If it’s not aready readily apparent, I spend a lot of time walking around the city looking at relatively banal, workaday bullshit. I much prefer walking everywhere, as it affords me the opportunity to study the topography around me, and if you bother paying attention to that stuff, you’ll see all sort of cool things.
This morning, I was struck by something I’d have never expected. As mentioned back on a couple of posts, I used to be a fan of the New York band The Smithereens, a sort of arguably dour power-pop quartet from the mid-80’s who scored a couple of hits like “Blood & Roses,” “Behind the Wall of Sleep,” “A Girl Like You,” usually all flecked with a signature blend of melancholy, courtesy of primary singer/songwriter Pat DiNizio. DiNizio sadly left us in 2017, but what I spotted today might have cheered his otherwise usually glum demeanor.
Scrawled within the interior of a laughably anachronistic phone booth on Lafayette Street, just south of Kenmare street, I spotted the slightly altered lyrics to DiNizio’s poignant duet with Suzanne Vega, “In a Lonely Place” from 1986’s Especially for You.
ADDENDUM: My friend Erik schooled me on the origin of this line, and it predates the Smithereens' tune, alas. I stand corrected:
It's a Humphrey Bogart line from the noir "In A Lonely Place." I assume that's what inspired the song.
Here it is and the song in question and the original line from Bogart beneath.
I spoke about “We Like To Drink, We Like to Play Rock’n’Roll,” the "official" rockumentary about The Unband – a trio I’ve typed about numerous times here -- specifically back on this post wherein I posted the trailer.
Well, as these things sometimes happen, some generous soul has seen fit to upload the whole goddamn film onto YouTube. How long will it remain there? Who knows? So, grab it while it’s hot.
Above is yet another shot I took of them at the late, lamented Continental during its 90’s-era heyday as a live-music venue, and not its current iteration as a pile of rubble.
It’s too easy to by cynical. It’s too easy to sigh wearily and suggest that all the good stuff is over, and you missed it. I should know, as I could be credibly accused of spinning a yarn to that effect here for the past fifteen years. There’s a pronounced downside to nostalgia in that it can cloud your appreciation of the things that are still around. There’s also the cruel cliché about being “the old guy in the club.” Nobody wants to see that guy, let alone be that guy.
But I attended an event on Sunday that kicked both of those concepts squarely in the groin with a steel-toed Doc Marten.
On Sunday, filmmaker Drew Stone – whose work I’ve tried to evangelize here on numerous occasions – brought "Maximum Penalty," an installment of his “Back to the NYHC Roots” series, right back to its origin, specifically the old A7 space, which is now the rear chamber of Jesse Malin’s Niagara at 112 Avenue A. Drew has been making events like this happen for a while now, but this was one I especially felt I had to attend, as it featured a set by End of Hope, the latest endeavor fronted by Davey Gunner, former lead singer of one of my favorite-since-high-school outfits, KRAUT. Clearly, sitting this one out was not an option.
Much like with Stone’s 10 Questions series (which I waxed rhapsodic about here not too long back), despite the arguably pugnacious reputations of various NYHC luminaries, the atmosphere at Sunday’s sprawling showcase – also featuring sets by The Last Stand, South Class Veterans, Gorilla Glue and a Beastie Boys tribute called – of course – Posse In Effect (which I very regrettably missed) – was nothing short of entirely positive and convivial, even when things got very spirited on the dance floor.
I can’t honestly place a timestamp on the last time I saw Davey Gunner perform, but it might have been at a Kraut reunion show opening for GBH at the New Ritz on 54th Street. The most recent band he’d been performing with, prior to End of Hope, was an ensemble called Bowhead, who were practicing a burly, heftily metallic blend of heavy rock. Within the ranks of End of Hope, however – also featuring guitarist Ken Wohlrob, bassist David Schlechter and hot-shit drummer Dave Richman – Gunner & Co. wasted precious little time in whipping proceedings into a frenetic fury, hearkening back to the generation of bands who made that room hardcore’s ground zero, decades ago -- which had the capacity-crowd (lots of big dudes in a tight space) suitably roiling in approval.
