Flaming Pablum

"What Is The City But The People?"

A friend of mine shared this on social media, recently, and I thought it was pretty extraordinary, if not for some of the accents alone.  Here's the official description....

In 1969, The Department of City Planning in New York City developed a new city-wide plan. This documentary, produced and written by John Peer Nugent and narrated by notable urbanist William H. Whyte, was released on public television to provide a behind-the-scenes peak on the planning process. There's a lot is gone from contemporary New York in this documentary: a gritty Hell's Kitchen, a robust Model Cities program, acres of slums in Bedford Stuyvesant. But there's a lot that, for better or worse, is still the same: poverty and prosperity, diversity and wealth, greed and good intentions.

Check it out. 

Suck It Up: Re-Exhuming Sucking In The Seventies

For whatever reason, my mother always had a tremendous problem with the Rolling Stones. She considered them the lowest of the low, which really is, in restospect, a bit rich, considering that Mick Jagger was friggin’ knighted in 2003. I would continually cite hundreds of more richly reviled characters – from Alice Cooper to Gene Simmons to Sid Vicious to GG Allin – as being a thousand times more worthy of her disgust and contempt, but as with so many things, once my mom had made her mind up about something, there was precious little hope in shifting it. In her world, Mick Jagger and his cohorts were essentially slovenly subhumans entirely beyond redemption.

Suffice to say, I begged to differ, and I pretty much immediately warmed to the music of the Rolling Stones as a wee lad upon first hearing an elder cousin’s copy of the fabled Hot Rocks: 1964-1971 compilation, their mystique only enhanced by my mother’s strenuous disdain for them. Their seamless ability to craft countless, genre-blurring, pop-culture-informing songs that went onto basically comprise the firmament of popular music was still (and remains) lost on my mother. Oh well.

When I was in eighth grade in 1981, the Stones released what was essentially yet another cash-in compilation of select songs and odds and ends, a revenue-generating practice they’d continue to perfect for several decades. While not a proper album by any stretch, this particular slab of wax featured a clutch of heretofore unavailable live tracks and alternate versions of some of their more recent material. Seemingly in an effort to provoke the easily offended, enhance their image as decadent lotharios and cheekily acknowledge their detractors who felt their best work was well behind them, the Stones titled this record Sucking In The Seventies.

While I don’t really remember my mom being anything of a regular shopper in any record stores, she somehow came across a copy of Sucking in The Seventies in her travels, one day, and if the title of the LP didn’t confirm everything she already perceived about the Rolling Stones, the album cover brought everything down to a whole new, unspeakable depth for her. If you’re not familiar with it, the sleeve of Sucking in The Seventies is essentially a highly stylized representation of the numerals for seven and zero, but rendered in a thick, inky font that almost resembles a Robert Motherwell painting. But over that image came a giant decal on the shrinkwrapping of the fabled Stones insignia, a plump, exaggerated pair of lips with a fulsome tongue extended. The tongue basically obscures the numerals, revealing only bulbous black curves poking out from behind the slick, salivating mouth.

When my mother came home, that day, she was practically vibrating with repulsion about it, describing the record cover in a manner that was even more gratuitously lurid than possibly the band’s original intentions. Upon hearing my poor mom’s vehement renunciation of it, I, of course, had to have it, and trotted pretty much immediately out to my local King Karol on 86th and Third to fetch my own copy, half-expecting to have my doe-eyed innocence decimated by the primal libidinous fury and Caligurlarian moral decay of the dangerous sleeve art. To say that I was let down by what I found, in that capactiy, would be a heroic understatment. I mean, I supose I could see what had been suggested, but it seemed pretty abstract and tame, to me. The image on the advertising for the record (above), meanwhile, is an entirely different story. Regardless, I bought it anyway.

Here in 2021, Suckng In The Seventies is, at best, a footnote in the gestalt of the Stones’ august discography, but it does feature an enjoyably feral reading of “When the Whip Comes Down,” which I still love to play. I have long since stopped trying to change my mom’s mind about the band.

