I have a few friends who are somewhat incredulous that I can like bands like, say, Television, the Young Marble Giants and XTC while simultaneously appreciating arguably more populist stuff like Metallica, Rush and KISS. There was indeed a point during my high school years wherein I wrestled with which factionalized subculture to pledge myself to. And while I did indeed divorce myself from some of the less refined fare from that latter group (I no longer listen to, for example, Helix and Grim Reaper very much), I’ve never fully weaned myself off heavy metal (in all its myriad permutations) and select swathes of good ol’ hoary classic rock.
Several years back, I came to the definitive conclusion that I really don’t give a rolling rat fuck if I’m not “supposed” to like bands like Agnostic Front and the Human League and Yes all at the same time. I do. Deal with it.
Anyway, one of my strongest allies in my allegiance for all things metal and hard rock for quite some time has been fellow blogger and proud Minnesotan Bryan K., whose endearingly ephemera-fixated blog, This Ain’t the Summer of Love (named, if you’re an ignorant layperson, after a storied Blue Oyster Cult track) has been an amazing trove for rock minutia and period-specific rock geek detail for about eight years. I can’t remember what it was that initially made us aware of each other, but it was invariably our mutual love for the lore of early NYC punk, The Plasmatics, the New York Dolls and KISS that confirmed us as kindred spirits.
Sadly, Bryan just announced that he was removing his stacked leather heels, smearing off his grease-paint, unplugging his amplifiers and putting TATSOL on ice. It will live on in an archival capacity, but Bryan’s moving onto other things.
As the headline implies, here’s a post pretty much exclusively for the Killing Joke fans among us. The layperson might also enjoy it, but I’m not going to force it.
In any event, this was recorded in June of 1984 in at the Roskilde Festival in Denmark, shortly after the release of the “Eighties” single, and just prior to the release of its follow-up, “A New Day” (which they perform here). About eight months later, they’d release the full album, Nighttime, although “A New Day” would not be on it (although it was on the comparatively recent re-mastering of that album in 2008).
For my money, as much as I adore the original line-up of the band (which is, of course, back together and firing on all cylinders, despite scuttling their American tour for no readily apparent reason), this is my favorite era of Killing Joke, with the mighty Paul Raven on bass (may he rest in peace).
Between the aggression of their first few albums and the more accessible sound that would follow towards the end of the decade (before that derailed), this incarnation of Killing Joke, to my mind, embodied the best of both aesthetics.
You can see a few photos from this gig on this page.
I spotted the above photo by Victor George Macarol on the Facebook group, Manhattan Before 1990. This is, of course, the old storefront of Tish & Snooky’s fabled Manic Panic shop on St. Marks Place, with an unnamed man in a comfy chair out front, arguably in a meditative state. The photo description cites it as being taken in 1975, but that didn’t quite click with me. Firstly, I don’t believe Manic Panic had opened that early. But beyond that, look at that wall.
It’s somewhat hard to make out, but about halfway down, there are two flyers affixed to the bricks that boast an image that, at first glance, I immediately thought looked like the old “Blue By Day/White By Night” logo of Austin, TX hardcore band, MDC (a.k.a. Millions of Dead Cops, and many provocative variations thereof). Here’s that logo now….
If that’s indeed the case, MDC (who had previously gone by the significantly less pugnacious moniker, Stains) didn’t really get their act together until 1981 or so, and their first album (with the above illustration on the back) wasn’t released until 1982.
This all said, under closer scrutiny, I’m not entirely sure it’s the same image … looks like it’s missing the pistol.
Today, Manic Panic is long gone (although I think their brand of hair products is still a going concern, and Tish & Snooky still occasionally perform as the Sic F*cks). The address above is now Markburger, where I’ve never been.
MDC, meanwhile, originally broke up in 1995, but re-formed in 2000. Not sure who’s still in the band, but lead singer Dave Dictor is still on the microphone.
I bought their first album in 1982, based on the jokey strength of the track, “John Wayne was a Nazi,” and it quickly revealed itself to be one of the most crucial hardcore albums of its era. Whipsmart, brutal, stealthy, rigorously angry and SUPER lefty, the message of MDC’s first record — best condensed on the chant that kicks off “Born to Die” — NO WAR — NO K.K.K. — NO FASCIST U.S.A. is as timely in 2016 as it was in 1982 … if not more so, thanks to this fuckin’ guy.
I remember buying an MDC t-shirt at Rocks in Your Head in SoHo of the “Blue By Day...” logo. It did not exactly endear me to the local constabulary.
