Flaming Pablum

Back ... Again ... to Privates on East 85th

I’ve spoken here before about Privates, the long-lost cutting-edge live-music venue that formerly stood on the strenuously unlikely corner of East 85th Street and Lexington Avenue. Don’t go looking for it now, as the venue closed in June of 1981 and the whole building was torn down sometime after that. Today, a big yucky condo called The Ventana stands in its footprint, with a Starbucks occupying the space that would have been Privates, back in the day.

But, as mentioned in this post and that post, as Privates, the space played host a slew of at-the-time cutting edge bands like Joe “King” Carrasco & the Crowns, the Revillos, Cyndi Lauper’s Blue Angel, Richard Lloyd from Television, a late, Frampton-less iteration of Humble Pie, and even Flaming Pablum favorites like XTC, The Stranglers and Bauhaus. The whole concept of that last trio of punky bands playing on my childhood home turf of East 85th Street completely blows my mind.

Jessica over at Desperately Seeking the `80’s devoted her half of a podcast episode to an event at Privates wherein the club hosted a special screening of hallowed cinematic ska opus, “Dance Craze,” which doubtlessly prompted scads of skinny-tied Upper East Sides to partake of some skanking in the streets.

Of course, arguably the most famous act to have ever graced the presumably intimate stage of this club in Metropolitan Hill (note: contrary to my dubious reporting in previous missives, the southeast corner of East 85th Street and Lexington Avenue is not technically part of Yorkville, although it is mere footsteps from its westerly border) would have been Joan Jett & the Blackhearts, who recorded the arguably iconic video for “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” within Privates’ four walls.

I talked all about that, of course, on these two posts from 2016.

Apropos of nothing, however, I recently dialed up the video in question, only to discover that, circa 2022, someone had uploaded a new “Full HD (Remastered and Upscaled)” version which swapped out the original’s grittily grainy black-&-white patina in favor of sharpened, vibrant color and enhanced proceedings with disquieting dollops of AI.

The results restore the full experience of the original music video, complete with preamble and coda, revealing the full interior of the empty club and a tantalizing 180-degree vista of the surrounding neighborhood beyond Privates’ windows at the end. Having never set foot in the place (I would have been a sniveling 14-year-old upon its closure), the ability to see the former interior in such detail is something of a revelation.

It also got me thinking, who are all these kids in the crowd scenes? Were they members of a Joan Jett fan-club? Rockheads bussed in from some outer borough? Any representatives of the 84th Street Bombers? Are there any local NYC punk luminaries to be spotted hidden in the throng?

Weigh in if you know.

Needlessly Parsing "Dazed and Confused"

After watching the genuinely excellent Redd Kross documentary, “Born Innocent,” I caught the last half of Linklater’s “Dazed and Confused” on IFC, last night, which seems to be in regular rotation on that channel. I remember digging it when I first saw it back in … 1993? But I hadn’t really revisited it in a while.

While ostensibly an homage to other period-specific coming-of-age flicks like “American Graffiti” and “Fast Times at Ridgemont High” (although the latter was released in real time without a thought for its power as a piece of future `80s nostalgia), “Dazed…” can’t help but feel a bit forced, at points, in its presentation of `70s-era-signifiers (bell-bottoms, side-burns, center-parts, etc.), and never is this more the case than with the music.

The soundtrack to “Dazed and Confused,” as far as I can surmise, became something of a CD collection staple. I believe I even still own a copy of it, somewhere. But watching the film again last night, my pedantic streak (never far from the surface) kicked in, and I started wondering if it wasn’t just fancifully projected revisionism that the same kids who’d drive around cranking “Rock N’ Roll Hoochie Koo” by Rick Derringer, “Tush” by ZZ Top, “Low Rider” by War and “Slow Ride” by Foghat would have even known about “Cherry Bomb” by the Runaways, who by and large, didn’t get any recognition outside of their native Los Angeles until years later. I mean, correct — the first Runaways album was out, so the chronology checks out, but would Houston, TX kids have ever even heard it?

I should point out, of course, that in 1976 — when this film is set — I was 9 years old, attending a grade school on the Upper East Side and invariably not-at-all versed in what pot-smokin’ teens were listening to in the Lone Star state.

Which ushers in my question: What period-specific film or television series really gets it right, to your mind?

Back Through The Mill

Okay, this one's a bit odd, ... and I thought I'd already evangelized this new aspect of it (see below), but evidently not. Or, if I did, I just can't find it.

In any case, back in 2015 ... which is astonishingly a decade ago .... I wrote up a little reminiscence of a long-lost attraction in midtown called, or so I thought at the time, Burlington Mills. The trouble was, despite the vividness of my recollections about the exhibit, I couldn't seem to find any evidence of its existence, despite all my inventive Googling. Eventually, I did track down the correct appellation, and up came everything I needed (I had this same quandary when trying to trace back to the old and endearingly grotty Comic Arts Gallery on East 58th Street). It wasn't Burlington Mills, it was The Mill at Burlington House.

