Flaming Pablum

‘I Had Very Little Bite, But I Had a Lot of Bark’: Julia Cafritz Looks Back on Pussy Galore

Some of you might remember a while back when I was trying to track down the location of a frankly incidental photograph of NYC-via-D.C. noise-rock band, Pussy Galore from the very late 80’s. During the course of same -– a search that had me exploring various decrepit, shifty and potentially dangerous corners of a few public spaces around the East Village and greater Lower East Side -– one of the band members depicted actually weighed in, that being inimitable band co-founder and storied visceral potty-mouth Julie Cafritz. You can find that here, if you’re so inclined.

While the alumni of that particular ensemble have all gone onto different things, I still maintain that Pussy Galore haven’t ever really gotten their due, not least in the shadow of more celebrated peers like Sonic Youth and SWANS. If you’re not familiar with them, I highly recommend picking up either of my two favorites, Surgarshit Sharp and/or Dial ‘M’ For Motherfucker. Their music is very assuredly not for everyone, but for sheer attitude and noise-as-catharsis, they’re tough to beat.

Earlier this summer, Cafritz submitted to an interview with the Tidal podcast series, “I’m In The Band,” and it’s entirely captivating. In typical fashion, Julie’s completely candid and frequently hilarious. I love her anecdote about Jon taking her through the rudimentary steps of playing guitar. She’s a complete badass. Enjoy.

That’s Cafritz and Jon Spencer up at the top of this post, by the way. I regret to say I don’t know who the photographer responsible is, but …. quick, who can name where they’re standing?

Here’s a bit of their music with Julie on vocals. I used to routinely sandwich this track on many a mixtape back in the day …. which was usually met with puzzlement and derision.

Taylor Talks

Apart from an entry back in 2014 when Taylor Swift was dubiously named the “global ambassador” to New York City, I’ve rarely invoked the pop star’s name on this blog. Yes, she’s a globally beloved celebrity worth a quarter of a billion dollars, but she does not factor greatly into my life in any major capacity. My kids are not fans of hers, but that’s none of my doing. My son isn’t particularly fussed about any contemporary pop music, as far as I can discern, while my 14-year-old daughter continues to stop short of expressing affinity for any specific pop artist to me, although I do know that she likes Dua Lipa. When I’ve flown Taylor’s name of the flagpole, she basically shrugs. I think if Taylor Swift ever had plans on indoctrinating my daughter, that time would have passed by now. Whatever.

As I mentioned in that earlier post, I may not give a lot of thought to Taylor Swift’s music -– not that I would genuinely know anything of hers beyond “Shake It Off,” which somehow infiltrated the battlements of my awareness -– but I don’t really feel that her music is in any way for me to begin with. I don’t begrudge it, necessarily, but I don’t expect to relate to any of it either. Her songs don’t really offer a perspective that applies to me. I don’t want to make any sweeping generalizations, but I don’t think her fanbase includes that many folks in their fifties, but maybe I’m mistaken. Hers are still tunes for teens, as far as I can surmise.

More recently, however, Taylor has broken her long, tantalizing (to some) silence on the topic of politics, encouraging her fans via Instagram to register to vote in the impending midterm elections, also throwing her own support behind the Democratic candidate in her home state of Tennessee. This deviation from her otherwise career-length refusal to ever opine in the arena of politics purportedly broke hearts across the internet, dispelling the evidently widespread myth that Miss Swift’s allegiance was with conservatives. `Fraid not. Suck it up, kids …. or should I say, shake it off? Apparently Taylor skews to the left.

Personally speaking, Taylor Swift’s political leanings don’t really mean anything to me, although I suppose I’m happy to hear she’s not a Trump-supporting idiot. That said, Taylor’s single declaration has palpably galvanized a growing army of new voters. Read for yourself.

Asked about same in the last day, Donald Trump -– ever petty –- expressed that he now likes her music “about 25 percent less.”

