Flaming Pablum

"How Did They Know?": Klosterman's Radiohead Theory ... Revisited

Here’s an entry I’m relatively certain I’m going to regret posting. But first, a bit of background….

Over the course of a long, deathly quiet overnight shift at the TIME Magazine News Desk in the late July of 2005, a little under a month after I’d first launched this silly blog, I composed an epic-length post ruminating on an article for SPIN that Chuck Klosterman had penned that was later appended to a collection of his writings. The subject matter was his not-entirely-serious postulation that Kid A, the arguably confounding and divisive fourth album by arty British alternative band, Radiohead, had predicted the events of September 11, 2001. Should you be curious and willing to overlook some invariable typos and maybe a broken image or two, you can find that here:

Klosterman’s Theory: Did Radiohead’s Kid A Predict 9/11?

In the gradual wake of unwittingly posting that entry, it became one of the most frequently clicked pieces of this blog’s almost-19-year history, being frequently cited on any number of Radiohead fan forums and conspiracy-theory sites. It was linked to by legitimate outlets like Cracked and Noisey, with both repeatedly resurfacing those posts on social media, prompting me to post no fewer than five retorts, notably…

Klosterman’s Theory Redux: Kid A Gets Cracked (2010)
Radioheadache: The Scourge of Klosterman’s Theory (2016)
Radioheadcase: The Endurance of Klosterman’s Theory (2020)
You’ve Got to Be Kid A’ing Me (2020)
Kid Oy! (2022)

Each of these basically reiterated the same point, that being that I personally never really took the theory all that seriously nor, did I suspect, that Klosterman himself did, either.

But the clicks and links kept coming. Despite how many times I mentioned that I didn’t really care or that I thought it was all a bit in bad taste and that there were surely bigger fish to be fried, the interest in this bizarre theory hasn’t really waned or diminished.

To that end, I fielded a cryptic note today, almost nineteen years after that first post, from a reader named Paul. Paul wrote in, in all caps, “I AM GOING TO MAKE YOU CARE,” and included a link to a video. The accompanying text for that video is as follows:

SHARE THIS. SPREAD THIS.

Radiohead are the kings of 9/11 foreknowledge. They embedded *dozen and dozens* of visual and lyrical clues in three consecutive albums — OK Computer, Kid A, and Amnesiac. (Chuck Klosterman's half-assed writerly analysis of merely some lyrics in merely one album, Kid A, is a weak-sauce limited hangout.) Radiohead absolutely knew about 9/11 ahead of time, to an eerily specific extent, almost as if they were commissioned to perform a years-long artistic conjuring/welcoming ritual. I myself attended the Suffolk Downs show, and the vibes that night were off-the-charts spooky. Not just the ominous pre-show sunset, not just the panic-frequencies emitted by Thom Yorke all night, not just the planes from the adjacent Logan Airport flying around us all night. There was one moment I will never, ever forget. Just when the "Rain Down" section of Paranoid Android began and the music dramatically paused, a single plane roared directly over our heads, and the crowd erupted at the classic concert synchronicity. I don't know how anyone could have arranged it, that moment might have had a paranormal basis. Regardless: RADIOHEAD KNEW. Which is way, way more important than you probably think it is right now. They have been conspicuously omitted from all 9/11 Predictive Programming compilations, probably for a reason, and probably not a good reason. SPREAD THIS VIDEO. Copy the url, and text it to someone who will be interested, email it to your favorite conspiracy theorists, share it with any Radiohead fans, post it on social media, rip the video and post it on your own account, do whatever it takes to publicize this. DO NOT JUST READ THIS AND KEEP BROWSING. Do your part, please. Thank you.

Here is the video in question. Be warned -- there are some jarring passages herein, if you are triggered by this subject matter. 

Please make of that what you will. 

My only question to you, dear, patient readers, is this … where in New York City was the photo at the top taken? Weigh in, street-spotters.

Drinkin’, Lechin’ & Lyin’ at the Pyramid

During a presumably recent performance in the hotbed of class, distinction and good taste that is Las Vegas, pronouncedly melismatic warbler and erstwhile Voice “coach” Christina Aguilera was photographed sporting an oversized vintage t-shirt adorned with the cover art of Drinkin’, Lechin’ & Lyin’, the 1989 debut e.p. by blues/punk/noise-rockers, Boss Hog, notable for their inclusion of Jon Spencer of Pussy Galore and his lovely wife Cristina Martinez. Stereogum posted this pictured on its Facebook feed, and the inevitable debate of whether or not “Xtina” was genuinely a fan of the band ensued.

I can’t honestly say whether or not the singer is a legitimate fan of Boss Hog that can name more than three songs, although she very well might be. I mean, she was about nine years old when that record came out, but that means nothing. I was only three years old when Fun House by the Stooges came out, and I consider that the greatest album of all time. I’d love to hear Christina abandon her usual poppy piffle and bust into a gruff, throaty cover of “Winn Coma” or “Pull Out” sometime. That would be refreshing.

In any case, prompted by some other commenters who were evidently confused as to who and what exactly was on Aguilera’s shirt, I quickly pointed out that it was a band and not (directly) a reference to Sorrel Brooke’s infamous character on “The Dukes of Hazzard.” To underscore same, I posted this video, a performance by Boss Hog from around the same era as the e.p. in question, captured within the intimate confines of what was then The Pyramid Club on Avenue A. Check it out….

