Flaming Pablum

Any Feedback?

I’ve often remarked that, much like my Istagram page, I’d continue to log “content” on this blog whether anyone was reading it or not. For better or worse, this blog is as much for my own enjoyment as anyone else’s. The fact that I seem to have earned some regular readers is a contstant source of joy and amazement to me. Thanks for that!

That all said, the comments section has been pretty quiet, of late (apart from some entries from my dependable friend Howard). I’d love to hear from some more of you.

Are there some stories you’d rather read more about than others? Are there any entries you’d want me to revisit or update? Are there any topics you never want to see addressed here again? Any burning quesitons? Any nagging osbservations you’ve been dying to submit?

Now is your chance.

Some years back, I had to adjust the settings on the comments section, as I was getting routinely bombarded with some trolly remarks (usually involving political content). After a while of that, I felt I needed to do some filtering and vet comments before they appeared here, although I was not happy to have to do it. 

Just as a lark -- and I may soon deeply regret doing this -- I’m going to turn those filters off, so feel free to express yourselves. Bear in mind that I’m under no obligation to keep any impending comment posted if it’s filled with potty-mouthed invective or nasty personal attacks. But I want to encourage feedback, so have at it.

Bad Brains Mural Sullied by Awful ‘Screamo’ Band

It’s been less than a month since Shepard Fairey completed his Bad Brains mural over on Bleecker & Bowery, and it’s already been (slightly) defaced. I guess it was inevitable (Debbie Harry’s portrait suffered similar indignities), but really… so soon?

I noticed it this afternoon while out for a brisk walk in the January chill. Pasted just above H.R.’s fist was a flyer which has since been diligently removed, but the blemish on the paint remains.

As it turns out, the befouling flyer is the work of a so-called “screamo” band called … inexplicably … Olth. How do I know this? Well, they put an identical flyer up just a block or two up the Bowery. You can see that below.

Notice how bits of the yellow U and O in the “FUCK YOU” at the bottom remain? It’s the same flyer.

In any case, a bit of Googling reveals that Olth is indeed a band, albeit not an especially good one. But, again, as a fiercely opinionated 55-year-old curmudgeon, I’m the last person who should be opining about the merits of “screamo.” Maybe they’re the bee’s knees? Who knows ? If you're curious, you can see some footage of Olth performing live at Otto's Shrunken Head from back this past November. Also, their guitarist's Instagram page can be found here. 

Regardless of their strenuously arguable prowess as a band -- screamo or otherwise -- and irrespective of their feelings for Shepard Fairey, FUCK YE NOT WITH BAD BRAINS!

The Sounds of "After Hours": Redux

By this point, my adoration for Martin Scorsese’s “After Hours” from 1985 hasn’t so much been established as it has been beaten into bloody submission and into the cold, hard ground. What more, might you rightly ask, could I possibly have to say about it?

Well, the more patient among you might remember a post from way back in 2010, wherein I attempted to cull together all the music from both Howard Shore’s score and the various songs that should have otherwise appeared on the soundtrack album (which was never released). I put those up as YouTube clips and, as such, many of them are no longer live. With that, I thought an update was in order -- so here we are.

While I continue to bash Spotify at every opportunity, I did take advantage of the platform yet again (ooh, that warm smell of hickory-smoked hypocrisy) to build the following playlist, which showcases as much of the film’s original sounds as I could track down.

I say as much of because there is one key selection from the (again, non-existent) soundtrack of “After Hours” that is crucially missing. Somewhat ironically, it’s by an artist that, if I’m being honest, I fucking hate -– that being Joni Mitchell.

Some might remember the kerfuffle in January of 2022 when, in what seemed at the time like a bold act of defiance, iconic rocker Neil Young dramatically strippped his music off Spotify in protest of the platform’s continuing support of the irresponsible-idiocy-espounsing Joe Rogan. I wrote about it here and here, should you care. In a show of solidarity, meanwhile, some of Neil’s famous pals like Crosby, Stills & Nash and, once again, Joni Mitchell followed suit and removed their catalogs from Spotify, too. It seemed like legions of artist were poised to do the same and hit the preeminent streaming platform where it really hurts, but… they didn’t. Spotify, for their part, decided that Joe Rogan was more valauble that Neil Young & pals, to their business, and basically said “Suit yourselves, fuck-o's.”

