Flaming Pablum

Play it Again, Shane

I first head the Pogues courtesy of a crucial mixtape.

My childhood friend Charlie (who also goes by Keith ... it's a long story) was sent off for a semester abroad somewhere in the U.K. during my freshman year of college in 1985. During the course of same, Charlie sent me a care package filled with a trove of Anglophillic ephemera. Amidst distressed issues of Melody Maker and NME and a fetching Peter & the Test Tube Babies t-shirt, he'd included a mixtape of the tunes he was hearing and getting excited about. On that tape, he included large swathes of It'll End in Tears by This Mortal Coil (wrongly credited by Charlie as Cocteau Twins ... yes, I realize there's an argument to be waged there), the Jesus & Mary Chain (wrongly credited by Charlie, again, as Psychocandy, which was, of course, the name of their debut LP) and various other tracks by the Stranglers and the afore-cited Peter & the Test Tube Babies. Side two of the tape, however, was rife with selections from the album below, the Pogues' debut long-player, Red Roses for Me.

While my dorm-mates in Huffman Hall were pointedly less than enthused about my giddily frequent, high volume airings of the offerings on side one (despite it being the mid-point of the `80s, the majority of the student body of Denison University still tenaciously adhered to a steady diet of yawnsome classic crapola like Van Morrison, the Allman Brothers and the Grateful Goddamn Dead), the pugnaciously robust folk-punk of the first Pogues album won a surprising amount of converts. As such, while many extol the merits of the more expansively produced Rum, Sodomy & the Lash or the hackneyed warhorse that was Should I Fall from Grace with God (featuring the laboriously overplayed "Fairytale of New York"), my heart still belongs to Red Roses for Me.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Wild in the Streets

This is probably complete heresy to some, but I could never tell the difference between Garland Jeffreys and Gary U.S. Bonds (or, for that matter, Southside Johnny & the Asbury Jukes). It’s just not my thing, man. In fact, the only song of Jeffreys’ I really knew, for a while, was “96 Tears,”…. which he didn’t even write (the original was by the vastly more entertaining Question Mark & the Mysterious).

Then, of course, came hardcore, and I became a slavish fan of the Circle Jerks (as detailed here), only to learn that the incendiary title track to their second album, Wild in the Streets, was a Garland Jeffreys cover. Go know.

In any case, Garland Jeffreys is indeed a much cooler cat than I’d initially believed him to be. That doesn’t mean I’ve since gone out and snapped up his records, but respect is due.

The only reason I’m bringing any of this up is because a friend of mind posted the video below on Facebook this afternoon, and it really fits the thematic bill of this blog, given its gritty depictions of late `70s NYC.

As inventive as that sounds, however, I believe a good nine tenths of this footage comes directly from a great VH1 documentary from a few years back called “NY77: The Coolest Year in Hell,” which, of course, I wrote about here.

In any event, it’s cool. Check it out.

Here, meanwhile, is the Circle Jerks’ cover of same (which I still greatly prefer to the original).

Dirty Deeds Indeed: Redux

By this stage of the proceedings, AC/DC don’t belong to anyone – they belong to EVERYone. They’re not a cult band that fanboys are precious about. Sure, they have super fans -– grown men who attend concerts dressed like Australian schoolboys -– but AC/DC have reached a level of popularity that transcends mere success. Like them or not, everyone knows AC/DC when they hear them. Their place is cemented into the firmament right alongside Zeppelin, Floyd, etc. If you’re of a certain age, saying you like AC/DC is about as boldly surprising a declaration as saying you enjoy beer and pizza. Of course you do. Who doesn’t?

That, of course, wasn’t always the case. It sounds quaint now, but once upon a time – as I mentioned way back when -- even the very name AC/DC made parents worry. Initially mistaken for punks, while also never fully “metal,” AC/DC were loud, obnoxious, prurient and gleefully irresponsible. Amplifying and emboldening Chuck Berry riffs to stentorian degrees and perfecting the thinly-veiled lascivious innuendo to a veritable art form, AC/DC were never designed to be respectable. Like their kindred spirits in The Ramones and Motorhead, AC/DC pretty much did only one thing, but they did that one thing better than anyone else.

