In all honesty, while still noteworthy for its gritty depictions of early 80's Manhattan (SoHo and TriBeCa, mostly), there is something kind of excruciating about "Permanent Vacation." Protagonist Allie, portrayed somewhat cloyingly by Chris Parker, isn't exactly that sympathetic a character. Coupled with his adenoidal voice and indefinable accent, by the middle of the film, I found myself truly rooting against the guy. The film plays very much like someone's first effort -- the plot is thin, the pacing is erratic and the acting is spectacularly abysmal. In terms of cinema, it makes comparable films of the era like Glen O'Brien's "Downtown 81" and Amos Poe's "The Foreigner" practically seem like big budget action flicks. But, I'm glad I saw it.
The real treat, though, was watching "Stranger Than Paradise" again. Jarmusch was honing his style by this point, and the film holds together with much more cohesion than its predecessor. While also very far from a slick, conventionally-constructed movie, "Stranger Than Paradise" exudes that familiar haunting quality that marked many of Jarmusch's later films like "Mystery Train" and "Dead Man."
Unsurprisingly, I thrilled once again to the atmospheric footage of grim downtown Manhattan when Ava first walks the Bowery in search of her cousin's Lower East Side apartment. The streets she slowly traverses are barely recognizable today. For the sake of illustration, I took my kids out for a stroll today in an ersatz homage to that segment of the film. Compare and contrast the location of where Bleecker meets Bowery below. 1984 and 2012, respectively. Talk about strange.
1984:
2012:
ADDENDUM: Who can name the location of the shot at the top of this post?
I remember going from being incredulous to downright angry during an exchange with a girl I used to know at a diner on Columbus Circle in the late 90's when she tried to tell me that Bauhaus had patched things up and were reuniting and touring. I dismissively snorted and probably laughed insufferably in her face at her silly declaration (`cos, after all, she's a girl .... what do girls know?) She tenaciously clung to her ridiculous assertion, apparently oblivious to the fact that she was dealing with an expert. The exchange swiftly devolved into what would conventionally be construed as a fight, replete with the lobbing of several withering pejoratives and rutheless attempts at character assassination. "Don't tell me my business, woman." etc. We may have left it as a wager.
Well, guess what.
She was right, I was an idiot and, very probably, an asshole.
Is this one of those times?
Earlier this week, a certain photograph of (what looks like) two iconic figures in the youthful blush of their respective 80s heydays bloomed like a vine of verdant ivy on the Internet and was suddenly everywhere. I first spotted it on Facebook via Flipside, but the image has evidently been floating around for some time. Basically, it looked like a picture of Brooke Shields gratuitously partaking of some ganja while sitting on a couch next to the inimitable H.R. of hardcore royalty, Bad Brains. Was that really her? That postulation took off like a rocket, vaulting the debate out of the music geek ghetto and into more mainstream arenas.
Some took it as self-evident. Others stopped short of declaring it fact.
Personally speaking, I didn't buy it ... and, frankly, still don't.
Why not? I mean, I'd certainly love to believe it's true, but it just doesn't add up. The debate took hold in my office, roping in several of my colleagues. But just like in that diner on Columbus Circle, the more the theory was asserted as a foregone conclusion, the more certain I became that the opposite was true. Just because lots of people believe that something is fact doesn't make it so. 50,000,000 Elvis fans can be wrong.
My argument was two-fold. For a start, you can't see the young woman's eyes. Think back to everything you know about Brooke Shields, and invariably the first image that's going to pop into your brain is her piercing pair of blue eyes. Without being able to see those, it could just be some random woman.
Secondly, the circumstances didn't really make sense. By this point in her career, it seems strenuously unlikely at best that the budding supermodel and actress (who'd have been fresh from promoting the box office poison that was "Sahara" at the time) would be so liberally forsaking her guard and compromising her meticulously cultivated career in one fell swoop like this. Not in 1983.
