Flaming Pablum

Blogger vs. Vlogger

Over the weekend, I turned 51. I wasn’t going to mention that otherwise, as it’s a fairly incidental number. Turning 50 was arguably worth talking about. 51? Not so much. But in relation to this post, it’s entirely pertinent.

Along with being old, in the way and out of touch with the youth, I’m also evidently a hypocrite. I say this as many of the criticisms that I’m about to lob at the unwitting subject of this post could just as well be lobbed at me. That makes me a stinky hypocrite. Guilty as charged, your honor.

I’ve been blogging here for a little over thirteen years. Even that very word … blogging… feels irretrievably anachronistic. It’s a dated term steeped in since-antiquated technology and waning, increasingly sepia-toned cultural significance. I might as well be a ham-radio enthusiast.

But primitive tools notwithstanding, I blog about my interests, my insights and my individual circumstances. I document my proclivities, pet peeves and predilections, and not always alliterartively. That I do so is based on the rather strenuous presumption that absolutely anybody should fucking care about what I have to say about these topics or any other. The guy I’m writing about here basically does the same thing, only via YouTube. He’s a vlogger.

Enter Bretti Conti, Millennial YouTuber and self-styled entrepreneur, “creator” and “influencer.”

Conti, I suppose, uses YouTube in a comparable manner to the way I use my particular blogging service, documenting his doings via regular entries. From a strictly technical perspective, his videos are slick, resourcefully making full use of a variety of cameras, mics, lenses and even a drone. The end results, from what I’ve observed, are well-edited, sharp, and replete with signature branding. In regards to this aspect of his presentation, I applaud Conti’s proficiency. Had I access to the same tools, I have grave doubts that I’d be able to produce something of comparable quality.

So, yeah, while he does a great job in that respect, it’s the content of his entries that make me wince. But then again, …. I’m old. What the Hell do I know?

Through absolutely no fault of his own, Mr. Conti is young and, thus, largely bereft of the type of inherently world-weary cynicism that fuels my own daily existence. He’s a plucky Long Island ex-pat who moved to New York City under five years ago to pursue his dream of becoming an entrepreneur. Informed and inspired by well … things I fucking hate like “Friends,” “Sex and The City” and Jay-Z & Alicia Keys’ still-cloyingly-ubiquitous “Empire State of Mind,” Conti has made over 400 (!?!?) individual videos documenting his travails, multiple aspirations, opinions and a whole lot of skateboarding. To be fair, he also aspires to be a travel blogger, and hops around the globe quite a bit. Most of his videos, however, revolve around his life here in New York City.

If it seems like I’m bending over backwards to give him a fair shake, that’s because I’m trying to. While I find his penchant for tireless self-promotion, “personal branding” and product placement (he started up a skate & streetwear line, of a sort, called Fortune) to be nothing short of insufferable, I cannot fault him for his dedication and enthusiasm. And while I personally find his taste in music to be abysmally abhorrent, it’s his “channel,” not mine. That he’s driven to verbose giddiness by transient food fads and uses “fire” as an adjective are other unfortunate matters entirely.

At the end of the day, I cannot honestly say why I bristle at so much of what Brett Conti presents here, although -– if I had to guess -– I’d imagine it’s the signifier that my New York City and the associations I assign to it are fading further and further into the background as new generations -– like Conti’s -- rise to take their place. As he skates around sipping bubble tea and raving about fraternizing with other social-media “influencers,” I find myself barking at the screen, doling out idiotic factoids about the streets he’s scooting down and the trivial minutia thereof.

One can almost imagine Brett Conti decades from now, similarly furrowing his brow at some new upstart’s three-dimensional hologram-blog, pounding his fist. “IN MY DAY, BUBBLE TEA REALLY WAS FIRE, YOU HATERS!”

Whatever. Good luck to you, Brett.

Check out the full spectrum of Brett's video channel by clicking here. 

‘I Had Very Little Bite, But I Had a Lot of Bark’: Julia Cafritz Looks Back on Pussy Galore

Some of you might remember a while back when I was trying to track down the location of a frankly incidental photograph of NYC-via-D.C. noise-rock band, Pussy Galore from the very late 80’s. During the course of same -– a search that had me exploring various decrepit, shifty and potentially dangerous corners of a few public spaces around the East Village and greater Lower East Side -– one of the band members depicted actually weighed in, that being inimitable band co-founder and storied visceral potty-mouth Julie Cafritz. You can find that here, if you’re so inclined.

