Flaming Pablum

Back Again … Briefly … to The Cooler

Back in 2012 — itself a damn long time ago — I posted a eulogy of sorts to The Cooler, an old live-music venue in the Meatpacking District, spooling an anecdote about attending one of its final shows, that being my friend Paul Wallfisch's band Botanica opening for Suicide, who I sadly did not stay for — coerced, instead, by my friend Tod [A] of Firewater to jump ship and come with him to check out this weird Ukrainian disco over on Canal Street.

As it happened, that weird Ukranian disco was actually a weird Bulgarian disco called Mehanata. You can see snippets of the interior of that place in the video for “Start Wearing Purple” by Gogol Bordello. Gogol Bordello, incidentally, then counted guitarist Eugene Kaplan in its ranks, although Eugene also played for both Firewater and Botanica. Mehanata, meanwhile, was located directly over the former location of Dave’s Luncheonette, a fabled diner for the Mudd Club set which briefly made a cameo in the video for “Jukebox Baby" by Alan Vega of Suicide. See? It’s all related!

In any case, in that anecdote on that old post, I fleeting alluded to trying to snag a poster for that gig off the very wall of The Cooler, but was prevented from doing so by the joint’s notoriously irritable proprietor, that being a gent inexplicably named Jedi (this testy exchange was immortalized in New York Press). As lovely as I remember the poster being, I had to leave without it. Ever since then, I’ve kept one eye out for it, in case it appeared in a random Google search or eBay auction.

Well, that actually happened this week. Via Google, I found it on an auction site, but sadly said auction ended in 2009 — itself, once again, a long damn time ago. From that site, however, I was able to glean that the poster was designed by an artist named Kayrock, and only 100 were made. Adding insult to injury, the auction was only asking twenty bucks for the poster. Alas, I am 11 years too late.

Today in 2020, the building at 416 West 14th Street that formerly housed The Cooler plays host to pricey retail shops. The last time I walked by it, I think it was a Levi’s outlet. I’m not sure what happens in the lower chamber that used to be The Cooler, but I doubt it’s anything particularly exciting.

Back over on Canal Street, Mehanata closed up that location in 2006 and moved to a new spot on Ludlow Street, where I gather it still operates today, although its website suggests it’s a far, far glitzier affair than it was in 2001. Its former place off Canal & Broadway is now the SoHo Garden Hotel.

Alan Vega of Suicide died in 2016, and his songs are now unwittingly used to sell perfume by Marc Jacobs.

Tod [A] now lives in Turkey, writes books and still writes music. Hopefully, Firewater will ride again, one day.

Paul Wallfisch joined SWANS in 2016, but remains musically active elsewhere.

Guitarist Oren Kaplan sued Gogol Bordello frontman Eugene Hutz, in 2013, over fiscal mismanagement of the band. The last thing I heard him being involved with was a collaboration between fabled post-punk bassists Youth (of Killing Joke) and Jah Wobble (of Public Image Ltd.).

Kayrock is still active, and has a very nice website.

I, meanwhile, still do not have that poster, but it looks like this...

Maybe You're a 'Normie,' Too

I should preface this post by saying that as middle-aged, heterosexual white male, I have never experienced true oppression or meaningful discrimination of any kind. I am ridiculously privileged, in this capacity. This post is not about that, and is comparatively trivial in the grand scheme of things. But, it's been on my mind, so here goes...

I’m old enough to remember — from first-hand experience, no less -- when words like “geek” and “nerd” were very much not the backhanded compliments they are today. They didn’t bother me that much, as a kid. I mean, I’d have been the very first to admit that I fit the descriptions of those widely-used pejoratives to a veritable tee. I hated sports, wasn’t popular, athletic or a looker, was socially awkward for many years and found solace in comic books, science fiction and “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons.” Guilty as charged, your honor.

But when lobbed in my direction, those words were used with emphasis and purpose — to reduce, belittle and mockingly condemn as something other… something lesser. The words themselves didn’t bother me, but the intention behind them did.

Those on the receiving end of terms like those (and others … some more hurtful and less banal) frequently found a common kinship with each other. Personally speaking, I made some of my best friends from being similarly tarred with those epithets or from us both being the last two picked when teams were being assembled. Being pithily summed up with one demeaning descriptor or another made groupings by default simpler. Don’t believe me? Check out the seating arrangements in your nearest high school's lunch room. Birds of a feather do indeed flock together.

