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If you didn't get to check this amazing photo essay in the New York Times Magazine out, you really ought to.
The conclusion of the challenge mentioned here.
This was actually kind of really a toughie, as — honestly — after plumbing the depths of decency with bands like The Meatmen, Happy Flowers & GG Allin & the Murder Junkies, where exactly does one go? Understand me, though — I do not object to tastelessness. I own several albums by bands like the Revolting Cocks, the Butthole Surfers, the Strangulated Beatoffs, the Crucifucks and, of course, Cop Shoot Cop. The puerile, the pugnacious and the potty-minded don’t really bother me. I feel my list more than compensated in that capacity. So, to fill this tenth slot, I really had to think. I went back to my racks of CD’s and crates of vinyl looking for something that was really, really indefensible in terms that stretched beyond the parameters of simply bad taste.
I thought about maybe going with Cut the Crap by the Clash, a record so reviled that revisionists have frequently moved to strike mention of it from career-spanning retrospectives. My single-sentence review of it for my college newspaper, at the time, was “After listening to Cut the Crap, I had to WIPE the crap off my stylus.” Oh mirth. But, no, I shan’t include it in this list of indefensible albums, as it still contains “This is England,” a track still truly worthy of the band.
I chose something much worse. Something a thousand times more objectionable, to my mind, than anything GG Allin might have pulled out of his … never mind.
For my tenth album I own but really should know better about, I’m going with A Beautiful World by Thicke. Prized off a discard pile in the hallways of TIME Magazine in the early-2000’s, I picked it up on the arguable strength of the video for “When I Get You Alone,” which found young Robin Thicke unconvincingly portraying a bike messenger on the streets of Manhattan (see below), and cooing lyrically-undercooked couplets in a Timberlake/Stevie Wonder-vocal pastiche over a repurposed “Fifth of Beethoven” by Walter Murphy. For whatever reason, the forced funkiness of same made some sort of impression on me, and I’ve had it ever since.
Of course, in more recent years, Thicke has devolved into more of an irretrievable cheese-monkey of the lowest order than could have ever been expected. Or maybe I should have expected it. But there you have it.
Pick 10 albums that are conceptually stupid, possibly offensive, ill-executed, irreparably dated and/or just plain ol' bad, but you just can't help digging them anyway, for whatever reason.
I'm repurposing this from Facebook, but hey ... why not?
In discussion with my great friend and fellow insufferable music cretin, Erik, a couple of weekends ago, we decided to tweak the ongoing "All Time Favorite Albums that Made an Impact … blah blah blah," meme because -- frankly -- it's too easy.
We thought it might be more interesting to prompt lists of "Favorite Indefensible Albums." This is not to say "guilty pleasures," however, as we both firmly believed that suggesting that one feels guilt over their listening habits implies that one should care about what other people might think. (Although I did post a lengthy "guilty pleasures" piece a long while back).
As gents in our silver-scalped years, we no longer thought anyone should apologize for their listening habits or musical predilections, and neither should you. As such, -- be you a strident rockist or a cloying poptimist or whatever -- these should be records you *KNEW* are lyrically and conceptually stupid, possibly offensive, ill-executed, irreparably dated and/or just plain ol' bad, but you just can't help digging them anyway, for whatever reason. We all have them. We want folks to own up, embrace candor, apologize for nothing and offer explanations only if they felt so inclined.
From here, I cited a slew of titles ranging from the simply idiotic (Shout at the Devil by Motley Crue) to the banal (Labor of Love by UB40), also including novelties like Chipmunk Punk, abortive false-starts like the first Birdland record and the haplessly dated proto-trip-hop opus that was Enigma's debut.
On the seventh day out of ten, however, I picked Hated by GG Allin & the Murder Junkies. If I'm being perfectly candid, I would have sooner cited Allin's earlier album, Freaks, Faggots, Drunks & Junkies, but thought the frankly indelicate album title would invite more well-deserved scorn than was really necessary. Rest assured, however, that Hated (the soundtrack to the Todd Philips documentary I've discussed here before) is just as outrageously offensive.
