Flaming Pablum

Back to the Los Angeles of "Repo Man"

Prior to about 1994 or so, all I ever knew about Los Angeles and its surrounding environs came from the movies – specifically era-appropriatre films like “Grease,” “Fast Times at Ridgemont High,” “Valley Girl,” “Tuff Turf,” “Body Double,” Penelope Spheeris’ “Suburbia,” “Into the Night,” “Mulholland Drive” and several other choice selections. As viewed through the prism of those films, L.A. was this strange sprawl of freeway clovers, dusty back streets peppered with incongruous palm trees, shopping malls, suburban ranch homes and high schools.

But there was one film in particular that really seemed to sum up everything I thought I knew already about Los Angeles and Southern California writ large, and that was Alex Cox’s inimitably oddball sci-fi opus, “Repo Man” from 1984. In much the same way many folks latch onto the elusive exotica of New York City based on atmospheric flicks like “Taxi Driver,” “The French Connection” or even “The Warriors,” I was smitten with the idea of that chunk of the West Coast being the sort of run down, washed out, quasi-derelict urban badlands wherein Emilio Estevez’s Otto, Dick Rude’s Duke and Harry Dean Stanton’s eminently quotable Bud ran completely amok.

As mentioned in this ancient post, one of my best friends – Rob D – moved out there in the mid-90’s, essentially squatting in a well-appointed corner bungalow/cottage owned by his step-mother in Costa Mesa in nearby Orange County (or, as we laboriously referred to it, “Behind the Orange Curtain”). During his tenure there, I made a few lengthy visits to the Costa Mesa compound, entirely romanced by the notion of exploring the same endless byways, boulevards, buildings and barrooms depicted in the films I cited earlier. Once again, as mentioned in that ancient post, I was particularly smitten with locating the former site of fabled hardcore punk venue, The Cuckoo’s Nest, but never managed to pinpoint the right spot.

But about a beer-can’s reckless throw from the front lawn of Rob’s step-mother’s cottage was this deli-cum-liquor store that I would have absolutely SWORN was the one depicted in several key scenes in “Repo Man,” so much so that we came to regularly refer to the place as the Repo Market. Of course, this presumption was based on very little in the way of evidence.

Well, imagine my sad surprise to learn, this morning, by way of the exhaustively minutia-laden video below (clearly this man is my brother) wherein severl key locations from the beloved film in question are revealed. Suffice to say, that liquor store/deli was not in Costa Mesa.

Silly side bar: On some discussion board or another I frequent, someone invited people to list “movies about Punk Rock.” One participant put “Repo Man” at the very top of the list, which triggered my not-so-inner insuffferably pedantic streak. While, yes, Otto, Duke, Archie, Debbie and Kevin are all characters one would conventionally identify as “punk rockers” (to say nothing of the cameo by the Circle Jerks and a soundtrack rife with bands like Suicidal Tendencies, Fear, Iggy Pop and the Plugz), the film is really in no discenable manner about Punk Rock. It’s about a rogue scientist who kidnaps an alien’s cadaver and puts it in the trunk of an iconic 1964 Chevy Malibu and his surreal travails in dodging both federal agents and a plucky gaggle of repo men, whom protagonist Otto has taken up with, hungry to collect the bounty. If you’re looking to learn about Punk Rock, you won’t get far with “Repo Man.” Just saying.

Recent Record Roundup

Just to step away from NYC crime, for the moment (until there’s another development), I thought I’d let you know what I’m currently grooving to, or trying to groove to, as the case may be … like anyone cares.

Moonage Daydream – A Brett Morgen Film
Someone gave me a Barnes & Noble gift card over Christmas, but I already have a leaning tower of books I’ve yet to crack open on my bedside table, so I decided to blow it on compact discs -- `cos, y’know, I still buy those, and you can bite me if you’ve got a problem with that, etc. etc.

Incidentally, I don’t know if you’ve checked out the music section of your nearest Barnes & Noble, lately, but proceedings are sort of in “circling the drain” mode at the ones near me (specifically the one on Greenwich Street above the TriBeca Whole Foods and the flagship on Union Square). There’s a load of marked-down titles, but it doesn’t look like they’re stocking anything else beyond only the newest/biggest releases – so, y’know, if you go looking for anything obscure, I’d suggest that you ain’t gonna find it there.

