Prompted by an invocation of Tama Janowitz on the most recent episode of “Desperately Seeking the `80s,” I was back-n’-forthing with a friend about the once-celebrated scribe's endeavors beyond the written page, and cited cinematic opuses like the adaptation of her breakout novel, “Slaves of New York” (starring Bernadette Peters … which I briefly discussed without much charity here) and “Mondo New York,” only to check my facts and realize that Ms. Janowitz had fuck-all to do with the latter. Ah, the tendrils of senility are flowering, even now.
Certainly born of the same era and aesthetic as Ms. Janowitz, “Mondo New York” was actually the brain child of director Harvey Keith and writer David Silver. Released in 1988, it featured a series of vignettes starring era-appropriate downtown luminaries like Joey Arias, Joe Coleman, Karen Finley, Phoebe LeGere, Ann Magnuson, John Sex, Annie Sprinkle and Flaming Pablum-favorite, Lydia Lunch, all embroiled in a wide array of diverse scenarios. Sounds promising, right?
To be perfectly honest, I rented it a few years back (having not seen it upon its original release in the late `80s), and I have to say … perhaps it was eye-opening, at the time, but I frankly had a hard time sitting through it. In fact, I think I got irretrievably bored halfway through and abandoned ship. I have loads of time for anything Lydia Lunch is involved in, but she only really supplies a suitably smarmy prologue and then vanishes from proceedings .. unless, of course, she comes back towards the end, but I didn’t make it that far.
In discussing same, I went to try and find just Lydia’s aforementioned prologue, … but actually found the whole film on YouTube, so ….dear reader … take a look and decide for yourself.
Having grown up on the Upper East Side of Manhattan in the `70s and `80s, I feel reasonably confident in suggesting that, like most of my fellow UES residents, I probably took the Metropolitan Museum of Art for granted. Here was this truly monolithic cultural institution of almost incalculable significance, but it was right there for us at all times – virtually at our beck and call. My mother started bringing my sister and I there as tiny children – primarily as a time-filling activity, probably, more than as a means of broadening our little minds. It was an affordable, educational and versatile destination. Sure, it housed priceless antiquities and rarified works of art, but it was also this giant, labyrinthine palace filled with stately galleries, towering ceilings, grandiose vistas and sweeping staircases, to say nothing of all its hidden nooks, secluded chambers and clandestine meeting spots. Not only was it home to countless items of ravishing beauty, the building in itself was an astonishing work of art. Once ensconced inside, we were let off our little leashes and set free to explore it. And explore we did.
As a child, it was a place of genuine wonderment. I remember regularly spending hours in the Arms & Armor wing, marveling at the gleaming knights on horseback and feeling creeped out and claustrophobic in the narrow corridor of the tomb at the entrance of the Egyptian Wing (technically the Mataba Tomb of Perneb). I remember being taken to see the gigantic tree, every Christmas, and staring at all the Renaissance filigree arranged all over the boughs and the Neapolitan Baroque creche at its base. I remember being taken to “luncheons” with my grandmother in the (long-since vanished) restaurant in the southern wing (just beyond the Greek and Roman statuary). The tables were organized around an elaborate fountain, if memory serves, wherein many a coin was tossed. In later years, I remember the much-feted openings of the American Wing, the Michael C. Rockefeller Wing filled with oddities from far-flung islands and, of course, the acquisition of the iconic Temple of Dendur.
There was also a great deal of fun in simply getting lost in the museum – willfully charging as deep and as far into the massive building to see how disoriented you could actually get. I remember “discovering” whole new exhibits and comparatively under-celebrated galleries this way. That sheer, disorienting vastness of the museum is also a recurring theme in its lore, as documented in films like “Dressed to Kill” and “The Thomas Crown Affair” and in an iconic children’s book called “From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankenweiller,” wherein two kids (not at all unlike my older sister and I) carefully manage to elude security and spend several, painstakingly strategized nights within the museum. I’m also reminded of a passage in my (cheap plug) friend Dave Gilbert’s novel “& Sons” wherein the protagonist is informed by the girl he is romantically pursuing that she is hiding “somewhere” within the sprawling confines of the museum. She offers a beguiling challenge in that if he manages to find her before an appointed time, he gets to sleep with her. I won’t ruin it for you by telling you how that ends.
