Flaming Pablum

Teeth Versus Tongue: The Series

Stress can manifest itself in numerous ways. Some people lose their ability to sleep, or concentrate. Some develop a nervous tick. Some break out in hives. Some overeat. Some overdrink. Maybe some people get uncontrollably flatulent or incontinent. Me? Evidently, when under stress, I bite myself.

Over the course of my entire almost-fifty-two-goddamn years, I have routinely subjected the tender interiors of my mouth to the merciless wrath of my own anxious choppers. If I had a dollar for every speech-inhibiting mouth wound I’ve inflicted upon myself over the decades, I’d probably have enough to buy myself a brand new, impervious, artificial tongue. That would come in damn handy, considering the mess I’ve made of my current tongue.

As documented in comparatively ancient posts like this one and this one, this painful habit of mine has stretched well into my adult years. It’s been a fairly frenetic season at work, of late, and we’re still juggling multiple house and child-rearing challenges on the home front, so I am fairly stressed out, at the moment. I guess it was just a matter of time before I did it again.

While I have absolutely zero recollection of doing it, I evidently saw fit to sink my teeth into my tongue this past Monday (in my sleep, maybe?), prompting me to start this week with a gruesome, swollen gash on the tip of my tongue that curbed my ability to clearly speak, among myriad other activities. I’d post a picture, but it’s fairly repulsive. You're welcome. 

In any case, ever since then, my life has been taken over by it. Beyond not being able to speak with any semblance of coherence and/or dignity, the searing sting conjured by this comparatively tiny gash has severely curtailed my ability to eat anything without palpably shuddering with pain. I’ve tried topical treatments like Orajel and Kanka, but given the location of the laceration and the activity it routinely sees, nothing seems to work. I am in fucking Hell.

I’m regularly immersing it in Listerine and …. well … beer, in the evenings, but all else seems to cause it irritation. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I treated myself to a Mango Lassi at an Indian joint near my office, yesterday, and the creamy, cooling South Asian confection actually did provide a bit of respite, however brief. 

All other advice, tips, warnings or recommendations are welcome.  Otherwise, please come kill me. 

Jeff's Records

Evidently, it’s been a whole 22 years since Jeff Buckley -- that's him above, performing at Tower Records on Broadway -- vanished beneath the water of the Wolf River Harbor in Memphis, TN and drowned (although, his body wasn’t recovered until six days later). I still remember learning about his death and being entirely incredulous about it.

I have a stupid anecdote about getting into an online spat with poor Jeff’s mother sometime after that. In those early days of online file-sharing, she was a vigilant gatekeeper of her late son’s music, and was renowned for going after his fans online. I’d dimly invoked a cover Jeff had recorded of “I Against I” by the Bad Brains on a now-long-defunct music discussion board, and she reached out and kinda went to town on me. In retrospect, it’s more sad than anything. Should you care, you can read the full stupid story here.

As a side note, according to WikiPedia –- and take from that what you will -– Jeff Buckley was once roommates with actress Brooke Smith, and it was Smith who introduced him to the music of the Bad Brains. Smith, who played Catherine Martin in “The Silence of the Lambs” (y’know – it’s her that gets the hose again if she doesn’t rub the lotion on her skin and put it back in the basket) is also the source of those amazing photos of punks and hardcore kids from the NYHC matinee scene that I wrote about way back when. Small world, eh?

Anyway, a little over two decades later, there’s been a mountain of posthumously released material from the Buckley vault, possibly even a proper release of that divisive Bad Brains cover, which was allegedly originally recorded for a radio show. But a friend of mine posted something today that I’d never seen, that being the presumably authoritative website of Jeff Buckley’s record collection.

Herein, you’ll find a lot of what I’d consider predictable stuff like Cocteau Twins, Zeppelin, Van Morrison, but there are some surprises as well. It’s not shocking to see the Bad Brains in there, but he also had a Circle Jerks album (Golden Shower Of Hits, though, not the vital Group Sex), a couple of albums by the Birthday Party, lots of Iggy Pop, a surprising amount by Skinny Puppy and even Master of Puppets by Metallica and Destroyer by KISS. Didn’t expect those last two.

Woefully, if this site is to believed, Jeff owned nothing by Killing Joke, Motorhead, the Stranglers, SWANS, XTC nor his ersatz labelmates Cop Shoot Cop (Buckley and C$C were both fleetingly signed to the UK’s Big Cat label). Moreover, he owned what I would consider an unhealthy amount of Joni Mitchell albums, but y’know … to each their own.

