Happy Easter. Sorry for the relative slowdown, here, but it’s been a busy several days, and I’ve been having some trouble with my ear.
As I’ve discussed here many times, I have a long history of doing terrible things to my ears. When I was a kid, I was prone to ear infections, which were capable of being incredibly painful. My mother recounted one instance wherein, as a very young lad, my eardrum was punctured and I literally passed out from the pain. As a petulant teen and, later, smug twentysomething convinced of his own imperviousness, I routinely listened to my headphones at the maximum volume and attended far too many high-octane rock shows without wearing any semblance of hearing protection. Not wise.
Then, one bright morning in October of 1999 (just days before my now-very-distant 32nd birthday), I woke up with tinnitus screaming in my right year, a clarion ring that has never, ever abated. As a hilariously little side-dish, my hearing has been significantly diminished in the OTHER ear (the one without the ringing). I've since acclimated, although I only enjoy a fraction of the sounds I would otherwise be experiencing. Earlier this week, however, my right ear (the one with the ring) was feeling inexplicably stopped up, so I rather foolhardily applied two ear drops into that tiny, labyrinthine chamber of horror. The trouble is, they evidently didn't drain properly and now the compromise is worse than before (nice job, eh?) I'm disinclined to fish around in there any further.
So, after several days of bitching about it, I took my problem to a professional. I'm (sorta) happy to report that the diagnosis from my local Urgent Care was that I have some inflammation in my eustachian tube, which is to say that the problem is in the middle-ear (i.e. behind the drum) and not something in my external ear or ear canal. I was informed that this is likely the result of some allergies, which certainly tracks. I was prescribed a nasal spray called Fluticasone which I'm to administer twice a day.
I’m normally not one to fall for literary hype, but I succumbed, back in February, and picked up Young Kim’s “A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell,” the first-time author’s allegedly scandalous and graphically revealing tell-all about her brief affair with reluctant punk pioneer/author Richard Hell. Hell himself has gone on record, since the book’s initial release in 2020, dismissing the endeavor as “revenge porn,” and complained that Ms. Kim published the work with neither his knowledge nor consent. Ironically, I certainly never would have heard about the book had Hell not been so vocal about it. But, with my curiosity piqued, I went out to try to track down a copy for myself, but they were hard to put your hand to. I ended up ordering one from McNally-Jackson in SoHo, and about a week later, I picked it up.
In its defense, I’ll say this — the book itself is a lovely artifact to hold in your hand, lavishly published by a little, independent house called Fashionbeast Editions (I apparently own a second edition). This all said, I’m ashamed to confess that, a month later, I am still sluggishly paging through it, which is embarrassing in that the book is barely the length of a novella. The trouble is that I am routinely finding myself driven away from it.
As a quick bit of backstory, “A Year on Earth…” starts off documenting Young Kim’s initial flirtation with fabled poet-turned-proto-punk rocker Richard Hell, who she’d approached for the purposes of recruiting him to present an award dedicated to the legacy of her late lover, Malcolm McLaren. As has been well documented, McLaren famously used Richard Hell as the sartorial/tonsorial template, in the late `70s, he’d later project onto the fledgling Sex Pistols, an arguably thorny bit of pop-culture history that continues to act as an oft-employed cannonball in rock-geek battles about the true provenance of all things Punk. Regardless, in the wake of McLaren’s death, Kim, the lone executrix of McClaren’s estate, rightly deduced what a pivotal inspiration Hell had been to her former partner and reached out. In short order, sparks begin to fly, and the story takes off from there.
There, however, is where my problems with it start. I should preface the rest of this post with the probably obvious concession that I’ve never written a book, much less a detailed memoir. I’ve been approached to do so, a few times, but I frankly just don’t know that I have a book in me, so to speak. As such, who am I to take Ms. Kim to task for successfully vaulting her book into the public consciousness? It may not be a best-seller, yet, but it’s garnered a fair share of critical acclaim, including a prestigious write-up in The New York Times. That’s nothing to sneeze at, and I completely respect the achievement. By the same token, as a reader (and as a longtime Richard Hell fan), I’m perfectly entitled to have my own opinions about Kim’s writing, and not all of them are that reverential.
