Earlier this decade, when I was working as an editor for the website of the TODAY Show, I was occasionally afforded the opportunity to write for an ultimately short-lived fashion blog there called The Look. Don’t bother looking for it now, as they seem to have dismantled all the blogs by this point. But being that I sat next to the style editor and had some, suffice it to say, pointed opinions about rock t-shirt etiquette, I was periodically assigned short pieces that spoke to my wafer-thin areas of style expertise. While I never felt entirely comfortable writing about such things, it was still an amusing exercise.
In any case, I spotted an item recently amidst the wilds of the 'net that, were The Look still a going concern (let alone were I still toiling thanklessly at TODAY), I would summarily pitch. But, it isn’t and I’m not, and that’s probably all for the best, anyway. Good luck to them in their endeavors.
Regardless, I still feel compelled to write about this, so here goes…
By the point, as much as it frequently makes me frown, the fashion industry has inexorably entwined itself with all things rock. I mean, the culture of rock music — in all its permutations — has always had a visual, tonsorial and sartorial element, but I’m talking about the fashion industry endeavoring to adopt same for its own purposes. Frequently, this comes out in embarrassing, ass-backwards ways, like, say, TopShop attempting to sell $700 leather jackets emblazoned with the logos of various punk bands. As cited in my long-standing complaint with John Varvatos, too often it seems that fashion folks are too caught up in the idiocy of their own skewed little realm and ultimately just don’t get it. But, y’know, whatever.
This isn’t to say, however, that folks in the style world get it exclusively wrong either. While I’m not 100% sold on the odd merger of music and clothing of this kind, I was struck by a new line of admittedly fetching plaid shirts by a company called JCRT. Calling themselves “The Lumberjacks of Fashion,” JCRT is basically a duo of two avowed hipsters who are somewhat dubiously credited as being a large part of “the Brooklyn Movement.” That wince-inducing boast notwithstanding, the gents recently unveiled a new line of plaid shirts (or, simply, “plaids”) that were inspired by their favorite albums.
Umm, wait ….what?
Yep, you read that right. Plaid shirts inspired by specific music.
As incongruous as that might sound, the end results are actually kinda nice. Being fans of seemingly very specific Anglophilic, post-punk, alternative and indie music of the 1980s, their designs come tastefully adorned in the color schemes that graced albums like Meat is Murder by the Smiths, Disintegration by The Cure, The Kick Inside by Kate Bush, The Age of Consent by Bronski Beat and a few others. And whether you’re a fan of the music in question or not, the shirts are genuinely quite nice.
Those looking for more musical inspiration from a wider palette might be disappointed, as — at this stage — their selections are pretty genre-specific (i.e. no Reign in Blood by Slayer plaid just yet). While, personally, I’m waiting for a Killing Joke shirt (maybe rife with the blues, purples, oranges and blacks of Nighttime, gentlemen?), I do like this one….
I mean, seriously, even if you think Joy Division are slavishly overwrought, you have to admit that this is a nice goddamn shirt. My only grievance with it, of course, is that the album in question — that being Substance from 1988 — is a goddamn compilation. As the Kids in the Hall once sagely asserted, “greatest hit albums are for housewives and little girls.”
That quibble — and the garment’s somewhat weighty price tag — aside, I’ll concede that this is kind of a fun idea. If you care, find out more here.
Last week, on a friend’s Facebook thread about the uproar over Trump’s appearance on Jimmy Fallon's show, I joined the conversation, basically supporting the condemnation of Fallon as simply a shill for Trump. Ultimately, though, that’s just kinda what Fallon does — by his own admission, his show is the quintessence of softball. Like Jay Leno before him, he’s never going to hold anyone’s feet to the fire or ask the tough questions. But, then, was that ever in his job description?
Sure, we’ve grown accustomed to certain comedic figures from television — Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, David Letterman, Bill Maher, Chelsea Handler, etc. — who are versed and eloquent at speaking truth to power, but should we have such high expectations from merely the host of an ostensibly “funny" late night talk show? Is it their job to voice the concerns of the populace?
