Flaming Pablum

Back to Clubland

Personally speaking, I was always more of a live music venue guy than strictly a club guy, but as fate had it, a lot of New York City’s most storied establishments in those respective capacities doubled as both. While I was never what one could ever credibly describe as a “Club Kid” (nor would I have ever have wanted to be), I did manage to get inside a few of them.

My early pseudo-employment with a couple of music publications got me out and about within Manhattan’s nightlife realm quite a bit, but I think the biggest conduit towards infiltrating many of New York’s hot spots — in the very early `90s, at least — was my friend Christine. Initially an intern at the New York Review of Records (most recently discussed on this post), Chris was a tireless young Columbia student who also pursued a sideline in club promotion. As such, several nights a week she’d frequent five or six clubs a night, doling out invites to the likely inclined. Given her outgoing nature and the fact that she was a strikingly fit, attractive blonde, she was remarkably adept at this task. Oh, her supervisor in this role — for serious want of a better term — was none other than the notorious Michael Alig. On one of the evening I tagged along on her on her missions, I got to actually meet the guy. He was wearing ass-less pants with teardrops painted on his buttocks. Oh, the `90s!

Again, my main attraction to clubs was when there was a band playing. As such, my particular favorites were the Ritz (both incarnations, 1tth Street and 54th), Danceteria (above during a Sisters of Mercy gig in `85), CBGB, the Marquee (the one on the western end of 21st Street, not the later incarnation), Tramp’s, Wetlands Preserve, the Cat Club (later re-imagined as The Grand), the Palladium and, of course, the Limelight. But through Christine and my editor at the New York Review of Records (who moonlit as a club D.J.), I managed to also patronize places like MK’s, The China Club, The Tunnel, Building and some seemingly forgotten ventures like Big City Diner, the Lovesexxy Lounge and about a dozen other places I’ll never remember the names of.

These days, most of the places cited above are all gone. Not only is the fabled era of the “big club” long over, but the city itself doesn’t seem conducive to such ventures anymore. Sure, Webster Hall (what had been the original Ritz before it moved into Studio 54’s old spot) is still there, but that’s about it.

The only reason I’m bringing any of this up is because of a listicle I spied on Blackbook dubbed “The 101 Greatest Clubs of All Time.” The piece is a first-person rumination by a gent named Steve Lewis. Out of curiosity, I flew the list by my old club-savvy comrade from high school Willie (not his real name, but initially invoked here). He dismissed large swathes of it, but he knows the author. It’s also all relative. What may have seemed like an iconic place to one denizen might have seemed like a hive of lame to another. To each their own.

In any case, I did a bit of tallying and I at least managed to get to 24 out of Steve’s 101 favorites. How about you? (It’s not a competition, mind you).

For a less exclusive take, there’s also this list from AMNY.

FEAR & Loathing at 30 Rock: Redux

I posted a fairly detailed post about the incident back in 2012, but the video link no longer works, so I might as well re-address, with the added bonus of the interview clip at the bottom from last year, wherein FEAR mainstay Lee Ving discusses the incident.

Travel back to Halloween night in 1981 when FEAR played “Saturday Night Live” for the first … and pointedly last time.

Lee Ving discussing same….

Back to McHale's

I stumbled upon the work of this photographer, Bill Barvin, by way of one of those “NYC in the ‘90s Was a City ON THE EDGE” articles that cull together a bunch of familiar shots from whichever decade to drive home a point. But when I followed one specific image therefrom (a pre-gentrification shot of Jersey Street in SoHo between Mulberry and Lafayette) back to a digital collection on the New York Public Library site, I was thrilled.

Basically, it looks like Mr. Barvin -- who evidently passed away in 2000 –- pursued a project not unlike the ambitious Dan Weeks, who I spoke about not too long back. In an age before digital photography and easily accessible panning functionality for still photography, our Mr. Barvin strove to document myriad New York and New Jersey locales via wide angle lenses and a resourceful use of adhesive tape. His resulting images provide comparatively sprawling, bay-window vistas that required a bit more spit, polish and elbow grease than the shots we casually take today with our smart phones.