In any case, in the wake of that selection, I was left with something of a quandary. It struck me that it might seem somewhat disingenuous to go on to choose some comparatively reasonable record by Supertramp, Seal or Jefferson Starship in GG's pungent wake as music that is equally indefensible (as the oeuvre of Mr. Allin, once again, is the very embodiment of indefensible). As such, that made the challenge more difficult. But, solider on I did with the selection below.
While the band in question did indeed needlessly record about five full albums, I'm citing the 7" vinyl debut effort from the Happy Flowers, entitled Now We Are Six. A duo comprised of …. sorry … Mr. Anus & Mr. Horribly Charred Infant, the Happy Flowers hailed from Charlottesville, VA, and played sludge-laden, lo-fi guitar noise, punctuated by infantile lyrics barked from the vantage point of a vexed, disturbed kindergartener That they managed to sustain this shtick for over five (!!!) albums is a testament to something, although I'm not exactly sure what.
My friend Rob Bala and I first heard this particular effort while walking into Bleecker Bob's one evening, and were enchanted by its abject wrongness. We went back the next night to fetch the record in question, although we couldn't be sure we had the right 7". We walked up to John behind the counter (former bass player for the Tuff Darts) and asked him if this was the record he'd been spinning the night before. "It's….uh….kind of not music!" BOOM, SOLD ON THE SPOT!!!
Choice song titles include "Mom & Dad Like the Baby More Than Me," "All My Toys Hate Me," "Razors in My Apple" and "The Vacuum Ate Timmy."
The official challenge rules, as conceived over several pints of Guinness at the Old Town Bar & Grill on 18th Street by myself and Erik Highter. Give it a shot, won't you?
Cite 10 albums that you *KNOW* are lyrically and conceptually stupid, possibly offensive, ill-executed, irreparably dated and/or just plain ol' bad, but you just can't help digging them anyway, for whatever reason.
My full list:
1. My Beach by the Surf Punks
2. Shout at the Devil by Motley Crue
3. Chipmunk Punk by Alvin & the Chipmunks
4. Birdland by Birdland
5. Labour of Love by UB40
6. MCMXC.D by Enigma
7. Hated by GG Allin & the Murder Junkies
8. Now We Are Six by the Happy Flowers
9. We're the Meatmen ...and You Suck by the Meatmen
10...
At some point in 1986 or so, I bought a copy of the LP, Learn To Whap-A-Dang by a band called The Raunch Hands. I picked it up on the strength of the album's cheeky title and the band's equally juvenile name. Way back when, when such things were cheaper, this was a viable method of learning about new music. Often times, it paid off.
I don't know that I'd call Whap-A-Dang an especially timeless album, but myself and my friends certainly warmed to its sloppy, garage-y roots-rock sound, at the time. They were sort of in the same vein and aesthetic of bands like The Senders. I want to say I saw them play, at one point, sharing a bill with their fellow New Yorkers in the Fleshtones, I believe, and they were something of a beery, slovenly mess, which certainly fit the bill, at the time.
The only reason I'm bringing them up now is that I heard some very sad rumors about the failing health of the Raunch Hands' lead singer, Mike Chandler.
In tribute, here's a clip from a curious independent film from the mid-80's called "No Picnic." Ostensibly intended as a snapshot of the pre-gentrified East Village (if they only knew what lay ahead), "No Picnic" follows the travails of a rock journalist who goes to various clubs downtown to service their jukeboxes (if memory serves). At one point, he encounters the Raunch Hands. They're not the first band that appears in the clip, though.
Enjoy, and raise your glass to Mike Chandler.
Also, Who can name this club/bar?
I recently started following this Instagram account called KISS NYC. At this point, let me pause, for a second, and remind readers that I'm not at all bothered if you don't share my stubborn affinity for KISS. You might think they suck, you might think they're awful people, you might think they're an affront to everything you stand for -- that's cool. You very well may be right. That's nice, but I don't care. My appreciation for KISS -- even given everything we all now know about them -- runs deep. They were my first favorites. While they are haplessly prone to embarrassing themselves, shooting their mouths off, sullying their legacy and being roundly objectionable (well, mostly Gene), I am incapable of ever fully renouncing them, making me something of a conscientious objector in the KISS Army. Don't waste your time and energy leaving any derisive comments about them. It won't change anything.
