Flaming Pablum

Fermenting New Firewater: Tod [A] Looks Ahead

With the possible exception of Killing Joke, I don’t think there’s a band I’ve scribbled more about here than Cop Shoot Cop, the former NYC-based, clangy noise-rock ensemble of one Tod [A], who bowed out of said band, in the mid-`90s, during the recording of what would have been their fifth studio LP. Upon leaving C$C under arguably not the most amicable of circumstances, Tod turned his attention to forming Firewater, a loose collective of musicians who’d go onto to explore, over seven diverse albums, a far broader vista of musical styles than Tod’s previous band was ever likely to dare. Largely jettisoning Cop Shoot Cop’s full-frontal industrial assault in favor of a sinuous amalgam of influences from klezmer to ska to Middle-Eastern folk music to Romani to bhangra to sea shanties to Russian drinking songs to straight-ahead punk fucking rock and virtually all points and ports of global call in between, Tod’s inherent sense of wanderlust became deeply imbued into the music he was making. Putting his money where his mouth was, by the band’s sixth album, 2008’s The Golden Hour, Tod pulled up stakes and set out on a formidable trek across the imposing terrain between New Delhi, India and Istanbul, Turkey, recording with local musicians along the way. This experience not only fueled that album -– arguably Firewater’s finest -– but also served as fertile fodder for his first novel, “Banging the Monkey,” which surfaced in 2019.

I’ve been friends with Tod since the very early `90s, when I was tasked with writing up a cover story for a local freebie news weekly about “a hot new band that typifies the New York sound and sensibility.” Without skipping a beat, I chose Cop Shoot Cop, having become enamored of their wilfully chaotic live performances, their boldly unconventional approach (two basses, no guitars), their dark sense of humor (lost on large swathes of their audience), their unwieldy aesthetic and their cryptic poster campaign. Over the course of Cop Shoot Cop’s tumultuous rise and fall and then into the Firewater years, Tod and I have spilled many gallons of beer and ink about our respective trajectories. Now ensconced full-time in Istanbul, Tod only gets to New York City every so often, and he and I only get to convene in person every couple of years or so, usually around the holidays. The last time he was in town back in December, we caught up for a drink at an old favorite, the Ear Inn on the westerly end of Spring Street, and it dawned on me that I’d never subjected the poor guy to the Flaming Pablum Interview. So now, joining the estimable ranks of Big Paul Ferguson of Killing Joke, Chris Egan of Missing Foundation, RB Korbet of Even Worse, Erik Sanko of Skeleton Key, Fran Powers of Modern Clix, J Yuenger of White Zombie, Brooke Smith of Sunday Matinee, Don Rauf of Life in a Blender, and Andi Harriman of Some Wear Leather, Some Wear Lace, here with the Flaming Pablum Interview with Tod [A]…

FP: You’ve now been living in Turkey for almost 12 years. How’s that going? Of all the places you’ve lived, how does Istanbul compare?

I've lived in NYC, Denpasar, Phnom Penh, Calcutta, Surat Thani and now Istanbul. Though I didn't expect to be here quite so long, I can't complain about the city. Istanbul is the NYC of Turkey: it's a port city, which means it's quite multi-cultural. The cost of living is far less than NYC, and the town has public transport that doesn't reek of urine. It has a lot more cats and a lot less rats (do the math). I guess I feel as at home here as I have felt anywhere else, though the current Turkish government leaves much to be desired. Hopefully the people of Turkey will get rid of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named in the upcoming 2023 general election.

It’s been eleven years since you released International Orange, but now, I gather, have new music demoed and ready to be recorded — can you give us an update?

Having decided to procreate, I took some time off from recording and touring to concentrate on raising my daughter. I didn't want to be the father who was never there. In the meantime, I wrote fifty songs. I am now a free agent and I think I'm almost ready to get back to recording and touring. We shall see who winds up releasing these records.

Firewater has counted many illustrious names in its ranks, over the years — are you in touch with all those players? Might we hear from them again on the next LP?

Yes, we are mostly all still buddies. It's quite possible there will be some appearances from old friends once it's time to go into the studio and begin touring again.

If you had to characterize the direction and sound of the new material, how would you do so?

My itinerant lifestyle has certainly colored the new batch of songs, melodically, sonically, and rhythmically. There is a Turkish flavor to many of them. But somehow I can't seem to scrape all the American mud off my boots. I feel like my time abroad has given me perspective to write about the country of my birth.

Your first novel, “Banging the Monkey” was published in 2019. Are there more books in you waiting to come out?

Yes. I am working on a few new books at the moment: a novel (for adults), and some others for children. But I take my time. They will be done when they are done.

You were recently back in the States and in New York City for the first time in a while. How does your former home turf feel to you in the wake of all that’s happened?

I still love NYC. But as I told you when I saw you last, I feel safer raising my daughter in a quasi-dictatorship like Turkey where almost nobody has a gun, than in America where everyone seems to own multiple firearms.

In 2016, you joined some of your former Cop Shoot Cop bandmates for the commentary track of the live DVD New York Post Punk / Noise Series 1. Are you still back in contact with those guys today?

