Turns out yesterday was Weird Al Yankovic's 50th Birthday. This acts as a handy excuse to (yet again) exhume the above photo. I met the great man at a book release party in 2005 thrown by the publishing house my wife worked for. He was entirely cool and gracious, although there was a mob of zealous Yankovicophiles glaring at me menacingly, impatiently waiting for their own time with their idol. Below, please find Weird Al's totally awesome tribute to Charles Nelson Reilly inna White Stripes styleee...
It was an event I really meant to go to, but circumstances didn't allow it. For a start, it was wicked expensive. Secondly, I had a few other things cooking that weekend, and I just can't be everywhere at once. As such, I missed the evening at Carnegie Hall with Gavin Friday "& friends" (U2, Foetus, Lou Reed & a host of others). I've been a hardcore Gavin Friday fan for some time, and now that I see the set list of the show, I'm quite bummed I wasn't able to attend. More shockingly, though, it seems that Gavin fleetingly resurrected the Virgin Prunes for the event. This is what really got me. As I've stated elsewhere on this weblog, I'm a big fan of the Virgin Prunes.
I was less thrilled to learn, though, that they were introduced by another of their great fans. Turns out that Courtney Love – who sucks, by the way – handled their introduction. I don't like Courtney Love. At all. I'd go as far as to say that I dislike her about as much as I like the Virgin Prunes. Which is considerable. Anyway, click here to read what she had to say.
Below, meanwhile, is one of my favorite, harrowing Virgin Prunes tracks. Just in time for Halloween, no less.
It's Friday and that generally means that I take the easy route and highlight a bunch of links to items around the web that caught my eye (y'know, in lieu of composing something original of my own). But what can I say? It's been a busy week. Anyway, please enjoy…
First up, Greenwich Village Daily Photo looks at the storied legacy of Pier 54 (that's my picture of same above). It may look like a fairly innocuous stretch of rotting concrete, but it's got quite a back story.
Next up, you may remember my heartstring-plucking reminiscence about Bleeker Street's Pizza Box of a while back. Well, breathe easy – Pizza Box is still there, but that `hood is up in arms about a newly proposed high-rise that's supposedly going to be erected in the neighboring vacant lot (which used to play host to a great, sneaker shop). Learn the whole saga here.
It's a beautiful Indian summer day here in New York City. The skies are clear, the sun is out and the temperature is an unseasonably warm 66 degrees. I stepped out of my office in midtown to grab some lunch a little while ago and took a few moments to walk around the block. The fountains of 6th Avenue were flanked by hordes of sudden sun-worshippers, zealously enjoying the fleeting taste of the warmer season now behind us. Office drones and tourists alike basked in bright, midday warmth. As I turned the corner, what did I spy on the edifice of Radio City Music Hall but festive holiday bunting and row of Christmas wreaths.
What is the damn rush?? We're barely halfway through October, for cryin' out loud. Let Autumn be Autumn!!!
Just a quick clip to set the seasonal mood. In recent years, I've come to lament Halloween for becoming an ersatz New Year's Eve for idiots, but I still love all things creepy and crawly. Herewith the trailer from what I still consider to be the scariest film of all time. You, of course, may beg to differ. If so, cite your favorites, so that I may strenuously disagree with you.
Sadly -- and somewhat unbelievably -- Tuesday marks the two year anniversary of the death of Paul Raven, the bass player, bon vivant and all-around good guy I was fortunate enough to call a friend for a short while. It's still bizarre to realize that he's no longer among us. Herewith a smattering of some of the great man's best moments. Pour one out. Rest in peace, my friend
Thanks to EV Grieve (again) for this one. Not only did Drew Barrymore befoul the mighty Mars Bar (one of the last true vestiges of the East Village's old character) with her vile presence for a photo shoot (impinging on the all-day-drinkin' rights of the regulars), but if she can name eventhree tunes by my beloved Iron Maiden, I will eat her hat. Grumble, grumble, grumble...
It's a rainy Sunday morning and we're all stuck indoors. Little Oliver is still battling Scarlet Fever. Could be a very long day. In any case, here are a few items I deemed worth sharin'. Please enjoy.
