Sorry for the relative slowdown. It’s been a crazy couple of weeks. Work has been somewhat hectic, my daughter’s in the process of deciding which high school she’s going to attend and we had a couple of near-misses on a new apartment. That said, the New York City real estate scene can be a perilous hotbed of nasty duplicity, as we’re finding out first-hand. Not that we didn’t already know that, but we had an unfortuante encounter, recently, wherein we really got our hopes up about a potential new space, only to see those hopes dashed by some frankly shady bullshit. In any case, we have way too much going on.
I had been working on a post based on a truly surreal evening on Ludlow Street last week, but that will have to wait for a bit. Suffice to say, if, like me, you harbor a fondness for the era of Ludlow Street marked by ventures like the original Max Fish, the Luna Lounge, the Pink Pony Café, the original Barramundi, the Cake Shop and Motor City, you would do well to avoid the current iteration of that storied street. Also, if you’re only attending a function ostensibly as someone’s plus one, it’s probably best not to get into a big, heated music dispute and, evidently, ruin someone’s evening by showing them up. Yeah, I did that. Oops.
Also, remember back in early January when I posted about undertaking Dry January in the hopes of combating the “weak-willed shit” that typically decimates my resolve? Well, guess who was blown off that pompous horse after only five days? I was. The so-called “bomb cyclone” put an end to my Dry January in embarrassingly stealthy order. As such, haunted by both that failure and a need to curtail our spending habits, I am looking to undertake what I am referring to as Austere February. Sounds like a barrel of laughs, don’t it? Needs must, as the idiom goes. Watch this space.
But enough of my silly bullshit. I spotted this on the Instagram page of the Brooklyn Bridge (who knew it had one?) and thought I’d share it here. I strenuously doubt our David ever rocked this particular garment whilst on the bridge in question, thus I surmise that this image is the work of some deft photoshopping. It also came appended with a quote.
"I realized the other day that I've lived in New York longer than I've lived anywhere else. It's amazing: I am a New Yorker. It's strange; I never thought I would be." -- David Bowie
Now, while I'm not normally in the habit of casting doubt about anything David Bowie would have said, just because he lived here longer than anywhere else in his life, did that, in face, render him a bona fide New Yorker? What say you?
As an impressionistic kid, I initially had The Fall figured so wrong that I continue to not feel qualified to opine on them with any semblance of credibility. In a nutshell, while I’d heard their name bandied about in tandem with several other favorite bands, when I took a look at them -- with their pointedly un-“punk” haircuts and their cardigans –- in my youthful idiocy, their faillure to adopt the ridiculous tonsorial and sartorial shenanigans of, say, GBH or Siouxsie & the Banshees mistakenly led me to believe that their music couldn’t possibly be very interesting. How very wrong I was.
As described in this ancient post, all it really took was a cursory airing of “Cruiser’s Creek” to get me to change my ill-informed tune on this strikingly original, maddeningly prolific band. After that, my new quandary was: Where does one start trying to infiltrate the strange world of The Fall?
As it happened, shortly after that (well, 1990), Beggars’ Banquet saw fit to release a tidy pair of A-Side and B-side compilations from their ample arsenal of singles. A great starting point, for those seeking to investigate same, is 458489 A-Sides, a 17-track selection of The Fall at arguably their most user-friendly.
This is all prompted, of course, by news today that Mark E. Smith, the Fall’s inimitably gruff lead singer and conceptual nucleus, passed away today at age 60. By all accounts a unique talent and a rousingly disagreeable character (he makes his fellow Mancunians in Oasis seem positively obliging), Mark E. Smith cut a distinctive profile, and we assuredly shall not see his like again.
Drink the long draught and pour one out for Mark E. Smith. If you weren’t a fan or even aware, let his passing be your motivation to seek our their music and shake up your preconceptions.
As far as I’m concerned, given my predilections, there simply cannot be too many books about the storied legacy of NYC’s underground music scene. As such, seemingly tailor-made to my tastes, a forthcoming book crossed my radar today, and I am well up for it.
In doing same, though, I noticed the shot below, a photo snapped within, I believe, the notoriosuly low-ceiling’ed confines of A7 (currently the comparatively genteel back-room of Jesse Malin’s Niagara on Avenue A at East 7th Street.
I’m excited to check out all of O’Sullivans pics, but I got excited about this one, as if features a then-future member of Cop Shoot Cop!
