Flaming Pablum

With Your Bitch Slap Rappin' and Your Cocaine Tongue You Get Nothing Done

I noticed with some bemusement recently that a band purporting to be Guns N' Roses is playing at Webster Hall this coming week. The original line-up of same famously played that venue back in 1988 when it was still called The Ritz. In honor of this coming event, Webster Hall is re-naming itself "The Ritz."

I hate to be Johnny Pedantic (who, me?), but Guns N' Roses DID technically play the Ritz again after that late 80's show -- only it was the Ritz that had moved uptown to the site of the ol' Studio 54. I know because -- WAIT FOR IT -- *I WAS THERE*. It was 1991, and the band had just announced an intimate club date to celebrate the release of the Use Your Illusion albums. It was also at this show wherein they taped the video for "You Could Be Mine."

Getting tickets for this gig was a very complicated affair. You couldn't just walk up to the box office and get'em. Because I was unencumbered with employment at the time, my friend Rob B. recruited me to go and stand on line all day on West 54th Street (in front of that garage that, I believe, is no longer there) to claim a voucher (see below). You then came back with your voucher and then got a wrist-band. That wrist-band then enabled you to go through some other painstaking process (blood test? urine sample? Who remembers?) to actually gain entry into the premises.

If truth be told, I wasn't that big a fan of the band. I mean, I certainly liked them, but despite all the talk of them being so punky and street, I didn't really see much credibly "punk" about them beyond their penchant for wearing T.S.O.L. and CBGB t-shirts in their videos (yes, I realize Duff was in Seattle's Fartz, but you'd have never guessed it from their sound). Regardless, I certainly liked my share of dumb metal as well, and G N' R fit that bill nicely. I do have fond memories of Appetite for Destruction. During my senior year of college, I lived off-campus with six other idiots, and Appetite was one of the exceptionally few albums that we could all agree upon. As such, it scored many an irresponsible evening of ill-considered beer-consumption and petty property damange. 

Regardless, this show was indeed something special. For a start, there were massive camera towers on the floor. And the band's stadium-ready sound system, I'm sure, probably had something to do with the tinnitus that I now grapple with. I remember drummer Matt Sorum wearing a Sisters of Mercy t-shirt, Axl making more costume changes than a Liza Minelli drag revue and Duff McKagan attempting a drunken stage-dive. It was indeed a fun evening.

Today, the original Ritz is now Webster Hall. Studio 54 stopped being the New Ritz at some point in the mid-90's (which was unforunate -- it is a great venue). It now plays host to Broadway shows, if memory serves. Guns N' Roses, meanwhile, soldier on as Axl's little folly. Maybe Duff or Slash will pull a surprise cameo at this upcoming gig. I wouldn't hold your breath.

After the Gold Wush

In the wake of my accidental homage to Ian Dury & the Blockheads' New Boots & Panties! last week, here are my little cinammon girl & boy, Charlotte & Oliver, unknowingly paying tribute to Neil Young's opus, After the Gold Rush at the exact same spot the album cover was shot at (with a hat-tip to Bob Egan of PopShotsNYC). Yes, it's that slow a day here at Chez Pablum.

A Smile Relieves a Heart That Grieves

Here's a bit of ancient history.

I was doing a bit of ersatz spring cleaning on my blog roll recently and was sad to discover that East Village Transitions had come to a grinding halt in December of 2010. I suppose I'm remiss for not having checked back with it sooner, but I'm always somewhat saddened when someone gives up their blog. In any case, while perusing the dormant site, I came across this post regarding the Rolling Stones' fabled video shoot for "Waiting on a Friend," which was shot on St. Marks Place in July of 1981.

It's quite hard to fathom that said single -- and Tattoo You, the album from whence it sprang -- are now 31 years old. That's the 45's sleeve art up top (shot through the window of Second Hand Rose's on East 12th Street, just off Broadway). Many credibly argue that Tattoo You was the last decent, full LP the Stones would ever make. Personally speaking, I still love a couple of tracks on Undercover, but I can't argue with the popular consensus too much. Anyway, I've always loved "Waiting on a Friend" not just because it's an excellent song (which, of course, it is), but because it so effortlessly captured the old summery East Village vibe. To watch it now, you'd hardly recognize the location.

