PREAMBLE: I’ve never considered myself an especially materialistic person. Sure, I collect a bunch of stupid shit like records, compact discs, vintage rock posters and dumb band t-shirts, but those have more to do with my associations with the music rather than items that assert any impressions of wealth, status or style. I couldn’t care less about luxury goods. I don’t care what type of car I drive, as long as it can get me from point A to point B. Prestigious fashion labels like Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, Fende, Versace … none of that matters to me at all. I have no real brand loyalty other than an adherence to that which has proven long-lasting and practical. I mean, sure, I like nice things as much as the next person, but by and large, the stuff I like is more super geek than uber chic, and that is entirely fine with me.
This post, meanwhile, is something an unwitting exception to all that — a fixation I backed into with oblivious and entirely coincidental parallels to the zeitgeist, something I am otherwise habitually out of step with.
It’s a silly situation, but here it is…
For a million years, all I ever wore was Converse Chuck Taylor All-Stars, … and usually the black ones. While completely clichéd and ubiquitous today, their low-tech, retro aesthetic, back in the '80s, set them well apart from the frankly ridiculous, then-newfangled sneakers of the day. Eschewing the garish, boot-like footwear sported by meat-necked jocks, frat guys, mean girls, professional athletes, proto-yuppies and rappers in favor of comparatively cheap, thinly soled, minimally supportive and tonally dour sneakers (originally designed, ironically, as basketball-wear) was a lifestyle choice I embraced based on their alleged espousal by the Ramones.
That said, nine times out of ten, any photo of da brudders usually found them sporting battered, no-name, filthy canvas plimsolls instead of Chucks, the picture beneath being something of an exception.
Regardless, black Chuck Taylors had established themselves as sartorial shorthand for “punk,” at some earlier point, and became the de rigueur shoe of choice for the sneery agent of renunciation I was aspiring to be.
The inherent problem, however, was and remains that Chucks just aren’t all that great. Sure, they look cool, but they’re murder on your arches, don’t really protect your feet, are prone to smell and don’t usually hold together for very long. And God help you if you get them wet -- you might as well walk around with coarse, wet towels on your feet. Time was when sporting Chucks may have equated with making some sort of outlaw, bohemian statement, but you were often courting orthopedic fallout as a cost.
Today, of course, black Chuck Taylors are everywhere, including the feet of our new Vice President. Over time, much like spiked bracelets, ripped jeans and band t-shirts, they stopped serving as signifiers of a specific subculture. But that’s not why I stopped wearing them.
Well, not entirely. I stopped wearing them so exclusively because I fell in love with another shoe.
Back in 2012, I was very dubiously employed as a homepage editor at the website of NBC’s “TODAY Show,” which, in all candor, eventually turned into fraught experience worthy of a whole, horror-filled post in itself, but I digress. In any case, at one point, we reported a story about sneaker titan Nike getting caught in an awkward position after releasing a line of their signature Nike SB Dunk Low sneakers timed for St. Patrick’s Day called “Black and Tans.” Evidently not keen on doing their homework, the brilliant minds at Nike assumed the origins of the term “Black and Tan” pertained exclusively to the cocktail of mixed beers -- usually Guinness Stout with either a Bass Ale or a Harp Lager -– that results in a layered visual effect (hence the colors … black and tan). If you don’t know your history, that might be a perfectly reasonable assumption. The reality, however, is that the name “Black and Tans” actually refers to a notorious British paramilitary force trained to quell the Irish uprising in the 1920s. Suffice to say, the Irish very understandably don’t take that stuff lightly. Don’t order the drink that way in Ireland, either -- call it a Half N’ Half, else you’ll be courting pugilism.
Anyway, we ran the story, and I was so intrigued by the whole chapter that I wrote a follow-up piece for TODAY.com’s short-lived and star-crossed “fashion blog,” The Look. The mere fact that I was allowed to write about fashion for the outlet ought to give you a clue as to the quality and credibility of the finished product. Don’t bother looking for it today, it has thankfully gone the way of all flesh. Once again, I digress.
In any case, so besotted was I with both the design of this sneaker and its troubled (pardon the pun) history, I thought it would be kinda neat to own a pair. Knowing, however, that I couldn’t simply stroll into my local Foot Locker to procure them, I turned to eBay and, in relatively no time at all and for a slightly more than conventional cost for a pair of sneakers, a fetching pair of Nike SB Black and Tan Dunk Lows were mine. In fact, below is a shot of me in that pair at my desk at the “Today Show” website, shortly before I was unceremoniously given the keys to the street by the outlet.
