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Consider it “Prime Suspect” meets Prime Mover (one for the trivia fans, there).
I follow an Instagram account called Vintage Cheese, and earlier today, they posted this fetching photo of the timelessly lovely Helen Mirren.
Beyond being a complete badass, a world-class actor and –- let’s face it -– an agelessly fabulous babe of the highest order, Helen Mirren has garnered new intrigue for me via the photo because of her t-shirt.
Yeah, it’s a roaring cheetah design. Big deal, you say? Well, it’s also the same roaring cheetah design as depicted on the back of Iggy Pop’s jacket from the back cover of Raw Power by ye olde Stooges, as captured by my favorite Staten Island resident, photographer Mick Rock.
See for yourselves.
Maybe not quite as cool as that shot of Debbie Harry wearing a Sabbath shirt, but I’d imagine there’s a backstory, here, no? Maybe?
Just a quick update on this post from two weeks back.
I walked down East 12th Street over the weekend and noticed that the Closed for Renovation sign that was keeping some folks' hopes alive for the possible return of Second Hand Rose has now also vanished. Apart from some old beat-up promotional posters left behind in the front window, there is no sign of further renovation, life or activity of any sort.
Was it just a face-saving device to allay the sting of a lose lease? A flailing stab at a possible last-minute stay-of-execution? We may never know.
Again, not a particularly huge loss, but there you have it.
If I’m a bit slow to resume the firehose of dubious, hastily executed content that is Flaming Pablum, feel free to blame it on the splendor of the misty, verdant cliffs of Ireland. M’self and the rest of the family had a simply magical time, as unapologetically twee as that sounds, and I cannot recommend a journey there highly enough, should you be looking for a holiday destination. Herewith some observations…
1. If you’re looking to lose weight, Ireland is not the place for you. The Irish diet is rich, hearty and robust, rivaled only by their heroically unslakable thirst.
2. The Irish accent— in all its forms — is a lilting, musical joy for the ear, but sometimes difficult to decipher if you’re not listening attentively. Mercifully, most folks were good-natured enough to repeat themselves when I looked (frequently) flummoxed.
3. Having not secured a driver’s license until 2005, I am not what anyone would credibly consider a seasoned motorist. As such, when traveling between longer distances, we decided to hire a car service. From my vantage point in the shotgun seat, I can happily attest that this was a very sound decision. Not only do the Irish drive on the opposite side of the road – which continues to confuse me – but said roads are almost always wet, and the Irish seem to collectively drive with a cheerfully zealous stealth. That said, they are unfailingly patient on the narrower roads. I don’t think I heard a single car horn during our stay.
4. During the middle of the week, we traveled to Goleen, a thoroughly enchanting, remote town in West Cork on the coast. Immediately upon our arrival, we were treated to a private tour of Mizen Head, the cliffs on the most southwesterly point of Ireland. You’ll see some of the pictures below, but simple, ordinary photography in absolutely no way does the experience justice. While I’ve been lucky enough to see many famous sights in my day, I cannot say I’ve ever witnessed something so awe-inspiring, vast, timeless and humbling as the rocks of Mizen Head. It was truly transformative …. and wet.
Enough of my yacking…please enjoy the pictures.
Incidentally, the bridge my little lad is standing on above is Dublin's Ha'Penny Bridge, which spans the Liffy River right near the Temple Bar neighborhood -- and not too far from where we were staying in the Docklands. If, like me, you remember the depiction of the Docklands from the sepia-toned video for "Pride (in the Name of Love)" by ye olde U2, you'd be amazed as I to learn that it has since been massively built up -- not like parts of our own NYC -- as the new financial hub. Not quite the same cityscape as naively envisioned.
The bridge above, meanwhile, was immortalized -- or to me, anyway -- by the video to this song, which was in my head all week.
Crank it.
I don’t re-purpose content I’ve penned for work here too often, but two weeks back, I was afforded the opportunity to interview one of my heroes, which resulted in a rapturously wordy write-up (which was, of course, somewhat mercilessly-paired down to reign in my floridly purple prose). Last week, while I was in Ireland (more about that shortly), it went live.
