Flaming Pablum

118 West 3rd Street: Then & Now

I was about boppin' around with Oliver earlier, and we found ourselves on West 3rd, so...

118 West 3rd Street (then Bleecker Bob's), January 2012:

118 West 3rd Street (now Miyabi), October 2017:

Read more about the legacy of this address here. 

50

As it happens, I turn 50 tomorrow. Cue applause.

It’s a number I’m not exactly sure what to do with.

Before I turned 30, I figured I needed to increase my level of libidinous hedonism, and make the most of the withering flower of my youth. I kinda did that, I guess, although, in retrospect, I probably could have managed a little more.

Before I turned 40, meanwhile, I’d already gotten married and had two children and figured I should either get a jumpstart on my midlife crisis or start behaving more like a sentient, capable adult. Not sure where I landed on that one, honestly.

50, meanwhile, …. well, that’s just a whole `nother thing.

By many accounts, I’ve already capably reached the curmudgeon stage (Hell, I was well on the way to that destination in my 30’s). And as I’ve laboriously pointed out on myriad other posts, the particular bits of art, literature and pop culture that fire my imagination and color my life are now largely considered dated, out-of-step or anachronistic, so you best just get the fuck OFF of my lawn. In that sense, I’m more than happy being the old guy. As the cliche goes, I may be old, but I got to see the cool bands.

But regardless of my own attitudes and predilections, it seems there is a whole litany of arguably hard’n’fast RULES of behavior for 50-year-old men. As such, I figured I should probably acquaint myself with some of them.

Evidently, here are some of the things that, after tomorrow, I should no longer be concerned with.

According to such august sources as Executive Style and something called The Good Men Project, apparently, it’s no longer seemly for a gent of my age to be sporting “cool t-shirts.” Houston, we’re going to have a problem with that.

I’ve been feverishly collecting stupid band t-shirts since about 1979. My first was a black one featuring the signature Gerald Scarfe artwork from the gatefold of Pink Floyd The Wall, which I prized at an establishment of dubious repute on otherwise posh-o Lexington Avenue called The Happy Head Shop. Since then, I’ve amassed a legitimately unwieldy array of this particular variant of garment (most — but not all — of which can be viewed here, should anyone honestly give a damn). Even since setting up that stupid Tumblr, I’ve amassed a few more, — notably, most recently, a lovely purple one with John Holmstrom’s signature cover art from Road to Ruin by the mo’fuckin’ Ramones. If you think I’m not gonna rock that one, you’re sorely fuckin’ mistaken.

In perusing these two articles and a third one from — God help me — the AARP site, other things I shouldn’t do are ride a skooter (no great chance of that happening), go crazy with cologne (also not a big risk), parkour (ditto), take ecstasy (been there, done that), dismiss the idea of a man-purse (not on the menu), do Jell-o shots (was never a fan), wear shorts in the city (this one I really don’t get … what difference does it make where I wear them?), do karaoke (I did last summer), try to break a plank with my head (this strikes me as ill-advised at any age), vote for the Green party (fuck you, I’ll vote for whomever I damn well please), “crowd-surf” (I did it when it meant something, not like you pathetic twerps today), collect owls made of shells, try to get a six-pack, wear a baseball cap (says who?) and wear skinny jeans (okay, they may be right about this one).

I’ll take these all under advisement.

….but you can have my band t-shirt when you pull it off my corpse.

Matinee Memories: Fruition

 

If you’ve spent a decent amount of time reading this blog, you might remember a few posts dedicated to the work of photographer Drew Carolan, specifically his documentation of the early hardcore punk scene on the Bowery in the early 80’s. If not, you catch up on the backstory via the list of links below.

In any case, after a long wait, Drew’s book on the subject -– “Matinee” -- is finally out and available. He was nice enough to send me a copy, and let me tell you — it’s amazing. Even if you’re not an acolyte of this era of New York City’s underground music scene, it remains a striking collection of stark, black & white photographs.

