Flaming Pablum

Heartbreak on East 11th

Hanging Around

Bands like The Stranglers just don't exist anymore, do they.

Everything about this is perfect.

What's Black & White & Punk All Over?

Not an especially meaningful post, but I stumbled upon the Instagram page of one Alain Van Poeyer, and it’s an amazing trove of exclusively B&W photographs of Punk Rock/Post-Punk/New Wave/Hardcore luminaries. It’s somewhat dodgily credited -- if credited at all -- but the collection remains legitimately amazing slew of provocative portraits. 

The shot of Generation X above – one I’d never seen before – is just a taster. Find more here.

Goodnight, Pat DiNizio

I was very sad to learn, this morning, of the unexpectedly early death of Pat DiNizio of the Smithereens at age 62. The cause of death was not disclosed.

I first heard the Smithereens -- above, as captured by Michael Ochs on the corner of Mulberry & Prince Streets in SoHo -- in the spring of 1986 via their brooding single, “Blood and Roses,” and the album that spawned it, Especially for You, quickly became the soundtrack to that following summer, packed with amazing singles like “Behind the Wall of Sleep,” “Only a Memory” and the planegent “In a Lonely Place.” As I mentioned in the obit I penned for the job, Pat wrote taut, emotionally resonant songs that were both retro-leaning and punk-informed, walking a compelling line between melodic pop and guitar-driven edge.

In the wake of that record, they actually came and played at my college, arguably one of the more rocking acts to ever grace the campus (Denison University was usually more predisposed to the higgy jam band set, unfortunately). I particularly remember a spirited, punky sprint through “One After 909” by ye olde Beatles.

Their heyday came and went, and they released a few more great records, but they never really broke through to the big time, so to speak. That said, they never stopped recording and touring.

I don’t know the circumstances of Pat’s death, but I’d heard some rumors of some life-difficulties he’d been grappling with. Here’s hoping he’s resting easy now.

Pour one out for Pat. Gone too soon.

This one was always my favorite...

Invader's Ramones Mosaic on Thompson Street Between Broome & Grand Streets

December 4, 2015

December 11, 2015

December 12, 2015

February 15, 2016

March 4, 2016

April 26, 2016

October 27, 2016

December 11, 2017

December 11, 2017

Step messing with it. 

Revisiting 'One Down, Three to Go'

As has inevitably been cited elsewhere, this week marks the anniversary of John Lennon’s murder. The former Beatle was gunned down in front of the Dakota on the Upper West Side thirty-seven years ago today. As described back on this post, I was an eighth grader, at the time, and remember it pretty viscerally. Regardless of your stance on his music, he just wasn’t someone you expected to suddenly die, let alone in that manner. This is probably just my fanciful revisionism, but I don’t think society at large was as hardened to seemingly random gun-violence of that kind, at the time, as it invariably is now.

While I was only thirteen, I was still pretty shaken up by it. Like most of my generation, I’d been sort of raised on the Beatles. They had arguably become the foundation and the firmament of everything rock and pop aspired to emulate. Everyone I knew liked the Beatles. It pretty much went without saying.

At the same time, my own tastes were diversifying. Weaned as I had been on the Beatles, KISS, Queen, Pink Floyd and the dependable warhorses of classic rock radio, I latched onto heavy metal and then Punk Rock with both hands in fairy short order, largely abandoning the oeuvres of those more hirsute, canonical stalwarts in favor of newer, faster, angrier and arguably less finessed music. In due course, Punk gave way to hardcore, which was seemingly as far from Abbey Road in both style and sentiment as one could possibly travel.

A big part of the whole hardcore punk aesthetic, of course, was renunciation. Anything that questioned, besmirched, defamed, blasphemed and/or flipped an emphatic middle-finger at the establishment was pretty much the order of the day. In the realm of music, using Johnny Rotten’s fabled “I Hate Pink Floyd” shirt as the model (a sentiment he has since disavowed), hardcore bands of all stripes fired point blank at the icons of stodgy rock royalty. Most of it was pure posturing, of course. While “No God” by the Germs, as one example, may have disrespectfully co-opted Steve Howe’s filigree-laden riff from Yes’ “Roundabout,” it wasn’t hard to glean that guitarist Pat Smear (later of the Foo Fighters) was actually a big Yes fan.