If you're curious, you can read all about it here. But, a short time after I posted that entry, I stumbled upon actual video evidence of the exhibit, which blew me right off the porch. For whatever reason, however, I apparently never got around to sharing it here, so I'm rectifying that now. 

I found it quite surprising to learn that the full ride took upwards of eight minutes. That seems like kind of a lot, but I'm sure my mother was happy to keep us occupied, if only for those feeling eight minutes. 

If you're a Manhattan kid of a certain age that wants to re-experience The Mill at Burlington House, I'm afraid the exhibit in question closed circa 1980. But now, thanks to the magic of archival video, you can turn back the clock...

Enjoy.

Bad Brains on Jane

The originally appeared, early last year, on Howie Abrams’ excellent No Echo site, but sheerly for the sake of evangelizing it, I’m sharing it here, too.

For backstory, check out Howie’s account, but this is Bad Brains just prior to I Against I as captured in the original Rock Hotel, over on Jane Street (which I’ve spoken about several times here, most recently here).

It’s remarkable stuff. Enjoy.

Exhuming Carter Stevens' "Punk Rock"

Here’s something I was entirely unaware of until last night, for whatever that’s worth.

Searching on our maddening Apple TV box for something to watch, I believe I was on Amazon Prime when an option titled, rather simply, “Punk Rock,” appeared on the menu, immediately piquing my curiosity.

Shot in 1977 by a notorious director named Carter Stevens, this endeavor was apparently a slavishly low-budget, exploitative porn flick with an anemic plot about a hardscrabble detective that tries to break up a sex-trafficking ring in the seedy underbelly of late `70’s New York, with, presumably, lots of needless and grainy coitus along the way (I’m projecting – I didn’t actually end up watching it, as I didn’t think it would have been a grand idea to have my wife walk into our living room to find me watching unseemly vintage porn). I did, however, watch the trailer, which I’m sharing with you below. You’re very welcome.

Here's a bit of the promotional text, as prized from IMDB:

Filmed on location at New York's legendary underground clubs such as Max's Kansas City and featuring original music and appearances from bands THE STILLETTOS, THE SQUIRRELS, SPICY BITS and THE FAST! On the track of a teenage runaway, a trail of murder, sex, and drugs leads private eye Jimmy into the decadent New York City night world: from massage parlors to penthouses and after-hours nightclubs; from sex slavers and pimps to the dangerous members of a killer rock'n'roll band!

Sounds almost promising, right? Well, don’t get too excited. What little I’ve seen of the film looks pretty dire, but the Max’s Kansas City footage is interesting. In terms of the names cited, the only bands of those I recognize are The Fast (who I spoke about here and here) and The Stillettos, a band that later spun off bassist Fred Smith to Television and Debbie Harry and Chris Stein, who went onto form – wait for it – Blondie. The Squirrels and the Spicy Bits? One can only guess. Suffice to say, it makes the infamous "punk rock" episode of "Quincy M.E." seem like a reverent documentary, by comparison. 

There’s a great, comprehensive book, from a few years ago, that someone gave me called “Destroy All Movies: The Complete Guide to Punks on Film” that I meant to remove from one of my bookshelves and look this film up in, but time got away from me. In the interim, enjoy the trailer…featuring blink-and-you’ll-miss’em cameos of the original MacDougal Street iteration of Bleecker Bob’s (just off Eighth Street) and the St. Marks Place location of Trash & Vaudeville.

Incidentally, if you also possess a copy of “Destroy All Movies,” hold onto it – it’s out of print, and now can fetch between $180 to $300 on eBay.

Back to Wiseman's "Central Park"

As far as I’m aware, the only work of director Frederick Wiseman I’d ever seen was his black-&-white documentary, “Titicut Follies,” which I watched in a cinema class in college. A bluntly harrowing depiction of the decrepit interiors of a Massachusetts hospital for the criminally insane in the last `60s, it made for deeply unpleasant and unsettling viewing.

“Central Park,” meanwhile, Wiseman’s 1989 documentary feature about – wait for it – Central Park is a different beast entirely. Captured 36 long years ago, the Central Park on display looks more or less the same, although it’s quite assuredly a different city now. The fashions alone are worth noting.

When this film was shot, I would have been freshly sprung from my four years in college in Ohio and interning at SPIN Magazine on West 18th Street. It seems like a lifetime ago, and pretty much is.

It’s not on YouTube and usually can only be viewed via academia, but some enterprising soul recently uploaded it onto a platform called OK. I can’t embed it, as I’m not a member of OK, but you can watch it – for the moment, at least – by clicking right here.

Harley Speaks

As he’d probably be the first to admit here in 2025, storied Cro-Mags’ founder Harley Flanagan accrued the type of reputation, over the course of his colorfully tumultuous life, that could understandably prevent even the most charitable person from giving him the full benefit of the doubt. A "Zelig"-like figure on the Punk Scene writ large (not just New York), the youthful Harley mixed and mingled with Punk Rock royalty at a significantly tender age (see above, sitting next to Mick Jones of the Clash at The Palladium, as captured by Pennie Smith, possibly the same night she shot the cover of London Calling), cutting his very sharp teeth as the pre-teen drummer of The Stimulators before later going on to practically personify (alongside his brethren in Agnostic Front) all things New York Hardcore with his stint in Murphy’s Law and then by forming the Cro-Mags, a band whose shadow looms large as a pivotal proponent of the genre.

