Flaming Pablum

Catching Up with Squeaky

At some point in the now astonishingly distant early `90s, I was frequently to be found hanging out with a particular cabal of similarly inclined cats from the East Village, most prominently among them a guy named Dean Rispler. Ostensibly, Dean Rispler was the erstwhile boyfriend of my friend Joanne, who I’d met a few years earlier through my writer/musician/roadie friend Steve. But Dean and Joanne had broken up, and Joanne was seeing my friend Rob B. Testament to his big-hearted and congenial nature, Dean wasn’t phased by that, and was still a member of this particular social circle, one that frequently involved drinking a lot and going to see a host of live music all around the Lower East Side. Dean was also shuffling through and working with a number of bands, at the time, including luminaries like The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black (for whom Dean payed bass), Murphy’s Law (ditto), a combo called The Brought-Low and later The Dictators. Beyond all that, he was also a sought-after producer. So, yeah, he was a versatile guy.

At some point, Dean decided to form another band that I’ve discussed here a number of times called The Hot Corn Girls (probably last invoked here). Named after turn-of-the-century Irish prostitutes who sold snackable ears of corn by day and murdered their johns by night, The HCG featured Dean on drums, my friend Joanne on bass and sometimes vocals, a hilarious guy named Bob on vocals and guitar and then a second guitar player named, somewhat enigmatically, Squeaky. They recorded an album called Look at My Bum, and an additional 7”, both released on the evocatively named Stingy Banana records and festooned with suitably pervy cover art by noted photographer Richard Kern (who I also wrote about here, not too long back).

The Hot Corn Girls were absolutely hilarious, and I remember seeing them play at, I believe, The Pyramid and then again at Under Acme. Along the way, I got to know this guy Squeaky better. A somewhat eccentric character with an encyclopedic knowledge of arcane cult cinema, Japanese pop culture and super-obscure punk rock, Squeaky also played in a dizzying host of bands, most notable among them being The Chimpanzees. They’re almost worth a post in themselves.

In any case, while Squeaky was inarguably somewhat left-of-center, he was always entertaining company. I remember asking Dean why people called him Squeaky. Apparently, it was a nickname someone had coined for him as he suffered from Tourette’s Syndrome, and was allegedly prone to periodically making high-pitched, squeaking sounds (although, to this day, I’ve never heard him do so). I immediately felt that was rather pointedly insensitive, but Squeaky never seemed to be bothered by it.

Time passed. The Hot Corn Girls broke up. Joanne and Rob B. got married and moved away, only to later divorce. Steve became a roadie for SWANS, then a guitar player for Motherhood Bug, joined Cop Shoot Cop for two albums and then moved to Texas to become a lawyer. Dean kept on producing and recording and playing in more bands than you can possibly keep up with. In no time at all, that little circle of East Village friends fell out of touch.

I kept up with Dean on social media and, through that, also befriended Squeaky there (real name, Dave Wilentz). Since those days, Dave delved further into his passion for unconventional film, making a completely respectable career out of it, while also still being his lovably eccentric, super-knowledgable self. Imagine my surprise, then, that the Killed By Desk podcast, who I’ve spoken rapturously about here and here, set their sights on Dave for one of their in-depth interview/profiles. True to form, both of the hosts have similarly convoluted backstories involving. Dave “Squeaky” Wilentz, which — evidently — just goes with the Squeaky territory. 

In any case, it's entirely illuminating and equally hilarious. 

Check out here and tell’em Flaming Pablum sent ya.

Back to GG's Last Day ... 28 Years Later

I never went to see GG Allin. My friend Rob B. and I came dangerously close to going when he played the Space at Chase on Third Avenue, but demurred at the last minute. Had we actually gone, we stood the chance of being preserved for posterity on celluloid, as said performance was famously captured in Todd Philips’ documentary, “Hated.” Also, had we gone, we stood the chance of being physically assaulted by the star attraction and/or pelted with fistfuls of GG’s own freshly produced excrement, so you can possibly see why we didn’t go.

I don’t know if he went to the Space at Chase show, but my friend Aaron did go see GG (….and the Murder Junkies …mustn’t forget them) when they played what would be GG’s final-ever show at the fabled Gas Station on Avenue B. I’ve invoked that show several times here before (most recently here, I suppose). Video of the event appears on YouTube with regularity, only to be shortly pulled down for any number of reasons, usually involving nudity, violence and overall depravity.

As recently as this past November, however, someone re-uploaded the footage, and it’s probably the cleanest and sharpest version of proceedings I’ve seen, … not that anyone really needs to see GG Allin in high-definition, mind you.