Beyond his novel approach, Barvin also just happened to presciently target the interiors of a few choice establishments that, two decades later, simply do not exist anymore. As such, you can peruse though his collection and find wide, detailed shots of the interiors of the old Limelight (before it transformed into a shopping mall/gym), the Palladium before it was demolished and/or the original, storied Harlem drinking institution, The Lenox Lounge.

The one that caught my eye, however, was the series of shots below that showcase the insides of McHale’s Bar at 46th and 8th, an establishment that shuttered for good in 2006.

I wrote about McHale’s here upon learning of its then-impending demise in January of 2006. Here’s a bit of overwritten crap I typed about it:

You can't invent bars like McHale's. Its character comes from its rich, somewhat seedy history. It looked like the type of bar you were likely to encounter a professional hit-man in, sitting quietly in a booth, drowning his sorrows in yet another beer as he stared betwen the wooden blinds at the mean city streets just behind the glass. Despite its placement in the theatre district, it didn't immediately ooze the tourist-friendly aura of, say, McSorley's. It may lack the sneery mystique of CBGB's (its days also numbered) or the cinematic panache of Chumley's (though McHale's did make a fleeting cameo in one of those dreadful Ed Burns romantic comedies from the mid-90s), but McHale's boasted a warm vibe of old New York authenticity which is quickly going the way of all flesh. When McHale's goes, a part of that neighborhood will be irretrievably gone. And that's a damn shame.

Indeed, it remains a damn shame that McHale’s is gone, but thanks to Bill Barvin, here’s a little glimpse of what it used to look like inside. Squint, and you can probably see Don Draper and Roger Sterling knocking back Old Fashioneds in a rear booth.

Click on both to enlarge, but for the full effect, go check out Bill Barvin's full page on the NYPL. Some great stuff awaits. 

 

Hell Bent for TriBeCa

Having recently finished reading Cro-Mag founder Harley Flanagan’s autobiography, “Hard Core: A Life of My Own,” and Black Flag/Circle Jerks frontman Keith Morris’s, “My Damage,” before that, I’ve been looking for the next book to read. I’m currently skimming through Stephen Blush’s “New York Rock,” being that it devotes an admirable amount of text to Cop Shoot Cop (the subject of my own glacially percolating book project), but I’ve been searching far and wide for Tim Lawrence’s “Life and Death on the New York Dance Floor” (which I mentioned back on this post), but cannot seem to put my hand to it. Neither the Strand on Broadway and 12th nor the Barnes & Shitty Noble on Union Square had it … or have ever had it since its September release, … which is quite odd for a book that was written up in the New York Times. Yeah, I know I can order it on shitty Amazon, but I hate doing that. I will find it, though.

The thing that keeps me coming back to it, meanwhile, is the fact that pretty much every day, I walk down Cortlandt Alley off Canal Street on my way to work, and I cannot help but think of the Mudd Club -- formerly at 77 White Street -- each and every time I do. Now, I should once again point out that I never actually made it to the Mudd Club. While it was in its heady heyday, I was still a sniveling grade schooler on the Upper East Side, relegated to only reading about such things via unlikely outlets like my parents’ subscription to New York Magazine. By the time I was an active participant in New York City nightlife, the Mudd Club had long since shuttered. I did manage to make it to Danceteria and a few other choice spots of varying significance, but by then the Mudd Club was already the stuff of legend.

Again, given my fascination for the place, you’d understand why I want to check out Tim Lawrence’s book. I’d love to add a bit more credible history to my knowledge of the Mudd Club than just my own fanciful projections about scowly No Wave luminaries and surly punks hanging out at the place. By many accounts, however, it boasted a less niche aesthetic than just fans of that sorta stuff –- even so much as to give Studio 54 a run for its money in attracting “the beautiful people.”

So, while it may not have just solely for acts like the Cramps, Shrapnel and Teenage Jesus & the Jerks, I did recently come across a name I would never in a million years have guessed played within the walls of that White Street walk-up. But, as the saying goes, I had another thing comin'.

