Apologies for the relative slowdown. In light of the news of late, the inane bullshit that is the life and soul of this blog just seems a bit more trivial than usual. I do indeed have another ridiculous photo search on tap (surprisingly soon after my epic-poem-worthy Lunachicks quest), but when the world is otherwise engulfed by both the gun-control debate (please let some meaningful fruition occur this time) and the looming plausibility of a Donald “Cheeto Jesus” Trump administration, trying to pinpoint a street corner a long-defunct punk band once stood on seems a undeniably meaningless.
That all said, my dear friend Drew shot me a video recently that he knew was right up my proverbial street, so I’m sharing it here and now. Consider it a place-holding palette-cleanser.
As detailed on theseancient posts, I was never a credible skateboarder. Sure, I had great respect for the culture and the lingo and the accessories and the attitude, but it terms of the practical application of mastering the actual apparatus, I sucked at it. My attempts to skate were an insult to skateboarding made flesh. As such, it was a clique I could not infiltrate, no matter how many JFA and Suicidal Tendencies albums I owned.
Skateboarding skated on by and further transformed. I honestly don’t know anything about it these days. I mean, I know kids still do it, but I have no clues as to who they emulate, what gear they prefer etc. When I hear a skateboard shredding down my street these days, my first instinct isn’t to marvel at the tricks but rather to make sure my kids aren’t in the line of fire.
Anyway, blah blah blah. Herewith a dreamy promotional video made by the Supreme store in the mid-90’s. Scored by the seemingly incongruous strains of jazz legend John Coltrane, the clip features some stylish footage of the New York City of 1995 (including a fleeting shot of the then-still-standing 7 World Trade Center, above) and a gaggle of insouciant youths skating all over it. Enjoy.
If I’m being honest, I can’t say I did a lot of shopping at Footlight Records on 12th Street, just east of Fourth Avenue. This is not to say, however, that I didn’t like the place. I mean, given their emphasis on Broadway cast recordings and soundtracks, it just wasn’t on my regular list. I mean, I do love a few show tunes, but rarely did I require a whole store full of'em. I liked that it was there when I needed it, though.
I remember scoring a few choice finds at Footlight back in the day, notably Gheorge Zamfir’s haunting score to Peter Weir’s “Picnic at Hanging Rock” on vinyl and the original soundtrack to “Dumbo” on compact disc (which I was after for the surreal “Pink Elephants”). Even if you weren’t looking for something specific, it was always a fun browse. The places left to do that are virtually extinct.
In any case, because people fucking suck and New York City’s rent is obscene, Footlights closed in 2005, much to the consternation of many a Broadway zealot and vinyl collector. It was a vacant shell for years afterwards, but is now a soulless real estate agency, doubtlessly staffed by dead-eyed replicants with zero appreciation for art and culture. But, I digress…
A week or so back, a former colleague of mine sent me a link to an article in Slate that highlighted the vintage NYC photographs of Robert Herman. Among them was the shot below, captioned Playing Pinball at Footlight Records, NY, NY 1980.
Now, I didn’t set foot in the place until about 1991, probably, but I certainly don’t remember a pinball machine, do you? Moreover, Footlight would never have been a shop I’d have expected to be selling Elvis Costello 7”s (see the sleeve for “Accidents Will Happen” above her right hand?). Does this ring true with the Footlight regulars?
Incidentally, Footlight kinda lives on online (although I don’t detect a lot of activity after 2014), but it’s not really the same experience as going there.
Alright, it was a great amount of time in coming, but here –- at long last –- is the denouement (I think) of the great Lunachicks search. But first, a quick recap for those who might have understandably skipped a few chapters….
The hunt started off pretty innocuously. Prompted by a fleeting mention in an earlier post about White Zombie playing at a short-lived club on Bond Street called Downtown, I did a quick image search and stumbled upon a fun shot of the lovely ladies in the Lunachicks circa their first LP in 1990, Babysitters on Acid, posing irreverently on a particularly weathered slab of Manhattan concrete. I’d found the photo on a random fan site without any sourcing, credit or information of any discernible kind. Moreover, it seemed to exist only on that site. TinEye and a reversed Google Image Search came up with nothing to illuminate its origin. The intrigue started to build for me.
At first glance, I assumed the photograph was taken on Bleecker Street between Bowery and Lafayette, but that turned out not to be the case. There were elements in the photograph that indicated more gated lots, recessed areas and driveways than are on that particular strip. Moreover, the brickface behind the girls didn’t match up with anything on that block.
