In the fall of 1985, myself and a newly-minted, equally scowly friend John — a flat-topped skater and fellow fan of disconsolately frowny hardcore trapped within a bug-eyed nation of Little Feat and Allman Brothers fans — drove from the verdantly plush campus of Central Ohio’s Denison University to the comparatively ungenteel High Street of Columbus, Ohio. Our destination was a dank, low-ceilinged “club” with wood-paneled walls called Stache’s. The venue and the event we were attending have already been discussed here, but I was reminded of the evening in question again by yet another chapter in Sam McPheeters’ “Mutations,” which also spawned yesterday’s post about the Crucifucks.
John and I went to Stache’s for the purposes of witnessing a live performance by the willfully disconcerting Texas combo, The Butthole Surfers. I’d been to a gig in Columbus a few weeks earlier, that being X at the Newport Music Hall on the tour to promote their frankly lackluster major label debut, Ain’t Love Grand, but that was at a proper live music hall, not a dingy, makeshift den-turned-dive bar like Stache’s.
John and I and possibly another couple of friends of ours muscled our way to the back of the room where the “stage” ostensibly was (although I really don’t remember there being a bi-level effect of any kind), to ready ourselves for the opening band. The opening act was a Wisconsin ensemble called Die Kreuzen, which -- in clipped, guttural German -- means “The Crosses.” That said, everyone seemed to mispronounce their moniker not as a plural noun, but as a grim command, Die Cruisin’. The foursome gathered around their amps and drum kit and got ready to play.
This still being the mid-eighties, I remember being somewhat surprised by the look of these Midwesterners. While I was dutifully boasting a sadly de rigeur “hardcore” outfit (white, freshly laundered Circle Jerks t-shirt over jeans, plaid flannel shirt tied around waist -- just so -- like a kilt), Die Kreuzen looked more like hairy hobos who took turns swigging from a communal jug of moonshine in the damp, dark woods behind the Price Chopper. Adhering to any code of punky fashion was clearly -- and quite refreshingly, in retrospect -- not on their agenda.
I remember being struck by the bass player, whose instrument seemed wholly oversized for him. The lead singer was a long-haired, lanky guy who looked like he only just got off his shift pumping gas. Once fully plugged in, the band started, and lanky long-hair raised the mic and opened his mouth, letting loose a sound that caused those of us standing, arms-folded in the front to strongly consider taking several steps back.
To be honest, while I hadn’t heard their records yet (which I’d later come to really appreciate), the live Die Kreuzen experience circa 1985 was a headachey fog of shambolic shrillness. John described it best by suggesting that each of their songs sounded, basically, like an over-amplified “WAAAAAAARRGGHHHH”, … which was fairly accurate.
I told the rest of this story back on this post — the Butthole Surfers ended up not showing up as, earlier in the day, their bass player had either jumped out — or been forcibly ejected — from their van whilst motoring down the highway. They wouldn’t return to Columbus until the following year, wherein they played the Newport Music Hall, a show I’m still recovering from.
Back at Stache’s, we all miraculously ended up getting our money back, which essentially meant that we got to see Die Kreuzen for free.
The only reason I’m revisiting all of this, is because in McPheeters’ book, he describes Die Kreuzen thusly:
Vocals like a scarecrow screaming at you from across the cornfield at night …WHY DID YOU ANGER THE SCARECROW?
Absolutely on point....
The photo up top is by the truly amazing JFotoman, who I wrote about back on this post. There is possibly no greater documentation of not just the Stache's scene, but of American underground music of the 1980's writ large than his work.
I am currently about a third of the way into "Mutations: The Many Strange Faces of Hardcore Punk," by former Born Against vocalist Sam McPheeters, and I am hugely loving it. Not only is McPheeters a tirelessly funny writer, but the insights and info on stalwart figures from the punk scenes of decades past are formidable.
While I originally picked the book up on the strength of its inclusion of a chapter on Flaming Pablum-favorites Missing Foundation (haven't gotten to that chapter yet), I just read an eye-opening passage about Doc Dart, the notorious lead provocateur extraordinaire from the Crucifucks. Longtime readers might remember I posted about that band here. Evidently, these days, Doc goes by the enigmatic new name, 26.
I'm not going to ruin it for you, but it's a truly weird and oft-harrowing story. For this chapter alone, this book is crucial. Go get it.
I don’t know why I’d never attempted it sooner, but not too long back, I was struck by the idea of a line of stickers.
Given my affinity for street art (and I’ll concede, at this early point in the narrative, that not everyone considers stickers “street art” in that they arguably don’t really require the same amount of risk, dedication, longevity and genuine artistry as more conventional graffiti), I first considered it as a viable avenue of would-be guerilla marketing for a book project I was working on. I realize that sounds like a heroically incongruous leap, but trust me, it made a bit of sense.