In any case, with that in mind, my options were pretty threadbare, but I did spot this on the New Release rack and instantly snapped it up. I mean, I’m pretty much the sort of guy who’ll pick up anything with the name Bowie on it, so why not? With a gift card, the price was certainly right, know what I’m sayin’?

The crucial conflict here, however, is that while I had every intention of seeing the film from whence this soundtrack sprang (a purportedly lavish, immersive and not-especially-linear doc about the great man shot in retina-immolating high-definition IMAX yadda yadda yadda), but …. I didn’t get around to it in time. Yeah, I know it’s now available for streaming and all that, but I kinda wanted to get the whole IMAX experience, but `twasn’t to be. As such, I approached these two discs cold, without any frame of reference as to how the music thereupon is utilized in the film. I mean … should that matter?

Regardless, this sprawling collection was somewhat reminscent, to me, of that Love project by the Beatles, which acted as the soundtrack to an ambitious Circque du Soleil production in Las Vegas back in 2006. Tracks are re-imagined/remixed and sewn together in an artfully atmospheric and uninterrupted sequence that, I’m assuming, mirrors how they’re used in the movie. Unlike the Love album, though, there’s a great trove of live material interspersed thoughout.

In many instances, I found myself yearning to hear whole songs instead of edited mixes or snippets of medleys, but I guess that’s not the point. Maybe that same grievance can be aimed at the film? Can’t speak to that, yet.

Overall, I’m sure there are some transcendent bits buried across these discs, but again – the package ultimately seems meant as a souvenir from the movie, and not a “proper” collection of songs. Maybe I should see the movie, eh?

Every Loser by Iggy Pop
While I’ll still continue to maintain that Iggy is the greatest living American, I can’t say I was especially optimistic going into this record, which I picked up with the Bowie soundtrack via that Barnes & Noble gift card … how fitting, right?

Six years ago, Iggy teamed up with Josh Homme of Queens of the Stone Age and recorded what I believe was meant to be his swan song, that being the excellent Post Pop Depression. But once Ig wrapped up the tour for that well-received record, it seems he was suddenly swayed from his retirement plans. His next move was Free, wherein he tried to shake off shackles of the rock he'd become associated with in favor of a more experimental series of collaborations that he just put his (still formidable) voice atop. It did alright, but didn’t set the world on fire.

Now comes Every Loser which finds the greatest living American seemingly attempting to re-assert his mojo and maybe score another big hit (a feat he really hasn’t matched since 1990’s “Candy,” which I frankly fucking hated). Recruiting wunderkind pop producer Andrew Watt to helm the project and roping in accomplished-if-predictable big name players like Duff McKagan, Dave Navarro, Stone Gossard, Eric Avery, Chad Smith, Travis Barker and the late Taylor Hawkins, among others, Every Loser (everytime I type that, my hands type Easy Lover), has all the earmarks of “big rock record.” To his credit, the actual sound on this record crackles with life and sonic depth. Fresh from a similar job for the comparably iconic Ozzy Osbourne, Watt’s made a great leap from producing poppy piffle bullshit music like Bebe Rexha, Post Malone, Lana Del Ray and Justin Bieber to working with bona fide rock gods, which might have been his intention all along. In that respect, Watt’s taken these eleven songs and done a great job with them. High marks to the boy.

That said, something’s missing here, for me. Where Iggy sounded genuine back on Post Pop Depression, I can’t help from feeling that this record sounds a bit forced. There are too many throwaway one-liners and dumb cliches (at their worst on “Neo Punk” and big single, “Frenzy”). None of it is necessarily bad, per se, but I just don’t envision myself returning to it all that often. Suffice to say, there isn’t anything here that can touch any of the work that first established Iggy Pop as the icon he became (although, to be fair, I doubt anyone was expecting there to be). I would make a case for a few tracks off of, once again, Post Pop Depression to be worthy of the great man’s legacy, but there’s none of that here. If I had to pick one song, I’d suggest that “Strung Out Johnny” (about his ol’ pal Johnny Thunders, mayhaps?) is the album’s strongest track, but y’know … it ain’t exactly “The Passenger” (…or even “Run Like a Villain” or “I’m Bored,” etc.)

Gift by The Sisterhood
Long promised from British indie label Cadiz Music, I was under the mistaken impression that this was the first time this 1986 EP was released on compact disc, but that turned out not to be the case, although it has been out of print for eons. I still have the cassette version from the original release that I bought back in college.