Yes, I am in touch with Jim Coleman and Phil Puleo and we are on good terms. During the lockdowns, we made some sporadic attempts to collaborate from afar, but nothing seemed to catch fire. Jim and Phil seem to be doing quite well with Human Impact, so more power to them.

Is there any Firewater (or, for that matter, Cop Shoot Cop) material left “in the vault,” so to speak? Stuff that was never released? If so, will it ever see the light of day?

Yes, there is quite a bit. But tracks get left in the vault for a reason, usually because they weren't quite ready.

What’s your take on the music of today? Are there any new artists you’re particularly enthused about? What have you been listening to?

When I was a young punk I thought the way to move forward was to obliterate the past. Now I'm much more interested in the historical continuity of music. I'm trying to catch up on the homework I should have done when I was 21, learning the musical secrets of all the songs I love. I'm delving back into the past: jazz, the birth of rock 'n' roll. I listen to a lot of early blues, jazz, folk and psychedelia. Mainly I'm focused on developing as a songwriter and composer. I've been studying soundtracks (Morricone, Elfman, Zimmer), and I try to learn from the lyricists I admire (Dylan, Waits, Bowie).

Of all the spots you lived around New York City, which was your favorite, and why?

It was definitely fun living in Williamsburgh in the late 80's – early 90's. The rents were incredibly cheap, and there was much fun to be had exploring the empty buildings. I remember setting fire to an abandoned car in a vacant lot and watching it burn. Neither police nor the fire department ever came. That's how much of a no man's land it was at that time.

…which was your least favorite, and why?

By the time I moved to Bushwick, I had already pretty much had it with NYC. The locals weren't too enthused about the bohemian gringos encroaching on their turf, so there was quite a bit of aggro. Also, I was arrested for drinking a beer on the street outside my building, about 20 feet away from the corner where a bunch of jackasses had been selling smack and crack for years. So once I got out of jail, I was off to Thailand.

Where in the world is the food the best?

Italy, of course. I have worked there a lot, and the Italians really know what they are doing. But I also love Thai street food. Such an amazingly subtle combination of flavors. And usually $1 a plate. Indian and Mexican. Turkish food is also amazing.

What’s your favorite Firewater album?

The Golden Hour certainly was the most fun to make. The adventure of recording it, in India, Pakistan, and Indonesia, combined with working with my buddies in Tel Aviv to complete it. Everything seemed to come together on that record.

What’s your least favorite? Why?

International Orange was a nightmare to make. My record company didn't support the concept, so I had to cut a lot of financial corners. As a result, even though the songs were as good as those on The Golden Hour, the sound quality on International Orange suffered because of budget problems. I would love to re-record those songs someday. My ugly experience making International Orange also made me want to wait until I could afford to record in the right way.

What’s your favorite Cop Shoot Cop album?

Release. At that time CSC was firing on all pistons, and we had producer David Sardy at the controls. After that record, everything went rapidly south for the band.

What’s your least favorite? Why?

White Noise. It just hasn't aged well.

The irony here is the White Noise continues to be my favorite album by the band. It’s aged just fine, to my ears.

Why do the vinyl re-releases of Get Off the Cross... and Golden Hour have different cover art?

When Scott Schaefer approached me about doing vinyl releases of the Firewater catalog, I saw it as an opportunity to make something special. So I decided to re-make all the covers by hand. It's been really fun to re-imagine the art. The vinyl series will be continued in the near future.

Beyond from family and friends, what do you miss most about the United States?

A genuine NYC slice, and a real bagel. And not much else.

What sort of music is your daughter listening to?

I knew going into this parenting thing that I had a window of maybe four or five years in which I could vet the music my daughter would hear. Being a control freak, I took full advantage of those years. I wanted her developing brain to get a solid grounding in classic melody and song structure before she was exposed to bullshit musical 'content' from off the internet. So I made her tons of mix tapes: nursery rhymes; classical stuff like Carl Orff, Peter and the Wolf, and the Nutcracker; plus kid-friendly songs from folks like Raffi, the Beatles, Donovan, Ivor Cutler, Monty Python, Spike Jones, Woody Guthrie and the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band.

Yeah, well, to answer your question, the window has closed. You don't want to know what sort of music torture I am subjected to now. I can't wait till she's a teenager, and will start hitting me with some cool sounds.

What was the best concert you ever attended?

I can't name just one: Black Flag at some bowling alley in New Jersey circa 1984, Nirvana at the Reading Festival circa 1992, Tom Waits at the Beacon Theater 1999, Bone Machine tour, Motorhead in Istanbul, 2011. Plus any Jesus Lizard show. 

What five albums can you not live without?

Ramones - Ramones
Tom Waits - Rain Dogs
The Doors - The Doors
David Bowie - Diamond Dogs
Bob Dylan - Highway 61 Revisited

The best songwriter is….

There are seven: Tom Waits, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Robyn Hitchcock, Leonard Cohen, and Ivor Cutler. (and me.)

Assault in Greenwich Village III: Another Update

The New York Post ran a story yesterday, appended with a photo of the "suspect." And so did CBS, who provide intel about two other comparable attacks in the neighborhood, diminishing my doorman's theory that the maroon-hooded rage bro was after the victim's bag and more that he was just beating him up for the sake of beating him up. 

