There have been numerous points, over there years, wherein I’ve vehemently disagreed with things Ben Sisario has written. Then again, he’s a celebrated music journalist who writes for the New York Times, and ...well…. I’m not.
I’m sure he has his own private opinions comparable to my own about certain subjects, but given his high profile, he needs to maintain a degree of professional impartiality. He also must write about a lot of stuff he probably doesn’t personally care for on the regular. I mean, if I had to write that much about insufferably overhyped pop and R&B bullshit, I’d probably lodge a bullet in my own skull.
This all said, Ben wrote something this week for the Times about “Tech” that struck a chord close to my own blackened heart. While conceding that, by necessity, he keeps up with all the major music platforms, he also expressed a particular affinity that is endearingly out of step with the rest of the rabble.
To be honest, my preferred way to listen to music is on CD, as unfashionable as that might be. You push a button, the music plays, and then it’s over — no ads, no privacy terrors, no algorithms!
Ben’s standing in a familiar spot in the picture above, by the way. That’s Academy Records on 18th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, and it is a splendid place to procure your music.
I’ve written too many times about my love of the Circle Jerks here that I’m not going to bother posting any links. Just Google “Flaming Pablum” and “Circle Jerks” if you genuinely give a damn.
In any case, I popped into Generation Records, on Sunday, to pick out some presents for my next-door neighbor Bruce’s birthday. You didn’t ask, but in case you’re curious, I settled on copies of what I’d consider must-have vinyl LPs like Diamond Dogs by David Bowie, Fun House by The Stooges, Press The Eject… by Bauhaus, Porcupines by Echo & the Bunnymen and one or two others. While in the process of picking out suitable titles, however, I heard some dopey tourist kid behind me loudly exclaim: “There’s a band called ‘Circle Jerks’?”
A younger, less restrained iteration of myself would invariably have spun around and schooled this slackjawed young’un about his disrespectful cluelessness, but I thought better of it. Upon relaying this anecdote to a friend of mine, she mentioned that maybe this kid would look them up and get inspired to go seek out their music, which is a far more charitable projection than I’d have been able to muster. There may be an explanation for that, however.
Given my bug-eyed fervor for the band during my high school years, I was prone to extolling their merits whenever possible, and frequently evangelized their scrawled moniker in chalk across every available blackboard I’d encounter, not unlike the scenario captured in Shawn Kerri’s iconic flyer art above.
That all said, if you weren’t actively inclined to go seek out the Circle Jerks in those days (i.e. go pick up an album of theirs or go see them live), you probably weren’t in any danger of experiencing their particular brand of high-octane punk rock. There was no internet, no YouTube and no streaming services, and the radio stations bold enough to play their records could easily be counted on a single, mangled hand with too few fingers. As such, my invocations of their greatness were usually met with disinterest, confusion or indifference.
That changed, however, when a television special called “Rock Palace” aired on one of the big three networks during my senior year, featuring a quick live set by the `Jerks. I don’t remember much about the show, other than it was hosted by Dan Ackroyd’s brother Peter. The particular line-up of the band featured the inimitable Chuck Biscuits on drums, and found lead singer Keith Morris dressed like Michael Jackson -- a joke no one seemed to notice or understand, at the time. Grainy footage of the show is out there, should anyone care.
The next day, certain vocal critics of mine at school --- who were regrettably legion -– felt newly galvanized to give me a hard time about my predilections. Still tirelessly avowed to the mainstream MTV/radio-fare of the day, the so-called “popular kids” didn’t warm to the adrenalized spleen of the Circle Jerks the way I did. But while before they didn’t know what to make of it, now they had a tiny window of reference to draw from. I shouldn’t have been surprised. If your idea of adventurous listening began and ended with, I dunno, Night Ranger and Dexy’s Midnight Runners, the Circle Jerks at full throttle probably wouldn’t make much sense to you.
Anyway, possibly as a result of that and other comparable incidents, I’m still frequently all too ready to get pugnacious about my favorite bands. If you couldn’t fathom what made them and their music so special to certain ears and/or sensibilities, then you probably didn’t deserve to fathom it. I realize how stupid, elitist and myopic that sounds, in retrospect, but it's taken me a while to get there.
