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I haven’t done one of these since July, but continuing in the series that started here and then continued here and was last visited here, herewith the fourth installment of examples of the feelings on the streets of Manhattan regarding all things Trump.
Suffice to say, none of them are positive.
..and as an adjacent palette cleanser....
I’ve mentioned the Bowery rock club, Great Gildersleeves, here a few times, notably here, here and here. For those familiar with the area, it was nestled about a block south of the bar Phebe’s, just a block or so north of the 315 Bowery (i.e. CBGB). I want to say there was also a short-lived venture called The Reggae Lounge on the corner between those points (where the restaurant Primi is today, next to Bowery Electric), but don’t quote me on that.
Of course, don’t go looking for any of those spots now. Well, Phebe’s is still there, but it looks/feels/smells way different from the way it used to. It’s basically now just another generic sport bar where corporate softball teams go to eat wings.
In any case, I should point out that I never made it to Great Gildersleeves. I was aware of it, but didn’t attend any shows there, alas. It was evidently a hotbed for early hardcore bands like DOA, The Misfits, Minor Threat, Suicidal Tendencies, Even Worse, Husker Du, SSD, Reagan Youth, the Circle Jerks and the pre-Hip-Hop Beastie Boys. Public Image Ltd., as discussed in this post, also played a gig there. Outside of hardcore bands, it also played host to the Replacements, Elvis Costello and Anthrax. Still, for whatever reason, I never made it.
Not to be outdone by CBGB’s Live At CBGB’s – The Home of Underground Rock compilation, there was The Best of Great Gildersleeves featuring a slew of bands I’ve never heard of like The Privates, The Secrets, The Favorites, The Fanz and more.
Anyway, the club closed for whatever reason. To walk by the spot now, you’d never know it played host to all this stuff. But I happened upon this pic, and thought I’d share it.
Any memories of the place? Weigh in.
©RichAllen
Above is a photograph by Rich Allen, whose work you might remember from this post.
This is, obviously, a shot of Astor Place (with "The Alamo," otherwise colloquially referred to as "the Cube") in the foreground. This was taken in 1973.
A friend of mine recently pointed out that if you stood in that very spot and spun around here in 2020, you would see the following...
A Chase Bank, a Wallgreens, a Starbucks, a KMart and a CVS.
`Twas not always thus.
Heartbroken by this morning’s news about the passing of Terry Jones.
Put simply, Monty Python, to me, were as crucial, informative and life-affirming as the Sex Pistols.
No one comes close to their genius.
Pour one out for the great man.
Snapped this morning en route to work. An illusion, of course, but it fleetingly felt like I was the only person for miles around.
I mentioned this particular anecdote way back on this ancient post, but since people are still banging on about Baby Yoda, Megxit and Oscar snubs over on social media, I reckon it's fair to throw one more post about Rush into the mix, although, truthfully, this tale only fleetingly involves the late, great Neil Peart.
Early in my post-collegiate years, after decamping from a payless internship at SPIN, I landed a gig as a copy assistant at LIFE In Time of War, a new weekly magazine from TIME/LIFE that was ostensibly going to last for as long as the first Gulf War. As it happened, the war in question was comparatively brief, so the gig only lasted for four issues. I believe part-timers like myself were churlishly heard to remark “Give War a Chance!” upon the news that our jobs were about to dry up.
In any case, along the way, I befriended a fellow copy-department gal named Lesley, who shared a similar outlook on the absurdity of proceedings. As a surreal bonus, Lesley was somewhat inexplicably good friends with Rush, a band I’d slavishly devoted large swathes of my teenage years admiring. When they came to Madison Square Garden on the Roll the Bones tour in December of 1991, Lesley gamely asked if (a) I wanted to go to the show and (b) would I be into going backstage and OUT TO GODDAMN DINNER WITH THE BAND AFTERWARDS! I responded quite zealously in the affirmative.
While the purist jury is somewhat split on the Roll The Bones-era (the title track does somewhat infamously feature some “rapping” to somewhat tepid effect), they were still a force to be reckoned with, and our seats were stupendous. Any remaining doubt as to Lesley’s claims about her friendship with the band were immediately decimated when we ducked backstage afterwards and spotted guitarist Alex Lifeson in the hall. “Drexel,” he exclaimed – evidently Lesley’s nickname, “you made it! Come on back!”
