Flaming Pablum

The Creepy Turntable Movie Mystery Challenge

Once again, it’s odd how certain things stay with you.

I can’t remember where I was, who I was with or how I old I was when I saw it, but I remember watching a film on television -– a black-&-white mystery, possibly “noir” -– involving a protagonist haunted by a recurring nightmare or vision. In that mysterious scenario, he’s in some clandestine chamber that holds some horrible secret –- a murder, perhaps? The thing that makes it distinctive, however, is that there is music playing -– a strange, lulling, creepy dirge. Again, the protagonist is driven to distraction by this eerie vision, but cannot connect the dots as to where it happened or its significance.

Later in the film, he's at some social function, and there is music playing via an old-time record player. At one pivotal point, a woman near that turntable bumps into it with her elbow, inadvertently changing the speed of the turntable to a slower revolution-per-minute, like dropping from 45 to 33 1/3. When she does this, the music playing suddenly replicates the creepy music in the protagonist’s recurring vision, and he becomes convinced that the clandestine chamber with the horrible secret is immediately nearby.

Like I said, I wish I could cite more specifics, but I cannot. For the life of me, I’ve never been able to figure out the film. Much like the tortured protagonist, I cannot figure out the mystery.

Does this film sound familiar to you?

Weigh in. 

"Our Pedigreed Dogs Don't Like The Smell of Your Children...": Exhuming "Asbestos Lead Asbestos"

Right on the heels of news of the passing of Mark Hollis of Talk Talk came a report that Steve Jameson, erstwhile bass player for the post-punk trio World Domination Enterprises had passed away. Apart from both late gentlemen being British and musically active in 80s, their similarities pretty much end there.

W.D.E weren’t an especially prolific band, nor were they around for very long (from 1984 to 1989, if I’m not mistaken). One could suggest that they were a “one-hit wonder,” although characterizing their signature single as a “hit” is a strenuous argument to wage. I first heard it in 1989 and it practically left me with a cranial contusion. That single was “Asbestos Lead Asbestos.”

Distilled from the same aesthetic that informed many of my favorite bands, “Asbestos Lead Asbestos” amplifies the abjectly ugly to unwieldy degrees in a lurching, sluggish wobble that seems in perpetual peril of falling completely apart at any given moment. Simultaneously, the song somehow manages to hold together and actually be, well ... catchy … despite seemingly all endeavors to the contrary.

The lyrics paint a bitterly grim image of squalor, suffering and corporate oppression in a decaying, post-industrial British cityscape, presumably informed by the same mid-80’s malaise that inspired much of the era’s more caustic music. Scoring those couplets about degradation, duplicity and hopelessness comes an avalanche of din, played by a trio of frowning “musicians” seemingly drunk with cynicism. Jameson’s ponderous bass underpins vocalist/guitarist Keith Dobson, who doesn’t “play” his instrument so much as coax staccato shards of dissonance from it. If you put this song on at the volume it deserves at your next cocktail soiree, you should expect acrimony and pugilism.

Musically kindred spirits to bands like Killing Joke, Gang of Four, SWANS, The Birthday Party, Missing Foundation and Cop Shoot Cop, World Domination Enterprises may not have made as large an impression as those peers, but they did leave us with –- to my mind -– one absolutely perfect statement. “Asbestos Lead Asbestos” was later re-imagined by industrial combo Meat Beat Manifesto. While way more accessible and even, dare I suggest, danceable in MBM’s hands, the corrosive core of the song still packs a punch.

If possible, please enjoy the definite article, and pour one out for Steve Jameson.

"I Got Your Number On the Wall..."

The following anecdote was prompted by an invocation by my friend John Darnielle (of Mountain Goats fame) on Facebook. How’s that for name-dropping?

While my high-school listening habits were largely dominated by stentorian thrash metal, pugnacious punk, splenetic hardcore and histrionic goth rock, I was by no means immune to the charms of the pop music of the day. My favorite, go-to bands may well have been the Circle Jerks, Venom and the Lords of the New Church, but I was as versed in the sonic outpourings of populist favorites like Tears for Fears, Duran Duran, Thomas Dolby and Run-DMC as anyone, largely thanks to our collective fascination with the then-still-nascent MTV. I can safely say that the first few years of MTV’s video rotation burned themselves firmly into my cerebellum. I doubt I am alone in this assertion. I can’t remember whole volumes of bullshit I allegedly studied in high school, but I can pinpoint a fleeting, trivial bit of a Thompson Twins video without so much as blinking.

