Flaming Pablum

Always at the Museum

There’s a particular passage in J.D. Salinger’s signature work, “The Catcher in the Rye,” that has always really spoken to me. After a litany of indignities, gaffes and humiliating tribulations, protagonist Holden Caulfield repairs to the sprawling, tranquil galleries of the American Museum of Natural History on the Upper West Side, finding solace in a particular diorama that depicts an Eskimo having just caught two fish out of a hole in the ice. While Holden’s life spirals around him in a strange, uncertain trajectory, he assigns these immediate surroundings a very personal significance.

The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything stayed right where it was. Nobody’d move. You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole … Nobody’d be different. The only thing that would be different would be you. 

Obviously, Salinger’s richly nuanced text is open to myriad interpretations, but I’ve always read into this specific episode as a reflection of Holden’s inability to come to terms with the ramifications of his own developing adulthood and the accompanying life changes. The seeming permanence and comfortable familiarity of those elements of the museum represent the cherished-if-fleeting stability and equally vanishing innocence of his childhood. As such, he pines for them.

I relate to this on two levels. For a start, one might be able to draw a parallel between myself and Holden (a nervous proposition, given Holden Caulfield’s longstanding status as an inspiration to certain murderers and attempted murderers), given my continued pining for and lament over the loss of very specific elements of my native New York City that I may have naively expected to never go away. Yes, I may indeed genuinely miss specific aspects of some long-lost record store, but I also miss and lament what that record store might arguably represent to my mind -– i.e. my youth. It’s hardly a leap.

Psychobabble aside, however, I also respond to Holden’s observations about the Museum of Natural History on a purely surface level. Even decades before I was the sniveling midlife-crisis-sufferer I am today, I appreciated the apparently constant nature of the museum’s exhibits. Holden’s assertion that they never changed isn’t quite true, of course, but rather a rose-tinted projection. Most of the main, iconic pieces remain right where you left them, but there are subtle (and not so subtle) changes happening all the time there (like, say, the replacement of the Hayden Planetarium with the Rose Center for Earth & Space).

The weird thing about that, of course, is that I doubt the museum’s planners had those associations in mind when they installed the exhibits in question. For example, upon carefully erecting those towering fossil replications of dinosaurs with talons out and jaws agape, I doubt any of those curators suspected people would latch onto those terrifying beasties beyond their significance as artifacts of our planet’s complex history and grow emotionally attached to them.

To that end, when I bring my children there these days, I’m frequently heard to point things out like “when I was taken here at your age, that guy dressed up like a witch-doctor in the African peoples wing used to scare the Hell out of me.” Part of the experience has become less about the literal historical relevance of the artifacts on display, and more about their placement in the context of the museum. The witch-doctor guy may not scare me anymore, but I love that he’s still there.

So, once again, why am I talking about all this? Well, it’s another instance of spotting a picture on the Old New York Tumblr that really struck a note -– an image that speaks quite strikingly to the very essence of permanence and familiarity that both Holden and I find solace in.

Depending on how you enter the museum, a major focal point upon reaching its main floor has always been the Hall of African Mammals (or Akeley Hall of African Mammals, if I’m being precise, thus named after explorer Carl Akeley). If you’re not entirely familiar with the place, it’s basically that dark, cavernous room featuring a taxidermized herd of African elephants in the center, surrounded on two levels by lushly detailed dioramas. Right as you walk into that big chamber, the glassed-in display on your immediate left is one featuring what looks like a family of gorillas holding court in a deep, primeval forest. Here it is now…

It’s an image as immediately entwined with the museum as, say, the Temple of Dendur is with the Metropolitan Museum on the other side of Central Park. As a tiny child weaned on “King Kong” and “Planet of the Apes,” I remember being literally awestruck by the sight of that big, primate patriarch in the back, standing upright with hairy elbows akimbo. I suppose they were trying to imply that he was in the process of beating his chest, but he always looked to me like he was about to fling his arms out and break into song. That very same big fella was referenced on a postcard campaign around the same era, aping (sorry) Dino De Laurentiis’ 1976 take on “King Kong.”