The project, as some might remember, was a large-sized book about Cop Shoot Cop, a New York City band who initially spread their name around the Lower East Side via a cryptic flyer campaign. I figured that a similarly executed sticker initiative when the book became available might be fun and suitable. That was the idea, at least.
Well, as detailed in this weepy post, that project unfortunately ran aground way before there was any need for celebratory promotional stickers. Then I thought of doing some anyway, just as a lark, but wisely figured that the band’s artwork, imagery and name were just not mine to appropriate and/or mess with. So, I scrapped that idea.
But, again, given my fascination with the whole clandestine sticker scene, I figured it might be fun to give it a shot using one of my own images. So that's what I did. I put together a simple design based on a photo you’ve possibly noticed on this blog before, if you’ve spent any time here, appended with a suitable legend in red, block-capital letters. With that, I had a bunch of them printed up, and was off to the races.
I should probably take another moment, here, to acknowledge that serious, die-hard sticker artists will probably read this post and either laugh derisively or cough up a wad of phlegm. I wasn’t really trying to “bite their steez,” so much as merely follow their examples. At no point during this very silly endeavor did I harbor any designs to become the next Shepard Fairey, or feel in competition with current hotshots like Posterboy 2000, FCKING BNGRZ and the seemingly ubiquitous Cheer-Up. I got nothin' on those guys.
That does, however, beg the question: What, if anything, was I looking to achieve by doing this?
That answer is more elusive, but I suppose I was conceiving it as a fun experiment. It'd be interesting to see if I could manage to disseminate my silly stickers and actually have some of them stay put. I guess the ideal end result would be to be walking along one likely byway or another, five or six years from now, and still be able to spot one or two of my stickers in the places I stuck them, however far-fetched that might seem.
When I first got started, I immediately understood why people do it. Each sticker I furtively smacked onto a light pole, utility box or crumbling derelict façade came with a small rush – a juvenile jolt of energy rendered all the more ridiculous by the fact that I’m not a lingo-slinging hip-hopper, b-boy, tagger or youthful skaterboi, but rather a grumpy, silver-haired dad.
Regardless, that minuscule thrill of “leaving my mark,” however ultimately meaningless, did heighten the experience, but it also required some guidelines. As such, I came up with some best practices, for want of a better term. Once again, these are based only on my own observations, and by no means come with any semblance of authority. Here are a few of them.
Show Respect: I realize this sounds entirely counterintuitive, given the very nature of the practice, but hear me out. If you see a virginal piece of civic property that looks freshly painted, scrubbed and well-maintained, don’t put a sticker on it. Its pristine presentation should let you know that it’s obviously being lovingly looked after, so why bother sullying it with a sticker that will invariably just be stripped off? City finery has earned your recognition.
Respect should also be given to your fellow sticker-slappers. Don't be a jerk and cover up someone else's sticker. Take a moment, and -- just like on a crowded dance floor -- try to find a space of your own. Covering up someone else's stuff will only breed contempt.
Be Discriminating: Beyond recognizing where not to put your stickers, don't just put them anywhere. Study your environment. See what's worked -- and not worked -- for others. Again, if you see a surface that's had stickers peeled off of it, take that hint. Yours will be, too.
Be Strategic: Use your head. Putting stickers at eye-level seems like the way to go, but eye-level is also easy pull-down level. If you place them higher or lower than eye level, they'll stand a better chance of staying up.
Conserve Your Resources: Sometimes less is more. A single, well-positioned sticker will suffice. Unless you're trying to make some kind of point, there's no need for multiple stickers in a single spot. If you over-saturate in a single area, that's only going to annoy people.
Be Cognizant of What's Going On Around You: Know who's watching. Most people invariably don't give a rolling rat fuck what you're doing, but if you put up a sticker in front of certain folks, you may be asking for a confrontation, or worse.
Don't Take It Personally When Your Stickers Go Missing: The probability of most-if-not-all of your stickers being removed from these New York City streets is unfathomably high. Your stuff is going to come down for myriad reasons. Remember, you're the one being out of line, here.
Don’t Put Your Stickers on Scaffolding: Why? Because scaffolding -- ostensibly, at least -- will eventually come down. Thus, too, will your stickers.
But even that last point is laughably ambitious. Regardless of the perceived quality of your sticker, the artfulness of its application or the time of day you affixed it to whatever surface, there is -- once again -- the massive likelihood that it’s not going to remain where you slapped it. Be they disinterested sanitation workers, rightly wrathful local residents or self-styled arbiters of street-art-sticker standards (like this guy), people WILL be pulling your stuff down. To borrow from the unfortunate parlance of erectile dysfunction – the problem isn’t just “getting up,” the problem is also “staying up.”