Herewith my chat with Alice Cooper. While his name is already cemented into the firmament of pop culture, he’s recently been nominated for induction into the Songwriters Hall of Fame. While that particular talent may not be the first association you think of when his name is invoked, it should be remembered that beyond his preeminent status as the monarch of shock rock, he wrote some damn fine music. No less than Bob Dylan cited Alice Cooper, in 1978, as an “overlooked songwriter,” and the rest of the world seems to be finally catching up with that freewheelin’ folk-rocker’s perception.
In any case, you can read my interview by clicking right here.
One more before we depart for Ireland.
I was very sad to learn, this morning, of the death of Malcolm Young. I'd been equally heartbroken to hear about his dementia. Can you imagine spending your life and career writing and performing music and then not being able to remember how to play the very instrument you wrote it all on? An unfathomably cruel fate for a musician, and a tragedy for his loved ones.
I’ve mentioned AC/DC a few times here before, although unfortunately often in the form of a complaint. I winced when they got in bed with Walmart, and I scowled when they somewhat dispassionately discharged Brian Johnson from their ranks after his physician warned him against further touring, lest it permanently destroy his hearing. I frowned upon the news that they hired Axl Rose — of all people — to limp into Brian’s place to fulfill their touring obligations, but I respected their ironclad will to fulfill their commitments.
Those petty grievances aside, however, I cannot underscore how vital a role AC/DC played in my life as a nascent music fan. While lazily lumped in with all things heavy metal, AC/DC transcended genres — much like their storied peers in Motorhead and the Ramones — and furiously executed their art under the singular banner of simply “rock ’n’ roll.” But unlike those two other worthy ensembles, AC/DC managed to wholly infiltrate the zeitgeist, vaulting them to a more elevated level of stardom. Everyone knows an AC/DC song, although if you really want to separate the die-hards from the dilettantes, put on a selection from prior to 1979’s Highway to Hell, and see who more accurately air-guitars or croons lasciviously along with the late Bon Scott.
As their primary songwriter, Malcolm Young practically scored the soundtrack to my youth. Their high voltage anthems may have usually been about getting loud, laid and loaded with their wheels, whiskey and women (activities that were largely foreign to me as a young lad, albeit not for a lack of trying), but there was something about their immediately distinctive sound — invariably underpinned by the burly foundation of Malcolm Young’s rhythm-guitar — that indelibly resonated with me.
We shall not encounter their like again.
My friend Brian spotted the below of Malcolm and Bon amidst the wilds of the internet, and it struck all the right chords, pardon the pun.
Rest in peace, gentlemen.
Happy Thanksgiving, all...
We're actually mixing it up, this year, and passing on the whole traditional turkey dinner motif and heading off to zig-zag around the southern end of Ireland for a week. Perhaps I'll post from over there, but I kinda doubt it, as I'll probably be busily consuming my own weight in Guinness and antagonizing the locals with my appropriated Gaelic accent.
Please have a nice holiday while I'm gone.
But as a parting gift, here's an appropriate little clip. Herewith Dublin's own ferocious Virgin Prunes at Danceteria on 21st Street in 1983.
In 2017, the space that was the multi-floored Danceteria is now a -- WAIT FOR IT -- pricey condo, ... with a Starbucks in its ground floor.
Erin Go BLREAARGGHHH!!
I’ve posted a few of these before (see bottom of thread for a short handful), but being that this one is extra chunky (19 minutes!), I thought it was worth including.
From the vantage point of 2017, New York City in 1976 looks as gritty and colorful as you might imagine it should, but it also still looks fairly familiar. When this was being shot on Super 8 film, it is the year of the Bicentenial. Abe Beame is still mayor. Son of Sam is still at large. The DNC is being held at Madison Square Garen. Punk Rock is percolating down on the Bowery. Broadway is in thrall to the charms of “The Wiz” and “A Chorus Line.”