Anyway, the point I’m trying to get at is that for as long as I’ve been going to that museum -– which is, essentially, more or less my entire life (I don’t remember how old I might have been when my mother first brought my sister and I there, but we were invariably pretty damn young)-- this diorama has been there. At this point, I should point out that I’m perilously close to the age of 49.

Over on Old New York, meanwhile, I stumbled upon this photo, snapped in 1936. 

Here’s that photo’s caption…

Finishing touches were applied to a diorama in the Akeley Hall of African Mammals at the American Museum of Natural History in New York. Named for Carl Akeley, the explorer who conceived and designed all the displays and died on Mount Mikeno in the Democratic Republic of Congo in 1926, the hall presents several animals that Mr. Akeley had killed himself, The New York Times reported on May 17, 1936. “He will probably be set down as one of the most famous lovers of all natural things,” Russell Owen wrote. Photo: The New York Times

Now, I don’t know why I should find this so shocking, but evidently that same, big, fuckoff gorilla has been standing there in that same spot, about to bust into song .. for literally 80 YEARS!

That just kinda blows my mind.

Addendum: Here's a shot of my little monkeys admiring the big fella back from 2012.

Back to the Bathroom

To be honest, the fabled men’s room of CBGB has become a clichéd distraction, an incidental bit of filthy folklore that now threatens to overshadow everything else about the venue. By the same token, in 2016, what about the oft-repeated mythology of CBGB hasn’t become the stuff of cliché?

First and foremost, yes -- the facilities at CBGB were a joke, but -– pray, tell -– what exactly had you been expecting? Pristinely varnished marble? Shining silver taps? Shimmering porcelain bidets? No -– the bathroom was essentially in the same state of wanton dereliction as the rest of the venue. Big deal.

And, really, as long as all you wanted to do was take a leak, who really cared? I mean, if your needs were more complicated than that, then you might indeed have a problem, but I’ve never understood folks who … y’know … didn’t’ take care of that stuff before they stepped out for the evening. I realize that when ya gotta go, ya gotta go, but really? Ya wanna do that here?

As is now the stuff of lurid legend, many evidently felt that the narrow chamber in question was better suited to copulation than defection, but even that fanciful scenario begs several logistical questions. But, resourceful minds prevail and needs must, I guess.

In my distant youth, I do remember using the CB’s men’s room a couple of times, but never for anything other than its initial design and intent. Nor, for that matter, did I ever encounter anyone doing anything in same that seemed especially out of left field (like, say, the Cramps trying to murder anyone). I’ve heard stories about Debbie Harry doing this down there or Richard Hell doing that, but by the time I first attended a gig there in the mid-to-late 80s (shortly after the Monica Dee photo up top of members of Kentucky’s Squirrel Bait was taken for SPIN in 1986), I believe the notoriety of the bathroom had already precluded anything notably extracurricular from occurring.

So, why am I talking about this now? Well, a regular reader named Richard Moody came across the video below and rightly assumed it would be something I’d have a thing or two to say about. Shot in 2006, just shortly before the club was closed and gutted, here’s an in-depth, video exploration of the men’s room in question. As detailed as the clip is, however, it should be noted that it’s missing a crucial ingredient in that it lacks the olfactory part of the experience.

Today, of course, the space that had been CBGB –- 315 Bowery -– is now a John Varvatos boutique. I’ve only stepped into that bespoke haberdashery a couple of times, but have never ventured downstairs -- nor do I know if you’re even allowed to. If memory serves, the Metropolitan Museum presented a replica of the CB’s men’s room for their otherwise anemic show about Punk fashion some years back, and I want to say I read about the actual facilities being preserved for posterity somewhere, which strikes me as pretty ridiculous.

Personally speaking, I remember the restrooms at the Limelight and the Tunnel to be much dicier affairs. Which was your favorite?

