Today, my grand comrade EV Grieve posted an eye-roll-worthy post about the new mega-monster monolith that occupies the south side of 14th street between Avenues A and B, a formerly humble strip of low buildings that included the fabled Blarney Cove, amid several other since-razed concerns.
In any case, the company that owns this block-long Star Destroyer, Extell, have cheekily christened the complex with a new moniker. They're calling it "EVGB" …. GEDDIT??
An acronym for the "East Village's Greatest Building," it's ultimately yet another low-browed allusion to the storied legacy of CBGB over on the Bowery.
Now, before you roll your own eyes and get all exasperated at me, rest assured that I'm not about to lapse into another tear-stained eulogy for the fabled club in question. That's been handled here, way more than enough times.
No, what I'm asking for is for people to fucking LEAVE IT ALONE, ALREADY! By jokingly referencing the neighborhood's former touchstones, you're only adding insult to injury, whether that's via a ham-fisted mural decrying gentrification or the strenuous attempt to ride the coattails of CB's legacy by assuming its former footprint like a avariciously priapic necrophile. It's a bad look, it's not funny, nor especially clever and -- yes, goddammit, -- it's fucking disrespectful to something that a lot of people still fervently revere.
Over the years, I've accrued a coterie of regular readers who like to leave comments. They come and go, of course, but those that do participate usually do so with some regularity, and have lots of interesting points to contribute to whatever topic I've invoked. Obviously, it's that very type of engagement that makes blogging -- and what an anachronistic term that sounds like -- fulfilling. That's why people do it, ultimately.
By the same token, of course, it isn't just a hallelujah chorus. I've had a number of folks chime in with dissenting opinions. Said opinions could also sometimes cross the Rubicon into needless provocation and hostility, prompting posts like this one and that one. In the interests of a balanced exchange of ideas, I frequently publish comments from perspectives that differ from my own, as what's the point of instigating a dialogue if you're not going to acknowledge the other side?
But, again, if you're just going to be an insulting troll, I'm not going to provide you the platform. If you want to discuss an issue and take up a contrary position, that's fine. But if it's just going to devolve into a nastier, abuse-laden iteration of the Monty Python's "Argument Sketch," no one will be well served and it'll be a waste of everyone's time.
With all this in mind, I recently revisited the comments my blogging-service provider saw fit to deposit in my Spam folder, and I was surprised to discover a comparatively vast volume of legitimate comments, i.e. ones pertaining very specifically to entries I'd posted from actual individuals. Sure, there's still a lot of crap in there, but I regret that some of these readers -- notably JAM and Lefty -- took the trouble to write in and I didn't see and publish their comments until now.
Sorry about that. Thanks for reading and commenting.
As expressed back on this old post, I've always had something of a complicated love/hate relationship with New York Magazine. On the one hand, given my lifelong adoration of this city and my strenuously arguable skills as an ersatz writer, it seemed -- for a little while, at least -- like the perfect place for me to end up, although -- of course -- that never happened. The closest I came was getting a photograph reproduced in their Approval Matrix in 2014. I certainly applied for jobs there, over the years, and badgered contacts who'd penetrated its confines, but nothing ever panned out, alas. Either I wasn't right for the gigs in question or, more likely, they just weren't interested in what I was pushing. Oh well.
On the other hand, however, the magazine has always exuded a level of ersatz-sophisto smarm that has rubbed several people the wrong way. More to the point, they've editorially mishandled enough topics over the years, to my mind, to render themselves utterly devoid of any real semblance of credibility. After a certain point, the wife and I cancelled our subscription. I can't say I've paged through an issue in at least four or five years.
But, y'know, times change. While tactile print magazines are going the way of the wooly mammoth, many hackneyed periodicals have found a way to reinvent themselves on the web. For all intents and purposes, New York may have done just that, but I don't know. I still don't make a point of reading it. That all said, I spied one article (with accompanying video) this week that caught my eye, and thought I'd share it here.
My only problem with the clip (watch it below) is the folks they chose to poll on the subject. With the exception of venerable old Michael Musto (and I'm dead sure he'd positively wince at the thought of being branded "venerable"), I'm not really moved by the participants here. I mean, I'm not begrudging the contributions from Alex and Zach Frankel (although their second answer towards the end of the clip is incomprehensible to my ears) or Stretch Armstrong, but I didn't find any of their answers especially illuminating (nor, for that matter, was Musto's suggestion of bringing the Mudd Club back from the dead especially a revelation). At the risk of being perceived to besmirch her further, I was neither surprised nor particularly enthused to hear Lizzie Goodman cite Brownie's as the place she'd bring back. Not exactly a shocker, given the crux of her most celebrated work.
But, y'know, I'm ultimately an opinionated snob and this is essentially just a flimsy device to make Absolut Vodka seem hip (did it need help?), so none of it really matters that much. At the same time, I do like the concept. Enough of my yappin' …. Watch the clip:
My grievance here is that the idea of bringing back NYC establishments isn't just as simple as reinstating them. To make the Mudd Club special again, you'd first have to depose everyone who currently lives at 77 White Street, which has, in more recent decades, because a pricey condo. But, more to the point, what made places like the Mudd Club -- and, to that same end, the other clubs mentioned in the clip, notably Nell's, the Palladium and the Tunnel -- so significant were the sensibilities, the cultures and the eras in which they were thriving. A Mudd Club on the White Street of 2018 wouldn't make any sense. But, perhaps I'm overthinking this.
