Flaming Pablum

Footnotes

Hi again, all. You might all be asking yourselves, “where’s Alex’s spittle-flecked rant about the latest DOGE misdeeds?” or “why nothing in commemoration of Jaz Coleman’s birthday?” or “How come we haven’t seen in any new posts about forgotten record shops?” Well, the simple answer is that I’ve basically been preoccupied grappling with the situation detailed in that last post.

I’m basically in limbo, I guess. I’m waiting to go back to my podiatrist (which happens two weeks from tomorrow) to get more of a handle on proceedings. I have a long list of questions to run by him – this being the guy I referred to as Doolittle -- regarding the do’s and don’ts of my current status. Now a couple of weeks in, the potential combination of the last pair of “mild steroid” injections, the anti-inflammatory pills and now a twice-daily pill of magnesium (400mg – allegedly effective against tingling, numbness, cramping in the feet) has conceivably relaxed my feet a little bit, but the numbness is still very persistent, especially in the mornings. I can’t say if there’s really been any progress or movement in the right direction or not.

Meanwhile, I’m basically overthinking everything and doing myself no favors by researching shit on the internet. In some instances, it seems I’m doomed to live the rest of my life with a limited menu of water, fish and bananas. The list of problematic things for a (possible) case of neuropathy strangely mirrors the things that allegedly make tinnitus (which I also suffer from) worse. These are the predictable biggies like, once again, alcohol, sugar, caffeine, salt, etc. The neuropathy no-no’s also include gluten, carbs, refined grains, and saturated fats. So, basically, I should swear off all beer, wine, coffee, red meat, desserts of all kinds, anything salty, all chips, white bread, wheat bread, rye bread, pasta, pizza, white rice, brown rice, cold cuts, popcorn, candy, donuts, baked goods, cheese, ice cream and all fast food. I figure, why not add oxygen, music and sex to that list and really seal the deal, eh?

As you might imagine, given that list, I’m currently caught perpetually bouncing between being scared, being angry and being very, very depressed.

Now, obviously, I can go without a lot of that stuff. Even the beer, which I truly love dearly, can be drastically reduced (I’ve already started doing this,… albeit begrudgingly). I’m not at all excited about making these …well … subtractions from my regular intake, but needs must, once again.

No, the stuff I’m most upset about is the looming possibility that my future mobility might be significantly hampered by this … and the pervasive realization that, much like with my tinnitus, this is a condition that, though my own blithe disregard, I brought upon myself. Now, while that might sound like the Catholic guilt talking (when in doubt … it’s YOUR OWN FAULT), it’s truly hard not to assign blame to my own irresponsible habits as the flashpoint of this problem.

Of course, there remains the (unlikely?) possibility that what I’m experiencing is a neuroma and not peripheral neuropathy, but I’m not the guy who can make that determination.

So, that’s where I am, right now.

Last Call for Alcohol?

I’m trying to put an exact date on it, but it strikes me that the first time I started complaining about my feet, here, was back in 2022. Out of the proverbial blue, I’d started experiencing weird sensations in my left foot. It wasn’t painful, but for some reason, my foot just wasn’t falling quite the same way. Something was off, although I was hard-pressed to find a clear way to describe it. A chiropractor I was consulting, at the time, prescribed some ineffective (but very expensive) insoles that did nothing to alleviate the issue.

Shortly after that, as detailed in this post, I stated experiencing regular sensations of blood rushing in my feet. It wasn’t tingling or soreness or stiffness (not yet at least), and – again – it wasn’t painful, but it was different and weird. A vascular doctor took a look and deduced that I had the “veins of a teenager,” so I should probably seek the counsel of a podiatrist.

By this point, I’d been feeling palpable discomfort in my feet, and my then-new podiatrist’s recommendation of using another pair of insoles also came with no positive results. I was then diagnosed with “avascular necrosis,” replete with the assertion that I had evidently broken a small bone in my foot without knowing it. This was followed by the directive to wear a heavy “Lo Cam” boot for five weeks, two summers back. That, too, did nothing to really alleviate any issues.

I ended up ditching that first podiatrist, as I never felt like he was taking me very seriously. In the interim, to combat the discomfort, I started wearing cushioned Hokas, which I, of course, bitched and moaned about here. Regardless, I continue to wear them pretty much exclusively.

