Flaming Pablum

“Have a Shitty Day”: Black Flag in Houston `85

The pic above was shared by my friend and former SPIN colleague, photographer Pat Blashill, (who I interviewed here back in 2015). This is not his photo but rather one snapped by one Ben DeSoto. I’m sharing it here, as it perfectly aligns with my fleeting experience of seeing latter-era Black Flag in 1986 (as discussed here and here). Here’s what Pat had to say about it…

Black Flag, International Club, Houston, 1985, by Ben DeSoto. A great picture of a young and fresh-faced crowd trying to figure out some late period Flag. This is my favorite kind of punk photo: the crowd is even more entertaining than the performer.

I love the looks of utter puzzlement in the faces of the crowd, who are clearly grappling with the realization that the band they were probably expecting is no longer the band they are bearing witness to. As I said back on one of those old posts…

Giving sway to their penchant for lengthy, free-jazz-inspired jams (as opposed to the taut, splenetic sprints on their early recordings), Black Flag was evolving into something else entirely, and not everyone was necessarily onboard. Their sound had become defiantly sludgy and turgid, defying the speedy mores of the hardcore community. When they felt like stepping on the gas, they could still whip a crowd up into a frenzy, but Black Flag were no one’s performing monkeys.

I also really love the kid directly in front of Henry whose t-shirt reads, simply: “HAVE A SHITTY DAY!”

Big City Shenanigans in 1956

Hot on the heels of those silent clips from the `70s, last week, I stumbled upon this home movie that was only posted a few days ago. Uploaded by one Sandra Otto, this is a charming little slice of one family’s (I’m making assumptions, of course) vacation to Manhattan in the bygone era of 1956.

After an obligatory shot of Manhattan taken from the bow of a ship, the action starts on the Upper West Side, with a jovial visit, by one couple, to fabled Fair Way supermarket on Broadway, after which they adjourn to the Hotel Kimberly in Midtown. Suddenly, it’s back to the Upper West Side, specifically Verdi Square (you can see the marquee of the Beacon Theatre in the background). Verdi Square, of course, would later morph into the not quite as salubrious north end of “Needle Park” in the early-to-mid `70s, thus coined for its concentration of heroin users and immortalized in the 1971 film, “Panic in Needle Park.” But, back in `56, it’s still all smiles and stylish hats. Then, it’s back to midtown for visits to 42nd and Fifth Avenue (you can just see one of the New York Public Library’s lions) before a trip to Bryant Park one block to the west, and then the inevitable pilgrimage to Times Square.

After a quick spot to since-vanished Hotel Wellington on Seventh Avenue at 55th Street, we’re off to the southernmost end of Central Park and then an aquatic adventure in the Boat Pond across from Bethesda Terrace.

From there, it’s a fleeting tip back to the Upper West Side, a stop at the United Nations and then a bird’s-eye view from atop a building around Sutton Place.

While there isn’t anything particularly revelatory or surprising about this charming video, it’s still an interesting contrast to view these familiar locations through the prism of 2023, a bizarre 67 years since this footage was first captured. The city preserved here looks uncharacteristically clean and safe, like a grainier version of a Hitchcock film. One assumes all the principal players in this silent drama have all passed away, but I might be mistaken.

Enjoy…

Downtown in The Silent Seventies

Here is another couple of these strange artefacts from YouTube, featuring archival street scenes of a since-vanished New York City.

The first one was captured at an indeterminate point in the 1970’s, and shot primarily in downtown Manhattan. While it’s simple to make out easily-indentified locations like Astor Place, Tompkins Square Park and St. Marks Place, the whole piece feels entirely removed from the incarnations of those places here in 2023. Even the faces of those passing by the camera look somewhat strange. Where are these individuals today? 

The whole effect is almost eerie. Here’s the blurb that goes with it:

n the 1970s, New York City underwent profound social and cultural transformations. It was a haven for artists, musicians, and creatives amid economic challenges. Neighborhoods like Greenwich Village and SoHo buzzed with artistic and cultural movements, while Studio 54 epitomized the exuberant nightlife. Yet, the city grappled with rising crime and urban decay, reflecting a complex social reality. Immigration contributed to a mosaic of ethnic communities, enriching the city with unique cultural and culinary experiences. The decade witnessed racial tensions and political changes, but the resilience and creativity of New Yorkers continued to shape the city's identity, leaving a lasting mark on its history.

