Flaming Pablum

Whigged Awesome: Whither the Upper Crust?

Upon hearing the disheartening news that The Upper Crust had decided to put their royal selves on “indefinite hiatus” recently, I dialed up some of the fabled Boston band’s finer recorded moments over the holidays, which led me to finally view the 2004 documentary about them (see below).

I’ve mentioned the Upper Crust here a few times, usually in relation to since-shuttered venues like Brownie’s. They were among a coterie of bands like The Unband, Nashville Pussy, The Candy Snatchers, The Pleasure Fuckers and The Lee Harvey Keitel Band, to name a small few, that my friends and I would regularly go see live back in the mid-to-late 90’s, usually at venues like The Continental, Tramp’s and the afore-cited Brownie’s, although I want to say I remember a gig The Upper Crust played on The Frying Pan, a disused barge-turned-live-music-venue, wherein the vessel actually caught fire during the performance. If memory serves, the Upper Crust manfully kept playing as the ship fleetingly burned.

If you’re regrettably unfamiliar, The Upper Crust were originally a quintet who played a high-decibel variant of heavy garage boogie ala AC/DC, whilst dressed like aristocratic fops from the 18th century. While that sounds slavishly gimmicky, the single element that set The Upper Crust well apart from similarly high-concept novelty bands like Dread Zeppelin or Clowns for Progress was the undeniable fact that they wrote great, hilarious, hook-laden songs and they actually fucking rocked. Resplendently bedecked in their signature powdered wigs, pancake makeup, ruffled shirts and platform shoes, The Upper Crust looked endearingly ridiculous, but completely delivered in the rock --- or roque department.

Don’t believe me? Enjoy….

I was undeservingly privileged to see the band perform a number of times, but it always remained to be seen if they were ever going to take off beyond the confines of the then-still-burgeoning punky East Coast rock circuit. I would routinely insert tracks of theirs on mixtapes (remember when we all still made those?) for friends, extolling the band’s myriad merits. In time, however, our little show-going gang started to splinter off and get married (myself included), and then the venues started to close and Manhattan itself started to seem less and less like a place that the Upper Crust and similarly inclined bands would ever find a place to play. Jesse Malin's been doing his damnedest to stem that tide, via endeavors like Bowery Electric and Coney Island Baby, but Manhattan just isn't the same place it used to be ... which fucking sucks. 

As such, I was sad to learn that the band was finally hanging it up. I walked by the old shop in SoHo that lead singer/guitarist Nate Freedberg (stage name: Lord Bendover) was running, but it no longer looked to be a going concern. Then I learned of the documentary. Already fourteen year old by this point, the film tells a decidedly less cheery tale. While amusing that one of the original members went onto become a speech-writer for President Clinton, the stories of intra-band acrimony and conflicting aspirations seem all too familiar. To my mind, the Upper Crust SHOULD have been a bigger deal. The added oddity that drummer Jim Janota (stage name: Jackie Kickassis) is an avowed gun-nut only makes the story stranger.

As I understand it, the band members are all pursuing other musical ventures these days (check out Nat's doings here), but one hopes they might yet again reconvene. I would go see them again in a heartbeat.

Herewith “Let Them East Rock”….

Reincarnating the Ritz?

You may remember my series of weepy, tear-stained posts about the closing, gutting and gradual decay of what had been Webster Hall, a.k.a The Ritz, right? Well, despite claims that it had been purchased by an agency called AEG and that it was going to be re-booted into some new venture in 2020, today came news that it is allegedly going to re-open sometime this year.

As reported here by ….er…..something called Dancing Astronaut, while the plan was for the iconic space to become a new “sports and entertainment venue called Spectrum Hall,” it’s now evidently uncertain how the new space will manifest itself.

While I harbor zero hope of the storied venue returning to its former glories in any semblance to its former capacity as The Ritz, I am heartened by news of its impending return.

We shall see.

I went, yet again, into great chapter and verse about my love for the old venue in this post. Like some sort of omen, someone on eBay is hawking a t-shirt from those very Fishhone Christmas shows I wrote about ...for a paltry $219.00. Go fetch. 

Oh Nevermind: Cop Shoot Cop at the Pyramid on Avenue A

It should come as very little surprise to anyone that knows me, but I “run” and/or “manage” Facebook’s seemingly only Cop Shoot Cop page. Actually, to be fair, that’s not true — there’s also a group page called We Demand a Cop Shoot Cop Reunion, but it’s dormant on the best of days. If you’re looking for all things Cop Shoot Cop on Facebook, I am evidently your authority. At the very least, I’ve manage to amass arguably the greatest collection of C$C and C$C-related visual ephemera to be found on the `net. See that here, should you care. So, yeah, yay me.

