Flaming Pablum

On The Last Day: The 2023 Summer Survey

I wasn’t originally going to do another one of these, because … honestly … why would anyone care? But, then again, that same argument could be applied to pretty much every entry I post here, so, fuck it…here goes.

Defining Moment of Summer 2023
At the risk of drudging it all back up, I’d suggest the defining element of my summer involved my stupid, broken foot and having to wear that goddamn boot (see above) for four weeks. The worst of it is that here on the precipice of Autumn, it still doesn’t feel much better. I’m going back to see my quacky podiatrist in two weeks to discuss other courses of action, but it may be high time to find another doctor. Watch this space, if you care.

Best Purchase of Summer 2023
Back in June, we were invited to my nephew’s wedding, which was to be held in late August in Northern California. It was a “black-tie optional” event, so I used that as an excuse to go buy myself a proper black suit, hoping it would help me feel like more of a functioning adult. In it, I kid myself that I look like a reservoir dog, when the truth of the matter is probably closer to a middle-aged head waiter.

Best Meal of Summer 2023
Never mind just the summer, the best meal of my entire life took place in late June at a tiny eatery in Rome called Collene Emiliane. My main course was a dish simply called "Roast-Beef con purea,” which is basically just roast beef with mashed potatoes. I realize how banal that sounds, but it genuinely was the most lovingly prepared, succulent and immeasurably tasty meal I’ve ever consumed.

Best Concert of Summer 2023
Oliver and I saw some great shows, in the late Spring and earlier Summer, notably Depeche Mode back in April and then the Sisters of Mercy in Brooklyn in June. Both of those were great fun, but I’d have to say the best evening of live music I experienced this summer was only a few weeks back, seeing Calexico perform the entirety of their 2003 album, Feast of Wire at (le) Poisson Rouge over on Bleecker Street. They’re an amazing band, and I cannot recommend them highly enough.

Best Book You Read During Summer 2023
I read some fun stuff this summer, including “Heady Daze,” the second installment in the sprawling autobiographical series by Wayne Hussey of The Mission. I also enjoyed "World Travel," a collection of essays from the late Anthony Bourdain, “I Die Every Time I Hear the Sound” by Mike Doughty, “Nothin’ But a Good Time” by Tom Beaujour & Richard Bienstock,” as well as “Sweet Dreams: The Story of the New Romantics” by Dylan Jones. But, far and away, the best book I paged through this summer was “This Must Be the Place: Music, Community and Vanished Spaces in New York City” by Jesse Rifkin. I honestly cannot recommend it highly enough. Rifkin’s attention to chronological detail, musical minutia and geographical accuracy across multiple genres and local music scenes - from bongo-bangin’ folkies through Brooklynite hipster kids and the myriad musical tribes between them — is genuinely astonishing, and handled with a reverence that is inherently readable and illuminating. Even if you’re not familiar with the particulars in question, it’s an endlessly engaging journey. A MUST-READ book, full stop.

Best Movie of Summer 2023
I saw neither “Barbie” nor “Oppenheimer,” and feel not a jot of regret. I can’t actually think of a film I went to (as in, in a movie theatre) this summer, but I did quite enjoy “Squaring the Circle,” the new documentary about the album-cover design team of Hipgnosis. I also quite enjoyed “Living” with Bill Nighy, which was lovely.

Best Gift You Received of Summer 2023
For father’s day, my son gave me a fetching Love & Rockets t-shirt (his latest favorite band).

Biggest Loss of Summer 2023
On a personal level, I actually went to three funerals, this summer, which seemed a bit out of the ordinary. Mercifully, no one in my immediate circle passed away, but these were extended family members (the siblings, fathers and godparents of in-laws, etc.), and I attended to show my support for those loved ones who suffered those losses. Beyond that, I have to say that the losses of both Pee Wee Herman and Sinead O’Connor were both painfully palpable.

