Flaming Pablum

More Downtown Disappearances

Just to follow-up on this post, it seems that Col Legno is indeed gone for good. I walked by it again on Saturday to find the metal gate pulled up, revealing a make-shift wooden door behind it. Clearly, the interior is in the process of being gutted. I started chatting with an Irish bartender from across the street who was having a smoke on a nearby stoop, and he confirmed that the restaurant had indeed shut its doors. Evidently, Chris, Col Legno's owner,  had been talking for a while about getting out of the restaurant business and finally decided that the time was right. As I understand it, the sushi restaurant next door has bought the space and will be breaking through the wall to expand their operation. I just wish I'd heard about Chris' plans before hand. I'd have loved to have had one last meal there and thank him for the many fine evenings my wife and I spent there over the years.

Meanwhile, another long-time neighborhood spot has apparently vacated its premises. Though officially closed to walk-in foot traffic since around 2003 (after which time you could only visit by appointment), the preeminent gallery/shop for acid-damaged rock poster art, Psychedelic Solution, looks like it has abandoned its long-held roost on the second floor of 33 West 8th Street. Its street-side window looks devoid of life or activity, and its shelves have been stripped bare (see picture below). I don't know how long this has been the case, but I noticed it early Sunday morning. Another vestige of West 8th street's incarnation as a haven for rock fans has been excised. No more freak flag flyin'.

I first went to Psychedelic Solution sometime in the spring of 1987 to see an exhibit of a truly bizarre art by one of my heroes, Mark Mothersbaugh of Devo (see invite below). I also remember buying a specially designed deck of cards adorned with Mark's work there. A number of years later, I picked up an eye-seering poster from a show by Iggy & the Stooges at the Fillmore East, which I lovingly framed. Said poster now lives in storage, of course, but that's a rant for another day. The folks at Psychedelic Solution may have been hippies, but they certainly knew their stuff and presented the artwork with zealous reverence. It really broke me heart to see its space suspiciously vacant-looking yesterday morning.

I don't know if the recent opening of neo-posh, meat-packing-district-y eatery, Elettaria, had anything to do with Psychedelic Solution's sudden disappearance, but fuck it --- I'm-a blame them anyway.

 

Happy Father's Day

Just a quick note to say Happy Father's Day to my fellow dads out there. To celebrate, here's a track by the mighty Life in a Blender that wonderfully captures the perspective-warping powers of paternal pride. Play it loud and give your own father a call.

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Somewhere Back in Time

I flunked geometry during my sophomore year of high school. I'm not proud of it, but math was never my forte. As such, I was forced to go to summer school. Quite unsurprisingly, I was not enthused about this development, but if I didn't to it, I wasn't going to be allowed to return to my school. I ended up going to Portsmouth Abbey out in Rhode Island (about fifteen minutes outside of lovely Newport). My good friend Keith's dad was a teacher there and ran the summer program. While it certainly beat going to a place in the sweltering city, the prospect of spending the lion's share of my summer away from my home and my friends, re-studying the maddening properties of the isosceles triangle was less than ideal. Given my tireless penchant of histrionics, I acted as if this predicament was comparable to Steve McQueen's plight in "Papillon." But what could I do? It was my own fault.

I spent the majority of that May feverishly taping the best bits of my record collection. After all, I wasn't about to spend the summer without tunes! This was 1983. While the airwaves were thick with endless rotations of "Every Breath You Take" by The Police (Synchronicity had just hit stores), my listening habits were otherwise ruled by two bands: Iron Maiden and Devo. While also quite keen on Def Leppard's Pyromania, U2's War and Golden Shower of Hits by the Circle Jerks, the crucial two cited bands remained my favorites. Hearing Killing Joke for the first time a year later would change all that, of course, but that's another post.

They're an incongruous pair, Iron Maiden and Devo, and virtually polar opposites. While both have strenuously arguable roots in Punk Rock, their similarities ended abruptly there. `Maiden wrote cinematic heavy metal epics, rife with galloping rhythms, heroic guitar solos and -- once Bruce Dickinson joined the fold -- valkyriesque vocal acrobatics. Devo wrote viscerally sardonic anti-paens to a sick society, replete with deliberately odd time-signatures, jittery riffs, yelping vocals and -- on their first two albums, at least -- a penchant for oft-atonal skronk. `Maiden wrote songs about warfare, squalor, the occult and bloodshed. Devo wrote songs about dysfunction, mutation, lust and sexual frustration. `Maiden adhered to conventional rock instrumentation. Devo feverishly embraced new technology. `Maiden wore leather, spikes, the odd regrettable bit of spandex and grew their hair long. Devo were comparatively clean cut and dressed like disturbed employees of a sewage-treatment plant. `Maiden's mascot was Eddie, a grimacing undead axe-murderer. Devo's mascot was Booji Boy (pronounced Boogie) a disquietingly infantilized, helium-voiced boy-child who looked like one of the Campbell's Kids on crack. These were two entirely different bands who probably regarded each other -- if at all -- with palpable disdain. But to me, they were both completely essential.

