Flaming Pablum

Be Concerned!

Spotted this ad, today, for venerable New York City real estate company, The Corcoran Group....

... and all I could think of, was this ...

 

You've Got To Be Kid A'ing Me

As noted as recently as this past June, there’s a certain entry I posted back in the balmy, comparatively carefree days of 2006 that has gone onto become the single-most clicked post in this blog’s fifteen plus years of existence, that being my windy unpacking of Chuck Klosterman’s frivolous theory that Radiohead’s Kid A predicted the events of September 11, 2001. Chuck wasn’t entirely serious when he wrote it. I wasn’t entirely serious when I recapped it. But the clicks flock to that entry like the swallows used to flock to Capistrano. I guess it doesn’t hurt that when I type in “Kid A,” “Klosterman” and “9/11” in Google, that entry is the first that seems to pop up. Results will vary, of course.

As I mentioned back on that June post (and in 2016 and in 2010), that entry has evidently become a de-facto starting point for folks wishing to discuss the matter, usually on message boards and Radiohead fan sites, but also on otherwise quasi-reputable websites like Cracked and Noisey. Last week, though, I noticed a sudden, new spike in traffic on my blog and – sure enough – it was that post, newly picked up by Pitchfork. Curiosity piqued, I went over to check it out.

In this instance, my shoddily written recap and rumination on Klosterman’s original essay were fleetingly alluded to in a review of a new book by one Steven Hyden titled “This Isn’t Happening: Radiohead’s Kid A And The Beginning of The 21st Century.” Fittingly enough, we are but mere days away from the twenty-year anniversary of the release of Kid A, which landed on unsuspecting listeners on October 2, 2000. Seems like yesterday.

The excerpted passage from Hyden’s book in the Pitchfork piece prompted me to go pick up a copy – less intrigued about the actual subject matter than by the fleeting chance that maybe – just maybe -- my stupid blog post would get a mention and/or plug in the text. I’ve gotten lucky like that in the past – earning invocations in Joe Gross’ book about Fugazi, Bryan Waterman’s book about Marquee Moon, Eric Wendell’s “Patti Smith: America’s Punk Rock Rhapsodist” (asserting a frankly misinformed position I’ve since recanted) and on the back cover of Trevor Ristow’s “Waiting For Another War.”

Well, no such luck, this time. Either Hyden bypassed my entry and went right to Klosterman (who gets a single invocation on page 134), or learned about it without any help from me. Oh well. I'm still looking forward to reading the book.

In terms of the premise of my original post and Chuck Klosterman's theory, however, it seems some inventive individual took the time to make ... the video in the link below. Please note, if you are triggered, disturbed or offended by graphic depictions of the events of September 11, 2001 ... which, even this many years after the fact, is entirely understandable ... I strongly advise you against watching.

Street Art Vs. The Trump Administration V: The Vote His Ass Out Edition

Since starting the first round-up in 2017, the streets of New York City have been pretty vocal in their contempt for the Trump Administration. As we spiral headlong towards Election Day (and whatever happens afterwards), here is a bit of inspiration for you to get off your ass and register to vote, if you haven't already.

Want more? Okay....

2017: The Year In Street Art Vs. The Trump Administration

Street Art Vs. The Trump Administration ... Continues

Street Art Vs. The Trump Administration III

Street Art Vs. The Trump Administration IV

 

Rock Stars on Cop Cars

Because I’m old, in the way and still preoccupied with anachronism of all shapes and sizes, I’m still a big, huge dope of a fan of album cover art. Nowadays, that aspect of “packaging” seems to be an afterthought, at best, in the contemporary realm of music consumption. But like many folks my age and older, I still hold the sleeves of myriad albums near and dear to my heart, and all-too-happily engage in minutia-laden debates on the subject any time it’s invoked – usually by greying, middle-aged and increasing paunchy old farts like myself.

