Flaming Pablum

The Sounds of "After Hours"

Here's one strictly for the die-hards and the trainspotters.

I've sang the praises of Martin Scorsese's 1985 film, "After Hours," on this weblog before (most recently here and here), and alluded to its arguably esoteric cultural reference points on many an occasion. Hardly one of the legendary director's more celebrated works, "After Hours" served as a means of jump-starting the maestro's muse after an aborted first attempt at "The Last Temptation of Christ." A black comedy about a hapless everyman trapped in a Kafka-esque realm of seemingly endless nocturnal urban torment, what was once a darkly funny flick about a luckless square trapped in a bohemian nightmare has verily aged into a lovingly rendered snapshot of a since-vanished era well worthy of a time capsule.

Apart from the many posts I've already devoted to it, I keep meaning to compose a long-form entry, painstakingly revisiting key locations and geographical plots-points of the film in much the same manner Scouting New York tackled films like "Ghostbusters" and "Taxi Driver," but there's never enough time. Adding to its mystique for me, the film was unavailable on DVD for ages. I'm sure I've mentioned it here before, but I used to live down the street from Griffin Dunne, the film's writer and star. I used to drunkenly accost him on weekend nights and ask about demand the prompt release of the film on DVD, appended with a slew of needless ephemera (he must have gotten tired of this, as word has it that he's leaving the neighborhood). The DVD release finally happened in 2004, although the end results weren't quite as exhaustive as I'd hoped.

To this day, I still can't get enough of this comparatively low-key, overlooked film. Though brimming with great music (like every other Scorsese film), an official soundtrack was never released. Thus, it took me years to glean and track down key musical selections from the film like "One Summer Night" by the Danleers or "You're Mine" by Robert & Johnny (IMDB would make this hunt ridiculously simple many years later --- once again, technological convenience removes the thrill of the chase). This week, however, I stumbled upon something that really gave me a thrill. An intrepid YouTuber culled together selections from Howard Shore's haunting score to "After Hours." These sparse bits of music perfectly capture the atmosphere of late night urban desolation, even if you haven't seen the film. I have no idea how long they'll be up, but I thought I'd re-post them here for your enjoyment. To further sweeten the deal, I've also appended some other songs from the film. Enjoy.

Howard Shore's "9 PM"

Howard Shore's "Midnight"

Howard Shore's "3 AM"

Howard Shore's "6 AM"

Bach's "Air on a G String"

From the Terminal Bar scene….

"You're Mine" by Robert & Johnny

"We Belong Together" by Robert & Johnny

"Angey Baby" by Rosi & the Originals

"One Summer Night" by the Danleers

From the scenes in Julie's apartment…

"Last Train to Clarksville" by the Monkees

"Chelsea Morning" by Joni Mitchell

From the scenes inside Club Berlin …

"Pay to Cum" by the Bad Brains

"Is That All There Is?" by Peggy Lee

Now go rent the damn movie.

Happy Birthday, Jaz Coleman

The great man turns 50 today. Hoist'em up high for the Black Jester!

Big Apple `Core

Spotted an item on die-hard hardcore website Double Cross this afternoon and thought I'd bring it your attention. Here, fabled NYHC/punk legend Harley Flanagan (he of the Cro-Mags) shares is thoughts on which hardcore/punk records have stood the test of time for him. Skateboarder Mike Vallely and `zine editor also weigh in.

In other vaguely punk-related news, it seems the family of Natavia Lowery – the woman charged this week for brutally bludgeoning real estate maven & former Ramones manager Linda Stein to death in 2007 – claim that that "they'll be back" and that Natavia is – wait for it – innocent of the charges. Sure she is.

The Vanishing City

Very excited about this...

Shirt It Out Loud

I forget where I was when I saw it, but about two decades ago, I remember spotting a t-shirt that -- in an urgent, angular font -- screamed "U.S.A. Out of N.Y.C.!" (a sentiment I heartily endorse). I wish I bought it, but I didn't for some reason. In any case, I saw the below on the always entertaining This Isn't Happiness this morning and it rang the same bell. If I ever saw it, I'd buy it. Can I get an 'amen'?