So, fuckin’ YES, there WAS a band called Circle Jerks, and they were fucking brilliant. Seek them out!
A far superior sampling of the band at the peak of its powers to the ill-fated “Rock Palace” broadcast, here is their live contribution to the crucial Rat Music For Rat People compilation from 1982.
If you don’t like it …. well, you’ll always have Night Ranger.
Evidently, it’s been a whole 22 years since Jeff Buckley -- that's him above, performing at Tower Records on Broadway -- vanished beneath the water of the Wolf River Harbor in Memphis, TN and drowned (although, his body wasn’t recovered until six days later). I still remember learning about his death and being entirely incredulous about it.
I have a stupid anecdote about getting into an online spat with poor Jeff’s mother sometime after that. In those early days of online file-sharing, she was a vigilant gatekeeper of her late son’s music, and was renowned for going after his fans online. I’d dimly invoked a cover Jeff had recorded of “I Against I” by the Bad Brains on a now-long-defunct music discussion board, and she reached out and kinda went to town on me. In retrospect, it’s more sad than anything. Should you care, you can read the full stupid story here.
As a side note, according to WikiPedia –- and take from that what you will -– Jeff Buckley was once roommates with actress Brooke Smith, and it was Smith who introduced him to the music of the Bad Brains. Smith, who played Catherine Martin in “The Silence of the Lambs” (y’know – it’s her that gets the hose again if she doesn’t rub the lotion on her skin and put it back in the basket) is also the source of those amazing photos of punks and hardcore kids from the NYHC matinee scene that I wrote about way back when. Small world, eh?
Anyway, a little over two decades later, there’s been a mountain of posthumously released material from the Buckley vault, possibly even a proper release of that divisive Bad Brains cover, which was allegedly originally recorded for a radio show. But a friend of mine posted something today that I’d never seen, that being the presumably authoritative website of Jeff Buckley’s record collection.
Herein, you’ll find a lot of what I’d consider predictable stuff like Cocteau Twins, Zeppelin, Van Morrison, but there are some surprises as well. It’s not shocking to see the Bad Brains in there, but he also had a Circle Jerks album (Golden Shower Of Hits, though, not the vital Group Sex), a couple of albums by the Birthday Party, lots of Iggy Pop, a surprising amount by Skinny Puppy and even Master of Puppets by Metallica and Destroyer by KISS. Didn’t expect those last two.
Woefully, if this site is to believed, Jeff owned nothing by Killing Joke, Motorhead, the Stranglers, SWANS, XTC nor his ersatz labelmates Cop Shoot Cop (Buckley and C$C were both fleetingly signed to the UK’s Big Cat label). Moreover, he owned what I would consider an unhealthy amount of Joni Mitchell albums, but y’know … to each their own.
Originally the stately home of Eliza Hamilton, the widow of — wait for it — Alexander Hamilton, the townhouse of 4 St. Marks Place, otherwise known as the Hamilton-Holly House, is rightly considered a historic, designated landmark in the heart of what is now referred to as Manhattan’s East Village, a neighborhood descriptor Mrs. Hamilton’s tenure well predates.
As far back as I’ve ever been able to recall, however, 4 St. Marks Place was the home of Trash & Vaudeville, an enterprise I’vediscussedmanytimes here.
Along with housing Jimmy Webb’s fabled punk clothing shop, the building also boasted an iconic stoop, one that frequently played host to the the local color of the neighborhood, so to speak.
I probably first called it out in the post that led to my interview with RB Korbet of Even Worse. I’d posted the photo below, and she’d gotten in touch to let me know the photographer’s name (Dave “Daze” Parsons). RB is the lady in black looking at the camera.
Over the years, the building has seen a lot of wear & tear, much like the surrounding neighborhood, but in the last fifteen-to-twenty years, or so, gentrification in the East Village (as well as its surrounding neighborhoods) has seen a sharp uptick.
In due course, while that stoop had long played host to any number of denizens of St. Marks Place, it was eventually gated off.