Going (Back) Underground

There’s nothing timely about this in the slightest, but given that the tenor of the times is so rife with the unthinkable (Trump, gun violence, racism, police brutality, terrorism, global unrest, Brexit fallout, “Pokemon Go!,” etc.), maybe being out of step with what’s timely is perfectly okay.

Moreover, when I do speak my mind about current events (like, say, the very real possibility of an impending Trump administration), I tend to get a bit frothy at the mouth. I’ve been informed by some that making declarative statements on, say, Facebook about my zero tolerance for Trump supporters might rub some people the wrong way. Too bad. Put simply, if you even tacitly support the perspectives and “policies” (such as they are) that Trump’s espousing, I don’t want to spend any time with you. You wouldn’t stay friends with a David Duke supporter, would you? It’s pretty much the same thing. Think about it, and vote wisely.

See? I’ve digressed with bug-eyed fervor already.

Anyway, to get back to that which isn’t even remotely timely, I stumbled upon the pair of images below on Flickr, courtesy of one Anthony Rau, in a folder titled “Greenwich Village and Downtown NYC.” I’ve spoken about the place several times here before (notably here, here, here, here, here, here and most recently here), but this is, of course, the intimately appointed interior of Subterranean Records on Cornelia Street.

I’ve said it before that stepping down into Subterranean felt like entering a chapel. It was cramped and dank and a bit musty, but I loved it.

It’s gone now, of course … seemingly replaced by nothing.

The Lost Towers of St. Mark's

If I was a better Catholic -– and it doesn’t look that I’m likely to become one any time soon -- I could probably tell you what St. Mark was the patron saint of. As it happens, however, I can’t. When I hear his name invoked, I’m less inclined to think of any halo-sporting religious figure or even that picturesque basilica in Venice and more likely to conjure in my head images of St. Marks Place -- leading me to assume, these days, that St. Mark was the patron saint of vaping, bongs and one-dollar pizza.

Of course, St. Marks Place actually took its name not from the saint in question, but from a storied institution just a couple of blocks to its north, that being St. Mark’s Church on Second Avenue. But even when I think of St. Mark’s Church, I still don’t think of it as a house of worship so much as the launching pad for the literary and musical endeavors of folks like Jim Carroll and Patti Smith.

To some, as a result of its association with those poets-turned-punks, St. Mark’s Church is something akin to the spiritual epicenter of the East Village, and a suitably uncluttered patch of New York City. Stand on the corner of East 10th and Second Avenue and scan your eyes over it, and it seems largely untouched by the rampant development evident around the rest of the city. Likewise, the strip of East 10th Street between Third and Second Avenues it calls home – lined with stately, age-old brownstones in varying states of repair and decline – retains a lovely “old world” vibe. I once encountered the afore-cited Jim Carroll sitting on one of those stoops, enjoying a bologna sandwich. As I sheepishly began to derail his lunchtime reverie, he gave me a withering “beat it, kid” glance, and I left him alone.

But it was almost all not to be.

In 2016, we are all too conditioned to expect the unsolicited erection of any number of gaudy, imposingly tall and comparatively artless towers. Every week, it seems we lose some corner or much-needed square of wide-open, airy space to construction. It’s been said before, but downtown seems dead set on replicating the dystopian cityscape from the opening scene of Ridley Scott’s “Blade Runner.”

But via the afore-cited Old New York Tumblr, I just saw evidence of the plans to construct a cluster of massive towers literally around St. Mark’s Church, which I’d originally read about via Ada Calhoun’s excellent “St. Marks is Dead.” Making this concept even more bizarre is the fact that the project was initiated in 1929, with designs by none other than Frank Lloyd Wright, who was pretty much the Iggy Pop of American architecture. Check out the plans…

As it turned out, the Great Depression took hold before the ambitious plan could break ground, and the towers were scrapped. But one wonders what effect they might have had on the neighborhood had they been built.