I should point out, at this stage, that I’ve never given the slightest whiff of a damn about Nike, Nike SB (what’s the difference?) or sports culture or anything of that sort. And despite being essentially half-Irish, I wasn’t really interested in the shoes’ botched attempt at Celtic affiliation either. I just thought it was an intriguing story, and I just really dug the color scheme. The fact that they were comparatively hard to find only made them more special. That was really it.
But, once I owned them, I loved these sneakers. They looked great, went well with everything, and were super comfortable. Random dudes would also periodically stop me in the street with assertions like “fresh kicks, bro!” Sometimes I’d lapse into the needlessly convoluted backstory, but most of the time I’d just say thanks and keep movin’ on.
But in seemingly no time at all, I wore them out, wearing holes into the flattened soles from overuse. Aghast by the unspeakable notion of parting with these cherished sneaks, however, I jumped back on eBay to find a replacement pair.
I used to have a colleague at that “Today Show” gig named Phil. Phil used to make it a point that when he latched onto a particular item that suited his needs, he’d buy that item in bulk, sparing himself the trouble of ever having to hunt said item down again in the conceivable future. I used to give Phil shit about that strange habit, but I was suddenly learning why he did it. Upon my return to eBay for my second pair of Nike SB Black and Tan Dunk Lows, the scarcity of the product and its rarefied charms had caused a noticeable bump in its pricing. Undeterred, I ponied up the dough and — boom — the problem was solved. I had a new pair to replace my first pair.
You might start to see where this is going.Since tracking down that first pair in March of 2012, I have bought no fewer than four pairs of Nike Black and Tans (although, if I’m being honest, I have technically lost count), each successive pair being slightly more expensive than their predecessors. And given that production on this particular design was hastily halted nine long years ago, the prospect of continuing to find further replacements for each ravaged-soled pair has become uproariously daunting and not-just-a-little unlikely. But, like a pathetic junkie, I have gotten myself hooked on a niche commodity in astonishingly limited supply.
Adding insult to injury, two other factors have come into play.
I suppose there was always a furtive subculture devoted to it, but since about 2005 (if not well before), a virulent cult of -- for lack of a better term -- sneaker fetishism has been on the ascent. No longer an esoteric pursuit, rarefied-sneaker shrines like Flight Club on Broadway and Concepts on University Place have gone upscale and above-ground, selling coveted, status-affirming footwear to high-paying fashionistas and style-conscious b-boys. The same cats who used to remark “fresh kicks, bro” at me now stand on long lines to get into these emporiums to drool over lovingly presented, limited-run or discontinued (like mine) sneakers from eons past. Online ventures like StockX and Grailed act as liaisons between rabid collectors and merchants the Beastie Boys once referred to as “sneaker pimps.” Sneaker fetishism is now a big, lucrative concern, and my little predilection for Nike SB Black and Tans has gotten ensnared in it.
Then, of course, there is also the Travis Scott factor.
If you’re not familiar with the name, Travis Scott is an of-the-moment rapper who is widely revered in the hip-hop world. Personally speaking, I cannot say I am very familiar with his music, but I know he carries a lot of clout and exudes a great deal of influence. Some may remember an incident back in 2019 when Travis sported a 90’s-era Rush t-shirt for a performance at the Grammy Awards, which prompted SPIN Magazine to write a cheeky little piece advising impressionable young fans not to get the impression that Rush were actually somehow “cool,” which goaded me to post something of a pointed tirade in response. Disrespect Rush and expect my wrath.
In any case, it seems Travis and I share a few things in common in that we evidently both like Rush t-shirts and we both like a Nike SB Dunk Lows. Who saw that coming? In fact, that's Travis pictured above in both a pair of Dunk Lows (although not the Black and Tans) and a different Rush shirt. I actually have this shirt, given to me by Geddy Lee himself. My daughter now wears it, and doesn't care about any of this ridiculous bullshit.
As I understand it, Travis Scott’s stated affinity for the very type of sneaker I’ve spent the past several paragraphs waxing rhapsodic over has even further accelerated and brazenly inflated their already beefy street value. It’s as if the fates are pointedly conspiring against me.
Here in March of 2021 … almost nine years to the day since I got ahold of my first pair of Nike SB Black and Tan Dunk Lows (size 11.5, if you’re curious), new pairs — when you can actually find them — fetch upwards of $450-500, with some sellers audaciously asking twice those amounts for them.
Now, as a sliver-scalped, 53-year-old father of two high schoolers, I can no longer really justify dropping those sorts of sums on pairs of sneakers simply because I like their design and vainly consider them part of “my signature look.” While I continue to peruse the web looking for affordable pairs (although I’m not so hot on the idea of “used”), I am coming to terms that my chances of finding another new pair for myself are strikingly slim.