The second clip is also silent, but shot on Super-8 film on, evidently, a Monday in the late summer of 1978. This filmmaker is a gent named Bud Tristano, who has a thing or two to say about it, specifically its depiction of Ray’s Pizza…

A word about "The Famous Rays" pizza place, on the corner of 6th Avenue and 11th Street. This was not the first place to use the name "Ray", and definitely not the last. So many pizzerias sprang up all over the city - using the name "Ray" in various forms - that it became a joke. But this one was different, and not associated with any other. It was the classic New York Pizza, in the Italian-American sense, when almost any pizza joint in the NY/NJ area was amazing. (Think "old world" meets "new world".) It retained this quality up through the 80s, and even into the early 90s. Yes you can find a good quality pizza now, but it takes some searching. And the better ones are more gourmet oriented. This was a f'n PIZZA, in the meat-and-potatoes sense.

Enjoy

Pizza Protocol

This shot was taken, over the weekend, from the inside of Ben’s Pizza on West 3rd & MacDougal Streets. I'm not suggesting that the pizza at this iteration of Ben's (there's another one in SoHo on the corner of Spring and Thompson Streets) is particularly exemplary, but they've been in operation since the early `80s and more or less hold their own in terms of consistency.

You’ll notice that nowhere on Ben's stately bill of fare do the dubious terms “cheese slice” or “cheese pizza” appear. They offer PLAIN slices and REGULAR pies. There’s no need to qualify these items with the descriptor “cheese” because, as we all know, without cheese, it ceases to be a pizza.

That is all.

Bye Bye, Miyabi?

Of all the vanished spots around Manhattan I’ve devoted myriad posts to, Bleecker Bob’s is probably in the top three, right behind CBGB and the old Cedar Tavern on University Place. This is somewhat ironic in that, while the shop in question was indeed a widely beloved landmark for music geeks of all stripes, the shopping experience at Bleecker Bob’s was frequently somewhat fraught, largely thanks to the titular proprietor’s infamously bad temper. The late Bob Plotnik, who left us in 2018 after complications from an earlier stroke, accrued a storied reputation for screaming at customers and staff alike, establishing an atmosphere of hair-triggered derision that made even browsing in the store often unrestful … or amusing, depending on your sensibility.

Regardless, as first invoked in this ancient post, when I first discovered the place in the early `80s, it became a regular spot for me for decades, even if that meant weathering a storm of spittle-flecked invective from dear old Bob. The sheer volume of vinyl I procured at the West Third Street iteration of Bob’s shop (for a while, he operated a smaller place on nearby MacDougal Street, just off West 8th) was pretty staggering.

In any case, I’ve unspooled countless yarns about Bleecker Bob’s over the years, and a simple Googling ought to bring up more of them than you’d probably care to read. Most of these were penned to document the slow, painful demise of the shop and the rumors of what business was going to replace it on that strip of West Third Street. First reports asserted it would become a — wait for it — Starbucks, but those turned out to be false. Then it was supposedly to be a frozen yogurt place, who even hung a “coming soon” sign in its window. That venture, too, failed to materialize, and it started to seem like the space would become just another dormant storefront.

Eventually, about a year and change after Bleecker Bob’s cleared out, the space became occupied by a Japanese restaurant called Miyabi. In 2015, a friend and I decided to go dine there, resulting in a post I titled “Bento Boxing at Bleecker Bob’s.” As I recall, while the meal was perfectly fine, it was in no way especially distinctive, although my projections may have been tainted by my associations with the address’ former tenant.

Much as with the aforementioned CBGB, while there was fleeting chatter about a new iteration of Bleecker Bob’s opening up somewhere, it unsurprisingly never happened. As I’m prone to laboriously point out, the demand for brick-&-mortar record stores here in the new millennium isn’t exactly robust, least of all for a comparatively niche concern like Bleecker Bob’s. While they indeed hung a Madonna poster in the window during their latter eras, not many people went to Bleecker Bob’s looking for chart-based pop bullshit. You went there for obscure proto-punk vinyl, rarified out-of-print editions, hardcore 7”s, hard-to-find imports, bootlegs and a wide array of badges, patches, t-shirts and posters designed to frighten, provoke and/or witheringly insult the mainstream, … which was precisely how we liked it.