In any case, East Village Transitions links off to a discussion board that featured a slew of other photographs from the shoot (credited dubiously to one Mack Jigger). Even if you're not a Stones fan, you may enjoy this montage of early 80's St. Marks Place.

Click on them to enlarge...

These days, the stoop whereupon Mick, Keef and -- somewhat incongruously -- Peter Tosh were seen lounging looks more or less like this....

View Larger Map

Meanwhile, St. Marks Bar & Grill ... where the Stones congregate in the tail end of the clip, is long, long gone, replaced by a few incarnations (I remember ducking in there with the wife once when it was called Tribe). Today, it's a joint called VBar.

And, ..... of course, you can see the original video by clicking right here.

Sanctuary Sold

Is Super Bowl hysteria on the wane yet? Doesn't seem like it. People are still wetting their pants about what a Brazilian supermodel had to say about the shoddy performance of her quarterback husband's teammates and how aghast they were that M.I.A. flipped the bird at the half-time show (isn't that why you invite M.I.A. places to begin with?) Meanwhile, the Giants are being feted as if they collectively destroyed Al Qaeda and found a cure for cancer. Can't we all move on?

Well, since it's obviously not over yet, and I already got my big, cloyingly sanctimonious post about it out of the way, here's one about the other thing at the Super Bowl that really took a giant crap in my coffee. I should point out that I didn't see it air in real time, because -- SURPRISE -- I wasn't watching the fucking Super Bowl, but it was all over the place the next day. And now I must throw in my two cents. I'm talking, of course, about the Budweiser ad below.

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I wrote a big, windy post about my love for The Cult back in 2006, so if you really need to read a laboriously overwritten rumination about their greatness and endearing ludicrousness, click right here. If you feel the urge to skip that trek down memory lane, I completely understand and forgive you. Just know that my first hearing of “She Sells Sanctuary” by the Cult,  in the long lost summer of 1985, lodged itself firmly in my brain as something so devoid of any semblance of flaw that it’s almost as if the gods themselves crafted it. As a song, it was and remains a crystalline slice of chiming rock excellence. You may beg to differ, but you’d be wrong to, of course.

The Cult went on to explore many hills and valleys in the quality department and experimented with a variety of sounds and accompanying hairstyles, even managing to crank out a clutch of sturdy, memorable cuts along the way. But never again (or, at least, not as yet) have they attained the heights they so effortlessly scaled with "She Sells Sanctuary" (although, to be fair, "Rain" and "Wild Flower" are both unimpeachably sublime). Even if they never again recorded a note of music or treaded manfully onto another concert stage for the rest of their days, the greatness of their legacy remains captured like a foppish goth mosquito imprisoned in amber by the brilliance that is "She Sells Sanctuary."

But, the cruel march of time goads many into needlessly fucking things up.

This isn't the first time "She Sells Sanctuary" has leant its aural splendor to the cause of advertising. A few years back, it was utilized for a car commercial (although I'm hard pressed to name the brand). This one, however, stings a bit more and for a variety of reasons.

For a start -- and let's clear this up right away -- BUDWEISER ISN'T EVEN A DECENT BEER! To quote the Cult's fellow countryman, Michael Palin, drinking Budweiser is somewhat akin to having sex in a canoe -- it's fucking close to water. I'm not suggesting for a moment that I haven't slain entire cases of the stuff in my day, but the discerning beer-drinker usually opts for Bud only in those tragic instances wherein there is no other choice.

