Flaming Pablum

None The Worse for Wear: The Life & Times of R.B. Korbet

Some of you might remember an entry I posted here several weeks back that, in the advance of the release of Ada Calhoun’s “St. Marks is Dead,” ruminated on what I called the steady “defpunkification” of St. Marks Place. To illustrate same, I repurposed a photograph I’d seen floating around the internet for some time, that being the great shot below of a gaggle of teenage punks gathered on the stoop of 4 St. Marks (adjacent to the now-soon-to-depart Trash & Vaudeville). In a single image, the photograph in question completely captures a certain era of the street — to say nothing of the neighborhood — that has since largely vanished.

In short order, I fielded a note on Facebook from someone who’d seen the photo on my post and asked that it be properly credited to Dave 'Daze' Parsons of Rat Cage Records. I, of course, obliged, only to suddenly discover that the individual I was conversing with was none other than R.B. Korbet. That’s her above in the black, sitting in the center of the photograph and staring right at you.

While hers may not be an immediately resonant name to the layperson, acolytes of all things punk rock should doubtlessly recognize her as the lead singer of New York City proto-hardcore ensemble Even Worse.

Probably best known for their contribution to ROIR’s seminal compilation, New York Thrash (which I initially spoke about back here … kind of like the No New York for the early pre-hardcore scene in New York), Even Worse was a fixture in both the East Village and then-still-vibrant live music circuit of the early `80s. Alongside the similarly inclined likes of The Stimulators, the Undead, Bad Brains, Kraut, Heart Attack, False Prophets, Adrenalin O.D. and — yes, wait for it — the fledgling, pre-Hip-Hop Beastie Boys, Even Worse represented a thorny new crop of bands just as pissed off and just as viable as their more celebrated forebears in Television, the Ramones, the Dead Boys et al. from only a few years earlier. Even Worse also counted noted punk archivist, writer, "Big Takeover"-founder and all around ageless good guy, Jack Rabid in its ranks.

Did Even Worse make timeless music? Well, not really (which, of course, they’d be the first to admit). That said, they got up and fucking did it. As I once said about their pals in the Beastie Boys, while myself and my friends were largely happy to sit on the sidelines and, for lack of a better term, consume punk rock, young R.B. Korbet and her cohorts in Even Worse had the goddamn moxie to make their own. For that alone, they are heroes.

But while bands like the Beastie Boys and Bad Brains continued to ascend, the scene that had nurtured them and Even Worse started to mutate, morphing into an arguably less egalitarian and, well, more violent community. By the time what became "NYHC" was in full swing, Korbet had more or less divested from that crowd.

Following her split from Even Worse circa 1982, Korbet went on to play for a frankly dizzying array of NYC bands. From an early incarnation of King Missile (long before they became a “Beavis & Butthead” favorite with “Detachable Penis”) to a stint in the pugnaciously potty-mouthed Pussy Galore to even a chaos-fueled tenure in the notorious Missing Foundation, Korbet’s musical curriculum vitae alone is entirely more badass than you, me and everyone we know could ever hope to be.

In any case, since our initial exchange over that St. Marks photo, R.B. and I have become Facebook friends and frequent commenters on each other’s posts. With her afore-cited, illustrious past in mind, I thought it might be interesting to hear what she might have to say about everything that’s happened in the ensuing years since her days on the NYC punk scene (and beyond). I asked her if she’d be game for an interview for Flaming Pablum, and not only did she oblige, but she gave me a selection of richly detailed answers that are as funny and informative as they are thoughtful and self-effacing. R.B. is, was and e’re shall be the real deal, as you’ll soon see. Her answers are italicized.

Thirty-four years after the release of ROIR’s New York Thrash, it still seems like the narrative of that era of NYC punk is largely inhabited by boys. As the focal point of Even Worse and an early member of what became the hardcore community, how difficult was it to be a young woman in that scene?

I’m going to answer this in two parts. First, I'm glad you acknowledge that I was involved in what became the hardcore community, because most people know that by '83 I was rarely seen at a NYHC show save those of my closest friends. Admittedly I became a bit anti-social for a time.

There was a definite evolution; a lot of those bands started out in assorted punk guises and changed their sound as well as their outlook over time. I'm happy for all those that got the followings they did, they worked like motherfuckers for it, but it just got too much for me to deal with. Unless I am onstage or backstage, I've never been good in crowds, especially when there's a bloody cage fight going on on the dance floor. Ever since out-of-town bands began coming to 171 A around 1982 with the expressed intent of ‘kicking some New York pussy ass,’ the thrill kind of wore off for me. If you were there you know just what I’m talking about. Once I left Even Worse in 1982, I started exploring other genres on guitar as you know, but they were all rooted firmly in that DIY ethos.

I don't think my experience as a young girl on the scene is going to be like anyone else's. I never approached it like I was ‘a girl’, for a start, because I was never ‘girly’. So it wasn't difficult because I was a girl; it was difficult because I was fucking weird. No one could really figure me out or get inside my head. It's always been like that.

There were plenty of supremely cool chicks around circa `80-`82, and none of them were little puffballs either, just not many of them were in gigging bands at first. Of course there was Kate Schellenbach (Beastie Boys), and Cherl Boyze from Nasty Facts who played bass and sang, and was great, as well as Biss, the bassist in Savage Circle, who released a 7" in 1982 that was pure thrash. Also, the Crypt Crashers had Nancy on bass, and as you might know Rob went on to form CFA, and Kontra on to Virus. Those are the ones I recall that pre-dated hardcore, and I know someone will take me to task for not mentioning more names here.

Anyway, no one ever had the audacity to treat me like I was ‘just’ a girl, they knew they’d get their head handed to them. I was me and I was crazy and just wanted to play and have fun. Even when things got kind of hyper-macho after a while, I never got any gyp from anyone who was going strong on the hardcore scene. We were family; we came from the same place, so it wasn't a thing. You must remember, we had all gotten into punk because we were trying to escape that very sort of mainstream bullshit. A person was either righteous, or not, and that was the long and short of it.