But there were certain bands, of course, who took it a step further. From Los Angeles, storied ensemble FEAR perfected a cartoonishly objectionable reputation. For all their vindictive invective, however, there always seemed to be the insinuation that it was something of an act, however tasteless. Moreover, there was a musical sophistication at work (on the first record, at least) that suggested a greater versatility than their persona might have otherwise implied. This was less the case, however, with the Meatmen, a Detroit hardcore band who traded in a similar vein of willfully offensive fare.

I believe I picked up the Meatmen’s 1983 debut LP, We’re the Meatmen …. and You Suck! purely on the strength of the album cover. Festooned with rudimentary artwork and boasting a rash of giddily shocking song titles (“Crippled Children Suck,” “Orgy of One,” “I Sin for a Living,” etc.) it seemed to check all the right boxes, so to speak.

Musically, the Meatmen were pointedly unrefined, practicing a standard-issue brand of stripped-down, no-frills hardcore. But, it was still enjoyably noisy, sneery and willfully obnoxious. Never was this greater evinced than on the album’s second track, “One Down, Three to Go.”

Making Rotten’s “I Hate Pink Floyd” shirt seem positively polite, “One Down, Three to Go” is a deliberately antagonistic ditty about – wait for it – the Beatles (the “One down” in question being John Lennon, already dead three years upon the release of the Meatmen’s debut album). Penned to rile the sensibilities of Beatle purists and shake the very foundations of classic rock hierarchy, “One Down…” took aim at the most sacrosanct of possible subjects. Consider it the opposing argument to Elton John’s “Empty Garden.”

In fact, here it is now…

At the time, it seemed funny in a decidedly black-humored manner, taking a ludicrously contrarian position to a universally acknowledged tragedy. It also seemed like the quintessence of upending a sacred cow. By those flimsy parameters, “One Down, Three to Go” seemed like Punk Rock in its purest form.

But as amusing as the song’s chorus arguably remains ….

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck the Beatles
Smelly hairy old people
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck the Beatles
Smelly hairy old people

…. the verses are something else entirely.

The 80’s being a less enlightened era doesn’t forgive everything. While it’s a million laughs to make fun of hippies and decry the old guard, within the song’s stanzas (you can Google it), vocalist/songwriter Tesco Vee alludes to Lennon widow Yoko Ono as both a “slopehead” and a “panfaced gook,” further debasing her in crass sexual scenarios (again, you can Google it).

I know, in recent years, there’s been a lot of talk about “political correctness,” the very term becoming an easily misconstrued political football. But, at the end of the day, being “politically correct” is really just shorthand for being culturally aware, cognizant and inclusive. Last time I checked, these were all good things.

I didn’t really intend this to become such a righteous rant, but I guess I just feel like I should apologize for espousing this sorta bullshit. I suppose the argument could be made that, like the License to Ill-era Beastie Boys and, for that matter, Andrew Dice Clay, the Meatmen were in character the whole time. I can’t speak to that. While I had my suspicions in that capacity about FEAR, I haven’t seen or heard anything about the Meatmen, over the years, to suggest that they are or were anything other than tasteless assholes. Regardless, you know what’s absolutely never alright? Slurs like “slopehead” and “gook.” They’re not funny, they’re not ironic, they’re not cool and they’re sure as shit not Punk. Certainly not in 2017, but not in 1983 either. They’re indefensible and they’re just fuckin’ racist. And let’s not even discuss the album’s opening track, “Tooling for Anus.”

I know I’m setting myself up for some pushback here, but that’s alright. Let’s hear it.

Grassroots Up for Grabs?