Once again, the live experience fleetingly provided by GG Allin & The Murder Junkies is assuredly not for everyone, but this footage remains time-capsule-worthy as a telling glimpse of the East Village circa 1993, when the order of the day was significantly less genteel and brunch-centric than it is today.

Today, of course, the Gas Station is long, long gone, its footprint now occupied by an antiseptic Duane Reade. Later on in the day captured here on video, GG Allin would die rather unceremoniously of a heroin overdose.

ADDENDUM: A testament to the clarity of this particular iteration of the video, I'm only now noticing that one of the sycophants hanging around GG in the wake of the abortive performance is none other than the mysterious Squid, who I recently discussed here. 

This all happened 28 years ago today.

You’ve been warned. Enjoy.

A Special Event

Tune into “Saturday Night Live,” these days, and the musical guests will doubtlessly not be pushing any envelopes in any meaningful capacity. At some distant point, the booking policy started adhering rather strictly to already-established, mainstream artists who were promoting brand new albums. Ultimately, it became less about introducing audiences to new and different music and solely about shifting units and selling product.

Suffice to say, `twas not always thus.

Turn back the clock to the show’s earlier incarnations, and you find an entirely different scenario. SNL gave a stage to bands who’d otherwise never have gotten that kind of broad exposure, from Devo, Sun Ra and Gary Numan to Frank Zappa, Laurie Anderson and well-pre-Let’s Dance-era Bowie (when he was still pretty damn freaky). And, of course, let’s not forget FEAR.

Below is another perfect example. Clips from this episode have been on and off YouTube for years, but someone recently uploaded both numbers from that evening, and they are a revelation.

Dating back to April of 1980, here are the mighty Specials in their kinetic prime. Introduced by veteran character actor Strother Martin (his last television appearance prior to his death), the Specials launch into “Gangsters” and “Too Much Too Young” with their signature, nattily-dressed aplomb (note that they change outfits between songs). Even within the cramped studio, the band loses none of their high-stepping frenzy. Simply put, NOBODY moved like The Specials.

Enjoy it while it lasts. This is how it’s done, kids.

 

Some Perspective

I wanted to weigh back in the wake of both my last post and on the larger story as a whole, which continues to snowball from being a local concern to now one garnering sensationalist headlines in UK periodicals like The Independent and The Daily Mail. There is indeed a lot of stuff going on in Washington Square Park, of late, but I think it’s prudent to point a few things out.

Firstly, the park in question has gone through myriad iterations over the decades, to say nothing of its fairly grim past as an execution ground and a potter’s field in previous centuries. As recently as the late 60s/early 70s, the park was a fairly grotty hub of desperation, as depicted in the documentary film embedded in this comparatively ancient post, wherein I alluded to 2016’s version as being “comparatively idyllic.” Defenders of today’s version, meanwhile, will be quick to point out the druggy, dirty and edgy version of the park that held sway in the `70s and into the `80s. There is indeed truth to that. In my own experience, I certainly remember regularly walking through Washington Square Park in the `80s, invariably on my way to any number of since-vanished Greenwich Village record shops. The park, by that point, was certainly awash in drug sales, but predominantly just weed (or, more accurately, oregano posing unconvincingly as weed). Even at this point, though, I never felt a sense of menace in the park, although I was also young and naïve. To my mind, the experience of Washington Square Park in the `80s is perfectly captured in the video of “Que Pasa/Me No Pop I” by Coati Mundi.

Of course, by the Giuliani era, the drug trade was pushed out (largely to points east) and actual video cameras were famously installed, some allegedly hidden in treetop birdhouses, if the myths are true.

I don’t remember seeing a striking difference in the park, though, until the mid-2000’s, when they started carving up the space in an arguable upgrade (the crux of the plan being to move the fountain so that it was flush with Fifth Avenue). By this point, I was regularly visiting the park with my kids, them having both spent sizable amounts of time in the park’s playgrounds. As I mentioned here, I don’t believe I was entirely onboard with the renovation.

When Washington Square Park fully re-opened in 2009, it was indeed lovely, and myself and my family resumed our regular visits.

From that point on, I think we all just took the park for granted. There were always going to be elements of it that didn’t entirely play nice with others, but such is the nature of public space. To think it was going to remain squeaky clean, especially given its long history, is kind of ridiculous. Just as there will always be old hippies hoarsely crooning out-of-tune John Lennon tunes there, there were always going to be some shady goings-on if you looked hard enough for them.