For a start, while it’s firmly established from the jump that the author is an avowed acolyte of all things fashion, Kim’s indefatigable attention to recounting the minutia of her wardrobe and her slavish devotion to luxury items during any given chapter is of absolutely zero interest to me. The painstaking citations that she sleeps on a bed adorned with “shaggy Tibetan goat-hair cushions,” wears incorrectly sized Yves Saint Laurent heels simply because they were designed by Hedi Slimane (“What an exquisite and glamorous collection!”) and/or that she chooses to wear (and bother describing) a “thick angora sweater dress color blocked in pale cerulean blue an intense cobalt blue” for one tryst with Hell just end up cluttering the page and unwittingly revealing her to be something of a brazen materialist. Now, granted, given her predilections, her vocation, and her background, one should assume that the intended readership of this book isn’t solely crotchety rock dads like me, and there may indeed be a particularly fabulous demographic that cannot get enough of reading about Kim’s bespoke outfits and expensive taste. But, as far as I'm concerned, it just gets in the way of the narrative.
Secondly, and, to be fair, this one is a way more niche concern, Kim takes a few misdirected potshots at my beloved local, the Knickerbocker Bar & Grill. Granted, I’m hugely biased as I literally live in the same building as this age-old neighborhood standby and have been dining and drinking there for years, even well before I moved into the apartment in question in 2002. I was very pleasantly surprised to read that the Knick is a big favorite of Hell’s as well (although in all my years of going there, I’ve yet to spot him in one of the booths), and he chooses it for their first date. Unfortunately, during that first meal together there, Kim orders a steak that is not prepared to her liking (while Hell’s comes as he asked for it), which immediately prompts her to brand the place as “sexist.” She doubles-down on this allegation when, at another point, they clear her wine glass without asking if she wants another. Listen, Ms. Kim, I’ve ordered an ill-advisable number of steaks from the Knick, over the years, and you really shouldn’t be taking it so damn personally that they may have not completely prepped the food to your exacting standards. Suffice to say, you’re not that special — it happens to all of us. Is it annoying? Sure, but it’s not sexist.
Hell and Kim end up returning to the Knick a few times, during the course of proceedings, and she continues to dump on the place, at points, for being -- God forbid -- not her style, too crowded and/or “too well lit” (which is bizarre, `cos it’s rarely that), and I’m sorry — I’m not having that. Besmirch the Knickerbocker Bar & Grill at your peril. Don’t like it? Then fuck right off to your precious Boom Boom Room at the noxious Standard Hotel and please never come back. Sorry, but she truly crossed a line with me on that one.
Lastly, for a book so many — including hallowed wordsmiths like Bret Easton Ellis and Greil Marcus — have rapturously hailed as grippingly salacious in the boudoir department, I have to say … it’s just, well, kinda boring, in that capacity. Liberal usage of exhausted “dirty” words like “cock” and “pussy” don’t exactly push the envelope of expression any more than what you might otherwise find typed dispiritedly in the distressed pages of Penthouse Forum. I also sincerely doubt Hell was especially chuffed to read some of his particular bedroom kinks exposed for the world to scrutinize, but I guess that is the crux of the project, which Kim makes no apologies for. It might have been nice if she’d warned him first, but — as she has been quick to point out — many men have written far worse without ever seeking approval or offering apology.
In any case, I still have a fair chunk of it yet to slog through, but one more crack about the Knick and it’s going to be a swift and unrepentant defenestration.
Of all the streets in Lower Manhattan, it’s hard to think of one that is as immediately identifiable as Orchard Street, although perhaps not as much, these days. Formerly the main thoroughfare of discount shopping for the Lower East Side, Orchard Street was once peppered with shops on both sides, selling all manner of affordable textile and related ephemera. Flip through any number of images of Orchard Street throughout the centuries, and you’re bound to spot depictions of a strip full of bustling bargain-hunters and street-side merchants hawking their wares.
I was recently struck by one such depiction by a Swiss photographer named Willy Spiller. Captured at some point between 1977 and 1985, here’s a telling portrait of the typical Orchard Street hustle of that era. It’s a remarkable photograph by every standard. Click on it to enlarge.