Be on the lookout, folks!

 

Assault in Greenwich Village: Update

Just circling back on this one. As I lamented at the tail-end of that post, the frustrating thing about witnessing that attack on Saturday afternoon, is that I’ll probably never get the whole story. The middle-aged victim (I should probably come up with another name of him) purportedly lives on my street, somewhere. I actually saw one of my fellow “good Samaritans” just yesterday, but he looked to be in a hurry, so I didn’t engage.

A doorman in my building, meanwhile, said he and the super took a look at the video from the security camera aimed at the down-sloping driveway adjacent to my building where the maroon-hooded assailant sprang out of. By his account, the video shows the attacker sitting with his back against the westerly-wall, sort of readying himself, the narrative being, then, that his target wasn’t chosen so much as simply the unlucky person who was next to be walking by. According to my doorman, maroon-hooded assailant guy went right for the middle-aged victim’s bag, so it does look to have been an attempted robbery (and not just a random attack without clear motive). My doorman also feels that the reason the middle-aged guy got beaten so badly was because he was trying to simply hold on to his bag, as opposed to letting the guy have it or dropping it and fighting back. His arms were engaged by trying to keep his belongings and, thus, could not cover his face or punch back. I’m more inclined to suggest that he was probably just in complete shock that it was happening that he didn’t know how to react, but whatever.

Thus far, I have yet to learn any further details about the status of either the victim or the assailant.

At the risk of being coy, I should point out that all this happened on East 9th Street between Broadway and University Place, a comparatively sleepy stretch of predominantly residential buildings, bookended by Knickerbocker’s Bar & Grill at the western end and a Bean coffee shop at the eastern end.

Vaguely related, here’s a birds-eye view of the westerly portion at University Place looking north. This was shot in 1939 by one Marion Post Wolcott and evidently appears in the book “Around Washington Square” by Luther Harris. Suffice to say, it looks pretty different today. 

Assault in Greenwich Village

Just witnessed something kind of amazing, and not in a positive way.

Sitting at my dining room table, this afternoon, typing up a silly blog post (specifically this one), I suddenly heard a commotion from the street below. I got up and peered down from my five-story window to see a somewhat heavy-set, middle-aged guy (not unlike, say, myself) getting assaulted by a bigger dude in a maroon hooded sweatshirt in the middle of the street. “Help, help, police,” the middle-aged guy shouted, but next thing you know, he was down on his back, with maroon-hoodie guy absolutely whaling on him, punching him repeatedly and emphatically in the face. Within seconds however, he stopped… bolted back to the sidewalk, paused for a second, and then sprinted off to the east and out of sight, while middle-aged guy was left dazed and bloodied in the path of oncoming traffic.

I put my sneakers on and dashed downstairs. A registered nurse who’d witnessed the whole thing from the far side of the street was already helping the guy up and to the relative safety of the curb, while other good samaritans gathered to help however they could. Someone called 911. I joined in and relayed what I saw while we collectively waited for the police and ambulance to arrive.

Evidently, the maroon-hooded assailant just sprang out of the down-sloping driveway just to the east of my building and attacked. He didn’t take anything. The middle-aged guy’s phone and wallet were still on his person. One fast-thinking man across the street managed to capture an image of the maroon-hooded assailant in mid-flight, and even got a partial shot of the guy’s face, which is pretty remarkable.

A couple who said they were neighbors of the victim arrived, and the wife immediately took off to go look after this guy’s poor kids, who he’d evidently left at home alone while he popped to the store to get some groceries. He was completely dazed and quite possibly in shock, and his face was severely beaten — lots of swelling around his eye-socket and blood pouring out of his nostrils. None of us could determine whether maroon-hoodie guy had a motive, but middle-aged guy said he didn’t recognize him. What’s odd is that the attack just seemed so visceral and, well, personal.

I scrambled back to my building and briefly relayed what I learned to our super, who said he’d look at the security camera that is aimed at the driveway the maroon-guy purportedly sprang out of.

I rejoined the gaggle and relayed what I knew to the police, who’d finally arrived. And then that was pretty much that.

The frustrating part of this is that I’ll probably never find out the fruition of this story — why the attack happened, what the motivation was, whether they catch the assailant, etc.

But it’s left us a bit shaken up — to see a brazen  -- and seemingly random -- attack in broad daylight (just before 4pm) right in front of our home.

Be careful out there, my friends.

The Dueling Delis

During what I think I can still safely call an era of uncertainty, here in New York City, if not the world, it is not at all uncommon – Hell, it’s actually frequent -- to notice any number of age-old, revered businesses that have been operating for decades suddenly vacated, gutted and boarded-up. Whether because of spiraling rents, the rigors of the pandemic, the faltering economy or the changing sensibilities of a neighborhood, certain shops, restaurants, bars, bistros, outlets and/or local services that you’d pretty much expected to always be there will suddenly vanish. No business is safe. Nothing is sacred.

I can’t count the number of times during the last two or three years (to say nothing of the seventeen plus years I’ve been keeping this silly blog) that I’ve been blithely walking down the street, only to suddenly see a beloved neighborhood spot I’ve cherished for ages suddenly and without any warning …. not there. Sometimes it happens like a thief in the night, leaving no trace or explanation. Other times, there’s a weepy note.