The pandemic, however, gave another spin to proceedings, revitalizing Washington Square Park’s former status as a hotbed of a public activism, demonstration and protest and becoming a favored spot for rallies of various causes, most notable among them being Black Lives Matter. Anyone who was shocked or upset by that probably isn’t very versed in the city’s history.

But this spring brought something different. The shady goings-on alluded to two graphs up were no longer especially well-hidden. The drug trade came back with a vengeance, and – as mentioned – we’re not just talking about pot. Crack and heroin took up residence in the northwesterly quadrant of the square (uncomfortably close to the smaller children’s playground). Both the collective trauma of the pandemic and the seeming relaxation of both basic amenities and law-enforcement within the confines of the park sort of morphed the square into a permissive oasis for some and a scary headache for others. Then the late-night raves started.

As far as I’m concerned, I don’t really give that much of a damn what people are up to in the park. But I do take strenuous objection to the hard drugs, the crime, the violence, the proliferation of garbage and the abject lack of basic consideration. As I said in the last post, by all means utilize your public spaces to their fullest potential, but show some fucking courtesy, restraint and respect while you do it. I posted something to that same effect on social media, and swiftly came the “Hey you kids, get off my lawn” rejoinder. More like, “Hey you kids, stop giving hand jobs to crackheads in full view of the playground, shitting in the fountain and assaulting people.”

In terms of the late-night parties, I don’t live close enough to actually hear what’s going on, but I see what the place looks like in the mornings, and I’m just not down with the ensuing melees that have been the result. The bozo behind all that is this idiotic asshole, who is as egomaniacal as he is myopically stupid, … which is saying something.

In any case, this all said, while the park has indeed seen better days (however you’d care to define that), this is not to say that you cannot still sit down and enjoy its green, open pleasantness. I passed through it this past weekend and took the picture below – not the roiling sphincter of acrimony and bloodshed the headlines would otherwise have you believe.

But we can still all do better.

Man on The Street

I was interviewed by PIX 11 News in a bona fide "man on the street" segment today. Watch me start babbling like a googly-eyed sock puppet at about 00:57. In my opinion, I had more insightful things to say than the particular portion of our exchange that they saw fit to use, but y'know ... whatever.

Even Yet Still More Vintage C$C

I know this only really speaks to a fairly elite coterie of readers/users/viewers/whatever here, but even though I only just posted that footage of Cop Shoot Cop at CBGB last week, someone else just posted two more archival clips, these both dating back to May 30, 1990 at the recently-shuttered Pyramid on Avenue A. I don’t reall know why these videos are suddnely becoming more frequent, but I’m not complaining.

Enjoy, if you are so inclined…

Punks in The Peppermint Lounge

As mentioned back on this post from 2015, I should preface this by saying I regrettably never made it to the Peppermint Lounge in either of its locations. A storied club dating back to the late `50s, the original venue was on West 45th Street and played host to everyone from The Beach Boys to Black Flag. The second iteration of the club appeared circa 1982 and lasted until 1985. Today, the original spot on 45th street is no more, razed at some point in the `80s, and the second spot on Fifth is currently an empty storefront in the wake of playing host to numerous retail outlets. There is no Peppermint Lounge anymore.

The clip below, meanwhile, dates back to 1981, and was captured in the 45th Street location. This is, of course, the original line-up of the Circle Jerks, one of my favorite all-time bands, arguably at the height of their powers. This performance would have been recorded just three months after Black Flag’s fabled appearance at the same club (with New York’s own Even Worse as opening act). By this point, the Circle Jerks would have also graced stages around town at spots like the Mudd Club, and would later play spots like The Reggae Lounge (formerly the Rock Lounge), Irving Plaza, the 10.18 Club (aka The Roxy), and The Ritz. I don’t know that they ever actually played CBGB prior to the `90s (when they famously performed a cover of the Soft Boys’ “I Wanna Destroy You” with Debbie Gibson on guest vocals), but don’t quote me on that.

As detailed on this post, I wouldn’t actually get to see the band until 1985, playing alongside DOA and Redd Kross, and by that time, original bassist Roger Rogerson and drummer Lucky Lehrer were long out of the ranks. When this video of the original band was captured at the 45th Street Peppermint Lounge – almost exactly a neck-snapping FORTY YEARS AGO -- I would have only recently graduated from 8th Grade, been sequestered out in Quogue, Long Island with my family, very deliberately NOT playing any tennis and otherwise begrudgingly mowing lawns for paltry sums. It would also have been that same summer when I was being lured away from comparatively conventional Punk records by The Ramones, The Clash, Generation X and the Sex Pistols and towards the splenetic strain of Hardcore by my friend Brad’s tireless evangelizing of records like the Circle Jerks’ Group Sex, Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables by Dead Kennedys and the seminal Let Them Eat Jellybeans compilation.