After a couple of weeks of this nonsense, I started to feel something of an overwhelming sense of futility. The whole effort seemed tantamount to building an ornately over-thought sand castle too close to the waves. Eventually, the tide was going to come in and lay it all to waste. No matter how hard I’d “hit” a certain strip, street, significant spot or whole neighborhood, I could still just walk a block in any direction and find my paltry attempts woefully unrepresented.
In the end, somewhat unsurprisingly, no one really batted an eyelash. I’m not sure what I’d been expecting, but even after practically carpet-bombing my various routes to and from the office by early morning and early evening with my stupid stickers and blanketing certain patches of likely real estate in the East Village, Lower East Side, SoHo, Greenwich Village and bits of Chelsea, still no friend of mine reached out of the blue to note that they’d spotted one. None of my stickers were ever immortalized -- to my knowledge, at least -- in any sticker-centric Instagram round-up. None were defaced. They would just dematerialize. No great impression was seemingly made one way or another. In certain neighborhoods -- specifically certain areas of SoHo -- stickers I put up over the course of one evening would seemingly vanish by the next day.
Several weeks later, there are still many of my original 300 stickers affixed to points on the map both meticulously pinpointed and haplessly random. Why some remain and some don't is a total mystery. At this stage, this part of the experiment is over, and I am disinclined to have more made up. But ... that could change. For the moment, I'm still spotting them out there.
The New York Times published a nice little piece by one of my favorite writers, this past Friday. “The Lower East Side in 8 Songs” by John Strausbaugh (whose most recent opus, “Victory City,” all about New York City during WWII, is currently my mom’s favorite book) culled together a selection of tracks that harken back to key points throughout the decades, addressing jazzbos, proto-punks, rockers and beyond from within the cultural diaspora of the East Side of Lower Manhattan. Being the insufferable pedant that I am, I quibbled with his selection of “Waiting for the Man” by the Velvet Underground. Yes, the Velvets were L.E.S. to the very bone, but that particular track has more to do with Harlem (East 125th Street and Lexington Avenue, where Lou Reed’s protagonist cops his dope) than the Ludlow Street roots of the band.
In any case, in perusing his list, I felt the need to add my own suggestions to the mix, most of which allude to my own eras. What else are we missing??
"Life During Wartime," Talking Heads, 1979
Admittedly, by the time Talking Heads released their third album, Fear of Music, in 1979, the band's days of hanging out at CBGB on the Bowery were over, replaced by world tours, growing global renown and quality time with cats like Brian Eno and Robert Fripp. This all said, "Life During Wartime" alludes to that period-specific locale with a degree of prescience. While New York City writ large was slowly recovering from the near-bankruptcy of the mid-70s, much of downtown Manhattan still seemed akin to a veritably lawless war zone. "This ain't no party, This ain't no disco, This ain't no foolin' around," famously sings David Byrne, his protagonist lamenting the passing of the salad days into the stark realities of desperate survival in a region under siege, strangely presaging Missing Foundation's own defiant slogan, "The Party's Over" by a few years. "Life During Wartime" was lazily held up by many a witless classic-rock acolyte as being some sort of anti-disco screed, but those oafs failed to take Byrne's lyrics in context. The scenario Byrne depicts was never a renunciation of disco. It was more a rumination on life in an environment so plagued with hardship and conflict that frivolous activities like dancing and having fun are no longer on the menu.
Today, the space once occupied by CBGB at 315 Bowery is a laughably expensive clothiers. The space once occupied by the Mudd Club at 77 White Street in TriBeCa is an exclusive condo ... although there is a plaque on the exterior, commemorating its tenure as the Mudd Club. Here they are playing in it...
“East Side Beat,” The Toasters, 1987
It might sound vaguely ridiculous that downtown Manhattan once had its own thriving ska scene, but that was indeed the case, for a little while. At the arguable center of that scene were The Toasters, a high-stepping, horn-honking gaggle of Big Apple rudeboys fronted by British ex-pat Robert “Bucket” Hingley, who brought a degree of Two-Tone-styled authenticity to proceedings. By day the manager of geek mecca Forbidden Planet (near and very dear to this blog’s heart), Hingley emulated his homeland’s premiere ska band, The Specials, by recruiting fellow Brit ex-pat Joe “Look Sharp” Jackson to produce their sophomore long player just as the Specials had drafted Joe’s peer and fellow “angry young man of the New Wave,” Elvis Costello to handle their debut. The resulting album, Skaboom, arrived in 1987. This standout track from same paints almost a “West Side Story” depiction of life in the East Village of the late 80’s, complete with references to police brutality, riots, junkies, skinheads and shout-outs to fellow NYC Ska bands like Second-Step and Urban Blight. For a while, Hingley operated his own ska record label and shop on East 10th Street, Moon Ska Records.
Today, the space Hingley's shop occupied is a derelict former ramen restaurant. Forbidden Planet, however, is still on Broadway.
