I recently stumbled upon a stupid survey I filled out on Facebook, eleven years ago, called “The Music Taste Meme.” Not so much a genuine gauge of one’s tastes as just a series of either/or questions, I filled it out with suitably vitriolic aplomb (i.e. in response to the question Christina Aguilera or Britney Spears?, I saw fit to write “They're both vile, objectionable shite. I'd rather saw off my own ears and feed them to famished hyenas then subject myself to the repugnant oeuvres of either loathsome harpy.”) Given my big opinions on the subject of music and even bigger mouth, sounding off on such things frequently comes all too easily for me.
Here in 2020, however, I'm working for a performing rights organization, and have been doing so for the past four years. Said organization represents several very prominent affiliates across multiple genres. As such, I am disinclined to so casually vent my spleen all over social media about certain artists whose music I might otherwise feel unfit for human consumption. You can imagine my quandary when the Rock n’ Roll Hall of Fame announces its annual list of inductees. I really should hold my tongue – but sometimes forget to. Actually, you don’t have to imagine it, as you can read it right here, but sometimes it’s best to simply recuse myself from the conversation, lest I inadvertently besmirch someone best unbesmirched.
In any case, every now and again, I discover a new artist who is affiliated with my organization that I do quite like. I don’t know that much about them, but the band showcased below – Los Angeles-based Liily – are “one of ours,” so to speak, and I genuinely think they’re pretty damn entertaining. Their tonsorial and sartorial choices may be questionable, but they get quite into it.
Some days, I have a lot to say. Some might suggest too much to say. Some days, current events prompt insights, observations and rants that spark further conversation and debate. Some days I'm randomly inspired.
Other days, however, sometimes not so much. Some days I'm flummoxed. Some days I feel like I'll never again think of anything worthwhile to post.
On days like that, ... and today is one of them, ... I am thankful to stumble across things like the below.
I mentioned this particular anecdote way back on this ancient post, but since people are still banging on about Baby Yoda, Megxit and Oscar snubs over on social media, I reckon it's fair to throw one more post about Rush into the mix, although, truthfully, this tale only fleetingly involves the late, great Neil Peart.
Early in my post-collegiate years, after decamping from a payless internship at SPIN, I landed a gig as a copy assistant at LIFE In Time of War, a new weekly magazine from TIME/LIFE that was ostensibly going to last for as long as the first Gulf War. As it happened, the war in question was comparatively brief, so the gig only lasted for four issues. I believe part-timers like myself were churlishly heard to remark “Give War a Chance!” upon the news that our jobs were about to dry up.
In any case, along the way, I befriended a fellow copy-department gal named Lesley, who shared a similar outlook on the absurdity of proceedings. As a surreal bonus, Lesley was somewhat inexplicably good friends with Rush, a band I’d slavishly devoted large swathes of my teenage years admiring. When they came to Madison Square Garden on the Roll the Bones tour in December of 1991, Lesley gamely asked if (a) I wanted to go to the show and (b) would I be into going backstage and OUT TO GODDAMN DINNER WITH THE BAND AFTERWARDS! I responded quite zealously in the affirmative.
While the purist jury is somewhat split on the Roll The Bones-era (the title track does somewhat infamously feature some “rapping” to somewhat tepid effect), they were still a force to be reckoned with, and our seats were stupendous. Any remaining doubt as to Lesley’s claims about her friendship with the band were immediately decimated when we ducked backstage afterwards and spotted guitarist Alex Lifeson in the hall. “Drexel,” he exclaimed – evidently Lesley’s nickname, “you made it! Come on back!”
We were then ushered through a busy, backstage labyrinth, and directly into the band’s private dressing room, allowed – if memory serves – to cut in front of one Connie Hamzy, otherwise known as “Sweet, Sweet Connie,” the famous groupie immortalized in Grand Funk Railroad’s “We’re An American Band.”
