Flaming Pablum

“UNLEASH HELL, Charlotte!”

And now, another brief deviation from interminable discussions about dormant post-punk bands, lost record stores and shuttered dive bars.

Sometime back in 2018, we somehow cajoled our eldest, my daughter Charlotte (recently invoked here), to take up fencing. Much like her father, Charlotte was not normally very athletically inclined, but something about this regal, uncommon and slightly quirky sport appealed to her. I had fleetingly enjoyed a semester of it myself back in grade school, and remembered absolutely loving it. Of course, having been weaned on a steady diet of comic books, Frank Frazetta paintings and “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons,” I was swiftly enamored of anything that involved carrying a sword and wearing a helmet. For Charlotte, however, I wasn’t sure what convinced her to join her school’s team, but join she did.

At first, it felt like a complete lark for her, and whenever the topic was invoked, she downplayed her abilities and swiftly changed the subject. But she stuck with it. Gradually, she spoke about it with growing confidence and, dare I say it, a bit of pride.

While I’ve absolutely never been a proponent of sports or athletics of any kind (my entire school experience was basically one long war of mutual antipathy with the jock contingent), I was positively thrilled that not only had she joined the team, but that she was sticking with it. It was obviously a great extracurricular and an enticing flourish to add to her budding college resume, but beyond those benefits, I was elated that she’d taken the plunge and joined something well out of her comfort zone. She made several new friends, had really come into her own and had grown to actually really enjoy competing.

Of course, as with so many aspects of our lives, COVID-19 came down the pike and shut a lot of shit down. Charlotte's school put the fencing program on ice, obviously, for a little while (although, when you think about it, fencing is kind of the ultimate pandemic-ready activity, given that you’re wearing a mask and basically trying to keep your opponent at least six feet away from you at all times), and when they did bring it back, it was basically just built around practice.

Cut off from face-to-face competition, Charlotte’s affinity for fencing started to wane, a little bit. As expected, certain colleges started expressing interest in her fencing acumen, and she was gradually going back to downplaying it, uncertain if she was going to continue with the sport after high school.

Mercifully, the meets came back, and she re-found her sea legs behind her trusty epee. I was excited to see that spark return. She was no longer talking about the drudgery of the practices or the inconvenience of carting her fencing gear around. She looked forward to the meets. She even went to meets involving younger classmates just to show her support. She was proud to be a member of the team.

Through all of this, I was rarely treated with the opportunity to see my daughter compete in real time. Her meets were frequently during working hours and on the opposite side of the island from my office. Moreover, I’m not sure Char was genuinely enthused to have her dopey parents show up to watch her fence. I finally got to see her last “home” meet several weeks back and was completely blown away by the poise, grace and steely determination my little girl demonstrated when she donned that gear and stepped onto the strip to face her opponents. I was, and remain, so unspeakably proud of her.

Surreally, yesterday was Charlotte’s final day of fencing for her high school. Her team competed in the ISFL Team Championships, held up at Hackley School in Tarrytown. In this idyllic setting (imagine the set of “Dead Poet’s Society”), Char’s squad went up against several New York City and Westchester school teams. The wife and I hitched a ride with another set of parents and spent the day watching our daughters tangle for the title.

Similar to my experiences watching Oliver play soccer and rugby, watching my daughter go up against formidable fencers from schools like Riverdale and Horace Mann (those girls are killers) was just a bizarre experience. Who was this fierce lady and what had she done with my doe-eyed little girl? I could never see myself doing this stuff. I was again struck with an overwhelming sense of pride that I can’t even put into words.

While my fellow fencing dads stood next to me shouting things like “Let’s Go,” “Be Aggressive and “You Got This,” my tenaciously juvenile inclination to yell “SHOW NO MERCY,” “UNLEASH HELL” and “DEMONSTRATE THE HORRIBLE WRATH OF THE STEEL” seemed a bit ill-advised.

It was a long day filled with genuine thrills and spills. Certain matches were somewhat perfunctory, while others spilled over with actual drama. Over on the boys’ side of the massive hall, feverish grunting and gloaty primal screaming for each palpable hit seemed like the order of the day (so much for fencing still being “gentlemanly”). By contrast, the girls were decidedly more reserved. That said, there were still tense moments. I watched my wife flinch with every pointed stab doled out with ruthless efficiency against my daughter by a particularly proficient member of the afore-cited Horace Mann team. Char has a few red marks to remind of that confrontation.

In the end, Charlotte’s team took second place. Pardon me for being (more) insufferable (than usual) for a moment, bu when she was presented with her medal, I positively beamed.

Status Report

“My Work is More Friendly”: Catching Up with Peter Missing

I haven’t written about them here in a little while (the last time was probably 2019), but as well-documented on this blog over the years, I continue to harbor a longtime fandom and fascination for the music and surrounding mythos of Missing Foundation. Back in the `80s and `90s, of course, Missing Foundation accrued something of an ominous reputation via their uncompromising music and anarchic live performances, but also for their equally uncompromising stance on several political and municipal issues. You can enjoy a taste of same here via this footage from 1991.