Secondly, I realize it has become the dominant musical and cultural force in the last few decades, but must we hip-hoppify absolutely everything? Must EVERY bit of music now come clunkily appended with some jackass with a microphone blabbering over it like an auctioneer on crack? I'm not categorically damning hip hop (although it's been something of a damn long time since I heard a rapper who was genuinely doing anything new with the genre), but can't we just leave certain things alone? Must everything be "mashed-up"?

This certainly isn't the first time I've gotten bent out of shape about this song. I was once emphatically discouraged by some friends of mine from pursuing an argument in an East Village bar back in the early 90s that surely would have ended in fisticuffs, spilled drinks and tears after some rube unsolicitedly offered his opinion that "She Sells Sanctuary" was just a thin re-write of Rush's "Closer to the Heart." You could see flames shooting out of my ears. Ironically, I adore Rush. 

To some, I'm obviously sounding way too precious about something entirely trivial. Ultimately and despite the high emotions, it's all simply entertainment, at the end of the day (even the Super Bowl), and god knows there are incalculably larger fish to be fried. Moreover, pop songs have been licensed out to commercials now for decades -- it's hardly a new phenomenon. That doesn't make it right, but it's certainly nothing new. But, again, for many of us -- the pairing of something that prompts so many visceral, life-affirming emotions with the shoddy trappings and implied associations of commerce is a painful thing. For me, "She Sells Sanctuary" means more than Budweiser, breakdancing and :::::cough, spit:::: the fucking Super Bowl. No, "She Sells Sanctuary" doesn't belong to me (although I suppose it doesn't belong to Ian Astbury and Billy Duffy anymore either), but that doesn't mean it deserves to be bludgeoned, manhandled, buggered and re-packaged to appeal to the Ke$ha generation.

Please. Leave it alone.

Fine Young Decibels

It's been a while since I've posted anything here about my tinnitus. It's still there, of course, and I'd imagine that at this point, it always will be. I've largely acclimated to the constant ring. All I can do is hope, pray and take as many precautions as I can against it ever getting any worse. But like everyone else, I'm prone to getting lazy and/or careless. I still love my music, and often times, it needs to be loud for me to hear it (let alone enjoy it). It's a dangerous game in that respect.

When it comes to live, amplified sound, I don't mess around. It's weapons-grade earplugs or nothing when I go to concerts. I can't specifically pinpoint where most of the damage I did to my hearing took place, but I can certainly, vividly remember several gigs in the early 90's (Motorhead, Buzzcocks and My Bloody Valentine, specifically) wherein a toll was certainly taken. Between those shows and my constant headphone use, I'd say the culprits are pretty easy to track. Regardless, I'm still the one to blame.

I don't care what sort of music you listen to, it just bears repeating that you need to turn it down and protect yourself. To quote ol' Davey B., look out, you rock'n'rollers -- pretty soon now, you're gonna get older. And when you do, you'll probably find all sorts of things you took for granted failing on you. That is, unless you're careful now.

In case you're thinking I'm just being a pious hypochondriac, here's a great testimony about same by writer and former Bitch Magnet guitarist Jon Fine. Fine's commitment to feral rock abandon almost prevents him from admitting any regret or preaching temperance like I did in the previous paragraph, but you can tell that the damage he's wrecked on his hearing weighs heavily upon him.

Think about it. And here's a taste of Bitch Magnet...

A Whole New Ball Game

If you know me in “real life” or have taken even a passing glance at this weblog in the past six years, you’ve obviously gleaned by now that I am not, in any way, shape or form, a sports fan. Never is this more evident than around Super Bowl time. With my own city having one of its teams in said contest this year, Super Bowl mania seemed to attain a shrill new level of inescapability, and folks found it nigh on inconceivable that I wasn’t at all enthused about the “big game.” What made that difficult for me this year is that it’s not that I just don’t care about football, it’s that I actively, virulently and pointedly dislike football. And then some.

