Flaming Pablum

Bento Boxing at Bleecker Bob's

Given the staggering amount of silver-scalped bellyaching I’ve been doing about the depunkification of St. Marks, the dueling legacies of Hoboken’s Pier Platters and Manhattan’s since-vanished record shops, and other flagrantly backwards-looking posts, I thought I’d approach my fetishistic penchant for nostalgia through another angle …. through the stomach.

Back in 2013, you might remember a series of tear-moistened entries I posted here documenting the gradual demise of Bleecker Bob’s, arguably Manhattan’s once-preeminent hive of slavish record geekery. That's it at the top of this post circa 1983, courtesy of the New York University Archives. The ad immediately above, meanwhile, comes via Stupefaction, after the shop had moved a few blocks to the south from its original perch just off West 8th Street on MacDougal. Note the tagline of "courteous and well-mannered service."

No, not everyone loved the place — hello, Thurston — for any number of reasons (Bob’s abrasive personality, the high prices, the strange patina of greasy dust that seemed to coat everything in the shop, etc.), but it remained a significant destination — patronized by everyone from the burly gents in Agnostic Front through — legend has it — John Lennon.  Below is a shot of me with my little boy in front of the shop a few years back, unintentionally replicating the cover of an Ian Dury and the Blockheads record. For some of us, the shuttering of Bleecker Bob’s was comparably painful to the closing of CBGB or the Cedar Tavern or _______ (insert your favorite lost establishment here).

But, close it did. Originally, the rumor was that it was going to become a Starbuck’s. As it happened, that wasn’t true (but it was by no means a far-fetched concept). Word then came down that it was to become a frozen yogurt emporium, albeit one that was going to attempt to honor the vibe and heritage of the space’s fabled former occupant (i.e. taking a fashionably pre-distressed page from John Varvatos’ expensively bespoke playbook).

For whatever reason, that didn’t come to pass either, and the deceptively named Forever Yogurt divested from the endeavor, leaving an empty, sad and disheveled space where Bleecker Bob’s had been. Bitter words were expressed by concerned parties.

Time passed while the space sat empty, and then about a year ago, a Japanese restaurant named Miyabi that formerly held court across the street decided to make a move. Quietly and suddenly, they crossed over and 118 West 3rd Street officially had a new occupant.

Now, when it comes to Japanese food, I’m pretty provincial, generally choosing to be slavishly loyal to my local establishment, that being University Place’s beloved Japonica (a business that’s gone through a similar series of travails as Bleecker Bob’s). I used to go to this joint over on St. Marks Place, but after they repeatedly kept getting “C” ratings in cleanliness, I decided to cross them off my list.

This all said, my longtime friend, fellow music geek and similarly under-compensated rock-journo type, Steve Holtje, reached out recently, suggesting that it was high time we got together for some proper Japanese food (he being something of a connoisseur of such grub).

You see where this is all going, right?

I suggested that we do just that, and meet up at Miyabi. Since it was a place both Steve and I had spent large amounts of time and money back in the day (although Steve was quick to point out that he much preferred Second Coming Records over on Sullivan Street … now a Thai bistro), I thought we should go check out how the place has transformed.

A quick word about Steve Holtje: Steve and I met back in about 1990, when we were both working at a tiny indie music zine called The New York Review of Records. From there we both went on to write for other periodicals like Creem and the abysmally named HuH? Boasting a soft-spoken wit, a dizzyingly encyclopedic knowledge of music (with a special penchant for crazy-obscure jazz), a stubborn fondness for baseball and an uncanny visual resemblance to fabled Blues Brothers saxophonist Lou “Blue Lou” Marini, Steve has always been a good friend and straight shooter.

