Burning Flags Press The website of Glen E. Friedman. Renowned for both his work with musicians like Fugazi, Minor Threat, Public Enemy, the Beastie Boys, Slayer (and many, many more) as well as his groundbreaking documentation of the burgeoning skateboard phenomenon in the late `70's, Glen has been privvy to (and has summarily captured on film) some of the coolest stuff ever. He's also an incredibly insightful and nice guy to boot.
SoHo Blues - Photography by Allan Tannenbaum Allan Tannenbaum is a local photographer who has been everywhere and shot everything, from members of Blondie hanging out at the Mudd Club through the collapsing towers of the World Trade Center on September 11th. You could spend hours on this site, and I have.
Robert Otter Photographs Amazing vintage photographs of New York City, specifically my own neighborhood, Greenwich Village.
oboylephoto Just some intensely cool photographs of abandoned places.
Rikki Ercoli's Legends of Punk Much like Glen E. Friedman (see above), Rikki Ercoli has managed to catch some amazing bands in their manic element.
Lost & Found Film A fascinating website devoted to undeveloped film found in vintage camers. A curious mixture of interesting and spooky.
Eugene Merinov Compelling shots of Punk, Post-Punk and New Wave band performing live in various long-lost venues in a pre-sanitized New York City. Great stuff!
Homestar Runner.Com Hugely entertaining or insufferably dumb, depending on your sensibility.
The Weblog of Spumco's John K. The weblog of cartoonist John Kricfalusi, crazed mind and frantic pencil behind the original "Ren & Stimpy," as well as "The Goddamn George Liquor Show." Surreal, unapologetic, uncompromising genius.
Regarding this ridiculous story, if I'm not mistaken, the coinage of the term "to 86 someone" actually originates right here in NYC, stemming from the practice of forcibly removing someone from the premises of age-old speakeasy (since-turned-revoltingly bespoke eatery) Chumley's in the West Village, which I referenced most recently here.
If you were selected to be thrown out of the bar, you were ushered out via its backdoor on 86 Bedford Street....hence "86'd."
It has nothing to do with murder (that's "Deep 6").
Yesterday, our good friend and longtime fellow anachronistic bloggity-blogger EV Grieve posted an update on the status of the northeast corner of St. Marks Place at Third Avenue. Many might remember the news from about a year back that a large segment of that block -– including spaces fomerly or currently occupied by concerns like McDonald’s, the Continental, Korilla (formerly about nine other things since its storied iteration as St. Marks Pizza, above, as caught by Matt Weber in 1985), that corner news-agents/smoke shop, the since-shuttered Papaya King, among others -– would be razed to accommodate a new, seven-story tower of office space, because -- yeah, wait for it -– we needed that.
Well, plans for same, at the moment, seem squishy (see Grieve’s post for details), although most of the businesses on that plot have already closed up shop. The McDonald’s has been gone for a while, pushed out not just by this plan, but also the advent of the ever-aromatic/pungent (depending on your opinion) Shake Shack across the avenue. The Continental seems to have received a stay of execution, for the moment, although, if I’m being honest, I haven’t set foot in that particular joint since they dismantled the rear stage and stopped hosting live music.
As laboriously lamented in this old post, I was lucky enough to regularly witness a slew of suitably slovenly bands grace the stage at The Continental back throughout the 90’s, some notable high-decibel culprits being the legitimately incendiary Nashville Pussy (above), The Unband (below), The Upper Crust, The Lee Harvey Keitel Band, The Bullys, The Pleasure Fuckers, Furious George and the Candy Snatchers.
The loss of St. Marks Pizza was also worthy of its own post, which I thought I’d done, but evidently not. Or, if I did, I can’t find it anymore. In any case, it closed in 2003, and the neighborhood was pointedly the lesser for it. I also remember their slices being way better than those prized at more rhapsodized pizzerias like Stromboli's two blocks to the east.
I also strangley spent a week living in that eyesore of a dormintory right next to the old McDonald’s back in 1993, which I spoke about in this ancient post. The building hasn’t aged well, but it’s still standing … despite what many of the architecture students who lived inside it, at the time, were predicting.
In any event, regardless of what’s to transpire for ths busy plot of the East Village, it already seems somewhat undead. That said, I’m sure I’ll pine for this decrepit iteration of it once the new buildings start going up.
When I think of that particular strip, I invariably think of going to those live shows at the Continental. Herewith a smattering of that era, replete with live footage captured in that venue.
