Flaming Pablum

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London Acquiescing

Some of you might remember a pair of posts from 2018 wherein I delved into the curious story of Dave Marin, a fellow traveler on the roads of rock ’n’ roll pedantry.

Dave’s singular quest was to rectify a long-held discrepancy between the memory of his first-hand experience witnessing a specific moment at a Clash show at the Palladium on East 14th Street in the comparatively carefree days of 1979 and the documentation of same on the back cover of The Clash’s celebrated third album, London Calling. That singular moment, of course, was the smashing of Paul Simonon’s star-crossed Precision bass guitar, a fleeting moment of rage prefigured by Pennie Smith’s fateful snapping of a photograph of the instant just prior. While that photograph went onto become inarguably one of the most iconic images in rock history, Dave maintained that the archivists in the Clash camp got the date of the show in question wrong on the back cover, and it had become his mission to amend that particular oversight ever since.

Last night, Dave shared some happy news…

Hi Alex. Just to put this to bed, today “The Clash” official Twitter account sent out the following: “20th + 21st Sept 1979 The Palladium NY Take The 5th Tour. Paul Simonon smashed his Fender P Bass on stage in frustration towards the end of the show. Pennie Smith captured the moment and it became London Calling album sleeve, which dated the image on 21st. In fact it was on 20th!” Take care. D

Today, after being on loan to the deeply dubious Rock N’ Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, the remaining pieces of the bass guitar in question are back with Paul Simonon. The Clash officially disbanded in 1986, in the wake of the arguably abortive Cut The Crap album. Lead singer/songwriter Joe Strummer passed away in 2002. The Palladium was razed in 1998, and a NYU dormitory was built in its footprint. Today, the exact spot where Paul took his bass to task is the produce aisle of a Trader Joe’s that I was actually in yesterday afternoon. 

And Dave Marin? Now he can fitfully sleep through the night.

The Science of the Lamb

If I was a fraction as cool as I sometimes like to pretend I am, I could blithely rattle off a litany of pithy factoids about Crash Course in Science, a sort of primitive electronic trio from Philadelphia. But, I’m just not that cool, alas, and must cop to the fact that I only learned about them today.

Posted by one Weasel Walter, erstwhile member of the Flying Luttenbachers and current guitarist for Lydia Lunch’s Retrovirus, on a Facebook group about No Wave, “Cardboard Lamb” by Crash Course in Science — below — dates back to the grainy wilds of 1981. The band were allegedly fixtures on the NYC club scene, and released an EP around the same era, along with making appearances on New Jersey's own "Uncle Floyd Show." I'm not sure what transpired between then and now, but they’ve gone onto release two full albums since 2010.

Not sure if the “ahead of their time” flourish is entirely applicable, but CCiS dd seem to prefigure a lot of more minimalist electronic pop of more recent years — Cold Cave kinda springs to mind, what little of them I know.

In any case, I was more struck by the footage in the video below. While I know as recently as yesterday I made a declaration that I feel slightly uncomfortable lapsing into anything overtly nostalgic during the turbulence of the COVID-19 era, but this clip does hearken back to decidedly simpler age. Study the visuals, and you’ll notice the big Con Ed plant at the eastern end of 14th Street and what looks like the Williamsburg Bridge as two of the primary locations.

What is it all about? Hell if I know.

No More Time For Looking Back

The last time I posted the picture up top — an artful shot of the interior of Rocks in Your Head, a former, beloved record shop on Prince Street in SoHo, purloined from the wilds of Flickr, if memory serves — was January 2012, and it accompanied yet another entry of mine that weepily lamented the passage of time. Over the course of the last fifteen years, this blog has been largely defined by posts like that — sepia-toned homages to the Manhattan of my youth, a veritable lost continent peppered with places like Rocks In Your Head that were otherwise extinguished by gentrification, spiraling rents, shifting cultural sensibilities, the sickly convenience of new technology or a potently unwieldy combination of all of the above. This blog has frequently acted as one long fist-shake at the tirelessly amorphous topography of this urban environment, where sentimentality is for the weak and significance is perilously relative.