Anyway, because I’m obsessively punctual, I arrived a bit early, and loitered outside waiting for Steve to show up. I’m not entirely sure what I was expecting, but Miyabi — at lunch hour on a weekday — actually does a fairly robust bit of business. The lunch crowd was out in force, primarily comprised of office types, start-up jockeys, NYU kids and the odd party of tourists. Bicycle delivery men sprinted this way and that. I’d say there’s a fairly reasonable chance that the restaurant will stay put at this location for some time.

I stood outside, studying the graffiti adorning the surrounding facade. A young, bespectacled hipster-type sauntered up and raised his camera to take a picture of Miyabi’s signage. I was going to engage him on the subject — figuring he, too, wanted to commemorate the lost shop that used to own this corner, until I realized he was taking a picture to get the phone number so he could order some delivery at some later point.

Steve showed up and in we went.

Obviously, the inside of the restaurant looks entirely different from the old record shop (and gone is that signature smell), but the actual layout is still recognizable. Steve and I were seated at a table that would have been just to the left of the cash register (where bins overstuffed with vintage vinyl in grubby plastic sheathes used to beckon curious browsers).

Perhaps I was expecting things to be weirder than they actually turned out to be. After a few moments of soaking it all in, Steve and I ordered, started catching up and shortly got our food.

For what it’s worth, Steve ordered some curious octopus dish and another plate laden with clumps of what I assumed were fish of some variety and some sake. I, meanwhile, took a less adventurous route and ordered the lunch special — a bento box with teriyaki, katsu, a couple of California rolls and some rice, augmenting same with a bottle of Asahi.

We had a fine lunch. I don’t believe either of us were particularly wowed by the fare, but it wasn’t bad. The place did have a small problem with tiny flies (almost the size of fruit flies … annoying but largely inconsequential). That notwithstanding, it was a decent dining experience.

I don’t believe I ever used the men’s room at Bleecker Bob’s (shoppers certainly weren’t encouraged to do so when Bob was at the register, to put it mildly), but Miyabi’s restrooms were clean and devoid of distinction. I kept looking around the place for hints, remnants or ghosts, but nothing really remains.

I’d love to imagine that when the Miyabi staff close up shop, turn off the lights and lock up every night, a faint rumble of distant, barely discernible power chords can be heard emanating from the rear of the restaurant, but that’s just me being sentimental.

I suppose I am forever trying to re-capture that fabled “sense of place” that I always hope these locations still exude, but it’s fairly rare. To step inside Miyabi today, you’d simply never know it was once a stronghold of vinyl geekery. The former sites of Rocks in Your Head in SoHo (now a boring real estate office) or Mondo Kim’s on St. Marks Place (now a karaoke/video game parlor) don’t give off those elusive whiffs either. Meanwhile, the afore-cited John Varvatos boutique at 315 Bowery just tries a little too hard to do it (and gets it wrong), but that’s a different post.

 

Lastly, here’s a great shot by New York Times photographer Sam Falk from 1961 which a Facebook user named Blair Boyer put up on the group, Manhattan before 1990. Presumably when the fabled Greenwich Village folk scene was in full swing, here we see a young woman clutching an acoustic guitar. She’s walking north on MacDougal (in front of what would today be Ben’s Pizza). You can see the awning from what would be the Night Owl extending from the north facing facade of West Third, offering a tantalizing promise of “expresso” [sic]. The Night Owl would later turn into Bonaparte’s and later still….Bleecker Bob’s.

 

 

West Broadway Blues: Back, Again, to SoHoZat

Regular readers — and I am grateful for and amazed by each and every one of you — may remember an entry I posted here back in 2013 regarding a long lost shop on West Broadway in SoHo called SoHoZat, which was simply a great hive of delightfully off-center reading material.

As I mentioned, I used to regularly stop into SoHoZat to check out their enviable collection of underground comics, rock mags, indie zines and the like. This, of course, was back when SoHo was a comparatively low-key haven for artists, and not the exclusive playground for the monied and excruciatingly douchey.