Their cryptic insignia (the upended cocktail glass over three slashed tines) becoming synonymous with squatters’ rights, Missing Foundation’s ubiquitous graffiti campaign became a sort of street-art shorthand for real estate developers to basically stay the fuck away from certain areas of town. Despite their best efforts, of course, the portions of the Lower East Side they strove to declare off-limits eventually fell prey to sweeping gentrification. In the wake of some frankly hilarious media sensationalism about the band, something had to give. As the man behind the band, the art, the insignia, the music and the message, Peter Missing decamped for Europe, leaving his notorious tenure in NYC behind him for a long while.

Anyway, in more recent years, Peter Missing has both literally and figuratively changed his tune. He continues to make art and music, but the actively confrontational aspects of that distant era of Missing Foundation are no longer the order of the day. As his message has evolved, so too has his music. Where the Missing Foundation of the late `80s and early `90s practiced a bludgeoning blend of pounding, primal rock punctuated by rumbling percussion and slabs distorted noise under Missing’s bullhorn exhortations, he more recently plays a more nuanced blend of mesmerizing electronic music.

As I’ve mentioned on other posts, Missing took full advantage of the Bandcamp platform, and now offers much his band’s sizable discography there. You can find that all here, but I recently stumbled upon this brief interview with the man from last summer wherein he gives a bit more information on his current doings, his art, his new music and his interesting journey.

Check it out here…

Back to Downtown NYC `89 … via Japan

Here’s a quick weird one.

As I understand it, “Zip’s” was a Japanese travelogue/pop-culture television program. In this particular episode, they focused on various spots around downtown Manhattan, notably The Gas Station on Avenue B. It’s all very disjointed and odd, but an enjoyable look back.

Pic o' The Day

I took a stroll over to what is left of East River Park, over the weekend. The resultant pictures from same are far too dispiriting to share here, but here's a nice moment I captured on my way home.

Retrovirus & Art Gray Noizz Quintet Drop a Bomb on Drom

Just a quick note to say I checked out Lydia Lunch’s Retrovirus performance last night at Drom on Avenue A, with the mignty Art Gray Noizz Quintet opening. Sadly, we missed most of the first opening band, Skull Practitioners, but what little I caught was very cool.

Both the AGNQ and Retrovirus, meanwhile, played some truly amazing sets. I was really excited to finally see the former, and they absolutely did not dissapoint, even throwing in some hallowed Lubricated Goat tunes into the mix as well as an inverted cover of “You Ain’t Seen Nothin’ Yet” by Bachman Turner Overdrive. Wasn’t expecting that.

Retrovirus, over the past few years, have truly become a force to be reckoned with. While Lydia’s signature brand of invective remains undiminished, when flanked by drummer Bob Bert, bassist Tim Dahl and dynamo guitarist Weasel Walter, there is practically nothing she can’t revisit from her sprawling back catalog that isn’t given a more sonically muscular new life. They didn’t play some of the Eight-Eyed Spy tunes I was hoping for, but they genuinely delivered one of the most cathartic live-music performaces I’ve experienced in loooooooong goddamn time.

While this was my first time in the venue as Drom, the space this all went down in was the basement-level venue that was more recently named Opaline, and – prior to that – a fetid sludge-metal cave, Beowulf.

As an added note, scattered amidst the crowd were various members of SWANS, Live Skull, Fractured Cylinder, the Bush Tetras and even Chet, the former cover star of many an Alice Donut album cover.

The Mask Makes the Man

This might seem like a poorly timed post, given that the indoor mask mandates have been largely lifted around New York City, but the point still remains.

I have a deliberately annoying-but-tenacious habit of trying to impose my will on certain friends by questioning their masculinity when they fail to agree to whatever stupid plan I’m proposing, usually to the tune of: “Let’s go get beers – a man would say “YES!””

I say it *BECAUSE* it’s a stupid thing to say. I’m being *KNOWINGLY* idiotic when I do it. Anyone who alludes to what “real men” do or do not do when striving to make a point is wading into a sickly bath of hopeless misogyny and antiquated thinking. For comedic purposes with certain friends, however, I think it’s fine, because, to my mind, it’s so obviously goddamn ridiculous. It's abundantly clear that I’m not being serious.

That all said, it should go well without saying that not everybody thinks the same way I do (and this is entirely true for a wide and varied host of diverse and divisive topics). Lots of folks take their preconceptions about what is and is not acceptable behavior indicative of their gender very seriously, and if you want to really hit one of these people where it hurts, you call them on it, I guess.

