Flaming Pablum

Circle Turks

Just a quick heads-up.

On Saturday evening, I'll be departing with my wife and kids for the faraway land of Turkey -- excuse me, Türkiye -- for a 12 day jaunt around the place, culminating in five or six days in Istanbul, where I'm hoping to catch up with my old friend Tod [A] of Firewater/Cop Shoot Cop fame.

In any case, if things seem pretty quiet here within the next two weeks, that's why.

Altogether now...

ADDENDUM: As has become a family tradition, I unsolicitedly made a vacation playlist for us all, which ultimately no one but myself will actually listen to. Should you care, here it is...

Parsing “The Things All New Yorkers Should Know (But Most Don’t)”

There are few things that irk the snots out of me more than “content” created by self-appointed “New Yorkers” (whether the term credibly applies or not) who volunteer tips, pointers, “insider” info and “life hacks” about what’s what in New York City.

Nine times out of ten, these things have been produced by whistle-headed whippersnappers who’ve spent all of about six months living here and think they know the score. I’ve railed at self-styled influencer folks like Brett Conte, Cash Jordan, Elana Taber, Shelby Church and Sarah Funk about this kind of stupid shit, although I’m always quick to mention that each of these individuals entertain vastly greater audiences than this here silly blog. That doesn’t mean they’re right, though, now does it.

Then, of course, there are periodicals like Time Out that routinely post these clickbaity listicles about the best and/or secret locations, services, shops, bars, theaters, retail outlets and amenities that “only Real New Yorkers” know about. And if they are actually right about any of them, all they’re doing it is spoiling it by evangelizing them.

I’ve wrestled with the “real New Yorker” quandary here many times, usually with regards to whether being a native New Yorker like me gives one an edge (ultimately, I’d suggest that it doesn’t). My point was that when you compose your own list in your head of folks who seem to personalize the concept of a “New Yorker” – whether because of their lifestyle of their vocation or their outlook or whatever – very often you’ll find that those individuals actually moved here from somewhere else to re-invent themselves. So much for being a native. Also, there are plenty of actual native New Yorkers who are complete fucking assholes who don’t know shit from Shinola about being an actual New Yorker – and, yes, I’m obviously talking very specifically about that orange pile of abject sewage, Donald Trump. But I digress.

Why am I bringing all this up again, you ask? Well, recently, the Curbed section of New York Magazine (who I do love but have had issues – pardon the pun – with before) posted a magisterial piece, “The Things All New Yorker Should Know (But Most Don’t).”  The presumptuous title alone is enough to set my teeth on edge but this one is actually pretty good. Some of my favorite pointers therein are below, and I endorse all of them.

The Chateau Diana sold in every bodega is actually “wine product,” and it’s disgusting! Avoid. 

Always Use the 81st Street Entrance to the Met (and when it’s particularly mobbed, walk in — very carefully — through the parking garage on 80th Street.)

Don’t see ‘Shen Yun.’

Always avoid Terminal 5. It’s still a pain to get to and has bad acoustics. -- this is fucking Gospel!!!

The best outdoor concert venue is Forest Hills Stadium. Every seat has a direct view, and there is excellent food.

Just go to the Knickerbocker for dinner. Call 212-228-8490 and ask for a booth.

You can get Prince Street Pizza delivered to the Scratcher bar, on East 5th Street, and forgo the line.

For restaurant reservations: Always call first. You should resort to OpenTable or Resy (or, God forbid, Tock) only if a restaurant doesn’t have a posted phone number.

The famous mutton chop at Keens is actually lamb. It’s fine — but not so good that you should avoid a steak if that’s what you really want.

The Conservatory Garden is the most tranquil part of Central Park.

If you’re lost in Central Park, find a lamppost.The first two or three numbers on it will tell you what cross street you’re closest to.

Find the whole article here.

October `79: John Peel Discovers Killing Joke

While his name looms forever large in the annals of furtive music-nerd lore, we American record geeks and sniveling punk archivists suffered the unfortunate indignity of having to come of age without ever properly hearing the broadcasts of Jonn Peel, the legendary British disc jockey, radio presenter and incalculably influential tastemaker whose stamp of approval put more names on the map than can be quantified. It was Peel, who sadly left us in 2004, that first dropped the needle on debut singles and played demo recordings by theretofore unknown bands, introducing them to a devoted listenership of bug-eyed Peel zealots around the UK. Without Peel’s initial endorsements, the world writ large might never have heard of bands like the Sex Pistols, The Smiths, The Fall, The Undertones (a particular favorite of his), Joy Division and – oh yes, do please wait for it – my beloved Killing Joke.

