Flaming Pablum

No Sleep `till ... Phoenicia

A couple of weeks back, I wrote what I’d consider to be a somewhat half-baked piece about never wanting to leave Manhattan, despite being a married father of two. This was for a website called Fatherly. I consider it half-baked in that I didn’t really expound on a few salient points, and pretty much came off — to my mind, at least — as simply being a blustery, pugnacious snob (although some might argue that that’s a reasonably accurate description). Should you care, you can read that piece here. My apologies, in advance, to the Westchester residents among you. 

On Fatherly’s Facebook page, I was somewhat predictably lambasted by a handful of readers (and that’s being generous, … the story didn’t exactly ignite a maelstrom of clicks) who basically said my article was a worthless waste of time penned by an insufferable hipster. Fair enough. Like I said, I ultimately didn’t extrapolate enough, which just left me sounding like a cliched cartoon character.

In any case, at the beginning of the story, I wax rhapsodic about my nights out on the tiles in the early 90's, frequenting storied dive bars and rock clubs like Downtown Beirut, the Lismar Lounge, CBGB and the Limelight. While that’s all accurate, I was struck this morning by a piece in Salon penned by a fellow denizen of those rightly revered locales. His piece, however, is written with a great deal more restraint, poise and maturity. That guy is one Tony Fletcher.

I first met Tony Fletcher through an independent music magazine I was toiling for called The New York Review of Records (I’ve mentioned it here several times). A British ex-pat and prolific writer, Tony contributed a few pieces to the 'zine, and was always a fun, informative and affable guy. He also deejayed at a few places like The Limelight, The Grand and a couple of other clubs. Back then, I took full advantage of Tony’s bottomless generosity, and managed to gain entry to many an establishment via his good will.

Tony ended up immersing himself in his writing, and has gone on to publish several books, including a number of authoritative rock bios, as well as a strenuously researched history of the music of New York City which I wrote about here on the sadly largely dormant New York That Nobody Sings.

Anyway, a decade ago, Tony gave up his perch in Brooklyn — where he’d been living well prior to said borough’s meteoric rise in profile and hepcat cache — and packed up his family to move to Phoenicia, in what the late Spalding Gray so colorfully called “the crotch of the Catskills.” I’m proud to say I’ve been to Phoenicia (our best friends/next-door neighbors have a house nearby), and I cannot blame Tony for being fond, protective and wittily pedantic about its finer points in retort to an odious article in Time Out which dubiously proclaimed it a sort of new Brooklyn.

Read Tony’s piece by clicking right here. Maybe some day, when I grow up and stop being such a naive idiot, I’ll follow his lead. In the interim, I’m still staying put here in Manhattan.

And since it's still online, here's Spalding Gray's "The Terrors of Pleasure," documenting his move to a hamlet in the Catskills (also near Phoenicia) wherein he planned to pen the "Great American Novel." It remains my favorite monologue by the great man...

Back to the Upper West Side

There’s a telling scene in Whit Stillman’s snobby-bastard classic “Metropolitan” from 1990 wherein, after a brief evening of genteel shenanigans, the main characters discover that Tom, the newly adopted member of the so-called Sally Fowler Rat Pack is not, in fact, from the Upper East Side. “There’s been an Upper West Sider in our midst!” mock-gasps main fop Nick, as Tom’s checker cab takes an unthinkable right off Fifth Avenue and into Central Park to cross over to that blighted wasteland.

Now, having myself grown up in the cloyingly stuffy Upper East Side (see this post, yet again, for some of those details), I cannot say I became very familiar with the Upper West Side (as captured above by Thomas Struth circa 1978) until comparatively late in the proceedings. I did have a couple of grade school chums — notably Ernie C. — who lived up near Columbia University. I remember going up there for a playdate after school one day (this being back in the early-to-mid 70’s). It truly felt like a totally different city over there.

