Flaming Pablum

Summer 2020

"Through The Night"

Brooklyn at night during the peak of New York City's coronavirus outbreak, captured on bike rides throughout the borough. Set to Pat Irwin's haunting recording of the U.S. national anthem performed at the Never Records installation at The Rudin Family Gallery at BAM Strong on January 23, 2020.

Companion photo book Keep This Far Apart: Nighttime in Brooklyn, Spring 2020 available for purchase, with all proceeds going to Brooklyn Rescue Mission: https://sampolcer.com/store/keep-this...

Filmmaker statement: "On April 6th, New York City reached what turned out to be its highest number of daily COVID-19 hospitalizations (1,719) and cases (6,376), and third-highest number of daily deaths (565); the city had firmly established itself as the world’s coronavirus epicenter, gripped by fear, uncertainty and loneliness. That night, I began going on bike rides throughout the borough after dark for exercise and a taste of freedom sorely lacking in locked-down isolation. Out on the streets, I was struck by an overwhelming quiet overlaid with the constant wail of distant ambulance sirens, and decided immediately to document what I saw, from shuttered theaters and garbage-strewn sidewalks to the occasional cyclist or couple out for an evening stroll. For seven weeks, when the city that never sleeps tucked itself in, I’d embark from my home in the Kensington neighborhood with camera and tripod in tow. I felt compelled to document this moment, and to capture the feeling of isolation experienced by millions in close proximity to each other.

Over Memorial Day weekend, the city reclaimed some of its vitality, with more New Yorkers leaving their homes to socialize, and I stopped shooting. The next day, George Floyd was murdered by former Minneapolis police officer Derek Chauvin—a second bookend to the project as horrifying as the first.

When it came time to assemble the footage, I remembered a somber rendition of the national anthem performed by the composer and musician Pat Irwin in January as a part of Never Records, a recording studio/record store art installation that took place at the new Rudin Gallery at BAM Strong. (I'm a content strategist at BAM.) I just had this sense that the country was about as low as it could go, spiritually, and in nearly all other ways—thousands of people were dying, and our leaders were asleep at the wheel—and Irwin’s deeply affecting ‘Anthem’ resonated with that sentiment. It's probably the somberest, least patriotic version of the tune you've ever heard. And as an instrumental that leaves out the lyrics, it's appropriate considering current conversations around racial inequality: the song's lyricist, Francis Scott Key, was a slaveowner.

As NYC reopens and much of the country grapples with virus surges, the film is a meditative portrait of the city at its most locked-down. Is this what it means to be patriotic during a pandemic?"

Bios: Sam Polcer is a writer and photographer whose work has appeared in National Geographic, The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Time Out New York, Hemispheres, Brooklyn Magazine, Spin.com, Esquire.com, Travel+Leisure.com, and many other websites and publications, as well as at the Museum of the City of New York. He is also a content strategist at BAM (Brooklyn Academy of Music). His first book, New York Bike Style, was published by Prestel in 2014. Previously, he was the communications director at Bike New York and an editor (of both text and photography) at Hemispheres. https://www.sampolcer.com

Patrick Irwin is a composer and musician who was a founding member of two bands that grew out of New York City's No Wave scene in the late 1970s, the Raybeats and 8-Eyed Spy. He joined The B-52s from 1989 through 2008. He has composed scores for numerous independent films including My New Gun, But I'm A Cheerleader, and Bam Bam and Celeste as well as hundreds of cartoons including Rocko's Modern Life, Pepper Ann, A Little Curious, and Class of 3000. He composed the scores for HBO's Bored to Death and Showtime's Nurse Jackie and most recently for the Netflix show, The Good Cop. https://www.patirwinmusic.com

Whole Lotta Lunch

I think the first time I ever encountered Lydia Lunch was via her contribution to Sonic Youth’s Bad Moon Rising album in 1985, wherein she duetted with Thurston Moore on “Death Valley `69,” a little off-kilter ditty about the Manson Family that, when played, used to make my freshman-year roommate in college leave the room with a look of concerned agitation on his face … always a sign of quality. In fact, fuck it, here it is now….duck & cover….