Okay, so not only is it prime early Boss Hog with Cristin Martinez in fine, feral form, but it also totally takes one back to what it was like seeing live shows in that great room. As mentioned back on this post from 2015, my first show at the Pyramid was around the same era, when I caught my friend’s band Fractured Cylinder opening for Rats of Unusual Size and The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black (fun side note about that: I made a slightly disparaging comment about the Rats of Unusual Size in that post, and the lead singer wrote in about it as recently as this past February).

Another amazing thing about the old Pyramid (not to be confused with the more banal iteration in its latter years) was that it was this strangely harmonious plateau where otherwise incongruous tribes all gathered. It was practically Ground Zero for the East Village’s Drag community (for a more authoritative account of that era, check this page out).

There’s also a big deluxe book about that whole scene coming out shortly, which you can find out about here. At the same time as all that fabulousness, the doors were manned by dudes from A7 across the way ..

Recognize those cats? That’s RayBeez and Jimmy G (from Warzone and Murphy’s Law, respectively), who handled security. When not hosting disco balls for the drag community, the Pyramid hosted hardcore matinees, with Jimmy and Ray booking bands like Sick of It All, Warzone, Youth of Today, Token Entry, Judge, Gorilla Biscuits and many more.

Beyond the drag queens and the hardcore kids, however, you also had the neighborhood’s contingent of noise-rock bands like SWANS, Sonic Youth, White Zombie, The Unsane, Pussy Galore and my pals in Cop Shoot Cop…

Fun easter egg for the Cop Shoot Cop fanboys, back in that Boss Hog clip, as the band is plugging and getting ready to do their thang, the sound system plays “Disconnected 666” from Consumer Revolt.

Of course, the Pyramid closed for good in 2021, and I wrote a suitably weepy eulogy here. The space that had been the Pyramid re-opened last summer, and it’s now a venture called Baker Falls, which described itself thusly:

An oasis in the heart of New York City’s East Village where you can attend live performances, crash a late-night dance party, grab coffee, have a meal, sip cocktails, buy and sell goods…pretty much anything you can think of in a brick and mortar establishment. We’re bringing people together in the real world.

Sound nice, right? I’ve yet to darken its doors. Incidentally, the striking photo of the interior of the old Pyramid at the top of this post was captured by the great Ken Schles. The shot of Baker Falls below was poached brazenly from my good pal EV Grieve. 

The Return of "Did You Feel That?"

I vividly remember the 2011 earthquake here in New York City. I was working, at the time, at the website for the TODAY show (not the greatest fit for me, to be honest, but hey … it was a gig). I worked on the third or fourth floor of 30 Rockefeller Plaza with about 30 other people in a large, windowless room with garish orange walls (NBC did enjoy its petty tortures) and we had these hanging light fixtures above our bullpen of desks. I was busy typing up something inane, and suddenly noticed all those light fixtures suddenly … swaying, something we’d assuredly never seen them do before. It was a bit ominous, but that was pretty much the extent of it.

A couple of teeth-grinding years after that last seismic event, I managed to get protractedly “managed out” of my increasingly stressful job at TODAY, which was honestly the best for all parties concerned, although it certainly didn’t feel that way, at the time. After several months on the street, I finally landed the job I've held for the last eight years and six months. It has its issues, like any other gig, but overall, it’s great and I’m very happy to be there. My office is on the 31st floor of 7 World Trade Center.

Those of you playing along at home might remember the building that used to stand in the footprint of my current office building. On the morning of September 11, 2001, the former 7 World Trade Center had the ignominious distinction of being the building that completely collapsed despite not having actually been hit by any planes. Practically immediately after it was reduced to a smokey heap of rubble, conspiracy theories started to grow like kudzu about the reasons behind its collapse. Friggin’ books have been penned about it.

Anyway, despite the address's history and grim proximity to the 9/11 Memorial, it’s astonishing how one can put all that information to one side, so to speak, when simply concentrating on one’s job. I frankly don’t spend a lot of time dwelling on the fact that I work on basically the same plot of real estate where 2,996 people died horribly.

I don’t think about that fact very often … until days like today.

I was in my office, this morning, by around 8:30 am, having already been tasked from the evening before with chasing down some far-flung bits of interview video from our extensive archives. I spent most of my morning compiling all those assets and typing up a detailed report about their contents, and was about to hit “send,” when I suddenly felt a pronounced disturbance.

From a distance, 7 WTC looks like 1 WTC’s younger sibling. It’s perched in front of what some folks still insist on calling “The Freedom Tower” like a stumpy little runt, compared to the sweeping height of 1 WTC’s 104 floors and cloud-piercing spire. But, at 54 floors of its own, 7 WTC is still one tall drink of water, when you’re standing right in front of it. Technically, it’s the 28th tallest building in New York, if that makes any difference.

As such, those of us who are regularly teeming in any out of the thing like busy little ants are used to feeling the building literally sway, at times, or hearing the elevator shafts periodically groan during windy days. This usually happens without any compromise to the building’s integrity, and as odd as it sounds, one does get used to it.