May he rest in peace.

Does He, Though: Coda

Continued from this. 

Once again, like the beer that inspired it, "Mueller Time" is just roundly unfulfilling. To my mind, the comment Mueller made suggesting that he did not achieve confidence that Trump DID NOT commit a crime says Mueller's team simply didn't finish the job.

Confidence should have been attained -- one way or the other. 

And now....?

ADDENDUM: I think, ultimately, I am unrealistic in my desires to see this play out in a manner comparable to the cinematic fruitions of my very active imagination. It is a ponderous political process. That all said, while I respect Mueller's adherence to established protocol, I'm not of the opinion Barr (his boss) is playing by those same rules.

Joan Walsh of The Nation just posted an excellent breakdown, but here's her parting shot:

This is a bad day for Donald Trump. But it’s also a tough day for House Speaker Nancy Pelosi, and any other Democratic leader who is trying to slow-walk an impeachment inquiry. In the long relay of justice, Robert Mueller just handed you the baton. Run with it. Today.

From Trash to Posh: The Metamorphosis of Hamilton-Holly House at 4 St. Marks Place

Originally the stately home of Eliza Hamilton, the widow of — wait for it — Alexander Hamilton, the townhouse of 4 St. Marks Place, otherwise known as the Hamilton-Holly House, is rightly considered a historic, designated landmark in the heart of what is now referred to as Manhattan’s East Village, a neighborhood descriptor Mrs. Hamilton’s tenure well predates.

As far back as I’ve ever been able to recall, however, 4 St. Marks Place was the home of Trash & Vaudeville, an enterprise I’ve discussed many times here.

Along with housing Jimmy Webb’s fabled punk clothing shop, the building also boasted an iconic stoop, one that frequently played host to the the local color of the neighborhood, so to speak.

I probably first called it out in the post that led to my interview with RB Korbet of Even Worse. I’d posted the photo below, and she’d gotten in touch to let me know the photographer’s name (Dave “Daze” Parsons). RB is the lady in black looking at the camera.

Over the years, the building has seen a lot of wear & tear, much like the surrounding neighborhood, but in the last fifteen-to-twenty years, or so, gentrification in the East Village (as well as its surrounding neighborhoods) has seen a sharp uptick.

In due course, while that stoop had long played host to any number of denizens of St. Marks Place, it was eventually gated off.

In 2016, meanwhile, Trash & Vaudeville was jettisoned from Hamilton-Holly House. Don’t fret. They relocated over on East 7th and, by all accounts, are still doing well. Webb even opened up an adjunct show further down in the Lower East Side.

Back at 4 St. Marks Place, however, a sidewalk shed was erected and plans were enacted to whip the former Hamilton-Holly House back into shape, so to speak.

Following the closings of St. Marks Sounds and the Grassroots Tavern just down the block for similar purposes, this development didn’t bode well for those who — like myself — who still cling to the idea of St. Marks Place remaining the endearingly chaotic and arguably grubby gateway to the East Village.

Recently, the shed was removed to reveal a newly refurbished facade. A quick Google search reveals that the townhouse is back up for sale (no price listed), and described thusly:

The space was previously occupied by Trash and Vaudeville's since 1975, and has historically been an epicenter of counter culture, bohemia and rock-and-roll. This landmark building is now being gut renovated, modernized and fully restored.

For those used to looking at 4 St. Marks Place during its Trash & Vaudeville days, it’s a slightly jarring transformation. My son and I walked by it yesterday, and I couldn’t stop from taking a picture (that’s Oliver below).

Technically, it’s the same stoop.

But you’d never know it.

Raging Against the (Tin) Machine

I wrote a few pieces, here, over the years about David Bowie’s oft-maligned tenure in Tin Machine, and – more specifically – the videos they shot within the confines of the old Ritz on East 11th Street. That came part and parcel with the allegation, some time back, that Bowie was fond of hardcore, buffered by the appearances of folks like Harley Flanagan of the Cro-Mags and Stephan Ielpi of the False Prophets in the video for Tin Machine’s “Under the God.”

Personally speaking, I always dug the first Tin Machine record. I never got around to the second one.

In any case, the videos for same have been floating around YouTube for years, in various shoddy capacities. Visual proceedings were usually grainy and pixilated. Today, my friend Jeremy pointed out that Bowie’s official YouTube channel just posted “Nine Track Compilation,” which more or less aggregates all of Tin Machine’s first videos, seemingly all filmed in that storied East 11th Street venue, and all featuring a cast of ancillary punk rockers doing their best to slam, crowd-surf and stage dive enthusiastically to the incongruous strains of Bowie’s ill-fated, late-80’s ersatz hard rock combo.