Yep, in the bottomr right hand corner, you can spy a pensive-looking Jack Natz. The band onstage, meanwhile, is Whipping Boy.
You might remember I spoke to and about Jack back on this post when the Cop Shoot Cop book was still don the front burner. At this time of this undated photo, he may have either been playing within the rans of Virus, or possibly still with The Undead, flanking Bobby Steele.
That’s a good enough excuse to exhume this great video. I spoke of it at greater length here, but here’s Natz, Pat Blank and Bobby Steele circa 1982…
For no big reason other than that my wife was in the mood for Middle Eastern food last night, we actually left the neighborhood to go to a certain Turkish restaurant in the Murray Hill area, not far from our kids’ school. The Mrs. & I had gone to this place several times in the mid-2000’s, but hadn’t been back in quite some time, despite the fact that the restaurant scrupulously sends special birthday coupons to us every year. In any case, we’d had quite a few memorable meals there back in those days, so we figured we’d give it a go again, and introduce the kids to it.
For a Sunday night, though, something seemed not quite right. We got there about 5:30 pm, and there was a steady influx of patrons as the evening went on, but the staff seemed strangely harried in a manner not unlike the more stressful episodes of “Fawlty Towers.” It took forever to get menus, one drink order went hilariously awry, and, when the bill came, we were duly informed that if we intended to pay by credit card (we did), we’d probably have to wait “around twenty minutes” for the transaction to go through, as they were evidently having some variety of wifi trouble. This all said, when we did get our food, it was refreshingly excellent, so I overlooked all that, popped out to an ATM, and settled up in cash.
There was another peculiar thing about the dining experience, however, that added an extra layer of surreal tragicomedy. I’d noticed, when we sat down, that the sound system was playing a sort of piano-loungey rendition of “Laura,” an old jazz standard by Johnny Mercer & David Raskin, later popularized by Frank Sinatra and a few others. You might know it if you heard it. It’s a reasonably innocuous entry in the great American Songbook, dating back to the mid-40’s, originally tethered to a movie of the same name. The lyrics are about the charms of an elusive dream girl. This particular version featured what sounded like a somewhat incongruous children’s choir on the chorus, warbling certain notes that struck my ear rather distinctively.
As the evening went on, though, I noticed that it was either a very lengthy version of the song, or that –- more likely -– it was being played again. And again. And again. And again. As we waited for our first round of drinks, it played. ”Oh Laura is a face in the misty light….” As we got our first round of hummus, bread and a dish called the Shepherd’s Salad, it continued. ”Footsteps, that you hear down the hall….” As I was admonishing my 11-year-old for dropping his fork a second time, “Laura” continued trilling.”She gave the very first kiss to you….” It scored the arrival of our entrees –- some chicken dish I can't recall the name of and a family-style donner kebab. ”That was Laura, ….but she’s only a dream….” It continued its tireless siren song as the kids tried baklava for the first time, and I burned my tongue on the coffee. ”Oh Laura is a face in the misty light…” It chimed ceaselessly in the background as we conferred about the restaurant’s WiFi problems, and how that was going to affect our preferred method of payment. ”She gave the very first kiss to you….”. It never stopped. It’s probably still playing right now.
More than any other quirk in a dining experience rife with quirks, it really puzzled the Hell out of me. Surely, I can’t be the only person that was noticing, right? I looked around at the other tables and at other patrons. No one seemed struck by it. I looked at the wait staff –- surely they must be aware of it, no? After all, we were only going to be there for about an hour and a half, but they were stuck there all night. They’ve got to notice it. They certainly looked tense, but that might have had something to do with the payment issue that was creating a little bit of drama at each table.
But the idea of listening to only a single song again and again and again and again and again…. even at a relatively unobtrusive volume felt like the slow boat to madness. What at first seemed curious turned amusing and then became laborious. Then it became funny again. Reassured that, despite the hurdle of not being able to pay by credit card, I was going to be able to leave after I plonked down some cash –- thus freeing myself and my family from yet another lulling airing of “Laura,” my hope and humor was restored. But had we had to wait those twenty (or so) minutes for the credit card machine to maybe work, I might have thrown a spoke and plunged headlong into insanity. ”Oh Laura is a face in the misty light….footsteps that you hear down the hall…”
On our way out, after I’d earned the good cheer of our waitress for paying in cash, thus sparing her from further self-flagellation, I leaned over to her to inform her about the evident glitch on their music playlist. “Oh,you are enjoying it, yes?” She didn’t seem to understand my point. “It’s fine, but it’s playing the same song over and over again,” I tried to point out. “Oh, no, sir,” she chuckled, “I promise you it’s not.” I decided to let her find out for herself. Or not. Either way, I had to get out of there.