I was struck by another thing, though. Check out these bird’s-eye-view plans of the proposed towers…

Is it just me, … or despite the fact that the floors of the towers were purportedly "intended to radiate from a concrete 'trunk' like the branches of a tree, don't they look vaguely like swastikas?

PMA in the Park

I initially mentioned Dr. Know of the Bad Brains’ health problems back here, and then again here wherein founding Cro-Mags member Harley Flanagan extended a sort of olive branch/challenge to his erstwhile band mates to reform and perform for the purposes of raising funds for their storied, ailing hardcore forebear and mentor. Unfortunately, the mending of fences for that admirable cause between Flanagan and vocalist John Joseph did not come to pass. Perhaps still embittered, smarting and wary in the wake of their highly publicized ….er… quarrel (well, that is the word for it) from back in 2012, it seems a reconvening of at least those two principal players in the story is unlikely at present. We’ll see if that ever changes.

This all said, while Harley respectfully stayed away, John Joseph’s current incarnation of the Cro-Mags (filled out by former members of Leeway, Sick of It All, Youth of Today and Agnostic Front, plus -– I *think*-- original Cro-Mags drummer, Mackie Jayson) did play as part of a benefit for Dr. Know this past weekend, at an event in Tompkins Square Park that also featured fellow NYHC alumni like Token Entry, Breakdown, Antidote and Maximum Penalty. That's the flyer for the gig at the top of the post. 

Because I ultimately suck so bad (read: I’m a 48-year-old dad with familial obligations), I was not able to attend this event, but my estimable comrade Drew -- a figure of multiple, striking dichotomies (an ardent fan of both the most blisteringly esoteric hardcore vinyl and the most needlessly melismatic Mariah Carey albums) -– did attend, and gave me a full report. Suffice to say, I am less of a man for not going.

A robustly well-attended function that apparently raised as much as $25K for Dr. Know’s medical fees, Drew noted that the show was totally packed, it was really, really hot and, essentially, “crazy.” With Tompkins Square Park rife with punks, hardcore kids and crusties, Drew observed that it felt a bit like a trip back in time. While the vibe was entirely positive, the show was suitably intense, as can be readily confirmed by the video below of the band’s performance of “Hard Times.” Watch for the guy who assumes the stage next to vocalist John Joseph at exactly 0:22 into the clip. It does not end well for him.

ADDENDUM: Here's an official statement from the benefit's organizers:

OFFICIAL STATEMENT - We raised $25,000.00 towards Dr. Know’s medical expenses at the Tompkins Square Park Show yesterday. With 2,000 people in attendance the event was an incredible success. The three of us worked for many months to set up the show and it far exceeded our expectations. Thank you very much to the many people who worked hard to make this very special event happen, from the people who set up the stage and did security to those who went around and picked up trash after the show and everyone in between. Most of all thank you very much to the many people who came out to support this great event, you know who you are! There’s a lot of talk about “Back in the day” and “New York’s not what it used to be” but obviously those people stayed home to be in front of their computers yesterday. The spirit of hardcore is alive and well and living in New York City the greatest city in the world. Thank you for the support and we will see you soon, New York Hardcore lives! - Laurens Kusters (Black N’ Blue Productions), Drew Stone (The New York Hardcore Chronicles) & Joseph “Cuz” Cammaratta (Black N’ Blue Productions) 

To anyone who suggests that the ol’ hardcore punk spirit has been totally siphoned out of the East Village, maybe you should check this out…

And here's the inevitable trek through "We Gotta Know," featuring a cherubic trio of background singers all seemingly under the age of 10. Not quite sure what's wrong with the young lady in the red t-shirt. Maybe the heat?

Just Across the Border

As I mentioned in my previous post about the ‘Psycko’ City collection of pictures (for want of a better descriptor), I had some serious concerns about sharing it, as it was just like finding an open cardboard box full of photographs without much information. Who owned them? What were they collected for? What purpose might that have been intended to serve? Why were so few credited?