Now, honestly, Trump taking a swipe at Swift for daring to voice her dissenting opinion or failing to express the fealty he’s constantly in search of isn’t surprising. That’s what he does. He’s embarrassing and small-minded. It’s not even shocking anymore.

No, the part that struck me – however incidental – was his lame put-down, asserting that Taylor’s political beliefs have lessened his enjoyment of her music.

Do you genuinely believe Donald Trump has ever voluntarily listened to Taylor Swift’s music?

Also, Trump’s assertion that Taylor “doesn’t know anything about” Tennessee’s Marsha Blackburn is pretty galling, not only because Taylor specifically cited why she’s not supporting her in her post, but also just Trump’s knee-jerk dismissal of the notion that Taylor is a sentient, cognizant adult.

So, yeah, I guess Taylor Swift’s alright with me.

Trump? Not so much.

Friday

Lies & Lunacy

 

Remember this photo?

It’s a shot of the Lunachicks captured on East 1st Street circa 1990 by photographer Joe Dilworth.

In May of 2016, I stumbled upon this photo -– undated, uncredited and without any background information -- while researching a long-forgotten rock club on Bond Street called Downtown, and swiftly became preoccupied with divining its location.

Officially launching my search on May 10, I went on to spend exactly one month and a day dissecting every possible clue about the image. I devoted nine separate, wordy posts about it over the course of that month, during which time I also undertook multiple expeditions on foot to various locations, trying to discover the answer. I reached out to former members of the band, fellow photo sleuths and other likely suspects who might’ve had a helpful tip or recollection. Only by sheer luck did I randomly come in contact with the photographer responsible, who shared with me the contact sheet, allowing me to finally connect the dots, culminating in an exhaustive revelation post on June 11, 2016.

Why am I bringing this up again?

Only to call attention to the fact that I spent more time investigating the location of this strenuously trivial photograph for the purposes of a post on this stupid blog than the FBI spent on the Kavanaugh report that the Senate Judiciary Committee is currently reviewing in advance of another vote tomorrow.

ADDENDUM: Some hours later, it's been revealed that the FBI spoke with neither the alleged victim(s) nor the alleged assailant. "Thorough," therefore, is by no means an applicable descriptor to their investigation, by any reasonable standard. We've been had. 

 

Blank City Redux

I posted a rapturous review of Celine Dahnier's excellent documentary, "Blank City" back in 2013, summing it up by suggesting that "even if you're not a smelly music dork or an esoteric cinema head, "Blank City" is entirely fascinating." I continue to stand by that review.

In any case, I recently stumbled upon this alternate trailer for the film on Vimeo, and it hits all the right notes, so to speak. Hard to believe, sometimes, that this is the same city.

Stories fron New York: No Wave Cinema from Monica Delgado on Vimeo.

Postal Punk: Working for the Stampdown Deux

Remember this? Well, it turns out that it’s not true, after all.

Turns out it’s the work of a certain designer in Oakland, CA. How’d I figure it out? Well, my friend George Tabb (he of Furious George fame) posted another of the man’s works, that being this one.

I reached out. He was amazed people took it at face value to be real. I told him it was a testament to his artistry.

Still, I was kinda hoping they were real. Maybe someday.

Thursday

No Joking, No Laughing, No Landing

So, yeah, before I launch into this…

I feel obligated to preface the weepy tale below with the stark acknowledgement that there are people with very genuine problems, at the moment, and I -– ultimately -– am privileged and fortunate enough not to be among them. We’re existing in a volatile era of animus and uncertainty on a global scale. Here at home, portions of the East Coast are currently bracing themselves for the arrival of Hurricane Florence, which promises to do not just a little bit of damage. Serious shit is going down. There are big issues to contend with. The following paragraphs below are in no way comparable, and are ultimately the quintessence of trivial, in the grand scheme of things. As the expression goes, the grievances expressed below are “first world problems,” and given the volume of awful things happening in the world, I almost feel remiss in invoking them at all, let alone right now. Just know that I’m aware how silly, stupid and petty it might sound, and I should really count my blessings.