I bought my first AC/DC album in 8th grade. Having heard “Hells Bells” on the radio (and summarily scrawling same all over the cover of my text book in French class), I knew I needed to own the black slab of wax from whence this gloriously infernal dirge sprang. Strangely unable to find the then-newly-released record -– dubbed, fittingly enough, Back in Black -- in my neighborhood record shop (that, at the time, being King Karol on Third Avenue between 86th and 85th), I took off after school one day and headed downtown.

As an Upper East Side-dwelling 8th grader, however, downtown ultimately meant midtown. I hadn’t really been fully let off my leash yet, but I knew there was a clutch of great record stores on the East Side between 63rd and 33rd streets. As it happened, I struck oil at the northernmost of those shops. It's difficult to fathom in 2016, but circa 1980, there was indeed a grotty little record shop on East 64th and Lexington Avenue called Revolution Records. They had all the important records of the day, an envious array of posters (black light and otherwise), a host of entirely cool sponges shaped like band logos and a wide and varied selection of strange-looking items I’d later learn were bongs. I spent every last cent of my allowance on my own copy of AC/DC’s Back in Black, handing it over in crumpled wads to the hirsute heshers behind the counter at Revolution Records. Having blown my bus fare, I walked the thirty-plus blocks back home in the rain. It didn’t matter. I now owned the most crucial record I could imagine.

Obviously, I was immediately hooked. Not only was “Hell’s Bells” entirely excellent (it still is), but there really isn’t an ounce of filler on that record. Ironically, the record’s big hit single, “You Shook Me All Night Long,” is my least favorite song on the album.

I don’t remember where I got it, but I somehow acquired an AC/DC baseball cap during my freshman year of high school (right around the release of the second Brian Johnson-era album, the delightfully ridiculous For Those About to Rock). Actually, it was more of a poorly manufactured, knock-off trucker’s cap with an AC/DC patch sewed above the brim, but whatever – I was proud to wear it and represent. Upon first glance, my dear old, endearingly stodgy step-father thought it read “ACID” and sniffed derisively. But when he peered closer and read the four, arguably offending letters aloud, it was as if I’d verily torn open the seventh seal. Y’see, way back when, “AC/DC” was arguably code for being bisexual. Shock, horror, etc. Mission accomplished.

By this point, I’d gone back and bought all the Bon Scott-era albums as well, fully versing myself in the band’s dirty-minded oeuvre. I was still ridiculously too young, inexperienced and naïve to appreciate most of the band’s not-exactly-subtle allusions to making whoopee, but by and large, that didn’t matter to me at all. I knew they rocked.

In time, of course, I branched out and started exploring a wider selection of music, and AC/DC -- as mentioned above -– became a much bigger deal (more of a brand than a band), losing a bit of their once-giddily irreverent mystique in the process (especially when they got in bed with Walmart). But, by the same token, there remains a totally timeless quality to AC/DC’s music. They crafted fewer and fewer instantly memorable tunes as time went on, but their classic formula remained largely undimished. And, once again like their brethren in the Ramones and Motorhead, we all thought they’d always be with us.

Sadly, those other two bands are no more, and the fates seem to be similarly pursuing AC/DC. When founding member and storied rhythm guitarist Malcolm Young succumbed to dementia a few years back and was forced to leave the band (unable to remember how to play the songs he’d written, let alone the instrument upon which he wrote them), many suggested they should have hung it up. When original, inimitably flash-free drummer Phil Rudd was brought up on charges of attempted murder (in a twisted saga involving drugs, hit men and prostitution), many also thought that was a sign to bow out. But they didn’t. AC/DC kept going.