Once the door shut behind us, though, it was not surprising that Connie was still waiting. Planets apart from the world of renowned backstage debauchery inhabited by Led Zeppelin, Motley Crue, Van Halen and their ilk, the vibe was positively genteel within the inner Rush sanctum. Geddy Lee was affable and soft-spoken, offering me a beer and immediately handing me a Pushead-designed tour shirt (I still have it). Alex Lifeson was chatty and gracious. And Neil Peart? The legendary drum god was literally sitting in the lotus position on the couch, paging through a dog-eared, paperback copy of a work by Friedrich Nietzche. He gave our party a smiling nod, but did not get up or engage. He only rose when a new group of folks entered behind us, featuring a wheelchair-bound fan. Neil immediately got up for this special visitor and gave him his full attention. It’s not that he didn’t care about Lesley and incidental me, but evidently these types scenarios never sat well with the man. He was not fond of the accoutrements of fame, and shied away from inconsequential pleasantries. While soaking in the whole scene, I watched Neil chat with the fan for a while and sign a few items for him, only to quietly duck out and vanish with a wave to his bandmates.
Geddy, Alex and some other folks, however, were all ready to eat. The next thing I know, we’re in a giant facility under the Garden waiting for a limo. Up pulls a massive car, and Lesley and I climb in with Geddy.
I cannot honestly attest to how I behaved myself, as it’s all a bit of blur this many years later, but Lesley described me as being “adorably gobsmacked,” which sounds about right. I do remember asking Geddy what he thought about Guns N’ Roses liberally helping themselves to the central riff of “Xanadu” for the comparatively simpler main guitar line for “Sweet Child O’ Mine.” I was a bit astonished to hear him respond that he’d never knowingly heard the G’NR tune in question, but segued into an anecdote about spending some time with hair-metal screecher Sebastian Bach, and noting that the former Skid Row singer seemed to have a difficult time keeping his genitals in his pants.
We pulled up to a long-since-vanished eatery in SoHo called Nick & Eddie’s on Spring Street, and I somehow managed to ruffle the feathers of the limo driver by opening my own door (as opposed to letting him get out and open it for me). We filed into the joint and were seated at a long table reserved in the back room. I was amazed at how …. well, normal it all was.
I was treated to a lavish meal and mostly listened to Alex and Geddy discuss comparatively banal shit with Lesley and the other folks. I chimed in when it seemed appropriate, but was still fairly starstruck, despite the fact that both guys were going out of their way to downplay the surrounding circus. By the end of the meal, I think I whipped out my wallet to help throw down, with Geddy shooing me away with a kindly giggle. The tab was picked up by Rush.
Within another few minutes, it was all over. I profusely thanked them and Lesley, and the Rush gents got back in their waiting stretch and drove off to whatever hotel and that was that.
I never saw the band perform again, alas. Today, Lesley and I are still friends, despite both having left the auspices of TIME/LIFE decades ago. The space that was Nick & Eddie’s is now a shitty bar called SoHo Room. Madison Square Garden is still there.
This having been the early 90’s, I sadly have no photographs to share of the event, although the concert part can indeed be found on in YouTube. I still have both my backstage laminate and the t-shirt, although the latter has since been poached by my kids.
I've gone into chapter and verse about my affinity for Rush several times here (most recently here), so it should not come as any great news that I am profoundly saddened by news of the death of Neil Peart.
In a nutshell, though, Rush were never hip, god bless'em. Arguably too proggy, twiddly, geeky and/or shrieky, they were lambasted by all and sundry as the ultimate nerd band, rivaled only by Devo (another band I'm slavishly devoted to). Championed by greaseball heshers and bespectacled computer programmers alike, Rush deftly fused dizzying musical chops, a Zepplinesque propensity for sonic wallop and a tireless penchant for indecipherably eggheaded lyrics (penned by eight-armed Ayn Rand disciple/drummer Neil Peart). They were not tough. They were not sexy. You didn't find girls shedding their tops at their shows. But still -- they were Rush. They wrote "Spirit of Radio," "A Passage to Bangkok" and "Subdivisions." You didn't. They rock. You don't.
One of the more polarizing bands of my youth, Rush were always an absolute favorite. They may be a punchline to you, but they deserve your goddamn respect.
