Flaming Pablum

Back Again to Wendy's Wall

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. 

And this, once again, was the Plasmatics…

Buried Beneath the Bollocks

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.

The Photograph

Okay, here’s another kinda convoluted one.

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.

Here’s how it looks today.

Pressure Drop

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 these posts) 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.

A Solid Evening of Quality Hearing Loss

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....

 

Legs, Dee Dee, Deputy Dawg & Me: SPINterning in `89

I’ve spun this yarn (pardon the pun) before, but in the summer, fall and early winter of 1989, I interned at SPIN Magazine, then on West 18th Street just off Fifth Avenue. For a broader telling of that tale, check out this post, but one notable aspect of that experience was being in the company of then “editor-at-large,” Legs McNeil. For those who may not know the name, Legs McNeil is a somewhat notorious character who was one of the founders of Punk Magazine (alongside John Holmstrom, who I discussed earlier this week). He was, technically, Punk Magazine’s “resident punk,” and, y’know, conducted himself accordingly, insouciantly establishing the tone, attitude and spirt of what would become “Punk Rock,” and championing then-unknown bands like The Ramones, Patti Smith, Television, The Dictators, The Dead Boys, etc. I suppose it would be fair to brand Legs McNeil a tastemaker, but he’d probably sneer at you for it.

In the wake of the dissolution of the original run of Punk in 1979, I’m not entirely sure what Legs got up to — invariably nothing good -- but via the foresight of founding SPIN publisher, Bob Guccione Jr., he was plucked back out of obscurity in 1985 and put to work in the nascent auspices of SPIN, a then-genuinely cutting-edge periodical that offered a bona fide alternative — before that descriptor was appropriated — to jurassic contemporaries like Rolling Stone.

Given his origins, Legs leant both credibility and a palpably sharp edge to SPIN’s editorial efforts, even if frequently clashing (figuratively and literally) with the magazine’s top brass. It was not at all uncommon to see Legs stomp into the office and actually kick a desk over and/or hear him shout out a stream of hilariously profane invective at one hapless staffer or another. While incredibly cool, uproariously inappropriate and always very funny, Legs was also quite capable of being kind of … difficult. It just went with the territory, I guess.

One of my best friends at the magazine was my fellow intern Sam, and Sam and I pretty much idolized Legs. As representatives of the very bottom rung of the magazine’s hierarchy, it really didn’t bother us to watch Legs storm around the office, throwing tantrums and cursing people out. I mean, we were interns. We got no respect. Everyone hated us or, at the very least, went out of their way to ignore us. In my experience, though, that’s pretty much true everywhere. At SPIN, however, it seemed especially pronounced. We did shitty tasks no one would ever want to do, had to frequently fetch fucking lunch for editorial staffers (don’t ever do this to your interns) and didn’t get paid. Sam and I made up for the last part by liberally helping ourselves to stacks of disregarded promo albums, SPIN coffee mugs and piles upon piles of SPIN t-shirts and sweatshirts. As I type this, I’m wearing one of two SPIN sweatshirts I brazenly purloined. I’ve been wearing it for 32 years. It even still fits … kinda.

In any case, when not alphabetizing promo photos, putting stamps on mailers, manning the front desk phone when Claire the punky receptionist went to lunch (much less fun than you’d imagine, although it did afford me the opportunity to fleetingly chat with Ted Nugent, of all people), Sam and I would occasionally be assigned something actually interesting. While Legs was normally loathe to acknowledge us (again, … we were interns), he reeled in a big fish, one day, and needed some support.

Legs had somehow cajoled Dee Dee Ramone into giving him an exhaustive, tell-all interview. While the band’s primary songwriter, responsible for such classics as “Blitzkrieg Bop,” “Teenage Lobotomy,” “53rd & Third,” “Pinhead,” “I Wanna Be Sedated" and countless others, Dee Dee had grown fatigued by the rigid, militaristic uniformity of The Ramones and unthinkably jumped ship. At this stage, I believe he was holed up in the Chelsea Hotel, plotting his next move — one that would manifest in a spectacularly misdirected reinvention as a rapper named Dee Dee King, although that was yet to come.

In any case, Legs landed this big scoop — a sprawling, ten-hour conversation with Dee Dee — and needed it to be transcribed. A laborious chore at the best of times, interview transcription can be a time-consuming, mind-numbing affair. While usually best tackled by the person writing the resultant interview (so they’d know which quotes to keep and which to dump), Legs didn’t want to bother with that, so grabbed Sam and I to handle the whole work. I mean, why not, right? What else are interns good for?