Very quietly, after a short while, some of Neil’s music and pretty much all of CSN’s music sneakily crept back onto the platform. But did Joni blink? LIKE FUCK SHE DID! Joni Mitchell may make music that routinely sends me scrambling for the remote, but ya gotta respect the great lady for that.

Anyway, blah blah blah, as a heroic result, I cannot put “Chelsea Morning” on my “After Hours” playlist because, like all of these albums, you just can’t get it on fuckin' Spotify. I suppose I could use Neil Diamond’s version, but, really, no one will benefit from that.

So, for those of you besotted with the minutia of all things “After Hours” as I am, please enjoy The Sounds of ‘After Hours’ below.

Incidentally, the amazing poster up top is an alternative iteration I’d never seen before. I would slap that shit in a frame faster than you could say “Surrender, Dorothy!,” if it were up to me. I found on this site – check it out.

 

9 Great Albums You Absolutely Will Not Hear on Spotify

A couple of months back, a colleague of mine who edits content for our company’s intranet had the idea of putting together departmental playlists of music all we employees were listening to. When it came to our department — Corporate Communications & Marketing — I was asked to submit two songs I was currently digging, one new banger and one old favorite. For whatever reason, for the “old favorite” I went with “Into the Valley” by the Skids (invariably because I was shortly to depart to Scotland to drop my daughter off at college). For the new song, I wanted to pick a track off my favorite album of 2022, that being the debut studio LP by The Art Gray Noizz Quintet. At the time, however, the only track by that band to be found on Spotify (the go-to platform for this exercise) was their cover of an old Lubricated Goat song (which makes sense, being that Art Gray is yet another name for Lubricated Goat’s Stu Spasm, i.e. Stuart Gray). I mentioned this, and another colleague scoffed openly at the notion that there was music out there that wasn’t on Spotify. “Oh come on,” she laughed incredulously, “Spotify has all the music.”

Yeah, no they don’t. Not even close.

My misgivings with Spotify are multiple and visceral. I don’t respect the platform. I think it’s evil and that it’s further cementing the notion that music is just this banal commodity that can be blithely plucked from the ether. It has contributed to the ongoing devaluation of music and continues to fleece artists and songwriters at every opportunity. Fuck Spotify.

To this day, I still insist on buying the tactile manifestations of the music I’m interested in whenever possible. I deeply resent Spotify’s avaricious stranglehold on the industry. But, as I mentioned in this post, I’ve recently started it using it with reluctant frequency, but primarily as a means of evangelizing music to my kids. Again, my daughter Charlotte doesn’t really give that much of a rat’s ass about what tunes I think she should check out (I mean, if you were an 18-year-old college freshman, would you?), but my 16-year-old son Oliver has been pretty receptive. I know it’s only a matter of time before he divines his own path, so I’m enjoying this part of it while it fleetingly lasts.

But, in much the same way Spotify failed me, at the time, when searching for that eponymous debut by The Art Gray Noizz Quintet (which, incidentally, now can be found on Spotify in its entirety), there are several records that still cannot and will not be heard, found, experienced or enjoyed via the streaming service. Here are some of those records that you’re missing out on…

Heaven Born and Ever Bright by Cardiacs (1992)
I remember first hearing the track “Day is Gone” by this frankly confusing British indie band by way of a compilation cassette attached to one of the weekly music papers during to trip to London in 1993 and being genuinely blown away. Paring the ambitiously intricate musicianship of the most impenetrable prog rock with the bug-eyed, adrenalized sprint of early-`80s punk, Cardiacs truly sounded like no one else, and I instantly went out searching for the whole album, finding a lone copy of the imported compact disc at Rebel Rebel on Bleecker Street (RIP). While lured in by the comparatively accessible “Day is Gone,” I don’t know that I was fully prepared for the album’s other ten tracks, which largely eschewed all semblance of conventional song structure in favor of maniacal detours in tempo, time-signature and tone, veering wildly from expansively anthemic sing-alongs, whimsically ecstatic pop forays, intensely complicated thrash and all frantic points in between. I dutifully snapped up the next few albums by the maddeningly prolific Cardiacs, each less comprehensible and even more bonkers than its predecessor. Cardiacs sadly came to a close when their primary singer/songwriter Tim Smith suffered a heart attack — cruel irony — in 2008, only to pass away in 2020.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Day Is Gone,” “Goodbye Grace,” “The Alphabet Business Concern (Home of Fadeless Splendor)."

