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Surely, you didn’t think we stopped doing this, did you?
In case you’ve forgotten, herewith the sequel to this silly little project from almost a year ago.
The things that strike me most about this batch is the change of seasons, and the gradual growth of my children.
A number of weeks back, photographer Matthew Weber hosted an image on his truly astounding photo-blog, Black and White Street Photographs of New York (really, if you’re an aficionado of my blog, you owe yourself a trip over to his), that caught my eye. Here it is.
While I indeed love the flyers plastered up showcasing then-new albums by Billy Idol and Alice Cooper, it’s the red building in the background that fired my imagination.
The Triangle II … or simply 675 Hudson Street off West 14th Street … always seemed like the centerpiece of the Meatpacking District. Like a slightly diminutive sibling to the Flatiron Building a couple of neighborhoods away, it stands perched on a dividing line between Hudson Street and 9th Avenue, not unlike the bow of a ship sailing north. Weber’s photograph above, shot in 1986, perfectly captures the gritty, weathered and not-just-a-little forbidding character of the surrounding neighborhood at the time. Today, of course, it’s a very different scene.
But even back during the less salubrious days of the Meatpacking District, 675 Hudson was a bit of landmark. It was featured in no shortage of significant films, notably “Single White Female,” “Fatal Attraction” and “The Hours,” and even made a cameo in the stylish clip for “When 2 Become 1” by the Spice Girls (of all bands). Here’s a shot of it circa “Single White Female” in 1992 (thanks to Jeremiah Moss).
Personally speaking, I’ve always been drawn to it — not just because of its interesting history and architecture, but because it also played host to a number of distinct concerns in its lower quarters. Back in the 80s and 90s, among its more celebrated tenants were sex clubs like The Hellfire Club, The Manhole and, most famously, The Vault.
On many an evening during my nights out on the tiles in the 90’s with similarly inclined cohorts, whenever someone asked “Where should we go now?” (invariably postulated after we’d been shown the door by one establishment or another), someone would jocularly and zealously exhort “TO THE VAULT!!” One night we actually went, but that’s a story for another post. Here’s a shot of the exterior I took sometime in the late 90’s.
On its southern side, meanwhile, was The Hog Pit (which I discussed at some length here). In this capacity, this stately triangular building was something of an oasis in the Meatpacking District. It was but a stone’s throw from other fabled spots like The Cooler (long gone), Hogs & Heifers (still there, somewhat astoundingly) and the Village Idiot (now a bicycle shop, if memory serves).
My very first time setting foot in the building, meanwhile, would date back to the summer of 1989. As discussed in this ancient post, I was interning paylessly and perilously at SPIN Magazine at the time, and one afternoon, my fellow intern Sam and I were dispatched to the apartment of estimably affable contributor and rock photographer extraordinaire Pat Blashill. I can’t remember what our mission was — to pick up some negatives or proofs or something?? — but off we went, darkening the already-somewhat forbidding door of 675 Hudson to procure whatever materials SPIN needed from Mr. Blashill. I remember his home being suitably funky, but endearingly homey at the same time.
Now 25 (Jesus Christ!!!) years later, I am back in touch with Pat Blashill, thanks to the world-shrinking services of Facebook. In thinking about this entry, I thought it might be fun to ask Pat — now living in Vienna, Austria, of all places — about living in the heart of the Meatpacking District during the bad old days. Happily, he was more than game to discuss it.
So Pat, when did you move into the Triangle II building?
I moved from Austin, Texas, to New York City in June, 1987. A friend of a friend was subletting his room in the Triangle II building—the address was 675 Hudson. Just before I left Texas, some friends helpfully informed me that the apartment I was moving into had once been a gay S & M club called the Toilet. So I knew I was getting into something. When I got there, one of the rooms in the apartment had a cage in the corner that was big enough for about three humans.
What was the neighborhood like at the time?
It was colorful. The meat markets were still quite active, and after the sun went down, our corner was another sort of meat market. Lots of very attractive African-American fellows in dresses and heels. And there was a great late night bagel spot called Dizzy Izzy’s in the middle of everything. Yummy white fish spread. I walked in there once and Susan Sarandon—dressed head to toe in black leather—was ordering half a dozen sesame bagels to go.
Were you aware of the businesses also in operation in the building (i.e. the Vault, the Manhole, the Hog Pit, etc.) Did you patronize them? Were they good neighbors?
