Flaming Pablum

Go Ask Alice

The list of fabled bands from New York City is long and distinguished. But for every storied NYC band like the Velvet Underground or the New York Dolls or Kiss or The Ramones or the Beastie Boys or ______ (insert your favorite here) that became known across the globe, there are innumerable droves of others who, despite their best efforts, largely failed to make household names of themselves.

Alice Donut is one of those bands.

While something of a regular fixture on the NYC rock circuit since the late 1980's, Alice Donut didn't seem to belong to any single, solitary scene. Though ostensibly a punk band, Alice Donut (their full name being the Scorsese-tweaking Alice Donut Liver Henry Moore ... geddit?) were far more than just power-chord-crazed, amphetamine-fueled noise merchants. Funny, weird, surreal and psychedelic, Alice Donut were simply too strange to be conveniently pigeon-holed.

The thing I remember most about Alice Donut, however, is this dude named Chet. After initially recognizing him from the album artwork of several Alice Donut records, I started spotting Chet all over town. Sometimes tending bar at some of my favorite East Village watering holes, sometimes at shows, sometimes wandering the streets like a loon (that's him at the top of this post in a photograph I snapped at the Coney Island Mermaid Parade in the summer of 1998), Chet became something of an amiable acquaintance of mine. It wasn't until I saw Alice Donut perform at some point in the early 90's at the late, great McGovern's on Spring Street (don't look for it now, it's long gone ... although, bizarrely, its neon sign still hangs above its former entrance), that I realized that I was completely mistaken. I'd always assumed Chet was the lead singer of Alice Donut -- being that he appeared on at least three of their album covers. As it turned out, Chet was to Alice Donut was Eddie is to Iron Maiden. He's kinda their suitably bedraggled, slightly deranged mascot. Go figure.

In any case, an old publicist friend of mine named Mark put up a link on his Facebook page today about Alice Donut, and it all came floodin' back. As it happens, while Alice Donut may have never gotten their proper due, someone has gone and made a bona fide documentary about the band called, appropriately enough, "Freaks in Love." Watch the trailer below and click here to learn more.

Somewhat tragically, Chet does not appear in the trailer.

As a suitably incongruous bonus, here's a clip of Alice Donue from 2004, playing an instrumental cover of Fugazi's "Waiting Room." Crank it up.

 

Uncovering Radio Soulwax

Like record covers? Got a couple of hours to kill? Well simply click the link below and hit play and be prepared to be entertained. As far as I can fathom, Radio Soulwax is an online "radio station" overseen by a duo named 2 Many DJs that plays a continuous stream of "mashed-up" (god, I hate that term) bits of music, accompanied by a dazzling array of album cover animation. Just hit play and you'll figure it out in no time. It's a bit like Animated Albums Tumblr, only it takes proceedings a step further by adding tunes. It's strangely addictive.

Click on this link and hit play. Don't say you weren't warned. Click here to learn more.

Back to The Planet ... Again

I've spoken about it a few times here before, but for some reason, I am still haunted by the original location of Forbidden Planet. Way before I was a ponderously insufferable music knowitall, I was a hapless comic book/sci-fi/"Advanced Dungeons & Dragons" geek. As such, Forbidden Planet was pretty much hallowed ground to me. Living in Yorkville on the Upper East Side throughout the 1980's, I would regularly make pilgrimages down to Forbidden Planet (then on the northwest corner of 12th Street and Broadway) to wander its aisles and peruse through its exotic ephemera. I loved that it was such a huge, imposing space. But that was a different time.

The photo above was snapped by one Andrew Buckle in 1989 (see more of his work here), and the shot not only lovingly captures the mighty Forbidden Planet in all its glory, but provides a fleeting glimpse of the Union Square area the way it used to be. Look over to the right -- a good decade and change before they built the mammoth building that now houses the preposterously named Regal Cinemas Union Square Stadium 14, you can still see humble buildings that formerly stood it its footprint (along with a nice bit of sky).

Forbidden Planet later moved across the street, of course (and, I believe, is slated to move once again). The space on 12th & B'way is now a comparatively staid and yawnsome shoe story called No Difference.

Up Yours, Buck Owens!

Just wanted to give a quick shout-out to my friend Tim B. for once again hooking The New York Nobody Sings back up to its life-support system. There are some great finds therein, so do go check it out.

I was moved this morning to provide a link to its most recent entry by NYCDreamin (who otherwise maintains the equally excellent blog, This Ain't the Summer of Love). This post is dedicated to "I Wouldn't Live in New York City," a hateful little ditty by the late Buck Owens and His Buckaroos off a 1971 album of the same name (that's its surprisingly gorgeous sleeve below). Follow this link to hear Buck Owens talk slap about New York City and its residents like a sanctimonious redneck.