Curious as to what that particular storefront looks like thirty-something years later, I did a quick Google Maps search, and was again struck, this time by the dichotomy. Here’s that very same address as snapped in 2023
The shot above is of the great James Chance, taken by one Olivier Zahm. I have no real reason of posting it beyond the fact that I am completely empathizing with how James looks in this picture, right now. I’m kinda feeling the exact same way.
Things are happening. Work is absolutely crazy and burning me out. I’m not feeling 100% right about anything.
As such, regular service might be a little slow, for a while.
Meanwhile, here’s James from his heyday, albeit still expressing a comparable sentiment.
As a dyed-in-the-wool fan of The Clash since first receiving a copy of their debut LP in a box of records shipped to my sister and I from London in the summer of 1977, I have, of course, discussed the iconic sleeve of their third album, London Calling, here, quite a few times.
But a friend of mine online shared the pic above, today, and it struck me that I don’t think I’d ever seen it until now. This is, of course, Clash bassist Paul Simonon in the moments just after introducing the business end of his bass guitar to the unrelenting stage floor of New York’s Palladium, as famously captured on Pennie Smith’s legendary album cover.
As I’ve mentioned elsewhere here, the building that had been the Palladium was razed in 1998, and a large NYU dormitory – churlishly named “Palladium” – now stands in its footprint. Adding insult to injury, there’s a Trader Joe’s in its ground floor.
The spot wherein Paul took his bass to task is basically now the where the produce aisle is.
Courtesy of the No Wave page on Facebook comes this time-capsule-worthy gem. Here's the description from YouTube:
1979, NYC. Filmed on a grant from NYU Film & TV, Mr Lonely featured many Mudd Club personalities, even some famous no-shows such as Lux Interior from The Cramps. Shot by the infamous Robert Herman of Hipstamatic book fame, this video was struck from the original work print that premiered in 1982 at The Rock Lounge in NYC. It has not been shown publicly in over forty years. Please enjoy this beautiful fantasy of life, where time stands still forever.
If you first caught Life in a Blender performing on a squalid New York City stage at a code-violating firetrap back in the distant mid-`80s and a strangely attired voyager from a then-unthinkable future suddenly materialized to matter-of-factly impart to you that they’d still be around thirtysomething cruel years later, promoting their eleventh studio LP, you’d have invariably chortled into your chipped, slimy mug of overpriced, tepid beer and wandered out into the elements to escape such folly. But the prophecy was true. The soggily storied rock clubs and dive bars that first hosted the band, like CBGB, Tramps and McGovern’s, may all be cannabis dispensaries, dubious foot-rub spas and bubble tea emporiums today, but Life in a Blender have kept on ….er… blendin’.
That aforementioned new album, Bent by The Weather, continues to mine the band’s finely honed sweet spot, pairing songwriter/vocalist Don Rauf’s signature brand of off-kilter lyrical narratives with the accomplished chops of the longest-lasting line-up of the ensemble since their inauspicious inception during the Reagan-era. Flanked by founding drummer Ken Meyer, guitarist Al Houghton, guitarist/cellist Dave Moody, bassist Mark Lerner, violinist Rebecca Weiner and the punchy brass panache of the Colony Collapse horns, Rauf is given free rein to showcase his surreal storytelling skills, buoyed by their considerable melodic horsepower. Whether evocatively painting a portrait of the gambler’s aspiration in “Fountains of Bellagio” or the flush of first, tween-age love on “My Heart Your Sweat Does Feed” or the disarming poignance of “On the Sand,” while Rauf’s tongue remains firmly planted in … ummm … his cheek, his lyrics can be deceptively nuanced, richly conjuring scenarios with an economy of carefully curated descriptors. And while, yes, there’s usually punchline on the way, the depth and the loving composition of these songs cannot be denied.
My son Oliver and I had the pleasure of catching Life in a Blender’s album-release party at Joe’s Pub several weeks back, and were treated to a first live-airing of much of this material, with favorites like “Go-To Man,” “The Answer,” “Soul Deliverer” and “Mobile Wash Unit” liberally sprinkled amidst the set like sugar from a saltshaker.