For those not familiar, this record was less of a band project and more of an emphatic middle finger from Sisters of Mercy main-man Andrew Eldritch to his duplicitous former bandmates Wayne Hussey and Craig Adams. Having jumped ship during attempts to record the follow-up to their 1985 masterpiece, First and Last and Always, Hussey and Adams immediately formed a new band and started making plans to stick it to their fomer boss. Eldritch rightly felt their new collective moniker was a tad too close to the definite article, so immediately sprang into action, recording Gift (which means “poison” in German, don’tcha know) with a string of notable recruits (among them Alan Vega from Suicide and James Ray from James Ray’s Gangwar and fleeting Motorhead drummer Lucas Fox, although he only provides recitation, not percussion). Because of contractual obligations to his major label, Eldritch himself allegedly does not sing a note on Gift, but I can’t help thinking he’s not-so-secretly buried in there somewhere.

Anyway, Eldritch rush-released Gift out on his own Merciful Release records to stymie Hussey and Adams’ plans. In turn, they simply reverted to a new name -- The Mission (another nod to their former allegiance, given that the aborted record was intended to be called Left on Mission and Revenge) and jolly well became a proper entity in their own right.

Thirty-seven years after its initial release, how does Gift sound? Well, again, it was never meant to be a Sisters of Mercy album, but while essentialy comprised of (mostly) filler, there are some great, elegiac moments herein. In between a string of electronic instrumentals, there is the solid single “Giving Ground,” to recommend it, the vocals being handled by suitably overwrought James Ray. Beyond that, most of the other tracks just plod on too long, although I will always like the deliberately ponderous funeral march that is “Rain From Heaven.”

Ultimately, Gift is more a curious artifact for completists than essential listening, but having played the fuck out of it back in college (subjecting the long-suffering listenership of my college radio station to tireless airings of “Giving Ground”), I felt I should own it on disc at last. One major grievance, however, is that the sonic assembly of this package is woefully slapdash, with “Rain from Heaven” simply cutting off before the song ends, as if to suggest that no one at Cadiz Music thought to give it a listen before it was released.

Odd, that.

ADDENDUM: Just a point of clarification, lest I mislead any readers. I procured the Sisterhood disc directly via Cadiz Music, and NOT at Barnes & Noble, who wouldn't know their Sisters of Mercy from their Sister Sledge. Secondly, over the course of a very long walk around the Upper West Side and Central Park, today, I listened again to the Moonage Daydream soundtrack in its sprawling entirety and, as a single work, it holds up very well.

The Sounds of "After Hours": Redux

By this point, my adoration for Martin Scorsese’s “After Hours” from 1985 hasn’t so much been established as it has been beaten into bloody submission and into the cold, hard ground. What more, might you rightly ask, could I possibly have to say about it?

Well, the more patient among you might remember a post from way back in 2010, wherein I attempted to cull together all the music from both Howard Shore’s score and the various songs that should have otherwise appeared on the soundtrack album (which was never released). I put those up as YouTube clips and, as such, many of them are no longer live. With that, I thought an update was in order -- so here we are.

While I continue to bash Spotify at every opportunity, I did take advantage of the platform yet again (ooh, that warm smell of hickory-smoked hypocrisy) to build the following playlist, which showcases as much of the film’s original sounds as I could track down.

I say as much of because there is one key selection from the (again, non-existent) soundtrack of “After Hours” that is crucially missing. Somewhat ironically, it’s by an artist that, if I’m being honest, I fucking hate -– that being Joni Mitchell.

Some might remember the kerfuffle in January of 2022 when, in what seemed at the time like a bold act of defiance, iconic rocker Neil Young dramatically strippped his music off Spotify in protest of the platform’s continuing support of the irresponsible-idiocy-espounsing Joe Rogan. I wrote about it here and here, should you care. In a show of solidarity, meanwhile, some of Neil’s famous pals like Crosby, Stills & Nash and, once again, Joni Mitchell followed suit and removed their catalogs from Spotify, too. It seemed like legions of artist were poised to do the same and hit the preeminent streaming platform where it really hurts, but… they didn’t. Spotify, for their part, decided that Joe Rogan was more valauble that Neil Young & pals, to their business, and basically said “Suit yourselves, fuck-o's.”

