Flaming Pablum

The Summer `09 Survey

Yeah, I know Labor Day hasn't arrived yet, but I can't help feeling that we should put a fork in Summer 2009; it's done. We packed up the car yesterday afternoon, and I drove Peggy & the kids back to the city from my mom's place in Quogue. It's hard to believe they've been out there for eight weeks. Seems like only yesterday it was June. Today, I walked outside and noticed the temperature had dropped about ten degrees and the sidewalks were teeming with insufferable NYU students. In any case, I thought I'd exhume a survey I filled out back in 2007 about the end of the summer.

Defining Moment of Summer `09: I would say going back to work after my mandatory 100 day exile (which actually ended up being 130 days, but who's counting?) It was lovely to have all that free time with my kids, but I'm not going to lie; it was plenty stressful not knowing when my next paycheck was going to arrive.

Best Purchase of Summer `09: As much as I'm loathe to admit it, I have to say my iPhone. I held out for the longest time. I was perfectly happy with my regular cell phone. My wife was gagging for one, though, so I ended up getting her one for her birthday in August. Over the course of the next week, I played around with her iPhone and was indeed enchanted. Then, in what can only be an act of divine providence, my trusty cell phone broke inexplicably. Interpreting this incident as an omen, I went directly back to the crappy Apple store and picked up one for myself. I'm not wild about it as a phone (y'know, it's primary function), but being able to check my e-mail from anywhere is pretty fantastic. I haven't loaded it up with lots of ridiculous apps, but give me time.

Best Book Your Read of Summer `09: As much as I've waxed rhapsodic about Nick Rombes' "Cultural Dictionary of Punk" and Simon Reynolds' "Totally Wired" (both excellent reads, even if you're not a drooling, rock trivia-addled good like myself), I'd have to say that the book that really ate up my summer was Jon Krakauer's "Under the Banner of Heaven." Being that I already harbor a robustly healthy skepticism of organized religion, Krakauer's portrait of Mormonism (the fastest growing faith in the West, worryingly) was a real eye-opener. Like the best true crime books, it's also enjoyably grisly. I'd put it up right there with T.J.English's "The Westies" and Vincent Bugliosi's "Helter Skelter." I really had a hard time putting it down. I’m also now actively afraid of Mormons.

Best Movie You Saw During Summer `09: I don’t get out to a love of movies, but I did quite enjoy “Died Young Stayed Pretty.”

Best Gift You Received of Summer `09: Apropos of nothing in particular, my fabulous wife gave me a keychain with a lovingly-sewn (not by her) skull & crossbones on it. Arrrggh!

Biggest Loss of Summer `09: Things seem to be vanishing daily from New York City, but the sudden disappearances of Joe Jr.’s and Village really threw me for a loop.

Song That Best Sums Up Summer of `09: As much as I’d love to cite something cool and credibly hip by some envelope-pushing ensemble of indie hipsters, I’m going to be honest and admit that it’s probably “Southern Cross” by ye olde Crosby, Stills & Nash. As a bit of background, I picked up a cheap CSN best-of disc a while back to slowly build a CD library for my mom’s car (CSN being one band everyone in the family can mutually enjoy/tolerate). In any case, over the course of the summer, Peg routinely played it when driving around with the kids, usually when en route to and from the beach. As such, “Southern Cross” became “the beach song” to the kids. Sure, they also liked “Marrakesh Express,” but any time I dared turn on the stereo when we were all in the car, the earnest demands from the back seat to “play the beach song” came with great frequency as even greater volume. I tried to introduce a “new beach song” (specifically “Seven Seas” by Echo & the Bunnymen), but that just didn’t seem to take. I can't think of a single song I heard more times than "Southern Cross" over the course of the summer. A runner-up, however, for "song of the summer" might be "Stick Stickly" by strenuously lamentable 'crabcore' ensemble, Attack Attack. A frankly ludicrous Ohio quintet of Christian teenagers with very silly hair, Attack Attack! saw fit to forcibly cram the ill-fitting sub-genres of "screamo," "metalcore" and piss-poor teen-pop into a frenetically unlistenable stew of lameness. The song alone -- replete with inexplicably Euro-technopop big finnish -- is only half the awful picture. To really get incredulous, you seriously need to check out the choreography-laden video. See if you can make it all the way to the end. It's not that the kids don't wanna rock, it's that they evidently don't know how to do it properly. Pathetic.

Happiest Memory of Summer `09: Watching as my little girl Charlotte (age 5) overcame her fear of the ocean and learned to adore playing in the surf while giggling cherubically.

Saddest Memory of Summer `09: Reading the horrible news that my fellow music-head and online friend "Bimble" from the ILM music discussion boards had very sadly taken his own life.

Scariest Memory of Summer `09: Enduring the first, rigorously painful stages of what turned out to be a kidney stone on the Friday before Memorial Day weekend, without a living soul around to help.

Word That Best Describes Summer `09: Expensive

"The Good Times Are Over!"

