Flaming Pablum

Why Brooklyn Sucks: McCarren Pool Disses Devo

So what's up,  Brooklyn, why ya gotta be like that?
 

I've talked about this show a few times already here (I know, I know … enough already, Alex), but herewith my two cents on Devo's show last night at Brooklyn's McCarren Pool. I picked up tickets for this concert several weeks back and was hugely looking forward to it. The fact that it was in Brooklyn was largely incidental – it's Devo; they play, and I show up. It's that simple. I'd never been to the McCarren Park Pool before, but I'd heard interesting things about it. A massive, open-air space that used to be a – wait for it – huge public swimming pool capable of containing up to reportedly 7000 bathers (this doesn't sound appealing to me, honestly), the McCarren Pool was opened in 1936. After decades of gradual erosion, the pool fell into severe disrepair and closed in 1986. It remained dormant and rotting until relatively recently, when it was re-imagined as a concert venue. For more on McCarren Pool's history, click here.

 

In any case, my incredibly hip neighbors, Bruce & David, had checked out a few shows there and had compelling things to say about it. Again, Devo could play at an abandoned Howard Johnson's-turned-crack-palace in the South Bronx, and I'd show up, so to hear that the venue was a cool one was just icing on the cake. The three of us procured tickets some weeks back and looked forward to it.

 

Getting to the park proved to be a somewhat protracted affair (my navigational skills when it comes to going to Brooklyn are pathetic on a good day, so I just followed Bruce & David). As we approached, we could hear the sounds of The Tom Tom Club – the second of two opening acts – wafting through the Summer air. This didn't bother me too much. As much as I love Talking Heads, I never gave too much of a damn about this band. Sure, "Genius of Love" is a fine single (although it's been forever ruined for me by the lamentable sonic offal that is Mariah Carey's "Fantasy"), but don't ask me to get excited about their other fare. We entered the hulking, endearingly decrepit arena to find it swarming with lanky Williamsburgers in all stripes of hipster finery and aging, geeked-out Devo fanboys, some even sporting energy domes. I haven't seen as white and pasty an assemblage of rock geeks like this since the last WFMU record fair. I was again among my own kind.

 

After some high quality people watching over the course of several six dollar (!) Brooklyn Lagers , Devo's signature introductory film crackled to life on the screen above the stage. The boys arrived to mass applause, and we were off. Leaning very heavily on the first few albums, the set list was pretty much the same as it's been since their return to active duty circa 2004. Apart from a track or two off Oh No!.. and New Traditionalists, it was pretty much all the first three records, and nary a track off of Shout or any of the records after that (no, they did not play the Dell computer ad track). Regardless, I was well into it and danced myself ragged (nothing like pogoing in worn Chuck Taylors on unrelenting concrete for a couple of hours….oy!)  I can't supply an accurate set-list, but highlights for me included "Secret Agent Man," "Uncontrollable Urge" (I will never tire of this), "Smart Patrol/Mr.DNA," "Blockhead," "Gut Feeling" and the timeless "Jocko Homo." The boys themselves all look fatter and grayer for the most part, but then, so do I. Regardless, they put in a high energy performance, and I loved every minute of it. David accused me of "rocking out," and I shan't deny it. Rock out I did. And I'd do it again, too.

 

So, if you're read this far, you must be thinking, "What up, Alex? What's with the slur on Brooklyn?" Well, here's the deal. Throughout Devo's performance, there seemed to be a little friction between the band members and the venue support staff. Both Mark Mothersbaugh and Bob "Bob 2" Casale seemed to stalk towards stage left a couple of times with angry expressions. The trouble set in in earnest after their first encore (a rousing rendition of "Freedom of Choice"). Customarily, the band leaves the stage only to return as fronted by mascot/disquieting man-child Booji Boy (actually Mark in a mask). Right after they left the stage, some McCarren Pool goon came onstage, gruffly announcing "that's it, thanks for coming – exits are at the back!" Massive booing ensued. Chants of "one more song" started. Mark/Booji Boy appeared in full regalia to massive applause, but no band. Booji started doing his usual shtick (pulling cold cuts and bananas out of his pants/diapers and throwing them into the crowd), still clutching the microphone. A second venue goon came out and forcibly removed the microphone from Mark's hand. End of discussion. The unfinished show was very decidedly over. I'd have liked it if a riot ensued, but no such luck (and being that the venue is all concrete, it probably wouldn't have burned especially well anyway). The crowd dutifully dispersed with a bit of a bitter aftertaste.