I wish I could recall the specific luminary in question, but I remember reading an interview with a certain woman— it was someone along the lines of Deborah Harry, Tina Weymouth or even Lydia Lunch — and the question was posed to her, “When did Downtown die?” I’m leaning towards it being Debbie Harry, but her immediate response was September 11th. If I recall correctly, she didn’t mean to suggest that the Downtown Manhattan of 2001 just prior to that event was as thriving and multifaceted a bohemian wonderland as it had been in the 70’s and 80’s, but rather that the seismic upheaval brought on by the horrific rigors of that fateful day firmly bookended the end of an era. The fanciful bubble had been popped in the most jarring of ways by the outside world, and there was never going to be any return to those days.

Whomever she was, she wasn’t wrong. While that transformation was already underway, New York City changed dramatically in the wake of 9/11, “bouncing back” in a trajectory that leaned very heavily in favor of monied exclusivity. In the past nineteen years, the city has gone onto become way more prohibitively costly, largely at the expense of all semblance of its former character, to say nothing of vast swathes of its former residents. Apologists will cite Heraclitis’ mantra that change is the only constant, but even a passive observer would concede that the metamorphosis of New York City since 2001 has been sharp, and vertically steep.

As the new city emerged — one feverishly pockmarked by chains and big box retailers and increasingly less by longstanding mom’n’pops — blogs like mine and far more scrupulous, focussed and studious ones like Jeremiah Moss’s Vanishing Downtown and EV Grieve (to name my favorite two) appeared to document the carnage. While my blog is inexorably entwined rather narrowly with my own personal experiences and recollections, those two — and others -- presented wider vistas as to the ensuing effects on whole neighborhoods. I may have been preoccupied with vanishing record stores, punk bars and live music venues, but they were scrutinizing the tolls taken on the city’s fragile cultural ecosystem writ large.

After a while, the more brazenly nostalgic aspects of these types of endeavors made them easier to diminish. Reverently sipping Gem Spa egg creams in our authentic CBGB t-shirts, we were just stubborn, aging die-hards pining for the fabled "bad old days" and failing to appreciate the amenities of the new iteration of New York City. Of course we don’t want the old site of Bleecker Bob’s to become a frozen yogurt emporium. Of course we don’t think 14th Street should become a new tech hub. Of course we are offended by the notion of a newly bespoke Chelsea Hotel. Of course the reimagining of Chumley’s as a chic, tony bistro pisses us off. Etc. Etc.

Then, as if someone hit the smart bomb button in a giant game of “Defender,” the pandemic arrived.

Age-old speakeasy bar? Fuck you, you’re closed. Newly minted nouvelle Indian bistro? Fuck you, you’re closed. Niche curio shop for left-of-center gift ideas? Fuck you, you’re closed. Neighborhood institution helmed by third generation of proud proprietors? Fuck you, you are closed.

Like September 11th before it, the historical impact of the COVID-19 pandemic has rendered such provincial concerns moot and mute in a manner no scale of gentrification could ever match. Sure, lots of places are still hanging on, but the rulebook has been torched and businesses of all stripes are frantically trying to innovate on the fly and improvise a tenuous way forward.

Here in the throes — again, notice I didn’t say wake? This isn’t over yet — of the COVID-19 era (or the Trumpandemic, as I was calling it), virtually every New Yorker is now a brazen nostalgist, albeit of a possibly shallower calibration. While I may continue to sigh wistfully while passing the former site of a comic-book shop from my distant childhood that is now a cell-phone emporium, your average mask-wearer on the street is now nostalgic for just seven months ago, when he or she could walk out of their pricey condo and get a friggin’ boba tea and a new vape pen without worrying about contracting a viably lethal respiratory infection. No one has time to look back. We must all collectively look forward and figure out a future.