In any case, SoHoZat was forced to shut up shop in the first half of the 90’s. In short order the space it previously held court in became a deli (although there *may* have been another concern in there between it being SoHoZat and it becoming the deli…I can’t be sure). As delis go, it was pretty standard. You could buy yourself an orange soda and bologna sandwich. But weirdo underground comics? Sorry, friend … ya can’t get that stuff no more. Or at least not at 307 West Broadway.

Anyway, I had a job interview way downtown this morning (shhhhh…. more about that later, maybe) and on my walk back uptown afterwards, I found myself on West Broadway. I was shocked to suddenly spot that the deli I was discussing in the graph above had joined SoHoZat in the annals of businesses that formerly operated out of that space. Here’s that space now….

Anyway, I have no grand point to make here. Given the proliferation of expensive condos, hotels and such in the neighborhood, I’m sure this space will swiftly be turned into yet another Liquiteria or Fresh & Co. or CVS or even another goddamn bank. Stay tuned for that, I guess.

But it’s worth repeating how very much this particular strip has changed. Way back when (well, the 1980’s and into the 1990’s), this patch of real estate on West Broadway just above Canal Street was pretty desolate. There was no SoHo Grand, obviously, but rather an open field of gravel. What is now the Dunkin’ Donuts on the northwest corner of West Broadway and Canal was greasy spoon. A few doors down from that was The Trader, which I’ve spoken about before (a great place to procure camo gear, knives and disused munitions … should you be into that sort of thing). There was captivating street art all over the place, and a real sort of frontier sensibility. I found the picture below on Flickr several years back, and it really telegraphs that vibe. Snapped by one Rob Klurfield in 1984 (albeit wrongly identified as Little Italy), here’s West Broadway, just north of Canal Street, looking west from the east side of the street. Today, that lot is where the SoHo Grand stands. As for the (abandoned?) baby buggy,….I’m sure there’s a disquieting story there.

Feelin’ Good at Rough Trade

Much like my big ol’ thumbs up for Other Music the other day, I already wrote about how great the Rough Trade outlet in Williamsburg, Brooklyn is, but I went back there yesterday and was so pleased that I figured the message was worth reinforcing.

I’ve been mourning Manhattan’s withering network of record and disc shops for some time now. Oh sure, there is still a paltry handful of credible stores like the afore-cited Other Music, the uber-esoteric Downtown Music Gallery, the unwieldily stocked Rebel Rebel, the punkily stalwart Generation Records, the second-hand haven Academy and — if I’m feeling kind — the somewhat messy remains of Bleecker Street Records, but we’ve lost so many great, pivotal ones already. From Kim’s to NYCD to Rocks In Your Head to Footlights to Bleecker Bob’s to Lunch for Your Ears… well, it’s a heartbreaking (and long) list.

The point is this: Once upon a time, if you were looking for a specific, tactile artifact of recorded music and you couldn’t find it somewhere in Manhattan, there was a more than likely chance that said item simply DID NOT EXIST! We had everything here. Suffice to say, this is no longer the case … and hasn’t been for some time.

There are almost always albums that I’m looking to get ahold of. Sure, I can always acquire them online if need be, but honestly — where’s the fun in that? As I’ve said countless times before, if you’re a collector of these things, a big part of the fun is the chase! The sudden, unexpected joy of spotting the item you’re looking for right in front of you (or perched tantalizingly on a high shelf behind the counter)….well, ya just don’t get that same rush when you pull it out of an Amazon mailer, amiright?

Anyway, after paging through Slits guitarist Viv Albertine’s disarmingly candid memoir this past summer, “Clothes. Music. Boys,” I figured it was high time I owned Cut (their celebrated debut) on compact disc. Likewise, after watching Julien Temple’s robustly entertaining documentary on British proto-punk pub rock legends, Dr. Feelgood, “Oil City Confidential” last weekend, I felt entirely compelled to own a copy of one or more of their albums.

