It’s always odd when you stumble across videos of events you attended. I find them hard to objectively watch, as I get too distracted trying to maybe spot myself in the background. It’s silly, really.
In any case, someone posted the video below on Facebook, yesterday, and I felt compelled to share it here -– not so you can help me spot myself in the crowd footage, but that given this blog’s usual themes, it checks all the right boxes.
This is a snippet of Soundgarden playing at the New Ritz in 1990. Actually, by then, it had dropped the “New” and was just going by Ritz, but everybody still made that distinction (the original Ritz being, of course, on East 11th Street). Also on this bill came Faith No More and Voivod. Shortly before this gig, my friend Brent and I had seen their other NYC stop on this tour at L’Amour in Brooklyn (as recounted on this old post). When the tour rolled into the New Ritz -– then newly housed in the comparatively expansive former Studio 54 space, we -– of course -– showed up again. This is a slice of that evening.
The Ritz at 54th Street closed at some point in the mid-90’s. I sadly cannot recall the final show I attended there, although it might have been GBH with a reunited Kraut opening.
Anyway, since this video, this iteration of the Ritz became a host of different things and is now a Broadway theatre. Chris Cornell of Soundgarden tragically took his own life in 2017.
Here they were, though, alive and well in 1990.
1996 / 2019
Instead of ruminating on conspiracy theories about the unsurprising and convenient demise of Jeffery Epstein, herewith a survey about high school I encountered on Facebook.
1. Did you know your current love?
Had not met her yet, no.
2. Type of car?
Surely you jest. I was a Manhattan kid.
3. What kind of job did you have?
A gopher for a graphic designer. Ran around town delivering mock-ups to cosmetic agencies and buying supplies at plastic emporiums on Canal Street.
4. Where did you live?
Carnegie Hill and then Yorkville, Upper East Side
5. Were you popular?
In a word, NEVER.
6. Were you in band/choir?
No.
7. Ever get suspended?
No.
8. If you could, would you go back?
If I went back, I would probably do certain things very differently, which would alter the trajectory, so no — I would leave it all as-was.
9. Still talk to the person that you went to prom with?
I am loathe to admit that I went solo. I should have asked a certain friend, but didn’t. I had an unrealistic crush on someone that was never going to see fruition, so went alone — which was just stupid.
10. Did you skip school?
No.
11. Go to all the football games?
We didn’t have a football team, but wouldn’t even if we did. Fuck THAT stupid crap.
12. Favorite subjects?
Art and English.
13. Do you still have your year books?
Yes.
14. Did you follow the "original" career paths?
From high school? Don’t know that I had one.
15. Do you still have your senior ring?
We didn’t do that stupid shit.
16. Who was your favorite teacher?
I had a couple... and there were a couple who turned out to be creeps.
17. What was your style?
We had the Catholic school blazer thing. Style was in perilously short supply.
18. Favorite shoes?
See above.
19. Favorite thing to eat in the cafeteria?
Every day, I would go to the tiny Jackson Hole dinerette on Madison Ave and buy an order of fries to go. That’s it. Just fries. How I survived on such a diet, I will never know.
20. Favorite bands:
At the time, Devo, Venom, the Circle Jerks, Dead Kennedys, Iron Maiden, Motörhead & the Lords of the New Church
21. High school hair cut?
The bog-standard “scowly loser” cut.
22. What kind of perfume?
Right Guard
23. What did you wear to prom?
An ill-considered rental tuxedo, which I proceeded to wear to Danceteria later that evening.
Full disclosure: As unseemly as it may sound from the lofty perch of 2019, I was fully on-board with the 1983 iteration of Mötley Crüe. Upon my first viewing of the heroically ridiculous video for “Looks That Kill” -– finding the band looking and sounding like a louder & stupider KISS, if such a concept is imaginable -- I immediately rushed out to buy myself a copy of the album that spawned same, that being the not-just-a-little-stupid Shout At The Devil. As I mentioned on this post last year, while this album and –- yea verily -- the band that spawned it are, for all intents and purposes, roundly indefensible on pretty much every quantifiable level (musical ability & execution, taste, basic human conduct), I will never part with that record. I’d guess one could call it a “guilty pleasure,” but as a crotchedy almost-52-year-old guy, I no longer feel the compulsion to harbor any guilt about my listening habits. While we’re at it, I also quite enjoyed the band’s first record, that being the equally idiotic Too Fast For Love, and think they had some fine mid-career moments like “Primal Scream,” “Kickstart My Heart” and the title track to Dr. Feelgood. Don’t agree? Too bad. Go listen to your Joni Mitchell discs and leave me alone.