As a contrast, I thought I’d take a moment to cite a comparable resource that is a thousand times more easy to navigate and enjoy, that being the Old New York Tumblr, featuring a broad range of New York images from the turn of the century through to the oft-cited 1980’s. If you’re like me, you’ll lose yourself in its 357 pages (probably more, by the time you read this). Where it can, Old New York is scrupulous in citing the true provenance of each image, noting photographers and original sources. It’s really well done. Go explore.

I’ve set aside several of its entries for possible rumination, but this one really struck me today. Take another look…

Initially harvested from another favorite Tumblr, NYC Nostalgia, this uncredited/undated photo is captioned as…

Talking about the important things in life, Park Avenue 1970s

It’s a great picture, showing an elderly gentleman having a chat with a little boy in overalls. At first, I was going to pose this as another photo quiz, but I’m reasonably positive I’ve nailed it. But, y’know, see if you agree…

In glancing at this picture and its caption, one might assume the Park Avenue tag is a mistake, but don’t forget --- Park Avenue is more than just that storied, wide canyon of imposing affluence. At the border of East 96th Street, the avenue is bisected by the tunnel that feeds trains directly into Grand Central Station sixty-someodd blocks to its south. I’m determining that this spot is only about a half a block north of that very border.

I grew up just about three blocks away from that border, and had a good friend named Spike (immortalized here) who lived on the southeast corner of East 96th and Park Avenue. Back then, that border was regarded as a veritable Checkpoint Charlie. The property value dropped steeply across the fleeting few yards between the southern corners and the northern corners, showcasing one of the starkest divides between the haves and the have-nots to be seen in the city, at the time. Looking at this picture, however, snapped during what would have been one of the neighborhood’s less salubrious eras, it doesn’t look especially forbidding in the slightest.

The big giveaway in identifying the spot in this picture, beyond it obviously being similarly sloped, is the bi-level façade of Hunter College High School in the upper right hand part of the picture (which occupies the entire block between 94th and 95th).

The traffic light pole and red police call box in the background, then, would be on the northeast corner of East 96th.

With this in mind, I’m suggesting that the old man and little boy had their discussion right by this corner (where that blue, wooden platform is resting).

Today, that smiling old gentleman is probably no longer with us. The kid is probably in his late 40’s (like me). I don’t believe my old friend Spike’s mom lives in that corner building anymore.

The red police call box, however, is still there.

Back to 'Psycko' City: Rhapsodizing the Rubble

As has long been the case between myself and a few other similarly inclined, NYC-centric bloggers (the ones who are still at it, at least), whenever one of us discovers some arcane website, lost cache or far-flung collection of old photographs or video footage of the NYC of eons past, we tend to get really excited about it and dutifully share our findings. We all tend to look for something different, of course. Given my predilections, I’m usually looking for period-specific pics of punk rock shit, or images of old record stores or places that I remember from my childhood here that no longer exist. That stuff doesn’t speak to everyone, but it certainly resonates with me and, I hope, my readers as well.

I’ve shared my own discoveries of these things before (notably here, here and here, to cite but three), but I sorta backed into another one quite recently, and summarily feel it’s worth sharing. So, y’know, that’s what I’m doin’.

There are, however, some complications. Normally, one finds a website or a gallery or a fully curated and annotated collection. Not in the instance. This batch of photographs came up via a Google search, and I clicked through to find its frankly sprawling abundance of images. The trouble is -- there are no credits or sources or extrapolation to the photographs of any great note beyond what’s in their respective URLs. I kept clicking back to get to an explanatory parent directory, but those paths lead to dead ends. As a result, I know precious little about this cache of photographs beyond that they seem to have been culled together during March of this year. What “WW.PSYCKO.COM” is or was or means or has in store, I have no idea. But, here it is.

Click around and you’ll find directory titles like “New York/Gritty Urban Decay 70s 80s,” “gangs,” “Crime Scenes,” “NY Celebs,” etc. Some feature more background info than others. Some none at all. You'll doubtlessly recognize some of the more celebrated shots, but you'll also encounter volumes of shots you've probably never seen before. 