But it’s in high school, frequently, when these terms can be shed and replaced with more palatable, pop-culture-informed tribal signifiers. In the 80’s, while you may have wallowed in the ignominious ranks of the dweebs throughout grade school, maybe by high school you’d have transformed yourself into a punk or a hardcore kid or New Waver or a Deadhead or a goth or a metalhead or a b-boy or rudeboy or a skate rat or _________ (insert chosen subculture here) and reinvented yourself. You chose your own descriptor, and swore allegiance to it via whatever tonsorial/sartorial means were the order of that particular aesthetic.

I was a bit schizophrenic, in this capacity, as I harbored affinities for too many elements of disparate musical tribes. I bought albums by Ratt and Dead Kennedys, and got excited by both Devo and Iron Maiden. I went to see Hall & Oates in a Circle Jerks t-shirt. I couldn’t commit to any single tribe, and the respective uniforms -- while cool -- just felt silly to me. I loved the music and the accompanying subcultures, but didn’t radically change my hair or wardrobe. That didn’t seem necessary. I just became a music geek, for lack of a better title.

During freshman year of college, I similarly refrained from joining a fraternity. This, of course was helped by the fact I was on academic probation during “rush,” and needed to concentrate on my grades, but even beyond that — the notion of restricting my social activities to solely one group of “brothers” seemed laughably myopic to me, especially when each house dutifully adhered to their assigned stereotypes. As it worked out, I stayed an independent and practically had a friend in each house. I could come and go as I pleased and escaped the labeling.

Years and years later, I still don’t adhere to any single tribe. Moreover, when your reach a certain age, that shit shouldn’t matter. I have loads of friends who still consider themselves punks and goths and whathaveyou, but the march of time has a way of putting things in different perspective. Maybe your life was changed and enriched by finding your place as a ska-loving rudeboy, and that lifestyle got you through whatever hiccups, doldrums or trauma you were experiencing. Maybe you didn’t feel you fit in anywhere until you grew your hair out and started following the Grateful Dead around. But while you maybe immersed yourself into becoming a rudeboy or a Deadhead or a clove-smoking, beret-wearing bohemian, you weren’t born one. You chose to be one, and it came to identify you. But as Bowie once sagely sang, “hey, look out, you rock’n’rollers …pretty soon now, you’re gonna get older."

I don’t know why it’s taken me eight paragraphs to get to the real point here, but there’s a term I’ve been seeing bandied about, recently, by lots of folks, many of them dear friends of mine — and I’m just not cool with it. I don’t know when the word was first coined, but the pejorative “normie” seems to have asserted itself into the common vernacular of certain circles. Obviously, it’s a snippy truncation of “normal,” meaning — and I’m taking a leap, here — someone who dutifully conforms to popular convention, i.e. someone who voluntarily chooses to be, act and appear — WAIT FOR IT — “normal.”

Sorry, but fuck that.

To my mind, branding someone is a “normie” comes from the same place as labeling someone a “nerd.” While, no, it is in no way a slur comparable to terms used to denigrate individuals of differing color, gender or sexual orientation, it’s still a descriptor couched in exclusion.

By dismissing someone a “normie,” you’re as guilty and superficial as the proponents of the establishment you’re allegedly rebelling against. You’re making sweeping, prejudicial assumptions and reinforcing stereotypes. Whether you renounced convention because its adherents once similarly mocked you or because you found your place in a different subculture, you should know better. But if you’re calling someone who doesn’t dress like you or identify with your chosen aesthetic a “normie,” you’re no better.

Cut that shit out. 

"Waiting for Another War"

LABORIOUS PREAMBLE:

Despite the provocative title of this post, it’s probably not what you think.

Let’s face it, the world genuinely is deep in the shitter, right now. Our cities have been ablaze with riots over systemic racism and police brutality in the wake of the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis, but the legitimate protests have been marred by violence and looting, frequently by forces without any meaningful tether to the cause (read here, incidentally, for a deeper dive on the looting phenomenon). Meanwhile, the pandemic is still raging -- despite what the current administration might try to tell you --  and one wonders what spikes in infection will result from the large-scale gatherings of the past several days. There is great uncertainty as to when things might calm down and/or return to a semblance of a normal routine. 2020 is proving to be one for the history books.

While it was never my specific intention to turn this blog into an outlet for political discussion, I have found myself using it more, specifically in the last four years, to vent my spleen in this capacity. I cannot help thinking, however, that posts about my misgivings with the direction this country has been taking and the accompanying fallout are NOT what keep readers coming back here, nor are they topics that have typically defined this stupid blog.