Mom drove me down to Rhode Island to drop me off and I somberly checked into my dormitory. I was booked into a room with a Puerto Rican kid seemingly half my age who was inexplicably obsessed with hair gel, masturbation and Styx's Kilroy Was Here (to this day, I cannot hear "Mr. Roboto" without remembering a few disquieting instances of walking in on him while in flagrante delicto). I put up two posters on my wall the day I arrived. One featured the sleeve of the then-recently-released Piece of Mind by Iron Maiden (featuring newly-lobotomized Eddie struggling to free himself from a straight-jacket). The other was the poster that had come inside Devo's New Traditionalists album. It was these two bands that were going to get me through this.

The summer, of course, ended up being a lot of fun. I made several friends -- a couple of like-minded metalheads (who didn't understand my love for Devo at all) and a zealous Adam & the Ants fan among them. When not struggling with geometry, I was savvy enough to take a typing class, learning a skill that would serve me well for the rest of my life (certainly more so than fuckin' geometry). I now type like the wind as a result. As far as my reason for being there in the first place, the gods of mathematics did little to cut me any slack. In all candor, I basically ended up failing geometry again, but my teacher -- a mellow dude named Mr. Lovett -- let me eek by with a (barely) passing grade. Mission accomplished. I still credit my round-the-clock, high-volume airings of "Number of the Beast," "Uncontrollable Urge," "The Trooper" and "Smart Patrol/Mr. DNA" as a critical part of my survival.

Twenty-five years (!!!) later, I strangely have tickets to go see both Iron Maiden and Devo in the next two weeks. While grayer and fatter in both instances, these bands are endearingly still at it, and both still deliver the goods. Iron Maiden keep recording new material, god bless'em. Devo stick to the oldies, although they're supposedly recording a new album as I type this (and there was that Dell computers ad). I'm seeing `Maiden tomorrow night at the Garden as part of their Somewhere Back In Time tour, which promisingly features all old material (up through and including 1984's Powerslave). I'm not going to pretend that these events are about anything other than nostalgia for me. That said, I am curious to hear new Devo material. Iron Maiden, to their credit, have rarely wavered from their time-tested formula. As such, one could be reasonably assured that their new material will invariably sound just like their old material. That's what they do, after all. In any case, this old man is planning on enjoying himself thoroughly at both shows.

And I'm still crap at geometry.

Happy Friday the 13th

Say What You Meme & Say It Mean

My music-writing/Idolator-contributing/ILM-sparring webby-friend Anthony (we've never actually "met," alas) passed along this music meme to me, and who am I to say no? The instructions are fairly simple:

"List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they're not any good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying now, shaping your spring. Post these instructions in your blog along with your 7 songs. Then tag 7 other people to see what they're listening to."

Alright, I'm in.

It's at this stage in the proceedings that any self-respecting insufferable music snob/geek would positively wrack their brain to compile a list of the most esoteric, far-flung, super-indie nuggets from several light years beneath the mainstream radar just to maintain street cred. Being that I'm largely out of the loop these days, I'm challenged in that capacity. Most of the stuff I'm listening to of late, with a couple of exceptions, is relatively ancient. Y'know why? Because I'm old and basically hate young people and their vile young people ways. I sit in a figurative rocking chair on a figurative porch with a figurative shotgun on my knee, shaking a boney, arthritic fist at the hipsters I squint at through my figurative bifocals, balking bitter non-sequiturs. "In my day, we bought whole albums! -- Ya call that 'Punk'? What the hell do you know about Punk you pubescent bed-wetters! -- DOWLOAD THIS!."

Anyway....

1. "Unfamiliar Sting" by Life in a Blender (from The Heart is a Small Balloon, 2007) - I'm especially digging this track these days, but you could really pick any song off the record that spawned it. It came out last summer, immediately after I'd been unceremoniously discharged from my last job, and I sorta crawled inside it and found solace in its light-hearted, absurdist wit (as opposed to wallowing in the emotional violence of, say, death metal). I've been following the band for years. They played at Joe's Pub this past Sunday night and, dutifully, I was there. They didn't play this song (much to my chagrin), but I had a damn great time anyway. Go out and buy all their records. Check out their website. Nothing cheers me up like Life in a Blender.