Very quietly, after a short while, some of Neil’s music and pretty much all of CSN’s music sneakily crept back onto the platform. But did Joni blink? LIKE FUCK SHE DID! Joni Mitchell may make music that routinely sends me scrambling for the remote, but ya gotta respect the great lady for that.

Anyway, blah blah blah, as a heroic result, I cannot put “Chelsea Morning” on my “After Hours” playlist because, like all of these albums, you just can’t get it on fuckin' Spotify. I suppose I could use Neil Diamond’s version, but, really, no one will benefit from that.

So, for those of you besotted with the minutia of all things “After Hours” as I am, please enjoy The Sounds of ‘After Hours’ below.

Incidentally, the amazing poster up top is an alternative iteration I’d never seen before. I would slap that shit in a frame faster than you could say “Surrender, Dorothy!,” if it were up to me. I found on this site – check it out.

 

Back ... Again... to Charly's Corner at Cortlandt & Walker

For those of you valiantly trying to follow the tangled thread that is the saga of the origins of the Clics Modernos wall on the corner of Walker Street and Cortlandt Alley (just to the right of where my little son Oliver was pictured heading towards in the above photo from 2014), I am happy to report that friend-o’-the-blog Iñaki Rojas has just released the fourth installment of his video series on the subject.

Let’s see if I can quickly condense, for those not interested in reading the last update: Preeminent Argentine rock star Charly Garcia, around 1982, was in New York City, renting a loft on Waverly Place and recording at nearby Electric Lady Studios of West 8th Street, when he went out for a walk with a photographer. While he’d already had an idea for the title and cover image of the album he was working on, when he spied some compelling street art in TriBeCa on the aforementioned corner of Walker and Cortlandt Alley (just down the way from the Mudd Club), he posed for a shot with it — and then decided to use that shot for the album cover, taking the title, meanwhile, from a tag scrawled on the wall — Modern Clix (translated into Spanish as Clics Modernos).

Unbeknownst to Garcia, the art in question was the handiwork of two individuals — street artist Richard Hambleton (renowned for his “shadow men” all around downtown Manhattan — ghostly black silhouettes) and local punk rocker Fran Powers, the then-lead singer of the band, Modern Clix.

Released in 1983, the resultant album went onto become a huge milestone for both Garcia and Argentine rock in general. From Wikipedia: "It was a decisive work to consolidate the modern trends that would mark the profile of Argentine rock during the 1980s,” and to this day is widely revered.

Back here in New York City, meanwhile — Richard Hambleton passed away in 2017 purportedly without ever knowing his work graced the sleeve of such a sacrosanct piece of music history.

Fran Powers, meanwhile, another comrade of the blog’s (after befriending him at party in for Yukie Ohta’s SoHo Memory Project some years ago, I interviewed Fran about his involvement in the local hardcore scene as documented by Brooke Smith, his music and his fleeting cameos in movies like “Hannah & Her Sisters” and my all-time favorite film, Martin Scorsese’s “After Hours” — you can read that here) — had been aware of his graffiti being lifted for Garcia’s landmark album, but didn’t really know much about it. Sadly, Fran passed away in 2021.

Here’s where it gets (even more) complicated.

I honestly cannot say if I was the first person to unwittingly figure this out, but after spotting some photographs on a Facebook group taken by a tourist named Bo G. Eriksson in 1984 of my beloved Cortlandt Alley, I typed up a post, in 2021, about it (somewhat brazenly lifting Eriksson’s photos without his express consent — sorry about that, Mr. E) and asserted that the location of Charly Garcia’s album cover — which, at the time, I had no idea was such a big deal — is the corner of Walker and Cortlandt in TriBeCa.

I probably didn’t give the matter another thought, but word somehow quickly spread. in short order, I was fielding missives from an Argentine writer named Iñaki Rojas alerting me of the significance of all this.

As I now understand this, this tiny little patch of downtown real estate had been a hotly speculated location. Now that the secret was out, there were people making actual goddamn pilgrimages to it. More about that in a second.

This whole saga is not at all unlike my series of posts wherein I tried — with the help of my Irish pal Dub — to pinpoint the exact location of the wall featured on the cover of Killing Joke’s first iconic record, or when I tried to divine the location of that one photo of the Lunachicks, or when I tried to determine the address of Plasmatics World Headquarters. Equally obsessed with this quest, Iñaki Rojas was clearly my brother, and started writing both a novel about it all, and a compelling video series.

The fourth installment of that series is now up, and I am sort of hilariously all over it. See that here….