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
You can find Heaven Born and Ever Bright on Bandcamp, as well as several other of their releases. You can also order music and merch directly from the band’s website.

Invisible People by False Prophets (1990) 
While originally a hardcore band, New York City’s False Prophets never strictly adhered to the parameters of that sub-genre, inflecting their music with huge chunks of folky agitprop and conceptual drama beyond the splenetic fury of what became NYHC. Never was this more the case than on their 1990 album, Invisible People. While it still has its punky moments, the high point of this mini LP is easily the title track, a stirring acoustic depiction of the homeless existence in New York City. Hardcore with a heart, and New York City to the bone.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Invisible People,” “Never Again, Again”

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
Good luck. I’d suggest eBay, maybe? False Prophets are not on Bandcamp and have no website. The full album, though can be experienced on YouTube, for whatever that’s worth. Beyond that, check the used bins and eBay. 

Retrovirus by Lydia Lunch (2015)
A live album recorded at the Brooklyn iteration of the Knitting Factory (RIP), Retrovirus finds No Wave matriarch Lydia Lunch flanked by incendiary guitarist Weasel Walter of the Flying Luttenbachers, drummer Bob Bert (ex-Sonic Youth/Pussy Galore/Bewitched/Chrome Chranks) and former SWANS bassist Algis Kizys delivering a taut, paired-down sprint through the best moments of Lunch’s extensive back catalog. While Lydia is as endearingly caustic as ever throughout proceedings, the sheer musical fire-power at her beck and call, captured here, delivers a performance that is nothing short of explosive. To my ears, it’s the best thing she’s ever recorded.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Love Split with Blood,” “The Gospel Singer.”

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY, WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
You can find this album and several other choice selections via Bandcamp. 

Fantastic Spikes Through Balloon by Skeleton Key (1997)
The brainchild of former Lounge Lizards bassist Erik Sanko, Skeleton Key garnered a big, clangy buzz on the NYC scene in the mid-to-late `90s, playing a skronky blend of disjointed, punky rock that frequently sounded like a broken machine about to explode. With guitarist Chris Maxwell, powerhouse drummer Steve Calhoon and odd-&-ends percussionist Rick Lee (Lee would pound the living crap out of various hapless metal implements — including a child’s red wagon — in a manner not unlike what Bob Bert did for Pussy Galore, Phil Puleo did for Cop Shoot Cop and what Einsturzende Neubauten spent their noisy career doing), their debut LP, Fantastic Spikes Through Balloon was expansively produced by Dave Sardy of Barkmarket (who later became a very big-time knob-twiddler). The end results are endearingly weird, but always melodic and periodically very satisfyingly heavy. Sadly, it was not to last — Chris Maxwell jumped ship and went solo. Rick and Chris also left, leaving Sanko to rebuild the band from scratch and later make a couple of more similarly inclined records. Despite being on major label Capitol records, you can’t find Fantastic Spikes… on Spotify.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“The World’s Most Famous Undertaker,” “Wide Open,” “Vomit Ascot.”

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
Well, you can read all about it on the band’s official website, and you can hear the whole album on YouTube, but otherwise, you’re better off searching for a used copy of the CD. Good luck with that.

