Flaming Pablum

The Beat Goes On

Continuing on from here.....

As I've mentioned, I'm back out of a job these days, so I've taken over the dropping-off and picking-up of my kids at their school ... a Bataan Deathmarch-like trek across the East Village. I don't mind, really. I've been roaming these very streets for decades now, and even though they really aren't quite as interesting to me as they used to be, my eyes are still regularly caught by little things here and there (which is why I try to always have a camera on me when I do these walks). Back in the 80s and 90s, I'd regularly scour these walls looking for interesting graffiti, cool street art, hardcore show flyers or anything else that seemed provocative (and there used to be plenty of it). Nowadays? Not so much. Such are the effects of time and gentrification. But, y'know, old habits die hard....

A Song for Wednesday

Play loud. Rage. Grimace. Rock out. Repeat.

Happy Birthday, Iggy & Bob

Today is evidently the birthday of both Iggy Pop & Robert Smith of the Cure. Celebrate accordingly.

East Side Beat

Mystery Spike

Over the past two days, the amount of activity on this site has inexplicably quadrupled (see graph above). The odd thing is that there's no referring address as there usually is, just a cryptic blank space where a URL should be. I have no idea where these clicks are coming from or what on this blog they're clicking on. Ideas are welcome.

Further Confessions of a Record Store Geek

It's a sad but factual statement that most of my favorite record stores/disc shops here in Manhattan are already gone. Moreover, my opportunities to actually go disc-shopping (much less disc-playing) these days are fairly few and far-between. Adding further insult to injury, my current state of being between jobs again doesn't really lend itself to pricey music-purchasing either. But today being Record Store Day, I figured that making at least one little purchase was the least that I could do to support the dwindling network of independent record stores left here in the city. And so during the course of my dutiful dad errands this morning, that's exactly what I did.

I strolled on over to Generation Records on Thompson Street. A line was already forming (the Bouncing Souls were doing some sort of in-store for Record Store Day). I ended up selecting Crack The Skye by Mastodon (as I simply do not have enough punishing metal riffs in my life) and the hoarily re-packaged re-master of The Head on the Door by ye olde Cure. Also, evidently I subconsciously took great pains to wear my S.O.A. shirt, featuring my favorite Dischord 7", the No Policy e.p., thus desperately establishing how punky, 'old school' and esoteric I am. Yes, sadly, I'm that guy. Sorry.

On Record Store Day last year, I went to sadly since-vanished Etherea in the East Village and picked up a live Kraftwerk disc and the latest from LCD Soundsystem (`cos y'know, I'm soooo eclectic :::groan::::). This year, my reasons weren't just arbitrary. I've been meaning to check out the new Mastodon every since my former colleague/metal writer Chris Harris forced me into being a fan of theirs a couple of years back. My reasons for the Cure disc are a little more complicated.

Not only is The Head on the Door one of my quintessential Springtime albums (I vividly remember the shimmering guitars of "Push" echoing off the ivy-lined walls of the East Quad at Denison University one incomparable Spring day during my freshman year), but a recent event recently implanted it squarely into my brain, and it's not really a happy story.

Over on the truly nebulous realm of Facebook, I somewhat recently befriended someone who I'd be hard-pressed to call an acquaintance at best. Many years ago, he hosted a cable TV show that showcased just the sort of music I was into. Years after that, he went onto work at one of the same offices that I did, although our respective tenures there did not overlap. I ran into him at a couple of shows and introduced myself. In any case, some years later, I found him on Facebook and asked to add him as a friend. He did, and we've been Facebook "friends" ever since. Well, up until yesterday, that is. And here's why.