Someone posted this flyer on the Ritz-centric Facebook group, The Ritz NYC. Obviously, I’ve spoken about both my love for the Ritz and the Rock Hotel series here several times before (see here and here, just as two examples). This is a cool flyer in that it showcases a slew of my favorite bands, and I’m guessing that this dates back to 1988, and I believe I was at that Dead Boys reunion show. Those were never to be missed.
In any case, the thing that really caught my eye here, though, is at the bottom – look at the January 7th show:
Did that really happen? Did Alien Sex Fiend and Schooly D share the same bill? I have seen no further evidence of this having occurred.
Alien Sex Fiend, for those who may be unfamiliar, are a storied British goth band from the Batcave scene who largely ditched the stylish finesse of Bauhaus and Siouxsie in favor of a more luridly camp, bawdy and not-just-a-little ridiculous aesthetic that owed more to the Cramps and Alice Cooper. I’ve writtenabout them here before, but their sophomore album Acid Bath is a goddamn classic. Seek it out.
In any case, the notion of Alien Sex Fiend and Schooly D sharing the same bill is simply too bizarre to fathom. That said, if you listen to “Attack #2” by Alien Sex Fiend off the afore-cited Acid Bath (below), they did include a sample recording of the call letters of Disco 92, WKTU, which – in the early-to-mid 80’s, at least – would have been the only major radio station bold enough to be playing Schooly D’s records, so maybe there was a shared affinity? I have a hard time picturing Schooly D being down with Nik Fiend, but stranger things have surely happened.
Could this show have inspired the great, star-crossed goth/hip-hop alliance that spawned the Sisters of Mercy/Public Enemy co-billing a decade later?
According to Blue Grass Today -- and, really, who am I to argue with them? – on this day in 1994, the single “Country Boy” by one Ricky Skaggs was certified Gold by the Recording Industry Association of America.
Until yesterday, I must confess that I’d never heard the single in question.
This shouldn’t be too surprising, however, as I’m not exactly an ardent fan of Country and/or Blue Grass music. Invoke the word “skag” to me, and the first thing that comes to mind is Lower East Side street-slang for heroin.
I don’t have anything against Country/Blue Grass music, per se, but I don’t feel I genuinely know enough about the specifics to have a credible opinion about it one way or the other. Growing up, as I did, here in New York City, I wasn’t exactly offered many opportunities to experience the finest fruits of those genres. By the time I came of age to be exploring New York City’s live-music circuit, the only major venue for Country and Blue Grass was the Lone Star Cafe on the corner of 13th & Fifth Avenue, and that was kind of already on the way out. More to the point, I was never really inclined towards that kind of thing to begin with. No urban cowboy, I.
That doesn’t mean New York City didn’t have its own a stubborn strain of Country and Blue Grass fans. I vividly recall that the Gray’s Papaya on the corner of West 8th and Sixth Avenue used to stridently insist on having their in-house soundsystem permanently tuned, for a while, to WKHK, a former jazz station-turned-Country hub. It was always weird popping in there after buying Anthrax, Kraut and Iron Maiden records at one of formerly many record shops along 8th Street, and hearing fiddles, pedal-steel guitar and the distinctive yodel of Conway Twitty while ordering two dogs and a large papaya juice. Given that Gray’s was largely staffed by gentlemen from the Indian subcontinent, one wonders whose idea it was to always be playing Country music in there. Was it some bizarre form of torture to keep his servers in check by enigmatic founder Nicholas Gray? The world may never know.
Also, it’s prudent to remember that the cryptic letters of the name of New York City’s premiere punk bar, CBGB, stood for – WAIT FOR IT – Country, Blue Grass, Blues.
Anyway, since taking a job in the field of music rights management some four years ago, I have been exposed to a whole wide world of musical genres that I previously never would have voluntairly availed myself to. I now know more about myriad variations of Latin music, as one example, than I’d have ever imagined, and could almost credibly tell you the differences between certain subgenres. Almost.