Right now, I still actually own two pairs of them, although the soles on both are worryingly thin. I have dispatched one pair to a concern somewhere in Florida who claim to be experts in repairing this variety of footwear, although the likelihood of them being able to replicate the specifics of the sole are evidently very slim. I’ll probably get back some sort of mutant-hybridized pair that will technically lack authenticity.
As I type this, I’m currently wearing my other pair, which I took out of cold storage when I shipped off their younger siblings to the Sunshine state. These soles feel like they could give way at any minute, honestly.
Sadly, the time may indeed by nigh to either try something new or get those dusty black Chucks back out of the closet.
When you think of New York City in the late 70’s, a lot of musical names probably spring to me: The New York Dolls, The Ramones, Debbie Harry, Patti Smith, Richard Hell, Lou Reed, The Dead Boys but … Hall & Oates? Probably not.
Now, as far as I’m concerned, while they’ve never been especially “edgy,” Hall & Oates are pretty unimpeachable. Sure, you may listen to none-blacker-than variants of metal or super-esoteric indie or wildly forward-thinking electronic music or deep, underground hip-hop or WHATEVER, but if you can’t appreciate the finer moments of Hall & Oates’ august catalog of rock, pop and soul, there’s probably something wrong with you. Just as I said about Rush some time ago, Hall & Oates may never have been hip or cool, but for what they do, they are untouchable.
So, imagine my surprise, this morning, upon spying a new interview on Legs McNeil’s Please Kill Me website with John Oates, talking about his formative days in New York City, braving the Downtown scene with Daryl Hall, opening for Lou Reed, checking out the New York Dolls at the Mercer Arts Center and Television at CBGB. Hell, John even played in a part-time band with Pat Place from the Bush Tetras. WHO THE HELL KNEW?
Anyway, it’s cool stuff. Check it out here.
I’m a Clash fan of the variety that basically picked up everything the band saw fit to put out, bar the odd compilations and box sets of studio recordings of songs I already had, so when Live at Shea Stadium was released in 2008 — 26 years after it was recorded — it was a no-brainer. I even sprung for the limited edition, hard-bound book edition, because that’s the type of dork I am.
It’s a lovely artifact, especially the edition I bought, appended with photos from noted rock shutterbug Bob Gruen, who also penned the purple-prose-laden forward to the liner notes. But, I’m not gonna lie, in the wake of the release of 1999’s From Here to Eternity: Live, it all felt a bit needless. But, again, being the dutiful fanboy, I picked it up, spun it a few times, and “threw it on the pile,” as they say (or, more accurately, filed it with anal-retentive precision in “the Clash section” amid my increasingly anachronistic shelves of CDs). It’s pretty much sat there ever since, as it’s — if I’m being honest — rarely the first Clash album I’m inclined to pull out or listen to, especially since most of my listening transpires on my iPod while commuting to and from work.
But there’s another thing about Live at Shea Stadium that prevents me from lauding it as others might, and that’s the revisionism. Yes, the Clash did indeed play Shea Stadium on the rainy night of October 13, 1982 (my birthday, incidentally), but, crucially, they were not the headliners of the event in question — The Who was. Sure, Bob Gruen cites this in the afore-mentioned forward, but if one were simply to peruse the album cover, that inconvenient truth is nowhere to be found, arguably giving younger, less-informed and/or casual fans the misconception that The Clash were a big enough concern in 1982 to warrant a gig at Shea Stadium on their own.
And yeah, the Clash were blowing up, at the time. Having already ascended out of the rough-hewn rabble of British Punk by their iconic third album, London Calling, they were swiftly becoming a globally-known and entirely accessible quantity. I vividly remember spinning “Train in Vain” off same, and having my mother jitterbug into my room with a big smile on her face “Now *THIS* I like!,” she beamed. To the 13-year-old me, there was no greater ignominy than having a parent approve of my favorite music.
Indeed, by 1982’s Combat Rock, the Clash no longer belonged to a furtive cabal of gatekeeping punks. They were everyone’s band. Between “Rock the Casbah” and “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” they were all over the place (and, clearly, the cracks were starting to show). The big time was surely beckoning.
