Flaming Pablum

“We Can Be Like They Are…”

Outside of certain slavish rock circles, Blue Öyster Cult never seem to get much of a break. Oh sure … everybody knows their name but, for some reason, that name doesn’t quite inspire the gravitas their peers in bands like Black Sabbath, Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple and the like all seem to enjoy. While embraced by certain elements of both camps, BÖC were never quite metal and never quite punk and always not quite conventionally “cool” by any standard. Be it their egg-headed sci-fi fixation, their unfashionable tonsorial aesthetic or their suburban Long Island origins, some indeterminate factor prevents Blue Oyster Cult from attaining a broader degree of respect.

This all said, BÖC did manage the feat of scoring a perennial hit that transcended genre to become an all-time classic, that, of course, being 1976’s “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper,” a suitably cryptic and sepulchral ode to prematurely embracing the inevitability of death, scored by a hypnotic riff, a brain-frying solo and – yes, please do wait for it – a hefty dollop of manfully played cowbell.

Personally speaking, I’ve always loved Blue Öyster Cult, and certainly not just because of “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper.” When their longtime producer Sandy Pearlman passed away in 2016, a certain colleague of mine was heard to say “who can really name another Blue Öyster Cult song?,” which prompted to emphatically rattle off titles like “Burnin’ For You,” “Veteran of The Psychic Wars,” “This Ain’t The Summer oF Love,” “Joan Crawford (Has Risen From The Grave),” “Dominance and Submission,” “Godzilla,” “Cities on Flame,” “The Red & the Black,” “Take Me Away,” “E.T.I.” and “Shooting Shark” through clenched teeth before I was told to relax and shut up.

For certain folks, the fact that BÖC don’t fit cozily in a single box only makes them more endearing (see also Killing Joke, The Stranglers, XTC, etc.)

This post isn’t meant to defend Blue Öyster Cult. Much like Rush, they don’t need a defense, nor do they need your approval.

No, this post is only meant to highlight the video below. I’m not entirely sure why, but in keeping with an odd trend on YouTube, someone slowed “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper” down by 800% (I don't know the veracity of that number....wouldn't something slowed down by 100% be a full stop?). Regardless, the resulting sonic document is a little over 39 minutes of genuinely haunting sound. It’s sort of like what I’d imagine it to be like in deep, desolate outer space … y’know, if there was actual sound in outer space. There isn’t. It’s a vacuum, but I’m reasonably certain you get what I’m driving at.

While sure, it may sound like some gimmicky meme, immerse yourself in “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” "slowed down 800%".

I can’t help but think the band would heartily approve.

Screaming While You’re Streaming

Some time back, an organization I was working for was toying with the idea of putting together a Spotify playlist for Halloween, and solicted some suggestions. I, of course, jumped all over it, but most of my choices were nixed for being too ….. I guess, esoteric is the word? I fought valiantly for the inclusion of some of my selections, but was shot right down. I am reminded of the anecdote about COIL being asked by Clive Barker to provide a soundtrack for “Hellraiser,” and their resulting offering being turned down for being “too scary.” There's just no pleasing some folks. 

I don’t remember what they ended up going with, but it was invariably the usual mix of “Monster Mash” and some other predictable crap.

I don’t spend enough time on Spotify to put together another playlist (I’m not sure some of these cuts are even available on said platform), but here’s what I suggested way back when for suitably spooky, disquieting and/or unsettling listening. If you’ve been here a while, you’ve doubtlessly heard me crow about some of these before.

Once again, happy Halloween…

“Hamburger Lady” by Throbbing Gristle

“Black is the Color of My True Love’s Hair” by Patti Waters – Seriously, this will turn your shit white. 

“11 Mustachiod Daughters” by the Bonzo Dog Band

“Let There Be More Darkness” by Robyn Hitchcock

“Halloween” by the Misfits

“Ghouls' Night Out” by the Misfits

“Bela Lugosi’s Dead” by Bauhaus

“Stigmata Martyr” by Bauhaus

“Waltzinblack” by the Stranglers

Plague Mass by Diamanda Galas – all of it. 

“The Tenderness of Wolves” by COIL 

“Come to Daddy” by the Virgin Prunes

“Saturday Night Special” by Fad Gadget

“Subway Song” by The Cure

“22 Going on 23” by the Butthole Surfers

“Epilogue” by Skinny Puppy

“Frankie Teardrop" by Suicide

"Deep in the Woods" by the Birthday Party

"Poptones" by Public Image Ltd.

"Wind in the Rigging" by Young Marble Giants.

"YOU'RE THE ONE WHO'S CRAZY..."