Along the way, Harley credibly cultivated an aura of menace around himself, establishing the notoriety of being prone to violence and volatility. I’m not making all this up, as it’s well documented by the man himself in his 2016 autobiography, “Hard-Core: Life of My Own,” and in a forthcoming documentary, “Wired for Chaos.”

But, y’know, people grow. In the same way I’d like to think I’ve fully evolved out of being the sneery, socially challenged dweeb I was in my high school years (you, of course, may beg to differ), Harley has – by all accounts – recanted many of his former ways and grown into a thoughtful and affable elder statesman, of a sort (although I doubt he’d like to be described that way). But the specter of his earlier infamy is a tough one to shake. I haven’t taken them down, but I deeply regret some posts here wherein I jumped to some conclusions about a certain incident in 2012 between him and former band mate John Joseph (an equally complicated and polarizing figure) based solely and speculatively on Harley’s by-then-cemented rep as a human wrecking-ball. The minutia of that full story was, of course, never fully disclosed, but Harley was absolved of the allegations and the charges were dropped.

Years later, I fleetingly corresponded with Harley about possibly contributing to a book project I was working on, at the time, and he couldn’t have been more accommodating about it (although said book project was shortly put on the rear burner of a stove that wasn’t even plugged in, but that’s a separate, weepy tale).

So, why am I talking about any of this stuff now? Well, Damian Abraham of Fucked-Up just launched the latest episode of his “Turned Out a Punk” podcast – which I’ve discussed here a few time – and it features a sprawling, two-hour chat with Harley Flanagan about pretty much everything under the sun. Whether you’re just a passive fan or a bug-eyed NYHC zealot who considers Age of Quarrel their gospel, it’s well worth your time.

Check it out here.

And if you're unfamiliar but curious, ... these were the Cro-Mags in their heyday at the old Ritz on East 11th Street (now Webster Hall). Enjoy.

Down in the Park

A friend of mine on Facebook just posted the above photo of Robert Smith of The Cure, albeit without any credit, date or information. I sadly have no idea who took this picture, when it was snapped nor its precise location. 

That all said -- and I might be entirely projecting, here -- but it kinda looks like Robert is standing in the unlikely nocturnal environs of Riverside Park on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It honestly looks like he's standing just steps away from where the undercover cop played by Mercedes Ruehl lures priapic knucklehead Ajax into swiftly-handcuffed custody after he'd just finished beating up the last of the Baseball Furies in Walter Hill's "The Warriors."

I'm probably wrong, but....

"Pretty Vacant"

From Ralph Bakshi's "American Pop," ...

Sweater or Not: Re-Assessing a Sartorial Taboo

Commonly regarded as sartorial shorthand for being an insufferable, preppy douchebag, tying a sweater around one’s neck has been considered a lamentably objectionable stylistic flourish pretty much as long as, say, popping the collar of one’s polo shirt and/or perching one's eyeglasses atop one's head have been. It’s just one of those things that immediately sends a specific message. But, people still do it. They even write defensive blog posts about it.

While it’s not my preferred means of employing a sweater, I realize that times and sensibilities change and that maybe —just maybe— it’s just an absurd “rule” to begin with. Still, you probably won’t catch me doing it. For what it's worth, my 20-year-old daughter declared that while she’d never date someone who wore a tied sweater, the sweater-`round-the-waist look is “way worse” on a man, although I'm not entirely sold on that point. 

That all said, in recent days, I have twice been confronted with evidence of individuals from well outside of the nefarious realm of oppressive douchebaggery rocking the tied sweater look. These photos don’t excuse or defend the practice, but serve only to give one pause for thought.

Seen below are the Sex Pistols in March of 1977, captured upon the signing of their ill-fated contract to A&M Records in front of the well-appointed grounds of Buckingham Palace. Just to the left of the late Sid Vicious is stalwart drummer Paul Cook, smiling broadly at the camera and sporting a fuzzy mohair sweater doubtlessly procured from the collection of Vivienne Westwood. He sports it, fetchingly, around his shoulders like a J. Crew model.

Despite their comparatively grand, indelible entrance into pop culture, the Sex Pistols would messily flame out shortly after the above photo was taken, prompting lead singer/provocateur Johnny “Rotten” Lydon to form the significantly more adventurous and experimental Public Image Ltd. The original line-up of same is pictured below, comprised of Lydon, guitarist Keith Levene, drummer Jim Walker and — pictured far left — bassist John Wardle, a.k.a. Jah Wobble, whose signature dub-influenced playing helped forge post-punk’s trajectory.

For all his insouciant iconoclasm, however, the estimable Mr. Wobble is seen …. with a sweater around his neck and shoulders.

So, if Punk Rock royalty like Cook & Wobble can get away it, … could it be so bad?