Song That Sums Up the Summer of Summer 2023
I don’t know if there’s truly a single song that wraps it all up, for me, but if pressed, I’d say my favorite album of Summer 2023 would be Negative Stars by local noise-rock trio, Skull Practitioners. Their vocals need a bit of work, but they mine a compelling terrain that is reminiscent of several so-called “pigfuck” bands while also somehow calling to mind the noodley prog nuttsness of early King Crimson. On a song-level, though, being that our fleeting time out in Quogue, this summer, was largely scored by the strikingly limited playlist of Sirius XM’s “Yacht Rock Radio,” I’d probably have to cite “Diamond Girl” by Seals & Crofts as the tune that might continue to remind me of this summer. I also listened to the title track of Robyn Hitchcock's Shufflemania quite a bit. 

Happiest Memory of Summer 2023
While we bicker inanely like every other family, the fact that my wife and I had the pleasure of spending so much time with both of our kids, this summer, brought me much joy. We only packed our daughter back off to Scotland this past Friday. Summer is thus officially done and dusted, as far as I’m concerned.

Saddest Memory of Summer 2023
Learning of the sudden and awful fate of Jesse Malin after suffering a spinal stroke really took the wind out of my sails. During the early weeks of the COVID 19 pandemic, when uncertainty held sway, my department at work — all sequestered in our respective homes and duly “sheltering in place” — was tasked with conceiving new content to produce to keep our audience (our creative community of affiliated songwriters, composers and publishers) informed. I pitched a series of short Q&A’s with certain songwriters to see how they were handling the challenges of this new strange era. I got the green light, and started firing off emails to various names. To my very great joy, the very first guy that got back to me was Jesse Malin, who was entirely game. I lobbed a handful of questions over and within a day, he hit me back with some great, thoughtful and inspiring responses. At this risk of lapsing into fanboy hyperbole, Jesse has always been the mover, the shaker and the tip of the spear. A true believer in the music of New York City, he makes things happen, and has kept the spirit of Punk Rock alive in a downtown Manhattan riddled by gentrification. He’s also a tireless advocate for giving BACK, and has been involved in more charitable initiatives than I can count. He’s truly one of the good guys. May he swiftly recover from this latest setback.

Scariest Moment of Summer 2023
Apart from some testy moments when looking at my dwindling bank account, I’m relieved to say that Summer 2023 didn’t come with a great deal of sudden scares.

Word That Best Describes of Summer 2023
Over.

Old Wave Goes No Navy

I routinely spend an inordinate amount of time bitching and moaning about places like The Gap, Urban Outfitter and, more recently, American Eagle hawking t-shirts with band insignias on them. Longtime readers might remember me foaming at the mouth about Flipper t-shirts being sold at Forever 21 and/or an obscure bit of Ramones artwork being inexplicably appropriated for a shirt sold by Brandy Melville. It’s getting as commonplace as canonical rock tunes like Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” being used in Carnival Cruise ads – it shouldn’t be shocking any more, but it still riles me.

This all said, someone posted something comparable on a Facebook group I belong to, today, that left me more puzzled than pissed-off. I cannot verify if this is actually true, but someone was selling an Old Navy t-shirt on eBay appended with the legend “NO WAVE NEW YORK – 1982 LOWER EAST SIDE,” augmented with an image of what looks like a derelict building (see below). Now, I have zero idea of the true provenance of the image, but the fact that it ended up on an Old Navy graphic t-shirt is truly bizarre.

Unlike, say, Nirvana, The Ramones, Rush, AC/DC, Guns N’ Roses or even Joy Division, the No Wave movement was a fairly niche concern, in the grand scheme of things, largely relegated to a more select demographic, to put it mildly. You’ll never find a bona fide No Wave record on a sports bar’s jukebox, nor is it likely to feature heavily in the offerings at your local karaoke establishment. Names like Teenage Jesus & The Jerks, DNA, Mars, The Contortions and the like may still be sacrosanct to your average egg-headed music nerd but aren’t liable to get any nods of recognition outside of the dusty record-shop contingent. Still quite capable of separating the die-hards from the dilletantes, the music of the very short-lived No Wave period is very pointedly of a “not for everyone” variety.

Moreover, if you really want to get pedantic, the juxtaposition of the term “No Wave” and the year 1982 also doesn’t really jibe, as by most credible accounts, No Wave was basically over by 1980. This garment begs so many questions. Click to enlarge. 