Oh yeah, we were aware and proud of our cozy little historic corner. You may also know that Fatal Attraction was filmed on the second floor of the building before I moved in, and after I moved out, part of the Meryl Streep story in The Hours was shot in our apartment. The Ed Harris character jumps out of my bedroom window and kills himself in that movie.
I didn’t patronize the Vault, but I did go down there once because we blew a fuse and I needed to get to the circuit breaker box. The staff there were easily the palest humans I had ever seen. But very polite.
I didn’t ever go to the Hog Pit—I’m a barbecue snob, being from Texas and all.
What are your most striking memories (good or bad) of the place and/or neighborhood?
We had some really good drum parties in our apartment. We would tell everyone we knew to show up with a drum or something that could be played like a drum. People brought pots, pans, metal crates and industrial washing machine cylinders. We would start pounding out a groove, and just keeping banging until the police came to shut us down. Jon Spencer and one of the guys from Big Black showed up at one, and they were pretty amused by it all.
Eventually a hip hop club opened up nearby, so I also enjoyed being awoken at four-thirty in the morning whenever some of the more macho hip hop kids would decide to fuck with the drag queens. I once saw one of the transvestites chasing some of those kids with a two-by-four. Those club kids got so much more than they bargained for.
Why did you move?
We eventually got kicked out when we couldn’t prove that our apartment had been a residential space for long enough to qualify for rent control. So we had another big party a few days before we moved. A few walls got demolished. Sort of like when Black Flag left Los Angeles.
What do you miss most?
Oh, it was really fun, but I’m not that person anymore. I don’t think New York is that city anymore.
Have you been back since?
I’ve walked around the building a few times since then—at least one of our neighbors still lives there. I didn’t notice any cheap bagel spots in the vicinity…..
Anything you’d like to add….
A fond memory: after I’d been there for a year or so, my mom came to NYC to visit me. Naturally, she had been alarmed when I first told her I wanted to move to New York. But when she got there and stayed with us in 675 Hudson, she loved it. I came home from work one day, and she was just sitting by the window, watching the city buses, and the meat packing trucks, the transvestites and the Hassidic Jews who drove by on their way back to their homes in New Jersey. She looked back at me and said, “Oh Pat, this is just fascinating!”
I’d love to sincerely thank Pat for sharing his recollections with Flaming Pablum
Today, you’d never know the above shenanigans transpired at 675 Hudson. The sex clubs are gone, and the Hog Pit is now a Bill’s Burger Bar. The north end of the building plays host to a well appointed Italian eatery, and there’s now a Tango-themed dance studio on the third floor. I have no idea what’s in the space formerly occupied by The Vault, but I doubt it’s as exciting.
Last night, my excellent neighbor Bruce and I ventured out into the wilds of Flatbush, Brooklyn to the truly, truly spectacular Kings Theater to see Spoon.
The last — and otherwise only ever — time I saw this band play was at the comparatively intimate and endearingly grotty Brownie’s on Avenue A (r.i.p.) in 1996, on the tour for their debut album, Telephono. Truthfully, I don’t remember that much about that show beyond thinking that their lead singer looked a bit like a blonde Shane MacGowan. I also remember being impressed by the fullness of their sound — them being yet another rinkydink indie band in an ocean of similarly rinkydink indie bands at the time — and curious at how their acoustic guitar was producing such an electric sound (I’ll let the musicians in the audience field that one). As much as I enjoyed that show and enjoyed the album that prompted it, I didn’t see them again until last night, and never bought another album of theirs. They've released about ten more since then.
Based on that experience, last night was an eye-opener. It’s a lofty comparison, but imagine going to see Pink Floyd expecting Piper at the Gates of Dawn and getting the ominous sprawl of The Wall. In the essentially TWO GODDAMN DECADES since I first saw Spoon, they have blossomed into a remarkably tight, accomplished and evidently crazy-popular band. Apart from a Cramps cover, I barely recognized a note they played, but I had a great time. And they FILLED this impressive room … literally and figuratively light years from the cramped, grotty stage of Brownie’s. It’s weird to think that I completely slept on this “rinkydink indie band” while they became this great, versatile entity.
Here’s a clip of them doing “TV Set” by the Cramps … already on YouTube. I did not shoot this.
But this post isn’t really about Spoon.
Bruce and I had seats smack dab in the center, on the ground floor of the theater (although nobody sat). We stood watching and sipping our exorbitantly priced drinks amidst the similarly inclined throng. About two rows in front of us was a trio of girls. Denizens of blogs like EV Grieve and Jeremiah Moss’ Vanishing New York might categorize these ladies as “woo girls,” and I wouldn’t protest. You assuredly know the type. I guess Spoon has made it to the big leagues if gals like these are showing up at their gigs. Move over, Beyonce.