By the time I got to high school in the early `80s, I knew the ins and outs of the museum like the back of my hand. At this stage of the proceedings, while we might still stroll around within the giant building, we’d become more inclined to hang out on, around and literally on the very edifice of it. The iconic front steps were frequently a spot for gratuitous loitering. The sloped rear lawn directly behind the glassed-in courtyard of the American Wing was a particularly favorite plot of grass whereupon certain friends of mine would regularly convene and waste time over several spring and early summer afternoons. Less salubriously, in the summer of 1986, one Jennifer Levin met her grisly end at the hands of a former grammar schoolmate of mine just steps away from that favorite plot, but that’s a post for another day. During that same era, a certain friend of mine and I discovered a handy little alcove tucked just behind and underneath the southernmost pedestal on the front façade, a hidden little perch that became the perfect locale for surreptitious, evening get-togethers. I’m not sure when they closed it off, but that covert little spot cannot be accessed today. Just as well, though, as the outdoor security has invariably been beefed up since those days.
My visits to the Metropolitan Museum largely tapered off again until I had kids of my own. When they were still delightfully small, I replicated my mother’s methods and frequently took them there to while away an afternoon or resourcefully defy a rainy day. I remember being struck by how – when met with certain works of art – they assumed the same comedic poses my sister and I used to when we first encountered them. Much as evoked in this post about Holden Caulfield and the Museum of Natural History, I love the feeling of (relative) permanence at the Metropolitan. Times, trends, circumstances and chapters come and go, but most of the familiar items at the Metropolitan tirelessly remain right where you left them. There is comfort in that constancy.
In more recent years, my daughter attended high school at Marymount directly across the street from the Museum. As a result, she, too, spent hours inside and out of it in much the same way I’d done years earlier. She now knows it in a manner that is both parallel to mine but still entirely her own. I love that.
My reason for writing this weepy entry stem from two discoveries, the first being the photo at the top of this post, which I brazenly purloined off of the New York Times’ excellent Tumblr, The Lively Morgue. Snapped by one Neil Boenzi on a hot June day in 1976 (I’d have been in Fourth Grade, at the time), it shows a group of kids frolicking in one of the (old) iconic fountains. Even back then, this sort of activity was frowned upon, but hey … a hot day is a hot day. Today, those fountains have been replaced by new ones that put on the sort of hydraulic….ummm…. aquabatics one might expect to see in the fountain of a Las Vegas hotel. That they were donated by the noxious Koch Brothers makes them even more lamentable.
The other discovery is this weird little video below. Also shot in 1976, this details a day in the life of one Ray Cusie, a faithful employee of the museum, at the time (might he be still?), wherein he recounts his duties in the audiovisual department. It’s a telling little glimpse back in time to a seemingly simpler era of New York City (does anyone have accents like this anymore?) and a love-letter to the institution in question.
I’m also quite amused by the incongruous workout scene, wherein our Ray takes a breather from his daily schedule, puts on a “heavy metal” record (a strangely instrumental cover of “Radar Love” by Golden Earring) and demonstrates his weight-lifting prowess.
Ahoy all. There will probably be another slowdown, for a couple of days, as the Flaming Pablum brood is going on holiday for the first time since the ascent of COVID. I say “probably” as I’ve been asked by my organization to “bring my laptop” (gosh, … thanks) in case something needs doing while I’m away, although — for the life of me — I cannot fathom what that scenario would look like. It’s nice to be thought of as crucially indispensable, but surely one or two of my colleagues could handle whatever mess comes down the pike, no?
If the GIF above didn’t already tip you off, we’re bound for Greece for a few days. This will be my first time in this region of the world, so that should be interesting. Unfortunately, the country is currently dealing with a rash of wildfires, at the moment, and — were that not bad enough — is about to endure a massive heat wave right when we’re getting there. Conventional wisdom suggests that Greece in July is already an ill-considered plan, but the die is cast, alas (sorry, that’s a Roman idiom, not Greek).
When not sweating like a someone stuck in an unventilated Trojan Horse or burning myself lobster-red in the bleaching, Hellenic sun, I’m sure I’ll have a marvelous time soaking up the history, cuisine and natural beauty of the place, while also boring my kids into a stupor with mindless quotes from “300." I’ve even started re-reading Homer's “The Iliad.” I say “re-reading,” but, in all candor, my first experience with that epic poem was having it read to me in 7th Grade. Trying to slog through it on the written page is another matter entirely. I’m about a third in with grave doubts about finishing it. But put me under an umbrella with a cocktail and a view of the Aegean Sea, and we’ll see how far I get.
