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I think the first time I ever encountered Lydia Lunch was via her contribution to Sonic Youth’s Bad Moon Rising album in 1985, wherein she duetted with Thurston Moore on “Death Valley `69,” a little off-kilter ditty about the Manson Family that, when played, used to make my freshman-year roommate in college leave the room with a look of concerned agitation on his face … always a sign of quality. In fact, fuck it, here it is now….duck & cover….
Incidentally, the angry brunette lady gnashing her teeth throughout that clip is not Lydia Lunch. Lydia make a blink-&-you’ll-miss-her cameo, but the “star” of this clip is one Lung Leg, a fellow alumnus of the cinema of transgression (which I spoke about back here).
In any case, a little while after I latched onto “Death Valley `69," I picked up an issue of Byron Coley’s underground `zine, Forced Exposure, based on its inclusion of articles about Die Kreuzen — who I’d only witnessed play live for the first time some short months earlier — and those old idiotic favorites in The Meatmen. The cover-girl, for want of a better term, of that issue was none other than Lydia Lunch, enabling me to match a comely, slightly intimidating face to the pouty purr on “Death Valley `69.”
Duly intrigued by the fittingly pugnacious interview therein, imagine my glee upon finding out that my college radio station, WDUB 91.1,— where I’d only just started DJ’ing — actually had a long-neglected copy of No New York in a dusty archive otherwise overrun with The Allman Brothers, Little Feat and the soggy flaccidity of Pure Prairie League. For those unfamiliar, No New York was Brian Eno’s seminal No Wave compilation that culled together select bands from that scene, foremost among them being Lydia Lunch’s first band, Teenage Jesus & the Jerks. I vividly remember cueing up “The Closet” from same — on the air, having never heard it before — and letting her rip for WDUB’s audience. The phone summarily lit up at the sound of the discordant guitar, lurching staccato “rhythm” and Lydia’s fraught mewling. I believe we might have fielded some death threats. Pure Prairie League this was not.
I’ve spoken numerous times here about my fandom for Lydia Lunch. Not only do I love all manifestations of her unsettling music, I just find her whole aesthetic — willfully confrontational, whip-smart and unapologetic — so refreshing. It’s no pose. It’s no act. She will fuck you up.
It was for this very reason that, while left to our own devices in quarantine, I decided to, at long last, order Lydia’s cook book.
You read that right.
Indeed, along with being a tireless voice of confrontational provocation and — as she’s put it — irritainment, Ms. Lunch is also an accomplished epicurean.
The thing is, though, I don’t cook. Like, at all. Sure, I can make spaghetti or a burger. I can scramble an egg — although don’t ask me to fry one with any semblance of prowess. I can grill a steak on an outdoor grill, but any moron can do that. When it comes to the nuances of cooking, however, I am a total moron. I took a cooking class in 2001, but didn’t retain any of it. I’m also slavishly spoiled, as I married a resourceful and innovative chef. Peg is roundly capable of turning a haphazard array of leftovers into a strikingly flavorful meal.
Anyway, about three months back, when the realities of the overarching life-hiatus brought on by the COVID-19 pandemic were unfurling, I thought it would be a swell time to get ahold of Lydia’s cook book and give a few of her recipes a try. While my wife had absolutely no idea about Lydia Lunch or her music or deliberately thorny spoken-word stuff — this is probably for the best — she was indeed intrigued by the book and snatched it out of my hands upon arrival, seizing upon Lydia’s recommendations about the myriad nutritional benefits of bee pollen. In case you’ve never sampled same, bee pollen is a frankly pungent amalgam of flower pollen, nectar, enzymes honey, wax and — wait for it — “bee secretions” that tastes exactly like something described with the word “secretions” probably should. When we tried it, suffice to say, it chilled our enthusiasm for venturing further into the gaping maw of Lydia’s pantry, but there are indeed several dishes we’ve earmarked to attempt. Watch this space
Until then, however, if you’re intrigued about Ms. Lunch, you should definitely check out the latest episode of Damian Abraham’s podcast “Turned Out a Punk,” which finds the tirelessly enthusiastic lead singer of Fucked Up chatting with Lydia, who gamely expounds on her musical exploits. Given Lydia’s pronounced disdain for the very word “punk,” it’s no small feat that Damian charmed her into discussing so much stuff here. If you’re a fan, it’s well worth your time.