This all said, while I haven’t voluntarily stepped inside an Old Navy since my kids were still in their zealous nose-picking years, were I to come across it whilst perusing their wares, I’d probably buy it based solely on the sheer what-the-fuck? Incongruity of it all.

Actually.... it looks like you can get it on Etsy ... so treat yourself. 

For the curious, uninitiated and/or for the Old Navy shoppers……THIS is what No Wave sounds like….

And Zoso It Goes

Yesterday, a young colleague of mine came to the office wearing a Led Zeppellin t-shirt, despite the fact that he’s – by his own admission – never voluntarily listened to Led Zeppelin in his (comparatively very brief) life. His listening habits are generally more inclined towards contemporary pop ala Taylor Swift, Doja Cat, Ariana Grande, Maren Morris and their vile ilk. His reasons for wearing the garment in question had more to do with (a) it allegedly being the “most comfortable” t-shirt he owns and (b) he knew it would piss me off. I can’t speak to (a), but (b) was certainly true.

In response, I literally wrote a ten-paragraph (before I stopped) screed about it, invoking an episode from 18 years prior wherein a former (and also significantly younger) colleague of mine at MTV News Online failed to recognize the name “John Bonham,” despite being -– and I’m not making this up -– our allegedly hyper-informed, go-to specialist for all things heavy metal.

An urgent bundle of assets I’d been waiting for all day arrived before I could finish my epic poem, and in re-reading it this morning, I felt like the moment had passed, so I shan’t be posting it here.

In its place, though, here are my top ten favorite Zep songs. Hurrumph! 

1. “When the Levee Breaks”
2. “In the Light”
3. “Kashmir”
4. “In the Evening”
5. “The Battle of Evermore”
6. “Communication Breakdown”
7. “The Song Remains the Same”
8. “Over the Hills & Far Away”
9. “How Many More Times”
10. “The Ocean”

Lame Laundry

When it comes to band t-shirts, a lot of folks have a lot of rules and hang-ups, and, let’s just face it, I’m very much one of them. I have always been of the very firmly brandished and needlessly antagonistic opinion that if you’re not an actual fan of the band in question (and yes, that means being able to cite at least three goddamn songs), you really shouldn’t be fucking wearing the shirt. I honestly do not give a single, rolling rat fuck if that makes me a "gatekeeper" or whatever. Just don’t do it.

I’m also not a fan of the pre-distressed variety, or the ability to procure band t-shirts at places like The Gap or American Eagle or shit retail outlets of that ilk. It still irks the snots out of me that Brandy Melville — a strangely exclusive clothiers for teenage girls that only sells their duds in one single slim size — formerly sold Ramones t-shirts with the original (and comparatively very rare) artwork from Road to Ruin before Punk Magazine’s John Holmstrom re-rendered it in a more suitable style. The notion of selling a super specific bit of obscure Ramones ephemera to a demographic that is almost guaranteed to be entirely disinterested in it practically keeps me up at night. Yeah, I’m that guy. Deal with it.

For petty, idiotic shitheads like myself for whom the art and iconography of certain artists means a great deal more than it probably should, t-shirts emblazoned with certain symbols, insignia or signifiers are still a means of broadly telegraphing tribal affiliation. If I see you walking down the street in, say, a t-shirt with the album art from the first Fields of the Nephilim album on it, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you and I are kindred spirits with common interests. If I discover, however, that you’re only wearing it because you think it “looks cool,” or some variation thereof, you should expect scorn.

So, yeah, I’m a jerk, especially considering I’m in my mid-50s and probably should have stopped wearing band t-shirts about a decade ago. But, y’know, whatever.

But, I think we can all agree — as silly as I may be — that this relatively new spin on the band t-shit, modeled after the visual user experience when one plays a track on a streaming platform like Spotify is fucking abjectly sad on a level that borders on tragedy.

A Package from Abroad

This is a meandering one, so maybe go get yourself a drink before reading any further.