When I first spotted it via this YouTube link, I figured it must be a mistake. In all honesty, how could Judas Priest -– the leather-clad standard-bearers of what would become the N.W.O.B.H.M. (New Wave of British Heavy Metal, for the uninitiated) –- have brought their particularly zealous brand of full-throttled HEAVY METAL to a stage normally reserved for the art-damaged navel-gazing of Basquiat’s Gray or the disjointedly atonal skronk of Arto Lindsay’s DNA? I figured someone must be pullin’ my leg, but then I spotted the frankly amazing photograph below and worlds collided and minds were blown.

Here is Rob “Screaming for Vengeance” Halford the Metal God posing with Joe “Is She Really Going Out with Him?” Jackson, Angry Young Man of the New Wave, post-show backstage at the Mudd Club.

So, yeah –- not only did that actually happen, but there’s a recording of it (see below). I also absolutely love the idea that Joe Jackson went to go check them out. Had they ever played there again, might we have even seen a NO WAVE of British Heavy Metal? I guess we'll never know.

They Didn’t Call It “Transgressive” for Nothin’

Whoops, two cinema posts in a row, albeit cinema of a further-flung variety. If you want to read about great Will Smith movies or a list of the ten greatest romcoms, you won’t find that bullshit here.

Whilst doing further research for the impending Cop Shoot Cop book project, I decided to revisit the genuinely remarkable extracurricular activities of “low-end” bassist, Jack Natz. As I’ve mentioned before, along with beating his bass up for proto-NYHC bands like The Undead and Virus and, later, The Black Snakes and Cop Shoot Cop, Natz branched out into underground filmmaking, lending his talents to the then-burgeoning school of aesthetics quite rightly dubbed the ‘Cinema of Transgression.’ His most notable role –- if you can call it a role, really –- is in his bandmate Richard Kern’s “Submit to Me Now.” I spoke about Kern about a year ago circa the anniversary of his collection, “New York City Girls,” but Kern was a fellow member of the Black Snakes, and later worked with Cop Shoot Cop on many a project, notably their video for “Room 429.” Kern, of course, also did videos for Sonic Youth (“Death Valley `69"), King Missile (“Detachable Penis”) and even Marilyn Manson (“Lunchbox”). Conversely, Cop Shoot Cop provided the music for some of Kern’s things, like the not-at-all grandmother-friendly “X is Y”

With regards to “Submit to Me Now,” as its title rather indelicately suggests, it’s really not something for every audience. Comparable to the work of other members of the Cinema of Transgression, Kern’s films are willfully difficult for the viewer (although, some viewers may beg to differ). During Natz’s sequence, he basically wraps a metal chord around his naked torso (tastefully tattooed with the legend “We Are All Crucified”) until he bleeds profusely. It’s not delightful, but if you’re curious, you can see it in its entirety here (although you can just check out Natz’s star-making turn right here).

Natz also joined an ensemble cast for a similarly inclined film from 1985 by Tommy Tuner and Dave Wojnorowicz called “Where Evil Dwells.” It’s a gritty, black & white piece that’s frequently hard to discern, but you can clearly see Natz appear in one scene wherein a gaggle of bedraggled youths hang an effigy off a freeway overpass for the purposes of causing a car accident or two. There’s also a lot of depravity and senseless violence and overall weirdness through the rest of the film. Oddly, its impenetrably low-budget aesthetic only makes proceedings that much more disturbing. Just in time for Halloween … watch it here.

A year later, Natz co-directed and co-starred with one Cassandra Stark in “Wrecked on Cannibal Island.” Despite the swashbuckling title, the film is actually a tormented slice of domestic disharmony on the Lower East Side of the mid-80’s, featuring Natz as one troubled and abusive half of a star-crossed couple going through, shall we say, a considerably rough patch. Again, it’s not a date movie, but – if you’re up for it – you can watch it here.

While it doesn’t feature Jack Natz, another Cinema of Transgression film caught my eye recently, that being Tessa Hughes-Freeland’s “Baby Doll” from 1982. This particular film intrigued me in that in was filmed entirely at a long-shuttered strip bar in TriBeCa called the – wait for it – Baby Doll Lounge on the northeast corner of White and Church Streets.