2. "Borneo" by Firewater (from The Golden Hour, 2008) - Yeah, like you need me to further extoll the merits of this band. I'm still on a major Firewater high from seeing them play twice last month. I'm solidly of the opinion that this album may be their finest ever. Tod [A] actually dedicated this particular song to me from the stage at their Brooklyn show, so how could I not be totally into it (Tod being solidly of the opinion that staying in Manhattan is a deathly option for me, a campaign he's been tirelessly waging at me for years now). Personally, I'm not ready to go all Alexander Supertramp just yet -- especially with two small kids, but I still appreciate the concern. And the song fucking rocks.

3. "Precious" by The Jam (from The Gift, 1982) - My reason for re-introducing this song into regular rotation is entirely inane, but here it is. Summer's come early. As such, I've broken out my lovingly cultivated stash of Fred Perry shirts, which -- to my mind -- are dead cool and office friendly at the same time. In any case, I simply cannot slip on a sharp, fresh Fred Perry without The Jam popping into my head. On a recent walk to work, I dialed up a random clutch of Jam tunes and this amazing track was the first song to come sprinting out of the gates (courtesy of Rick Buckler's hyperkinetic high-hat). To the Vespa-sped, parka-clad Jam purists, this song might have sounded the powerhouse Mod trio's downfall, but it still ranks among my favorite tracks of theirs. Having wasted many years in unrequited, dysfunctional relationships myself, I still totally relate to Paul Weller's obsessive longing here, especially during the middle eight ("I don't mean to bleed you dry/or take you over for the rest of your life... BELIEVE ME, BABY!"). And that riff just rocks so goddamn hard I can't stand it. This is life-affirming music to me.

4. "Take Me to the Hospital" by The Replacements (from Hootnanny, 1983) - As stated earlier, I'm an old poop. As such, I am regularly targeted by panic-stricken record companies with re-issued re-masters. And because I'm such a cliche, I happily line up to give them my money. While I already owned the entire Replacements discography on both vinyl and disc (not to mention the absolutely essential cassette-only live bootleg, The Shit Hits the Fans), when the evil axis of Twin Tone, Rykodisc and Rhino Records joined forces to re-unleash the band's first four, pre-major label releases (crucially appended with largely needless extra tracks), I couldn't resist. I bought both the re-issue of the absolutely perfect Let It Be (which I originally bought as a high school senior based solely on the strength of its album cover) because it featured a cover of T.Rex's "20th Century Boy" (featuring arguably the coolest guitar riff ever). I also picked up the re-release of Hootnanny because it happened to boast an alternate take of the filler-track, "Lovelines" -- oddly, always one of my favorites. In any case, in doing so, I re-discovered my adoration for this bedraggled track. Seamlessly fusing their penchant for unbridled punky abandon with a pulsing, soulful heart completely beyond the grasp of most of their peers, "Take Me To The Hospital" is without question my favorite song by the band. Crack open a beer, log the fuck off of the `net right now and go play it.

5. "Cat People (Putting Out the Fire)" by David Bowie - (from Cat People Original Soundtrack, 1982) - I'm still coming out of my big Bowie phase after reading Thomas Newton's "Bowie in Berlin." This isn't from that period, of course, but in re-discovering the great man's catalog, I've come to re-appreciate this smoldering (pardon the pun) gem. From the lyrical cribs from the Velvets ("I can stare for a thousand years") to the arguably cheesy panther growls, it's a remarkable track. He went onto re-record a fine version a year or so later with Stevie Ray Vaughn for the Let's Dance album (rife with righteous riffage -- cripes, did I just say that?), but I still swoon to the original.

6. "Land of Treason" by Die Kreuzen (from Gone Away, 1989) - Peggy volunteered to take the kids out of the apartment last Sunday so that I could make a major dent in some long-in-the-planning Spring cleaning. With the kids out of the house, I fired up the iTunes, set it on shuffle and got about my business. When this track came on -- a cover of the Germs' classic by impenetrably hirsute midwestern post-hardcore sludgefuck combo Die Kreuzen (pronounced Dee Croytzen, and not "Die Cruisin'" as we chuckled in college) -- it was like an injection of nitroglycerin into my brain. I love the Germs, but this cover blows the original out of the water as far as I'm concerned. I ended up playing it five or six more times, screaming myself hoarse along with the maelstrom.