As I was dropping off the kids at school around the corner from this restaurant this morning, I was fleetingly tempted to stop in and see if it was still going, but thought better of it. They probably weren’t open, anyway.
Incidentally, the only reason I know this particular song is because of Spike Jones’ irreverent version, which is still pretty damn funny. Stick with it, it really gets going after 1:24.
I took a glance at my blog’s traffic, this week, and graphically speaking, the page-views resemble a disinterested shark swimming away.
I feel like most of the last few posts here have been rather morose, either filled with complaints and acknowledgments of loss. I mean, obviously, it’s a tremendous downer to lose folks like Dolores O’Riordan from the Cranberries and Fast Eddie Fookin’ Clarke from Motorhead, and I remain deeply saddened by the passing of my friend Danny. But with Danny’s irreverent spirit in mind, I know he would frown on maudlin sentimentality. Actually, I did think of another telling, music-related anecdote I forgot to share in that last post. Bear with me, for a moment.
In 1985, some might recall an album by Dead Kennedys called Frankenchrist. A typically rollicking slice of Jello Biafra’s venomous social commentary, scored by the inimitable East Bay Ray’s psychobilly guitars, the album was largely business-as-usual for the storied San Francisco punk stalwarts. That said, along with the vinyl, the original album also came with a poster, a nice little gift to the fans for shelling out their bucks. The only arguable problem, in this instance, was the content of the poster. Framed by a festive rectangle of patriotic stars and stripes, the poster was a painting by fabled Swiss artist, H.R. Giger. Film buffs will recognize him as the notorious painter who did all the original design work for the “Alien” films. In this instance, however, the depiction was a piece called, ahem, “Penis Landscape.” True to its title, it’s basically a disarmingly detailed rendering of multiple depictions of ribald copulation. Evidently, someone didn’t find it quite as amusing as others might have, and it touched off a storied legal dispute, with the DK’s falling foul of the law for allegedly distributing harmful material to minors. It sounds somewhat quaint, by today’s standards, but it was a pretty big deal, at the time.
In any case, Danny and I were discussing this shortly after the lawsuit kicked off, and --- being the dutiful punk fan I was -- I mentioned that I owned the album in question. He immediately demanded to see the poster. As I’d told him the whole backstory, he asked why I didn’t put it up on my wall to demonstrate my solidarity with the band and the cause. I responded that while I indeed threw my support behind the DK’s, I just wasn’t keen on looking at “Penis Landscape” everyday (Google it, and you’ll see what I’m talking about). With that, Danny asked if he could have it. I said yes, and he took it home and, sure enough, put it on his wall. I want to also say he may have actually framed it, but I may be projecting that bit. In any case, that’s the type of cat Danny was. God bless’im.
Anyway, in the spirit of livening up proceedings, herewith yet another take on that irritating (for some) meme thingy, the 30-Day Song Challenge. I put one up here a great while back (see it here), wherein I cut right to the chase and answered everything in one fell swoop, thereby saving everyone the prolonged wait and hassle. Yeah, you’re welcome. Here's a new one, with mostly new questions. Let’s get down to it, then, shall we?
Click on the below to enlarge, should you give a damn.
1. A Song You Like with a Color in the Title “Golden Brown” by the Stranglers. While not at all indicative of the sound and style that initially drew me to this band, I’ve always had a soft spot for this song. So much so, that when my wife-to-be and I were trying to determine a wedding song, I nominated this as an option. That was all nice and good until I let slip that the song was allegedly about heroin, which kind of put the Mrs. off the idea. Oh well. We ended up going with a Bond theme, in the end. Anyway, here it is….
2. A Song You Like with a Number in the Title “23 Minutes in Brussels” by Luna. I’ve always assumed the title here was an allusion to the fabled Suicide recording of “22 Minutes Over Brussels,” which captured a suitably hostile crowd/band interaction. The Luna track isn’t nearly as fractious, and frankly owes much more to Suicide’s peers in the Velvet Underground and Television than to Messrs. Vega & Rev. I actually prefer the version that was originally released as the b-side to their cover of Donovan’s “Season of the Witch,” but that’s evidently not on Youtube.