Given Sam’s rich, Southern drawl (hailing, as he did, from Boone, North Carolina), Sam had already made an impression on Legs, who — shortly after hearing Sam speak for the first time— re-christened him “Deputy Dawg.” Sam also cut a distinctive figure with his penchant for loud patterned shirts. As far as Legs was concerned, I was just yet another ancillary, insufferable college-boy intern. I mean, I can’t really blame him for that. I looked like this, at the time.

But for this onerous function of transcribing Dee Dee Ramone, I’d suffice. We were bestowed handfuls of cassettes and yellow, legal note pads covered with Legs’ jagged approximation of shorthand, and told to get to work.

As insalubrious as that sounds, both Sam and I considered this a plumb assignment. Both of us being lifelong Ramones fans didn’t hurt, and we dove headlong into the job, giddily abandoning our otherwise corrosively banal daily tasks to wade into what we considered “real music journalism!"

But as invested as we were in the project, it was genuinely hard work. Between Legs’ indecipherable notes and Dee Dee’s practically Joycean tangents (nobody speaks in clear, fluid, perfectly crafted paragraphs, least of all the lyricist of the Ramones), making any semblance of sense of the narrative was no small feat. For several days, Sam and I came in early, skipped lunch breaks and stayed long after our allotted shifts to help bring Legs’ interview to fruition. I remember one editor being taken aback by our dedication. “What are you guys still doing here?” she asked, one early November evening as Sam and I were still beavering away at the Dee Dee saga. We were committed to getting it done.

Towards the end of the task, Thanksgiving was looming. Sam and I were putting the final touches on the full transcription (which, in hindsight, the magazine could probably have farmed out to a professional agency to take care of in a fraction of the time, but whatever), and committed to finishing before the break. We hadn’t really interacted with Legs in days. We heard him around the office (he was hard to miss), but it was almost like he was deliberately avoiding us, which seemed entirely likely. Towards the end of the day, he came trucking by the intern/copyeditor area and made a cameo on his way out the door (I took the picture of him above at that moment). He seemed in a not-atypical foul mood. As he passed by us, we eagerly told him we’d finished the transcription and to have a happy Thanksgiving. As he turned away from us and walked down the corridor, we heard him grumble a “yeah, yeah, whatever” on his way to the elevator.

Sam and I looked at each other with a sort of “we tried” shrug. A beat later, Legs re-appeared with the sort of wobbly smile Charlie Brown sports at the end of each holiday special. “Hey, guys,” he finally said, “Happy Thanksgiving to you guys, too! GOBBLE GOBBLE GOBBLE!”

Some time after that, Sam left SPIN to go back to his college in North Carolina. I left at the end of December after the managing editor who alluded to hiring me full-time got fired. Legs quit SPIN for one reason or another, possibly even before I did. Here in 2022, Sam, like myself, is married and has teenagers of his own. He lives in Portland now and we are still great friends.

I want to say I remember at least part of Legs’ interview with Dee Dee Ramone appearing in an ensuing issue of SPIN, but can’t find any record of it now.

In later years, I ran into Legs in the East Village and accosted him. He kindly said he remembered me, but that struck me, then as now, as heroically unlikely. His cantankerous edges had clearly softened a bit, and he was happy to chat. In 1996, “Please Kill Me,” his authoritative tome with Gillian McCain about the rise and fall of Punk Rock, was released and practically became a standard by which all new oral histories are executed, exalting Legs to a new level of respectability he’d probably never experienced. Personally speaking, hyperbole aside, “Please Kill Me” is unquestionably my favorite book of all time. He also went onto publish acclaimed books about the pornography industry, Joey Ramone, teenage diarist Mary Rose and, last I heard, was working on an oral history about the Manson Family.

Along the way, he helped launch the similarly inclined Please Kill Me website, which featured some great posts over the years (including an eye-opening interview with John Oates, of all people). For whatever reason, however, in arguably typical fashion, Legs must have had a falling-out with his partners at the website and has since abandoned the venture, branching out on his own with a new website called — wait for it — Legsville. Three decades after first meeting and working alongside (kinda) Legs, I’m still a big fan of his work, so I went over to Legsville recently to check it out.