7. "The Brooklynites" by Soul Coughing (from Blue in the Face Original Soundtrack, 1995) - We found ourselves back in Brooklyn last Saturday for the birthday party of one of Charlotte's little classmates. Despite being a dyed-in-the-wool Manhattan snob, I have started to warm to Brooklyn of late, although I'm about a decade and a half behind everyone else, it seems. My old attitude was that as pleasant as it inarguably was -- it was still only Brooklyn. Nice, right? That all said, I'm as familiar with Brooklyn's byways as I am with say -- Shanghai's (read: not very). I knew Williamsburg for its rock clubs and Peter Luger (which, if you're an unapologetic carnivore like myself, is like Valhalla). I knew Coney Island for Astroland, the Mermaid Parade and "The Warriors." I knew Brighton Beach for Neil Simon and ass-whuppin' Russian eatery, Primorski. I know Brooklyn Heights for "Moonstruck" and the age-old adage that "it costs more to live with a view of the ocean than it does to live in the ocean" (precisely the reason why real estate in this comely neighborhood often trumps Manhattan in terms of inaccessibility). As picturesque pockets of New York City go, it's tough to beat Brooklyn Heights. Beyond that, Brooklyn was largely a vast mystery to me. I don't know my Red Hook from my Green Point.

We talk about it a lot, but we'll probably never actually move there. It's too late. That ship has sailed. Brooklyn seems as infested with monied interlopers as the Lower East Side is. Its communities are similarly under siege from a herd of deposed Manhattanites. The hipsters who'd found a brief foothold there -- much as they'd done in the East Village and Soho decades earlier -- are being squeezed out (which is to say nothing of the plight of the Ethnic communities that first took root there). There are still some areas that have a long way to go before they're anything near gentrified, but it won't be too long, I fear.

But wandering around those streets last weekend, I can't blame folks for wanting to move there. It's lovely and neighborhoody and still filled with colorful local character. I'm also so romanced by the music that's come out of Brooklyn. From the stentorian bang and clatter of Cop Shoot Cop and Barkmarket through the afore-mentioned smirk-laden quirk-rock of Life in a Blender and They Might Giants and through to the metallic crunch of Biohazard and Type O Negative, Brooklyn has produced some amazing bands. Soul Coughing was another one of those bands. I can't go to Brooklyn without this track filling my head. Hear it for yourself. 

mog.com

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And to fulfill the meme, I'm tagging the following seven folks....

EV Grieve

Ben

Hot Johnny

MacKenzie

Mrs. Tanya

Hunter Gatherer

Ally

Huge Metal Fan

Thanks, Tod.

Lemmy ... The Movie!

Oh Sweet Holy Crap!

Fashion Victim in the Earth Inferno

When I was a sullen teenager, while I listened to an inordinate amount of punk rock, I never called myself a "Punk" or a "Punk Rocker" simply because I had a lot of heavy metal and Pink Floyd records. While I loved metal, I never considered myself a bona fide "Metalhead," as I was a committed Devo fan and had loads of synth pop records. For the same reason I never joined a fraternity in college, I never aligned myself with any single demographic as it always seemed so narrow and exclusive (in the bad sense of the term). Also, adhering to any of these tribes involved an awful lot of tonsorial/sartorial work (some more so than others, of course). That always seemed somewhat impractical and -- frankly -- silly to me. I bought the odd bit of vintage wear at Canal Street Jeans and would maybe cut my hair differently every now and again, but it never really went beyond that. Thus, I was never a Mod. I was never a Rudeboy. I was never a Skinhead. Etc. Etc. I was simply a music head/fan/geek. 

More to the point, I was never a Goth. While I proudly owned and cherished virtually every slab of vinyl in the august discographies of bands like Siouxsie & the Banshees, Bauhaus, Love & Rockets, The Sisters of Mercy, The Mission, The Cult, Theatre of Hate, The March Violets, The Fields of the Nephilim, The Cure, Alien Sex Fiend and the like -- and I did, admittedly, boast a large amount of black in my wardrobe -- I never would have called nor considered myself a proper Goth. For a start, while it became the all-encompassing umbrella term for all these bands, "Goth" was initially coined as a pejorative label by a dismissive British journalist (just like "shoegazer" a decade later). Moreover, while I was an ardent fan of these bands and their arguable movement, it struck me as an entirely Anglo/Euro phenomenon. An American "Goth" didn't make sense. Most of the bands cited above hailed from the grey, depressive hinterlands of Northern England. There was a reason the Jesus & Mary Chain dressed like they did -- they were fucking bummed out and bored of living in a grim, rainy, industrialized suburb of Glasgow. In order to be credibly "Goth," I was of the considered opinion that you had to be from the British Isles. Otherwise, you were just a poser.

