Flaming Pablum

Friday

Walk Back Into The Light

You might remember a series of entries I posted here about the light tunnel at 127 John Street from decades back (specifically here, here, here and here). In a nutshell, it was a novel little flourish in an otherwise banal office building that inadvertantly became the location for many a cool photograph, finding bands like Blondie, Genesis, The Cure, Ace Frehley, Joe Strummer and Kraut (how’s that for an odd line-up?) having their likenesses captured in the atmospheric neon tube.

Well, a fellow blogger behind Radiant Future took the baton from me and ran with it, posting a much more authoritative breakdown of the specifics. Check that out here.

Don’t bother looking for the tunnel itself, though. Turns out it was dismantled in 1997, although I’m shocked it was still there that late into the 90’s.

"How Can You Run When You Know?"

I believe it was in the summer of 1983 wherein I “appropriated” my older sister’s copy of So Far by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. That collection of said foursome’s biggest hits sat uncomfortably between my other favorite albums of that summer, those being Iron Maiden’s Piece of Mind and the live hardcore punk compliation Rat Music For Rat People. But, sure enough, in between repeated spins of “Fucked Up Ronnie” by D.O.A. and “Live Fast, Die Young” by the Circle Jerks from the latter and “Die With Your Boots On” from the former, I’d routinely squeeze in incongruous airings of songs like “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes,” “Wooden Ships” and “Helpless.” It was something of a schizophrenic summer.

In all candor, I really needen’t have unsolicitedly helped myself to that album of my sister’s, as if I ever really needed to hear any CSNY … or simply CSN, for that matter … all I really would’ve had to do is flick on the radio. Then as now, the canonical highlights of the band’s ouevre are deeply cemented in the firmament of so-called “classic rock” radio. That’s really no accident.

While arguably the consummate ensemble of hirsute hippies, CSNY’s music largely transcends all calendar-imposed parameters, and sounds as good in 2020 as it did in 1968, inimitably marked by those singature harmonies and flecked by telling bursts of Neil Young’s guitar (without question the hardest rocking aspect of the band’s output). My main reason for swiping my sister’s copy of So Far was primarily the inclusion of “Ohio,” the band’s atypically incendiary protest song, penned and rush-released in the immediate wake of the Kent State shootings in 1970. Ushered in by Neil’s barbed guitar, “Ohio” provided a plangent rallying cry to a generation fed up with the conflict in Vietnam and made incredulous by the callousness of the Nixon Administration.

The only reason I’m bringing this up is that I watched Cameron Crowe’s documentary on David Crosby, “Remember My Name,” last night, and there was one revelation that kinda blew apart my perception of “Ohio.”

The opening lyrics are “Tin soldiers and Nixon’s comin’/We’re finally on our own…,” a scene-setting that establishes the context, and asserts the band’s position that a formal, generational schism has taken place. Since first hearing it, I always assumed the next line was …

“His samurai hear the drumming/Four dead in Ohio…”

I took this as a metaphor that painted Richard Nixon as a war-mongering shogun, and that his legions of armor-clad soldiers were  hearing the backlash from their actions. It seemed both apt and poetically illustrative.

Yeah, well, as it turns out, I was wrong. The actual Neil Young lyric is ”THIS SUMMER I hear the drumming…”

I kinda liked my version better.

Anyway, it’s a great documentary. Seek it out.

Watch Your Step on Staple Street

Spend any amount of time perusing the photos on this stupid blog or on my Instagram page, and you’ll doubtlessly spot one, specific street making repeated appearances. I’ve always been compelled by Staple Street (see this old post for more extrapolation). Like lower Manhattan’s own version of Venice’s “Bridge of Sighs,” it’s a stately, historic and precious holdover from a vanished age, especially in our contemporary urban climate of avaricious real estate development. To stroll down its narrow corridor is to step back in time.

Staple Street’s signature atmosphere has been catpured in myriad films – from Jim Jarmusch’s “Stranger Than Paradise” through Phillip Joanou’s “State of Grace” to Chantal Akerman’s “News From Home” and countless others. From era to era and decade to decade, Staple Street has inspired and romanced virtually all who’ve passed under its striking, cast-iron skybridge, an architectural flourish dating back to 1907.

If you’re inspired by this post and heading down there now, …. mind how you go. Or maybe don’t wear your best shoes.

Since TriBeCa transformed from a comparatively desolate plot of city south of Canal Street in the 70’s and 80’s and morphed into the monied hotbed of tony exclusivity it is today, there is way more activity in the neighborhood. Where once these streets were deserted and whisper-quiet, they’re now regularly peppered with moms, kids in strollers, sweaty joggers, cellphone-chirping business drones and disgruntled motorists moving their sports cars to accommodate street-cleaning vehicles. And as with any residential neighborhood, there is a large contingent of dog-walkers.