In any case, despite my stubborn affinity for the Crüe, I have always been well aware that the gentlemen in the band didn’t exactly qualify for membership in any think tanks. The descriptor “cerebral” is not an adjective frequently used in tandem with the likes of Vince Neil, Nikki Sixx, Mick Mars and Tommy Lee. That’s not an indictment, but rather just a fact. While I’m sure each of those guys might be happy to oblige, one wouldn’t normally seek out Mötley Crüe to ruminate on pertinent issues of the day. That’s just not what they were renowned for.
Beyond their music, the band was quite renowned for its cartoonishly prurient antics as captured in epic style in the oral history, “The Dirt,” partly ghost-penned by an old colleague of mine, Neil Strauss and later turned into a needless film I did not see. Beyond what’s detailed in “The Dirt,” the boys’ extracurricular activity used to serve as frequent fodder for low-grade tabloids. By all accounts, Mötley Crüe personified a certain hirsute variant of rock idiocy. That’s what they did.
As such, I stopped paying attention to the Crüe’s doings some time ago, perfectly content to relive their hoary glory days via the occasional spin of Shout At the Devil. As of 2019, I believe they’ve officially retired after numerous farewell tours, but am not entirely certain -– nor do I really care.
This all said, when I spotted the below tweet from Crüe drummer Tommy Lee, this morning, I felt compelled to dust off the complete Mötley Crüe discography.
Enlightened words come from unlikely sources, sometimes.
It’s a frequent and overused descriptive flourish to suggest you were “scarred for life” by a bit of pop culture, but I have the rare honor of asserting that I was literally scarred for life as a result of my viewing of “Heavy Metal: The Motion Picture.”
Released 38 years ago today, the movie was already the subject of much discussion for the 13-year-old me and my friends, at the time. It being “rated R,” it was uncertain whether we’d be able to attend, but our collective suspicion was that it was unlikely. That didn’t stop each of us from snapping up the official soundtrack, a sprawling double-LP with a lovingly illustrated gatefold sleeve, featuring great tracks by Black Sabbath, Blue Oyster Cult, Cheap Trick, Devo, French metal band Trust and …. err….some not-quite-as-great stuff by Sammy Hagar, Don Felder (he of the Eagles), Journey and a few others. Still, it being the seemingly perfect marriage of loud rock’n’roll, science fiction bullshit and soft-core sexytime, it seemed like everything we’d have ever wanted to see wrapped up in one package. We simply HAD TO FIND A WAY!!!
In this capacity, fate deceptively smiled on myself and my good friend Charlie. Somehow, we managed to coerce Charlie’s mom to take us. I don’t remember if she was unaware of the film’s rating, or blithely oblivious about the film’s alleged undercurrent of libidinous titilaton or if she simply didn’t care, but she said she’d take us. That’s all that mattered.
We were out in Long Island, at the time. Charlie’s mom had to go drop off his little sister at a playdate, after which time she was going to swing back home, pick us up and take us to the movie. Suffice to say, we were AMPED UP!
I believe we were repeatedly cranking “The Mob Rules” from the afore-cited soundtrack at neighbor-worrying volume. I was standing on Charlie’s bed, emphatically air-guitaring with Tony Iommi’s signature riffage on same (which I spoke about way back here). We were seriously ready for this movie.
From below, we heard Charlie’s mom’s car pull into the driveway. It was officially GO TIME! I litearlly leapt off of Charlie’s bed, aiming for a nearby chair. The plan -– such as it was – was to vault from bed to chair and then out the door. That was my plan. In retrospect, it was an ill-considered one.
As it happened, the chair was a folding chair. Upon landing on said piece of unfortunate furniture, it did just that -– folded, significantly altering my already-not-entirely-well-conceived trajectory. I ended up slamming my head -– or, more precisely, my FACE -- against the side of a nearby suitcase.
Instantly, there seemed to be blood everywhere.
Charlie’s mom rushed in and started talking about taking me to the hospital, but –- even in my bloodied shock -– I was adamant. "WE ARE GOING TO 'HEAVY METAL'!!!!"
