Flaming Pablum

Manhattan of The Damned

The Damned first played New York City’s CBGB in 1977, the first British Punk band to do so (along with having been the first British Punk band to issue any vinyl). During that maiden voyage, the band were famously captured by erstwhile CBGB door-minder/photographer Roberta Bayley in the photo above, posing with great, snotty aplomb in front of the twin towers of the World Trade Center.

The band ended up playing four April nights at CBGB, sharing the bill with their Buckeye counterparts in the Dead Boys. Here’s a shot of them during one of those doubtlessly volatile evenings, this one taken by Ebet Roberts.

Today, meanwhile, in trawling around the `net, looking for nothing in particular, I came across this uncredited photo from the same era. I’m making some assumptions here but based on the line-up (with guitarist Brian James still in the ranks), I’m guessing this was snapped during that same span of April days. I have no idea who took it, but my question is – where in Manhattan was this photograph snapped?

I’d say the awning behind Dave Vanian on the left is a big clue, as are the terraced apartments behind Captain Sensible’s head. I have a hunch which I’m going to investigate, but where do YOU think it was taken?

The Damned are coming back to New York City (with original drummer Rat Scabies with them, this time) this May, but the next day is my son’s graduation, so I don’t think we’ll be going. We did just see them in October, anyway.

Meanwhile, here’s a taste of one of those shows…

Back to Leo London’s Lower East Side

I’ve invoked the Flickr photos of Leo London a few times here. I don’t know the guy. I just happened upon his pics, at one point, and found several that spoke to my own NYC experience, and I’ve been raiding his collection ever since. Apropos of nothing, I was looking at them again and thought I’d re-circulate them. Both the one up top and the one below are Leo's. 

Presumably captured while he was an NYU student at the dawn of the `90s, Leo’s pictures detail his various apartments in the East Village and Lower East Side, his exploits at any number of bars and cocktail parties, a few random road trips and his life gigging in a band called, I believe, Lobster of Hate. It’s not that his photographs are anything that novel, but they seem aligned with my own predilections and associations of the New York City of that era.

Please enjoy them and tell him Flaming Pablum sent ya. And as long as we're talking Flickr feeds, you can see my own similarly inclined collection here. 

Bring the Noizz

If you’ve ever covertly harbored the burning desire to buy me a beer or, conversely, long nursed a fantasy about pouring a beer over my head, you’ll soon have your opportunity to do one or both of those things next month, out in the wilds of Bushwick, Brooklyn (or the `Schwick, as objectionable hipsters call it) when the mighty Art Gray Noizz Quintet joins forces with Lydia Lunch, Knife Thrower (the new band helmed by Erik Sanko) and the Skull Practitioners.

When I saw the line-up announced today -- all big faves of mine --  I immediately procured m’self some tickets, despite having never been to the venue in question (the Sultan Room). In any case, I’ll be there, and you should be, too!

Find tickets here.

Meanwhile, here’s a great, relatively recent interview with Art Gray and Ryan Skeletonboy of the Art Gray Noizz Quintent. Your life will be immeasurably bettered by having read it.

Here’s a taste…

Old News About Stupid Shit: Dissecting “The Punk Rock MBA”

I realize this was news two weeks ago, and everyone’s probably moved on, but whatever. If you come here expecting breaking news, I don’t know what to tell you.

I should also preface this by saying I’ve only seen the YouTube “content” from this guy a couple of times … and in each of those instances, I was unimpressed.

I’m talking, of course, about Finn McKenty, the persistent YouTube vlogger and self-described “Punk Rock MBA” who, over the course of the last several years, built up a loyal online following via his series of videos discussing Punk Rock and ancillary concerns, frequently with an accent on marketing enhancement. Late last year, McKenty announced he was quitting his YouTube endeavors because he had “met his financial goals.”

So, what’s my grievance, you ask?