Anyway, as its name might suggest, KISS NYC features photographs of KISS - the four of them all being native New Yorkers -- largely in and around New York City. To that end, it's right up my proverbial street, so to speak. In recent days, they've posted a photo that I figured were ripe for repurposing here, so that's what I'm doing. Feel free to avail yourselves to the rest of the internet, should you feel this fails to meet your otherwise exacting standards.
In the grand tradition of Blondie, Kraut, The Cure and Joe Strummer (and, I'm certain, several other notables), here's the mighty Ace Frehley getting suitably spaced-out in the tunnel of light at 127 John Street.
More about this location:
Walk Into the Light
Walking Into the Light: Slight Return
Joe Walks Into the Light
Oh, and .... uhhh ... here's Genesis there, too....
Evidently, Record Store Day is this coming Saturday. Time was when I was fully on board with this endeavor (see these posts, to cite but two). At some point, however, I came to my senses and realised two things: Firstly, if you're a genuinely serious music fan of any stripe, fucking EVERY DAY is Record Store Day. The calendar doesn't enter into it. You should be supporting your local, independent music shop all year round. That should also comes as second nature. You shouldn't need a cutesy little reminder.
Secondly, in relatively short order, the whole concept was swiftly co-opted by record labels as a crass money-making scheme, prompting them to issue strictly limited editions designed to fill their own coffers. Predictably, said limited editions would invariably be snapped up by opportunisits who'd later pawn them off on eBay at exhorbitant mark-ups, totally side-stepping the initial point of Record Store Day. The whole thing is a complete sham.
To this day, I'm largely incapable of walking by a music shop (I'm saying "music shop" as a catch-all term, here. I refeuse to simply cow-tow to silly vinyl fetishists, as the compact disc remains my go-to in the realm of physical media) without at least ducking in and give the stuff on offer a cursory perusal. Trouble is, as have been feverishly over-documented on this blog, most of my favorite shops here in New York City are long fuckng gone.
Just off the top of my head, … Rocks In Your Head? Gone. Venus Records? Gone. Second Coming Records? Gone. 99 Records? Gone. Bleecker Bob's? Gone. St. Marks Sounds? Gone. Golden Disc Records? Gone. Hospital Productions? Gone. Vinyl Mania? Gone. Lunch For Your Ears? Gone. Smash CD's? Gone. NYCD? Gone. Future Legend? Gone. Gone. Freebeing? Gone. Kim's? Gone. Record Factory? Gone. Rockit Scientist? Gone. Wowsville? Gone. It's Only Rock'n'Roll? Gone. Rebel Rebel? Gone. Other Music? Gone. Bondy's? Gone. Eightball? Gone. J&R Music World? Gone. Piers Platters in Hoboken? Gone. Disc-O-Rama? HMV? Gone. Virgin Megastore? Gone. King Karol? Gone. Crazy Eddie? Gone. Disc-O-Mat? Gone.
I'm relatively certain I'm forgetting at least one or two.
In any case, my barbed little grievances and tear-stained melancholia aside, by all means, spend your money on vinyl on Saturday. I am all for the proliferation of the tactile manifestation of music. Just don't feel you have to wait for a special date to do it.
In observance of same, meanwhile, the somewhat presumptuously-titled NYC Official Guide just published an article touting New York's Best Music Stores. It's heart is certainly in the right place, although there are some arguable descriptions. Yes, Park Slope's Music Matters does indeed stock a lot of indie rock, which arguably suits the needs and sensibility of the neighborhood, but it also boasts an endearingly unwieldy selection of stentorian metal. Last time I checked, Park Slope was not overrun with black-clad nogoodnicks in corpse-paint (if only!) And however well-meaning, this article managed to omit citation of two of my favorite Manhattan shops still hanging on, Record Runner on Jones Street in the Village and Downtown Music Gallery on Monroe Street in Chinatown. Both are worth your time.