3. A Song That Reminds You of Summertime “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” by Elton John & Kiki Dee. There are practically thousands of suitable songs to address this question, but for some reason, it was a toss-up between this and “Love Will Keep Us Together” by the Captain & Tennille. Both were these massive, inescapable pop hits that I remember from my childhood (y’know, but when “summertime” meant something fairly concrete). One wonders whatever became of Kiki Dee.
4. A Song That Reminds You of Someone You’d Rather Forget “Coward” (live version from 2013’s Not Here/Not Now) by SWANS. It’s a suitably ugly story, but in 2014, I was caught up in a severely fraught circumstance wherein I was basically being managed out of a job. It’s a long, protracted saga, but –- in a nutshell -– I was being laid off by increment. I had an unlucky supervisor who was tasked with this unsavory mission. Basically, as a member of middle-management, he was forced to turn up the scrutiny on several of my projects in order to drum up enough reasons for letting me go, so the organization could summarily replace me with someone half my age to pay a third of my salary to. Like I said, it was an ugly business, and as much as I am now able to look back on the situation and somewhat sympathize with that supervisor (he was clearly not enjoying it, either), I remain of the opinion that he didn’t handle it as well as he might’ve. I probably didn’t either, but I was the one getting the shaft, so to speak. In any event, when he/they eventually won this particular stand-off --- landing me on the unemployment line --- he wasn’t able to look me in the eye. Not Here/Not Now, a sprawling live document from SWANS had only been out for a few months, and this blistering trek through “Coward” seemed to fit the situation rather too well. “Stick Your Knife in Me…. Walk Away…”
5. A Song That Needs to Be Played Loud “Surf Combat” by Naked Raygun. Given the state of my hearing, pretty much every song needs to be played loud, these days. Regardless, I’ve always thrilled to the cathartic guitar crunch of this track since first hearing it in the summer of 1985. Not only can I not listen to it without turning it way up, I don’t believe I’m able to listen to it only once. Play it loud and multiple times.
6. A Song That Makes You Want to Dance “Garbageman” by The Cramps. I actually quite like a lot of bona fide “dance music,” however nebulous a term that is. While the Cramps would doubtlessly approve of people dancing to their songs, one would arguably be hard pressed to describe their fare as “dance music.” Regardless, instead of choosing something predictable by Prince, Parliament or Chic (all of whom I like), I remain entirely unable to keep still when this song plays. Boogie accordingly.
7. A Song to Drive To “Roadrunner” by the Modern Lovers. I may have avoided cliché on the last one, but I’m jumping right into it here. Being a native New Yorker, I didn’t get my driver’s license until 2005, but the first time I was behind the wheel of that car, I immediately knew what Jonathan Richman was singing about here. Count off…
8. A Song About Drugs or Alcohol “Alcohol” by Gang Green. Despite the specificity of the title, this breakneck anthem from Boston’s Gang Green also heartily endorses the use of cocaine, as well. There’s no doubt about it.
9. A Song That Makes You Happy “She Sells Sanctuary” by The Cult. I shouldn’t need to go into chapter and verse as to why I love this song and it makes me happy. It has since I first heard it, and it has never lost that particular power. As an added bonus, here’s a LEGO version of it. If this doesn’t make you happy, I pity you. Crank it.
10. A Song That Makes You Sad “I Still Do” by the Cranberries. While I think this song is designed to make one feel sad, it’s now sad for a whole other reason.
11. A Song You Never Get Tired Of “Eighties” by Killing Joke. You may have thought that in the 34 years since this single was released, I’d have grown tired of it. Nope. It remains absolutely perfect.
12. A Song from Your Preteen Years “Hello, It’s Me” by Todd Rundgren. In 1972, when this single came out and rule the radio, I was all of five years old. That said, I want to say I still remember hearing it as a child, playing on the car radio. Regardless, it’s still gorgeous.
13. A Song You Like from the Seventies “Long Cool Woman (In a Black Dress)” by the Hollies. This could easily have been the answer to the last question, but also from 1972, “Long Cool Woman (In a Black Dress)” seems to totally sum up a certain portion of the seventies for me. I love how it sounds like it was recorded in a tunnel. Also, there’s just no arguing with that guitar.