There was also a certain Chinese restaurant on Upper Broadway that my parents used to drag my sister and I to, that being Hunan Balcony (as described in this post). In retrospect, I don’t remember the food at the `Balcony being so exceptional as to warrant a trip across town, but hey — I wasn’t the one making the decisions at the time. I was sad to learn, while researching this post, that Hunan Balcony closed up shop for good last year.

When I became relatively autonomous towards my high school years, I started to venture to the Upper West Side on my own more frequently, usually for the purposes of exploring their comic shops and record stores. As mentioned in that other post, certain pals of mine and I used to walk all the way across the park just to visit a certain corner shop that had a “Tempest” machine. That may sound like a ridiculous reason today (and it was, kinda), but it seemed entirely worth it at the time.

Anyway, I’m not sure on which Facebook group I first saw it, but this video is indeed a compelling little clip. I would embed it here, but privacy settings unfortunately forbid it.

Shot by one Mark Mannucci, here’s a great, nine-minute piece on the Upper West Side of 1977. While in gritty, antiquated black n’ white, you can still spot several familiar landmarks and storefronts. It’s an interesting step back into another era.

Watch it here.

Thanksgiving 2015

Under normal circumstances, I'm prone to churlishly refer to the impending holiday as Angstgiving, and issue some emphatic advisory to steer well clear of any divisive political topics `round the dinner table, if at all possible. This is still prudent advice, although I believe even the most strident Republicans in my family are somewhat at a loss, these days, to make sense of characters like Donald Trump and Ben Carson. In any case, I’ll be keeping my frequently pointed opinions to myself over the next couple of days as best I can. No easy feat, that.

The Pope made a rather ominous and candid declaration recently about the inherent hollowness of celebrating Christmas while the world is plagued by war and bloodshed. Ringing in Thanksgiving seems similarly cynical in the wake of everything that’s been going on. By the same token, perhaps we should embrace this opportunity to express thanks for our own good fortune and the continued safety of our loved ones in these troubled times, keeping in mind that not everyone has been so blessed.

On a purely personal level, having finally landed a job (which I start the Monday following Thanksgiving), I do indeed have a great deal to be thankful for. Having been surrounded by a phalanx of friends and family, I managed to make it through the last sixteen plus months of anguish and turmoil. I am feeling incredibly grateful as I start this next chapter.

I’m also thankful for all the well-wishes and continued support I’ve found here on Flaming Pablum. Thank you for reading and sticking with this silly thing. We’ll see where it goes from here.

Be good to each other. Be safe, hopeful and, yes, thankful.

And for those who might not get the joke of the picture above (purloined from the Facebook page of storied New York City punk rocker George Tabb), it's time to school thyselves….

In Defense of the Black Turtleneck

As we dangle precariously over the precipice of the holiday season, I was recently tasked with procuring some new duds for our little son, Oliver. Being a budding 9-year-old, he’s managed to outgrow a lot of clothes that fit him perfectly seemingly only weeks ago. With only a single pair of jeans that still work for him and but a paltry handful of presentable tops (i.e. those without images of Darth Vader and the like), I hit the streets to better outfit our little lad.

Turned away at the Levi’s Store (evidently, you have to go to Macy’s for their kidswear … and I’m not down with that brand of torture), I begrudgingly went to ye olde Gap on Fifth Avenue. To their credit, I found some basic items for Oliver in very short order, and was pleased to find that everything was 40% off. Score for Dad!

There was one particular garment, however, that I was envisioning for him that I wasn’t able to find, so I asked one of the salesladies. I inquired if they might have any black turtlenecks in his size. The woman practically had to stifle her laughter. To my further dismay, they didn’t have any in my size either. In fact, it didn’t look like they had any at all.

This all begged the question: What exactly is so wrong with the black turtleneck?