Secondly, the gender thing. I would never even attempt to portray myself as any sort of spokesperson on so-called women’s issues. I've rarely been discriminated against for merely being female because I never played that game, or aspired towards the traditional gender role. I wore my heart and my mind on my sleeve, which gave people plenty of other things to judge me on. They could take it or leave it (and quite often the latter; I wasn’t very endearing a lot of the time). I've never gotten on stage in my underwear and pretended that equated an emancipated woman somehow. I always saw that as perpetuating a manufactured stereotype, and still do; you're buying into it, hook line and sinker. I’ve never been traditionally 'pretty' or ‘feminine’, I've never tried being ‘cute’ or ‘sexy’, or even attempted to act appropriately, whatever that is, so I’ve thankfully not been judged on any of it by society’s standards. I’m not being malicious, but just like I've never dressed up as a biker or a vampire or a pirate or whatever, it’s not for me.

This might make some people angry but I have to be honest. I wanted to play with the boys. From where I sat, men never had to apologize for anything, or act dopey or take the piss out of themselves, and I didn’t want to either. I've never been in an all-girl band, getting on stage to be treated as a novelty act, because they were consistently treated that way while I was playing in the States. It was an all-pervasive meme that just wouldn’t die, and it lingers today only in a different, post-modern guise. I don’t care how progressive anyone pretends to be, it’s there. I have had the good fortune to work with some completely kick-ass women, Maggie McDermott (in Bubba Zanetti), Donna Damage (in Navigator), and Roni Avenega. I could name others that I wish I had. I simply found that I couldn’t identify with, and felt rather estranged from, other girls. It’s not you, it’s me.

Victim of the patriarchy? Perhaps. I was always hetero but came off quite butch, probably because my influences were mostly male. Let’s blame Bugs Bunny (especially when he got into drag, but that’s another story). I’ve always been a champion of ‘gender-fluidity,’ now that it has a name, whichever way it flowed. Men who were confident in themselves got me and weren't bothered a wit (some boyfriends actually saw me as something of a challenge, which I had no problem with either). My mother, the lesbian feminist, hated that I wouldn’t ‘embrace the sisterhood,’ or cave in to (and be angry about) what I actually saw as just another symptom of systematic oppression. I saw it as an extension of being told to ‘keep to your own’ or something, by joining a girl group. I was beyond all of it.

The late, great Jerry Williams gave me my first guitar pointers, and even drew me a wheel of fifths. Soon I began using RB as my stage name because I wanted to be judged solely on the merit of my playing. And I made sure I could really play by the time I formed Bubba Zanetti; I was woodshedding in Spanish Harlem during `86-`87 to Slayer, Metallica, Megadeth, AC/DC, Judas Priest, Voivod, Def Leppard (the Pete Willis stuff)... no one was going to say I was 'pretty good for a girl'. By the time we started playing out around `89 no one ever saw it coming. There was no way to describe the stuff we were doing (Maggie on bass, and Andy Malm from Shaved Pigs, Reverb Motherfuckers on drums), it was so out there and full on.

That may seem a bit of a rant, but I think clarification is important. I've been fairly quiet on the subject and for that reason, have remained largely misunderstood. My friends get me, that's all that matters.

Have you read Tony Rettman’s “NYHC” or Steven Blush’s “American Hardcore”? Are those accurate depictions, to your mind, of what was happening on the New York scene?

I've only read excerpts from both. First we must consider that they are very different types of work; the latter covers many different cities. That said, I feel Tony's book is far superior on several levels based on what I've seen. He let a diaspora of voices be heard, instead of just tossing his opinions around. He seemed to understand he’d have a lot to answer for if he took that route. The research is there, it's solid, it's fresh and evocative of a very special time and place.

Blush's book, by contrast, got a lot of hype as we all know - Geld regiert die Welt - and I see it's been called a 'definitive work' in some circles... perhaps to the outsider looking in, it is. I can't comment beyond saying that what I've read was very poorly written generally, while his NY 'facts' are warped by his subjectivity, and it's terrifically exclusive to boot. I don't remember Steve from any of the NYHC gigs I was at, but I do recall meeting him one night at the Pyramid when he was DJ'ing during the mid-80s between drag shows. Wearing a loud polyester shirt and flares, he told me then he wanted to be a writer. Maybe at that point he was just over it. But I digress.

One thing I've learned from becoming an academic is that there is no definitive history of anything - the field is constantly evolving, open to additional research, new takes and insights, and new interpretations based on the facts. Any good historian will tell you that in order to establish facts, they must be backed by evidence; but at the end of the day they are still open to interpretation because they don’t exist in a vacuum – there’s context. There is never going to be a single account of the NY scene that isn't colored by opinions, even (probably especially) if you were there. There's all this tribal myth-making and in-fighting that goes on about 'what really happened', if you have something to say about your experience don't leave it to opportunistic jokers like Blush to have the last laugh. And be thankful, we lived a life that many only dream of.

How did you get involved with Missing Foundation? What was that experience like?

I knew of Pete from Drunk Driving, which my dear friend Biss played bass in. Donna Damage (No Thanks) introduced us once we became flatmates in 1985 on East 11th street; I think she had been playing percussion in MF's latest incarnation. They did an impromptu gig on the corner of B and 10th across from Life cafe, replete with bullhorn and lit torches. It was angry and anarchic and completely summed up the way I felt at the time. He asked if I wanted to play guitar at their next show and I said yes; it was in a vacant, rubble-strewn lot on avenue C. We played inside a trench filled with petrol set alight. I don't think it lasted more than 10 minutes before emergency services put the kaibosh on the whole shebang. Seeking something resembling legitimacy, I booked us into the Kitchen and CBGB among others. I think Mark Ashwill (drums, RIP) was friends with Rudolf so he got us the Danceteria slot, wherein a porcelain toilet (!) was thrown from the stage at the end of the set, resulting in a thundering explosion which shook the room and filled it with china dust. It was exciting, the gigs were often challenges to see what we could get away with; at the Kitchen we dragged the guts of a piano onstage, stood it upright, and by the end audience members were literally smashing it to bits as I played feedback in a call-and-response sort of thing (while Michael Carter wrapped my legs in duct tape, no less). I still have the recording, it sounded incredible. No one knew what to make of it. We sent people into a frenzy. The fire marshal closed down the first Fort that Latch was running, unfortunately, during one of our gigs. Gizmo from the Rivington School (also RIP x2) dragged a bunch of chicken wire into CBGB once and proceeded to rope off a portion of the audience.