As described in those other posts, Drew resourcefully set up a makeshift outdoor photo studio just steps to the west of the southwest corner of Bleecker at the Bowery (i.e. catty-cornered from the entrance to CBGB). Here, with the help of a plain white backdrop affixed to the north-facing facade, he was able capture a riveting series of portraits. While that sounds like a simple conceit, the resulting images are so much more than just a collection of photos of pose-friendly punks

While today, the corner in question bustles with shoppers, boozey brunchers and — presumably — the affluents who reside in the surrounding neighborhood’s new conglomeration of luxury high-rises, suffice it to say that the byway in question played host to a pointedly different brand of foot traffic in the early 80’s.

A largely avoided backwater of hopelessness and decrepitude, the Bowery was the quintessential Skid Row. There were no posh shops, wine salons or boutiquey bistros. Apart from CBGB, a few dive bars, gas stations, kitchen supply outlets, flop houses and the fleeting Great Gildersleeves, there wasn’t much to attract the masses. As such, it made for something of a sanctuary for the hardcore kids that gathered for the weekend matinees. And many of those kids had precious little else going for them.

The subjects of Drew’s photographs were not the variant of punks with day-glo comedy mohawks you might see on tourist-aimed postcards. These were kids from the streets – some juvenile delinquents and runaways -- often from broken homes, not Fiorucci regulars. For many, what defined this early era of what became more colloquially known as NYHC was not the gritty, inverted glamor, but more a sense of genuine community. This was a tribe of outsiders that bonded together organically and forged their own little microcosm. And from there, it grew.

For his part, Drew treated his subjects with a keen sensitivity. The end results are by no means exploitative photographs. While they indeed unflinchingly portray the tough exterior of the hardcore kids, they also manage to pierce the veil. The wordless expressions and unblinking gazes of these figures say so much more than the slogans and band names scrawled on their jackets and shaved into their scalps. One wonders what directive Drew was feeding them while shooting.

In any case, you can order yourselves a copy here. Or, if you’re in or around NYC, come meet the great man himself at a book release and signing gig at Generation Records, featuring a live performance by period-appropriate proto-NYHC crew, The Mob. I’m going to try to be there, as well, so if you’ve been itching to say hi, air a grievance or punch me in the face, that’s where I’ll probably be.

This is The Mob. I first heard this by way of my friend Richard K., the same gent who force-leant me several crucial slabs of early hardcore vinyl in grammar school, and the same cat I borrowed the New York Thrash cassette from and, er… forgot to return (sorry, Rich).

More:

Matinee Memories

Matinee Memories Deluxe

Matinee Memories Redux: Back to Drew's Studio

Sheena is a Punk Boxer? 

Picture This

Starless in NoHo

I was deeply saddened, today, to read of the impending closing of both the NoHo Star and its adjoining Temple Bar on Lafayette Street.

The NoHo Star is a family favorite of ours, and a relatively longstanding neighborhood institution. Unfussy but with an immaculate presentaiton, the fare at the NoHo Star has always been great, and the atmosphere convivial and largely unchanged since its opening in the mid-80’s. To my mind, it’s just always been a safe bet, a dependably good call and just a cool, cool spot.

But even before I became I patron at the NoHo Star, it was iconic for me. Perched on the southwest corner of Bleecker & Lafayette, it was the go-to landmark where I’d meet my friends. In the deathly dark ages before cell phones (I know … a shockng invocation), my friends and I would have to establish plans and rendez-vous points in advance, without the ability to check in en route, as we’d all be on our respective subway trains. A convenient staging area for myriad points downtown (then steps away from likely destinations like CBGB, the original iteraiton of The Knitting Factory on Houston Street, Tower Records on Broadway, etc. etc.), I would routinely suggest that we all “meet in front of the NoHo Star.” Many an evening did I pace in front of said locale’s iconic signage -- memorable for its backwards lettering -- or singularly distinctive front windows, replete with zig-zagging, diagonal panes (see above, snapped as recently as last week), waiting for my comrades. 

Again, in later years, it became a great spot for a date. I enjoyed many of same, there, with the great lady who became my wife. We also brought our -– shock, horror -– baby stroller in and sat by the bar in the front just after Charlotte was born.

In more recent years, we indoctrinated our kids into the faith, and the suggestion of dinner at the NoHo Star is always met with a cheer. I remain desperately fond of their beef stir-fry, especially when accompanined by one or more Tsingtaos.

I will miss it terribly.