Headkick Facsimile by Cop Shoot Cop (1989)
Recorded when the band was still just the trio of Tod [A] on bass/vocals, Phil Puleo on drums and metal percussion and Dave Ouimet on sampler, Headkick Facsimile — released on Japan’s short-lived Supernatural Organization label — was the first official release by notorious New York City guerilla-noise ensemble (and Flaming Pablum favorites), Cop Shoot Cop. Later re-released on cassette by the band’s Subvert Entertainment “label” with “Robert Tilton Handjob" from the 1990 follow-up seven-inch Piece, Man, neither the original six-track album nor the seven-track cassette were ever released on compact disc (despite comparatively recent rumors that Reptilian Records were going to issue a CD version, nothing ever came to fruition). As an opening salvo, the mini-album firmly established Cop Shoot Cop as an outfit to watch out for. I have both the pricey imported vinyl 12" (gifted to me ages ago by a friend) and two copies of the cassette ... one still shrinkwrapped, `cos I’m that type of insufferable nerd.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Shine On, Elizabeth,” “Triumphal Theme,” "Lie" 

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
Once again — good luck with that. While most of the C$C discography can be had on Spotify (including the post-breakup Red Expendables album), neither Headkick Facsimile nor the Piece, Man tracks can be found there. They’re not on Bandcamp, either. Certain blogs have uploaded MP3s over the years, but ya can’t count on those staying up. Certain tracks are available on YouTube (see above), but you owe it to yourself to hunt down the original, out-of-print editions. And that’ll probably cost ya. Earn it.

Look At My Bum by The Hot Corn Girls (1994) 
The Hot Corn Girls were an endearingly amateurish quartet of Lower East Siders who date back to the mid-90's. Being friends with Joanne their bass player and Dean Rispler their drummer (a punk rock renaissance man who'd later go onto play for bands like The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black, Murphy's Law, Tiger Mountain, the Brought Low and a latter-era iteration of The Dictators, as well as becoming a sought-after producer in his own right), I was fortunate enough to catch the band performing live a couple of times (notably at the Pyramid on Avenue A and again at Under Acme on Great Jones Street). Rounded out by one Bob Limp on vocals and the enigmatic Squeaky on guitar (an erstwhile member of the similarly inclined Japanese band, The Chimpanzees, despite not being Japanese himself), the Hot Corn Girls were both hilarious and surprisingly catchy, as this album handily demonstrates.

Through the beneficent affiliation with the Chimpanzees (whose lead singer, Naoko Nozawa a.k.a Diarreah Naoko, was -- evidently -- a hugely popular television comedienne in her native Japan and Bob Limp's girlfriend), the HCG were fleetingly financially solvent enough to be able to go into the studio and cut an album. Look at My Bum came out in 1994 on Stingy Banana records, graced with a suitably pervy cover photograph by transgressive shutterbug extraordinaire, Richard Kern, and fifteen luridly surreal tracks with largely improvised, unintelligible lyrics. Despite their willfully challenged aesthetic, the sound (produced, once again, by budding knob-twiddler Dean Rispler) absolutely crackles with depth and definition (not things normally associated with humble East Village bands).

I believe the song titles were assigned to their respective tracks with Burroughsian arbitrariness, so don't bother listening for the song's title in the already indecipherable and quite-possibly-not-sung-in-any-language-known-to-man chorus.  Incidentally, the name "Hot Corn Girls" itself does not refer to any deviant sexual practice but rather to a book by Solon Rovinson called "Hot Corn - Life Scenes in New York" from 1854. The Hot Corn Girls themselves were Irish-American immigrants who peddled hot corn in the streets. There's also the arguable theory that the Hot Corn Girls doubled as murderous prostitutes who slew their johns. I'll defer to the historians over that one. The Hot Corn Girls went onto record another 7" single before splitting. Dean Rispler went onto work with dozens of other great bands. Joanne got married and left NYC. Bob went off to Japan with Nozawa where they perform as the tastefully named Ass Baboons of Venus. For more of what Squeaky got up to, click here.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE: “My Pile of Leaves”

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
Not on Spotify and not on Bandcamp, but the whole album is on YouTube. For a physical copy, hit eBay and/or your nearest used CD shops … but don’t hold your breath.