Rest in peace, Charlie Watts.

Brooke Smith Comes Out of the Pit

While many may know her from stints in television shows like “Grey’s Anatomy,” “Ray Donovan,” “Big Sky,” “Law & Order” and several others, actress Brooke Smith is invariably *BEST* known for her memorable portrayal of star-crossed Catherine Martin, the hapless senator’s daughter who is repeatedly posited to put the lotion in the basket lest she get the hose again in Jonathan Demme’s 1991 classic, “The Silence of the Lambs.” For better or worse, it was a breakout role that she will probably never entirely shake.

But beyond her acting, there’s a side to Brooke Smith many may not know. Now in her early 50’s, Brooke grew up in the suburbs of New York City, but became deeply ensconced in the nascent New York Hardcore scene of the early 1980s, hanging out with bands like Agnostic Front, Murphy’s Law, the Cro-Mags and Cause For Alarm. I wrote about her back in 2011, when her photos of the Lower East Side punk community came to light, and they were and remain a real revlation. As an added bonus, Brooke was also, for a time, the roommate of the late singer/songwriter Jeff Buckley (it was Brooke who first introduced him to the music of Bad Brains, whose “I Against I” he’d later cover). Back when the Earth was young, I posted an MP3 of that recording to a music discussion board in the wake of Buckley’s passing and bizarrely got in a really heated email exchange with the late singer’s mother, but that’s another story.

In any case, Brooke was recently a guest on Turned Out a Punk, the podcast of Fucked Up lead singer Damian Abraham I’ve mentioned before. Brooke is quick with some great anecdotes about the CBGB matinee scene and so much more. Plus, she’s got a book coming out about the whole thing. If you’re a fan of of this stuff as I am, it’s well worth your time. Check it out here.

Rest in Peace, Charlie Watts

Desktop Detritus: Things That Are No Longer There

As previously mentioned here multiple times, I am forever on the hunt for things to post about, and when I see something that sparks my imagination, I usually grab it and set it to one side, so to speak. Quite often, those images (or videos or links or whatever) result in a windy rumination in the form of a blog post. Other times, however, whatever context I had in mind gets lost, and the item in question just becomes one more heavy file eating up space on my beleaguered MacBook Air.

I recently discovered that my laptop is sorely in need of a OS upgrade, but that I lack the space and memory to install the most up-to-date version. As such, I’ve been purging large piles of stuff and relegating other crap to the iCloud, Dropbox, external drives, etc., although I’m still dubious I’m going to be able to create enough space.

In any case, along the way, I came across the three photos below, which I’d obviously set aside to write about at one point or another. I’m relatively sure I had whole posts mapped out for each of them, but those are now lost in the mist of time. In re-discovering them now, I’m going to take a stab at whatever I might have had in mind for them.

I regrettably have no idea who took this photograph. The only information I have about it is that it was saved under the title “1982,” which sounds, at the very least, accurate. This is, of course, the Astor Place cube or, more precisely, Tony Rosenthal’s sculpture “Alamo.” Honestly, I’m more inclined to believe that I zeroed in on this photo not because of the sculpture, but more in that it showcased the lot behind it with the sort of lightning-bolt mural on the north-facing wall in the background. Beyond being a parking lot, this open space also served as an ersatz flea market. Today, of course, while the cube is still very much an Astor Place fixture, the space that was that lot is now occupied by a big condo tower that I used to say looked like a shampoo bottle, which a Chase back on its ground floor.

Similar to the photo of the cube, I seemed to save this photo with the title “1983,” although this image handily comes with the photographer’s watermark. Taken by one Tom Langton, this is, of course, the exterior of Sounds on St. Marks Place and the Grassroots Tavern on the garden level. Zoom in closely and you’ll see the album covers of Singles Going Steady by the Buzzcocks, Dare by the Human League and Dance by Gary Numan in the window, all of which predate 1983, so who knows? In any case, it’s an iconic shot. Today, both the Grassroots and Sounds are long gone, with nothing having taken their place.

