Now that the election is over and Trump is well and truly out of office (although his second acquittal is a foul, pathetic stain on this nation that cannot be washed away), I am trying to move away from politics here. But after a number of people reached out expecting commentary on a development yesterday, I am parting with Thumper's rule.
In the plainest language, Rush Limbaugh embodied the very worst aspects of our culture and was instrumental in cultivating the vehement division we collectively suffer under today.
I first started writing this post in 2017 but, for some reason, chose to abandon it. Being that the band in question was recently re-invoked by a friend of mine, I'm picking it back up and finishing it now.
It’s been said that music is the universal language, and that it can soothe the savage breast. I realize everyone thinks it’s savage beast, but that’s only because they heard Bugs Bunny say it in regards to a rampaging gorilla. The original quote is from Shakespeare. Don’t belive me? Look it up.
I’ve often found that a fine way of diffusing tensions when discussing volatile subjects – like, say, politics, more so than ever, these days – is to simply change the subject, and more often than not, music is my go-to (as is probably readily apparent from this blog). You and I might rant and rage at each other in opposition over whatever political tumult of the day is currently unfurling, but I’m sure we can find some common ground on a musical level. To this end, there are several people I’m perfectly aligned with in terms of our musical tastes, but -- at the same time -- we’re viscerally at odds with each other when it comes to discussing politics. Funny how that works.
I recently had a big fallout on The Gathering (the amazingly-still-going mailing list regarding Killing Joke) with a fellow Gatherer when I dared submit my opinion that Trump is a huge, ridiculous and globe-threatening mistake. Suffice to say, much to my surprise, not everyone in the group felt that way (although this particular spat was more about a certain individual's singular hatred for Hillary Clinton than his espousal of the orange embarrassment). Similarly, I run the non-official Cop Shoot Cop page on Facebook, and after commenting a couple of times about what a fatuous asshat Trump is, I was surprised to find that a few Cop Shoot Cop fans are also Trump supporters. I didn’t expect that.
I guess the takeaway from these two anecdotes is to stick to discussions about music, but I still find it very hard to reconcile how someone could listen to the lyrical content of both of those bands and still be a Trumpublican. I mean, Trump practically personifies everything these two estimable ensembles vehemently revile and rail against – gluttonous excess, avarice, monied exclusivity, corporate privilege, authoritarian oppression, back-room collusion, etc. How does one listen to, say, Killing Joke’s “Money Is Not Our God,” “Age of Greed,” or “Blood On Your Hands” or even fucking “America” (a dreadful single, but almost directly about Donald Trump at every turn) and not connect the dots? Cop Shoot Cop’s “Surprise, Surprise (The Government Lies)” has never been more timely than 2017, and “Lo.Com.Denom” is practically a hate-letter to your avergae Trump supporter. I just don’t get it.
Anyway, I’m digressing. To get back to my original point, I was frankly shocked, this week, to stumble upon a crazy rare interview with a criminally under-celebrated musician I’ve literally admired for decades from a source I would never have imagined.
Beyond the fact that I think the organization he works for is absolutely poisonous, Fox News personality Greg Gutfeld tracked down the elusive “Wild” Bill Carter from the mighty Screaming Blue Messiahs. If you’re unfamiliar, the Screaming Blue Messiahs emerged in the middle of the 80’s, playing a furiously bug-eyed amalgam of surrealist guitar rock that essentially paired the best elements of British Pub rock (ala Dr. Feelgood, The 101’rs, etc.) with British punk, their secret weapon being Carter’s incendiary guitar antics (like an even more frenetic Wilko Johnson) and his convincingly unhinged songwriting. They only made three proper LPs (Gun Shy, Bikini Red and Totally Religious) and even scored a novelty hit, that being “I Want to Be Flintstone,” which wasn’t really indicative of their full-throttled potential. They split shortly after the release of their third record.
Personally speaking, I hadn’t discovered Dr. Feelgood as yet, so The SBM really sounded like nothing else to me when I first encountered them. Between the power-house rhythm section, Carter’s choppy, staccato guitars and Carter’s oddball lyrics, they swiftly became one of my favorite bands. Those first two records alone practically scored my college career – “Wild Blue Yonder,” “Someone to Talk To,” “Talking Doll,” “Smash the Marketplace,” “Killer Born Man,” “Sweet Water Pools,” “Jesus Chrysler Drives a Dodge,” and my senior year off-campus house favorite, “Big Brother Muscle,” were in constant rotation. Very regrettably, I never got to see them play live, but by all accounts, they were nothing short of explosive. And then … they vanished.
