Flaming Pablum

Pictures of Trees

Because that's all I'm good for, at the moment.

‘I Know, I Know … But Please DO!’

I took the above picture on November 7, 2016. Look at the language on the top sticker, affixed to a pole on the corner of White and Church Streets, at the time.

It rather tidily summed up the feeling here in New York City prior to Election Day. It seemed like such a given. There was absolutely no way Trump was going to win. What a ludicrous notion! So, yeah, even though it seems like such a given, please, y'know ... go vote and stuff.

…and then we all know what happened.

Heading into the Midterm Elections of 2018, a whole lot more has fucking happened (to say the least), and once again, the nation -– or portions of it, anyway -– are preparing to vote this coming Tuesday.

For all the talk of the looming “Blue Wave,” or that “Winter is Coming” for all of us angry “snowflakes” and for all the polls talking about early voter turnout, please remember this:

NOTHING IS A GIVEN.

Nothing’s in the bag. Regardless of what polls and pundits might try to tell you, they’ve all been wrong -- REALLY wrong -- before.

Don’t be apathetic. Don’t take anything for granted. Be enthused, proactive and even optimistic, if you see fit, but don’t be lazy, convinced or easily swayed by spin.

If you don’t participate, you have no right to complain, even if that sounds naïve and idealistic.

VOTE ON TUESDAY!

As the sticker said, I Know, I Know … But Please DO!

Exhuming 'Recent Things'

Back in August of 2008, I posted an entry dubbed “Recent Things.” This was essentially just a series of photographs I’d snapped with my still-quasi-new digital camera (not iPhone) to offset a series of photo posts I’d portentuously titled “Things That Are No Longer There,” and variations thereof. I stumbled upon that latter post this morning, and was struck by how many of those things – a decade later – are themselves no longer there … or at least not how I’d left them, so to speak. Let’s review, shall we?

This, as the sign says, was Bleecker Bob's. I devoted almost as many posts to the slow demise of this storied stronghold of punk vinyl as I did to the untimely vanishing of the Cedar Tavern. In any event, it closed in 2013 and, contrary to original plans, did not turn into a rock'n'roll-themed frozen yogurt emporium, but rather a fair-to-middling Japanese restaurant I dined in in 2015. Read that account here, should you honestly care. 

This is a shot of my then-four-year-old daughter Charlotte standing cherubically in front of what had been the fabled Moondance Diner at the bottom of Sixth Avenue, just north of Canal Street. About year after this photo was taken, the Moondance closed (its physical manifestation moving out west to Wyoming, if memory serves) and a giant, fuckoff hotel was erected in its footprint. I sneer every time I walk by it ... which is daily. 

This is the former exterior of Marty's Cool Stuff on LaFayette Street just north of Bleecker. The shop was a complete, unmanageable mess, but Marty did indeed have the odd bit of genuinely ...er... "cool stuff." The only lasting bit of ephemera I have that I'd prized there is this orange metal sign that says "Smiths Overalls." It hangs just above the interior transom of our front door. Today, this is part of the noxious streetwear flagship, KITH. 

This is the former entrance to 9 Second Avenue, just steps to the south of the Mars Bar (also gone, of course) on East First Street. Largely derelict and abandoned by the time of this photo, the building's significant back history was lovingly told in an amazing documentary called "The Tao of 9 Second Avenue." I wrote about it here, but it's well worth seeking out. Today, the spot in this photo is part of a TD Bank branch.  

 

Fittingly just around the corner from the shot immediately above, this is the north-facing exterior of the old Mars Bar on East First Street between Second Avenue and the Bowery. A constantly shifting and captivating canvas for murals and spontaneous expressions of colorful street art, this strip of East First Street was always one of my favorite spots in Manhattan. It's all gone now. What's in this space now is that TD Bank, a chic condo's chilly lobby and -- last time I checked -- a business called The Alchemist's Kitchen. 

Believe it or not, this is Extra Place on the northern end of East First Street, just steps to the east of the Bowery. Yes, down at the end of that arguably forbidding dead end was the rear of CBGB. Many an atmospheric photo of punk luminaries was snapped in this forgotten byway. Today, it's a comparatively straight-laced and squeaky-clean strip of neatly appointed -- but frequently empty -- storefronts.

This last one probably doesn't need a lot of explanation. That's Charlotte, again.

What's On Third?

...with apologies to Abbot & Costello.

Yesterday, our good friend and longtime fellow anachronistic bloggity-blogger EV Grieve posted an update on the status of the northeast corner of St. Marks Place at Third Avenue. Many might remember the news from about a year back that a large segment of that block -– including spaces fomerly or currently occupied by concerns like McDonald’s, the Continental, Korilla (formerly about nine other things since its storied iteration as St. Marks Pizza, above, as caught by Matt Weber in 1985), that corner news-agents/smoke shop, the since-shuttered Papaya King, among others -– would be razed to accommodate a new, seven-story tower of office space, because -- yeah, wait for it -– we needed that.