The latest chapter in this, however, is quite sad. After lending his signature shriek to the proceedings for 36 years, vocalist Brian Johnson was initially warned by his physician that an impending tour could cost him his hearing. Upon informing the band (prior to getting a second opinion), it seems Angus and company quickly went about the process of jettisoning Johnson from the proceedings. If you visit AC/DC’s official site, it boldly proclaims that dates are to be rescheduled “likely with a guest vocalist.”

Just like that, Brian Johnson is reduced to just another replaceable hired gun.

While I suppose I respect AC/DC for the intentions of honoring their commitments, this seems like a rather cold-blooded way of going about it, no? Especially for as long-running an operation as theirs. I guess Angus needs the money?

Disillusioning and disheartening.

Putting Your PMA When Your Mouth Is

There’s a term in hardcore that’s thrown around quite a bit, but that stems very directly from the mindset of Bad Brains, and that is PMA or Positive Mental Attitude, an ethos that informed and drove that band to be the wildly unique, incalculably influential (but still widely uncompensated) force that they remain today. If I’m not entirely mistaken, I believe the origins of the PMA date back to book by a flamboyantly named self-help guy named Napoleon Hill called, somewhat dubiously, “Think and Grow Rich.” I can’t say I’ve ever read the text, but I believe the Bad Brains essentially co-opted the essence of Hill’s philosophy and applied it to their own circumstances and the circumstances of their listeners. As a result, what may have initially been a bit of frankly quacky psychobabble turned into a genuinely inspiring code for living. Never mind cartoony punk rock nihilism, as professed by Bad Brains and their many acolytes, PMA is the core of a meaningful, purpose-driven existence.

The only reason I’m bringing up any of this is because, as you may remember me mentioning on this post, iconic Bad Brains guitarist Gary “Dr. Know” Miller was recently beset with some serious health issues, compounded by some equally serious expenses in the wake of them. Despite his inarguable status as a punk pioneer, Dr. Know isn’t especially wealthy, nor does he have medical insurance (click here for more information).

But this isn’t the news that surprised me today. It’s not shocking that there’s a groundswell of support for Dr. Know’s benefit. No, what’s somewhat surprising is the endeavor of Harley Flanagan, founding member of the Cro-Mags.

As detailed on quite a number of past posts, the original line-up of the Cro-Mags -– arguably the preeminent NYHC band and inexorably direct descendants of the Bad Brains –- simply do not play nice or get along with each other. That’s a long established fact, punctuated by a violent episode at Webster Hall a couple of years back … one that no one really expects them to bounce back from.

Regardless, Harley Flanagan took to his blog over the weekend to propose that the long-since-warring factions of the original line-up of the Cro-Mags briefly put aside their differences and reconvene to record a single track –- produced by Bad Brains’ bassist Daryl Jennifer -- with all proceeds going to aid Dr. Know’s recovery. You can read his full statement here, but I thought this `graph summed it up nicely…

Forget all the talking about PMA that everyone does; how about we actually show some. Then we can all go back to our lives and know that we did something good; that we did the right thing for the best reason.

Say what you will about Harley Flanagan, but that sounds pretty damn solid to me.

Personally speaking, I hope it happens. It’d be nice to see the bad blood in that band put to rest, and it would be nice to see them actually achieve that goal -– helping their friend and mentor when he needs it most.

Given the current climate of the world and the escalating ugliness, I’m clinging to every sign of hope for human decency I can find. Let’s please treat each other with kindness, tolerance and respect. Let’s please do endeavor to understand each other and get over our differences. Let’s all be a bit more forgiving of past mistakes, keeping in mind how short and precious life is.

And for fuck’s sake yes ---- let’s keep that PMA!

Current Status

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Back to Gizzi's

It’s a big city, right? What’s the tally? 8,000,000 people? Something like that?

Like many other NYC-centric bloggers (those of us who are left, that is), I am frequently prone to scouring through various search engines with random, abstract directives for images like “New York City” and “Punk Rock” or “NYC’ and “Record Shop.” The best results usually come when I just put in a year, like “1992” or something. I’m always curious what’s going to come up.