Here it is now. Enjoy it while it lasts:

Very shortly after these clips were filmed, the Ritz closed up shop on East 11th Street and moved to the space that had formerly housed Studio 54. The East 11th Street space then turned into a more dance-oriented (as opposed to live music-centric) club and reverted back to its original name, Webster Hall. Webster Hall had a long run, and then it, too, closed its doors and gradually started to erode. This year, it has re-opened as Webster Hall.

Harley Flanagan remains active himself, fronting a new iteration of the Cro-Mags, in the wake of a protracted dispute with some of his former bandmates. Stephan Ielpsi’s current doings are unknown to me, although I want to say I read about a False Prophets reunion, at some point.

Tin Machine broke up after their second album failed to make much of a dent, arguably to the relief of many Bowie acolytes. I’m not sure what its fraternal rhythm section of Tony and Hunt Sales (sons of Soupy) are up to, these days. Guitarist Reeves Gabrels was a session guitarist for a while before re-joining Bowie’s band full-time. These days, he plays in The Cure, and has grown out his hair to rival Robert Smith’s.

David Bowie, meanwhile, has since yet to return to us.

Unpack The Black! It's World Goth Day!

Never one to firmly adhere to any single subculture, I largely demurred, in my youth, from fully defining myself as “a Goth” or “a Punk” or “a metalhead” or whatever. Not only did these tribal descriptors all seem too limiting (and, ultimately, sorta silly), but I don’t know that I fully belonged in any subcategory. I had too many Marillion, Yes and Pink Floyd records to cut it as a punk, way too many Devo records to render me eligible to be a full-time metalhead and liked a whole bunch of stuff that would have probably made a Goth purist gag. I mean, sure, I adored Acid Bath by Alien Sex Fiend, Dawnrazor by Fields of the Nephilim and Do You Believe In the Westworld? by Theatre of Hate, but I also really dug …. I dunno, Mothership Connection by Parliament, Arrival by Abba and the first Boston record. I just liked different music. That’s not a testament to my arguable eclecticism so much as a self-disqualifying acknowledgment.

This all said, I wasn’t entirely immune to the some of the tonsorial and sartorial trappings of those communities, and I’d cherry-pick from each, depending on my mood. See pic above of the 19-year-old me letting my Goth flag fly, as it were, in July of 1987.

Given my not-always-entirely-sunny outlook on life, I did go through periods of sporting a lot of black. I still do, for that matter, but as I am prone to attest, I used to wear a lot of black because of bands like The Stranglers, The Sisters of Mercy and The Misfits. Now I wear back because ... it’s slimming.

Anyway, today is evidently World Goth Day. While I absolutely no longer care what music from whichever subculture or genre is credibly deemed hip or cool –- especially in an era when hip and cool seem to be defined by artless garbage (why name names?) -– I have nothing but affection for (most) of the music that falls under the (inevitably black) umbrella of “Gothic.”

As such, here is one of my favorite largely-considered-Goth bands of the mid-to-late 80’s -– The Mission -– covering my favorite song of all time by Killing Joke, a band many Goths count as their own, but whose music transcends that tag, I’d offer (and Goth scholar Andi Harriman agreed).

The notion of the Mission covering Killing Joke would have blown the head of that 19 year old pictured above apart, in 1987. Today, it doesn’t seem quite as surprising, but here you go.

Happy World Goth Day. Release the Bats.

Working for The Clampdown

Last month, Stereogum reported a story about Democratic presidential hopeful Andrew Yang’s musical preferences, his alleged status as an “ex-Goth” and his challenge to Beto O’Rourke to have a “skate off.” Today, new candidate and current ineffectual New York City mayor Bill De Blasio went on CNN and started waxing rhapsodic about his fandom of the Clash, how much London Calling means to him and his “hidden” love of ska.

Listen, practically *NO ONE* is more stupidly fixated with ridiculously minutia-laden music discussions than I am, but if you’re honestly inclined to vote for somebody because they were allegedly once in a punk band, really enjoy Funhouse by The Stooges or consider themselves “the first ex-goth” candidate, you really need to take a long, hard look at your priorities.

Personally speaking, I really don’t give that much of a damn what music my president listens to, as long as they’re not a raging, megalomaniacal moron like the current occupant of the White House.