I’d say “not necessarily,” but still don't let Fallon totally off the hook. I think my biggest problem in that instance is that — in the wake of all that’s transpired and all that’s been said and how things have escalated to this implausibly surreal place we are all at now — it just seems far too late for a goofy puff piece about Trump’s hair. Is he still a roundly silly person easily made fun of? Of course he is, but that stuff doesn’t really matter anymore after the tribulations of the last few months. It’s a grand comparison, but it’s a bit like making fun of Hitler’s mustache after Krystalnacht. His superficial personal attributes don’t matter anymore.
Then I put my foot in it by asserting that Fallon played the same role for … wait for it … Axl Rose. Some of you might remember an MTV Music Awards several years back when Axl Rose first revived his celebrated ensemble — albeit in name only (he was the only original member present) — for their first television appearance since “re-forming.” Even die-hard GN’R fans — a demographic I’ve never been an ardent member of — knew that this wasn’t really the momentous occasion Axl was intent of having them believe it was. Regardless, Jimmy Fallon came on to introduce them, breathlessly extolling the merits of the band, and entirely glossing over the fact that most of the integral players were absent. If you genuinely care, you can watch what I’m talking about right here.
So, yeah, I said that. It was a tenuously relevant footnote ... at best.
Someone then chimed in, incredulously asking if I’d seriously just compared Donald Trump to Axl Rose. I blithely replied that, yes — I think they’re comparable in that they’re both fatuous blowhards with disproportionately fragile egos.
This rejoinder came quickly:
"NO THEY ARE NOT COMPARABLE. Axl Rose can't select a supreme court justice and destroy reproductive rights and deport immigrants AND THIS IS WHY OUR COUNTRY IS GOING TO DIE BECAUSE MORONS LOVE FALSE EQUIVALENCY.”
I tried, unsuccessfully, to backpedal and explain my flimsy position, but the palpable hit was already made and the point taken. While I’d suggest it was a bit of a snap judgment concerning an ultimately jokey allusion, this person’s retort was entirely on-target, speaking to the point I was trying to make in the paragraphs above.
It’s too late to be concerning ourselves with the perceived silliness and inexorable pop-culture-infected elements of Donald Trump’s presence. At this stage of the proceedings, he remains a viable contender for the presidency. If that notion rightly sends a chill down your spine — and, if it doesn’t, you need to stop and think hard about the tenets you’re genuinely espousing by supporting him — it’s more imperative than ever that you get out and use your vote to make sure he never sees the inside of the Oval Office.
The Cut, a wing of New York Magazine usually devoted to indefensibly inane fashion bullshit, posted a cool photo slideshow last week, showcasing 17 photographs by Larry Fink from 1966 of the Warhol gang, including Gerald Malanga, Edie Sedgwick, Ingrid Superstar and, of course, The Velvet Underground. The ones above and below are from same.
Not only are the pics interesting because of the implausibly cool hepcats depicted therein, but they also showcase a surreal glimpse of the Lower East Side from that era. There are a few pics of Malanga and Warhol faffing about with some L.E.S. school kids, and the cityscape pictured behind them looks positively Dickensian in its bleakness.
A little while ago, I started penning a post about a specific Manhattan venture that I’d actually never been to myself, that being the Squat Theater on West 23rd Street in Chelsea, which only operated out of its storefront between 7th and 8th Avenues between 1977 and 1984 (if their Wikipedia pages is to be believed). I’d read some intriguing bits about the places here and there — it being a cool spot for boundary-pushing art and theater, as well as a live music venue. That’s a shot of its interior above, taken by one Juanita Rogol, featuring Debbie Harry, Iggy Pop James Chance, Chris Stein and Glen Matlock of the Sex Pistols. Obviously, it was quite a scene.
I ended up abandoning the post, as it felt a bit out of my jurisdiction, so to speak, having never been there. I’m sure there are some more authoritative takes on the place that can be found. I remain intrigued by the Squat — which was razed to accommodate the giant movie theatre that currently occupies its former footprint — but would not presume to know enough about it to write a credible post on it.
