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Sadly, hot on the heels of the demise of Bob Arihood's blog, Neither More Nor Less, it seems that Lost City is also closing up shop. A much more serious affair than my little corner of the `net, Lost City kept a somber watch on the gradual erosion of New York City's storied identity under the jackbooted march of Mayor Bloomberg's campaign of divine right. Beautifully written, richly detailed, meticulously researched and rife with literary allusion, Lost City was always an informative -- if often depressing -- read. I had the pleasure of sitting on a panel and speaking alongside the blog's creator, Brooks (not his real name) last year and found him to be thoughtful and well-spoken. It's indeed a shame that he's discontinuing it. Read Brooks' own goodbye by clicking right here.
This past weekend, our next door neighbors invited us up to their beautiful bucolic retreat, flung deep within the verdant wilds of Olive, New York. While driving up there, I was reminded of another upstate trip I took with some friends back in the very early 90's. On that particular excursion, I remember bringing along the cassette of the then-newly-released Violent Femmes album, Why Do Birds Sing? (to my mind, a criminally under-praised effort). As such, I had the `Femmes in my head all weekend.
The band's first album still seems like their go-to record. During my freshman year of college, the eponymous Violent Femmes debut was an LP that was likely to be found in virtually every dorm room on campus. At Denison University, everyone from the preppie lacrosse players to the party-ready sorority girls to the scowling misanthropes (I'll let you guess which category of those I belonged to) all owned that record. Whether it was the deceptively cheery "Blister in the Sun" or the sing-along-ready "Kiss Off" or the giddily profane "Add It Up," the songs on that record seemed to speak to everyone. Somehow, the Violent Femmes' skewed, folksy-acoustic take on punk rock managed infiltrate and they became "college rock" stalwarts.
These days, the Violent Femmes are on indefinite hiatus stemming from a feud over the placement of "Blister in the Sun" in a Wendy's ad. But I stumbled upon the below clips last night, finding the youthful band merrily busking on the streets of New York for Australian television in 1984. Herein, you see the trio playing on the iconic steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Fifth Avenue and being interviewed just up the road in the Ancient Playground (where I spent a large swathe of my childhood). In fact, while this was being filmed, I was a high school senior, probably ensconced in a classroom just down the block.
Part one.
Part two.
The wife had dinner with a few friends last night, so I stayed home to watch the kids. 8pm found me hungry and rifling through our unwieldy collection of take-out menus in the hopes of being inspired. I pulled out an old stand-by and happily started dialing, envisioning a piping hot tandoori chicken and a tall bottle of Taj Mahal beer.
Café Spice on University Place must have opened sometime in 1998. Prior to the arrival of the smart, nouvelle Indian eatery, the space at 72 University Place was yet another delhi wherein I used to regularly procure egg salad sandwiches. But the arrival of Café Spice proved to be a gift to the neighborhood. The food was excellent and the atmosphere was cool. When I first started dating the woman who became my wife, Café Spice became a frequent spot, whether for drinks at the bar or a lavish feast in one of the booths in the rear.
After speculating about him from afar for at least a year, we even became friends with Café Spice's general manager, Sandeep. Prior to becoming acquainted, we'd refer to him as the "evil genius," as Sandeep was a sharp character who was often found standing outside the restaurant, dressed impeccably and speaking intently into a cell phone. He seemed less like a restauranteur and more like a Bond villain. After sharing a few beers at Café Spice's bar one evening, we became fast friends. In ensuing years, Sandeep would greet my children on their way to school, eschewing his otherwise cool veneer of svelte, stoic menace.
Café Spice was a great place to have in the `hood. It was perfect for when friends came into town, as it was both exotic and neighborhoody. On certain nights, I'd pop in to sheepishly order a couple of tubs of rice. Peg hates cooking rice, so whenever a meal required it, I'd jog down and fetch some (and a couple of Kinfishers) from the ever-accommodating Sandeep. Every time we ordered from Café Spice, we'd try to get Sandeep to deliver it, so he could come along and join us for dinner. We loved the place.
If this entry sounds a bit like a eulogy, it's because when I called last night, Sandeep sadly informed me that the Café Spice on University was closing up shop. They simply couldn't meet the demands of their spiraling rent. It'll be open for a few days into next week, but that'll be that after that. The news really took the wind out of my sails. Another one of my favorite places was biting the dust.
While you can, go to Café Spice and have a nice, tall Taj Mahal and some samosas. Tell Sandeep I sent you.
I was always a fan of Ministry. I even loved the synthetic sheen of their otherwise-disowned With Sympathy (a by-the-numbers synth-pop extravaganza since dubbed "the abortion" by its creator). When my beloved Killing Joke went strangely astray in the late 80s --- crafting the ambitiously flawed proggy-opus Outside the Gate, Ministry handily stepped in to fill their mechanized, aggro void with the pummeling Land of Rape & Honey. Into the nineties and beyond, they upped the ante with a series of successively user-hostile albums (even recruiting Prong's Tommy Victor & Raven from Killing Joke to provide extra oomph). Ministry became renowned for trying to be none-more-black, none-more-badass and entirely uncompromising.