Now, I’d been scouring around for Cut since about July or so, but no one seemed to have it — even the likelier spots. I was told it was either long out of print (not entirely true) or that there wasn’t that much demand for it. Fair enough on the latter point (suffice to say, the Slits’ music isn’t entirely “user-friendly,” even in 2015), but with both Viv’s book making the rounds and garnering a lot of kudos and a new documentary about the Slits about to be released, one would think Cut would be back out there. Well, not as far as Manhattan is concerned.

Similarly, walk into a music shop here in Manhattan asking for Dr. Feelgood, and nine times out of ten, someone’s going to hand you a Motley Crue album. Even at the band’s height, Canvey Island’s Dr. Feelgood seemed to leave America largely befuddled. Honestly, my hopes for prizing one of their albums out of a shop here seemed laughably slim (which, of course, only made the challenge that much more interesting).

With the kids out of the house with our amazing sitter, I had the day to myself, so I hopped on the ol’ L train for the heroically short SINGLE STOP to the otherwise lamentably hipster-choked environs of Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

Actually, I should qualify that: I don’t know if Williamsburg is even “hipster-choked” anymore. I mean, sure … there still seemed to be a few milling about, but it almost seems like Williamsburg’s time as the “it” neighborhood has passed. Given the amount of priapic real estate development going on, that would certainly seem to be the case. Yes, the street art is still more captivating than in Manhattan, and it’s overall still a younger, cooler crowd, but I’m getting the feeling that the genuinely hip have moved elsewhere. I don’t know. Am I wrong?

Here’s the thing, though: I DON’T GIVE A GOOD GODDAMN ANYMORE. I’m now a silver-haired, 48-year-old father of two. I may still be preoccupied by silly, juvenile shit (like out of print albums by quasi-obscure punk bands), but I’m otherwise still a functioning adult with bigger fish to fry. Fuck do I care that the robustly-bearded no longer have a private enclave wherein to sup their microbrews?

But I digress.

Walking into Rough Trade gives me such joy. It’s like the arrival gate at an airport. I practically have to wipe the tears away. I’m back home in a place where people are excited about records and compact discs (and even goddamn cassettes) and absolutely NO ONE GIVES A DAMN THERE ABOUT KANYE OR TAYLOR SWIFT OR BEYONCE OR MILEY CYRUS. I wanted to hug the guy behind the counter.

I started perusing the aisles and BAM! there’s Cut by The Slits …for under ten goddamn bucks. I skim blissfully through another aisle and BOOM! there’s Down By the Jetty by Dr. Fucking Feelgood. They even have their own little section, as if more individuals like myself might come looking for them.

I skim further, checking out the sections. Not only does Killing Joke have their own section (as they bloody well should), but the card even lovingly replicates Raven’s signature font from the Fire Dances album. ROUGH TRADE HONORS THE FIRE!

But in case you don’t want to take my word for it…. and who could blame you? … check out this clip from 2014. Granted, the youthful clerk with the beanie is a bit cloying, but it gives you a good idea of what to expect.

Post script: Cut by the Slits is pretty much exactly how I remembered it. Exciting in bursts, but still maddening at points. Down By The Jetty, meanwhile, is ENTIRELY AMAZING, and I’m ashamed I’m only just hearing it in 2015.

High Steppin' with Kraut

As I mentioned on both this post and that post, I was a huge fan of Kraut “back in the day,” as the hip kids used to say. Sort of bridging the divide between the dying embers of NYC punk and the percolating rise of NYHC in the early 80’s, Kraut didn’t get nearly as much credit as later bands like Agnostic Front, Murphy’s Law and the Cro-Mags (whom Kraut guitarist Doug Holland would join circa the recording of Age of Quarrel), but I always thought they were fuckin’ great.