Incidentally, the angry brunette lady gnashing her teeth throughout that clip is not Lydia Lunch. Lydia make a blink-&-you’ll-miss-her cameo, but the “star” of this clip is one Lung Leg, a fellow alumnus of the cinema of transgression (which I spoke about back here).

In any case, a little while after I latched onto “Death Valley `69," I picked up an issue of Byron Coley’s underground `zine, Forced Exposure, based on its inclusion of articles about Die Kreuzen — who I’d only witnessed play live for the first time some short months earlier — and those old idiotic favorites in The Meatmen. The cover-girl, for want of a better term, of that issue was none other than Lydia Lunch, enabling me to match a comely, slightly intimidating face to the pouty purr on “Death Valley `69.”

Duly intrigued by the fittingly pugnacious interview therein, imagine my glee upon finding out that my college radio station, WDUB 91.1,— where I’d only just started DJ’ing — actually had a long-neglected copy of No New York in a dusty archive otherwise overrun with The Allman Brothers, Little Feat and the soggy flaccidity of Pure Prairie League. For those unfamiliar, No New York was Brian Eno’s seminal No Wave compilation that culled together select bands from that scene, foremost among them being Lydia Lunch’s first band, Teenage Jesus & the Jerks. I vividly remember cueing up “The Closet” from same — on the air, having never heard it before — and letting her rip for WDUB’s audience. The phone summarily lit up at the sound of the discordant guitar, lurching staccato “rhythm” and Lydia’s fraught mewling. I believe we might have fielded some death threats. Pure Prairie League this was not.

I’ve spoken numerous times here about my fandom for Lydia Lunch. Not only do I love all manifestations of her unsettling music, I just find her whole aesthetic — willfully confrontational, whip-smart and unapologetic — so refreshing. It’s no pose. It’s no act. She will fuck you up.

It was for this very reason that, while left to our own devices in quarantine, I decided to, at long last, order Lydia’s cook book.

You read that right.

Indeed, along with being a tireless voice of confrontational provocation and — as she’s put it — irritainment, Ms. Lunch is also an accomplished epicurean.

The thing is, though, I don’t cook. Like, at all. Sure, I can make spaghetti or a burger. I can scramble an egg — although don’t ask me to fry one with any semblance of prowess. I can grill a steak on an outdoor grill, but any moron can do that. When it comes to the nuances of cooking, however, I am a total moron. I took a cooking class in 2001, but didn’t retain any of it. I’m also slavishly spoiled, as I married a resourceful and innovative chef. Peg is roundly capable of turning a haphazard array of leftovers into a strikingly flavorful meal.

Anyway, about three months back, when the realities of the overarching life-hiatus brought on by the COVID-19 pandemic were unfurling, I thought it would be a swell time to get ahold of Lydia’s cook book and give a few of her recipes a try. While my wife had absolutely no idea about Lydia Lunch or her music or deliberately thorny spoken-word stuff — this is probably for the best — she was indeed intrigued by the book and snatched it out of my hands upon arrival, seizing upon Lydia’s recommendations about the myriad nutritional benefits of bee pollen. In case you’ve never sampled same, bee pollen is a frankly pungent amalgam of flower pollen, nectar, enzymes honey, wax and — wait for it — “bee secretions” that tastes exactly like something described with the word “secretions” probably should. When we tried it, suffice to say, it chilled our enthusiasm for venturing further into the gaping maw of Lydia’s pantry, but there are indeed several dishes we’ve earmarked to attempt. Watch this space

Until then, however, if you’re intrigued about Ms. Lunch, you should definitely check out the latest episode of Damian Abraham’s podcast “Turned Out a Punk,” which finds the tirelessly enthusiastic lead singer of Fucked Up chatting with Lydia, who gamely expounds on her musical exploits. Given Lydia’s pronounced disdain for the very word “punk,” it’s no small feat that Damian charmed her into discussing so much stuff here. If you’re a fan, it’s well worth your time.

Also, do stick around for Lydia's rant (taken from her own podcast, which I spoke about a couple of times here not too long back) about the myriad failings of the Trump Administration. Typically, she pulls no punches and takes no prisoners. 

