Someone posted this flyer on the Ritz-centric Facebook group, The Ritz NYC. Obviously, I’ve spoken about both my love for the Ritz and the Rock Hotel series here several times before (see here and here, just as two examples). This is a cool flyer in that it showcases a slew of my favorite bands, and I’m guessing that this dates back to 1988, and I believe I was at that Dead Boys reunion show. Those were never to be missed.
In any case, the thing that really caught my eye here, though, is at the bottom – look at the January 7th show:
Did that really happen? Did Alien Sex Fiend and Schooly D share the same bill? I have seen no further evidence of this having occurred.
Alien Sex Fiend, for those who may be unfamiliar, are a storied British goth band from the Batcave scene who largely ditched the stylish finesse of Bauhaus and Siouxsie in favor of a more luridly camp, bawdy and not-just-a-little ridiculous aesthetic that owed more to the Cramps and Alice Cooper. I’ve writtenabout them here before, but their sophomore album Acid Bath is a goddamn classic. Seek it out.
In any case, the notion of Alien Sex Fiend and Schooly D sharing the same bill is simply too bizarre to fathom. That said, if you listen to “Attack #2” by Alien Sex Fiend off the afore-cited Acid Bath (below), they did include a sample recording of the call letters of Disco 92, WKTU, which – in the early-to-mid 80’s, at least – would have been the only major radio station bold enough to be playing Schooly D’s records, so maybe there was a shared affinity? I have a hard time picturing Schooly D being down with Nik Fiend, but stranger things have surely happened.
Could this show have inspired the great, star-crossed goth/hip-hop alliance that spawned the Sisters of Mercy/Public Enemy co-billing a decade later?
Earlier this week, someone posted an image by one Ernst Haas from 1962 of a cool cat sitting on the hood of a vintage car. While a striking photo by any standard, I immediately gravitated to it because of a bit of location-specific signage in the background, that being Googie’s Bar on Sullvian Street. While never a particular favorite of mine, I did indeed darken the doors of Googie’s on more than a couple of occasions. I had no idea it had been around since (at least) 1962. This all said, the only reason I really liked Googie’s was because it was directly next door to Second Coming Records.
Now, having been updating this silly blog since … god help me … 2005, I have devoted an inordinate amount of bandwidth to documenting the lost record and compact disc shops of Manhattan. I have scoured ever corner of the internet looking for photographic and/or video evidence of several such businesses that have mostly long since gone the way of the wooly mammoth. From Freebeing to 99 Records to Subterranean Records to Venus Records to It’s Only Rock N’ Roll to Rocks In Your Head to Footlights to Lunch For Your Ears and virtually all points in between, I have, for the most part, managed to find visual evidence of many of my old favorites, rounded up in sprawling photo-driven posts like this one. Then, of course, there have been ventures like Mondo Kim’s, Sounds and, yea verily, Bleecker Bob’s that have closed up shop more recently. Whenever possible, if I find a photo that I’ve never seen of these places, I usually go out of my way to share it here.
But after almost fifteen years of this stuff, I cannot say I still spend that much time searching. Here in 2020, I sort of feel like any remaining pictures of these places would have surfaced by now. I don’t want to say that the well is dry, in that capacity, but it’s pretty rare that I find anything new, these days.
Until today, that is.
Inspired by that Haas photo up top – and having just walked down this very street on my walk to work, this morning – I started sifting around. I don’t recall what configuration of terms I used but up popped the photo below. Allegedly uploaded eight months ago and originating from a book about cats of all things, herewith a super-rare shot of the interior of Second Coming Records on Sullivan Street, with …. I guess… Vladimir the Cat pictured front and center.
I love this picture in that it totally captures what it was like to be inside that cramped little shop. It also showcases another defining feature of Second Coming, that being the ceiling covered in posters. Unlike Sounds across town on St. Marks Place, you could actually buy the posters on the ceiling, and I duly outfitted my college dorm-room walls accordingly with treasures procured from the ceiling of Second Coming.
Given key promo posters pictured behind little Vladimir of Mothers Milk by the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Mind Bomb by The The, I’m going to suggest this photo was taken somewhere between 1989 and 1990. The circular neon sign in the very back (next to Elvis Costello) hung originally in the window of the shop (see below), but would move again as the shop expanded, later hung above the doorway between the two storefronts, where it remained for some time even after the shope closed, only to sadly vanish one day.
