Flaming Pablum

Lost in “New Rock City”

Nostalgia, once again, is a weird thing. For every period or era or, in musical parlance, “scene” that one person laments, there are individuals from before and after that particular passage of time who harbor entirely different affinities and associations. Witness the ongoing dialogue in the comments in some of my posts about NYHC, as one example. Everyone has their own period, their own perceptions of same, obviously, and their own attachments.

I was certainly around for the boom of new New York City bands that manifested around the turn of the millennium and just afterwards, with acts like The Strokes, Interpol, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, LCD Soundsystem, The Rapture and genuinely liked a bunch of them (well, not so much The Rapture), but it was clearly no longer my class, so to speak. I was still carrying torches for earlier acts like Skeleton Key, Pussy Galore, Surgery, Barkmarket, Prong, Helmet and, yes indeed, Cop Shoot Cop. One alumnus of the latter -- Tod [A], of course --  formed Firewater, which almost bridged the chasm of those eras, going so far as sharing members with comparative upstarts like Gogol Bordello, but Firewater don’t often get a namecheck when discussing that next generation. I’m biased, of course, but I think that’s an oversight.

I’ve written about my issues with the whole “Meet Me In the Bathroom” generation of bands before, most windily here and also here. If you click on that first post, you’ll notice I appended a post-script to clarify that I didn’t mean to sound so grumpily prejudicial about Lizzie Goodman’s magisterial book on that era, but rather that I’d hoped for acknolwedgement of the continuum of great New York bands – which was actually kinda stupid, as that would have made poor Ms. Goodman’s already-quite-lengthy book much lengthier. What I need to do, simply, is acknowledge what I asserted in the first paragraph here – everyone is entitled to their own period, their own perceptions of same and their own attachements.

All this weighty preamble is to highlight the video below, which I stumbled upon on Vimeo. The clip was uploaded eight years ago, but seems to date back further than that (2004, maybe?). Dubbed "New Rock City,” this thirty-minute documentary attempts to capture the post-millennial/neo-post-punk (how’s that for a complicated descriptor?) generation by profiling bands like the afore-cited Gogol Bordello, FischerSpooner, Le Tigre, Blonde Redhead and some others, augmented by ruminations by rock journos like Sarah “Ultragrrl” Lewitinn and Joe Levy, two fellow (sorta) former SPIN alumni.

I think the thing that struck me about this film, however, is how the city and scene depicted therein already seem so long ago. That may have more to do with my own advancing age and perspective on things, but in the same way I look at books about New York's hardcore scene of the early-to-mid 80's and think “how is this even the same city?”, I get a comparable vibe from this. I am also reminded of “Goodnight Brooklyn” The Story of Death by Audio,” a compelling documentary that essentially told the story of an even more recent dyng scene that makes “New Rock City” look like friggin’ “The Decline of Western Civilization.”

Time passes. Things change. Scenes come and go and get replaced by new ones you won’t be privy to -- let alone endorse or understand -- because you basically get old and in the way.

I guess that’s just the way it is.

In any case, enjoy “New Rock City.”

Band T-Shirt Beatdown

In lieu of actual content of my own (see this post for details), I thought I’d pass this along…

While I don’t know any of the bands cited here, … to say nothing of their songs (well, I guess I do know a Tool track or two), clearly the torch of my dubious preoccupation with encyclopedic pedantry when it comes to band t-shirt etiquette has been passed on to a new generation.

There’s no reason why this video has to be seven minutes long. He proves his point in under two minutes.

November

I remember being informed by someone, eons ago, that when it comes to blogging, one should never qualify one’s posts with an apology. No one cares if there’s been a delay in posting, let alone have probably noticed a delay to begin with. The blog will progress when it progresses. To laboriously apologize for prolonged silences between posts is a ridiculous display of narcicistic presumptuousness.

Evidently, this was advice I didn’t really take to heart, as I seem to routinely stammer out apologies for perceived tardiness in regular activity here.

The bottom line, I guess, is that I feel I’m being remiss in my purely fictioinal obligation to continue composing Flaming Pablum.

I’ve indeed started a few longer pieces in the past couple of weeks, but have either been forced to abaondon them prior to fruition or lost the momentum. The truth is that work is busier than usual, of late, with several demanding projects on the burner. Secondly, my son is currently unspooling the sticky skein of red tape that is the high school application-&-entrance-exam process. As such, stress levels are in the red.

When life calms down, I’ll have more stuff up here. Until then,.... go enjoy your Autumn.

Please Stand By

 

Keef in the Streets

Down here in Greenwich Village or – as I’m frequently heard to describe it – the veritable crotch of NYU, there’s a certain ground-floor apartment in the much, much nicer building across the street from mine that has always sparked a bit of speculation. Easily spotted from the sidewalk outisde, one can see a robust selection of handsome electric guitars hung around the high-ceilinged peremeter of a stately sitting/media room. I remember spying it sometime shortly after moving onto the street circa 2002 and becoming immediately curious as to the resident. At the time, I knew of certain celebrities like Julian Casablancas from The Strokes and Chris Noth from “Sex & The City” (and other roles, of course) living in the neighboring environs, but this room looked to be owned by someone at a more elevated level of affluence. The doorman of the building in question has, unsurprisingly, never been forthcoming about it (and, yes, I did ask). Lots of people in the `hood have theories.