Hey all. It’s the end of the summer. As such, I’m wrapping up several projects at this end. Regular service will resume shortly. In the interim, please enjoy this classic slice of idiocy courtesy of the good folks at Homestarrunner.com. This episode was my first introduction, and I was hooked immediately (as is now my five-year-old, which ought to tell you something of the level of humor we’re talking about). And now, please enjoy “Bug In Mouth Disease.”

Stuff You Might Have Missed

 

That’s right, it’s time for another trouser-filling aggregation of items that caught my interest. Get excited!

Did you know that indie alt.country heartthrob Ryan Adams wrote a column about video games? I didn’t. Luckily I have Idolator to tell me these things. Check out Ryan’s latest column wherein he ruminates on the old arcade favorite Gorf and correctly opines about the inscrutable awesomeness of Danzig. It is highly, highly entertaining. Click here to read it.

The first legitimately interesting utilization of Twitter yet: The sublimely hilarious Shit My Dad Says.

Phil Puleo, former drummer/metal-banger for longtime Flaming Pablum favorites Cop Shoot Cop, has re-designed the band’s website with a few new items. Go and pay your respects to this criminally under-sung band. Click right here.

I spotted this on Jeremiah’s page officially, but evidently Elettaria – that hatefully meat-packy eatery on West 8th Street – hasn’t been able to make ends meet. As such, it’s closing up shop tonight. I never ate there. That wasn’t really an accident.

My peeps over at MSN recently put together a round-up of alternately triumphant & tragic concept albums. It’s a reasonably flushed out list, although I feel that some of the albums cited are merely thematically consistent rather than proper concept albums. In any case, I couldn’t help but notice that they failed to cite Kiss’ Music From ‘The Elder’. Shame on them.

Kudos to my colleague Drew for pointing me in the dirction of Fuck You, Penguin, a blog where cute animals are told where to get off.

 Lastly, I have no idea what the back story to this image is – and I don’t think I want to – but as I was searching for an image to put at the top of this post, I stumbled across this one of Henry Rollins competing in a sack race. Enjoy.

Bizarre Hate Rectangle

Here's another meaningless dollop of pop culture that makes me want to destroy all human life on this planet. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't have had the slightest clue who/what Aubrey O'Day is or what she does with her vile little time. But thanks to the ever intrepid Maura J over at Idolator, I learned that this former human-airhorn for the justifiably forgotten Danity Kane has just released a single that shamelessly pilfers and summarily defecates uncontrollably all over New Order's sublime 1986 single, "Bizarre Love Triangle." For this unspeakable crime, I'm of the opinion that those responsible should be ripped apart by famished jackals. Read Maura's report and hear that abominable thing by clicking right here. You've been warned.

To refresh your memory, here's the original. I suppose I could also note that forgettable Australian band Frente! also covered "Bizarre Love Triangle" in the mid-90s, but the less said about that, the better. Don't fuck with New Order. Just don't do it.

No Emotion, No Devotion, No Trips to the Ocean

I hate to keep sending you off the page like this, but why not click on over to The New York Nobody Sings to read my latest slightly-convoluted entry about "Holland Tunnel Dive" by the enigmatic ImpLog? It tells you very little about the song and even less about the artists who recorded it. Even so, it was a stupid little anecdote I felt compelled to share. You'll also have the opportunity to hear the song in question .... as well as a song that I thought was "Holland Tunnel Dive" for a long, misinformed while. Does that sound confusing? It is. Anyway, click here and check it out.

Power in the Darkness

You may not recognize his face, but if you’ve spent any time in the East Village over the last couple of decades, you’ve invariably seen his handiwork. Jim “Mosaic Man” Power has livened up the neighborhood with his signature artwork, adorning light poles and other drab, industrial ephemera with colorful, intricate mosaics. I’ve accosted Jim on the street once or twice, and he’s always interesting to chat with, although he moves from tangent to tangent pretty swiftly. In more recent times, Power has unfortunately found himself without a roof over his head. While the East Village is inarguably gentrifying, this is not to say that it still doesn’t have a bit of badlands left in it. As such, Power has been having hard time of it. Intrepid photographer Bob Arihood recently caught up with the Mosaic Man to hear of his current troubles. Click here to read his account.

Goodbye To the Village

This is becoming sadly formulaic. Hot on the heels of my post last night bemoaning the absence of the Cedar Tavern, I walked home from work this evening to discover that Village on West 9th Street -- another of my favorite bar/restaurants -- had also closed for good. No goodbye sign or nothing. The awning's been removed and the windows have been all blocked. I haven't the foggiest what happened, but it's gone.

While it wasn't always the cheapest of joints, it was a regular stop for the wife & I. Formerly a storied gay bar called The Lion, Village exuded a great, authentic vibe of old New York City. I remember many a boozy evening spent in those booths in the front. You can take a look at pictures of the interior here. The place always seemed to do some swift business. I can't imagine that they weren't turning a profit. I'm now very bummed.

In incongruous tribute....

