Flaming Pablum

The Spirit of Vengeance in the Boogie Down Bronx

Here’s a post that probably won’t mean anything to anybody, but I feel compelled to tell someone about it, so it might as well be you, dear lucky readers. You’re welcome.

Just out of curiosity, I was thumbing through the photographs in a Facebook group called, somewhat audaciously, The Real New York: 70’s/80’s, and came across the photo below taken by one Lisa Kahane in 1982 of the corner of 148th Street at Brook Avenue in The Bronx.

Now, the Bronx is not an area of New York City that I can credibly claim to have any meaningful knowledge about, so my reasons for being struck by the image had nothing to do with any geographical specificity. No, what fleetingly caught my eye was the graffiti.

If you look at the mural painted across El Farito’s storefront, you’ll see a small child posing underneath a pistol pointed right at the viewer. For whatever reason, I was instantly hooked by that image, and knew that I knew it, but couldn’t immediately discern why. It was heavily unlikely that, in 1982 (when I would have been about 15) that I would have been strolling around this particular patch of the Bronx, so I couldn’t have seen this graffiti in real time, but still – I knew that image of the bug-eyed guy brandishing a pistol.

Here's a closer (albeit pixilated) look...

Then, I figured it out.

Through pretty much all of my grade school years and at least one third of my high school years, I was an avid comic collector (until the point at which I basically gleaned that being a devout comic geek – let alone one that also played “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons” – was doing me zero favors in the “impressing girls” department). But my affinity for my preferred titles – yes, I collected “The X-Men” like everybody else but was also enthralled by more left-field names like “Howard the Duck” and my all-time favorite, “Ghost Rider” – ran pretty deep. To this day, while I sold off a healthy supply of my less crucial issues, I do still own a hefty crate of comics that resides in our storage space. I should probably sell them (if I even can) at some point, but I’ll never be in a giant rush to do that. In any case, the reason I recognized that bug-eyed shooter lives in that crate.

From Issue #58 from July 1981…

Here's that very same corner in 2023...

The Pre-Breakfast Ritz Rant

Earlier this morning, after I'd started my work day, an old friend of mine texted me the newspaper ad below, presumably circa 1986, evangelizing then-upcoming shows at the old Ritz on East 11th Street, which most folks today know as Webster Hall. I've written entirely too many posts about this storied venue, in the past, but you can find a few of those entries here, here, here, here, here, here, here and here, although there are assuredly more than just those. 

In any case, my friend texted this ad, prefaced with the utterance .....

"one week in NYC' in late 1986..."

... which prompted the following knee-jerk response from me:

Quite a week indeed. The only gig marked as "sold out" is Bruce Willis, which is, of course, pathetic! That’s the idiotic tractor beam of Hollywood fame right there — such a rich roster of diverse talent, and what’s the big draw? That dude from “Moonlighting.” No wonder Trump won.

 

What can I say? I was hangry and triggered. 

 

Nauseous `97 in New York

Okay, this is a weird one.

While, yes, it’s not dissimilar from other travelogue-esque NYC videos I’ve put up (like this, this, this, this and this), there’s something mysteriously disturbing about this, albeit not intentionally (I don’t think).

Evidently digitized from an old VHS cassette, this montage of footage of the Manhattan of 1997 comes scored by a thumping R&B tune which, honestly, doesn’t say “Nineties” to me such as “Eighties,” but whatever. No, the problem is that the source material – the VHS cassette – sounds like it’s dragging and rolling, periodically reducing the meter and the pitch of the song to a weird sluggish warble.

The end results sound nightmarishly nauseous. One half-expects to see something duly unspeakable at any second to reflect the unsettling wrongness of the soundtrack.

Da Search for Da Bar of Dem Bums

As a revelation that should surprise absolutely no one, I’m not a big sports guy.

Sure, I pitched for the TIME Magazine softball team for 12 years and even became reasonably proficient at getting my pitches across the plate (my nickname on the mound was “Speed Metal,” despite it being, ostensibly, “slow pitch” softball), but, if I’m being honest, my involvement in same had more to do with the promise of beer and girls after each game. Here I was -- circa 1998 or so --  looking suitably awkward and ill-equipped near the pitcher's mound. 