I viewed this latest episode on the train back from Pennsylvania with my family, earlier this week, and immediately felt I needed to stroll back down to that fateful corner to get Iñaki some updated pics. I ran into my neighbor and fellow music freak Mac and after a quick stop at the Bad Brains mural on Bleecker, I started unspooling the whole Clics Modernos tale (which is exceptionally difficult to encapsulate). From what he understood of what I was babbling about, he was intrigued, so down we both bounded to Cortlandt Alley, once again.

Right as we were approaching the corner in question, I spotted a cryptic little scrawl on the wall. Sure enough, it was related.

It reads, I believe, ...Clics Modernos Started Here...

As relayed in the fourth episode of Iñaki’s series, people now come to this spot as if it was the Argentine equivalent of Abbey Road or, to use my analogy, the Killing Joke wall in Derry, Northern Ireland.

I had Mac try to replicate Charly’s sleeve with me. I apologize profusely for being a fat bastard. Time for those New Year’s resolutions to be fiercely observed, eh?

Iñaki promises a final installment of the series soon. Watch this space. 

The Gausten List: All the Musicians I've Interviewed

I’ve never met Joel Gausten “in the flesh,” but we tred in very comparable circles. A kindred spirit in both taste and sensibility, Joel is a fellow rabid music nerd and avid writer who already has a few books to his name, by this point, as well as one salaciously nocturnal memoir. I think I first encountered him, several years back, as I’d picked up a book he’d self-published about one of my favorite bands, Prong, and we’ve been in touch -– largely via social media -– pretty much ever since. Beyond his literary pursuits, Joel is also a musician, having drummed with bands like The Undead, Electric Frankenstein and Pigface. He’s a busy man, our Joel.

I think the thing that strikes me most about Joel is his drive. On the best of days, music journalism is a truly punishing vocation that doesn’t accrue much respect, let alone revenue, from the rest of the world, but Joel is undaunted and ever-busy. Joel splits his time between these passions and, if I’m not mistaken, doing some meaningful, hands-on social work, `cos ya can’t be Johnny Punk-Rock all the time, I guess.

In any case, in revamping his bio, Joel recently posted a list of everyone, off the top of his head, that he’s ever interviewed, and it’s a formidable array of diverse musicians ranging from Gene Simmons of KISS through Dot Wiggin of The Shaggs, and pretty much everyone in between (you might be able to see the first iteration of that list here). The sheer breadth of Joel’s list speaks to his voracious enthusiasm for music and his wide, catholic tastes.

I’d started off on a comparable path as Joel’s, channeling my life-long love of music into something of a career when, upon graduating college, I landed an internship at SPIN (which I’ve mentioned a few times before, most recently here). My time at SPIN led me further to an involvement with a plucky, independent start-up called The New York Review of Records (which I’ve also mentioned a few times here, most notably here). From there, I went onto write and contribute to a host of different periodicals, for a while, including magazines like Creem, the confusingly named Huh! (an offshoot of Raygun) a short-lived project called Exit!. After a while, I succumbed to the allure of a more lucrative aspect of journalism and took a low-level gig at LIFE Magazine which, in turn, led me to a 12-year stint at TIME magazine. After TIME, as some of you might remember, I hopscotched between gigs at The New Yorker (I wrote blurbs for their Goings On About Town section for ten years), MTV News Online, MSN and then TODAY.com. After being aggressively let go from the latter, I waffled in obscurity for a hot second before ditching journalism in favor of corporate communications, where I am now. I’m now a director of content, video and editorial services for the corporate communications and marketing department of a performance rights organization. So, I’m still writing about music, but just not in the capacity of a critic or journalist.

In any case, in looking at Joel’s tremendous list, I started thinking of all the folks I’d interviewed in those early days. And while nowhere near as comprehensive as Joel’s, it was a fun tally to compose. From what I can recall off the top of my head, here’s who I’ve interviewed….