While the alumni of that particular ensemble have all gone onto different things, I still maintain that Pussy Galore haven’t ever really gotten their due, not least in the shadow of more celebrated peers like Sonic Youth and SWANS. If you’re not familiar with them, I highly recommend picking up either of my two favorites, Surgarshit Sharp and/or Dial ‘M’ For Motherfucker. Their music is very assuredly not for everyone, but for sheer attitude and noise-as-catharsis, they’re tough to beat.

Earlier this summer, Cafritz submitted to an interview with the Tidal podcast series, “I’m In The Band,” and it’s entirely captivating. In typical fashion, Julie’s completely candid and frequently hilarious. I love her anecdote about Jon taking her through the rudimentary steps of playing guitar. She’s a complete badass. Enjoy.

That’s Cafritz and Jon Spencer up at the top of this post, by the way. I regret to say I don’t know who the photographer responsible is, but …. quick, who can name where they’re standing?

Here’s a bit of their music with Julie on vocals. I used to routinely sandwich this track on many a mixtape back in the day …. which was usually met with puzzlement and derision.

'The Boho's Lament'

Taylor Talks

Apart from an entry back in 2014 when Taylor Swift was dubiously named the “global ambassador” to New York City, I’ve rarely invoked the pop star’s name on this blog. Yes, she’s a globally beloved celebrity worth a quarter of a billion dollars, but she does not factor greatly into my life in any major capacity. My kids are not fans of hers, but that’s none of my doing. My son isn’t particularly fussed about any contemporary pop music, as far as I can discern, while my 14-year-old daughter continues to stop short of expressing affinity for any specific pop artist to me, although I do know that she likes Dua Lipa. When I’ve flown Taylor’s name of the flagpole, she basically shrugs. I think if Taylor Swift ever had plans on indoctrinating my daughter, that time would have passed by now. Whatever.

As I mentioned in that earlier post, I may not give a lot of thought to Taylor Swift’s music -– not that I would genuinely know anything of hers beyond “Shake It Off,” which somehow infiltrated the battlements of my awareness -– but I don’t really feel that her music is in any way for me to begin with. I don’t begrudge it, necessarily, but I don’t expect to relate to any of it either. Her songs don’t really offer a perspective that applies to me. I don’t want to make any sweeping generalizations, but I don’t think her fanbase includes that many folks in their fifties, but maybe I’m mistaken. Hers are still tunes for teens, as far as I can surmise.

More recently, however, Taylor has broken her long, tantalizing (to some) silence on the topic of politics, encouraging her fans via Instagram to register to vote in the impending midterm elections, also throwing her own support behind the Democratic candidate in her home state of Tennessee. This deviation from her otherwise career-length refusal to ever opine in the arena of politics purportedly broke hearts across the internet, dispelling the evidently widespread myth that Miss Swift’s allegiance was with conservatives. `Fraid not. Suck it up, kids …. or should I say, shake it off? Apparently Taylor skews to the left.

Personally speaking, Taylor Swift’s political leanings don’t really mean anything to me, although I suppose I’m happy to hear she’s not a Trump-supporting idiot. That said, Taylor’s single declaration has palpably galvanized a growing army of new voters. Read for yourself.

Asked about same in the last day, Donald Trump -– ever petty –- expressed that he now likes her music “about 25 percent less.”

Now, honestly, Trump taking a swipe at Swift for daring to voice her dissenting opinion or failing to express the fealty he’s constantly in search of isn’t surprising. That’s what he does. He’s embarrassing and small-minded. It’s not even shocking anymore.

No, the part that struck me – however incidental – was his lame put-down, asserting that Taylor’s political beliefs have lessened his enjoyment of her music.

Do you genuinely believe Donald Trump has ever voluntarily listened to Taylor Swift’s music?

Also, Trump’s assertion that Taylor “doesn’t know anything about” Tennessee’s Marsha Blackburn is pretty galling, not only because Taylor specifically cited why she’s not supporting her in her post, but also just Trump’s knee-jerk dismissal of the notion that Taylor is a sentient, cognizant adult.