Personally speaking, I am 9 years old and living and attending school as a fifth grader on the Upper East Side. I am still recovering from the cancellation of the “Planet of the Apes” TV series, but I’m all psyched up about a movie called “Logan’s Run.” “Star Wars” has not come out yet, but that will shortly change everything. Music-wise, I share my older sister’s adoration for Mothership Connection by Parliament, and I have long since absconded with her copy of A Night at the Opera by Queen. Despite multiple, limp admonitions from my parents, I have cultivated a fervent apprecation for the charms of Kiss, and Destroyer is, to my mind, at the time, the single greatest achievemnt of mankind writ large. This impression will change over time.
The footage beneath seems so familiar, that I half expect to see myself captured playing in Central Park or sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum. I also thrilled to catch a momentary glimpse of the old Sam Goody on Sixth Avenue (which I spoke about way back here).
Enjoy the time warp…
More stuff like this:
The Search for the White Whale
One last word about Drew Carolan’s “Matinee” book.
You might remember in my most recent post about the book, I mentioned that Drew himself will be doing an in-store at Generation Recoreds on Thompson Street, accompanied by period-appropriate proto-NYHC band, The Mob. Unfortunately, I’m not going to be able to be there as, that same day (this Saturday, November 18th), the wife & kids and I are boarding a plane for Ireland for a week. We’ll be spending our Thanksgiving drinking Guinness, posing with statuery of Phil Lynott, singing Virgin Prunes ditties a capella and upsetting the locals with our appropriated accents. I’m greatly looking forward to all that, but I’m bummed to be missing Drew’s in-store. Go in my stead, and please tell’em Flaming Pablum sent ya.
In any case, there is one more addendum I wanted to bookend my series of posts on the subject with. If you haven’t picked up the “Matinee” book yet, you should indeed do so, but if you already have and are summarily enjoying it (as well you should be), you should also be sure to check out Drew’s Instagram page, which takes the project to the proverbial next level.
For the past few weeks, Drew has been somewhat painstakingly tracking down the subjects of his photos to find out what they’ve been up to since. Check out his Instagram page here and get the whole storey, courtesy of NPR, here.
I hope he doesn’t mind, but here’s one of my favorites. This is my friend Yana, one of the former hardcore kids Drew immortalized. She later went on to front the bands P.M.S. and Wench, and had a sideline in record company publicity. Regular readers might remember my account of meeting Yana (then a benevolent representative of my beloved Killing Joke) when she was working at Noise International on Crosby Street. She’s gone on to do a number of fabulous things since then, including singing for an all-female Dio cover band called ...WAIT FOR IT ... Sheo!
Drew's Instagram also features some outtakes and shots that didn't make the book. Totally worth checking out. Enjoy!
Oh, and just because …. here’s The Mob…
I’ve spoken about them here before (notably on this post), but back in the early-to-mid 2000’s, the excellently ecclectic British record label, Soul Jazz, released a trio of compilations called New York Noise. In keeping with the label’s impetus to “draw cross cultural connections between various music genres,” this trilogy provided an exhaustive array of music culled from 1977 to 1984, collectively, devoted to less heralded variants from the then-thriving underground scene in New York City (...y’know, hence the title, New York Noise). This included both prime movers and arguable also-rans from the cacophonous No Wave scene, practitioners of a seemingly short-lived strain of dance music dubbed “Mutant Disco’ (which always makes me think of Marvel Comics’ Dazzler), some early dabblers in electronic, hip-hop, experimental music, stripped-down funk, and bits of stuff that frankly defies a tidy description. Given my tastes, predilections and obsessions, I hungrily snatched up each copy upon their respective releases, primarily motivated by the noisier, punkier stuff like Glenn Branca’s Theoretical Girls and DNA.