As detailed elsewhere, later during its tenure at 235 Sullivan Street, Second Coming became a hotbed of bootleg live recordings. Towards the front of the northernly wing on the right had side, they had a crucial case of cassettes. If memory serves, for about six or seven bucks a pop, you could procure any number of live recordings by likely artists like The Cure, The Sisters of Mercy, R.E.M., Siouxsie & the Banshees or U2. That may sound entirely quaint, now, but it was a bit of a risky racket, at the time – one that eventually led to the store getting in a significant amount of trouble, as reported here.
I can’t remember if it was because of this that the store eventually shut its doors, but shut they did, breaking my heart in the process. Since Second Coming split, the spaces it formerly occupied have been various ventures like a Mexican joint, a Thai bistro, a tattoo parlor and sushi parlor.
In the process of writing this, I found another new shot, this of the old storefront. Below that, I’m resurfacing the other old pics of it.
It’s 2020, and I still miss Second Coming Records. I imagine I always will.
Well, it's that time of year again. Sure, we have two whole days left, but for all intents and purposes, 2019 is over. As such, let's go ahead and dust off this old thing. Away we go...
What did you do in 2019 that you'd never done before?
I’m really wracking my brain, but I’m not coming up with anything.
Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
Nope, as discussed here, I gave up my umpteenth attempt at a Dry January in 2019 after only ten days, citing any number of arguably ridiculous and weak-willed rationalizations for doing so, and here we are again. This year, however, there is a new variable.
Shortly after this past Thanksgiving, I scheduled a long-overdue appointment with my primary care physician. I’d been neglecting to take care of certain things, investigating a few others and I’d been recently perplexed by the way in which my left foot was seemingly no longer feeling the way it used to. There was no pain involved, but it seemed to fill my shoe in way that felt simply … different. I can only describe it as being akin to the sensation wherein your sock is sort of bunched-up, and you feel an excess of crowding at the toe. Of course, I immediately assumed I had gout, given my affinity for beer. Or, more correctly, given my foundation in Catholic guilt, I immediately felt I deserved gout. In any case, preoccupied with this assumption, I figured it was prudent to go have it checked out.
As it turned out, I do not have gout. I’m told that if I did indeed have gout, I’d bloody well know it, as the pain involved is said to rival similarly acute maladies like Kidney Stones (which I have experienced). This all said, my doctor couldn’t really explain my weird foot/toe problem, which was a bit frustrating.
On the plus side, I got a reasonably clean bill of health — no egregious deviations from normal in most capacities. On the minus side, he did suggest my blood pressure was a bit high, going on to suggest that a sharp curtailing of alcohol would invariably do me some good. So, while not quite “doctor’s orders,” I am taking that to heart, so to speak, and endeavoring to once again swear off the suds until I go back and see my medicine man for a follow-up visit in …. dear lord …. late February.
Mind you … it’s not January YET!
Watch this space.
Did anyone close to you give birth?
Not just yet, but one of my sisters-in-law is preggers and due in February.
Did anyone close to you die?
Mercifully, no one in my immediate family left us this year, although the mother of a dear friend of mine did, which was and remains quite upsetting.
What countries did you visit?
As documented here, the we spent a glorious five or six days in Paris this year, which I highly recommend.
What would you like to have in 2020 that you lacked in 2019?
A different president.
What date from 2019 will remain etched upon your memory?
Don’t know that there was a single, isolated date of significance, but last week, just a day before Christmas, we learned that our son was accepted, “early decision,” at the high school of his choice. We are very proud.
What was your biggest achievement of the year?
While I’m exceptionally proud of what my children have accomplished, I don’t think I particularly excelled in any specific capacity in 2019. I'm just trying to adopt, adapt and improve, as they say.
What was your biggest failure?
Too many options to choose from.
Did you suffer illness or injury?
No illnesses that I’m immediately aware of, but I did manage to lacerate my own tongue once or twice (as detailed here).
What was the best thing you bought?
Probably the flight tickets to Paris back in early October. Beyond that, I bought my son a guitar for Christmas, which he’d asked for upon returning from summer camp. I’m all for it. We’ll see how it goes. Watch this space.
Whose behavior merited celebration?
Once again, I’d cite my children. While, yes, both now in their teenaged years — and all the things that said age entails — they both take their schoolwork very seriously and routinely earn high marks on their respective report cards. Admittedly, there is now much more eye-rolling and attitudinal pushback than ever before, but I cannot complain, and remain very proud of both of them.
Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Pretty much the entirety of the Republican party and everyone who still slavishly supports the Trump Administration, regardless of the growing glacier of damning evidence of its unprecedented corruption.
Renovating the kids’ room, the Paris trip and the looming reality of paying two tuitions for my budding high schoolers.
What song will always remind you of 2019?