I certainly don’t begrudge enthusiasm at a show. Quite the opposite. And these girls had plenty of it. But their ringleader, a brunette with easily-flicked locks, spent the ENTIRETY of the show demonstrating a frankly disarming display of attention deficit disorder. Either an ardent Spoon fan (or severely intent in telegraphing that notion), she danced, swayed, hair-flicked and gesticulated (inna Mariah Carey stylee) with the music with half of her petite frame, while feverishly pecking at her iPhone with the other. It was never put away.
Before you cry foul, let me admit that I used my iPhone, too. Before the show started, I snapped several pics of the jaw-droppingly gorgeous theatre. Once the show commenced, I snapped the photo below during the band’s second song. That it turned out so sharp is purely an accident. After that, I put it away and didn’t remove it again.
Miss Woo Girl, however, simply COULD NOT PUT HER PHONE AWAY. And she WAS NOT taking pictures of the show. She WAS NOT shooting a video of the proceedings. What was she doing? She was checking the temperature (a comfortable 77 degrees), she was texting, she was perusing Instagram, she updated her Facebook status and she CHECKED ON Linked-In. This last one really blows my mind — although maybe she too is out of a job and just more proactive in her search than I.
How do I know all this? Because, simply speaking, someone diddling on their iPhone in the dark in front of you has pretty much the same affect as a television in a dive bar. Your eyes CANNOT STOP from being drawn to it. It is beyond distracting.
I took a moment to discuss it with Bruce. While I was positively vibrating with contempt, Bruce took a more sympathetic approach. “She can’t help it,” he offered, essentially suggesting that she wasn’t so much an inconsiderate princess as a helpless addict.
The other weird thing about it was that apart from Bruce and I (both of us on the far side of the Rubicon of our mid-40s), absolutely NO ONE else seemed fazed or bothered, not even slightly.
Welcome to the new normal.
Put it away and enjoy the moment.
Here’s an abrupt gear-shift from yesterday’s post on the mighty Agnostic Front.
I realize I’m possibly courting the ire of regular readers who are more inclined to more aggressive fare, but after spotting this photo below, I felt compelled to add it to the mix.
By this point, I’ve penned quite a few posts regarding John Lennon’s fabled tenure in New York City (check out the most recent one here), but I spotted the photo below on the Facebook group NYC 1950 to Present (posted by one Louis Sessa) and it totally stuck a chord.
Here we see, of course, John and Paul of the Beatles hanging out at the Hans Christian Andersen statue on the western side of the Central Park Boat Pond. Here’s what Mr. Sessa had to say about the photo.
Paul McCartney, “Magic” Alex Mardas, John Lennon, Neil Aspinall - in Central Park, in front of Hans Christian Andersen statue, May 1968 (photographer unknown). John and Paul were in NYC to announce the formation of Apple and to appear on the Johnny Carson Show.
As New Yorkers, how many of us have taken similar pictures to this one? Having been raised on the Upper East Side, I practically grew up in Central Park. Like millions of others, I have vivid memories of climbing all over this beloved statue, as well as its larger sibling to the north, that being the iconic “Alice in Wonderland.”
I just love the idea that John and Paul also felt inclined to capture a moment there. Only last weekend, I was in that very same spot with my kids, and we also succumbed.
Unfortunately, I was unable to find any more shots from John and Paul's day in the Park (if there are any to be found), although I did find this crummy version of their appearance on the Tonight Show that evening.
It's also just strange to see these seemingly larger-than-life figures hanging around such a familiar locale. That said, the Fabs aren't the first band to have been photographed around this spot. As I first spoke of in this post, here's Sonic Youth hanging out on the afore-cited "Alice in Wonderland"....
Taking a page from the Beatles (probably not by accident, given their aspirations), KISS were also photographed loitering manfully around this same area of Central Park.
If we’re talking vintage NYHC, I have to confess that I always preferred the proto-hardcore Kraut and the super volatile Cro-Mags over Agnostic Front (especially given the mookier elements of their fanbase). That said, their earlier records could be pretty thrilling. The band themselves seem like decent guys (I dare you to find a more affable NYC punk veteran than Vinnie Stigma), but some of their more zealous devotees? Not always so much.