That said, and again, much like CBGB, in its latter years, the shop started to gradually degrade. The stock was no longer quite so well looked after, there wasn’t a lot of turnover and the staff seemed less and less enthused about the prospects of their employment. I remember stopping in on the final day with every intention of buying something to show my support, and finding really nothing I was interested in.

That’s all ancient history, now. Bleecker Bob’s, the shop, closed up in 2013 and Bleecker Bob, the man, passed away in 2018. That was that.

Today, meanwhile, I stopped in for a slice in neighboring Ben’s Pizza on the corner of West Third and MacDougal. It’s not that the slices at Ben’s are anything to write home about (they remain pretty perfunctory, as pizza goes), but they've been holding court on that corner since before I can remember. As I was departing, I glanced up and noticed that Miyabi’s gate was down and that all its signage — both on a hanging sign and above it’s window — had all been spray-painted over.

I found no mention of its closure online, but could Miyabi also have left the building?

“Halfway Between 'Casablanca' and The Titanic”: Back to The Gramercy Park Hotel

I was somewhat surprised, last week, to read on a website called 6 Sqare Feet (about NYC real estate, one presumes) that the Gramercy Park Hotel is reopening. Now, obviously, after Ian Schrager’s re-imagined iteration of the hotel closed in the height of the pandemic, any sign of recovery from those dark days should be welcomed. The part I found slightly dispiriting, however, was this line about the building’s new developer, Tyler Morse.

Morse intends to transform the hotel into one of the city’s most luxurious hotels.

Yeah, `cos that’s JUST what New York City needs, isn’t it? ::: sigh:::

Before Ian Schrager got his mitts on it back in 2003, the Gramercy Park Hotel had already acquired a colorful reputation. Lodging itself firmly in the psyche of rock fans everywhere following a storied, two-week residency by David Bowie, the Gramercy Park Hotel (cheekily re-dubbed “the Glamercy” in homage to Bowie) became the hotel of choice for all stripes of visiting bands. Bands like The Clash, U2, The Psychedelic Furs, Siouxsie & the Banshees and, I’m dead sure, many, many more all darkened the doors of the hotel. Alan Vega of Suicide (recently invoked here) actually lived full-time at the Gramercy Park Hotel for many moons. It wasn’t posh or fancy, but it was affordable and situated right at the mouth of Downtown Manhattan, walking distance from landmarks like Max’s Kansas City, Irving Plaza, The Palladium and other likely haunts.

I actually ducked into the old Gramercy Park Hotel a couple of times. A friend of mine from college booked a room there in the early `90s, which allowed me to actually go upstairs and check out the rooms, although I didn’t run into any musical luminaries, at the time. In the late `90s, whenever my then-future-in-laws came to town, they liked to enjoy a few bevvies at the bar, so I logged some hours there, as well. Again, despite my best efforts, I failed to spot any favorite musicians amidst the guests. Oh well.

But when Schrager got it in 2003, all that changed. He completely modernized the lobby, ripping out the wall-to-wall red carpeting and dismantling the signature wood-paneled walls, and giving it a modern, bespoke “re-boot,” with a pricey exclusivity to match. Apart from the address, all resemblance to its earlier incarnation was gone. I mean, sure, it was nice (I must confess to visiting both its bar and its roof deck, during this era), but you’d never have known the place once had leather-clad members of the Stranglers, the Buzzcocks and Iron Maiden running around its halls.

While it’s not a periodical I’m regularly prone to lionizing, Rolling Stone did publish a great rumination on the old version of the hotel, lovingly penned by the son of its original proprietor. Check that out here but remember -- Rolling Stone is now irritatingly paywalled, so prepare to be annoyed.

As for what comes next on that fabled corner, I can only hope that it’s undertaken with a reverence for the establishment’s history. We shall see.

Catch a fleeting glimpse of the old Gramercy Park Hotel (and other notable Downtown spots) here….

On The Last Day: The 2023 Summer Survey

I wasn’t originally going to do another one of these, because … honestly … why would anyone care? But, then again, that same argument could be applied to pretty much every entry I post here, so, fuck it…here goes.