A big part of my horizon-broadening has involved the world of Country music. More to the point, Country music itself is no longer such a seemingly niche, regional concern. No longer seemingly tailored and singularly relegated to regions south of the Mason Dixon line, Country music has been big ol’ business for some time now, be you a sniffy coastal elitist or proudly red-necked resident of Flyoverville. Country music is really for everyone. Evidently, it’s huge in other parts of the world, like Belgium, Argentina, India and even Iran. Who knew?
Sure, a lot of contemporary Country music is fairly indistinguishable from contemporary pop music, apart from a few well-placed cowboy hats, references to pickup trucks and maybe the odd slide guitar. In the past few decades, folks like Garth Brooks (himself a huge KISS fan), Taylor Swift and a few notable others did much to blur the parameters between genres,. Much was made in 2019, of course, of the heretofore unlikely meshing of Country music and Hip-hop by way of Lil Nas X’s “Old Town Road” (which, for further incongruity, was built around a sample from a Nine Inch Nails track). While participants in this venture – including former “Achey Breaky Heart” villain and Myley father, Billy Ray Cyrus – were all celebrated for their pionering effores (Trent Reznor even won a Country Music Award for it), I must now bang my fist against the nearest desk and demand justice for Ricky Scaggs!
Why? Well, I’ll tell you.
I was recently tasked with chasing down a particular piece of music – an instrumental version of a beloved track by the late Glen Campbell, although the “Rhinestone Cowboy” himself did not perform on this version. As it happened, it turned out to be a rendition of the song peformed by the Nashville Symphony Orchestra, featuring Ricky Skaggs on guitar. Now, again, being a Country music novice (at best), I don’t really know my Ricky Skaggs from my Earl Scruggs. It’s all Greek to me. As such, I did a bit of adventurous Googling and somehow came across the 1985 music video for the afore-cited “Country Boy.” While not the song I was looking for, it did stop me in my tracks …as it was filmed here in NYC.
While, no, the clip doesn’t feature Ricky darkening the doors of CBGB, buying records at Bleecker Bob’s, eating pastrami at Katz’s or loitering around the Mudd Club, it does find Ricky asserting his Country/Blue Grass roots, largely in and around Times Square and the New York City subway system (all on genuine location). The thing that struck me, however, is the interplay between the breakdancing (once an integral element of Hip-Hop, as quaint as that might sound in 2020) and honky-tonk high-steppin’ practiced by Skaggs’ “Uncle Pen” … played, evidently, by Country legend Bill Monroe.
I am blessed enough to have been given office space by my organization that comes with a view that is nothing short of breathtaking.
My desk aligns with apparent total symmetry with the Empire State Building. As it happens, my desk faces the other way, which is good, as the vista would otherwise prevent me from getting any work done. But, at least two or three times a day, the view from my window is spectacular, frequently bordering on the astonishing. I'm also privy to some odd sights as well, be they unexpected birds of prey, flybys from military aircraft and dramatic weather events. It's never dull.
In any case, I captured the picture below yesterday afternoon. While I'll cop to augmenting the color a little bit, I didn't do that much to it. It isn't supposed to look apocalyptic, but .... if the shoe fits....
Today would have been David Bowie’s 73rd birthday. But, of course, he left us at the beginning of 2016, and I think I speak for everyone when I assert that life hasn’t been quite the same since. I’ve suggested it before, but perhaps he saw what was coming.
In any case, herewith a stylish clip someone put together that stiches elements from Nic Roeg’s “The Man Who Fell to Earth” and Chantal Akerman’s “News From Home,” a curious film I’ve spoken about here before, all scored by the inimitable strains of “New Career in a New Town” from Bowie’s Low. I think it works rather well.
I have written entirely too many times about “After Hours” here in the past 14 years, it being my favorite film of all time. Should you care or be of paralleled opinion, see list of links below. In any case, it’s a brilliant movie, if you haven’t seen it. Go seek it out.
This post isn’t really about “After Hours” so much as events that were transpiring while the film was in production. I missed this when it was first published in Vanity Fair, but actor Griffin Dunne, who played star-crossed protagonist, Paul Hackett, in “After Hours,” expressed his thoughts about the passing of his friend and former neighbor, Ric Ocasek, who passed away this past September. Read it here.
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