Now, I get it. Dogs, like all of God’s creatures, have to poop. One of the primary reasons I don’t have a pet is the aversion to the task of regularly cleaning up after it. Having already reared two kids out of their toddler years, I feel like I’ve logged enough hours on poop detail.

Evidently, however, lots of TriBeCa residents just aren’t as bothered by that task, which is to say, they blithely ignore what is ostensibly their responsibility as dog owners, seeing fit to let their pooches defecate on the street (crucially without the “and pick it up afterwards” part of the equation). In TriBeCa, it seems the favorite street for that is Staple Street.

It’d be easy to write this post off as me being an anti-pet person. I’m not anti-pet. I’m just not a pet guy. Whatever.

What I am is an anti-poop guy. If you want a dog, that’s great … treat yourself. But do the rest of the world a favor, …. and clean up after it.

And by the way, it’s not just me that feels this way:

About Last Night

KISS never won a Grammy. Queen never won a Grammy. The Ramones never won a Grammy. Devo never won a Grammy. Blondie never won a Grammy. Talking Heads never won a Grammy. XTC never won a Grammy. The Stranglers never won a Grammy. The Buzzcocks never won a Grammy. Siouxsie & the Banshees never won a Grammy. Gang of Four never won a Grammy. Public Image Ltd. never won a Grammy. KILLING JOKE never won a Grammy. The Sisters of Mercy never won a Grammy. Bauhaus never won a Grammy. Rush never won a Grammy. The Cocteau Twins never won a Grammy. Talk Talk never won a Grammy. Julian Cope never won a Grammy. Echo & the Bunnymen never won a Grammy. Wire never won a Grammy. SWANS never won a Grammy. Cop Shoot Cop never won a Grammy. New Order never won a Grammy. Nick Cave never won a Grammy. The Replacements never won a Grammy. Husker Du never won a Grammy. The Smiths never won a Grammy. Parliament never won a Grammy. Bad Brains never won a Grammy. Venom never won a Grammy. Black Flag never won a Grammy. The Sex Pistols never won a Grammy.

You see where I’m going with this, right?

Sit & Spin: Lunch with Spasm

I know I only talked it up just earlier this month, but check out the latest episode of Lydia Lunch's podcast, The Lydian Spin. This episode finds lovely Lydia discussing all manner of rock debauchery with the inimitable Stu Spasm of Lubricated Goat and Ryan Skeletonboy from multiple bands, including Woman and, most recently, the Art Gray Noizz Quartet.

Lydia is endearingly coarse and provocative throughout. Choice quotes include "I hope your parents are dead," and some viscerally frank takedowns of folks like Jeffrey Lee Pierce and ... er... Billie Eilish. She keeps Stu on his toes, which would strike me as no easy feat. Her penchant for interruption is almost an art form. Ryan mostly giggles in the background. It's both richly informative and highly entertaining. Cop Shoot Cop even get a few mentions. 

Froberg's "Lower Manhattan"

I stumbled upon the below illustration while doing some research about Tier 3, a fleeting live music venue that operated on West Broadway south of Canal Street. The space in question is now a posh Italian restaurant called Attraversa, but circa 1979, it played host to kind of a mind-blowing roster of bands including Bauhaus, Madness, Tuxedomoon, Defunct, the Bush Tetras and skronky No Wave acts like Lydia Lunch's 8 Eyed Spy and Glen Branca. In fact, you can see some incendiary live shots of Bauhaus' fabled set there via this amazing Flickr page, which also features compelling, period-specific performance shots form other bands at comparable venues. 

In any case, the illustration below was penned by a gent named Rick Froberg, who -- along with being a visual artist -- has played in notable bands like Drive Like Jehu and the Hot Snakes. 

I have no idea when he drew this map, but of all the spots Froberg cites here, only Stromboli's Pizza on St. Marks Place (made arguably famous by a certain Beastie Boys photo) remains. 

Click on it to enlarge. 

Scrap Shoot

Fret not, graffiti fans… this is not an obit nor portentous lament. It's just a rumination on a photo I took. 

As I walked south on West Broadway, this morning, heading towards work, it struck me how astonishing it seems the Scrap Yard is still hanging on after all these years. If memory serves, the place was originally called, ahem, Bomb The System … this being prior to the age wherein such monikers riled the sensibilities of the easily alarmed. An endearingly tenacious hive of street art in a neighborhood that ceded its bohemian character decades earlier to become a staid and irretrievably exclusive enclave for monied douchebags, Scrap Yard still flies its freak flag in retina-burning colors and unruly fonts. 

