Flaming Pablum

Where We Are: Clashing with The Clampdown

I cannot take credit for the image above — a cleverly manipulated re-rendering of Pennie Smith’s iconic photograph of Paul Simonon from the cover of London Calling by The Clash — that was put up on Instagram by a cryptic poster who goes by the elusive moniker M.O.T.E. But, upon spotting it earlier this week, it sort of fit my mood to a tee.

Smith snapped the original photo of Simonon at New York City’s Palladium, although you should really check with my friend Dave Marin about the exact date. It was not a choreographed shot. She simply captured the moment wherein the lanky Clash bassist lost his patience with his instrument and decided to take it to task. When storied Clash frontman Joe Strummer saw the shot on Smith’s contact sheet later, he purportedly zeroed right in. “That’s the album cover.” Case closed. I’ve always found some irony in the fact that while Smith’s photograph almost singularly captures the brazen iconoclasm of everything punk rock was allegedly about, London Calling was actually much more of a love letter to a broader range of musical styles than simply another slab of by-then conventionally vitriolic “punk rock.” That cover, however, remains a perennially resonant photograph, cramming myriad associations into a single image — frustration, nihilism, reckless abandon, rebellion and rage.

Replacing Paul Simonon’s doomed Precision bass with a hapless laptop, M.O.T.E. has obscured the context, but retained the associations. Suffice to say, over the last several weeks, I have routinely felt like treating my laptop like Paul Simonon’s start-crossed Precision bass and lashing it against the pavement. After four and a half months of working remotely, while myself and my extended team at work have amply demonstrated our prowess at staying busy and productive, the novelty has really worn thin. I remain rapturously thankful to still be actively employed in this doomily dystopian hellscape of an economy, but there seems to be an overall malaise, at this stage of the proceedings. Everyone’s testy, tired and irritable — exhausted by the uncertainties of the future, the inefficiencies of the present and the abject idiocy of the recent past, when a more thought-out federal response to the pandemic might have brought the situation under control sooner, as opposed to the literally plan-free anarchy that is our current reality. Collectively, I think we were all hoping and expecting to have things in hand, by now, but that’s just clearly not the case.

It’s also tragically laughable that even this many months — and this many deaths — into the pandemic, many of my slackwitted fellow countrymen are still balking at simple guidelines emphatically extolled by revered medical professionals. 155,000 Americans are dead, and we’re still seeing video after video of irretrievably dim Costco shoppers thwarting mask requirements and moaning about their personal freedoms being violated.

One of their own — Herman Cain — similarly refused to wear a mask, calling the pandemic a “Democratic Hoax.” He went mask-free to a Trump rally in Tulsa, OK. Shortly afterwards, he tested positive for COVID-19, got ill, was hospitalized and is now — WAIT FOR IT — dead.

What more evidence do you need, at this late point in the day?

Don’t be stupid like Herman. Wear a mask. Stay safe. And don’t smash your laptop …. you’ll regret that.

Where We Are

Giving Back The Knack: Exhuming "My Sharona"

Earlier today, a friend of mine posted an antiquated photo on Facebook of the deservedly late Jeffrey Epstein that dated back to his days as a math teacher at the prestigious Dalton School on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. His reasons for posting the image were a little foggy — something about trying to establish a jokey conspiracy theory about Epstein having ties to John Lennon, whose son Sean was a Dalton student. 

In response to same, someone pointed out that the shot of the young Epstein bore a resemblance to Ben Stiller, but I countered with the observation that he more resembled a member of The Knack, as sleazily immortalized on the sleeve of their debut album from 1979, Get The Knack. This tenuous connection was made all the more fitting given the Knack’s notoriously brazen affinity for the pruriently verboten — as best exemplified on songs like “Good Girls Don’t,” “Baby Talks Dirty,” “That’s What the Little Girls Do” ….I’m not making these up…. and, of course, “My Sharona,” wherein Knack vocalist/songwriter Doug Fieger famously conceded that he always got it “up for the touch of the younger kind.” Yeah, that hasn’t aged too well, has it.