Check it out...

Where We Are

Ill Reconciliation

If you care even slightly about the Beastie Boys, you’ve probably already heard about this, but the Broken Record podcast reunited Adam Horovitz and Michael Diamond with Rick Rubin.

Again, if you care, it’s mandatory listening.

"When Midnight Comes Around"

Back in 2015, I interacted with a photographer named Gary Green during the course of trying to track down the location of a photograph of Joe Jackson Green snapped for the sleeve of Jackson’s “Real Men” single. Now a professor at Colby College, Green then shared with me more photos he took from back in the day, which he’d put on a website, documenting nights out at joints like Max’s Kansas City, CBGB and other likely haunts.

Today, I’m happy to evangelize that Green’s photos can now be yours in the form of a book called “When Midnight Comes Around” (yes, a Velvet Underground lyric). Rife with images of period-specific luminaries like Richard Hell, Johnny Thunders, Anya Philips, Joey Ramone, David Johanson, Debbie Harry, Patti Smith, Victor Bockris, Tom Waits, Robert Gordon, Alex Chilton, Andy Warhol, Lou Reed and more.

Click here to get your copy. Tell’em Flaming Pablum sent ya.

"Waiting for Another War"

LABORIOUS PREAMBLE:

Despite the provocative title of this post, it’s probably not what you think.

Let’s face it, the world genuinely is deep in the shitter, right now. Our cities have been ablaze with riots over systemic racism and police brutality in the wake of the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis, but the legitimate protests have been marred by violence and looting, frequently by forces without any meaningful tether to the cause (read here, incidentally, for a deeper dive on the looting phenomenon). Meanwhile, the pandemic is still raging -- despite what the current administration might try to tell you --  and one wonders what spikes in infection will result from the large-scale gatherings of the past several days. There is great uncertainty as to when things might calm down and/or return to a semblance of a normal routine. 2020 is proving to be one for the history books.

While it was never my specific intention to turn this blog into an outlet for political discussion, I have found myself using it more, specifically in the last four years, to vent my spleen in this capacity. I cannot help thinking, however, that posts about my misgivings with the direction this country has been taking and the accompanying fallout are NOT what keep readers coming back here, nor are they topics that have typically defined this stupid blog.

But, as has been the case in the wake of national calamities, mass shootings and moments of divisive political upheaval, posting entries about old punk rock records, under-celebrated bands, forgotten record shops and brazenly nostalgic New York City ephemera seems like a laughably petty waste of time and pointedly inappropriate. It’s for this reason that I’ve abandoned countless posts in progress in the past several weeks, losing my enthusiasm to wax rhapsodic about, say, discovering the myriad culinary intricacies of Lydia Lunch’s cook book or a deeply silly post dedicated to a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it detail in the background of a pivotal scene in Martin Scorsese’s “After Hours.” Those are just two examples, and I may come back to both, but they just feel indefensibly trivial right now, in the grand scheme of things.

I guess my very windy point, here, is that while I may continue to post entries that fit the milieu of this blog, so to speak, it is not to suggest that I’m not keenly aware of the shit show that is otherwise engulfing the goddamn planet. Carry on. 

ACTUAL POST:

So, yeah, when not working remotely, furrowing my brow at the news of the day or getting disconsolately irritable on social media, I have actually been doing a fair amount of reading as a means of broadening my horizons, keeping my mind occupied and retaining my sanity. I’ve already paged through books by musicians like Sam McPheeters, Bob Bert and Amy Rigby. The most recent one I’ve read, however, was written by a friend who I came to know via this blog, if I’m not entirely mistaken.

About almost a year back, some readers might remember a post I devoted to the first part of a projected two-volume memoir by one Wayne Hussey, lead singer/songwriter for The Mission and erstwhile guitarist/songwriter for the First And Last And Always iteration of the Sisters of Mercy. In that first volume, entitled “Salad Daze,” Wayne delved into the notoriously chilly gestation of the Sisters of Mercy’s first full length LP, giving his account of the frosty dysfunction within the band and their seemingly inevitable dissolution. I mentioned in the tail end of that post that such an account demanded a retort, however unlikely the notion of Andrew Eldritch — the Sisters’ perennial Mother Superior -- ever deigning to that acknowledgment might be. To that end, I pointed to the long-in-the-works tome by Mark Andrews titled “Paint My Name in Black and Gold,” which — one year later — has still not materialized.