Seventeen years seems like a frankly absurd amount of time to be keeping a blog, doesn't it?
On the left-hand column, I used to keep a list of other blogs that I found interesting or topically aligned or just fun. After a while, though, most of those endeavors either just ran out of steam or vanished completely. Some of my original compatriots in the once-so-called “NYC Blog Mafia” like Bowery Boogie and EV Grieve are still at it, but several others threw in the towel long ago. Jeremiah Moss, as another example, made the heroic leap from blogging to the printed page, and is now on the threshold of releasing a second book. He still occasionallyupdates his blog, but he’s understandably got bigger fish to fry, these days. As I’ve mentioned before, the act of blogging itself seems just as laughably anachronistic as, say, buying CD’s and listening to music on an iPod… two of my other tireless habits. I remain out of step.
But apart from periodic slowdowns, occasional self-imposed hiatuses and the odd technical blackout, I have been dependably logging entries here on the still-ridiculously-named Flaming Pablum for seventeen years straight. It started out as an experimental gag, of sorts, and it’s practically turned into my third child. I have no insightful point to make here. It’s just strange.
As always, each time I hit the “publish” button on a new post, I genuinely feel like there’s a strong possibility it could be my last one. I live in constant doubt that I’ll ever have anything interesting left to say, and given the seemingly niche, select and/or outré concerns my posts tend to focus on, I remain fairly amazed I have any readership at all.
In any case, thanks for reading. I don’t believe I’m quite done yet, but we’ll see.
No one wants to know about your intra-band acrimony. No one needs to know your current thoughts about the monarchy. No one needs to hear your sympathetic feeling for Donald Trump. No one wants to hear that you’d rather listen to Steely Dan than your own music. No one needs to see your new revisionist biopic. That story’s already been told more times than is necessary. No one needs to buy yet another compilation of material that’s already been released dozens of times. You released one perfect album. Respect that.
This is not a consequential one, but what the Hell?
Longtime readers – again, if they exist – might remember a few posts last year wherein a serendipitously unearthed a photograph of something I’d long been searching for, that being a depiction and exact location of a graffiti mural of The Plasmatics that I’d seen back in the early `80s from behind the window of a school bus traveling south in Spanish Harlem.
As first invoked here, then brought to fruition here. the wall in question ended up being the eastern-facing façade of a plot of real estate on East 106th & Park Avenue dubbed “The Graffiti Hall of Fame.” After some diligent Googling, I’d managed to pretty much divine the latitude and longitude of the spot and even found a representation of the (presumably) long-one bit of artwork.
Shortly after that, as documented on this follow-up post, I picked up a fetching coffee-table book about the Graffiti Hall of Fame and came across a better photograph of the wall and artwork in question. I reached out to the photographer in question – that being one Martha Cooper – and inquired about possibly purchasing a print of the photograph. Alas, the figure her handler quoted for same was a bit steep, so I didn’t pursue it. Oh well.
In any case, in the wake of that, I did indeed go up to re-check out the spot. As expected, the rendering of the Plasmatics logo (alongside a cartoony depiction of Wendy O. Williams brandishing a signature chainsaw next to Richie Stotts’ signature Flying V guitar, bisected and spurting blood) had long-since been painted over. I snapped some pics, but never got around to posting them here.
Over this past weekend, however, my son, Oliver, and I went back up to that neck of the woods, specifically for the purposes of checking out the Museum of the City of New York’s excellent “New York, New Music” exhibit (which is still there through September, incidentally). On the way, we got off the 6 train at 96th and Lex and walked up to Park Avenue and down the hill of that very tributary up to East 106th.
Here’s that same wall here in 2022. That's me in front, looking like I just spotted something unspeakable happening just off-camera.