Sure, people get lazy and careless. We've all had pictures taken of us when we weren't aware or prepared (hell, she isn't looking at the camera -- maybe she didn't realize one was in the room). But I just couldn't fathom the notion of Brooke Shields getting high with Bad Brains. She doesn't seem cool enough for that, given her penchant for hanging out with indefensibly terrifying bozos like Michael Jackson and the like.
But, you know what? Weird shit happens. People mix and mingle in any number of unimaginable circumstances for any number of unlikely reasons. That's just part of the rich tapestry of life. Examples are everywhere. I have a comparatively straight-laced step-uncle and aunt in New Jersey who used to babysit Metallica's Lars Ulrich. My in-laws once had dinner in a hotel bar with the full membership of AC/DC. Rachel Weisz once used my bathroom. Uma Thurman bummed a smoke off my friend Rob. I once spilled a full beer all over J.G. "Foetus" Thirlwell. Jay Mohr once pulled up a chair at a SoHo eatery and dined with my friend Sean and I. Celebs, public figures, rock stars and regular folks all live on the same planet and everybody interacts, however strangely. It very well could have been Brooke Shields partaking of the chalice with H.R. Stranger things have certainly happened.
On Friday, though, I wasn't being quite so open-minded. I still don't think it's really her, but yesterday, it was more about proving people wrong than thoughtfully assessing the possibilities. In response to my point that Brooke wasn't cool enough to be hanging out with Bad Brains, my hilarious co-worker Helen chimed in..."What about that picture of Brooke with Stiv Bator?"
I shut her down with a quick "That was Bebe Buell."
In fact, however, she meant this picture.....taken by I'm sadly not sure who.
So yeah, .... Brooke Shields knows punk rock. I owe Helen an apology for that one.
In the wake of all this shit, it's now Saturday morning, and I still don't think it's Brooke. Look at the photo again. Is that a mole under her left eye? Maybe it's an imperfection on the film, but Brooke Shields doesn't have a mole like that.
Officially-speaking, a rep for the Bad Brains had said "yes, it's her," while Brooke's handlers have said "no, it's not." I'm not sure why it would matter at this point. Were I Brooke Shields today, I'd probably take this opportunity to enhance my coolster cred and say "Hell yeah, that was me!" But, for whatever reason, she's not choosing to do that. Maybe she's concerned about telegraphing the wrong message to her kids.
Speaking of which, I actually see Brooke Shields in my neighborhood from time to time (I believe her kids go to Grace Church school on Broadway). Maybe I'll ask her next time I see her.
Okay, this is awesome. Flaming Pablum favorite Bob Egan of PopSpots NYC has apparently payed a visit to dear ol’ Blighty, and come back with a robust selection of intricate album cover origins that’ll make you spill your tea. Click here to see Bob divine the original locations for such albums as Bowie’s The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, Ian Dury’s New Boots & Panties, the Beatles’ Abbey Road, the first Clash album (see above) and much, much more. If you’re a fan of slavish attention to detail, you’ll so dig it.
I did want to add one thing, though: Bob traces the covers of the Beatles compilations 1962-1966 and 1967-1970 (or Red and Blue, respectively) to the EMI House on Manchester Square. Those fabled photographs were also mimicked by….
I suppose one could argue that the time for putting up images of the World Trade Center as it once stood passed about two or three weeks ago, but that's not really the reason I'm posting this image. I'm just rather entranced by the airy expanse of it all. Whatever happened to lots like that? Silly, I know.
Shamefully, I don't remember where I first saw this picture, when it was taken nor -- most crucially -- who took it. I could have seen it on Tumblr, but can't be sure. It's been on my desktop for a while, and I felt compelled to share it.
Regardless, it's a lovely photograph. Click on it to enlarge. Enjoy. Happy Friday
In my travels in midtown today, I found myself walking by the newly-former site of Colony Records. Honestly speaking, I was never a regular customer there, and the times I did darken its doors, I rarely found what I was looking for. But, all the same, I liked that it had a rich back history and, simply, that it was there. Now it’s not.