When the eponymous debut by Venice, California’s Suicidal Tendencies landed like a scud missile in 1983, I had already immersed myself into hardcore punk via bands like DOA, the Circle Jerks, Kraut and many more. But Suicidal seemed like a different beast entirely. For a start, they didn’t really look like a punk band so much as a gaggle of West Coast gang-bangers. But beyond that, it was their sound that set them apart. While as stealthy and immediate as those afore-cited hardcore bands, Suicidal brought along a sonic heft that was clearly the result of an unapologetic love for heavy metal (a genre they’d soon blur the parameters of). Songs like “Possessed,” “I Shot The Devil” and “Fascist Pig” raced along at a breakneck pace, but the music was so burly. It’s no accident the band is largely credited with helping initiate the crossover scene shortly afterwards.

Of course, the song that really put … and kept …. the band on the map was their signature opus, “Institutionalized,” a first-person account from troubled teen/lead singer Mike Muir about his uber-dysfunctional relationship with his parents, their warped expectations and his comparatively pragmatic worldview. Scored by the band’s simmering fury and galloping bursts, the results are both hilarious and grimly acerbic. It pretty much became a classic upon arrival (spawning comparatively anaemic rip-off’s like “I’m An Adult Now” by The Pursuit of Happiness), and remains so today. It’s an anthem for disgruntled cynics everwhere.

The resulting video was as iconic as the track itself. Let’s go there now, shall we?

Yeah, so that’s the original.

Without going into chapter and verse about this next video, it’s prudent to seek out the mythos of “Space Ghost: Coast to Coast,” a proto-Adult Swim concoction by the Cartoon Network in the 90’s that recast the membership of the beloved Hanna-Barbera cartoon as the cast of a strenuously unlikely talk show. From that germ of an idea sprang Brak, the intellectually stunted former space pirate. As evidently mandated by surrealist godfather Dr. Demento, herewith Brak’s cover of the Suicidal Tendencies staple, “Instituationalized.”

You were warned.

 

Coming Up from "Somewhere Below..."

Just to close the loop on this, I finally got my copy of Karen O'Sullivan's "Somewhere Below 14th & East," and it is indeed astonishingly compelling.

In the grand tradition of Bri Hurley's "Making a Scene" and Drew Carolan's "Matinee," this collection of photos provides a striking glimpse into the NYHC scene of the early 80's, one that showcases the breadth of this particular comnunity, the pertinent topography and myriad characters from therein, both obscure and renowned. As I've laboriously observed on similar posts in the past, it's hard to reconcile that we're living in the same city that fostered this scene. 

The last time I did that, of course, I was called out by a regular reader for being a boujie ex-punk (or something to that effect) who'd divested, seemingly oblivious to the the next generations' iterations that picked up where this earlier scene left off. To that point, I'd suggest that I'm not negating the idea of a thriving New York hardcore community here in 2019, but rather pointing out that it doesn't operate as this one did, nor around the same environs. My point is less about the continuing existence of hardcore and more about how much this city has changed. 

Anyway, should you be interested, I recommend ordering a copy with the "bonus zine," which simply gives you more images to look at, including this cool shot of Jack Natz (then of The Undead, later of Virus and my beloved Cop Shoot Cop). 

`Tis The Season...

Happy Halloween, y'all...

Bad Happenings on Avenue B

Evidently, Harvey Weinstein stepped out on the town, last night, to attend an event at a frankly douchy-looking new L.E.S. establishment called the Downtime Bar. Back in the 90’s, there was a Goth club called Downtime on West 30th Street – this is not affiliated with that. In any case, during the course of the evening, it was gleaned by certain event participants that the infamous Mr. Weinstein was in attendance. Tempers unsurprisingly flaired, although the outcome didn’t result in Weinstein’s ejection from the bar, but rather the ejection of two of his confronters. You can read details of the whole icky account on Gothamist.

If even a fraction of the stories about Weinstein have even a modicum of truth about them, he’s the abhorrent scumbag we all assume he is, and he deserves no pity. I hope he had a shitty evening. But speaking of shitty evenings, there was something strangely familiar about the location.

I did a bit of Googling and found Downtime’s website – which revealed it to be just as, once again, douchy as I’d been expecting. It turns out, however, that it’s located at 25 Avenue B, and that’s what put the hook in me.