I actually stopped into the Baby Doll, at one point, for a depressing beer with a friend in the early 90’s after a Jonathan Richman show at the Knitting Factory. While it wasn't quite as comfortable as the comparatively “Cheers”-ish Billy’s Topless on West 24th and Sixth Avenue (also long gone), the Baby Doll Lounge still didn’t feel as abjectly evil as the more squalid "adult entertainment" centers around “the Deuce” and Times Square. Most of those, of course, are gone now, too. Just a few steps down the street from the Baby Doll Lounge, it should be noted, was the much scarier establishment, Harmony Burlesque. No beers there … only dimly lit lap dances in a subterranean room filled with easy chairs that, if they could talk, would have doubtlessly told anecdotes worth a lifetime of nightmares.

Anyway, Hughes-Freeland’s film paints a fittingly grim portrait of life at the Baby Doll. While quite far removed from anything resembling a “feel good” vehicle, the film is intriguing when you think that the space it was shot in is today a posh-o Italian restaurant called Petrarca. Watch "Baby Doll" here. 

Harmony Burlesque is also long gone, although – as Jeremiah noted a while back – its sign still hangs above its former door.

Exhuming 'Zorn's Lemma'

Back in college, I had an amazing cinema professor. Technically, I was an English major, but being that it was a liberal arts school, I was able to take a host of different classes – everything from in-depth courses in intaglio print-making through one laborious semester of rudimentary economics (which I barely made it out of alive). During the course of my junior and senior years, I took full advantage of the opportunity to take a couple of cinema classes. While I didn’t really harbor any great desire to pursue filmmaking as a career, being an aspiring member of the creative class and a longtime movie-obsessive, it spoke directly to my interests. Several of my cinema-major friends took the same classes, which gave the evening sessions a more social flavor. Apart from a few pivotal literature courses, I honestly can’t think of a single class I enjoyed more during my four years at the school.

The professor and head of the school’s theatre/cinema department was a great, formidable character named Dr. Elliott Stout. You can hear his inimitable voice as captured by my friend and classmate Clark Bavin in this homage to the great man from our senior year in 1989. I actually lived across the street from the cinema annex (the building in the opening shot). The house I lived in with five other similarly inclined idiots during my senior year appears in the background throughout. I want to say I vaguely remember Clark filming it and shouting abuse at him during pivotal set-ups. In any case, Dr. Stout would go onto to teach for another thirteen years after we graduated. He retired in 2003 and passed away in 2010.  

In any case, one of the classes I took with Professor Stout focused on kind of a mixed bag of cinema. We spent half the semester doing in-depth examinations of Hitchcock’s celebrated work (which I totally loved), and the other half exploring the frontiers of the avant garde. As such, we were routinely treated to viewings and giddily detailed ruminations on groundbreaking pieces like Bunuel’s “Un Chien Andalou,” Michael Snow’s “Wavelength,” Maya Deren’s “Meshes of the Afternoon” (this was and remains my favorite of the bunch) and an enigmatic work from 1970 by Hollis Frampton called “Zorn’s Lemma.”

If you’re unfamiliar with the film, it’s essentially a “structural experimental” piece without a narrative. I’m not going to tell you too much more about it, as I think it’s best experienced and interpreted without embellishment from a third party. The reason I’m invoking it here, however, is that it was filmed – presumably in the very late 60’s or early 1970 – in Manhattan.

Here’s it is now. Please note that the screen remains black for the first few minutes.

Bizarre, right?

Well, it didn’t dawn on me at the time, but being that I learned much later on that it was filmed in New York City, I recently watched it again … naively thinking it might be interesting to try to identify some of the signage depicted. That task proved to be entirely impossible and, honestly, not the greatest use of my time. I mean, in the 47 years since the release of “Zorn’s Lemma,” I doubt much of those visual resources are still around, to say nothing of the fact that tracking any of them down would be laborious and anticlimactic.

I did discover the next best thing, however. In 2011, a filmmaker named Dan Browne put together an homage or “reboot” of Hollis Frampton’s original film. Here it is now. Eagle-eyed Manhattanites might recognize some of the signage. Right off the bat, I recognized the Thai restaurant, Lantern, on Second Avenue and East 16th and the old façade of the Empire Diner in Chelsea.