“Keith Richards lives there,” is the one I’ve heard the most, although I furrow my brow every time it’s suggested.

For a start, while it had long been said that the storied Rolling Stone guitarist -- captured above by Timothy White -- “kept” a home somewhere in downtown Manhattan, it never struck me that the street-fighting man would have taken an apartment with a street-facing window. That just didn’t add up. He’s a Rolling Stone, for cryin’ out loud. Surely, die-hard Stones-heads would’ve figured it out and set up shop outside his window. But somehow, that theory persisted.

I also pooh-poohed the notion as -- however fun it would be to have Keef as a neighbor -- in the roughly seventeen years I’ve lived on this street, I have never once spotted the Midnight Rambler arriving or departing from the address in question. I’ve never even spotted a vehicle worthy of transporting same parked nearby. The whiff of Richards’ singular brand of louche badassery is nowhere to be smelt on my strip between University Place and Broadway. Given my own preoccupations, I assure you – if Keith Richards was living that close by, I’d damn well know about it.

Now, this not to say Keith hasn’t been spotted around, even if the spotting hasn’t been done by yours truly. As lovingly documented in Christopher McKittrick’s new book “Can’t Give It Away on Seventh Avenue” – which I’m currently reading – the Rolling Stones have an inexorable relationship with New York City, with all the band members having lived here at one point or another. Keith was said to have had a an apartment in the East Village until about 1983, although I’m uncertain as to where. And beyond periodically appearing on small stages across town to jam with certain notables, Keith was said to be a regular customer at Myers of Keswick, the traditional British grocery store over on Hudson Street in the West Village.

The rumors about Keef living in the buildng next door to me were officially dispelled in 2016, meanwhile, when it was reported that the great man was selling his Manhattan residence – an iconic duplex penthouse at One Fifth Avenue – for a tidy $12.2 million. Apparently, the Richards family barely owned that apartment for two years, having bought it some time in 2014, but they didn’t find a buyer for the place until last year.

This all begs two questions…..

Where was Keith Richards’ pad in the East Village?

…and…

Since it’s not Keith, who DOES live in the pricey guitar apartment across my street?

“We Can Be Like They Are…”

Outside of certain slavish rock circles, Blue Öyster Cult never seem to get much of a break. Oh sure … everybody knows their name but, for some reason, that name doesn’t quite inspire the gravitas their peers in bands like Black Sabbath, Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple and the like all seem to enjoy. While embraced by certain elements of both camps, BÖC were never quite metal and never quite punk and always not quite conventionally “cool” by any standard. Be it their egg-headed sci-fi fixation, their unfashionable tonsorial aesthetic or their suburban Long Island origins, some indeterminate factor prevents Blue Oyster Cult from attaining a broader degree of respect.

This all said, BÖC did manage the feat of scoring a perennial hit that transcended genre to become an all-time classic, that, of course, being 1976’s “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper,” a suitably cryptic and sepulchral ode to prematurely embracing the inevitability of death, scored by a hypnotic riff, a brain-frying solo and – yes, please do wait for it – a hefty dollop of manfully played cowbell.

Personally speaking, I’ve always loved Blue Öyster Cult, and certainly not just because of “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper.” When their longtime producer Sandy Pearlman passed away in 2016, a certain colleague of mine was heard to say “who can really name another Blue Öyster Cult song?,” which prompted to emphatically rattle off titles like “Burnin’ For You,” “Veteran of The Psychic Wars,” “This Ain’t The Summer oF Love,” “Joan Crawford (Has Risen From The Grave),” “Dominance and Submission,” “Godzilla,” “Cities on Flame,” “The Red & the Black,” “Take Me Away,” “E.T.I.” and “Shooting Shark” through clenched teeth before I was told to relax and shut up.

For certain folks, the fact that BÖC don’t fit cozily in a single box only makes them more endearing (see also Killing Joke, The Stranglers, XTC, etc.)

This post isn’t meant to defend Blue Öyster Cult. Much like Rush, they don’t need a defense, nor do they need your approval.

No, this post is only meant to highlight the video below. I’m not entirely sure why, but in keeping with an odd trend on YouTube, someone slowed “(Don’t Fear) the Reaper” down by 800% (I don't know the veracity of that number....wouldn't something slowed down by 100% be a full stop?). Regardless, the resulting sonic document is a little over 39 minutes of genuinely haunting sound. It’s sort of like what I’d imagine it to be like in deep, desolate outer space … y’know, if there was actual sound in outer space. There isn’t. It’s a vacuum, but I’m reasonably certain you get what I’m driving at.

While sure, it may sound like some gimmicky meme, immerse yourself in “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” "slowed down 800%".

I can’t help but think the band would heartily approve.