The Niagaras by The Niagaras (1990) 
These days, info online about the band is pretty damn scarce, but the ensemble centered around two brothers -- Robert and Frank Whaley -– and a guitarist name Tony Grimaldi. If any of those names jump out at you, it’s probably Frank. Along with being the erstwhile drummer of the Niagaras, Frank is an actor, having been in notable films like OIiver Stone’s “The Doors” (playing guitarist Robbie Krieger), “Career Opportunities” (wherein he is locked in a department store overnight with lovely Jennifer Connelly), “Swimming with Sharks” (wherein he kidnaps and tortures his toxic boss, played by Kevin Spacey) and, of course, “Pulp Fiction,” where he portrayed big-brained Brett, the Big Kahuna Burger-enthusiast who gets shot at point blank range by Samuel L. Jackson. He was in other stuff, too, but those are probably the biggies. His brother Robert, meanwhile, was the dynamic lead singer of The Niagaras. Whether guitarist Tony Grimaldi is in any way related to the Grimaldi’s pizza dynasty, I don’t know. You’d have to ask him.

In any case, the Niagaras played a sort of theatrical blend of jangly, hook-laden rock, which often included a trumpet for extra flourish. While not exactly punky, the nattily dressed band frequently played with a high-energy garage fervor that made for an excellent live show, largely punctuated by Robert’s improvisational stage patter, mannered vocals and frenzied, good-naturedly confrontational performance style.

Hotly touted as a “next big thing” band, the Niagaras accrued a buzzy reputation following residencies at venues like The Continental, Mondo Cane and some gigs at Wetland’s Preserve in TriBeCa. They started getting tv spots and things started happening and then ...  nothing.

I can’t say I know the particulars, but for whatever reason, their big break never came. I have this eponymous indie debut disc from 1990, but I gather there was at least a second album in 1997, recorded for a different indie label and produced by Tamir Muskat (of Firewater and Balkan Beatbox). I’ve yet to track down a copy of that one.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Reborn,” “Overdrawn on Your Account"

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
Apart from a few selections on YouTube (see above), I doubt you’ll have much luck finding this anywhere on the internet. Sorry.

1933 Your House is Mine by Missing Foundation (1988) 
Anyone who spent any amount of time whatsoever in the East Village and/or Lower East Side of Manhattan during the `80s and `90s will doubtlessly recognize the cryptic insignia of Missing Foundation (an upside down cocktail glass over three slashed tines), which was ominously scrawled, sprayed and jaggedly carved all over many a downtown edifice in those days. I’ve written about them countless times here on this blog. Ostensibly an “industrial” band, Missing Foundation was more of an elusive collective masterminded by one Peter Missing, a firebrand who used his particularly confrontational brand of cacophonous music as a means of disseminating vehemently anti-authoritarian/pro-squatter/anti-gentrification agitprop. Initially, MF records were hard to track down until about 1990, when an indie label named Restless Records re-released their first five albums, this one from 1988 being my very favorite. While arguably Missing Foundation at their most cohesive, 1933 is still a long fucking way from accessible, finding Peter Missing exhorting angrily through a bullhorn over ponderous, slave-ship percussion and brutalized guitar riffs.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Burn Trees,” “Jameel’s Turmoil” 

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I FIND THIS?
While Spotify does surprisingly have some Missing Foundation on its platform, this record is absent from the offerings. Peter Missing, however, has taken huge advantage of the Bandcamp platform and pretty much uploaded his entire musical oeuvre there, including demos, rarities and live albums, as well as the album of his first band, Drunk Driving. I wish every band would follow his lead.

Amerikanski by The Lee Harvey Keitel Band (1997)
Despite their lazily stupid name (dumb on purpose?), Baltimore’s Lee Harvey Keitel Band were actually quite cerebral, … possibly too much so for their own good. A debut album rife with esoteric literary allusions and arcane academia, Amerikanski comes across like a quirky collection of jittery punk songs played by a quartet of cynically verbose, jaded intellectuals with a flair for the absurd, kind of like a beefier version of the Minutemen, but with obscure references to Samuel Beckett, the Marquis de Sade and French cinema instead of corndog lingo. But as pretentious as all that might sound, the album really fucking rocks from top to bottom. Comprised of ex-members of Buttsteak and Liquor Bike (if that means anything to you), the LHKBND kicked up a clangily catchy racket, and the album is a complete blast (produced, once again, by Dean Rispler of the Hot Corn Girls and countless other outfits). They were great fun live, too.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Capitalism vs. Schizophrenia,” “Divine Ashasia (from 'Waiting For Godot')"