Well, for a start, “Punk Rock MBA”? I’m sorry, but FUCK YOU! Even before I’d ever heard this guy speak, I immediately found that title pretty objectionable. I mean, given his allegedly vast experience in marketing, branding and such, that mercantile oxymoron (to my mind) sort of summed up his whole approach, but that just set my teeth on edge from the get-go.

On a deeper level, McKenty was the type of music “content creator” with a tireless penchant to putting things into neat, little clearly defined boxes, repeatedly reducing whole oeuvres, styles and sounds into easily categorized subdivisions with little or no regard or concern for artistic merit or creative expression. It’s an approach more suited to touting athletic statistics or automotive performance than music and art. Moreover, many of the bands McKenty routinely championed – with precious few exceptions – were all pretty mediocre at best, but that’s just my own opinion.

Personally, I realized the guy was a complete, shit-talking fraud when in a discussion with Fat Mike from NOFX (who I also have several issues with), McKenty offered that the best American ska/punk band was Sublime (this is the wrong answer by every conceivable standard). The right answer is Operation Ivy, but whatever. As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I do not take kindly to the pervasive reinforcement of ill-informed opinions.

Regardless, this was all borne out recently when, in an interview towards the end of the year, McKenty expounded that not only had he been doing it all exclusively for the money, but also that he NEVER HAD ANY INTEREST IN MUSIC TO BEGIN WITH. Given my above take on his opinions, priorities and overall presentation, this revelation wasn’t all that surprising, but kind of disappointing and, well, depressing all the same.

Many more invested folks have already weighed in on this (like this guy and this guy), and I’m really just kinda banging the same gong, so to speak, but it’s hard not to come away from this story with a really bad taste in the mouth. I mean, on the one hand, I guess McKenty can be commended for his mastery of the medium, despite his purportedly complete disinterest in both the subject matter and the demographic that his content catered to. If what he says is true – that he was never even remotely interested in music – it’s kind of astonishing how he managed to credibly sustain his endeavor this long, let alone with any modicum of success.

I guess I’m just more struck by the cynicism of the whole ruse, and I can’t figure out what McKenty has to gain by being so openly disdainful of it all (he referred to his followers, at one point in that interview, as "smooth-brained, low-vibration people"). I gather he plans to now concentrate on new avenues to … um… well, I guess “exploit,” is the word, but I really don’t think it’s a particularly good look for him to expose himself as such a bitterly unapologetic charlatan. If you were a potential future investor or partner, would you want to do biz with this guy? I wouldn’t.

More to the point, it bums me out that this guy built himself an arguably authoritative bully pulpit of influence over a community of aspiring music fans without, well, … any authenticity or genuine passion for the music. That’s just fucking lame, however competently he managed to pull it off.

So, yeah, fuck Finn McKenty!

Sweater or Not: Re-Assessing a Sartorial Taboo

Commonly regarded as sartorial shorthand for being an insufferable, preppy douchebag, tying a sweater around one’s neck has been considered a lamentably objectionable stylistic flourish pretty much as long as, say, popping the collar of one’s polo shirt and/or perching one's eyeglasses atop one's head have been. It’s just one of those things that immediately sends a specific message. But, people still do it. They even write defensive blog posts about it.

While it’s not my preferred means of employing a sweater, I realize that times and sensibilities change and that maybe —just maybe— it’s just an absurd “rule” to begin with. Still, you probably won’t catch me doing it. For what it's worth, my 20-year-old daughter declared that while she’d never date someone who wore a tied sweater, the sweater-`round-the-waist look is “way worse” on a man, although I'm not entirely sold on that point. 

That all said, in recent days, I have twice been confronted with evidence of individuals from well outside of the nefarious realm of oppressive douchebaggery rocking the tied sweater look. These photos don’t excuse or defend the practice, but serve only to give one pause for thought.

Seen below are the Sex Pistols in March of 1977, captured upon the signing of their ill-fated contract to A&M Records in front of the well-appointed grounds of Buckingham Palace. Just to the left of the late Sid Vicious is stalwart drummer Paul Cook, smiling broadly at the camera and sporting a fuzzy mohair sweater doubtlessly procured from the collection of Vivienne Westwood. He sports it, fetchingly, around his shoulders like a J. Crew model.