Anyway, see what you can spot.

They Liked to Drink, They Liked to Play Rock n’ Roll

I’ve written about the infamous Unband here a couple of times (notably here and here), so won’t bother entirely re-hashing all that, but suffice to say, once upon a time these three friends-of-friends of mine collectively comprised one entertaining little combo of combustable rock fury.

While ostensibly from Northhampton, Mass, the Unband pursued their rock dream first in Los Angeles — frequently soiling the bedding at my friend Rob’s stepmother’s bungalow in Costa Mesa — before attempting same here in NYC. They were a regular fixture in many an East Village watering hole, I was lucky enough to frequently witness them perform live at a few select venues, notably Brownie’s and The Continental, playing alongside a coterie of similarly inclined bands like The Candy Snatchers, Nashville Pussy, the Pleasure Fuckers and the Upper Crust. It was kind of a glorious time.

`Twas at the Continental that I snapped the photo below, one of my favorite shots of the entirely photogenic combo. I rediscovered this photo this past weekend whilst rummaging around my front hall closet, looking for Cop Shoot Cop ephemera for the upcoming book on same I’m working on. In any case, this photo more or less captures the essence of the band.

Despite some comparatively high profile gigs opening for Dio, Def Leppard and Motorhead, the big time never beckoned, and the band broke up, having recorded only two records, the major label Retarder on TVT and their shambolic debut, Chung Wayne Lo Mein on Moon Pig Records (hear a track off the latter here).

No idea what these boys are up to now. The Continental is still there, although they no longer feature live music.

I never saw it, but evidently the Unband even had their own rockumentary….

'I Will Destroy You'

Some of you might remember a post I put up here a few weeks back about since-closed venue called The Building (or simply Building). Apparently, it was largely considered a hip-hop club, but I remember attending some industrial-themed events there. As such, a poster named Alan T. recently unearthed an anecdote about the place on Facebook…

I did sound for Peter Missing of MISSING FOUNDATION there, and it wasn't going over with the glittering industry crowd or whatever. The owner/partner nearest to me said "Cut the mic!!" right in the middle of the show and I refused. Homes don't play that. So the dude reached over my mixer and cut the sound, cut off the show. Missing came up later and yelled "I will destroy you!!" because he thought I cut his mic. I loved him for that, ever since. Within a couple years the place was completely bulldozed, literally made into a parking lot...

Speaking of all things Missing Foundation, while Peter Missing has never not been up to something new, I’ve been hearing rumors of there being some re-releases of older MF albums going on (but have found nothing substantive online to support the notion). I know there’s a new project out by Missing 7 Hazard (Peter’s latest endeavor) featuring compelling song titles like “Frack in Your Pants,” “Missing Invasion” and “I Love New York” (I’m guessing it’s not a cover). Find out more about that here.

The instantly familiar Missing Foundation insignia, however, is now newly appearing not just around the facades of the East Village again, but currently in a more surprising place -– on a new selection of prints and t-shirts marketed by a company called ALIFE. Billing themselves as a “is New York-based, multi-tasking, multi-faceted lifestyle driven company,” ALIFE is partnering with Peter Missing for a selection of original prints (of the MF cocktail glass, see above as captured by newco.nyc) and some fetching t-shirts. Should you be interested, click here.

Here, meanwhile, is some vintage Missing Foundation.

Goodbye for Good, Bleecker Street Records

Just three years after moving off their namesake, Bleecker Street Records is closing for good. You may remember that, after leaving their long-held perch on Bleecker (originally held by Golden Disc Records), Bleecker Street Records decamped to West 4th (ironically into the spot formerly held by Disc-O-Rama Records). Well, that's all over shortly. Here's their announcement...

As of Halloween 2016, we will be making some significant changes at Generation Records. 

After much deliberation, we have decided to close our sister store, Bleecker Street Records.  A number of factors have contributed to this decision, most notably the proximity of our two stores and the realistic necessity of having more them both in a neighborhood that has seen a drastic rent hike in recent years.  We realize that the loss of yet another record store in Manhattan seems discouraging, but our hope is to secure the future of Generation Records as a Village staple.