On several occaisions, in the past couple of years, I’ve made the declaration that St. Marks Place is dead, … or dead to me, at least. I’ve made similar assertions about SoHo. These observations are invariably due to the closing of various businesses that once lined the byways in question, and the ensuing changes in character that the absences of those businesses provoke.

While most of the places I once held dear on or around St. Marks Place --- Dojo, St. Marks Books, Freebeing Records, Venus Records, Sounds, Smash CD’s (later Rockit Scientist), Coney Island High, Trash & Vaudeville, the Continental as a live music venue, Norman’s Sound + Vision -– are all already long, long gone, there are still a couple of spots that still resonate with me. No, I’m not talking about Search & Destroy. I mean, I have nothing against the place, but it’s not exactly cheap, considering the state of the duds they’re hawking. It’s just not from “my era,” so to speak.

I’m glad St. Marks Comics is still there, and I’m glad the historic Gem Spa is still hanging on. But I spied a post on EV Grieve’s blog this week that really put the hook in me.

As detailed here, evidently the Grassroots Tavern -– open since 1975 and captured above by me circa 2012 -- is poised to get new owner, and an owner more inclined towards bespoke bullshit and a more monied clientele. 

I believe I first started darkening the doors of the endearingly grotty Grassroots Tavern in about 1989. Freshly sprung from college, but without a meaningful job of any substantial description, apart from a pointedly unpaid internship at SPIN Magazine (where, as detailed here, I made sure to compensate for my lack of a salary by liberally availing myself to stacks of promo albums and a healthy supply of SPIN t-shirts), I discovered the myriad joys of drinking on the (relatively) cheap in the dim, low tin-ceilinged splendor of the Grassroots with my gaggle of similarly empoverished friends. But a drunken bottle’s toss from many of the since-vanished spots cited above (the Grassroots is directly underneath what used to be Sounds), it was the perfect location wherein to review one’s spoils from any number of record shops over a few beers, or a decent place to start one’s evening before repairing to various (since-shuttered) rock clubs of the area.

No, the bowls of popcorn are never necessarily that fresh, and the jukebox is never loud enough, for my taste, but I dearly love the Grassroots Tavern. It’s not fancy. It’s not exclusive. Hell, it’s not even especially nice, but -– to my mind -- it’s perfect just the way it is.

Don’t fuck with it.

Rest in Peace, Wild Bill

I haven't seen any "official' statement, but according to folks who would very definitely know on social media, evidently guitarist Wild Bill Thompson of the Senders has passed away. I wrote a tiny bit about them back here. They may not have become household names, but they were a force to be reckoned with.

Here they were tearing it up at CBGB in 1989. Pour one out for Wild Bill.  

Down on the UT Side

Honestly speaking, I really don’t know much about the band UT beyond that they were spawned towards the tail end of the No Wave era here in NYC, only to decamp to London and sign with the maverick indie lable, Blast First. They’re considerd an formidable influence on the nascent iterations of Sonic Youth and Sleater Kinney, among others.

While I’d read their name in various rock tomes, I don’t think I ever actually heard their music until getting a hold of those New York Noise compilations I spoke of as recently as two weeks ago. In fact, the only real reason I’m invoking them here now is because of this portrait I spotted of them, taken by renowned photographer Cindy Sherman.

Now it’s a cool photo on a variety of levels. For a start, it’s just a cool shot of a cool band. Secondly, it’s a stylishly staged image of an era of NYC that obviously doesn’t exist anymore. Thirdy, I find it intriguing in that depicts the space across the West Side Highway around Murray Street as still being undeveloped, landfill beachfront. Click on it to enlarge. 

Today, of course, the spot where UT are depicted loitering is a very different scene. Here that’s same approximate spot today, courtesy of Google Maps.

Some added bits of trivia: Sonic Youth would later name one of their albums Murray Street, which was where, I believe, they maintained a rehearsal space circa September 2001. Also, shot nearby was that single sleeve for “Always” by Tom Verlaine on Vesey Street, …also snapped when it was just sandy landfill.

For reference, meanwhile, this is my favorite UT track. Crank it.