If you're currently on Facebook, you're doubtlessly aware of the "Pick Five Things" application that's been spreading around like an oil spill. Pick your five favorite movies, your five favorite beers, five people you'd want to punch in the face, etc. etc. In any case, this acquaintance of mine filled one out titled "Five Bands You've Seen in Concert." I've filled this one out too. It's a fun, ultimately meaningless little time-waster, but that pretty much describes the entirety of Facebook anyway. In any case, among his five, he cited The Cure. When a friend of his commented on that point, he responded. "Yeah, I saw them at Radio City Music Hall in 1985 on the tour for The Head on the Door, before they'd started wearing the creepy make-up." Here's where the trouble started. Being that this exchange took place in a fishbowl-like public forum, I happened upon it. Being both an avid Cure fan and -- more worryingly -- a slavishly pedantic knowitall, I felt compelled to chime into a discussion I had no part in and make some corrections. I pointed out that the Cure abandoned their relatively straight-laced look well prior to 1985, citing 1982's Pornography album as their point of departure towards all-things frightwigged and lipstick-smeared. My acquaintance attempted to save face and defend his position, but I couldn't let up. I replied again, providing links to photographic evidence (and even - god help me -- a video) on the web that confirmed my original correction. I'm not sure where I inherited this particular need or trait that requires me to hammer a point home, but it's a virulent one.

A little while later, I noticed that my acquaintance had "de-friended" me, and it really took the wind out of my sails. I shot back another friend request, appending a note expressing my shock that he'd taken such a silly thing so seriously and offering my sincere apologies. He wrote back basically saying that he had enough loudmouths in his life trying to win arguments with him and that he didn't really need someone he honestly didn't even really know that well showing him up in an online pissing match for all to see (and raining on a favorite youthful memory of his in the process). I wrote another apologetic note back attempting to explain myself and that was pretty much that. Suffice to say, we're not friends anymore, on Facebook or otherwise.

A couple of years back, I wrote a somewhat laborious, self-pitying post about my problems with being both boorishly opinionated and unsolicitedly outspoken, specifically regarding (but not limited to) the discussion of music. I'm not sure where exactly I get off on doing this -- or what deep-seated insecurity feeds the habit -- but evidently I'm still having a very hard time restraining myself. I'd love to change that acquaintance's mind, but I don't want to push the issue any further. While I often hide behind the flimsy conceit that music arguments are silly, given that the appreciation of pop/rock/whathaveyou is ultimately entirely subjective and not just a little trivial, the fact that the topic of the discussion was music is incidental. The fact remains, once again, that no one likes a knowitall.

I'm not sure how purchasing the re-mastered re-release of The Head on the Door atones for my sins. It doesn't at all, really. But I'll probably play it later today, trying to maintain my earlier associations with it instead of assigning this new chapter to it. But either way, I do regret being a jackass about it. And if you and I happen to engage in a similar exchange about music sometime soon, please don't take me too seriously. I'm afraid I can't help myself. But I'm trying.

Just a Reminder

Today is ....

More information can be found here. Do the right thing.

Also, check this out...

Fool For The City

Sorry for the titular Foghat allusion (although let's be fair -- Foghat had their moments), but one can only cite "Back in the New York Groove" so often before it all becomes a bit rote. Despite the fact that today was the first day that the temperature dared to go above 50 degrees, we -- m'self, the Mrs. & the kids -- packed up our shit and headed back home to NYC this morning. The five days in the country -- however cold, damp and dismal -- did serve as a nice change of pace and scenery for us all, but it's nice to be back in the big, bad borough of Manhattan once again. Incidentally, the image above is from the homepage of hotly-contested street artist Banksy. Being that Thomas the Tank Engine is regarded as a veritable deity around this household, I thought it was too funny not to share it here. 

Joey, Bono & Me

As This Ain’t the Summer of Love just reminded me, today is the anniversary of the death of Joey Ramone. To me, Joey’s death played two roles. On the one hand, as an avid Ramones fan since the 6th Grade, I was crushed to learn that one of my heroes had fallen. On the other, Joey’s passing coincided with me finally convincing the higher-ups at TIME Magazine – where I’d been working since mid-90’s - to let me do some more hands-on reporting (up until that point, I’d been simply a news desk editor with precious little creative input). The sorry event of Joey’s death provided a fitting opportunity for me to contribute.

As it happened, at that morning’s story meeting, the editorial staff sat around discussing how to handle the passing of Joey Ramone. Traditionally, when a public figure died, the magazine sought out a fitting contemporary to compose a eulogy. Several editors jumped right in suggesting “Johnny Rotten,” largely oblivious to the fact that John Lydon has rarely-if-ever expressed a kind word about the Ramones. Moreover, roping the notoriously thorny Lydon into penning a eulogy for a mainstream American news weekly seemed like an unlikely task at best. Buoyed by my boss’ recent show of support for my abilities, I spoke up. “We should get Bono.” For the first time at a story meeting, I suddenly had the floor.