Snapped by one Joe Clementi allegedly circa 1985, this is a shot of the exterior of an old St. Marks Place bar on the corner of Avenue A called Alcatraz, although I honestly cannot remember if Alcatraz dated back that early. I vividly remember going to Alcatraz in the late 80s, so it very well may have been there in 1985, but I cannot swear to it. I wrote about it briefly here, but Alcatraz had sort of a biker/rocker vibe. I seem to remember hearing lots of Guns N’ Roses and Jane’s Addiction there, back in the day. In later eras, the space became a sushi bar. Not quite sure what’s there today, actually.

The End of Summer Survey 2021

Ahoy from the unstable eye of Tropical Storm Henri (formerly Hurricane Henri) out here in Quogue, on the south shore of what Public Enemy used to call “Strong Island.” For the past several days, we’ve been bracing for the arrival of this weather event, but now that it’s finally here, it’s sort of mercifully anticlimactic, … or thus far, I should say. We haven’t gotten any heavy winds, yet, but the torrential downpours have been pretty steady since very early this morning. We’ll see what the rest of the day brings.

In the interim, being that my family is basically packing up and heading back to the city for good, later this week, I’m inclined to suggest that Summer 2021 … a heady cocktail of hope, expectation, cynicism and disappointment, is basically over. As such, I’m exhuming the annual summer survey, … like it matters. Here we go...

Defining Moment of Summer 2021:

While there were plenty of news events from the past couple of months that could act as pivotal moments to sum up the season — from our nationwide failure to contain the advance of the Delta Variant to the inevitably botched withdrawal from Afghanistan — I’m going to scale this question down to a personal level. For us, we spent much of June, July and August traipsing around the Eastern Seaboard, from Upstate New York to Vermont to Massachusetts to Connecticut to Maine and back again, depositing and fetching one child from summer camp and touring prospective college campuses with the other. On one particular evening in the sleepy town of Westport, New York on the shores of Lake Champlain, I both broke a tooth eating shrimp cocktail (no small feat) and, on the creeky front porch of a dilapidated inn we were inexplicably staying at, heard a roughshod husband-&-wife acoustic folk duo launch unexpectedly into a melody-free rendition of “Naked Girl Falling Down the Stairs” by The Cramps. I’d say that bizarre evening pretty much encapsulated Summer 2021, for me.

Best Purchase of Summer 2021:

I actually don’t recall buying that much of anything, this past summer, but I did snag a truly crucial beer-can-chicken stand from True Value in Westhampton that did a magisterial job of keeping our poultry dutifully erect during the indirect grilling portion of the preparation. I was quite pleased with that.

Best Book You Read of Summer 2021:

I really lucked out, this year, as with only one minor exception (a memoir I neglected to finish by a certain noted photographer that I’m sure I’ll go back to), everything I read was pretty compelling. I started off with “Fallopian Rhapsody: The Story of the Lunachicks” by Jeanne Fury, then dove right into the stately “Substance: Inside New Order” by the mighty Peter Hook and then into the suitably grisly “Chaos: Charles Manson, The CIA and the Secret History of the Sixties” by Tom O’Neill. All were entirely excellent. Right now, I’m almost a third into “The History of Bones,” the long-awaited memoir by musician/actor/painter/perennial cool cat (and sometimes Flaming Pablum reader and commenter) John Lurie, and it’s totally engaging, thus far.

Best Movie You Saw During Summer 2021:

I have yet to re-enter any movie theaters, but I did see a clutch of new films — mostly documentaries — over the past couple of months. I, of course, watched “Roadrunner,” the doc about Anthony Bourdain. While quite compelling, it was inevitably crazy depressing. I realize there was a big stink about some A.I.-enhancement of Bourdain’s voice, but I was more put off by the editorial slant in the final third of the film regarding the man’s fraught relationship with Asia Argento. I would recommend it, but that aspect kind of put me off, a bit, as it not-so-subtly sought to assign a convenient villain to story far too complex for such a tidy conclusion, … in my opinion.