Beyond the formidable skills of the band – a blistering by-their-own description amalgam of Motorhead and Black Flag – and Davey Gunner’s ageless exhorting (what’s the secret, Davey?), one of the most remarkable elements of Sunday’s show was the spectrum of attendees.
On the one hand, the walls of the joint were lined with dutifully black-t-shirt-bedecked oldsters (like, er, myself), emphatically nodding, headbanging, air-guitaring and grinning approvingly, but what really brought the event to that proverbial next level were …. the kids! For all my moaning about today’s youth, here was this battalion of freshly minted punk kids who were legitimately tearing it up in the pit like we were back in the mid-80’s. And this was no Sum 41 shit, either. These young folk seemed as genuinely invested in this music, this ethos, this scene as anyone else in attendance. When the imposing profile of John Watson – longtime NYHC legend, original Agnostic Front vocalist and bona fide circle-pit pioneer (if you’ve ever “moshed” at a show, you should probably send John a royalty check) waded into the fray (prompting even a bemused quip from Gunner), it was clear that this was no fluke.
Once again, hats off to Drew Stone for not only making this event and others in the series happen and keeping the spirit alive, but for handily demonstrating that it’s not simply about nostalgia. This is happening now. Get involved!
Comparable to honor among thieves, there is respect among street artists ... or at least should be. I mean, at the end of the day, there are no hard and fast rules, and it's all arguably "vandalism" to many people's minds, but if someone creates something that they obviously are proud of, maybe think twice before you mess with it. Witness the retributions certain real estate developers recently had to pay back to the 5 Pointz artists as an example.
Now Shepard Fairey's mural at Bleecker & Bowery, one that first surfaced in 2017, based on a photograph taken by Bobby Grossman, may not qualify as bona fide "street art," as I believe it was officially commissioned -- if that makes any difference -- but it's a still a lovingly rendered portrait. I had my misgivings with the preceding mural of Joey Ramone at that spot (the one of him wearing boxing gloves), but I'm of the impression that everyone was pretty on board with this homage to Blondie.
Well, evidently, that's not the case. In passing by the painting this morning, I noticed that someone tagged Debbie's lovely neck, and rather lamely at that.
Regardless of what you think of Shepard Fairey, don't mess with Debbie Harry.
The New York Times published a nice little piece by one of my favorite writers, this past Friday. “The Lower East Side in 8 Songs” by John Strausbaugh (whose most recent opus, “Victory City,” all about New York City during WWII, is currently my mom’s favorite book) culled together a selection of tracks that harken back to key points throughout the decades, addressing jazzbos, proto-punks, rockers and beyond from within the cultural diaspora of the East Side of Lower Manhattan. Being the insufferable pedant that I am, I quibbled with his selection of “Waiting for the Man” by the Velvet Underground. Yes, the Velvets were L.E.S. to the very bone, but that particular track has more to do with Harlem (East 125th Street and Lexington Avenue, where Lou Reed’s protagonist cops his dope) than the Ludlow Street roots of the band.
In any case, in perusing his list, I felt the need to add my own suggestions to the mix, most of which allude to my own eras. What else are we missing??
"Life During Wartime," Talking Heads, 1979
Admittedly, by the time Talking Heads released their third album, Fear of Music, in 1979, the band's days of hanging out at CBGB on the Bowery were over, replaced by world tours, growing global renown and quality time with cats like Brian Eno and Robert Fripp. This all said, "Life During Wartime" alludes to that period-specific locale with a degree of prescience. While New York City writ large was slowly recovering from the near-bankruptcy of the mid-70s, much of downtown Manhattan still seemed akin to a veritably lawless war zone. "This ain't no party, This ain't no disco, This ain't no foolin' around," famously sings David Byrne, his protagonist lamenting the passing of the salad days into the stark realities of desperate survival in a region under siege, strangely presaging Missing Foundation's own defiant slogan, "The Party's Over" by a few years. "Life During Wartime" was lazily held up by many a witless classic-rock acolyte as being some sort of anti-disco screed, but those oafs failed to take Byrne's lyrics in context. The scenario Byrne depicts was never a renunciation of disco. It was more a rumination on life in an environment so plagued with hardship and conflict that frivolous activities like dancing and having fun are no longer on the menu.