After several months of wearing the Hokas, the discomfort I’d been regularly feeling in the arch of my left foot seemed to stop, but now my feet were stiff and … well … numb. And not just the left one (i.e the “problem foot”), but the right one as well.

I spoke with my primary care physician about it, and he had some vague theories, but sent me to a different podiatrist.

I liked this second podiatrist – let’s call him Dr. Doolittle -- much better. He put aside the notion of “avascular necrosis,” suggesting that while that did indeed show up on few of those earlier tests, it had likely dissipated on its own. What I was experiencing now was something different.

His idea was that it’s a neuroma, which is basically a tumor caused by an inflamed nerve. He gave my left foot an injection (some kind of mild steroid) and told me to add a vitamin B complex to my daily regimen. I did as I was instructed.

I honestly can’t say if that injection made a difference. Time went on, and my feet – both of them – continued to feel regularly stiff and numb, especially in the mornings. More months went by, and I went back to my primary care physician.

Dr. K finally spoke definitively on the subject, suggesting that what I had was “peripheral neuropathy.” Lots of things can cause and/or exacerbate this condition, and one of the biggest of these is – yes, wait for it – alcohol.

Now, Dr. K has long been a proponent of me cutting down on the beer, and while we humor each other about it, this particular exchange seemed pretty serious. On this, I decided to schedule another appointment with podiatrist Doolittle.

Doolittle wasn’t immediately sold on the neuropathy assertion, suggesting that neuromas can sometimes present as neuropathy, although the fact that I’m experiencing it in both feet does seem pretty damning. Doolittle gave me another pair of injections – one in each, and added a anti-inflammatory pill to my regular regimen, for two weeks, and also told me to start taking Vitamin E, as well. I said I’d comply and that I’d swing on back to see him the second week of March.

Since then, I’m very sad to say that the injections, the anti-inflammatory pills and the added dosages of vitamins B and E (to say nothing about the regular consumption of water and bananas) haven’t really made any discernible difference. I’ve drastically cut down on my beer intake (but not fully … just yet). I’m exploring the universe of disappointment that is non-alcoholic beer, wearing compression socks and doing my damned best to be a good boy, but I’m not feeling any relief. But then, if I’m correct, the nerve damage wrought by neuropathy – if that’s what this is – is likely permanent.

I’m going to stay the course, for now, as all signs seem to point to peripheral neuropathy, which means adjusting my diet, my habits and, of course, removing any and all alcohol. Goodbye beer forever?

If I don’t, neuropathy is evidently a progressive condition, so I’d be running the very real risk of it spreading, and I really don’t want to entertain that notion.

I go back and see Dr. Doolittle in about three and a half weeks. We shall see.

The Noise Under NoHo: “Downtown” was Real

This one goes all the way back to 2016, but some of you might remember a short series of posts, back then, when I was trying to verify the existence of a short-lived club under Bond Street in NoHo called ‘Downtown.’ Rumors abounded Joey Ramone had a hand in it and that bands like The Lunachicks, White Zombie, Cycle Sluts from Hell, Cronos and Celtic Frost had played there. I remember Killing Joke being slated to play there, but the club closed shop before the gig in question could ever occur.

In any case, here we are in 2025 and – presuming it’s legit – our friend Michael W (whom you might remember from this post) posted the gig poster below, affirming that both the Lunachicks did indeed play there, and that it was indeed at 666 Broadway.

In later years, the space Downtown occupied turned into part of the whole “fitness corridor” plague which I lamented here, although I believe it is currently back to being empty and dormant.

