Flaming Pablum

Lost in the Supermarket

Back to Automatic Slim's

Hopefully she’s not reading this blog right now, but we’re going to a surprise party, this evening, for a friend at Automatic Slim’s in the West Village. I did a double-take when my wife told me where we were headed. While not quite “regulars,” myself and a select coterie of like-minded idiots used to frequently darken the doors of this establishment throughout the 90’s, although I cannot say I’ve been since the dawn of the new millennium. I snapped the photo of its signature corner-occupying entry way (with a great, big, fuck-off wide-angle lens) in about 1998, or so.

Evidently, they serve food at Automatic Slims, which is something that never occurred to me, as my associations with the place inexorably involve heroic amounts of ill-advised beverages, and precious little else. In fact, I want to say the last time I was in the place, I was forced to imbibe a veritable flotilla of shots by my friends Rob B. & Rob C., only to ascend from my seat some twenty minutes later, and wordlessly exit the establishment without notifying any of my compatriots. Somehow I made it home, only to throw up with a robust sense of purpose. Yeah, that was lovely. One assumes this evening will be slightly different.

My other pervading memory of nights at Automatic Slim’s involves some framed prints of Iggy and the Stooges and the New York Dolls that were hung about its walls, at some point, in the late 90’s. The magnificence of same had myself and my friend Rob D. drunkenly conspiring to somehow make-off with one of them whilst the barkeep was distracted. In a rare moment of wisdom, we demurred from this half-baked endeavor, but it was not as stealthy an instant of clear, common sense and considerate good-will as it should have been. He and I had a similar quandary regarding a framed Ramones photograph at (long-since-vanished) Wowsville on Second Avenue about year later (you can read that tragic saga here).

In any case, the purpose of this post was not to extoll my inebriated exploits of yore. Upon reminiscing about the place, I was reminded of the photo I took up top, which led my back to my long-dormant Flickr page, which has many of my old-timey NYC pics preserved like a disgruntled mosquito in a block of amber. Click here and step back into locales, establishments and neighborhoods that are nor barely recognizable and, if possible, enjoy.

Report on Automatic Slim’s 2018 to follow, … maybe.

ADDENDUM: As expected, the Iggy/Dolls pics are long gone, but it's still a very cool place. Great time was had by all..

 

Gettin' Precious

Earlier this week, the great Alfred Soto posted on his blog, that being Humanizing the Vacuum, the latest in his wildly entertaining Worst Songs Ever series. Focused on an unfortunate single from 1994 by the Pretenders, that being the ploddingly lugubrious “I’ll Stand By You,” a mawkish ode that – to my ears – owed precious little (pardon the pun) to everything that made the original band so great, Soto points out how seemingly at odds with Chrissie Hynde’s natural tendencies it is and scrutinizes the context of the era in which it was released, somewhat cruelly noting that the track in question was her biggest seller. That broke my heart, a little bit.

Personally speaking, I still prefer to remember Chrissie Hynde as the Buckeye ex-pat-turned-British-Punk (see above, as pilfered from Carpe1501), who applied the rocking ferocity of same to a penchant for great, classic songwriting, not the soggy, milksopped tripe that was “I’ll Stand By You.”

More on the Pretenders from Flaming Pablum:

Blitzkrieg Bloomingdale's

Where was Cell 54?

Talk of the Town: The Continuing Search for Cell 54 

Mystery Achievement: Did Bob Egan Find Cell 54? 

Walk Into the Light: Slight Return

Longtime readers (and what an odd group you must be) may remember a post here back in the balmy, seemingly carefree days of 2012, wherein I wrote about a curious fixture in a building down in the Financial District (notice I didn’t say Fidi?) at 127 John Street, that being a luminescent tunnel of that looked like a set-piece from “Space:1999.” Don’t bother looking for it now. As mentioned in that post, the building went through a condo conversion in the 90’s, and that little retro-futuristic flourish was sadly dismantled.

But, as also mentioned, that tunnel became something of an attraction for photographers when they were looking to establish at atmospheric, sci-fi sorta vibe. Blondie posed in it, as did local proto-hardcore outfit Kraut. I spotted another notable figure posed in its neon confines not too long back, but didn’t think to capture it. My friend Chung, however, posted this great shot of the Cure posing in it, and that compelled me to post about it again.

Here’s the Cure recorded at New York’s Ritz on East 11th Street around the same era as this photograph …. Same day, maybe?

Manhattan 2018

Respectfully pilfered from Zeitgeist City.

Ghosts of the Grassroots

I walked by, over the weekend.

Shirt Happens

Following the death of Dolores O'Riordan of the Cranberries, a photo started making the rounds of her wearing a t-shirt espousing the merits of D.C. hardcore band, Government Issue. A friend of mine posted it on Facebook, and I immediately postulated whether we assumed that she was genuinely a fan of the seminal Dischord band, or whether she just thought it was a cool shirt. I was immediately taken to task by a friend of that friend for perceived musical elitism and misogyny. Trying to defend myself in that discussion went nowhere fast, but honestly, my query had less to do with her gender or more to do with wondering if GI were indeed that known enough a quantity in the Cranberries' native Ireland. You can see the photo, incidentally, on my eulogy-of-sorts to O'Riordan from a few weeks back.

As has been well documented on this blog via its own silly category, Opinionated Rants About T-shirts, I have a lot of hang-ups about rock t-shirt etiquette, for want of a better term. But I assure you, it's not just about a knee-jerk reaction to venomously castigate. Too often, I've seen people sport t-shirts of bands I've liked, and I've gone up to them to enthusiastically engage them on the subject, only to find that they're simply wearing the shirt because they liked the design (or whatever). That always bums me out. That said, to this day, if I spy someone sporting a t-shirt emblazoned with a favorite band, I still want to give them the benefit of the doubt.

In any case, I spotted the below photo on Instagram not too long back, and it again struck a chord. This is, of course, the 1916-era iteration of Motorhead. The detail the caught my eye, however, is that drummer Philthy Animal Taylor is depicted wearing a t-shirt by the very un-metal likes of post-industrial/experimental psychedelia ensemble, Psychic TV.

Just like Dolores, Philthy Phil is sadly no longer with us. But again, I wonder --- was he actually a fan of Psychic TV?