 

The problem, I'm assuming, is that the McCarren Park Pool is newly surrounded on all sides by a phalanx of towering, space-age condos that look like cardboard set-pieces from the inevitable live-action adaptation of 'The Jetsons.' As such, the community has presumably became much less tolerant of 'noise.' That said, after over two hours of live music, would one more song have made that much of a difference? What happened to Brooklyn being laid back?

 

I'm obviously biased, but this would never have happened in Manhattan.

Tonight, DEVO!

In about forty minutes, I board a subway to Brooklyn to watch Devo teach the chinless hipsters how it's properly done. To prepare, herewith a clip from their show a few years back in Central Park. I was there, and it was a most joyous event. I am psyched.

This development, meanwhile, I find disturbing. Must DEVO become Kiss?

Respect Sylvette

Every day, I grow to hate NYU a little more and more. I spotted this item on the fabulous New York Times' City Room blogpage and was struck by the following passage:

New York University, which previously had opposed landmark status, now supports the protection of the three towers, but wants to construct two buildings, up to 40 stories in height, as part of a major expansion plan for the superblock. It had bought the supermarket for $24 million with the goal of building on it.

Honestly, hasn't NYU done enough damage? Can't they leave well enough alone? Incidentally, fans of worthlessly inane trivia might recognize Silver Towers superblock as the location of the Beastie Boys' low-budget video for "Hold It, Now Hit Hit."

Terminally Nice

 

I stumbled upon this article earlier today. It's probably at least a year or so old by this point, but damn if it didn't make me smile. Herewith the mighty Iggy Pop on What He's Learned. Enjoy.

All the Young Punks

As I mentioned back in this post , I never considered myself a Punk. I may have slavishly immersed myself in the music, minutia and mythology of Punk Rock, but I never sought to reinvent my own identity based upon it. I was happy with just appreciating the music and its accompanying culture. I didn't need to don the full uniform. If you wanted to debate which was the best b-side by The Stranglers or who was the best singer for Black Flag or go head-to-head on Punk Rock trivia, I was your man, but if you wanted tips on how to get your mohawk to properly stand on end, I probably couldn't help you. I was never a Punk as defined by any tonsorial or sartorial standard, so perhaps it's not my place to decry the current status of the demographic that currently call themselves Punks. Then again, I was never a member of the Ottoman Empire either, and I feel no qualms with asserting that they're all long dead too, so what's the difference?

Via the ever-excellent Vanishing New York, I was directed to this article in New York Magazine Online about the current crop of baby-faced boneheads who still flock to St. Marks Place to dutifully cavort in a manner firmly dictated by Punk Rock's lamentable stereotype, despite the fact that the fabled New York scene, the bands, the clubs and the genre itself are long gone. I've grumbled about this issue countless times before (see most recently here), but if you're 18 years old, you really need to shut up, shape up and get your own damn youth culture, because as far as Punk Rock's concerned, that ship left the dock a good decade before you were even born. You missed that boat. Moreover, if -- like "Suvy," the idiot that is the centerpiece of this article -- your concept of "being a Punk" is simply about drinking yourself stupid, pan-handling and doing dumb shit to your hair, I'm sorry but you've missed the point entirely. All you're actually doing is further reducing, further reinforcing and further dumbing-down the popular perception of Punk as a shallow cartoon and undermining its otherwise legitimate cultural significance. Nice going, kids.