Musically I loved working with MF; we had two rock-solid drummers in Chris Egan and Mark, and Vince played a P-bass through a Big Muff while Pete did his conjuring and incantations over the top. I got to experiment and use every sonic tool in my arsenal. I worked with feedback, jazz riffs, metal hooks, and multiple effects pedals, but still wanted to leave space for the ethereal percussiveness of it all. I got us into the rehearsal room at El Bohio, the old school on East 9th, through my friend Jemeel Mondoc (the same room we used in Pussy Galore) and those 4-track recordings are amazing, I still have a few on cassette. The track ‘Backbreaker’ on that Shimmy-Disc compilation originated from just Mark and I playing alone one day, me using a slide. It sounds totally demonic, and nothing at all like the album version. Pete fired me soon after Carol at CB’s threatened to sue me for damages to the dressing room; nothing to do with me but I felt sorry because Hilly told me he’d book anything I was involved in, and he always did, even years later. I was replaced by a dude named Vern who I threw over a table at the Cat Club. I was being friendly! Anyway, you could never in a million years get away with those kind of shenanigans in NYC today.

According to your Wikipedia page (and were you aware that you had one?), you also served in the ranks of both Pussy Galore and King Missile (among several others). Not only do you boast some fairly notable names on your musical resume, but you’ve crossed party lines, for lack of a better term, more than a few times. I mean, Missing Foundation didn’t seem to have anything to do with the proto-NYHC scene. King Missile were more part of the anti-folk genre, and Pussy Galore seemed to exist apart from all that as well. What do you attribute that to? Were you just restless?

I’ve seen it! It’s pithy. I think I was restless. At the risk of sounding grandiose, perhaps I was the personification of a city in transition. It was partially my age, I was young and still finding myself, but more than anything else I liked meeting musically-minded people, but rubbed just as many of them the wrong way. Seriously, I've always been a polarizing figure and that certainly had something to do with it. I’m an only child and was a total brat. I've been deemed a flight risk and 'difficult to work with'. There's a lot to answer for there. I might not have known what I wanted to do, but more importantly I knew what I didn't want to do. I didn't want to do anything contrived or predictable so I was open to anything that felt free from easy classification. While I started out as a snotty punk, when you stop and think about it, it was only a few years of my life. I'll always have the punk ethic; things suck so let's create something better-kind-of-thing, it’s in my DNA. I still balk at authority. But I guess I'm no good at lingering, tribal devotion to anything but my principles.

The term 'anti-folk', when I first heard it, I was like, yuck, but it wasn't with the same revulsion as when I heard 'scum rock' - they tried to call Bubba Zanetti that! I hate labels, especially tongue-in-cheek stuff that isn't even very clever. I got a couple offers from straight up hair metal bands while living up in El Barrio, but I didn't want to be pigeon-holed and I knew I'd get bored, even more quickly than usual.

On a much more personal note, in 1999 I was officially diagnosed as 'bi-polar' when the medical community found a way to market pharmaceuticals for what was once called ‘an artistic disposition'. I make no excuses but that may explain part of it. ‘Grandpa's crazy gene’ is what I like to call it, but moreover I was perhaps a bit over-enthusiastic about all the opportunities to play and make widely varying kinds of noise. I was fortunate to be able to do that. You could rent a rehearsal room with drums and a full backline for maybe ten bucks an hour.

Of your experiences playing music during those eras, what specific period was your favorite and why?

Despite all my braggadocio, I was always quite insecure and unsure of myself. If you knew me, I think the over-compensation was self-evident. I didn't feel totally in control on stage until I could really sing and play guitar at the same time. So it had to be as late as 1993, with Hellvis, when I felt fully confident and comfortable with everything I had. It all became completely automatic. Although I wrote in Bubba Zanetti I didn't sing; we had a revolving cadre of vocalists including “Jammin’” Jamin Sewell (who is now a NYC council member), Tom Five (Angel Rot, White Zombie) and the infamous Jim Schuermann (Killdozer/Sharky's Machine). It was the first band where I was able to really unleash my insane ideas and thankfully in Maggie and Andy I found two equally over-zealous thrash monkeys and partners-in-musical-crime. Hellvis was a 50-50 operation, writing and singing, between Joe Truck and I. We had the same sense of humor and the same taste in music. It was a seamless collaboration when we weren't at each other's throats. Nearly ten years earlier we played together in the first line-up of Chop Shop and it didn’t go nearly as well. We recorded an LP with Wharton in 1994 that has yet to see the light of day.

So Hellvis was a definite high point for me. Another was the rehearsal weeks leading up to the Even Worse reunion in 2002 when I got to play guitar while singing the songs I used to just stand there and yelp. It felt like redemption for all that earlier awkwardness.

In the Wharton Tiers Ensemble (`96-`97) I was able to return to experimentation and improvisation to an extent, and toured quite a bit. That's actually when I fell in love with traveling; before then I was sort of a village idiot unwilling to leave New York.

All the phases have their own resounding associations for me. But the lawless nature of the Lower East Side in the `80s gave everything a brilliant, hard-edged sheen; it afforded us all the total freedom to be as creative and random as we wanted, we felt vital, even the shittiest gig seemed important somehow. There was a vast number of hole-in-the-wall clubs to play in as well as the established venues. There were bands playing out of artist’s spaces and store front galleries; there was music of every description playing every night of the week, being made by someone that you knew. That will never happen again.

All I ever wanted to do was play. All the rest was just waiting around. Ordinary life was lackluster.

You mentioned recently that you lived pretty far uptown in Manhattan. Did being a regular denizen of myriad downtown locales like Max’s, Tier 3, the Peppermint Lounge, A7 and CBGB make your life difficult? Was your family concerned that you were off at the other end of the island so much of the time?

I'm a native Upper West Sider, but I lived downtown for most of the Wild West days of the punk/noise scene. I lived in a suite in the Hotel Edison on East 32nd street (it was like living in a John Waters film) for a portion of `80-`81, then on Eldridge Street with Jack Rabid, Dave Stein (RIP) and Eric Keil from Even Worse, '81-82. Earl Hudson (Bad Brains) was even living in our kitchen for a while. Everything was pretty much walking distance. Eric and I soon moved to East 11th street where I lived until 1984. In a real pinch I was fortunate enough to be able to go back to mum's at 103rd and Broadway, but it was fraught, and by 1985, I left permanently, back further down East 11th street with Donna… then after the fire, East 5th, East 2nd, Ludlow street... I was pretty much shuttling around with a shopping cart (with my cat and guitar) for about six months.