I spoke with Wayne Hussey of The Mission on a brilliantly sunny day on Liberty Island in the shadow of the statue (I believe the idea was that Wayne wanted to replicate a certain famous picture of John Lennon). I chatted with a young Trent Reznor in a cramped backstage room at the New Ritz on West 54th Street, wherein he spent the entirety of our discussion fiddling with his then-newly pierced septum (which he evidently tired quickly of, as he hasn’t sported a ring there since). I spoke with a very amped-up Robert Vincent of short-lived British indie next-big-thing ensemble Birdland in the lobby of a long-vanished venue on West 21st Street called The Marquee. I dined and debated with the full membership of Pop Will Eat Itself at long-vanished Asian drag bar Lucky Cheng’s on First Avenue. I had a spirted conversation with Jeff and Steve McDonald of Redd Kross in a coffee shop just off Times Square. I have protracted exchange in clipped English with Treponem Pal vocalist Marco Neves at another coffee shop on Grand Street on the Lower East Side. I was treated to the full membership of Killing Joke at the Notell Motel, then on Avenue A. I traded war stories with Tod [A] and Cripple Jim Coleman of Cop Shoot Cop at the late, lamented CB’s Pizza & Record Canteen on the Bowery. I listened to John S. Hall of King Missile moan about his record company at Sin-E on St Marks Place. I had a lovely chat with Tim Booth of James in a trailer behind the main stage at a festival in Finsbury Park in London. I had a meandering conversation with Gavin Friday in the charming TriBeCa apartment of his publicist on White Street. I took sweaty dictation in a Harlem brownstone from the translator for Senegalese singer Yousou N’Dour. I had a brief exchange with Dave Gedge of the Wedding Present at Maxwell’s in Hoboken, conducted a discussion with all three members of Material Issue on the disused second floor of the midtown Hard Rock Café, tried to make sense of the full membership of Blur talking at me at once in the cozy confines of the former Yaffa Café on St. Marks Place, had an intense intel-breakdown with Henry Rollins in a loading dock on West 21st street and had the keyboardist and bass player of EMF abruptly leave an interview early after a certain editor of mine had unwittingly showed them a not-so-positive review of their album that I’d written. Yikes.

In stodgy corporate board rooms, I’ve sat across the table with microphone in hand with Mike Berenyi and Chris Acland of Lush, the full membership of Ash, Jonn Penny of Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, Miles Hunt of the Wonder Stuff, Cathal Coughlan of Fatima Mansions, Toni Halliday of Curve, Rob Jones of the Venus Beads, Shaun Ryder of Happy Mondays, both members of A.R. Kane and all four cool-cat wiseacres in Sonic Youth.

I’ve done “phoners” with Bono of U2, Marky Ramone of the Ramones, Kurt Ralske of Ultra Vivid Scene, Shirley Manson of Garbage, Mike D. of the Beastie Boys, action-hero and Hong Kong singing sensation Jackie Chan, Wyclef Jean of the Fugees, Jim Reid of the Jesus & Mary Chain, Andy Prieboy of Wall of Voodoo, Guy Kyser of Thin White Rope, Julianne Regan of All About Eve, Pete Shelley of the Buzzcocks, Matt Cameron of Soundgarden, Andrew Eldridge of the Sisters of Mercy, Martin Atkins of PiL/Killing Joke/Ministry, Salli Carson of Bleach and Jon Brookes of The Charlatans.

For this silly blog, I’ve interviewed Chris Egan of Missing Foundation, RB Korbet of Even Worse, Big Paul Ferguson of Killing Joke, Fran Powers of Modern Clix, Erik Sanko of Skeleton Key, J Yuenger of White Zombie, Don Rauf of Life in a Blender and Brooke Smith, actress and NYHC veteran. For my current job, I’ve interviewed the Flatbush Zombies, Jesse Malin, Amy Rigby and Alice Goddamn Cooper.

I was supposed to do a phoner for my current job with Jon Popper of Blues Traveler who I’ve never. He blew me off and never called.

Whatever.

The Evolution of Bleecker & Bowery

For those of you who are invested in such things, you’ve probably already seen that the next iteration of the mural on the southwest corner of Bleecker Street at the Bowery, which I recently invoked here, is complete. That’s it up above and, yes, it’s another Shepard Fairey piece, this one paying tribute to Bad Brains by way of a rendered composite of images from the photography of my former next-door neighbor, Glen E. Friedman. That’s it above.

Now that this work is complete, I thought I’d turn back the clock to look at what this particular patch of real estate borne witness to, over the years….

In 1982, as I recounted here and here, photographer Drew Carolan set up an ersatz, outdoor film studio on this same corner to capture images of the burgeoning NYHC community, which he’d later compile into a handsome coffee table book, “Matinee.” In writing about this project, I had my kids pose in the exact spot Carolan had used. See that below.