But not Shea Stadium big, let’s be clear. Surely, their spiritual forebears in The Who probably recognized a bit of themselves in The Clash and Townshend was still seething to claim some kinship to Punk Rock (see ye “Who Are You?” and “Rough Boys” if you need convincing), so adding them to their bill (alongside former New York Doll David Johansen) got as close to checking that box as was feasible. But the majority of the vast throngs of people who came to Shea Stadium that night were not there to hear The Clash. To hear my friend Rob — who attended the gig — tell it, the crowd was essentially the old school — aging classic rock fans with painted denim jackets. The Clash weren’t poorly received, but their short, opening-band set was largely tolerated politely by folks pining to hear hoary rock-opera standards like “Pinball Wizard” and “Baba O’Reilly,” not the menacing dub of “Guns of Brixton” or the forward-thinking funk of “The Magnificent Seven."
By and large, though Live At Shea Stadium paints the Clash as conquering heroes of the punk generation, usurping the fabled Queens enormo-dome from the Beatles (when, in actuality, it would be the Police who accomplished that feat a year later). Personally speaking, for a band so steeped in conviction, the downplayed specifics, omissions and fact-fudging of Live At Shea Stadium all seem a bit disingenuous. The heart and conscience of the band, Joe Strummer, was already long dead when the record was released. Maybe he’d have cast it differently.
So, why am I discussing any of this now? Well, because I was recently watching yet another episode of Amoeba Records’ “What’s In My Bag?” and rapper Vic Mensa proudly displays his vinyl copy of Live At Shea, clearly unaware (and/or possibly unbothered) by the fact that The Clash played Shea under slightly different circumstances than is implied, … as if that would matter.
At the very least, it made me listen again, and — if nothing else — Live at Shea Stadium does feature a live version of “London Calling” that is markedly superior to the one captured on From Here to Eternity: Live. For whatever reason, Joe comes in with his opening verse a bit late, by about a whole bar, which reveals the choppy, staccato foundation of the song in an enjoyable illuminating manner. Secondly, unlike the version on From Here.., Joe actually remembers all the lyrics and manages to sing them in the original order, which is nice.
As you were.
Here is a clutch of seemingly random photos that have been languishing on my desktop, mostly for no readily apparent reason.....
Cait O'Riordan of the Pogues. No idea who took it. Cait was invariably the coolest member of the band.
A still from Scorsese's "Mean Streets." I walk this strip whenever I head to the office. It's no longer this grotty.
A shot of the Strokes, although I have no clue who took it. I was fleetingly inspired to write another post about the band, based on their actually not-bad, new material, but lost interest, probably because of this picture. I mean, really...
Another shot of long-gone First Avenue favorite, Downtown Beirut. Renowned for their stellar jukebox. Note the unfinished Missing Foundation insignia near the door.
Another age-old Rock Hotel flyer. I set this to one side not because I ever cared about Cycle Sluts from Hell (I didn't), but because the venue in question is Downtown, the spot on Bond Street I spent some time researching some years back.
A great action shot of Tod and Natz from my beloved Cop Shoot Cop. No idea where this picture was taken, when or who took it.
Snapped by one David Vega in 1985, here's an amazing shot of the since-razed corner of St. Marks Place at Third Avenue, replete with also since-vanished Gringo mural.
Spotted this on Instagram. This is someone's shower curtain. I approve.
A lovely family portrait of the Sex Pistols after their fabled, final performance at the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco. No idea who took it.
A outtake from Pennie Smith sessions for the cover of Sandinista! by The Clash.
...and there you have it.
Someone posted this on Facebook today (albeit without a photo credit, sadly) and it's just such a smashing image of the place, I thought I'd share it. Click on it to enlarge.
The first time I went here was in 1982 to see Devo on the Oh, No It's Devo tour. Some time after that, it was closed and completely re-modeled and re-invented as the quintessential big 80's club. In that iteration, I saw Public Image Ltd., Fishbone, The Dead Milkmen, 2 Live Crew, Digital Underground and a neck-snapping triple bill of Foetus, The Unsane and Cop Shoot Cop.
Today, the footprint of the Palladium plays host to a soulless NYU dorm (churlishly still referred to as The Palladium) with a Trader Joe's on it's ground floor. By my estimation, the iconic spot where Paul Simonon smashed his bass guitar, as captured by photographer Pennie Smith for the cover of London Calling, is somewhere at the end of the produce section.
Who did YOU see here?
Below is frankly goofy 3D reconstruction of its iteration as a nightclub...
