While, yes, it’s not dissimilar from other travelogue-esque NYC videos I’ve put up (like this, this, this, this and this), there’s something mysteriously disturbing about this, albeit not intentionally (I don’t think).
Evidently digitized from an old VHS cassette, this montage of footage of the Manhattan of 1997 comes scored by a thumping R&B tune which, honestly, doesn’t say “Nineties” to me such as “Eighties,” but whatever. No, the problem is that the source material – the VHS cassette – sounds like it’s dragging and rolling, periodically reducing the meter and the pitch of the song to a weird sluggish warble.
The end results sound nightmarishly nauseous. One half-expects to see something duly unspeakable at any second to reflect the unsettling wrongness of the soundtrack.
As a revelation that should surprise absolutely no one, I’m not a big sports guy.
Sure, I pitched for the TIME Magazine softball team for 12 years and even became reasonably proficient at getting my pitches across the plate (my nickname on the mound was “Speed Metal,” despite it being, ostensibly, “slow pitch” softball), but, if I’m being honest, my involvement in same had more to do with the promise of beer and girls after each game. Here I was -- circa 1998 or so -- looking suitably awkward and ill-equipped near the pitcher's mound.
But in terms if watching professional sports of the more celebrated varieties, I have absolutely zero interest in football or basketball. I, of course, fully understand baseball, but don’t really care about it. I don’t mind soccer, and hockey at least has the prospect of becoming entertainingly violent, but in none of these instances am I invested in any meaningful way.
I used to be way more vocal about my disdain for sports, until I realized that no one actually cares about that (nor should they) and that all I was probably doing was pissing off friends of mine who do like sports. So, yeah, I’ve stopped doing that, kinda.
Anyway, a reader named Steven recently wrote in and, along with some encouraging things to say about a few recent posts, postulated an intriguing query. Steven writes:
In the mid 2000s, I went to a show at the Bowery Ballroom with some friends.. went bar hopping afterwards. Ended up late night at a bar somewhere on the L.E.S. that was very cool, and I have not been able to find it again (if it’s still there) or remember the name. A long skinny room with the bar in the right side as you walk in, old but somewhat clean. But what made it very distinctive was it was adorned with Brooklyn Dodger photos. From front to back. Ebbits Field, players, World Series pictures.. I remember the bartender telling me the bar had been a Dodger bar for 50/60 years at that point. Does that ring a bell for you? Not a lot to go on. Just a shot in the dark to someone who seems to know that city inside and out.
Now, again, not being versed in professional baseball (neither National League nor American League … not that I even understand the difference between those two, much less do I care), I cannot say that even if I’d drank myself stupid in the very boozer he’s referring to, would I have probably noticed a hodgepodge of Brooklyn Dodgers paraphernalia adorning the walls.
But this, dear readers, is where YOU come in – who remembers a divey-but-“clean” Lower East Side bar festooned with Brooklyn Dodger ephemera….batter up!!!
I’ve spoken about my experiences in the Limelight here a couple of times (most recently here, but also here, here and here), but a gentleman named Piero posted the photograph above on Facebook, and it kinda blew a new part in my hair.
This is the Church of the Holy Communion circa 1845, the same venerable house of worship that would, about a century and a half after this image was captured, become deconsecrated and …well… degrade into the notorious den of naughty hedonism that was the Limelight.
Technically, in my era, the Limelight was first and foremost a dance club, but they did host live music as well. I’m sure I’ve rattled the list off before, but bands I recall seeing there – performing in the apse of the old church – include New Model Army, Foetus, Vent 414, the Lords of Acid, Gene, the Mall-era Gang of Four and, … wait for it … my all-time heroes in Killing Joke and Cop Shoot Cop (albeit not the same show, however awesome that would have been).
In fact, here’s a shot from the Cop Shoot Cop show, appended with the flyer beneath. Notice the name of the night? Communion. That never clicked before, but I’m evidently slow on the uptake, sometimes.
Here's the ad for the Killing Joke gig, tastefully preserved for posterity by my rock-archivist pal Greg Fasolino. I remember getting tickets for this show and telling my then-employers at TIME Magazine that I had every intention of attending it, despite being scheduled to work the News Desk that evening, and that if I couldn't go, I would "fuckin' quit, maaan." Mercifully, they accommodated me.