“Geek chic” may have become all the rage in recent years, but it’s basically all a shallow pose. It’s not that I take pride in having been an genuine geek or a nerd (some will argue the nuanced distinctions between these two terms, but that’s a debate for another day), but it was no act. Growing up, I was that guy. I read comic books, played “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons,” loved music and art, had an upper musculature similar to Kermit the Frog’s and probably threw like a girl. I wasn’t athletic in the slightest and I harbored no desire to be so. I didn’t give a damn about sports, had no interest in watching them – let alone playing them – and was pretty appalling at them when I tried. As it happened, peers of mine who were athletically-inclined frequently took it upon themselves to single out those of us who weren’t. There were a few of us, but there was no actual strength in our numbers. Suffice to say, there was a pronounced antipathy between the two camps that frequently spilled over into physical hostility. I’ll let you guess which side was generally victorious.

So, yeah – guess what? I hate to generalize, but I hate jocks. Always have. Always will. I know, they’re not all bad – and people shouldn’t be broadly dismissed because of their individual predilections. Not every sports aficionado is a dim-witted, knuckle-dragging, meat-necked date-rapist, but all too often, the terms “jock” and “bully” have been pretty much interchangeable. I’m sure you’d find a whole mess of folks who’d agree with me on that point.

But, I moved on with my life, as we all (hopefully) do. Two of my college roommates were football players. Hell, I even pitched for the TIME Magazine softball team for over a decade – and managed to get to a level of … well, maybe not proficiency, but at least to a point where I wasn’t embarrassing myself (although I’d point out that I joined the team exclusively for the reasons of socializing and not for the purposes of demonstrating any prowess on the pitching mound .. that was just a gradual accident). But the marks on my psyche left by oppressive jocks and (what I see as) pig-headed American sports culture in general were indelible. And I doubt I’ll ever change my tune about that.

But this isn’t really about me. Years later, I’m now the father of two little children. My daughter Charlotte came home from school about two weeks ago with a very colorfully designed cut-out of a football helmet. Evidently, her class was given blank outlines of football helmets and they were instructed to design them accordingly, presumably in anticipation of the Super Bowl. As such, little Charlotte’s football helmet came home endearingly covered with incongruous flowers, smiley faces and peace signs, which – to my mind – is as it should be. Since I hadn't conditioned her to pick a team or root for anyone particular, she didn't "go blue." What I wasn’t thrilled about was how football had somehow sneaked into her scholastic indoctrination.

Being that neither myself nor my wife are sports fans (to put it mildly), my kids practically never hear about professional sports at home. They just don’t play that much of a role in our lives. I think it’s crucial that my kids are active and participate in every aspect of their schooling (and that completely involves athletic activities), but I don’t particularly think that means I have to instill an awareness – much less a reverence – for professional sports in them. Obviously, if they pick it up themselves along the way, that’s out of my hands. But I’m sure as hell not going to force-feed an appreciation for something that I think already has a stifling stranglehold on our culture. We've actually discussed getting our son Oliver (age 5) involved in a soccer program. As much as I was never a particular fan of the game, Oliver does exude the sort boundless energy that might make it a great, fun outlet for him. Maybe he'll be into it. Maybe he won't. We'll see.

As a father, though, I'm trying to stay on the right side. I think my biggest fear is that I'll turn into simply the equally egregious opposite of the overbearing sports dad. I mean, what's the difference between outfitting one's little children in sports jerseys and black band t-shirts? In both instances, it's the projected tastes and wills of the parent, right? I need to not make professional sports a taboo in my household. But I still can't help myself from making those afore-mentioned associations.

Who knows? Maybe my kids will end up being ::::shudder::::: sports fans!

I kinda doubt it.

Tunes for Tweenage Wildlife

For my myriad sins, I was handed a particularly cruel task this morning. Y'see, there's a "family disco" happening at my kids' grade school next Friday night, and my wife just happens to be on the parents' committee. As such, she handed me a thickly-stuffed envelope this morning. "What's this?" I asked, still clutching my coffee. "These are song requests from the students," said the wife. "I need you to sort through them and compile them into a list to give to the d.j." Oh, grand.