Also, do stick around for Lydia's rant (taken from her own podcast, which I spoke about a couple of times here not too long back) about the myriad failings of the Trump Administration. Typically, she pulls no punches and takes no prisoners.
Check it out...
Back in 2015, I interacted with a photographer named Gary Green during the course of trying to track down the location of a photograph of Joe Jackson Green snapped for the sleeve of Jackson’s “Real Men” single. Now a professor at Colby College, Green then shared with me more photos he took from back in the day, which he’d put on a website, documenting nights out at joints like Max’s Kansas City, CBGB and other likely haunts.
Today, I’m happy to evangelize that Green’s photos can now be yours in the form of a book called “When Midnight Comes Around” (yes, a Velvet Underground lyric). Rife with images of period-specific luminaries like Richard Hell, Johnny Thunders, Anya Philips, Joey Ramone, David Johanson, Debbie Harry, Patti Smith, Victor Bockris, Tom Waits, Robert Gordon, Alex Chilton, Andy Warhol, Lou Reed and more.
Click here to get your copy. Tell’em Flaming Pablum sent ya.
Some of you might remember an entry I posted back in 2016 that took issue with a certain t-shirt that was making the rounds. My point was that #BlackSabbathMatters was a frankly stupid disservice to all parties concerned in that (a) it wasn’t particularly clever (b) it made the mighty Black Sabbath unwittingly complicit and, most importantly, (c) it oafishly made light of a movement dedicated to fighting systemic racism and police brutality. Not a good look, as they say.
It seems that the gents in Black Sabbath concur. News broke, this week, that they’re currently selling their own response, a Black Lives Matter shirt (in the signature font of their Master of Reality sleeve), with ALL proceeds from same going to the movement.
Choke on that one, haters.
If case you’re unfamiliar, THIS is Black Sabbath.
Back in 2012 — itself a damn long time ago — I posted a eulogy of sorts to The Cooler, an old live-music venue in the Meatpacking District, spooling an anecdote about attending one of its final shows, that being my friend Paul Wallfisch's band Botanica opening for Suicide, who I sadly did not stay for — coerced, instead, by my friend Tod [A] of Firewater to jump ship and come with him to check out this weird Ukrainian disco over on Canal Street.
As it happened, that weird Ukranian disco was actually a weird Bulgarian disco called Mehanata. You can see snippets of the interior of that place in the video for “Start Wearing Purple” by Gogol Bordello. Gogol Bordello, incidentally, then counted guitarist Eugene Kaplan in its ranks, although Eugene also played for both Firewater and Botanica. Mehanata, meanwhile, was located directly over the former location of Dave’s Luncheonette, a fabled diner for the Mudd Club set which briefly made a cameo in the video for “Jukebox Baby" by Alan Vega of Suicide. See? It’s all related!
In any case, in that anecdote on that old post, I fleetingly alluded to trying to snag a poster for that gig off the very wall of The Cooler, but was prevented from doing so by the joint’s notoriously irritable proprietor, that being a gent inexplicably named Jedi (this testy exchange was immortalized in New York Press). As lovely as I remember the poster being, I had to leave without it. Ever since then, I’ve kept one eye out for it, in case it appeared in a random Google search or eBay auction.
Well, that actually happened this week. Via Google, I found it on an auction site, but sadly said auction ended in 2009 — itself, once again, a long damn time ago. From that site, however, I was able to glean that the poster was designed by an artist named Kayrock, and only 100 were made. Adding insult to injury, the auction was only asking twenty bucks for the poster. Alas, I am 11 years too late.
Today in 2020, the building at 416 West 14th Street that formerly housed The Cooler plays host to pricey retail shops. The last time I walked by it, I think it was a Levi’s outlet. I’m not sure what happens in the lower chamber that used to be The Cooler, but I doubt it’s anything particularly exciting.