Despite their comparatively grand, indelible entrance into pop culture, the Sex Pistols would messily flame out shortly after the above photo was taken, prompting lead singer/provocateur Johnny “Rotten” Lydon to form the significantly more adventurous and experimental Public Image Ltd. The original line-up of same is pictured below, comprised of Lydon, guitarist Keith Levene, drummer Jim Walker and — pictured far left — bassist John Wardle, a.k.a. Jah Wobble, whose signature dub-influenced playing helped forge post-punk’s trajectory.

For all his insouciant iconoclasm, however, the estimable Mr. Wobble is seen …. with a sweater around his neck and shoulders.

So, if Punk Rock royalty like Cook & Wobble can get away it, … could it be so bad?

Ramones on Extra Place: From Chalkie to Char

I stumbled quite randomly on the above shot of the Ramones posing behind CBGB on Extra Place, the alley between the Bowery and Second Avenue in 1977. I initially assumed it was snapped by frequent Ramones documenter, Bob Gruen, but it turns out it was actually captured by one Chalkie Davies for the cover of the NME. I did some further Googling, and found this site wherein Chalkie himself discusses the shoot...

In April 1977 Mick Farren and I came to New York to check out the punk scene for the NME. We went to all the well known Clubs including CBGB's, Max's Kansas City, the Bottom Line, Danceteria and the Mudd Club.

Joey Ramone lived close to CBGB'S which was on the Bowery in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. Initially we took photos on the roof of Joey's apartment building but although it looked like New York it did not really have the right feel.

I had spotted this alley when walking over to Joey's place, it was a block from  the Bowery and seemed perfect to me, it was full of trash and totally run down, back then huge parts of Manhattan were like this, the money had run out and the city was bankrupt.

I dragged the four Ramones to the location, I did a number of group shots, aided by their Artistic Director the late Arturo Vega. It seemed odd having somebody else telling the band what to do, all they did was stand there in a line, but it made them relaxed so I was happy to let him help.

To me this sums up the American Punk scene at that time, leather jackets, t shirts and jeans was the look they all had, it's a shame the Ramones never had the true success they deserved, but their influence should never be underestimated.

This afternoon, my daughter Charlotte and I were walking around the neighborhood, and we ducked down Extra Place to replicate the shot. 

It doesn't quite exude the same vibe, these days. 

The Last Day of the Year

Try as I might, I really don’t have anything especially deep or profound to say about the final day of 2024. Whatever grievances you might still be harboring about proceedings during the past twelve months, I’d suggest it’s safe to say that, given the circumstances, what lies ahead probably stands a very great chance of being considerably worse. But, y’know, we’ll see.

For my part, it was a somewhat tempestuous holiday season, so I’m more or less glad we’re at the tail end of it. I ended up catching the Christmas fumes, so to speak, and overcompensated in the gift-giving department, if only to stave off a few other pervasive narratives that were threatening to overtake and sour the holiday. But, everyone got through it without any major tumult.

Speaking of overdoing it, I also feel that the time is nigh to give the ol’ “Dry January” another whirl. Yes, I know — laugh it up. Peruse through the December posts here going back several years, and you’ll doubtlessly discover myriad posts wherein I vowed to scale back and get through the entirety of the month without deviating, only to abandon the program only a scant couple of weeks — or in some instances only a few days — into it.

This year is different in that, given that my feet are still giving me a lot of problems (in a nutshell, my left foot is in a perpetual state of numbness, while my right foot is starting to replicate its counterpart). My primary care physician and my podiatrist only speculate vaguely about it, but assure me that, at the very least, it’s not gout. Gout, as I understand it, is comparatively very pronounced (i.e. really painful). This could be any number of things … a spinal issue, nerve damage, peripheral neuropathy and, if you Google it, several other dispiriting warning signs of potential problems. In any case, as I understand it, there’s a longstanding correlation between foot issues and alcohol consumption, so I’m curious to see if swearing off the stuff makes any difference. Watch this space.