I don’t remember what sort of concern 25 Avenue B was back in the comparatively carefree, balmy days of 1993, but it was considerably less salubrious than what Downtime aspires to be today. In fact, the address is directly across the street from the former site of the infamous Gas Station, a notorious venue I’ve spoken about here a few times. Depending on who you ask, The Gas Station is arguably most renowned as being the site of the final performance by the late GG Allin in June of 1993. GG went on to overdose on drugs later that same day, but not before needlessly stripping naked, assaulting a few people, pelting anyone within pelting-distance with fistfuls of his own excrement and inspiring a riot that spilled out onto the busy byways of Avenue B. You can see lots of same in the grainy video below.

About twenty-five minutes into the video, after the “concert” has been effectively scuttled, watch how the Geeg boldly bounds out of the Gas Station and onto the avenue, wherein he proceeds to bash his head against a light pole, roll around naked in the middle of street – as one does, I guess – throw a bottle at a bus, flip off said bus, and then fleetingly take shelter from the scrutiny of the nearby constabulary by hiding in the doorway of what -- I think -- today is the Downtime Bar.

Here in 2019, GG Allin has been dead for twenty-six years. The Gas Station was razed and a new building with a Duane Reade now stands in its footprint. Harvey Weinstein, meanwhile, is still walking the streets. 

There’s some bad kinda karma on that strip of Avenue B, to be sure.

Joking on The Steps

I posted this on Facebook today, but I might as well share it here, too, because … well, why not?

According to several reports, notably this recent one in Vulture, certain fans have discovered the location of an evidently crucial scene in “Joker” and started to make touristy pilgrimages to the site in the Bronx. I say “evidently” as I still have not seen the film, and have no real desire to. To my mind, as I may have stated here before, we don’t need another telling of the Joker story, in much the same way we do not need another James Bond, or another goddamn “Star Wars” installment. Shouldn’t we all be bored to tears with these mythoses by now? How about new stories, new heroes and new anti-heroes. Just a thought.

In any case, while I might not give a rat’s ass about “Joker,” I really cannot get mad at folks for getting excited about tracking down those stupid Bronx steps, given the fact that I’ve undertaken countless pilgrimages of similar intent to any number of significant locations from photographs, album covers and films, usually in the company of my very patient kids. Many long-time visitors to this blog may remember same.

Here are some you might remember, should you care….Click on them to enlarge. 

 

Downtown `52

Word arrived last week that a newly restored version of Glenn O'Brien's "Downtown 81" was about to see the light of day. I think I first saw the film in question at the since-recently-razed Screening Room theatre in TriBeCa in about 2000, or so -- and it immediately made a huge impression on me.

As a time-capsule-worthy document of early 80's New York City, it is, of course, invaluable. Secondly, its soundtrack is entirely awesome -- particularly the live stuff from Kid Creole/Coati Mundi, to say nothing of the vintage footage of bands like Tuxedomoon and DNA. But, speaking in strictly cinematic terms, the film itself is frequently laborious and plodding. While definitely worth checking out for the points expressed above, one should be prepared to be bored to absolute tears during certain passages.

A new restoration of the film also seems a bit odd, as it strikes me that a deluxe, 30th anniversary digitally remastered edition of the DVD only just arrived in 2017. It feels a bit like Francis Ford Coppola's fixation with trying to wring further life from "Apocalypse Now" for the umpteenth time. 

As much as I do genuinely love "Downtown 81," there is also sort of an uncomfortably fetishistic quality about regularly revisiting the film in that it plays right into accusations of a variety of brazenly idealized nostalgia for the Lower East Side's "bad old days." Personally speaking, in 1981, I was an Upper East Side teenager who was indeed suitably captivated by all things downtown, but I sure as shit wasn't venturing further east of Avenue A (where much of the film takes place). I do not have that much first-hand experience of the downtown Manhattan suggested in "Downtown 81" beyond what I saw from behind the relative safety of bus windows. 

It's certainly easy to fancifully think back to that largely lawless era as some sort of halcyon period, but those who lived through them in real time don't always agree. Michael Gira of SWANS appeared in a podcast this week, and briefly mentioned his time living on East 6th & Avenue B in the early 80s, and doesn't recall it with any degree of fondness.

While times have certainly changed, and many of us do indeed miss the Lower East Side's former identity as a neighborhood more clearly defined by free expression and less staid sensibilities than were found throughout the rest of the city, it's prudent to remember that the L.E.S. already had a character and richly robust history that dates back much, much further than the punks, the poets, the pushers and the provocateurs.

Here's a tantalizing little glimpse of same....

Whither The Pit?

Because I’m a fatuously geeky fanboy, I am a member of a group on Facebook devoted to the Sisters of Mercy. This post is not really about the band in question, but I’m just citing this for context.

Over the past several weeks, members of this group have posted a couple of photos of enigmatic Sisters mainstay Andrew Eldritch sporting variations of black t-shirts (shocker!) emblazoned with the logo and legend “The Pit – New York City.”

