As it's a beautiful Spring Sunday, I thought you might enjoy this trip back through time to the Greenwich Village of 1963, replete with bongo-thwackin' beatniks. Bask in the jazzy (and, at times, slightly ominous) score, narrator Jean Shepherd's condescending tone (and accomplished pronunciation of Italian treats), the krazy-deep spoken word poetry and the colorful generalizations. Though it's a glimpse (in three separate clips) of the `hood during the "Mad Men" era, it's striking how much of it still resembles the comparatively sterilized Greenwich Village of today. I can't help pointing out one fleeting segment to some of my scowling compatriots in the "NYC blog mafia." What's that at 01:27 in the first clip? Yes, that's right -- even in bohemian 1963: STROLLERS! Ha.
As if world events weren’t pointedly depressing enough these days, there was a comparatively insignificant bit of sad news out of the West Coast earlier this week. As first reported by TMZ, Southern California punk luminary Casey Royer was arrested for allegedly overdosing on heroin while watching television with his 12 year old son. There’s really nothing funny to say about that. It’s just repulsive and tragic.
I guess the thing that really caught my eye about the story – other than the unsavory details – was the fact that Royer was continually referred to as “former Social Distortion drummer.” While, yes, that’s technically accurate (Casey played in the band’s original line-up, but doesn’t appear on any of Social D’s studio recordings), the bleach-blonde, bug-eyed Royer also played in a fledgling lineup of The Adolescents before starting his own band, D.I., a combo arguably most renowned for their cameo in Penelope Spheeris’ seminal punk film, “Suburbia.”
I was a big fan of D.I. for a bit in the mid-80’s, sucked in by grim (and sadly now-ironic) cautionary ditties like “Richard Hung Himself” (later covered by Slayer), the propulsive “Johnny’s Got a Problem” and the anti-Orange-County-conformity screed, “O.C. Life.” Unlike most of the hardcore of their era, D.I. had a melodic penchant anchored by Royer’s capably distinctive vocals. He may not have been the most enlightened gent (Royer went on record a few times in the 80's with `zines like Flipside with some strenuously lamentable homophobic comments – not too unlike genre peers in the Meatmen and Fear), but Casey Royer’s D.I. did have their moments.
In the grand scheme of things, pedantic points about Casey Royer’s punk rock resume are ultimately meaningless. But once upon a time, this song was the jam. Here’s hoping this entire ordeal puts him back on the right course for the sake of himself and the sake of his family.
Inexplicably, my kids have the day off today. That struck me as rather odd -- in my fourteen years of Catholic school, never once did we get St. Patrick's Day off, but it's a different world, I guess. As such, my wife was wondering what she should do with the kids today, and asked if she should take them to the parade. I couldn't stop myself from grimacing. Now, don't get your shamrocks all bent out of shape -- I'm not knocking the holiday. Hell, I'm half-Irish myself. But let's face, New York City's St. Patrick's Day parade has relatively precious fuck-all to do with being Irish, and more to do with drinking, puking, crowds and stirring up trouble in the street. What ... am I wrong?
During my high school years, I lived on East 86th Street in Yorkville on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. As such, the St. Patrick's Day (btw, you will never hear me refer to it as "St. Patty's") parade marched up Fifth Avenue, then hung a wobbly right on 86th and descended beerily into my neighborhood, cramming its sidewalks with obstreperous celebrants and filling its gutters with rivulets of kelly-green refuse. I remember Father Prior sternly advising my classmates and I in an indelible, red-faced admonition against partaking in any of the shenanigans at the parade.
Maybe things have changed since then, but I kinda doubt it. St. Patrick's Day has basically lost most of its meaning and is now just another excuse -- much like New Year's Eve and Halloween -- for out-of-towners to flock into Manhattan and behave like abject morons. And 90% of them probably don't know their County Cork from their County Kerry, but are more than happy to bust into a strenuous a cappella rendition of the U2 anthem of your choice should you quiz them about the emerald isle.
To punctuate my point, I gave the wife a quick viewing of the 1992 staple below (portions of it lovingly filmed in the Old Town Bar & Grill on East 18th Street and in front of St. Patrick's Old Cathedral on Mott Street). Say what you will about House of Pain (I still love this track, personally), but it does sum up the parade pretty nicely.
Here's another image I found on J. Yuenger's page that stopped me in my tracks. For years I'd looked up at the roof of 419 Lafayette (one building south of Joe's Pub) and marveled at its lush, opulently verdant overgrowth of ivy. I haven't looked up at it in a while, so I don't know if this picture still represents it as it is today, but it's always an interesting sight in a cityscape otherwise dominated by brick, mortar, glass and steel.
I spotted the below photo on the excellent blog of J.Yuenger (ex-White Zombie guitarist, once again) and had to laugh. Yes, of course, I heartily endorse the juvenile nyucks prompted by James Hetfield's potty-mouthed t-shirt, but oddly enough the thing that really caught my eye was Lars (him to the left in the picture). Lars is depicted wearing the t-shirt from It's Only Rock n' Roll, the late, great rekkid store/memorabilia emporium on West 8th Street (I spoke about it at some length on this post). I'd always meant to procure one of those shirts (designed circa 1986 by trippy poster artist Rick Griffin) when the shop was still a going concern, but of course never got around it. If you're interested, though, you can still get one here (although sadly not in color, like Lars').
I don't mean to besmirch a church (although I do love that rhyme), but while walking to work after dropping my kids off at school the other day, I passed by The First Moravian Church of New York City at 30th Street and Lexington Avenue and was rather struck by the placard they'd hung on their notice board (see above). Don't get me wrong -- I love a bit of Bach (as far as I'm concerned "Toccata & Fugue" is absolutely fuckin' METAL!). This isn't about the church, nor is it about the celebrated Teutonic maestro. But take a look at that poster above, won't you? Do you see something weird therein? Take a closer look (click on it to enlarge).
Am I imagining things, or do the white, powdered ringlets of Johan Sebastian's wig seem to seep through the streets of Manhattan in a manner that disquietingly resembles certain indelible images like this one?
I'm not suggesting that was the desired intent, but it's a bit creepy, no? Or am I just seeing things?
Hey all. Sorry for the slower, sporadic posting of late, but I’ve been rather crazy-busy with work, kids and such things. I hope to get back to a more regular schedule of posting meaty, meaningful posts soon, but bear with me until such time.
In the interim, though, I found this clip the other morning, and found it compelling and depressing in equal measures. Watching time lapse videos always make me kinda nervous. They only seem to emphasize how quickly time is slipping away.
Here's just a quick, curious little clip I found on YouTube. For what was presumably a German television program or documentary, a hirsute Hell's Angel is interviewed on the southeast corner of St Marks Place & Second Avenue in 1970. It'll probably be even more interesting ... if you happen to speak German. Still it's a cool, fleeting little glimpse of St. Marks Place back in the day. I unfortunately can't embed it, so you'll have to click here to view it.
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