I feel like there’s more and more Sex Pistols content in my social media feeds, these days. Today makes sense, as it would have been Sid Vicious’ unthinkable 65th birthday, but beyond that, the band has been catapulted back into the headlines over (yet another) bitter feud, that being the one over an entirely needless biopic on the FX channel. Despite being directed by Danny Boyle (he of “Trainspotting” fame) and allegedly based on “Lonely Boy” the memoir of Pistols’ guitarist Steve Jones, “Pistol” is pretty much already dead on arrival due to a number of factors. First and foremost, legendary Pistols frontman John “Rotten” Lydon, patently refused to participate in/abet/endorse the film, and has since gotten venomously litigious about it, to which I say, fair enough. I may still have pointed misgivings about the man’s confusing politics (as addressed here, here and here), but he has my full support on this matter.
Secondly, I think there’s also a bit of fatigue about this particular period of popular culture, and I don’t think the masses otherwise preoccupied with Kanye West, Pete Davidson and BTS really harbor any real fascination for the heyday of British Punk. What once seemed barbarous and shocking has essentially become a tired old, over-rhapsodized chapter of “Dad Rock.”
Beyond that, in the specific case of the Sex Pistols, there’s already been a wealth of documentation about their sneery ascendance and their messy implosion. I mean, just off the top of my head, there was the band’s own abortive film, the Julien Temple-directed “ Great Rock n’ Roll Swindle,” there was “The Punk Rock Movie,” there was Alex Cox’s flawed “Sid & Nancy,” and Julien Temple’s documentary, “The Filth & the Fury.” Not to be outdone, Temple even did a third Pistols move, “There’ll Always Be an England,” which documented an anniversary performance. There have also been numerous books and biographies. Lydon’s written at least three memoirs. The story of the Sex Pistols has been told and re-told too many times already. There was never a need for a biopic.
For my money, however, I’ve always been of the opinion that if you’re genuinely curious about the Sex Pistols, the ONLY thing you ever needed was a copy of Never Mind the Bollocks. Go get that. Listen to it … and get on with your lives.
At some point in the spring or summer of about 1997, I snapped a picture of the storefront at 35 West 19th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, which was a shop called Magickal Childe. I’ve spoken about it before, here, quite a few times, but Magickal Childe was essentially an occult emporium, selling esoteric books and black magic knickknacks for spells, rituals, ceremonies, conjurings and the like. It was the perfect gift shop for all the Aleister Crowley acolytes in your family. A lot of folks spoke about Magickal Childe in hushed, ominous tones, but I never felt any sense of dread or unease in the place. The one item I remember actively buying there was an inverted pentagram pendant because,….well… METAL!
Personally speaking, Magickal Childe, to me, always embodied that now-rarefied essence of New York City. It was this wildly niche sorta concern that catered to a very specific demographic, but was still a thriving venture, very much an “only in New York” sorta place. It was there for several years, as I remember, until it closed in 1999, in the wake of the death of its proprietor, a guy named Herman. The vacated space at 35 West 19th Street became a tapas restaurant, as reported here, named Sala in 2004 and lasted until the pandemic forced its closure in 2020. Today, the space is in transition, but there are signs in the window that say “VINYL STEAKHOUSE,” suggesting a strange amalgam of record store and steak joint. Not quite sure how that works, but I being that I like both records and red meat, I wish them all success.
In any case, back in 1997, I was genuinely fascinated with Magickal Childe, so I snapped that picture. Those with a sharp eye for detail might notice that I even appear in the photograph, reflected in a mirror in the center of the shop’s window (just underneath and slightly to the left of the gold pentagram). I had no agenda in capturing the image beyond thinking it just looked cool.
Some years went by, and I ended up posting the photograph, along with several others, on an entry on this stupid blog under the title “Things That Are Not There.” As it turns out, photographs of Magickal Childe must be few and far between, as people started to reach out to me about it. I fielded a request from one reader to sell a print of it to him. I think I just ended up sending him a copy of it free of charge. I didn’t think much of it.
Years after that, some readers might remember my laborious search for the location of a certain photograph of the Lunachicks. When I finally got in touch with the photographer, a guy named Joe Dilworth, he graciously emailed me the contact sheet with the mystery photo in it. Along with the answer to my quest, that contact sheet also boasted a shot of the Lunachicks chatting with this guy who looked strangely familiar. I swiftly deduced that the guy in question was the same kid depicted in some age-old hardcore matinee photos by Drew Carolan. I realize this is all very confusing, but bear with me. As if on cue, that kid — named Anderson Slade — bizarrely got in touch with me out of the blue on Facebook. By this point, he was no longer a little punk rock kid from Staten Island, but now an aspiring actor and filmmaker who was putting together a documentary about Magickal Childe and wanted to use my photograph. I said “sure,” and then let him know about the photo of him and the Lunachicks, which blew his mind. You can read a more detailed about that whole chapter here.