My wife is a bigger fan of the Temple Bar than I’ve ever been, although I believe I did once spot Michael Gira and Jarboe from SWANS, some years back, sipping cocktails within its formidably dark interiors. I’ve always liked its cryptic signage (a crescent-shaped skeleton of a lizard of some variety).

According to Jeremiah Moss, the reason we’re losing both of these establishments is “economic.”

Fuck what this city has become.

Word on the Street

Some weeks back, our friend Jeremiah Moss from Vanishing New York shared a photo on his Facebook feed originally snapped by one Michael Hirsch, that being the one above. If you're not a resident of downtown Manhattan, such a sentiment might not resonate so much with you, but suffice to say, in 2017, NYU is not widely perceived as a benevolent presence. 

Not to put too fine a point on it, but the NYU of this era seems less content to coexist with large swathes of Greenwich Village and downtown Manhattan so much as treat it like its manifest destiny. NYU is ultimately an occupying force with brazenly expansionist ideals. The by-product of that is their student body, who march around like they own the place ... which they essentially do.

To borrow a line from a friend, NYU was an excellent university. Now it's a real estate conglomerate with a university on the premises.

Over the weekend, I happened to walk by the exact spot of Hirsch's original photo -- East 6th Street & First Avenue -- to find it .... updated.

Lennon on Punk

Ummm … happy Friday?

Yeah, it’s been a weird, awful week, regardless of your stance on the issues. Before devoting any further space to bottomless debates here (while this post continues that descent), I spotted something that spoke to an earlier series of posts that I figured was worth passing on.

You might remember a few posts from a while ago (see links at bottom of his entry) wherein I ruminated on what John Lennon loved so much about living in New York City. I mean, yeah, what’s not to love about living in the palatial Dakota, etc.? I was more curious as to whether he had a favorite pizzeria, a favorite book store, a favorite dive bar, etc. On later posts, I wondered aloud if he’d ever gone to any of the clubs of the day to check out new music. Where did John go if/when he stepped out?

Two later posts addressed these concerns. One found the former Beatle allegedly darkening the doors of the Mudd Club in 1979, only to have then-Misfits guitarist Bobby Steele puke at his feet (an anecdote Mudd Club doorman-turned-memoirist dismissed as fanciful poppycock), while another account from Bleecker Bob Plotnick, by way of Bauhaus/Love & Rockets bassist David J., asserted that Lennon was prone to perusing the bins of LP’s at Plotnick’s own fabled (and since vanished) Bleecker Bob’s. I think it’s easy to think of John just sequestered away in some little bubble, but I love hearing stories of him getting out and about.

Anyway, I stumbled upon the recording below on YouTube wherein John speaks to a little bit of the musical aspect of all this. Press play and here the fabled Fab talk about hearing about Sid Vicious, the Sex Pistols and first being turned onto New Wave bands like the B-52s, Lene Lovich, the Pretenders and Madness. I love the idea of John getting down to “One Step Beyond.”

Similarly, on Marc Maron’s excellent WTF podcast, the comedian spoke with estimable Devo frontman Mark Mothersbaugh (I highlighted it here), and he had a great anecdote about Devo playing an early gig at Max’s Kansas City, and having John Lennon getting up in his face after the show to bark the yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah-ya-ye-ye-ye-ya-ye-ye-yeagh refrain of “Uncontrollable Urge” back at him, the insinuation being that Lennon noted how Devo had copped it from the Beatles’ own “She Loves You.”

One wonders how Lennon’s music might have evolved had he lived long enough to hear the music of the past few decades.

More:

Where was John's Manhattan? 
Mudd Club `79: Beatle Meets Misfit, Puke Ensues
Bleecker Bob's Beatle Boast to Bauhaus Bassist
Finding Lennon's Manhattan

A Requiem for the Ritz & A Wake for Webster Hall

And now back to our regular programming....

Since Webster Hall closed its doors for impending renovation this past summer, I hadn’t really walked down East 11th Street. I posted my last word on the subject back in July, wherein I recounted a clutch of my favorite memories from its more significant tenure – to my mind, at least – as The Ritz.

