Flaming Pablum

Happy Thanksgiving from Flaming Pablum!

Wind in the Rigging

Since 2019, the partially completed skyscraper at 45 Park Place in TriBeCa, between West Broadway and Church Street, has been in a dormant state following a Stop Work Order from the DOB issued in December of that year. The unfinished and unsightly tower looms over its surrounding portion of Lower Manhattan like a giant, silent sentinel, with a spindly crane perched atop a thin metal exoskeleton affixed to the building’s westerly wall. On windier days – like today – the crane actively swings worryingly around like a gargantuan weathervane. According to my friends at TriBeCa Citizen, the DOB allegedly makes routine inspections to the site and the crane, although further construction seems indefinitely stalled. TriBeCa residents are understandably displeased.

Adding arguable insult to injury, at some point, in recent months, an intrepid graffiti artist named RAMS somehow got inside 45 Park Place, ascended to its unfinished rooftop, and daringly rappelled down each of the four sides of the tower to leave huge, colorful tags. While an impressive-if-astonishingly-foolhardy feat, the end results lend proceedings at 45 Park Place a further veneer of neglect and decrepitude.

Personally speaking, the graffiti part doesn’t really bother me. If anything, RAMS did the community a backhanded favor by generating a new stir around a problem that continues to be seemingly ignored. By calling attention to it, perhaps there’ll be some movement.

But I’ll say this. To stand on the street and see that massive metal crane swing around in the wind is pretty chilling.

Back Over the Water

With the Thanksgiving holiday looming, we're heading back over to see our kids, next week, at their respective schools in Scotland and Ireland, so be prepared for things to be a little quiet here until I get back the following week, wherein we begin the frantic spiral into the gaping jaws of Christmas season proper. 

Take care of yourselves in the interim, and try not to succumb to the temptation of waging any invective-laced political debates at the turkey table.

No one will be well served by that.

 

The Flaming Pablum “Honest Playlist”

Erstwhile Strokes vocalist Julian Casablancas made a few headlines, recently, when he confessed to British newspaper, The Guardian, that a certain song he wrote, decades ago, namely his band’s arguable signature single, “Last Nite,” was “pretty dead” to him. He claimed to not be sure why, but I’d wager the weary task of having to perform it conceivably each and every time the Strokes take the stage might have something to do with it. I’d imagine other famous bands are equally bored to speechlessness with their own most well-known songs --- I can’t fathom how U2 gets up and plays “I Will Follow,” Pride (In the Name of Love)” and/or “With or Without You” with any semblance of sincerity, after all these years.

This heretically candid declaration came via a regular feature in The Guardian that, until recently, I was unaware of called “Honest Playlist.” For several years now, The Guardian has been putting a series of music-based questions by a wide array of public figures – I didn’t know most of them, if I’m being honest, but other familiar faces did pop up, like Jon Bon Jovi, Perry Farrell, John Cooper Clarke, George Benson, Elvis Costello and …er… William Shatner. I wouldn’t say I’m in the same league as any of those individuals but considering some of the C-Listers they did pose these questions to, I figured I’d take a stab at the “Honest Playlist” questionnaire, too.

So here goes…

The first song I remember hearing: There was a fair amount of music in our house, growing up, both by way of my mother and stepfather, but also my actual father (divorced from my mother upon the happy occasion of my birth) and my grandparents. As such, I have memories of hearing records by artists like The Beatles, Carole King, Judy Collins, Cat Stevens, The Partridge Family, Stan Getz, Dave Brubeck, Abba, Simon & Garfunkel, Harry Belafonte and a ton of classical stuff. But if I had to pinpoint a specific song that I remember from way back, I’d have to say it was probably “Love Will Keep Us Together” by The Captain & Tennille from about 1975, when I’d have been about 7 or 8 years old.

The first song I fell in love with: From that very same era, I remember routinely hearing C.W. McCall’s “Convoy” from the back seat of my dad’s car during long drives to his weekend house in Columbia County, NY, and always hoping he or my stepmother wouldn’t change the station. I don’t know why I loved it, as a sniveling 7-year-old, and I’m fairly certain I didn’t even know what a convoy was, but I remember loving it, for some reason. When I hear it now, I can’t say I still harbor any affinity for it at all. It’s insufferable.