I hate to say it, but if there is a single song that reminds of 2019, it’s invariably one by someone like Lizzo. There were several songs I was fired up about this year (see list here), but I can’t name one that singularly screams “2019” to me.
Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
I wonder if I suffer from a bit of that seasonal melancholy, as I’m somewhat inexplicably blue quite often, these days. By the same token, that might also have something to do with how speedily my children are growing and how old I’m feeling.
Thinner or fatter?
I have it on sound authority that I have actually lost weight, although I couldn’t even begin to tell you how or why that is the case.
Richer or poorer?
Trying to live and work in Manhattan while simultaneously trying to feed, clothe and educate two children leaves one feeling always poorer.
What do you wish you'd done more of?
Earning. Paying closer attention to certain things.
What do you wish you'd done less of?
Drinking beer on my couch. Shirking various responsibilities. Procrastinating. Sounding off unsolicitedly about stupid shit.
How did you spend Christmas?
Out at my Mom’s place in Quogue.
Who did you spend the most time on the phone with?
No clue.
Did you fall in love in 2019?
Already very much in love.
How many one night stands in this last year?
Zero. I remain happily married.
What was your favorite TV program?
I quite enjoyed “Succession,” I must say.
Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
There’s a certain accusation persistently thrown around by Trump and his slackjawed supporters that Liberal Democrats are driven by a judgement-impairing hatred for Trump. Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi famously cited her own Catholic upbringing upon snapping at a reporter for suggesting same, claiming that her faith prevents her from harboring any hatred for anyone. That’s lovely and all, but being that I don’t hold any public office, and, despite also being raised a Catholic like Speaker Pelosi, am largely unencumbered by feelings of obligation to any religious dogma, I feel absolutely ZERO regrets about firmly stating that I genuinely HATEDonald Trump and his supporters with every fibre of my being. I’m not shy about it. I’m not ashamed about it. I think it’s healthy and, frankly, natural to express it. I won’t pretend otherwise.
What was the best book you read?
While I enjoyed “More Fun in The New World” by Tom DeSavia & John Doe and had higher hopes for Debbie Harry’s memoir, “Face It,” I have to say the book I probably got the biggest kick out of reading this year was my re-visitation of “The Call of Cthulhu and Other Weird Stories” by H.P. Lovecraft while dropping Oliver off at camp in location-specific Vermont this summer.
What was your greatest musical discovery?
Last year was a banner year in that I discovered the one-two punch of rock majesty in the form of Daughters and IDLES. 2019 didn’t bring as much fruit in that department, although I was quite enthused about the band John (shit name notwithstanding) and was happy to acquaint myself with 2013-era Nine Inch Nails, who I’d unwittingly slept on.
What did you want and get?
The long overdue impeachment of Trump.
What did you want and not get?
The long overdue dismantling of Trump’s Administration, his ouster from office, his indictment, his conviction and his imprisonment.
What were your favorite films of this year?
As someone who has always harbored a fascination for the story of the Manson Family, I have to say that I was quite into Quentin Tarantino’s “Once Upon a Time in Hollywood."
What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned 52, and spent it strolling the lovely byways of the Marais in Paris with my family. Again, highly recommended.
What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
For Robert Mueller to have more effectively and emphatically done his job.
How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2019?
Somewhere between “Is this inappropriate for a man my age?” and “Would one of the Stranglers have worn this?"
What kept you sane?
The necessity to provide for my family.
What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
None really spring to mind, I have to say.
What political issue stirred you the most?
Where does one begin?
Who did you miss?
Ric Ocasek, Daniel Johnston, Ranking Roger, Keith Flint, Steven Jameson, Vaughan Oliver and, most of all, Mark Hollis.
Who was the best new person you met?
Some new colleagues at work.
Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2019
I don’t know if he made the phrase up, but a writer named Richard Carlson published a book in 1997 called “Don’t Sweat The Small Stuff … And It’s All Small Stuff.” That’s pithy and clever and generically reassuring and all, but it’s also a load of bullshit. I’m not suggesting that you should frantically preoccupy yourself with all manner of daily minutia to the point of distraction, but I don’t think it’s at all prudent to tune out and skip the required reading in favor of the Cliff’s Notes either. By all means, keep life in perspective and prioritize accordingly, but pay fucking attention to the details, because therein is where you’re probably getting fucked or about to unwittingly fuck yourself. At two pivotal points in 2019, there were instances when had I just been paying a wee bit more attention, I might have saved myself a substantial boatload of trouble. In both cases, things worked themselves out, but in neither instance were those outcomes guaranteed. Before you hit send, re-read that e-mail. Keep your bankbooks in order. Don’t just take their word for it. Study your monthly statements. Follow up and follow through. Send prompt thank-you cards. And as the Ice Cube once sagely rapped, check yourself before you wreck yourself.