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I FIND THIS?
You pretty much can’t. The LHKBND do have tracks available on various platforms like YouTube, Bandcamp and even Spotify, but not this album, for whatever reason. Beyond combing the used racks, I could not even begin to tell you how to get ahold of this album, apart from maybe reaching out to the band itself (who broke up eons ago) via Bandcamp. Also maybe eBay? Maybe? Good friggin’ luck.

Broadway Boys

I hate to keep mining the Facebook group Manhattan Before 1990, but there’s so much gold to be found there. In any case, this morning a participant named Ino Yoon posted the photograph below by O Yoon (a parent, maybe?) from 1982, and it instantly rang a bell.

This immediately recalled a photo search I’d done back in 2011, looking for the location of a photo of the Beastie Boys that first appeared in SPIN, snapped by Josh Cheuse. Here’s that photo now.

The band later used a shot from that same session as the cover of this hits compilation...

In any case, this is the southwest corner of West 26th and Broadway, which is right around the corner from the St. James Building, wherein the Beasties had one sort of business arrangement or another.

Here's my then-still-very-little Oliver in that same spot in 2011. Today, this corner is occupied by a restaurant called La Picora Bianca Nomad.

Back ... Again... to Charly's Corner at Cortlandt & Walker

For those of you valiantly trying to follow the tangled thread that is the saga of the origins of the Clics Modernos wall on the corner of Walker Street and Cortlandt Alley (just to the right of where my little son Oliver was pictured heading towards in the above photo from 2014), I am happy to report that friend-o’-the-blog Iñaki Rojas has just released the fourth installment of his video series on the subject.

Let’s see if I can quickly condense, for those not interested in reading the last update: Preeminent Argentine rock star Charly Garcia, around 1982, was in New York City, renting a loft on Waverly Place and recording at nearby Electric Lady Studios of West 8th Street, when he went out for a walk with a photographer. While he’d already had an idea for the title and cover image of the album he was working on, when he spied some compelling street art in TriBeCa on the aforementioned corner of Walker and Cortlandt Alley (just down the way from the Mudd Club), he posed for a shot with it — and then decided to use that shot for the album cover, taking the title, meanwhile, from a tag scrawled on the wall — Modern Clix (translated into Spanish as Clics Modernos).

Unbeknownst to Garcia, the art in question was the handiwork of two individuals — street artist Richard Hambleton (renowned for his “shadow men” all around downtown Manhattan — ghostly black silhouettes) and local punk rocker Fran Powers, the then-lead singer of the band, Modern Clix.

Released in 1983, the resultant album went onto become a huge milestone for both Garcia and Argentine rock in general. From Wikipedia: "It was a decisive work to consolidate the modern trends that would mark the profile of Argentine rock during the 1980s,” and to this day is widely revered.

Back here in New York City, meanwhile — Richard Hambleton passed away in 2017 purportedly without ever knowing his work graced the sleeve of such a sacrosanct piece of music history.

Fran Powers, meanwhile, another comrade of the blog’s (after befriending him at party in for Yukie Ohta’s SoHo Memory Project some years ago, I interviewed Fran about his involvement in the local hardcore scene as documented by Brooke Smith, his music and his fleeting cameos in movies like “Hannah & Her Sisters” and my all-time favorite film, Martin Scorsese’s “After Hours” — you can read that here) — had been aware of his graffiti being lifted for Garcia’s landmark album, but didn’t really know much about it. Sadly, Fran passed away in 2021.

Here’s where it gets (even more) complicated.

