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I was just out for a walk with my little boy and we found ourselves strolling through Soho. Imagine my surprise and sadness to find that René's signature boast on the southern wall of the Wooster Street parking lot (just south of Houston Street) had been painted over. Never thought that would vanish. To see how it used to look, click right here.
Herewith another few photos from the 1990s. In the interest of consolidation, I'm only putting a few up here, but you can see a whole bunch more by checking out my Flickr page, if you are so inclined. Please enjoy.
While I’ll staunchly defend my belief that the man hasn’t released a truly decent album since 1995’s Twenty Mothers, I will always be a slavishly devoted fan of Julian Cope. At his best, the self-proclaimed “arch-drude” is handily capable of both rocking furiously and simultaneously crafting the most pristinely executed, hook-laden pop the world has ever known. This only makes it all the more frustrating that while he remains tirelessly prolific, he has chosen to release nothing but chronically inaccessible music for the last decade and a half. Still you can’t fault the man for following his muse.
Along the way, Julian has also written several hugely entertaining and informative books and launched a rather stately website that culls together not only his own doings, but also acts as an information clearing house for esoteric music. Even if you’re not a fan of the man, Head Heritage is well worth a perusal. So while I may not like the last few albums he’s foisted upon the world, Cope’s surreal wit, excellent taste and unquenchable thirst for the new keep me coming back to the source.
So imagine my glee when it was recently revealed to me that the estimable Mr. Cope shares my affinity for the music of Tom Lehrer. As he recounts in his review of a Lehrer compilation, Julian Cope was first exposed to Lehrer’s singularly devious brand of humor (imagine Mark Russell with a lot more talent, satirical venom and disregard for standards & decency) by his folks. Much like Julian, I too was first introduced to the music of Tom Lehrer by my parents. My step-father – an otherwise straight-laced, upstanding citizen with a stridently conservative perspective -- owned a copy of Songs by Tom Lehrer, a family favorite that saw regular rotation on the household turntable right alongside Blind Blake. In exceptionally short order, I memorized each and every track on the album, thrilling to Lehrer’s giddily snide delivery and provocative lyrics. I also rememver enjoying the fact that the front cover cast Lehrer banging away at the keys of his piano while the fires of Hell crackled around him. It was genius.
As Cope points out, Lehrer was a master subversive of his era, playing cocktail-party-friendly ditties laced with black humor and sedition. It was piano bar punk rock that took no prisoners. As I grew older, while my step-father shuddered with palpable contempt at my affinity for bands like Kiss, The Ramones and Devo, we bonded over a mutual love of Tom Lehrer. We even zealously attended a revival of a Tom Lehrer revue, “Tomfoolery,” at the (long since vanished) Village Gate Theater in Greenwich Village (which is now a CVS drug store… yeah, we needed another one of those, didn’t we). To this day, I can still remember every cheeky lyric off that first record. As I’m sure Julian Cope can too.
Decades after the fact, Lehrer’s songs are still hilarious, still brilliant and still right on the money. Treat yourself and seek them out
Never mind that Pavement reunion bullshit (and, really, who cares?). Here comes good -- albeit expensive -- news for die-hard Devotees like myself. Not only is the band prepping the release of a new album in 2010, they're re-releasing Q: Are We Not Men?.. and Freedom of Choice and touring both albums in their entirety accordingly. I've already secured tickets for the Q: Are We Not Men? night in November at Irving Plaza. Who's in?
Through the auspices of fellow blogger/learned NYU professor/regular Flaming Pablum reader Bryan Waterman, I've been recruited (and agreed) to participate on a panel in early October to discuss blogging in and about New York City, largely regarding its stealthily eroding character and constant transformation. Being that public speaking has never been my particular bailiwick, it should be interesting to see how/if I'm able to credibly pull if off with dignity intact. If that sounds like your cup of concrete, why not come along on October 3? Find out more by clicking right here. There will also be forthcoming updates on Bryan's weblog.
I remember first hearing “People Who Died” on some late night radio station when I was in 8th grade in 1980, but didn’t catch the name of the band responsible. The next day at school, I approached my classmate Zachary T. – the grade’s resident coolster – and asked if he’d ever heard of the song. Without hesitation, Zach slipped into a back-arching a cappella rendition of “People Who Died,” before feverishly extolling the merits of the artists behind it, namely the Jim Carroll Band. Dutifully informed, I went out in search of the LP, entitled Catholic Boy, the very next day.
Sounding incongruously jubilant for what is essentially a lament, “People Who Died” rarely leaves its listener indifferent. Punctuated by Jim Carroll’s dizzyingly detailed lyrics and breathless, rapid-fire delivery, the song is a colorful laundry list of casualties who meet their respective ends in manners both tragic and absurd. Though popularly perceived as pitch black humor (sort of the punk rock equivalent to Edward Gorey’s “Gashlycrumb Tinies”), I’ve never doubted the sincerity of Carroll’s narrative, earnestly exhorting the passing of his fallen comrades as some sort of high-volume catharsis. Some of the characters cited in the song appear in Carroll’s more celebrated memoirs “The Basketball Diaries” (later made into a frankly forgettable film starring Leo DeCaprio and Marky Mark Wahlberg) and “Forced Entries.” Swapping the solemn cadence of a funeral dirge in favor of a hiccupy, adrenalized rhythm and frantically strummed electric guitars, “People Who Died” may sound flippantly tasteless – like much of the more sensationalized punk rock of its era -- but it also singularly captures Carroll’s mournful rage at the hopelessness and destruction that surrounds him. It may sound funny, but it remains an exorcism.
Not everybody hears it that way, of course. I vividly remember playing the track one night on my college radio station (WDUB 91.1 FM in Granville, Ohio) and a girl in my sociology/anthropology class found it so offensive that she actually stopped talking to me the very next day. Meanwhile, I think the biggest shame about “People Who Died”—as great a track as it is -- is that it’s leant Carroll a rather unfair one-hit-wonder status. Beyond that celebrated “novelty hit,” Catholic Boy is a classic album, rife with lesser-celebrated but equally visceral songs like “Three Sisters,” “It’s Too Late,” “Wicked Gravity” and the title track. Later Jim Carroll Band albums weren’t quite as punchy (although I liked their cover of the Velvet Underground’s “Sweet Jane” on 1983’s I Write Your Name), but my point is that there’s always been so much more to Jim Carroll than “People Who Died.” One would also do well to track down Carroll’s excellent spoken-word album from 1991,Praying Mantis.
Anyway, one more time with feeling…..
Gone way too soon.
Check out my friend & former colleague Mackenzie's eulogy to the great man. I was lucky enough to see Jim Carroll perform spoken word shows at The Bottom Line a few times, and it was always mesmerizing. I was too young to ever get to see the Jim Carroll Band perform, unfortunately, but I did once encounter Jim sitting on an East Village stoop eating a bologna sandwich back sometime in the late 80's. He was gracious and accommodating and tolerated my starstruck gobsmackedness, but ultimately just wanted to eat his sandwich. He is, was & e'er shall be one of the coolest gents ever. Respect.
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