Song lyric that sums up 2019
It’s February The world is wearing shorts The world is wearing its heart on its sleeve There’s bad news to report But the president can’t read
It's hard to believe the great man's been gone that long, but here we are. As mentioned last year, the world needs voices like Joe Strummer now more than ever.
Peruse through the fourteen years worth of posts here on Flaming Pablum, and you’re bound to find not-just-a-few allusions to, posts about and pictures & videos of the mighty Buzzcocks, inarguably one of England’s finest exports from the Punk years. I first heard them via the inclusion of “Orgasm Addict” on a mixtape a friend bequeathed me circa 1980, and life was never the same. Progenitors of tight, immaculately crafted tunes that seamlessly fused palpable pop hooks with punky pugnacity, the Buzzcocks were, simply put, a perfect band. Beg to differ and be laughably wrong.
I didn’t see the Buzzcocks in their prime, being that they officially broke up in 1981, only a year after I’d first heard them at the age of 13. But they reformed in 1989, featuring the classic line-up of Pete Shelley, Steve Diggle, Steve Garvey and John Maher. My friend Rob B. and I went to their reunion show at the New Ritz in November of that year, and it was one of those rare live-concernt experiences wherein the myth fully lives up to the hype – the band exploded onto that stage like a multi-dimensional Jackson Pollack painting of noise and color. Hands down, it was one of the greatest shows I’ve ever had the pleasure of attending.
In typical form, I’m letting my love of the Buzzcocks get the better of me, as this post wasn’t really supposed to be about them, or at least not directly.
This post is about original Buzzcocks drummer John Maher. I only saw him perform once – at that show at the New Ritz in `89. Stiff-backed and stoic behind a pair of black shades, Maher provided the tireless engine that fueled the band’s most propulsive songs. My favorite image of him is in the live video Auf Wiedersehen, which captured the band’s final, pre-breakup performance on German television in 1981. Maher wore a black ANARCHY shirt (which was sort of cheeky, being that the band’s songs were always more about romantic travails than revolution), black shades and a bowler hat.
After the 1989 reunion, Maher left the band again to focus more on his love of vintage cars – which was also somewhat ironic, given that one of the band’s early singles, “Fast Cars,” lamented the fetishistic materialism of car culture. In any case, the band carried on without him, initially recruiting fellow Mancunian and former Smiths’ drummer Mike Joyce to helm the drum kit. Maher would later join the band onstage a couple of times, but never fully returned.
Along the way, Maher also established himself as a photographer, gaining renown for his work. I stumbled upon his Instagram not too long back and it took me a minute to connect the dots and realize that this was the same John Maher that played on some of my favorite records of all time.
Anyway, quite recently, my favorite things in the world completely aligned, and John Maher commenced a new series (?) on his website wherein he shares images of New York City he took during the Buzzcocks’ earlier tours of the United States in 1979 through 1980.
I spotted the video below on Facebook this morning and was left on the fence
On the one hand, The Ramones never made a great deal of money when they were a going concern, so I get it, and this clip is certainly cute -- dutifully adhering to the band's familial, one-for-all/all-for-one, cartoony mystique (when, in truth, they were bitterly dysfunctional), but there is still a lingering aftertaste to this.
I am somewhat reminded of an abortive ad campaign for Doc Martens back in 2007 that featured the late Joey Ramone wearing a pair of Docs, when it's universally acknowledged the great man never wore anything but sneakers.
Also, not to totally become Johnny Pedantic, but I don't know that the Ramones actually wore Converse. I mean, yeah, they wore plimsolls (i.e. canvas sneakers), but were they Converse? Might they have actually been Pro-Keds?
I posed this question on Facebook, and my old MTV News colleague Brian Wallace weighed in with a truly exhaustive website devoted to the Ramones' preferred footwear (short answer: While they frequently sported Sperry "boating shoes," they were known to rock the odd pair of Converse). So, there you have it.
A video trailer for her book, here’s the video for “Girl to City,” the memoir of downtown chanteuse Amy Rigby. I first encountered Ms. Rigby via black and white photographs of her striking visage (some of the most iconic ones, like the portrait below, taken by Julia Gorton) that lead me to the conclusion that she was some sort of tempestuous No Wave vixen ala Lydia Lunch, Lizzy Mercier Descloux or Anya Philips. This wasn’t entirely the case, as Miss Rigby’s own music owed more to classic pop, folk and country, albeit practiced with the D.I.Y. aesthetic of the era. Suffice it to say, Amy Rigby was punk before the term became so rigidly codified.