But we’re not there, just yet. As the Specials used to sing, although they certainly didn’t write it, enjoy yourself … it’s later than you think.

See you of the other side.

Thurston Looks Back

Just wanted to take a quick moment to evangelize the 350th episode of my buddy Drew Stone's NYHC Chronicles, featuring a great conversation with the great Thurston Moore and my comrade Joel Gausten (who you might remember from this post). While obviously renowned for his artier pursuits, Thurston has always been an avowed acolyte of punk, hardcore and extreme metal, so to hear him wax rhapsodic about his long, amazing journey in music in New York City is a real treat. Enjoy...

Reheated Pablum: Updates on Some Past Posts

I thought I’d take a moment to aggregate some updates regarding stuff I’ve written about here before. Here we go…

Some of you might remember this post from 2023, which documented the quiet closing of Miyabi, the frankly not-that-amazing Japanese restaurant that moved into Bleecker Bob’s former space at 118 West Third Street following the slow demise of that storied record shop in 2013. Well, after another period of dormancy – during which time the neighboring business to the west morphed from a dubious foot-rub/happy-ending joint into a frozen yogurt purveyor – it seems 118 is getting ready for a new tenant … one that involves, evidently, a “hibachi lab.” See the interior above.

Back in 2013, meanwhile, I wrote an entry about See/Hear, the furtive hive of zine culture, music-geek literature and underground comics that formerly held count in a basement-level space on East 7th Street. As you can see from the comments on that post, the mere invocation of the shop touched a nerve, for a lot of people. Well, for those folks, I’d like to highlight a new, comparatively exhaustive oral history that was just posted on Animal about the place that really goes into its back-history. Check that out here.

Lastly, some of you might remember a series of posts from 2017 wherein I became preoccupied with identifying a certain Manhattan corner upon which the fabled Misfits had once posed for a series of photos that had become relatively iconic (well, for Misfits fans, at least).

As detailed in those posts, I stalked the streets of Lower Manhattan trying to pinpoint the exact spot. At the same time, I reached out to the photographer, one Roxanne Lowit, to see if she could provide the answer, or at least some clues. Her assistant got back to me with some vague intel about where the location might be, and – in turn – I asked if I might reproduce some her photos for my posts. Unfortunately, the response was an emphatic NO, I could not. I got around that by linking to other sites who’d posted them, including photos of Lowit’s images on various bootleg singles and via some illustrations by my daughter, who was about 12 years old at the time. Here’s one of those illustrations now. This is Charlotte's interpretation of the print-out I'm holding in the shot above. 

Initially, I was surprised that Lowit – who’d gone on to do many, many other higher profile projects and is now a celebrated fashion photographer -- should have given that much of a damn that some rinkydink little blog like mine wanted to host her pics, but hey, I do understand. That’s her goddamn work. Those images are no one else’s. Respect is due.

Cut to 2024, and someone has evidently convinced Lowit to revisit her evening in the company of Jerry Only, Glen Danzig, Bobby Steele and Joey Image by way of a new photo book called, “We Walk the Streets at Night.” Documenting the full shoot wherein Lowit led the Lodi, New Jersey quartet around the then desolate streets of the West Village (the corner in question, incidentally, was West 11th at Washington Street), the book is frustratingly spare on details (not even a preamble from the photographer). Moreover, the images themselves are presented in their original form as blown-up slides. It’s a nice effect, I suppose, but I would have liked to see some of the pictures in a larger format – and with a bit of anecdotal augmentation, although if you’re curious as to the doings of the Misfits during that era, I would recommend the excellent book,“This Music Leaves Stains” by James Green Jr.

If you’re curious about “We Walk the Streets at Night,” meanwhile, you can pick a copy up at Generation Records on Thompson Street. Tell’em Flaming Pablum sent ya.