We will be consolidating all of the stock from Bleecker Street Records into Generation Records, and plan on making sure that we can pull all of our resources together for what will hopefully be a stronger and more focalized store.

As of Halloween 2016, the new store hours for Generation Records will be:

Sunday – Thursday: 12pm – 9pm

Friday & Saturday: 12pm – 10pm

We hope that revamping our store in the coming months, injecting a lot more product and making some major overall changes will allow us to take charge of the dwindling record store scene in Manhattan.  Hope to see everyone for Record Store Day coming up this Black Friday, November 25th.

Honestly, Bleecker Street Records was never one of my favorites, but I was glad it was still there. I was frankly surprised it held on longer than superior places like Other Music and Rebel Rebel, but it is now succumbing. That leaves the Village with its sibling outlet, Generation, and the sporadically open Record Runner on Cornelia Street, and that's it.

Sure, we still have Academy on 18th Street, Downtown Music Gallery in Chinatown (albeit only for super-esoteric, adventurous music) and the mighty Rough Trade in Brooklyn. But it still sucks to be losing another.

 

 

Back to the Bank

I spotted a news item I was unaware of via EV Grieve this week that, I figured, warranted a little extrapolation. Depending on how you look at it, news that they’re erecting a gigantic “luxury building” on the southwest corner of Houston and Essex doesn't have to be necessarily all bad. Obviously, it’s a deeply shitty development that this little plot of real estate is being blighted with yet another awful, pricey condo, but -- at the very least -- both the building that currently houses the Mercury Lounge and its neighbor to the east, the former Provident Loan Society building (pictured above in an earlier, arguably less “fabulous” decade) are being spared from the wrecking ball. The new structure will simply loom ominously above them both, like a giant boot forever poised to crush them.

If I’m being honest, I haven’t been to the Mercury Lounge since …. shit, I can’t even say. I did see some remarkable shows there in the (now very distant) past, among them House of Freaks (then still featuring the since senselessly murdered Bryan Harvey) and an intimate performance by once-feted Trip-Hop luminary, Tricky. As live venues go, it’s a nice, manageable room, and I’m damn glad it’s still there. For now, at least.

I can’t say I’ve darkened the doors to the building to the east, the afore-cited former Provident Load Society building, since well before my last trip to the Mercury Lounge. Back in my day, so to speak, I only knew that corner building as a somewhat unimaginatively named club called The Bank, which –- in its heyday many, many moons ago -– seemed to cater to the tastes of the gratuitously gothy. As such, I vividly remember assuming its dance floor, one evening, to the mellifluous strains of “This Corrosion” by the Sisters of Mercy.

I believe my first visit therein would have been to see a lethal triple bill of Barkmarket, Of Cabbages and Kings and – WAIT FOR IT – Cop Shoot Cop there in 1991 during the New Music Seminar (back when they still had those). Here is the flyer for same.

I don’t remember that much about the place, other than it being relatively obvious that -– despite earnest efforts to the contrary -– it was not a venue made for live music nor large crowds of patrons. I remember the sound being muddy and it being not especially well ventilated. I don’t know if Cop Shoot Cop even played a proper set. I seem to remember them invading Of Cabbages and Kings’ set (featuring erstwhile SWANS bassist Algis Kyzis) and it devolving into a sort of cacophonous jam session. I want to say a trombone might have even been involved.

Anyway, shortly after that, The Bank changed hands and became a number of other clubs (not unlike the fate that befell the old Cat Club), only to eventually close and become, well, nothing. Evidently, according to EV Grieve’s story, between its status as an actual bank and well prior to it becoming a nightclub, it served as an art studio for Jasper Johns. Who knew?

Not hugely significant, but The Bank also plays a minor, supporting role in the video of GG Allin’s last day alive. It looms in the background as GG gallumps messily into the early evening of his eventual, squalid demise.

We’ll see what happens next, I guess.

Just as a taste, meanwhile, here’s Oakland’s Neurosis making a big noise in the place in the summer of 1992.