As a result, my usual, old habit of floridly ruminating ad nauseam about the New York City of my particular yesteryear feels less relevant than ever — which is saying something. Because, honestly, who could really give a rolling rat fuck about a favorite lost dive-bar I used to get drunk in back in 1989 when approximately 150 bars and restaurants here have permanently closed since March 1, 2020?

But, you know what they say about old habits. They die hard.

Walking home from a quick visit to my temporarily dormant office yesterday afternoon, I passed by the former site of Rocks in Your Head on Prince street, the record shop pictured at the top of this post, which closed in 2006. In the wake of the departure of Rocks in Your Head, the basement-space in question played host to a real estate agency, a concern that set up a rabbit-warren of office cubicles where racks and racks of rarefied LPs used to be. Evidently, said agency also recently fell prey to the conditions of COVID-19, and the space is now entirely vacant. I could not help peering in and capturing the photo below from roughly the same vantage point as the photo above.

Throw your support behind you favorite aspects and local businesses of New York City old and new, and may we all get through this.

Desktop Dump: Back to The Office Edition

Popped back into my office, today, for the first time in six months. My desktop was chockablock with extraneous crap. Here are some visual items I'd obviously set to one side for a later use that never materialized. 

Downtown Music Gallery when it was on the Bowery...

An old interior shot of Rocks in Your Head in SoHo. This shop closed, after many years, and became a real estate agency. I walked by over the weekend, and that concern has since closed up shop. The space is now vacant. 

The iconic old rooftop of El Teddy's on West Broadway. This building was razed and a condo was built in its footprint. The space that had been El Teddy's is now a hardware store. No idea where the crown ended up. 

An old shot of the exterior of The Pyramid on Avenue A. Still there, last I checked. 

The brothers Ramone. 

The west side of Broadway around 8th Street. Taken from a film. 

The show I didn't go to. 

Nixed sticker concept. 

No idea. 

Lafayette Street a long, long time ago (1975) as captured by Rich Allen (not to be confused with one-armed Def Leppard drummer Rick Allen).

Lou Reed with vacuum cleaners. 

 

 

If You Mess With The Bull, ... You Get The Horns

Listen, I know I’m super guilty of being a too literal about deeply silly shit, but this meme keeps popping back into my Facebook feed, and it’s making me apoplectic.

The implication, I’m assuming, is that John Hughes’ iconic characters of suburban Chicago high school students can each be summed up by the rosters of bands they’ve each been assigned. Speaking as both a stupefyingly pedantic music geek and a former bona fide high school student from the very same era depicted in “The Breakfast Club,” …. I HAVE SOME ISSUES. They are as follows…

1. There is NO WAY ON EARTH John Bender, The Criminal — played by Judd Nelson — would have been a fan of Joy Division, much less Tubeway Army. Did the individual who created this meme ever see the movie? In one pivotal scene, the kids repair to Bender’s locker to fetch his “doobage” and the interior of same is decked out with invocations of The Doors and The Scorpions, suggesting Bender was a fairly devout adherent to classic rock and metal. Joy Division’s tortured ruminations of existential dread would just not have been on his menu. Moreover, Gary Numan disbanded Tubeway Army circa 1979, and really only made a solitary dent in the mass American consciousness with “Cars” that same year — which would have come out when Bender’s character was in eighth grade. I doubt he’d have cared about Numan’s chilly synthesizers, to say nothing of the likelihood of even being aware of his former band.

2. Assigning Alison the Basket Case — played by Ally Sheedy — a list of ersatz goth & indie bands is truly lazy. For a start, the Pixies didn’t even EXIST in 1985, so it’s impossible she’d have been a fan. It’s a herculean assumption that she’d dig The Cure, The Smiths and The Banshees simply because she wears black. Not sure WHERE the assertion that she’d have liked the fun-loving B-52s comes from, but DID ANYONE ACTUALLY SEE THE FILM? Alison, during their lunch hour, actually whips out a copy of the cover of Prince’s 1999 and stares longingly at it, meanwhile, Prince is nowhere on this list. Do details no longer matter?