This morning, I decided to take a more westerly approach to my office in TriBeCa, veeering off the main artery of West Broadway in favor of the side streets of the Village and SoHo. With my ears filled by the latest episode of Marc Maron’s WTF podcast, and my mind otherwise engaged by the impending duties of the day, I didn’t notice the change right away, but right as I was crossing the intersection of Thompson and Prince Streets in the heart of SoHo, I was stopped dead in my tracks by something.

This intersection has always been a favorite of mine. Up the street to the east just a few steps used to be Rocks in Your Head, a hugely important independent record shop for me which factored greatly in my development as a truly insufferable music snob. It’s long gone now, of course, replaced for a few years by a glum real estate agency and now a bakery that exclusively sells pastry shaped like genitalia. I’m not making that up. On the southeasterly corner of the intersection, meanwhile, was Milady’s – initially an unpretentious neighborhood bar with a pool table wherein I spent many a beery evening thoughout the late `80s and `90s. It vanished in 2014 and the space became a short succession of aspirationally upscale restaurants. More recently, however, it’s reverted back to Milady’s, but with a bit of a bespoke reboot. The jury’s still out on that, for me.

Sure, those spots are significant for me, but the thing that always struck me about the crossing of Thompson and Prince were the dueling delicatessens. With one perched on the southwest-facing corner mirrored by another anchored on the northeast-facing corner, I always marveled at how these two comparable ventures managed to peacefully co-exist in a perpetual state of neighborly détente, like two obstinate nations refusing to recognize the legitimacy of the other or like The Zax is Dr. Seuss’ “The Sneetches and Other Stories’ (look it up). I have vivid memories of myself and two friends stumbling out of Milady’s, one snowy night in the late `90’s, and one pal going to the south deli to buy smokes while the other went to the north deli to buy a sandwich. It was entirely nonsensical, but I loved that about it. It was SoHo … it was unconventional, like that.

But this morning … something was different.

Instead of the southwest corner deli --officially named H&H Kim -- bustling with its usual deliveries of flowers, crates of fresh fruit and cartons of dairy products or patrons popping in and out for cups of coffee and a newspaper, the door was shut and the windows were all papered up. My heart sank.

In the center of the door was taped the inevitable note.

The major difference with this story is that practically for the first time in my recollection, the parting missive is not one tinged with tragedy or regret. While I am saddened by the departure of this longtime business, at the very least, the tale has a happy ending.

Regardless, support your local businesses.

Goodbye, 2022!

Yes, well, I suppose it's time to dust off this inane survey, once again, and take a look back at 2022. Seat-belts on, kids! 

What did you do in 2022 that you'd never done before?

Got myself a “global entry” card.

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

I don’t think I made any, thus I did not keep any. At this stage of the proceedings, if I make any bold declarations about swearing off anything, I’m pretty much dooming myself to fail. That all said, I could certainly stand to drink less beer, stay on top of my finances and keep my medical appointments. 

Did anyone close to you give birth?

No one in my immediate circle, no.

Did anyone close to you die?

Again, no one in my immediate circle, mercifully.

What countries did you visit?

We went to Greece and Scotland, and I highly recommend both. 

What would you like to have in 2023 that you lacked in 2022?

Oh, I’m not sure. I not inclined to spend time dwelling on the things I don’t have.

What date from 2022 will remain etched upon your memory?

August 20th, the day we left our Charlotte at college in Scotland and flew home to NYC without her.

What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Staying marginally healthy and gainfully employed.

What was your biggest failure?

My inability to impose some semblance of restraint and willpower.

Did you suffer illness or injury?

I have a continuing grievance with my left foot that I still need to see a podiatrist about. And, yes, I, too, eventually got COVID. 

What was the best thing you bought?

I honestly can’t remember. Well, I bought some concert tickets for my son that made him very happy. That’s always good.

Whose behavior merited celebration?

My kids. They have their moments like everyone else, but for the most part, they are kind, bright, do well in school and are genuinely lovely human beings.

Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Trump, Kanye West, Elon Music, various members of the Supreme Court and Republicans in general.

What did you get really, really excited about?

My daughter getting into college.

Where did most of your money go?

My building’s being assessed, at the moment, and our monthly fees have gone up significantly … and will stay that way until fuckin’ February 2024, hence the comment above about needing to impose restraint and willpower when it comes to all things financial.  

What song will always remind you of 2022?

I don’t know if it’ll always remind of 2022, but perhaps “The Man I’ll Never Find” by Lucius.

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

I’d say about the same. I have concerns like everyone else, but overall, I have no right to complain about one damn thing.

Thinner or fatter?

Oh, invariably fatter.

Richer or poorer?

As mentioned above, we’re currently slightly financially compromised, so technically “poorer.”

What do you wish you'd done more of?

Taking care of things in real time as opposed to continually putting them off.

What do you wish you'd done less of?

Spending irresponsibly. I mean, I didn’t splurge, or anything, but in light of our current situation, some self-imposed austerity would’ve been a benefit.

How did you spend Christmas?

Well, it hasn’t happened yet, but we’re planning on spending it out at my mom’s place in Quogue.

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

No idea.