In 2016, meanwhile, Trash & Vaudeville was jettisoned from Hamilton-Holly House. Don’t fret. They relocated over on East 7th and, by all accounts, are still doing well. Webb even opened up an adjunct show further down in the Lower East Side.
Back at 4 St. Marks Place, however, a sidewalk shed was erected and plans were enacted to whip the former Hamilton-Holly House back into shape, so to speak.
Following the closings of St. Marks Sounds and the Grassroots Tavern just down the block for similar purposes, this development didn’t bode well for those who — like myself — who still cling to the idea of St. Marks Place remaining the endearingly chaotic and arguably grubby gateway to the East Village.
The space was previously occupied by Trash and Vaudeville's since 1975, and has historically been an epicenter of counter culture, bohemia and rock-and-roll. This landmark building is now being gut renovated, modernized and fully restored.
For those used to looking at 4 St. Marks Place during its Trash & Vaudeville days, it’s a slightly jarring transformation. My son and I walked by it yesterday, and I couldn’t stop from taking a picture (that’s Oliver below).
I wrote a few pieces, here, over the years about David Bowie’s oft-maligned tenure in Tin Machine, and – more specifically – the videos they shot within the confines of the old Ritz on East 11th Street. That came part and parcel with the allegation, some time back, that Bowie was fond of hardcore, buffered by the appearances of folks like Harley Flanagan of the Cro-Mags and Stephan Ielpi of the False Prophets in the video for Tin Machine’s “Under the God.”
Personally speaking, I always dug the first Tin Machine record. I never got around to the second one.
In any case, the videos for same have been floating around YouTube for years, in various shoddy capacities. Visual proceedings were usually grainy and pixilated. Today, my friend Jeremy pointed out that Bowie’s official YouTube channel just posted “Nine Track Compilation,” which more or less aggregates all of Tin Machine’s first videos, seemingly all filmed in that storied East 11th Street venue, and all featuring a cast of ancillary punk rockers doing their best to slam, crowd-surf and stage dive enthusiastically to the incongruous strains of Bowie’s ill-fated, late-80’s ersatz hard rock combo.
Here it is now. Enjoy it while it lasts:
Very shortly after these clips were filmed, the Ritz closed up shop on East 11th Street and moved to the space that had formerly housed Studio 54. The East 11th Street space then turned into a more dance-oriented (as opposed to live music-centric) club and reverted back to its original name, Webster Hall. Webster Hall had a long run, and then it, too, closed its doors and gradually started to erode. This year, it has re-opened as Webster Hall.
Harley Flanagan remains active himself, fronting a new iteration of the Cro-Mags, in the wake of a protracted dispute with some of his former bandmates. Stephan Ielpsi’s current doings are unknown to me, although I want to say I read about a False Prophets reunion, at some point.
Tin Machine broke up after their second album failed to make much of a dent, arguably to the relief of many Bowie acolytes. I’m not sure what its fraternal rhythm section of Tony and Hunt Sales (sons of Soupy) are up to, these days. Guitarist Reeves Gabrels was a session guitarist for a while before re-joining Bowie’s band full-time. These days, he plays in The Cure, and has grown out his hair to rival Robert Smith’s.
David Bowie, meanwhile, has since yet to return to us.
Listen, practically *NO ONE* is more stupidly fixated with ridiculously minutia-laden music discussions than I am, but if you’re honestly inclined to vote for somebody because they were allegedly once in a punk band, really enjoy Funhouse by The Stooges or consider themselves “the first ex-goth” candidate, you really need to take a long, hard look at your priorities.
Personally speaking, I really don’t give that much of a damn what music my president listens to, as long as they’re not a raging, megalomaniacal moron like the current occupant of the White House.
Before you write me off as a cynical bastard, allow me to clarify. In no way do I mean to diminish the power, the sentiment and the resonance of the songs of, say, The Clash. To express affinity for the principles Joe Strummer’s lyrics emphatically espoused and to recognize the fiery conviction with which those lyrics were delivered -– to understand the urgency of both the music and its message -– is certainly commendable. I do want my politicians to be that cognizant, aware and appreciative of those ideals. But, by the same token, their fandom of certain bands should NOT BE ENOUGH to earn your support. In the current fraught, divisive age that finds our nation astonishingly out of step with the rest of the world on myriad key issues, the next president needs to have his or her eyes on the prize. Their record collection shouldn’t matter to you, at this stage.