“Burn Trees,” Missing Foundation, 1988
Espousing a literally scorched earth approach to the encroaching gentrification of the Lower East Side in the late 80's and early 90's, enigmatic noise-rock collective, Missing Foundation accrued a formidable mystique for their uncompromising aesthetic. Banned from countless live music venues for their penchant for riot-incitement and wanton property damage, Peter Missing and his cohorts burrowed further underground, pointedly distancing themselves from any conventional music-scene shenanigans and aligning themselves with the defiant squatters movement. Were you ever able to find them, Missing Foundation's records were violently expulsive and incendiary, dispensing all finesse in favor of industrial clamor and high-decibel agitprop. "Burn Trees" from their second album, 1933 Your House is Mine, is a perfectly realized taste of their mission -- a harrowing, repetitive call for destructive insurgence. The video for same (see below) bludgeons the point with footage of the Tompkins Square Park riots from August of 1988. Peter Missing de-camped from New York City in 1992, but still continues making art and music, although his current approach seems slightly less nihilistic.
You can still spot invocations of Missing Foundation (the cryptic upside-down cocktail-glass insignia) all over the Lower East Side.
"Invisible People," False Prophets, 1990
With hearts similarly aligned to the ethos of Missing Foundation, if not quite as militantly chaotic, False Prophets started off as more or less another early hardcore punk band like Kraut, Heart Attack, The Undead and Even Worse, earning them a spot on ROIR's seminal cassette compilation, New York Thrash, despite their brazenly artier inclinations. The band was led by one Stephan Ielpi, captured at the top of this post by photographer Q Sakamaki. Evolving beyond three-chord blitzes and into more refined fare towards the end of their decade-long run, False Prophets released Invisible People in 1990, its title track being a lilting, heartfelt ode to the plight of the homeless that sounded planets away from their earlier rants like "Mental Ghetto." The message of "Invisible People" was further augmented by the album cover art and video animation of illustrator Erik Drooker, whose stirring portraits of social inequity have gone on to grace magazine covers around the world.
The video also finds False Prophets performing in the eroding, graffiti-slathered East River Park bandshell, a space that has since been re-imagined and cleaned up, although it's still a chillingly lonely spot at certain times of the day.
"There's a Riot in Tompkins Square," The Undead, 1993
Taking a more pragmatic-if-cynical approach to the continued unrest in the neighborhood, at the time, Bobby Steele penned "There's a Riot in Tompkins Square" with precious little empathy for any of the parties concerned. A former guitarist for The Misfits and a Johnny-Ramone-styled conservative (albeit one with a big, fuckoff mohawk, on occasion), Steele had little time for the hue & cry of the East Village squatters, equating them with lazy hippies. I have no idea how he feels about the Trump Administration's co-opting of the GOP, but he remains an affable, approachable guy, and is still making music with The Undead years later.
Today, Tompkins Square Park is largely squeaky clean, compared to its late 80's iteration.
“It Only Hurts When I Breathe,” Cop Shoot Cop, 1994
Never ones to shy away from the ugly truths of life in a city in decline, Cop Shoot Cop frequently spun narratives rife with bleak urban imagery, flinging off caustic couplets like a particularly world-weary Micky Spillane. "It Only Hurts When I Breathe" from the album that would become their swan song, 1994's Release, is no exception, coughing up grim verse after grim verse about a life-engulfing cynicism, underpinned by the band's signature dual-bass battery, which jovially swings, despite its otherwise dour demeanor. Possibly only Lower East Side locals will catch their telling invocation of an infamous Alphabet City street corner -- B & Third -- which unmistakably alludes to the shadowy purveyance of smack.
Today, Avenue B & East Third Street is essentially a well-traveled nightlife destination that's about as comparatively threatening as a summer spent in Nantucket.
“Ditch,” The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, 1994
Though largely spawned from the same gene pool as their pals in Cop Shoot Cop, the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion -- formed by the inimitable Jon Spencer in the wake of the fittingly acrimonious dissolution of Pussy Galore -- dispensed with all semblance of po-faced misanthropy in favor of a rollicking celebration of non-stop diaphoretic coitus. "Ditch," from 1994's suitably detonative Orange, is precisely that, finding Spencer giving emphatic voice to his roiling libido whilst also name-checking Ludlow Street, the former epicenter of a L.E.S. variant of bohemian bacchanalia anchored around since-shuttered bars like the original Max Fish. While only a few, short years prior to era of The Strokes, The Rapture, Interpol, LCD Soundsystem and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, this iteration of the Ludlow scene seems like ancient history.