Did you fall in love in 2022?

I’ve been in love with -- and married to -- her for over 21 years.

How many one-night stands in this last year?

Zero.

What was your favorite TV program?

I quite liked “White Lotus 2,” “Slow Horses” and crime drama on Britbox called “Sherwood.”

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

I still hate most of the same folks – Trump, Trump supporters, key Republicans and various members of the Supreme Court.

What was the best book you read?

“Feral City” by Jeremiah Moss.

What was your greatest musical discovery?

Already discussed on this post.

What did you want and get?

Depeche Mode tickets for myself and my son, but oof were they ever expensive.

What did you want and not get?

Trump rotting in prison for the rest of this miserable fucking life.

What were your favorite films of this year?

Honestly cannot remember. Don’t bode well, does it.

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

I turned 55, which is not a number I’m okay with.

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

Trump’s conviction and permanent incarceration.

How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2022?

I own way, way too many dumb rock t-shirts for a 55-year-old.

What kept you sane?

Once again, who said anything about being sane?

What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

I never know what to do with this question, as every answer is going to sound creepy and inappropriate.

What political issue stirred you the most?

January 6 Committee

Who did you miss?

There was already a long list (as mentioned in this post), but Wilko Johnson, Jet Black and this week’s loss of Terry Hall of the Specials really hit me hard.

Who was the best new person you met?

The lovely ladies of Desperately Seeking the 80's, of course. 

Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2022

Not everything is worth an argument. Pick your battles.

Song lyric that sums up 2022

I've come here to make a ceramic shoe
And I've come to smash what you made
- Dry Cleaning

Fuck SantaCon

Just heard that SantaCon, despite its organizers acknowledging that it’s not universally beloved (to say the fucking least) is happening here in New York on December 10th, to which I say …..Fuck That and Fuck YOU!

If you need me to explain why this annual blight is a problem, you’re clearly just not paying any attention. Suffice to say, if you’re a fan of SantaCon or are planning on participating in it this year, please get the fuck off my blog and never come back. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Just go directly to Hell.

Goodbye, Keith Levene

PREAMBLE:

On Friday morning, I received my bivalent booster — the fifth shot I’ve taken in aversion of the coronavirus (an affliction which, as it happens, I have still not experienced first hand). Having now had a number of these shots, I had certain expectations about how I was going to react, but this particular one landed like a scud missile. I spent the entirety of Saturday feeling like my limbs were made of rusted, groaning metal and nursing a nagging headache that simply would not go away. But hey … I imagine it beats getting COVID, right?

In any case, in the middle of all this, word `round the campfire came down that Keith Levene, the original guitarist of Public Image Ltd. (and a founding member of the nascent Clash) had passed away. Hyperbole aside, it really cannot be overstated what a profoundly innovative and influential musician this man was. In my bivalent-addled mental fog, I immediately started typing up my own brand of eulogy — half-using it as an attempt to get my mind off the state of discomfort I was enduring. What resulted was a meandering series of slavishly overwritten, self-indulgent paragraphs that probably had much less to do with the man himself (who I never met, of course) than anecdotal information about where I was and what I was doing when I first experienced his music. I’m including it below, as I spent so much time on it, but it’s far from “my best work,” so to speak.

Once again, having never met the man, I cannot speak to his purportedly cantankerous nature nor his alleged drug problems, but I find it strikingly distasteful that a day after news of his passing, the official Public Image Ltd. social media channels opted not to make any mention of Keith’s passing, but rather highlight the anniversary of the release of some latter-era (and comparatively inconsequential) single. I find it shameful, embarrassing and petty that John Lydon cannot extend the courtesy of acknowledging the death of his former creative partner who played as equally significant a role in defining the band’s sound as Lydon’s contributions. It’s frankly pathetic. ADDENDUM: Lydon's official social media channels finally posted a terse acknowledgment on Monday, Nov. 14. 

Here’s my original post. Apologies in advance:

I don’t really have criteria for what makes for suitable posts here and what doesn’t — it’s more of a gut feeling sort of approach — but this one struck me as too big not to address. As such, it’s two obits in a row.

It’s all a bit clichéd to dust off the old “I remember the first time I heard …” anecdote when penning a eulogy for a fallen musician, but I’m afraid I have no other way in. I cannot for the life of me remember the geographic particulars of where I might have been and under what circumstances I first heard the song “Public Image” by Johnny Rotten-née-Lydon’s new post-Pistols venture, but I do remember a certain amount of incredulity being involved. I believe it was via my friend Chico (not his real name — immortalized here). Half expecting the same variety of buzzsaw-guitar-driven attack, I remember being stopped dead in my tracks first by that big, bulbous bass sound and the echoey drums ushering in a guitar part that dispensed with all semblance of hackneyed power-chord heroics or noodly soloing in favor of a cascading torrent of staccato-melodic chiming. Even when Johnny assumed the mic, it wasn’t the spittle and snarl of the Pistols but more of a sort of artfully shrill keening. As Lydon part-sung/part-wailed/part-spoke through proceedings, it was only the rhythm section (then of bassist Jah Wobble and shortly-to-depart drummer Jim Walker) that adhered to the song-structure with any real commitment, leaving guitarist Keith Levene (formerly of the fabled London SS and an early iteration of The Clash) to color proceedings with his instrument in a manner that seemed both intriguingly wrong and revelatory. Welcome to Post-Punk.