So, yeah, I guess Taylor Swift’s alright with me.

Trump? Not so much.

What You Remember

I can't remember the exact circumstances of why I was where I was on that day during the Summer of 1984 -- my former grade-school classmate Walt's father's apartment on Sixth Avenue in Greenwich Village -- when I heard the song that became my favorite song of all time, but I can tell you what I was wearing; a black -- dare I confess it -- Motley Crue shirt -- a Too Fast for Love- era one that depicted a pair of handcuffs threaded through a crudely-rendered skull's eye-sockets.

That delightful garment was paired with an ill-considered pair of ratty, plaid shorts and a pair of black Chuck Taylor high-tops. Upon hearing the song, I immediately repaired directly across the street and down the stairs (above) into what was later called Subterranean Records on Cornelia Street (vanished circa 2008), but was -- at the time -- called Record Runner (not to be confused with the Record Runner that would later open up a block to the west) and feverishly purchased the 12" single of the song.

Now, as seismic a moment as that was for me, it's ultimately a ridiculously trivial instance, in the grand scheme of things. But consider how many details of that moment seared themselves into my memory.

To me, those incidental details feel absolutely indelible -- and they pertain to something as comparatively silly as entertainment. Imagine, if you will, then, how indelible the critical details of a *traumatic* experience --- like, say, attempted rape -- feel.

I continue to firmly believe the specifics of Dr. Ford's recollection.

  

After The Confirmation

Remember “Twin Peaks: The Return” two summers ago? If you had the patience to stay with it, you found yourself sitting through episode after agonizing episode of special agent Dale Cooper trapped in the essentially somnambulistic guise of Dougie Jones, doddering through life marveling at electrical sockets when his services were direly needed elsewhere. Week after week, you were wondering “when is he going to WAKE UP and MAKE THIS RIGHT?”

It’s ultimately a naive and doubtlessly oversimplified analogy, but that’s how I’m feeling about the Mueller investigation right now.

The Trump Administration is running roughshod over America — and has been doing so since the fatuous fucker was first sworn in. More to the point, with the confirmation of Brett Kavanaugh yesterday, he’s actually fulfilling his promise and bringing his hateful, xenophobic and irresponsible vision closer to fruition.

Sure, there have been a few pot-shots that have rattled Team Trump. There’ve been developments, scandals and PR nightmares that seemed wholly poised to finally topple everything over — Stormy Daniels, the family-separation crisis, the Wolff book, the Woodward book, the Manafort and Michael Cohen busts, the anonymous mole in his own fold, that recent New York Times piece about his multiple tax schemes and his duplicitous ascendence into becoming the “self-made” businessman he’s ultimately never actually been and probably about three dozen other things I’m forgetting at the moment. But like bilge water off a sewage-slathered duck’s pungent back, nothing seems to stick. That Times piece already feels like ancient history.

The Kavanaugh confirmation seems like the most divisive chapter in American political history I’ve lived through in my almost 51 years. And that it has come to pass the way it has is beyond belief. Here in the largely liberal bubble of Manhattan, there is a palpable sense of incredulousness. This particularly awful episode really has felt like the Great Leap Backward into a crueler, more Draconian era.

To use another dumb pop culture allusion, I am reminded of a quote in the beginning of “Apocalypse Now” wherein Captain Willard is reminded that good does not always triumph and that sometimes the dark side overcomes what Lincoln called the better angels of our nature. Histrionic? Maybe, but that feels like an an entirely accurate summation of where we are, right now.

Yesterday, during a string of “victory lap” speeches, Mitch McConnell chucked about the fury from the Left and the discord of the protests, saying that “these things always blow over.”

PROVE HIM WRONG.

I snapped the image up top during the march in Manhattan in January of 2017. It rang true then and it rings true now. Don’t succumb to the gaslighting or the fatigue. Stay vigilant. Stay fucking angry. VOTE in November like the future of our Democracy depends on it, because guess what — it fucking does.

And somebody please wake Mr. Mueller up.

Downtown Music Gallery Needs Your Help

You wanted record store news? Here you go.

By way of my friend Jon... a message from Downtown Music Gallery...