But as much as I genuinely love all that frenzied, discordant guitar damage, the disc in the series I find myself returning to the most is the first one, which focusses more on dance music, although dance music of an entirly different sort than people seem to want to boogie to in 2017. Bass-heavy tracks like “Baby Dee” by Konk (who I mentioned here and most recently again here), “Button Up” by the Bloods, “You Make No Sense” by ESG and the entirely amazing “Defunkt” by Defunkt never fail to make my day. Additionally, there’s “Do Dada” by an outfit called The Dance, which features a refrain that seems strangley reminiscent, in an odd, hyperactive way, to “Never Enough” by the Cure (recorded 13 years later … maybe a Robert Smith was a fan?). The disc also features the 20 plus minute sprawl of “Beat Bop” by Rammellzee and K. Rob, which still, to my mind, has never been bested in the context of hip-hop. Think Drake or Kanye or one of those ridiculous, auto-tuned clowns could come up with something this amazing? I strenuously doubt it.
In any case, all three editions of the series are well worth your time, even if you’re not especially inclined towards post-punky rump-shaking. While much of the music captured on New York Noise comes swathed in roaring, buzzing noise (either because of the players’ iconoclastic ineptitude or wilful contempt for their listeners), these songs provide another glimpse into a particular chapter of New York City history that isn’t othewise discernible anymore. Consider them sonic snapshots of a lost downtown Manhattan.
Given my own fascination with that rarified “sense of place” phenomenon, in my commutes back and forth from work, I frequently listen to this music while walking by the addresses of period-specific haunts like the performance space at 135 Grand Street, Jeffrey Lohn’s Loft at 33 Grand Street (where this crazy footage was filmed), the Mudd Club at 77 White Street and Tier 3 on West Broadway at White Street, to name but a small handful. While I was indeed alive when all this music was being made and played live, I was living about 90 blocks to the north, barely pubescent and invariably more concerned with the antics of Darth Vader, Gene Simmons and the X-men. But as compelling as this music remains in this context, it’s becoming harder and harder to reconcile with the Manhattan of today. That has less to do with the arguable timelessness of the music, and more to do with the changing cityscape and sensibility of New York City.
So, yeah, while I may have been too young to appreciate No Wave, Mutant Disco and the like while they in their fleeting heydays, I was around for much of the NYHC era and some of the post-No Wave noise-rock era. And back then (early-to-mid-80s and into the 90’s), the downtown streets resembled the music. The Bowery looked as rough and tumble as the music of the Cro-Mags and Agnostic Front would suggest. The urban desolation of East First Street between the Bowery and Second Avenue looked and felt as beat-up, broken-down and rusted as the music of Cop Shoot Cop and Pussy Galore. It all seemed to fit. The bands fed on the environment, and the environment mirrored the ensuing music.
But walking around the East Village, the Lower East Side, SoHo and TriBeCa nowadays? Its very hard to put them together. As I’ve mentioned before, I never made it to the Mudd Club, but when I repeatedly walk up and down Cortlandt Alley and gaze up at the still strangly-iconic looking building at 77 White Street (now a pricey condo), I find it hard to fathom that it once played host to bands like the Cramps, Teenage Jesus & the Jerks, etc. Do its current affluent occupants realize, I continually wonder, that luminaries like Klaus Nomi, Johnny Thunders and James Chance once put on performances in the same space that might now be their currently well-appointed kitchen?
To use something of a hackneyed cinematic allusion, Downtown Manhattan no longer looks like the films of Nick Zedd, Jim Jarmusch and Chantal Akerman. Now it just resembles yet another unsolicited sequel to "Sex and The City."
Today, that loft at 33 Grand Street where Glen Branca went batshit bonkers on his guitar is a deli, although it spent a few years as Burroughs-themed bar called Naked Lunch. The space that had been Tier 3 was, until somewhat recently, I believe, a bakery of some sort. The loft at 135 Grand Street (documented in this film) is now a pricy boutique of some variety.
There was that instance last spring, when I serendipitously spotted (and photographed) James Chance sitting on the steps of the former Mudd Club. It was a tiny moment that provided a fleeting whiff of its former incarnation. But -– for the most part -– regardless of how much I circumnavigate these streets with the sounds of New York Noise (and other albums by period-appropriate artists) in my headphones, I can’t seem to synch them up. That New York is simply gone.
Just as a post-script, if you're ever in London and have some time on your hands, you owe it to yourself to check out the official Soul Jazz shop, Sounds of the Universe. It's worth the trip.
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