Presidents Day

Revisit the Revolting: Cop Shoot Cop Returns for Record Store Day

Given that the band in question acrimoniously parted ways at the midpoint of the `90s, it’s exceptionally rare that I’m ever able to relay that there’s “new shit from Cop Shoot Cop” in the offing. The last time was probably circa the release of 2016’s live DVD, New York Post-Punk/Noise Series: Volume 1, which captured the band circa 1993, playing in the storied basement of producer Martin Bisi’s BC Studios in Gowanus, Brooklyn. In 2018 and 2019, Martin Bisi himself released two LPs of former protegee bands celebrating his studio’s anniversary, featuring a couple of tracks by EXCOP, a quasi-reunion of Cop Shoot Cop, albeit with former SWANS bassist Algis Kizys filling in for Tod [A], who had expatriated to Turkey. That band even played live at late, lamented St. Vitus to celebrate those record releases, although their set was all-improvisational, kind of like the fabled “jazz odyssey” episode in This is Spinal Tap. Beyond those fleeting instances, new Cop Shoot Cop news, merch or activity of any kind is sadly as strenuously unlikely as the notion of Donald Trump ever credibly paying for any of his myriad crimes (sorry, just trying to keep things timely).

Rare and unlikely, maybe… but still possible.

Some weeks back, a gentleman from a label called Jungle Records reached out to me, looking to locate contact information for the elusive former commanding officer of Cop Shoot Cop, that being the aforementioned Tod [A]. Having noticed I’d posted what is probably the most recent interview with the man back in 2023, Jungle Records thought I might know how to get ahold of him. Evidently, Jungle has acquired what remained of Big Cat Records, the British indie label who first signed Cop Shoot Cop at the dawn of the `90s. I relayed that missive to Tod in Istanbul and things proceeded from there. For my part, I was rewarded with a review copy of the limited “Record Store Day” re-release of Cop Shoot Cop’s proper debut LP, Consumer Revolt, lovingly remastered and newly pressed on blue vinyl, which you can all expect to see hit discerning, RSD-participating shops this coming April.

As a brief aside, regular readers might remember my misgivings about Record Store Day, having previously renounced it as a shallow gimmick on some occasions. I changed my tune last year, you might remember, upon spying a lovely re-release of some Sisters of Mercy material, making me something of a filthy hypocrite. And while the notion of “limited editions” sometimes reeks of a quick cash-in, I firmly support the re-mastering, re-mixing, and re-releasing of any and all music by Cop Shoot Cop, regardless of any associations to Record Store Day or Arbor Day or whatever.

Anyway, I’m happy to relay that the re-release is slavishly faithful to the 1992 Big Cat edition of the album. Of course, the original album from 1990, on Circuit Records, boasted different cover art (featuring a different band logo superimposed over the visage of a deformed baby) and, if I recall correctly, a small poster with the LP. This new edition replicates the 1992 sleeve (“Now 15% More HATE!”), as well as the inner “bag,” replete with lyrics, a designation that “Tracks 4 & 12 were recorded at some piece-of-shit studio and doctored-up later somewhere else. (I mean, who really reads this crap , anyway?)” and that those in violation of copyright reservations “will be hunted down, imprisoned, and suffer a lingering death by torture at the hands of trained mercenaries.”

The vinyl itself is now a striking shade of blue. Why blue? I honestly don’t know beyond a hunch that, well, cops frequently wear blue, but that’s just me projecting.

Sadly, I am unable to report as to how this new vinyl actually sounds, just yet, as my teenaged son Oliver absconded with my turntable, not too long back. Once I’ve remedied that quandary, I’ll let ya know.

I will say this, though. This first full long-player by Cop Shoot Cop, which was prefaced by both the visceral Headkick Facsimile and the literally-blood-splattered Piece, Man (both technically “EP’s”), captured a still-nascent iteration of the band that was refreshingly unbothered by the notion of seeming inaccessible to the layperson. As such, their utilization of untethered noise comes unrestrained by any concerns for appeasing radio-programmers or offending the bean-counting sensibilities of any easily riled middle-management monkeys from the major labels. This is reflected in both the sound and the sentiment of this record. Speaking to my alma mater SPIN in April of 1991, Tod [A] said…

We’re vomiting back all the garbage – the stuff that passes for culture – that the media shove down our throats. It’s a revolt like in-your-stomach revolting. Everything now is preprocessed and predigested.

As such, standout tracks like “Lo.Com.Denom,” “Burn Your Bridges,” “Fire in the Hole” and “Eggs For Rib” (featuring a bassline allegedly swiped from Gilberto Gill’s “Girl from Ipanema”) pull absolutely no punches, but still manage to stay stubbornly musical at their core, despite the whirring, buzzing and clanky caterwaul they come couched in.