But, as has been the case in the wake of national calamities, mass shootings and moments of divisive political upheaval, posting entries about old punk rock records, under-celebrated bands, forgotten record shops and brazenly nostalgic New York City ephemera seems like a laughably petty waste of time and pointedly inappropriate. It’s for this reason that I’ve abandoned countless posts in progress in the past several weeks, losing my enthusiasm to wax rhapsodic about, say, discovering the myriad culinary intricacies of Lydia Lunch’s cook book or a deeply silly post dedicated to a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it detail in the background of a pivotal scene in Martin Scorsese’s “After Hours.” Those are just two examples, and I may come back to both, but they just feel indefensibly trivial right now, in the grand scheme of things.

I guess my very windy point, here, is that while I may continue to post entries that fit the milieu of this blog, so to speak, it is not to suggest that I’m not keenly aware of the shit show that is otherwise engulfing the goddamn planet. Carry on. 

ACTUAL POST:

So, yeah, when not working remotely, furrowing my brow at the news of the day or getting disconsolately irritable on social media, I have actually been doing a fair amount of reading as a means of broadening my horizons, keeping my mind occupied and retaining my sanity. I’ve already paged through books by musicians like Sam McPheeters, Bob Bert and Amy Rigby. The most recent one I’ve read, however, was written by a friend who I came to know via this blog, if I’m not entirely mistaken.

About almost a year back, some readers might remember a post I devoted to the first part of a projected two-volume memoir by one Wayne Hussey, lead singer/songwriter for The Mission and erstwhile guitarist/songwriter for the First And Last And Always iteration of the Sisters of Mercy. In that first volume, entitled “Salad Daze,” Wayne delved into the notoriously chilly gestation of the Sisters of Mercy’s first full length LP, giving his account of the frosty dysfunction within the band and their seemingly inevitable dissolution. I mentioned in the tail end of that post that such an account demanded a retort, however unlikely the notion of Andrew Eldritch — the Sisters’ perennial Mother Superior -- ever deigning to that acknowledgment might be. To that end, I pointed to the long-in-the-works tome by Mark Andrews titled “Paint My Name in Black and Gold,” which — one year later — has still not materialized.

Imagine to my surprise and glee, then, the sudden appearance of “Waiting for Another War,” an exhaustively detailed account of the early Sisters’ trajectory up through and including the same period Wayne addressed in “Salad Days,” not least penned by my new friend and fellow Cop Shoot Cop acolyte, Trevor Ristow. I ordered a copy on the spot and devoured it whole in two days’ time upon its arrival.

Ristow’s relationship to the subject is devotional, acknowledging up front a fervent appreciation for the band that stretches back to his teens. While not even slightly impartial, his approach to the telling of the Sisters’ tale applies a scholarly adherence to chronology and differing perspectives, factoring in a host of pertinent accounts from concerned parties. And while deeply reverent of Eldritch’s long-held reluctance to lift the veil on the meanings behind his songs, Ristow’s analysis of the lyrics and associated imagery connected with the band is studiously fortified with more than simply a fanboy’s grasp of the art, literature and pop-cultural ephemera that informed the gestalt of the Sisters’ carefully cultivated work and mystique. In short, “Waiting for Another War” is written with a refreshing sophistication largely absent from most books of its ilk.

This all said, I think it’s worth pointing out that as much as I slavishly enjoyed the book, I did have my polite quibbles with it. While I still have no clue how Mark Andrews’ “Paint My Name…” will read, I could not have asked for a more succinctly Eldritch-sympathetic response to Wayne Hussey’s take in “Salad Daze” than “Waiting for Another War." Ristow fully acknowledges Hussey’s capable contributions to the cause of expanding the Sisters’ sonic palette, but clearly considers the guitarist’s introduction into the Sisters as something of a dilution of what made the original ensemble so special. I was also somewhat surprised by Ristow’s blunt dismissal of certain material, taking unflinchingly dead aim at “Walk Away,” the first track that caught my attention. I don’t agree with him on that point, but I get it — I similarly blanche when I hear comparatively upstart Killing Joke fans exclaim their adoration of tracks from latter-era albums. As Ristow got onboard earlier than myself, I certainly will not fault him for his own firmly held perceptions.