Sadly, my favorite aspect of the place – its signature, museum-worthy neon “record girl” – is also gone.
Been re-discovering much of my long dormant music collection now that I've made the jump to iTunes/iPod, etc. Dug this little numbah out of dark corner and rediscovered its riotously naughty majesty.
Prior to first hearing the `Fiend, I was of the mindset that the gloomy gothic contingent of the mid-to-early 80's UK occupied a stridently cerebral place in the food chain.....with bands like Siouxsie & the Banshees, Theatre of Hate, Sisters of Mercy and Bauhaus concentrating more on sombre, highbrow themes. My sister brought home the bat-shaped e.p. by the Specimen ("Kiss Kiss Bang Bang"/"Returning from a Journey"), which was certainly a campier taste -- closer to, say, the Cramps, but nothing prepared me for Acid Bath by their Batcave peers in Alien Sex Fiend.
After befriending a 6'8" swimmer with a peroxide mohawk by the name of Jef my freshman year of college, I kept hearing this magnificently droney, busy, buzzing, mind-warping record come sonically seeping out of his room down the hall like a noxious purple cloud of goop-splattered evil.Wrongfully comparing them to a cross between Killing Joke and New Order, he slapped a copy of Acid Bath in my hand and guaranteed that after a solitary listen, I'd be addicted.
Like Killing Joke and New Order only in their utlization of dance rhthyms and aggressively punky guitars, Alien Sex Fiend were entirely their own band otherwise (despite this album being produced by erstwhile Joke bassist, Youth). Rapturously sloppy, depraved and utterly rude (the album is rife with burps, belches, grunts, prurient groans and a tireless parade of slackjawed allusions to sex and drugs), if Alien Sex Fiend were to be included within the same community as the Banshees, Bauhaus et al., they were very assuredly representing the bottom half (gleefully steeping themselves in lowbrow humor and campy horror as opposed aspirations of anything resembling art that takes itself seriously).
But art it is! From the garish, messy cover painting (rife with subtle difference depending on which edition you've gotten ahold of) to the music contained therein (ditto), Acid Bath -- like albums I've extolled the merits of here before -- boasts a sound and aesthetic that is entirely and distinctively all its own (like Kiss' Destroyer, This Mortal Coil's It'll End in Tears and Adam & the Ants' Kings of the Wild Frontier). Nothing else sounds like it.
Best experienced either on headphones or in a dark, black-lit room with massive speakers that drown everything in the toxic murk, to listen to Acid Bath is to roam about in a dimly-lit labywrinth wherein voices and instrumentation reveal themselves in blurry patches and frightening avalanches. The only real constant being Nik Fiend's distinctive, theatrical growl (somewhere between obvious mentors Alice Cooper and Peter O'Toole). Odd samples (including an incongruous snippet of a proto-hip hop radio station, WKTU identifying itself on "Attack #2") and echoey beats that recall the heady ganja-stoked sounds of Dub race for domniance against Yaxi High Riser's fuzzed out guitars and Johnny Ha Ha's live drums. You can dance to it, scream for help, slash your wrists, laugh hysterically or roll around on the floor. The choice is yours.
Further adding to its mystique, there seems to be a few different versions floating around out there. The copy of it I later prized for myself featured slightly different mixes of tracks like "E.S.T. (Trip to the Moon)" and "Dead & Re-Buried". The liner notes are so sloppily compiled that a straight explanation was pretty elusive. The version on compact disc I tracked down about a decade later was different still. Not hugely different, mind you, but enough to notice.
From the obvious Cramps homage at the end ("Boneshaker") through the surreally bleak "Breakdown And Cry (Lay Down & Die Goodbye)", its a gigglingly evil ride, but an entirely enjoyable one, so long as you don't mind utter, abject silliness with little regard for good taste.
Later albums were never as cohesive nor fun. But for a brief, gooey moment in 1984, Alien Sex Fiend were perfect.