Slade’s documentary, entitled “Horrible Herman’s Warlock Shop,” was in development for quite a while, and even had some trailers posted on YouTube, but those have since been taken down and there’s no news of any release dates. Anderson Slade is also no longer on Facebook. The plot thickened.
Cut to 2022. With the wife in London for the London Book Fair, I am suddenly free to watch stuff on television that I wouldn’t normally be able to. As such, I start watching “Sons of Sam: Descent into Darkness,” a four-part documentary series on Netflix that explores one investigative reporter’s feverish quest to break the story that David “Son of Sam" Berkowitz did not act alone. Even as a sniveling ten year old during the summer of 1977, I still vividly remember the atmosphere of paranoia that gripped New York City, so have always been fascinated with the story. Here’s the trailer…
In any case, halfway through the first episode, they start discussing the uptick in fascination with the occult in the `70s, stemming from disillusionment with the hippy ideal of the late `60s. In doing so, they start showing images of Wiccan ceremonies, illustrations from the Rosicrucian secret histories of the world, Anton LaVey’s Church of Satan, Aleister Crowley and …. fleetingly … MY PHOTOGRAPH OF MAGICKAL CHILDE.
I instantly sat up from my bowl of General Tso’s chicken and hit pause. What the fuck, Netflix? I don’t remember being asked about use in any Son of Sam doc. Laughably, I suddenly felt sort of violated, but then…. given the already-established paucity of images of the exterior of Magickal Childe, outside of screenshots from the Nicholas Cage film “Vampire’s Kiss” in which the shop makes a cameo, mine seems to be the first thing that comes up in a Google image search. Being no stranger to liberally appropriating images for this blog, I shouldn’t be surprised. But still, having a rinkydink blog post a pic without due credit is one thing — use in a major feature film on Netflix is another.
I started combing through my emails, with friends' voices in my head shouting “you can SUE them!” I wasn’t really interested in any financial gain from this, I was just kind of curious how they found it and a little hurt that they didn’t see fit to ask me if they could use it.
Then I figured it out.
Chalk it up to the fog of the pandemic or the steady erosion of my short-term memory, but in July of 2020, a company called “Radical Media” apparently reached out to me to say they were putting together “a documentary series for Netflix that features a storyline about the occult presence in NYC back in the 1970s and 80s, and we wanted to feature a photograph of the occult book shop Magickal Childe. It turns our there are very few photographs easily accessible, but a photo that you took of the storefront is one that comes up and is of good quality."
Evidently, I said “sure, no problem,” and even signed a release. I did not charge them anything for the use. They asked how I’d like to be credited, and apparently I wrote “Alex S./Flaming Pablum” in the email.
I watched the first episode to the end credits. Under the “photos courtesy of…” section, neither my name nor my blog’s dumb name came up. I watched the second, third and final episodes. A credit was never mentioned. I guess my signed release absolved them of that necessity, but that still kind of bummed me out.
That petty affront notwithstanding, I still recommend “Sons of Sam.” If you’re a bona fide New Yorker and a true crime buff, it’s a fascinating series, however grim (what? you were expecting frivolity??)
I was running errands earlier this week, and found myself not far from 35 West 19th Street, so took a short detour to revisit it.
It’s been a weird couple of weeks. Work is crazier than it has ever been, and I seem to be losing valuable and beloved colleagues left, right and center. I’m hanging in there, but I don’t remember the last time my calendar was this overwhelming. I’m not complaining, per se — well, I guess I actually am — but it’s a struggle, at the moment.
On other fronts, we’re wrangling with the college-selection process for my daughter (as alluded on theseposts) and, on another front, I’ve been plagued by a strange bout of some mysterious malady. I won’t get into it here, just yet, but suffice to say, I’m experiencing something that, thus far, has my primary care physician kinda stumped. That’s not a happy place to be, my friends. In all candor, I'm kinda really stressed out about it.