Sure, it’s easy to recoil from this inarguably unseemly aspect of The Knack, but who among us — of a certain age, at least — did not warm to the inimitable strains of “My Sharona” in its heyday? While I can say that I’ve never owned a copy of Get The Knack, I'd be lying through my teeth to say I don’t enjoy that song, even this many years after the fact. While I didn’t buy the LP when it came out, I vividly remember buying the cassette of Chipmunk Punk, a dubiously assembled clutch of deeply debatable “punk” songs of the day covered by Alvin & The Chipmunks, which featured no less than three Knack compositions, “My Sharona” foremost among them. Even then, I was struck by the lazy or oblivious inclusion of that “touch of the younger kind” line, to say nothing of Fieger’s assertion of the sense of “victory runnin’ up the length of [his] thigh” on what was ostensibly a children’s record.

Since the dawn of rock’n’roll, questionable, provocative, risqué and downright objectionable lyrics have been a part of the proceedings. Whether chalked up to poetic license or shifts in sensibility, popular culture has long overlooked myriad examples of lyrical narratives that skirt the lines of taste, propriety, morality, good judgement, etc. We forgave Johnny Cash for shooting that guy in Reno just to watch him die, Bob Marley for shooting that sheriff and Robert Smith for killing that Arab (itself an allusion to Albert Camus’ “L’Etranger”), but something about The Knack’s unmissable focus on carnal knowledge of underage girls remains pretty uncomfortable. Of course, as someone who owns albums by cretins like GG Allin & The Murder Junkies, I can’t exactly feign any outrage with any credibility. But unlike ol' Geeg, The Knack took their icky schtick nationwide, and nobody really blinked.

Check out this clip of The Knack playing Carnegie Goddamn Hall in 1979 as a prime example. CARNEGIE HALL!!!

And yes, …. it still cooks. Sure, the Knack were largely considered an ironically “safe” alternative to the more volatile Punk Rock of the day (if you believed the sensationalism), given their clean-cut image and taut power-pop stylings. They were the squeaky-clean, skinny-tied New Wave prototype to offset the allegedly slovenly safety-pinned hordes. But whatever your stance on the band’s authenticity, chops, fashion sense or street cred, you can’t argue with the infectiousness and longevity of “My Sharona.” It remains a classic, for better or worse.

And even given all that I’m able to read into and project onto “My Sharona,” I still cannot deny my sheepish appreciation of it.

When people stop playing “P.Y.T.” by Michael Jackson, maybe I’ll reconsider.

The Rise & Fall of OPEC SID’S Hardcore Hotline

Here in 2020, watch any documentary about the golden days of hardcore punk, and you’re pretty much guaranteed a couple of things. The first is that Ian Mackaye and Dave Grohl are bound to make a couple of cameos. The second is that somewhere along the way, someone is going to allude to the furtive network of communication — decades prior to the advent of the internet — that enabled bands and punk fans to connect, evangelize the music, book gigs, share crucial touring tips, establish scenes and thrive. Purple prose aside, it was the very essence of the “do it yourself” ethos in action, and it’s part and parcel of what made the hardcore scene of the 80’s totally organic and unique.

Today, of course, all of that type of information can be gleaned in seconds via any number of online resources. As with many things in the digital age, technology has enabled us to accomplish formerly complicated tasks without even having to put our pants on.

Once again, `twas not always thus.

Back when I was a sniveling little, acne-speckled teenage schmuck looking to find out when my beloved Circle Jerks were going to play New York City, my first go-to outlet of information was The Village Voice, a storied free weekly that came appended with loads of gig ads in the back pages. My second source of intel was just to walk the downtown streets. Prior to Mayor Giuliani’s draconian re-imagining of New York City’s quality of life, the exposed walls of Greenwich Village, SoHo, the East Village and certain other areas played host to a wide array of flyer campaigns. Longtime readers might remember my fixation with the Rock Hotel flyer series. After a while, my eyes were automatically conditioned to scan the walls for those signature black posters and their block capital white letters over a cryptic skull design — now considered fine art in certain circles.