I neglected to watch “Val,” the documentary about notedly eccentric actor Val Kilmer as, upon watching the trailer, it, too, seemed irretrievably depressing. The Music Box doc on “Woodstock `99” was also both wildly engaging and wholly dispiriting, so much so that I had to cleanse myself with “We Are Twisted Fucking Sister,” a great film from 2014 about … well, take a guess … that was way better than it had any right to be.

But probably the best thing I saw all summer was earlier this week, when my friend Rob C and I were invited to a private screening of “The War is Never Over,” Beth B’s long-in-the-works documentary about the inimitable Lydia Lunch. Shown in the incongruously plush penthouse apartment of a cinema-benefactor I shall not name, it was a somewhat striking dichotomy to watch Lydia’s unflinchingly visceral story play out in front of this select audience of cloyingly young invitees mostly comprised of aspiring-film types who had zero idea who Lydia Lunch is. The film, of course, pulls few punches, so it was fun catching a few attendees visibly recoiling at certain points. If you’re a fan of the great lady, you need to see it. Lydia herself actually showed up at the end for a Q&A. I got to ask a few questions of her, which was fun. In typical form, she minced no words and got worked up a few times in her own signature manner. I’d have loved to get a picture with her, but I didn’t want to hassle her like a fawning fanboy. My friend Rob, meanwhile, came face to face with her at one point in the kitchen after the film, and somehow managed to get both a hug and a polite kiss from her. Cheeky bastard.

Best Gift You Received of Summer 2021:

Somewhere in Maine, my wife found me a pair of socks with depictions of ducks and the legend “FUCK OFF” all over them. Priceless.

Biggest Loss of Summer 2021:

I was genuinely pretty sad to learn of the passing of ZZ Top bassist Dusty Hill. I don’t care if you’re a punk or a metalhead or a hip-hopper or a rudeboy or a Deadhead or whatever — if you can’t appreciate the singular majesty of ZZ Top, you’re a fucking dolt.

Song That Best Sums Up Summer 2021:

As mentioned back on this post, I listened to a whole slew of different stuff over the course of the summer. I don’t know that I can cite a single tune, however, that ties it all up for me. For whatever reason, here at the cottage, my wife had a habit of playing a whole bunch of Neil Young whenever we were routinely over-imbibing on the back deck. She likes the mellower stuff like “Harvest Moon” and “After the Gold Rush,” whereas I much prefer the angrier fare like “Southern Man” and “Hey Hey, My My (Into the Black),” the latter usually finding her scrambling for the remote.

Happiest Memory of Summer 2021:

While this summer certainly had its share of discouraging moments, I will say that it was, by and large, a happy season. We quite enjoyed our car trips around the wilds of New England. I had a great catch-up with my old friend Rob D. (not the same Rob as mentioned above) at a great outdoor bar in New London, CT on our way to collect Oliver from camp, which found me laughing out loud more than I’ve done in a long damn time.

Saddest Memory of Summer 2021:

Ah, why dwell on it?

Scariest Memory of Summer 2021:

I don’t know that I felt any genuine fear over this summer, but the encroaching dread brought on by embarrassingly large swathes of the American populace continuing to stupidly ignore the recommendations of the medical community gives me concern for what the next few months might bring.

Word That Best Describes Summer 2021:

Almost.

Back Into The Bowels of Wetlands Preserve

All things considered, it’s somewhat surprising that in 16 plus years, I’ve only devoted one or two posts to Wetlands Preserve, the fabled TriBeCa rock club on Laight Street that’s now been gone for twenty years. While, yes, its primary focus was ostensibly on hippy-dippy jam bands and Grateful Dead cover ensembles, the booking policy at Wetlands was refreshingly catholic. Most of the shows I saw at Wetlands had nothing to do with anything even remotely hippieish, from ska bands like The Scofflaws, Mephiskapheles and Fishbone through to hardcore stalwarts like Murphy’s Law and Agnostic Front to British indie outfits like Mansun and Echobelly. More in keeping with the ethos of the club, I remember seeing The Machine (a studiously faithful Pink Floyd cover band) and Dread Zeppelin (an all-white reggae band that played Zeppelin covers with an Elvis impersonator as lead singer). Every night was something different.