Before you write me off as a cynical bastard, allow me to clarify. In no way do I mean to diminish the power, the sentiment and the resonance of the songs of, say, The Clash. To express affinity for the principles Joe Strummer’s lyrics emphatically espoused and to recognize the fiery conviction with which those lyrics were delivered -– to understand the urgency of both the music and its message -– is certainly commendable. I do want my politicians to be that cognizant, aware and appreciative of those ideals. But, by the same token, their fandom of certain bands should NOT BE ENOUGH to earn your support. In the current fraught, divisive age that finds our nation astonishingly out of step with the rest of the world on myriad key issues, the next president needs to have his or her eyes on the prize. Their record collection shouldn’t matter to you, at this stage.

Just for laughs, I took a look at Barack Obama’s 2018 playlist on Spotify, and it pretty much made my point for me. Opinions may differ, but from where I’m sitting, Obama was a solid, damn smart, scandal-free, eloquent and thoughtful leader with his heart in the right place. Did he make mistakes? Certainly, but when viewed through the prism of our current Hellscape, it’s damn hard not to miss him.

Turns out our former commander-in-chief listens to a lot of shit I personally wouldn’t play at a dog. But I’d have him back in the White House in a heartbeat.

Also, not for nothing, but fuck off, De Blasio -- don't sully the Clash with your abominable egomania. 

What An Excellent Day for an Exorcism

The Last Laugh: Interborough Killing Joke

Considering all the bandwidth I’ve devoted to the telling of this tale, I should at least cap it all off.

Last night was the second evening of Killing Joke’s two-night stint in the New York area for this leg of their 2019 mini-tour (culminating in the incongruous environs of Las Vegas later this month). Both New York gigs were at comparatively intimate venues, Manhattan’s Le Poisson Rouge and Brooklyn’s St. Vitus. Despite being one of the busiest weeks of my year at the office, I went to both shows and had a blast both nights, reconnecting with old friends and making several new ones. I am now tired, hungover, sore and all that goes with that, but I’m incredibly glad to have made it to both shows ... and back again. 

I took a pile of pics on both nights (the shot above is from Le Poisson Rouge), but was astonished to find that the whole show from last night is already viewable online. I’ll spare you my bug-eyed, purple prose and let you watch for yourself (until it’s yanked from YouTube). Pay special attention to the percussive powerhouse that is the mighty Big Paul Ferguson on drums ... in feral form, as always. 

Killing Joke …. still laughing at your peril after all these years….

The Punchline: Killing Joke Comes Back to NYC

Regular readers might remember a series of posts, last year, that unspooled a weepy, tragicomic epic poem about my endeavors to witness my beloved Killing Joke’s 40th Anniversary tour. For those who were fortunate enough to miss those laborious entries, here’s a quick recap.

I’d procured tickets for their September gig at nearby Irving Plaza, only to later learn that a work event would have me in Nashville on the very same day. I managed to get my company’s travel representative to move Heaven and Earth to get me plane tickets that would get me back to New York in time to catch the show. However, an uncaring God intervened by way of a prohibitive thunderstorm, which diverted my plane to the chilly barrens of Syracuse. By the time we were back in the air again, the show was already underway. By the time I got out of the airport and back to Manhattan, the show was over. I did not make it.

While I was congratulated for my work on the Nashville project, I was inconsolable for having missed the Killing Joke show, assuming that given the significance of the anniversary, they weren’t likely to undertake a tour this way again. Fate briefly smiled on me in the form of a cash bonus – a reward for my hard work in Nashville. I took said cash and immediately spent it on plane tickets to catch the final two dates of the tour in England.

In November, the day my flight was to depart from New York City to London for these shows, God again tried to take a giant dump on my plans by conjuring a freakish fucking blizzard -– in NOVEMBER, once again -- that ground the city to a virtual halt and delayed several flights – notably my own.

I did, however, eventually get out and made it to both of those shows, which were amazing. Should you give a damn, you can read all about that chapter here.

Further mocking me from on high, our sadistic deity then saw fit to bring Killing Joke not only back to New York City, but for two goddamn shows, one of which in my very fucking neighborhood. Hilarity.

So, yeah, tonight they’re playing at the comparatively intimate Le Poisson Rouge. Tomorrow night, they’ll be tightly ensconced in St. Vitus. Both of these tiny club shows are sold the fuck out, but guess who got tickets?

I mean, honestly, how could I NOT?

Details to come.

Here's a shaky bit of the last show in London (I did not shoot this)...