And here is footage of the Foetus show. My friend Rob and I watched this from the upper-catwalk, as I recall. Look for us in there.
The last time I looked, the space which had formerly been both the Church of the Holy Communion and the Limelight – after the Limelight closed for good in 2003 – briefly became a short-lived club called Avalon, before that, too, closed in 2007. From there, it became an ersatz shopping mall, then a gym but now only plays host to a Grimaldi’s brick-oven pizza and a pricey modern Chinese eatery called the Jue Lan Club. I haven't eaten at either.
It being the 50th anniversary of Hip-Hop (or so I’m repeatedly informed), here’s an arguably appropriate post.
Listen, no one ever said rapping was easy. Sure, lots of folks make it appear seamless, but probably do so with a nonchalance that is entirely deceptive. While it may seem like, say, Busta Rhymes barely breaks a sweat delivering his intricate wordplay, I’m fairly certain it’s the product of lots of very hard work and endless rehearsal. Then, there are those who have tried to mimic the linguistic dexterity and stylistic trappings of Hip-Hop but with results that have been, shall we charitably say, significatly less convincing than intended.
Personally speaking, while I was smitten by various Hip-Hop records throughout the `80s and `90s, I can’t say I’ve been particularly wowed by a Hip-Hop track in a very long time. The last “new” Hip-Hop act that caught my attention was probably this trio from Los Angeles called, inexplicably, Clipping. They bring a compelling new aesthetic to the genre that seems worlds apart from popular stuff of the day, most of which I find cripplingly staid, stupid and boring. I mean, I cannot get away from stuff like Doja Cat, Ice Spice and Post Malone fast enough. And let’s not even talk about Kanye.
But I’m not here to harp about Hip-Hop. As a 55-year-old rock schmuck weaned on metal, punk, hardcore and all things goth, I’m pretty much the last person you should listen to if you’re looking for insights into contemporary Hip-Hop.
Back to my closing point in the top graph, though, there were several early examples of artists who seemed keen to jump on the burgeoning bandwagon of hip-hop, back in its relative infancy. Some pulled it off – Blondie’s “Rapture” springs to mind, despite Debbie Harry’s rap being sort of clunky and bizarre. John Lydon’s collaboration with since-disgraced Afrika Bambatta, “World Destruction,” also felt completely credible. Others weren’t so finessed. Witness Dee Dee Ramone’s heroically ham-fisted reinvention as rapper Dee Dee King, Anthrax’s well-intentioned but funkless “I’m the Man,” Wham!’s frankly appalling “Wham Rap” and Adam & the Ants’ endearingly strange “Ant Rap.” Wendy O. Williams, from my beloved Plasmatics recorded a deeply lamentable record called – good lord -- Deffest and Baddest!!-- that found her trying her hand at the genre to gravely dispiriting effect. Even Lou Reed gave it a shot with “Original Wrapper” from the Mistrial album, an effort people still groan about to this day.
Enter Dr. John….
While he was renowed in New Orleans blues, jazz, funk and R&B circles as an eccentric, voodoo-fixated singer/songwriter, I had precious fuck-all idea who Dr. John was when he stepped onto the stage with the unlikely gentlemen in Squeeze at the Ritz on East 11th street, back in July of 1988 to perform a rendition of his own composition, “Such a Night.” It was great, of course, and I sought out more of his music shortly thereafter. If you’re not immediately familiar with him, you might remember his signature single from 1972, that being “Right Place Wrong Time.” As a fun side note, Dr. John was also the inspiration for Dr. Teeth of Dr. Teeth & the Electric Mayhem, the house band from “The Muppet Show.”
One track of Dr. John’s, however, that I managed to overlook was “Jet Set,” a single from 1984 wherein, much like the rock luminaries cited above, the good doctor dared to wade into the waters of Hip-Hop. To be honest, while is sounds irretrievably dated when heard through the prism of 2023, I don’t think it’s anywhere near as embarassing as those lame efforts cited above by cats like Lou Reed and Dee Dee Ramone. It is whole solar-systems away from the hip-hop of today by evidently influential folks like Travis Scott, Pop Smoke, Cardi B and … y’know… whomever, but as an attempt to keep up with the sounds of that particular era, I don’t think anyone could lambast Dr. John for this effort.
The video is also a fleeting glimpse of the Manhattan of 1984, so … enjoy that, regardless.