The third reliable source was simply the word of mouth. As I was a regular patron of several likely concerns like Second Coming Records on Sullivan Street, 99 Records on MacDougal Street, Rocks in Your Head on Prince Street, Freebeing Records off St. Marks Place, Bleecker Bob’s on West 4th Street and many, many others (all vanished now, of course), my contacts behind the counter would routinely inform me of pertinent happenings on the regular. I was never at a loss.

I am somewhat embarrassed to confess, however, that I was evidently entirely unaware of another crucial means of disseminating this vital information. My writer friend Mike Stahl — a couple of years my junior, an otherwise meaningless difference in age that I used to routinely lord over him when asserting that the bands of my era were superior to the bands of his era … like it’s a competition — just penned a magisterial article for MEL Magazine (don’t ask me) about the phenomenon of OPEC SID. If, like myself, you are unaware of the significance of OPEC SID, you are in for a treat.

Click here and rise above.

Back ... Fleetingly ... to A7

Back at a media outlet I used to work for about a million years ago, a colleague of mine had unearthed a trove of footage from the early 80’s of scenes from outside the old A7 space on Avenue A (which, today, is the rear chamber of Jesse Malin’s Niagara bar). There was loads of it, and he and I watched it all, spotting various luminaries along the way. Why the media outlet in question had amassed it in the first place was sort of lost in the mists of time. For the layperson, it probably didn’t mean too much, but for those slightly more invested, it was a tantalizingly rarefied glimpse back in time.

At the time, my colleague was investigating the option of doing something more with the footage, or working with certain other individuals that were interested in doing something more with the footage. Years later, I have no idea whatever became of those plans, and being that I no longer work at the media outlet in question, I figured nothing would ever come of it, and I’d never see that footage again.

… until today.

It’s yet another work-from-home day wherein the onus of staying focussed and productive is proving elusive. In one of several needless breaks, I found myself trawling YouTube for interesting fodder. As I've mentioned recently, with all the time-at-home people have been grappling with during the pandemic, lots of new stuff has been popping up on YouTube, so I’ve been regularly plugging in certain key words and seeing what surfaces.

As it happens, the footage below was uploaded quite some time ago — 2018 — by a source called Global Image Works, but this is just a portion of that original trove of A7 footage I’d viewed all those years back with my colleague at my former media outlet. How Global Image Works came to acquire this sliver of it — let alone where the rest of it is — remains a mystery.

In any case, dubbed “Slam Dancing and punks on the Streets of New York,” here is a frenetic and maddeningly brief montage of images from outside the former A7 space on East 7th Street and Avenue B. If I had to put a date on it, I'd suggest 1981/1982, but I'll defer to the more informed.

Enjoy…

Helmet in the Park

I always felt I should like Helmet more than I did. Sure, they recorded some truly amazing songs, “Turned Out” and “Biscuits for Smut” being two of my faves. They were hard, heavy and uncompromising, but — by the same token — they seemed to lack a little of the sneery charisma of their peers like The Unsane, Prong, Barkmarket, Surgery and — oh yes, wait for it — Cop Shoot Cop. Page Hamilton was certainly an innovative guitarist (and an avowed acolyte of Killing Joke, no less), but too often, they fell a bit flat, for me. I just wanted a bit more.

The track below is not the original video for their “big breakout” single “Unsung,” from In the Meantime. That video found the band playing in a strobe-lit abandoned foundry (or something) with lots of corrugated metal, rusty pylons and sharp edges and … y’know … chains and shit, amplifying their metal chops, I guess. Lots of bands did that.