The first time I ever set foot in the Brooks Brothers flagship store on Madison Avenue and 44th Street, I was invariably with my mother. As an Upper East Side brat attending a private elementary school of the sort that required the wearing of blue blazers, I was invariably there being fitted for same. Just a stone’s throw from Grand Central Station, Brooks Brothers was this hallowed Manhattan institution, frequented by monied captains of industry, and practically the Kaaba of all things “Preppy.” The store, just like the clothes it sold, exuded an unmistakable air of exclusivity, prestige and privilege. Seemingly erected on that corner not long after the settlement of the New World, Brooks Brothers was an iconic brand that became synonymous with old New York, almost as hallowed a place of worship as St. Patrick’s Cathedral just a few blocks away. As such, when I was a child, whenever I was taken there, I felt self-conscious, awed, undeserving and underdressed.
By the time I made it into my teens, I’d become not so enamored of the place, its pricey duds and the associations that were inexorably entwined with them. While Brooks Brothers clothes were impeccably well made, I largely wanted no part of that image or the mindset that espoused it. As both a cathedral of aspirational wealth and the uniform of the avaricious, Brooks Brothers started to represent everything I wanted to renounce. Somewhat ironically, there was a Madison Avenue record shop I’ve invoked here a few times that I regularly patronized in the early 80’s that was only a couple of doors up from Brooks Brothers. I was a thousand times more likely to be found blowing my dubiously earned allowance on LPs by The Clash and The Plasmatics there than ridiculously expensive neckties at Brooks Brothers just down the block.
But once an Upper East Side kid, always an Upper East Side kid, I guess. While my sartorial inclinations skewed largely towards all things black, augmented by band t-shirts and Chuck Taylors, there has always been a stubborn streak of inherent prepdom to my wardrobe. A former brother-in-law once described my style as one foot in CBGB and the other in Brooks Brothers. I think I resented him for it, at the time, but he pretty much summed it up.
In time, I gradually had a come-to-Jesus moment and reconciled my issues with Brooks Brothers, disregarding any remaining feelings of guilt or disdain upon treating myself to a snazzy jacket there in later life (it helped that, over the years, Brooks Brothers had branched out from its stodgier origins). My mindset, by this point, was that the clothes don’t make the man, they just help him look a little more presentable. Never was this more confirmed for me, however, than in July 2005.
It was a brutally hot day, and I was walking through midtown with my wife Peggy and then-baby-daughter Charlotte. Everyone was getting a little cranky from the heat until Peggy remembered she was carrying a Brooks Brother gift card and rightly assumed the nearby flagship store would be sumptuously air-conditioned. As such, we repaired to the palatial interiors of same to cool off and browse.
While pushing Charlotte’s umbrella stroller around tables draped with immaculate mandalas of pricey neckties, I heard Peggy remark behind me. “Check out that guy in the cowboy hat.” I glanced over and saw a tall gentleman with arms outstretched, presumably being fitted for what looked like a three-piece suit, and — indeed — sporting a jarringly incongruous, ten-gallon cowboy hat. I smirked, but then did a complete double-take.
The cowboy in question was Michael Gira, lead singer/primary mastermind behind SWANS.
So struck by the sight, I actually exclaimed, “Michael?” Through my friend Tod from Cop Shoot Cop, I’d actually met Michael Gira some years earlier, not that I was expecting him to remember me. He looked up and I just told him I was a big fan of his music. He smiled and told me I had a lovely family and got back to being fitted for his suit.
Peggy looked confused. I explained who the nattily-dressed and convivial cowboy was, taking pains to point out that he was the same man who wrote and recorded such zingy chestnuts as “Mother, My Body Disgusts Me” and “Raping a Slave,” which made Peggy look even more confused.
For me, though, the striking thing was that for Michael Gira, there is truly no more abjectly derisive and palpably base word than “consumer,” and yet here he was in the very plush, velvety lap of consumer culture. Now, maybe this was all a middle-finger to the face of that which he so abhors, but it certainly looked to me like he was enjoying himself and indulging. I don’t assume I’ll ever know the whole picture, there.
In any case, that episode totally absolved Brooks Brothers of much of its haughty intimidation for me. At the very least, it decimated any fleeting concerns about Brooks Brothers not being “punk” enough, or whatever.
The last time I went to Brooks Brothers, I went in looking for a Navy Pea Coat for my son. True to form, I found a nice one for Oliver that was a significant step up from the clunky one we’d gotten him at the Gap a year or two earlier and he went on to cherish it.
Today, the wife and I were back in midtown running an errand and found ourselves walking down Madison Avenue. We’d heard that Brooks Brothers was in trouble, but were still taken aback when, upon reaching that iconic corner of East 44th Street, we looked in and saw the flagship store closed, empty and gutted.