Shortly after that, I remember picking up the LP from whence said song sprang, First Issue, at Crazy Eddie on West 57th Street. That summer, I seem to remember both my mother and sister hating not only the music (hardly surprising), but regularly insisting on turning the front cover over when I’d leave it on the coffee table next to the communal stereo of the house we were renting, as Lydon’s unblinking, bug-eyed stare gave them the willies.

But “Public Image,” the song, was kind of a ruse — a, by comparison, deceptively catchy track that in no way really prepared the listener for what awaited across the rest of the record. From the willfully ponderous pound of “Religion II” to the discordant agony of “Annalisa” to the surreally (and deliberately) annoying stomp of “Fodderstompf,” First Issue was never intended as family-friendly easy listening and very much did not behave as such. But where First Issue was an opening shot across the bow, its follow-up opus, Metal Box was the point of departure.

I’ve spun this shaggy yarn elsewhere here, but I came to possess my own copy of the unwieldy Metal Box quite undeservedly.

A year or so after divorcing my step-father, my mother had briefly started dating this guy called Arthur (although I believe I assigned him a different pseudonym in earlier posts — whatever, he’s not reading this). Upon learning that the petulant, teenaged son of the woman he was courting was evidently a budding music snob, Arthur thought it would be a grand idea to try to “win me over” by making me a (roundly unsolicited) mixtape. He mailed me a cassette — titled, if memory serves “It’s Gettin’ Hott!” — rife with extended mixes of songs by dance and R&B acts like Shalamar, Debarge, Lisa Lisa & Cult Jam, Nu Shooz, Evelyn “Champagne” King, Chaka Khan etc. etc., clearly not at all realizing the tastes, sensibilities and predilections of his intended audience. As someone otherwise preoccupied with bands, at the time, like The Exploited, Venom, Theatre of Hate and the Circle Jerks, suffice to say, I was not enthused. With a rude flair for the dramatic, I actually took a hammer to Arthur’s cassette, broke it in two, unspooled the tape, wrapped it around the broken shards and mailed it back to him. Delightful, right?

Evidently Arthur had a sense of humor, so didn’t hold that episode against me. In fact, a couple of months later, Arthur called me up to tell me that he was parting with his entire vinyl collection and going completely digital, instructing me to come to the lobby of his apartment building next to the Frick Museum to pick up crates of LPs he was discarding. Given the music Arthur had shared on that ill-fated mixtape, I didn’t have high expectations, but dutifully told him I’d take it all off his hands. I recruited my friend Jeff (who had a car, at the time) and we drove over to pick up the crates.

To make an already long story much shorter, suffice to say that I was entirely wrong about Arthur’s musical tastes. Sure, he might have liked a ton of cheeseball R&B bullshit, but that was only a fraction of his wider collection. In these crates were stacks upon stacks of crucial LPs by bands like The Fall, SWANS, The Au Pairs, The Individuals, New Order, Rip Rig + Panic, The Blasters, Romeo Void, Glen Branca, The March Violets, Nash The Slash, Pigbag, The Dance, Bow Wow Bow, Toyah Wilcox, Altered Images and — right smack in the middle of all of it — the coveted Metal Box by Public Image Ltd.

I’d heard of the Metal Box and probably spied it from a distance on a high shelf at Bleecker Bob’s, but now … it was mine. True to the legend, the packaging was sort of a chore to prize open, and the vinyl inside had to be handled just so lest one scratch the shit out of the grooves. And if my mother and sister thought they had reservations about my repeated airings of First Issue, they had a very rude awakening coming their way.

It’s hard to characterize the music on Metal Box at this late stage of the proceedings without lapsing whole-hoggedly into insufferably pompous hyperbole, but the record almost demands it. Gleefully burning the bridge behind them that could have easily taken them back to more conventional territory (or even, dare I say it, success), Metal Box eschewed all things “rock” in favor of a sound drenched in heady dub, sonic experimentation and abrasive noise. Lyrically, Lydon ruminates on his mother’s death from cancer (“Death Disco,” featuring Levene’s jagged approximation of Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake”), the strife in Northern Ireland (“Careering”), the suffocating doldrums of suburban life (“No Birds”) and, on “Poptones” (arguably the album’s most accessible track), a vague-but-harrowing account of a brutal kidnapping. Throughout, Keith Levene’s guitars sound like bloodied, broken glass above Wobble’s deep, bowel-worrying bass and Lydon’s baleful bleating. It’s a bleak, claustrophobic and uneasy listening experience, but still quite unlike anything I’d ever heard.

Of course, Keith Levene wasn’t to last in the ranks of Public Image Ltd. He did one more studio LP with the band after Metal Box, that being Flowers of Romance, which continued the band’s experimental streak.

———— end of draft

At was at this point wherein my headache got the better of me and I stopped writing (probably for the best).

Farewell, Keith Levene. Regardless of what John Lydon continues to not say, you were a genius.

The below comes courtesy of the incomparable Mike Coles of Malicious Damage.