When images do come up, I’m always looking for period-specific minutia to write about, be that a particular landmark or storefront or evidence of some person, place or thing that is simply no longer there — but specifically one that will speak to my own experience. Unlike many other nostalgic blogs, I tend to exclusively couch my posts in personal anecdotes or associations. I’m sure a psychiatrist could have a field day with that. Maybe it’s the manifestation of my midlife crisis. Instead of buying a Porsche or getting a tattoo, I’m trying to keep my encroaching age at bay by keeping the past alive on my blog. So be it.

Anyway, blah blah blah. Nine times out of ten, these searches come up with images that don’t really resonate specifically with me (and I again wonder why people take so many damn pictures of Times Square). I also sometimes narcissistically wonder — despite the vast amount of people here and the strenuously unlikely chance of my happening upon it — if I’ve ever been inadvertently captured by a photographer. Wouldn’t it be a gas to suddenly find a picture of yourself from 1984 or something? One that you didn’t know about? Well, that’s yet to happen.

That said, I was stopped in my tracks this afternoon by a photo of a guy I actually know … or kinda know. Or kinda knew, I should say.

Back in the summer of 2007, those of you who were reading this blog will doubtlessly remember the epic saga of my sudden lack of employment. I’d been working for MTV News Online for about a year and a half, when I was suddenly, somewhat unceremoniously, laid off from the job. As these things tend to do, it really took the wind out of my sails, although, that experience was nothing compared to a lay off I’d experience six years later. But if you’re a New Yorker, y’know, like death, layoffs pretty much come for us all, at one point or another.

In any case, after getting the keys to the street from Music Television, I commenced searching for a job with the aid of a now ridiculously antiquated laptop the wife and I shared, and I undertook this endeavor largely within the confines of a short-lived local “internet cafe” (remember those?) called Gizzi’s on West 8th Street. Free WiFi still being a somewhat rarified thing at the time, I took full advantage of Gizzi’s hospitality, ordering cup after cup of coffee to earn the right to keep sitting in that place. By day, the spot was filled with laptop jockeys like myself, while by night, Gizzi’s endeavored to inject a bit of Greenwich Village bohemian history in the mix by hosting open mic nights. Not sure if that particular venture ever really took off, though.

So, anyway, as described in this ancient post, Gizzi’s was staffed by day by a duo of amiable youngsters. One was a comely, doe-eyed lass with a not-entirely-unpleasant penchant for wearing disarmingly form-fitting t-shirts, while her partner in coffee-slinging was a rail-thin, wiry metalhead whose name I, sadly, never learned.

I’m sure he initially dismissed me as just another annoying “normo” until I, one day, engaged him about his feelings for vintage Venom, which — in turn — led to a detailed discussion regarding the oeuvre of his favorite black metal band, that being Darkthrone. He was always dressed from head-to-toe in black, naturally, usually augmenting his togs with a bullet belt, spikes of some variety and the inevitable band t-shirt, offset by cascading strands of black, mossy hair. Despite his tonsorial and sartorial predilections, however, he was a very affable, chatty gent. 

I remained a regular at Gizzi’s for some time, until I finally landed a gig at MSN in March of 2008. After that, I pretty much never set foot in Gizzi’s again.

Eight years later, Gizzi’s is long gone. It’s now a joint I’ve never patronized called Cafe Nadery. I stayed at MSN for two years before decamping to TODAY.com, where I worked for another four and half years before also getting laid off. Over a year later, I mercifully landed the job I now hold (and love).

But, in perusing through images on Magnum Photos this afternoon, I came across the below photo by one Michael Christopher Brown, snapped in 2008 for a fashion spread in Ventiquattro Magazine. I’ll never know his name, nor will I probably ever see or speak to him again, but THIS was the wiry metalhead java-jockey from Gizzi’s on West 8th Street, presumably waiting on 14th Street for a Brooklyn-bound L Train…..

