jones and Topper Headon (which manifested itself in the embarrassingly unlistenable Cut The Crap album), it's almost as if "Love Kills" was Stummer's last identifiably "Punk" song.
But as cartoony and unintentionally parodic as it may have been, "Love Kills" still kicks like a mule. It's a great, bashing rock tune with a big shouty chorus. Lyrically, it's not really one of Strummer's finest. I presume it's about Sid, but Strummer somehow injects allusions to Mexico and the Rio Grande into the mix for no readily discernible reason. Certain lines -- notably "Down in Dixie You Were Cryin' For Dope!" and the one about Ryker's Island -- are obviously about ol' Sid, but the song doesn't suggest that Strummer's heart was really in it. Even the title -- "Love Kills" -- is a bit of a trite throwaway. It always seemed more like Alex Cox's vision of the events than Strummer's, being that Joe was actually around at the time during Sid Vicious' messy downward spiral.
The movie, of course, was torturous and insipid. Managing to further reduce Punk Rock to a ludicrously day-glo colored cliche and over-romanticize a relationship that was, by all other credible accounts, nothing more than a messy collision of sex, opportunism, squalor and drug abuse, "Sid & Nancy" actually pulls off the heretofore unimaginable -- it made Sid Vicious look even more pathetic than he actually was. If you listen to Sid's interviews on the Some Product disc (an oft-hilarious document of the `Pistols during their headline-hogging heyday), he comes across as far more lucid and even passably eloquent (when not all smacked-out) than Gary Oldman's portrayal would ever have you believe. There are other quibbles, notably Cox's insertion of mohicans into the crowd shots (a tonsorial trend that wouldn't actually rear it's head until the early 80s) and swapping out Sid's infamous swastika t-shirt for a hammer-&-sickle t-shirt. Yes, the swastika is undeniably offensive, but that's precisely why Sid was wearing it! To excise that from the depiction completely undermines and compromises Cox's endeavor. Whatever. "Sid & Nancy" is a horrible mess.
In view of the lousy movie, it must be hard to understand my affection for the Strummer tune, given its inexorable links to said travesty. In retrospect, I think I just warmed to it as it restored my faith in the great man's talents after the appalling disaster that was the afore-denounced Cut The Crap (which I found far more dispiriting than "Sid & Nancy"). Even though "Love Kills" has inarguably dated and is lyrically luke-warm (at best), it will always be a song I can't stop myself from turning up. At the end of the day, I'm still a sucker for the big, bashing rock tune.
I'm sitting here in the living room on Saturday morning, and the kids are currently glued to the idiot box watching "Yo Gabba Gabba" on the Noggin Network. I know I said before how the show in question makes me want to blow up the world, but that was before I had to sit through an episode or two of "The Big Comfy Couch," which is truly the worst, most insipid offal known to man. Moreover, I was somewhat amazed to see Supernova, an old Orange County sci-fi punk trio I quite enjoyed in the mid-90s (and not that abortive reality tv vanity project) performing on "Yo Gabba Gabba." Is this what is to become of my old favorite bands? Children's television? The mind reels.
I think my biggest problem with "Yo Gabba..." is its cloying insistence on ignoring all semblance of subtlety. Songs include "Be Careful When There's Danger" and "Please Don't Throw Things at Friends". I mean, obviously, there are valuable lessons herein, but must we be so unimaginatively literal? What's next? "Don't Drink Out of The Toilet!" "Always Remember to Breathe" and "Setting Your Brother On Fire Isn't Nice"?
To be fair, I did really enjoy this cartoon about cleaning up your room (set to an old skool Two-Tone Ska motif). In fact, it's pretty freakin' awesome. I suppose I shouldn't be too harsh about "Yo Gabba Gabba." Again, it sure beats the bejesus out of the "Big Comfy Couch".
Here's one I really didn't see coming. Evidently, Teenage Jesus & the Jerks -- the notorious No Wave combo fronted by equally lovely and lethal Lydia Lunch -- are actually reforming for a pair of gigs at the Knitting Factory in June. The shows are being held to celebrate the release of a new tome on the No Wave era by Thurston Moore and Byron Coley, although you should all go check out Marc Masters' own book on No Wave that recently hit shelves. It's great -- go fetch.
I can't help thinking that the whole notion of any of the No Wave bands getting back together for what is essentially a nostalgia trip flies squarely in the face of that whole scene's scorched earth aesthetic, but what the hell do I know? When those bands were destroying people's ear drums in 1978, I was in fifth grade, obsessing over Kiss and attempting to perfect the ultimate Darth Vader vocal impersonation.
In other NYC Punk news, I'm happy to report that the strenuously lamentable CBGB "gift shop" (really, what else would you call it?) on St. Mark's Place is closing. And fuckin' Amen to that.
You can read more of my needlessly wordy opinions on Lydia Lunch here, and No Wave here.
I know I said I'd probably be tied up with my new job and all that, but I spotted this entirely bizarre item on Facebook this morning while having my first cup o' coffee and immediately knew I had to put something here about it. Make of it what thou wilt.