 

 

The End of Summer Survey 2022

Cripes, how is it Labor Day Weekend, already? Alright, then, well I guess it’s high time to dust off this meaningless exercise. Let’s dive in, shall we?

Defining Moment of Summer 2022:
This was actually a pretty busy, goddamn summer for us. After two comparatively quiet summers wherein we largely sequestered ourselves at the Lamb Cottage out in Quogue to wait for the vengeful wraith of COVID-19 to pass over us, 2022 promised to be different. With my wife positively gagging to travel, we made plans to break the summer up with our first big, fuckoff vacation since 2019, albeit one that would have to wait until our son Oliver finished his stint as a counselor’s aide up at his camp in Vermont. We decided to go to Greece. Compounding all that, halfway through the summer, my daughter Charlotte made her decision to attend the University of St. Andrews in Scotland, so suddenly we had multiple trips on the books. As a result of that, we decided to forego the Lamb Cottage (we simply couldn’t afford it, with everything else going on) and squatted at my mother’s place in Quogue, in between working and our trips. We were never in one spot for very long, which was actually kind of liberating.

With all this in mind, it’s exceptionally difficult to pinpoint a solitary moment, but I’ll have a stab at it.

I might suggest that my defining moment of Summer 2022 was realizing that the tomatoes on offer from the breakfast bar at our hotel on the island of Paros in the azure splendor of the Aegean Sea were quite possibly the most amazing things I’ve ever put in my mouth. Never mind what you think you know about tomatoes. These were these brilliantly lush, astonishingly flavorful and perfectly formed orbs of fresh deliciousness that pretty much knocked me right off my goddamn chair, every morning. Augmented with some sliced cucumber, a dusting of oregano and lashings of olive oil (I prefer “Sparta,” if you’re doing the grocery shopping, …. and you have to pronounce it like Gerard Butler in a foul mood), and you’ve got yourself a bowl of food that is photogenic, healthy and satisfyingly tasty in a manner that rivals even the most ribald of unmentionable pleasures. Like the sublimest of heroin hits (or so I’ve read), I will invariably spend the rest of my life trying to replicate the experience, always fail and die heartbroken.

Best Purchase of Summer 2022:
I tell ya what WOULD have been the best purchase! That would have been if I’d had the friggin’ foresight to buy myself a huge, fuckoff bottle of the afore-cited Sparta Olive Oil, … but I didn’t. I believe I can find some if I go to Queens, though.

With most of our money fueling our multiple trips to Vermont, Greece and Scotland, this year, I can’t say I did a lot of libidinous spending, although I’ll cop to splurging on some deluxe, surround-sound re-releases of albums by XTC, Dukes of Stratosphear, KISS and Yes, all remixed by studio wizard Steven Wilson. Several years back (2014, maybe?), I’d picked up Wilson’s re-mixing of XTC’s crucial Drums & Wires but, and I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit this, never really got around to giving said re-release a proper, attentive listen until a long bus trip this summer. Unlike a standard-issue remastering — wherein the end result simply sounds like a louder version of the album as you remember it, Wilson’s lushly detailed remixes genuinely offer whole new, multi-dimensional listening experiences. Hearing Wilson’s re-rending of Drums & Wires was like that moment in “The Wizard of Oz” wherein the film shifts from black and white into maddening technicolor. There was space and depth and expanse like I’d never gotten from the record before, revealing all sorts of sonic filigree that had previously been buried in the comparatively claustrophobic original. Drums came rumbling from overhead, guitars chopped, clanged and careened off walls, Andy Partidge’s hiccupy yelp darted around, dueling with Colin Moulding’s sinuous bass lines, all kinetically flowing around like slippery fish in an aquarium. Put simply, I was entirely blown away. When I was back in the WiFi, I immediately sought out more, discovering Steven Wilson’s Instagram page, and immediately ordering similar remixed editions of XTC’s Black Sea and Skylarking, the collected discography of the Dukes of The Stratosphear (XTC’s psychedelic alter egos), Fragile by Yes and the super-mega-whatever anniversary edition box set of Destroyer by KISS. This last one was, somewhat typically, a bit of a let-down, as Wilson’s version is contained only on a BluRay disc, and I lack the hardware to play that particular format. Leave it to KISS to rip you off, am I right?

Best Movie You Saw During Summer 2022:
The only movie we went to was Baz Lurman’s Elvis movie, … which felt like one, long trailer. I mean, it was enjoyable, I suppose, but not really a massive cinematic achievement or anything.

Best Gift You Received of Summer 2022:
I’m not complaining, but I can’t say anyone gave me any gifts over the course of the summer.

Biggest Loss of Summer 2022:
My organization underwent a surprise “course correction,” and 10% or our workforce was laid off. I was away when it went down, and thus didn’t get the opportunity to say goodbye to some of my now newly former colleagues.

Song That Best Sums Up Summer 2022:
Well, in terms of new stuff, I really liked “Cracker Island” by Gorillaz, “Chaise Longue” by Wet Leg and, yet another great song by a stupidly-named band, “Scratchcard Lanyard” by Dry Cleaning, but if there was one song that summed up the summer for me, it might be “Rip It Up” by Orange Juice, which I listened to a lot in advance of our trip to Scotland. Julian Cope finally released a studio version of “Cunts Can Fuck Off,” but it doesn’t measure up, to me, to his widely circulated live renditions of the track.