Imagine to my surprise and glee, then, the sudden appearance of “Waiting for Another War,” an exhaustively detailed account of the early Sisters’ trajectory up through and including the same period Wayne addressed in “Salad Days,” not least penned by my new friend and fellow Cop Shoot Cop acolyte, Trevor Ristow. I ordered a copy on the spot and devoured it whole in two days’ time upon its arrival.

Ristow’s relationship to the subject is devotional, acknowledging up front a fervent appreciation for the band that stretches back to his teens. While not even slightly impartial, his approach to the telling of the Sisters’ tale applies a scholarly adherence to chronology and differing perspectives, factoring in a host of pertinent accounts from concerned parties. And while deeply reverent of Eldritch’s long-held reluctance to lift the veil on the meanings behind his songs, Ristow’s analysis of the lyrics and associated imagery connected with the band is studiously fortified with more than simply a fanboy’s grasp of the art, literature and pop-cultural ephemera that informed the gestalt of the Sisters’ carefully cultivated work and mystique. In short, “Waiting for Another War” is written with a refreshing sophistication largely absent from most books of its ilk.

This all said, I think it’s worth pointing out that as much as I slavishly enjoyed the book, I did have my polite quibbles with it. While I still have no clue how Mark Andrews’ “Paint My Name…” will read, I could not have asked for a more succinctly Eldritch-sympathetic response to Wayne Hussey’s take in “Salad Daze” than “Waiting for Another War." Ristow fully acknowledges Hussey’s capable contributions to the cause of expanding the Sisters’ sonic palette, but clearly considers the guitarist’s introduction into the Sisters as something of a dilution of what made the original ensemble so special. I was also somewhat surprised by Ristow’s blunt dismissal of certain material, taking unflinchingly dead aim at “Walk Away,” the first track that caught my attention. I don’t agree with him on that point, but I get it — I similarly blanche when I hear comparatively upstart Killing Joke fans exclaim their adoration of tracks from latter-era albums. As Ristow got onboard earlier than myself, I certainly will not fault him for his own firmly held perceptions.

Conceivably by coincidence, Ristow’s book culminates at more or less the exact same point as Hussey’s “Salad Daze,” and both authors promise follow-ups. But where Hussey plans to concentrate on his own doings with the Mission — a more conventionally “rocking” and arguably populist quartet who never swatted away the “gothic” mantle Eldritch has attempted to (unsuccessfully) dodge for his entire career — Ristow will presumably continue to track the Sisters’ ambitious-but-idiosyncratic path into their current status — a tantalizing, 27-year limbo that’s been keeping their devoted fans baying for new, studio-recorded material. Until that fully realized music materializes, there’s still the Sisters’ magisterial back catalog, one you will only appreciate more after reading “Waiting for Another War."

As a testament to this book's comprehensive brilliance, the first print run has already sold out, but click here to find out more about the second printing. Tell'em Flaming Pablum sent ya. 

Brubeck in Brown: A Jazzy Stranglers Mash-Up

This one really stopped me in my tracks.

Someone with a lot of time, patience, musical chops and editing skills put together this lovely tribute to the late Dave Greenfield of the Stranglers below, splicing elements of Dave Brubeck's ensemble performing "Take Five" into an inventive re-imagining of the single, "Golden Brown."

Here's the official explanation by its creator, Laurence Mason:

A little tribute to Dave Greenfield (keyboardist with The Stranglers who died from Covid-19 last week) and Paul Desmond (saxophonist with the Dave Brubeck quartet - the anniversary of his death is at the end of this month). Also because I've been enjoying editing videos and recording stuff over the last couple of months.