This is a true story. About fifteen years ago, I was sniffing around the Apple Store in SoHo (on Prince Street, above) trying to figure out how to buy a digital camera. My daughter had just been born, and for the purposes of sharing photographs of my newborn little cherub, I figured it was time to make the jump to digital. But, by the same token, I had no fucking clue what I was doing. So, I was perusing around the tables, and looking at different models and being clueless, but there was this guy next to me basically doing the same thing, with an endearingly equal amount of cluelessness. The weird thing, however, was that he looked CRAZY familiar. I found myself staring at him, trying to divine the reason why.

It finally dawned on me.

I tapped him on the arm. "Excuse me, man," I said. "This is going to sound SUPER weird, but are you the lead guitar player for Tommy Tutone? Like, not the curly-haired lead singer I always assumed was Tommy Tutone, but the guitar-player dude in the skinny tie & blazer in the video for '867-5309'"?

There was a long pause.

He looked me dead in the eye.

"Whoa .... you're good."

It was indeed Jim Keller, erstwhile guitarist for Tommy Tutone, who I recognized from a music video from 23 years earlier.

Meanwhile, I can barely remember my own social security number. 

Goodbye to the Sidewalk Bar

And the carnage continues.

Courtesy of EV Grieve’s ever-excellent blog, I read with some weary melancholy that the Sidewalk Bar on Avenue A and 6th Street is closing -- or, at least, “changing hands” with a new owner who’ll doubtlessly disembowel it -- both figuratively and literally. I was somewhat sad to read this. I say “somewhat” as I cannot say I was anything of a regular. I certainly liked that it was there, but it wasn’t as much of a fixture for me as some other spots.

While it’s sad, I also cannot say it’s especially surprising. Once the vast and pointedly character-free condo, 100 Avenue A went up (the one with the Blink Fitness in its ground floor), the signs did not bode well. I’m very glad Jesse Malin’s main foothold, Niagara, is still holding firm, but the number definitely seemed to be up for Sidewalk.

There is assuredly nothing duller to read than unspooled anecdotal yarns that ultimately don’t amount to more than “gosh, I was drunk,” but here are two such recollections of evenings spent questionably at the Sidewalk. Continue at your own peril, and my own embarrassment. 

When it comes to opinions about music and the reasonable expressions thereof, it has been noted that I have something of a problem. On one dark evening about twenty-five years --- blimey! –- back, I was sequestered in the more northerly chamber of the Sidewalk with my frequent compatriot in alcohol imbibement, Rob D., who was illegally subletting a space a block over on Avenue B (in the same building as Manitoba’s). I’m not entirely sure why we ended up at Sidewalk and not, say, any number of other suitable locales, but there we were. In any case, in walked a pair of pointedly uptight looking gents who took seats to our right. I’d noticed upon their entry that one of them was sporting a Slayer badge on their lapel, which -– for some ridiculous reason -– immediately gave me license to start up a conversation, or so I very wrongly presumed. When my doubtlessly awkward attempts to engage in a chat –- much to Rob’s arched-eyebrowed chagrin -– failed to instigate the intended result, I believe I blithely tossed over the comment “fuck do you know about Slayer?!”

Suffice to say, that ill-considered remark prompted the badge-wearer to stand up with a pronounced sense of purpose, sending his bar stool toppling to the floor with great, dramatic aplomb. There would be no witty rejoinder but, instead, a swift delivery of knuckles to my arguably smart mouth. That was his intention, anyway, before both his drinking pal and mine intervened with the requisite, “fellas, fellas….c’mon, settle down”-styled arbitration. Rob and I wisely adjourned to another neighborhood institution and I was understandably scolded for my unthinking solicitations.

My other great memory of an evening at the Sidewalk dates back to specifically February 28, 1995. I know the exact date because that was the evening that punky Britpopsters Elastica (left) were slated to play nearby at the comparatively tiny Mercury Lounge on East Houston Street. Since first hearing the “Stutter” single a year earlier, my friend Eric F. and I were both wholly onboard and quite excited to see them perform. We made a plan to meet up that evening and go check it out.

Again, for some inexplicable reason, we ended up back at Sidewalk. I feel obligated to point out, at this stage of the narrative, that at the time –- 1995 -– I was still rather ravenously single, and would not go on to meet the lovely lady who became my wife for another three years. This will become relevant to the story in due course.

In anticipation of a great night out seeing our favorite new band, Eric and I availed ourselves to the fare at Sidewalk, laying the foundation for a longer evening’s worth of drinking. In the course of same, I managed to fall head over heels in love with our waitress. These things happened, back then. When the time came for Eric and I to split and go catch our show, it was somehow deduced that it was my turn to pay. I paid with plastic, but decided to leave a cash tip, as that was the nicer thing to do. That’s fine, but what I did next was questionable.

Upon the bill I was leaving as a tip -– I cannot recall the amount -– I took the supplied pen and scrawled something to the effect of: “Sheila, I think you’re exquisite….” and punctuated it with my phone number. I know, I know….