But under even closer inspection, I managed to convince myself that I’d walked past the very spot upon which they are pictured in the photo –- and recently! I KNEW I recognized the location, based on some entirely flimsy criteria like the texture of the wall behind them and the minute architectural flourishes featured around them. Given the amount of time I’d recently spent walking the streets of downtown Manhattan (having been out of work for most of 2015), I was positive I’d strolled past this tiny point on the map within the last several months.
But there was still something indefinable about it. The image was filled with light and space, leading me to assume it must have been taken along a wide avenue or multi-laned byway. As such, I criss-crossed likely strips like 14th Street, Houston, Delancey, Chrystie, Allen and Forsyth Streets and Avenues A through C, looking for a match. But a match never came.
I then became convinced that it had to be somewhere in NoLita. As such, I hit that neighborhood like a hammer, regularly circumnavigating, backtracking and slithering through, across and around it on my walks home from the office, often tacking way more time onto my commute home than my wife and kids were likely to understand, much less condone.
When that failed to pan out, my far-flung assumptions and ultimately illogical projections went even further afield. For a spell, I assumed the picture was captured somewhere on Carmine Street in Greenwich Village, then Mott Street in SoHo, then East 8th Street behind Tompkins Square Park, then Weehawken Street in the West Village, then on Gansevoort in the Meat Packing District, then on Vestry Street in TriBeCa … but no dice, no dice, no dice, no dice.
I took the family out for dim-sum down in Chinatown one Sunday, leading them on a semi-circuitous weave through needless backwater lanes on the fleeting chance I’d spot the spot somewhere down there. Again, `twas not to be.
My fixation with finding the photo’s location was becoming an obsession. I was haunted by the familiarity I thought it exuded, but my inability to replicate it was making me lose hope.
But, because the Internet has essentially shrank the world into a very small town where word gets around fast, it turns out that a British friend of mine I know from the ILX Music Discussion Boards — Susan C. (who I’ve never actually met in person) — is also friends with the photographer. Apparently, that photographer had gotten wind of my search, and posted something about it on his Facebook page, prompting Susan to say, “Oi, I actually know that guy — you two should talk!”
And that’s just what she did, introducing me to storied photographer/musician Joe Dilworth (pictured at right circa 1984). Along with having once taken pictures of the Lunachicks, Joe is also responsible for images that grace many a significant album cover, and has played in myriad great bands himself, including Th’Faith Healers, Stereolab and even P.J. Harvey. You can read all about the man via this great piece in The Quietus!
Joe turned out to be a truly excellent and mercifully patient guy, obviously somewhat amused by my bug-eyed fervor to divine the enigmatic location depicted in his portrait of the Lunachicks. Upon “friending” each other on Facebook, I pretty much immediately launched into my questioning, explaining my somewhat ridiculous quest and asking if he remembers tiny details of about a photo shoot with a band that went down 26 years ago.
As it turns out, Joe had grown up in and lived, at the time, in London, and was not a New Yorker. He’d been commissioned to shoot the Lunachicks — then still a relatively new and unknown quantity — so flew over from the UK. For this particular shoot, after “going awol” around the city for a bit, he met up with the Lunachicks prior to a gig at CBGB (of course). While the ladies were doing their soundcheck, Joe had about a few minutes to scout out a few potential locations.
Immersed in the lore of the first Ramones album cover (also taken in that neighborhood by the great Roberta Bayley), Joe envisioned a sort of “gloomy, osteuropäische vibe,” but the girls weren’t having it. Following their soundcheck, Joe and the band had only a few minutes to get the job done. As such, the location of that photograph is “about two minutes walk” from CBGB, as that’s all the time they had.
Okay, so two-minute walk from 315 Bowery, then. Fine, but in what direction? And, really, a “two-minute walk” for one person is conceivably a “five-minute walk” for another. It really depends on how fast you’re walking, where you’re headed, etc.
Joe then did me a true favor and offered to send me the contact sheets from the shoot. He was off on tour with his band, Cavern of Anti-Matter (for whom he plays drums), but promised to e-mail them to me upon his return home to his current digs in Berlin.
And this week, that’s exactly what he did.
The whole series of photographs from that day are, for me, a true revelation. Not only do they disclose the exact location of the shot in question, but they also really capture the essence of a neighborhood that is now virtually unrecognizable. The Lunachicks, meanwhile, are depicted like a madcap gaggle of comely, leather-clad hoods, like a hirsute hybrid of Josie & the Pussycats and the Warriors.