I've been to a couple of these events before, and similar affairs like birthday parties for the friends of my kids, and I'm frequently bemused shocked at some of the music choices. As someone who probably takes music way too seriously and -- really, let's face it -- uses it as a measure of judgment against people, that shouldn't be entirely surprising. I remember being somewhat disconcerted at a party not too long back wherein "Bad Romance" by Lady Gaga was blasting at Zepplinesque levels for a throng of hopped-up first graders. While, no, I actually don't mind Lady Gaga (or that song, at least), I'm not entirely sure that a lusty little ditty about a dysfunctional relationship is really the most appropriate song to score a 7-year-old's birthday party, but maybe I'm just a stuffy old poop. It was certainly great fun trying to explain to my daughter why Gaga kept screaming "I DON'T WANNA BE FRIENDS" throughout the proceedings.

By the same token, I guess I prefer Lady Gaga over the dimming reign of Miley Cyrus (who, of course, spends her time these days being photographed wagging her tongue at cock-shaped cakes). I'm trying to remember what played at that parties I attended when I was in the lower levels of grade school. It was probably the contemporary pop music of the day as well, but suffice to say that there's now a lot of real estate between that day and this day.

In any case, I dutifully sat down at my computer and opened the envelope, removing and unfolding each little ballot. There were plenty of predictable choices like Katy Perry and Michael Jackson. While, yes, I bitterly loathe both of those acts, I can't say I was surprised to find either of them well represented. Encouragingly, Canadian teen irritant Justin Bieber got only a solitary request (that being "Never Say Never," which ... I'm assuming ... is not a cover of the Romeo Void single). I fired up YouTube to check out some of the selections I'd never heard of like "Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People (not entirely objectionable), "Domino" by Jesse J (abject trash) and "Dynamite" by Taio Cruz (a lamentable dollop of shrill pop product that makes the Black Eyed Peas sound like friggin' Brian Wilson). This latter selection got a disarming amount of votes from the first grade.

There were more than a few requests that made me wince, notably "Sexy and I Know It" by LMFAO (requested by someone in pre-kindergarten). Granted, I'm an unapologetic rockist who pretty much despises this type of pop bullshit to begin with, but even if you're a genuine fan of this stuff -- do you really think it's meant for the sub-tween set?

There were a couple of surprises that didn't make me gag. I was bemused to find the Kinks' standard, "You Really Got Me" and Ace Frehley's "New York Groove" both get shout-outs. My wife sternly warned me not to creatively edit or augment the list in any way. So, as much as I might've wished to add something by Danzig, Killing Joke or Venom (hey ... if they're already requesting bump n' grind anthems like Rihanna, would a little bit of doomy occult-infused sturm und drang really make a difference?), I dutifully refrained. Had I been asked to deejay the event (I wasn't, although I have been recruited to tend the bar for the parents), you can bet the soundtrack would be strikingly different.

For the curious, here's the playlist so far...

"Domino" by Jesse J
"Kung Fu Fighting" by Carl Douglas
"Rolling in the Deep" by Adele
"Cotton Eye Joe" 
"Party Rock Anthem" by LMFAO
"Dynamite" by Taio Cruz
"Beat It" by Michael Jackson
"The One that Got Away" by Katy Perry
"You Really Got Me" by the Kinks
"Moves like Jagger" by Maroon 5
"Sexy and I Know It" by LMFAO
"We Found Love" by Rihanna
"Time Warp" from the Rocky Horror Picture Show
"Pumped Up Kicks" by Foster the People
"Never Say Never" by Justin Bieber
"Firework" by Katy Perry
"You Make Me Feel" by Cobra Starship
Florence + the Machine
"Hey Soul Sister" by Train
"We Will Rock You" by Queen
"New York Groove" by Ace Frehley  
"Dancing Queen" by Abba
"Waterloo" by Abba
"Someone Like You" by Adele
"Don't Stop" by Gin Wigmore
"I Like to Move It" by Reel 2 Real
"Ghostbusters" by Ray Parker Jr.
"Thriller" by Michael Jackson
"I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor
"Tonight Tonight" by Hot Chelle Ray
"Don't Go Breakin' My Heart" by Elton John & Kiki Dee
"Take a Chance on Me" by Abba
"YMCA" by the Village People
"Peaceful World" by John Mellencamp
"The Chicken Dance"

 

I See NoEVil

My wife spotted this in the Real Estate section of the Times this morning and we shared a laugh....