There were a few bootlegs and dubious live recordings about, but after Totally Religious in 1989 (not the strongest of the three albums, although “Four Engines Burning” still fucking rocks), they were done. I remember thrilling to discover Wild Bill playing guitar on a track on Robyn Hitchcock’s Invisible Hitchcock (adding some serious combustion to “Eaten By Her own Dinner”), but by and large, he pulled something of a Syd Barrett after that.
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What I didn't mention above is that I actually reached out to Greg Gutfield to chat about the Screaming Blue Messiahs and we exchanged a few fleeting pleasantries. I was basically applauding him for his good taste and for the wherewithal to chase down Bill Carter for an incredibly rare interview. I don't believe I got into politics, at all, which was probably for the best.
In the wake of this incident, Greg Gutfield continued to be a fatuous shill for the GOP, and I believe was recently given his own late night talk show on Fox, which I can assure you I'll never watch. That said, were he to pivot to music, maybe that would give me a reason, but I find myself so entirely at odds with him on pretty much every other subject under the sun that I don't know that I could stomach it.
The Screaming Blue Messiahs, meanwhile, continue to languish in relative obscurity. The did get another major endorsement, however, from none other than Bruce Springsteen, who cited them, back in October 2020, in a list of favorite songs about cars. Here's what he had to say about them...
“The Screaming Blue Messiahs were formed as a power trio in 1983 in London by guitarist and singer Bill Carter, bassist Chris Thompson and drummer Kenny Harris. They released three terrific major label albums: Gun-Shy, Bikini Red and Totally Religious. They garnered wide critical acclaim and, unfortunately, limited commercial success, particularly here in America. They however, without a doubt, were one of the great bands of the ’80s.”
Cool, right? I've never been a huge fan of Bruce's music, but I entirely respect the guy (and agree with his politics).
I should probably post one of their bigger singles, but screw that. Here's probably my favorite song of theirs.
Play loud. Enjoy. Be good to each other. But know that Trump belongs behind bars.
ADDENDUM: Stumbled upon this live footage after posting, and it would be a shame not to include. Totally on display here is Carter's playing style, which comes almost directly from Wilko Johnson. It's beautiful....
I have to confesse that prior to “Pretend It’s a City,” Martin Scorsese’s extended love letter to Fran Lebowitz, I had never really given the writer/humorist/raccounteur a great deal of thought. To my mind, she was just one of those storied Gothamites like Tom Wolfe or George Plimpton; literary figures I was aware of, but had never fully invested in, given the generational divides between us. Her curmudgeonly sensibilities seemed akin to fellow dyed-in-the-wool New Yorker Woody Allen, albeit with a bit more urbane sophistication. What little I’d read of hers, I’d certainly enjoyed, but never gave it much more thought beyond that.
Here in 2021, thanks for Scorsese’s series on Netflix, Fran is unwittingly experiencing something of a rennaissance, having gained a whole new audience for her wry asides and acerbic observations. While she remains pointedly not for everybody (an old colleague of mine from TIME Magazinewrote a bit of a screed about her in the New York Times), I have to say that my admiration for her had quadrupled. Not only do I completely relate to her Manhattan-centric worldview, I find her completely hilarious. I think most of her detractors, like my friend from TIME, seem to take her just a bit too seriously and literally. This isn’t to say that I think Fran secretely does have an internet connection in her home – I’m sure she doesn’t -- but rather that I think she amplifies some of her diatribes for comedic effect. You, of course, may beg to differ.
One aspect of Fran’s life that had never even occurred to me was her fandom for the New York Dolls, which Scorsese fleetingly touched upon in the series. I wish they’d expounded further on that subject. I know she was a fan of Max’s Kansas City, but did Fran ever go to the Bowery in later years to check out CBGB? Did she ever get into Television or the Ramones? Hard to picture that.
In any case, if you’re still gagging for a fix after finishing “Pretend It’s a City,” Fran spoke with Kara Swisher for the New York Times’ “Sway Podcast” earlier today. Check it out here.
Like many Americans, I suspect, the events of this past Wednesday have left a pretty bad taste in my mouth. I’ve never been an especially zealous flag-waver to begin with, but it’s been a long damn time since I felt the degree of shame and embarrassment on behalf of the nation that I’ve experienced in the wake of Wednesday, and all the pusillanimous bullshit that has come in its wake.