In the summer of 1986, I was a college student between my freshman and sophomore years, spending half my break working as a surly dishwasher out in Westhampton Beach at Ina Garten’s Barefoot Contessa. It was by no means a glamorous job, sequestered, as I was, in the dishwashing station in the rear of the kitchen, just a stone’s throw from the outside dumpster and the canal. Outside the kitchen, it was celebs, `80s fashions and teenage wildlife, but back where I was, it was stacks of soiled baking sheets, filth-encrusted mixing bowls, sharp knives hidden in murky sink water and tireless airings of Black Flag and Iron Maiden. My family routinely got a tremendous kick out of bringing friends by the rear of the kitchen, on busy Friday nights, to watch me toil. I failed to see the humor in this and responded accordingly.

It wasn’t all drudgery, though. I made several friends and often spent nights out drinking my wages with them. One early August evening, we repaired to nearby Sag Harbor to a club called Bay Street to catch UB40 perform. I realize this wins me precious few points in the cool department, but we went with what we got. It’s not like New Order or Love & Rockets were swinging out to play gigs on the East End of Long Island … although we did also get INXS and the Fine Young Cannibals, if memory serves.

I’m not gonna lie, though — while UB40 are largely maligned in credible reggae circles for their paucity of authenticity (I’m trying to be diplomatic, here), I did quite enjoy Labor of Love from a year or so earlier, which my (now late) friend Danny had been a huge champion of. Maybe they lacked the ganja-toasted edge of Peter Tosh or the righteous indignation of Steel Pulse, but as a roundly reggae-ignorant rockhead, at the time, I was just fine with it. And hey … it was a night out with beer and girls. Who was I to complain?

To be honest, I don’t actually recall that much about the show beyond more or less enjoying it. I do remember spotting a long-lost childhood friend in the crowd — a kid named Jimmy Rothwell, who I’d formerly played “Advanced Dungeons & Dragons” with a decade earlier — and having a beery reunion. UB40, for their part, played the hits, including the big ones off Labor of Love, and their then-new single “Sing Our Own Song,” seemingly oblivious to the irony of performing an anthem about the hopeful emancipation of apartheid-era South Africa to a club full of privileged, white Hamptonites. They closed, as I recall, with a rousing trek through the title track of their new record, Rat in Mi Kitchen (which, oddly enough, was retitled Rat in the Kitchen, here in the States).

As one does, despite my lukewarm affinity for the band, I dutifully bought a t-shirt, which was white with a cartoonish rat posed in front of a hypnotic black spiral, and the band’s logo on the back.

I wore that shirt for a little while, albeit not with a great deal of zeal. At some point, I believe I farmed it off to one of my nephews. The last time I saw it, it was on the back of my beach-lifeguard nephew Tristan, who’d chopped off the sleeves to showcase his guns, which are admittedly impressive.

Around the same time all of the above was going down, over in the UK, my wife (who I’d obviously not met, as yet) and her sisters also latched onto UB40. Peggy’s older sister Lizzie bought the 7” of “Rat in Mi Kitchen” (that’s me holding same, up top) and evidently played it with alarming frequency. To this day, it remains her favorite song.

At virtually every family event, Lizzie finds a way to play “Rat in Mi Kitchen.” It was kinda funny, at first, but now it’s just kind of predictable and, of course, annoying. At one recent point, I indulged Lizzie by treating her to the anecdote above, which made her squeal with jealousy.

After hearing the song played at so many family get-togethers, my daughter Charlotte has now been indoctrinated into the faith. When I told her that I’d seen UB40 on that tour and bought a shirt, her eyes bugged out. “WHERE IS THAT SHIRT NOW?” she demanded, although she was under the impression UB40 was a solitary individual, and not a band. I told her that it’s probably back at her grandmother’s house, if it’s anywhere, at this point.

The next time I was out at my mom’s, I searched the basement for the UB40 shirt, but came up empty, assuming that Tristan might still have it. As a lark, I hopped on the internet to see if I could track a version of the shirt down. I came up empty on eBay, but did manage to snag one off a website called Grailed. It wasn’t entirely cheap, but I figured Charlotte would love it, so I ponied up and ordered it.

Weeks went by, and I kinda forgot I’d ordered it …. until a mystery package arrived.

From a battered envelope covered with odd, unfamiliar stamps and odd lettering, the shirt was mine again. Closer scrutiny revealed that my seller was mailing the UB40 shirt from that 1986 tour … from war-torn fucking UKRAINE.