Eventually Donna took a share on East 117th street where Natz lived (Undead, Cop Shoot Cop) and she inherited his flat AND his rat. Alec Dale from Sharky's Machine lived there for a bit, then I took his room. Soon I had my own flat in the slum next door and was on rent strike for about 2 years. I rode my bike from Spanish Harlem to the Lower East Side a lot. The most difficult part was the hill at 103rd and Madison, or trying to keep knife-wielding crackheads from stealing the bike out from under me no matter what part of town I was in. It wasn't even a nice bike, and I bought it off a crackhead myself! After that I was in Park Slope, then East 5th again, then Williamsburg….I was all over the place until I left for California in early 1998.

My parents were not involved in my life much at all. Concerned? They were clueless. They both basically abandoned me as an infant to be raised by my grandparents, who whisked me off to suburban Detroit from `72 – `80. I was only small. I had never known racism until then, it was horrible and I was bullied for befriending the school's only black family, among other things (like being a total smart arse). My mom was a virtual stranger who impotently tried to impose curfews once I moved back to NYC in 1980. My dad was pretty much out of the picture. He was very enlightened and culturally distinguished; a classical musician, composer and graphic designer in Boston, who would have fainted had he known what I was getting up to.

Meanwhile my mom, also a fantastic artist, was competing with me to prove she was more 'radical’ than I because she had to live as a bisexual when it was still illegal. She offered coke to my friends, which I objected to, not because what she was doing was wholly inappropriate -– we were barely legal, for fuck’s sake -- but because coke was such a bourgeois drug. I did not have any type of 'normal' family environment to speak of. I did have impeccable table manners thanks to my Grandmother, however.

When/why did you eventually leave NYC? Do you come back at all?

I left in February 1998, about seven months after Mark Madden (Hammerbrain) died of cancer. I had a flat on the corner of North 7th and Bedford in Williamsburg, but I gave it up to go to Berkeley.  Donna came to my rescue once again and put me and my two cats up. She is the closest thing to a sister I’ll ever have, and probably one of the few people I’d take a bullet for. New York, at that point, was full of ghosts to me. Every street corner felt sad and sinister. I was bereft. Priced out of Manhattan, where I was born, surrounded by bad memories of things I couldn’t change and people who didn’t care -– that’s how it felt at the time . I was spiritually and emotionally vacant. I kept trying to do the same old, familiar things over and over again but they brought me no love. New bands, new people -- none of it worked. It sounds cliché, but part of me died with Mark. Brilliant, amazing and beautiful people were dying all around us, all the time –- remember I was in NYC during the height of the AIDS epidemic -– but it hit me harder than I was willing to admit. He was one of the strongest people I ever knew, was an amazing guitarist and, like me, somewhat misunderstood. But that vacuum made it possible for me to leave. I never would have grown up, had I not.

I visit every now and again. I’ve lived in the UK for over twelve years now. Enough time has passed so that even when I walk through the Lower East Side now it’s not such a smack in the face. The scar has grown over. New York City is about its people. You know when you’re in the presence of a real New Yorker, and I can tell you the bulk of them aren’t farting around in the bars and clubs of the East Village and Brooklyn. That’s kid stuff. When I go back, it still feels like my NYC to me, because I don’t dwell on all the bullshit. There are still so, so many things to appreciate and love about it. Live in London for a while, with all the diesel fumes, where people don’t talk to each other, and pretty much everything is broken, being pulled down or paved over. New York lives.

What are your thoughts about the NYC of today? Would you ever come back? What do you miss the most?

I miss a time, not a place. It’s sad that artists and musicians haven’t got a hope in Hell in making a go of it there now. Real artists; not jumped up NYU mid-westerners or the kids of millionaire foreign nationals. Anyway, all the danger and mystery is gone. If I were a teenager there now, I doubt I’d be feeling much creative inspiration from the opening of a fucking Pinkberry (does it sounds like a euphemism for asshole by accident?) or a new condo going up. At least getting hassled on the subway resulted in a good song or two. I’m considering an eventual return under the right conditions but will say no more than that at present.

What are you doing now? Are you still making music?

I took a complete break from music in 2008, when I embarked upon my academic journey. Since then, I’ve completed a BA (joint honors) in Politics and History at University of Westminster, an MA in Contemporary British History, and am now completing a PhD in Contemporary British (political) History; both of the latter through the Institute of Contemporary British History at King’s College London. This time next year I’ll be Doctor RB, with three degrees under my belt. The headline would be ‘Asshole Guitarist Makes Good.’ I guess I had to prove to myself more than anything that I could finish something I started, and that I could actually do something other than music. So it’s been great. Before that I was doing some creative writing, screenplays and that, but empirical research has been much more satisfying to me for some reason. The constraints are challenging. I have a treatment for a musical in mind which I don’t really want to talk about, other than to say it might not be at all what anyone would imagine. Recently I’ve started working on a memoir, mostly so I don’t forget a lot of astonishing people and remarkable experiences I’ve had. The title is "I Never Liked Nirvana (and other things I am not supposed to say)." It’s copyrighted, so no one get any bright ideas. I think the name tells us all we need to know.

Since the research phase for my thesis ended, I began playing guitar again. It’s fantastic, like re-finding the ability to speak. The new material as it stands is kinetic and full of tension, so we’ll see what happens there once the sauce goes on. I’m also looking again at some of the stuff I as working on during those dark times just before I moved to California. I never stopped singing, but I’m not sure how my neighbors might feel about that.

What are your thoughts about the new CBGB restaurant opening at Newark Airport?

Think about it this way: the first TGI Friday’s was probably identically modeled on a much-beloved institution that had been around for the past hundred years or so before it was razed to make way for a rotary in 1965. There’s not much use in remaining too maudlin or sentimental about change after a point. It is pretty disgusting though. As long as I don’t go there I should be OK. It’s a good reason to avoid Newark airport when crossing over at any rate, like anyone needed another one.

Do you stay in touch with any of your former band mates?