But in terms if watching professional sports of the more celebrated varieties, I have absolutely zero interest in football or basketball. I, of course, fully understand baseball, but don’t really care about it. I don’t mind soccer, and hockey at least has the prospect of becoming entertainingly violent, but in none of these instances am I invested in any meaningful way.

I used to be way more vocal about my disdain for sports, until I realized that no one actually cares about that (nor should they) and that all I was probably doing was pissing off friends of mine who do like sports. So, yeah, I’ve stopped doing that, kinda.

Anyway, a reader named Steven recently wrote in and, along with some encouraging things to say about a few recent posts, postulated an intriguing query. Steven writes:

In the mid 2000s, I went to a show at the Bowery Ballroom with some friends.. went bar hopping afterwards. Ended up late night at a bar somewhere on the L.E.S. that was very cool, and I have not been able to find it again (if it’s still there) or remember the name. A long skinny room with the bar in the right side as you walk in, old but somewhat clean. But what made it very distinctive was it was adorned with Brooklyn Dodger photos. From front to back. Ebbits Field, players, World Series pictures.. I remember the bartender telling me the bar had been a Dodger bar for 50/60 years at that point. Does that ring a bell for you? Not a lot to go on. Just a shot in the dark to someone who seems to know that city inside and out.

Now, again, not being versed in professional baseball (neither National League nor American League … not that I even understand the difference between those two, much less do I care), I cannot say that even if I’d drank myself stupid in the very boozer he’s referring to, would I have probably noticed a hodgepodge of Brooklyn Dodgers paraphernalia adorning the walls.

But this, dear readers, is where YOU come in – who remembers a divey-but-“clean” Lower East Side bar festooned with Brooklyn Dodger ephemera….batter up!!!

Back ... Way Back ... to The Limelight

I’ve spoken about my experiences in the Limelight here a couple of times (most recently here, but also here, here and here), but a gentleman named Piero posted the photograph above on Facebook, and it kinda blew a new part in my hair.

This is the Church of the Holy Communion circa 1845, the same venerable house of worship that would, about a century and a half after this image was captured, become deconsecrated and …well… degrade into the notorious den of naughty hedonism that was the Limelight.

Technically, in my era, the Limelight was first and foremost a dance club, but they did host live music as well. I’m sure I’ve rattled the list off before, but bands I recall seeing there – performing in the apse of the old church – include New Model Army, Foetus, Vent 414, the Lords of Acid, Gene, the Mall-era Gang of Four and, … wait for it … my all-time heroes in Killing Joke and Cop Shoot Cop (albeit not the same show, however awesome that would have been).

In fact, here’s a shot from the Cop Shoot Cop show, appended with the flyer beneath. Notice the name of the night? Communion. That never clicked before, but I’m evidently slow on the uptake, sometimes.

 

Here's the ad for the Killing Joke gig, tastefully preserved for posterity by my rock-archivist pal Greg Fasolino. I remember getting tickets for this show and telling my then-employers at TIME Magazine that I had every intention of attending it, despite being scheduled to work the News Desk that evening, and that if I couldn't go, I would "fuckin' quit, maaan."  Mercifully, they accommodated me.

And here is footage of the Foetus show. My friend Rob and I watched this from the upper-catwalk, as I recall. Look for us in there.

The last time I looked, the space which had formerly been both the Church of the Holy Communion and the Limelight – after the Limelight closed for good in 2003 – briefly became a short-lived club called Avalon, before that, too, closed in 2007. From there, it became an ersatz shopping mall, then a gym but now only plays host to a Grimaldi’s brick-oven pizza and a pricey modern Chinese eatery called the Jue Lan Club. I haven't eaten at either. 

Doctorin' the Beat

It being the 50th anniversary of Hip-Hop (or so I’m repeatedly informed), here’s an arguably appropriate post.

Listen, no one ever said rapping was easy. Sure, lots of folks make it appear seamless, but probably do so with a nonchalance that is entirely deceptive. While it may seem like, say, Busta Rhymes barely breaks a sweat delivering his intricate wordplay, I’m fairly certain it’s the product of lots of very hard work and endless rehearsal. Then, there are those who have tried to mimic the linguistic dexterity and stylistic trappings of Hip-Hop but with results that have been, shall we charitably say, significatly less convincing than intended.