But the shaking the building experienced this morning assuredly was not that, and in very short order, had my undivided attention.

My first thought, was “holy crap, what has hit us?”

I spun in my chair and looked out the window, but nothing looked off. The view across Manhattan looked bright, clear and bereft of any sign of trouble.

I suddenly started fielding text messages from colleagues in Brooklyn and then New Jersey and then Long Island, and it all immediately made sense.

Earthquake.

In the grand scheme of things — or thus far, at least — it wasn’t that big a deal. No great damage has been reported, and no lives have been lost. I’m sure people in California and other quake-prone points on the map are chuckling at what pussies New Yorkers are being about this. Fair enough.

Having completed my major tasks of the morning, I decided to clear the fuck out to evade the possibility of getting stuck in the building (or worse). Probably against my better judgement, I took the elevator down and walked home.

 

 

In the hysterical hours since, I’ve seen the above meme being widely circulated over social media, and someone else posted a pic of t-shirts for sale saying “I SURVIVED THE 2024 EARTHQUAKE.” I get it, and I suppose we can all feel free to giggle about how much ado about nothing it evidently was, but I’m not really ready to get that cocky about it, myself.

You may consider yourself to be one slick captain of industry with your shit well put together, but all it really takes is one fleeting shudder of Mother Nature to remind you of how fucking insignificant you truly are.

Yes, this morning was ultimately just a minor blip, comparatively speaking, but a series of aftershocks could still be on the way. We may not be out of the woods. And was it indeed a blip… or just an amuse-bouche before a larger entree?

If you honestly believe New York City is genuinely prepared to effectively handle a major earthquake, I’ve got a big, pretty bridge to sell ya.

I mean, for fuck’s sake, have you met our mayor?

Spank Generation: Unpacking "A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell"

I’m normally not one to fall for literary hype, but I succumbed, back in February, and picked up Young Kim’s “A Year on Earth with Mr. Hell,” the first-time author’s allegedly scandalous and graphically revealing tell-all about her brief affair with reluctant punk pioneer/author Richard Hell. Hell himself has gone on record, since the book’s initial release in 2020, dismissing the endeavor as “revenge porn,” and complained that Ms. Kim published the work with neither his knowledge nor consent. Ironically, I certainly never would have heard about the book had Hell not been so vocal about it. But, with my curiosity piqued, I went out to try to track down a copy for myself, but they were hard to put your hand to. I ended up ordering one from McNally-Jackson in SoHo, and about a week later, I picked it up.

In its defense, I’ll say this — the book itself is a lovely artifact to hold in your hand, lavishly published by a little, independent house called Fashionbeast Editions (I apparently own a second edition). This all said, I’m ashamed to confess that, a month later, I am still sluggishly paging through it, which is embarrassing in that the book is barely the length of a novella. The trouble is that I am routinely finding myself driven away from it.

As a quick bit of backstory, “A Year on Earth…” starts off documenting Young Kim’s initial flirtation with fabled poet-turned-proto-punk rocker Richard Hell, who she’d approached for the purposes of recruiting him to present an award dedicated to the legacy of her late lover, Malcolm McLaren. As has been well documented, McLaren famously used Richard Hell as the sartorial/tonsorial template, in the late `70s, he’d later project onto the fledgling Sex Pistols, an arguably thorny bit of pop-culture history that continues to act as an oft-employed cannonball in rock-geek battles about the true provenance of all things Punk. Regardless, in the wake of McLaren’s death, Kim, the lone executrix of McClaren’s estate, rightly deduced what a pivotal inspiration Hell had been to her former partner and reached out. In short order, sparks begin to fly, and the story takes off from there.

There, however, is where my problems with it start. I should preface the rest of this post with the probably obvious concession that I’ve never written a book, much less a detailed memoir. I’ve been approached to do so, a few times, but I frankly just don’t know that I have a book in me, so to speak. As such, who am I to take Ms. Kim to task for successfully vaulting her book into the public consciousness? It may not be a best-seller, yet, but it’s garnered a fair share of critical acclaim, including a prestigious write-up in The New York Times. That’s nothing to sneeze at, and I completely respect the achievement. By the same token, as a reader (and as a longtime Richard Hell fan), I’m perfectly entitled to have my own opinions about Kim’s writing, and not all of them are that reverential.

For a start, while it’s firmly established from the jump that the author is an avowed acolyte of all things fashion, Kim’s indefatigable attention to recounting the minutia of her wardrobe and her slavish devotion to luxury items during any given chapter is of absolutely zero interest to me. The painstaking citations that she sleeps on a bed adorned with “shaggy Tibetan goat-hair cushions,” wears incorrectly sized Yves Saint Laurent heels simply because they were designed by Hedi Slimane (“What an exquisite and glamorous collection!”) and/or that she chooses to wear (and bother describing) a “thick angora sweater dress color blocked in pale cerulean blue an intense cobalt blue” for one tryst with Hell just end up cluttering the page and unwittingly revealing her to be something of a brazen materialist. Now, granted, given her predilections, her vocation, and her background, one should assume that the intended readership of this book isn’t solely crotchety rock dads like me, and there may indeed be a particularly fabulous demographic that cannot get enough of reading about Kim’s bespoke outfits and expensive taste. But, as far as I'm concerned, it just gets in the way of the narrative.