Despite being an avid fan of all manner of street art, I feel somewhat regretful to admit that I’ve never spent a thin red dime in Scrap Yard, although I did routinely blow wads of cash at its (I think) sibling operation across the street, that being underground comic emporium SoHoZat (which I wrote about here and then again here). Bomb The System … true to its name … was for the bombers, i.e. taggers and graffiti writers of all stripes. I can only imagine that they changed the name to Scrap Yard in the wake of 2001, but that’s just my speculation.

Once nestled between a greasy spoon diner on the corner of Canal and the vacant lot left behind by the razing of The Church of St. Alphonsus Liguori, the shop that became Scrap Yard has seen massive changes on its home strip of West Broadway. SoHoZat across the way vanished in the mid-1990s. It was replaced by a deli of no great distinction for a while, but is now an animal shelter, of all things. The vacant lot is now home to the sprawling SoHo Grand hotel. The greasy spoon on the corner became a Dunkin Donuts. West Broadway’s fortunes ebb and flow -- and there are more than a few empty storefronts and vacant restaurant spaces, not unlike the rest of the city – but somehow Scarp Yard has managed to stay put. I frequently wish its furtive, niche clientele would leave more of a mark in the surrounding neighborhood, but those days are long gone, I guess. There’s precious little street art left in SoHo, comparatively speaking.

Anyway, like I said, I have no news to share or spread about Scrap Yard. Long may it continue, as far as I’m concerned.

Friday Vibes

Courtesy of Lydia Lunch.

Surprise, Surprise ... The Government Lies

Earlier this week, I ran into a friend of mine on my way to work. I yanked out my earbuds to talk with him, and his first question was “what were you listening to?” I sheepishly responded “Cop Shoot Cop,” to which he laughed and rolled his eyes. “But of course,” he chuckled.

I hate reinforcing my own stereotypes.

Cop Shoot Cop stopped being a going concern in about 1996 – about two and a half decades ago -- when recordings for what was ostensibly supposed to be their fifth long player were abandoned in a fog of acrimony and the inevitable “creative differences.” I was preparing to distill that whole tale for that coffee table book that lost its funding some time back. Maybe it’ll see the light of day at some point.

In any case, I immediately wanted to earnestly follow up with my friend that – contrary to my own cartoony caricature – I do not listen exclusively to a steady diet of Cop Shoot Cop and Killing Joke. Honest.

The reason I was deafening myself with Cop Shoot Cop that particular morning, was that it was the first day of the Senate impeachment trial. Fresh off that morning’s headlines about Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnel’s efforts to block the introduction of any witnesses or evidence into proceedings, the caustic strains of “Surprise, Surprise,” the first track off of C$C’s 1993 opus, Ask Questions Later filled my head, and I felt compelled to listen to music that fit that fuckin' bill, so to speak.

Now, somewhat ironically, “Surprise, Surprise” was released in March of 1993. I’m not entirely sure when the band composed the `choon in question, but it was presumably in the year or so leading up to the release of that record. Was Tod [A] specificlly decrying the early months of the Clinton Administration? Clinton’s predecessor George H.W. Bush? Or was it simply a venomous indictment of the hypocrisy-laden American political system writ large?

I could ask Tod, actually, but he seems to get bored with Cop Shoot Cop-related questions this many years after the fact.

Anyway, in the seeming absence of any genuinely NEW biting, political protest songs that address the current circus – seriously, where is the outrage? – I dip back into the well for Cop Shoot Cop (and not just them … I made a playlist not too long back). But, really, where is TODAY’s version of “Surprise, Surprise” (or something stronger)? Is anyone making that music? Weigh in.

“Surprise, Surprise”

The lower they go, the higher they fly
There's more than one way to play
and I say an eye for an eye
It's been going too far, been going too far for far too long
I want to set it on fire, I want to set it on fire
drop the bomb

Surprise, surprise.
The government lies.

It's okay to kill in the name of democracy
And dictators are swell if they like the smell of American money
It's making me sick, I want no part of it Stop waving that flag
All you idiots bought right into it And who's left holding the bag?

Surprise, surprise. Surprise, surprise.
The government lies.

This capsized country's sinking fast
I've got leeches and landlords and lawyers
Crawling all over my ass
We've been playing along and they've Been playing the song we wanted to hear
But the melody's meaningless
Wasted on my ears

Surprise, surprise. Surprise, surprise.
The government lies.

Turn it off, turn it off, turn it off