I prefaced that post, however, with postulation about where downtown -- in a both literal and figurative sense -- geographically began. Many people cite Union Square and/or the wide expanse of 14th Street (the longest east-west strip in Manhattan) as the border of all things downtown, but I made a case for it actually being 23rd, given the placement on that street of bohemian enclaves like The Chelsea Hotel, long-vanished porto-punk club Mother’s (long gone), Midnight Records (ditto) and the afore-cited Squat Theatre. While maybe not as celebrated as various neighborhoods to its south, 23rd Street has a cool, left-field history of its own.
This all came back to me this weekend, of course, given the explosion in Chelsea on Saturday night. I’m not even going to try to reprise events on that story, as a suspect is already in custody and events are progressing fast. Suffice to say, it was a major explosion, and it’s truly a miracle that no one was killed.
When the bomb went off, I was out and about with my family for the evening, albeit closer to our home in Greenwich Village. In fact, we were having dinner right in the very heart of the Village, partaking of some burgers at the incongruously situated JG Melon at the corner of of McDougal and Bleecker (which I initially railed about here). If you were in the city this weekend, you know how lovely an evening it was. The streets were filled with people just taking in the lovely autumn air.
The notion — especially so soon after the anniversary of September 11th — that someone had been planting explosive devices around town really threw us for a loop, prompting a probably long-overdue discussion about same with our kids. One of my children’s first (and proper) reactions was to worry about the well-being of a friend of theirs that lives around the site of the blast. It was — and remains — all very surreal.
While, no, we hadn’t been in that neck of the woods, the neighborhood we had been in bears all the same trappings as the one that was hit — densely populated with folks out on a weekend evening — some with their kids — just trying to have a nice time.
I’m sure this all sounds slavishly melodramatic. Apologies.
Anyway, while neither Greenwich Village or that strip of Chelsea are a tenth as cool as they once were, I found this curious little clip on YouTube of Nico (who I recently wrote of here) crooning that old NYC-centric Sinatra chestnut at the Squat Theatre in 1980. It’s odd, but fun. Crank it up.
I was recently rewarded with a new iMac at my office. Once installed, I wanted to get rid of that desktop display photo of El Capitain (or whatever majestic mountain it is) in favor of a selection of various NYC shots that speak to my sensibility. I tried a few different ones out, but finally settled on a Matt Weber photo (you may remember me mentioning his fabled street photos most recently on this post, also of the Bowery) of a shot of the Bowery at Bond Street circa 1985. I initially chose the shot because I miss the lot that used to abut the Amato Opera house (complete with that great mural). Here’s that photo now.
Upon assigning Matt’s photo as my desktop pic, however, it blew it up with new detail and I was able to notice a few more items, my favorite being a bit of graffiti on the street-light pole on the traffic island on the far right. Here’s a close-up.
“Loud Fast Rules” is both a single and album title (well, cassette title, technically) by proto-NYHC punk band, The Stimulators, who famously featured a disarmingly youthful Harley Flanagan (later of the Cro-Mags) behind the drum kit. Harley later looked more like this.
Here’s that single now, featuring then-still-little Harley on the sleeve.
Today, the lot next to the Amato Opera house is occupied by a genuinely ugly NYU dorm. The Amato Opera House is technically still standing, but I’m not sure it’s still in operation. The building between the Opera House and what had been CBGB has been remodeled. The Palace Hotel is now home to the Bowery Residents Committee. CBGB is now a pricey outlet for John Varvatos (who, you may remember, I took my most recent potshot at on this post). The lot at the far end of the street at 1st is now occupied by a condo with a Chase Bank on its ground floor.
Harley Flanagan, meanwhile, is alive and well and about to release his memoir…
Here, meanwhile, is another shot from that same era, taken by one Ferdinando Sciannaa, of the lot next to the Amato Opera House...
Spotted the photo at the bottom of this entry posted by the great Mykola Mick Dementiuk on the Facebook group Greenwich Village Grapevine today, and it was like being stabbed in the heart with a fork.