I used to frequently abuse an old line that I formerly wore a lot of black because of my fandom for bands like The Stranglers and The Misfits, but that I currently wear a lot of black because it’s slimming. That may be an old joke, but it’s actually pretty damn accurate in my case. And a big part of my wardrobe towards the end of autumn and into the gaping maw of winter has pretty much always been — or at least from the point in which I was picking out my own clothes — the staple of the black turtleneck.

Let’s review, shall we?

For a start, it’s a remarkably versatile piece. It keeps your neck warm, it’s largely a neutral color that you can wear under virtually anything (except white — although I was known to occasionally rock that look during less enlightened years) and, well, it’s black, so it’s inherently cool.

In the exclusive pantheon of high fashion iconography, the black turtleneck has been stylishly sported by unimpeachable figures like Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe and Jackie O. Now, granted, these three particular women could have all worn dung-slathered potato sacks and still made them look effortlessly fabulous, but I’d suggest that there isn’t a woman alive who doesn’t look fucking great in a fetching black goddamn turtleneck. Whitney Houston — who I never liked — wears one toward the end of the video for “I’m Your Baby Tonight” (emulating the afore-cited Hepburn) and almost made me like her. Look closely, and you’ll notice Sinead O’Connor sports one in the stirring video for “Nothing Compares to You” (i.e. well before she went completely bugfuck insane).

But, I can hear you say, — that’s womenswear you’re talking about. What self-respecting male — apart from the late Steve Jobs — really wears a black turtleneck and gets away with it?

Well, for a start, there was the Velvet Underground. I still remember paging through my college pal Jay’s weathered copy of Victor Bockris’ “Uptight: The Story of the Velvet Underground” and spotting a photo of late guitarist Sterling Morrison looking dead-cool in a pair of wrap-around shades and a black goddamn turtleneck. I asked Jay if I could remove the page in question, and he promptly told me I could fuck right off, but that single cool image immediately validated — to my mind — all that I was already believing.

Then, of course, there was my beloved Killing Joke. Around the time of their breakthrough album Night Time, key members of the band were quite fond of rocking the black turtleneck, notably inimitably cool guitarist Geordie Walker. He even sported it on the sleeve for the “Kings & Queens” single.

Taking that a step further, in the elegiac clip for “Love Like Blood,” bassist Paul Raven (may he rest in peace) rocks a badass black turtleneck, while Geordie goes with a grey one.

I mean, does one need better evidence than that?

It should be noted, at this state of the proceedings, of course, that I have, on occasion, been convincingly accused of being entirely inarticulate in the language of fashion.

Given that I’m still prone to earnestly wear rock t-shirts well past the Rubicon of my mid-40’s and that I haven’t owned a proper suit since the halcyon days of the Clinton Administration, one could credibly argue that I’m the very last person who should opine about clothing. At my former place of employment, I was occasionally asked to write for a fashion blog called The Look (don’t search for it — it’s long offline). I wrote a couple of pieces about my appreciation for Shanghai Tang, my disdain for mandals and several pieces about t-shirts, but when I offered to write a post defending the black turtleneck, everyone seemed to look away, leave the room or swiftly change the subject.

As such, I’m doing it here and now on my own damned blog. As far as I'm concerned, if it was good enough for Jackie Onassis, Audrey Hepburn, Lou Reed, Sterling Morrison and Paul Raven, IT'S DAMN WELL GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME!

So, what say you — black turtlenecks — yea or nay?

Travels with Charlie: Getting to Know Uncle Acid

I have this strange love-hate relationship with Vice’s music site, Noisey. On the one hand, they laboriously shove the same overhyped millennial acts at their readership, tirelessly couched in entirely subjective claptrap about it all being the unanimously acknowledged greatest music on earth. Their pieces can be smug and cloyingly lingo-laden without being informative or entertaining. But, then, I’m a cantankerously opinionated 48-year-old. Ultimately, I am the last person who should be reading Noisey.