But while I was being indoctrinated, it was already happening, as can be vividly seen here. I think I was so struck by this video as it flies rather squarely in the face of the misconception that Hardcore was somehow a less “musical” variation of by-then-conventional Punk. While, indeed, Hardcore may have been a more feral and streamlined variation that was built for speed, so to speak, even a casual viewing of powerhouse drummer Lucky Lehrer amply demonstrates what a finessed and versatile musician he was.

Such highfalutin pretty talk aside, the band is fucking on fire here.

Enjoy.

Technical Difficulties with Cop Shoot Cop

Someone evidently uploaded this fleeting slice of Cop Shoot Cop having a bash through "Shine On, Elizabeth" and "Hung Again" at CBGB in 1992 onto YouTube, and it's a great one, despite the shaky camera, the frequently black screen and the technical difficulties the band itself is grappling with (broken mic stands, etc.). I was actually at this show with my comrade Rob D., who would have been dancing with great, dramatic aplomb somewhere behind the cameraman here, sadly not captured for posterity. I'd love to know if there is more video from the night than just this. 

In any case, if you never made it to CBGB, here's a taste of what it was like...

Back Into The Basement

My friend John (who I mentioned here) put up a telling post on Facebook recently that struck a firm chord with me. A similarly besotted music geek, John recounted coming back into possession of a big crate of records he’d stored at his mother’s place back in the 90’s. His mother had moved house, however, at some point, and a friend of John’s picked up those albums from her home and sent them back to him. Years after first sending them away for safe-keeping, John found many of the LPs to be in rough, unplayable shape. Coupled with the fact that he has since aquired the means – like most of us – to play most of the music on those records on multiple other formats, John was struck with a quandary, which he neatly summed up in the following three sentences….

I'm not going to play these records. They sit in their box taking up space in the house, and anchor me to a past that no longer exists. But I can't bring myself to just throw them away.

Maybe Freud could have a holiday with this particular syndrome, but I, too, stored many of my old records at my mother’s house. While I’d formerly been loath to part with any of them, when my wife and I moved from my old apartment on East 12th Street to our current apartment on East 9th Street in 2002, I stored about a third of my vinyl collection at a mini-storage space on Vandam Street (never do this) and packed the other two-thirds into a series of stylish flight cases procured at long-vanished Eightball Records on East 9th (which later turned into a long-running sushi joint called Yuba, which has also now closed) and kinda snuck them into the basement of my mom’s house in Quogue out on Long Island.

I ended up having to forego my Vandam Street storage place when it got too expensive and discreetly migrated those records into our apartment. The other two thirds – still in those flight cases, covered in deliberately offensive stickers by prurient hot-rod artist Coop so that my mom wouldn’t want to touch them – have been down in that basement ever since, tucked away in an ersatz playroom with board games, toys and old coats no one will ever wear again. At some point, this will have to change, especially if my mom ever makes good on her threat to sell the house.

We went out to visit mom over Memorial Day Weekend, and given the unseasonable chill and pervasive rain, I succumbed to a ritual I’ve been keeping for some time. Every three or four years or so, I go down to the basement and exhume my old records from those flight cases. At this stage of the proceedings, there is no turntable in my mother’s home to play them on, nor do I expect there ever will be. So, all I can do is take them out, look at them and feel that anchor John was talking about pull at my neck.

When not fretting myself an ulcer about work demands and pressing life matters, my brain frequently finds the time to wake me up in the middle of the night to plot out what I’ll have to do about those records. Honestly, I’d consider farming them off to my nephews, but I don’t know that they’d genuinely want them or even give a damn. I mean, truthfully, I don’t want to give them away, but I don’t know that I can keep them. I’d rather they go to “a good home,” so to speak, but who knows?

In the short term, here are a few of them.

Exhuming "Wasteland" by The Mission

As recently mentioned, I don’t know that I’ve ever been busier both at home and at work. I am struggling to keep my head above water both on a litany of demanding projects at the office and on host of pressing needs at home. As such, the blog may be taking a bit of hit, but I was struck by something this evening, and this post just wrote itself. It won’t mean much to many, but for those who know and care, enjoy.