Crossing the `Line

Some time back in the 90's, a friend with considerably bigger balls than I kept continually goading me into joining him on an illicit adventure over the barbed wire and onto the invariably precarious environs of the then still-untamed High Line. It had captivated our imaginations for years -- an abandoned strip of elevated railway overgrown with flora (and, quite possibly, fauna) that snaked through the western edge of Manhattan. "Think of the photographic potential," my friend enthused. Still, I demurred. I was, of course, afraid of getting busted for trespassing or stumbling into a clandestine drug deal or encountering some mutant species of grass-fed super rodent or _________ (insert lilly-livered excuse here). My friend did, however, complete that mission one day, and brought back some striking photographs of same. I was immediately jealous and chastised myself for my abject lameness, vowing to join him on the next sortie over that wire.

That never happened, of course. In short order, the renovation of the High Line into an ambitiously expansive public park became a celebrated cause and in due course, a portion of it was opened to the public amid much fanfare. I was naturally curious to check it out, but still deeply regretted never experiencing it in its raw incarnation of stately urban decrepitude. Months passed. I never got over there. I bristled at reports of the voyeuristic glass hotel and ruthless street art removal that accompanied the High Line's unveiling. Finally, this past weekend, Peg and I decided to take the kids out for a stroll to finally check out the new High Line. Below are some of the pictures I took (click on them to enlarge). It was fun to watch my little ones run around up there (Oliver especially loves anything associated with trains). Not sure how I feel about it otherwise, but it was nice to finally survey the surroundings from a new vantage point.

Take Me Down to Sepia Town

I fielded a note over the weekend from a new website dubbed Sepia Town that really caught my eye. In a nutshell, the site culls together over 400 historical images of New York City and plots them out on the map. At the moment, the lion's share of the pictures concern downtown, but they're also inviting users to register and upload their own images for submission. It ought to be really fascinating to watch it develop. Go check it out.

Hope I Die Before I Go Deaf

Like many of you out there, I consider myself a fan of the Who. Seriously, if you're a fan of high volume rock -- be you a "punk" or a "metalhead" or a "mod" or whatever label you affix to yourself --- it's pretty damn hard not to acknowledge the power of their genre-transcending music. While they were never officially my "favorite band" when I was a pre-teen (a dubious honor handily claimed by Kiss, whose high-decibel spectacle-rock owed a sizable debt to The Who), all it took was a single airing of "My Generation" or "Baba O'Riley" to convince me that they were worthy of my exacting standards. My first Who album was the sprawling compilation/soundtrack from 1979, The Kids Are Alright (featuring their notoriously explosive performance on 'The Smothers Brothers' Show' and an iconic cover shot of the boys at Grant's Tomb in NYC). While purists tirelessly cite Who's Next as the disc you need to own by the band, The Kids Are Alright was an amazing primer, capturing them from their hook-laden Mod origins through their beefier, more ambitious "rock opera" period. Never mind that entirely needless new Greatest Hits disc (presumably released to trump up their inexplicable appearance at the Super Bowl halftime show), go pick up The Kids Are Alright and you'll be well on your way.

That all said, like most of you out there, I'm firmly of the opinion that it's high time that the band -- or what's left of it -- called it quits. With their original rhythm section now long dead, it's now only principles Daltrey & Townshend out there. While I suppose it's true that they can still dust off the oldies with some admirable intensity, there's something about the sight of the aging Who that depresses me. The predictable citation at this point would be that fateful lyric of Townshend's in "My Generation" wherein he hoped to die before he got old, but that's beside the point. Sure, Pete can still windmill with a fury and his voice is in fine shape (not sure the same can be said of Daltrey), but really ..... just retire. Surely, both remaining participants have made enough money and have plenty of other projects they could attend to. Can't we just let the Who go?