Imagine my surprise, then, to find that interview with Dee Dee Ramone there at long last. Check it out here ...tell'em Flaming Pablum & "Deputy Dawg" sent ya. 

John Holmstrom Speaks

I’ve written about Punk co-founder and illustrator John Holmstrom here a few times, but he recently appeared on my favorite podcast, Killed By Desk (which I’ve also discussed several times here). In any case, it’s a great discussion — John delves into his origins in illustration and publishing, his travails with mainstream magazines and, of course, his days putting out Punk Magazine with Legs McNeil, including a tale about “lost issue #9” that evidently featured and in-depth interview with Kiss. One can’t help wondering how the publishing of that issue might have affected Kiss’ credibility (in possibly a good way). We’ll never know, because — to hear John tell in — dark forces intervened.

It’s great. Check it out.

Meet the (Trouser) Press

It is 1982, and I am irretrievably in the throes of my fanatical allegiance to DEVO, underscored by the release of their fourth major label LP, the slavishly underrated New Traditionalists. It being prior to the age of the internet, press invocations about the band are, at best, few and far between. But upon a trip to (long-vanished) Revolution Records on Lexington Avenue and East 63rd Street, I spy a glossy magazine with my boys on the friggin’ COVER and buy it on the spot. The periodical is curiously called Trouser Press, and it is devoted exclusively to exactly the variant of bold, new music DEVO is at the forefront of. I become an immediate zealot for the mag in question.

Beyond the cover story (a conversation between DEVO’s Mark Mothersbaugh and Gerry Casale with subversive iconoclast/writer William S. Burroughs), this issue of Trouser Press (named, I would later learn, after a track by the Bonzo Dog Band) was chock full of meaty information on a host of new and different bands, all written with a smart, cheeky insouciance rarely found in mainstream publications. The guy behind this whole trailblazing endeavor was a music journalist named Ira Robbins.

Shortly after this, I am schlepping around a posh Fifth Avenue bookstore and spot a colorfully-covered tome titled “The Trouser Press Guide to New Wave Records,” edited by Ira Robbins. Again, I buy it on the spot, which was exactly the right goddamn thing to do, it being a rarefied trove of so much great information. The book goes on to be reprinted with no fewer than five great editions. I still have all of them. I consider them priceless.

I am a goddamn die-hard Ira Robbins fan and have been since picking up that first issue of Trouser Press. I opined on a post about businesses Time Out Magazine deemed worthy of bringing back, and fucking Ira Goddamn Robbins weighed in on the thread with a post that speaks to the core of this here stupid blog of mine.

Enjoy Ira Robbins’’ Rock and Roll Ghosts.

Goodbye, 2021, You Cruel Bitch!

I normally do these annual surveys a little later in the year, but being that this is (once again) not the usual Christmas season, all bets are off. I’m doing my damndest to sustain any remaining semblance of holiday spirit, but suffice to say, events of the day, so to speak, are making it very hard to stay optimistic, let alone cheery. We are making the most of it and — god willing — getting through it unscathed, but we’re ultimately taking it day by day. Let’s get to it, then...

What did you do in 2021 that you'd never done before?

Well, I had a long-overdue colonoscopy. That sure was fun. And now, I get to have one every year. Oh joy.

Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I don’t have an excellent track record with keeping resolutions, but since the pandemic first landed, I’ve been battling the tenacious “fuck it, it’s the end of the world” impetus that allows for overeating and over-imbibing. I’m hoping to step up efforts, in that capacity, come the New Year, but I’m not making any resolutions about it.

Did anyone close to you give birth?

Yes, my sister-in-law had another little boy about four months back, and one of my sister’s daughters-in-law gave birth to a little girl.

Did anyone close to you die?

The mother of a dear friend of mine from high school passed away very recently. Beyond that, a few friends of my parents died. No one in my immediate circle, mercifully.

What countries did you visit?

For a hot second, we were thinking of traveling to Montreal, but events of the day forbade. Maybe next year?

What would you like to have in 2022 that you lacked in 2021?

An end to the pandemic.

What date from 2021 will remain etched upon your memory?

Well, gosh, January 6 was certainly pretty memorable. Fuck Trump.

What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Staying healthy, getting my kids vaccinated (although Oliver’s not eligible for a booster, yet) and staying productive and appreciated on the work front.

What was your biggest failure?

There are things I wish I hadn’t done or said, but that will always be the case. I am human.

Did you suffer illness or injury?