In any case, I spotted this curious clip below on the Facebook page of Tim Sommer’s old “Noise the Show” broadcast, and it really takes ya back. Here are the Kraut boys — Doug Holland, Davey Gunner, Don Cowan and ever-youthful drummer Johnny Feedback (who now has a hipster cafe in New Zealand named after him, inexplicably) doin’ their thing, lip-synching to “Unemployed,” (a song near and dear to my heart for a variety of reasons), "Kill for Cash" and "Just Cabbage," allegedly filmed at fabled New Jersey watering hole, Spit for the cable access show Dance Stand (which I wrote about here).

A YouTube commenter, however maintains that it was actually filmed at "a place called The Underground at 17 St. across from Union Square.  It was in the downstairs of what is now a Petco."

Sure, it’s a little dated, but oh so enjoyable.

Crank it!!

Looking Back at 'Lucking Out'

My friend Jim remarked recently that I read too many rock bios. Guilty as charged, your honor. Sensing that I was maybe dug too deep in that particular trench, and aware of my other predilections, Jim graciously offered me a copy of James Wolcott’s memoir from 2011, “Lucking Out: My Life Getting Down and Semi-Dirty in Seventies New York.” I was aware of Wolcott as a Vanity Fair contributor, but I had evidently slept on this book when it was first published. After reading the blurbs on the cover (including one by longtime Flaming Pablum hero Legs McNeil), I was hooked. I even bought myself a hardcover edition at The Strand, so I wouldn’t mess up Jim’s paperback copy.

Not unlike his former colleague Robert Christgau’s sprawling bio (which I basically dismissed on this post), Wolcott’s jaunt down memory lane is — thus far — a comparably tangled tale. And like the laboriously self-described “Dean of American Rock Critics,” Wolcott frequently delivers is prose wrapped in a thicket of arguably needless flourish. What might be handily encapsulated in one or two graphs frequently takes four or five. While I do enjoy — and frequently attempt to partake in, albeit with less celebrated results — the dextrous wielding of the well-honed vocabulary, sometimes one wishes the storyteller would just land the goddamn plane already.

Quibble aside, “Lucking Out” remains a tantalizing glimpse back into the soot-slathered `70’s. While I was still in my single-digits for most of the decade, I do have many memories of the era in New York City, although my encounters with its fabled grit and grime usually came divided by the window of a city bus bound for the staid Upper East Side.* Wolcott, meanwhile, was a young man out on his own during the veritable peak — depending on how you view these things -- of the city’s romanticized period of lawless bohemia. As such, he was able to get comparatively up close and personal with the beast, so to speak.

In any case, I do recommend it.

Here’s a quick taste, featuring Wolcott discussing the book from the atmospheric interior of the Algonquin Hotel, just off Sixth Avenue.

*STUPID FOOTNOTE: This will probably sound either insufferable, myopic or precious, depending on which harrowing part of New York City you might have grown up in: While the Upper East Side in the `70’s was a far cry from the bloodied badlands of the Westies’ Hell’s Kitchen or the fire-blackened rubble of the Lower East Side, it did not go entirely untouched by the perils of the era. The first time I was ever properly mugged (as in “Empty all your pockets and give me all your money or I’m going to fucking hurt you,” etc.) was on the spacious byway of Park Avenue. Even in Manhattan’s comparatively "secure" enclaves like Carnegie Hill and Yorkville, there were murders, theft and prostitution. The last time I was properly mugged was as a high schooler along the leafy, meandering paths of Carl Schurz Park, literally a stone’s throw from the mayor’s digs at Gracie Mansion. Yes, some neighborhoods were better than others, but there was no untouchable neighborhood. Come to think of it, every time I was accosted with intent or flat-out jumped, it was within five or so blocks from my home … in a neighborhood usually described as a safe haven.

Like No Other

Just thought I’d give a brief shout-out to a music shop that is still alive and well, that being Other Music on East 4th (just across the way from where Tower used to be).