Anyway, the post about the album cover wasn't about Acid Bath, but rather its predecessor, Who's Been Sleeping in My Brain? I'd been in a habit, for a while, of showcasing album covers that featured depictions of New York City, and as said album did just that, I felt that that trivial little point was more than enough reason to post it up. Funnily enough, that edition of the record is now quite scarce. Later compact disc versions featured entirely different cover art.
Like countless other posts on this weblog, the entry in question went largely ignored by virtually everyone apart from EV Grieve, a fellow blogger and comparably rabid fan of album covers with New York on'em, vanishing ever further with each passing day back into the dusty, largely-undisturbed archives of this blog.
....until today.
As it happens, a former member of Alien Sex Fiend -- namely drummer Johnnie "Ha Ha" Freshwater -- must have been doing some frivolous Googling, and came across the post. Regarding the details of the album cover of Who's Been Sleeping in My Brain?, the estimable Mr. Ha Ha (he's the gent in the hat in the foreground of the picture at the top of this post) had the following to say:
The painting was done by a guy called Greg who with his partner Dimitrius, ran a heavy gay club called Dam (I think). We played there in 1983 and the record company agreed to let us use Greg's painting on the cover.
Johnnie Ha Ha, 2012.
Far out, eh? I did a bit of Gooling myself, and as it turns out that while he left the ranks of Alien Sex Fiend quite some time ago, Johnnie is still composing music, along with being a digital artist, a graphic designer and a drum seller. You can hear his stuff here.
Anyway, I thought that was pretty cool. If you're unfamiliar with Alien Sex Fiend, meanwhile, please avail yourself to the selection below -- one of my favorites.
It really should come as no great surprise to read that I’ve always been a big Ramones fan, a point I ram home rather laboriously here with a mention in virtually every other post. That said, when they were still a going concern (and all on the correct side of the ground), my enthusiasm for their tireless insistence on putting out some frankly half-baked albums (Pleasant Dreams or Animal Boy anyone?) started to wane after 1985’s Too Tough to Die. I still picked up the odd record or single, but the law of diminishing returns underscored that it was sadly no longer mandatory.
Then, of course, they broke up. The band that my friends and I had literally taken for granted for so many years (“Hey, shall we go see the Ramones on Thursday?” “Nah, they’ll be back in a month” etc.), was suddenly kaput. As it turned out, the last time I did get to see them play live was in 1993, playing in the middle of a ridiculously windy field during the middle of the day up in Syracuse.
But the deal was really done when Joey Ramone died in 2001, effectively slamming the door shut on the possibility of any reunion (not that one was exactly likely to begin with, given their weary disdain for one another by that point). I was sincerely bummed about that, although the event of Joey Ramone’s sad demise provided me with the first real opportunity to break out of the news desk ghetto I was ensnared in at TIME Magazine at the time, but you can read more about that here.
Anyway, blah blah blah. I dutifully bought Joey’s posthumously released solo album, Don’t Worry About Me in 2002, but I’d be fibbing if I said I’ve ever played it a great deal.
Ten years later comes …Ya Know?, a second Joey solo record, assembled from unfinished tracks by lauded Ramones producer Ed Stasium (engineer on Leave Home, producer of Road to Ruin , It’s Alive and the soundtrack to Rock `n Roll High School) and Joey’s actual brother Mickey Leigh. The songs on the new record were put together around contributions from folks like Joan Jett, Little Steven Van Zandt of the E-Street Band, members of the Dictators and several other cats. It was released back in April, and I have to say – I didn’t exactly sprint out to fetch it. At this stage of the proceedings, if I’m ever in dire need of hearing the Ramones, I’m invariably reaching for my trusty copy of It’s Alive (I’ll be buried with it, mark my words) than anything else -- and it still rocks harder than virtually any record you can cite.