Tim B. (a.k.a. Karate Boogaloo -- you figure that one out) over at Stupefaction hipped me to this amazing-looking exhibition of rock photography at the Brooklyn Museum. It does indeed look "epic."
Also from Tim, it seems that Etherea Records rides again! Well, not quite. You may remember this old post about Etherea (arguably the last decent music shop in the East Village that wasn't on or at least near St. Marks Place). Well, evidently you have one last opportunity to rifle through their stock, looking for that elusive Fad Gadget e.p. (or whatever).
Courtesy of Copyranter, this item proves how fast one can mobilize their ideas to the market. The shirt was up before the balloon was done.
Lastly, here's a clip from a band I'd churlishly written off because I found their name stupid. Again, Drew (him of the Shawn Kerri recommendation above) forwarded me this video, and I'll be damned if I didn't enjoy it. See if you agree.
There was an article in the Times about a ten days or so ago (I actually linked to it here, but you can read it here) about a chronically unemployed guy who found solace and resolve via multiple, high-volume airings of Slayer's 1986 watershed opus, Reign in Blood. The brutal stealth and aggression of Slayer provided him with the catalytic clarity and emotional kick-in-the-ass to steer him through the lean times. For all of heavy metal's deservedly maligned traits, not even its most erudite detractors can make a credible argument against the genre's gift for channelling tension. At its angry, blackened core, heavy metal is the embodiment of catharsis. This is no accident.
As a lifelong fan of metal, I totally related to the sentiment (although unlike that writer, I was well aware of metal's functionality as a stress-reliever). After I was laid off from MTV News Online back in the balmy summer of 2007, I too gave my always-simmering tinnitus a worrying jolt with several sessions of high octane thrash. That all said, in terms of Slayer, I was a little late to the table. During that band's heyday, I'd already sworn allegiance to their peers in Metallica and Anthrax (to say nothing of their spiritual forefathers in the almightily infernal Venom). I'd heard Hell Awaits and Show No Mercy and appreciated them, but something was missing for me. Then, like everyone else, I heard Reign in Blood and it all clicked. When the band locks into the crushing stomp of that staccato middle-eight in "Raining Blood" (basically 2:10 - 2:38), if you're not grinning maniacally with a neck sore from headbanging, you should probably just go buy yourself a Joni Mitchell album and open a bottle of Valium, because you're clearly beyond metal's help.
In any case, I had a moment similar to that Times contributor's just yesterday. To put it plainly, I'm a bit stressed out these days. The money's spreading pretty thin, and the bills keep coming. I'm breaking even at best. I'm incredibly grateful to be working again, but I'm still on a one-year contract, after which I'll have to take another 100 days off, and August will be here before I know it. As I raced through midtown to meet my father for an after-work drink (he too being stretched financially), I heard from my wife that our little son had been diagnosed with a touch of Scarlet Fever. Shaken by that news and zonked after a full day of work, I sat down with my dad for a quick beer (to talk about -- what else? -- our respective struggles) then said a quick goodbye to race back home to my sick little boy. After leaving my dad, I stepped out into the grey chill of the early evening and slipped on my headphones. Without hesitation, I dialed up some Slayer to speed my mission.
My album of choice was Slayer's lesser-celebrated covers disc from 1996, Undisputed Attitude. Yes, it's true -- cover albums are usually dubious endeavors. For every keeper (Pin-Ups by Bowie) there are myriad stinkers (Thank You by Duran Duran being the most reviled). This album, however, finds Slayer taking on lots of the punk and hardcore bands from my youth, notably D.I., Minor Threat, T.S.O.L., D.R.I. and even The Stooges. For the most part, the boys do the originals justice, beefing up the production with oomphy metal heaviosity. I'm particularly fond of their bashes through the oeuvre of Minor Threat. With all speed, I felt the empowering adrenaline rush necessary to plough through midtown's herd of human cattle to get home to my waiting little family, handily resisting the urge to swing my elbows into the path of oncoming suits blabbing obliviously into their bluetooths.
My problems aren't at all unique, and I'm sure I'll get through them. But if you too are feeling a bit frazzled when your life is plagued by disorder and demand, might I echo the Times contributor's recommendation. Why not treat yourself to some Slayer? You'll thank me later.
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