Iggy Lives!

If, like me, your spirits are in sore need of a lift, this clip may just do the trick.

2016 sucks. We're losing legends and luminaries left, right and center. 

But, as this video -- taped last night in Los Angeles -- handily demonstrates, at least we still have Iggy.

 Also, we can talk for just a moment about how goddamn cool Josh Homme is?

Enjoy. 

Three Things

1. In a very recent post, I blithely made an allusion to real-life emergencies happening with disquieting regularity. Remind me never to do that again. It’s called tempting fate. This morning, fate bit back. It’s under control, but … oy. As a result, things may quiet down here again for a spell. Watch this space. Think happy thoughts. 

2. Remember that too-good-to-be true photo of Lemmy & Bowie that ended up being just that? Well, this isn’t quite as cool, but the great J. Yuenger shared the below photo on Facebook and on his page today, and it’s pretty amazing as well. Herewith Hawkwind-era Lemmy and pals (the dude with the interesting beard on the far left is not Dave Brock, but he is indeed a Hawkwind member) hanging out with Alice Cooper, Patti Smith and … is that Pam Dawber of TV’s “Mork & Mindy” in the flat cap? Or Marie Osmond? So many questions. No idea who took this photo, alas.

3. This was filmed back in June of 2015, but it’s still pretty damn cool. I can’t embed the video, so you’ll have to click through to watch a great conversation between Steve Buscemi and Jim Jarmusch (and two other dudes I don’t recognize) in Tompkins Square Park, talking about music, movie-making and the virtues of being an amateur. Click here to watch it.

Death, Genocide & Roller Disco in the East Village: Exhuming ‘Funkybutt’

Okay, this is going to take a little bit of explanation.

Way back when, you might remember a couple of posts here about a character named Brian “Damage” Keats. Brian was sort of a pivotal figure in my nascent appreciation of all things Punk Rock. Sadly, Brian is no longer with us, having passed away from cancer in 2010. In any case, after I’d finally found that fabled postcard emblazoned with Brian’s eyeliner-smeared visage, I wanted to see if I could track down anything from his early years in his first band, that being the indelicately named Genocide. Periodically, I’d scour the internet for images or videos, but usually only found latter incarnations of Genocide, after they’d morphed into more of a sort of cartoony metal band. Eventually, however, I happened upon an early clip of the Brian Damage-era Genocide (when they were still sort of a cartoony punk band) from about 1981. That clip is below.

Actually, before you click “play,” you should probably note that – by even as late as 1981 -- it still might have seemed pronouncedly “punk raaaawwwwk, maaaaaan!” to select folks to be pointedly nihilistic and belligerent in the arguably grand tradition of the then-still-relatively-newly-dead Sid Vicious. While latter eras of punk and hardcore kids were usually a bit more enlightened and -- at least marginally -- politically correct (in the actual sense of the term, i.e. considerate, aware and inclusive), there were still individuals who took the Sid idiocy to its extremes. As such, you were still bound to find die-hards sporting the odd swastika (as the bassist does below). That said, even coupled with the band’s named – Genocide – I don’t believe these guys were actually neo-Nazis or white supremacists. I know Brian wasn’t like that, at least. I think they were just trying to be shocking, as quaint as that sounds.

Anyway, here’s Genocide performing “Chill Factor.”

So, yeah, that is indeed Brian “Damage” Keats playing the drums, … or at least until Genocide’s excitable lead singer Bobby Ebz does a graceless swan dive into the kit in a somewhat awkward, preening homage to Stiv Bator aping Iggy Pop. It’s all a bit Spinal Tap, but a lovely period piece, all the same.

Anyway, at some point after this, Brian left the ranks of Genocide, fleetingly to join the Misfits and then various other bands. Genocide, however, kept going under the singular vision of Bobby Ebz, evolving from relatively nondescript punk rockers into a very visually stylized ensemble of spiky, leather-clad nogoodnicks with more of a metal sound. See below.