Quite unbelievably, in retrospect, I managed to make a convincing argument. Charie’s mom put one of those flimsy butterfly bandaids over the gash below my mouth, tenuously closing the NEW HOLE IN MY HEAD, and …. took us to the movie.
Charlie and I sat in one of the front rows of the Hampton Arts theatre in Westhampton Beach, bug-eyed with excitement. I remember tasting lots of blood mixed in with my popcorn.
And, ….that was basically that. As far as Charlie and I were concerned -– we had WON! We got to see the movie that none of our other friends had managed to. And we thought it was awesome.
Time, as it is known to do, passed.
For one reason or another –- presumably due to the complexities of music licensing -– “Heavy Metal” was glacially slow to ever arrive on VHS.
There was no official release for years. Tied up, for some reason -– of prurience? Taste? Pending litigation? -– one was not able to view it outside of grainy, distorted bootleg copies. I did not lay eyes on the film again for well over a decade.
Then, at some point in 1996, the movie was finally released on VHS and DVD. In the ensuing years, the scar left by my heroically stupid pre-movie stunt essentially became part of my permanent physiognomy. As such, I figured I should own the film, right?
So I bought it, took it home, unwrapped it, opened up a beer, and sat down to watch the thing for the first time since that fateful summer afternoon in 1981.
Lemme tell ya ….
It’s basically crap.
While my evidently easily-impressed 13-year-old mind might have been blown by the dazzling visuals, allegedly lifelike animation and sensory-engulfing experience of the original 1981 film, the scarred and cynical 29-year-old me was not quite as wowwed. If anything, I was wowed by how lame it was. The animation was fairly rote, the writing was trite, the plot was wafer-thin, the perceived risque elements were juvenile and insipid and the overall execution was essentially unexceptional. And for this, I wear a scar.
So, yeah, not everything ages like wine.
Back in January, a friend of mine posted a news story on Facebook that prompted a longer extrapolation from yours truly which I meant to undertake here on this silly blog, but time got the better of me, the moment passed and it never came to be. This summer, however, revived it by way of a paperback book, so here it is. Let’s see if I can connect the dots and coherently conjoin it all.
Some weeks back, I found myself in The Strand, the magisterial Broadway bookstore, with my son, Oliver, who -– fittingly, given the surroundings -– was about to embark on a new chapter; going off to sleepaway camp for the first time (see these weepy updates for details). Being that he’d be gone for four weeks, he’d rightly asked if he could pick up a new book to read over the duration of his time away. This, of course, may have been politely suggested (read: mandated) by his mother, but I’d like to believe otherwise. This struck me as a way more enjoyable task than, say, spending hours buying last-minute sundries like batteries, underwear and socks, so I happily volunteered to tackle it with him and off we went.
Whilst roaming those crowded aisles, however, Oliver admitted that he had no particular title in mind, and asked what I might recommend. Almost immediately, I started enthusiastically zig-zagging around the vast store, grabbing suitable contenders. He shot down “The Martian Chronicles” by Ray Bradbury, as he’d already read half of it, and expressed that fact in a tone suggesting that my favorite book of all time failed to ignite his imagination in the same manner it had done for me. I’d grabbed Salinger’s stalwart masterwork, “The Cather in the Rye,” but put it back, figuring it would already be on his school reading list in the next year or two. He’d already paged through all the Tolkien and C.S. Lewis favorites, and my suggestion of Mervyn Peake’s “Ghormenghast” trilogy (which, I recently learned, was a favorite of The Cure’s Robert Smith) left him somewhat puzzled. The stack of books in my hand thinned accordingly.
Eventually, we settled on that old sci-fi warhorse, “Starship Troopers” by Robert Heinlein. I remember reading it when I was roughly Oliver’s current age during a family trip to the Berkshires and loving it. My boy snatched it out of my hand at the description (some cool cover art certainly helped), and that was that. There were still two books in my hand, though, specifically “Elric of Melnibone” by Michael Moorcock and “The Call of Cthulhu & Other Weird Stories” by H.P. Lovecraft, two ominous titles inexorably linked to the news item I alluded to in the first paragraph of this post. Given that we were about to spend four days in the wooded wilds of H.P. Lovecraft’s native New England (Oliver’s camp is in Vermont), I decided to buy the “Cthulhu” collection for myself and re-visit an old, slimy favorite.