Back over on Canal Street, Mehanata closed up that location in 2006 and moved to a new spot on Ludlow Street, where I gather it still operates today, although its website suggests it’s a far, far glitzier affair than it was in 2001. Its former place off Canal & Broadway is now the SoHo Garden Hotel.
Alan Vega of Suicide died in 2016, and his songs are now unwittingly used to sell perfume by Marc Jacobs.
Tod [A] now lives in Turkey, writes books and still writes music. Hopefully, Firewater will ride again, one day.
Paul Wallfisch joined SWANS in 2016, but remains musically active elsewhere.
Guitarist Oren Kaplan sued Gogol Bordello frontman Eugene Hutz, in 2013, over fiscal mismanagement of the band. The last thing I heard him being involved with was a collaboration between fabled post-punk bassists Youth (of Killing Joke) and Jah Wobble (of Public Image Ltd.).
Kayrock is still active, and has a very nice website.
I, meanwhile, still do not have that poster, but it looks like this...
I should preface this post by saying that as a middle-aged, heterosexual white male, I have never experienced true oppression or meaningful discrimination of any kind. I am ridiculously privileged, in this capacity. This post is not about that, and is comparatively trivial in the grand scheme of things. But, it's been on my mind, so here goes...
I’m old enough to remember — from first-hand experience, no less -- when words like “geek” and “nerd” were very much not the backhanded compliments they are today. They didn’t bother me that much, as a kid. I mean, I’d have been the very first to admit that I fit the descriptions of those widely-used pejoratives to a veritable tee. I hated sports, wasn’t popular, athletic or a looker, was socially awkward for many years and found solace in comic books, science fiction and “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons.” Guilty as charged, your honor.
But when lobbed in my direction, those words were used with emphasis and purpose — to reduce, belittle and mockingly condemn as something other… something lesser. The words themselves didn’t bother me, but the intention behind them did.
Those on the receiving end of terms like those (and others … some more hurtful and less banal) frequently found a common kinship with each other. Personally speaking, I made some of my best friends from being similarly tarred with those epithets or from us both being the last two picked when teams were being assembled. Being pithily summed up with one demeaning descriptor or another made groupings by default simpler. Don’t believe me? Check out the seating arrangements in your nearest high school's lunch room. Birds of a feather do indeed flock together.
But it’s in high school, frequently, when these terms can be shed and replaced with more palatable, pop-culture-informed tribal signifiers. In the 80’s, while you may have wallowed in the ignominious ranks of the dweebs throughout grade school, maybe by high school you’d have transformed yourself into a punk or a hardcore kid or New Waver or a Deadhead or a goth or a metalhead or a b-boy or rudeboy or a skate rat or _________ (insert chosen subculture here) and reinvented yourself. You chose your own descriptor, and swore allegiance to it via whatever tonsorial/sartorial means were the order of that particular aesthetic.
I was a bit schizophrenic, in this capacity, as I harbored affinities for too many elements of disparate musical tribes. I bought albums by Ratt and Dead Kennedys, and got excited by both Devo and Iron Maiden. I went to see Hall & Oates in a Circle Jerks t-shirt. I couldn’t commit to any single tribe, and the respective uniforms -- while cool -- just felt silly to me. I loved the music and the accompanying subcultures, but didn’t radically change my hair or wardrobe. That didn’t seem necessary. I just became a music geek, for lack of a better title.
During freshman year of college, I similarly refrained from joining a fraternity. This, of course was helped by the fact I was on academic probation during “rush,” and needed to concentrate on my grades, but even beyond that — the notion of restricting my social activities to solely one group of “brothers” seemed laughably myopic to me, especially when each house dutifully adhered to their assigned stereotypes. As it worked out, I stayed an independent and practically had a friend in each house. I could come and go as I pleased and escaped the labeling.