3. There is precious little indication throughout the film of what music Brian The Brain — played by Anthony Michael Hall — might have listened to, apart from the pot-smoking dance sequence. To blithely assume he’d have been into conventional mainstream pop like Hall & Oates strikes me as a dismissive move. Conversely, to assume a suburban Chicago high schooler would have even been aware of seminal-albeit-comparatively-obscsure New York punk stalwarts Television seems like something of a heroic leap.

DON’T BUY THIS REVISIONISM!!!!

One More for Mike

One more in light of September 11th.

I've discussed it here before, but I lost a friend from high school on that day. Without re-telling that long tale, the late Mike Armstrong was an insatiably affable, gregarious and popular guy in our class — quite literally a big-hearted friend to all of us — even the scowly malcontents like myself.

Class president. Party-thrower. Joker. Confidant. Smooth operator. Mike was all of those things and way more. That he chose to spend any time in the company of twitchily argumentative dweebs like myself always befuddled me, but we were fast friends — bonded over a mutual love of music that was largely low of brow and high of decibel.

It was Mike that spearheaded nights tucked just within the gates of Central Park at 79th and Fifth Avenue — a secluded patch re-dubbed “Club 79” where several of us would furtively consume contraband beers while listening to boomboxed airings of Rush, Iron Maiden, U2 and Run-DMC.

It was Mike that routinely pumped the volume up on the stereo in the student commons’ senior section when favorite selections came on.

And it was Mike I went with to Madison Square Garden to see AC/DC on the Flick of The Switch tour (the show in question captured above by Lynn Goldsmith). I will never hear this and not think of him.

Rest in peace, my friend. You remain sorely missed by all who knew you.

"Sinking Ship"

Former New York Dolls lead singer David Johansen has always been endearingly disinclined to do what was expected of him. Despite being a preeminently influential figure of proto-punk, when the `Dolls fell apart, his solo career plied a much more conventional brand of rock that came largely free of the pugnacity and sloppy spectacle of his former band. He later completely shifted gears and became kitschy lounge singer Buster Poindexter and, later still, indulged his love of country and blues with the Harry Smiths. Yes, there was the fleeting New York Dolls reunion that briefly found him squeezing back into the skimpy togs, but I never got the feeling that his heart was truly in that chapter. I may be wrong.

In any event, here in 2020, David has released ostensibly a protest song. Long have people been ruminating on the absence of proper protest music of the variety that marked previous periods of upheaval — from the hippies in the 60’s to the punks in the 70’s through to the hardcore kids in the 80’s. David has decided to throw his hat into the ring and call out the strenuous disarray caused by the Trump Administration. True to form. however, David has not channeled his former glories as a tight-trousered rock hellion bellowing over loud, blistering guitars. Instead, it’s a spritely calypso cover of Winston Edward Peters’ “Sinking Ship.”

See what you think…

They Missed A Beat

So, I finally saw the Go-Go’s documentary on Showtime, and while I did indeed enjoy it and think you all should see it, three things jumped out at me that hamper my full espousal of this particular cinematic endeavor.

They are as follows:

1. As much as I adore and respect Jane Wiedlin and have done since first hearing “Our Lips Are Sealed,” her twice-repeated claim that “Punk Rock started in England” is depressingly misinformed.
   
   
2. During one of a couple of discussions about the British Punk scene circa 1977, the filmmakers showed a montage of what they considered period-specific still photographs of same. One of those photos was of Tony James and Martin Degville of Sigue Sigue Sputnik. While, yes, Tony James was indeed in Generation X, Sigue Sigue Sputnik were (a) not part of the British Punk scene circa 1977 and (b) didn’t actually form until 1982.
   
   
3. During another discussion about the British Punk scene, the filmmakers use a still from Alex Cox’s “Sid & Nancy,” one that actually featured Gary Oldman. Whatever your stance on Cox’s film — botched or brilliant — this is unforgivably lazy.
   
   Do better.

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