Flaming Pablum

Atrocity Exhibition

Recently sported by rapper Birdman, the shirt below made my entire soul wince when I spotted it. Somewhere, Ian Curtis is frowning ... more than usual.

I've got the spirit. Lose the feeling. Take the shock away.

49

I turn 49 years old today. It’s an odd number. I’m reminded of the malaise I felt at both 29 and, to a lesser extent, 39 … that nagging feeling I need to go out and make the most of the last year of this particular group of ten. By the same token, I’m not sure what that entails. I mean, prior to turning 40, maybe the cliché is to go out and buy a fast car or get a tattoo or something. What’s the equivalent when you’re standing on the precipice of your fifties? Should I go out and buy a bunch of golf clubs or something? How are men in their fifties I supposed to act?

By this point, I should probably update or simply dismantle it, but on the About page of this blog –- composed in the balmy days of 2005 –- I make the fleeting declaration that I had every intention of wearing “silly band t-shirts” well into my forties. Well, mission accomplished. But now that I’m perilously close to a half-century old, I still have an unwieldy collection of same (click here if you honestly give a damn about them). Is it unseemly to continue this practice? Should I care? I probably should, but I don’t. That said, I did notice a particular shirt that I already own hanging in the window of Metropolis on Third Avenue this morning. If you’re unfamiliar, the shop in questions sells “vintage” duds at prices I, personally, consider exorbitant. Ten years ago, the notion of parting with one of my cherished rock shirts for cash would have been unheard of. Now? Well, depends how much they’d offer.

Speaking of ten years ago, since it is my birthday, I thought I’d re-address the questions I answered a decade ago on this post. Why not, right?

10 YEARS AGO today...

October 13, 2006

How old were you? 39
Where did you go to school? I was well, well out of school by that point.
Where did you work? I would have been ten months into my tenure as Managing Editor at MTV News Online.
Where did you live? East 9th Street in Manhattan
Where did you hang out? By that point, we had an infant and a toddler to take care of, so you were probably likely to find me at playgrounds and baby supply outlets.
How was your hair style? A graying version of what I charitably described as a “retarded pompadour.”
Who were your best friends? My best friends, by and large, don’t really change, although I sadly see less of them.
Did you wear glasses? No
Who was your regular-person crush? The wife.
How many tattoos did you have? Zero.
How many piercings did you have? Zero.
What car did you drive? Didn’t, although I had finally attained a license.
What was your worst fear? Unemployment, not being able to provide for my family.
Had you been arrested? No.
Had your heart been broken? Much earlier, but all was bliss at the time
Single/Taken/Married/Divorced/Bitter? Very happily married.

********
October 13, 2016 

How old are you? 49
Where do you work? At a place that is not MTV New Online. That was already three jobs ago.
Where do you live? Same apartment on East 9th Street, but we have outgrown it and will probably move before the end of next year.
Where do you hang out? No longer at playgrounds and baby supply places. My kids and I routinely explore all corners of the city. Most of my favorite record stores are gone, and I’m rarely let off my leash to visit the bars of my youth.
Do you wear glasses? I now have to wear readers, yes.
What is your hairstyle? Pretty much the same as ten years ago, although I’m now pretty much all silver.
Who are your best friends? Again, they remain the same people, but I do not get to see them as often as I’d like.
Still talk to any of your old friends? There are friends I’ve fallen out of touch with, but thankfully none that I can think of that I’m actively “not talking to.” There are some former colleagues I'm disinclined to chat with, but I'd like to think if I ran into them, we'd be adults about it.
How many piercings do you have? None.
How many tattoos? None.
What kind of car do you have? Still don’t.
What is your biggest fear? Unemployment for me or something happening to my family.
Have you been arrested since, if so, how many times times total? Never, although I did scrape my mom’s car against a cop car (by accident) and got a speeding ticket in Upstate New York (where I was *NOT* speeding).
Has your heart been broken? My heart has indeed been broken over the last ten years, but not over anything to do with failed romance. My heart has been broken by instances of death and illness in my family and periodic job loss for me.
Single/Taken/Married/Divorced/Bitter? Still very happily married.

None the Worse for Wear Redux: Catching Back Up with RB Korbet

Some of you might remember a sprawling interview from almost a year ago I conducted with the great RB Korbet of Even Worse/King Missile/Missing Foundation (and a slew of other bands) wherein I picked her brain about her days on the pre-NYHC scene and she generously replied with anecdotes-a-go-go for a richly rewarding (for me, at least) post. In case you missed it, you can read that here.

