Today would have been David Bowie’s 73rd birthday. But, of course, he left us at the beginning of 2016, and I think I speak for everyone when I assert that life hasn’t been quite the same since. I’ve suggested it before, but perhaps he saw what was coming.
In any case, herewith a stylish clip someone put together that stiches elements from Nic Roeg’s “The Man Who Fell to Earth” and Chantal Akerman’s “News From Home,” a curious film I’ve spoken about here before, all scored by the inimitable strains of “New Career in a New Town” from Bowie’s Low. I think it works rather well.
I have written entirely too many times about “After Hours” here in the past 14 years, it being my favorite film of all time. Should you care or be of paralleled opinion, see list of links below. In any case, it’s a brilliant movie, if you haven’t seen it. Go seek it out.
This post isn’t really about “After Hours” so much as events that were transpiring while the film was in production. I missed this when it was first published in Vanity Fair, but actor Griffin Dunne, who played star-crossed protagonist, Paul Hackett, in “After Hours,” expressed his thoughts about the passing of his friend and former neighbor, Ric Ocasek, who passed away this past September. Read it here.
I’m not entirely sure how I managed to miss this, but hey … I’m old and my mind is inevitably eroding. In any case, it seems the inimitable Lydia Lunch launched her very own podcast last year – in friggin’ July! Where was I? She’s already 25 episodes in. Who knew? Not me, evidently.
I’ve written about Ms. Lunch several times here in the past several years (notably here, here, here, here and here, just as a few examples). If you’re not familiar with her, well …. read those posts and do some googling. In a nutshell, she’s a force of supernature prone to speaking truth to power in disarmingly frank and unfiltered ways. She sugarcoats nothing.
In the latest episode of her podcast, The Lydian Spin, she speaks with none other than fellow Cinema of Transgression alumnus, filmmaker, photographer and former Black Snakes member, Richard Kern. I’ve written about Kern a couple of times here, too, notably here and, more recently, here.
Well, it's that time of year again. Sure, we have two whole days left, but for all intents and purposes, 2019 is over. As such, let's go ahead and dust off this old thing. Away we go...
What did you do in 2019 that you'd never done before?
I’m really wracking my brain, but I’m not coming up with anything.
Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Nope, as discussed here, I gave up my umpteenth attempt at a Dry January in 2019 after only ten days, citing any number of arguably ridiculous and weak-willed rationalizations for doing so, and here we are again. This year, however, there is a new variable.
Shortly after this past Thanksgiving, I scheduled a long-overdue appointment with my primary care physician. I’d been neglecting to take care of certain things, investigating a few others and I’d been recently perplexed by the way in which my left foot was seemingly no longer feeling the way it used to. There was no pain involved, but it seemed to fill my shoe in way that felt simply … different. I can only describe it as being akin to the sensation wherein your sock is sort of bunched-up, and you feel an excess of crowding at the toe. Of course, I immediately assumed I had gout, given my affinity for beer. Or, more correctly, given my foundation in Catholic guilt, I immediately felt I deserved gout. In any case, preoccupied with this assumption, I figured it was prudent to go have it checked out.
As it turned out, I do not have gout. I’m told that if I did indeed have gout, I’d bloody well know it, as the pain involved is said to rival similarly acute maladies like Kidney Stones (which I have experienced). This all said, my doctor couldn’t really explain my weird foot/toe problem, which was a bit frustrating.
On the plus side, I got a reasonably clean bill of health — no egregious deviations from normal in most capacities. On the minus side, he did suggest my blood pressure was a bit high, going on to suggest that a sharp curtailing of alcohol would invariably do me some good. So, while not quite “doctor’s orders,” I am taking that to heart, so to speak, and endeavoring to once again swear off the suds until I go back and see my medicine man for a follow-up visit in …. dear lord …. late February.
Mind you … it’s not January YET!
Watch this space.
Did anyone close to you give birth?
Not just yet, but one of my sisters-in-law is preggers and due in February.
Did anyone close to you die?
Mercifully, no one in my immediate family left us this year, although the mother of a dear friend of mine did, which was and remains quite upsetting.
What countries did you visit?
As documented here, the we spent a glorious five or six days in Paris this year, which I highly recommend.