The first record I owned: I remember being given the original soundtrack recording of Disney’s “Dumbo,” as a child, but I’m not sure that’s what this question is searching for. The first record I voluntarily owned and bought with my own, dubiously earned allowance was Dressed to Kill by KISS. I still own it and still play it.

The first single I bought: I think the first vinyl 45 I ever bought was “Another Brick in the Wall Pt. II” by Pink Floyd, picked up at the Lexington Avenue Disc-O-Mat on East 58th Street. I sprang for the full, double-LP of The Wall shortly after that.

The performance that I’ll never forget: I’ve spun this yarn before, but in October of 1978, I was with my family at my step-uncle’s big house up in the Berkshires, and because I was there with all my cool, older cousins, I was allowed to stay up and watch “Saturday Night Live,” which – at the time – was still a very big deal. I’d have been about 11 years old, by this point, so staying awake past midnight was kind of huge. In any case, the host was comedian Fred Willard and, at some point after a few sketches and maybe a “Mr. Bill” film, he introduced the musical guest. Suddenly, DEVO appears in their yellow suits and the room falls absolutely silent as they launch into their cover of “Satisfaction.” I remember looking around at my cousins and no one was quite sure whether they were a real band or just another surreal sketch. I was immediately intrigued.

The song that changed my life: It’s a bit of a predictable one, for me, at this point, but I’d have to say “Eighties” by Killing Joke, which I first heard in the Greenwich Village apartment of the father of my friend Spike (not his actual name, but indicative of his temperament and immortalized here). We were watching some cable channel (not MTV) in the Spring of 1984, and the video came on. When it finished, I walked right out the door and across Cornelia Street to Subterranean Records and bought the 12” single of same on the spot.

The best song to play at a party: I’d imagine it would depend on who’s attending, but I’d have to say the best results I ever prompted when commandeering a party’s sound system were with “My Name is Prince” by --- WAIT FOR IT -- Prince, which injected a swiftly fading and flailing New Year’s Eve party I attended in the early `90s with a weapons-grade dosage of libidinous abandon.

The song that makes me cry: I used to cite “This Woman’s Work” by Kate Bush for this type of question, and it still does indeed do the trick, especially the way Kate sings “oh darlin’, make it go away!” In more recent years, however, I heard “Damage” by David Sylvian and Robert Fripp, which also is a bit of a heart-stabber.

The song I’ve streamed the most: I’m sure there’s a way to determine this on Spotify, but I just don’t know how to do that. I don’t imagine that the answer would be that much of a surprising revelation.

The song I’m listening to right now: Apparently, the last song I was listening to last night during my commute home from work was “Feel So Sad” (Rhapsodies Mix) by Spirtualized. Try not to read too deeply into that.

The song I wish I had written: Well, I’m not a songwriter, so I don’t regularly have those sorts of thoughts. I suppose I wish I’d written something that is both universally beloved and maddeningly overplayed, as this would presumably earn me a sizable amount of royalties, although not nearly as much as it might have once done, given the ever-shifting topography of quantifying what songwriters are entitled to in the age of streaming.

The best song to have sex to: I would disclose the selection that was playing when I first crossed this majestic Rubicon, but I’m afraid that would out me as the shamefully late-bloomer that I was. Moreover, as momentous (for me) as that occasion was, it was not entirely indicative of the ideal scenario for such an activity, so that’s enough about that. I think the best music to score this particular act is something suitably languid but nothing too obtrusive, so maybe something atmospheric like This Mortal Coil or latter era Talk Talk, although certain records by both of those names do frequently plunge headlong into the unexpectedly melancholy, and no one is well served by that. You also don’t want to completely overthink it and throw on something preposterously pretentious like Erik Satie’s Gymnopedies or Glen Gould’s take on Bach’s Goldberg Variations. I mean, those are great pieces of music but get ahold of yourself. I can think of some jazz records that might also do the trick, but those can go well off the rails, too. I’d suggest comparing notes with your partner and seeing what strikes their mood. As long as it’s not Limp Bizkit or the Banana Splits’ theme song, I’m sure you’ll be fine.