Being both underrated and generally affordable (remember we are talking NYC here), Kips Bay is a superbly innocuous neighborhood close to -- well -- almost all of the hip neighborhoods that are both overrated and expensive. Grammercy Park, Eataly and Madison Park are all within dog-walking distance; Chelsea and the High Line are a crosstown bus away; and even Williamsburg is a mere 14-block walk and one subway stop away. Hop on the Second Avenue bus (or ride your fixie) and you're in the Lower East Side. We are trying to get Kips Bay renamed "NoEVil" (North of the East Village) to capture its cachet -- but without having to pay for it.
- Frank  M., East 28th Street

What's a "fixie"? 

Wither Whaleamena?

I initially spoke about it back here on this post from 2010, but for some reason, I recently got to wondering whatever happened to the whale that used to hold court in the center of the Central Park Children’s Zoo. Well, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t wonder where it went so much as assume that it was simply dismantled and destroyed. As it turns out, much like the big lizard who used to perch on the top of the Lone Star Café on the southeast corner of East 13th Street and Fifth Avenue (who now inexplicably lives Texas), it’s still around. Who knew?

As I said back in that earlier post, I have really vivid memories of that whale. When I was a little, doe-eyed lad, the Children’s Zoo – as mangy and smelly and depressing as it might’ve been – was still a big favorite of mine. I’ve taken my own kids to it since, although it’s a very different (and jaw-droppingly expensive) experience today. But whenever I do visit the place, my eyes still expect to see the whale (who, being white …or at least a very pale blue … I’d always assumed was supposed to be Moby Dick). But, that whale is gone.

As I learned via this informative link, the whale – whose name, evidently, is “Whaleamena” – can now be found (augmented with mosaic) at the entrance to the Boardwalk at Beach 95th street in the Rockaways. Click here to see a shot of her today.

Second Avenue New Wave

As a lark, I picked up that new Talking Heads DVD, Chronology. You'd think with a title like that, it would be this sprawling collection of footage, but it isn't, really. Not including bonus material, it's basically 18 cuts that stretch from 1978 through to their somewhat stiff and ultimately meaningless Rock n' Roll Hall of Fame induction performance in 2002. Strangely, there are no songs featured from any of their efforts post Speaking in Tongues. That's not really a complaint, mind you, just an observation. If you're a fan of the band, it's pretty cool, but one would be hard pressed to call it essential. The finest bit on it is a performance of "Crosseyed and Painless" from 1980, which really finds the band firing on all cylinders.

There are a couple of clips, however, that were recorded here NYC in August of 1978 at a venue I'd never hear of called the Entermedia Theater. The photograph above by Eileen Colton was taken at the gig in question. Both of the clips from the DVD are culled from a larger recording of the performance which I've since found on YouTube, which you can see below. I did a little bit of research and was surprised to learn that the short-lived Entermedia Theatre is, today, the Village East Cinema, on the corner of East 12th and 2nd Avenue. I remember my Mom taking me to go see "Joseph & the Technicolor Dreamcoat" in that same space in about 1981. You can read a larger history of the space on this typically authoritative post by -- wait for it -- Jeremiah Moss.

Even if you're not a fan of vintage Talking Heads, the opening shots of the crowd hobnobbing prior to the gig are pretty entertaining. For fans of the neighborhood, you can even catch a glimpse of the ill-fated "Chow Mein" sign that hung above Jade Mountain behind the bespectacled Talking Heads fan with the strenuously unfortunate hair at about 00:21.

Enjoy.