14. A Song You’d Love to be Played at Your Wedding “Dancing With Myself” by Billy Idol. As it happens, I am married, and have been for almost seventeen years, so I’m going to have to pick something that was played at my wedding. When we’d settled on a deejay, I’d initially started drawing up an elaborately detailed list of favorite songs that I wanted him to play, until it struck me that while I might enjoy certain bits of arguably left-field stuff, the main objective was to be inclusive and get everybody dancing. As such, I tossed out my list (rife with pretentious, arguably esoteric stuff) and we simply instructed the deejay to play whatever was going to get the crowd going. That said, we did give him a “DO NOT PLAY” list (no “Copacabana” was to be played under any circumstances), which he –- of course -– completely disregarded. In any case, to limply appease my penchant for the punky stuff, the deejay did play this, and it was rapturously well received by all on the floor.
15. A Song You Like That’s a Cover By Another Artist “Dirty Water” by the Inmates. While I do love the Standells’ original garage-rock ode to Boston (despite the inexplicable fact that the Standells were from Los Angeles), there’s something about the Inmates’ version -- swapping out the River Charles for the River Thames, and making it about London – that’s just got a beefier and enjoyably nastier sound. What’s not to like?
16. A Song That’s a Classic Favorite “The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys“ by Traffic. The concept of a “classic favorite” is, I suppose, something that everybody knows, everybody likes and is universally acknowledged as great. That said, what might seem like a “classic” to one person may not be perceived as such to another. So, forgive me if my selection of a “classic favorite” does not align with your tastes. I chose “The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys” by Traffic, as it was something I remember routinely hearing on classic rock radio, growing up. If you honestly care, I wrote a more detailed rumination on it back in 2005, but suffice to say, I love its mellifluous mellowness, its languid sprawl and its jazzy meanderings. I have zero idea what it’s about. A brush-off of glam rock, perhaps? Who cares, it’s great.
17. A Song You’d Sing a Duet with Someone on Karaoke Last summer, my family joined a couple of other families from our kids’ school for a night of dinner and karaoke, and – given my tinnitus – I found the whole experience worryingly loud, so much so that I had to sit most of it out. So, yeah, no karaoke for me.
18. A Song from the Year You were Born “Lucifer Sam” by Pink Floyd. What a trippy year 1967 must have been.
19. A Song That Makes You Think About Life “Up the Junction” by Squeeze. I don’t believe I ever gave this song a great deal of thought when I first heard it. It’s never been one of my favorites by the band, for that matter. But it wasn’t until I grew up, got married and had a family that I started to appreciate this song for the power of its narrative, however gloomy. Sort of a less cheery version of XTC’s “Earn Enough for Us” from a few years later, “Up the Junction” spins a yarn of humble domestic bliss gone pointedly sour after its protagonist succumbs to drinking and gambling, prompting his wife and infant daughter to move out. To capture the intricacies of this story within the parameters of a three-minute pop song is a testament to Squeeze’s songwriting genius.
20. A Song That Has Many Meanings To You “Charlotte Sometimes” (live version from Concert) by The Cure. For a start, it’s just a great song, although I way prefer this live version over the original studio version, for some indefinable reason. I think there’s something about the opening notes of the studio rendition that sounds off-key to me, and not in a cool, punky, we-did-it-on-purpose sorta way. But the live version from Concert just nails it. It’s also meaningful to me in that I remember buying the cassette version of Concert during my first trip to Paris in 1987. I bought it on the strength of the fact that it came appended on the b-side with Curiosities, a collection of rare tracks and such. I vividly remember sitting on the steps of Sacre Coeur, and playing “Charlotte Sometimes,” flipping the tape over and listening to “All Mine” from Curiosities over and over again, as they complemented each other perfectly. Thirdly, it indirectly was the inspiration for the name of my eldest child.
21. A Song You Like with a Person’s Name in the Title “Marian (Version)” by the Sisters of Mercy. Far and away my favorite track by the Sisters, it comes with the qualifier “(Version)” not because there are other known renditions of it out there, but rather that, legend has it, when they played if for their record company, the execs complained that they couldn’t make out the vocals. As such, Andrew Eldritch, the band’s own Mother Superior, slapped “(Version)” on it as an homage to reggae instrumentals. Cheeky bastard. I think virtually every single nanosecond of this song is absolute perfection, from Craig Adams’ metronome-of-death-like bass lines to Andrew’ guttural German exclamations towards the end. Revel in it.
22. A Song That Moves Your Forward “I Will Refuse” by Pailhead. From the strenuously unlikely pairing of Ian MacKaye of Minor Threat and Al Jourgensen of Ministry, “I Will Refuse” was and remains pure catharsis, for me. A slowly balled fist to the face, it’s an anthem of disgust and defiance.