Secondly, and, to be fair, this one is a way more niche concern, Kim takes a few misdirected potshots at my beloved local, the Knickerbocker Bar & Grill. Granted, I’m hugely biased as I literally live in the same building as this age-old neighborhood standby and have been dining and drinking there for years, even well before I moved into the apartment in question in 2002. I was very pleasantly surprised to read that the Knick is a big favorite of Hell’s as well (although in all my years of going there, I’ve yet to spot him in one of the booths), and he chooses it for their first date. Unfortunately, during that first meal together there, Kim orders a steak that is not prepared to her liking (while Hell’s comes as he asked for it), which immediately prompts her to brand the place as “sexist.” She doubles-down on this allegation when, at another point, they clear her wine glass without asking if she wants another. Listen, Ms. Kim, I’ve ordered an ill-advisable number of steaks from the Knick, over the years, and you really shouldn’t be taking it so damn personally that they may have not completely prepped the food to your exacting standards. Suffice to say, you’re not that special — it happens to all of us. Is it annoying? Sure, but it’s not sexist.

Hell and Kim end up returning to the Knick a few times, during the course of proceedings, and she continues to dump on the place, at points, for being -- God forbid -- not her style, too crowded and/or “too well lit” (which is bizarre, `cos it’s rarely that), and I’m sorry — I’m not having that. Besmirch the Knickerbocker Bar & Grill at your peril. Don’t like it? Then fuck right off to your precious Boom Boom Room at the noxious Standard Hotel and please never come back. Sorry, but she truly crossed a line with me on that one.

Lastly, for a book so many — including hallowed wordsmiths like Bret Easton Ellis and Greil Marcus — have rapturously hailed as grippingly salacious in the boudoir department, I have to say … it’s just, well, kinda boring, in that capacity. Liberal usage of exhausted “dirty” words like “cock” and “pussy” don’t exactly push the envelope of expression any more than what you might otherwise find typed dispiritedly in the distressed pages of Penthouse Forum. I also sincerely doubt Hell was especially chuffed to read some of his particular bedroom kinks exposed for the world to scrutinize, but I guess that is the crux of the project, which Kim makes no apologies for. It might have been nice if she’d warned him first, but — as she has been quick to point out — many men have written far worse without ever seeking approval or offering apology.

In any case, I still have a fair chunk of it yet to slog through, but one more crack about the Knick and it’s going to be a swift and unrepentant defenestration.

Back ... Again ... to Astor Place

Yesterday, writer Arthur Nersesian, whose first novel “The Fuck-Up” was a big favorite of mine, posted an old image of Astor Place on his Facebook page. That’s it up top. Odd, right? He didn’t slap a date on it but considering the Astor Place Cube (real name: “The Alamo”) was first erected on that spot in 1967, and given the make of the cars pictured in the lot in the background, I’m guessing this could have been taken at some point in the `70s or early `80s, but I can’t be sure.

It’s also striking in that so many of the elements depicted in this photograph are no longer recognizable. I mean, yes, that’s obviously the Alamo on the left side or your screen, and presumably the edifice on the right across the street is the lower façade of the Carl Fischer Music Building, but that parking lot is long gone, as are all the row houses in the distance on the eastern end of Cooper Square. There’s now a giant glass tower – which my kids and I used to refer to as “The Shampoo Bottle” – with a bank on its ground floor where the parking lot used to be. To stand on this very spot and look south today, they would be obscured from view, but the buildings featured in the background are largely all gone anyway, replaced by the space-station-like Albert Nerken School of Engineering and the Cooper Square Hotel, which I once described here as a “priapic pillar of avarice” and a “gigantic robot phallus.” You’re welcome.

In any case, on my way to work, this morning, I tried to replicate the shot Arthur posted. As I mentioned, a lot has changed.

Funnily enough, “The Alamo” was never meant to still be here. It was initially installed for a six-month spell in 1967, but when it was time to move it, the community rallied together to keep it there. Also, it was never designed to be interactive. Artist Tony Rosenthal didn’t assume people would take to spinning the thing. But, of course, spin it they do.

Here's another little fun artifact, an NYU Tisch school student film from 2003 called, simply, “Alamo.” Only 21 years ago, but it already seems like a totally different city. The “Shampoo Bottle” was only just under construction, and the giant “Death Star” monolith that is 101 Astor Place had not yet replaced the humble Cooper Union classroom buildings.

Enjoy the short trip back in time…

Wareham Weighs In

It’s happened before. I’ve invoked someone’s name, and they’ve weighed in. I’ve had that happen with Lenny Kaye, Julia Cafritz of Pussy Galore, Thurston Moore of Sonic Youth, Bob Bert of Sonic Youth/Pussy Galore, Handsome Dick Manitoba of the Dictators, punk photographer Roberta Bayley, John Lurie of the Lounge Lizards, Peter Missing from Missing Foundation, Jarboe of SWANS, the late photographer Ricky Powell, Johnny Ha Ha of Alien Sex Fiend and, most recently, Jim Fornidais of the Rats of Unusual Size (whom I somewhat blithely dismissed in an allusion to a triple-bill at the Pyramid, centuries ago --- sorry about that!). I mean, I suppose it’s not that big deal. Who hasn’t, at one point or another, googled their own name and perused the results? It should be so surprising, but it always kinda catches me off guard.

