Well, even in these dark, tumultuous times here in 2018, when the insescapable news cycle bleats a tireless, clarion call of gloom and stupefying idiocy, there comes the odd bit of light. It turns our that Shakespeare & Co. is returning to the Village, shortly to occupy the space left behind by the the lackluster supermarket that followed the demise of the entirely superior Jefferson Market. It may have acted as a de facto real estate office, as well, if memory serves.
Back circa this post, I got in a conversation over on social media about how bringing certain New York City live-music venues back from the grave wouldn't really work, because their survival would be contingent on a cultural climate that doesn't really exist anymore, or at least not in the same manner, in 2018. Obviously, it'd be nifty if spots like the Mudd Club and Danceteria were still going, but the particular aesthetics that fueled those endeavors are now completely dated and anachronistic, by today's standards. Thus, they would have to re-invent themselves, inevitably shedding everything that previously defined them as "cool" … whatever that term means anymore.
In any case, while discussing the notion of "what places would you bring back?", my friend Elizabeth summed it up nicely…
My answer is utterly predictable as well but it's like if you were asked which 20th Century figure would you go back in time and assassinate do you try and be clever to come up with something edgy or do you just say Hitler and get on with it? Longwindedly, CBGB.
CBGB -- above, as captured by me in 1995 -- was a shoulda-been-landmark whose troubled, acrimonious demise was both specific and symbolic. Not only was it the loss of yet another storied venue wherein to see live music, but its removal from the cityscape of downtown Manhattan almost poetically signified the death of an era. That its place was swiftly taken by a bespoke boutique selling Green Day shirts for $88.00 only cemented the fact that -- yea verily -- times had changed.
But I responded with my "technically, Stalin killed more people than Hitler"--style confession that, as much as it deeply pained me to see CBGB go, I'd be lying if I said I'd attended a show there in the last five years before it closed.
Now, granted, in those years shortly before CB's was forcibly pushed off its perch on the Bowery, my life had indeed changed pretty dramatically. I'd gotten married and had a couple of kids. I wasn't out on the tiles quite as much. But, by the same token, with the fleeting exceptions of the all-star commemorative shows in the weeks before its closure (Bad Brains, Dictators, Blondie, etc.), CB's generally stopped hosting bands I cared about. My reasons for not going had less to do with any lack of enthusiasm for the venue, and more to do with the fact that there was no one playing there I wanted to see. Essentially, the club was flying on fumes -- no longer actively supporting any semblance of a thriving scene or specific aesthetic so much as just gradually becoming less discriminating with their booking policy. Some friends of mine suggested its untimely demise was a merciful act of euthanasia, freeing the club from its otherwise slow descent into irrelevance. I think that's a bit harsh, personally, but I suppose it's a harsh world.
Anyway, the official (?) Facebook page of Lubricated Goat (yes, I am a follower) posted the vintage ad below today, and it wholly reminded me of why CBGB is still worth commemorating and - yes, goddammit - missing. With the exception of the Smashing Pumpkins (who were, are and always will be …. crap), it's an amazing and endearingly frenetic line-up of bands. I assumed this was from about 1989 or 1990, but my intrepid friend Ted discerned it to be 1991. Go know.
Some of you may remember a pictorial round-up from late in December of 2017 of myriad examples New York City street art that, shall we say, took exception to all things Trump. In the event that you missed it, you can find that here.
Now, knee-deep into 2018, the word on the street, so to speak, hasn't changed all that much.
It's been a crazy busy week, and I intended to put up more here -- not just idiotic troll-bait. In any case, I was originally going to write a lot more about the video below, but time got away from me, so I'm just going to present it.
I honestly have no idea who the Doids are or, more likely, were. They're ultimately incidental to this post (although good luck to'em). No, the reason I found this clip compelling is that it was evidently filmed within the confines of The Botany,… a space otherwise known as Botany Talk Shop, or -- as immortalized on this post - Botany Rocks. As described back on that post, Botany Rocks was a flower shop by day and a live music venue by night, playing host to bands like Bad Brains, Even Worse and -- as is evident, I suppose -- The Doids.
There remains precious fuck-all information about the place readily available on the web, but people do seem to remember it.