I stumbled upon this article, today, and summarily lit up like a pinball machine, as it speaks directly to that afore-cited fixation. I have absolutely no idea who Ashley Benton of Barking Owl is, but I quite enjoyed reading about her favorites, especially as it got me to take a fresh look at one I virtually never consider.

Not my favorite Blondie album by a long shot, Plastic Letters from 1977 prefigured their more accessible makeover on the comparatively slick and iconic Parallel Line, which isn’t to suggest that it sounded like The Dead Boys, but it just wasn’t necessarily indicative of the marketable heights they’d soon scale. Personally, I just don’t think the tunes were there on this outing, but whatever – it’s still part of their story.

But, the cover is really something else. I’d never really considered it, but beyond the obvious – Debbie looks smoking hot in her hot pink minidress which, I’m projecting, was probably designed by CBGB fixture and James Chance’s girlfriend Anya Philips, and the boys in the band look suitably cool with their ciggies and leather pants -- check out the setting. The band is depicted loitering with louche aplomb all over a blue-&-white NYPD car, treating a vehicle belonging to New York’s Finest like a bongwater-scented rec-room couch.

I was immediately reminded of a photo shoot I was on with the boys in Cop Shoot Cop. I’ve alluded to this story before, but back in 1991 or so, I’d been incongruously drafted by a fellow rock-journalist friend of mine to come up with a piece for this series he was doing for a magazine called In-Fashion wherein hip, young bands of the moment were depicted hanging out on their home turf. While Cop Shoot Cop were quite literally the very furthest thing from the type of music your average In-Fashion reader might be interested in, I flew the notion by the C$C guys who were …. well, let’s charitably say they were not of one mind on the subject. But, recognizing an opportunity for wider exposure than they’d normally enjoy, they acquiesced. I wrote up a sprawling, epic-poem-length story to frame the accompanying photographs, but that was edited down to size with the ruthless efficiency of a battlefield triage surgeon. A great photographer by the name of Butch Belair was assigned to the project, and off we went around Williamsburg and the East Village to capture Cop Shoot Cop in their natural environment.

After a few shots of the gents striding manfully up and down Avenue A, scowling in front of their camo van and enjoying some midday beverages in the cave-like confines of CBGB, someone mentioned this derelict cop car over on First Avenue just south of East 6th Street. Sounding like too good an opportunity, we strolled over there and sure enough, there it was. We came away with one of my favorites … an unwitting homage to Plastic Letters by their NYC punk forebears in Blondie?

Okay, maybe that's a bit of a stretch. 

"Vote Him Out!"

No, they're not chanting "BRRUUUUCE!"

Fuck Trump, Fuck Barr, Fuck The DOJ...

London Acquiescing

Some of you might remember a pair of posts from 2018 wherein I delved into the curious story of Dave Marin, a fellow traveler on the roads of rock ’n’ roll pedantry.

Dave’s singular quest was to rectify a long-held discrepancy between the memory of his first-hand experience witnessing a specific moment at a Clash show at the Palladium on East 14th Street in the comparatively carefree days of 1979 and the documentation of same on the back cover of The Clash’s celebrated third album, London Calling. That singular moment, of course, was the smashing of Paul Simonon’s star-crossed Precision bass guitar, a fleeting moment of rage prefigured by Pennie Smith’s fateful snapping of a photograph of the instant just prior. While that photograph went onto become inarguably one of the most iconic images in rock history, Dave maintained that the archivists in the Clash camp got the date of the show in question wrong on the back cover, and it had become his mission to amend that particular oversight ever since.

Last night, Dave shared some happy news…

Hi Alex. Just to put this to bed, today “The Clash” official Twitter account sent out the following: “20th + 21st Sept 1979 The Palladium NY Take The 5th Tour. Paul Simonon smashed his Fender P Bass on stage in frustration towards the end of the show. Pennie Smith captured the moment and it became London Calling album sleeve, which dated the image on 21st. In fact it was on 20th!” Take care. D

Today, after being on loan to the deeply dubious Rock N’ Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, the remaining pieces of the bass guitar in question are back with Paul Simonon. The Clash officially disbanded in 1986, in the wake of the arguably abortive Cut The Crap album. Lead singer/songwriter Joe Strummer passed away in 2002. The Palladium was razed in 1998, and a NYU dormitory was built in its footprint. Today, the exact spot where Paul took his bass to task is the produce aisle of a Trader Joe’s that I was actually in yesterday afternoon. 