Personally speaking, while I was smitten by various Hip-Hop records throughout the `80s and `90s, I can’t say I’ve been particularly wowed by a Hip-Hop track in a very long time. The last “new” Hip-Hop act that caught my attention was probably this trio from Los Angeles called, inexplicably, Clipping. They bring a compelling new aesthetic to the genre that seems worlds apart from popular stuff of the day, most of which I find cripplingly staid, stupid and boring. I mean, I cannot get away from stuff like Doja Cat, Ice Spice and Post Malone fast enough. And let’s not even talk about Kanye.

But I’m not here to harp about Hip-Hop. As a 55-year-old rock schmuck weaned on metal, punk, hardcore and all things goth, I’m pretty much the last person you should listen to if you’re looking for insights into contemporary Hip-Hop.

Back to my closing point in the top graph, though, there were several early examples of artists who seemed keen to jump on the burgeoning bandwagon of hip-hop, back in its relative infancy. Some pulled it off – Blondie’s “Rapture” springs to mind, despite Debbie Harry’s rap being sort of clunky and bizarre. John Lydon’s collaboration with since-disgraced Afrika Bambatta, “World Destruction,” also felt completely credible. Others weren’t so finessed. Witness Dee Dee Ramone’s heroically ham-fisted reinvention as rapper Dee Dee King, Anthrax’s well-intentioned but funkless “I’m the Man,” Wham!’s frankly appalling “Wham Rap” and Adam & the Ants’ endearingly strange “Ant Rap.” Wendy O. Williams, from my beloved Plasmatics recorded a deeply lamentable record called – good lord -- Deffest and Baddest!! -- that found her trying her hand at the genre to gravely dispiriting effect. Even Lou Reed gave it a shot with “Original Wrapper” from the Mistrial album, an effort people still groan about to this day.

Enter Dr. John….

While he was renowed in New Orleans blues, jazz, funk and R&B circles as an eccentric, voodoo-fixated singer/songwriter, I had precious fuck-all idea who Dr. John was when he stepped onto the stage with the unlikely gentlemen in Squeeze at the Ritz on East 11th street, back in July of 1988 to perform a rendition of his own composition, “Such a Night.” It was great, of course, and I sought out more of his music shortly thereafter. If you’re not immediately familiar with him, you might remember his signature single from 1972, that being “Right Place Wrong Time.” As a fun side note, Dr. John was also the inspiration for Dr. Teeth of Dr. Teeth & the Electric Mayhem, the house band from “The Muppet Show.”

One track of Dr. John’s, however, that I managed to overlook was “Jet Set,” a single from 1984 wherein, much like the rock luminaries cited above, the good doctor dared to wade into the waters of Hip-Hop. To be honest, while is sounds irretrievably dated when heard through the prism of 2023, I don’t think it’s anywhere near as embarassing as those lame efforts cited above by cats like Lou Reed and Dee Dee Ramone. It is whole solar-systems away from the hip-hop of today by evidently influential folks like Travis Scott, Pop Smoke, Cardi B and … y’know… whomever, but as an attempt to keep up with the sounds of that particular era, I don’t think anyone could lambast Dr. John for this effort.

The video is also a fleeting glimpse of the Manhattan of 1984, so … enjoy that, regardless.

Back to El Internacional/El Teddy's

I can’t remember when I first encountered it, but it was obviously at some point in the Eighties. While the original restaurant – Teddy’s – was kind of an old school/old New York Italian joint (see commercial below), it didn’t really become the iconic, visual phenom it was until the space was re-occupied and re-imagined by a concern called El Internacional. In this iteration, the new owners garishly decked the place out, outfitted the exterior with a dalmatian-esque paintjob and dropped a giant replica of the Statue of Liberty’s crown on the roof, an artsy, architectural flourish rivaled only by the Lone Star Café’s tremendous rooftop lizard up and over on Fifth Avenue.

Inside the original Teddy’s….

Regrettably, I never made it into El Internacional – which evidently held onto the place between 1984 and 1986, but when it became it morphed into the hybridized (I suppose) El Teddy’s, I did stop in for a drink, although I remember not being as wowed by the interior as I was hoping to be.

In any case, after spotting this story about its peculiar trajectory, I found myself wondering about the answer to a question I’ve been pondering for eons.

After El Teddy’s closed and the building was razed in 2004 to accommodate yet another yawnsome condo …

…what happened to the crown?

Anyone?