I have thus far managed to continue to dodge COVID-19, but that won’t be the case for long, if the news is to believed. Beyond that, however, I have been grappling with a host of unsavory travails that come with aging, ranging from the discouraging results of the afore-cited colonoscopy to graduating up to a proper pair of “progressive” lenses, which is a gentler way of saying “bifocals.” I’m also now on blood-pressure meds, occasionally experiencing “visual auras” (which are linked to migraine headaches, allegedly) and have a hammertoe problem that’s kind of a bitch. Sorry you asked?

What was the best thing you bought?

I honestly haven’t the foggiest idea.

Whose behavior merited celebration?

Beyond the medical community and essential workers, everyone who got vaccinated and boosted and continues to adhere to COVID protocols for the benefit of the collective.

Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Trump supporters, anti-vaxxers, science-skeptics, conspiracy theorists and SantaCon participants.

What did you get really, really excited about?

A few months back, things seemed genuinely like they were getting better. Life opened back up. Things were getting re-scheduled. Options were appearing. Live music was back. So much for all that.

Where did most of your money go?

We spent a lot on prospective college visits.

What song will always remind you of 2021?

As with 2020, I can’t say that I’ll want to be reminded of 2021.

Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?

At the moment, I am worried and depressed.

Thinner or fatter?

Can’t say that I’ve been keeping track, but probably fatter.

Richer or poorer?

About the same as before.

What do you wish you'd done more of?

Oh crap, who knows? I worked quite hard this year and got to spend a great amount of time with my wife and kids. I have no regrets, on that front.

What do you wish you'd done less of?

Stressing out about COVID.

How did you spend Christmas?

It hasn’t happened yet, but we’re *PLANNING* on spending it here at home, then leaving Christmas Day to go visit my mother out in Quogue. After that, we *MAY* go visit my sister-in-law’s family in Pennsylvania, but this is all contingent on a number of fluid factors.

Who did you spend the most time on the phone with?

Colleagues from work.

Did you fall in love in 2021?

I have been married for 20 years and remain very much in love.

How many one night stands in this last year?

See above.

What was your favorite TV program?

I’m inclined to again cite “Succession” as the best thing we watched this year, although I’m invariably forgetting some of the other shows we watched.

Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?

Well, hmmmm.. I still vehemently hate everyone in the Trump Administration and those that continue to support the cause of Trumpism.

What was the best book you read?

“The History of Bones,” the memoir of John Lurie.

What was your greatest musical discovery?

I already devoted a post to my favorite albums of 2021, although I was remiss in not adding both Big Paul Ferguson’s debut LP and the debut album by The Wind-Ups.

What did you want and get?

Joe Biden sworn in as President, albeit not without a lot of friggin’ idiotic fallout.

What did you want and not get?

Donald J. Trump being arrested, tried, convicted and imprisoned.

What were your favorite films of this year?

I quite enjoyed both Apple TV’s Velvet Underground documentary and “Belfast.” I saw “Spencer” with Kristen Stewart, and that almost put me off movies for good. Yes, it was that bad.

What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 54 and had a few friends over to ring it in. Overall, very low-key.

What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Reports of Donald J. Trump being vigorously and repeatedly molested by his fellow inmates in federal prison.

How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2021?

Face masks are the new black

What kept you sane?

Who said anything about being sane?

What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

I think Dua Lipa is quite striking, but to say I “fancy” her would be inappropriate and repugnant.

What political issue stirred you the most?

If you had told me, during the scariest moments of 2020, that there was going to be pronounced pushback upon the arrival of vaccines, I would have scoffed, but Americans are stubborn, selfish and fucking stupid.

Who did you miss?

President Barack Obama

Who was the best new person you met?

Ummmmmm…. probably my new little nephew.

Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2021

Don’t put off a colonoscopy.

Song lyric that sums up 2021

History shows again and again How nature points out the folly of men - Blue Oyster Cult

Hardcore for the Holidays

Hey again, all....

Just a quick one. Now that the holidays are upon us, I thought I'd evangelize some pertinent links, should you be on the hunt for Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/whatever presents for the little n'erdowells in your own family.

If you're curious about the book, “The New York Hardcore Chronicles Vol. 1 (1989 - 1989): A Flyer Oral History,” which I spoke about here, you can now order your own copy of the second printing by clicking right here. 

And, on a similar tip, if you're interested in that Bad Brains print by Glen E. Friedman (or other bits of his work), click here. 

Merry Merry.