A few. I feel very close to members of Even Worse, and Sloth, and Bubba, and Hellvis… there’s so many people I’ve either pissed off irreparably or that have fallen to the wayside I can’t keep track. That’s what’s making the memoir so difficult to work on. People who haven’t yet died keep me tongue-tied, while people who have died far too soon make me cry, and then I can’t write any more for the day. Thank Jah I still have my guitar and my PhD to keep me focused on the here and now, and even (dare I say) the future. That’s not very punk sounding at all, is it?

I'd sincerely like to thank R.B. for her participation, her wit and her permission to use her photographs. And check out the official Even Worse page here.

PHOTO/IMAGE CREDITS:

St. Marks Place - Dave (Daze) 'MiR' Parsons
Even Worse  on bed - Laura Levine

The Zippy EW flyer was by Eric Keil 

RB with Vodka is by Robert Weeks
MF flyer by RB Korbet
RB at CB's by Greg Fasolino 

Hellvis flyer by RB Korbet

Life Without Lemmy

Ian Fraser “Lemmy” Kilmister of Motorhead died yesterday. To put it succinctly, as my friend Iann said, we haven’t lost one of the great ones, we have lost THE great one. Lemmy was an entirely unique individual and is totally irreplaceable. As the saying goes, we shall not see his like again.

I first heard the inimitable, rampaging strains of Motorhead as a gormless high schooler in 1982 or so, and was instantly smitten. Being that they seamlessly blurred the lines between the weightiest of heavy metal and the amphetamine-fueled hyper-velocity of punk, they essentially embodied the finest elements of both. But in the same way that Johnny Cash transcended the confines of country music, Motorhead was so much more than simply a “metal band,” let alone a punk one. To hear Lemmy describe his own music, he simply called it Rock ‘n’ Roll. It’s pretty damn hard to argue with that.

Lemmy personified rock ‘n’ roll. Not in a cartoony way (although he was damn amusing), but in his filterless, no-bullshit approach to the music and the lifestyle. He was the definite article. Show me someone who doesn’t appreciate the purity of Motorhead’s music, and I’ll show you someone who doesn’t understand rock’n’roll played properly, full fucking stop.

Sadly, I only got to see Motorhead play a couple of times. The first was at the New Ritz (formerly Studio 54) on 54th Street on the tour for 1991’s 1916 (which found the also-recently-deceased drummer Philthy Animal Taylor back behind the kit after a few years away). True to legend, it was impossibly loud (a sternum-worrying roar rivaled exclusively by SWANS), but still performed with a richly-cultivated respect for the music. Pretty much every line-up of Motorhead – and there have been a few – boasted accomplished musicians in its ranks. Maybe not accomplished in a traditional sense, but with a stamina and sense of dedication that most precious virtuosos could never match. Most couldn’t keep up.

The last time I saw Motorhead was about ten or fifteen years ago. They were playing at Madison Square Garden, albeit third on the bill behind Dio and Iron Maiden. Now, while I have nothing but respect for both of those bands (especially `Maiden), Motorhead should never have been anyone’s opening act. And unlike those two other bands, Motorhead left the special effects and elaborate staging at home, walked on, plugged in and blew the goddamn roof off the place. With all due reverence to the mighty Ronnie James Dio, who assumed the stage after Lemmy & Co., Dio’s repertoire felt like a light summer rain after the sonic tsunami of a Motorhead set.

Over my 48 years, as both a bug-eyed rock geek and during my professional capacity as a journalist, I’ve been fortunate enough to meet several musicians I admire. I’ve had dinner with Rush, gone drinking with Killing Joke, chatted with the odd Ramone, gotten a phone call from Bono and shaken hands with Ace Frehley. Sadly, I never met Lemmy, but I did come close…

In the mid-90’s, three of my good friends temporarily forsook the East Coast and decamped to Los Angeles (specifically Silver Lake and Costa Mesa). I went out to visit them a few times (as discussed here) and always had a great time, although I’d sure as Hell never want to live there. And in keeping with our collective interests, when I went out to visit Rob D., Rob C. and Tim, we would routinely go see live music.

Maybe I was just lucky enough to be there during busy periods, but there was seemingly never a shortage of bands to go see when I was there. We caught an amazing double bill by the Finks and the Invisible Men at Jabberjaw, a bottom-heavy show by the Melvins at the Roxy and two back-to-back shows at the Troubadour by Claw Hammer and the Laughing Hyenas.

As it happened, my friend Tim’s pal, Carol – not a rock head by any conceivable stretch of the imagination -- lived in an apartment just off Sunset Strip, just down the street from the fabled Rainbow Bar & Grill. Given the reputation of said establishment (and the fact that it was a favored hang-out of Lemmy’s), I demanded we go check it out. As it happens, Lemmy was on tour at the time, so his legendary perch at the bar was empty. But during the course of that evening, Carol let slip that she actually lived in the same apartment complex as Lemmy. After a number of strenuously emphatic “SHUT THE FUCK UP”s by all concerned parties, I basically told her to put up or shut up and prove it.

So, we slugged down our beers and trooped back outside and the down the hill to Carol’s unassuming building. If memory serves, it was one of those typical California apartment blocks with a somewhat grotty swimming pool in the center courtyard, with bungalow-style flats surrounding it on a couple of terraced levels. I’m doing a shit job of describing it, but if you remember the ancient video for “Infatuation” by Rod Stewart (click here if ya don’t), you’ll know what I mean.

Anyway, despite being in a collective state of “advanced refreshment,” we barged with a vigorous sense of purpose into the front foyer of Carol’s building and I immediately started scanning the buzzers, when what to my wondering eyes did I spy but – I’ll be goddamned – “I. Kilmister.” Sure enough, our buddy Carol was goddamn NEIGHBORS with Lemmy.

Her credibility newly enhanced, Carol was then duly subjected to a fierce round of questioning. Evidently, Lem wasn’t there too often, as he was presumably off touring the world and taking no prisoners. But when he was around, said Carol, he was often inclined to lounge blithely around the pool with a guitar in a disarmingly revealing pair of faded and stringy denim cutoffs. I have no idea if the following anecdote is true, but I love it anyway: Evidently, one morning, Carol was off to work and opened the door of her apartment to leave, stepping out onto the terraced balcony over the pool, where Lemmy was lounging in manful repose. Upon spying our sleekly svelte pal Carol about to commence her work day, Lemmy picked up his guitar and immediately started to serenade her with a throaty, poolside rendition of Roy Orbison’s “Pretty Woman.”