Back on this post, I mentioned that documentary that pretty much fully encapsulates everything you’d probably need to know about Wetlands. It’s worth your time, should you be curious. As mentioned, the club closed in 2001, shortly afterward to become a pricey bedding emporium for a few years. That corner space on Laight Street has now been devoid of an occupant for quite some time.

If I’m not mistaken, the very final show I ever saw at Wetlands would have been post-punk supergroup The Damage Manual with Ari Up of the Slits opening. The very first show I ever saw at Wetlands, meanwhile, might have been a funky-punky band called The Royal Crescent Mob. During the course of that show, my friend Tim kept feeding me shots called “Prairie Fires” — lethal combinations of tequila and tobacco sauce. After two or three of those, I slapped an offered fourth out of Tim’s hand (which landed messily on the dance floor) and repaired to Wetlands’ downstairs men’s room with all speed, where I proceeded to make Wetlands a bit …er…wetter.

So, why am I mentioning any of this now? Well, because a NYHC-reverent gent named Uptown Al recently posted a video shot within the dank confines of that downstairs bathroom. It’s a side of the club you’re not likely to see anywhere else, at the very least.

Turn back the clock to 1999 for a quick visit to the men’s room of Wetlands Preserve.

Real Talk, Greenwich Village Style

For The Skeptical & Proudly Ignorant...

Let's stop blaming the Delta Variant, shall we? I mean, the virus is just doing what viruses do. Modern medical science *GAVE US* a way out of this, but depressingly vast swathes of the populace are still too stubborn, selfish, skeptical and *FUCKING STUPID* to take it. THEY'RE the reason we're still in this mess, not the virus.

Runaground "Underground" Finally Goes Above Ground

Longtime readers might remember a series of weepy entries I posted here about being recruited to compose the text for a lavish coffee-table book about Cop Shoot Cop (above, as captured by one Geoffrey Nicholson), as unlikely as that sounds. The project was conceived as an incentive to prospective Kickstarter donors to help finance a film called “Underground, Inc.,” an in-depth deep-dive into the alternative rock boom of the early-to-mid 1990s. Being that C$C were sizable contributors to the film, it made perfect sense. I, of course, leapt at the opportunity, got to work at once, and we were off and running.

Regrettably, that Kickstarter campaign failed to meet its intended goal, and suddenly all the financial lattice-work, if you will, that was supporting the book project snapped apart like brittle strands of dry pasta. Despite having already conducted several interviews with many of the key players and amassed all sorts of pertinent ephemera, this ancillary endeavor ground to a halt.

The film, however, is another story.

The brainchild of one ambitiously determined director named Shaun Katz, “Underground, Inc.” finally achieved completion and was released to widespread acclaim and finally get a Stateside wide-release fairly recently. I have long intended to pen a follow-up post regarding the film, but life, parenting, work and a little thingy-thing called COVID-19 kinda got in the way.

Suffice to say, at this late stage of the proceedings, if, like me, you harbor even the slightest affinity for the more viscerally adventurous music of the 1990’s — that unlikely convergence of disparate sub-genres loosely aggregated under the umbrella of “alternative” and/or “alt.rock” — you need to see this film.

And for those few of you who are similarly obsessed with my beloved Cop Shoot Cop, you really need to see it, as it features lots of great footage of the boys recounting some not-entirely salubrious anecdotes of their incongruous ascent into major-labeldom and their slimy decline into acrimonious entropy.

Here’s the official website and their Facebook page, although you can watch it here on Vimeo and buy the fuckin’ thing on DVD! Just don't buy it from Amazon, because Jeff Bezos is a throbbing knob.  

GO GET IT NOW, GODDAMMIT!