I fell off after their 1986 crossover album, Cause for Alarm (although I do still love “The Eliminator” and “Bomber Zee”). Decades later, Agnostic Front are still at it, and released a new album a couple of months back. It’s been quite a while since I was intent on buying a new album from Agnostic Front, but the track below makes a compelling case for same.
Addressing many of the shared concerns of this blog, the (recently-unmasked?) EV Grieve and the endearingly Batman-esque Jeremiah Moss, herein Agnostic Front emphatically state their pointed dissatisfaction with the soulless and sanitized New York City of 2015 in their own inimitably burly style.
It’s certainly more authentic a voice than Taylor Swift’s.
Crank it.
Hey all. I’m headed out of town with the family for a few days to the nation’s capitol to attend a wedding. While there, we’ll be setting a day aside to tour around Washington D.C., a city I haven't visited since the mid-90s.
While there’s certainly no shortage of things to see in the area, I’m guessing the three places in Georgetown I'd want to go to (a pilgrimage to the Dischord House to replicate the cover of Minor Threat’s Salad Days, a visit to the fateful “Exorcist” steps and a pop into Commander Salamander … if it’s even still there) aren’t going to be on the menu.
Should you give a damn, I’m sure I’ll be posting crap about the trip on Facebook and Instagram, so … get excited for that.
Otherwise, I’ll be back to the regular routine on Monday. Flex your head!
No one ever said raising two kids in New York City — even the comparatively sanitized and soulless New York City of 2015 — was going to be easy. Sure, loads of my friends decamped to greener, leafier suburban enclaves soon after procreating, but not us. My wife and I — much to the consternation of friends and family — decided to tough it out. We loved our lives here in Manhattan. Hell, I was born and raised here in New York City, and the place was a HELL of a lot less welcoming back then. I survived. Provided we can afford to stay (never a given — especially these days), our kids will survive it, too.
In any case, raising two kids in the city means exposing them — for better or worse — to all the sights, sounds and smells of these Manhattan streets. Hey, if you live in a verdant Westchester hamlet, you probably don’t have to worry about your kids sharing the pavement with on-the-nod junkies, street hustlers, charity-muggers or bug-eyed lunatics. Here in the city, though, that’s just part of the experience. I’d like to think my children have already accrued a degree of street-smarts by this stage in their respective lives, but the salient points are always worth reinforcing.
But while I may be able to instruct and/or advise them on how to behave in certain situations or — more importantly — how to avoid worst-case scenarios, I cannot filter what they see and/or what they hear on the street. The argument could be made that I shouldn’t try to control those things (especially if I’m pig-headed enough to insist on raising my kids here), but there are elements of the experience that I’d just as soon they not have to contend with at this comparatively early stage of the proceedings. But the city is going to be the city, regardless of my preference.
By way of example, I was walking with my two kids up Fourth Avenue just the other day and we passed by a certain structure on the southeast corner of East 10th Street that used to be a corner deli, but is now seemingly a derelict, abandoned space waiting to be developed. In this fallow state, it is routinely covered with posters, bills, street art and graffiti. I actually kind of like its aesthetic, despite the fact that I miss the deli. The problem here, however, is that on the western-facing facade of this structure is a giant, hard-to-miss wheat-pasted sign that boldly proclaims in block capital letters that “COST FUCKED MADONNA.” Great. Thanks for that.
Overlooking, for the moment, the dubious achievement the signage is trumpeting, I live in constant dread of one of my kids spying it and reciting its message out loud (as they are wont to do when spotting something that catches their curiosity). I’m relatively certain they’ve heard the “f-word” before, but I’d rather not elevate it into their ever-growing vocabulary before its inevitable time. But big signs that say FUCK on them undermine that. While vainly trying to distract them, I caught sight of a sticker affixed to a stop sign on the corner offering the following legend: “ASSCANCER: FUCK NEW YORK.” Again, thanks for that.
The things they’re liable to hear on the street aren’t much better. We were on a bus not too long back with two loud, foul-mouthed teenage girls sitting behind this. It was all “bitch” this, “motherfucker” that, punctuated cloyingly with a volley of needless “like”s (just as bad as profanity, as far as I’m concerned). I just find that depressing, let alone annoying.
Before I start to sound too prudish, I’d like to re-assert that I like my New York City rough and tumble. The fact that there’s still an unruly element of vociferous attitude left in the city is almost heartening. That said, slack-jawed idiocy is slack-jawed idiocy, and I don’t have the patience for it. While I’m not going to turn around and entreat every potty-mouth with a teary-eyed declaration that “THERE ARE CHILDREN PRESENT!,” I’m never going to applaud the wanton, careless obscenity. Even if I’m on my own, hearing some whistlehead rattle of a litany of words like “fuck,” “cunt,” “pussy,” “motherfucker,” “bitch,” “dick,” etc. is never going to make my day.