I don’t know if this was shot before or after that, but I love this version because it was shot in the old East River Park Bandshell, the same space used in older videos by Kid Creole & the Coconuts, False Prophets and a few others.

This clip also highlight’s Helmet’s kinda weird, clean-cut fashion sense — lots of utilitarian ringer t-shirts, shorts and white socks with black sneakers. Never really got my head around that vibe, not that it affected their music at all.

More striking, here, is the state of the bandshell circa 1991, which looks crumbly, abandoned and slathered with graffiti. The space got a huge makeover/overhaul about five or six years ago, and looks nothing like the place presented here.

Anyway, enjoy…

Where We Are

Shirt Happens

Given my silly predilections, I have owned and proudly sported more than a few arguably objectionable t-shirts in my day.

Some choice designs that spring immediately to mind include a pink Circle Jerks shirt that got me politely asked off a Florida golf course in the mid-80’s, a limited-edition tee from L.E.S. watering hole Maxx Fish that read “SERVE SATAN,” the infamous “pope" shirt by Killing Joke, which featured an archival photo of a priest blessing Nazi troops, the “Live from the Hate Fuck Capital City of The World” t-shirt from Pussy Galore (which I ended up giving to my nextdoor neighbor), and several pointedly nihilistic Cop Shoot Cop t-shirts. I remember getting wearily reprimanded by my friend Rob D’s mom for wearing a Slash Records t-shirt to her house on a day when she had impressionable company over. The offending garment inexplicably had the Slash Records logo upside-down on the front, and the legend “STAND ON YOUR HEAD, MOTHERFUCKER” on the back. Oops.

By and large, though, t-shirts — no matter how relatively offensive — don’t usually invite that much scrutiny. Most people can’t be bothered.

This morning, however, while I was waiting for a bacon, egg & cheese on a roll at a deli out here on Long Island, an elderly gentleman stepped up to me, his blue eyes flaring angrily above his courteous face mask. “What the Hell is THAT supposed to mean?” I blanked for a moment. What is what supposed to mean? I looked down at the t-shirt I’d thoughtlessly grabbed from the drawer and put on this morning at 6:00 am, prior to dropping my son off on a group fishing expedition — a white t-shirt with the old logo of I.R.S. records, the storied indie label responsible for several crucial records by bands like Wall of Voodoo,The Cramps, The Lords of the New Church, The Police, The Go-Go’s and R.E.M., to name a small few. If you’re unfamiliar, it’s just the block capital letters -- I.R.S. (which stood for International Records Syndicate) — underneath a frowny, no-nonsene federal bureaucrat in black shades.

“Oh,” I laughed, "it’s just a record label, sir,” glancing back down at my phone.

“What? Is that supposed to be funny or something? Because it’s JUST NOT!” he exclaimed, standing stock-still for another few moments to underscore his displeasure before shuffling off to the register.

These are testy times.

Incidentally, if you are similarly a fan of I.R.S. Records, you should know there's a documentary in the works called "We Were Once Rebels." Learn more here. 

Also, if you're similarly besotted with stupid band t-shirts, you might enjoy Loud Laundry.

Goodnight to Tim Smith

I was very sad to learn, this morning of the death of Tim Smith, lead singer/songwriter of Cardiacs.

I first heard Cardiacs via a compilation cassette scored on a trip to London in 1993, and they practically blew a new part in my hair. Imagine the most complicated progressive rock ala King Crimson or Yes -- rife with all the oddly-timed filigree and complex noodlry you'd expect -- but played with the breakneck ferocity of a beer-&-amphetamine fueled punk band at full throttle. Quite extraordinary. Maybe not for everyone, but unlike anything you've ever heard. 

Sadly, Tim suffered a heart attack (cruel irony) in 2009 and was largely incapable of continuing. But the music Cardiacs made is nothing short of astonishing, singularly British and well worth seeking out (albeit not always easy to find).

Brilliant. Unique. Irreplaceable.

Where We Are