Today, the space once occupied by CBGB at 315 Bowery is a laughably expensive clothiers. The space once occupied by the Mudd Club at 77 White Street in TriBeCa is an exclusive condo ... although there is a plaque on the exterior, commemorating its tenure as the Mudd Club. Here they are playing in it...
“East Side Beat,” The Toasters, 1987
It might sound vaguely ridiculous that downtown Manhattan once had its own thriving ska scene, but that was indeed the case, for a little while. At the arguable center of that scene were The Toasters, a high-stepping, horn-honking gaggle of Big Apple rudeboys fronted by British ex-pat Robert “Bucket” Hingley, who brought a degree of Two-Tone-styled authenticity to proceedings. By day the manager of geek mecca Forbidden Planet (near and very dear to this blog’s heart), Hingley emulated his homeland’s premiere ska band, The Specials, by recruiting fellow Brit ex-pat Joe “Look Sharp” Jackson to produce their sophomore long player just as the Specials had drafted Joe’s peer and fellow “angry young man of the New Wave,” Elvis Costello to handle their debut. The resulting album, Skaboom, arrived in 1987. This standout track from same paints almost a “West Side Story” depiction of life in the East Village of the late 80’s, complete with references to police brutality, riots, junkies, skinheads and shout-outs to fellow NYC Ska bands like Second-Step and Urban Blight. For a while, Hingley operated his own ska record label and shop on East 10th Street, Moon Ska Records.
Today, the space Hingley's shop occupied is a derelict former ramen restaurant. Forbidden Planet, however, is still on Broadway.
“Burn Trees,” Missing Foundation, 1988
Espousing a literally scorched earth approach to the encroaching gentrification of the Lower East Side in the late 80's and early 90's, enigmatic noise-rock collective, Missing Foundation accrued a formidable mystique for their uncompromising aesthetic. Banned from countless live music damage for their penchant for riot-incitement and wanton property damage, Peter Missing and his cohorts burrowed further underground, pointedly distancing themselves from any conventional music-scene shenanigans and aligning themselves with the defiant squatters movement. Were you ever able to find them, Missing Foundation's records were violently expulsive and incendiary, dispensing all finesse in favor of industrial clamor and high-decibel agitprop. "Burn Trees" from their second album, 1933 Your House is Mine, is a perfectly realized taste of their mission -- a harrowing, repetitive call for destructive insurgence. The video for same (see below) bludgeons the point with footage of the Tompkins Square Park riots from August of 1988. Peter Missing de-camped from New York City in 1992, but still continues making art and music, although his current approach seems slightly less nihilistic.
You can still spot invocations of Missing Foundation (the cryptic upside-down cocktail-glass insignia) all over the Lower East Side.
"Invisible People," False Prophets, 1990
With hearts similarly aligned to the ethos of Missing Foundation, if not quite as militantly chaotic, False Prophets started off as more or less another early hardcore punk band like Kraut, Heart Attack, The Undead and Even Worse, earning them a spot on ROIR's seminal cassette compilation, New York Thrash, despite their brazenly artier inclinations. The band was led by one Stephan Ielpi, captured at the top of this post by photographer Q Sakamaki. Evolving beyond three-chord blitzes and into more refined fare towards the end of their decade-long run, False Prophets released Invisible People in 1990, its title track being a lilting, heartfelt ode to the plight of the homeless that sounded planets away from their earlier rants like "Mental Ghetto." The message of "Invisible People" was further augmented by the album cover art and video animation of illustrator Erik Drooker, whose stirring portraits of social inequity have gone on to grace magazine covers around the world.
The video also finds False Prophets performing in the eroding, graffiti-slathered East River Park bandshell, a space that has since been re-imagined and cleaned up, although it's still a chillingly lonely spot at certain times of the day.