The song I can no longer listen to: It’s not really that I can no longer listen to it, as I think it still completely holds up, musically, and sounds as great as it did upon my first hearing of it, but “Peace Sells” by Megadeth. While Megadeth were never my go-to band of the so-called “Big Four,” they did have their moments, and “Peace Sells” was certainly one of them, along with other cuts like “Wake Up Dead” and “Symphony of Destruction.” I thought their cover of “Anarchy in the UK” was abysmal, but whatever. In any case, back in 2012, Megadeth lead singer/songwriter Dave Mustaine asserted that certain mass shootings of the era like Aurora and the Sihk Temple massacre had been orchestrated by the Obama administration to ramp up gun control. Once I heard that crazy, objectionable bullshit, I lost all interest in ever giving any of my time to Megadeth ever again and have never really looked back.

The last song I streamed: Let me look. Evidently, this morning, it was “Brighter,” which is track from the first Slowdive album.

The song I can’t stand: Just one? There are countless songs that I cannot stand. For this exercise, however, I’ll go with “Empire State of Mind” by Jay-Z and Alicia Keys. That “concrete jungle where dreams are made of” bullshit never ceases to set my teeth on edge. It’s also neck-snappingly trite. Fuck everything about that crap.

The song I have to get up to turn off: “American Pie” by Don McLean. I will very happily get up to turn it right the fuck off or promptly leave any fucking room wherein this song is playing.

The song I’d want for my stadium entrance music: Jerry Goldsmith’s opening theme to the 1975 epic, “The Wind & the Lion,” starring Sean Connery and Candace Bergen.

The best song for my mental health: “I Will Refuse” by Pailhead.

The song I do at karaoke: Despite being what some might consider unduly preoccupied with music, it might be surprising to some to learn that I fucking hate karaoke. I don’t like doing it, I don’t like watching (or, more specifically, hearing it), I don’t think it’s fun and any time it’s invoked as some sort of option, I usually go well out of my way to try to excise myself from proceedings. That doesn’t always work, and there have been a few occasions wherein I was obligated to, but rest assured that no matter how many beers I might have consumed along the way, I did not enjoy it. It’s just not for me, … ever.

Why is this, you ask? Well, for a start, I simply don’t enjoy hearing people butchering my favorite music. Hell, I don’t even enjoy hearing people warble tunelessly through songs I don’t like. Some people, in my opinion, are simply not meant to have a microphone at their mouths. To be fair, I firmly consider myself to be one of these people. No one benefits from hearing me sing, even for drunkenly comedic reasons. It’s not one of my gifts, and I doubt anyone would disagree on that front.

Then, of course, there’s the frequent nightmare of being stuck in one of those invariably claustrophobic little rooms with someone who genuinely thinks that they can and should be singing. I frankly don’t know which is the worst scenario – hearing someone hoarsely holler the lyrics to LMFAO’s “Party Rockin’” or listening to someone earnestly interpret Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All” as if they’re auditioning for Broadway. No amount of beer can salvage that experience.

As expressed above, I do sincerely hate hearing a favorite song of mine sullied not only by the pointedly unskilled vocal cords of a fellow party goer but by the indignity of karaoke-association alone. One of the last times I was dragged to karaoke, I remember wincing when the wife of a friend of mine insisted on trying her hand at “Young Americans” by David Bowie. While never a favorite track of mine by the late icon, it surely deserved a better fate than that. I did take some solace when the song revealed itself to be pronouncedly more lyrically complicated than she’d anticipated, finding her sheepishly giggling her way through Bowie’s more oblique wordplay.

But, to answer the question, the tracks I’ve managed to get through are “Maneater” by Hall & Oates and Soft Cell’s rendition of “Tainted Love.”

 

The song I inexplicably know every lyric to: I inexplicably know the lyrics to hundreds of songs because one could credibly argue that I am unhealthily overinvested in my appreciation of music. It takes up space in my brain that would otherwise be better utilized with, say, knowing how to cook competently or being able to do my own taxes. But, to answer the question, once again, my friend Jay had a band in college called The Janitors of Anarchy, and whenever they played certain off-campus houses, I was invited along to sing (usually inaudibly, thankfully … drowned out by the band). I was only invited to assume the mic during “She Sells Sanctuary” by The Cult, if only because I was the only one who accurately knew the lyrics.

The song that I secretly like, but tell people I hate: I don’t know that this really applies, as I don’t believe I am all that secretive about my likes and dislikes, nor do I feel any concerns about being judged over my listening habits. I like precisely what I like, and too bad for you if you think I shouldn’t.