Why don’t any of the original Cop Shoot Copy guys get involved? Dunno. I assume they either just don’t care, have way better things to do and/or are just fine with me handling it. I was drafted, let’s remember, at one point, with the task of putting together that star-crossed and ill-fated Cop Shoot Cop coffee-table book that regrettably never came to pass. One could argue that said aborted assignment gives me the right. Or not. Whatever. Regardless, I've kept it going for at least five years now, and I’m always heartened that people still contribute to it. It doesn’t happen with roaring fervor, but every now and then, someone posts something rare — which, in the grand scheme of things, is really the only pertinent descriptor for Cop Shoot Cop and their ilk — a scene, a sound and a sensibility that is swiftly becoming anachronistic. This week, that happened.

A user named Erin posted a super-rare flyer of the band’s yesterday. This was from the early days, when commanding officer Tod [A] -- that's him at the top of this post in an image respectfully purloined from Recalcitrant Monthly --  was toiling, by day, at a copy shop on West Broadway, a tenuous state of disgruntled employment that, at the very least, gave him access to vast amounts of paper and copying equipment with which to illicitly print up the band’s signature brand of provocative propaganda. For one particular gig at The Pyramid on Avenue A, Tod paired his own typically eye-catching graphic skills with an appropriated image from the illustrious oeuvre of one Tom of Finland. For those unfamiliar (although there was recently a bona fide biopic on the man), Tom of Finland was an artist from — WAIT FOR IT — Finland renowned for his beatific depictions of homosexual erotica, usually concerning workaday scenarios involving impossibly burly sailors, firemen, cops, etc. Imagine the artwork of children’s illustrator Richard Scarry, only instead of anthropomorphic cats, dogs and piglets, it was blissful, hulking men with titanic erections.

To wit, Tod came up with this poster below …. a bit of promotional material that doubtlessly furthered the notoriety of the band, probably to the pronounced chagrin of the local constabulary. People of delicate constitutions and easily-offended sensibilities should avert their eyes...

I’d actually seen this poster before, hanging on the wall of the original incarnation of Max Fish on Ludlow Street during a late-80’s/early-90’s flyer retrospective. I wish I’d brought my camera to that one.

Also this week, I happened to spy a flyer on the official Instagram page of the mighty Lunachicks for a series of gigs also at the Pyramid. Mind you, as discussed here before, the Pyramid on Avenue A used to be this amazing, ground-breaking, scene-sharing venue that hosted all stripes of subculture — from punks, hardcore kids, metal heads and noise-rock freaks through drag-queens, club kids and disco-zealots, all more-or-less happily co-mingling in this grotty little bar. I haven’t been back in decades, but if the video in this post is to be believed, that iteration has since been replaced by just another douchey disco.

Anyway, boo hoo. The thing that, of course, struck me about this flyer was the line-up. On the otherwise sleepy night of Thursday, April 26, 1990, Cop Shoot Cop shared a bill with the similarly inclined local band Rat At Rat R (who I discussed here) and a hip and happening little beat-combo from Seattle called …. Nirvana.

While that Nirvana show has since become the stuff of legend (for some), sadly, there is precious little documentation of the Cop gig, although — to be fair — it was only one of many nights they played this particular venue over the years. Two short years later, Nirvana and Cop Shoot Cop would both play the fabled Reading Festival in England, although Nirvana were headliners and Cop Shoot Cop were relegated to something called The Session Tent (flanked by their compatriots in the Lunachicks, among others). Cop Shoot Cop did eventually make it to the big stage at Reading Festival in 1994, although still at the bottom of the bill, under friends like Helmet and the Jesus Lizard, with …. er … the Red Hot Chili Peppers headlining.

Does any of this matter now? Maybe only to a few. But for those it does matter to, I’m happy to share.

Meanwhile, as discussed in great detail here,  I’m still searching for the rest of THIS poster….

Goodbye to Stormy 2018

Technically, there are still a few days left of 2018, but for all intents and purposes, it’s over. As such, time to dust off this old thing. Let’s have at it.

What did you do in 2018 that you'd never done before?
Travel to the Middle East. Partake of Black Pudding. Submit a stool sample. Not all on one day, mind you.

Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
My plans for the inevitable “Dry January” were stymied by the arrival of the bomb cyclone. We’ll see what happens this year.

Did anyone close to you give birth?
Friends of mine had children. No one in the immediate family.