Defining Moment of Summer 2023
At the risk of drudging it all back up, I’d suggest the defining element of my summer involved my stupid, broken foot and having to wear that goddamn boot (see above) for four weeks. The worst of it is that here on the precipice of Autumn, it still doesn’t feel much better. I’m going back to see my quacky podiatrist in two weeks to discuss other courses of action, but it may be high time to find another doctor. Watch this space, if you care.

Best Purchase of Summer 2023
Back in June, we were invited to my nephew’s wedding, which was to be held in late August in Northern California. It was a “black-tie optional” event, so I used that as an excuse to go buy myself a proper black suit, hoping it would help me feel like more of a functioning adult. In it, I kid myself that I look like a reservoir dog, when the truth of the matter is probably closer to a middle-aged head waiter.

Best Meal of Summer 2023
Never mind just the summer, the best meal of my entire life took place in late June at a tiny eatery in Rome called Collene Emiliane. My main course was a dish simply called "Roast-Beef con purea,” which is basically just roast beef with mashed potatoes. I realize how banal that sounds, but it genuinely was the most lovingly prepared, succulent and immeasurably tasty meal I’ve ever consumed.

Best Concert of Summer 2023
Oliver and I saw some great shows, in the late Spring and earlier Summer, notably Depeche Mode back in April and then the Sisters of Mercy in Brooklyn in June. Both of those were great fun, but I’d have to say the best evening of live music I experienced this summer was only a few weeks back, seeing Calexico perform the entirety of their 2003 album, Feast of Wire at (le) Poisson Rouge over on Bleecker Street. They’re an amazing band, and I cannot recommend them highly enough.

Best Book You Read During Summer 2023
I read some fun stuff this summer, including “Heady Daze,” the second installment in the sprawling autobiographical series by Wayne Hussey of The Mission. I also enjoyed "World Travel," a collection of essays from the late Anthony Bourdain, “I Die Every Time I Hear the Sound” by Mike Doughty, “Nothin’ But a Good Time” by Tom Beaujour & Richard Bienstock,” as well as “Sweet Dreams: The Story of the New Romantics” by Dylan Jones. But, far and away, the best book I paged through this summer was “This Must Be the Place: Music, Community and Vanished Spaces in New York City” by Jesse Rifkin. I honestly cannot recommend it highly enough. Rifkin’s attention to chronological detail, musical minutia and geographical accuracy across multiple genres and local music scenes - from bongo-bangin’ folkies through Brooklynite hipster kids and the myriad musical tribes between them — is genuinely astonishing, and handled with a reverence that is inherently readable and illuminating. Even if you’re not familiar with the particulars in question, it’s an endlessly engaging journey. A MUST-READ book, full stop.

Best Movie of Summer 2023
I saw neither “Barbie” nor “Oppenheimer,” and feel not a jot of regret. I can’t actually think of a film I went to (as in, in a movie theatre) this summer, but I did quite enjoy “Squaring the Circle,” the new documentary about the album-cover design team of Hipgnosis. I also quite enjoyed “Living” with Bill Nighy, which was lovely.

Best Gift You Received of Summer 2023
For father’s day, my son gave me a fetching Love & Rockets t-shirt (his latest favorite band).

Biggest Loss of Summer 2023
On a personal level, I actually went to three funerals, this summer, which seemed a bit out of the ordinary. Mercifully, no one in my immediate circle passed away, but these were extended family members (the siblings, fathers and godparents of in-laws, etc.), and I attended to show my support for those loved ones who suffered those losses. Beyond that, I have to say that the losses of both Pee Wee Herman and Sinead O’Connor were both painfully palpable.

Song That Sums Up the Summer of Summer 2023
I don’t know if there’s truly a single song that wraps it all up, for me, but if pressed, I’d say my favorite album of Summer 2023 would be Negative Stars by local noise-rock trio, Skull Practitioners. Their vocals need a bit of work, but they mine a compelling terrain that is reminiscent of several so-called “pigfuck” bands while also somehow calling to mind the noodley prog nuttsness of early King Crimson. On a song-level, though, being that our fleeting time out in Quogue, this summer, was largely scored by the strikingly limited playlist of Sirius XM’s “Yacht Rock Radio,” I’d probably have to cite “Diamond Girl” by Seals & Crofts as the tune that might continue to remind me of this summer. I also listened to the title track of Robyn Hitchcock's Shufflemania quite a bit. 