Though they were friendly, Carol says she never went inside Lemmy’s flat, not because of any concerns on her part (she underscored that he was a consummate gentleman whenever she saw him), but that he was evidently quite embarrassed by his allegedly filthy carpet. 

So, yeah, that was as close as I ever got to meeting Lemmy.

Anyway, while virtually every media outlet under the sun is invariably quoting the immortal line from the middle-eight of Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades,” wherein Lemmy intones that he doesn’t want to live forever, I take more solace in these lines from the title track of Motorhead’s 1987 opus, Rock ‘N’ Roll.

I can't imagine growin' old like everyone
Marching to a different drum, I hear a different song
I swear I love 'em all, I don't care if they're small
I don't care if they're tall, I love 'em anyway

I got rock 'n' roll, it satisfies my soul
If that's how it has to be, I won't get mad
I got rock 'n' roll to save me from the cold
And if that's all there is, it ain't so bad

Pour one out for the great man.

ADDENDUM: Given the deluge of Lemmy-centric posts that are flying around Facebook at the moment, I stumbled upon this amazing shot of our Lem that -- given its NYC-centricity, I thought was worth including here. Here's a lovely portrait by British photographer Chalkie Davies of the great man wearing a Max's Kansas City shirt. Did they play there at any point, do we know? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Rest in Peace, Lemmy

We shall not see his like again. Rest in peace, sir.

2015 Delivers its Last Licks

I have never been an especially religious person. Sure, I spent fourteen years in Catholic schools, but the potent combination of a series of pivotal life experiences and a deep, deep well of virulent cynicism has largely prevented me from investing very seriously in the practice of faith. I still genuinely believe in a lot of the tenets of Catholicism (i.e. try not to be a total shit to people, don’t kill anybody, etc.), but largely refrain from adhering to any specific dogma. My blasphemous bluster aside, I am still duly plagued with a tenacious strain of guilt.

But put me under pressure, and you may indeed find me petitioning the skies with prayer, because … you know … why not? My last couple of years were fraught with multiple deaths in the family, some serious ongoing illnesses for certain loved ones and an arduous bout of sudden job-loss that slammed into me like a torpedo when I was at my most vulnerable. During those crises, I did indeed find myself appealing to the mercies of a higher power, literally begging for the strength and the insight to move forward past the obstacles. At the end of my rope, at my wits' end, at sixes and sevens, all at sea … call it what you want, but I was truly lost and in need of help.

But the things I asked for not to occur still took place. The people I prayed not to be taken from me were still taken. The hurt I earnestly asked for not to happen to individuals I dearly love was still inflicted. The wisdom and the answers I sought didn’t arrive.

Suffice it to say, the last couple of years haven’t really changed my perspective. If anything, they’ve reinforced it.

2015, by and large, was difficult. Still clawing out of the events detailed above, much of the year was marked by worry and frustration. My endeavor to get re-situated in the work force plowed through many hills and valleys, and took much, much longer than I had ever conceived that it would. As a result, you will never hear me give anyone around my age and/or circumstances looking for work the slightest amount of grief. Until it happens to you — AND IT PROBABLY FUCKING WILL! — you don’t know how hard it is. I don’t wish it on anyone. I really don’t.

But, I got lucky. I stuck to my guns and held out for the right position. I even turned a gig down (and that after 13 months on the street), because I knew it wasn’t right for me. In the end, after a long, iffy, protracted dance with a specific outlet, I landed the job I wanted. Granted, I’ve only been at said outlet now for a month, but I am immeasurably grateful for the opportunity. It was a deeply humbling experience, but I came out on the other side. You might think, for a moment, that that experience might get me to change my tune.

Here’s the thing: Just when you think things are looking up, and when you think your luck is finally changing — THAT’S when you should expect your next curve ball.

And at the risk of being insufferably cryptic, we just weathered another hit. We are going to get through it, but right when I'm thinking that 2015 was the year I was going to look back on as the one when everything turned better and brighter, I am forcibly reminded that it just doesn’t work that way. Count your blessings and be thankful for everything you’ve got and everyone you love, but take nothing and no one for granted. And when you least expect it — EXPECT IT.

Here’s this year’s answers to that same ol' year-end poll.

1. What did you do in 2015 that you'd never done before?

Since my preamble above is rather doomy gloomy, I’m going to keep this answer light and submit that I sailed on the Maid of the Mist at Niagara Falls.

2. Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I don’t believe I made any, because they never stick — but I am flirting with the idea of doing a “Dry January,” but we’ll see.

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?

My good friend Tod and his wife Selin had a little girl.

4. Did anyone close to you die?

Mercifully, not this year.

5. What countries did you visit?

I went to Canada.

6. What would you like to have in 2016 that you lacked in 2015?

An end to the fucking curve balls.

7. What date from 2015 will remain etched upon your memory?

There are a few indelible ones, but I’m going to concentrate on the positive and cite Friday, November 6, which was the day I fielded the offer from the job I now hold.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Landing that job offer and getting back to work.

9. What was your biggest failure?

I spent the previous sixteen months feeling like an abject failure, so it’s hard to know where to start.

10. Did you suffer illness or injury?

No, but someone very close to me continues to.

11. What was the best thing you bought?

For being the love of my life, I bought my beautiful, patient and supportive wife a lovely pair of earrings that I believe that she truly adores.

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?

See answer above, as well as my two indescribably dear children, Charlotte and Oliver.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

That which passes for the Republican Party in 2015. MAKE SURE YOU VOTE WITH YOUR BRAIN AND YOUR CONSCIENCE IN 2016!!!

14. Where did most of your money go?

COBRA and tuition.

15. What did you get really, really excited about?

In a good way? The prospect and fruition of my new job. In a bad way? I cannot say right now.

16. What song will always remind you of 2015?

Probably “She Does it Right” by Dr. Feelgood

17. Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?

If you’d asked me a couple of days ago, I’d have said ‘happier.’ But at the moment, I’m a little shaky.

18. Thinner or fatter?

About the same, I believe. Still have a beer gut to get rid of.