And Dave Marin? Now he can fitfully sleep through the night.

Honor Her Last Wish

Paranoid at 50

Been seeing a lot of stories in online outlets that normally wouldn’t touch the subject with a ten-foot pole about the 50th anniversary of Paranoid, the sophomore LP by Black Sabbath. While the band’s status as the preeminent heavy metal band remains unchallenged — sure, Zeppelin could certainly compete in the heavy department, but lacked the focus and purity of their black-clad Brummie brothers — Black Sabbath never seemed to have been taken quite as seriously by the — for lack of a better term — respectable establishment. Having original lead singer Ozzy Osbourne cash-in his well-earned gravitas as a genre-defining pioneer by becoming reality-show fodder in the mid-90s certainly didn’t help. But longevity wins, I guess, and now high-brow periodicals are being forced to reconcile with paying homage to a band whose music they’d normally write off as artless, sonic piffle for teenage delinquents smoking dope behind the local 7-11.

Ozzy may lack Lou Reed’s untouchable cool, Iggy Pop’s leathery pliability, Lemmy’s irrefutable badassery and David Bowie’s divine penchant for chameleonesque reinvention, but make no mistake — despite whatever clownery he got into during his years with the Sabs and during his frenetic solo career, the man has more than earned his place in that same pantheon of iconoclasts. And, let’s remember, he was only one quarter of the original Black Sabbath — a unit whose respective components were all equally vital to its proceedings. From the dark lyrics and ponderous thunder of bassist Geezer Butler to the explosive riffs of innovative guitarist Tony Iommi and the weighty swing of Bill Ward’s drums, Black Fucking Sabbath was an ensemble to be reckoned with. Mess ye not.

I first bought Paranoid when I was in seventh grade, lured in by the endearingly hammy heaviosity of “Iron Man” and my classmate Chris H’s assertion that I “needed to listen to more evil bands,” he and I having both cut our teeth on KISS. While the plodding pound of the song that indoctrinated me definitely paid off, experiencing the LP in all its weighty fulsome gestalt was a genuine revelation, with one oddball exception — the cover art.

While I’ve always assumed the blurry figures on the sleeve of Paranoid were meant to visually symbolize the subject of the album’s sprawling opening salvo, that being “War Pigs,” the execution seemed a bit botched. And when you consider the still-chilling and genuinely iconic sleeve of their first album, how this cover slipped by the decision-makers at their record label remains a mystery. Wearing what looks like pink felt and brandishing weapons better suited to a grade-school production of “Camelot,” the figures on the cover lend an overall visual impact that skews more towards silly than sinister.

That one bit of goofiness notwithstanding, opening the gatefold was a different experience entirely — revealing the four strikingly hirsute members of Black Sabbath in an otherworldly, sun-bleached field, staring directly at the viewer with grimly unblinking expectation. They looked like they’d just finished digging a shallow grave and were now ready to push you — dear, unsuspecting listener — right into it.

Dropping the needle on side one, of course, laid waste to any remaining doubts. I could go on and on about the entirety of the record— from the proto-punk chug of the title track to the cosmically jazzy meandering of “Planet Caravan” to the lysergic stomp of “Fairies Wear Boots” and all points in between, but it became a canonical favorite from that point forward. Any purple prose I could spool out here simply pales in comparison with the experience of simply listening. 

You may no like it. You may not understand its appeal. You may not get it. That’s okay. There are probably Joni Mitchell and Van Morrison albums you can go concern yourself with, if that's your thing.

But with regards to Paranoid, just make damn sure you respect it.

Word on The Street