A regular reader of mine just hipped me to the below YouTube clip of Peel’s radio show from October 10, 1979. I would have been just about to turn 12 years old on the night this episode aired. This show is significant to me, of course, because it was the first time Peel ever played Killing Joke, specifically the 10” maxi-ep of “Turn to Red,” released on Malicious Damage records (which I’d later track down from the racks of Bleecker Bob’s). Ten days after this show, Killing Joke would actually enter the BBC Radio 1 studios and record their first of four “Peel Sessions” with the great man, showcasing their live chops. Those sessions were available as bootlegs for years before EG records officially compiled them onto a single CD in 2008 that is well worth tracking down.

So, while hearing the three tracks off the “Turn to Red” single isn’t anything new, for a Killing Joke acolyte like me, it’s intriguing hearing Peel mention and discuss his admiration for them. It’s also interesting to hear what else he was playing and promoting at the time, a compelling glimpse of what was brewing in England in 1979. One wonders whatever became of bands like the Purple Hipsters, the Reluctant Stereotypes and Pink Military.

Check it out and enjoy….

Submit to "The Mix!"

A colleague of mine named Bailey aggregates and edits content for my organization’s intranet portal and recently launched a series that showcases various teammates’ musical playlists. She called it “The Mix!”

Being that I’m somewhat unsolicitedly outspoken about my musical tastes, Bailey recently asked me if I’d submit one. I don’t think this was actually prompted by any curiosity on her part or on behalf of the company, but rather the need to simply generate content. Regardless, I was happy to oblige, as waxing rhapsodic about my favorite music is something I can barely stop myself from doing. Where most of my fellow employees simply submitted five to ten favorite tracks, with a nominal explanation of each, I, somewhat predictably, composed a stately list of …er…30 songs, appended with florid blurbs about each track.

To her credit, Bailey did a dash of tasteful editing to excise a few of my more colorful turns of phrase, but completely jettisoned my intro. But being that this is my blog, here’s the full, unexpurgated version in all its repulsively self-indulgent glory. If possible, try to enjoy…

Okay, because I’m just the type of insufferable music geek of the laboriously long-winded variety that people regularly avoid at cocktail parties, I’m going to try to keep my usual bug-eyed fervor in check and limit myself to one (1) song per artist and one (1) sentence about each selection. Let’s see if I can pull that off.  But you’re getting 30 of them, so buckle up … and I could very easily keep going. 

“Eighties” by Killing Joke – I am prone to speaking about my devotion to all things Killing Joke with a religious fanaticism that borders on the disquieting, so suffice to say that this song is as important to me as oxygen itself. 

“She Sells Sanctuary” by The Cult – An absolutely (and indisputably) perfect song, from beginning to end.

“Song to the Siren” by This Mortal Coil –  A bit of a cliché, now, for folks of a certain age and sensibility, but it stopped me dead in my tracks the first time I heard it (as intro music to Robert Plant solo gig at the Nassau Coliseum in the late summer of 1985), and I’ve been rapturously enchanted with it ever since. 

“Garbageman” by The Cramps – Good grief, I don’t know that I can encapsulate the sheer majesty of this song in a single sentence, but if you can’t appreciate the brilliance of this signature anthem by the Cramps, I can’t say we’ll ever be able to meaningfully communicate with each other. 

“Down on the Street” by The Stooges – Hyperbole aside, this opening cut from Funhouse, i.e. the single greatest rock’n’roll record of all time, lays waste to any claims to the contrary. 

“Wiggly World” by DEVO – Too many options from my beloved DEVO to choose from, but today it’s “Wiggly World,” because it simply makes me genuinely happy. 

“Chameleon Man” by Cop Shoot Cop – To my ears, this clanky tour-de-force by New York City’s own Cop Shoot Cop (who acrimoniously broke up in 1996, sadly) is practically the early-`90’s noise-rock answer to “Bohemian Rhapsody,” and I love every caustic nanosecond of it. 

“Rise Above” by Black Flag – Another predictable selection, maybe, but it’s still as stark, blunt, and galvanizing as when it was first recorded. 