A couple of people have asked how I made this video so here we go - I took a clip from a 1964 live version of Take Five and made the drum loop by chopping up the intro and turning it from 5/4 into the 3/4 - 4/4 groove that Golden Brown has. The upright bass sound is sequenced from Logic, and the piano part was played in using one of the piano sounds from a Nord Electro 5D. Then I played the sax part over the top (I play a King Zephyr alto and for this I used a hard rubber Yanigasawa mouthpiece rather than my usual bright Guardala). The video was then edited using the clip I'd taken the drum loop from.

Cool, right? Anyway, enjoy the fruits of his meticulous labor below...and pour one out for Dave. 

Navigating The Masquerade

To those that continue to bitch about having to wearing a face mask — and I know you’re out there — really, just get over it. Your “freedom” is not being impinged or impeded by it. At worst, as a physical apparatus, it is a mild inconvenience. As someone else sagely said, if you really think wearing a mask is uncomfortable, wait `till you try a ventilator.

More to the point, though, if you’re genuinely concerned that wearing a face mask makes you look “weak” or “scared” or “soft” or “uncool,” you need to fucking grow up. If anything, wearing one makes you look cognizant, compassionate, considerate and aware. To put it in language you may more easily relate to, if you really think wearing a mask equates with “living in fear,” maybe consider the safety-catch on your semi-automatic rifle. It’s designed to prevent an unwanted discharge that could potentially harm or kill someone. The mask literally follows that exact same model. It’s not primarily about you getting infected. It’s ideally to prevent you from infecting others.

There was a sobering account by a first responder I read last week that really drove the point home for me. Regardless of all the rhetoric, all the conspiracy theories, all the "mask-shaming," this medic cut through that clutter with the frank assertion that if people saw the damage Covid-19 can wreak in its full fruition first-hand, they would waste NO TIME putting that fucking mask on.  

Wearing a mask is not ironclad or foolproof in its functionality, and there was a lot of mixed messaging at the beginning of all this about them, but if wearing masks have demonstrably slowed or stymied the spread of Covid-19 infection, then they’re worth the hassle.

So, yeah, wear the damn mask and quite whining. Your grandparents dealt with World War II. You can handle wearing a fucking fabric mask.

But, of course, many people will continue to be slow to accept that.

My only issue with wearing the masks, meanwhile, is that while I am wholly onboard, understand the necessity and do not begrudge wearing them, I am reticent to resign myself to the fact that they are, going forward, probably going to be a constant part of our daily existence. I just find that depressing. As such, I’m not really interested in employing masks as a means of self-expression.

In recent weeks, face masks have been seized upon as a viable new stream of revenue. You can now buy face masks emblazoned with your favorite sports-team colors or smiley faces or marijuana leaves and well beyond. It did not shock me in the slightest when I saw Kiss and Iron Maiden start selling official, customized masks festooned with their signature iconography. I've seen some inventive ones -- like the mouth from the cover of King Crimson’s In the Court of the Crimson King. My beloved DEVO, of course, just released some, let alone a new model of their classic energy dome affixed with a protective face screen. I shrugged.

This week, I was genuinely shocked to find that another favorite band of mine, SWANS, are now on the bandwagon, so to speak. It would never have occurred to me that this band would entertain such a venture, as their merchandising has always been fairly select. But in a climate so completely hostile to the livelihoods of songwriters and touring musicians, who can blame them for trying to capitalize on a new source of potential income? Also, given the cover art of the band’s iconic Filth album — the teeth — it is kind of a no-brainer (see image at top of this post). Their other option features the grimly fitting song title, “You Fucking People Make Me Sick.”

Yeah, that’s funny and all, but I can’t summon the enthusiasm to use face masks as a platform to express my musical affinities. It just feels kinda crass and inappropriate to me. And this is coming from a guy who has spent a ridiculously inordinate amount of time and money on band t-shirts over the decades. 

But maybe I’m overthinking it. Hey, if wearing a mask with a Night Ranger or Kanye West logo makes you more inclined to adhere to public health guidelines, SO BE IT!!

Treat yourselves. Stay safe. Be smart. Get through this. 

Random Pics Taking Up Space on My Desktop

You're welcome...