19. Richer or poorer?

Poorer, but poised to improve my station, now that I’m earning again.

20. What do you wish you'd done more of?

Working and earning

21. What do you wish you'd done less of?

Worrying

22. How did you spend Christmas?

With my family.

23. Who did you spend the most time on the phone with?

No idea. Probably the wife.

24. Did you fall in love in 2015?

Yes, with my wife all over again.

25. How many one night stands in this last year?

None. I am very happily married.

26. What was your favorite TV program?

This year, I’d probably have to go with “The Affair,” despite the awfulness of so many of the characters. I also abhor Fiona Apple's theme song to same, but the show is great.

27. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?

I pretty much genuinely hated a certain trio of people last year. This year, I can’t say I’m especially fond of them, but it’s over and I’ve moved on to greener pastures. I don’t necessarily wish them well, but I don’t wish them ill anymore. Move forward.

28. What was the best book you read?

2015 was actually a great year for reading. Hard to say, really, but I’d probably have to go with “Your Band Sucks” by Jon Fine.

29. What was your greatest musical discovery?

They’re not new by any stretch, but in terms of discovery — Dr. Feelgood, without a doubt.

30. What did you want and get?

A JOB I ACTUALLLY LIKE

31. What did you want and not get?

Piece of mind and an actionable solution to that ongoing problem I can’t talk about.

32. What were your favorite films of this year?

“Mad Max: Fury Road” and “AMY.” No, I still haven’t seen the new “Star Wars” yet.

33. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I spent it with my wife and children and I turned 48. Hard to get excited about that number.

34. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

A clean bill of health for a certain someone.

35. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2015?

Well, being the jobless son of a bitch that I was for most of it, I spent most of 2015 dressed like a roadie for the Butthole Surfers. Now gainfully employed at an upstanding and respectable outlet, I’m endeavoring to walk my wardrobe upstairs a bit.

36. What kept you sane?

Once again, who said anything about being sane? There were moments this year when my grip on rational thought felt genuinely tenuous. My love for my wife and children and my obligation to achieve a better situation for them kept me focussed.

37. What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

If you waste your time fancying celebrities and public figures, please fuck right off this blog and get a life.

38. What political issue stirred you the most?

I am aghast that individuals like Ted Cruz, Ben Carson and — good grief — Donald Trump are serious contenders. And if you’re a proud member of the N.R.A., please go strenuously fuck yourself.

39. Who did you miss?

The family members we lost in the previous two years.

40. Who was the best new person you met?

I’ve just met a number of great new folks at my new job that I’m looking forward to getting to know better. Also, I’d like to give a big, robust shout-out to my friend Jonathan Tessler, who fought in the same trenches as myself this year. He deserves the same luck I’ve experienced. He’s a good man.

41. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2015

Again, if I was asked this question a week ago, the answer would be vastly different. I’ll say this: Be thankful for what you have and those you love. Stay focussed. Act on your instincts.

42. Song lyric that sums up 2015:

There is some contention as to where the turn of phrase originates, but I know where I first heard it. From “Beautiful Boy” by John Lennon (a touching ode by a deeply flawed father to his innocent, little boy): “Life is What Happens to You While You’re Busy Making Other Plans.”

Happy Holidays from Flaming Pablum

It's a lovely word, yes, but in 2016 -- let's collectively try to make it a reality. Have a safe, happy and healthy Christmas (or whatever you and yours celebrate) and a genuinely peaceful New Year.

Have an Even Worse Christmas

Just a quick hint about an upcoming interview here on Flaming Pablum...

Thirteen Years Gone

As ever, rest in peace, Joe Strummer

Whose City is on Fire, Exactly?

I was listening to Studio 360 on NPR this morning, and heard Kurt Anderson’s interview with “City on Fire” author Garth Risk Hallberg, and felt moved to opine once again.

Let me preface this by needlessly admitting that I’ve never successfully written any fiction. It’s never been a discipline that I’ve felt able to master. I harbor zero desire to compose the great American novel.

More to the point, as I’ve mentioned a few times, I’ve kinda lost my taste for fiction. I’d rather sink my teeth into a good biography, an oral history or bit of true crime. There are exceptions to this rule, of course. I love good, emphatic, resonant writing, but my own preferences normally don’t lean towards fiction. But hey, … that’s just me.

In any case, while I don’t doubt his considerable abilities as a novelist (let alone, probably, a meticulous researcher), when I heard Hallberg admit in the early portion of his interview with Kurt Anderson that he only first set foot in New York City in 1996, I frowned.

While already (almost) two decades ago, the New York City of 1996 owed precious fucking little to the New York City of 1977 Hallberg so celebratedly writes about in “City On Fire" (as he’d probably agree). Once again, I’m sure his investigation into the earlier permutations of New York City life and culture was beyond extensive, but I simply cannot get beyond the fact he didn’t see any of it first hand.

Now, that might sound disingenuous coming from me …. after all, not too long back, despite being a life-long, native New Yorker, I copped to the fact that simply being a native isn’t anything special, when you consider that more than half of the individuals one might consider to be quintessential, definitive and defining New Yorkers came here from somewhere else. But, to my mind, you really should have seen something genuinely up close before you’re going to devote a 1,000 pages to it.

Now, granted …. Homer probably never went to Troy and Tolkien never set foot in Mordor. You obviously don’t need to have actually visited a specific place to write convincing fiction about it. That’s what makes imaginative writing so seductive and alluring. It holds the power to travel beyond the confines of the physical realm.

I’m probably just bristling as Hallberg’s book is being so feted as some sort of definitive document.

Incidentally, someone who was actually there might better suited to answer this, but I don’t believe the mohawks had showed up on the New York City punk scene in 1977. That was a little bit later. But, y’know, …. color me pedantic.

Listen for yourselves.

My Favorite New Music of 2015: The Shit I Left Out

See what happens when you rush these things? You leave stuff out.

Concerned that everyone else (yeah, like they matter) was posting their “Best of 2015” lists, I furiously trotted mine out earlier this week, breezily ruminating on a few of the things that hit my ears in a positive manner over the past twelve months.

That all said, I pushed “publish” way too soon, as it turns out that I failed to mention three albums that, to my mind, were very important, very distinctive and very different from each other. Let’s review, shall we?