I've already spoken about my love for the Tower Records formerly on 4th & Broadway many times (see links at the end of this post), so while I don't need to rehash any of that, it's worth repeating that even though it was technically a 'big chain,' Tower was an amazing place that I continue to sorely miss.
Word came down recently from EV Grieve that the former Tower space (which, until fairly recently, played host to the lamentable MLB Mancave), is next to become a studio for AOL, which begs the following crucial questions...
Who the Hell needs that?
AOL is still a thing?
In any case, judging from the albums being zealously advertised in this photograph (notably Synchronicity by the Police and Principle of Moments by Robert Plant), I'd suggest this image was captured in 1983.
Last Sunday, September 11th, was the seven-year anniversary of the death of Jim Carroll. I’d like to have posted this entry then, but life gets in the way of these things sometimes.
In any event, while I’ve extolled the merits of Jim Carroll as musician, poet, author and luminary of cool several times here before, there’s actually a genuinely new development that warrants bringing it all back up beyond the anniversary of the great man’s passing.
The layperson might simply recognize Jim Carroll as the author of the seminal urban-teen memoir, “The Basketball Diaries,” which was later turned into a frankly abortive movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio. The less said about that the better. Passive music fans of a certain age might also know Carroll as the voice behind “People Who Died” by the Jim Carroll Band, an arguably tasteless slab of high-octane rock from the Punk era. I say “arguably tasteless” as, over the years, people have taken me to task for championing the song, asserting that it was unduly frivolous, morbid or exploitative when — in truth — none of those adjectives are even close to accurate. I wrote at some length about the song shortly after the man’s own death in 2009. Should you not feel like clicking, here’s what I had to say about it.
I remember first hearing “People Who Died” on some late night radio station when I was in 8th grade in 1980, but didn’t catch the name of the band responsible. The next day at school, I approached my classmate Zachary T. -- the grade’s resident coolster – and asked if he’d ever heard of the song. Without hesitation, Zach slipped into a back-arching a cappella rendition of “People Who Died,” before feverishly extolling the merits of the artists behind it, namely the Jim Carroll Band. Dutifully informed, I went out in search of the LP, entitled Catholic Boy, the very next day.
Sounding incongruously jubilant for what is essentially a lament, “People Who Died” rarely leaves its listener indifferent. Punctuated by Jim Carroll’s dizzyingly detailed lyrics and breathless, rapid-fire delivery, the song is a colorful laundry list of casualties who meet their respective ends in manners both tragic and absurd. Though popularly perceived as pitch black humor (sort of the punk rock equivalent to Edward Gorey’s “Gashlycrumb Tinies”), I’ve never doubted the sincerity of Carroll’s narrative, earnestly exhorting the passing of his fallen comrades as some sort of high-volume catharsis. Some of the characters cited in the song appear in Carroll’s more celebrated memoirs “The Basketball Diaries” (later made into a frankly forgettable film starring Leo DeCaprio and Marky Mark Wahlberg) and “Forced Entries.” Swapping the solemn cadence of a funeral dirge in favor of a hiccupy, adrenalized rhythm buffered by frantically strummed electric guitars, “People Who Died” may sound flippantly tasteless -– like much of the more sensationalized punk rock of its era -- but it also singularly captures Carroll’s mournful rage at the hopelessness and destruction that surrounds him. It may sound funny, but it remains an exorcism.
Not everybody hears it that way, of course. I vividly remember playing the track one night on my college radio station (WDUB 91.1 FM in Granville, Ohio) and a girl in my sociology/anthropology class found it so offensive that she actually stopped talking to me the very next day. Meanwhile, I think the biggest shame about “People Who Died”— as great a track as it is -- is that it’s leant Carroll a rather unfair one-hit-wonder status. Beyond that celebrated “novelty hit,” Catholic Boy is a classic album, rife with lesser-celebrated but equally visceral songs like “Three Sisters,” “It’s Too Late,” “Wicked Gravity” and the title track. Later Jim Carroll Band albums weren’t quite as punchy (although I liked their cover of the Velvet Underground’s “Sweet Jane” on 1983’s I Write Your Name), but my point is that there’s always been so much more to Jim Carroll than “People Who Died.” One would also do well to track down Carroll’s excellent spoken-word album from 1991, Praying Mantis.