We were then ushered through a busy, backstage labyrinth, and directly into the band’s private dressing room, allowed – if memory serves – to cut in front of one Connie Hamzy, otherwise known as “Sweet, Sweet Connie,” the famous groupie immortalized in Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re An American Band.”
Once the door shut behind us, though, it was not surprising that Connie was still waiting. Planets apart from the world of renowned backstage debauchery inhabited by Led Zeppelin, Motley Crue, Van Halen and their ilk, the vibe was positively genteel within the inner Rush sanctum. Geddy Lee was affable and soft-spoken, offering me a beer and immediately handing me a Pushead-designed tour shirt (I still have it). Alex Lifeson was chatty and gracious. And Neil Peart? The legendary drum god was literally sitting in the lotus position on the couch, paging through a dog-eared, paperback copy of a work by Friedrich Nietzche. He gave our party a smiling nod, but did not get up or engage. He only rose when a new group of folks entered behind us, featuring a wheelchair-bound fan. Neil immediately got up for this special visitor and gave him his full attention. It’s not that he didn’t care about Lesley and incidental me, but evidently these types scenarios never sat well with the man. He was not fond of the accoutrements of fame, and shied away from inconsequential pleasantries. While soaking in the whole scene, I watched Neil chat with the fan for a while and sign a few items for him, only to quietly duck out and vanish with a wave to his bandmates.
Geddy, Alex and some other folks, however, were all ready to eat. The next thing I know, we’re in a giant facility under the Garden waiting for a limo. Up pulls a massive car, and Lesley and I climb in with Geddy.
I cannot honestly attest to how I behaved myself, as it’s all a bit of blur this many years later, but Lesley described me as being “adorably gobsmacked,” which sounds about right. I do remember asking Geddy what he thought about Guns N’ Roses liberally helping themselves to the central riff of “Xanadu” for the comparatively simpler main guitar line for “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” I was a bit astonished to hear him respond that he’d never knowingly heard the G’NR tune in question, but segued into an anecdote about spending some time with hair-metal screecher Sebastian Bach, and noting that the former Skid Row singer seemed to have a difficult time keeping his genitals in his pants.
We pulled up to a long-since-vanished eatery in SoHo called Nick & Eddie’s on Spring Street, and I somehow managed to ruffle the feathers of the limo driver by opening my own door (as opposed to letting him get out and open it for me). We filed into the joint and were seated at a long table reserved in the back room. I was amazed at how …. well, normal it all was.
I was treated to a lavish meal and mostly listened to Alex and Geddy discuss comparatively banal shit with Lesley and the other folks. I chimed in when it seemed appropriate, but was still fairly starstruck, despite the fact that both guys were going out of their way to downplay the surrounding circus. By the end of the meal, I think I whipped out my wallet to help throw down, with Geddy shooing me away with a kindly giggle. The tab was picked up by Rush.
Within another few minutes, it was all over. I profusely thanked them and Lesley, and the Rush gents got back in their waiting stretch and drove off to whatever hotel and that was that.
I never saw the band perform again, alas. Today, Lesley and I are still friends, despite both having left the auspices of TIME/LIFE decades ago. The space that was Nick & Eddie’s is now a shitty bar called SoHo Room. Madison Square Garden is still there.
This having been the early 90’s, I sadly have no photographs to share of the event, although the concert part can indeed be found on in YouTube. I still have both my backstage laminate and the t-shirt, although the latter has since been poached by my kids.
Rest In Peace, Neil Peart.
I've gone into chapter and verse about my affinity for Rush several times here (most recently here), so it should not come as any great news that I am profoundly saddened by news of the death of Neil Peart.
In a nutshell, though, Rush were never hip, god bless'em. Arguably too proggy, twiddly, geeky and/or shrieky, they were lambasted by all and sundry as the ultimate nerd band, rivaled only by Devo (another band I'm slavishly devoted to). Championed by greaseball heshers and bespectacled computer programmers alike, Rush deftly fused dizzying musical chops, a Zepplinesque propensity for sonic wallop and a tireless penchant for indecipherably eggheaded lyrics (penned by eight-armed Ayn Rand disciple/drummer Neil Peart). They were not tough. They were not sexy. You didn't find girls shedding their tops at their shows. But still -- they were Rush. They wrote "Spirit of Radio," "A Passage to Bangkok" and "Subdivisions." You didn't. They rock. You don't.
One of the more polarizing bands of my youth, Rush were always an absolute favorite. They may be a punchline to you, but they deserve your goddamn respect.
Rest In Peace, Neil Peart. You are irreplaceable.
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