Anyway if you do remember it, enjoy this trip down memory lane.
My daughter had a birthday party to attend on Sunday at a place called SLATE on West 21st street which, I believe, used to be the bar/ club that Susan Sarandon co-owned after she dumped Tim Robbins and hooked up with that ping-pong magnate whose name escapes me. In any case, now it's just essentially a bar/nightclub (odd place for a teenager's birthday party, then), with an expansive downstairs area with pool tables, ping-pong etc.
After dropping off Charlotte, I stood and looked up and down the expanse of West 21st Street, marveling at all the nightlife history it boasts. For a while in the early-to-mid 80's, it played host to the mighty Danceteria, Sound Factory, SNAFU, the Cadillac Bar and several other similarly inclined ventures. I don't remember the exact address of the Sound Factory, but it's long gone today. The footprint of Danceteria is now a pricey condo with a Starbucks in its ground floor. SNAFU on the corner has changed hands more times than I've had hot dinners, as has the space that was the Cadillac Bar in the 80's and early 90's. Nothing stays put, evidently.
But of all the places that used to line 21st Street, the spot I frequented the most - despite my formative-but-fleeting experiences at Danceteria -- was the second iteration of Tramps. While it originally was perched over on East 15th Street, the 21st Street Tramps -- as I discussed here - was a great room that played host to a number of my favorite bands, back in the day, notably Cop Shoot Cop, The Wedding Present, Prong, the Blues Explosion, Robyn Hitchcock, Matthew Sweet and many more. I was exceptionally sad when it closed.
If I'm not mistaken, upon its original departure, it became a sophisticated house music club called Centro-Fly, and then Duvet, which was a nightclub with a bedding theme (I wish I was kidding). After those endeavors folded, the last time I'd noticed, it had become - as noted here, once again - a pricey stationery outlet called Envelopers.
Five years later, meanwhile, that ship has sailed, and the space is now occupied by a meditation center called Inscape, essentially meaning that the dance floor on which I saw Amazonian Corey Parks from Nashville Pussy breathe fire during a deafening cover of "First I Look at the Purse" is now a placid environment wherein to re-align your aching chakra.
Take me back.
Here's a bonus shot of what was SNAFU on the corner.... no idea who took it, alas...
I've spoken about the place a couple of times, most notably here and here, but I recently found a reason to bring it up again. Disc-O-Mat was ultimately just another retail record store chain that had a few outlets around New York, and, I believe, New Jersey (see ad above, for details). My particular favorite one, however, was on Lexington Avenue between 57th and 58th streets. Here's what I had to say about it back in 2011.
Circa 1979, it was a comparatively shoddy ground floor space, filled from floor to ceiling with vinyl. Before I'd discovered the myriad record-collecting havens of Greenwich Village, this humble spot in the comparatively staid environs of midtown was practically sacred to me. A couple of years later, the shop expanded into a two story operation (cassettes on the ground floor and vinyl upstairs). It was in this incarnation wherein I remember prizing vinyl LPs from bands like Adam & the Ants, AC/DC, Talking Heads, Blue Oyster Cult, Laurie Anderson, Black Sabbath, The Police and scores more. This all may sound like no big deal and much ado about nothing, but to a fifteen year old, these were pivotal moments. Every part of the experience -- getting on the bus (or walking) from East 93rd and riding down to 58th to hit Disc-O-Mat (not to mention the nearby Crazy Eddie's just to the south and the independent Revolution Records just to the north) -- was memorable. It was all part of the ritual.
In any case, by way of the sort of frustrating archival site - 80S.NYC - I was able to track down a photograph of the ol' spot.
Going on a few years now, I have been continually inspired by Sammy, the gent behind the counter at my local Korean deli. Every time I walk in there, he is literally CRANKING his favorite tunes by singer/songwriters like Olivia Newton-John, Celine Dion, Carly Simon, Judy Collins and Abba with the same bug-eyed fervor that your average suburban teenage dirtbag blasts Zeppelin, Sabbath and Maiden.
Last night, as I was buying a quart of milk and a tallboy of beer, his selection was by famously bespectacled Greek chanteuse Nana Mouskouri, and he COULD NOT WAIT to evangelize her brilliance to me.
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