“To Hell with Poverty” by Gang of Four – Angular, post-punk funk with a serrated edge (courtesy of the late Andy Gill’s guitar) and a political conscience, “To Hell with Poverty” is both a furious proletariat anthem and an explosive dancefloor banger.  

“Bomber” by Motorhead – This is the live version from Motorhead’s No Sleep `til Hammersmith, which swaps out the studio version’s comparatively relaxed, bluesy strut in favor of a frantic, amphetamine-fueled sprint. 

“Science Friction” by XTC – Early punky track by XTC from when they were still clangy and hiccupy, as opposed to their latter more celebrated work, which was more lush, thoughtful, and bucolic. 

“See Her Tonight” by The Damned – Literally every track off the Damned’s seminal debut LP (the first of the British Punk bands to release one) is crucial and brilliant, but I’ve always particularly loved this spikey ode to romance over revolution. 

“Dark Entries” by Bauhaus – Sort of the Goth equivalent of “Pretty Vacant” by the Sex Pistols, “Dark Entries” was one of the first singles the fledgling Bauhaus ever wrote – notable in that the ominous, repeating riff (courtesy of guitarist Daniel Ash) is essentially just a simple sequence of minor-key scales. 

“Life’s What You Make It” by Talk Talk – Most only know them for their early iteration as skinny-tied synth-popsters, but every album released by this band is absolutely spectacular, with this single being the midpoint between their radio-friendly era and their significantly more experimental phase. 

“Electric City” by Firewater – From the NYC band’s sixth album from 2008, The Golden Hour, which was written and recorded with local musicians while songwriter Tod Ashley was traveling through Thailand, India, Pakistan, Turkey and Indonesia. 

“Straighten Out” by The Stranglers – It’s virtually impossible for me to settle on a single track by The Stranglers (I very nearly chose “Five Minutes”), but “Straighten Out” amply encapsulates everything that’s entirely remarkable about them, to my mind. 

“Black to Comm” by the MC5 – They never officially released a studio version (this is a live version from the Michigan’s Saginaw Civic Center in 1970), but for my money, “Black to Comm” is the MC5 at their very bombastic best, and it is impossible for me to sit still when this plays. 

“Adrenochrome” by The Sisters of Mercy – An early single by the reluctant Goth overlords, “Adrenochrome” exemplifies their initial, doomy aesthetic, all dueling riffs underpinned by the mechanized pulse of a deliberately spartan drum machine, Doktor Avalanche. 

“People Who Died” by the Jim Carroll Band – Wrongly lambasted as tasteless (I had someone stop talking to me after I played it on my college radio station), “People Who Died” is actually aheartfelt (if adrenalized) lament, capturing the late Jim Caroll’s mournful rage at the hopelessness and destruction that surrounds him.

“The Hardest Walk” by The Jesus & Mary Chain – I really could have picked practically anything off of Psychocandy, but this one’s always been my favorite, completely encapsulating the band’s equal affection for sweet pop melody, harrowing feedback and echoey noise. 

“Those Eyes, That Mouth” by Cocteau Twins – Most folks might opt for a selection off Heaven or Las Vegas, but for me, it’s all about “Those Eyes, That Mouth,” which a crystalline synthesis of everything that makes this peculiar Scottish trio so mysteriously beguiling. 

“Daily News” by The Exploited – The less delicate side of Scotland, as submitted for your disapproval by Edinburgh’s tirelessly angry, kingpins of second-wave British Punk.

“A Million Miles Away” by The Plimsouls – Rarely has the signature chime of the 12-string Rickenbacker guitar been so effectively employed as on this underground hit from the early `80s, which some might fleetingly remember from the film, “Valley Girl.”

“Look Sharp” by Joe Jackson – While ultimately too sophisticated a musician to be mistaken for a proper punk, Jackson nevertheless demonstrated that he could more than simply keep up with times on this title cut to his debut LP.

“Tupelo” by Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds – From Live Seeds, Nick Cave recasts John Lee Hooker’s classic about a Mississippi flood and the birth of the King of Rock N’ Roll as a doomy narrative about the coming of the antichrist. 

“Dum Dum Boys” by Iggy Pop – Spurred on by David Bowie behind the production console, Iggy pays grim homage to his former bandmates in the Stooges.