Just for laughs, I took a look at Barack Obama’s 2018 playlist on Spotify, and it pretty much made my point for me. Opinions may differ, but from where I’m sitting, Obama was a solid, damn smart, scandal-free, eloquent and thoughtful leader with his heart in the right place. Did he make mistakes? Certainly, but when viewed through the prism of our current Hellscape, it’s damn hard not to miss him.
The Old New York Tumblr, which I’m quite fond of, posted the below picture today, and it struck a chord for a couple of reasons.
Snapped, evidently, in 1968, the image begs a few questions, foremost among them being what the Hell is that on the back of that motorcycle?
Is it a mannequin? A terrified mime? A cadaver? An evil clown? The little kids in the middle ground seem fairly unfazed, but maybe it’s happening too fast for them to really take stock. I fear we’ll never know the answers, here.
Beyond that, though, I really feel like I know this corner, but can’t slap a location on it. I’m assuming it’s the Lower East Side, but I suppose it could also be Brooklyn. It’s obviously somewhere in the vicinity of the Manhattan Bridge (note sign in center of photograph), but I cannot name that intersection.
Over the course of this silly blog’s almost …. Jesus … 14-year existence, I’ve posted multiple entries about doings over on West 8th Street, specifically the strip between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. Time was when this little patch of Greenwich Village covered a vast array of my needs and interests. From amazing record stores like It’s Only Rock ‘n’ Roll and the original Venus Records to mediocre ones like Revolution Records and Record Factory, there was no shortage of places to procure music. You also had Butterfly’s, should you ever be in search of just-the-right Iron Maiden or Black Flag t-shirt. Across the way was Postermat, which featured a dizzying array of crap --- poster, buttons, badges, décor – aimed squarely at teenage music jerks. There was also the suitably surreal art gallery, Psychedelic Solution and Flip, for all of your New Wavey fashion needs, the 8th Street Playhouse – which was the first place I ever saw “Repo Man” -- and the seemingly ageless Gray’s Papaya, once touted as Lou Reed’s favorite restaurant in New York City, at the end of the block. You also had the amazing video store TLA, and a massive B. Dalton Books (later Barnes & Noble) on the corner, across from Gray’s Papaya. There were also numerous places to buy shoes of every possible description.
In later years, when fortunes started to change for this once-busy byway, there were still places like Disc-O-Rama and Sleep of Reason Comics, but somewhat gradually, West 8th Street had less and less to offer me.
All of the concerns listed above, of course, are long, long gone here in 2019.
More recently, my kids became very fond of The Burger Joint (which left us about two years back), while I enjoy both the odd visit to endeavors like the 8th Street Wine Cellar, Arts & Crafts Beer Parlor and nouvelle-Italian eatery, Aunt Jake’s. My wife quite enjoys cocktails at the Marlton Hotel, every now and then, but I wouldn’t call that a particular favorite of mine.
In any case, blah blah blah… Who cares what I like, right? Fine. Regardless, as happened on University Place, and as is happening on the other side of town at St. Marks Place, West Eight Street is about to be blighted with its own enormous new luxury tower, slated to be plonked right down on the southeast corner of Eighth & MacDougal, finally putting to rest speculation of why that particular row of storefronts has been vacant for so long.
Whatever your memories of West Eighth Street are, get ready for this formerly signature byway of olde Greenwich Village to (further) decimated. Incidentally, the lovingly rendered painting of the intersection of MacDougal and West Eighth above comes courtesy of the great Ephemeral New York blog, and was painted by Alfred S. Mira in 1942. Below, meanwhile, as covered here a few times before, is Lowell Bodger's walk down West Eighth Street from the early 1970s.
Hey again, all. It’s been a crazy April -- what with multiple projects percolating at work and the home renovation all happening, and life is poised to stay well and truly frantic until mid-May, it seems. We’ve finished the kids’ room, by and large, but the renovation has had ramifications on the rest of the apartment, so we’re re-imagining our living room in a somewhat painfully piecemeal way. On the office front, I’m preparing for two massive annual events and orchestrating a complicated tribute video to a prominent music executive, so that all has me all fucking stressed out. But, I have faith we’ll get through it all.
