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In later years,...a change of heart?
I alluded to this ancient dilemma last year, but Elvis Costello has always been a divisive, polarizing figure among my little crowd. I remember sitting in a dive bar in Costa Mesa, California in the mid-90s with some friends (a couple of Robs and a member or two of The Unband), heatedly arguing over Elvis' contested merits. In a nutshell, their assertion was that they were tired of pretending to like Elvis -- as you were evidently supposed to do -- because they collectively felt that he failed to rock with the same reckless abandon as, say, AC/DC or Black Flag or Celtic Frost or the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion or Killing Joke or Motorhead or Sham 69 or _______ (insert your favorite here). Outnumbered and outgunned, I vainly tried to cite myriad examples from Elvis' early catalog that justifiably won him the title "Angry Young Man of the New Wave," but I was still losing the debate. I was shut down and we moved onto whatever new ridiculous topic was on our minds that day.
But I never admitted defeat. While, yes, Elvis Costello has become a revered elder statesman of the singer/songwriter gang -- recording title songs for Julia Roberts flicks with the likes of Burt Bacharach, composing chamber music with the Brodsky Quartet and hanging out with wife/soppy-jazz practitioner Diana Krall -- there was a time when he was just as pugnacious, aggressive and bellicose as the punkest of the punks.
I remember buying my first Elvis LP, Armed Forces at Crazy Eddie on Third Avenue back in high school, based on the strength of "(What's So Funny `Bout) Peace Love & Understanding?" Awash in garish, Pollackesque paint splatters, the album visually bore all the trappings of the punk records I was immersed in at the time, but there was obviously more going on here than three-chord blitzkrieg. The songs had more depth, craft and substance than your average ditty by the Dead Boys. Elvis clearly knew his way around a resonant pop song. By the same token, rockers like "Goon Squad" (a knowing sneer at the uniformity of punk) gave listeners a nod that Elvis was fully aware of what was going on at the time.
Anyway, blah blah blah. There's more than enough evidence out there to support the fact that Elvis Costello is quite entirely capable of rocking your face off, but imagine my late-in-the-day glee to find my friend Glen E. Friedman (no stranger to that which credibly rocks), basically RE-AFFIRMING my argument with this blog post. Glen stumbled upon the footage below courtesy of Dangerous Minds and was duly impressed. To quote the man himself, "he's no joke!" Amen! It made me want to call up those smug fucker friends of mine and re-start the argument! Ah well...
Commence rocking!
The sidewalk shed that's covering it must have gone up over the summer, but on my way back from taking my kids to school, I got to stroll by and take a closer look. Seemingly without any warning (or none that I'd heard, anyway), it seems that 119, the humble, blink-and-you'll-miss-it bar on East 15th street between Union Square and Irving Place, is no more.
Since time immemorial, If you were ever attending a show at Irving Plaza, 199 was THE dive to meet up in. Dark, dingy, dank, shady... it bore all the necessary trappings of a great bar. It felt like the place to go if you were organizing a clandestine event or trying to lay low. If Han Solo had ever lived in Lower Manhattan, 119 is where he and Chewie would have hung out.
Back in my regular gig-going days, I was something of a regular at 119. The beers were reasonably priced, the atmosphere was cool, the pool table was accommodating and it was just a stone's throw from Irving Plaza. It was so dark inside that you could barely see who was walking in or out of the place. That said, I distinctly remember sitting in one of the booths, glancing up and seeing Shane MacGowan of the Pogues stagger through. On another occasion after a Killing Joke show, I remember accosting one of the twins from the School of Seven Bells and talking her ear off. It was too dark and unassuming to be pretentious. It was great. And now, it's gone.
As I walked by, I noticed the shed door open, so I snapped the photo below. From what I can see, the 119 I knew is gone ... invariably to be replaced by some ersatz Tuscan eatery or exclusive wine bar.
Pour one out for 119.
I'm not quite as good at keeping track of all the closings and openings of local businesses as some of my fellow members of the "NYC blog mafia" (specifically EV Grieve ... he's got a lock-down on that beat), but when it comes to my own neighborhood, it's hard not to notice big changes.
Then again, what is a "big change"? Nowadays, things change so quickly and so dramatically that upheaval is the new normal. Places close up shop and gut themselves almost as fast as they open. All too often, new shops or bistros will shutter so swiftly that I never even get the chance to properly check them out. There are almost too many examples of this to cite.
In any case, I was legitimately stopped dead in my tracks the other day by one impending closing. Evidently, the University Diner (or, technically, the University Restaurant) on the northeast corner of East 12th and University Place is up for rent.
When I first moved to East 12th Street in 1996, the diner in question was pretty much my only link to survival (well, that and the Cedar Tavern). It's not that it's the greatest diner in the city (by a loooooong shot), but it was my local. When I moved a few blocks to the south in 2002, I still regularly patronized University Diner (instead of my new local, that being what I would consider the frankly dispiriting Silver Spurs on 9th and Broadway).
Anyway, I can't really wrap my head around it beyond the inevitable assumption that their rent must have quadrupled. The place is always pretty packed, and they do a consistent business, although maybe I'm just projecting.