I reasoned that since Bono had been floridly outspoken in the past about the Ramones’ influence on the nascent U2 (however remote their respective sounds might seem), he'd be a great fit, further citing Bono’s tireless penchant for pithy, printable soundbytes and the simple star-power of his name. “Alright, Alex,” the deputy managing editor said, “Make it happen.”

Within seconds, I was back at my desk making phone calls. After slogging it out as an ersatz “freelance music journalist” since 1989, I knew the procedure for petitioning publicists and record labels, but never before had I been calling under the mighty auspices of TIME Magazine. Where before I’d have been put on hold interminably or simply told to call back some other time, I was now plugged right into the matrix. I only had a few days to make this happen before the magazine went to print, and U2 were on tour in Europe in support of their then-new album All That You Can’t Leave Behind. It was going to be a difficult game of tag, but I was determined to make it work.

With my news desk buddies gamely picking up the slack of my normal gig, I spent the next two days attempting to pin down a time with U2’s people for Bono to call me. It was going to be down to the wire. Friday was the only conceivable time. I confirmed with the U2 camp, stalled with my editors and feverishly made sure my tape recorder worked, hoping to God that I didn’t blow this.

After a tense Friday morning, Bono finally called. He rang from a tour bus somewhere in Germany. His voice was hoarse and raspy and he sounded exhausted, but very generous and professional. I politely told him about the spacial limitations and word counts we were working under and suddenly we were off and running. Bono waxed rhapsodic about the profound effect of the Ramones on his life and his music, barely pausing for a moment’s breath. When the connection was momentarily lost, Bono promptly called me back, needlessly apologizing like a mad man. In the end, he gave me a dizzying amount of information (I still have the tape), and kept apologizing and offered to call me back to work on revisions the next day. I thanked him profusely, but told him that the deadline was looming. “Well, I have your number,” he laughed and that was that.

I spent the rest of the day transcribing and managed to submit the piece on time. It hit the stands the following Monday and became my first reporting credit for TIME (though you’d never know it from the online version). I only wish we’d have had more space.

"Black Easter" ...

....that was the name of an old mix tape that I re-discovered yesterday. I can't place a date on it, but given the track-listing (metal bands like Accept, Venom, Metallica, Dio, Judas Priest, Iron Maiden and ...er... Spinal Tap on one side, hardcore bands like D.O.A., Black Flag, T.S.O.L., Circle Jerks and The Exploited on the other), it would have probably been made sometime during my senior year of high school. The spine of the tape is intricately illustrated with feverishly scribbled renderings of screaming skulls and very angry looking bats. My, I must have been a very cheery lad at the time.

We're all still out here in Quogue. With no job to rush home to and no school for the kids this week, we figured we'd stay put for another day or so. It's be nice if the calendar could catch the hell up and and remember that April is supposed to be warm, but that's out of my hands. Herewith a list of Easter weekend happenings thus far.

- I broke a blood vessel in my eyeball. Lovely, right? After accompanying Charlotte & Oliver on a short tricycle ride, I came back inside for a short nap. When Peg woke me about twenty-minutes later, something felt not quite right. I walked into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. The entirety of the white of my left eye had turned a piercing blood-red. I practically fainted (I don't handle ocular problems very well). It went away after a bit, but not before giving me the shock and panic of a lifetime.

- To make room for dinner, my mother put the laptop (the one I'm currently typing on) on the floor overnight. We have a rather pronounced ant problem in this house. As such, ants have now taken up residence inside this very computer. For the past two days, little ants have come crawling out of the various ports as I type. It's very distracting and not just a little disgusting.

- I managed to finally finish Steve Waksman's "This Ain't the Summer of Love: Conflict & Crossover in Heavy Metal & Punk." While largely well researched and provocative (to a goofball like myself), I don't think I've ever felt as self-conscious reading something as geeky since slavishily pouring through the pages of Dave Thompson's "The Dark Reign of Gothic Rock." I am now free to start Richard Price's "Lush Life."

- We bought Charlotte a pink pair of Chuck Taylors. They're awesome.

That's all so far from out here in chilly Quogue. Back in the city later this week.