I can’t remember when I first encountered it, but it was obviously at some point in the Eighties. While the original restaurant – Teddy’s – was kind of an old school/old New York Italian joint (see commercial below), it didn’t really become the iconic, visual phenom it was until the space was re-occupied and re-imagined by a concern called El Internacional. In this iteration, the new owners garishly decked the place out, outfitted the exterior with a dalmatian-esque paintjob and dropped a giant replica of the Statue of Liberty’s crown on the roof, an artsy, architectural flourish rivaled only by the Lone Star Café’s tremendous rooftop lizard up and over on Fifth Avenue.
Inside the original Teddy’s….
Regrettably, I never made it into El Internacional – which evidently held onto the place between 1984 and 1986, but when it became it morphed into the hybridized (I suppose) El Teddy’s, I did stop in for a drink, although I remember not being as wowed by the interior as I was hoping to be.
Some years back, I posted a laborious entry here asserting that just because someone is born in New York, that doesn’t make them all that notable, considering that most of the folks one considers “quintessential” New Yorkers were actually just transplants who came to the city (in a doubtlessly more culturally fertile era than the current one) and effectively re-invented themselves. Being a native New Yorker, as I am, is certainly great, but it really doesn’t necessarily mean we come fully formed and imbued with a preternaturally honed street savvy, although we probably know how to get around town better than non-natives might. It’s how you live it, not how you come to it.
This all said…
If there’s one thing that native New Yorkers do fucking hate, it’s out-of-towners assuming that they know the ropes, so to speak. Enter Sarah Funk (whose last name I find rather strenuously dubious). In the same vein as Brett Conte and CashWhatshisface, Miss Funk is a YouTuber whose “channel” finds her assuming the role of an ambassador, sharing tips, unsolicited advice, “hacks” and, most presumptuously, “rules” for living in New York City. Here’s one of her typical videos now…
Some thoughts about this:
1. If you’ve only lived here for 15 years, you're not really an expert on anything. You’re still not a “local.”
2. The guy whacking golf balls at buses is not just a workaday weirdo, and should be vilified for being recklessly irresponsible. Just because it’s happening in Manhattan doesn’t make it alright. Fuck that guy.
3. "The Alamo" (i.e. the “Cube” on Astor Place ... at the top of this post in an earlier era) was never designed to spin. That said, it’s not really that hard to move it.
4. When you’re pointing out people who are crossing the street at 3:07, the “walk” signal is in full view.
5. Doyers Street in Chinatown is very literally the LAST street in Manhattan you should’ve used to admonish people for standing in the middle of the street.
6. The division between Chinatown and Little Italy isn’t quite as harmonious as you portray it. In a nutshell, Chinatown is growing and Little Italy is shrinking, and I dare say that longtime residents of the latter are notespecially chuffed about that.
Most of Funk’s “unspoken rules” are (or, at the very least, should be) just basic, common etiquette (i.e. let people off the train first before you get on, don’t make prolonged eye-contact, know your order before it’s your turn, etc.). I’m not saying they’re not valid, but they’re just as applicable to best practices for living in, say, Columbus or St. Louis as they are to living in New York City.
Now, obviously, I’m just being nitpicky, and I fully believe Ms. Funk is a nice individual with the best of intentions, but … c’mon.
I posted about Suicide not too long back, but a gentleman on the Facebook No Wave page named Dan H. just posted the ad below and that sparked my curiosity.
Dating back to 1970 (how’s THATfor proto?), Suicide were already calling themselves Punk. Apparently, they played a gig at an art gallery named OK Harris on West Broadway.
The book “The Downtown Pop Underground” had this to say about it:
One of Suicide’s earliest shows was in 1970 at OK Harris, one of the first galleries to open in SoHo. It was owned by Ivan Karp, an art dealer who played an early role in promoting Andy Warhol, Roy Lichtenstein, and Robert Rauschenberg. “I told him Suicide should play at his gallery,” Vega said, “and to our surprise he said yes, and they printed up postcards and everything saying Punk Music by Suicide. It was a pretty intense show, but we got invited back, even though we freaked everyone out.” The OK Harris show flyer contained the first use of the word “punk” by a band, one of the many ways in which Suicide was truly cutting edge. “I remember seeing Alan Vega around the scene very early on,” said Chris Stein. “Suicide was so groundbreaking, it’s hard to convey how far ahead they were in relation to what was going on at the time.” Debbie Harry added, “As a performer, Alan was sometimes a baffling struggle of danger, drama, pathos, and comedy. He held nothing back from us, and the interaction with audience hecklers was fundamental.” Not only was their music radically different from the New York Dolls, so was their look. “We were street guys, we took what we could get, sometimes from the garbage,” Vega said. “I remember Marty [Rev] went through the trash and other thrift store or Salvation Army type stuff, mainly out of necessity. We didn’t have any money, so what became the punk look was born out of necessity. I cut holes in socks so that my fingers went through and I stretched the socks up to my elbows and had a cutoff pink jacket. That was really something, man! Basically, I just wore what I could afford. I’m not sure really what the fuck I was thinking.” From Chapter 27 of "The Downtown Pop Underground."