I’ve probably spun this yarn here before, but the first time I ever saw Life in a Blender was at some point in the mid-80s. They were incongruously playing the Museum Mile festival on Fifth Avenue on the Upper East Side (my home turf, at the time), bringing a little Downtown weirdness to the otherwise staid uptown environs. Squeezed between mimes dressed as medieval harlequins and hammered-dulcimer players with ill-considered facial hair, here was this little rock combo playing strange songs about a host of different subjects (ditties later released on their debut LP, 1988’s Welcome To The Jelly Days). I was pretty much immediately hooked.
For any band whose foundation is steeped in a comedic approach, the albatross of predictable descriptors forever hangs heavily on their collective neck. Rarely will one read an invocation of Life in a Blender without encountering adjectives like “bizarre,” “quirky,” “oddball,” “witty,” “wry,” “satirical,” “skewed” and probably one or two “wacky” and “zany” mentions, if you dig deep enough. Sure, all those words have applied to Life in a Blender, at various points over the years, not least for lead singer/songwriter Don Rauf’s unconventional lyrical tangents, emphatic vocal style and penchant for surreal prop use (my particular favorite being a disembodied sheep’s head puppet named “Rugged Rick”). But to reduce Life in a Blender to merely a “funny” band is a brazen disservice to their finely honed musical chops, their stylistic adventurousness, their wide-ranging field of genuinely emotive songs and their sprawling discography. It may have started off as a gag, but Life in a Blender has evolved into a band that is a versatile force to be reckoned with, if you’re willing to swear off the diet of the insipidly slackjawed soma that currently passes itself off as contemporary pop music.
While I cannot remember the last time he and I were actually in the same room together (although I suspect it was at one of those dusty WFUV record fairs in Chelsea somewhere, wherein we were displaying our respectively idiotic spoils), Don and I have been friends for a while, so when I learned about Life in a Blender’s newest album, the ambitious Satsuma, a lavishly concocted labor of literary love fueled by booze, boredom and books (more about that below) — I figured the time was nigh to add Don to the roster of ignominy that also plagues RB Korbet of Even Worse, Chris Egan of Missing Foundation, Big Paul Ferguson of Killing Joke, Erik Norse Sanko of Skeleton Key and one or two unlucky others. I’m talking, of course, about the Flaming Pablum Interview. Much to his impending regret, Don said yes.
Here’s how it all went down.
Satsuma is something of a departure from Life In a Blender’s normal routine — what prompted the conceptual detour?
It was all a cascading waterfall of circumstances and we were standing directly under it! I had been writing songs for a project called the Bushwick Book Club, in which founder Susan Hwang forces artsts to write songs based on literary works. So the Blenders (Mark Lerner, Rebecca Weiner Tompkins, Dave Moody, Al Houghton, Ken Meyer, and I) had worked up versions of these songs-- “Vacancy for a Bluebird” based on Kurt Vonnegut’s "Man Without a Country," “Soul Deliverer” based on Tea Obreht’s "The Tiger’s Wife," “The Ocean Is a Black and Rolling Tongue” based on Jonathan Ames’s "You Were Never Really Here," “A Party in the Drunken Forest” based on Peter Wohlleben’s "The Hidden Life of Trees" and “Freak of Nature with a Lonely Heart” based on Dean Haspiel’s comic "The Red Hook." Check them out here.
So we had this unique batch of songs plus one just pure original tune. We might have done more but then the pandemic hit. We might have done a full album but here we were with six great basic tracks and we all said, “Fuck you, Universe. We’ll just make an EP.” Still it’s close to 30 minutes, and if you play it twice, it’s really about an hour long. Then, with all this time in solitary confinement, we decided to make the whole physical package more interesting—We all agreed that the most important thing was that it be abnormally tall for a CD…and so it is. We also feature some bang-up recipes for cocktails based on the songs, and there’s fantastic original art inspired by each song – by James Williamson, Gideon Kendall, Carla Rozman, Nancy Howell, Sky Pape, and Pete Friedrich. We wanted people to have something more than just jewel case and flimsy CD that most artists just poop out in the middle of their sleep.
How did the COVID-19 pandemic inform the recording process?
We started recording before the pandemic and fortunately we had a lot of the major parts in the can. I think we all know what “in the can” means, don’t we? Well it means it was all quite satisfying. One of the main things was –we had gotten all the hornplayers in the can. So there we were….basic tracks done… Al Houghton stark naked..and all Hell broke loose with the virus….and people foaming at the mouth. We were suddenly all turned upside down and torn apart. We were sequestered, banging on our little Zoom windows, and yelling, “For godsakes, what do we do?” So we took our six songs and added overdubs from afar.
Physical editions come with a lavishly illustrated book of cocktail recipes. How did that come about?