If a solid, dependable joint like the University Restaurant can't hold it down, what hope is there for the rest of the city?
Welcome to Friday. Well done, ya made it. That said, it's still early Friday. We're not entirely out of the woods.
To goad you towards fruition, here's a little taster from my friend Tod's latest effort. I first met Tod [A] at CBGB's long-vanished Canteen when he was fronting Cop Shoot Cop in the early 90s. I was, at the time, enthralled by that band's nihilistic eschewal (there's a great band name -- nihilistic eschewal) of conventional rock tropes in favor of snidely clangy industrial rock with a dash of contemptuous agitprop. What's not to like? As it turned out, Tod was kinda getting sick of that shtick, and getting seduced by the passionate groove of the music of other cultures -- the revelry of klezmer, the rhythmic fervor of bhangra, etc.
To make a long story short, Tod unplugged Cop Shoot Cop and started Firewater, an ever-shifting endeavor that -- over the course of several albums now -- has proved a wholly more versatile and, frankly, much more rewarding affair. Tod's also a much happier camper as a result, which is good thing too.
This is "A Little Revolution" from International Orange, which hits shelves this week. Go fetch. Tell'em Flaming Pablum sent'cha.
I became a devout Jim Jarmusch fan pretty much right after my first viewing of “Mystery Train” upon its release in 1989. At the time, I didn’t know a thing about Jarmusch’s past a bona fide New York No Wave, CB’s-hangin’ coolster. There was just something so other about “Mystery Train” that it completely captivated me.
From there, I dutifully sought out the man’s earlier films like “Down By Law” and “Stranger Than Paradise,” and checked out each successive new release like “Night on Earth,” “Dead Man,” “Ghost Dog” and beyond. They weren’t all as great as “Mystery Train” (although I consider “Dead Man” pretty flawless), but each had something special to recommend it. I regret to say, however, that I’ve yet to see his more recent films like “The Limits of Control” and “Broken Flowers.” With two little kids in the house, I just don’t get to the movies that often anymore.
Anyway, blah blah blah. The only reason I'm bringing the great man up now is that earlier this week my colleague Drew quizzed me on my knowledge about "Permanent Vacation." By this he meant Jarmusch's short cinematic debut from 1980 and not the regrettably more celebrated, glossy comeback album by Aerosmith from 1987. I had to woefully confess that I hadn't seen it. Drew frowned.
I'd heard about the film, but it wasn't widely available until fairly recently (well, 2007), when it was appended as an extra to the Criterion Collection re-release of his 1984 film, "Stranger Than Paradise." I don't own that either, so I still cannot say that I've seen the film in its entirety, but Drew shot me a clip of the opening sequence (see below), knowing that its time-capsule-worthy depiction barren SoHo and TriBeCa streets would stop me dead in my tracks. The jarring disparity between busy midtown and scenes of deserted streets and alleys -- some of the same ones that Carrie Bradshaw would lose her Manolo Blahniks on decades later -- in the first four minutes alone makes it required viewing for any devotee of this blog and/or its preoccupations.
In any case, if you're curious about it and don't want to pony-up the thirty-something dollars for that "Stranger Than Paradise" re-release, you'll be ticked to know that the entirety of "Permanent Vacation" is available on YouTube.... for the moment, at least.
If you've not seen it, soak in the sights of an elbow-room-heavy lower Manhattan that simply does not exist anymore.
Alright, so this one is turning out to be much tougher than expected.
On Saturday, I walked up and down St Marks Place to the east and 8th Street to the west, hoping to divine the exact location of this photograph. I'd been thinking that it could very well be the same building on St Marks that graces the cover of Physical Graffiti and that played host to the video shoot for the Stones' "Waiting on a Friend." That would have been poetically appropriate, but no dice. While that building does indeed feature some almost-street-level columns similar to the ones that appear behind hirsute Mr. Thunders, there's a crucial deal breaker that cancels out that option: the subway grates.
Simply put, pretty much nowhere on the strip between the eastern end of St Mark's Place at Avenue A to the western tip where 8th Street meets 6th Avenue are there any subway grates, leading me to suspect that the caption of the photograph is, well, friggin' wrong.
Get back to it, sleuths.
This is not it:
As some of you may remember, I wrote last year around this time that I didn't know if I'd continue to weigh in on the events of September 11th, as I feel that I've said pretty much everything I have to say about it and its myriad after-effects. Anything else I might bring to the table by this point would only sound sanctimonious .... or, at least, more sanctimonious than usual.
By this stage of the proceedings, if you haven't had your fill of 9/11 remembrances, feel free to peruse the archives of this blog and visit the previous six September 11ths (I didn't launch this blog until 2005, alas). Like I said, I think I've said everything I need to say about it.
That all said, I spotted the below video on Facebook today, and I just found it so strangely compelling that I wanted to share it here is as well, rather than have it get lost in the winding coil of Facebook ephemera.
Here's Depeche Mode circa 1990 performing "Enjoy the Silence" from the Violator album from the top of the World Trade Center. I snapped the photo up top about seven years after this video was filmed from the middle of West Broadway.
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