With that, Eric and I hit the streets and headed south, whereupon a strenuously crucial flaw in our evening plan was stealthily revealed. Neither of us had procured tickets for this show in advance and  -- very unsurprisingly, in retrospect -- it was sold the fuck out.

Bummer.

After a few minutes of gawking incredulously at the horde outside the Mercury Lounge, Eric and I glumly repaired to bars of the East Village to curse our idiocy. Along the way, I continued to be justly chided for my half-baked romantic gesture back at Sidewalk.

A few hours later, Eric and I ended up back at my apartment. Being that he lived out on Long Island, Eric was going to crash on my couch. We were greeted by the blinking red light of my answering machine (remember those?). I had one message:…

:::BEEP:::

“Hi, Alex? This is Shelia calling from the Sidewalk Bar on Avenue A….”

Eric excitedly hit stop on the tape. “HOLY SHIT, ALEX!” he gasped. “I thought you were a first-class douchebag for leaving your name and number with her, but not only did she call, …. she’s calling you THE VERY SAME NIGHT!!!”

Eric hit play again…

“…Yeah, I’m calling because you left your credit card here.”

Lunch with The Ramones

In one Facebook group or another I’m a member of, someone posted the above photo of the late brothers Ramone that I’d never spied before, prefaced with the question: “Where was Jone’s Diner?”

The diner in question is, of course, the former Jones Diner (curious apostrophe placement, though) that was formerly on the southeast corner of Great Jones and Lafayette Streets. I spoke about the place a couple of times here (notably here, here and here), but it was just one of a great network of endearing greasy-spoon joints that has since been all but wiped off the map.

Some might remember the Great Jones Diner from its cameo in the video for “Two Princes” by the Spin Doctors. In later years, its metallic, railway-car-like exterior was removed, revealing a brick-faced edifice beneath. If I remember correctly, it was closed and then razed around the dawn of Y2K (remember that?). These days, there’s a giant new building erected over its former footprint that has yet to define itself as anything other than just another vulgar display of exclusivity and affluence.

Back to the photo, though, I find it striking how the Ramones have now fully crossed over into the realm of the practically mythological. I honestly used to see Joey Ramone walk around my neighborhood (he was hard to miss). I spied Johnny Ramone on Sullivan Street in Greenwich Village, once (I left him alone), and surreally sat across from Dee Dee on a Downtown 6 train (I left him alone, as well). For decades, you just took the Ramones for granted. My friend Rob B. and I had a long-running gag. “Should we go see the Ramones next Thursday?” “Meh, they’ll be back.” And they always were, until one day, they weren’t. And then they started dying.

With great respect to Marky -- and, I guess, C.J., Richie and “Elvis" --  the original Ramones are now all gone. We’re all so used to seeing their familiar stances on album covers, videos and in any number of celebrated photographs by shutterbugs like Bob Gruen, Roberta Bayley, Godlis, and Mick Rock (among many others), that to see a “new,” heretofore unpublished, lost or just plain ol’ less-well-circulated snap of them always stops me in my tracks. Yeah, we’re all used to seeing them pose like ….well, like The Motherfucking Ramones!… that to see them just hanging out or goofing around is just this great reminder that beyond being this iconoclastic, culture-informing unit, they were ultimately just a group of four guys, however dysfunctional.

Oh Yoko

I noticed a bizarre little news item, this morning, that Yoko Ono is evidently planning on covering the entirety of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. I passed that along on social media (it's not true, incidentally, but rather "parody"), but felt obligated to preface it by saying I have nothing but the utmost respect for Yoko Ono, not just for her own oft-overshadowed status as a groundbreaking artist in her own goddamn right, but also because she once single-handedly saved me from being fired from a gig at LIFE Magazine. This, somewhat predictably, begged larger questions, and it occurred to me that I’d never spun this particular yarn here on this stupid blog, so here goes.

In the very early 90’s, I was working at LIFE Magazine as a copy clerk/editorial assistant while simultaneously working on a book project with an editor I shan’t name here. The book was bascially a collection of evocative photographs augmented with ruminations about the meaning of life. Some were from oridnary people like your local green-grocer or mailman, whereas others were from prominent public figures and celebs. In many instances, people would cite song lyrics to sum up their feelings. My job was two-fold; Secure head-shots of the participants from their publicists for the back of the book (I had to get a head-shot of Italian pornstar/parliamentairan Cicconlina, and she sent me an envelope of lurid nudes) and secure figures for the use of reprinting any song lyrics.