And to echo NYCDreamin's question: "Hey, Buck, who the fuck asked you to move to New York City,anyway?"

The Revenge of the Fergie Fatwa

Disclaimer: To the more literalist readers out there, please note that the slavishly overwritten outrage expressed in the following post shouldn't be taken entirely seriously. While it's true that I believe that the Black Eyed Peas do indeed make the worst music in the world, that is only my opinion. You, of course, may beg to differ. I've upset some readers, friends and casual acquaintances in the past with my rather pointedly expressed views on the subject of music. It's not my intention to ruin your day. By the same token, if your day can be so easily ruined by something you read about music or band t-shirts on a silly weblog, perhaps it's you that needs to relax a little.

Thanks, keep reading and enjoy...
- The Management

Back in the balmy, carefree days of 2008 (yeah, right), I typed up an angry little screed about the fact that Fergie -- she of the irrefutably vile Black Eye Peas -- was depicted sporting a vintage Sisters of Mercy t-shirt in an ad for iTunes. Being that she was and remains partly responsible for inarguably some of the WORST MUSIC HUMAN EARS HAVE EVER BEEN SUBJECTED TO, I felt that she was doing a woeful disservice to the incalculably superior Sisters by wearing a garment emblazoned with their signature iconography. More to the point, I rather aggressively doubted --- and remain entirely skeptical -- that Fergie could hum a `choon by the Sisters if her very life depended on it (and wouldn't it be splendid if it did?) I found it unfathomable that someone who'd versed themselves in the icy majesty and black-hearted sturm und drang of the Sisters could go on to make music..... like this.

In the ensuing years, Fergie's only become more of an inescapable figure of pop culture. It'd be charitable of me to suggest that the music of the Black Eyed Peas has improved in the interim, although that's very clearly not the case. Evidently not satisfied with blighting the world with her shrill sonic pestilence, Fergie (or, perhaps, her stylist) has seen fit once again to rile those easily-riled among us by wearing a Black Flag t-shirt. I mean, .... seriously?

Now, it's been long-documented that I have a feverish disdain for folks who wear band t-shirts while not actually being fans -- let alone passingly familiar -- with the bands in question. Apart from maybe people leaning their seat backs into my lap during flights, it's quite possibly my biggest, planet-engulfing pet peeve (and I'm not the only one bothered by it). It seems to have died down more recently (the last egregious example I can think of was in 2009 when "Hills" dingbat Audrina Partridge was photographed wearing an Exploited t-shirt ... that just about made me want to gargle with sulfuric acid), but it does still happen. And when it does, I am more than prepared to get all bent out of shape about it. Obviously, to anyone even remotely familiar with Black Flag, theirs was a music that served as the very antidote to the slickly vacuous pop of their day. I cannot possibly imagine a band with less in common with the Black Eyed Peas than Black Flag. It's almost hard to believe they come from the same planet as each other.

Now, by my count, Fergie must be somewhere in her mid-thirties. While I'd stake my life on the notion that Audrina Partridge hasn't the foggiest fuckin' clue about who the Exploited are or what they actually sound like, I must begrudgingly admit that maybe -- just maybe -- Fergie does know and care about bands like Black Flag and the Sisters of Mercy. I honestly doubt it, but it'd be presumptuous, elitist and probably even a little misogynist of me to assert that it was an impossibility.

That said, I still think she should KNOCK IT THE HELL OFF!

Entirely trivial side note: Prior to joining the insipid ranks of the B.E.P., Fergie warbled melismatically for a breathily overwrought trio named Wild Orchid in the 1990s. While theirs was precisely the type of syrupy slop that would send me scrambling to change the station, I couldn't help noticing that their video for "At Night I Pray" was shot in Central Park. Watch it with the sound off and you might enjoy it.

Exhuming the Wetlands

Over the course of the weekend out on the `Island, I found myself at a dinner party thrown by some friends of ours on Saturday night, gathered around a table with a few fellow Manhattanites. The discussion turned to "favorite since-closed places in New York City" (believe it or not, I did not start this particular conversation). After citing a few choice restaurants and bars like Grange Hall, the Cedar Tavern (that was was mine, obviously) and ... er.. The Vault, the thread turned to music venues and the table lit up.

While I was slightly bemused that no one other than myself cited that ol' warhorse CBGB, the one place that the entire table concurred upon was Wetlands Preserve, a club that formerly held sway on the corner of Laight Street and Hudson back in the 1990s. While, yes, inarguably the flashpoint for countless lamentable neo-hippy jam bands, Wetlands had a booking policy that was refreshingly devoid of stylistic parameter. The list of artists I was lucky enough to witness on Wetlands' intimate stage is as diverse as it is long. From hemp-heralding hippie jams to hair-hating hardcore punk, Wetlands welcomed all and sundry into its spacious interior.