In any case, what I’m referring to is a comparatively ancient post from 2013, wherein I drilled down on the assertion, first invoked in the excellent memoir “Black Postcards” by Galaxie 500/Luna singer/songwriter Dean Wareham, that late Cramps guitarist Bryan Gregory (right) had allegedly worked at an Upper East Side King Karol outlet on Third Avenue between East 86th and East 85th Streets. Having grown up, as Wareham had, in that same neighborhood, and similarly gleaned that Cramps frontman Lux Interior had worked at nearby Musical Maze just down the avenue a little bit (as recently expounded on here), I was entirely fascinated by the concept of these two striking figures from New York City’s Punk underground toiling in the comparatively staid environs of Manahttan on the westerly edges of Yorkville.

Eleven years later, Dean Wareham has officially entered the discussion, leaving a note over the weekend saying….

okay I stand corrected; it was MUSICAL MAZE. Too bad I can't fix in the book. I too used to walk by the store on the way home from school and I bought the first Clash album there for sure.

Incidentally, that picture of Wareham up top was not captured in either King Karol or Musical Maze, but rather brazenly purloined from this page. Topically, however, the image fit the bill, so to speak.

Here in 2024, neither King Karol nor Musical Maze still exist. Neither do Bryan Gregory or Lux Interior of the Cramps, tragically. Today, actually, would have been Bryan Gregory's 71st birthday, had he not died of heart failure at age 49 in 2001. Dean Wareham, meanwhile, is still quite active and currently touring with Luna, so go check him out if you get the chance.

Here’s my favorite-ever Luna song, “23 Minutes Over Brussels” which features the inimitable guitar of the late Tom Verlaine. Crank it.

Back to the Artist Lofts

Hey again, all. I know I said I was leaving, but I’m not departing until later this afternoon, and a regular reader named Crawford just shared this me, and I thought it was cool enough to evangelize here. Here’s hoping you agree.

The clip below is by a photographer named Josh Charow about a compelling project. Here’s his official description.

I spent the past two years creating my first photography book titled 'Loft Law. The Last of New York City's Original Artist Lofts' about artists living under the protection of the Loft Law. The law, enacted in 1982 (Article 7-C of the Multiple Dwelling Law), granted protection and rent stabilization to thousands of artists who were living illegally in commercial and manufacturing zoned lofts in neighborhoods like Soho, Tribeca, and the Bowery after the manufacturing industry predominantly left Manhattan.

Two years ago, I found a map of the remaining protected buildings, rang hundreds of doorbells, and photographed and interviewed over 75 artists who are still living in these incredible lofts to this day. The photographs explore some of the most unique beautiful, and hidden artist studios across New York City. The book includes writing and personal stories from the incredible group of artists featured in the book.

Buy the book: https://www.joshuacharow.com/shop/lof...

To inquire about purchasing a print, please contact: [email protected]

Here’s the video:

Damaged Hours: Back to Mohawk Night at Club Berlin

Mention the words “New York Hardcore,” and certain band names are inevitably going to be invoked –- notably classic ensembles like Agnostic Front, Cro-Mags, Murphy’s Law, Kraut, Antidote, Heart Attack, Cause For Alarm, Warzone, Madball, Sick of It All and several others. But, since its gradual gestation from about 1981 (around the time when Bad Brains expatriated to NYC from Washington D.C.), there have been countless bands born under the NYHC banner, from The Undead, Even Worse, False Prophets, The Stimulators, Virus, The Mad and the fledgling Beastie Boys through Gorilla Biscuits, Judge, Youth of Today, Biohazard, Leeway, and about nineteen-dozen other crews from all over the five boroughs. To try to encapsulate, quantify or even simply know all the pertinent outfits that are tethered to the scene in one form another is a fool’s errand – although my excellent comrade Drew Stone has done one helluva job in exhaustively doing just that.

When it comes to keeping score of all things NYHC, I may talk a good game, but I’m ultimately something of a dilettante. While I was furiously in thrall to certain key bands (I have always been a bug-eyed zealot for KRAUT), and went to as many shows as I could, back in the day, I would never call myself an authority so much as a loyal, reverent enthusiast. Not for nothing, but classic New York City hardcore also came burdened with a bit of an aura of menace. Whether warranted or not, the tightly knit scene didn’t always exude a warm welcome for the uninitiated. Being a Upper East Side kid with a pipe-cleaner physique, at the time, didn’t exactly put me in good fettle to withstand a frenetic Sunday matinee moshpit or a skinhead “wall-of-death” across the Ritz ballroom floor, but I did my best.

All this is to say that while I’ve always counted myself a fan and supporter of all things NYHC, I don’t pretend to even begin to know every solitary aspect of the scene and its myriad proponents, which is precisely why I couldn’t speak with any certainty about the speculation below until I go verification. Here goes….