Did anyone close to you die?
In the beginning of the year, my childhood friend Danny passed away. I wrote a few posts about it. Still hard to believe.

What countries did you visit?
I went to Lebanon in August (with a stopover in Paris) and England in November.

What would you like to have in 2019 that you lacked in 2018?
A responsible adult in the White House.

What date from 2018 will remain etched upon your memory?
I’m going to say September 12, which was significant for me in that it was both my organization’s company-wide Town Hall meeting (for which I orchestrated video coverage and content) in Nashville, Tennessee and the date of Killing Joke’s New York stop on their 40th Anniversary tour. I’d taken pains to arrange it so I could actually do both, but those plans collapsed, as discussed in histrionic detail here.

What was your biggest achievement of the year?
I’m proud of my continuing ascent at my place of work. The work I do is recognized and appreciated. That’s a nice feeling. Here's hoping I can sustain in 2019.

What was your biggest failure?
My little family has sorely outgrown our living space, but we have yet to find a working solution.

Did you suffer illness or injury?
Well, at one point, I had a scare with a tick. Then I developed a wicked case of Montezuma’s Revenge (read: traveler’s diarrhea) following the trip to Beirut. Then there was a sort of mystery condition that prompted a few invasive and uncomfortable tests (see stool sample answer above), that revealed nothing and went away as mysteriously as it had arrived. I’m sure you’re sorry you asked, now.

What was the best thing you bought?
Airline tickets for London to see the close of Killing Joke’s 40th Anniversary tour.

Whose behavior merited celebration?
Christine Blasey Ford

Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Donald Trump, Mitch McConnell, Paul Ryan, Brett Kavanaugh, Matthew Whitaker, Susan Collins, Chuck Grassley, John Cornyn, Mike Pence, Lyndsey Graham.

What did you get really, really excited about?
Traveling to Beirut. Traveling to London to see Killing Joke.

Where did most of your money go?
Tuition for my kids’ schools.

What song will always remind you of 2018?
“Never Fight a Man with a Perm” by IDLES

Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?
I’d say I’m about the same. I’m worried about a few things, but overall am content with how things are going on a personal level. On a grander scale, 2018 was a year of constant incredulousness, shock, disgust and shame over the Trump Administration.

Thinner or fatter?
Certainly fatter.

Richer or poorer?
Feeling the latter in the wake of the holiday season. We’ll see when those Amex bills arrive.

What do you wish you'd done more of?
Relaxing with my wife and kids.

What do you wish you'd done less of?
Wasting time on social media. Arguing about politics with certain folks.

How did you spend Christmas?
Spread over Quogue, Manhattan, Brooklyn and West Chester, PA.

Who did you spend the most time on the phone with?
No earthly idea.

Did you fall in love in 2018?
Was already in love.

How many one night stands in this last year?
Zero. Happily hitched.

What was your favorite TV program?
I quite liked “The Bodyguard.”

Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
I continue to hate Trump and his cronies and his supporters. 

What was the best book you read?
Without question, the “Beastie Boys Book.”

What was your greatest musical discovery?
From eons passed, I discovered that great collaboration of Robert Fripp and David Sylvian, and a band I’d entirely slept on called The Oblivians, who are amazing. I also became somewhat enthralled by two newer bands, specifically IDLES and Daughters, as I mentioned here.

What did you want and get?
I was finally able to see Killing Joke on their 40th Anniversary tour –- TWICE, no less (Oxford and London)

What did you want and not get?
Regime change.

What were your favorite films of this year?
I quite liked “Can You Ever Forgive Me?”, which was a refreshingly smart, very New Yorky film. I suppose I liked “Avengers: Infinity Wars,” but all those Marvel movies are starting to blur together for me.

What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I turned an unseemly 51, and had a small celebration with my family.

What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Trump’s impeachment, indictment and incarceration.

How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2018?
Embarrassing Dad With a Band T-shirt Problem

What kept you sane?
My lovely wife and children.

What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
I normally don’t have an answer for this, but I’m going to say Hayley Atwell. She’s close to perfect.

What political issue stirred you the most?
Fuckin’ take your pick.

Who did you miss?
Pete Shelley, Stan Lee, Mark E. Smith

Who was the best new person you met?
Three of my wife’s cousins in Beirut, who are all totally excellent.

Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2018
Never lose your sense of humor, regardless of how bleak and dire things get.

Song lyric that sums up 2018
Not a current song, but from World Party’s “Ship of Fools,” this feels kinda accurate…

We're setting sail to the place on the map
from which no one has ever returned
Drawn by the promise of the joker and the fool
by the light of the crosses that burned.