But, anyway…

If you’ve spent any significant amount of time reading this weblog over the past 13 years, or are burdened with the often awkward predicament of being a friend of mine in “real life,” you are doubtlessly aware that, apart from my patient, exquisite wife and my two incandescent children, there is nothing -– LITERALLY NOT ONE MOTHERFUCKING THING ON THIS CURSED AND BROKEN EARTH –- that I care more about than Killing Joke. This is not just venomous hyperbole. Since first hearing them at age 17, I was indoctrinated for life (and beyond). It extends far beyond fandom. Essentially, Killing Joke is like a religion of which I am a zealously devout fundamentalist.

You may remember, back in July, I posted a whiney little post upon learning that a mandatory and labor-intensive work event at my organization’s Nashville, TN office was scheduled to land on the same day as Killing Joke’s return to Irving Plaza in Manhattan for the NYC stop of their 40th Anniversary Tour. Despite there being 365 goddamn days on the calendar, these two things had to happen on the same one? Vexed as I was by this, I managed to hash out a scheme that would get me back from “Music City” to New York City in time to catch the `Joke. I’d procured a ticket to this show back in …. Jeezus, February or so … and was very much looking forward to it, the band having cancelled their last show here back in 2016. By hook or by crook, I was determined that I was going to be at this gig.

Time passed. I worked very hard to bring the Nashville project to its best-realized fruition in time for the event, while simultaneously tackling other tasks. I was multitasking with a vengeance. The entire time, though, I knew I had this show at the finish line, so it kept me motivated. I was still fine-tuning the project days before the event, but I knew I was going to nail it. I almost wasn’t even worried about it. I was really only worried about making it to the Joke gig.

The Nashville event was this past Wednesday. I flew down crazy-early on Tuesday to help out work out logistics and basically do a bit of hand-holding for my department head, helping put out various fires in a slightly more diplomatic manner than she’s capable of. The event was scheduled for 11:30 am Wednesday morning, and we were ready. At go-time, we unveiled the project and it was an actual showstopper. Everyone was happy. Senior execs reached out to applaud the work I’d done. Mission accomplished with flying colors. Yeah, that’s great, but I now need to get in a goddamn cab.

Here's me looking prematurely pleased with myself after a job well done, oblivious of a giant metal horse about to kick me in the ass.

I’d arranged to get on a flight leaving the Nashville airport at 3:00 pm Central Time, landing me in NYC’s odious LaGuardia airport at 6:30 pm. Killing Joke were not slated to hit the stage until 9:30 pm, which left me three hours to get home, dump my stuff, change, meet up with my fellow zealots and get to the show. Easy peasy, right?

What’s that expression about the best-laid plans of mice and men going awry?

I arrived at the Nashville airport with time to spare, checked in, grabbed a bite to eat and settled back, safe – I assumed – in the presumption that I was going to make it. At this point, I’m going to repurpose the posts I put up on Facebook and Instagram to flesh out the rest of this narrative.

In a moment of premature buoyance, I posted the below, appended with the following legend…

That’s a wrap, Nashville. Next stop, NYC and KILLING JOKE @ Irving Plaza.

Almost on cue, stuff started to go wrong. At 3:02 pm, Nashville time, I posted…

BREAKING NEWS: This just in from the “Not so fast, Yankee City Slicker” department. American Airlines, in their infinite wisdom, have decided to impose a new weight restriction on my flight, pushing back the departure time, and asking for volunteers to take a later flight. Suffice to say, I am not happy.