In any case, this visual snippet of the great lady’s days on the downtown Manhattan scene – hanging in the East Village, playing at venues like Tier 3 and Folk City, etc. – leads me to believe that her book-- which came out only a couple of months back -- is something worth checking out.
Chinatown. Invoke its name, and your head is immediately filled with images of winding, narrow streets bustling with activity. To stroll through its storied byways is to encounter countless sights, sounds, scents, flavors and options that are as enticing as they are intimidating. A city within a city, Chinatown makes me feel like a total tourist rube, even as a lifelong, native New Yorker.
Sure, I know a few arguably obvious spots for an evening out in Chinatown. As mentioned elsewhere here, I’ve dined on the dim sum in the magisterial expanse of Jing Fong on Elizabeth Street, I’ve sampled the fare at Wo Hop on Mott Street, although I probably only knew the latter because of the ubiquity of its dragoon-festooned t-shirt, a former sartorial staple of downtown Manhattan hipsters. I remember myself and a group of fellow dads from my kids’ elementary school having dinner at some great place on Bayard Street (name long-since forgotten), although I believe our original mission — one we failed — was to find the eatery Andy Warhol was once photographed in. I do recall repairing to a speakeasy on fabled Doyers Street called Apotheke afterwards. But these pointers and the criteria that informed them are still pretty threadbare. In terms of authoritatively knowing what Chinatown has to offer — and not solely in terms of cuisine — I am fairly clueless. As a side note, the location of the Warhol-preferred spot was later revealed here.
My wife actually hipped me to another great dim sum place, that being Dim Sum A-Go-Go on East Broadway. It may not look fancy or authentic, but its fare is amazing …. and cheap to boot. We’ve taken the kids there a couple of times, and its always a hit for all parties concerned.
But Chinatown still remains largely opaque to me, like a code I’m constantly trying to crack. While I’m more able to find my way around it these days — and not just the well-traveled strips of Bayard, Pell & Mott — it still feels fairly impenetrable.
Seeking out places like Downtown Music Gallery, a few years back, better acquainted me to the topography, however marginally. Obviously not a place to eat or drink, DMG is a hidden-beneath-the-street bunker on far-flung Monroe Street that specializes in uproariously esoteric music. Said music was leant even further mystique by way of the long journey through the streets east of East Broadway in order to acquire it.
Then there's Mission Chinese on the other end of East Broadway. Eating here — while amazing — always feels like cheating, being that it’s not originally a local NYC concern. But Mission Chinese -- nor Downtown Music Gallery, for that matter --- really seem to belong where they are. They are not of Chinatown. I’ve always wanted to discover a great, authentic, long-established restaurant in Chinatown, but didn’t even begin to credibly know how to find it.
Stumped by the ever-perplexing quandary of what to get me for Christmas (any bits of music I want I usually go out and get myself, and I don't really want/need much else), the wife discovered a great company called Foods of New York, a group that's been conducting culinary tours of various likely neighborhoods for two decades. Now, before you protest, let me stop you right there --- YES, the idea of a food-tour of Chinatown sounds like an UPROARIOUSLY touristy thing to do, and if it's one thing New Yorkers absolutely loathe -- be they native or naturalized -- it's doing anything that may be construed as touristy. I get it. But, as I mentioned a few graphs up, I will be the very first person to concede that in terms of navigating the intricacies of Chinatown, I might as well be from friggin' Ohio. I needed help. Foods of New York were offering it. What's not to like?
Well, without giving too much away, Peg and I took the tour quite recently and it was a total revelation. For a start, our tour guide Raheem, who has being doing this sort of thing since 2007, could not have been cooler, more enthusiastic or more informed. Not only was he entirely versed the finer points of the cuisine that we were sampling from several different locations on the map, but his knack for bits of compelling historical trivia was striking. I feel somewhat remiss, I am sad to say, for having passed on a bit of incorrect trivia onto him, wrongly asserting that the album cover of the Ramones' Halfway to Sanity was shot in a doorway adjacent to one of the restaurants we visited, that being Peking Duck House on Mott Street. Turns out the cover shot of Halfway was actually taken a few hundred steps to the southeast. Ah well.
In any case, during the three or four hours of the tour, we tasted some amazing food, learned of at least three or four absolutely must-visit-again spots and got a few great pointers for new places to knock back a few drinks. What can I say, I really, really enjoyed it and highly recommend it.
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