What would you like to have in 2020 that you lacked in 2019?
A different president.
What date from 2019 will remain etched upon your memory?
Don’t know that there was a single, isolated date of significance, but last week, just a day before Christmas, we learned that our son was accepted, “early decision,” at the high school of his choice. We are very proud.
What was your biggest achievement of the year?
While I’m exceptionally proud of what my children have accomplished, I don’t think I particularly excelled in any specific capacity in 2019. I'm just trying to adopt, adapt and improve, as they say.
What was your biggest failure?
Too many options to choose from.
Did you suffer illness or injury?
No illnesses that I’m immediately aware of, but I did manage to lacerate my own tongue once or twice (as detailed here).
What was the best thing you bought?
Probably the flight tickets to Paris back in early October. Beyond that, I bought my son a guitar for Christmas, which he’d asked for upon returning from summer camp. I’m all for it. We’ll see how it goes. Watch this space.
Whose behavior merited celebration?
Once again, I’d cite my children. While, yes, both now in their teenaged years — and all the things that said age entails — they both take their schoolwork very seriously and routinely earn high marks on their respective report cards. Admittedly, there is now much more eye-rolling and attitudinal pushback than ever before, but I cannot complain, and remain very proud of both of them.
Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Pretty much the entirety of the Republican party and everyone who still slavishly supports the Trump Administration, regardless of the growing glacier of damning evidence of its unprecedented corruption.
Renovating the kids’ room, the Paris trip and the looming reality of paying two tuitions for my budding high schoolers.
What song will always remind you of 2019?
I hate to say it, but if there is a single song that reminds of 2019, it’s invariably one by someone like Lizzo. There were several songs I was fired up about this year (see list here), but I can’t name one that singularly screams “2019” to me.
Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
I wonder if I suffer from a bit of that seasonal melancholy, as I’m somewhat inexplicably blue quite often, these days. By the same token, that might also have something to do with how speedily my children are growing and how old I’m feeling.
Thinner or fatter?
I have it on sound authority that I have actually lost weight, although I couldn’t even begin to tell you how or why that is the case.
Richer or poorer?
Trying to live and work in Manhattan while simultaneously trying to feed, clothe and educate two children leaves one feeling always poorer.
What do you wish you'd done more of?
Earning. Paying closer attention to certain things.
What do you wish you'd done less of?
Drinking beer on my couch. Shirking various responsibilities. Procrastinating. Sounding off unsolicitedly about stupid shit.
How did you spend Christmas?
Out at my Mom’s place in Quogue.
Who did you spend the most time on the phone with?
No clue.
Did you fall in love in 2019?
Already very much in love.
How many one night stands in this last year?
Zero. I remain happily married.
What was your favorite TV program?
I quite enjoyed “Succession,” I must say.
Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
There’s a certain accusation persistently thrown around by Trump and his slackjawed supporters that Liberal Democrats are driven by a judgement-impairing hatred for Trump. Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi famously cited her own Catholic upbringing upon snapping at a reporter for suggesting same, claiming that her faith prevents her from harboring any hatred for anyone. That’s lovely and all, but being that I don’t hold any public office, and, despite also being raised a Catholic like Speaker Pelosi, am largely unencumbered by feelings of obligation to any religious dogma, I feel absolutely ZERO regrets about firmly stating that I genuinely HATEDonald Trump and his supporters with every fibre of my being. I’m not shy about it. I’m not ashamed about it. I think it’s healthy and, frankly, natural to express it. I won’t pretend otherwise.
What was the best book you read?
While I enjoyed “More Fun in The New World” by Tom DeSavia & John Doe and had higher hopes for Debbie Harry’s memoir, “Face It,” I have to say the book I probably got the biggest kick out of reading this year was my re-visitation of “The Call of Cthulhu and Other Weird Stories” by H.P. Lovecraft while dropping Oliver off at camp in location-specific Vermont this summer.
What was your greatest musical discovery?
Last year was a banner year in that I discovered the one-two punch of rock majesty in the form of Daughters and IDLES. 2019 didn’t bring as much fruit in that department, although I was quite enthused about the band John (shit name notwithstanding) and was happy to acquaint myself with 2013-era Nine Inch Nails, who I’d unwittingly slept on.
What did you want and get?