The song I can no longer listen to: There used to be specific songs that I associated with certain eras of my life, and I figured that they’d maintain their resonance for the rest of my days. But while they may be indelibly marked, to my mind, by those associations, I frequently find that I’m completely still able to listen to them without plunging into an impenetrable thicket of melancholia. That either means that distance and time have scrubbed the song of those entanglements or that I’ve simply gotten over whatever that crucial episode was. There are certainly songs I never need to hear again – usually hoary warhorses like “Smells like Teen Spirit” or stuff of that ilk. I was never a huge fan of it to begin with, but oversaturation has robbed me of any desire to ever hear it again.

The song I’d like played in my funeral I suppose I’m supposed to say something typical here like “Requiem” by Killing Joke or “Everybody Loves You (When You’re Dead)” by Cop Shoot Cop, but I doubt I’d opt for either of those (as if I could do anything about it, anyway). 

I'll leave it for someone else to pick that out. 

Reheated Pablum: Updates on Some Past Posts

I thought I’d take a moment to aggregate some updates regarding stuff I’ve written about here before. Here we go…

Some of you might remember this post from 2023, which documented the quiet closing of Miyabi, the frankly not-that-amazing Japanese restaurant that moved into Bleecker Bob’s former space at 118 West Third Street following the slow demise of that storied record shop in 2013. Well, after another period of dormancy – during which time the neighboring business to the west morphed from a dubious foot-rub/happy-ending joint into a frozen yogurt purveyor – it seems 118 is getting ready for a new tenant … one that involves, evidently, a “hibachi lab.” See the interior above.

Back in 2013, meanwhile, I wrote an entry about See/Hear, the furtive hive of zine culture, music-geek literature and underground comics that formerly held count in a basement-level space on East 7th Street. As you can see from the comments on that post, the mere invocation of the shop touched a nerve, for a lot of people. Well, for those folks, I’d like to highlight a new, comparatively exhaustive oral history that was just posted on Animal about the place that really goes into its back-history. Check that out here.

Lastly, some of you might remember a series of posts from 2017 wherein I became preoccupied with identifying a certain Manhattan corner upon which the fabled Misfits had once posed for a series of photos that had become relatively iconic (well, for Misfits fans, at least).

As detailed in those posts, I stalked the streets of Lower Manhattan trying to pinpoint the exact spot. At the same time, I reached out to the photographer, one Roxanne Lowit, to see if she could provide the answer, or at least some clues. Her assistant got back to me with some vague intel about where the location might be, and – in turn – I asked if I might reproduce some her photos for my posts. Unfortunately, the response was an emphatic NO, I could not. I got around that by linking to other sites who’d posted them, including photos of Lowit’s images on various bootleg singles and via some illustrations by my daughter, who was about 12 years old at the time. Here’s one of those illustrations now. This is Charlotte's interpretation of the print-out I'm holding in the shot above. 

Initially, I was surprised that Lowit – who’d gone on to do many, many other higher profile projects and is now a celebrated fashion photographer -- should have given that much of a damn that some rinkydink little blog like mine wanted to host her pics, but hey, I do understand. That’s her goddamn work. Those images are no one else’s. Respect is due.

Cut to 2024, and someone has evidently convinced Lowit to revisit her evening in the company of Jerry Only, Glen Danzig, Bobby Steele and Joey Image by way of a new photo book called, “We Walk the Streets at Night.” Documenting the full shoot wherein Lowit led the Lodi, New Jersey quartet around the then desolate streets of the West Village (the corner in question, incidentally, was West 11th at Washington Street), the book is frustratingly spare on details (not even a preamble from the photographer). Moreover, the images themselves are presented in their original form as blown-up slides. It’s a nice effect, I suppose, but I would have liked to see some of the pictures in a larger format – and with a bit of anecdotal augmentation, although if you’re curious as to the doings of the Misfits during that era, I would recommend the excellent book,“This Music Leaves Stains” by James Green Jr.

If you’re curious about “We Walk the Streets at Night,” meanwhile, you can pick a copy up at Generation Records on Thompson Street. Tell’em Flaming Pablum sent ya.

Things I Learned This Week

In the futile interests of creating space in my brain for things other than withering contempt and existential dread, herewith a short list of non-horrific things I learned this week.