It should’ve been the sound of the future. Maybe it still is. Rediscover it now.

How's It Going for You?

Not sure you’ve noticed (or care), but I’ve been making a concerted effort to carry on here without as many invocations of larger scale current affairs and world events, but I can only hold my tongue on these subjects for so long, so feel free to skip this post, if that sort of thing burns your toast. I’ll get right back to the trivial nonsense in short order.

A couple of years back, I eased up on my comment-vetting with an eye for re-enabling more of a dialogue with anyone bothering to read this stuff. However, in short order, a very dependable troll seized on the opportunity to lob a few characteristically objectionable remarks of the not-even-slightly constructive or enlightened variety into the Comments box and that was, once again, that. The last I checked, the source of that tireless firehose of hateful sewage is still dutifully spraying, but those colorful contributions are now funneled directly into a blocked list that remains unread and routinely block-deleted. I suppose I admire their tenacity, though.

So, while I’m not throwing those doors back open, I am curious to read some actual, sincere feedback. I’m pretty sure there is at least handful of readers here from the other side of the fence (I’m looking at you, Was Proxy) who can conduct a reasonable exchange on the subjects without it degrading into a pointless volley of nasty name-calling.

So, here’s my question, and not just for the folks on the Right, but to my fellow Lefties and anyone caught in the middle. How are YOU feeling about everything that’s been going on, in the past few weeks?

How are you feeling about the recent confirmations of inarguably ill-qualified figures like RFK Jr., Tulsi Gabbard and Pete Hegseth, and the worryingly likely confirmation of demonstrable idiot Kash Patel? How’re are you feeling about the appointment of Russell Vought, the pen behind most of the initial executive orders and one of the masterminds behind Project 2025?

How are you reconciling the promises Trump’s already failed to deliver on, like the much-ballyhooed price of eggs?

How are you feeling about Elon Musk’s priapic rise – with seemingly unchecked, unfettered access – in the dismantling of the federal government?

I mean, there’s the inarguably stupid garbage, too, like the re-naming of the Gulf of Mexico, the bullshit about plastic straws, the design to acquire Greenland (let alone that Georgia congressman’s proposal to name it “Red, White and Blueland”), and the ongoing allusion to Canada becoming the 51st State. How’s that embarassing crap sitting with ya?

Some would toss Trump’s frequent comments about the U.S. commandeering Gaza and “owning” it, permanently displacing 2,000,000 Palestinians in the process, to build some doubtlessly tacky resort into the “stupid garbage” pile, too. Sure, this sounds – and, mind you, IS -- fucking ridiculous (and ought to be solid grounds for invoking Section 4 of the 25th Amendment), but even if it is just “outrage porn,” as the Lincoln Project describes it, designed to distract the citizenry from more nefarious doings that are moving forward, the blithe suggestion of the U.S. occupying any real estate (and, let’s face it, that’s how Trump really views the scenario) in Gaza will potentially come with a very unpleasant price. While Gaza is not technically part of the Arab Peninsula, it’s well close enough, and let’s remember that America’s presence in that region following the Saudis’ entreaty for support following Sadam Hussein’s invasion of Kuwait is precisely what prompted Al-Qaeda to start making plans to fly planes into our buildings. Just saying.

How’s this all working out for you? Let me know.

The illustration up top is by the inimitable Gerald Scarfe, whose signature work you might remember from Pink Floyd The Wall. 

Harley Speaks

As he’d probably be the first to admit here in 2025, storied Cro-Mags’ founder Harley Flanagan accrued the type of reputation, over the course of his colorfully tumultuous life, that could understandably prevent even the most charitable person from giving him the full benefit of the doubt. A "Zelig"-like figure on the Punk Scene writ large (not just New York), the youthful Harley mixed and mingled with Punk Rock royalty at a significantly tender age (see above, sitting next to Mick Jones of the Clash at The Palladium, as captured by Pennie Smith, possibly the same night she shot the cover of London Calling), cutting his very sharp teeth as the pre-teen drummer of The Stimulators before later going on to practically personify (alongside his brethren in Agnostic Front) all things New York Hardcore with his stint in Murphy’s Law and then by forming the Cro-Mags, a band whose shadow looms large as a pivotal proponent of the genre.