The long overdue impeachment of Trump.
What did you want and not get?
The long overdue dismantling of Trump’s Administration, his ouster from office, his indictment, his conviction and his imprisonment.
What were your favorite films of this year?
As someone who has always harbored a fascination for the story of the Manson Family, I have to say that I was quite into Quentin Tarantino’s “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood."
What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 52, and spent it strolling the lovely byways of the Marais in Paris with my family. Again, highly recommended.
What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
For Robert Mueller to have more effectively and emphatically done his job.
How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2019?
Somewhere between “Is this inappropriate for a man my age?” and “Would one of the Stranglers have worn this?"
What kept you sane?
The necessity to provide for my family.
What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
None really spring to mind, I have to say.
What political issue stirred you the most?
Where does one begin?
Who did you miss?
Ric Ocasek, Daniel Johnston, Ranking Roger, Keith Flint, Steven Jameson, Vaughan Oliver and, most of all, Mark Hollis.
Who was the best new person you met?
Some new colleagues at work.
Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2019
I don’t know if he made the phrase up, but a writer named Richard Carlson published a book in 1997 called “Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff … And It’s All Small Stuff.” That’s pithy and clever and generically reassuring and all, but it’s also a load of bullshit. I’m not suggesting that you should frantically preoccupy yourself with all manner of daily minutia to the point of distraction, but I don’t think it’s at all prudent to tune out and skip the required reading in favor of the Cliff’s Notes either. By all means, keep life in perspective and prioritize accordingly, but pay fucking attention to the details, because therein is where you’re probably getting fucked or about to unwittingly fuck yourself. At two pivotal points in 2019, there were instances when had I just been paying a wee bit more attention, I might have saved myself a substantial boatload of trouble. In both cases, things worked themselves out, but in neither instance were those outcomes guaranteed. Before you hit send, re-read that e-mail. Keep your bankbooks in order. Don’t just take their word for it. Study your monthly statements. Follow up and follow through. Send prompt thank-you cards. And as the Ice Cube once sagely rapped, check yourself before you wreck yourself.
Song lyric that sums up 2019
It’s February The world is wearing shorts The world is wearing its heart on its sleeve There’s bad news to report But the president can’t read
While a valid argument could be made that I spend my time actively looking for things to get pissed off about (hey, this blog ain’t gonna write itself), I did stumble upon two articles, recently that particularly got my oft-gotten goat.
This first was this report about a documentary in the works about vinyl-collecting music-heads who are opting to sell their records. Says director Danielle Beverly, “It’s not really about how cool records are or the resurgence of vinyl, it’s really about people who are letting go of the things that once defined them."
Now, personally speaking, while I am intrigued by the concept of the film, I feel like Beverly is making some sweeping generalizations about about record collectors. As far as I’m concerned, while I would concede that I am somewhat “defined” (although I do not like this word) by my devotion to my favorite music and slavishly sentimental about my LPs, compact discs and, yes, even cassettes, I do not feel they are an integral part of my identity. The notion of parting with them makes sense on a purely practical level — given the amount of premium real estate they occupy in my home, space that could be arguably better utilized — but the thought of getting rid of them, to me, seems tantamount to throwing away personal photographs. Practically each one is imbued with some particular association or significance beyond simply being an artifact that delivers specific music.
I guess my grievance with Beverly’s point is that these peoples’ lives aren’t necessarily dominated by their physical collections. It’s not like their love of the music contained therein is going to go away when they part with the LPs. It’s just not that black and white, I don’t think. If I had to dispense of my physical collection of music (a scenario that would probably make my wife very happy), I don’t believe the opinions, likes, dislikes and sensibilities that actually define my identity would change.
Now, again, I haven’t seen the film, so I’m obviously being prejudicial in my assessment. Watch this space.
This other story, however, just completely burnt my toast.
Titled “I use an iPod. Why Should I Be Ashamed?”, this piece — penned by one Robert Shrimsely — recounts the evidently traumatic travails of being “tech-shamed” by colleagues aghast by the author’s insistence on still using an iPod Classic, being that it so brazenly defies the current ubiquity of streaming and suggests some sort of bourgeois adherence to — god forbid — actually owning music, as opposed to merely renting it. To which I say — FUCK YOU!