Well, in the wake of that, RB recently spoke to Drew Stone’s New York Hardcore Chronicles for another edition of their great 10 Questions series. I thought it was worth sharing here. I especially applaud RB’s opinion about the discrepancy of fabled Kraut drummer Johnny Feedback’s name. That has literally bugged me for decades.

Harley Goes Home

I’ve written entirely too many posts about CBGB, by this stage of the proceedings, but whatever. Sue me.

In any case, presumably as part of the promotion for his new book (which I’m currently reading), herewith Harley Flanagan taking a last look at CBGB in 2006 before it all went away. Enjoy.

DeNiro on Trump

This is so worth your time and so satisfying. Bring it home, Robert.

SoHo Puzzle

Mention SoHo to some, and they’ll think of a high-end shopping district overrun with upscale outlets. To others, it might conjure images of exclusive real estate. Still other folks, meanwhile, might think of a once-vibrant community of artists, filled with lofts and galleries. Certain parties might recall its fabled narrow byways once being covered in garish street art.

Regardless of your age and/or sensibility, all of the above is more or less accurate. But a good century before it was any of those things, it was a mercantile neighborhood renowned for its signature cast-iron architecture. The industries that used to dominate the neighborhood are now long gone, and it’s gone through many hills, valleys and permutations since then to become the ludicrously expensive place it is today. But while much of its layers of colorful character and urban wear n’ tear have been scrubbed clean in more recent years, much of its older architectural flourishes still remain … if you look hard enough for the ones not obscured by comparatively artless new construction projects.

Anyway, the only reason I’m boring you with this laborious history lesson is because of the video below. Filmed in 1987 by one Kanal von Balzamico (and how’s that for a name?) with a Super 8 Nizo 560 camera, “SoHo Puzzle” plays a bit like an experimental student film, concentrating on the patterns, textures, ephemera and filigree of classic SoHo architecture. That said, it's not all classic, cast-iron splendor.

It’s cute and fun, but to be honest – there are moments of it that gave me a headache. Regardless, it’s a nice little snippet that reinforces an aspect of what continues to make SoHo special, even if SoHo looks so different today.

On the pathetic, rook-geek fanboy get-a-life front, my favorite part of “SoHo Puzzle” is at 05:56, when he pans across a bit of graffiti extolling the merits of No Wave ensemble, 8 Eyed Spy.

Here’s that band – led by the inimitable Lydia Lunch – playing at Hurrah in 1979…

 

Where Folk Are Nice to Yoko

I devoted a post to this tack back in 2014 when it came out, but it's truly worth revisiting. "New York Morning" is by a British band called Elbow who I've liked for some time. They have something new shortly due out, but this track filled my headphones this morning, fittingly, as I was striding down Lafayette Street towards my office in Lower Manhattan (I take different routes, when I'm able). I cannot imagine a better tune with which to start one's day.

Back on that earlier post, I included the "proper" video for this song, which is a lovely bit of film all its own, portraying a longterm love story of two native New Yorker music geeks. It's also well worth your time, but is so engrossing that it almost overshadows the song itself, which is a shame.

I'm also quite fond of the lyrics...

The first to pour a simple truth in words
Binds the world in a feeling all familiar
'Cause everybody owns the great ideas
And it feels like there's a big one round the corner

A tenner, up and out into New York
Somewhere in all that talk is all the answers
And oh, my giddy aunt, New York can talk
It's the modern road where folk are nice to Yoko

Every bone of rivet steel, each corner stone an anchor
Jenga jutts and rusty water tower, pillar-posted sign
Every painted lining battered, like a building in this town
Sings a life of proud endeavor and the best that man can be

Me, I see a city and I hear a million voices
Planning, drilling, welding, carrying their fingers to the nub
Reaching down into the ground, stretching up into the sky
Why? Because they can, they did and do so you and I could live together

Oh my God, New York can talk
Somewhere in all that talk is all the answers
Everybody owns the great ideas
And it feels like there's a big one round the corner

Oh my God, New York can talk
Somewhere in all that talk is all the answers
Everybody owns the great ideas
And it feels like there's a big one round the corner

Oh my God, New York can talk
Somewhere in all that talk is all the answers
Everybody owns the great ideas
And it feels like there's a big one round the corner

The desire to part sure symphony
The desire like a distant storm
For love, be good for me
And it feels like there's a big one round the corner

Oh my God, New York, you talk
Somewhere in all that talk is all the answers
Everybody owns the greats ideas
And it feels like there's a big one round the corner

The way the day begins
Decides the shade of everything
But the way it ends depends on if you're home F
or every soul, a pillow at a window, please
In a modern room, where folk are nice to Yoko

Science in the Park

Spend any time in the company of music geeks of a certain stripe, and you’ll inevitably hear an assertive invocation of the widely held belief that musical chops are assuredly less important than style. Granted, it’s sort of a tired argument, but it’s one I happen to espouse as well. While I have nothing against universally recognized virtuosos like Neil Peart or Joe Satriani et al., most of my own favorite musicians aren’t necessarily considered technical wunderkinds. That all said, while, say, Geordie from Killing Joke or Andy Gill from Gang of Four probably can’t play with the busy, fret-melting complexity of Yngwie Malmsteen or some other preening muso, for what they do, they are untouchable. No one else sounds like Geordie. No one else sounds like Andy Gill. The style they play with cannot be taught.