Regular readers (if they actually exist) might recall several mentions here of a guy named Fran Powers. Tragically no longer with us, Fran was a member of quite a few New York City bands, over the years, but was an active participant of the NYHC scene as a member of a band called Ultra Violence, although his main outfit was a genre-straddling combo called Modern Clix. If that latter name rings more of a bell, that’s because, in the past few years, the revelation of the origin and geographic location of a bit of cryptic graffiti that ended up as the title to a pivotal album by Argentine rockstar Charly Garcia (he obliviously named his album after Fran’s band, after having his picture taken under a striking tableaux of graffiti tags on Cortlandt Alley in TriBeCa) came to light, and I, somewhat unwittingly, played a role in determining the exact location. Initially unbeknownst to Fran, that album went onto become comparable to the Abbey Road of Latin American rock. It’s a long, confusing story, but click here for a bit more detail, should you care.

But, anyway, before all that stuff bubbled to the surface, I’d met Fran at a party in SoHo, about ten years ago, and we became friends. Some short time after that, I was at home watching my all-time favorite film, Martin Scorsese’s “After Hours” from 1985, and was amazed to discover that my then-new-friend Fran had a major cameo appearance in the movie. I reached out to him to see if he’d be game to discuss the experience for a post here on this blog, and he did just that, which you can read here.

Cut to 2024….

Given my interests and predilections, Facebook frequently fills my feed with stuff it thinks I’ll be engaged by. Right they were, this morning, when they posted an entry on a public group named simply “Hard Core.” The entry was a photograph of a period-specific band from New York City, and snapped by the late photographer Bri Hurley, who published one of the earliest documentations of the New York Hardcore community in her book "Making a Scene." Here’s that photo now.

For those who do not recognize this band, this is a combo called Damage. While I’d heard their name and am familiar with some granular minutia about their membership (more about that in a second), I must confess that they were simply not “one of my bands,” so to speak. In my days as a self-styled hardcore kid, I latched onto several particular bands, but for whatever reason, these guys just weren’t one of them, and I missed the boat. To be fair, they were only around for about five years. They released one studio album, entitled Sins of Our Fathers and, later, a live recording captured at CBGB before they split.

The only things I really knew about Damage were that it was the band that bassist Mike Kirkland played in before forming Prong (another favorite of mine) with former SWANS drummer Ted Parsons and erstwhile CBGB soundman Tommy Victor. Another notable bit of trivia is that drummer Patrick Blank –- formerly of the original line-up of the Undead with former Misfits guitarist Bobby Steele and future Cop Shoot Cop bassist Jack Natz -- played in their ranks for a short period of time.

Regardless, I’d never seen a photograph of the Damage guys until this morning. Take another look at the picture. Future Prong bassist Kirkland is the gent sitting in the center, holding a beer. I believe Pat Blank is sitting in front with the shades on. As a curious aside, the blonde dude in the upper right-hand corner is wearing the same Discharge t-shirt design sported by Kirk Hammett on the back cover of Metallica’s Ride the Lightning that I recently spoke about on this post.

But the guy that really jumped out at me was the mohican fella on the bottom left. I felt like I immediately recognized him, and then it hit me, and it took me right back to the Club Berlin scene in “After Hours.”

Let’s go back there now, shall we?

Upon reviewing, I went back to the Hard Core page and postulated my theory that, since Fran Powers of Ultra Violence and Modern Clix, Bobby Steele of the Undead and the notorious John “Gringo” Spacely all made quick cameos, could the “hey mon!” punk who enters Club Berlin before Paul in “After Hours” be Damage frontman Ted Warner (at specifically 00:58 in the clip above)?

Much to my great surprise, Warner, who, in later life, went onto study at Pratt Institute and is now evidently a software engineer at Bloomberg (and no longer sports a mohawk) said “yes, that’s me!”

And THERE YOU HAVE IT!

Here’s a bit of Damage now. Crank it up and hoist one for Ted!!

Incidentally, while Club Berlin, which Kiki, in the film, says was on West Broadway at Grand Street, did indeed exist, the exterior used in "After Hours" is not that actual venue. I wrote about that actual spot back here. These days, it's all under scaffolding awaiting a new iteration of who knows what?

For a truly exhaustive rumination on all things "After Hours," click here. 

Dawn of the Dough Retarders: Back ...AGAIN... to Bowery & Bleecker

I came across the photograph above whilst trawling around Tumblr (remember that?), at some point in the last six months, and set it to one side, so to speak. The sheer number of posts I’ve devoted here to photographs and video of the hardcore matinee scene outside of CBGB is entirely too unwieldy to cite here, but it’s all Googlable, should you give a damn.

While this photo -- tragically uncredited and undated (although given some of the band names on display, I’d suggest somewhere around 1982) -- checks the necessary boxes to warrant inclusion, there are other curious attributes to the photo worth mentioning, although I mentioned most of them in this recent post about the very same patch of real estate, involving invocations of Jim Jarmusch's "Stranger Than Paradise," Drew Carolan's iconic matinee photographs and Shepard Fairey's tributes to Blondie and Bad Brains. ADDENDUM: According to photographer Drew Carolan, this photo was more likely snapped in 1984.

Obviously, this photo captures the easternmost intersection where Bleecker Street ends (or begins, depending on your perspective) at the Bowery. The hardcore kids with their backs to the camera are sitting directly in front of the front entrance of what was then CBGB, pretty much exactly where the No Wave all-stars were perched against the parked car in Godlis’ classic team photo below, from just a few years earlier. 