Goddammit! It was the virus! We were all running out of oxygen and we knew alcohol was the only answer. So we asked our favorite boozophiles if they wouldn’t mind concocting cocktail recipes insipred by the songs. So Henry Tenney, Bill Tipper, Deb Masocsi and Jason Boyd, Ambrosia Parsely, Franz Teeltlebaum, and Justin Lane Briggs from Barbes all came up with spectacular cocktails, which are all surprisingly healthy and almost potable.
We also know so many great artists. They each made an original piece of art (although I think Peter Friedrich may have just torn a page out of an old Boy’s Life magazine) and if you look at the art while listening to the song, it’s really like living inside your own personal Music Television video.
Where do you stand on the ongoing debate between streaming and the physical manifestations of recorded music?
Streaming on all levels is a horrible situation for musicians. What do the artists get from it? The pay rate is absolutely abysmal. In days of old, we saved our money and bought the music and the musician actually made money that was at least equitable. I feel like there must be some other model that would be more fair. Really the only game in town is Spotify. Our friend Chris Butler of the Waitresses gets so many plays from “Christmas Wrapping” and “I Know What Boys Like,” but he can tell you it adds up to “nanopennies.” We need to storm the castle with pitchforks and piñatas. Daniel Ek has become a billionaire off of the creative sweat of musicians. The movement asking for at least a penny per stream seems...a step in the right direction. I am twisting Father Time’s arm and saying, “Take Us Back!’ I want pay telephones, vinyl records, calling in to my message machine to find out who might have called, plastering band flyers with wheat paste on to poles, and advertising live shows by printing up and mailing postcards and sending small teams of jockeys into the night with megaphones saying, “ Show! Show tonight! Come and see the live music show tonight!”
How do you listen to your favorite music?
I stream everything I like for exactly .0000003 cents. The vibrations of today’s latest hits are coming through the tree roots if you put your ear down low. I buy the digital downloads and often the CD or vinyl album. There are still a good number of independent record stores in Seattle –so it’s great to go out, and then go in and support them—Sonic Boom, Easy Street, Silver Platters, Fat Cat Records, to name a few.
When was the last time Life in a Blender played in front of a live audience?
We played January 18, 2020 at Rockwood. It’s a great space with a great sound system and the staff is a group of super nice professionals who know how to repeatedly take a kick in the balls. I think Rockwood is accustomed to having bands play there that have a style of music that the great Josh Ozersky called “glummo.” So I think we’re the proverbial snowball down the back of the shorts. They all appreciate the difference and the up-with-people message we bring.
How do you feel about the concept of returning to the live music scenario?
It’s going to be like swimming in lava. Everyone is going to be severely burned and naked. But they will also be a bit cautious as more clubs open because they’re not all certain about the vaccines and the assholes and how safe everything really is. I can picture a performer who tiptoes out in front of a live audience being more reserved. Is Iggy Pop going to sling his torso into the crowd the second clubs reopen? I’m not so sure. And I feel the same way. So….. I think it will be great to get back on stage gingerly!
You’re originally from Poughkeepsie but started the band in Brooklyn, but you live in Seattle, now, right? How often do you regularly convene with the band?
I’ve been lucky to head back to New York a lot. I am a freelance health writer and can do that from anywhere. So I am thankful for that although, you may look at me and say, “Honestly, how can YOU write about health? I mean, look at the condition you’re in.” I can turn my back on the siren call of Poughkeepsie for only so long, and then I must arch my eyebrows and stretch my arms Eastward and give into the irresistible pull. And, again, I think you know what I mean by “irresistible pull.”
I first saw you guys performing in the mid-80’s at a Museum Mile festival in Manhattan. Do you have any memory of that gig? What were your favorite venues to play when you were starting out?
It’s true we somehow managed to play outside along Fifth Avenue for that festival. I think someone from Museum Mile spotted us when we busked in Central Park. Those were fun events because you expose yourself to such a variety of people. And yes, some people don’t enjoy hearing strange musicians exposing themselves, but several passersby would get into what we’re doing. I think it’s always worth putting yourself out there in ways that are not usual.
But of course we played the New York clubs and they were great and many in the 80s. Our home bar and venue was really McGovern’s on Spring Street and I’m still great friends with Steve McGovern (really Greenberg). Steve just let you run wild all night and do whatever you liked. So it was an ideal venue to try out all and everything. (Steve’s quote: “You want to know how to make a small fortune in the music club business? Start with a large fortune.”)
The next best and possibly equal club was CBGBs. Before we ever played there, I was intimidated. Every major artist played there—Television, Talking Heads, Ramones, Blondie, Dead Boys—and the place looked scary! But Hilly was salt of the Earth, with his big slow bass voice, and the staff were all the best, best people. I am still a friend of Alison Aguiar who was a waitress there. And one day I hope that she will think of me as her friend.