The only reason I'm addressing this today is because of an annoying medical condition I happen to share with Pete Townshend (although I gather his case is a bit more pronounced). Like the fabled guitar-abuser, I suffer from piercing tinnitus in my right ear. I've waxed about it here (pardon the pun) on several occasions (posts devoted to same can all be found here), but it's something I've grappled with for the last eleven years, presumably developed after a few decades of irresponsible exposure to high volume music. When I was in my teens and twenties, I never wore hearing protection to any rock concert or punk show I attended and I relentlessly wore my headphones with the volume all the way up. After years of cumulative, systematic abuse of this kind, my right ear started to shriek like a tea kettle in October of 1999 and shows no sign of ever letting up. In a word, it sucks.

As such, I periodically scour the `Net for tinnitus-related news. As of 2010, there is no known cure. For the past couple of days, the ringing in my ear has intensified. It does this every now and then, usually the result of stress or some dietary indiscretions or the misalignment of the planets or bad karma or voodoo of the wrath of an unforgiving God or any number of nebulous reasons. So, prompted by same, I did a Google search and spotted a new item about Pete Townshend's struggle with tinnitus. Legend had it that the seeds of Pete's hearing problems were sewn in that afore-cited performance on 'The Smothers Brothers' Show,' after Keith Moon loaded up his bass drum with explosives for the destructive crescendo of "My Generation." As if the volume of their performance wasn't loud enough (as it had been and would remain for years), Pete was evidently standing far too close to the blast, leaving him deaf for a short period (watch the clip below for more). Well, it turns out that after years and years, Pete's problem has also intensified, casting the future of The Who (for whatever that's worth) in doubt. He's understandably threatening to pull the plug on impending live dates if it's going to be problem.

Again, while I wish the Who would hang it up, this news made me sad. Pete Townshend is arguably the highest profile figure representing the plague of tinnitus (although William Shatner is also a vocal sufferer). With all the resources and financial muscle at Pete's command, if even he can't find some sort of relief from tinnitus, what hope is there for the rest of us?

Hyperkinetic Punktography

Indoctrinated into the faith of hardcore punk at the dawn of the 1980s after hearing the bare-knuckled triple-threat of "Too Drunk to Fuck" by Dead Kennedys, "Rise Above" by Black Flag and the absolutely essential Alternative Tentacles compilation, Let Them Eat Jellybeans (still criminally unavailable on compact disc to this day), I have been an avowed fan ever since. In short order, I was scrawling the Circle Jerks logo on my notebooks, making a jackass out of myself on a second-hand skateboard and regularly blowing my summer job money on 7" vinyl in local record shops like 99 Records and Bleecker Bob's. I was hooked.

Of course, the golden age of hardcore is long over. I checked out sometime towards the end of the decade, but scenes still continue on today. My friend/colleague Drew is constantly playing me some contemporary hardcore, and a lot of it is pretty great. That said, my heart still belongs to the old stuff. As such, you can imagine my glee upon stumbling upon these two amazing galleries of photographs on Facebook taken by one Jospeh Henderson. Joe was a rock photographer who shot for Flipside in the early 80's, and his pictures completely capture the sweaty, hyperkinetic aggression of vintage hardcore. If you're a fan of this stuff, these pictures who blow a new part in your hair. Here's the first, and here's the second. Check'em out.

A New Ally in the War Against the Strollerphobes

 

For years I've been somewhat at odds with the rest of my similarly-inclined compatriots in the so-called "New York blog mafia" in that I seem to be the only one of them that isn't sent into a frothy-mouthed rage by the sight of strollers on NYC sidewalks (not so coincidentally, I'm also evidently one of the only members of said group to have dared to procreate). In any case, it seems that I have a new ally in the war against the strollerphobes, that being none other than one Denise Albert (daughter of Marv, don'tcha know). I found her via a link to a Gothamist story on the (usually stroller-hostile) blog of my estimable friend, Jemeriah Moss -- arguably the shadowy figurehead of the grumpy, anti-gentrification blog mob, if he purple-prosed press is to be believed. For what it's worth, I don't think Jeremiah is really as antagonistic as some believe him to be, but I don't want to soil his reputation. In any case, Denise's blog is called Moms in the City, and she's endearingly pissed off (God bless'er!). Go check it out. Oh, and read a ragey rant of hers in Metro by clicking right here.

Denise, I salute you (although you mighta come up with something better than a thinly-veiled "Sex & the City" allusion for a title).