Wetlands closed in 2001 and is now a pricey furniture store, if memory serves. Below is a trailer I found this morning for a documentary about the place I'd be very curious to see. Strangely enough, the most cogent, on-point quote therein comes from Darius Rucker of Hootie & the Blowish (of all people):

"Y'all Don't Have Enough Condos in New York City? DAMN!"

Highway Star

Renting a car and hittin' the road for the weekend. Seat-belts on, kids!

Once Upon a Time on The Bowery

Not to sound cynical, but you'd think we'd have all heard these stories by now (and this, mind you, is coming from me -- a shameless nostaligst!) In any case, it seems that the BBC has cooked up another documentary about the creatively fertile mid-to-late 1970's in NYC called "Once Upon a Time in New York - The Birth of Hip hop, Disco & Punk." Should you be interested, click here to both find out more and watch.

Honestly speaking, I haven't had time this week to watch it, but I plan to do so shortly (being that it's promised to be "well-executed and extensive"). I quite enjoyed a documentary on Vh1 a number of years back called "NY77: The Coolest Year in Hell," which hit all the same notes in a nice, stylish manner. We'll see if this one holds up.

I've lamented it before, but I do wish there was more focus paid to the eras after the fabled late 70's in NYC. A couple of docs and books have surfaced about No Wave and hardcore, but I'm always left wantiing more. After all, there were more bands that played at CBGB beyond simply the Ramones, Television and Patti Smith.

Speaking of CBGB, check out this remarkable photo of 315 Bowery, which I found on this site.

Terry's Tees

Honestly, I really don’t know anything about Terry Richardson other than that he seems to have accrued a rather convincing reputation as something of a perv. That may not be the case – for all I know he could be a totally stand-up guy. The photography of his that I have seen all seems to occupy a disarming middle-ground between the pioneering transgression of Richard Kern and the thinly-veiled, DIY rec room soft-porn of American Apparel advertising. He’s also something of a hipster deity, I gather. But, y’know, again – I’ve never met the guy.

I stumbled upon his website today, however, at work (it was linked off to from a story about ::gasp:: Jennifer Aniston’s new romance) and was struck by something. Terry may be many things – sleazy shutterbug, maddeningly ubiquitous scenemaker, facial-hair-criminal, etc. – but at the very least, it turns out that he’s a fan of old school hardcore and has excellent taste in t-shirts (that's one of his shots above). So… y’know…he can't be all that bad. Check out his gallery of T-shirts of the Week here.

Where have all the cool kids gone?

Here's a bit of a bizarre sequel to that Kajagoogoo post of last week.

Back when I was more of a regular contributor to the ILX Music boards, I used to frequently spar with estimable rock writer Chuck Eddy (he of "Stairway to Hell" fame) over the dubious merits of Maryland proto-hair metal band Kix. Chuck considered them unsung pioneers (or something). I didn't necessarily have anything against them, but I still failed to see why he rated them so highly. I actually saw Kix play in 1988 or so, opening for the fleetingly reunited Dead Boys at one of their annual Christmas shows at The Ritz. Again, they were fine, but nothing to write home about. Allmusic.com contends that Bret Michaels of those upstarts in Poison shamelessly ripped off all his stage moves from Kix frontman Steve Whiteman. Even if that's true, is that really something to champion?

In any case, why am I discussing all this now? Well, it turns out the indefatigable Kix are still touring today (albeit after a breakup, some attrition and the inevitable spate of reunions), and I had to write up a little blurb about their upcoming show at B.B. King's Blues Bar on 42nd street in July for The New Yorker. In doing so, I unearthed the video from 1983 below. Much like the video I cited last week by the strenuously lamentable Kajagoogoo, the clip for "Cool Kids" by Kix is notable not for its musical merits (if there are any), but rather for the fact that it seems to have been shot entirely in SoHo.

In the opening segment, the band is depicted inexplicably holding court in the parking lot on the eastern side of Wooster Street (you can see Rene's "I Am The Best Artist" mural on the wall behind them). Later,the Kix boys and a gaggle of excitable acolytes are seen cavorting about West Broadway.

While never really a hotbed of hair-metal or hard rock in any era of recent memory, SoHo today is, of course, just a big outdoor shopping mall. The afore-cited mural that graced the wall of that parking lot was permanently painted over a few years back. These streets that Kix and Kajagogoo once respectively strutted around are still vaguely recognizable, but I wouldn't hold my breath expecting either ensemble to reprise their cameos on same any time soon. The cool kids, it seems, have fled the neighborhood.