To that end, as part of the efforts of the anti-vax/science-skeptical crowd to discourage consensus and sew division around the topic of COVID-19 health protocols, they’ve coated parts of New York City in a sticker campaign. Some of the stickers are slightly more nuanced than others, but this one seemed pretty brazen, aimed squarely at a certain demographic pathetically insecure about the accepted behavioral norms of their gender.

This is the level of intellect and maturity that is impeding a meaningful management of COVID-19.

More Technical Difficulties with Cop Shoot Cop

So, not only did I do two posts in a row about the Plasmatics, I’m now also doing two posts in a row about Cop Shoot Cop. Please feel free to leave your compaints in the comments section, should you so desire.

Back in June of 2021, I stumbled upon a tantalizing snippet of a live Cop Shoot Cop performance caught within the storied confines of CBGB. It wasn’t technically superb – it was shot from somehwere in the crowd, was a little shakey and only featured sound in one channel – but it still captured the band in rollicking form. I wondered aloud, at the tail end of that post, if there was any more video from that particular night.

It turns out there was.

While the original video – uploaded by one Gary TseTse Fly --- asserted that the show was recoded in 1992, this new clip says May of 1991. Honestly, who knows which to believe?

Regardless, from that same evening, here’s Cop Shoot Cop having a growly bash from one of my very favorite selections, “Burn Your Bridges.”

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Reminisce … with Cop Shoot Cop

Back in 2016, my day was briefly made when a DVD called “The New York Post-Punk Noise Series Vol. 1” was released, featuring a feral live performance by my beloved Cop Shoot Cop in 1993, raising their signature brand of clangy ruckus in the basement of Martin Bisi’s fabled BC Studios on the pungent banks of the Gowanus.

Beyond it being a rarified document of that era of C$C (with guitarist/trombonist Steve McMillen still in its ranks), it also featured an era-appropriate interview with the band, as well as an ancillary audio track of the members commenting on the proceedings as they watched, … itself a notable capture, given the acrimonious nature of the break-up.

As an extra, extra bonus, the afore-cited period-specific interview also provided a tantalizing glimpse of the fabled CBGB flyer that I have spent the last three decades vainly searching for (as yet to no avail),… which I’ve wept openly about here.

In any case, for those of you who no longer own a DVD player, you can now watch the whole enchilada here … or at least until someone pulls it off of YouTube. Enjoy!

Beneath The Valley of 84 Thomas Street: A Very Plasmatic Sequel

At this risk of creating the impression that Flaming Pablum has become the “All Plasmatics All The Time” blog, I offer this update.

Back in February of 2021, I posted one of a string of deeper-dive entries about minutia relating to the late, lamented Plasmatics, this particular post concentrating on divining the location of their TriBeCa loft, i.e. “Plasmatics World Headquarters.” After a fruitful bit of Google-sleuthing, I determined the former address of Wendy O. Williams and her partner/manager/band-svengali Rod Swenson to have been at 84 Thomas Street, and posted my findings accordingly.

A little while after that, an editor from the TriBeCa Citizen got in touch and asked if it was cool to re-purpose said posts on her website. I said sure, and off we went.

As it happens, it took about exactly a year for TriBeCa Citizen to finally get it on their page, at which point one of their readers, a Bruce E., wrote in about the fifth-floor loft now named Stone Studios, owned by artist Todd Stone. Bruce wrote:

Laurie and Todd Stone have lived there for decades, and Todd is a painter of some renown, having done a series on the World Trade Center after 9/11. Something does not quite match up.

Irked by the notion that my sleuthing was somehow shoddy, I repaired to the internet, and mercifully came up with a new morsel of information. According to the Fall 2019 issue of Downtown Magazine, both the Stone family and the Plasmatics lived at 84 Thomas Street, with a crucial qualifier.

In a story about downtown nightlife in the late 70s and early 80s, writer Matt Kapp wrote:

Rents were cheap, even in places like TriBeCa, where painter Todd Stone moved into a sprawling loft in the late 1970’s. His upstairs neighbors were the punk-metal clan The Plasmatics. “They were the worst neighbors in New York,” he says. “It was World War III every afternoon. And when they weren’t practicing, they were weight-lifting.” Nonetheless, he has fond memories of lead singer Wendy O. Williams (“she was a gusty girl, fearless”) and gives the band some credit for his own creative path, too. “The reason why I am an artist in Lower Manhattan today,” he says, “Is because I could stand living underneath them”

I don’t know which part of this I enjoy more…. the notion of being neighbors with the Plasmatics, or simply the notion of them “practicing.”

So, anyway, there you have it. Both Wendy & Rod and Todd Stone lived at 84 Thomas Street, raising the question: Was “Plasmatics World Headquarters” techinically on the 6th floor, or did Stone Studios take their place after their departure?

While you ponder that, here’s a bit of vintage Plasmatics, filmed at Bond’s Casino in Times Square.