Sure, I’m a pretentious, needlessly verbose, self-appointed wordsmith, but wouldn’t you prefer that to the oafish lexicon of the lowest common denominator? I’m certainly no stranger to saying derisive, disparaging things about my fellow man, but when I do, I tend to choose my words with a bit more colorful aplomb than merely apply the same old tired, hackneyed epithets. You may think terms like “motherfucker” or “fucking asshole” are suitably harsh, but believe me — there are far more potent things you can say without ever having to resort to the weathered playbook of the potty-mouthed. There’s a distinct joy to be found in being eloquently vulgar that I highly recommend.
But I’m no saint. I don’t even live up to my own standards. Peruse back through any number of posts here, and you’ll doubtlessly find a few cuss-words that wouldn’t feel out of place on the men’s room wall. I’m liable to let rip a stream of profanity if I’m frustrated enough. Back in 2006, I penned a post here filled with unsolicited advice for fathers-to-be, saying they should swear frequently before having kids to get it out of their system. I’d love to say I led by example, but I’ve uttered several bad words in front of my kids. I’m not proud of it, but it’s happened.
So that has brought me here. Combining my disdain for needless and unimaginative profanity, my futile hope to shield my kids from lazy, dirty vocab and my aspiration to cultivate a more refined self, I am hereby swearing off further, needless swearing. Feel free to fine me next time you hear me drop an f-bomb.
And I dare you to try it, too, you filthy-tongued fuckers.
Regular followers of this blog might remember the name of photographer/artist Steve Butcher from a post I put up a little over a week ago regarding bands and street art from a Lower East Side that doesn’t seem to exist anymore. In the wake of that, Steve very nicely reached out with some amazing new pictures to share. Here’s what he had to say.
Hello Alex
only because you appear to be interested (totally obsessed!) I got your address from your interest in my photos that were picked up by Gothamist - I thought you might be interested in a couple of things (while there was a wrecked car on nearly every block, I’m pretty sure the burnt out van with drunk driving was between Allen and Chrystie)here’s some Swans stuff for you: My mate, Harry Crosby was my intro to NY and the new band were some of my first friends in New York: my copy of Filth ‘defaced’ by Norm and the original playlist of the record.
I even had two of my paintings hanging on the stage of ‘the immaculate consumptives’ show at Danceteria - because Lydia liked them. We used to play pool with Nick Cave at Lucy’s (then Blanche’s) - Jim is still a good friend.
Meanwhile, a bit later, I was really good friends with Jaqui and Michael / Dust Devils, Gini from the Cycle Sluts from Hell- but I don’t have any pics!
For those who may not know, The Immaculate Consumptives, who I fleetingly discussed back here, were a short-lived project involving Lydia Lunch, Nick Cave, J.G. "Foetus" Thirlwell and Malc Almond of Soft Cell.
I greatly appreciate Steve reaching out and sharing this stuff with me. Be sure to check out his website to avail yourselves of his art and photography.
Steve’s certainly got my number. I am indeed obsessed with SWANS. While I’ve been a fan of theirs since first hearing them circa 1987’s Children of God (comparatively easy-going, and downright accessible compared to their earlier incarnations), it’s been their last three epic album since “reactivating” that have solidified them as one of the “crucial few” for me alongside such august names as Killing Joke, the Stranglers, Devo and Cop Shoot Cop as an all-time favorite.
Circa the White Light…/Love of Life era of the early 90s, I was intrigued enough by the band’s singular, sensory-engulfing aesthetic that I was reminded that I actually already owned an unplayed (by me) vinyl copy of their first E.P., which I summarily dug out of cold storage.
As I detailed in this sprawling post from several years back, I had been the slavishly undeserving recipient of a mammoth cache of records in the summer of 1986, gifted to me by a gent that my mom was dating at the time. While he and I didn’t really see eye-to-eye on a lot of matters (I was something of a tirelessly petulant 19-year-old at the time), he graciously bestowed this generous present on me with the explanation was that he was “going digital,” and no longer wanted his vinyl. While I was frequently nothing but a back-talking dick to him, I happily accepted his discarded records. His loss, my gain, etc.