Sure enough, the pictures start off on the Bowery. Here they are posed on the center island between Bleecker and East 2nd Street. I took a shot in pretty much the same exact spot about five or six years later (see below). Today, it’s doesn’t quite exude the same atmosphere.
Mine...
I also like this shot as it showcases the fact that bassist Squid Silver boasts a KISS badge on her leather lapel (cover of Rock'n'Roll Over)
Here's my little boy on the same spot earlier today...
From there, it looks like Joe and the ladies literally just walked about a two-block radius, circling down to Second Avenue.
Eventually they paused at the spot from the original photo…
Here are some others frames from the same spot...
..and here's where my heart started to beat faster....watch as Joe steps back and the camera starts to reveal a bit more detail on the right...
HOLY CRAP, DO YOU SEE THAT??? BEHIND VOCALIST THEO KOGAN'S HEAD?
Should you not recognize the building behind her head, take a look at this Google Maps grab of East First Street between Bowery and Second Avenue....
Yes, we have a match. This also means that the original tenement building at the end of the block in the original photo is the building which featured the XOXO Gallery in its ground floor (which was demolished in 1997, seven years after the original Dilworth photo).
So, there you have it. Now, if you walk down East First Street between Bowery and Second Avenue today, pretty much everything that once made it distinctive is gone. The vacant lot on the western edge of the street (abutting Bowery)...
...is now a Chase Bank.
A little further in, fabled Extra Place (here back in the `90s)....
...is now an antiseptic outdoor mall (of a sort). Here it is looking south from within....
Essentially, in the original photo, the Lunachicks are pictured standing in front of a structure that no longer stands, and hasn't since about the dawn of the new millennium. So much for thinking I'd past it recently.
The reason there's so much light and space in the photo is because they would have been standing across the street from the wide open lot that was behind 295 Bowery (i.e. the rotting edifice of McGurk's Suicide Hall). Towards the eastern end of the block, of course, was the Mars Bar. That's gone, too. For a glimpse of the street as it was, enjoy this oddball snippet from age-old cable access show, The Church of Shooting Yourself (which I wrote about here)....
Just to finish the narrative, after the shoot, the Lunachicks sauntered menacingly back to CBGB's, plugged in and blew the roof off the place...
Today, CBGB is long gone, replaced by John Varvatos' noxious haberdashery. East First Street is now a completely gentrified patch of monied exclusivity, with the exception of the Howl Arts gallery space. Joe Dilworth continues to make music and take pictures. Check out his excellent work here. The Lunachicks themselves have technically been on "hiatus" since about 2000, although they did play a spirited reunion show in 2002.
Today, guitarist Gina Volpe fronts the band Bantam, vocalist Theo Kogan is an actress/model/mom who heads-up the cosmetics company Armour, bassist Sidney "Squid" Silver is the proprietor of Williamsburg's Roebling Tea Room. Original drummer Becky Wreck was last heard of playing in a band called the Blair Bitch Project (oh, mirth) while second drummer, Chip English, currently plays with Suicide King. No word on the whereabouts or doings of second guitarist Sindi (below from the CB's gig above)....
So that's it, really. Mystery solved. I'd love to thank everyone who stuck with me, and Joe Dilworth for his humor and generosity.
Lastly, here's Oliver in (roughly) the same spot this morning....
Not only do they indeed divulge the precise location of the photograph (stay tuned for that), but they also paint a vivid picture of the surrounding environs, a particular patch of Manhattan topography that looks absolutely NOTHING today like it did in 1990 ... save one or two crucial details (as you'll see).
I have to do a bit of scanning and blowing-up (Antonioni-style), but look for the very final chapter in this saga very soon. Thank you for your patience, your interest and for indulging me. And big thanks, again, to Joe
Here, again, are the Lunachicks circa `89 (at CBGB, no less) excerpted from the 1992 straight-to-video epic, "Blue Vengeance."
Not to be that guy, but I remember when Rebel Rebel fucking opened! The promise of a crisply appointed, lovingly stocked record and disc shop, meticulously curated and named after a hallowed Bowie anthem? Fuckin’ SIGN ME UP! Given the shop's eye for fastidious presentation, a slight air of exclusivity and a reverent appreciation of the rarefied import, as a rampant Anglophile smitten with hard-to-acquire CD singles from esoteric British indie bands -– it swiftly became a regular stop.