After soliciting some volunteers to waive their seats in favor of later flights and a paltry 200 bucks, American Airlines let us board, a half-hour after we’d first been scheduled to leave. I entered the plane and resumed my presumption that I was going to make it. Then this happened…

BREAKING NEWS DEUX: Because God evidently hates me, he chose to blight the New York City airspace with “impassable” thunderstorms, so my plane flew to Syracuse. We had to do this, as — oh joy — we were running low on fuel. Likelihood of getting back to Manhattan to see Killing Joke (see ticket) now strenuously slim. The fates are conspiring against me. Suffice to say, daddy is NOT happy.

After spending ten to fifteen slightly harrowing minutes of trying to descend into the NYC airspace, we flew the hundred some-odd miles out of the way to Syracuse. I don’t know if you’ve ever spent any quality time in the Syracuse Hancock International Airport, but I assuredly do not recommend it. Here’s my update from an hour and change later…

BREAKING NEWS TROIS: Seemingly theoretical flight from Syracuse to attempt second pass at stormy NYC now pushed back to 8:30. Killing Joke to assume the stage at Irving Plaza at 9:30. I’m so palpably depressed I could throw up.

We didn’t actually get airborne until about 9:00 or so. When 9:30 arrived, I was still in the air. When we landed, there was no gate waiting for us, so we sat on the tarmac for another thirty-or-so minutes. I didn't actually leave the airport bound for Manhattan until about 10:45. I didn't make it back into the city until well after 11pm. My wife suggested scrambling over to at least catch up with some of my friends in attendance, but that almost seemed like it would be that much more painful, having missed the entirety of the performance (let alone being exhausted, zonked and already demoralized beyond description).

So, to make a long story short, I did not make it.

By all accounts, the band put on a blinding set for the sold out venue. The emotional impact of the disappointment brought on by missing this event has verily left my soul bruised and my mood irretrievably soured.

Being that this is the band’s afore-cited 40th Anniversary tour, it seems strenuously unlikely that they’re going to be back here again any time soon – or, honestly, if ever again.

…which is why I’m looking into maybe going to see them in London in November, …. if I can make it work.

Here's a shot my friend Jeremy captured of the Irving Plaza gig. 

'That Ain't Stigma!'

Those in the know have spoken and consensus dictates that, while yes, that’s certainly Stephen Ielpi from the False Prophets making some odd cameos, that other figure in "Desperately Seeking Susan" is definitely NOT Sir Vincent of Stigma from Agnostic Front. Oh well.

Hey, it was just a fleeting fancy. Can’t be right all the time.

In any case, as a mea culpa, let me post this. This trailer surfaced late last year -– cannot wait to see the actual film.

Missing Foundation at The Marquee, 1990

Peter Missing shared this video below — only uploaded yesterday — on the official Missing Foundation Facebook page, so I thought I’d share it here as well, given that footage of Missing Foundation in action from this particular era is fairly hard to come by.

According to the person who originally posted this fifteen plus minute clip on YouTube, this is Missing Foundation in 1990 at the Marquee, then situated on the way western end of West 21st Street. It’s a venue I’ve spoken about many times here — most recently here — but I simply do not remember Missing Foundation ever gracing that particular stage. That’s not to say it didn’t happen or that YouTuber Jess 77714 is mistaken, but I simply don’t remember it, and it surely would’ve been something I’d otherwise have attended.

The first show I ever remember attending in that space was actually the Pretty Hate Machine-era Nine Inch Nails. At the time, the venue was a club called Sonic’s, and had sort of a schlocky “surface of the moon” interior design aesthetic, for some reason. Shortly afterwards (like, within the year?), it turned into The Marquee, and started playing host largely to alternative bands, British indie acts and loads of noise and industrial outfits … like Missing Foundation, I suppose. I guess I’m just surprised MF played there, given their pronounced reputation for inciting riots and inflicting wanton property damage. Still, I guess the Marquee management was either unaware of that, or simply strenuously understanding of MF’s singularly confrontational approach to live performance.

Anyway, this is probably the best footage of the clamorous and chaotic live Missing Foundation experience I’ve seen since that Jane Hotel video from some years back. Turn it way up and brace yourselves.