In looking back up at the photo at the top of this post, however, I was struck by the kitchen-supply store that occupied that space on the far, southernmost corner in, again, roughly 1984. One aspect it boldly advertises is evidently an enviable selection of DOUGH RETARDERS. While that sounds like the name of a band that should otherwise be stenciled on back of one of the sitting punks in the foreground, it’s a legitimate baking implement. I looked it up. I’d never heard the term, but apparently dough retarders delay the fermentation process by reducing and maintaining the temperature of the dough in a controlled humidity and temperature environment. Generally, moulded dough pieces are placed into a retarder for a set period of time. So, there ya go.

Don’t bother looking on that corner for your dough retardation needs now, though. That kitchen-supply purveyor is long, long gone. In more recent years, that space played host to a succession of failed restaurants before morphing – to much eyebrow-raising – into an incongruous J. Crew outlet, although I’ve heard that venture is also shortly to vacate the premises. I have no idea what will take its place, although I seriously doubt it will be anything anyone is terrifically happy about.

Despite some financial hardships, John Varvatos still occupies the former footprint of CBGB, although I haven’t set foot in that haberdashery for years.

Where those hardcore kids and that cop are today, though, who can say?

Goodbye to 2023

Alright, it’s only December 19, but the next several days promise to be busy, so I guess it’s time to dust this one off, once again.

WHAT DID YOU DO IN 2023 THAT YOU’D NEVER DONE BEFORE?

Hmmm, well, I had to wear a low cam boot for four weeks, that was certainly a new one, for me. As an ancillary bonus, it did absolutely nothing to solve the problem it was ostensibly designed to remedy, so yeah … how fun.

DID YOU KEEP YOUR NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTIONS, AND WILL YOU MAKE MORE FOR 2024?

I have found that resolutions are made to be brazenly broken, so no and no.

DID ANYONE CLOSE TO YOU GIVE BIRTH?

The wife of a new colleague of mine at the office just gave birth to their second son, which means my colleague will be missing from the office for several weeks in the new year.

DID ANYONE CLOSE TO YOU DIE?

Thankfully, no.

WHAT COUNTRIES DID YOU VISIT?

In June, we went to Italy for a couple of weeks, which I highly recommend. 

WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO HAVE IN 2024 THAT YOU LACKED IN 2023?

I don’t like to dwell on the things I don’t have. That said, I’d love to have an actionable, proven remedy for my stupid foot problem, but I don’t know that it exists.

WHAT DATE FROM 2023 WILL REMAIN ETCHED UPON YOUR MEMORY?

It may sound histrionic, but waking up to the news that Geordie Walker of Killing Joke had died the Saturday morning after Thanksgiving is a moment that will definitely stay with me.

WHAT WAS YOUR BIGGEST ACHIEVEMENT OF THE YEAR?

Oh, who knows? Staying marginally healthy, sane and employed, keeping my children fed, housed and educated and managing to endear myself enough to my wife for her not to want to routinely murder me.

WHAT WAS YOUR BIGGEST FAILURE?

Oh, I’m sure there’s a whole grab bag from which to choose, but, in my opinion, it was an instance wherein I was unable to effectively hide my frustration from an individual who insisted on making last-minute changes to a big, time-sensitive project at the office. While the project was completed on time and received praise from various parties, I was still reprimanded for it, which was kind of humiliating. That still stings.

DID YOU SUFFER ILLNESS OR INJURY?

Back in February, I was struck with a mystery virus that wasn’t COVID, which manifested as a recurring, low-grade fever that went on for two weeks. And, yes, I somehow broke a bone in my left foot, resulting in the avascular necrosis I continue to grapple with.

WHAT WAS THE BEST THING YOU BOUGHT?

Maybe this lovely pair of low-top Chuck Taylor All-Stars I’m currently wearing (brown with gold eyelets). Oh, and I picked up a nice, floor-model front hall mirror..

WHOSE BEHAVIOR MERITED CELEBRATION?

Both of my children continue to amaze me on a daily basis.

WHOSE BEHAVIOR MADE YOU APPALLED AND DEPRESSED?

Regardless of which poll you prefer to pay attention to, Donald Trump still has an astonishingly high degree of favorability among my fellow Americans, which fills me with withering disdain and blistering contempt.

WHAT DID YOU GET REALLY, REALLY EXCITED ABOUT?

My son Oliver has already been accepted at four colleges. We still have miles to go, but that validation (and relief) is really rewarding.

WHERE DID MOST OF YOUR MONEY GO?

If you go back and read my answer from last year about my building being assessed, it still holds true. I’m paying roughly $900 more in maintenance than I would otherwise normally, and will continue to until February.

WHAT SONG WILL ALWAYS REMIND YOU OF 2023?

Probably Depeche Mode’s “A Pain That I’m Used To,” specifically the live version of the Jacques Lu Cont remix that they played at the Madison Square Garden show Oliver and I caught back in the Spring.

COMPARED TO THIS TIME LAST YEAR, ARE YOU HAPPIER OR SADDER?