In 1983, Jim Jarmusch filmed an iconic scene of Eszter Balint crossing this particular byway as part of the opening montage of his 1984 film, “Stranger Than Paradise,” which I tried to replicate with my kids as some point in 2012.

Skipping way ahead to 2015, a mysterious mural of Joey Ramone sporting a pair of boxing gloves came up. I speculated as to why, but then it occurred to me, as recounted on this post, that it was ultimately a wafer-thin and frankly misleading promotion for the then-just-opened UpperCut boxing gym, which I continue to think was stinky and lame of them. I was glad when it vanished.

Joey was replaced, of course, in 2017 by Shepard Fairey’s tribute to Blondie, which was completely cool. Despite this, it got defaced, a few times, but shitty taggers because people basically suck.

And now, five years later, Debbie Harry has been replaced by Bad Brains. I managed to capture a quick shot of Fairey himself, in the process.

 

Zopa in The Snow

We’re already knee-deep into December, and it still looks like mid-October, outside. That’s not a joke. Right outside my office, there’s a ring of trees still fully outfitted with a rich array of strikingly golden leaves that would otherwise suggest that Halloween and Thanksgiving have yet to transpire. But we know differently.

Personally speaking, despite that strange dichotomy, I’m very much looking forward to a lustrously snowy winter. I look forward to a thick blanket of the white stuff coating these New York City streets sometime soon, but I’m not holding my breath. Beyond it still looking fully autumnal oustside, the thermometer is telling me it’s 55 degrees out. Not exactly a winter wonderland.

Lucky for me, then, that I stumbled upon the video below, “Red Sky” by the band Zopa. The only thing I know about this outfit is that it features actor Michael Imperioli on vocals and guitar. This might sound like heresy to some, but I’ve never watched a full episode of “The Sopranos,” so I really only know Imperioli from Season 2 of “The White Lotus” and from his fleeting cameo in “Goodfellas,” wherein he plays luckless mob barhop Spider who gets maimed and then murdered by Joe Pesci’s Tommy over a botched drink order.

In any case, on top of “Red Sky” being an ample demonstration of Imperioli’s musical abilities, its video – directed by his (wife? sister? daughter?) Victoria Imperioli is a lovely montage of New York City in the show.

Enjoy….

“My Picture at the Movies, Baby”: Bad Brains in `79

I’ve seen snippets of this film before, but evidently, 10 months ago, someone saw fit to upload the whole enchilada. It’s a little grainy, of course, but he’s the entirety of “My Picture in The Movies, Baby,” largely shot at CBGB in 1979.

While not quite as sharp as that amazing `79 footage from Central Park or that other `79 footage from CBGB I posted last year this video is still a pretty compelling argument in favor of why the band is held in such lofty regard. Shot prior to Bad Brains’ migration from the hometown of Washington D.C. and well prior to the release of their seminal eponymous debut album on ROIR, this footage still captures the absolutely manic virtuosity of the band firing on all goddamn cylinders.

There is, of course, yet another show of theirs at CBGB that was immortalized on video, that being the Live at CBGB 1982, but – put simply – there’s no such thing as a slice of live video of this band that isn’t entirely astonishing.

Enjoy this while it lasts.

The Penance of Pussy Galore

I’ve mentioned them quite a few time here, over the years, but I used to be a big fan of this band called Pussy Galore. I say “used to,” as they don’t really exist anymore, their members having long-since disbanded to form and play in myriad other projects. But, back in the day, as they say, Pussy Galore were one of those bands that stopped you dead in your tracks. Whether because of their deliberately prurient name (I used to routinely point out that, technically, they were named after Honor Blackman's character from the James Bond classic,“Goldfinger, but no one ever really bought that) or because of their singular sonic signature -- a sort of slovenly punk-blues blitzkrieg featuring crazed, yowling vocals, volatile guitars and rusty kitchen-sink percussion that sounded like the Tin Man from “The Wizard of Oz” being forcibly shoved down a flight of stairs --- Pussy Galore left few people indifferent. They were entirely loud, messy and wilfully obnoxious. In other words, they were kinda perfect.

That all said, they still kinda weren’t for everyone. I always thought their uproariously offensive, middle-finger-for-all aesthetic was fairly obviously cartoony, but not everyone got the joke. While maybe not quite as universally objectionable as, say, the oeuvre of GG Allin & the Murder Junkies, choice Pussy Galore song titles could certainly ruin someone’s day and/or land one in Facebook jail for violating community standards if invoked in a post. Put simply, not everyone appreciated Pussy Galore’s tireless rampage of potty-mouthed invective, much less their clamorous brand of music.