Earlier today, though, I spied the video for “New York City” off …Ya Know?, and it’s tailor-made for this weblog. Not only is it Ramone-centric , but the video is shot entirely in and around New York City, cites several vanished venues of old, and features cameos from – as far as I can tell – Mickey Leigh, Ed Stasium, Reggie Watts, photographer Godlis, Tommy “Ramone” Erdelyi, Anthony Bourdain, Andrew W.K., the dude from Les Savvy Fav and maybe that indie duo, Matt & Kim, but I’m not positive.
As an extra bonus, not a single member of One Direction appears in the clip at any time.
I fielded a nice note from a reader named Adam recently, who has his own blog and some similar tastes in the music department. He's currently in the process of compiling a gallery of "favorite album cover outtakes" on his Facebook page, and I was pretty impressed by some of the ones he's tracked down. I still don't give two craps about Nirvana, but how about these follow-up shots from London Calling by Pennie Smith? I don't remember ever spying those before. Anyway, there are some cool finds therein, so go check it out.
Given the predilections of this blog, meanwhile, I'm highlighting these out takes from the cover shoot for Paul's Boutique, which were snapped by, once again, by Ricky Powell. You can read more about my rapturous fanaticism for that album by clicking right here.
You may remember a post back in the spring wherein I endeavored (with the help of Bob Egan of PopSpots) to divine the precises location of a certain photograph of the Beastie Boys that was taken by Ricky Powell, only then to see Ricky himself when going to the very spot to replicate the shot with my daughter. Ricky even later weighed in on that post, which was amazing.
Anyway, here's a clip I spotted on Facebook this AM, finding Ricky addressing the state of the West Village and other things. And he's still hilarious. Enjoy. I don't know who put it up first, but thanks to Jeremiah and Karen for sharing it.
Back in June, you may remember, I posted an incredulous little entry (histrionically dubbed “Heresy”) about a certain t-shirt. The offending garment in question was a One Direction t-shirt that was basically a brazen appropriation of Arturo Vega’s iconic Ramones logo. I did my usual war dance, cried foul, shook my fist at an uncaring god, etc. What I didn’t realize at the time is that there’s actually a backstory.
Evidently, one member of One Direction (who, if you’re not aware by this point, are a British boy band currently capable of making a planet’s worth of teenage girls rend their undergarments) has made a habit out of wearing Ramones t-shirts. Yes, evidently Harry Styles is a Ramones fan, or -- at the very least -- thinks the shirt looks cool. Fair enough. I don’t wish death upon him for that or anything. Really, I don’t.
The strange thing, though, is that in the wake of Harry’s sporting of the Ramones logo, the already-revered emblem has gone onto become some sort of totemic touchstone for One Direction nation, prompting feverish teenage girls to post questions online like “Should I wear a Ramones shirt to a One Direction concert?” and the like (The answer: No. No, you shouldn’t.)
What seemed to happen next was that there was a sudden panic for Ramones shirts, although not out of any love for the Ramones, but simply because our Harry is keen on da bruddahs. So, I guess the next logical step was for some entrepreneurial soul to design that One Direction/Ramones logo mutation I first spotted on Tumblr and re-posted here.
Ever since I did that, however, traffic on this weblog has relatively SKYROCKETED. That single post gets more hits a day than virtually anything else I’ve ever put up here (the exception being the post about Chuck Klosterman’s theory about Radiohead’s Kid A that was linked to by Cracked… that still gets a bajillion hits weekly). What’s more is that I get loads of e-mails (usually in Spanish or in broken English), frenziedly asking me “WHERE CAN I GET THAT SHIRT???”
Here’s the thing: I don’t know. Moreover, I don’t care. Maybe do a little Googling? It’s not that difficult. Stop asking me.
Anyway, that’s it. No big frothy-mouthed rant this time. At the very least, maybe the respective coffers of the Ramones’ estate are benefitting somehow, however backhandedly. If a single chinless, chicken-chested and tousle-haired British kid can inspire an army of teenage girls to maybe even buy the odd Ramones album, then perhaps that’s a good thing.
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