“Notes & Chords Mean Nothing to Me” by Redd Kross – Hawthorne, California’s own McDonald brothers deliver a scathing manifesto the decimates the preconception that you must be accomplished into order to play music. 

“Nostalgia” by the Buzzcocks – Picking a single song to sum up the brilliance of the Buzzcocks is a fool’s errand, but this has always been my favorite.

“Baby Turns Blue” by the Virgin Prunes – Rising from the same circle of friends that spawned U2, Dublin’s Virgin Prunes took proceedings in an entirely different direction on their debut LP, If I Die, I Die, perfecting a bold, post-punk sound that was sinister as it was surreal.

“Sleeping With Your Devil Mask” by Robyn Hitchcock & the Egyptians – From Globe of Frogs, a perfect slice of Robyn at his bizarre best. 

Screaming on the Expressway

There’s a billboard you can spot from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, not too far from the sprawling grounds of the Calvary Cemetery, that’s mystified me for quite a little while, now. Ostensibly, it’s designed to catch the eyes of commuters coming and going towards the city on what becomes the Long Island Expressway, a little further along. I first caught a glimpse of it a year or two ago while on a crowed Hampton Jitney bound for my mom’s place out in Quogue, and did something of a double-take, but we passed it so quickly that I couldn’t tell if I’d imagined it or not. Ever since, I’ve continually tried to take a closer look at it to verify my suspicions. Yesterday, on our way back from visiting my mother, I managed to whip my camera out at the right moment and take a picture of it.

Here’s that billboard now. Click on it to enlarge. 

...and here's an even clearer shot I found online...

Based out of Deer Park, Long Island, the North Shore Neon Sign Co. is evidently one of the region’s busiest suppliers of neon signage, and their handiwork can be seen all over Times Square. That’s all well and good, but that doesn’t explain the sign. Were their slogan — “We Hang to Live” — not odd enough, take a look at that accompanying graphic. I’m not quite sure what it’s supposed to be, but it looks a little like an inverted Christmas ornament. But look closer and folks of a certain sensibility might see something familiar. Am I wrong, or isn’t that the signature logo of The Screamers?

For the non-music nerds, the Screamers were one of the original bands to emerge on the Los Angeles punk scene in the late `70s, alongside iconic names like The Weirdos, X, FEAR and The Germs. Sort of the West Coast’s answer to New York’s Suicide, the Screamers completely eschewed guitars in favor of drums, electric piano, synthesizers and the voice and disarming stage presence of lead …er… screamer Tomato du Plenty. While the band has since garnered a reputation as a formidable influence, marked by their confrontational performances and stylized presentation, they never released a proper album. They’d made plans to release a video-only collection of music, but the finished product never came to fruition. Here in 2025, there are bootleg live recordings, demos and a few of those video performance clips floating around, but they never signed a record deal and never released a proper record. The band broke up, and Tomata moved around a lot, but passed away in San Francisco of cancer at the age of 52.

None of that explains why the band’s logo — designed by one Gary Panter, and modeled after the face and head of spiky haired Tomata — now adorns this North Shore Neon billboard.

This is not the first time the Screamers logo has been appropriated, though. Billy Idol approximated it in the animation for his video for …aptly enough.. “Scream” in 2005, but this is a little further flung than that.

Anyone know?

One clue: the artist responsible for the logo, Gary Panter, according to his website, lives in Brooklyn.

Here's what remains of the Screamers...

"Why Would I Bother to Read Something Someone Couldn't Be Bothered to Write?"

It’s been the hottest of topics, in the past couple of years, and it recently occurred to me that I’ve never really weighed in on it here, so maybe now is that time. So, here goes…

FUCK AI.

Seriously, I have nothing but contempt for it. Apart from the odd bit of amusing bullshit (i.e. hyper-exaggerated images of Morrissey gorging on cheeseburgers, etc.), I’ve yet to see a meaningful use for it. The end results are usually either disjointed, jarring, disquieting or flat-out horrifying.

It reminds me, in an odd way, of the advent of Twitter. Here was this remarkably efficient and sophisticated means of communication that could disseminate information to a veritable nation of recipients instantaneously, but it ended up being used in the stupidest and shallowest of ways, pandering to the lowest common denominator, and summarily addicting and dumbing down the populace to grim new depths in the process. 

On a practical level, while I’m sure AI can be utilized for myriad functions for the betterment of life (like, say, solving problems and curing disease), I personally feel it’s entirely counterintuitive in the realm of creative expression. No one needs it to compose music, write poetry and make art, and, again, the end results are usually off-putting.