I cannot say I’ve ever knowingly watched NYCTV, let alone been aware of its existence. But I’ve been spotting this new ad campaign of theirs in the subways, of late, and am both compelled and repulsed by it. On the surface, I think the concept -– “Why I Love New York In 25 Words” -– is kind of a fun, novel little exercise. It’s their execution that has depressed me.
Polling a variety of celebrities and public figures -– like, say, one Bridget Moynahan below -– the answers they’ve fielded to their little challenge have been, to my mind at least, somewhat dispiriting. I mean the notion of citing “Sex and The City” as a fundamental reason why you love New York City upsets me more than I can put into words. But, to be fair, if I’m not mistaken, Miss Moynahan was in fucking “Sex and The City,” so that contextual qualifier makes it slightly more forgivable, I suppose. Still, … hurrumph. Also, who would honestly still cite the High Line? I wonder when the last time was that she tried to walk down it.
Anyway, judgmental vitriol aside, I thought it might be fun to take a crack at this little challenge myself, given my deep well of adoration for my home town. Whilst strolling to work one morning this week, I started tallying up suitable citations to include. In typical fashion, however, I started over-thinking it, wondering if I should cut my unwieldy list in half, given the fact that so many of the words I’d chosen represent aspects of New York City that no longer exist. Then, I thought, should I make two lists, one for stuff I love and one for stuff I miss?
No. I decided to jettison the words that represent things that have vanished -– The Ritz, Rocks In Your Head, Danceteria, CBGB, SoHoZat, NoHo Star and the Cedar Tavern, to name but a small few –- and stick with what’s still current. I’m keeping the names of bands, as even if those bands no longer exist, the music lives on.
Here is why I happen to love New York in 25 words. What are yours?
Ear Inn Beastie Boys Central Park Lower East Side Yorkville Kraut Courtlandt Alley Knickerbocker’s Cop Shoot Cop NYHC The Strand “After Hours” Bowery Ballroom Veselka
Les Halles on Park Avenue South, where Anthony Bourdain famously worked as a chef, has been closed since 2016, and the space it once occupied has been dormant since shuttering in March of that year.
Since news broke on Friday of Bourdain's passing, mourners have been leaving flowers, notes and mementos in a makeshift memorial. My kids' school is a couple of blocks away. After dropping them off this morning, I looped back around to the former Les Halles to take a look.
It pains me that apart from a few passing allusions to the man, I only really devoted one single post to Anthony Bourdain in this blog’s almost-thirteen-year existence, that post being a cheekily petty potshot at him for supporting a fellow chef’s dubiously named (and since shuttered) venture. In all truth, Anthony Bourdain was a bona fide hero of mine. His style was the perfect blend of smart, funny, cool, discriminating and outspoken, and he was a master storyteller and, obviously, pretty handy in the kitchen. Beyond being cool, funny and insouciant, he wrote from the heart, spoke truth to power and was a frequent champion of the underdog. He was a tireless advocate for doing, seeing and trying new things and broadening horizons. News of his suicide, this morning, completely took the wind out of my sails. I’m sure I’m not alone, in that capacity.
Like most, I first came across Bourdain via his now-iconic culinary tell-all, “Kitchen Confidential” at some point in the `90s. While a great read by any standard, having toiled for several summers as a dish-dog in the rear kitchen of the Westhampton iteration of The Barefoot Contessa (long gone), I immediately warmed to not only Bourdain’s acerbic wit, but could completely relate to the context. He captured the dynamic perfectly, but also lifted the veil on a whole culture. Dare I suggest it, Anthony Bourdain –- more so than any other so-called “celebrity chef” -– single-handedly made working in the food industry credibly cool.
His star continued to ascend from there, of course, and I was totally onboard. I dutifully dined in homage at Les Halles on Park Avenue South (his former employer), and followed his trajectory like a fanboy, snapping up each successive book of essays, and even his first weighty cookbook. I even picked up his first crime novel, which was just as entertaining as you’d expect. Shortly afterwards, television snatched him up and he was off and running on a number of different series for various channels until he landed the gig at CNN.
And now, he’s gone. This larger-than-life character who seemed to lead such a singularly charmed, remarkable life, and who spoke so candidly and eloquently, and with such a zest for experience -– takes his own life. It is yet another testament, let alone in the same week as fashion favorite Kate Spade, that we should not be so quick to trust our preconceptions. Fame is clearly no panacea for depression.