The first of the three was evangelized to me by my good friend and former colleague Drew. Back in the early `90s – y’know, when the Earth was young and the skies were still filled with the piercing shrieks of pterodactyls – I regularly wrote blustery little music articles for a freebie weekly called New York Perspectives (long, long gone), prompting my editor to refer to me in a year-end editorial as “a cutting edge that never seems to dull.” If that flowery assertion was ever true, it certainly isn’t anymore, but Drew is now that figure for me. About a decade my junior, Drew is a tireless sponge for pretty much exactly the kind of new music I appreciate. As such, I’m entirely fortunate that he regularly hips me to new artists that I really ought to know and/or care about. I don’t always agree with him (I am still loathe to condone, for example, the sonic antics of Deerhunter and Blood Orange), but more often than not, his recommendations are on the money. This year, an album by the Downtown Boys (that’s them above, as captured by Christopher Grady) was one of those recommendations.

Should you be unfamiliar with them, the Downtown Boys (who, naturally, have a female lead singer) are an explosive outfit from Providence, R.I. who play a spirited blend of shouty, saxophone-fueled punk rock that is at once celebratory and socially conscious. They can certainly be a bit shrill, at points, but it’s otherwise great, energetic stuff. The album in question, Full Communism, also features an unlikely, high-octane cover of Springsteen’s “Dancing in the Dark.”

The next album I forgot to mention was the long-awaited release of COIL’s Backwards. This one probably slipped my mind, as it’s technically not new at all (as I wrote about in great detail here), but rather a project that was put on ice, upon completion, at some point in the mid-`90s, for a variety of enigmatic reasons….although pretty much everything COIL did was driven by enigmatic reasoning. In any case, after Cold Spring issued it earlier this year, it has swiftly become my favorite full length effort from the band (rivaled only by the singularly disquieting listening experience that is Horse Rotorvator). I was playing Backwards at home, not too long back, when a friend came by. Upon hearing the track, “Be Careful What You Wish For,” he emphatically exclaimed how very little he enjoyed the shit I was listening to. Again, not for everyone, I guess.

The last album that slipped my mind was by, of course, Joe Jackson. I hadn’t originally planned on picking Fast Forward up, but after seeing him perform at Town Hall with my bro-in-law, I literally snapped it up the very next day, and it’s as lovely and accomplished as you’d expect.

In fact, let’s go there now, shall we?

Force Fatigue

Look, I get it.

I was ten years old when “Star Wars” first hit theaters, and it had a fairly seismic effect on me.

I have vivid memories of first seeing it –- possibly as part of a birthday party -- at a long-since-demolished movie house on East 86th Street between Lexington and Third, and my mind being summarily blown. In pretty much one fell swoop, I was indoctrinated. Almost immediately, my adoration for the comparatively quaint “Planet of the Apes” (the until-then gold standard for sci-fi) was handily eclipsed by all things “Star Wars” (rivaled *only* by my unwavering fandom for KISS). Like pretty much everyone else in my peer group, I bought right into the whole thing.

The funny thing about that, however, is that at the time, there was a genuine dearth (pardon the sorta-pun) of actual “Star Wars” merchandise available. Upon the release of the film, Kenner hadn’t rolled out their first line of action figures yet. I don’t remember how long after the fact the toys actually showed up, but it wasn’t exactly overnight, if I’m not mistaken. For the longest time, the only bit of genuine “Star Wars” ephemera I owned was an oversized button that read ”DARTH VADER LIVES.” To my considerable discredit, I am depicted wearing it in my fifth grade class picture, and grimacing accordingly. My mom, as you can imagine, was thrilled.

In due course, out came the toys and the rest of the merchandising blitz (again, rivaled *only* by KISS). In relatively swift succession, the next two films in the series arrived. If I’m being honest, I must admit that the bloom was fairly off the rose by the time the Ewoks showed up. Moreover, I was quite let down when they unmasked Darth Vader to reveal …well, Humpty Dumpty. I was envisioning someone more like Gene Simmons.

Anyway, here’s the thing.

As fucking ridiculous as the cult of “Star Wars” was circa the first three films, it was still relatively MANAGEABLE. At the end of the day, despite all the toys and the comic books and the Halloween costumes and the odd television special, they were still just MOVIES. There was no street team. There was no viral marketing. There was no maddeningly ubiquitous advance buzz. We let things happen when they happened, and society, nay, Western Civilization as a whole didn’t seem to lose sight of the fact that this was just entertainment, however expensively crafted.

Honestly, prior to the first “Star Wars” film (oh, excuse me, pedants…. “Episode IV”), I only ever saw a fleeting commercial for it, and there was still a great deal of mystery about it all. You had to actually go see it to learn all about it.

Suffice it to say, that’s not really the case anymore.

Let’s suggest, for a moment, that I want to see this new “Star Wars” film (even after completely losing my taste for the whole thing following an abortive viewing of “The Phantom Menace”). If I want to go into it with blind objectivity, I pretty much have to sequester myself in a goddamn cave. It’s not just about avoiding social media (much less the entirety of the internet, in general), I can barely step outside without being inundated with images, iconography and synchronized commercial tie-ins. Hell, my own son already wears a fetching black “Star Wars: The Force Awakens” t-shirt (with that weird soccer ball droid on it), and he obviously hasn’t seen the movie yet. We’ve already reached maximum saturation … haven’t we? Please tell me we have.

I’m going to (eventually) check out the movie. I have to. My kids are dying to see it, of course –- although I don’t know if the characters and the myth are as significant to them as they were to me in 1977 (I think “Harry Potter” still trumps all, for them). And, of course, being that members of the original cast are back, I am genuinely curious to see how it’s all going to hold up.

But the difference is this: To put it in the parlance of the insufferable music geek, in much the same way I didn’t expect m b v, the long-in-the-making follow-up album to My Bloody Valentine’s watershed opus Loveless to make me a youthfully sneery 24-year-old again (and, believe me, it didn’t), I have precious little faith that “The Force Awakens” is going to live up to strenuous expectations and transform me back into that wide-eyed, wonderment-addled ten-year-old.

I can hear the purists click their tongues now, laboriously quoting Yoda’s somber “That Is Why You Fail” admonition. Whatever. I’m okay with that.

It’s quite possible that the Force is no longer with me.

We shall see.