There's no real reason for bringing any of this up now. I'm forty. If I still considered myself a Goth or a Punk or a New Romantic or any of these things, I would be ripe for justifiably vehement ridicule. I'm now simply an aging music head/fan/geek with an unwieldy disc collection that is perilously bordering on being rendered obsolete by the digital age and a closetful of increasingly ill-fitting band t-shirts. But today, I spotted something that affirmed the path I chose in my music-obsessing youth. Striding out of my local deli this morning came the most by-the-numbers "Goth" character as I've seen in ages. I mean, this guy -- despite being about two decades late -- had really drank the Kool-Aid. He was decked out in nothing less than black leather trousers, crushed velvet waistcoat, black knee-length boots, a large black leather coat of the kind the Terminator might sport, a face full of pancake make-up, black shades and an artfully-sprayed haystack of thick, black hair. Clutching a bottle of Snapple he stalked up University Place as if on some quest to find a nice cemetery to skulk about in. Under normal circumstances, I just smile to myself when I see these types. But today -- June 8, 2008 -- we are expecting record-breaking heat. The sidewalk is practically wilting. It's already 90 degrees as I type this, and it's not even 1 pm yet. I've written about this before , but simply put, that guy is going to die today.

Changing East 9th Street

I went to go get a haircut in the East Village after work yesterday, given that I was starting to look a bit like the director of "Satan's Alley" in the 1983 non-epic, "Staying Alive" (it might be time to shave this beard, too!) In any case, on my walk down 9th, I was shocked and saddened to see the front of Col Legno, one of my favorite neighborhood restaurants, shuttered. Not only was the metal gate pulled down (on a lovely Friday evening), but the awning also seems to have been removed. Is this the end?

My wife and I first tried the place at the recommendation of a friend of ours. An intimate little spot tucked away on East 9th between 3rd and 2nd Avenues, Col Legno may not look very flashy, but excellent food and a warm, low-key atmosphere swiftly made it a regular stop for us (my favorite dish being their Pappardelle Al Cinghale, made with fresh pasta, a Rosemary & tomato sauce and ground Wild Boar). The decor is humble -- a simple room with walls adorned with pieces by a rotating selection of local artists. You can even book the long table in the back and essentially eat right in the cozy kitchen. The restaurant's owner is an affable gent named Chris with a very dry sense of humor. When I got home later in the evening, I gave their number a call and worryingly got a "disconnected" message. We love Col Legno. I'll be very sad if it is indeed gone for good.

Walking further East, I noticed another sudden change. For several years, 9th Street Market between 1st and 2nd Avenues was one of those popular little eateries that practically needed a shoehorn to cram all its customers inside its cramped interior. I only went once and found it a little underwhelming given all the hype, but it was still a massively popular spot. Well, if you were thinking of going, you're out of luck. As of two weeks ago (according to a neighbor) it's been gutted, padlocked and closed for good. I'm not as crushed by this loss, frankly (as I generally don't like places that demand long waits to get in), but it's somewhat of a mystery. The place was certainly not lacking for business. If an inarguably successful, long-beloved venture like 9th Street Market can't handle the spiraling rents, I'd suggest getting out there and hitting your favorite little restaurant now, as its days are probably similarly numbered.

Et Tu, Debbie?

Don't get me wrong. I love Blondie. I vividly remember the day my older sister brought home a copy of Parallel Lines. It swiftly became one of the few albums that we could agree upon (her taste at the time veering towards the insipid likes of Evelyn "Champagne" King and mine skewing towards Devo). Blondie was legitimately groundbreaking. They seamlessly fused rock, punk, pop and disco into an irrepressible mix that you'd have to have ice in your veins to renounce. They were brilliant. End of story.

Thirty years later (gulp), a new incarnation of Blondie (sadly without keyboardist Jimmy Destri, but still boasting timeless powerhouse drummer Clem Burke) is touring to celebrate the three decade anniversary of Parallel Lines. As such, band founders Chris Stein and Debbie Harry are talking. Stein spoke not too long ago to Vanishing New York, and provided a refreshingly candid and endearingly pointed perspective on the current state of his former hometown. Conversely, Debbie Harry has leant her iconic cache to a campaign that strives to spoon-feed you a sad, revisionist yarn of denial. I know her heart is probably in the right place, but this just depresses me.