Happiest Memory of Summer 2023
While we bicker inanely like every other family, the fact that my wife and I had the pleasure of spending so much time with both of our kids, this summer, brought me much joy. We only packed our daughter back off to Scotland this past Friday. Summer is thus officially done and dusted, as far as I’m concerned.

Saddest Memory of Summer 2023
Learning of the sudden and awful fate of Jesse Malin after suffering a spinal stroke really took the wind out of my sails. During the early weeks of the COVID 19 pandemic, when uncertainty held sway, my department at work — all sequestered in our respective homes and duly “sheltering in place” — was tasked with conceiving new content to produce to keep our audience (our creative community of affiliated songwriters, composers and publishers) informed. I pitched a series of short Q&A’s with certain songwriters to see how they were handling the challenges of this new strange era. I got the green light, and started firing off emails to various names. To my very great joy, the very first guy that got back to me was Jesse Malin, who was entirely game. I lobbed a handful of questions over and within a day, he hit me back with some great, thoughtful and inspiring responses. At this risk of lapsing into fanboy hyperbole, Jesse has always been the mover, the shaker and the tip of the spear. A true believer in the music of New York City, he makes things happen, and has kept the spirit of Punk Rock alive in a downtown Manhattan riddled by gentrification. He’s also a tireless advocate for giving BACK, and has been involved in more charitable initiatives than I can count. He’s truly one of the good guys. May he swiftly recover from this latest setback.

Scariest Moment of Summer 2023
Apart from some testy moments when looking at my dwindling bank account, I’m relieved to say that Summer 2023 didn’t come with a great deal of sudden scares.

Word That Best Describes of Summer 2023
Over.

Suicide's Walking Tour of Lower Manhattan: Bonus Cut

In the wake of yesterday's post about Adrian Boot's amazing photographs of Alan Vega and Martin Rev of Suicide from 1979, I hit some key locations on my way to work this morning ...

Benson Place, then and now. 

The Puck Building, then and now. 

Jersey Street, then and now. 

 

 

A Walking Tour of Lower Manhattan … with Suicide

I’ve seen a lot of these individual shots before (some have taken on a legitimately iconic status, in terms of the history of New York City Punk, etc.), but never knew who the actual photographer was. Turns out it was a British photojournalist named Adrian Boot, and I recently stumbled upon his account of his first encounter with Suicide purely by accident. Sure, it’s a great, illuminating read, but it wasn’t until I clicked on the VISIT THE GALLERY (see below) link at the bottom that I saw the full array of images from that early spring morning on the still-squalid streets of 1979’s Downtown Manhattan.

Even if you’re not a fan of Suicide’s singular blend of brazenly forward-looking and bracingly listener-hostile electronic music (46 years on from their debut eponymous LP on Red Star Records, it’s still not for everyone), Boot’s photos of Martin Rev and Alan Vega leisurely loitering around strips of the Bowery, the Lower East Side and areas now referred to as SoHo, the East Village and even TriBeCa (I’m confidently convinced that shot No.1 was taken on Benson Place, which extends off Franklin Street near where Courtlandt Alley ends at the foot of what had been the Mudd Club at 77 White Street) are still eye-opening revelations. Can you name the other locations?

View the full gallery of Suicide shots here and be sure to check out Boot’s other amazing pictures. They are well worth your time.

And, for the curious and/or uninitiated, this was Suicide

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More from Flaming Pablum on Suicide…

Life Without Alan Vega

"Je T'Adore, Baby"

Suicide in SoHo

Don't Mess with Cheree

Back Again ... Briefly ... To The Cooler 

 

Back to Bisi’s Basement … Thirty Years Later

Originally, I wasn’t going to post this, as I just did a vintage Cop Shoot Cop post the other day, but there’s this 15-year-old kid in Finland named Peeter who keeps posting archival Cop Shoot Cop stuff on YouTube. Of course, I’m all for it, but realize that all of you might not harbor quite the same amount of enthusiasm for it that I do.

In any case, I was going to let this one go, but just noticed, via the Instagram of producer Martin Bisi, that the performance presented in the video below was evidently captured thirty (!!!) years ago this month. That’s as good a reason as any, in my book.

This is the set that was released on DVD a few years back, featuring Cop Shoot Cop raising up ruckus in Martin Bisi’s fabled Gowanus recording studio, BC Studios (discussed here).

If you never had the opportunity to see that, please enjoy.