Now, I don’t know about you, but this instantly put things in a new perspective. Now matter what sort of stupid-ass strife you have going on in your life, I think you’re hard pressed to compete with some dude off in the wilds of Ukraine, busily stuffing a vintage concert t-shirt of little or no value into a mailer while the fucking Russian army is busy shelling his town. It certainly took the sting out of the higher-than-preferable price I paid for this silly garment. The guy even wrote to me asking if the package arrived safely and lived up to my expectations. What a true salesman.

A few days later, I packed the UB40 shirt, which has now crossed ocean after ocean, into a new mailer and bundled it off to my daughter’s college in Scotland as a surprise package. As expected, she was elated.

Back Again to The Blue Willow, Just Down from CB's

Here’s a quick follow-up to my last post on the subject in August.

Much as with love, it seems the things you really want only reveal themselves to you when you’re not actually searching for them. In this romantic fashion, another tantalizing morsel about the long-lost Blue Willow on Broadway at Bleecker Street recently dropped out of the sky, and I thought I’d share it here.

It’s usually at this point in the narrative that I point out how strenuously niche this particular concern is, and how I normally doubt anyone is as beguiled as I am by the subject. But upon posting that last entry about it, longtime friend/reader of the blog, Was Proxy, nicely wrote in to share that the Blue Willow had been the location of the first date he had with the woman who later became his wife. I’m taking that as a sign.

In any case, prompted by the recent release of the the 40th anniversary edition of If I Die, I Die by the Virgin Prunes (which I wrote about recently here … and yes, I bought it, making it the fucking fifth iteration I’ve actually bought of this album), I’d been trawling around on the internet looking for pics of the first time I ever saw Gavin Friday perform live, that being from within the iconic confines of CBGB in November of 1989. As long as we’re talking anniversaries, I should note that this past week was evidently the 49th anniversary of the opening of that fabled club. Don’t bother telling Gavin Friday that, though. My biggest takeaway from that evening, beyond it being a brilliant performance — his solo debut, was his remark from the stage about how underwhelmed he was by the stark reality that CBGB genuinely was just a grotty hole in the wall. What exactly had he been expecting?

Anyway, I didn’t take any pictures that night, mostly because I didn’t bring my big, bulky camera (which, as some of you’ll remember, in 1989, was still the only means of capturing photographs). I have very specific images in my head about the show, but have always hoped to find some photographic documentation of the gig. But I’ve always come up empty in that search….

…until today … kinda.

Simply by typing in “Gavin Friday” and “CBGB,” this morning, up popped a link on Google for a website called Concert Archives. While the entry for the gig in question is pretty threadbare, it did contain two images, ironically uploaded by a friend of mine — Greg Fasolino. More about him in a second.

Greg uploaded two sides of a postcard from Island Records that was mailed out in November of 1989 as a special invitation to the gig. Now, during this time, I was still a luckless intern at SPIN (as recently discussed here), and had not yet wormed my way into the good graces of various record-company publicists around town who’d put me on promotional lists like the one Greg was on. That would all come later, but at the time, I’d simply heard about the gig by word of mouth and paid at the door (with my friend Rob B.) for entry.

But the postcard is a puzzle, and I’ll explain why. Here’s the front…

…and here’s the back.

Two things struck me about this. First up, you’ll see that following that November 14th performance at CB’s, there was actually an afterparty just down the fucking street at, appropriately enough, the Blue Willow (which, if you’ve not caught up in your reading, thus far, was the location of the cover shot of Gavin’s debut solo album, Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves, Here that is again.

I didn’t know that, at the time, as I hadn’t gotten a special invitation postcard like Greg had. Moreover, I wouldn’t make the connection between the Blue Willow and Each Man Kills… (as first recounted in my debut post on the subject) until friggin’ 2013. Had I known, I’d have gone down to meet the great man and the significance of the venue would have dawned on me, but `twas not to be. If memory serves, after the show, Rob B. and I repaired to CB’s 313 Gallery next door for beers and I sprang for my first black CBGB shirt, which amazingly still fits today, although it’s currently buried in a drawer in my mom’s house out in Quogue.