Screaming While You’re Streaming

Some time back, an organization I was working for was toying with the idea of putting together a Spotify playlist for Halloween, and solicted some suggestions. I, of course, jumped all over it, but most of my choices were nixed for being too ….. I guess, esoteric is the word? I fought valiantly for the inclusion of some of my selections, but was shot right down. I am reminded of the anecdote about COIL being asked by Clive Barker to provide a soundtrack for “Hellraiser,” and their resulting offering being turned down for being “too scary.” There's just no pleasing some folks. 

I don’t remember what they ended up going with, but it was invariably the usual mix of “Monster Mash” and some other predictable crap.

I don’t spend enough time on Spotify to put together another playlist (I’m not sure some of these cuts are even available on said platform), but here’s what I suggested way back when for suitably spooky, disquieting and/or unsettling listening. If you’ve been here a while, you’ve doubtlessly heard me crow about some of these before.

Once again, happy Halloween…

“Hamburger Lady” by Throbbing Gristle

“Black is the Color of My True Love’s Hair” by Patti Waters – Seriously, this will turn your shit white. 

“11 Mustachiod Daughters” by the Bonzo Dog Band

“Let There Be More Darkness” by Robyn Hitchcock

“Halloween” by the Misfits

“Ghouls' Night Out” by the Misfits

“Bela Lugosi’s Dead” by Bauhaus

“Stigmata Martyr” by Bauhaus

“Waltzinblack” by the Stranglers

Plague Mass by Diamanda Galas – all of it. 

“The Tenderness of Wolves” by COIL 

“Come to Daddy” by the Virgin Prunes

“Saturday Night Special” by Fad Gadget

“Subway Song” by The Cure

“22 Going on 23” by the Butthole Surfers

“Epilogue” by Skinny Puppy

“Frankie Teardrop" by Suicide

"Deep in the Woods" by the Birthday Party

"Poptones" by Public Image Ltd.

"Wind in the Rigging" by Young Marble Giants.

"YOU'RE THE ONE WHO'S CRAZY..."

When the eponymous debut by Venice, California’s Suicidal Tendencies landed like a scud missile in 1983, I had already immersed myself into hardcore punk via bands like DOA, the Circle Jerks, Kraut and many more. But Suicidal seemed like a different beast entirely. For a start, they didn’t really look like a punk band so much as a gaggle of West Coast gang-bangers. But beyond that, it was their sound that set them apart. While as stealthy and immediate as those afore-cited hardcore bands, Suicidal brought along a sonic heft that was clearly the result of an unapologetic love for heavy metal (a genre they’d soon blur the parameters of). Songs like “Possessed,” “I Shot The Devil” and “Fascist Pig” raced along at a breakneck pace, but the music was so burly. It’s no accident the band is largely credited with helping initiate the crossover scene shortly afterwards.

Of course, the song that really put … and kept …. the band on the map was their signature opus, “Institutionalized,” a first-person account from troubled teen/lead singer Mike Muir about his uber-dysfunctional relationship with his parents, their warped expectations and his comparatively pragmatic worldview. Scored by the band’s simmering fury and galloping bursts, the results are both hilarious and grimly acerbic. It pretty much became a classic upon arrival (spawning comparatively anaemic rip-off’s like “I’m An Adult Now” by The Pursuit of Happiness), and remains so today. It’s an anthem for disgruntled cynics everwhere.

The resulting video was as iconic as the track itself. Let’s go there now, shall we?

Yeah, so that’s the original.

Without going into chapter and verse about this next video, it’s prudent to seek out the mythos of “Space Ghost: Coast to Coast,” a proto-Adult Swim concoction by the Cartoon Network in the 90’s that recast the membership of the beloved Hanna-Barbera cartoon as the cast of a strenuously unlikely talk show. From that germ of an idea sprang Brak, the intellectually stunted former space pirate. As evidently mandated by surrealist godfather Dr. Demento, herewith Brak’s cover of the Suicidal Tendencies staple, “Instituationalized.”

You were warned.

 

Coming Up from "Somewhere Below..."

Just to close the loop on this, I finally got my copy of Karen O'Sullivan's "Somewhere Below 14th & East," and it is indeed astonishingly compelling.

In the grand tradition of Bri Hurley's "Making a Scene" and Drew Carolan's "Matinee," this collection of photos provides a striking glimpse into the NYHC scene of the early 80's, one that showcases the breadth of this particular comnunity, the pertinent topography and myriad characters from therein, both obscure and renowned. As I've laboriously observed on similar posts in the past, it's hard to reconcile that we're living in the same city that fostered this scene. 

The last time I did that, of course, I was called out by a regular reader for being a boujie ex-punk (or something to that effect) who'd divested, seemingly oblivious to the the next generations' iterations that picked up where this earlier scene left off. To that point, I'd suggest that I'm not negating the idea of a thriving New York hardcore community here in 2019, but rather pointing out that it doesn't operate as this one did, nor around the same environs. My point is less about the continuing existence of hardcore and more about how much this city has changed. 

Anyway, should you be interested, I recommend ordering a copy with the "bonus zine," which simply gives you more images to look at, including this cool shot of Jack Natz (then of The Undead, later of Virus and my beloved Cop Shoot Cop). 

`Tis The Season...

Happy Halloween, y'all...