A year or two back, my department was looking to hire someone for a new position, and we were fielding loads of applications. At one point, my manager received something and asked me to give it an eyeball. “Her resume is impressive,” she prefaced, “but this cover letter …. I think a robot wrote it.” I scoffed, initially incredulous that anyone would honestly go to that length. But upon reading the thing, I suddenly agreed. While it was ostensibly correct in terms of grammar and punctuation, it was worded in a such a stiltedly oblique manner. I had a very hard time imagining an aspiring twenty-something professional genuinely expressing herself in this way. “Don’t hire that one,” I said, “she clearly didn’t write it.”

I fully realize that the written word is not everyone’s forte. Hell, some might credibly opine that it isn’t mine, either. But, to my mind, resorting to Generative AI sources to convey whatever it is you’re trying to get across is just … well, there’s no other word for it than “cheating.” Do the work. Figure it out. Just because we all have these tools available to us now doesn’t make it right. I realize I probably sound like an octogenarian literature professor admonishing a student for reading the Cliffs Notes summarization of “Pride & Prejudice” instead of Jane Austen’s original magisterial prose, but you’re really only doing yourself a disservice. Use these tools as a crutch, and you’re only making yourself stupider.

I recently stumbled upon this great article on the subject, and I agree with it wholeheartedly.

But, y'know, how do YOU feel about it? 

Those Barbarian Times: East Village `86

Here’s a curious one.

I must confess that, until this morning, I’d never heard of Terry Mann, the artist featured in the video below for the song “Barbarian,” a compelling little period piece captured around Alphabet City and other parts in 1986. I’m quite curious as to where exactly that big, open lot featured in the beginning was shot. I want to say those quick tracking shots (where Mann must have been stood at the rear of a flat-bed truck, maybe?) were taken around the Financial District, around the same neighborhood Yoko Ono and Zbigniew Rybczynski shot the clip for “Hell in Paradise.”

Here’s the info that goes with the clip:

Courtesy of NYC's Manic/Tango Productions, a music video production house once operated by the team of Abigail Simon and Tal Yarden out of 377 E. 8th St. in the East Village.

Clipping from the Video Track section of Billboard magazine dated June 28, 1986: "CBS International recording artist Terry Mann's video for 'Barbarian' was filmed at the now -defunct Manhattan cabaret 8 B.C. The clip is said to reflect Mann's East Village roots and employs some 50 extras, including members of local acts the Tomboys, Hell At Forty Feet, Band of Thieves, Harry Boy, and the Dogs. Abigail Simon produced for Manic /Tango; Tal Yarden directed." Professionally digitized from 3/4" U-matic tape by Rick Lombardi of Telefilm Transfers in Southampton, PA: Tape generously provided by Abigail Simon from her personal archives, who shared some background info: "Cornelius who owned 8BC is the main Mad Scientist dude, members of the Bad Brains, Frank Maya , and some other notorious east village characters of the time are in the cast...even Tal! it was a complete family production, shot in 8BC before the club was turned into Postmasters Gallery."

Regular readers might remember my invocation of 8BC from last April.

According to what I believe is his own official website, Mann abandoned New York and the travails of the duplicitous music industry to become a nomadic busker around Europe before settling in Amsterdam. You can find out more here.

Nerves, Needles & Numbness

So, today was the day I was scheduled to have my Nerve Conduction Velocity test on my feet. As you may remember from this recent series of weepy posts, I’ve been having escalating problems, punctuated by stiffness and numbness. Should you care, you can go back and read those posts, but in a nutshell, my podiatrist – Dr. Doolittle (not his actual name) – was having a hard time determining whether my problem was Morton’s Neuroma (basically an inflamed tumor on a nerve) or whether it was peripheral neuropathy (an irreversible condition that basically can only get worse and spread). Obviously, I’m hoping for the former and not the latter. I was told that an NCV test should clear up that mystery, so he went ahead and gave me an order for one.

The new problem, however, is that NCV tests come conjoined with EMG tests, which are electromyography examinations that measure electrical activity in a muscle’s response to a nerve’s stimulation. This is achieved via sticking big, fuckoff needles directly into those muscles which, Doolittle informed me, is usually “quite painful.” With that in mind, he wrote directly on the order to “only perform the NCV test,” sparing me the big, fuckoff needle portion. I appreciated that.