My high school pal and fellow music geek Rob B. and I would routinely pile into Rebel Rebel to rifle through the bins and chat with the staff, giving each secret nicknames behind their backs. Slim and hirsute sales assistant Gary was swiftly re-christened “Boy Gary,” while Dave behind the counter became “French Dave.” If I’m not mistaken, he was thus dubbed because of a tiny replica of the Eiffel Tower behind the cash register, leading us to assume he was French. He wasn’t, of course, but given his somewhat endearingly snotty reputation (essentially “service with a sneer”), he certainly seemed French.
In relatively short order, however, French Dave stopped sneering at us, as he recognized us not only as loyal, regular and paying customers, but I’d like to think he applauded our appreciation for the minute details of music collecting. Once he became acquainted with our tastes, Dave would routinely set certain items aside for us, reserving limited edition copies of hotly-sought-after discs that he knew we’d be interested in. Dutifully, while it may have been more convenient to procure certain albums at places like Tower or some other outlet, we would reverently choose to shop at Rebel Rebel. More to the point, items sold at Rebel Rebel were immaculately presented, and handled with the utmost care.
Rebel Rebel also had things that NO ONE else in the city would ever begin to know about, be it the “Kennedy” single by The Wedding Present through Heaven Born and Ever Bright by far-flung British prog-punk quartet, Cardiacs. Dave knew.
In time, Rebel Rebel’s focus shifted a bit towards club music and, I guess, the proto-EDM one might hear at its neighborhood’s nightlife establishments (I’m talking about gay dance clubs, if you’re failing to decode that sentence). Given the shop’s placement just off Christopher Street, that made perfect sense, and Dave still stocked the good stuff for we rock dorks (like the Killing Joke singles collection, brandished here with red-faced aplomb by my daughter Charlotte).
Like so many other stores of its kind, however, Rebel Rebel started to struggle with spiraling rents and decreased demand for its once-exotic fare. As its peers like Bleecker Bob’s, Rocks in Your Head, Venus Records, Kim’s, Golden Disc, Route 66, Second Coming and more started to fold, Rebel Rebel defiantly (as it would) held strong. But it was looking like an arduous battle.
As the years went by, the store started to clog up a bit, with stock crammed untidily in browser-impeding boxes all over the place, making the shopping experience a bit less simple. I suppose they’d exhausted their storage facilities, but it began to look like a bit of an unwieldy fire hazard. I continued to regularly stop in, but the writing was soon on the wall.
News came down this morning via Jeremiah Moss that Rebel Rebel will shut its doors at the end of this month, effectively driving another nail into the coffin of the New York City of my youth, and the colorful character of downtown.
To borrow a line from Jello Biafra, let’s lynch the landlord.
Sorry for the relative slow-down, but life's gotten busy as we spiral into the gaping, sulfurous maw of summer. Plus, Typepad (the service that hosts this here blog) was been a bit wonky.
That all said, here's a little clue about an upcoming Flaming Pablum interview (no, not Iggy).
As I mentioned back on this ancient post, a website named BlockAvenue.com once reached out to me to see if I wanted to contribute by writing up a little entry on "my favorite block in NYC." It sounded like a fun, curious little exercise, so I gamely obliged and wrote up an entry on Cortlandt Alley down off Canal Street. Evidently, they liked it so much — or they were entirely desperate for content — that they even wrote up a little shout-out about it on their accompanying blog. I thought that was jolly nice of them, although it seems that my reasons for liking that particular strip (ambiance, local history, atmosphere, aesthetic, cultural significance, etc.) had precious little in common with the reasons most of their other contributors cited for their favorite blocks (proximity to gyms and Starbucks), which I think was sadly symptomatic of this city’s self-awareness. Five years later, all evidence of that website is gone, including my little piece on Cortlandt Alley, regrettably.
Cortlandt Alley, of course, is still there, although I’ve been noticing an uptick in scaffolding up and down its narrow canyon, which makes me fear the worst.
A thin, arguably forbidding strip that extends between Canal and Franklin streets, with a slight misalignment at White Street that makes its trajectory essentially lightning-bolt-shaped, Cortlandt Alley remains my favorite street in Manhattan.
If you’re not immediately familiar with the name, you’d doubtlessly recognize it from its placement in countless films. Off the top of my head, Cortlandt Alley plays a defining role in the music videos for “Cousins” by Vampire Weekend and “Stiff Upper Lip” by AC/DC and probably about seven-dozen others. It’s probably most famous for being the “Hot Gates”-like entry to 77 White Street (at the center of the afore-cited lightning bolt), which used to be, of course, the Mudd Club.