Lucky for you, it was captured for posterity by the venue:
Here’s another unfair little post that takes an arguably needless potshot at the younger generation for daring to have different perspectives, different life-experiences, different priorities and for not knowing their historical minutia. In the past, I fired similar shots across the bows of YouTuber influencer-types like Brett Conti, Cash Jordan and Sarah Funk, although all three of those characters have thousands upon thousands of subscribers, while I only have a dwindling hallelujah choir of like-minded curmudgeons and a few loyally tenacious trolls, so, honestly, what the fuck do I know?
Invoke the words “East Village” to certain folks – especially ones of a certain age – and you’re bound to conjure a wide spectrum of associations.
Some will cite the Tompkins Square Park riots of 1988 or the cannibalistic exploits of Daniel Rakowitz, who dismembered his girlfriend, cut off her head and purportedly made soup from her brain which he, in turn, fed to the homeless in their encampments around that park.
Others might think of the Gas Station, a former filling station turned a junkies’ shooting gallery turned metallic sculpture park and performance space where GG Allin delivered his final anarchic and poop-slathered performance before overdosing later that evening.
Some might remember vanished bars and clubs like CBGB, Great Gildersleeves, The SideWalk Café, Save The Robots, Lucky Cheng’s, The Lismar Lounge, A7, The Life Café, The World, Alcatraz, Club 57, Coney Island High, Beowulf, Downtown Beirut, Manitoba’s, Lakeside Lounge and the Pyramid Club.
Others will immediately spout off a long list of luminaries like David Peel, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Ann Magnuson, Klaus Nomi, Deborah Harry, Richard Hell, Joey Ramone, Johnny Thunders, Iggy Pop, Lydia Lunch, John Lurie, James Chance, Arto Lyndsay, Thurston Moore and Jeff Buckley, or maybe lesser-known local characters like photographer/documentarian Clayton Patterson, Tompkins Square Park denizen L.E.S. Jewels, Mosaic Man Jim Power, graffiti muralist Chico or the late photographer Bob Arihood.
Some might whip out a mixtape of bands like Missing Foundation, Cop Shoot Cop, SWANS, Pussy Galore, the Black Snakes, Rat at Rat R, White Zombie, Prong, Surgery and Helmet or hardcore bands like Reagan Youth, Agnostic Front, Kraut, the Cro-Mags, Murphy’s Law, False Prophets, the Stimulators, The Undead, Leeway, Sick of It All … and the Beastie Boys.
Some might reminisce about Eddie’s Toy Tower on Avenue B, seeing Dee-Lite at Wigstock in the since-razed Tompkins Square Bandshell and attending poetry slams at the Nuyorican Poets Café on East Third Street.
Depending on who you ask, the East Village will be remembered as the home to hippies, yippies, punks, hardcore kids, freaks, hipsters, drag queens, gangbangers, activists, squatters and the unhoused. It will forever be remembered as a bohemian haven for artistic freedom or a lawless badlands or a richly varied enclave of immigrants or the home to the largest Ukrainian population outside of their homeland-under-siege.
But here in the 2020’s – for better or worse – for a whole new generation, the names, faces, sights, sounds, stories and scenes all mentioned above mean precious little if anything at all. As I wrote at the top of this post, it’s admittedly unfair of me to task young vlogger Elana Taber and her comrade Margot with knowing about each and every aspect of the East Village’s multifaceted back-history (and lord knows I left out a shit-ton of stuff myself), but one can’t help feeling that reducing the neighborhood to simply a convenient aggregation of “quirky and funky” thrift stores and coffee shops is a strenuously myopic disservice.
But y’know, I’m a cranky old poop so, again, … what the Hell do I know?
I spotted both of the photos below, this week, in Facebook groups I belong to. The top one appeared in Greenwich Village Grapevine, and is a depiction of East 8th Street just steps to the east of Fifth Avenue. The image was captured by one Andrea White in 2020.
The second photo, from Lower East Side: Back in the Days… is – ostensibly speaking – the same street (well, 8th Street, between Astor Place and Avenue Be, becomes St. Marks Place). This is East 8th Street between Avenues B and C circa 1981. There was no name credited to the photograph, unfortunately.
Two different strips of pavement along the same long street, divided by neighborhood, economics, sensibility and 39 years…
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