As I noted when Chris Cornell of Soundgarden took his own life last year, the knee-jerk reaction upon hearing about such fatalities is “how could they have done this to their own children?” That unanswerable question might lead many to label the act callous and selfish, but as far as I’m concerned, it only underscores the magnitude of the pain the individual must have been in to pursue that otherwise unthinkable path.
I don’t know why Anthony Bourdain killed himself. As much as we all may feel like we knew him, we cannot begin to speculate what he was privately grappling with. I grieve for his loved ones and hope that he has attained peace and realizes how very much he will be missed.
Just a quick one. A friend of mine posted an age-old photo of ol’ Gene Simmons spitting fire on what was obviously a New York City avenue, and I recalled seeing further images from the same incident on the afore-cited Instagram page, KISS NYC. I started to wonder where that location might be. It didn’t take too long to figure it out. Here are more of the pics from the same day.
Based on the distinctive architecture of the buildings across the avenue from the car on which our Gene is perched, I rightly deduced that this all went down just below the southeast corner of Fifth Avenue and East 13th Street. Based on Gene’s garb, I’m assuming this would have been circa the Hotter Than Hell/Dressed to Kill era of the band, making it about 1974 or 1975.
About 45 years later, The First National Bank across the street is now an administrative building for The New School. At the time these original photos were taken, Gene would have been standing just south of the entrance to the Lone Star Café (although I’m not sure if it had turned into that yet, or not – replete with rooftop iguana – it may have still been the Schrafft’s ice cream parlour). Later, that spot turned into a bar called Mr. Fuji's Tropicana (discussed here), before turning into a deli, closing, gradually eroding, and then getting torn down.
Today, that corner is occupied by a pricey condo with a Brandy Mellville outlet on its ground floor (the one that was selling that curious Ramones shirt). The southern half of the block is occupied by Yeshiva University’s school of law, but I seem to remain a bar on the corner of East 12th Street. Opposite that was the building that housed Forbes Magazine, now owned by NYU.
One wonders what the KISS gents were doing in this patch of Greenwich Village, but who knows. Gene Simmons, meanwhile, is still at it, and by “it” I mean being in KISS and basically behaving like an insufferable jackass. They’re evidently about to launch a massive tour.
Was sad to learn, this morning, that long-standing bar/restaurant Live Bait on East 23rd Street has closed up shop after 31 years on that strip. It naively seemed to me like one of those places that was always going to be there. Evidently not.
I first started going back in 1989, whilst interning paylessly at SPIN Magazine just over on West 18th Street, Live Bait being one point in a triangle of arguably cheap, irresponsible inebriation that also included the Old Town Bar & Grill (still there) and 119 Bar on East 15th (now a theme-belabored douche-factory called Headless Horseman). I also remember noting that Live Bait's signature neon signage could always be clearly seen from the observation deck of the Empire State building that loomed over it from ten blocks away.
The last time I was in Live Bait would have been 2016, when I was knocking back beers before joining other grizzled, greying punk dads to go see OFF! at the Gramercy Theatre just down the road a piece.
Sad.
Picture courtesy of my lovely former colleague, C-Monstah.
Today, my grand comrade EV Grieve posted an eye-roll-worthy post about the new mega-monster monolith that occupies the south side of 14th street between Avenues A and B, a formerly humble strip of low buildings that included the fabled Blarney Cove, amid several other since-razed concerns.
In any case, the company that owns this block-long Star Destroyer, Extell, have cheekily christened the complex with a new moniker. They're calling it "EVGB" …. GEDDIT??
An acronym for the "East Village's Greatest Building," it's ultimately yet another low-browed allusion to the storied legacy of CBGB over on the Bowery.
Now, before you roll your own eyes and get all exasperated at me, rest assured that I'm not about to lapse into another tear-stained eulogy for the fabled club in question. That's been handled here, way more than enough times.
No, what I'm asking for is for people to fucking LEAVE IT ALONE, ALREADY! By jokingly referencing the neighborhood's former touchstones, you're only adding insult to injury, whether that's via a ham-fisted mural decrying gentrification or the strenuous attempt to ride the coattails of CB's legacy by assuming its former footprint like a avariciously priapic necrophile. It's a bad look, it's not funny, nor especially clever and -- yes, goddammit, -- it's fucking disrespectful to something that a lot of people still fervently revere.