In any case, while I’m planning a larger piece on the Museum of Art & Design’s exhibit about Punk Graphics, I thought I’d quickly post this silly update to an older post involving one tiny bit of same.
Back in 2014, some regular readers might remember an entry I posted about Product, arguably one of the first CD boxsets put out by a punk band, that being the almighty Buzzcocks. In that post, I recounted how, as recently sprung post-collegiates , my friend Rob and I desperately coveted Product, but neither of could afford it, at the time, which leant the artifact a rarefied air of incalculable value. It also became a standard of measurement for us. We’d regularly tally the cost of debilitating financial demands and/or comparably unattainable items in terms of how many copies of Product they would equal. It was a genuinely silly idea, but a tenacious one.
This past Saturday, I was briefly let off my leash to go check out the afore-cited “Too Fast to Live, Too Young to Die,” the retrospective of graphics from the Punk era, and, upon entering, what should I behold but --- WAIT FOR IT – you guessed it, a pristine and lovingly preserved copy of Product (the cassette version), presented under thick museum glass as if prized from an Egyptian tomb, lending complete and utter credence to Rob & I’s long-held reverence for the collection.
Sadly, in keeping with the Museum of Sex’s ham-fisted mishandling of key facts about the Plasmatics and Cherry Vanilla, the Museum of Art & Design somewhat unbelievably mislabeled this item as the Buzzcocks’ debut LP, Another Music in a Different Kitchen, despite the collection’s actual name spelled out in big, block capital letters.
That unfortunate quibble notwithstanding, it’s indeed a great exhibit. More to come about that.
The first time I encountered Tod Ashley, he was zealously scraping the down-tuned e-string of his battered bass guitar against an equally distressed microphone stand, creating a serrated, amplified squeal that made my fillings ache. It was not immediately apparent, at this stage, that he harbored any serious literary ambitions.
Decades and decibels later, the former commanding officer of Cop Shoot Cop and ringleader of Klezmerfied “world punk” collective Firewater is sequestered in his adopted new homeland of Turkey, taken to expressing himself in an arguably more finessed manner, although furtive rumors abound of looming new Firewater activity.
Some of you might remember I touted Tod’s highly entertaining travelblog, Postcards from The Other Side of the World, many, many moons ago. Well, you’ll be happy to know he is, at long last, publishing his first novel, “Banging the Monkey.” Replete with Tod’s signature wit and worldview, “Banging…” is a wry and richly written journey in a faraway climate, imbued with a tropical noir sensibility. I was fortunate enough to read an earlier draft of the book, and found it thoroughly engaging.
Here's the official blurb. Check it out…
BANGING THE MONKEY, the debut novel by Tod A of Firewater, comes out May 1. Order the book now on Bookbaby, or download the ebook version on Kindle. Banging the Monkey is for anyone who has ever dreamed of chucking it all and starting over. Author Tod A injects pulp noir with a punk-prose rhythm to weave a darkly comic tale about life at the end of the American Century. "Cleverly written and populated with consistently juicy characters." — David Yow (Musician, Actor) SYNOPSIS Disaffected writer Mark O'Kane is in a downward spiral. His last novel tanked. His wife left him. And his drinking is out of control. So when a chance meeting with enigmatic businessman Frank Fochs leads to a cushy job on the tropical island of Madu, it sounds like Mark's salvation: he can finally write his comeback novel and set his life on a brighter path. But when Frank disappears, Mark is left holding the bag for his boss's shady business dealings. And after a corpse washes up in the local lagoon, Mark may even be charged with Frank's murder. As he skirts the border between regret and desire, Mark discovers that the demons of his past are not so easily outrun, and that paradise comes with a price.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Tod A is best known as a songwriter and the leader of the 'world-punk' music group Firewater. Tod left New York City in 2003 to travel in Southeast Asia and the Indian subcontinent. Banging the Monkey was inspired by events he witnessed and stories he collected along the way. Tod A currently hangs his hat in Istanbul.
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