Yeah, so anyway, glad we cleared that up.
Anyway, the new reason for bringing up “People Who Died” is my friend Jason Dennie. He's the gent on the left below.
Regular readers might recognize his name from this post, although he was also responsible for inspiring this post. A transplant from Seattle, Jason and I got to know each other during my relatively brief tenure working at MSN, where we bonded over our mutual love of needlessly stentorian rawk (although, to be fair, I believe Jason’s tastes span a greater breadth of musical styles than those of yours truly). To that same end, he’s also a tireless musician, routinely juggling new projects that find him kicking up a racket in any number of divey haunts around town. For a gent originally hailing from the Grunge capital of the Pacific Northwest, Jason’s managed to steep himself with efficiency into the New York City music scene. His most recent endeavor — an ensemble dubbed The Crier Brothers — recently harnessed the temerity to cover what some of us might considered the untouchably hallowed (as laboriously expressed in the paragraphs above) — “People Who Died” by the Jim Carroll Band. Were that not enough, Jason and his co-hort in Crying, James G. Barry (he's the gent on the right in the shot above), actually managed to convince surviving members of the Jim Carroll Band to even play on it. What balls, eh?
Once I re-affixed my eye-brows to my face, I decided to grab Jason and James by their respective lapels to ask them where the Hell they get off doing such a thing. Here’s what they had to say.
First up, tell me a little about the Crier Brothers? Who exactly are you guys, and what are you trying to do?
[James G. Barry] I met Jason at a beach house of a mutual friend. It was sort of a set-up meaning my friend though we gave off similar vibes. Anyway after a day of eating and drinking and listening to music we found an old guitar in a closet, tuned whatever strings were left on it. And the rest is history.
[Jason S. Dennie] As soon as I met Jim, I introduced him into a residency I had started in NY of like-minded musicians that would get together at Otto’s Shrunken Head the last Friday of each month. It kinda was a testing ground for me for folks that I could write and play music with. I had successfully done the same thing in Seattle, and sure enough, from day one, Jim and I were writing songs from the first time we jammed. The creation of Crier Brothers actually happened on stage in Philadelphia where we improved a set that was so locked in, we actually took a few of the songs, put a band together, and learned a few of our improv songs. The nail in the coffin was recording in Seattle with Jack Endino where we improved a few mores songs, learned them, and went on to recorded and self-release the EP, Original Music & Guide to Existence with a companion book, since linear notes don’t work so well with self-published CDs. Not sure if that explains exactly what we are, but I’ll tell you, that base is exactly what we are constantly trying to do, catch lightning in a bottle, multiple times, in multiple locations.
What made you decide to cover "People Who Died" (y'know, obviously beyond it being a seminal single)?
[JB] My dad grew up in Washington heights and played basketball all over Manhattan and the Bronx (his one claim to fame is that he actually played against Lewis Alcindor, ...later known as KareeM Abdul-Jabbar). His brother was the opposite and sort of hung out with bands and got really interested in punk. He told me about Jim Carroll when I was younger. I really can t remember when exactly. They always seemed to be sort of like the main character from "Basketball Diaries: split into two people. Fast forward yes we both just loved the song. I personally have dealt with a lot of deaths of close friends and Jay and I talked about doing the song and pulling on loss.
[JD] Jim was dealing with a lot of death around him and in turn, me. I have a weird rule that if we do a cover, it needs to be our own. And the best compliment of doing a cover is if someone knows its a cover but not sure who the song is by. I always like when people take something amazing and make it their own. ‘People who Died’ always seemed untouchable to me. I met Jim Carroll in the 90’s in Bellingham WA while he was on a book tour and he really made an influence on me. His ghost-like demeanor and sensitivity were striking. When Jim proposed we cover this song, I knew what it meant to him but I also didn’t want to touch it. We recorded the song in pieces and when it was being put together it really was distinct and sounded like Crier Brothers. It wasn’t until Brian Linsley and Terrell Winn came on board and played guitar solo’s that made it sound more like the original and my rule was throughout the window because it was ACTUALLY members of the Jim Carroll Band that was playing on the song! Be damned, my silly rules.