In any case, I had a few moments this evening, so I thought I’d check in here. I was saddened to read, earlier this week, that Flaming Pablum-favorite Jon Spencer has evidently officially pulled the plug on the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion. The reports were vague, but I gather it has something to do with the apparently failing health of guitarist Judah Bauer. I actually accosted Judah on the street, a couple of years back. I spotted him on the somewhat iconic corner of Thompson and Broome and asked him if he’d be interested in contributing a testimonial to the book I was vainly trying to put together, at the time, about Blues Explosion comrades, Cop Shoot Cop (if you’re curious about what happened to that project, click here). Judah stared at me with a strange glaze to his gaze and gave me a weird response that didn’t really make any sense. I shook his hand and found his grip limp and clammy to the touch. The man was clearly not at all well. I watched him wander strangely out of sight up Thompson street.
If you’re unfamiliar about the greatness of the Blues Explosion, here's an ample reminder of their prowess.
Meanwhile, Jon Spencer is now playing with The Hitmakers (featuring someone from Quasi and Bob Goddamn Bert of Pussy Galore, Sonic Youth, Bewitched, Chrome Cranks, and the mighty Lydia Lunch Retrovirus), who took a trip back in time to revisit a chestnut from Jon’s original combustive band, Pussy Galore. Check that shit out here.
As should be of no surprise to anyone, I run the “official” Cop Shoot Cop facebook page. It’s “official” in that all the former members of the band are more or less aware that I do it, and would just as soon I keep on doing it, just so they don’t have to. As such, I am routinely searching for images, videos and ephemera to host on said page, ... and much of that same content ends up here, as you may have noticed.
In any case, at one point last week, I stumbled upon an old, signature ad from presumably The Village Voice or possibly New York Press for then-upcoming gigs at CBGB. Dating back to probably about 1992 or 1993, the gig on said ad boasted Cop Shoot Cop supported by an estimable coterie of similarly inclined outfits like Barkmarket, Soul Coughing and Motherhood Bug. As I mentioned, it was, by all accounts, a solid evening of quality hearing loss.
Being that I’ve already posted a host of archival Cop Shoot Cop and Motherhead Bug footage (including some from the very interior of CBGB, like here and here), I thought I’d take the time to evangelize the other two bands on the bill.
I wrote about Soul Coughing here, back in 2015, but there were a pretty genuinely unique ensemble. As recounted in lead singer M. Doughty’s hilarious memoir, “The Book of Drugs,” it’s frankly pretty astonishing that they managed to last as long as they did, given the fact that they didn’t get along at all. These days, Doughty pursues a solo career as a singer/songwriter. Drummer Yuval Gabay played drums on the first album by Firewater (featuring, of course, former Cop Shoot Cop frontman Tod [A]). I have no idea what happened to the other two gents. Here they were in marginally happier days.
Barkmarket was the power trio led by Dave Sardy, who later found considerable renown as a mixer and producer. Not only did he work with Cop Shoot Cop, but he also helmed the production for bands like Helmet, Skeleton Key, Enon, Atari Teenage Riot, Monter Magnet, Slayer, System of a Down, Bush and Marilyn Manson, among others. As amply evident on Barkmarket’s own records, Sardy’s penchant for big, expansive sound served him well. His production work took off, so Barkmarket went onto the back burner, sadly. These days, I believe he’s scoring films to widespread acclaim. I rant into Barkmarket's drummer, the excellently named Rock Savage, not too long back, on the subway, and he enthusiastically told me about his new band, World of If, who play kind of psychedelic post-rock soundscapes. No idea what happened to bassist John Nowlin.
Anyway, as Barkmarket, they made a delightfully oomphy, heavy racket. Like so…
Today, Cop Shoot Cop is no more. Tod lives in Istanbul, working as a writer and threatens to revive Firewater someday soon. Jim Coleman and Phil Puleo play in Human Impact with Chris Spencer of The Unsane and Chris Pravdica of SWANS. Jack Natz is a full-time studio artist, but was recently working on a new musical project called EXP.
Motherhood Bug disbanded shortly after the release of their debut album, Zambodia. Ringmaster Dave Ouimet played with a number of other outfits, notably Foetus, Firewater and Sulfur, before fully concentrating on his career as an author and illustrator of truly striking children's books.
As mentioned, Soul Coughing broke up in 2000. Doughty used to openly shoot down talk of any reunions, but evidently did try to get them back together (as detailed here). He has a new project called Ghosts of Vroom.
Barkmarket made five albums and two EPs before disbanding.
Today (or yesterday, technically) CBGB looks like this....
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