I still use a goddamn 160 GB iPod Classic, and I have another on standby for when the long-cherished and well-loved one I’m currently enjoying inevitably dies. Do you *honestly* believe I give one single rolling rat fuck about what some dinky millennial or zoomer thinks about my anachronistic tech? Come try to take it from me, and you can expect profanity and pugilism. I'll stream when I'm in the cold, cold fucking ground.
To put it mildly, I vehemently resent the notion that I am to be expected to renounce a life spent lovingly curating my preferred music in long-vanished shrines to less-celebrated aesthetics that, in most instances, endearingly eschewed the tastes and validation of the mainstream (hand me a copy of a Thriller on CD, and you’ve given me a fucking coaster). While my collection does not “define me,” I harbor no regrets about amassing it, let alone supporting the independent shops, artists and record labels that put it out. Oh, it’s unseemly to still own music, is it? Go fuck yourself. As mentioned in my thoughts about the documentary, I can understand the impetus to part with one’s physical collection if it is impeding some other important part of one’s life or if by selling it off, one could facilitate some other necessary activity, but if the reason you choose to ditch or dump or pawn your music is simply to be in step with the times, you are a fucking lemming. “Resistance to new and life-changing devices is the path to atrophy,” Shrimsley asserts towards the end of the piece. Shut up, Robert, and think for yourself.
You want me to abandon my iPod and join a service to re-enjoy some — but not all — of my music and be reliant on WiFi and a monthly charge? Fuck that and yourself, while you’re at it.
To borrow a line from The Wedding Present, if the world doesn’t understand, then the world has GOT TO LEARN.
I realize this is an unpopular and needlessly thorny opinion on the matter. What’s YOUR take? How do you listen to your music, and do you believe it defines you?
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 posted this on Facebook today, but I might as well share it here, too, because … well, why not?
According to several reports, notably this recent one in Vulture, certain fans have discovered the location of an evidently crucial scene in “Joker” and started to make touristy pilgrimages to the site in the Bronx. I say “evidently” as I still have not seen the film, and have no real desire to. To my mind, as I may have stated here before, we don’t need another telling of the Joker story, in much the same way we do not need another James Bond, or another goddamn “Star Wars” installment. Shouldn’t we all be bored to tears with these mythoses by now? How about new stories, new heroes and new anti-heroes. Just a thought.
In any case, while I might not give a rat’s ass about “Joker,” I really cannot get mad at folks for getting excited about tracking down those stupid Bronx steps, given the fact that I’ve undertaken countless pilgrimages of similar intent to any number of significant locations from photographs, album covers and films, usually in the company of my very patient kids. Many long-time visitors to this blog may remember same.
Here are some you might remember, should you care….Click on them to enlarge.
Word arrived last week that a newly restored version of Glenn O'Brien's "Downtown 81" was about to see the light of day. I think I first saw the film in question at the since-recently-razed Screening Room theatre in TriBeCa in about 2000, or so -- and it immediately made a huge impression on me.
As a time-capsule-worthy document of early 80's New York City, it is, of course, invaluable. Secondly, its soundtrack is entirely awesome -- particularly the live stuff from Kid Creole/Coati Mundi, to say nothing of the vintage footage of bands like Tuxedomoon and DNA. But, speaking in strictly cinematic terms, the film itself is frequently laborious and plodding. While definitely worth checking out for the points expressed above, one should be prepared to be bored to absolute tears during certain passages.
A new restoration of the film also seems a bit odd, as it strikes me that a deluxe, 30th anniversary digitally remastered edition of the DVD only just arrived in 2017. It feels a bit like Francis Ford Coppola's fixation with trying to wring further life from "Apocalypse Now" for the umpteenth time.
As much as I do genuinely love "Downtown 81," there is also sort of an uncomfortably fetishistic quality about regularly revisiting the film in that it plays right into accusations of a variety of brazenly idealized nostalgia for the Lower East Side's "bad old days." Personally speaking, in 1981, I was an Upper East Side teenager who was indeed suitably captivated by all things downtown, but I sure as shit wasn't venturing further east of Avenue A (where much of the film takes place). I do not have that much first-hand experience of the downtown Manhattan suggested in "Downtown 81" beyond what I saw from behind the relative safety of bus windows.