It's actually kind of a crazy audacious choice. I can't think of anyone covering it in the past. I know Pearl Jam tried "Catholic Boy." Was it tough to master?
[JB] We play it fast. Yes. Especially live. Our drummer will audibly groan if it comes after the single b-side "Sinuous Nature" (also fast)
[JD] It’s funny because when Jim proposed it and I was hesitant to cover it, I went searching to see if anyone had touched this song. The only cover I found was Patti Smith covering a live version on stage with her band. It was that moment that I knew it was going to come together perfectly. This was before Brian and Terrell were on board, but there was connection already to Crier Brothers. Pete Bischoff, our guitar player, has worked on Patti Smith albums and knows her band very well. It just seem to all fall into place from there on out.
How did you end up collaborating with those surviving members of the band? Were they cool with it?
[JB] We were struggling with getting a compulsory license for publishing and I noticed that ALL of the band members actually split the rights to the track. I contacted Brian Lindsey (guitarist) in a Hail-Mary kind of way and he immedietly got back to me and has been really amazing.
[JD] I pointed Jim in the right direction to get the publishing rights but he hit a brick wall. So what did he do? Reach out to the surviving members who after hearing our rough cut, wanted in on the release. Very cool.
What's the reaction been thus far?
[JB] People really like it. We have never (as a literal mantra of our improv group Empire Vista Social Club) recorded a cover. So this was ambitious, but it rocks.
[JD] It’s fitting right in with the faster numbers, like "Sinuous Nature" and "Wholehearted." Fans really seem to get on their feet for these in live shows. So far, everyone that heard the single is digging it.
Has there been any official reaction from the Carroll estate?
[JB] Brian has been working with the estate on trying to do some future projects relating to Jims other works. I don't think he has actually gotten this in front of them yet though. We are getting the 7" pressed now so we are hoping to circulate it that way.
[JD] Yeah, since it's a self-release, we don’t think it’s gotten the ears. We will be doing a radio push this fall so hopefully we will get some reactions.
As a hard-working, gigging rock band in the New York City of 2016, it's obviously a world of difference from gritty NYC of Carroll's era. Are you finding it a challenge to play live? Is there still a thirst for that which rocks?
[JB] Frankly, yes. Jay and I both work full time and end up financing things one way or another. People love to see live music but the city is bigger now. The scenes are spread out from Coney Island to Bushwick all the way to Inwood. People tend to stay local if they can. So we try to move around when we can.
[JD] I once heard, if you want to make it as a musician in New York, move here after you’re famous and I agree. You can walk into just about any club in New York on any given night and you have such amazing talent all around that are screaming into an abyss. But there’s nothing better than playing to a New York crowd that’s into what you’re doing.
For jack-offs like myself who are still preoccupied with the physical manifestation of music, where can we get our mitts on a copy of your cover of "People Who Died?
[JB] We released it digitally through CD baby out of Seattle. The 7" will be out by Halloween
[JD] Yep, it came out this summer in all the digital spots, Amazon, Spotify, YouTube, you name it. But this is the first time we are releasing a 7" and we are learning as we go. Our first turn around quote was 14 weeks, in which we thought we had in the bag for our June release. But turns out, it was pushed back and now looking like October for the physical copy. We have done something unique with this release. The 1st 50 copies will be an original artwork by Chris Georgalas, an amazing NY artist. After that, a printed copy in stores who accept DIY band’s vinyls and online on our website.
Any plans to play live with the Jim Carroll Band?
[JB] The Jim Carroll Band obviously has disbanded but we would love to play with Brian sometime. He is based in Utah now.
[JD] Yep, we are always working on opportunities to play on the west coast or east with Brian. The fact that he is doing a play based on Jim Carroll means we might be able to pull it off in NY. And the fact the Band formed in LA, we are brainstorming ideas out there.