But the puzzle is as follows: This postcard is advertising Gavin Friday’s first-ever performance at CBGB in November of 1989. Figuratively turn the card over to the picture side, and you see a shot of Gavin performing next to a cellist, appended with the legend: “Gavin Friday Onstage at CBGB. Photo by Paraic Finnegan.” Has anyone figured out the discrepancy, yet?

How can there be a picture of Gavin allegedly performing at CBGB on an invitation to what would have then been his first-ever performance at CBGB?

Before you recommend it, yes, I’ve started searching for more info on photographer Paraic Finnegan, although my hopes for success are not high.

There is, of course, the possibility that the two images Greg uploaded are NOT from the same postcard. * ADDENDUM: SCROLL DOWN

In later years, I would go onto interview Gavin Friday at the the home of his publicist, then on White Street in TriBeCa, and would go onto see him perform live at Sin-E on St. Marks Place, The Bottom Line on 4th Street and the Westbeth Theatre on Bank Street. As of late 2022, along with CBGB and CB’s 313 Gallery, all of those live-music venues are gone.

Gavin Friday went onto release a string of great solo albums and soundtracks and spent many years being creative consultant to his pals in U2. His most recent project involves writing music for a forthcoming documentary on volatile figurative painter, Francis Bacon. I’m looking forward to that.

As for Greg Fasolino, Greg and I walked very parallel paths. I think he might be a couple of years older than myself, but he was a regular face at many of the same gigs and same anglophilic record shops around town. He also worked for a while at a music magazine called Reflex, which was kind of the rival indie periodical to the one I latched onto while at SPIN, that being the New York Review of Records. Don’t bother looking for either mag today, but that’s a long saga in itself. In any case, Greg and I found each other again on social media, probably a decade ago or so, and have been friends ever since.

In terms of the Blue Willow, meanwhile, as mentioned on that previous post, the douchey menswear concern that previously occupied that lofty space vacated some time ago. The ground-floor space previously occupied by Atrium, KITH and probably several other ventures after The Blue Willow today remains dormant and papered up. But, in walking by that corner the other day, I noticed some rips in the paper and got out my phone, heartened to see that the stately marble trimming that Gavin Friday posed near all those years ago can still be seen…

I also found this. Should have a spare several million dollars lying around, why not treat yourself to a luxury apartment in the building in question (644 Broadway)... they're ....uhhh... quite nice, as you'll see. 

 

More on Gavin Friday & the Blue Willow on Flaming Pablum:

Searching For The Blue Willow

The Blue Willow is Dead

Ghosts of The Blue Willow

Back to The Blue Willow

*ADDENDUM: Shortly after publishing this post, I shared it on Facebook, where Greg Fasolino swiftly replied:

I can clarify all, my friend. The live image is not connected to the postcard at all. It’s a clip from a local NYC Irish-culture newspaper “The Irish Echo.” You can see me in the bottom right of image, watching Gavin perform while sitting at the front table at CBGB.

P.S. I also interned at Spin in 1986-87 and wrote for New (York) Review of Records as well circa 1993-95.

Here's the picture from The Irish Echo, and that is indeed Greg sitting in the very front. The question, then, remains -- what was on the front of the postcard?  Funny you should ask. Greg shared that, too. It's the naked couple from the album cover: 

 

Lastly, here is Greg's own interview with Gavin Friday for the aforementioned Reflex, recorded just two months prior to the gig at CBGB:

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.

Loud Laundry Rides Again

According some sources I would charitably describe as “dubious,” today is evidently "Band T-shirt Day,” a “global fundraising initiative where artists come together for a single day to sell merch on their official sales channels and donate proceeds to charitable organizations of their choice.” I would say to this, here in 2022, given the paltry avenues of revenue the average band have access to, said proceeds should pretty much go right to the band, but I’m not knocking the philanthropic bent of this endeavor in the slightest. If you’re interested, click here for more information.