But for every Noisey post that makes me foam at the mouth in full-on “Get Off My Lawn” fervor, they’ll publish a cool interview with storied No Wave ensemble Mars or get three members of SWANS to discuss the making of Filth or interview Jaz Coleman of Killing Joke. I mean, I still prefer outlets like The Quietus, but Noisey does occasionally put out some stuff that’s right up my street, so to speak. If that means putting up with endless posts on my Facebook feed from them about indefensible piffle like Drake or Tyler, the Creator then so be it.

In any case, Noisey recently profiled a sorta-newish “stoner rock” band from the UK called Uncle Acid & the Deadbeats. Despite my better judgement, I am not averse to a bit of that stuff. I think the jokey genre tag does the music no small disservice, for whatever that’s worth. But I do like me a bit of Kyuss, Fu Manchu, High on Fire and The Sword, and I am hardly what anyone could ever credibly describe as “a stoner.”

In any case, what caught my eye about this particular band was the fact that they evidently harbor a fervent appreciation for the lore and mythos of Charles Manson. At once, I started to wince with derision. I mean, in 2015, it’s a bit late in the day to be dusting off allusions to the Manson Family, to say nothing of the fact that it’s become something of a ridiculous cliche. Scores of artists — from Sonic Youth to Pussy Galore to Black Flag to Redd Kross to the Lemonheads to Psychic TV to even goddamn Guns ’N’ Roses — have dabbled with the arguable espousal of all things Charles Manson. It’s pretty played out. How about we try something new, kids? Would that be a crime?

The lead singer even professes, at the beginning of the piece, that he regrets not having been able to conduct the interview at the grave of Sharon Tate. I mean, come on.

Perhaps we’re now so far removed for the tumultuous end of the 60’s that stuff like Charles Manson and Altamont and such have become fairer game. It just seems a bit disingenuous for kids who invariably hadn’t been born yet to be talking about all that stuff. But, I guess, by the same token, it’s no different from bands like Zeppelin and Sabbath yapping on about Aleister Crowley.

In any case, I was in the process of chalking Uncle Acid up to being yet another band of dinky millennials who don’t know their place and blah blah blah…

But y’know what? Despite my misgiving, I really like this track….

Be warned. The vid’s predictably ridiculous and not entirely safe for work.

Transgress to Impress: Revisiting Richard Kern

I start work a week from next Monday. This is, obviously, incredibly great news and an indescribable relief. As a strange bonus, however, the outlet that’s employing me wasn’t able to immediately accommodate me, so I’ve had a couple of weeks to get my ducks in a row and enjoy some last days of unfettered free time before returning to the conventional working week (cue Elvis Costello). As such, this afternoon I took advantage of going to something that I probably wouldn’t otherwise have time for.

I went to check out the new Richard Kern show at the Marlborough Broome Street Gallery on the eastern end of Broome Street (just a few steps from the Bowery). If you’re unfamiliar with Richard Kern, I should preface this by saying that his work REALLY isn’t for everyone. Know that moving forward.

A veteran filmmaker and photographer of the transgressive cinema scene of the 80’s (a gaggle of cinematic envelope-pushers whose work coalesced with and more or less ran parallel to the similarly inclined No Wave music phenomenon), Kern produced work that's been considered to be, well, brazenly profane and upsetting (depending on your sensibility). Applicable adjectives run the gauntlet between provocative and kinky through violent and, well, disturbing. Like I said, this ain’t Annie Leibovitz we’re discussing.

Anyway, in addition to shooting pictures rife with many a pervy and/or disquieting subject, Kern also briefly played in a Lower East Side band in the `80’s called the Black Snakes alongside Jack Natz (formerly of Virus and the Undead, and later of my beloved Cop Shoot Cop). They cut a single album that’s well worth your time, if only for their sludge-laden cover of Bill Withers’ “Ain’t No Sunshine" (take THAT, Ed Sheerhan). Natz also starred in one of Kern's less delicate films, that being the notorious "cord scene" in "Submit to Me Now." If you'd like to check that out, click right here -- but maybe usher the kids out of the zip code first.