Today, the original Max Fish on Ludlow Street is long gone, replaced by chic and tony hotel with an insufferable bar. Similar ventures to Max Fish on Ludlow like Motor City, Barramundi, the Pink Pony, the Ludlow Street Cafe, Cake Shop and the Luna Lounge, which was a flashpoint for the afore-cited scene the Strokes kicked off, are also all gone.
“Alphabet Town,” Elliott Smith, 1995
Given the tragic circumstances of his untimely demise and some of his more notorious predilections, it's not much of a leap to make certain assumptions about what Elliott Smith's "Alphabet Town" is really about. Taken from his eponymous second album in 1995, the song is poetically vague but seemingly coded. Though not yet living in New York, at that time in the mid-90's, Smith sings about the infamous proclivities of Alphabet City denizens with a knowing lilt to his fragile, whisper-quiet voice, spinning a melancholy yarn about a tenuous relationship built on a grim codependence that the mood of the music mirrors.
“Summer on Avenue A,” Cause For Alarm, 1997
Originally from New Jersey, Cause For Alarm (or simply CFA) don't seem to inspire the same immediate name-recognition as some their NYHC peers like Agnostic Front, Cro-Mags, Warzone, Murphy's Law, etc., but they were indeed early participants within that scene. Personally speaking, the fact that Agnostic Front named their second album Cause for Alarm only served to confuse matters, but I'm sure they all had their reasons. This particular track, extolling the arguable merits of eschewing the leafy byways of New Jersey for a life on the then much meaner streets of, once again, Alphabet City, wasn't released until the late 90's, seemingly jumpstarting a variant of "nostalgia-core" later zealously picked up by their pals in Agnostic Front with recent tracks like "I Miss the Old New York" and, wait for it, "I Remember."
“Forsyth Street,” Muckafurgason, 1998
A band not at all concerned with telegraphing any bleak message or pugnacious badassery, Muckafurgason was a light-hearted trio of indie-rock dudes who probably had more in common with the "alt.comedy" boom nurtured at Ludlow Street's Luna Lounge than with the new crop of indie-garage rock revivalists who were gestating at the time. They didn't take themselves especially seriously, as evidenced on tracks from their debut album, Tossing a Friend, like "Lunch," an ersatz-rap homage to their favorite meal of the day. "Forsyth Street," meanwhile, is a comparatively somber ode to their home address, glumly describing a vista of homeless junkies and naked masturbators in Sara D. Roosevelt Park just out their window.
Today, Forsyth Street is just a bit more salubrious.
“93 Avenue B Blues,” SWANS, 2012
Walk by 93 Avenue B today and it's a fairly innocuous-looking doorway adjacent to a hookah bar called Horus. But back in the early-to-mid 80's, it was the heatless, windowless, concrete-bunker headquarters of Michael Gira and SWANS. True to their Spartan, disciplinary aesthetic, the address served as both an inhospitable rehearsal space and Gira's equally unwelcoming living quarters. When he speaks of what the surrounding neighborhood was like at the time, he does so without any fondness or nostalgia, painting a grim picture of lawlessness, depravity and violence. Tales he's told about life within 93 Avenue B don't suggest that things were much better behind the "safety" of that front door. This instrumental track from 2012's The Seer seemingly seeks to capture the experience of that space, at the time. Easy listening it is not.
Today, once again, you'd never necessarily know anything of the sort went down at said address, although there is still a SWANS insignia (a cryptic spiral) carved into the pavement in front of the front door.
Well, it's that time of year again. Sure, we have two whole days left, but for all intents and purposes, 2019 is over. As such, let's go ahead and dust off this old thing. Away we go...
What did you do in 2019 that you'd never done before?
I’m really wracking my brain, but I’m not coming up with anything.
Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Nope, as discussed here, I gave up my umpteenth attempt at a Dry January in 2019 after only ten days, citing any number of arguably ridiculous and weak-willed rationalizations for doing so, and here we are again. This year, however, there is a new variable.
Shortly after this past Thanksgiving, I scheduled a long-overdue appointment with my primary care physician. I’d been neglecting to take care of certain things, investigating a few others and I’d been recently perplexed by the way in which my left foot was seemingly no longer feeling the way it used to. There was no pain involved, but it seemed to fill my shoe in way that felt simply … different. I can only describe it as being akin to the sensation wherein your sock is sort of bunched-up, and you feel an excess of crowding at the toe. Of course, I immediately assumed I had gout, given my affinity for beer. Or, more correctly, given my foundation in Catholic guilt, I immediately felt I deserved gout. In any case, preoccupied with this assumption, I figured it was prudent to go have it checked out.
As it turned out, I do not have gout. I’m told that if I did indeed have gout, I’d bloody well know it, as the pain involved is said to rival similarly acute maladies like Kidney Stones (which I have experienced). This all said, my doctor couldn’t really explain my weird foot/toe problem, which was a bit frustrating.