That all said, I gradually lost my fervor for them circa 1995's Filth Pig. Every album prior to that seemed like a natural progression. After this point, the band seemed to run aground and become more concerned with further cultivating their nasty image (which, after a while, got a bit silly and samey). Moreover, Ministry mainstay Al Jourgensen seemed to run out of fresh ideas. The cryptic side projects like 1000 Homo DJs, Lard, Acid Horse and PTP dried up (although the increasingly less-relevant Revolting Cocks soldiered on). Jourgensen's tireless insistence on casting himself as the ultimate, scary, smack-addled noise merchant just got a bit juvenile and boring (to say nothing of his propagation of lame album titles like Dark Side of the Spoon and Houses of the Molé) . He seemed determined to erase Ministry's past as something other than a furiously discordant agitpropagandizer. Why couldn't he just own it? Why couldn't he admit that he was once a peer of the Thompson Twins and Howard Jones instead of re-inventing himself as the industrial answer to G.G. Allin?
In any case, Slicing Up Eyeballs unearthed a little gem that is bound to make Uncle Al absolutely twitch in horror (sorry, couldn't resist). The Slicing writer takes the high road by questioning whether the voice on this cloyingly cheezy Shasta soft drink jingle is actually that of Al Jourgensen, but even one casual listen confirms it.
Sorry, Al, but you're busted. Meanwhile, here's the With Sympathy-era Ministry at their malevolent best:
I know I wrote about it just the other day, but please – do yourself a favor and check out the latest installment of Jeremiah Moss's epic quest to divine the actual location of the diner pictured in Edward Hopper's classic "Nighthawks" painting. It's refreshing to read something as lovingly researched and well-written as this. Cheers, JM, Nice work as always.
It's been a while since I've done one of these, so let's just dive right in, shall we?
First up, check out this candid interview (which I spotted via Tim B.) with Psychedelic Fur mainstay & former Manhattanite, Richard Butler. Herein, Butler talks about the highs & lows of the Furs, his life in NYC and his current role as a dad and painter. Incidentally, the cool photo of ol' Rich above comes courtesy of Toyranch's Flickr page (wherein you can also find awesome live shots of Devo & The Ramones). Check it out.
Speaking, once again, of Flickr, I stumbled upon a truly awesome collection of photos of the NYC garage rock scene of the 1980s. Check out EPS Twain's set for a fascinating glimpse into this sorely under-documented scene.
Speaking of yesteryear, there was further evidence yesterday to suggest that New York City is indeed spiraling back towards the bad old days (albeit without the affordability that transformed it a creative hotbed). There were initial reports that alleged that shots were fired from an automatic weapon on the L train platform at Union Square. As it turns out, however, it ended up being some astonishingly stupid kids playing with fireworks.
And speaking of being astonishingly stupid, Avril Lavigne has a hole in her head!!
Speaking of having things in your head, Gawker ran a nice piece today about how to get irritating songs -- I believe often called "earworms" – out of one's head.
And speaking of irritating songs, insufferably ubiquitous pop tart Katy Perry recently fired off a shot at the giddily provocative Lady Gaga recently -- presumably after viewing the latter's video for "Alejandro" -- by asserting that "blasphemy is not entertainment." Clearly, the future Mrs. Russell Brand has never listened to Venom.
Elsewhere, there was a clip making the rounds recently that outed REM's Michael Stipe as a devout "Rocky Horror Picture Show" acolyte back in the day. I'm not entirely sure why anyone would be surprised by this. After seeing the clip myself on Slicing Up Eyeballs, though, I was more intrigued to find Michael sporting the hook & cross logo of Long Island's sci-fi obsessed proto-metalheads, Blue Öyster Cult on his leather lapel. Pedants will doubtlessly point out the connection between BÖC and Stipe's beloved Patti Smith (a frequent-if-incongruous collaborator with BÖC), but I still have a hard time reconciling Stipe championing their cryptic brand of hirsute hard rock. That said, I'd love to hear REM cover "Joan Crawford."
Back here in NYC, there were some developments on the sexy banks story that I whined about last week. Evidently, her "inarguably enviable curves" were -- wait for it -- surgically enhanced. Shocker. Does this mean it's okay for predatory males to objectify her (as she's alleged)? No, but having expressed the desire to resemble "tits on a stick" doesn't really make her the most sympathetic character, now does it.
A little under a year ago, I started my own Flickr page and uploaded piles and piles of my photographs. I then proceeded to split them up into different sets like "Street Art," "Black & White," "Vanished," etc. For the most part, I was pretty thorough, but after a while, I started to get a bit lazy. As such, several of my uploaded pics lack the specific tags or pertinent information that would make them more easily search-able to the perusing Flickr-user. It's an oversight I keep planning on amending, but time never allows. In these instances, if anyone wants to see them, they're just going to have to stumble upon them on their own.