It's certainly easy to fancifully think back to that largely lawless era as some sort of halcyon period, but those who lived through them in real time don't always agree. Michael Gira of SWANS appeared in a podcast this week, and briefly mentioned his time living on East 6th & Avenue B in the early 80s, and doesn't recall it with any degree of fondness.
While times have certainly changed, and many of us do indeed miss the Lower East Side's former identity as a neighborhood more clearly defined by free expression and less staid sensibilities than were found throughout the rest of the city, it's prudent to remember that the L.E.S. already had a character and richly robust history that dates back much, much further than the punks, the poets, the pushers and the provocateurs.
I had a reader named Michael write in, quite recently, in response to an entry I posted back in June about the Circle Jerks. I’m always heartened to connect with folks who are just as invested in the minutia of these things as I still am, as it makes me feel like I’m not wasting my time documenting all this stuff.
In any case, while I was writing back to Michael to address a point about the changing membership of the band throughout the middle part of the `80s -– specifically when the rhythm section of, first, drummer Lucky Lehrer and then bassist Roger Rogerson left the ranks to be fleetingly replaced by Earl Liberty and the mighty Chuck Biscuits -- I was trying to illuminate the point that, at the time, news about hardcore bands was pretty threadbare. Detailed reports about the hardcore scene weren’t exactly that readily available. Maybe there’d be the odd mention of a certain band or two in SPIN, but Rolling Stone wouldn’t really touch the stuff with any meaningful credibility. You either heard about developments via word of mouth (living uptown, as I did, I got reulgar tips from my contact Brian, an older punk rocker who worked at a nearby Crazy Eddie, who I mentioned here and here) or through zines like MaximumRocknRoll, Forced Exposure and/or Flipside (to name three), and those weren’t always that easy to find either, unless you want to specifc downtown shops like See/Hear, etc. You had to genuinely stay invested to know what was going on.
The first time I ever saw the Circle Jerks at the Ritz in 1985, I remember being surprised to see that Roger was gone. Lucky had split in, I think, 1983, but don’t quote me on that. Regardless, again, if your only reference for information was what you found on the back of pertinent album covers, you were doubtlessly going to be behind the times, so to speak.
Anyway, in trying to piece the specifics back together, I did a Google search – something you obviously couldn’t do in 1985 – to try to find out who might have been on drums at that specific Ritz gig. I want to say it was the great Chuck Biscuits, but it very well might still have been this guy John Ingram, who stepped in after Lucky left. Incidentally, for a much more authoritative breakdown, I highly recommend David Markey’s excellent documentary, “My Life As a Jerk,” which I wrote in greater detail about here.
While I didn’t find out that particular bit of info, I did unearth something pretty striking, specifically something that speaks to the same sentiment I expressed in my post about The Museum of Arts & Design punk graphics exhibit last April. Back on that post, you might remember I expressed the strange sensation of seeing things that formerly hung on my own walls throughout high school and college suddenly being displayed under glass like priceless, ancient Egyptian antiquities. I’m reminded of that scene in “Raiders of the Lost Ark” wherein Indy and Belloq have an exchange in a Cario café, and the duplicitous French archaelogist mentions burying a worthless watch in the sand, only to have it become something future achaelogists will kill each other for thousands of years later. Technically speaking, 1984 was only 34 years ago, but that might as well be a thousand lifetimes ago, to some minds.
Sure enough, with that single Google search, up came the signature flyer for the gig in question (above), presented as part of Chris Williamson’s Rock Hotel series (which I spoke in detail about way back here). What was striking about this, however, was that the lovingly presented image of the flyer was not being hosted by some equally pedantic shrine to all thinks punk, but rather by a much loftier outlet entirely. Now evidently part of the Architecture & Design collection of no less than The Musuem of Modern Goddamn Art (that’s MoMa, to you and me), Chris Williamson’s flyer for this very show is considered a bona fide work of art.
Just as a side note, I did not bring a camera with me that night, and have never spotted any photographs of the Cirlce Jerks, D.O.A. or Toxic Reasons from that evening, but I did prize photos of the mighty Redd Kross (captured between their Teen Babes from Monsanto and Neurotica iterations, specifically) from that very night at the Ritz.
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