While I was already deeply entrenched my music fandom, the contents of this box of LPs acted as a life-altering education (click back on that link for the details, once again). My mother ended up breaking up with this guy not too long afterwards. While I thanked him at the time, I’d love to thank him again. I doubt he was able to replicate all the albums on disc at the time (and for his sake, I hope he didn’t, given the arguable obsolescence of that medium … a burden I still stubbornly embrace). But I digress….
Indeed, I dug out the first SWANS e.p. and found it to be a thrilling slab of taut, muscular sound — practically nothing like what the band had morphed into by the early 90’s. Here’s a quick taste of that first e.p,….
From this point, I sought out SWANS’ first full album, that being 1983’s Filth, which I believe I picked up on vinyl at Rocks in Your Head in SoHo (long gone,….sigh).
Filth made both that first e.p. and the latter albums I was familiar with sound practically twee. Harder, darker, slower and meaner than anything I’d ever heard (or have yet to hear), Filth is a disarming document. It is not right for ever occasion, but it is perfect and abject in its nullifying, relentless brutality. Sure the sound is beautifully ugly, but the sentiments expressed within are a thousand times uglier. If you’ve not heard it, you’re missing out. Here’s a little taste. Go wake the kids….
Anyway, Filth has been re-issued a couple of times. I had the Young God edition — appended with the equally unsavory Body to Body, Job to Job, until I heard that an earlier version appended the earlier e.p., so I sought that out, eventually prizing it off eBay for a princely sum.
Word came down very recently, however, via the band’s website that Filth is being re-mastered and re-released yet again — now as a deluxe 3CD set (see above -- once again adding the 1982 e.p. as well as an endearingly unwieldy and doubtlessly overwhelming slew of live material). Guess who’s ordering it again? Find out more here.
Anyway, I’m greatly looking forward to that,….although my wife and kids might not be quite so enthused.
Lastly, news also came down the pike that SWANS are prepping another album. Mainstay Michael Gira couched that information with a statement that speaks directly to my own beliefs about how recorded music is best experienced. It only further affirmed my allegiance to the band.
Hello, thank you for listening to our music.
I hope it gives you some joy and pleasure. I am pleased that you have discovered our music through this medium. I view this experience as the equivalent of previewing a record in a record store in days of old. However, if you wish to experience the music in its’ fullest form, I would strongly encourage you to acquire it in a physical format you can bring into your home. Not only will you then be able to experience the richest version of the music sonically, but you will also be afforded the opportunity to enjoy the tangible artwork, which was conceived in tandem with the music, and serves as a further portal to experiencing the total conceptual and spiritual and emotional content of the work we have labored, lovingly, to bring to you.
I love you, – Michael Gira / Swans / Young God Records
Love it.
I wasn’t going to say anything about this, initially, but it’s been lighting up my Facebook page like pinball machine, so I might as well address it.
News came down this week that Richard Branson’s Virgin empire is issuing new Mastercard credit cards garishly festooned with Jamie Reid’s signature artwork for the Sex Pistols. Depressing, no?
I find the timing of this is awfully curious, being that it comes so close on the heels of Johnny "Rotten" Lydon's second autobiography, wherein he takes great pains to extol the conviction of his work with the `Pistols (that's them above at their infamous final show at San Francisco's Winterland Ballroom, image hosted here). By the same token, I believe at this stage of the proceedings, he's said goodbye to all that, preferring to now solider onward with his latest incarnation of Public Image Ltd.
Still, who owns the visuals? Virgin? Richard Branson? Jamie Reid? Did John Lydon, Paul Cook, Steve Jones and Glenn Matlock have any say? Did they have to sign off on it? So many questions.
Regardless, I find it kind of sickening to see the `Pistols taking a page from the KISS playbook (I'm not knocking KISS here --- they've never apologized for their avarice. It's just that the Sex Pistols used to stand for something).
To be fair, it must be awfully strange to have your life basically defined by things you did in your 20's. Ideals don't pay the bills. By the same token, this is a great leap beyond simply doing ads for Country Life Butter.
Personally speaking, my adoration for the music of the Sex Pistols (and, for that matter, Public Image Ltd.) is incalculable. At the risk of sounding wholly melodramatic, those records made a seismic impact on my life and sensibility -- as arguably ridiculous as that sounds. It would take an awful lot for me to change my perspective on that. I'd love to hear the members speak up about all this.
Now, again, I don’t know all the particulars. Perhaps it was out of the hands of the concerned parties and solely up to Virgin, but even if that’s the case, all it seems to do — in one fell swoop — is broadly telegraph the following declaration:
“All that stuff we so very emphatically sang about? It meant nothing.”
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