I’d love to expound here on the singular, distinct brilliance of the dark prose of H.P. Lovecraft, but that’s really a post unto itself. Suffice it to say, if you’re fond of richly worded depictions of unspeakable horror (“unspeakable” being a preferred descriptor of ol’ H.P.’s), you are hard-pressed to find a more seasoned practitioner. This said, after re-steeping myself in some of his signature stories like “Nyarlathotep,” “The Whisperer in The Dark” and the rapturously repulsive “Herbert West – Reanimator,” I felt a bit of relief that Oliver hadn’t chosen this particular book, as some of the scenarios Lovecraft so evocatively describes are quite literally the stuff of indelible, bloody-tentacled nightmares. Moreover, certain bits of the troubled author’s work are brazenly racist, even for the brazenly racist era in which they were first published. That particularly unfortunate element does not diminish the power of his macabre storytelling, but it remains problematic. Again, with that in mind, it’s probably for the best that Oliver waits to discover Lovecraft.
But Lovecraft and Michael Moorcock -– less problematic than his forebear, unless you’re offended by an affiliation to Blue Oyster Cult -- are the sci-fi/fantasy authors that triggered that early story, which I’ll awkwardly jump to now.Back in the late 70’s, like many of that era’s snot-nosed “tweens” (although I don’t believe that word had hatched, as yet), I was an avid acolyte of “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons.” This is an admission I’m relatively certain no one who knows me will be shocked by. Given my pronounced antipathy for sports and the slack-jawed oafs that played them, I took to comic books, science fiction and the nascent subculture of gaming like a pencil-necked duck to water. Mind you, this was well before the advent of “geek chic.” There was no irony in the appreciation my (few) friends and I fervently harbored for these strenuously nerdy subcultures, and there was absolutely no love lost between us and the jocks who failed to understand these predilections. But, y’know, fuck’em.
In any case, upon immersing myself in the then-still-largely-misunderstood practice of “AD&D” (this was when it was it was still laughably dogged with accusations of occult-affiliation), I somehow managed to spark the otherwise largely dormant attention of my father, then an editor at Forbes Magazine. Just as a quick explainer, my parents had divorced immediately upon the happy occasion of my birth, and -– as such -– my father and I never had a particularly conventional relationship. We both tried, though.
Anyway, curious as to the financial backstory of this burgeoning cultural phenomenon, my father proposed to both the largely suspicious 12-year-old me and his magazine the notion of flying to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin to visit the corporate headquarters of TSR, the company that had given birth to “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons” (as well as several other comparable titles like the excellent “Gamma World,” “Top Secret” and “Boot Hill,” to name a few) to do an in-depth story on the creative minds and entrepreneurs behind the whole thing. As a bonus, I would get to tag along.
Obviously, I was thrilled to bits. Dad and I may have had a somewhat stilted, inorganic relationship, but this one act of kindness did quite a bit to engender my considerable appreciation. In small a matter of weeks, Dad and I boarded a plane to that unlikely Midwestern city to visit the source of my preoccupation.
Forty years later, I have to confess that my memories of it are a bit foggy, but there are vivid instances. I remember going into the surprisingly banal-looking TSR office building --- what was I expecting? A castle with a moat? -- with my father to meet with TSR head honchos Gary Gygax and Brian Blume and sitting quietly next to my dad in Gygax’s office while they conducted the interview. I do remember affable Mr. Gygax directing many of his answers to me, given that I was ultimately the very personification of his company's target demographic. After that, they gave us a tour of the whole facility, and -– most importantly -– the art department.
Given my bug-eyed affinity for the visual trappings of all things "AD&D," meeting fabled illustrators like Jeff Dee and the inimitable Erol Otus, for me, was like meeting the fucking Beatles. As I remember, everyone was exceptionally nice to me. As a parting present, they gave me a brand-spankin' new copy of the as-then-yet-unreleased new tome, "Deities & Demigods." My little mind was duly blown.
A handsome collection of new, fearsome characters based on the mythologies of various factual and fictional cultures, floridly drawn by the gentlemen I'd just met, I absolutely treasured my copy of "Deities & Demigods," and could not wait to get home to show it off and share it with my friends. More about that in a bit.
Here’s a quick aside about “Deities & Demigods.” Not only were my friends and I excited about the book, as it ushered it a whole new realm of potential characters and scenarios into the game, it also finally wed “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons” to some of our other parallel passions via the influx of figures and names from the mythoses of Michael Moorcock’s “Elric” series and -– wait for it -– H.P. Lovecraft’s chronicles of Chthulu, each lovingly brought to life by the art department of TSR. Erol Otus’ stylized depictions of the otherwise-unimaginable and deliberately repugnant creatures from Lovecraft’s shadowy texts were especially notable. While I’ve never been the tattoo type, were I to ever committ to one, I might select Otus’ portrait of Hastur the Unspeakable (above).