"There's a Riot in Tompkins Square," The Undead, 1993
Taking a more pragmatic-if-cynical approach to the continued unrest in the neighborhood, at the time, Bobby Steele penned "There's a Riot in Tompkins Square" with precious little empathy for any of the parties concerned. A former guitarist for The Misfits and a Johnny-Ramone-styled conservative (albeit one with a big, fuckoff mohawk, on occasion), Steele had little time for the hue & cry of the East Village squatters, equating them with lazy hippies. I have no idea how he feels about the Trump Administration's co-opting of the GOP, but he remains an affable, approachable guy, and is still making music with The Undead years later.
Today, Tompkins Square Park is largely squeaky clean, compared to its late 80's iteration.
“It Only Hurts When I Breathe,” Cop Shoot Cop, 1994
Never ones to shy away from the ugly truths of life in a city in decline, Cop Shoot Cop frequently spun narratives rife with bleak urban imagery, flinging off caustic couplets like a particularly world-weary Micky Spillane. "It Only Hurts When I Breathe" from the album that would become their swan song, 1994's Release, is no exception, coughing up grim verse after grim verse about a life-engulfing cynicism, underpinned by the band's signature dual-bass battery, which jovially swings, despite its otherwise dour demeanor. Possibly only Lower East Side locals will catch their telling invocation of an infamous Alphabet City street corner -- B & Third -- which unmistakably alludes to the shadowy purveyance of smack.
Today, Avenue B & East Third Street is essentially a well-traveled nightlife destination that's about as comparatively threatening as a summer spent in Nantucket.
“Ditch,” The Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, 1994
Though largely spawned from the same gene pool as their pals in Cop Shoot Cop, the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion -- formed by the inimitable Jon Spencer in the wake of the fittingly acrimonious dissolution of Pussy Galore -- dispensed with all semblance of po-faced misanthropy in favor of a rollicking celebration of non-stop diaphoretic coitus. "Ditch," from 1994's suitably detonative Orange, is precisely that, finding Spencer giving emphatic voice to his roiling libido whilst also name-checking Ludlow Street, the former epicenter of a L.E.S. variant of bohemian bacchanalia anchored around since-shuttered bars like the original Max Fish. While only a few, short years prior to era of The Strokes, The Rapture, Interpol, LCD Soundsystem and the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, this iteration of the Ludlow scene seems like ancient history.
Today, the original Max Fish on Ludlow Street is long gone, replaced by chic and tony hotel with an insufferable bar. Similar ventures to Max Fish on Ludlow like Motor City, Barramundi, the Pink Pony, the Ludlow Street Cafe, Cake Shop and the Luna Lounge, which was a flashpoint for the afore-cited scene the Strokes kicked off, are also all gone.
“Alphabet Town,” Elliott Smith, 1995
Given the tragic circumstances of his untimely demise and some of his more notorious predilections, it's not much of a leap to make certain assumptions about what Elliott Smith's "Alphabet Town" is really about. Taken from his eponymous second album in 1995, the song is poetically vague but seemingly coded. Though not yet living in New York, at that time in the mid-90's, Smith sings about the infamous proclivities of Alphabet City denizens with a knowing lilt to his fragile, whisper-quiet voice, spinning a melancholy yarn about a tenuous relationship built on a grim codependence that the mood of the music mirrors.
“Summer on Avenue A,” Cause For Alarm, 1997
Originally from New Jersey, Cause For Alarm (or simply CFA) don't seem to inspire the same immediate name-recognition as some their NYHC peers like Agnostic Front, Cro-Mags, Warzone, Murphy's Law, etc., but they were indeed early participants within that scene. Personally speaking, the fact that Agnostic Front named their second album Cause for Alarm only served to confuse matters, but I'm sure they all had their reasons. This particular track, extolling the arguable merits of eschewing the leafy byways of New Jersey for a life on the then much meaner streets of, once again, Alphabet City, wasn't released until the late 90's, seemingly jumpstarting a variant of "nostalgia-core" later zealously picked up by their pals in Agnostic Front with recent tracks like "I Miss the Old New York" and, wait for it, "I Remember."