I actually met Richard Kern some years ago through the Cop Shoot Cop guys, and despite his reputation, he was a remarkably easy-going, affable gent. Just goes to show ya.

Kern even shot the single sleeve for a friend of mine’s band, that being the criminally short-lived Hot Corn Girls. That's it over to the right.

Given his connections to my friends and his giddy penchant for pushing whatever naughty, taboo button was readily available, I picked up Kern’s (first?) anthology, “New York Girls,” when it was published in the 90’s. Suffice to say, it is REALLY not something you want to have lying around on your coffee table when your in-laws are stopping by.

Here we are, then, twenty years after that book’s first edition, and the Marlborough Broome Street Gallery is featuring a Kern retrospective called “New York Girls Revisited.”

Here’s a little bit of what they have to say about this show….

This exhibition is an opportunity to reflect on cultural change in the last two decades, and the shifting sands of the sexually provocative in art and popular culture. The erotic jolt provided by images of nudity and sexual fetishism may have been blunted by the proliferation of this imagery online, but this has had the interesting effect of forcing a viewer to contend with Kern’s images in more formal, classical photographic terms. What we find, then, is his particular use of composition, lighting, color gels, poses, props and settings. Shot mostly in his East Village walk up, the images open up a psychological terrain of personal fixations (enacted in the high-wire-walk of collaboration with his models) and a meticulous, fastidious drive to create images that telegraph these very specific desires.

As classy and high-brow as that sounds, however, believe you me — don’t bring your grandmother to this show, unless you want her to cry and maybe try to hit you.

If you’re curious, though, get yourselves to 331 Broome Street.

And while many might consider Richard Kern to be a frowny, violence-aroused, potty-minded troglodyte, the man did have something of a sense of humor. Witness the video he directed for King Missle for — in suitably freaky style — “Detachable Penis” (filmed lovingly around the East Village)…..

Back ... Again ... to Freebeing in `86

I’ve written about storied downtowner Nelson Sullivan before (notably here, here and here), but if you’re unfamiliar, suffice it to say Mr. Sullivan was an exhaustive video-blogger before such a thing ever existed. Although tragically no longer with us (he passed away suddenly in 1989), his sprawling body of work is now in the possession of the NYU archives.

In any case, EV Grieve unearthed another of Sullivan’s amazing clips the other day, and it’s every bit as great as his previous ones. I don’t have much to add to what Grieve said, but given the oft-emphasized predilections of my blog, I thought I’d call out just a couple of things.

In addition to capturing some of the same locales he's visited in previous clips (notably St. Marks Place, Tompkins Square Park, the Pyramid and 7A), this one — from June of 1986 —features a quick glimpse into Freebeing Records on Second Avenue. Unfortunately, he doesn’t step inside, but c’est la vie.

You may remember my previous post on Freebeing. Watch closely and you can spot a few date-affirming titles adorning the entrance to the shop, like The Queen is Dead by the Smiths and Standing on a Beach by The Cure (released in June and May of that year, respectively).

Anyway, it’s a fun clip. Bonus points for spotting Letch Patrol graffiti and the inevitable Missing Foundation logo.

R.I.P. Nelson. I’m sure you were considered entirely eccentric for carrying that huge videocamera around back in the day, but we thank you for it today.

Go Folk Yourselves

There’s invariably a bigger post to be done on this subject, but inspired by the allusion to NYC's  fleeting "Anti-Folk" scene in my post of the other day, I did a bit more digging and found some great stuff on YouTube.

Let me, once again, preface this by asserting that I was never a great fan of this stuff — Anti-Folk or actual Folk — whichever your preference, despite quite digging Roger Manning and King Missile (if the latter can even still be counted as such). I certainly never gave one good crap about the Moldy Peaches, but whatever. If you’re into that stuff, though, might I direct you to this two part documentary.