TITLE: "First Day"
ARTIST: The Futureheads
ALBUM: The Futureheads
RELEASE DATE: September. 7, 2004
It's official. Today is my very last day of being a jobless bum, as tomorrow morning I am to get up bright and early to report to my new job (although, mercifully, I am not required to sport the type of getup pictured above). It's been an illuminating several months, to say the least. As I've mentioned, I've been extraordinarily lucky to have been able to spend so much time with my kids, but I'm quite relieved to be back on the income-generating side of the fence. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a bit nervous about what comes next, but I'm anxious to get started.
Quite appropriately, this song has been buzzing through my head for the past couple of weeks, so I figured it was ripe for inclusion in the ever growing and lamely titled Pablum Playlist. Play it loud and jump-start your productivity.
In an effort to be helpful and earn my keep before I start my new job later this week, I volunteered to run some errands for the wife this morning (this after nearly giving myself a cerebral hemorrhage putting a toy together for the kids). Peggy needed to return our friend Angela's Mahjong set to her office over on Varick Street. The set in question came in a dark, handsomely mysterious alligator skin case. Complete with a handle and two latches, it looked like the type of case one utilizes to carry any number of lovingly polished lethal weapons. While walking with it through the West Village, along with my black shades, black leather jacket, black fingerless gloves and affected sneer, I looked every bit the cartoony professional killer. And don't think I didn't enjoy it.
After successfully delivering the case, I set off on my next mission, that being the procurement of a new bathroom lighting fixture (see what an exciting life I lead?) My target destination was Grand Street and Bowery, so I strolled a little further down Varick Street before turning East. At King Street, I was stopped dead in my tracks. I looked up and 179 Varick -- the rather banal looking industrial edifice that housed the entirely lamentable retro discotheque, Culture Club, was gone. I was momentarily stunned. It's not that the loss of Culture Club (and it's anaemic 90's-themed sibling, Nerve-ana -- geddit?) is an especially jarring blow to the dense, cultural patchwork of lower Manhattan, it's just that it's yet another downtown spot that's been wiped off the map, and that never fails to take the wind out of me.
I first went to the space in question about twelve or thirteen years ago. It wasn't called Culture Club then, nor did it cater to any particular demographic. It was simply an out-of-the-way performance space. At the time, my friend Dean was playing bass for a fearsome little combo called The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black, and they'd somehow landed a gig in this raw space. The band was renowned for its low-tech special effects, lurid nudity and inarguably ridiculous stage wear (Dean maintained a semblance of dignity at all times by dressing as either a chef - complete with whites, an apron and a big silly hat -- or as Dr. McCoy from "Star Trek"). Despite the fact that it was in the same `hood as long-standing Brazilian nightclub, S.O.B.'s and around the corner from the original Paradise Garage, this space just seemed somewhat crazily out of the way. I remember seeing one or two other bands play there at one point or another, but it was always a bit of a pain in the ass.
About nine years ago, it turned into Culture Club, a gimmicky 80's-themed club replete with era-appropriate (albeit woefully cliched) furnishings and iconography all over the place. As one might expect, their schtick involved playing music from the 80s, although they depressingly relied on a rather unimaginative selection of tunes culled from popular film soundtracks and/or MTV with all the nuanced subtlety of an Oliver Stone film. When I'd first heard about it, I naively envisioned a place where forgotten tracks by bands like Tones on Tail, A Certain Ratio, APB or Hunters & Collectors might regularly play, but when I actually went (and, please tell me, why did I do that? Someone refresh my memory please?) it was always the numbingly predictable mix of mainstream hits by Ray Parker Jr., Cyndi Lauper, Rick Springfield, New Edition and the like -- specifically tailored to outer borough mooks so that they could try their hand at irony.
I actually went there once with the woman who became my wife. My friend Tim was in town and we were out with Peggy -- who I'd only just started dating -- and a trio of her friends. I can't honestly imagine how or why we ended up at Culture Club, but we did (and I believe it was my idea, I am severely ashamed to say). In exceptionally short order, I'm dead certain Peggy's friends became convinced that I was the biggest moron in the world for suggesting such a spot, and I really wasn't in much of a position to prove them wrong. The evening was mercifully cut short when one of Peg's friends did a face-plant of sorts on the dance floor, which acted like a giant exclamation point on the evening. It was time to leave.
We never went back again, and that was decidedly not an accident. A couple of years later, Culture Club expanded its narrow little operation by opening an adjoining 90s-themed venture, Never-Ana. I never went, but I can well imagine the horrors that awaited within. I picture guys in strenuously over-emphasized flannel shirts dancing to C+C Music Factory.
But while very few of my memories of this storied establishment are especially favorable, I couldn't help feeling a bit depressed this morning to see the place not only closed, but the actual building missing. Invariably it will be replaced by another soulless glass structure devoid of the slightest whiff of character or history. And that will be that.
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