23. A Song You Think Everybody Should Listen To “Black to Comm” by the MC5. I think everyone should listen to it, because it’s fucking excellent. Do I need a better reason?
24. A Song By a Band You Wish Were Still Together “Shine On, Elizabeth” by Cop Shoot Cop. I don’t think I really need to explain this one, do I?
25. A Song You Like By An Artist No Longer Living “Black Country Rock” by David Bowie. It could have been any one of his songs, but today, it’s this one.
26. A Song That Makes Want to Fall in Love “Young Adult Friction” by The Pains of Pure at Heart. It just sounds like it.
27. A Song That Breaks Your Heart “This Woman’s Work” by Kate Bush. Something about the way she delivers certain lines, specifically “oh, darlin’, make it go away!” Chokes me up absolutely every time.
28. A Song By an Artist Whose Voice You Love “Song to the Siren” by This Mortal Coil. There’s no arguing with Elizabeth Fraser.
29. A Song You Remember from Your Childhood “Moon Shadow” by Cat Stevens. We had this on eight-track cassette. Halfway through the song, I expect to hear that “ka-CHUNK” between tracks.
30. A Song That Reminds You of Yourself “Unbearable” by The Wonder Stuff. Some have suggested I am disagreeable.
...since it's such a buzzy term these days... My friend Drew Carolan of “Matinee” fame posted this earlier this week, so I thought I’d share it here.
Y’know, I realize I’m supposed to respect ol’ Henry Miller and all that -– I mean, consider, for a moment, his staggering body of literary work and trailblazing style. I only ever read “Tropic of Cancer” (inspired, embarassingly enough, by its invocation in one of the opening scenes of Scorsese’s “After Hours”), and barely made it through. He is rightly hailed as a titan of American letters.
But, taken out of context (that context being the 1975 feature, “Awake & Asleep”), this rant just paints Miller as a whiny, cranky, cantankerous old buzzard. Stop complaining, man. You survived and did alright for yourself and lead a pretty amazing, hedonistic, libidinous life with Anais Nin, June Miller and countless others.
As I mentioned on Facebook upon hearing the news, you can go ahead and revoke my music-snob card, but I will always stand by the Cranberries’ first EP, “Uncertain,” and the debut album. 1993’s Everybody Else is Doing It, Why Can’t We? I pretty much divested immediately after that record (for whatever reason, I was left quite cold by “Zombie” and everything after), but I’ll never part “Uncertain” and Everybody Else..
I first heard the Cranberries in 1991, via one of my old favorite manners of discovering new music. Remember that scene in “High Fidelity” wherein John Cusack’s character Rob slyly informs a co-worker that he’s about to sell multiple copies of an album by simply playing it in the store (in that instance, the band being the Beta Band)? That was pretty much the exact same scenario. My friend Sam and I were perusing the racks at Bleecker Street’s Rebel Rebel -- a shop I still very dearly miss -- when French Dave (he wasn’t actually French, but he usually copped such a service-with-a-sneer attitude that we felt he might as well be French) cued up a four-song E.P., filling the relatively intimate shop with the lilting sounds of a track called “Them.” Landing somewhere between the Cocteau Twins, the Smiths and the Sundays, the track was sparse, emotive, melancholy and ethereal. It was simply gorgeous.
Like the pavlovian dogs we were, we immediately asked French Dave who we were listening to (which doubtlessly rang a cha-ching! sound in his head). When he showed us the sleeve, Sam immediately said “I’ll take it,” remarking at how the cherubic tot on the cover looked so much like his niece, he figured it must be a sign. We paid and split.
Later that evening, Sam and I were holding court on the roof of his then-building at 64 Vestry Street in TriBeCa, drinking many beers and keeping amused by watching the cruising action on the West Side Highway (suffice to say, in 1991, the West Side Highway side of TriBeCa was a markedly different scene than it is today). On his boombox, we played the “Uncertain” EP repeatedly. So much so, that by the next day, I went back to French Dave’s and bought my own copy. I still have it. Once upon a time, the CD single (on indie Xeric records, no less) fetched a pretty penny, although I have no idea if that’s still the case.