On the plus side, I got a reasonably clean bill of health — no egregious deviations from normal in most capacities. On the minus side, he did suggest my blood pressure was a bit high, going on to suggest that a sharp curtailing of alcohol would invariably do me some good. So, while not quite “doctor’s orders,” I am taking that to heart, so to speak, and endeavoring to once again swear off the suds until I go back and see my medicine man for a follow-up visit in …. dear lord …. late February.
Mind you … it’s not January YET!
Watch this space.
Did anyone close to you give birth?
Not just yet, but one of my sisters-in-law is preggers and due in February.
Did anyone close to you die?
Mercifully, no one in my immediate family left us this year, although the mother of a dear friend of mine did, which was and remains quite upsetting.
What countries did you visit?
As documented here, the we spent a glorious five or six days in Paris this year, which I highly recommend.
What would you like to have in 2020 that you lacked in 2019?
A different president.
What date from 2019 will remain etched upon your memory?
Don’t know that there was a single, isolated date of significance, but last week, just a day before Christmas, we learned that our son was accepted, “early decision,” at the high school of his choice. We are very proud.
What was your biggest achievement of the year?
While I’m exceptionally proud of what my children have accomplished, I don’t think I particularly excelled in any specific capacity in 2019. I'm just trying to adopt, adapt and improve, as they say.
What was your biggest failure?
Too many options to choose from.
Did you suffer illness or injury?
No illnesses that I’m immediately aware of, but I did manage to lacerate my own tongue once or twice (as detailed here).
What was the best thing you bought?
Probably the flight tickets to Paris back in early October. Beyond that, I bought my son a guitar for Christmas, which he’d asked for upon returning from summer camp. I’m all for it. We’ll see how it goes. Watch this space.
Whose behavior merited celebration?
Once again, I’d cite my children. While, yes, both now in their teenaged years — and all the things that said age entails — they both take their schoolwork very seriously and routinely earn high marks on their respective report cards. Admittedly, there is now much more eye-rolling and attitudinal pushback than ever before, but I cannot complain, and remain very proud of both of them.
Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Pretty much the entirety of the Republican party and everyone who still slavishly supports the Trump Administration, regardless of the growing glacier of damning evidence of its unprecedented corruption.
Renovating the kids’ room, the Paris trip and the looming reality of paying two tuitions for my budding high schoolers.
What song will always remind you of 2019?
I hate to say it, but if there is a single song that reminds of 2019, it’s invariably one by someone like Lizzo. There were several songs I was fired up about this year (see list here), but I can’t name one that singularly screams “2019” to me.
Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
I wonder if I suffer from a bit of that seasonal melancholy, as I’m somewhat inexplicably blue quite often, these days. By the same token, that might also have something to do with how speedily my children are growing and how old I’m feeling.
Thinner or fatter?
I have it on sound authority that I have actually lost weight, although I couldn’t even begin to tell you how or why that is the case.
Richer or poorer?
Trying to live and work in Manhattan while simultaneously trying to feed, clothe and educate two children leaves one feeling always poorer.
What do you wish you'd done more of?
Earning. Paying closer attention to certain things.
What do you wish you'd done less of?
Drinking beer on my couch. Shirking various responsibilities. Procrastinating. Sounding off unsolicitedly about stupid shit.
How did you spend Christmas?
Out at my Mom’s place in Quogue.
Who did you spend the most time on the phone with?
No clue.
Did you fall in love in 2019?
Already very much in love.
How many one night stands in this last year?
Zero. I remain happily married.
What was your favorite TV program?
I quite enjoyed “Succession,” I must say.
Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
There’s a certain accusation persistently thrown around by Trump and his slackjawed supporters that Liberal Democrats are driven by a judgement-impairing hatred for Trump. Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi famously cited her own Catholic upbringing upon snapping at a reporter for suggesting same, claiming that her faith prevents her from harboring any hatred for anyone. That’s lovely and all, but being that I don’t hold any public office, and, despite also being raised a Catholic like Speaker Pelosi, am largely unencumbered by feelings of obligation to any religious dogma, I feel absolutely ZERO regrets about firmly stating that I genuinely HATEDonald Trump and his supporters with every fibre of my being. I’m not shy about it. I’m not ashamed about it. I think it’s healthy and, frankly, natural to express it. I won’t pretend otherwise.
What was the best book you read?
While I enjoyed “More Fun in The New World” by Tom DeSavia & John Doe and had higher hopes for Debbie Harry’s memoir, “Face It,” I have to say the book I probably got the biggest kick out of reading this year was my re-visitation of “The Call of Cthulhu and Other Weird Stories” by H.P. Lovecraft while dropping Oliver off at camp in location-specific Vermont this summer.
What was your greatest musical discovery?