If Punk Rock genuinely accomplished anything, I’d suggest that it effectively levelled the playing field. Aspiring musicians no longer had to feel excluded from proceedings because they couldn’t replicate the ornate prog noodlery of Yes (who I happen to love, by the way) or the fleet-fingered fusion of Weather Report. Anyone could do it. Thus, you suddenly had a whole generation of bands who, by definition, couldn’t initially play by conventional standards, but they were getting out there and making it happen. And some of those humble beginnings actually spawned myriad bands responsible for great, unique music positively rife with inimitable style.

I must confess that, until stumbling across the video below – shot in Tompkins Square Park in the summer of 1981, I’d never heard of a New York band called Science. Evidently, they were performing alongside a list of other acts like Pierce Turner, Certain General and Liquid Liquid in an event filmed for public access cable TV with some connection to the Mudd Club.

I’m not suggesting that Science didn’t go onto to great things. They very well might have. But the footage of them captured below shows the trio readily taking full advantage of that newly opened frontier and making music despite their arguably pronounced limitations. I am not knocking Science, mind you. I’ve never had the balls to undertake such an endeavor, and my own favorite bands started off sounding like this, for cryin’ out loud. So, hats off to Science, wherever they may be today.

Beyond Science, this video is also compelling in that’s a fleeting taste of the East Village circa 1981, a lost time and place seemingly eons prior to the contemporary era of high-end coffee bars and artisanal pork emporiums. One could argue that hipsters have always been among us, but you’ll find no needless suspenders, man-buns or comedy-length beards on display here. The camera-person does zero in on one enthusiastic member of the crowd for what can only be described as an awkwardly inappropriate amount of time (for inarguably prurient reasons), but that notwithstanding, I found it to be an interesting little document.

See if you agree. 

Moments, Memories & Mysteries of the Downing Street Playground

Ahoy again, all. Sorry for the slowdown, but it’s been a busy week at both home and at the office. Also trying to get my ducks in a row in divining the way forward with the book project about Cop Shoot Cop I mentioned a couple of posts back. That will doubtlessly be an ongoing thing for quite some time. Suffice to say, it’s odd to be writing about a New York City band that broke up two decades ago. To my ears, their music still sounds endearingly fresh and entirely distinctive, but the New York City that spawned and inspired them is now a totally different place. It will certainly be a challenge, but I’m greatly looking forward to getting it officially off the ground.

In any case, I spotted the photo below earlier this week, and it immediately resonated with me, so I thought I’d address it here. Click on it to enlarge.

This is an image by photographer Bruce Martin, taken during June of 1985.

Personally speaking, I think it’s a remarkable, beautifully composed photograph no matter how you slice it. I wonder if Martin stood poised waiting for the very precise moment he ended up capturing, of if he just got lucky. There’s so much texture and life in the image, I can’t seem to stop looking at it.

But there are two other reasons why I’m captivated by it.

First and foremost, I was drawn to the photo in that it depicts the Downing Street playground, a little, walled-in plot of play-space where Bleecker Street intersects with Downing Street and Sixth Avenue. It abuts a little circular garden to its north called Winston Churchill Square. The playground is a spot I know quite well, as I used to bring my own children to it on a regular basis.

We never called it The Downing Street Playground, however. My kids referred to it as “The Dinosaur Playground,” as – until five or six years ago, I suppose – there’d been a large, yellow dinosaur sculpture therein that little folks could climb on. That is, of course, until someone decided to bash in that dinosaur’s head for no readily apparent reason. Now, all that remains of the dinosaur are its footprints still etched into the concrete.

Regardless, the Downing Street Playground was a long-time favorite destination, especially after we’d collectively tired of the playgrounds on offer in Washington Square Park (to say nothing of the further flung reaches of Tompkins Square Park). Rivalled only by the more expansive playground at St. Luke’s Place (another staunch favorite), the Downing Street Playground provided a seemingly secluded suggestion of idyllic privacy. It almost looks like a stage-set for a play.