Well, plans for same, at the moment, seem squishy (see Grieve’s post for details), although most of the businesses on that plot have already closed up shop. The McDonald’s has been gone for a while, pushed out not just by this plan, but also the advent of the ever-aromatic/pungent (depending on your opinion) Shake Shack across the avenue. The Continental seems to have received a stay of execution, for the moment, although, if I’m being honest, I haven’t set foot in that particular joint since they dismantled the rear stage and stopped hosting live music.

As laboriously lamented in this old post, I was lucky enough to regularly witness a slew of suitably slovenly bands grace the stage at The Continental back throughout the 90’s, some notable high-decibel culprits being the legitimately incendiary Nashville Pussy (above), The Unband (below), The Upper Crust, The Lee Harvey Keitel Band, The Bullys, The Pleasure Fuckers, Furious George and the Candy Snatchers.

The loss of St. Marks Pizza was also worthy of its own post, which I thought I’d done, but evidently not. Or, if I did, I can’t find it anymore. In any case, it closed in 2003, and the neighborhood was pointedly the lesser for it. I also remember their slices being way better than those prized at more rhapsodized pizzerias like Stromboli's two blocks to the east.

I also strangley spent a week living in that eyesore of a dormintory right next to the old McDonald’s back in 1993, which I spoke about in this ancient post. The building hasn’t aged well, but it’s still standing … despite what many of the architecture students who lived inside it, at the time, were predicting.

In any event, regardless of what’s to transpire for ths busy plot of the East Village, it already seems somewhat undead. That said, I’m sure I’ll pine for this decrepit iteration of it once the new buildings start going up.

When I think of that particular strip, I invariably think of going to those live shows at the Continental. Herewith a smattering of that era, replete with live footage captured in that venue.

What You Remember

I can't remember the exact circumstances of why I was where I was on that day during the Summer of 1984 -- my former grade-school classmate Walt's father's apartment on Sixth Avenue in Greenwich Village -- when I heard the song that became my favorite song of all time, but I can tell you what I was wearing; a black -- dare I confess it -- Motley Crue shirt -- a Too Fast for Love- era one that depicted a pair of handcuffs threaded through a crudely-rendered skull's eye-sockets.

That delightful garment was paired with an ill-considered pair of ratty, plaid shorts and a pair of black Chuck Taylor high-tops. Upon hearing the song, I immediately repaired directly across the street and down the stairs (above) into what was later called Subterranean Records on Cornelia Street (vanished circa 2008), but was -- at the time -- called Record Runner (not to be confused with the Record Runner that would later open up a block to the west) and feverishly purchased the 12" single of the song.

Now, as seismic a moment as that was for me, it's ultimately a ridiculously trivial instance, in the grand scheme of things. But consider how many details of that moment seared themselves into my memory.

To me, those incidental details feel absolutely indelible -- and they pertain to something as comparatively silly as entertainment. Imagine, if you will, then, how indelible the critical details of a *traumatic* experience --- like, say, attempted rape -- feel.

I continue to firmly believe the specifics of Dr. Ford's recollection.

  

After The Confirmation

Remember “Twin Peaks: The Return” two summers ago? If you had the patience to stay with it, you found yourself sitting through episode after agonizing episode of special agent Dale Cooper trapped in the essentially somnambulistic guise of Dougie Jones, doddering through life marveling at electrical sockets when his services were direly needed elsewhere. Week after week, you were wondering “when is he going to WAKE UP and MAKE THIS RIGHT?”

It’s ultimately a naive and doubtlessly oversimplified analogy, but that’s how I’m feeling about the Mueller investigation right now.

The Trump Administration is running roughshod over America — and has been doing so since the fatuous fucker was first sworn in. More to the point, with the confirmation of Brett Kavanaugh yesterday, he’s actually fulfilling his promise and bringing his hateful, xenophobic and irresponsible vision closer to fruition.

Sure, there have been a few pot-shots that have rattled Team Trump. There’ve been developments, scandals and PR nightmares that seemed wholly poised to finally topple everything over — Stormy Daniels, the family-separation crisis, the Wolff book, the Woodward book, the Manafort and Michael Cohen busts, the anonymous mole in his own fold, that recent New York Times piece about his multiple tax schemes and his duplicitous ascendence into becoming the “self-made” businessman he’s ultimately never actually been and probably about three dozen other things I’m forgetting at the moment. But like bilge water off a sewage-slathered duck’s pungent back, nothing seems to stick. That Times piece already feels like ancient history.

The Kavanaugh confirmation seems like the most divisive chapter in American political history I’ve lived through in my almost 51 years. And that it has come to pass the way it has is beyond belief. Here in the largely liberal bubble of Manhattan, there is a palpable sense of incredulousness. This particularly awful episode really has felt like the Great Leap Backward into a crueler, more Draconian era.

To use another dumb pop culture allusion, I am reminded of a quote in the beginning of “Apocalypse Now” wherein Captain Willard is reminded that good does not always triumph and that sometimes the dark side overcomes what Lincoln called the better angels of our nature. Histrionic? Maybe, but that feels like an an entirely accurate summation of where we are, right now.