This article reminded me of an anecdote I read, although I can't remember where. In any case, legendary New York Punk stalwart/architect Richard Hell and fabled Punk magazine scribe/scenemaker Legs McNeil were walking through Tompkins Square Park sometime in the 90's. Predictably, a by-the-numbers "Crustie Punk" teenager, replete with customary mohawk and cliched punk finery, approached the pair, scrounging for change. Hell strode onward without giving the "punk" so much as a glance. Legs followed afterward. Denied his small change, the young "punk" shouted after them, "yeah, have a nice day, you fucking YUPPIES!" Legs stopped in his tracks and turned around. "Yuppies?" he laughed, gesturing at Hell... still walking onward, "that guy INVENTED YOU!"

Rest in Peace, George

Heading Out to the Highway

We're headed out to my Mom's place on Long Island this weekend. As such, we're packin' up the plantation, loadin' the kids into a rental car and hittin' the road. I'm overstressed and undercaffeinated. Thrills. Wish us luck.

What's Spanish for 'Vertigo'?

A fellow member of the Gathering passed this clip on, and I thought it was too cool not to pass on. Originally built in 1901, this walkway now serves as an approach to Makinodromo, the famous climbing sector of El Chorro, the limestone gorge in Andalusia in southern Spain. You couldn't pay me to walk this.

Don't Go on the Patio

Brutal Days

I spend an awful lot of time here on Flaming Pablum waxing rhapsodic about New York City's bad old days and how much "cooler" the city was as an arguable result. "Coolness" and quality of life, however, are two very different things. In terms of aesthetics, it's been said that nothing inspires great art like adverse circumstance. As such, the city's most notorious period is roundly credited for also being its most creatively fertile period. This is inarguably true in the realm of popular music. New York's late 70s decline saw the respective births of disco, punk rock and hip hop. The art and cinema scenes similarly flourished. Things were happening. Envelopes were pushed. Simply put, "coolness" abounded.

Looking back, the gritty, crime-ridden squalor of New York City's former self – the one before Giuliani's storm-troopers and Bloomberg's bean-counters re-drew the map – has become a rote chapter to cite when seeking to enhance mystique in the name of context for artists across the board. Thurston Moore & Byron Coley's new book, "No Wave: Post-Punk. Underground. New York. 1976-1980." (the third book on the subject to hit shelves in a year – and, yes, I have all three of'em), features a forward penned by Lydia Lunch, who colorfully paints a portrait of late 70's Manhattan as a kind of syphilitic whore. She writes...

New York City during the 1970s was a beautiful, ravaged slag -- impoverished and neglected after suffering from decades of abuse and battery. She stunk of sewage, sex, rotting fish, and day-old diapers. She leaked from every pore.

Despite Lunch's penchant for floridly violent hyperbole, I don't doubt her depiction for a second. Back in 1978, the Bowery -- for an obvious example -- was a decidedly less friendly place than it is today. Such is the case with many other neighborhoods around town that have undergone similar architectural facelifts and revisionist reinventions. Everyone's heard stories and seen films depicting New York's shadowy late 70's incarnation as a roiling hotbed of strife, but for the new crop of folks who may have only arrived here in the wake of 42nd Street's Disneyfication (for me, the first sign that something big was afoot), the tragic events of September 11th and "Sex and the City," I spotted a gallery of photographs over on my pal C-Monster's amazing site and thought I'd share it here. Aptly titled "New York Brutal: 1965-1995," this collection of images (I wish I knew more about their origin and/or the photographer) unflinchingly depicts New York City at the depth of its notorious decrepitude. These are not pretty pictures.

I'm not trying to prove anything with this, necessarily. I just found these pictures to be jarring and thought provoking. Going back to the 42nd Street allusion, while I resent the gaudy, neutered, garishly-plastic place that exists today, that does not at all mean that I was in favor of the drugs, prostitution and violence that previously ran rampant on that strip. That said, couldn't we have found a middle-ground between the two extremes? Similarly, the images in this gallery are absolutely nothing to be celebrated, but is forcibly re-designing New York City as an exclusive enclave for the uber-wealthy that leaves no room for lower-income families and businesses really the best solution? The end results certainly don't exude "coolness," although a new form of brutality remains.