In the wake of my post yesterday about the very sorry state of the old marquee of Webster Hall or, as I more commonly refer to it, the Ritz, I had someone shoot me a nasty note, presumably based solely on the title of my post, As the Ritz Rotz. Evidently, they thought it was a bit disrespectful of me to be making light of the situation, seemingly oblivious to the unwieldy amount of bandwidth I’ve devoted to eulogizing the place here over the past twelve years. You can find a tidy list of some of the better posts about same at the bottom of this entry, if you’re curious.
In any case, despite that reader’s misunderstanding of my feelings about the old Ritz (there are precious few physical locations on the earth I hold more sacred, as if that wasn’t obvious), here is yet another trek down memory lane.
I wasn’t actually at this gig, sadly, but I do still have the flyer, which I dug out of my front hall closet. Here is the mighty Black Flag in 1982, gracing the expansive stage of the Ritz in the Fall of 1982. This would have been the time to see them, actually -- with Chuck Biscuits on drums, no less. I would have been about 14 years old at the time, strangely enough. There’s some tiny text at the bottom that says tickets were able to be procured at Fiorucci and Bleecker Bob’s. Imagine buying Black Flag tix at Fiorucci? I miss that world.
Anyway, enjoy. If you want to hear the whole show, meanwhile, click here.
As music developments go, you’re hard-pressed to find one more thoroughly up my proverbial street than this one.
While one crucial member short of a proper resumption of duty, my beloved Cop Shoot Cop have assumed the ready position, only not quite.
In support of their former producer Martin Bisi, C$C alumni Jim Coleman, Phil Puleo and the one and only Jack “Natz” Nantz reconvened in 2016 for a special jam session at Bisi’s Gowanus stronghold, B.C Studio. With Tod [A] still ensconced in Turkey, the secondary bass slot was filled by former SWANS bass player, Algis Kizys. Suffice to say, they didn’t end up playing a spritely medley of Abba covers.
What did happen can be heard below, recorded for posterity by Bisi and now about to see the light of day on the ensuing compilation album, BC 35. You can read more about that here.
Cooler than that, however, is the fact that this particular aggregation of New York noiseniks from two of my all-time favorite bands (Puleo, as if it needs mentioning, spent the last several years occupying the arduous drum stool for SWANS) are taking their new act to the mo’fucking STAGE! On April 20, the band – who originally were calling themselves, as I understand it, Cop Shoot Algys, and then Cop Swans Cop – are set to play the august stage of St. Vitus in Brooklyn as --- wait for it – EXCOP, flanked by similarly inclined ensembles like New Old Skull (featuring similarly re-convened members of Live Skull) and Bob Bert’s Nowhere Near, among others.
Remember on this post wherein I said I’d recently spotted yet another notable photo snapped within the long-defunct tunnel of light at 127 John Street, but couldn’t put my hand to it? Well, I found it.
This is, of course, the late, great Joe Strummer. Someone posted this back in December, upon the fifteenth anniversary of the man’s passing, and I set it to one side, so to speak. Regrettably, I have no idea who took this photo, nor do I have a date. That said, being that he’s sporting red hair and wearing the same t-shirt he’s seen in on the back cover of the roundly maligned Cut the Crap, I’m going to assume this photo was taken at some point in or around 1985.
The footage below is not from the Cut the Crap days. I’m not positive that the Crap-era line-up (sorry) ever made it to New York City. The footage below comes from a more definitive iteration of the band (fleshed out with Mick Jones and drummer Topper Headon) during their fabled residency at Bond’s Casino circa 1981.
Trivial side note: During the Clash's legendary run at Bond's, one of their opening bands was local proto-hardcore ensemble and Flaming Pablum favorites, KRAUT. I believe it may have actually been one of their very first gigs. As it happens, KRAUT also had their pic taken in the tunnel of light at 127 John Street. They liked it so much, they slapped it on the cover of their "complete studio recordings" compilation (although, if I'm being pedantic, that collection is not at all "complete," in that it fails to include their bluntly prurient b-side, "Matinee.") So yeah, go know.
ADDENDUM: Our friend Chung Wong cleared up one mystery. The photo in question of Joe was snapped by none other than the great Bob Gruen. Find it here. And, I was right -- it was in 1985. Gold star for me.
Dates are hazy, but I believe I took this self-portrait in the mirrored facade of the venue that would shortly morph into Bowery Electric at some point in the summer of 2002. Was it open and called such at the time? I can't remember.
In any case, that's me below, markedly younger, slimmer, shorn of beard and sporting a vintage XTC shirt that I continue to cherish (thought it's slightly more form-fitting, these days). Across the street, the space that would later become the incongruously modern-looking (at the time) 326 Bowery is still just a fenced-in lot.
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