“Forsyth Street,” Muckafurgason, 1998
A band not at all concerned with telegraphing any bleak message or pugnacious badassery, Muckafurgason was a light-hearted trio of indie-rock dudes who probably had more in common with the "alt.comedy" boom nurtured at Ludlow Street's Luna Lounge than with the new crop of indie-garage rock revivalists who were gestating at the time. They didn't take themselves especially seriously, as evidenced on tracks from their debut album, Tossing a Friend, like "Lunch," an ersatz-rap homage to their favorite meal of the day. "Forsyth Street," meanwhile, is a comparatively somber ode to their home address, glumly describing a vista of homeless junkies and naked masturbators in Sara D. Roosevelt Park just out their window.
Today, Forsyth Street is just a bit more salubrious.
“93 Avenue B Blues,” SWANS, 2012
Walk by 93 Avenue B today and it's a fairly innocuous-looking doorway adjacent to a hookah bar called Horus. But back in the early-to-mid 80's, it was the heatless, windowless, concrete-bunker headquarters of Michael Gira and SWANS. True to their Spartan, disciplinary aesthetic, the address served as both an inhospitable rehearsal space and Gira's equally unwelcoming living quarters. When he speaks of what the surrounding neighborhood was like at the time, he does so without any fondness or nostalgia, painting a grim picture of lawlessness, depravity and violence. Tales he's told about life within 93 Avenue B don't suggest that things were much better behind the "safety" of that front door. This instrumental track from 2012's The Seer seemingly seeks to capture the experience of that space, at the time. Easy listening it is not.
Today, once again, you'd never necessarily know anything of the sort went down at said address, although there is still a SWANS insignia (a cryptic spiral) carved into the pavement in front of the front door.
This is from a few years back, already, but it speaks to my fascination with street-art/graffiti/sticker culture. Personally speaking, I think it’s kind of offsides for this guy to be pulling down people’s stickers (i.e. defeating the purpose of people putting them up in the first place), but he’s not the first guy to dismantle other people’s street art (or vandalism, depending on your perception/sensibility).
This past weekend, my son Oliver and I found ourselves watching one of my favorite movies of all time, that being “The Taking of Pelham One Two Three,” this being the original from 1974, not that Travolta bullshit from 2009.
Not only is the 1974 version a gripping, well-written and compellingly executed thriller, it’s also a quintessential New York movie. Being that large swathes of the film take place in the enrivons between Union Square and East 28th Street (just a stone’s throw from where Oliver has been going to school for the past decade), it is rife with visual depictions of spots that he and I encounter every day. Periodically throughout the movie, I’d blurt out location-signifiers like “look, there’s that corner where the Pret A Manger is today!” or “See, that’s Union Square, directly across from where Barnes & Noble is now!” or “That cop car is on Astor Place!” The specific sightings are all correct, but in many instances, given how much the topography of the city has changed since 1974, many of the locations were hard to recognize and reconcile.
In any case, this morning, I had to quickly run up to a spot in so-called “Midtown East.” After dropping off what I had to drop off, I started to head back downtown, hanging a quick right on East 36th between Second and Third Avenues. For rock geeks of a certain age and sensibility, this strip has resonance, as it’s the home of Sniffen Court, a bespoke little strip of choice real estate that features a fetching little mews of a type usually found in London.
Presumably preserved as a historic landmark and spared the rampant overdevelopment evident around the rest of the city, Sniffen Court is well known to the afore-cited rock fans because it’s the cover location of the second studio LP by The Doors, that being Strange Days. The suitably surreal sleeve to that 1967 album featured a slew of circus performers doing their thing in the middle of stately Sniffen Court. Personally speaking, while ostensibly a whimsical scene, I’ve always found something about the photograph somewhat sinister. Here it is now. Click on it to enlarge.
I covered both Sniffen Court and my feelings about the Doors back on this post, and don’t have much more to add to that, but as I walked by Sniffen Court this morning, I was relieved to see it looking, for all intents and purposes, more or less completely unchanged from the way it looked in 1967. It helps that the morning was similarly grey.
Here were the Doors in another part of the city … specifically Battery Park.
Spend any amount of time perusing the photos on this stupid blog or on my Instagram page, and you’ll doubtlessly spot one, specific street making repeated appearances. I’ve always been compelled by Staple Street (see this old post for more extrapolation). Like lower Manhattan’s own version of Venice’s “Bridge of Sighs,” it’s a stately, historic and precious holdover from a vanished age, especially in our contemporary urban climate of avaricious real estate development. To stroll down its narrow corridor is to step back in time.