Happiest Memory of Summer 2022:
Y’know, they’re still both teenagers, which means that whatever it was that we were up to, at the time, there was still the requisite amount of eye-rolling, pushback and petulance, but having both of our kids with us on the trip to Greece was genuinely blissful, for the wife and I.

Saddest Memory of Summer 2022:
I’ll say most bittersweet, rather than sad, but having to say goodbye to our daughter Charlotte in Scotland for her international student induction was exceptionally hard, not least in that the temporary housing we left her at (albeit only for two weeks before she moved into her official dorm) wasn’t quite as picturesque as the rest of the campus (more brutalist internment camp than old world gothic masonry). My wife had been a rock for the whole time we were there, but fell apart at the final moment, which meant I had to be the composed one. I fell apart, meanwhile, on the plane ride home.

Scariest Memory of Summer 2022:
I’d been advised to bring my work phone and laptop on both of my trips. I grumbled about it, but ultimately complied. A day after landing in Edinburgh, I dutifully checked my email, in the morning, to see what had been transpiring in my short absence from the office. In my inbox was a letter from the president and CEO of the organization, informing us that they were laying off 10% of the staff (as mentioned above). For several minutes, I genuinely feared that I wouldn’t have a job to come home to (and this while delivering my daughter to a university and all that that entails). I was shortly reassured by my manager that I was still employed and started breathing normally, again, but …. yeah, that was a shock to the system.

That said, I did have another moment that's worth adding here. On our third day on the island of Paros, my wife had booked us a boat-tour on a catamaran around the island and surrounding waters. It was an incomparably lovely day, and we dropped anchor three or four times to swim off the boat. Now, both of my children are lithe, fit, robustly healthy teenagers. They wasted no time in diving right into the disarmingly cerulean waters of the Aegean, followed in immediate course by my wife.

Then it came my turn. 

Not wanting to be a party pooper (and this is tragically on video, I hate to say), I followed suit and plunged into the water. Instantly submerged in the cool water, I felt an immediate sense of impossible insignificance. We were anchored in a beautiful lagoon, but the winds had picked up during the morning, and the water was summarily a little choppy. I surfaced and found myself about a yard from the boat. After orienting myself, I was suddenly another couple of yards from the boat. While my children happily swam about, I started privately wondering if, as a 54-year-old in frankly not as great shape as I could be in, I might have a problem sustaining the stamina to make my way back to the boat. I was having flashbacks to "Open Water 2," a genuinely disquieting 2006 thriller wherein a group of pleasure boaters find themselves unable to make it back onto their yacht after jumping in for a swim without putting a ladder down. I also didn't want to be the guy that had to be helped back up. I paddled about a bit and discreetly re-boarded the boat with my heart pounding. 

When we dropped anchor a second time in a more open channel, I couldn't do it. I sat on the edge of the boat and watched my wife and children frolic in the waves, but could not bring myself to jump back into those crystal waters. It wasn't a fear of any sea life or anything (you could see clearly to the bottom -- there was none). It was that paralyzing fear of my own smallness in the vastness of the sea and my insecurity that I'd have the strength to save myself. It was a strangely chilling experience. When we dropped anchor a third time in a placid little cove (see below), I knew I had to overcome this problem before it consumed me. With the waters calmer than before, I again jumped in. My kids immediately swam off to explore some nearby caves (that was never on the menu for me), but I stayed near the boat, doing a few laps around the vessel and trying to regain my composure. 

Word That Best Describes Summer 2022:
Transitional

"THIS IS ... VACATION!"

Ahoy all. There will probably be another slowdown, for a couple of days, as the Flaming Pablum brood is going on holiday for the first time since the ascent of COVID. I say “probably” as I’ve been asked by my organization to “bring my laptop” (gosh, … thanks) in case something needs doing while I’m away, although — for the life of me — I cannot fathom what that scenario would look like. It’s nice to be thought of as crucially indispensable, but surely one or two of my colleagues could handle whatever mess comes down the pike, no?

If the GIF above didn’t already tip you off, we’re bound for Greece for a few days. This will be my first time in this region of the world, so that should be interesting. Unfortunately, the country is currently dealing with a rash of wildfires, at the moment, and — were that not bad enough — is about to endure a massive heat wave right when we’re getting there. Conventional wisdom suggests that Greece in July is already an ill-considered plan, but the die is cast, alas (sorry, that’s a Roman idiom, not Greek).

When not sweating like a someone stuck in an unventilated Trojan Horse or burning myself lobster-red in the bleaching, Hellenic sun, I’m sure I’ll have a marvelous time soaking up the history, cuisine and natural beauty of the place, while also boring my kids into a stupor with mindless quotes from “300." I’ve even started re-reading Homer's “The Iliad.” I say “re-reading,” but, in all candor, my first experience with that epic poem was having it read to me in 7th Grade. Trying to slog through it on the written page is another matter entirely. I’m about a third in with grave doubts about finishing it. But put me under an umbrella with a cocktail and a view of the Aegean Sea, and we’ll see how far I get.

Expect a full report in a few days.