OK Harris was there well into the new millennium, only closing in 2014. Today, the space that had been OK Harris is now a Japanese high-end bakery called Harbs.
Around the same era, Suicide also played at a venue quite nearby called Blow Your Nose over on Greene Street, which I talked about here. They also evidently played OK Harris again, two years later.
Today, it's very hard to imagine this strip of West Broadway -- just south of Houston Street -- to have played host to anything so radical or even interesting, but these were obviously very different times.
The pic above was shared by my friend and former SPIN colleague, photographer Pat Blashill, (who I interviewed here back in 2015). This is not his photo but rather one snapped by one Ben DeSoto. I’m sharing it here, as it perfectly aligns with my fleeting experience of seeing latter-era Black Flag in 1986 (as discussed here and here). Here’s what Pat had to say about it…
Black Flag, International Club, Houston, 1985, by Ben DeSoto. A great picture of a young and fresh-faced crowd trying to figure out some late period Flag. This is my favorite kind of punk photo: the crowd is even more entertaining than the performer.
I love the looks of utter puzzlement in the faces of the crowd, who are clearly grappling with the realization that the band they were probably expecting is no longer the band they are bearing witness to. As I said back on one of those old posts…
Giving sway to their penchant for lengthy, free-jazz-inspired jams (as opposed to the taut, splenetic sprints on their early recordings), Black Flag was evolving into something else entirely, and not everyone was necessarily onboard. Their sound had become defiantly sludgy and turgid, defying the speedy mores of the hardcore community. When they felt like stepping on the gas, they could still whip a crowd up into a frenzy, but Black Flag were no one’s performing monkeys.
I also really love the kid directly in front of Henry whose t-shirt reads, simply: “HAVE A SHITTY DAY!”
Hot on the heels of those silent clips from the `70s, last week, I stumbled upon this home movie that was only posted a few days ago. Uploaded by one Sandra Otto, this is a charming little slice of one family’s (I’m making assumptions, of course) vacation to Manhattan in the bygone era of 1956.
After an obligatory shot of Manhattan taken from the bow of a ship, the action starts on the Upper West Side, with a jovial visit, by one couple, to fabled Fair Way supermarket on Broadway, after which they adjourn to the Hotel Kimberly in Midtown. Suddenly, it’s back to the Upper West Side, specifically Verdi Square (you can see the marquee of the Beacon Theatre in the background). Verdi Square, of course, would later morph into the not quite as salubrious north end of “Needle Park” in the early-to-mid `70s, thus coined for its concentration of heroin users and immortalized in the 1971 film, “Panic in Needle Park.” But, back in `56, it’s still all smiles and stylish hats. Then, it’s back to midtown for visits to 42nd and Fifth Avenue (you can just see one of the New York Public Library’s lions) before a trip to Bryant Park one block to the west, and then the inevitable pilgrimage to Times Square.
After a quick spot to since-vanished Hotel Wellington on Seventh Avenue at 55th Street, we’re off to the southernmost end of Central Park and then an aquatic adventure in the Boat Pond across from Bethesda Terrace.
From there, it’s a fleeting tip back to the Upper West Side, a stop at the United Nations and then a bird’s-eye view from atop a building around Sutton Place.
While there isn’t anything particularly revelatory or surprising about this charming video, it’s still an interesting contrast to view these familiar locations through the prism of 2023, a bizarre 67 years since this footage was first captured. The city preserved here looks uncharacteristically clean and safe, like a grainier version of a Hitchcock film. One assumes all the principal players in this silent drama have all passed away, but I might be mistaken.
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