What's next for the Crier Brothers?
[JB] We have another 7" that's being mixed right now. Cbs songs are also featured in a short film called "Home Slice" that is premiering at the Coney Island film festival this weekend.
[JD] This concept of 7 inches and artist contributing original artwork to them has got some legs. Chris Georgalas did the first one and with that, Art Chantry has contributed to the second single coming out. Art and I have know each other since the 90s and I’ve always wanted to work on something with him on a personal project. I pitched him the idea and he came up with an amazing design. We are going to silk screen only 50 copies and make them available on his site and on ours. I’m sure it will be a collectors item as his posters have been in the Smithsonian and many other museums around the world. That should be out by the end of the year. If both projects work, we will probably continue to release in that fashion. And as Jim said, our songs are featured in a short film being premiered at the Coney Island Film Festival this weekend, which ain’t bad either.
In a personal observance of September 11th, my friend, former colleague and writer/filmmaker, Alex Mar, posted the compelling vintage photo above on Facebook last weekend, prefacing it with the preamble below….
Here's a random, ecstatic photo I found of a New Year's Eve party at Bethesda Fountain in Central Park, just a couple months after I was born. No matter how little of the city of my childhood remains, I will always love you, New York.
Now, I wouldn’t want to be so bold as to guess how old lovely Alex is, but if I had to — I’d say she’s a good few years my junior, which would conceivably date this photograph as being at some point in the mid-1970s, a projection further supported by some of the clothing on display.
Bethesda Fountain is still there, of course, but I think what Alex is referring to in this photograph is the sort of ramshackle aesthetic at work. I'm uncertain of the backstory, of course, but it looks like the gathered throng just kinda showed up, set up shop on the storied fountain and held a big fuckoff party (complete with band). Can you imagine that happening there today? I think they'd call a sniper if anyone dared to climb up to Bethesda's pedestal like that.
I am reminded of both that photograph from Shorpy I spoke of here a few years back of a graffiti-riddled incarnation of the fountain, as well as that proto-music video of Funkadelic playing "Cosmic Slop" in the shadow of the fountain (see below). This patch of the park, as memorably depicted in period-specific films like "Hair" and "Godspell," was a place to let your freak-flag fly. Again, I think that's what Alex is getting at when she refers to the "city of her childhood." Indeed, that place is gone.
In any case, I came across a similar old photograph this past weekend, also taken in Central Park shortly after I was born (probably closer to a year, though, I'm guessing), and it struck sort of a similar chord. Here's that photograph now...
Snapped just up the road a piece from Bethesda Fountain on the slope that extends from the Reservoir, this photograph was probably taken in about 1968, given my diminutive size. Yep, that tiny tot is me, probably just shy of a year old, or so. Now, this classic, lovingly composed picture would presumably be a richly significant artifact for my family if not for one, fairly crucial detail -- that's not my mother.
Obviously, I don't remember the particulars, but my mother and other concerned parties in the family sort of limply project that this fetching young lady was a babysitter of mine, but no one really seems to know for sure. The specifics of her identity, the circumstances of the day, the photographer who snapped it and how we came to possess it have all been lost in the mists of time. Funny, that.
Those mysteries notwithstanding, I love this photo for its composition, and for the topographical details. I love that it shows the old chainlink fence around the Rez, the classic Central Park lamppost and the faint spires of the Eldorado towers looming from Central Park West in the background. This particular spot was sort of a regular destination for us. My mother is very fond of telling an anecdote that would date back to at least four or five years after this photograph was taken involving me careening down the Reservoir slope on one of those metal plates kids used to sled on and slamming into a lady jogger who turned out to be Jackie Onasis. Apparently, I neglected to apologize and took back off up the hill again, much to my mortification of my mom. No clue if that's actually true, alas.
Like Alex Mar's pic up top, however, it's also worth remembering that in 1968, Central Park was still a hotbed of Vietnam war protests, muggings, rampant pot-smoking and groovy happenings and "be-ins." None of that is represented in the idyllic borders of this old photograph. I suppose New Yorkers like my parents just weathered the good with the bad and enjoyed Central Park for what it was ... warts and all.