As expressed back on this old post, I've always had something of a complicated love/hate relationship with New York Magazine. On the one hand, given my lifelong adoration of this city and my strenuously arguable skills as an ersatz writer, it seemed -- for a little while, at least -- like the perfect place for me to end up, although -- of course -- that never happened. The closest I came was getting a photograph reproduced in their Approval Matrix in 2014. I certainly applied for jobs there, over the years, and badgered contacts who'd penetrated its confines, but nothing ever panned out, alas. Either I wasn't right for the gigs in question or, more likely, they just weren't interested in what I was pushing. Oh well.
On the other hand, however, the magazine has always exuded a level of ersatz-sophisto smarm that has rubbed several people the wrong way. More to the point, they've editorially mishandled enough topics over the years, to my mind, to render themselves utterly devoid of any real semblance of credibility. After a certain point, the wife and I cancelled our subscription. I can't say I've paged through an issue in at least four or five years.
But, y'know, times change. While tactile print magazines are going the way of the wooly mammoth, many hackneyed periodicals have found a way to reinvent themselves on the web. For all intents and purposes, New York may have done just that, but I don't know. I still don't make a point of reading it. That all said, I spied one article (with accompanying video) this week that caught my eye, and thought I'd share it here.
My only problem with the clip (watch it below) is the folks they chose to poll on the subject. With the exception of venerable old Michael Musto (and I'm dead sure he'd positively wince at the thought of being branded "venerable"), I'm not really moved by the participants here. I mean, I'm not begrudging the contributions from Alex and Zach Frankel (although their second answer towards the end of the clip is incomprehensible to my ears) or Stretch Armstrong, but I didn't find any of their answers especially illuminating (nor, for that matter, was Musto's suggestion of bringing the Mudd Club back from the dead especially a revelation). At the risk of being perceived to besmirch her further, I was neither surprised nor particularly enthused to hear Lizzie Goodman cite Brownie's as the place she'd bring back. Not exactly a shocker, given the crux of her most celebrated work.
But, y'know, I'm ultimately an opinionated snob and this is essentially just a flimsy device to make Absolut Vodka seem hip (did it need help?), so none of it really matters that much. At the same time, I do like the concept. Enough of my yappin' …. Watch the clip:
My grievance here is that the idea of bringing back NYC establishments isn't just as simple as reinstating them. To make the Mudd Club special again, you'd first have to depose everyone who currently lives at 77 White Street, which has, in more recent decades, because a pricey condo. But, more to the point, what made places like the Mudd Club -- and, to that same end, the other clubs mentioned in the clip, notably Nell's, the Palladium and the Tunnel -- so significant were the sensibilities, the cultures and the eras in which they were thriving. A Mudd Club on the White Street of 2018 wouldn't make any sense. But, perhaps I'm overthinking this.
Hopefully she’s not reading this blog right now, but we’re going to a surprise party, this evening, for a friend at Automatic Slim’s in the West Village. I did a double-take when my wife told me where we were headed. While not quite “regulars,” myself and a select coterie of like-minded idiots used to frequently darken the doors of this establishment throughout the 90’s, although I cannot say I’ve been since the dawn of the new millennium. I snapped the photo of its signature corner-occupying entry way (with a great, big, fuck-off wide-angle lens) in about 1998, or so.
Evidently, they serve food at Automatic Slims, which is something that never occurred to me, as my associations with the place inexorably involve heroic amounts of ill-advised beverages, and precious little else. In fact, I want to say the last time I was in the place, I was forced to imbibe a veritable flotilla of shots by my friends Rob B. & Rob C., only to ascend from my seat some twenty minutes later, and wordlessly exit the establishment without notifying any of my compatriots. Somehow I made it home, only to throw up with a robust sense of purpose. Yeah, that was lovely. One assumes this evening will be slightly different.
My other pervading memory of nights at Automatic Slim’s involves some framed prints of Iggy and the Stooges and the New York Dolls that were hung about its walls, at some point, in the late 90’s. The magnificence of same had myself and my friend Rob D. drunkenly conspiring to somehow make-off with one of them whilst the barkeep was distracted. In a rare moment of wisdom, we demurred from this half-baked endeavor, but it was not as stealthy an instant of clear, common sense and considerate good-will as it should have been. He and I had a similar quandary regarding a framed Ramones photograph at (long-since-vanished) Wowsville on Second Avenue about year later (you can read that tragic saga here).
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