But, as the lamentable cliché that I am, I feel compelled to point out that if you’re a serious about your music fandom, fucking EVERY day is band t-shirt day. As I’ve mentioned before, when I launched this silly blog back when the earth was young, I mentioned that I had every intention of wearing music t-shirts “well into my forties.” Well, suffice to say, that august decade has already come and gone. I’m not worryingly into the midpoint of my fifties, and still sport a wide and colorful array of band t-shirts on the regular. Is this unseemly and simply “not done”? Ask me if I give a single fuck.

Of course, these days, I’m finding more and more of my old t-shirts regularly on the back of my teenaged son Oliver who, a as budding music head in his own right, has come to appreciate the images and iconography of certain artists as much as he enjoys the music. To me, seeing my boy sport them is kinda the next best thing to me wearing them — especially as they fit his wiry frame more flattering than they do upon my steadily enriching girth, but that’s another matter.

In any case, with all this silliness in mind, I figured it was time to exhume and revive Loud Laundry, the Tumblr page I started back in — good lord — 2015 which sought to document my ever-widening collection. It is by no means comprehensive — or important or notable in any meaningful way — but it’s fun, if that’s your thing. It’s certainly my thing.

Find that here.

Bauhaus Bum Out

I was very sorry to hear that Bauhaus have cancelled yet another New York date (this on the back of nixing a Radio City Music Hall show in in 2020 over COVID, and then another in November of 2021, which I believe was over visa issues). This time, it seems storied lead vocalist Peter Murphy has checked himself into rehab, thus scuttling all of the remaining North American dates -- including Thursday, September 8th's in Brooklyn. Needs must, of course, and I wish the great man the best, but having procured tickets to all three of these shows, I am understandably a bit bummed out.

Ironically, I wasn’t even planning on going to this now-cancelled show at the magisterial King’s Theater (where I saw Spoon, a million years ago). Over the past year or so, my son Oliver has developed a voracious interest in music (much to my pronounced delight) and latched onto goth’s hoary godfathers in the process as one of his new favorites.

I’d originally planned on taking him, but in the wake of him asking, back in April, if he could “lend” a vintage Bauhaus shirt of mine to a young lady he’s been ….well, we think he’s dating her, but we’re not entirely sure …. I figured, "Hell, I saw Bauhaus when it mattered," and decided to let him take her instead and make a proper date of it.

That had been the plan … until this morning.

Oh well.

In the Lair of the Lizard: The Jesus Lizard at CBGB, August 1992

There’s been a lot of chitter-chatter, of late, about certain characters in Jordan Peele’s new horror film, “Nope,” wearing period-specific band t-shirts by less-householdy names like the Wipers, Mr. Bungle and the Jesus Lizard. Now, if you’ve spent any significant amount of time reading my silly blog, you probably know I have more than a little to say about the sporting of band t-shirts and the protocols and etiquette thereof. This all said, I haven’t seen “Nope,” nor do I have any immediate plans to, so I cannot credibly weigh in much further. Suffice to say, however, that I am strenuously skeptical that I would approve of the usage.

Never a band for the fair-weather fan or the faint of heart, here’s the mighty Jesus Lizard doing their thing on the fabled stage of CBGB during the dying embers of August 1992. At the time (and, honestly, still) I was more enamored of their pals and frequent touring companions in Cop Shoot Cop, local boys I’ve devoted far too much bandwidth to here. My friend Joanne and I would regularly debate the merits of each ensemble with a degree of fervor which suggested that fisticuffs were an entirely viable recourse to resolve the conflict. In retrospect, I’m not sure why we needed to establish which outfit was dominant — they were both equally fucking brilliant.

Regrettably, at the time this performance was captured on video, I was not in attendance (although I’m reasonably certain Cop Shoot Cop were also on the bill). In late August of 1992, I was very busily nursing a wounded, histrionic heart from being on the losing end of an office-romance breakup and invariably waging a doomed campaign, that evening, to restore what was never going to be meaningful repaired. Ah, … youth.

Flaming Pablum favorite RB Korbet exhumed this footage and put it up on Facebook this morning, and I felt compelled to share it here. With all due respect to my beloved Cop Shoot Cop, there were truly precious few bands as visceral and unpredictable as the Jesus Lizard at full throttle, and this is ample proof of that.

Maybe you were right, Joanne.