In retrospect, there was always something a bit crass and vindictive about “Wasteland,” the breakout single from God’s Own Medicine, the debut LP by The Mission. Having been a die-hard fan of the First And Last And Always-iteration of the Sisters of Mercy, I was enthralled, of course, by the “Great Goth Schism” that ripped that band apart, finding founding guitarist Gary Marx jumping ship first, shortly to be followed by bassist Craig Adams and relatively recent recruit, guitarist Wayne Hussey. While Marx was happy to split from the program entirely, Adams and Hussey seemed wholly intent in sticking it to the Sisters’ Mother Superior, Andrew Eldritch, on their way out the door by initially appropriating an uncomfortably comparable moniker — The Sisterhood — before Eldritch beat them to the punch by releasing a deliberately difficult ep, — Gift (German, don’t you know, for “Poison”) — before they could make good on the name.

Unfazed, Hussey and Adams re-dubbed their new combo The Mission, also a swipe at Eldritch’s vision, it being an arguable allusion to that version of the Sisters’ never-to-be follow-up album, Left on Mission and Revenge. Adding insult to injury, Hussey wholly adopted his former taskmaster’s tonsorial and sartorial aesthetic (shades at all times and a big, black fuckoff gaucho hat), arguably blurring the already vague lines, for those who weren’t really paying attention, between who did what and who was who in the notoriously enigmatic Sisters of Mercy.

But while Hussey wrote about half the music on the Sisters’ debut LP, there was kind of a crucial difference — the lyrics. Where Eldritch reportedly agonized over lyrical nuance and veiled symbolism, Hussey basically just “got on with it” and strung bits of portentous prose together. While the early work of The Mission certainly bears the sonic hallmarks of the Sisters, the lyrics, by and large (and by all accounts, even Hussey’s in later years) don’t really mean anything. Like, at all. They are simply words that fit the bill and sound nice together.

But taking it a step further, Hussey continued to mine from Eldritch’s sandbox. The very title “Wasteland,” of course, comes from the classic romantic poem of the same name by T.S. Elliot, a frequent source of inspiration for the inarguably erudite Eldritch. Now, was Hussey himself as versed in the storied works of said Modernist poet? Or was he just brazenly swiping yet another aspect of Eldritch’s aesthetic? Even a casual perusal of Hussey’s lyrics don’t suggest a familiarity with Elliot’s complex wordplay, if that was indeed was he was trying to emulate. It sounds more like a stylishly funereal way of taunting his former bandmate.

Were that not enough, the core of “Wasteland” is essentially Craig Adams’ brooding bass line, itself basically lifted wholesale from 1981’s “Over the Wall” by Hussey’s fellow Liverpudlians in Echo & The Bunnymen.

So, yeah, add it all up, and “Wasteland” was basically an emphatic middle finger (with stylish black nail polish) from The Mission to Andrew Eldritch in the form of an essentially empty vessel that cribbed all the fixin's — but none of the actual meat — from the turkey that was the First and Last-era Sisters of Mercy. It did not go unnoticed. When the time was right, Eldritch shot back directly at Hussey & Co. with “This Corrosion,” a withering rejoinder rife with over-the-top, Hussey-ian fluff that took his former bandmates to task for the pilferage. It didn’t hurt that it became the reconstituted Sisters of Mercy’s biggest hit to date.

So, yeah, I know all that, and huge swathes of these suspicions were confirmed by Trevor Ristow’s magisterial tome, “Waiting for Another War” last year (see posts about same here, here and here), but I still have a confession.

I still fucking love “Wasteland.”

I can still remember spying the video for “Wasteland” on MTV”s “120 Minutes” one evening and being immediately smitten, going out the next fucking morning to prize the LP from a long-shuttered and short-lived record store on First Avenue. “Wasteland” went onto rub shoulders with “She Sells Sanctuary” by the Cult, “51st State” by New Model Army, “All That I Wanted” by Belfegore and — yes, do wait for it — “Eighties” by Killing Joke as one of my favorite songs of all time. Despite its inherent lyrical vacuity and liberally pastiched sonic elements, I still swoon every time I hear Wayne’s hoarily ominous intro (“I still believe in God … but God no longer believes in me!”) and air-strum accordingly along with Wayne’s shimmering twelve-string and lead guitarist Simon Hinkler’s florid e-bowing. It’s silly, but I will always love it. In a world where people champion laughable fucking piffle by Drake, Cardi B. and Justin Bieber as the crowning achievements of the species, I feel not a jot of shame.