I never made it to the Mudd Club (rhapsodized most famously in song by Talking Heads during “Life During Wartime”), as I was too young at the time, but I’m an ardent fan of the music and the scene it spawned, from the No Wave skronk of bands like Teenage Jesus and DNA through the mutated dance music of Konk and Liquid Liquid and all points in between. It closed in 1983 or so, I believe, and is now a very chic condo. I actually know a guy from my former building who lives in the building now. When he told me he was moving to a spacious apartment at 77 White Street, I immediately blurted out “THE MUDD CLUB!” and he showed no sign of recognition to what I was talking about. I know there’s a plaque on the building detailing same today, but I’m betting no one who lives in there today has any genuine idea of what the place was all about. Again, this city largely has no sense of its own myriad histories, which is sad.
Back in November, I landed a new job way downtown, one that now finds me regularly exploring various byways on my way to and from the office. On the days when I have to drop my kids off at their school in the Gramercy area, I usually hop on a downtown 6 train afterwards, and get off at Canal Street. From there, I take a leisurely, atmospheric stroll down Cortlandt Alley. Even this many years later, it still fires my imagination like nothing else. Frequently, I’m moved to take pictures.
Here are my shots from not only my commutes over the past six months, but also some shots from the past couple of years on Instagram (along with a couple of shots of my kids).
Not unlike countless other institutions of its kind, my kids’ grade school hosts an annual Spring Carnival, and for as long as my little two have been attending said school, we’ve always gone.
The school in question is pretty social. One of the reasons we were first attracted to the place was because of its warm, inclusive community. There’s a planning committee made up of parents (my wife served on it for two years) that regularly schedules school-wide events for kids and parents alike, ranging from annual walk-a-thons through boozy Christmas parties (well, boozy for the parents). It’s a close-knit group we’ve come to know and love.
The Spring Carnival, however, has always been something of a headache. Usually occurring on a sweltering, late spring day and featuring a needless disc-jockey with a big, booming sound-system playing contemporary (and frequently inappropriate) pop crap at a volume normally reserved for SWANS, the needle on the discomfort-o-meter is frequently buried solidly in the red. Add to that mix a teeming legion of screaming children, running frantically between bouncy castles, schlocky prize tables, a Silly String tent and a wide array of junk food stalls, and you’ve got pretty much all you need for a nervous breakdown. Every year, I dread it.
The kids have always loved it, though. The simple utterance of the very word, “carnival,” would get them excited. Despite repeatedly getting overwhelmed, overheated, overexcited and under-hydrated, they still equated the Spring Carnival with 100% fun. Regardless of all those times they ran out of prize tickets, or had to wait too long for the bouncy slide or how undercooked that hot dog was, the Spring Carnival was a great time, as far as Charlotte and Oliver were concerned.
Knowing my place in the food chain, I played along. I acted as de-facto security one year, standing guard (well…sitting, actually) at one end of the block to make sure no small people wandered off (or wandered off with someone other than their parent). I also sold raffle tickets one year (see picture above – yes, that’s me, the clichéd punk rock dad). You’d never think an antiquated bit of stereo equipment would be a hot raffle item, but go know. Most of the time, however, I would just buy fistfuls of ride and prize tickets and make sure the kids had fun and didn’t lose their minds. The day might usually end with a migraine and a sunburn, but as long as the kids had had fun, that’s what mattered. Their happy little smiles and cherubic little giggles forgave a multitude of petty annoyances.
This year’s Spring Carnival is this coming Sunday, and while I was preparing to roll my eyes and sigh, I learned that neither of my kids are harboring any great desire to attend. Charlotte’s well over it, and even not-so-little little Oliver doesn’t seem especially phased.
Every get the feeling your life is consumed by trivia?
I’ve been fielding a lot of different reactions, in recent weeks, in regards to my admittedly ridiculous quest to nail down the location of that fabled Lunachicks photograph. Despite the fact that I’m not the only person that does this type of thing (witness the celebrated exploits of the frequently-cited Bob Egan at PopSpots and/or any number of groups on Facebook like Manhattan Before 1990 or Greenwich Village Grapevine), some parties seem to think it’s a staggering waste of time. Fair enough, I suppose, but the only crucial difference between myself and those other seekers, as far as I can tell, is the subjects of the photographs. Because the particular shots I’m drawn to involve arguably less celebrated luminaries like Tony Conrad, Japan or – yea verily – the Lunachicks instead of, say, the overly lionized Bob Dylan, I’m apparently a weirdo. Whatever. That part doesn’t bother me.