1. Sonny Curtis, the guy who wrote "I Fought the Law," famously covered with punky conviction by The Clash, also wrote "Love is All Around," the theme song to "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," which, of course, was later covered with punky conviction by Husker Du.
   
   
2. Original SWANS drummer and co-founder Jonathan Kane is the son of legendary photographer Art Kane, the dude responsible for "A Great Day in Harlem" (which I spoke about here), the cover of The Kids Are Alright by The Who and many other famous pictures and portraits. While no longer a member of SWANS, Jonathan Kane spoke about his frankly unsurprising trouble with hearing loss in this great piece from 2019 about the long-term, physical travails of high-volume rock.

None of this will probably effectively distract you from nauseating news about the clown car of Dick Tracy villains our president-elect is assembling for his cabinet for the next four years, but one does what one can.

All That Jazz

I've been in such a weird headspace for the past several days -- I haven't really taken any joy in any of my usual predilections. They feel disingenuous, and I'm tired of forcing myself to course-correct and get back to normal, but it just doesn't feel right or accurate or appropriate or correct or satisfying.

I've been trying to listen to music that is galvanizing and/or cathartic or, at least, in some way emblematic of the ways I'm feeling, and nothing has really nailed it. I realize this all sounds terribly histrionic, but EVERYTHING FEELS FUCKING WRONG.

It wasn't until doing dishes, this evening, and listening to the track below -- which has absolutely nothing to do with frustration or catharsis or anger --  that things started to slowly feel a tiny bit better. The world is still a complete mess, now, but God bless fucking Herbie Hancock.

Let It All Out

This may apply to you or not. If not, feel free to ignore.

Scroll through your social media feeds, these days, and you’ll probably see a lot of advice about how to best grapple with the enormity of our new reality.

However well-intentioned these messages are, let’s please stop telling people not to feel bad or bitter about it. Yes, it’s indeed positive to remind them that they are not alone and to go easy on themselves, but let’s please not admonish anyone for feeling awful right now.

If you’re paying attention, the ramifications of Tuesday’s election results are genuinely terrifying, and anyone who is exhibiting signs of stress, depression, anger, frustration, fear, anxiety or just flat-out trauma is perfectly justified. It’s natural for them to grieve, worry, rage, vent and/or mourn accordingly.

They’re not overreacting or being histrionic— they just might be a little more invested or have more at stake than you.

Please don’t diminish their pain or concern by telling them not to dwell on it. It just happened, they’re entitled to feel how they’re feeling and express themselves.

And Now ... This

There have been many moments, in the past couple of days wherein I’ve had lots to say about proceedings and many moments when there simply have been absolutely no words, and I have basically been ricochetting between those two points.

Much to your relief, I’d imagine, I’m not going to recite a laundry list of grievances here about the election results. If you’ve been paying any attention at all, you can probably surmise how I’m feeling. As of right now, the sheer enormity of our new reality overwhelms me. I’m dead-certain that as we progress – or should that be regress? – I’ll have plenty of things to say, but I’m finding my inner wellspring of incredulousness, frustration, disappointment and dread very hard to accurately encapsulate into words, at this moment, so I’m not going to try. There are plenty of people expressing themselves far more eloquently already. 

I don’t imagine many of you come here for that sort of stuff, anyway. While I purposely keep this blog topically open-ended, I tend to routinely focus on certain things, and I don’t think my political insights, observations and opinions are really the stuff that generate the most clicks, so to speak, so it’s probably no great loss.

By the same token, all my usual predilections seem completely trivial, right now, so it might be a hot second before I have anything to offer here.

I’m sure I’ll re-find my stride, so please be patient and bear with me.

Election Day is Tomorrow

Here’s your friendly neighborhood blogger telling you to get out and vote, tomorrow, if you haven’t already. Go exercise that right.

Look, I live in New York City, and it’s pretty much a given how New York is going to go, but I’m voting anyway, if only to cancel out the vote of a certain family member of mine who shall remain nameless.

Where I throw my support (or, in this case, my vehement antagonism) is no mystery, but I am making no predictions, at this eleventh hour, as it strikes me that it could still really go in any direction. I’ve given up on optimism. I also don’t imagine it will go quickly, much less quietly.

Go do your part. Let’s see what happens. If you enjoy the art below, you can get it on a t-shirt, coffee mug or fetching tote bag made by my friend Tod here.