But being purposefully provocative was part and parcel of Pussy Galore. They went all in and, as fans, you were expected to do the same. And in the wake of a succession of what I considered hilarious slabs of wax like (sorry) Groovy Hate Fuck, Sugarshit Sharp, Dial ‘M’ for Motherfucker and Corpse Love (to name just a small selection of their discography), I became wholly enamored of the band to the extent that I proudly procured myself a shirt of theirs emblazoned with the scrawled text from a former gig flyer. The copy on same read: “Live from the Hate Fuck Capital City of the World: PUSSY GALORE.” I bought this garment at a now-long-dormant record shop in SoHo called Rocks in Your Head. Today, after playing host to a real estate agency for several years, the space that had been Rocks in Your Head is now a dessert emporium called Sugarwood that exclusively serves genital-shaped treats. I find this somewhat entirely appropriate.

I wore my Pussy Galore shirt quite a bit, initially, although it usually didn’t do me any favors. While it may have garnered the odd nod of recognition from fellow noise-rock nerds, it more often than not prompted confusion, consternation and verbal abuse from the layperson. After a while, it was kind of more trouble than it was worth, so I gave it to my nextdoor neighbor.

So, why am I bringing all this back up now? Well, I’m friends with former Pussy Galore drummer Bob Bert on social media. Along with Pussy Galore, Bob also served in the ranks of several other amazing bands like Sonic Youth, Bewitched, Chrome Cranks and Drunk Driving. These days, he splits his creative time between Lydia Lunch’s amazing Retrovirus (you may remember my rapturous live review from earlier this year) and a trio called the Wolfmanhattan Project. In any case, Bob posted an amazing bit of Pussy Galore ephemera, today, concerning the very flyer that ended up on that star-crossed t-shirt. In much the same way the shirt invited some significant scrutiny, so did its original source material. Lovingly lifted with all respect from Bob’s Facebook feed, below find both the original flyer and, beneath it, the apology Bob was presumably prompted to write in response to the fallout. Amazing.

And, just for the Hell of it….here’s some vintage Pussy Galore.

Say Yes to The Hess

Several years back, my friend Rob B. gave me a Christmas present I genuinely cherished, a pristine print of a Cop Shoot Cop gig poster from 1994 by illustrator Derek Hess. I immediately took it to be framed, and it hung on the wall of my apartment on East 12th Street from 1996 until we moved to East 9th Street in 2002.

When we moved, however, our living space went from being “my old apartment” to “our apartment.” As such, what artwork made it up onto the walls was no longer just my own snap decision. Unsurprisingly, I had a few choice pieces around our previous apartment that the Mrs. was never really that fond of. I have a massive Plasmatics poster, for example, featuring a black-eyed and scowling Wendy O. Williams that routinely put my poor wife in a foul mood. When it came time to decorate our then-new apartment (where we’ve now lived for the past twenty years … more than I’ve lived in any other space in my life), some compromises had to be made. Suffice to say, that Wendy O. poster now lives in storage. The Cop Shoot Cop poster, however, went somewhere else.

From the generosity of Rob B. to the accommodating shelter of “the other Rob,” Rob D., the Derek Hess Cop Shoot Cop poster traveled north to New London, Connecticut, where the latter Rob happily agreed to babysit some of my cherished and lovingly framed posters. Along with that C$C Hess print, he got a framed Ramones poster (Holmstrom’s art from Road to Ruin), a Stranglers promo poster (MenInBlack tour), a Clash poster (Sandinista promo), a massive poster from the Maysles’ Altamont documentary, “Gimme Shelter,” and another Cop Shoot Cop poster from a CBGB gig with the Cows circa 1990. To this day, I believe, he still has all of them (at least I hope he does).

Anyway, blah blah blah … this post wasn’t supposed to be about me and my shitty "collector scum" hoarding problems. I do still have a smaller Derek Hess print … another one for Cop Shoot Cop, but a flyer … and I’ll absolutely never friggin’ part with it.

In the interim, it seems illustrator Derek Hess’ artwork has become more and more revered and no longer relegated to the “rock geek” ghetto. Check out this sprawling documentary on the man and his artwork below….