Staple Street’s signature atmosphere has been catpured in myriad films – from Jim Jarmusch’s “Stranger Than Paradise” through Phillip Joanou’s “State of Grace” to Chantal Akerman’s “News From Home” and countless others. From era to era and decade to decade, Staple Street has inspired and romanced virtually all who’ve passed under its striking, cast-iron skybridge, an architectural flourish dating back to 1907.
If you’re inspired by this post and heading down there now, …. mind how you go. Or maybe don’t wear your best shoes.
Since TriBeCa transformed from a comparatively desolate plot of city south of Canal Street in the 70’s and 80’s and morphed into the monied hotbed of tony exclusivity it is today, there is way more activity in the neighborhood. Where once these streets were deserted and whisper-quiet, they’re now regularly peppered with moms, kids in strollers, sweaty joggers, cellphone-chirping business drones and disgruntled motorists moving their sports cars to accommodate street-cleaning vehicles. And as with any residential neighborhood, there is a large contingent of dog-walkers.
Now, I get it. Dogs, like all of God’s creatures, have to poop. One of the primary reasons I don’t have a pet is the aversion to the task of regularly cleaning up after it. Having already reared two kids out of their toddler years, I feel like I’ve logged enough hours on poop detail.
Evidently, however, lots of TriBeCa residents just aren’t as bothered by that task, which is to say, they blithely ignore what is ostensibly their responsibility as dog owners, seeing fit to let their pooches defecate on the street (crucially without the “and pick it up afterwards” part of the equation). In TriBeCa, it seems the favorite street for that is Staple Street.
It’d be easy to write this post off as me being an anti-pet person. I’m not anti-pet. I’m just not a pet guy. Whatever.
What I am is an anti-poop guy. If you want a dog, that’s great … treat yourself. But do the rest of the world a favor, …. and clean up after it.
And by the way, it’s not just me that feels this way:
Fret not, graffiti fans… this is not an obit nor portentous lament. It's just a rumination on a photo I took.
As I walked south on West Broadway, this morning, heading towards work, it struck me how astonishing it seems the Scrap Yard is still hanging on after all these years. If memory serves, the place was originally called, ahem, Bomb The System … this being prior to the age wherein such monikers riled the sensibilities of the easily alarmed. An endearingly tenacious hive of street art in a neighborhood that ceded its bohemian character decades earlier to become a staid and irretrievably exclusive enclave for monied douchebags, Scrap Yard still flies its freak flag in retina-burning colors and unruly fonts.
Despite being an avid fan of all manner of street art, I feel somewhat regretful to admit that I’ve never spent a thin red dime in Scrap Yard, although I did routinely blow wads of cash at its (I think) sibling operation across the street, that being underground comic emporium SoHoZat (which I wrote about here and then again here). Bomb The System … true to its name … was for the bombers, i.e. taggers and graffiti writers of all stripes. I can only imagine that they changed the name to Scrap Yard in the wake of 2001, but that’s just my speculation.
Once nestled between a greasy spoon diner on the corner of Canal and the vacant lot left behind by the razing of The Church of St. Alphonsus Liguori, the shop that became Scrap Yard has seen massive changes on its home strip of West Broadway. SoHoZat across the way vanished in the mid-1990s. It was replaced by a deli of no great distinction for a while, but is now an animal shelter, of all things. The vacant lot is now home to the sprawling SoHo Grand hotel. The greasy spoon on the corner became a Dunkin Donuts. West Broadway’s fortunes ebb and flow -- and there are more than a few empty storefronts and vacant restaurant spaces, not unlike the rest of the city – but somehow Scarp Yard has managed to stay put. I frequently wish its furtive, niche clientele would leave more of a mark in the surrounding neighborhood, but those days are long gone, I guess. There’s precious little street art left in SoHo, comparatively speaking.
Anyway, like I said, I have no news to share or spread about Scrap Yard. Long may it continue, as far as I’m concerned.
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