By the time the Cranberries’ first full album, Everybody Else is Doing It, Why Can’t We? came out, I was quasi-recovering from a heroically botched office romance with a plucky young lady from the production department (an ill-fated endeavor which I briefly alluded to here), and lucklessly still carrying a torch for the colleague in question, much to pretty much everyone’s chagrin. As such, the slavishly lovelorn strains of the Cranberries’ debut -– rife with suitably miserablist paens to romantic dysfunction like “Not Sorry,” “Wanted,” “I Will Always,” “I Still Do,” and “Put Me Down” (jeezus, just read the titles!), fit my self-imposed exile from reality to a tee.
While still inarguably derivative of those afore-cited bands (I’m sure the Sundays were positively vexed that the Cranberries basically stole their ball and ran with it), there was no arguing with the immediacy of the songs or the distinctive lilt to O’Riordan’s vocals, ranging from intimate whisper to banshee yodel, often within the confines of a single track. And theirs was an intoxicating blend of windswept wistfulness, tailored for wandering irresponsibly around misty Irish moors. Of course, I didn’t have access, at the time, to any moors, so I just listened to the album on my Walkman while treking back and forth to the office, where myriad awkward elevator rides or needless, heart-stabbing encounters in hallways with the object of my star-crossed affections routinely awaited me.
Mercifully, although way later than I should’ve, I got over that particularly silly chapter of my life. After a while, music that had previously seemed inexorably linked to that experience – notably Amplified Heart by Everything But the Girl, Broken by Nine Inch Nails, “Stay” by Shakespeare’s Sister and, indeed, Everybody Else is Doing It, Why Can’t We? by the Cranberries -– just became music I enjoyed like any other, and no longer as saddled with association. I even ended up seeing them at the venue that became the Hammerstein Ballroom, but I couldn't exactly tell you too much about the show. I barely remember it, honestly, beyond Dolores wearing an American flag like a cape, at one point.
After that, the Cranberries themselves had kinda moved on -– making more “rock”-informed music like the afore-cited “Zombie” and the equally laborious “Salvation.” But everything felt a bit heavy-handed, as if they were trying to prove they were capable of writing songs that served ends beyond doleful self-flagellation. And, personally speaking, “rocking” was not something I required out of the Cranberries. So I basically jumped ship.
From what I gather, I think swift, engulfing succeess can mess you up something fierce, and I understand that Dolores O’Riordan had her share of that. That said, she kept on keeping on. Evidently, just prior to her untimely death, she was about to begin recording with none other than Youth from my beloed Killing Joke at the production helm. Clearly, she was not expecting to go when she did.
Here’s hoping that wherever she is now, she has finally found peace.
Post Script: I'm afraid I do not know the true provenance of the photo up top, but that's indeed Dolores in a Government Issue t-shirt. I poached it from a friend's Facebook feed. Was she an avowed fan of vintage D.C. hardcore, or did she just think it was a cool shirt? Who knows.
It only opened as recently as October, gamely grabbing the baton from then-recently-departed Disc-O-Rama at 44 West 8th Street (which closed back May), but Mainline Records is, evidently, already no more. I popped out earlier this morning to run some errands, and was shocked to see it shuttered and gutted.
It seemed like an audacious-but-promising venture from the start. Hearkening to the record stores that used to be found all over the neighborhood, Mainline sought to be more of a discerning music fan’s record shop — concentrating on the oft-touted vinyl resurgence — than just a place to pick up the latest Taylor Swift product.
I was, of course, all for it, although every time I stopped in, I never really found what I was looking for. I don’t think they existed long enough to find their niche, let alone their stride.
I can only assume they simply weren’t generating enough revenue to meet the demands on their rent.
Please indulge me again, for a moment, about the loss of my old friend.
In discussing the passing of Danny Choy, earlier this week, with another old, mutual friend, he underscored that Danny -- more than most -- deserved to live the sort of adventurous life that matched his unflappable spirit. The 2011 paralysis Danny suffered seemed particularly cruel, given that he sustained the injury doing something he dearly loved, and his penchant to *do*/*see/*explore*/*experience* was just something that so defined him. That those abilities were largely taken away from him continues to pain everyone who knew him and loved him. At least now, he is hopefully free from that which contained him.