Somewhat prior to all that stuff, however, there was this band called The Washington Squares. I never actually went — or, honestly, harbored any desire — to see them, but I remember their flyers being up all over the place in the 80’s. Essentially, they were a group of veterans from various punk bands who basically did "a reverse Dylan" and went acoustic.

Their big haunt, somewhat unsurprisingly, was a joint down the strip from Bleecker Bob’s on West Third street called Folk City. Don’t bother looking for it now, obviously. It’s long gone — replaced by a bar of no great distinction or character.

I was still living up on the Upper East Side at the time, but as detailed, once again, in this post, I’d had a grade school friend I’ve been calling Spike (obviously, not his real name) who moved downtown to his dad’s place on Cornelia Street sometime around `82 or `83. From that address in the veritable heart of the Village, Spike and I fully immersed ourselves in the local attractions. And one of those attractions was Folk City.

We went a couple of times, but never to see any credible folk acts. I believe we went to a few open-mic stand-up comedy shows there, and — strangely — I believe we saw a performance by Steve Forbert. You might remember him from 1979’s radio staple, “Romeo’s Tune” and his fleeting cameo in the video for Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” ... which, incidentally, was filmed a couple of blocks away on Gay Street, but you probably knew that.

Folk City actually played host to a few bands I’d have liked to have seen at the time — notably an early, endearingly rough-round-the-edges incarnation of the Violent Femmes — but I didn’t get to those shows, for whatever reason.

Anyway, in terms of the Washington Squares, they always struck me as kinda schticky. I don’t doubt their reverence for genuine folk music, but their image just seemed like a send-up … or a piss-take. Later on in their career, they ditched their nyuck nyuck berets and stripy beatnik shirts in favor or a more straightforward approach (check out their cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Everybody Knows” for a bit of that … filmed in the heart of Times Square in the late `80s). Now, is there -- as that documentary suggests -- a genuine link between the Washington Squares and later acts like Paleface, Lach and Roger Manning, etc.? I'll defer to the acolytes of that scene answer that.

I believe the Washington Square broke up by the dawn of the `90's, but I have no idea. Folk City closed its doors on West Third Street in 1986, after a 25-year run. Even though they didn’t regularly host my type of shit, I was sad to see it go. It was a fun room.

Check out the clip below that profiles both the Washington Squares and gives you a tantalizing glimpse of the interiors of Folk City.

Back to the East River Bandshell

 

I think the first time I ever laid eyes the East River Park Amphitheatre (or Bandshell, depending on how you chose to refer to it), was via 1983’s graffiti epic, “Wild Style.” At the time, East River Park — a thin slab of concrete and green between the Lower East Side and the East River — was basically a far-flung no-go zone, least of all for a pasty Upper East Side geek like myself. Hell, I didn’t need to travel down to the fringes of Alphabet City to get hassled. I managed to do it right on my own turf.

In any case, I would first see the East River Park Bandshell up close (that’s it up top, courtesy of Gilberto Sanchez via Bowery Boogie) — relatively speaking — whilst biking by it a year or so later. By that point, it seemed to be in the process of becoming entirely disused and derelict … almost like something out of “Planet of the Apes.” Back in 2010, EV Grieve put up a post about it, featuring some great shots by one Jen Williams of the Bandshell in decline.

As the story goes, the rotting structure was basically paired down and spruced up in 2001. To be honest, I was a little disappointed when that happened. I kinda liked it the way it was.

The only reason I’m talking about it now, however, is because I recently unearthed a curious old video by the False Prophets (who I’ve written about here and, more recently, here). In that first post, I’d mistakenly asserted that the band had only every produced a single album. That turned out not to be the case. In any event, “Invisible People” is the title track to their second proper album from 1990, and it was filmed entirely at the East River Park Bandshell.