Anyway, as soon as the trip had begun, it was over, and Dad and I flew back to New York. With my coveted new copy of “Deities & Demigods” in hand and fresh memories of the experience of meeting my heroes in my head, I started giving my Dad a bit more slack than I was normally prone to … or at least until his article came out a couple of weeks later. More about that in a second.
A day or so after I returned, I remember heading over to my friend Pogo’s apartment (not his actual name, incidentally). Pogo was a similarly inclined geek as myself and our mutual friend Spike (also not his actual name -– but immortalized here). Upon my unveiling of my copy of “Deities…,” both of my cohorts let out audible gasps and immediately started poring over the pages, much as I’d been doing for the prior few days. While both took turns studying its minutia, Pogo was especially transfixed with the book, and asked if he could borrow it for the weekend. I wasn’t entirely thrilled by the prospect, but … he was my friend. I’d already read everything in it. What could be the harm? I said yes, and left it in his care.
You probably see where this is going.
The following week, I saw Pogo back at school and asked when I might be getting my book back. He dodged the question a few times during the course of the day, and I started to get antsy. By Wednesday, I was furious, and confronted him again. “I don’t know … I don’t have it anymore,” was Pogo’s response. This was not the answer I was expecting. I was practically vibrating, at this point. Bear in mind, I was still 12 years old. This stuff meant a lot to me.
Later that day, I popped over to Pogo’s house unannounced. This wasn’t really that big a deal. He literally lived on the same street as me, and the doormen in his building regularly saw me come and go, so getting in there wasn’t a problem. That said, Pogo wasn’t prepared to see me at his front door, let alone storming into his home with such a sense of purpose. I was there to get my “Deities & Demigods” back, goddammit.
Pogo’s stammering excuses started the second I walked in, but in moments, I recovered my book in his room. One of its edges was damaged as if it had been used as a bludgeoning tool. That was certainly a bummer, but the shock to my system really arrived when I opened it. On one of the opening pages was a signature Erol Otus illustration of various mythological beasties and heroes engaged in a battle. Someone --- possibly Pogo or maybe his little sister? -– had started to color it in with a felt tip pen. Not to sound too histrionic, but -– to me –- this was like discovering someone had used the Shroud of Turin as a fucking tablecloth. I was incredulous. I took my book –- and may have thrown something of his across this room with great, dramatic aplomb -– and left. Unsurprisingly, Pogo and I stopped being friends for a little while, after that.
Still reeling from that unfortunate chapter, my day was soon brightened by the publishing of my Dad’s article in Forbes. I remember my mom buying several copies, for me. I loved that I had an official document of my trip to Lake Geneva to meet the fabled TSR guys.
Then I read it.
While he probably thought it was a fun lark, my father had actually inserted me into the text of his article (although failed to inform his readers that I was his son). Some of his botched descriptions of my fandom were a little embarrassing, but nothing I couldn’t handle. No, it was when my father described me as “never what you’d call a zealous student” that I needed a moment. I’d like to believe he didn’t mean for that to sound as backhanded as it did to me, regardless of the veracity of the claim. The average Forbes reader might not have connected the dots, but peers in my immediate circle knew the specifics of the dynamic. I didn’t make a big deal of it, at the time, but privately, I was a bit hurt by that.
But, life goes on.
I can’t remember the specifics, but Pogo and I ended up mending fences and resuming our friendship. In short order, Pogo became one of the first genuine “punk rockers” in my grade school, dying his hair a disarming shade of orange, at one point –- much to the pronounced chagrin of his parents. He may have been the first kid I know to own a copy of Never Mind the Bollocks by the Sex Pistols (which, I believe I borrowed and returned intact). I vividly remember him introducing me to the joys of Gang of Four, early on.
In later years, “Deities & Demigods” came out in a new edition that found the Moorcock and Lovecraft passages removed. We all assumed it was because TSR never obtained the proper permissions from the authors, but -– it turns out – that was not the case. Regardless, that only made the original editions of “Deities & Demigods” --- like mine, despite Pogo’s alterations to it -– arguably more “valuable.” I still have my copy, and have zero plans to part with it, in any case.