Lunachicks Through the Lense

Back in 2016, I posted an inordinate amount of entries detailing my frankly ridiculous search for the location of a photo of the Lunachicks, which culminated here, should you care. The photo above of the band above was not the photo in question, but taken from the same shoot. This shows the Lunachicks on the Bowery at Bond Street, just steps away from the former site of CBGB, and was snapped by one Joe Dilworth in 1990.

The charts may not be chock full of actual rock bands, anymore — their place taken by poorly-enuciating hip-hoppers and tempestuous pop twits — but flip on the streaming service of your choice, and you can avail yourselves to any number of hoary rockumentaries from all over the rock spectrum. In doing so, you're bound to hear lots or purple-prosed hyperbole and/or wildly exaggerated anecdotes about the band’s antics from a previous, more hedonistic age (and probably a soundbite or two from Dave Grohl), but lemme tell ya – the Lunachicks ain’t stretching the truth, in this trailer below.

Being a fellow native New Yorker, I had the immense privilege of seeing The Lunachicks perform many times, back in the `90s, but the show that …er… “sticks out” the most (this is an awkward turn of phrase, given the anecdote I’m about to unspool) was their opening slot circa 1990 for the Rollins Band at the Marquee Club on West 21st street in Manhattan. ADDENDUM: I just learned, via the Instagram page of Michael Wingerm, that this particular show was 34 years ago TODAY!!!!

In the trailer below, you’ll hear bassist Sydney “Squid” Silver mention a host of indignities the band had to weather during their dues-paying years, and I caught some of that firsthand, that night. Already a curious anomaly for the times (even at the dawn of the pre-Riot Grrl `90s, the notion of an all-female punk/hardcore/grunge/noise/metal/scrumrock band was still largely diminished as something of a lesser novelty), the Lunachicks usually had to do way more than simply “win over” a blithely disinterested audience that was otherwise there to see the headliner. They had to leave an indelible impression, which they usually did. Later that evening, in fact, Henry Rollins would endearingly thank the Lunachicks for allowing the Rollins Band to “to close for them.” Rarely did anyone walk away from a Lunachicks show feeling indifferent.

But in the middle of the Lunachicks’ own rollicking, high-voltage performance, that night, there was a bit of a commotion in the crowd (and not just the usual pit scuffle). The band even stopped mid-song to get involved. I was standing over on the right, and only saw what looked like a wolfpack of skinheads suddenly close in on someone and beat him senseless. The guy was pulled out of the scrum ... strangely with his pants around his ankles, and roughly frog-marched/dragged out of the venue and tossed onto the unrelenting concrete of the sidewalk. It was quite a scene.

From the stage, one of the Lunachicks called out thanks to the skins. As it turned out, the recipient of that rigorous beat-down was none other than one Dino Sex, erstwhile naked drummer for GG Allin's band, The Murder Junkies. As detailed in disquieting minutia in Todd Phillips’ excellent-if-repulsive documentary, “Hated: GG Allin & The Murder Junkies,” Dino could charitably be described as being not quite right in the head and was deeply obsessed with the Lunachicks. Dino had shown up at the Marquee that evening and was so caught up in the erotic rapture from watching the mightly Lunachicks play that he felt obliged to drop trou and commence masturbating right in front of them. Neither the band nor the skinheads in the crowd were especially enthused about this display and -- as they were wont to do – the skinheads responded accordingly.

While bloodied upon his forced exit from the Marquee, Dino did survive the experience more or less intact. The last time I saw him was years ago. By this point, he had taken up a side-hustle as a bike messenger. Calling it a “side-hustle” is actually kind of generous, being that playing drums for the Murder Junkies — naked or otherwise — probably wasn’t the most lucrative of vocations. In any case, Dino had taken to dying his hair — both on his scalp and his now bushy handlebar mustache — jarring shades of flaming orange and neon green, making him fairly hard to miss. 

I went on to see the Lunachicks quite a few times after that, and — again — it was never just another gig. I don’t believe they ever got their proper due, but I’m super psyched they’re finally getting recognized with this doc.

Check it out. 

Duty Now For The Future