While I’d been used to the False Prophets as sounding more like this, “Invisible People” found the band really stretching beyond the narrow confines of hardcore punk, employing melodious harmonies and folksy acoustic instrumentation, while retaining their pointedly lefty, socially conscious lyrical bent.

Check it out here…

Nice, right? Incidentally, the animated sequences came courtesy of illustrator Erick Drooker, whose work you might remember from the Faith No More sleeve, King for a Day.

Of course, “Invisible People” wasn’t the only video filmed at the East River Park Bandshell. Eight years earlier in 1982 (the same year “Wild Style” was filmed), Kid Creole & the Coconuts shot the clip of “Annie, I’m Not Your Daddy” there … somewhat inexplicably.

Here’s that clip now…

Anyway, having recently acquired a copy of False Prophets’ Invisible People — and with a few days off before I start my new job — I decided to go down to East River Park to check out the old Bandshell.

Entering East River Park at East 10th Street (just beyond Avenue D — which was once churlishly referred to by some of my old cohorts as “Avenue Death” — and the FDR Drive), I took a misty, largely deserted stroll south, past the baseball diamonds, the Domino Sugar plant on the far side of the river and under the Williamsburg Bridge until I reached the site of the Bandshell.

If you came looking for it based on “Wild Style” or those videos be Kid Creole or the False Prophets, you might just walk right on by it today. No longer as hulking a structure as its previous incarnation, the Bandshell is now basically just an arch with a flourish of metal piping. I still wouldn’t want to, say, spend the night there, but its a great deal less forbidding than it used to be.

I strolled around and sat in the amphiteatre bleachers for a bit (where False Prophets’ Stephan is hassled by the donut-chomping cop in “Invisible People”).

Here’s how it looks today..

ADDENDUM: My friend Bryan K. of This Ain't the Summer of Love just posted this on my Facebook page. Herewith Cheap Trick delivering a blistering cover of Lennon's "Cold Turkey" at the (pre-makeover) East River Bandshell. Oddly, the video also features local skateboard legend Harold Hunter, who found ame in Harmony Korine's "Kids."

'Now That's Something to See'

I have this vivid memory of an afternoon in the mid-80’s when myself and my friend Rocky (i.e. not his real name, but immortalized on this epic-length post) encountered this punk band tuning up at the Bandshell in the heart of Central Park. They were called Paleface (or possibly Pale Face). I recall one of them taking me to task for wearing a Van Halen t-shirt at the time (guilty as charged, your honor), and me making an impassioned case for being able to appreciate both the indulgent guitar theatrics of Van Halen and the spartan wallop of hardcore. Not sure how the debate ended, but I remember sticking around and enjoying their performance.

This Paleface is not that Paleface, alas. I have no idea what became of them — and I’ve combed the `Net for evidence — so if you know, speak up.

This Paleface, meanwhile, is evidently a veteran of NYC’s “anti-folk” scene. I remember that term being thrown around a lot in `89 and `90, usually in association with guys like Roger Manning and even early King Missile. While I liked both of them, I didn’t really invest in “anti-folk” with any sincerity (being more enthralled, generally, but needlessly over-amplified noise). Later on, I believe people called folks like the Moldy Peaches and Beck “anti-folk.” I still don’t quite understand what it’s supposed to imply.

In any case, I remember hearing about this Paleface, but usually being let down that it was not that band in Central Park I’d fleetingly seen so many years earlier. That disappointment led me to forsake ever listening to the more contemporary Paleface. That is until today, when I stumbled upon his video for “New York, New York.”

Dating back to 2010, “New York, New York” is a lovely little video of a kinda simplistic ode to the city, not too far a cry from similarly inclined songs by Ryan Adams, LCD Soundsystem and, more recently, Cat Power. It doesn’t exactly push any envelopes, but it’s a nice little track.

Look for glimpses of the Yaffa Cafe, the Holiday Bar, the Living Room, Brooklyn Bowl, Two Boots Pizza and the Astor Place cube (i.e. “the Alamo”).