As several of us continue to lionize the eroding remains of the 11th Street Ritz (a.k.a. Webster Hall) as it literally falls apart, it's easy to overlook the club's less-celebrated iteration as The New Ritz, which claimed the space once occupied by Studio 54 on West 54th between Broadway and 8th Avenue between 1988 and 1993. I've written about the New Ritz a number of times -- notably here and here -- and was lucky enough to see some amazing shows in that space -- from the top of my head….Killing Joke, The Mission, the Sisters of Mercy, Robyn Hitchcock & Billy Bragg, Concrete Blonde, Iron Maiden, Danzig, Ministry, the Revolting Cocks (with The Mentors), Skinny Puppy, KMFDM (with COP SHOOT COP), Public Image Ltd. (with Big Audio Dynamite and …er… Blind Melon), Siouxsie & the Banshees (with the Wonder Stuff), GBH (with KRAUT), Motorhead, the Buzzcocks, Public Enemy (with Onyx & House of Pain), Bad Brains, GWAR and even a shitty Guns N' Roses show that featured more costume-changes than a Liza Minelli revue.
One of my favorite-ever shows witnesses there, however, was in June of 1992, featuring Los Angeleno punk legends FEAR, with the Dwarves opening. I'm informed by my friend Phil Freeman of Burning Ambulance that Elvis Hitler was also on the bill, but I was probably by the bar for their set. In any case, I remember it being the event of the season, as they say. I went with my friends Rob D. and my recently late friend Danny Choy, and a splendid time was verily had by all.
Memories are slightly hazy, on this point, but I believe it was during this same visit in 1992 that I also saw FEAR deliver an incongruously acoustic -- but still endearingly objectionable -- performance as an impromptu event at the New Music Seminar in Times Square's Mariott Marquis hotel. Sadly, I've found no documentation of that performance, but a current co-worker remembers it well.
In any case, I owned a copy of the Ritz show below on VHS cassette for many years before it was regrettably purged in a campaign to make our home less rife with anachronism. Someone evidently uploaded it onto YouTube as recently as last December, so it's now everyone's to enjoy, once again.
Enjoy FEAR at the New Ritz in 1992. If you squint closely enough, you might even spot me on Rob's shoulders. I'm wearing a fIREHOSE shirt under a white denim jacket (hey, … it was the 90s).
Just a quick one.
I’ve spoken about the place before (notably here and here), but NYCD was this great, little shop on the Upper West Side that really had no business being as great as it was. Perched on Amsterdam Avenue between 80th and 81st streets, it was a well-presented hive of scrupulous music-geekery that probably would’ve been better suited to downtown. The staff was gamely chatty, gracious and knowledgable, and the stock was immaculately presented and robustly esoteric. It was perfect.
While never an Upper West Sider myself, NYCD was a regular stop for me throughout its tenure there in the 90s. As the unlikely pitcher of TIME Magazine’s softball team between 1994 and 2005, I was routinely found at the bar across the street from NYCD, that being McAleer’s Pub, where we’d repair after our weekly exploits on the softball diamonds of Central Park. After the inevitable few pints, I’d then pop across the road in a sweaty, beery frenzy, and blow large amounts on pricey imports. It was delightful.
I’m not quite sure of the chronology, but NYCD moved from that spot to a basement-level space one block to the north in the early 2000’s. One or two of the original NYCD dudes, meanwhile, had originally run a shop on St. Marks Place with the same aesthetic called SMASH CDs, which later merged with — or was taken over — by Rockit Scientist, who’d originally had a great space on Carmine Street.
Here in 2018, all those places are gone. The original NYCD on Amsterdam across from McAleer’s Pub is now a lobster take-out joint. The secondary NYCD basement-level shop is now a testing center for grade-schoolers having trouble with math and science. The space that was SMASH CDs and then Rockit Scientist on St. Marks is now either a boutique burger place or a bubble tea joint. They come and go so quickly, it’s hard to tell.
Anyway, here’s to the old NYCD.
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