I say “suggestion” as that’s all it was -- and remains. Though walled-in by the hustle and bustle of its abutting streets, this space is by no means cut off from the general public. Quite the deceptive opposite, in fact.

While entering the Downing Street Playground might feel like stepping into an exclusive children’s oasis, it’s prudent to note the homeless population that frequently camps-out on the adjoining grounds of Winston Churchill Square just outside its northern gate. To that same end, at its westerly entrance on Carmine Street, there are some frankly dodgy public restrooms that seem to frequently serve as makeshift accommodations for a coterie of transients. While I don’t harbor a phobic disdain for the homeless, I would maybe think twice before sending my children into those quarters unaccompanied.

Back in the main area of the playground, the fact that the space is set apart from the street makes it attractive for those looking to evade scrutiny. On a few occasions, I have encountered gaggles of truant teens furtively smoking or engaged in illicit trysts within the playground’s walls, fleetingly hidden from view of the seeking eyes of the street.

That didn’t necessarily bother me, but I do take great exception to teenagers loitering on swing-sets inarguably meant for children several years their junior (as sneerily asserted here).

And while I have volumes of photographs of my children happily at play in the Downing Street Playground, my most visceral memory of the place involves an overcast afternoon one Autumn when I brought my little son Oliver. At first, there were only two other individuals in the playground – a young mother and her own little toddler. Oliver and I minded our own business as he happily scampered up and down the curly slide. After several minutes, the energy and the atmosphere in the playground seemed to suddenly change. I looked over at the young mother just as she was trying to catch my eye. At that moment, a portly, disheveled man had entered the playground from the Sixth Avenue gate and stood expectantly just inside the door, his eyes fixed on the young mother and her child. While he didn’t look especially intimidating, his demeanor seemed a bit hard to discern. Then, he started moving intently around the perimeter of the playground.

We hadn’t yet shared a single syllable, but the young mother scooped up her child and moved closer to me as the newcomer started to edge closer to where she’d been standing. In a moment, the visitor had circled around the jungle gyms where we’d been situated and was staring a second go-around, seemingly on some sort of concentric trajectory known only to him. The mother shot me a concerned glance, and we both wordlessly gathered up our kids and made for the exit together. Seeing that we were heading out, the man broke off his circular path and started walking right towards the mother, before stopping in the center and – again – standing dead-still with his eyes locked on her. With my oblivious little Oliver in one arm (he was considerably lighter, then), I held open the heavy, iron gate for the woman’s stroller to squeeze out, trying to assert some calm to the uncomfortable situation. We left the man standing in the middle of the Downing Street Playground, looking out.

That little almost-horror story notwithstanding, I still have nothing but fond associations with the Downing Street Playground as – apologies for getting slavishly melancholy, here -- we don’t seem to go anymore. My children are growing up. At ages 12 and 10, respectively, Charlotte and Oliver have basically graduated out of the playground class. The notion of spending hours on the swings no longer really thrills them. They both have myriad interests and hobbies and favorite activities and gaggles of similarly inclined friends to engage in same with. Their days of going to playgrounds with Daddy are basically over, and they slipped away far too quickly and without a great deal of fanfare. My kids love to go out and explore the great, big world around them, but they no longer feverishly petition to be taken to the playground. And that’s just how it all goes.

Let’s bring back Bruce Martin’s photograph again…

Captured here in 1985, it’s reasonably safe to assume the two children pictured playing in the sprinkler here are now deep into their respective thirties. And they, too, probably have their own very specific and very special memories of playing in the Downing Street Playground. And, as with my own children, there was probably only a relatively brief window of years that they routinely played there before suddenly no longer feeling the desire to. And just like that, their family probably just stopped taking them.

How many generations of children have passed through that playground over the years, each with their own precious memories of it? Sure, some of the details have changed – that jungle gym in the background, for example, was long gone by the time my kids got there – but the place still retains its character, which rendered it immediately recognizable to me when I first spotted Martin's photo of it on the Manhattan Before 1990 page on Facebook.

But there was still one more thing that I was preoccupied by.

Like I said, the jungle gym in the back was long gone when we first started going, but every other detail seemed so familiar but also somehow wrong.

I couldn’t put my finger on it, until –- as with this similar dilemma with a photo of the Stranglers from a couple of years back –- I figured. It out.

The picture is reversed. It should actually look like this….

The area in the background is now where the swings are, and that bench has been ripped out. The sprinkler area is now a few feet to the east. The big tip off was that terrace up top.

Here’s a glimpse of it now, snapped on my way home this evening….

Welcome Back to October