At this stage of the proceedings, not only is Other Music a remarkable shop, but it’s also one of the LAST PLACES OF ITS KIND LEFT IN MANHATTAN. I cited it back on this post, but even since then — March of 2014 — some of the places mentioned therein (notably Kim’s and Sounds) have closed their doors. Much to my relief, Other Music is still there and seemingly going strong.

With the possible exception of the endearingly adventurous, intimidatingly esoteric Downtown Music Gallery on Monroe Street in Chinatown, I’d suggest that Other Music has the widest selection of music available in this borough. By the same token, one shouldn’t go there expecting to find the new Ed Sheeran album (well…maybe in the used section). Go to Barnes & Noble for that bullshit. Other Music is for folks who take their tunes seriously.

Unlike some of its since-departed peers (specifically Kim’s), while Other Music is a hive of robustly select tastes, the staff is in no way snobbish. They won’t look down at you for whatever left-field artist or album you’re inquiring about. They know their stuff without ever resorting to lording it over anyone. And if they don’t have the item you’re looking for, they’ll gamely offer to help you chase it down. Yes, other stores offer similar services, but Other Music at least has a handier knowledge of where to find those rarified titles.

As mentioned in that earlier post, I really don’t know what I’m going to do when Other Music shuts its doors. Sure, the Rough Trade shop in Williamsburg is sprawlingly impressive, but y’know … that’s Brooklyn. And it’s not just about procuring product. Of course, I can invariably find whatever I want on the internet, but I just love to fucking BROWSE in these places.

I can’t be alone in that capacity, can I?

Anyway, here’s a nice little clip about Other Music from a couple of years back. I love the fact that they curate based on the staff’s tastes.

Go support them.

Back … Again … to Tower on Broadway

I’ve written pretty extensively already about my attachment to the old Tower Records on 4th and Broadway (most recently here), along with my pointed disdain for the MLB Mancave that currently occupies Tower’s former address (which I pretty much covered here). At this late stage of the day, there’s not much more that needs to be said.

Or is there?

My comrade Phil from Burning Ambulance alerted me to a piece in Vulture today that culls an nice little excerpt from Colin Hanks' forthcoming documentary, “All Things Must Pass.” This clip discusses the old 4th and Broadway location in some detail, along with some early footage from its 1983 opening.

Check it out here….

Bonne Nuit, Chantal

I read this morning that Belgian filmmaker Chantal Akerman passed away this week at the age of 65. 

In tribute, here -- once again -- is her haunting, NYC-centric opus, "News From Home."

See You on Sixth

I found a striking shot, recently, of Sixth Avenue — a.k.a “Avenue of the Americas” — taken from the vantage point of about West 51st Street looking south (that’s it above). I feel quite remiss in admitting that I didn’t glean the photographer’s name, nor the year it was snapped. What’s notable about this photograph is the fact that the scene seems mysteriously bereft of any signs of life, and there’s only a few cars parked along the sides of the avenue, recalling the eerie, post-apocalyptic desolation of films like 1959's "The World, The Flesh and The Devil." Judging from the style of the automobiles, it was probably taken at some point in the 70’s (probably in the early morning), but I just don’t know, unfortunately.

ADDENDUM: Loyal reader/excellent friend Chung Wong wrote in to solve the mystery. The black and white photo above was taken by Thomas Struth in 1978.

I was drawn to it not only for its clean, stark symmetry and its lonely, haunting vibe, but also because I spent a wide swathe of my life working on both sides of this particular patch of Manhattan real estate (specifically at LIFE Magazine and TIME Magazine on the right and MSN and NBC over on the left). As such, this neighborhood will always have a special resonance for me ... for better or worse.

In any case, I attended part one of a two-part high school reunion last night that found me trudging up this very strip. Upon crossing the street, it occurred to me that I was walking past the same vantage point, approximately. As such, I stopped and tried to replicate the shot.

Now, granted, that picture was taken in broad daylight with no one around while mine was taken on a rainy night, teeming with activity, but here’s my version below.

I’m quite pleased with it, actually.

Welcome Back to October