Along the way, Harley credibly cultivated an aura of menace around himself, establishing the notoriety of being prone to violence and volatility. I’m not making all this up, as it’s well documented by the man himself in his 2016 autobiography, “Hard-Core: Life of My Own,” and in a forthcoming documentary, “Wired for Chaos.”

But, y’know, people grow. In the same way I’d like to think I’ve fully evolved out of being the sneery, socially challenged dweeb I was in my high school years (you, of course, may beg to differ), Harley has – by all accounts – recanted many of his former ways and grown into a thoughtful and affable elder statesman, of a sort (although I doubt he’d like to be described that way). But the specter of his earlier infamy is a tough one to shake. I haven’t taken them down, but I deeply regret some posts here wherein I jumped to some conclusions about a certain incident in 2012 between him and former band mate John Joseph (an equally complicated and polarizing figure) based solely and speculatively on Harley’s by-then-cemented rep as a human wrecking-ball. The minutia of that full story was, of course, never fully disclosed, but Harley was absolved of the allegations and the charges were dropped.

Years later, I fleetingly corresponded with Harley about possibly contributing to a book project I was working on, at the time, and he couldn’t have been more accommodating about it (although said book project was shortly put on the rear burner of a stove that wasn’t even plugged in, but that’s a separate, weepy tale).

So, why am I talking about any of this stuff now? Well, Damian Abraham of Fucked-Up just launched the latest episode of his “Turned Out a Punk” podcast – which I’ve discussed here a few time – and it features a sprawling, two-hour chat with Harley Flanagan about pretty much everything under the sun. Whether you’re just a passive fan or a bug-eyed NYHC zealot who considers Age of Quarrel their gospel, it’s well worth your time.

Check it out here.

And if you're unfamiliar but curious, ... these were the Cro-Mags in their heyday at the old Ritz on East 11th Street (now Webster Hall). Enjoy.

For the Love of The White Album

I mentioned it fleetingly back in this post from 2023, but The Beatles -- more colloquially known as The White Album -- used to kind of freak me out.

As recounted in that old post, I’d spent a formative summer, in my early teens, with my friend Brad busily exhuming the apocryphal (let alone debunked) conspiracy theory that Paul McCartney had been killed in a car crash and covertly replaced with a doppelganger (William Campbell, a.k.a. “Billy Shears”), and that the whole scheme had allegedly been revealed to discerning Beatle fans via a series of cryptic clues scattered throughout the Fab Four’s celebrated catalog. Indeed, throughout the four, sprawling sides of The White Album (not to mention the inserted poster), there were numerous such “clues” which could give even the most incredulous skeptic pause.

Personally speaking, while I never bought the notion that Paul had actually died, I was still strangely intrigued by the whole concept and romanced by the accompanying atmosphere of dread that came with it. I actively enjoyed being disquieted by, say, the inexplicably funereal strings that suddenly list out of the speakers between “Glass Onion” and the indefensible “Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da” or the ghostly wail (Yoko’s, I’d later learn) in the mysterious coda of “Long, Long, Long.” To this day, the listening experience of The White Album still feels decidedly off-kilter or deliberately peculiar, at certain points. The whole thing leant the otherwise revered and comparatively squeaky-clean Beatles an air of mysterious menace. What young teenager could say no to that?

Then, of course, there was the whole association with The Manson Family, whose notorious leader, Charlie, touted The White Album as some sort of blueprint -- or prophecy -- of doom, assigning all sorts of frankly ridiculous connotations of a coming war between the races to the willfully bombastic “Helter Skelter,” which remains – at its core – a song ostensibly about a fairground attraction for children. While not at all part of the whole “Paul is Dead” narrative, the unfortunate connection to all things Charlie Manson imbued The White Album with an even greater aura of malevolence. As such, it was the type of record that I’d be seriously disinclined to spin whilst home alone, lest I completely freak out during the creepy sound collage of “Revolution 9.”