Yesterday, during a string of “victory lap” speeches, Mitch McConnell chucked about the fury from the Left and the discord of the protests, saying that “these things always blow over.”

PROVE HIM WRONG.

I snapped the image up top during the march in Manhattan in January of 2017. It rang true then and it rings true now. Don’t succumb to the gaslighting or the fatigue. Stay vigilant. Stay fucking angry. VOTE in November like the future of our Democracy depends on it, because guess what — it fucking does.

And somebody please wake Mr. Mueller up.

Downtown Music Gallery Needs Your Help

You wanted record store news? Here you go.

By way of my friend Jon... a message from Downtown Music Gallery...

"Last week, our ten year lease for our basement space on 13 Monroe St. in Chinatown, came to an end. We are now paying month-to-month, so are future is precarious although the landlord does like us. It is hard to believe that we’ve been here for nearly 10 years, especially when folks finally find their way here and say it is their first time at our “new” location. We moved here from the Bowery due to a large rent increase and during a recession. Since then, my former partner, Manny Maris, has retired, plus employees Chuck Bettis and Chris Pitsiokos also moved on. Last week, longtime DMG Manager, Dave Miller left for better opportunities, he will be missed. Our mail-order, which was pretty strong on the Bowery, has slowly decreased ever since being here, as compact discs sell less than ever. Our Used vinyl sales have increased since we’ve acquired a few collections and we sell more on Discogs, which does take time and effort but helps us to survive, barely. Thanks to the help of some of our friends, our presence on social media (twitter & Instagram) has increased our visibility. So, we do get some new customers from time to time. The problem is that we have built up a substantial debt, we are paying off slowly. We are currently in the hole for around 50 grand. Jeeez. The good news is that attendance at our weekly Free concert series has increased over time. Check us out on Instagram.

Hence we need your help. Around 6,300 folks subscribe to our weekly newsletter, which is great, I am glad to provide info & opinion on creative music from around the world. The problem is that only around a hundred or so actually purchase things from us, making it increasingly harder to survive. If nearly everyone who got the DMG newsletter would just donate $10-$20, we could pay off our debts and concentrate on the future. We still get a lot of good response from customers, subscribers and musicians who love the DMG newsletter so we must be doing something right. Our goal at this point is continue until for around 2 years until our 30th anniversary. So, please help us to continue serve all serious listeners. You can contribute via credit card, Paypal ([email protected]) or with checks.

You can use this link if you wish:
https://www.paypal.com/donate/?token=ydamOAFr_O7IWQ3qn_0gDZRxk6v16FA4WZgxKxhmT8S2qDATAcryZ4En0_1IdLZUoIhBT0&country.x=US&locale.x=US 

 

More about DMG on Flaming Pablum:

Downtown Music Gallery in the Line of Fire

Back to Downtown Music Gallery

 

25 Words

I cannot say I’ve ever knowingly watched NYCTV, let alone been aware of its existence. But I’ve been spotting this new ad campaign of theirs in the subways, of late, and am both compelled and repulsed by it. On the surface, I think the concept -– “Why I Love New York In 25 Words” -– is kind of a fun, novel little exercise. It’s their execution that has depressed me.

Polling a variety of celebrities and public figures -– like, say, one Bridget Moynahan below -– the answers they’ve fielded to their little challenge have been, to my mind at least, somewhat dispiriting. I mean the notion of citing “Sex and The City” as a fundamental reason why you love New York City upsets me more than I can put into words. But, to be fair, if I’m not mistaken, Miss Moynahan was in fucking “Sex and The City,” so that contextual qualifier makes it slightly more forgivable, I suppose. Still, … hurrumph. Also, who would honestly still cite the High Line? I wonder when the last time was that she tried to walk down it.

Anyway, judgmental vitriol aside, I thought it might be fun to take a crack at this little challenge myself, given my deep well of adoration for my home town. Whilst strolling to work one morning this week, I started tallying up suitable citations to include. In typical fashion, however, I started over-thinking it, wondering if I should cut my unwieldy list in half, given the fact that so many of the words I’d chosen represent aspects of New York City that no longer exist. Then, I thought, should I make two lists, one for stuff I love and one for stuff I miss?

No. I decided to jettison the words that represent things that have vanished -– The Ritz, Rocks In Your Head, Danceteria, CBGB, SoHoZat, NoHo Star and the Cedar Tavern, to name but a small few –- and stick with what’s still current. I’m keeping the names of bands, as even if those bands no longer exist, the music lives on.

Here is why I happen to love New York in 25 words. What are yours?

Ear Inn
Beastie Boys
Central Park
Lower East Side
Yorkville
Kraut
Courtlandt Alley
Knickerbocker’s
Cop Shoot Cop
NYHC
The Strand
“After Hours”
Bowery Ballroom
Veselka

Word on the Street

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.