So, after Doolittle gave me that order, I wasn’t able to schedule an appointment for my NCV/EMG (without the EMG) for about three weeks. Over the course of those three weeks, meanwhile, my feet continued to be stiff, sore and numb. It’s usually worse in the mornings, for some reason, but the problem does not seem to follow a discernible pattern. The worrying numbness persists, in any case, so I was greatly looking forward to making some progress and determining what, exactly the problem was.

Today, after carving out some time from my workday (already not ideal), I limped across town to the podiatry building (same spot as Doolittle’s office) to have the velocity of my nerves conducted. I walked in, however, and the specialist assigned with handling the task brusquely said it couldn’t be done. Having only the NCV part of it wasn’t an option. It's a package deal. Special orders do upset us. If he were to even try doing only half, there was somehow a chance my insurance wouldn’t cover it and, if I understood him right, he might not get paid for it. That sounded a little farfetched, but I just reiterated that I was simply following the directive from Dr. Doolittle who – oh so conveniently – was not in the office. The specialist was getting all attitudinal about it, so I just said, “Look, I have another appointment with Doolittle in two weeks, so let’s just hold off until then, and we’ll take it from there.”

I made sure I wasn’t charged for these shenanigans, and then went back to my office, where I was sadly able to attend a meeting that I’d been looking forward to missing.

That is the very frustrating latest.

Let's Go Get 86'd

Regarding a certain news story of the day, it should be pointed out that to "86" someone just means "get rid of" or "kick out." The term originates, funnily enough, right here in downtown NYC. Beer enthusiasts of a certain stripe might remember age-old West Village watering hole Chumley's, which was a delightful speak-easy that dated back to the 1920's (don't look for it today, it collapsed and then went through a noxious bespoke makeover, because people suck). If you were ever perceived to be over-served or simply making an ass of yourself at Chumely's, you were forcibly shown the door. That door was 86 Bedford Street. GET IT? It is NOT an allusion to any sort of nefarious foul play.

In fact, here I am with my fellow former TIME Magazine News Desk comrade, Mitch circa 1994 or so, within the walls of Chumley's. While not quite yet making asses of ourselves in this picture, the pair of us were almost certifiably over-served here, so we were invariably within behavioral proximity of a warranted 86'ing.

Feel Better, Mr. Fripp

Back in 2007, I penned a slavishly overwritten paean to the infernal majesty of King Crimson’s signature piece, “21st Century Schizoid Man,” in the wake of a debate I’d waged at my then place of employment, i.e. MTV News Online, about the Crimbos’ indelible influence on what would become heavy metal. Then as now, I maintain that if you can’t hear the, to my mind, UNMISSABLE similarities between “Schizoid” and Black Sabbath’s epic “War Pigs,” you’ve clearly got your head completely up your own ass, but I digress.

News came down, this week, that King Crimson maestro Robert Fripp, an incomparable musician and notably difficult character that also played on seminal albums with David Bowie, Brian Eno, Peter Gabriel, John Paul Jones, David Sylvian, Andy Summers, Blondie, Talking Heads and even fuckin’ Daryl Hall, has recently suffered a heart attack, resulting in two separate surgeries and a stay in intensive care. As recounted in this story in Rolling Stone, the famously iron-willed Fripp being who he is, he still managed to play a scheduled gig, afterwards.

As I mentioned back on that post from 2007, I’ve been a fan of Fripp and Crimson’s wide body of work ever since first discovering them in college, so news of the great man’s brush with mortality – and this after already losing names this year like Rick Buckler of the Jam, David Johansen of the New York Dolls, Brian James of The Damned, Al Barile of SSD, Dave Allen of Gang of Four, Clem Burke of Blondie, David Thomas of Pere Ubu and Mike Peters of The Alarm (and I’m probably forgetting someone) – found me reverently rediscovering the myriad joys of Fripp’s robust oeuvre, which led me to the curious video below.

With audio culled from a recording of “21st Century Schizoid Man” captured at London’s fabled Marquee club in 1969, a YouTuber named Samuel S. appended some fancifully rudimentary animation that looks like a fittingly head-warping amalgam of Charles Schulz’s “Peanuts” gang and Episode 8 of David Lynch’s “Twin Peaks: The Return.”

Enjoy.