The Plant Man

According to my pal Hunter-Gatherer, hirsute proto-frontman and erstwhile Led Zeppelin vocalist Robert Plant turns 61 today. Roughly akin to my begrudging-but-dogged appreciation for maligned 80s band The Fixx, I’ve always harbored a stubborn admiration for some of Plant’s solo work. Renouncing and wallowing in his fabled legacy in equal turns, Plant’s solo albums often shunned Zep’s big rock bombast in favor of more restrained, modern -sounding material. Eventually, when that failed to resonate, Plant returned to the mothership, grew his hair back out and reclaimed his role as the preeminent cock-rocker prototype. Before that happened, though, he crafted a string of excellent singles, notably “Little By Little,” “Big Log,” “In the Mood” and “Heaven Knows.” There were some clunkers as well, like “Tall Cool One” and basically everything he recorded after the punishingly-titled Now and Zen album. Plant also wins the dishonor of foisting the worst-ever album cover on the world,that being this one. And as much as I love “Heaven Knows” (featuring future-Curve chanteuse Toni Halliday on backing vocals and old sparring partner Jimmy Page on guitar), it does feature some of the worst lyrics in all of human history.

”You were pumping iron while I was pumping irony…”

Oh dear. Anyway, happy birthday, Robert.

Pining for the Cedar

It's a swelteringly hot Wednesday night. Peg & the kids are out at my mother's place on Long Island, so I was left to my own devices for dinner. Tired of ordering in pizza and Chinese food, I stepped out in search of something else. I combed the neighborhood for almost an hour before I reluctantly settled on Burger Creations, a new-ish joint on East 8th Street. My crispy chicken sandwich left very much to be desired (and burned my tongue). It was not a splendid experience. Despite the fact that my neighborhood is rife with eateries, the fact remains that I'm not especially fond of most of them. This wasn't always the case.

Even before I moved downtown in 1996, I had a favorite spot in this area. From about 1992 onward, certain friends of mine and I routinely hit the fabled Cedar Tavern. Not only was it a grand, storied New York City drinking institution, but it was also simply a pleasant and relaxing place. Free of any pervading scenesterism or hip cache, the Cedar was the ideal place to have a drink, meet up with a friend or grab a bite. Downstairs was cozily dark and atmospheric. Upstairs was roomy and gregarious. It served virtually all purposes. In other words, it was perfect. I mean, it had its down sides. The french fries were never very good and you sometimes had to strain to hear the juke box, but these were exceptionally minor quibbles.

It sounds like a cliche, but the Cedar Tavern became my second living room for a while. In true "Cheers" form, I swiftly got to know the bartenders, given the frequency of my visits. My wife and I constantly stopped in for "secret drinks" before and after scheduled events. When friends of mine came visiting, it was a given that the Cedar Tavern was where we'd rendez-vous, usually at the table just inside the door, under the big picture window.

I wasted a great deal of space on this weblog lamenting the Cedar's sudden departure and the slow, repugnant rise of the glorified outhouse of a condo that now stands in its footprint. It's pointless to re-address all that stuff now, but as I walked the streets of this neighborhood looking for that perfect joint tonight, I couldn't help wishing the Cedar Tavern was still there. It would have been just what I was in the mood for.

When I got back home, I found this nice little clip.

"We Love You, Mr. Zig-Zag"

So after first reading about it in Nick Rombes' excellent "Cultural Dictionary of Punk" several weeks back, I finally got to see Amos Poe's "The Foreigner" in its oft-somnambulistic entirety this evening. While it boasts more of a discernible narrative than the similarly inclined "Downtown `81," the acting in the former makes the acting in the latter look Oscar-worthy. Regardless, "The Foreigner" does retain a strange, haunting quality. To the layperson, it might seem boring, amateurish and bordering on the unwatchable, but for someone like myself -- hopelessly intrigued by both the then-thriving bohemian culture of downtown NYC circa 1977 and the gradual erosion of the very landscape its filmed on -- there is a riveting aspect to "The Foreigner." Several scenes were filmed on streets I regularly walk on (although most bear only passing resemblance to their current incarnations). Some landmarks that appear in the film are still there, notably The Chelsea Hotel and Fanelli's bar in Soho. Others, like CBGB and, well, the World Trade Center, obviously, are not.

While admittedly laborious at points, the film is undeniably a crucial precursor to later films like the afore-mentioned "Downtown `81," Martin Scorsese's brilliant (and inexplicably unsung) "After Hours" and even "Desperately Seeking Susan." For fans of Punk Rock, the film is rife with cameos from folks like Debbie Harry, The Cramps and The Erasers (both in the video clip below) and even Robin Crutchfield of seminal No Wave trio D.N.A. has a small speaking part. Coincidentally enough, D.N.A. themselves perform in "Downtown `81" (albeit after Robin had left the band) and D.N.A. vocalist Arto Lindsay has a fleeting cameo himself in "Desperately Seeking Susan," further linking these films. Erstwhile Patti Smith collaborator Ivan Kral also provides some atmospheric music.

If you manage to track down the DVD of "The Foreigner," it comes appended with a great directorial voice-over feature from Amos Poe who helpfully provides some intriguing context. Again, don't expect an action-packed thriller. "The Foreigner" is often stupefyingly meandering, but that's part of the whole point. If you love glimpses of a since-vanished side of New York City, however, it's well worth checking out.