Despite that development, Genocide never really “made it big.” In later years, Ebz inhabited the messy orbit of fellow extreme Stiv/Iggy disciple, GG Allin (I believe it’s Ebz who accompanies GG out of the East Village in the fabled video of Allin’s last day alive in 1993). As I wrote not too long back, Ebz is spotted in the throng in that video of GG Allin performing at the Lismar Lounge in 1988.

As I understand it, Bobby Ebz also passed away, from Hepatitis C. Sometime prior to that untimely demise, however, Ebz tried his hand at acting – albeit in an strenuously low-budget/low-impact sorta way. That project was “Funkybutt.”

Here’s the official description….

The camp classic saga of a washed-up, one-hit wonder rollerdisco queen. Starring Candace Corelli, Fred Rothbell-Mista (aka Rocco Primavera), Leni the Genie, Bobby Ebz, Ax, Sadi, William Tucker (aka DJ Honky Slaughter), Mark Coisneau, John Alot, Roy Frumkes, and the Funkybutt Dancers, will an awe-inspiring dance solo by Todd Idol. Shot entirely in NYC 1989-1990. 16mm color, 20 mins.

Incidentally, yes – that’s the same William Tucker who worked at the Princeton Record Exchange that later played with Pigface and Ministry. He, too, passed away, taking his own life in 1999.

The plot of “Funkybutt” – such as it is – is pretty forgettable, but there are some lovely, period-specific shots of the East Village environs, including some lovely street art, a fleeting shot of the toy tower on Avenue B, and a shot of the old Tompkins Square bandshell.

Today, Brian "Damage Keats, Bobby Ebz, William Tucker and GG Allin are all dead. The Lismar Lounge is long gone. The Tompkins Square bandshell was razed. Most of Chico's murals have been scrubbed away and painted over. No clue what happened to Candace "Funkybutt" Corelli.

Put on your dancing pants, and enjoy the trip back to 1989…..

Blog's Not Dead

I keep reading these articles across a wide array of outlets all proclaiming that blogging has become as antiquated as …well, still buying compact discs, a notion lent further credibility by the folding of some of my favorite blogs like This Ain't the Summer of Love and, rumor has it, Stupefaction.  Sure, the advent and subsequent ubiquity of social media of varying stripes has possibly stolen the novelty and thunder of blogging, but I still find it a viable means of expressing and disseminating information. But, then, I would, wouldn’t I? And, of course, I still buy compact discs unreservedly. This is my lawn. Get off of it.

The assertion that blogging has become passé could not possibly mean less to me. That blogging was ever cool, hip, fashionable, of the moment or in vogue to begin with was never the reason I got into it. As I remarked not too long back, I only started blogging as something of a lark, but it swiftly became a valuable outlet for me. When I first started this blog, I was already writing in a freelance capacity for a few outlets (most fondly the “Goings On About Town” section of The New Yorker), but Flaming Pablum gave me the freedom to write about whatever I wanted and at whatever length. It also has served to keep my chops sharp — although I shudder to think what a competent copy editor would have to say about that.

But even if my posts are rife with myriad typos and grammatical gaffes, from what I can surmise, I’m still getting a relatively healthy amount of page views on your average day. I realize it’s probably an infinitesimally small number compared to the big boys, but I’m still pretty amazed by it.

Even if my daily readership was only a fraction of what it is, I doubt that would stop me from continuing to post here. Ultimately, I do it as much for my own enjoyment and edification as anyone else’s.

That all said, if you no longer have time to visit blogs like mine, because you’re too busy snapchatting a “The Walking Dead” homage or tweeting about Lamar Odom’s erectile dysfunction or streaming the new bullshit by Drake, then I’m more than happy to lose you as a reader.

Personally speaking, barring further, disquietingly regular real-life emergencies and/or idiotic blunders for which I have no one but myself to blame (I can't get into either of those), I see no real reason to kill off Flaming Pablum just yet. 

Sorry to disappoint you.