Conceivably by coincidence, Ristow’s book culminates at more or less the exact same point as Hussey’s “Salad Daze,” and both authors promise follow-ups. But where Hussey plans to concentrate on his own doings with the Mission — a more conventionally “rocking” and arguably populist quartet who never swatted away the “gothic” mantle Eldritch has attempted to (unsuccessfully) dodge for his entire career — Ristow will presumably continue to track the Sisters’ ambitious-but-idiosyncratic path into their current status — a tantalizing, 27-year limbo that’s been keeping their devoted fans baying for new, studio-recorded material. Until that fully realized music materializes, there’s still the Sisters’ magisterial back catalog, one you will only appreciate more after reading “Waiting for Another War."

As a testament to this book's comprehensive brilliance, the first print run has already sold out, but click here to find out more about the second printing. Tell'em Flaming Pablum sent ya. 

Just a Quick Reminder

I can’t believe I have to post this again, but in this highly charged era, I’m of the opinion that it bears repeating.

In the interests of saving both your time and mine, while I’m all for spirited debate and the open exchange of ideas and dissenting opinions here, the moment you invoke any racist invective — be it brazenly blurted out or artfully shrouded in coded vocabulary — you’ll cease to see your comments appear here.

Be Careful What You Wish For

The Road Ahead

A friend of mine shot a note to me yesterday asking if I was okay. I wasn’t sure of the context of his question, but I “sure, why?” He responded by saying that so many of the photos I’d been posting on Instagram were of open roads, paths, and ways forward, jumping to something of a psychobabble diagnosis that I must therefore be tremendously unhappy or feeling stuck in my current situation.

I laughed and assured him that while I’m indeed feeling frustrated like everyone else about the current state of the world, that I’m okay.

I went back to look at the pictures in question. His point hadn’t occurred to me, nor was telegraphing same in any way part of my intention, but I guess I can forgive him for jumping to that conclusion ...

Time Out

via GIPHY

"A Drug-Riddled Cesspool of Filth"

Here’s a curious clip. Purportedly from 1986, here we see a supposedly tense stand-off in Greenwich Village — specifically on Waverly Place between Washington Square Park West and Sixth Avenue — between an alleged drug dealer and … Neil Diamond. Mr. Diamond has apparently had enough and is ready to inflict some damage with a billy club (although it looks more like a small baseball bat), successfully scaring off his would-be opponent … in front of a convenient camera crew.

After the almost-melee, Mr. Diamond laments the encroaching preponderance of crack vials in the leafy byways of his neighborhood. At no point does anyone bust out into an impromptu rendition of “Sweet Caroline."

Now, I realize, 1986 is quite a little bit ago — I’d have been a college freshman, at the time — being even then, picturesque Waverly Place in the Village was more likely to have been the scene of some comparatively placid weed deals (or, even more likely, oregano posing as weed) rather than a locale wherein to procure crack. I'm not entirely positive of the true province of this little portion of video, and I’m not saying there wasn’t drugs or crime in the Greenwich Village of 1986, but one suspects this presentation might be more than a little “dramatized.”

Moreover, I had the great honor of meeting and interviewing the inimitable Neil Diamond at a Songwriters Hall of Fame function in 2019. That is very assuredly not Neil Diamond, although Gothamist isn’t entirely sure.

This, by the way, is the real Neil Diamond of New York City...

Brubeck in Brown: A Jazzy Stranglers Mash-Up

This one really stopped me in my tracks.

Someone with a lot of time, patience, musical chops and editing skills put together this lovely tribute to the late Dave Greenfield of the Stranglers below, splicing elements of Dave Brubeck's ensemble performing "Take Five" into an inventive re-imagining of the single, "Golden Brown."

Here's the official explanation by its creator, Laurence Mason:

A little tribute to Dave Greenfield (keyboardist with The Stranglers who died from Covid-19 last week) and Paul Desmond (saxophonist with the Dave Brubeck quartet - the anniversary of his death is at the end of this month). Also because I've been enjoying editing videos and recording stuff over the last couple of months.

A couple of people have asked how I made this video so here we go - I took a clip from a 1964 live version of Take Five and made the drum loop by chopping up the intro and turning it from 5/4 into the 3/4 - 4/4 groove that Golden Brown has. The upright bass sound is sequenced from Logic, and the piano part was played in using one of the piano sounds from a Nord Electro 5D. Then I played the sax part over the top (I play a King Zephyr alto and for this I used a hard rubber Yanigasawa mouthpiece rather than my usual bright Guardala). The video was then edited using the clip I'd taken the drum loop from.

Cool, right? Anyway, enjoy the fruits of his meticulous labor below...and pour one out for Dave. 

Yuppies & Punks in "Novo York"

A little compelling slice of yesteryear, courtesy of Brazil's Ernesto Varela. You might not recognize St. Marks Place....