Last year was a banner year in that I discovered the one-two punch of rock majesty in the form of Daughters and IDLES. 2019 didn’t bring as much fruit in that department, although I was quite enthused about the band John (shit name notwithstanding) and was happy to acquaint myself with 2013-era Nine Inch Nails, who I’d unwittingly slept on.
What did you want and get?
The long overdue impeachment of Trump.
What did you want and not get?
The long overdue dismantling of Trump’s Administration, his ouster from office, his indictment, his conviction and his imprisonment.
What were your favorite films of this year?
As someone who has always harbored a fascination for the story of the Manson Family, I have to say that I was quite into Quentin Tarantino’s “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood."
What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 52, and spent it strolling the lovely byways of the Marais in Paris with my family. Again, highly recommended.
What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
For Robert Mueller to have more effectively and emphatically done his job.
How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2019?
Somewhere between “Is this inappropriate for a man my age?” and “Would one of the Stranglers have worn this?"
What kept you sane?
The necessity to provide for my family.
What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
None really spring to mind, I have to say.
What political issue stirred you the most?
Where does one begin?
Who did you miss?
Ric Ocasek, Daniel Johnston, Ranking Roger, Keith Flint, Steven Jameson, Vaughan Oliver and, most of all, Mark Hollis.
Who was the best new person you met?
Some new colleagues at work.
Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2019
I don’t know if he made the phrase up, but a writer named Richard Carlson published a book in 1997 called “Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff … And It’s All Small Stuff.” That’s pithy and clever and generically reassuring and all, but it’s also a load of bullshit. I’m not suggesting that you should frantically preoccupy yourself with all manner of daily minutia to the point of distraction, but I don’t think it’s at all prudent to tune out and skip the required reading in favor of the Cliff’s Notes either. By all means, keep life in perspective and prioritize accordingly, but pay fucking attention to the details, because therein is where you’re probably getting fucked or about to unwittingly fuck yourself. At two pivotal points in 2019, there were instances when had I just been paying a wee bit more attention, I might have saved myself a substantial boatload of trouble. In both cases, things worked themselves out, but in neither instance were those outcomes guaranteed. Before you hit send, re-read that e-mail. Keep your bankbooks in order. Don’t just take their word for it. Study your monthly statements. Follow up and follow through. Send prompt thank-you cards. And as the Ice Cube once sagely rapped, check yourself before you wreck yourself.
Song lyric that sums up 2019
It’s February The world is wearing shorts The world is wearing its heart on its sleeve There’s bad news to report But the president can’t read
A video trailer for her book, here’s the video for “Girl to City,” the memoir of downtown chanteuse Amy Rigby. I first encountered Ms. Rigby via black and white photographs of her striking visage (some of the most iconic ones, like the portrait below, taken by Julia Gorton) that lead me to the conclusion that she was some sort of tempestuous No Wave vixen ala Lydia Lunch, Lizzy Mercier Descloux or Anya Philips. This wasn’t entirely the case, as Miss Rigby’s own music owed more to classic pop, folk and country, albeit practiced with the D.I.Y. aesthetic of the era. Suffice it to say, Amy Rigby was punk before the term became so rigidly codified.
In any case, this visual snippet of the great lady’s days on the downtown Manhattan scene – hanging in the East Village, playing at venues like Tier 3 and Folk City, etc. – leads me to believe that her book-- which came out only a couple of months back -- is something worth checking out.
Nostalgia, once again, is a weird thing. For every period or era or, in musical parlance, “scene” that one person laments, there are individuals from before and after that particular passage of time who harbor entirely different affinities and associations. Witness the ongoing dialogue in the comments in some of my posts about NYHC, as one example. Everyone has their own period, their own perceptions of same, obviously, and their own attachments.
I was certainly around for the boom of new New York City bands that manifested around the turn of the millennium and just afterwards, with acts like The Strokes, Interpol, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, LCD Soundsystem, The Rapture and genuinely liked a bunch of them (well, not so much The Rapture), but it was clearly no longer my class, so to speak. I was still carrying torches for earlier acts like Skeleton Key, Pussy Galore, Surgery, Barkmarket, Prong, Helmet and, yes indeed, Cop Shoot Cop. One alumnus of the latter -- Tod [A], of course -- formed Firewater, which almost bridged the chasm of those eras, going so far as sharing members with comparative upstarts like Gogol Bordello, but Firewater don’t often get a namecheck when discussing that next generation. I’m biased, of course, but I think that’s an oversight.
I’ve written about my issues with the whole “Meet Me In the Bathroom” generation of bands before, most windily here and also here. If you click on that first post, you’ll notice I appended a post-script to clarify that I didn’t mean to sound so grumpily prejudicial about Lizzie Goodman’s magisterial book on that era, but rather that I’d hoped for acknolwedgement of the continuum of great New York bands – which was actually kinda stupid, as that would have made poor Ms. Goodman’s already-quite-lengthy book much lengthier. What I need to do, simply, is acknowledge what I asserted in the first paragraph here – everyone is entitled to their own period, their own perceptions of same and their own attachements.