Being that the editor in question was a massive Beatle fan, he somehow cajoled Yoko Ono into participating. In her passage, Yoko cited a line from a – WAIT FOR IT – John Lennon song, that being “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans” (from “Beautiful Boy” off Double Fantasy, pedants). I reached out to the pertinent parties to secure financial figures for the re-printing of same. That was the job.

Weeks went by. I diligently collected all the afore-cited assets as was my duty and submitted them to my editor. The book was laid out and the budget was finalized. Suddenly, the parties representing the Lennon lyrics – I cannot remember if it was Blackwood Music or not, it’s a long time ago – got back to me with a SECOND cost regarding a proposed second printing, and it was a sizable sum. I nervously brought this to the attention of my editor. “Alex, the budget is already finalized!” he yelled, understandably upset. “We can’t afford this! I’m going to have to pull Yoko’s section from the book!” This was not a good development. Again, as a massive fan of all things Bealtes/Lennon/Ono/etc., this seemed like his very favorite part of the project, and here I was fucking it up. I felt like shit, and starting to rightly assume that it was probably time to start clearing out my desk. Before I could do that, he called me into his office for the call with Yoko Ono. I’m not sure why I had to be in there for it, but there I was going to be for when he was going to break the news to her. Punishment, maybe? I’ll never know. Anyway, as I remember it, he put her on speaker phone and unspooled the weepy saga, shooting me a few angry glares along the way, and then, from the other end of the line, I heard. “Oh, please – don’t be ridiculous, I’ll happily pay for it.”

Yoko Ono saved my hide.

Last Night

Chelsea Mourning: Coda

While many were prepping for "the Big Game" (insert pungent, damp fart sound here) yesterday, the wife and I spent most of our Super Bowl Sunday attending to various errands of varying significance. Since our age-old oven range started literally belching smoke and flame last week, we had to bite the bullet and repair to the antiseptic confines of Home Depot on 23rd Street to begrudgingly procure a new one. Following that strenuously expensive undertaking, Peg headed east to take our 12-year-old to an arguably long-overdue haircut (Oliver's forelock was starting to look a bit Danziggian), while I was dispatched to the Apple Store in the Meatpacking District to replace an Apple TV remote rendered inoperable by my own zealous impatience. 

Along the way, I passed by the Chelsea Hotel (very recently invoked here), and appearances look unforgivably tragic. 

Foetus Day

I wrote about J.G. “Foetus” Thirlwell in much greater detail here, so won’t bother re-hashing all of that. But today happens to be the great man’s birthday, so I thought I’d dust off a favorite clip.

Here’s J.G. in the guise of Foetus Inc., featuring an all-star touring line-up of noisy New Yorkers like Algis Kizys on bass (SWANS), Norman Westerburg on guitar (SWANS), Dave Ouimet on samplers (Cop Shoot Cop/Motherhead Bug/Firewater), Hahn Rowe on guitar (Hugo Largo/Firewater) and Vinny Signorelli on drums (Unsane/SWANS). Truly, an ensemble to be reckoned with, here captured performing “Free James Brown (So He Can Run Me Down)” for an unsuspecting crowd in Atlanta, GA in 1990.

Happy birthday.

Desktop Dump

As I've periodically mentioned, I am forever setting images to one side that I've come across in my travels around the information superhighway. Frequently, they end up being used in a post. In other instances, they wallow in a limbo-like state on my desktop before they're either purged without being used, or left to idle in context-free perpetuity on my frequently dormant Tumblr, Get Back to Work. 

Here are a clutch of those images ... all still waiting for their moment.

I'm not sure where I found this, but this is another exterior shot of long-vanished Yorkville comic shop, Supersnipe, which I wrote about in greater detail here. 

This is yet another lovely shot of the old Moondance diner and accompanying Stefano mural that used to sit at the mouth of Sixth Avenue, just north of Canal Street. I've written about both here many times, notably here. 

This is -- I believe -- a rare shot of the interior of Supersnipe with the gent who used to run it. 

This is, of course, the late Adam "MCA" Yauch of the Beastie Boys, taken from a still from the video of "(You Gotta) Fight for Your Right (To Party)." I believe I'd set this to one side for the purposes of composing a post after learning that the whole video was shot in a certain photographer's apartment on Broadway, just north of Union Square. I actually know a guy who lives in that building today, and I was going to try to go check the place out, but it never came to pass, alas.

This is a shot of the former entrance to the second iteration of NYCD, a great compact disc shop on the Upper West Side I wrote about not too long ago here. 

This is a shot of the late Jackie Onassis leaving a King Karol record outlet. Now, is it the same King Karol outlet on the Upper East Side (certainly her stomping grounds) that I spoke about on this post (specifically between 86th and 85th)? Honestly, I cannot say -- I don't remember that particular entrance so well. But, it could be.

This one is pretty self-explanatory.