Again, as I mentioned in greater detail on this post (wherein Danny was assigned the pseudonym of "Rocky"), he was able to do things with his bicycle that defied all semblance of human understanding. At the risk of courting further hyperbole, it was simply poetry. The frame-standing I mentioned in that older post can be seen above, but the photo -– respectfully procured from his tribute page on Facebook -– doesn’t entirely do it justice. I cannot even begin to describe both the awe and concern I felt when watching the grace with which he mastered such feats, elegantly ascending his trusty Supergoose with the balance of a scruffier Philippe Petite, as we effectively raced downhill(no less) on that steep incline that runs down the Central Park Drive just north of the Boat House, with Danny striking any number of knowingly ridiculous poses. I couldn’t –- and sheepishly wouldn’t -- have attempted anything of the sort. Given my own practically spastic limitations, it was a miracle I could master my pedals, let alone propel my bike forward. Danny gamely overlooked that, and I feverishly struggled to keep up with him, like a breathless and sweaty Sancho Panza to his Don Quixote.
Beyond our two-wheeled exploits, however, I still largely credit Danny with instilling my cultivated love of exploring all the nooks and crannies of New York City. Whether on bike or by foot or via subway, we availed ourselves to vast swathes of Manhattan, routinely finding new places to investigate, hang-out and make our own. From the darkest, wooded corners of Central Park and the shadiest, back-alley shops of Canal Street to the hidden perches on the stately, imposing edifice of the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the broadest, seemingly traffic-free straightaways along every avenue, Manhattan felt like it was ours. And it was.
There is a song that I will forever associate with Danny and this period of our respective youth. I listened to it a few times this week and the memories it still conjures choked me up all over again.
In terms of our musical tastes, Danny and I were more or less simpatico, but with conditions. While we both shared an affinity for the classic stuff like the Beatles, Pink Floyd, Queen, Hendrix and Bowie, I leaned towards harder, angrier punk & metal while he developed a great love of reggae. He turned me onto Peter Tosh, Bob Marley & The Wailers and (early) UB40, whilst I managed to get him to genuinely appreciate bands like Suicidal Tendencies, Dead Kennedys, Bad Brains and -– his particular favorite of the punky stuff, FEAR. That all said, neither of us were immune to the pop music of the day.
On one particular bright, sunny summer morning, Danny showed up at my door brandishing an endearingly imposing boom box (this, once again, was the `80s). That day’s adventure would be on foot and high of decibel.
I can’t recall why we were doing this so early in the day, but the streets felt completely empty, with the music from Danny's boombox echoing off the canyons of glass and steel. As we ambled south down the wide expanse of Park Avenue, we passed through one of those since-closed pedestrian tunnels that lead to the mouth of Vanderbilt Avenue. As we came to the end of it and into the sunlight, the song below -- “Reap the Wild Wind,” by sleek, Euo synth-popsters, Ultravox –- came on, as if on cue, exploding out of Danny’s boom box with cinematic, elegiac expanse.
For me, beyond capturing the sense of endless possibilities with great, histrionic aplomb, "Reap The Wild Wind" so fit Danny's approach to life. It is the very sound of him sailing down an open avenue, effortlessly ascending his bike to stand aloft with impossible balance and poise as the pavement whooshes beneath him. It is the sound of those endless days in the sun with my great friend.
As much as I don't want this blog to be completely consumed by nostalgic melancholy, recent events are dictating otherwise. On the back of the news of the loss of my dear friend Dan, I learned Thursday morning that former Motorhead guitarist Fast Eddie Clarke passed away at the age of 67. I'm not equating these losses, but it was just one more sad development in a surreal week.
I've invoked Motorhead so many times here already that I don't need to go into chapter and verse of how much they meant to me, especially their classic line-up of Philthy Animal Tayler, Fast Eddie Clarke and, of course, Lemmy. With Clarke's passing, that officially extinguishes the signature incarnation of the band (with all due respect to members from both prior and latter iterations).
But instead of rolling out another video from that band, here's a clip of Fast Eddie's next venture, that being Fastway, a hard rock ensemble that had originally featured bassist Pete Way from U.F.O. (hence the name... geddit?) Fastway also featured a Robert-Plant-cribbing vocalist named Dave, who later fronted a markedly different band called Flogging Molly.
This is not exactly a high quality clip, but I like it because I was at the show in question. Here's Fastway playing their first single onstage at Madison Square Garden in 1983. They were opening for AC/DC on the Flick of the Switch tour. I attended this gig with my high school friends Alex Plaittakis and Michael Armstrong.
Thirty-five years later, Fast Eddie Clarke is gone, Fastway is long over. AC/DC have called it quits. Madison Square Garden sill stands. I haven't heard or spoken to Alex Plaittakis in decades (although I'm still friends with his brother), and my friend Mike passed away while working at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001.
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