Again, the comparatively lawless iterations of the Central Park of the 1960s and 1970s are long gone. Today, Bethesda Fountain is regularly choked with mobs of tourists and the Central Park Reservoir plays host to a sniffy nation of self-important joggers. The chainlink fence was taken out and a boring, shorter wrought-iron replacement was installed. The slopes that extended off the easterly side of the Rez are now largely overgrown. I don't believe that particular patch could even be accessed at this point.
Regardless of these and myriad other changes, -- like Ms. Mar -- I, too, will always love you, New York.
As I’ve suggested as much over the eleven years I’ve been composing this blog (let alone the fifteen years since the day in question), I’ve largely run out of insightful things to say about the events of September 11, 2001. I’ve written about the death of my high school friend, Mike Armstrong, who was working at Cantor Fitzgerald the morning that first plane hit the first tower. I’ve written about how New York City has (and hasn’t) changed in various capacities. I’ve written about my reactions to how the day has been used as a political football to further the agendas of any number of dubious endeavors. By and large, I don’t think what I have to say about it is especially distinctive or unique, at this stage of the proceedings.
While my memories of the event and the days and weeks thereafter still seem entirely fresh, it’s prudent to remember that it’s been a decade and a half. I've raised two kids and changed jobs ... jesus ...four times since 9/11 (and even fifteen years later, I still hate referring to it as "9/11." Something about that really bugs me, although I'm at a loss as to articulate why).
Strangely enough, I now work pretty much directly on the site. My current office is inside part of the since re-built complex. In fact, the building I work in stands in the footprint of the epicenter of a thousand conspiracy theories -- i.e. the building the collapsed despite not having been hit by a plane.
The odd thing for me now is that I find it very hard to reconcile the neighborhood in question as I remember it, and what it's like now. Truthfully, I rarely went down to the WTC, and I only ever went to the top of the towers once -- with my friend Steve, who discovered his long-dormant, acute acrophobia the second we reached the top, forcing us to immediately come back down.
I've always been more or less versed in the topography of TriBeCa, but I rarely went south of it -- there wasn't much reason to, for me. There weren't any cool record stores, comic shops or live music venues that far down. What was the point? As such, I can't remember what the very bottom of West Broadway (where I walk every day) really looked like prior to that morning in 2001.
I do remember walking around it relatively soon after the fact. But even those images seem incompatible with the scene there now.
I haven't been inside the 9/11 museum, and I don't foresee a time I will anytime soon. I've fleetingly walked by the memorial fountains (built into the actual footprints of the towers), but have not taken the time to find my friend Mike's name carved into the marble. Maybe it's a cliché, but I'm entirely put off by the hordes of obliviously smiling tourists in their American flag t-shirts and selfie-sticks.
Again, even after this many years, it doesn't feel real.
Between summer ending, the kids going back to school and lots of activity at my office, it’s been a very busy week. As such, I’m running a bit light on fresh content here on the ol’ blog. Here’s hoping a return to the time-tested routines of the fall will even things out, but it’s a bit turbulent at the moment. Nothing bad, mind you, just busy.
But speaking of evening things out, here’s a little clip called “Evening of Light,” an arty film from 1969 based around a typically funereal dirge by Teutonic chanteuse, Nico, then still relatively fresh from the ranks of the Velvet Underground. And, yes, those with a keen eye for detail will doubtlessly recognize one of her co-horts here -- in mime’s whiteface -- as the inimitable Iggy Pop.
I first saw this as part of the somewhat chilling documentary, “Nico: Icon,” but was very pleased to find the surreal proto-video in its entirety on YouTube recently.
While certainly not the cheeriest of tunes, “Evening of Light” is pretty compelling, evoking the same strange qualities — to my mind — apparent in lots of the adventurous cinema of its era. Some might find it a bit heavy-handed and even overwrought, while others might be genuinely disturbed by it.
Either way, while it’s certainly not for everyone, I think it comes couched in a suitably Autumnal vibe, so please — if possible — enjoy….
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