There’s simply not enough bandwidth on the internet to accommodate everything that needs to be said about it, but I spied these two missives making the rounds on social media, and they both fit the bill nicely.
Also, if you get pepper-sprayed, clubbed or shot at for breaking into a federal building, please don't expect any sympathy.
For this inclined towards this sort of thing, an organization called Workhouse has put together an auction (culminating on January 7) for various original artifacts from Gem Spa, the iconic corner shop on St. Marks Place. Want the sign? Bid on it. Want the Egg Cream display? Bid on it. Want the Kostabi-painted gate? Bid on it. Want the milkshake machine? Bid on it. Etc.
Here's the official statement:
"Due to Covid, we were forced to close like so many beloved New York City businesses. To honor the special spirit of the shop, we are auctioning off memorabilia, egg cream equipment, and signs from the store. These are the last remnants of an iconic institution and we hope that with this auction, they will find a new home with someone who loves old New York and wants to preserve a piece of precious history."
I had heard about Sammy’s Roumanian Steakhouse probably a good decade before ever knowingly setting foot on the Lower East Side, albeit for one of the most ignominious of reasons.
You see, as a Manhattan brat growing up on the Upper East Side in the mid-to-late `70s, we had cable television. As such, when word spread like wildfire around my grade school that there was gratuitous nakedness to be seen on the cable-access channels if you quietly stayed up late enough, my friends and I took very serious note. If you managed the trick of not waking your parents, you could treat yourself to the prurient idiocy of a legendary New York City cable-access program called “Midnight Blue,” the brainchild of iconic “Screw”-magazine founder/publisher, Al Goldstein. While essentially just a half-hour of grainy raunch interspersed with potty-mouth rants from Goldstein himself and loads of commercials for escort services and the burgeoning phenomenon of phone sex, watching “Midnight Blue” felt like the most legitimately taboo activity imaginable, and most of my classmates and I were furtively regular viewers.
How does Sammy’s enter into all of this, you ask? Well, amidst all that low-resolution sleazery, Sammy’s Roumanian Steakhouse distinguished itself by having the solitary non-smut-related advertisement on the program. In between fleeting segments of porn stars Marilyn Chambers and John Holmes flailing their genitalia around, lurid tirades about bad customer service from Al Goldstein and ads informing you that “the extra E is for extra….” (don’t Google it), you’d see footage of giddy, `70’s-era patrons partaking of steaks with schmaltz in the low-ceilinged confines of Sammy's Roumanian Steakhouse on Chrystie Street. One imagined that after a while night of unfettered carnality at the oft-cited Plato’s Retreat, the swinger set would put their pants on and go enjoy a fine meal at Sammy’s (this may well have happened, but Plato’s was on the Upper West Side, while Sammy’s was Lower East, so it’s logistically flawed). I can still vividly hear the background music used in that stupid ad.
Years and years later, some friends and I went to Sammy’s and partook of its fine fare — which is strikingly different from anything you’d find in a more conventional steak place, all served with schmaltz — liquified chicken fat that comes in a bottle that you’re supposed to pour over your steaks. It looks disarmingly like orange juice. While we didn’t spot any porn stars, let alone Al Goldstein, we did have the pleasure of sharing the space with none other than David Lee Roth, who was entertaining guests at a neighboring table. For a friend of mine’s bachelor party in the late `90s, five of us had a rousing dinner at Sammy’s that culminated with our waitress emphatically giving us the finger, for some long-forgotten reason.
I had a cherished black Sammy’s shirt (“Schmaltz It Up”) that I wore religiously for decades, usually with a pair of tattered camoflauge cargo shorts.
Remember, just because it’s now 2021, that doesn't mean we're out of the woods just yet. Stay smart. Stay vigilant.
Moreover, regardless of what transpires between now and January 20, when Biden is sworn in, accountability for the damage done must still be attained. As Senator Sheldon Whitehouse sagely said in Salon.com:
Whether the goal at the end of the day is truth and reconciliation, procedural and institutional reform, or justice and accountability for misdeeds, investigations will be essential. Separate investigative bodies assigned to these tasks will leave regular agencies and committees free to begin the urgent business of governing, and move us forward.
This post is invariably going to cause me a lot of heartache, given my oft-cited blogging service's ongoing problem with broken images. But, here's hoping that'll abate. In any case, as you may have noticed, I take a lot of goddamn pictures. You may have seen several of these on this blog over the past 12 months, or you may have spotted them on my Instagram page, if you follow that. Whichever the case, here are some of my favorite images of the year in chronological order.
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