One thing I did end up unwittingly parting with, however, was my last copy of the Forbes issue with my Dad’s story in it. I’d long searched for it online, but could never put my hand to it. Earlier this year -– inspired by that news about the Moorcock/Lovecraft omissions in “Deities & Demigods,” I reached out to one David M. Ewalt, author of the 2013 book “Of Dice & Men: The Story of Dungeons & Dragons and The People Who Play It.” Just as a shot in the dark, I asked Ewalt if he might be familiar with the article, or at least have come across it during his research for his book. Here’s what he wrote back:
Hi, Alex! It's great to hear from you. Not only do I recall your dad's article, I made a copy of it while I was working at Forbes HQ and still have the file.
I never made the connection that the "Alex Smith" quoted in the article is the author's son, though in hindsight it's obvious. I can only imagine how awesome that trip was for you. I wish I could have visited TSR back in the day and would love to hear more about it. Do you still have that autographed DMG and Rogue's Gallery? TSR collectibles have become very valuable and Blume autographs are especially rare.
Thoughtfully, he included a PDF of the original article. If you’re at all curious, you can download it and read it here.
Anyway, almost FORTY YEARS LATER, this particular episode still resonates with me. As mentioned above, I made my peace with Pogo and we both moved on to other interests. I either blocked or glossed over that arguable slight in my Dad’s story, and we soldiered on, although there were many hills and deep, deep valleys to our relationship in the following decades. Not to end this on a down note, but part of the reason I am probably so wistful about these anecdotes is because that most of the key players are no longer with us.
TSR founder and “Dungeons & Dragons” creator Gary Gygax passed away in 2008. My friend Pogo died in 2010, and my father followed suit in 2011.
I spotted this particular bit of fetching street art above from about a half-a-block away. I do not know the name of the artist, but his stuff is all over certain bits of SoHo and the Lower East Side.
This is, of course, a portrait of the inimitable Siouxsie Sioux, affixed to an edifice on Bleecker Street between Lafayette and Bowery at about Elizabeth Street, ... obviously, just a stone's throw from the former site of CBGB, where I don't *believe* Siouxsie & the Banshees ever played, although I could be mistaken.
This image can be spotted on a narrow strip of brickface adjacent to that lamentable -- to my mind -- boxing joint, Overthrow. You might remember them from that incongruous mural of Joey Ramone from some years back. Not sure if they have anything to do with the Siouxsie image or not. I kinda hope not.
To be fair, I have nothing against boxing, really. I just hate that this particular chunk of downtown has been redefined as an epicenter of physical fitness, what with there being numerous other gyms and fitness franchises like Barry’s Bootcamp, Soul Cycle, Rumble and several others all over the map between Astor Place and East Houston. I’m tired of seeing all that friggin' activewear every damn morning.
Anyway, just in case you live in a cave and are woefully unfamiliar with Siouxsie & the Banshees, here’s a taste…
A few months back, I was having an inane converstaion in a shortly-to-shutter-for-good Brooklyn bar about “least favorite songs of all time.” I believe I cited Don McLean’s “American Pie,” for reasons I would consider well beyond entirely obvious (i.e. it fucking sucks). My brother-in-law John didn’t have an answer, as I recall, but my brother-in-law Chris -– a truly decent gent, by all standards -- albeit not quite as rabid a music fan as I, let alone as outspokenly opinionated -– cited a song I was frankly surprised he was even aware of.
“What’s that dumb song that lists all the guy’s dead friends?,” he postulated.
“You mean, ‘People Who Died’ by the motherfucking Jim Goddamn Carroll Band?,” I replied with bug-eyed incredulity.
“Yeah, that’s the one. I hate that shit.”
Now, look, I’ve written several times, here, about my love of both Jim Carroll and that particular song (notably here, here and here), so I really don’t need to go into chapter and verse about its singular, elegiac brilliance. Suffice to say, it’s one of my favorite songs of all time, and I was frankly astonished that Chris failed to recognize its untouchable greatness, especially considering he’s an otherwise avowed fan of Guns N’ Roses.
Inspired by same, I was going to send Chris a copy of the JCB’s Catholic Boy compact disc, but then realized he’s a streamer who probably doesn’t even own a disc-player anymore. So, I didn’t.
In any case, yesterday was the late, great Mr. Carroll’s birthday, so respect is fucking due.
Play it loud. Play it always.
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