On top of those two venues...I did really love all these: Lone Star, Danceteria, Ritz, Tramps, Lauterbach’s (way out in Brooklyn when there really weren’t any clubs), the Blue Rose (up by Columbnia University). I think Brownies was later but I have major love for Brownies.
At the Blue Rose, the owner was a largish woman who looked like Divine. She had dark hair beehived high atop her head. At the end of the bar was a storage alcove, and the bar owner stored her elderly mother there. Her mother was bed-ridden so the Divine-like bartender set up what looked like a bedroom in the alcove. So when you had a drink at the Blue Rose bar, you’d look down to the end and it almost looked like a diorama or a scene from a museum—there was this old woman lying in bed in a set-up that looked like a cozy bedroom—but inches away from her was all the hooting and drinking and loud music of a dark and—at the times—smokey dive bar. Another great club was Siberia half way down the steps to the subway at 50th and Broadway. There’s a pretty great documentary on the place here . That place was a trip.
Satsuma is your 10th album. When you first started the band, did you expect that you would still be recording this many years later?
The personnel has changed but not in eons. We have probably all been together at least 25 years now.… I can’t stop doing this and I’m glad they don’t have the willpower to stop either. I have been so lucky to play with these super humans, who are just amazingly talented and warm, no matter how or where you touch them or how they look. Sincerely, I am so thankful. I can’t ask for a better, more rewarding creative experience. Everything about the Blender is truly incredible. I know we’re not THE most famous band in the world but having the ability to create with people you don’t dislike and perform in front of people who are unlikely to be violently angry is fantastic. Today, when we wake up and say, “We haven’t wet the bed,” we consider that a major victory.
In 2007, you released what I consider to be one of the finest lamentations about gentrification, that being “What Happened to Smith”? Towards the end of the song, the protagonist (you, I assume) wearily resigns himself to “waiting it out by the Gowanus” and opting for the “stench of the canal” over suffering the changes to the rest of the neighborhood. Since that record was released, Gowanus itself has been “discovered” and colonized, for lack of a better term. Do you ever go back to Brooklyn, these days? What are you feelings about it now?
That song could have just as easily been called “What happened to Alex Smith?” Now the song doesn’t quite work because the Gowanus has been all dolled up and doused with perfume—the perfume of young money! At the same time that Gowanus is getting shined up, Smith may be convlusing and unsure of itself. I know, even pre-pandemic, Smith had seemed to be passing its prime. Retail rents had soared so high that shops were going dark right and left. Then the chain of brand-name drug stores and the top-name apparel shops move in. But may rents dip and the social clubs reopen and everyone be sitting in beach chairs in front of their buildings again.
If/when Life In a Blender returns to the stage in the wake of the pandemic, will Rugged Rick be joining you?
I don’t think Rugged Rick will ever read this, so I think it’s safe to say Rugged Rick is an asshole. I suppose Rugged Rick would think the pandemic is the best thing ever—you know, fewer humans is a concept that Rick would support, but it does seem horribly heartless right now to even say that. What I’m trying to say is, I’m afraid Rick will be back and ready to shout at us all and tell what complete dopes we all are.
At first glance, you might be forgiven for thinking the hirsute young men in the clips below are The Strokes or someone comparable, but no …. these videos date back to 1969, and the band featured is a little beat combo from Holland called The Motions, depicted cavorting around midtown Manhattan in a style popularized by “A Hard Day’s Night” and “The Monkees” — who, coincidentally, make a cameo in the third clip.
If the name doesn’t ring a bell with you, don’t feel too bad. The band never made a major dent here and were done and dusted shortly after this was all filmed. They were evidently in town to play a venue at 301 West 46th Street called The Scene. One can’t help feel a little bad for them watching this, knowing that their stars were crossed.
In any case, it’s still an interesting glimpse of a lost New York City. I would have been about two years old, while this was going on.
Don’t go looking for The Scene today. The building that housed it was razed and in its footprint now stands The Riu Plaza New York Times Square Hotel.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Now that the election is over and Trump is well and truly out of office (although his second acquittal is a foul, pathetic stain on this nation that cannot be washed away), I am trying to move away from politics here. But after a number of people reached out expecting commentary on a development yesterday, I am parting with Thumper's rule.
In the plainest language, Rush Limbaugh embodied the very worst aspects of our culture and was instrumental in cultivating the vehement division we collectively suffer under today.
He should not be mourned.
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