In any case, during my whole “Paul is Dead” fascination, there was one theory that I’ve honestly yet to hear corroborated anywhere else – I can’t remember where I first heard or read about it. Supposedly, the notion was that if you washed or scrubbed away at the album cover of The White Album, you would eventually uncover … something, although I don’t know what that something was supposed to be. As I type this, I’m wondering if this theory was actually birthed out of the notion of steaming off the re-released covers of Yesterday & Today that infamously covered up the original “butcher shot.” But who can say? I don’t recommend scrubbing your LP covers, incidentally.

The only reason I’m discussing this, however, is that I remember being wholly intrigued by the endeavor of this one gent who’d I’d heard was building an art installation out of as many copies of The White Album that he could put his hand to, amassing them into basically a record shop that appeared to sell nothing apart from The White Album. While, on the surface, that might sound a bit … well, monochromatic, it was actually more a study of how these tactile items slowly shed their uniformity, either by age or use, and took on individual characteristics of their own. Think about it. Your own copy of The White Album, this many years later, probably looks nothing like the copy that’s sitting on my shelf at home (we’re talking vinyl, here, not CDs or cassettes). I suppose he could have done it with any record, but I assume both the cultural significance and the stark visual presentation of The White Album best served this mission’s requirements.

It also reminds me of a comparable project wherein a guy named Marc Fisher was trying to collect as many images, at least, of the Piece, Man EP by my beloved Cop Shoot Cop. Only 1000 copies of it exist, and each was individually splattered in real pig’s blood. Fisher’s aim was to amass as many of them as possible and display them as part of a jigsaw puzzle-of-sorts. As the legend goes – and I could be entirely wrong – the full run of all the pristine, original Piece, Man 7” singles were arranged, face-up, across a floor over which a slaughtered pig was dangling from a chain. Someone cut into the carcass and set it spiraling, spraying blood all over the floor and, summarily, all over all those record sleeves. I know, I know …. how delightful!

In any case, I was saddened to learn that the gentleman behind The White Album art installation, one Rutherford Chang, just passed away at the tender age of 45. I was doubly shocked to learn, oddly enough, that he was the brother of someone I actually know. Back in the early `90s, I was friends with a girl named Christine (re-named as “Roxanne" on this post), who rented a tiny apartment on MacDougal Street that I could periodically be found hanging out in. Christine shared this apartment (which, today, I’m sure costs a mint to rent) with a young lady named Danielle. I think Danielle thought I was something of a pest, but she was perfectly nice, all the same. In any case, Rutherford is Danielle’s brother. Small world.

No greater a periodical than The New York Times just wrote a tribute to Chang this week, and it’s well worth your time. Turns out the White Album concept was just the tip of a very imaginative iceberg.

May he rest in peace.

Get Well Soon, David

If I’m being honest, the first time I ever heard David Johansen sing was not via his storied tenure in the New York Dolls, but rather during the early portions of his post-Dolls solo career, just prior to his comparatively lucrative reinvention as Buster Poindexter.

He’d scored a minor hit with “Funky but Chic” in 1978, which abandoned his previous incarnation as a lippy, cross-dressing frontman in favor of a more streamlined, mainstream approach. But his music didn’t cross my transom until the early days of MTV, wherein David was promoting a live album called Live It Up, featuring a not-really-punky at all cover medley of songs by Eric Burdon and the Animals. In between era-defining clips by bands like The Fixx, Golden Earring and Thompson Twins would come this ersatz live clip (Dave is clearly lip-syncing) of the great man in front of a very receptive audience, flanked by a band of gurning guys with mullets and sleeveless t-shirts. Here’s that clip now. It’s aged better than I’d remembered it.

I don’t think I bought a proper New York Dolls release until my junior year of high school. I remember picking up the ROIR cassette of Lipstick Killers at the Disc-O-Mat on East 58th Street, but by that point, the band’s proto-punk blend of bawdy glam-damaged rawk had been so brazenly appropriated by dozens of pretenders to the throne that it was hard to reconcile how original they must have sounded at the dawn of the impenetrably beige 1970s.

In any case, Johansen’s gone on to lead a fairly remarkable career of comebacks, detours, reinventions and surprises ever since, and remains something of a national treasure. Sadly, the latest surprise was his admission, today, that he’s currently battling Stage 4 Cancer and a brain tumor. Click here for more details and to help, if you can.

Godspeed, David. This will always be my favorite New York Dolls track....

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