Sixteen Years Gone

Where is Joe Strummer today when we really need him? 

Idles Redux

Last post about the IDLES for now …. maybe.

As if I couldn’t love them any more than I already do, I stumbled upon this video from their first album, Brutalism. I don’t own it yet, but will be rectifying that error shortly. In any event, the entirety of this video for “Stendhal Syndrome” is footage of burly, beardy bassist Andrew “Dev” Devonshire dancing inappropriately with great aplomb in some of the world’s more revered museums ….notably the Metropolitan Museum here in New York and the Saathci Gallery in London. I actually have a pic of my kids standing in front of one of the same paintings Dev dances in front of at about 0:22 (see below).

As endearingly silly as the video is, the backstory is quite compelling:

From Genius .com: In a statement to The Know, lead singer Joe Talbot said this about the song: I once sat on a bench in a gallery in Valencia. I stared in awe of a painting for a good while, I was moved to tears by the scene of a man holding a crucifix at the top of a mound of other figures grappling for the glory of God. I’m not religious but it captivated me to the point of nausea. I looked into this and the phenomenon which has happened before and since, it’s called Stendhal Syndrome.

Those moments in my life were not driven by any pretension but from something intrinsically fucking magical. Now, of course, there is an obvious class divide sustained in the art world and that will always be there so long as art is perceived as this language only to be spoken and understood by the rich but the likelihood of our songs being heard and in turn being listened to by the upper classes is very unlikely, so I thought I’d highlight the other side that helps keep up the bullshit; that “I could do that” attitude because it’s fucking ignorant and it’s lazy and why the fuck does one person’s voice have to be shut down because you could fucking do it! Shut up, you’re boring. You didn’t do it BUT YOU CAN and maybe if you did you’d be less defensive about other people expressing themselves and you not. All is love.

Enjoy:

Goodbye, Pete Shelley

They arguably lacked the spittle-drenched fury of the Sex Pistols or the alleged political acumen of The Clash, but The Buzzcocks were, quite simply, the perfect band. They struck a precise balance between the adrenalized sprint of the purest punk rock and an always-melodic brand of shiny, candy-colored pop. In frontman/guitarist Pete Shelley, they had an adept songwriter who could effortlessly pen shrewdly non-gender-specific lyrics that were immediate, universal and astonishingly nuanced. Simultaneously sweet, pugnacious and irrepressibly catchy, the songs of the Buzzcocks were and will always remain nothing short of total genius.

Pete Shelley died today at 63. I first heard the Buzzcocks courtesy of their deceptively prurient single, “Orgasm Addict,” which prompted me to pick up their seminal (pardon the awful pun) compilation, Singles Going Steady and was instantly smitten by their sharp, funny and inimitable brand of rock ‘n’ roll. One of the most exciting live shows I’ve ever been lucky enough to witness was when the band reformed in 1989 and played the New Ritz on West 54th Street. When the Buzzcocks assumed the stage and burst straight into “Everybody’s Happy Nowadays,” that storied room -- formerly Studio 54 -– burst wide open in a veritable explosion of joy.

I went on to see them several more times, though tapered off in more recent years. Pete was starting to look a little worse for wear and seemed to be less enthused the last time I saw them play at Irving Plaza a few years back. I am saddened I will never get to see them perform again, and heartbroken that yet another musical hero whose songs have meant so much to me since I first heard them several decades ago has left us.

Pour one out for Pete. Go buy every Buzzcocks album you can get your undeserving hands on. Thank me later.

Colloquial Semantics

Regarding this ridiculous story, if I'm not mistaken, the coinage of the term "to 86 someone" actually originates right here in NYC, stemming from the practice of forcibly removing someone from the premises of age-old speakeasy (since-turned-revoltingly bespoke eatery) Chumley's in the West Village, which I referenced most recently here. 

If you were selected to be thrown out of the bar, you were ushered out via its backdoor on 86 Bedford Street....hence "86'd."

It has nothing to do with murder (that's "Deep 6").

A PSA from The Hulk

There's still a little bit of time left, so .... if you haven't yet, please....

Courtesy of Dana Gould.

Back to Astor Place

Our good friend Bob Egan of Popshots NYC posted the below photo over on Facebook, and I found it so striking that I was motivated to post it here. Here's how Bob prefaced it...

Astor Place, 1984, from the roof of 111 Fourth Avenue at 11-12th St.

Seemingly a million lightyears from its current, busy, teeming iteration, this is exactly the Astor Place I first discovered in the early 80's. Barren, uncluttered, spacious.... full of elbow room and ripe for exploring.