In the ensuing weeks, East 11th Street has seen a lot of change. I remember reading about people prizing likely aritfacts – pieces of a drum kit, microphone stands, etc. – out of the dumpsters that were parked out front of the building. Across the street, meanwhile, a whole row of low-rise buildings have been razed, leaving a yawning cavity in advance of a new luxury hotel that’s been planned to sprout up like giant zit.

Down at the southeastern corner, meanwhile, they closed the irreparably douchey Pour House bar after about a decade. Originally, there’d been plans to reimagine that space as an equally dubious rock-themed bar called “E.Vil" (geddit?), but apparently those plans have been scrapped as well. Now, the space is slathered with messy graffiti and looks, for all intents and purposes, abandoned.

Beyond all that, I hadn’t really felt a need to walk down East 11th. But last weekend, my kids and I went out for a stroll around the neighborhood and sure enough, we ended up taking that right on 4th Avenue. I was struck by how dilapidated the façade and overhanging marquee looked. There are still people picking through the dumpsters, and latest reports suggest the space probably won’t reopen as its next iteration until 2020, probably with a different name.

With that in mind, I told my kids to strike a pose.

'Come And Take Them!'

As I’ve often said, while there are certain themes I routinely gravitate towards, I designed this blog to be topically open-ended. This would allow me to address pretty much any subject without having to be concerned about going “offbrand,” so to speak. So, while 99% of Flaming Pablum may be devoted to ruminations, photographs and videos concerning life in New York City, music and parenting, I have indeed deviated from those normal threads to address stuff like politics and various bits of news of the day. This is going to be another one of those instances, so if you were expecting an entry about some of that other stuff, you’re going to have to wait a second.

Between the ongoing Puerto Rico morass and the horrific events in Las Vegas, I’d pretty much lost all my enthusiasm to post anything. Again, waxing nostalgic about shuttered record stores and the like seems like the quintessence of meaninglessness when the world seems like it’s falling apart. I, of course, had some things to offer about the tragic and unexpected passing of Tom Petty, but I just couldn’t summon the drive to do it.

But in my frustration in the face of the senseless events of this week, I quickly posted a by-now clichéd selection to vent my spleen, that being XTC’s anti-gun anthem from English Settlement, “Melt the Guns” (presciently penned in 1982, before mass shootings had become so routine). The title of this post, meanwhile, comes from a comment left shortly after I posted that entry (presumably to be voiced with the provocative bark of Gerard Butler in "300'). It was left by a reader who calls himself Parabellum. For those curious about the definition of that term is: A type of semiautomatic pistol or-machine gun. Charming.

I was also tempted to re-post an entry I penned in 2012, in the wake of a shooting here in NYC. In that post, I confessed my complicity in unwittingly celebrating gun culture via my fandom for various bits of pop culture. If you’re curious, you can find that here.

On Facebook, I posted a series of similarly declarative statements (“Destroy the NRA and Melt the Fucking Guns! Wise Up!”), but Facebook -– as discussed before -– tends to be something of an echo-chamber for the like-minded. That said, I do have a couple of friends who are law-abiding gun-espousers, as hard as it is for me to get my head around that.

Now, I do understand why certain folks might feel the need to own a gun for “protection,” (although, personally speaking, having a gun in house along with children strikes me as a ridiculously risky proposition). I also understand that certain folks are hunting enthusiasts. While I in no way endorse or empathize with that brand of “sport,” it’s obviously something very real for a lot of people.

But, this week’s events aren’t really about that shit. They’re about ASSAULT WEAPONS, specifically ones modified to maximize one’s kill count. To paraphrase a quote on a friend’s thread, they are lethal devices intended for lethal results, full stop. Outside of the theatre of war, no one -- NO ONE -- should feel the need – let alone be allowed -- to own such weapons.

I’ve heard a lot of anemic assertions suggesting that collecting assault weapons is a legitimate hobby. Being no stranger to collector culture, I suppose I can empathize with that theory, but -– by the same token -– I, personally, remain roundly unable to kill droves of people with my unwieldy collection of comic books. Nor, for that matter, would a dangerously unhinged individual be able to slaughter scores of innocents in the event that my painstakingly alphabetized collection of CD’s fell into their hands.

If you’re having trouble parsing these clunky analogies, I’m basically telling you to FIND ANOTHER FUCKING HOBBY!

Do your part.

 

Destroy the NRA

Wise up.