But in spinning the yarn and widening the net in the instance of Lunachicks photo, I seem to have inadvertently put a few people off. “I’m not sure I see the point,” said one prominent individual when I tried to recruit their expertise. I don’t necessarily expect everyone to share my enthusiasm for the search, but as I sheepishly tried to explain to that individual, these posts of mine are, in a way, a small attempt to pay tribute to a city that formerly fostered an environment where art and music of the Lunachicks’ variety could once thrive –- unlike the comparatively staid and cripplingly expensive city it’s become. Speaking to my own experience, these posts are inarguably driven by one of my new favorite words, Hiraeth; a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.
I realize that sounds awfully histrionic, but maybe my attempts to stay connected to these vanished eras via these photographs is just the manifestation of a midlife crisis.
It makes sense, in a way. I’ve garnered similar reactions via my pointedly less cerebral ruminations about, for lack of a better term, rock t-shirt etiquette. I’m routinely met with snarky comments like “Imagine caring!” or “get ahold of yourself, punk rock dad!” when I venomously froth at the mouth about “vintage” metal t-shirts being appropriate by vacuous high fashion types and/or indefensible idiots like Kim Kardashian sporting Ramones t-shirts and knock-off leather jackets festooned with arcane punk insignia. The party line I tow there, usually, is that when something that mattered a great deal to me for a large swathe of my youth is blithely appropriated by pretty much the very demographic that once virulently mocked me for my fervent appreciation of same, I will not stand for it. As a high school geek who caught no end of grief from the popular kids for wearing Motorhead and Circle Jerks t-shirts, to see these signifiers adopted by people without the slightest investment in what they mean beyond some hollow ironic statement -– well, it pisses one off.
Here’s the thing, though: Fashion is silly. Band t-shirts are silly. Heavy Metal and Hardcore are fucking silly. As a more or less sentient adult, I am fully aware of the inherent ridiculousness of all this, let alone of my own cartoony over-reactions to them. As bug-eyed and furious as I’m prone to get during these discussions, I’m cognizant of the absurdity of it all. There are genuine problems in the world. Waifish young supermodels and idiotic reality TV stars wearing garments extolling the names of rock bands they’ve never actually heard isn’t really one of them.
…but I digress.
Back to the matter of the Lunachicks’ photo, is it of grave significance? No. Will being able to definitively put my hand down to the patch of concrete – should it still exist – that the band are depicted standing on prove any point or make any difference to anyone’s life other than maybe my own? Probably not. But I do like to think that for those of us who live in this city and share my affinity for the certain eras, the certain places, the certain sensibilities, sights and sounds I write about here, it’s worthwhile to remember and celebrate these elements.
And now? To unearth the lead I just buried beneath the above six paragraphs: As mentioned in the last post on the subject, I am in touch with the photographer.
After reading several chapters in the saga, my friend Susan from the ILX boards gamely put me touch with one Joe Dilworth. Even if his name doesn’t immediately ring a bell, you’ve almost certainly seen his images grace the sleeves of albums by My Bloody Valentine, the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, Franz Ferdinand, Echo & the Bunnymen, Ocean Colour Scene, Laika, Ride, St. Etienne, Link Wray, Art Brut, The Church, Cornershop, Unrest and countless others. Not for nothing, but the man’s also played in an equally august list of formidable bands like Th’Faith Healers, Stereolab, Swearing at Motorists, Add N to (X), The Hangovers, Too Pure, PJ Harvey and more. When we started corresponding, he was (and remains, at the moment) on tour with a band called Cavern of Anti-Matter. Check our man out below on the drums … that’s him.
Anyway, to make a very long story short (oops, too late), Joe was sympathetic to my plight, and shares a similar appreciation for geographic location and detail. While not a New Yorker (he’s a Londoner, but from Germany originally), he did indeed remember the day, … and the general location (and yes....it's purportedly somewhere in the East Village). Most accommodatingly, Joe offered to share the contact sheets from the photo shoot with me. He’s touring, at the moment, with the band above, but told me he’d get me those assets upon his return. Ideally, the images contained therein should illuminate the situation considerably.
As a taster, however, Joe was able to send me an alternate shot from the same session. Herewith the Lunachicks continuing to be suitably provocative on that same spot.
For those who’ve made it this far with me, the prize is in sight. Hang in there.
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