It’s all very messy. There are incongruously placed directories buried within folders that have relatively little to do with the subject matter cited. It’s all very confusing.

But search around long enough, and you’re bound to encounter a shot or two that resonates with you, like the one above of Minetta Street, or the one below of the old Sound Factory. 

So, there you have it. Call it flagrant nostalgia or rubble-porn or whathaveyou, but it’s there for the perusing.

Scattered around this post are some of the ones that jumped out at me. 

Contemporizing Hopper

At this stage of the proceedings, I think it’s fair to suggest that I know jack diddley about art. Sure, I took a bunch of art history courses in high school and was a studio art minor in college (don’t laugh – it’s true), but I can’t say I’ve kept up with doings in that realm as much as I arguably should’ve.

That said, I recently saw the work of an artist named Nigel Van Wieck that really struck a chord. Put simply (although I’m sure he’d assert that it’s way more complicated than this) Mr. Van Wieck paints in a style strikingly similar to fabled American artist (and noted New Yorker), Edward Hopper. Van Wieck captures those same moments of silent solace that Hopper was so renowned for, only imbued with a more contemporary feel (and frequently more of a sultry vibe). Also like Hopper, Van Wieck's paintings are NYC to the bone. 

Find his website here and his Instagram here and enjoy!

Penley's Pics

My eagle-eyed comrade Drew spotted this gallery on Flickr by way of NYU’s Tamiment Library. Check this selection of images from photograph John Penley, largely focused on social activism circa 1989-1994. Be warned, there are also a few NSFW shots in there.

Check’em out here.

SWANS Song

SWANS are coming back to New York next week, slated to bring their notoriously sensory-engulfing live experience to both the Bowery Ballroom in Manhattan and the Music Hall of Williamsburg in Brooklyn. Regrettably, due to both work and family related conflicts I shall not be able to attend either gig. While that’s a huge bummer for me -– SWANS are pretty much second only to Killing Joke, in my book, coupled with the fact that Michael Gira continues to assert that this is the final tour with the current incarnation of the band -– I have seen them multiple times before, most notably at the show during Hurricane Sandy in 2012. I snapped the photo up top of Gira & Co. in mid-pummel at same.

I’ve also been loving The Glowing Man, the band’s typically sprawling third installment in the loose triptych that also includes 2012’s The Seer and 2014’s To Be Kind. While this most recent work is widely touted as showcasing the band’s less bombastic side – don’t be fooled. It is still abundantly ripe with the band’s signature brand of explosive musical tumult, usually manifesting itself in epic-length preambles of deceptively climactic crescendos before settling into glacial grooves, seismic riffs and Gira’s soul-puncturing basso profundo. Beat Happening this ain’t.

That said, The Glowing Man is considerably more advanced than the band’s less salubrious incarnations from the 80’s that narrowly courted the attention of the Guinness Book of World Records for possibly being “the loudest band in the world.” Instead of simply the flagellating sonic cataclysm of that era, many of the selections on The Glowing Man don’t so much detonate as …arrive, evoking the disquietingly slow, meandering drift upriver toward the horrors of Colonel Kurt’s compound in “Apocalypse Now.” Again, there’s probably no “Song of the Summer” to be found here.

While I can’t go, I’m dead sure the shows next week are going to live up to their reputation. Bring your earplugs, as the sound produced from that stage will not only rattle your sternum like a vibraslap, but the collective concentration and energy generated during those performances always seems like a breath away from ripping a hole in the space/time continuum. You can leave your tap shoes at home.

Anyway, I’m not writing all this just to make myself feel bad about missing the shows, but rather because I spotted a great interview with Gira in the Observer today which found him not only ruminating on unlikely subjects like the merits of Lady Gaga, but also found him speaking for the first time in some months about the allegations from celebrated singer/songwriter Larkin Grimm, a former Young God Records signee and arguable protégé, who very publicly accused Gira of rape earlier this year. As the next chapter in that particularly ugly saga, this interview is worth a read.

Check it out here.