I was, of course, immediately intrigued.

As an Upper East Side kid, I first started exploring downtown Manhattan during my early high school years. When the parents of my friend Spike (immortalized here, although still not his actual name) got divorced, Spike moved with his dad to an expansive apartment in Greenwich Village, down on Cornelia Street. This particular spot became my preliminary staging ground for acclimating myself with this captivating new (well, new for me, circa 1981 or so) part of the city, having already bored myself senseless looking for comic shops and record stores all around uptown and midtown.

During those early sorties (wherein I discovered crucial locations like Bleecker Bob’s, 99 Records, Subterranean Records, Second Coming Records and It’s Only Rock’n’Roll …. all gone now, of course), I do dimly remember a selection of places that haven’t gone onto become as well-documented as others. For example, I seem to be the only person who remember a heavy metal shop on MacDougal Street between West Third and Bleecker called C.C.& Star. I have vivid memories of the tiny joint, but there’s no evidence on the internet (apart from my own invocations) that it ever existed.

Similarly, I want to say I remember a concern named The Pit, but I may just be projecting.

Some members of the SOM group on Facebook suggest that it may have been situated on St. Marks Place. Was it a shop? A live music venue? A bar? Did the Sisters play there? It’s difficult to discern.

Much like my search for anything to do with C.C. & Star, nothing really comes up, other than the t-shirt design above, although that comes bereft of any info of the image’s true provenance.

Given the Hell’s Angels’ until-recent foothold in the East Village, I’m guessing The Pit might have had something to do with them, given the biker aesthetic at work – something the Altamont-fixated Sisters of Mercy would certainly have gravitated towards.

In any case, while the name rings the faintest of bells with me, I’m fairly certain I never set foot in the place, and probably only walked by it, at best.

Who can share more about The Pit? Weigh in…

For more context, here are the Sisters…

 

Brûlant Pablum à Paris: Part 2

Just to complete the recap...

The flat we stayed in was literally steps away from the current Picasso museum on Rue de Thorigny in the Marais. We couldn't not go, obviously, it being so damn convenient. As cool as it was, however, Picasso strikes me as an artist that has reached such an iconic level wherein literally every single thing he ever did is now treated like absolute gold. This is not to say that his work isn't striking to the layperson, but we didn't see anything within the collection that was especially well known, so the "wow" factor was slightly diminished. Against my better judgment, I was privately hoping they'd be selling beach towels with "Guernica" on them, but -- to the credit of their taste -- this turned out not to be.

Much to the chagrin of my kids, we made it to the Francis Bacon show at the Pompidou. While m'self and the wife are fans of his work, the kids weren't really buying it (nor is much of Bacon's work especially "kid friendly"), but the element that made it especially tough was the crowd size. Enjoying Bacon's paintings is somewhat difficult when you have people stepping on your feet and breathing down your neck. Still, while not for everyone,if you're a fan of the man's stuff, it's worth seeing.

While they didn't necessarily dig Bacon's splattery grotesqueries, the kids did quite enjoy the view from the top of the Pompidou.

While significantly decreased here in Manhattan, street art is still alive and well in Paris...

Oh yeah, and the French don't like him either....

The day before we left, Peggy & the kids went to do some shopping, letting me off my leash long enough to go track down a punk rock record shop I'd read about across the Beaumarchais in a slightly less salubrious area of Paris. I found Born Bad Records in the end, tucked around a corner on a quiet little street. They didn't really have anything I crucially needed, but I bought a t-shirt to be supportive. Vive Le Rock! 

I will say this. If you're planning a trip to Paris, you very well may have heard about the Bateaux Mouche, which are those boats that sail around the Seine, giving sight-seers a view of the City of Light from the water. While that certainly sounds nice, lemme tell ya.... if you hate tourists as much as I do, avoid the Bateaux Mouche like the plague. It will put you swiftly in touch with your inner xenophobe in no time. Packed with competing hordes of German and Japanese tourists (the former are way more annoying than the latter, I decided), the experience made appreciating the visual splendor on offer very difficult. Don't say you weren't warned.

So, yeah, Paris was just as magical as we're all repeatedly told it should be. I ate like royalty and regained the fleeting remnants of my sanity that have otherwise been robbed of me by the daily grind. That is, of course, when I wasn't squabbling with my teenage daughter, who took a bit of time acclimating to the pointedly unhurried nature of Parisian living ... something native New Yorkers have a harder time adjusting to. In the end, she was heartbroken to have to leave. We all were. 

We will go back.