I honestly cannot say if I was the first person to unwittingly figure this out, but after spotting some photographs on a Facebook group taken by a tourist named Bo G. Eriksson in 1984 of my beloved Cortlandt Alley, I typed up a post, in 2021, about it (somewhat brazenly lifting Eriksson’s photos without his express consent — sorry about that, Mr. E) and asserted that the location of Charly Garcia’s album cover — which, at the time, I had no idea was such a big deal — is the corner of Walker and Cortlandt in TriBeCa.

I probably didn’t give the matter another thought, but word somehow quickly spread. in short order, I was fielding missives from an Argentine writer named Iñaki Rojas alerting me of the significance of all this.

As I now understand this, this tiny little patch of downtown real estate had been a hotly speculated location. Now that the secret was out, there were people making actual goddamn pilgrimages to it. More about that in a second.

This whole saga is not at all unlike my series of posts wherein I tried — with the help of my Irish pal Dub — to pinpoint the exact location of the wall featured on the cover of Killing Joke’s first iconic record, or when I tried to divine the location of that one photo of the Lunachicks, or when I tried to determine the address of Plasmatics World Headquarters. Equally obsessed with this quest, Iñaki Rojas was clearly my brother, and started writing both a novel about it all, and a compelling video series.

The fourth installment of that series is now up, and I am sort of hilariously all over it. See that here….

I viewed this latest episode on the train back from Pennsylvania with my family, earlier this week, and immediately felt I needed to stroll back down to that fateful corner to get Iñaki some updated pics. I ran into my neighbor and fellow music freak Mac and after a quick stop at the Bad Brains mural on Bleecker, I started unspooling the whole Clics Modernos tale (which is exceptionally difficult to encapsulate). From what he understood of what I was babbling about, he was intrigued, so down we both bounded to Cortlandt Alley, once again.

Right as we were approaching the corner in question, I spotted a cryptic little scrawl on the wall. Sure enough, it was related.

It reads, I believe, ...Clics Modernos Started Here...

As relayed in the fourth episode of Iñaki’s series, people now come to this spot as if it was the Argentine equivalent of Abbey Road or, to use my analogy, the Killing Joke wall in Derry, Northern Ireland.

I had Mac try to replicate Charly’s sleeve with me. I apologize profusely for being a fat bastard. Time for those New Year’s resolutions to be fiercely observed, eh?

Iñaki promises a final installment of the series soon. Watch this space. 

Merry Christmas from Flaming Pablum

We at Chez Pablum didn't manage to get our pesky Christmas ducks in order, this year, in time for a proper card. Adding festive insult to yuletide injury, when it came to which approach we were gong to go with, the wife didn't like the fact that we weren't all together in my design, whereas I thought the picture she selected of the kids looked more like placation than sincerity. We did not overcome our creative Christmas impasse in time, so here are both options. Voting closes at midnight on Christmas Eve.

Happy happy to one and all. Stay warm. Be good to each other.

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

Twenty Years Gone

Rest in peace, Uncle Joe....

Come Back, Terry Hall

At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I just can’t even begin to encapsulate how sad I was to learn, last night, of the passing of Terry Hall of The Specials. Another hero of mine taken. I’ve started multiple posts about where I was when I first heard The Specials (at a summer camp in Maine, of all places) and what effect their first record had on me, but it’s all just the usual jumble of sepia-toned paeans to distant youth. I have multiple anecdotes of playing crucial songs by The Specials at pivotal points in my life, and the joy that it tirelessly provided. I remember an acrimonious fight about to break out, in college, between two good friends of mine (about a girl) that was swiftly diffused by simply dropping the needle on a Specials song (“Guns of Navarone”), instantly snuffing out the stand-off and transforming the room into a hopping froth of beer-spilling bonhomie.

There was no one like The Specials. Sure, there were other great ska bands, but The Specials were something different. And despite what I’ve always considered a strange vocal (and physiognomical) resemblance to Robert Smith of The Cure, Terry Hall was an entirely unique character.

Terry made countless great records with The Specials, Fun Boy Three, The Colourfield and as a solo artist, and they’re all worth tracking down, but if you don’t own and know the first eponymous LP by The Specials, you’re living a life dimmed by a paucity of joy.

Go get it and pour one out for the rudeboy.