All this weighty preamble is to highlight the video below, which I stumbled upon on Vimeo. The clip was uploaded eight years ago, but seems to date back further than that (2004, maybe?). Dubbed "New Rock City,” this thirty-minute documentary attempts to capture the post-millennial/neo-post-punk (how’s that for a complicated descriptor?) generation by profiling bands like the afore-cited Gogol Bordello, FischerSpooner, Le Tigre, Blonde Redhead and some others, augmented by ruminations by rock journos like Sarah “Ultragrrl” Lewitinn and Joe Levy, two fellow (sorta) former SPIN alumni.
I think the thing that struck me about this film, however, is how the city and scene depicted therein already seem so long ago. That may have more to do with my own advancing age and perspective on things, but in the same way I look at books about New York's hardcore scene of the early-to-mid 80's and think “how is this even the same city?”, I get a comparable vibe from this. I am also reminded of “Goodnight Brooklyn” The Story of Death by Audio,” a compelling documentary that essentially told the story of an even more recent dyng scene that makes “New Rock City” look like friggin’ “The Decline of Western Civilization.”
Time passes. Things change. Scenes come and go and get replaced by new ones you won’t be privy to -- let alone endorse or understand -- because you basically get old and in the way.
Down here in Greenwich Village or – as I’m frequently heard to describe it – the veritable crotch of NYU, there’s a certain ground-floor apartment in the much, much nicer building across the street from mine that has always sparked a bit of speculation. Easily spotted from the sidewalk outisde, one can see a robust selection of handsome electric guitars hung around the high-ceilinged peremeter of a stately sitting/media room. I remember spying it sometime shortly after moving onto the street circa 2002 and becoming immediately curious as to the resident. At the time, I knew of certain celebrities like Julian Casablancas from The Strokes and Chris Noth from “Sex & The City” (and other roles, of course) living in the neighboring environs, but this room looked to be owned by someone at a more elevated level of affluence. The doorman of the building in question has, unsurprisingly, never been forthcoming about it (and, yes, I did ask). Lots of people in the `hood have theories.
“Keith Richards lives there,” is the one I’ve heard the most, although I furrow my brow every time it’s suggested.
For a start, while it had long been said that the storied Rolling Stone guitarist -- captured above by Timothy White -- “kept” a home somewhere in downtown Manhattan, it never struck me that the street-fighting man would have taken an apartment with a street-facing window. That just didn’t add up. He’s a Rolling Stone, for cryin’ out loud. Surely, die-hard Stones-heads would’ve figured it out and set up shop outside his window. But somehow, that theory persisted.
I also pooh-poohed the notion as -- however fun it would be to have Keef as a neighbor -- in the roughly seventeen years I’ve lived on this street, I have never once spotted the Midnight Rambler arriving or departing from the address in question. I’ve never even spotted a vehicle worthy of transporting same parked nearby. The whiff of Richards’ singular brand of louche badassery is nowhere to be smelt on my strip between University Place and Broadway. Given my own preoccupations, I assure you – if Keith Richards was living that close by, I’d damn well know about it.
Now, this not to say Keith hasn’t been spotted around, even if the spotting hasn’t been done by yours truly. As lovingly documented in Christopher McKittrick’s new book “Can’t Give It Away on Seventh Avenue” – which I’m currently reading – the Rolling Stones have an inexorable relationship with New York City, with all the band members having lived here at one point or another. Keith was said to have had a an apartment in the East Village until about 1983, although I’m uncertain as to where. And beyond periodically appearing on small stages across town to jam with certain notables, Keith was said to be a regular customer at Myers of Keswick, the traditional British grocery store over on Hudson Street in the West Village.
Just to close the loop on this, I finally got my copy of Karen O'Sullivan's "Somewhere Below 14th & East," and it is indeed astonishingly compelling.
In the grand tradition of Bri Hurley's "Making a Scene" and Drew Carolan's "Matinee," this collection of photos provides a striking glimpse into the NYHC scene of the early 80's, one that showcases the breadth of this particular comnunity, the pertinent topography and myriad characters from therein, both obscure and renowned. As I've laboriously observed on similar posts in the past, it's hard to reconcile that we're living in the same city that fostered this scene.
The last time I did that, of course, I was called out by a regular reader for being a boujie ex-punk (or something to that effect) who'd divested, seemingly oblivious to the the next generations' iterations that picked up where this earlier scene left off. To that point, I'd suggest that I'm not negating the idea of a thriving New York hardcore community here in 2019, but rather pointing out that it doesn't operate as this one did, nor around the same environs. My point is less about the continuing existence of hardcore and more about how much this city has changed.
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