"Last week, our ten year lease for our basement space on 13 Monroe St. in Chinatown, came to an end. We are now paying month-to-month, so are future is precarious although the landlord does like us. It is hard to believe that we’ve been here for nearly 10 years, especially when folks finally find their way here and say it is their first time at our “new” location. We moved here from the Bowery due to a large rent increase and during a recession. Since then, my former partner, Manny Maris, has retired, plus employees Chuck Bettis and Chris Pitsiokos also moved on. Last week, longtime DMG Manager, Dave Miller left for better opportunities, he will be missed. Our mail-order, which was pretty strong on the Bowery, has slowly decreased ever since being here, as compact discs sell less than ever. Our Used vinyl sales have increased since we’ve acquired a few collections and we sell more on Discogs, which does take time and effort but helps us to survive, barely. Thanks to the help of some of our friends, our presence on social media (twitter & Instagram) has increased our visibility. So, we do get some new customers from time to time. The problem is that we have built up a substantial debt, we are paying off slowly. We are currently in the hole for around 50 grand. Jeeez. The good news is that attendance at our weekly Free concert series has increased over time. Check us out on Instagram.

Hence we need your help. Around 6,300 folks subscribe to our weekly newsletter, which is great, I am glad to provide info & opinion on creative music from around the world. The problem is that only around a hundred or so actually purchase things from us, making it increasingly harder to survive. If nearly everyone who got the DMG newsletter would just donate $10-$20, we could pay off our debts and concentrate on the future. We still get a lot of good response from customers, subscribers and musicians who love the DMG newsletter so we must be doing something right. Our goal at this point is continue until for around 2 years until our 30th anniversary. So, please help us to continue serve all serious listeners. You can contribute via credit card, Paypal ([email protected]) or with checks.

You can use this link if you wish:
https://www.paypal.com/donate/?token=ydamOAFr_O7IWQ3qn_0gDZRxk6v16FA4WZgxKxhmT8S2qDATAcryZ4En0_1IdLZUoIhBT0&country.x=US&locale.x=US 

 

More about DMG on Flaming Pablum:

Downtown Music Gallery in the Line of Fire

Back to Downtown Music Gallery

 

Friday

Lies & Lunacy

 

Remember this photo?

It’s a shot of the Lunachicks captured on East 1st Street circa 1990 by photographer Joe Dilworth.

In May of 2016, I stumbled upon this photo -– undated, uncredited and without any background information -- while researching a long-forgotten rock club on Bond Street called Downtown, and swiftly became preoccupied with divining its location.

Officially launching my search on May 10, I went on to spend exactly one month and a day dissecting every possible clue about the image. I devoted nine separate, wordy posts about it over the course of that month, during which time I also undertook multiple expeditions on foot to various locations, trying to discover the answer. I reached out to former members of the band, fellow photo sleuths and other likely suspects who might’ve had a helpful tip or recollection. Only by sheer luck did I randomly come in contact with the photographer responsible, who shared with me the contact sheet, allowing me to finally connect the dots, culminating in an exhaustive revelation post on June 11, 2016.

Why am I bringing this up again?

Only to call attention to the fact that I spent more time investigating the location of this strenuously trivial photograph for the purposes of a post on this stupid blog than the FBI spent on the Kavanaugh report that the Senate Judiciary Committee is currently reviewing in advance of another vote tomorrow.

ADDENDUM: Some hours later, it's been revealed that the FBI spoke with neither the alleged victim(s) nor the alleged assailant. "Thorough," therefore, is by no means an applicable descriptor to their investigation, by any reasonable standard. We've been had. 

 

Talking Heads at the Mudd Club

Talking Heads playing the intimate confines of the Mudd Club at 77 White Street in August of 1979.

This is some amazing footage I’d certainly never seen before. Not only is this a feral, pugnacious rendition of “Psycho Killer,” but a great, illuminating look inside the Mudd Club, which is usually captured in indescrinible grain and shadow (like that fabled Cramps clip or the footage of the Circle Jerks I’ve posted here before).

Also stick around for the footage of coolster Mudd Club attendees starting at around 4:03. Spot anyone you know in there?

Talking Heads • Psycho Killer • Live at the Mudd Club • August 13, 1979 from Nacho's Productions on Vimeo.