The past few months have been pretty rough on several people my family cares deeply about, and that’s sadly informed the mood of this season, a bit. Personally speaking, I’m a little bit down in the mouth, these days, and always waiting for the next shoe to drop, so to speak.

THINNER OR FATTER?

Oh, definitely fatter, which I think is symptomatic of my age. If I don’t curtail certain things, that’s only going to worsen, I fear.

RICHER OR POORER?

Until we reach the end of that assessment, I won’t fully sleep through the night.

WHAT DO YOU WISH YOU’D DONE MORE OF?

I wish I’d gotten a jump on certain things sooner. I am becoming more of a procrastinator, unfortunately.

WHAT DO YOU WISH YOU’D DONE LESS OF?

I can be strikingly undisciplined, at times. I wish that wasn’t the case.

HOW DID YOU SPEND CHRISTMAS?

It hasn’t happened yet, but we’re doing Christmas Eve here in NYC, then heading to my mom’s in Quogue on Christmas Day, then back to NYC and then off to my sister-in-law Katie’s in Pennsylvania for a few days, after that.

WHO DID YOU SPEND THE MOST TIME ON THE PHONE WITH?

Absolutely no idea.

DID YOU FALL IN LOVE IN 2023?

I’ve been very happily married since 2001.

HOW MANY ONE-NIGHT STANDS IN THE LAST YEAR?

See answer above. Also, who would answer this question?

WHAT WAS YOUR FAVORITE TV PROGRAM?

They come and go, and I forget (not a good sign), but I sincerely enjoyed the last season of “C.B. Strike” and I’m currently loving “Slow Horses.” Gary Oldman is so goddamn great.

DO YOU HATE ANYONE NOW THAT YOU DIDN’T HATE AT THIS TIME LAST YEAR?

What a question. Well, Donald Trump, obviously, although I’ve always hated him, so that’s not really new. Vivek Ramaswany seems entirely worthy of intense hatred. Seriously, fuck THAT guy. Ron DeSantis is a complete dick, but he just seems more stupid than anything else.

WHAT WAS THE BEST BOOK YOU READ?

I really enjoyed "I Die Each Time I Hear The Sound" by Mike Doughty, but especially loved “This Must Be the Place” by Jesse Rifkin. That kid is going places.

WHAT WAS YOUR GREATEST MUSICAL DISCOVERY?

I hate to say it, but 2023 just wasn’t a good year for me with new music, although my favorite new album from a new band was easily Negative Stars by Skull Practitioners.

New music aside, 2023 was a great year for live shows. My son and I caught Life in a Blender at the Rockwood Music Hall, Jerry Harrison and Adrian Belew at Sony Hall, Depeche Mode at Madison Square Garden, Sisters of Mercy at King's Theater in Brooklyn, Calexico at Le Poisson Rouge, Squeeze and the Psychedelic Furs at Radio City, Duran Duran at the Forest Hills Stadium, The Mission, Theatre of Hate and The Chameleons at Le Poisson Rouge and The Damned at Warsaw in Brooklyn. 

WHAT DID YOU WANT AND GET?

I really wanted my son to be accepted at Trinity Dublin, and he got in. That doesn’t mean he’s going there, but it was tremendously great news that he was accepted.

WHAT DID YOU WANT AND NOT GET?

How come Trump is still not yet in fucking prison?

WHAT WERE YOUR FAVORITE FILMS OF THIS YEAR?

The fact that I cannot remember seems pretty telling, doesn’t it? I didn’t see “Barbie.” I didn’t see “Oppenheimer.” I was profoundly disappointed by “May December.” I’m sure once I post this, I’ll remember one.

WHAT DID YOU DO ON YOUR BIRTHDAY AND HOW OLD WERE YOU?

I turned 56, which is no fun at all, but I had a lovely dinner at home with my wife and son (Charlotte was at school).

WHAT’S ONE THING THAT WOULD HAVE MADE YOUR YEAR IMMEASURABLY MORE SATISFYING?

Trump’s incarceration. I’d have loved it if Oliver and I were able to make it to the Killing Joke show at the Royal Albert Hall in London, back in March, but work demands and school schedules forbade.

HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONAL FASHION CONCEPT IN 2023?

Lost without hope of retrieval.

WHAT KEPT YOU SANE?

The need to be there for my family.

WHAT CELEBRITY/PUBLIC FIGURE DID YOU FANCY MOST?

This question always seems roundly inappropriate.

WHAT POLITIAL ISSUE STIRRED YOU THE MOST?

Trump trial(s).

WHO DID YOU MISS?

Each year, more and more of my most admired individuals pass away, and we lost some great ones in 2023, like Sinead O'Connor, Mark Stewart of the Pop Group, Andy Rourke of The Smiths....but this year, absolutely nothing holds a candle to the loss of Geordie Walker of my beloved Killing Joke.

WHO WAS THE BEST NEW PERSON YOU MET?

Probably Mariano Cabrera, who spearheaded the Charly Garcia Corner movement.

TELL US A VALUABLE LIFE LESSON YOU LEARNED IN 2023?

You don’t have to be screaming for it to be broken. Don’t be fooled.

SONG LYRIC THAT SUMS UP 2023.

Absent Friends Shall Live By Love
- Killing Joke