I suppose I should have probably held this until St. Patrick’s Day later this month, but y’know…whatever.
I stumbled upon this strange report from -– presumably -– French television circa 1987 that profiles The Pogues. Despite the fact that I took about eight years of French, I can’t honestly understand a lick of it today, so I’m afraid I can’t really shed any great amount of light on what’s being said here. But what struck me was the footage of the Pogues wandering around Manahttan, looking for trouble. I looked twice and immediately recognized the plot of real estate they’re seen staggering around on.
The clip in question shows them hanging around the Nancy Whiskey Pub on Lispenard Street, just south of Canal. That’s it up top, as well. One assumes Shane and the boys spent many an hour in this fine establishment over the course of the day.
Elsewhere in the clip, you’ll spot some footage of their hirsute pal Bono waxing piously about Shane MacGowan’s songwriting prowess and his drinking.
Towards the end of the clip, you’ll spot them walking south through tiny TriBeCa Park and down West Broadway towards what was still then the twin towers of the World Trade Center. I now walk through this very strip every day.
And here are the Pogues at their slurry best from about a year later. Cheers.
For pretty much no reason whatsoever, I’m currently back on sort of a Lou Reed kick. Maybe it’s just a next phase of mourning since losing Bowie, I don’t know. In any case, I’ve been exhuming bits and pieces of his whole catalog, which is always kinda interesting. While arguably not quite the chameleon that Bowie was, Lou did record a pretty diverse collection of music.
Anyway, over the last few days, I’ve been listening to both the more celebrated lives albums -- Rock ‘n’ Roll Animal and Take No Prisoners. As I expressed as much in this old post, while it may be heresy, I really don’t like Rock ‘n’ Roll Animal at all, as it’s basically just Lou musically apologizing for his earlier abrasive material and sucking up to the middle by giving his songs an arena-rock makeover, replete with big, noodle-y solos. It sounds more like Billy Squier than Lou Reed.
The flip side of that coin, of course, is Take No Prisoners, which was recorded a few short years later, and in a significantly smaller room (The Bottom Line on West 4th Street, instead of the Academy of Music on East 14th…later the Palladium and now a noxious NYU dorm with a Trader Joe’s on the ground floor). A pointedly less choreographed affair, Take No Prisoners pairs down much of the pomp and circumstance of Rock ‘N’ Roll Animal in favor of a breezy cabaret atmosphere, albeit one steeped in Lou’s manic, coke-amplified shtick.
But while it may refreshingly lack the bloaty rock heft of its predecessor, Take No Prisoners is pointedly flawed in other ways. As a time capsule-worthy glimpse into the thorny mindset of the Lou Reed of the late `70s, its positively priceless, but as a strictly musical experience, it’s something of a chore. Again, as pointed out in that old post, Lou’s singing – when he chooses to sing, that is – is labored and over-wrought. His stage-banter -- and there is lots of it -– ricochets from the paranoid to the absurdly profane to the erudite, but it is rarely lacking in sniffy contempt. Along the way, he butchers a few classics and wheels out a few unfortunate tracks (“I Wanna Be Black” foremost among them). Still, this doesn’t mean that it isn’t wildly entertaining. Again, as a document of its era -– let alone as candid an era of Lou’s own career –- it’s required listening.
In all fairness, there is one track on the album that pretty much redeems the endeavor’s arguable faults, that being the closing rendition of “Leave Me Alone,” which finds Lou and his band (finally) coalescing into a punkily propulsive unit and hitting the gas. Here it is, now.
I mean, this track more than excuses Lou’s wobbly vocals and litany of off-color remarks.
Not quite four decades later, the building that housed the Bottom Line is indeed still there, but today it’s a completely staid academic facility owned -– of course -- by NYU. That's it above, although I have no idea who took the picture or on what date. Note the legend on the sign, Live Music Matters! Not at this address, it doesn't. Not anymore.
Not being affiliated with NYU, of course, I’ve not stepped inside the new incarnation, but I believe the former performance area of what had been the bottom line is part of an auditorium utilized by tenured academics and preening millennials. I walked by it last week during a misty commute home from the office with Take No Prisoners blaring through my headphones. It’s hard to believe it’s the same place.
Peering into its windows, past the sleepy guard at the reception desk, I tried to project Lou’s ghost lurking contentiously somewhere in its whisper quiet corridors, but only spotted a few NYU students huddled around their laptops.
More about the Bottom Line on Flaming Pablum can be read here.
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