As a frequent Flicker-trawler, I should find this reprehensible, as I've spent hours combing the site, looking for photographs of specific things (many of which have shown up here). Frequently, the most interesting pictures are untagged ones I uncover by accident. These instances lure me into believing that there must be photos of everything out there – either on Flickr or on the internet as a whole -- but that I just haven't gleaned how to successfully find them yet.
As an unapologetically nostalgic New Yorkophile, I'm always on the hunt for photographs of the New York City that has since slipped from regular view – fleeting glimpses of streets, buildings and storefronts that are no longer there. I'm less concerned with shots of famous landmarks. As much as I'm fascinated by pictures of, say, the old, cathedral-like Penn Station (the one they tore down), there are thousands of photographs of same out there. While I doubt any of them come close to replicating the experience of standing in that storied structure, they at least suffice in providing the basic imagery. The pictures I'm after, though, are ones of a seemingly banal and/or niche variety. They probably don't matter to most people, but for a small, sentimental elite, they'll doubtlessly resonate.
Take, for example the unfortunately-tiny picture at the top of this post. That's a photograph of the original Forbidden Planet, then located on the northwest corner of East 12th Street & Broadway. You're probably saying to yourself, "big whoop, Alex." Well, since the day that fabled geek paradise opened in 1981, I was a slavishly devoted acolyte and frequent shopper, regularly hopping on the downtown 6 train from my home on the Upper East Side to pay homage to its enviable, sprawling collection of comics, horror & sci-fi gear. I can close my eyes and still find my way around its aisles in my head. Of course, that store closed in 1996, later to relocate just across the street and up a bit to the southeast corner of 13th Street & Broadway. That newer location is fine, but it doesn't have the same affiliations for me. Meanwhile, the old incarnation – replete with its massive signage featuring Brian Bolland's endearingly menacing creatures --- has been all but erased by history. That's the Forbidden Planet I loved, and the above picture -- prized not via Flickr but from a random Google search -- is the only visual proof I've found that it ever existed.
Anyway, inspired by this, I compiled a list of other places that have since gone the way of the woolly mammoth that I'd love to track down pictures of. Let me know if you have or have spotted any of these…
The old Burlington Mills attraction on 6th Avenue: This, if I recall correctly, was a block-long "ride" in the lobby of an office building in midtown that my mother took me to a few times in the mid-to-late 1970s. You'd step onto a conveyor belt, and it would slowly take you through a few rooms that shows film-strips of how Burlington textiles were made, including a big, bright room filled with hundreds of whirling sewing machines. It's sounds odd, yes, but my memories of riding it are pretty vivid, and I'd love some verification of it. I have, thus far, found none.
The Carnegie Mansion's Children's Garden: Today, this beautiful building is the home of the Cooper-Hewitt, but until but before the mansion was transformed into that august design museum in 1976, its verdant, rear lawn played host to a private children's park. I'm not exactly sure what the membership conditions were, but one needed a key to enter. My mother and several other neighborhood moms had keys. As such, I have many memories of frolicking about as a small child in that beautiful space. My mother has a tiny clutch of photos taken in that garden, but surely other people must have documented it as well, no?
The Trans-Lux Movie Theater on Lexington Avenue: I wrote about that here, but have yet to find any pictures of it.
Rappaport's on Third Avenue: This was a sizable toy store that rivaled F.A.O. Schwarz back in the day. I have only vague memories of it, but would love to jog them with a picture.
There are others. I'd love to find some pictures of the East 86th Street of my youth when it was dotted with movie theaters, fast food joints and record shops. Likewise, there are leagues of record shops (some I discussed here) that I'd love to find pictures of. It's a strange obsession. I'd imagine it doesn't normally occur to someone to take a photograph of a random store, but certainly some people have made a practice of it. Any information would be welcomed.
Hey kids. Just a quick reminder to my fellow record store geeks, vinyl hoarders, CD apologists, MP3-haters and insufferable music knowitalls to make room on your schedules for the twice annual Record Sale At the Archive of Contemporary Music from June 12 through June 20. It's just a trek down to one of TriBeCa's still endearingly gritty side-streets for a tantalizing thumb-through of over 20,000 items. Who knows? Maybe you'll be able to find that elusive vinyl copy of Locals Only by the Surf Punks or that long-out-of-print CD version of Drugs Are Nice by Lisa Suckdog or ____________ [fill in esoteric album title here] you've been pining for. Find out all the pertinent details and vital statistics by clicking right here. Go enjoy.
Jeremiah Moss has been doing some research as to goings on at the fabled site of Edward Hopper's "Nighthawks" (currently an empty lot made notable in 2001 by the tiles). Evidently, plans are newly afoot to erect some new eyesore there. Keep reading Vanishing New York for the details. In the interim, this gives me a handy excuse to post this endearingly surreal find from the wilds of the Internet. You're welcome.
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