Years and years later, I still don’t adhere to any single tribe. Moreover, when your reach a certain age, that shit shouldn’t matter. I have loads of friends who still consider themselves punks and goths and whathaveyou, but the march of time has a way of putting things in different perspective. Maybe your life was changed and enriched by finding your place as a ska-loving rudeboy, and that lifestyle got you through whatever hiccups, doldrums or trauma you were experiencing. Maybe you didn’t feel you fit in anywhere until you grew your hair out and started following the Grateful Dead around. But while you maybe immersed yourself into becoming a rudeboy or a Deadhead or a clove-smoking, beret-wearing bohemian, you weren’t born one. You chose to be one, and it came to identify you. But as Bowie once sagely sang, “hey, look out, you rock’n’rollers …pretty soon now, you’re gonna get older."
I don’t know why it’s taken me eight paragraphs to get to the real point here, but there’s a term I’ve been seeing bandied about, recently, by lots of folks, many of them dear friends of mine — and I’m just not cool with it. I don’t know when the word was first coined, but the pejorative “normie” seems to have asserted itself into the common vernacular of certain circles. Obviously, it’s a snippy truncation of “normal,” meaning — and I’m taking a leap, here — someone who dutifully conforms to popular convention, i.e. someone who voluntarily chooses to be, act and appear — WAIT FOR IT — “normal.”
Sorry, but fuck that.
To my mind, branding someone is a “normie” comes from the same place as labeling someone a “nerd.” While, no, it is in no way a slur comparable to terms used to denigrate individuals of differing color, gender or sexual orientation, it’s still a descriptor couched in exclusion.
By dismissing someone a “normie,” you’re as guilty and superficial as the proponents of the establishment you’re allegedly rebelling against. You’re making sweeping, prejudicial assumptions and reinforcing stereotypes. Whether you renounced convention because its adherents once similarly mocked you or because you found your place in a different subculture, you should know better. But if you’re calling someone who doesn’t dress like you or identify with your chosen aesthetic a “normie,” you’re no better.
Cut that shit out.
There were several crucial records, growing up, that opened up whole new musical vistas for me — LPs like A Night at The Opera by Queen, Heavy Weather by Weather Report, the first record by The Clash — but nothing could really match the initial impact made on me by Mothership Connection by Parliament.
I would have been about nine years old when my older sister first brought home a copy of the record. She managed to capture my curiosity by basically suggesting that they were like “the black KISS” (both their label-mates and my heroes, at the time), but one look at the album cover convinced me that there was precious little chance that the music contained within could possibly be boring.
Beyond the endearingly ridiculous sci-fi concept-album narrative and their penchant for indeed-KISS-symmetrical spectacle, the music on Mothership Connection was absolutely nothing short of brilliant. There was just so much going on between Bernie Worrell’s stately pianos and spacey synthesizers, Fred Wesley and Maceo Parker's horns, Bootsy Collins' deep, squelchy bass and George Clinton’s surreal and eminently quotable schpiel, but there was a real, sophisticated musicality to all of it. Sure, Parliament were flamboyant goofballs, but they were also a seriously accomplished band. So much so that, unlike several other favorite records of mine, at the time, pretty much everyone in the family was cool with repeated airings of it — no easy feat, that. I still fondly remember my otherwise dependably straight-laced and endearingly stiff step-father whistling along to “Give Up The Funk (Tear the Roof Off The Sucker)” while making breakfast one morning.
While most of my favorite music thereafter would largely gravitate towards a sort of guitar-as-weapon aesthetic, I stuck with Parliament, thrilling to subsequent records like The Clones of Dr. Funkentstein (not quite as seismic as its predecessor, but essential for the inclusion of “Do That Stuff”) and Funkentelechy Vs. The Placebo Syndrome, which contained the crucial “Flash Light.”
If you haven’t experienced these records, you’re really depriving yourself of some of the most joyous, smile-inducing music ever recorded. This is not hyperbole. Surrender to the groove.
I had the very great honor, a few weeks back, of speaking with one of the crucial participants of this era of Parliament and a funk icon in his own right, that being the afore-cited Bootsy Collins. Click here to check it out.
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