I was shocked and saddened, over the weekend, to note the sudden departure of longtime graffiti stronghold Scrapyard on West Broadway.
Originally called Bomb The System (they changed names in the wake of 9/11), Scrapyard was a resolute chapel of the street art subculture (I've written about it here). It stood across the street from its sibling venture, SoHoZat ... a sort of underground comic/zine emporium. Around the corner on Canal Street, meanwhile, was The Trader, a grim Army/Navy store where you could also procure ridiculous items like throwing stars and nunchucks. Now, all three of these spots from my teenage years are gone.
Evidently, the space Scrapyard occupied for so many years is stated to be some sort of bespoke eyewear boutique. Pour one out.
Well, I am indeed back from our travels in Türkiye. In the past, after I’ve come back from trips to, say, Ireland, Beirut, France and other places, I’ve shared a bunch of pics. Unfortunately, the service provider that hosts this blog has been suffering from an ongoing image-hosting issue, presumably the same issue that routinely causes images here to break for no reason. It now takes forever and a day to successfully upload a single picture, and now – after multiple attempts – I’m throwing in the towel. You’ll have to make do with the pic above of the majestic interior of the sprawling Blue Mosque, and the one of me below, standing outside it like a smug American tourist.
If you happen to be friends with me on Instagram and Facebook, you can see my pics there, if you’re truly curious, but there simply isn’t enough time in the world, bandwidth on the web or patience within myself for me to keep fighting with the failings of my aforementioned so-called service provider.
In a nutshell, however, Türkiye is just an amazing place to visit, and I cannot recommend it zealously enough. We basically spent a week in a boat (or, gulet) off the Southern coast, and then a week in the massive metropolis of Istanbul, a teeming city of 13 million that makes my native New York City seem quaint, orderly and entirely manageable.
There are few things that irk the snots out of me more than “content” created by self-appointed “New Yorkers” (whether the term credibly applies or not) who volunteer tips, pointers, “insider” info and “life hacks” about what’s what in New York City.
Nine times out of ten, these things have been produced by whistle-headed whippersnappers who’ve spent all of about six months living here and think they know the score. I’ve railed at self-styled influencer folks like Brett Conte, Cash Jordan, Elana Taber,Shelby Church and Sarah Funk about this kind of stupid shit, although I’m always quick to mention that each of these individuals entertain vastly greater audiences than this here silly blog. That doesn’t mean they’re right, though, now does it.
Then, of course, there are periodicals like Time Out that routinely post these clickbaity listicles about the best and/or secret locations, services, shops, bars, theaters, retail outlets and amenities that “only Real New Yorkers” know about. And if they are actually right about any of them, all they’re doing it is spoiling it by evangelizing them.
I’ve wrestled with the “real New Yorker” quandary here many times, usually with regards to whether being a native New Yorker like me gives one an edge (ultimately, I’d suggest that it doesn’t). My point was that when you compose your own list in your head of folks who seem to personalize the concept of a “New Yorker” – whether because of their lifestyle of their vocation or their outlook or whatever – very often you’ll find that those individuals actually moved here from somewhere else to re-invent themselves. So much for being a native. Also, there are plenty of actual native New Yorkers who are complete fucking assholes who don’t know shit from Shinola about being an actual New Yorker – and, yes, I’m obviously talking very specifically about that orange pile of abject sewage, Donald Trump. But I digress.
Why am I bringing all this up again, you ask? Well, recently, the Curbed section of New York Magazine (who I do love but have had issues – pardon the pun – with before) posted a magisterial piece, “The Things All New Yorker Should Know (But Most Don’t).” The presumptuous title alone is enough to set my teeth on edge but this one is actually pretty good. Some of my favorite pointers therein are below, and I endorse all of them.
The Chateau Diana sold in every bodega is actually “wine product,” and it’s disgusting! Avoid.
Always Use the 81st Street Entrance to the Met(and when it’s particularly mobbed, walk in — very carefully — through the parking garage on 80th Street.)
Don’t see ‘Shen Yun.’
Always avoid Terminal 5. It’s still a pain to get to and has bad acoustics. -- this is fucking Gospel!!!
The best outdoor concert venue is Forest Hills Stadium. Every seat has a direct view, and there is excellent food.
Just go to theKnickerbockerfor dinner.Call 212-228-8490 and ask for a booth.
For restaurant reservations: Always call first. You should resort to OpenTable or Resy (or, God forbid, Tock) only if a restaurant doesn’t have a posted phone number.
The famous mutton chop atKeensis actually lamb. It’s fine — but not so good that you should avoid a steak if that’s what you really want.
The Conservatory Garden is themost tranquil part of Central Park.
If you’re lost in Central Park, find a lamppost.The first two or three numbers on it will tell you what cross street you’re closest to.
There’s a billboard you can spot from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, not too far from the sprawling grounds of the Calvary Cemetery, that’s mystified me for quite a little while, now. Ostensibly, it’s designed to catch the eyes of commuters coming and going towards the city on what becomes the Long Island Expressway, a little further along. I first caught a glimpse of it a year or two ago while on a crowed Hampton Jitney bound for my mom’s place out in Quogue, and did something of a double-take, but we passed it so quickly that I couldn’t tell if I’d imagined it or not. Ever since, I’ve continually tried to take a closer look at it to verify my suspicions. Yesterday, on our way back from visiting my mother, I managed to whip my camera out at the right moment and take a picture of it.
Here’s that billboard now. Click on it to enlarge.
...and here's an even clearer shot I found online...
Based out of Deer Park, Long Island, the North Shore Neon Sign Co. is evidently one of the region’s busiest suppliers of neon signage, and their handiwork can be seen all over Times Square. That’s all well and good, but that doesn’t explain the sign. Were their slogan — “We Hang to Live” — not odd enough, take a look at that accompanying graphic. I’m not quite sure what it’s supposed to be, but it looks a little like an inverted Christmas ornament. But look closer and folks of a certain sensibility might see something familiar. Am I wrong, or isn’t that the signature logo of The Screamers?
For the non-music nerds, the Screamers were one of the original bands to emerge on the Los Angeles punk scene in the late `70s, alongside iconic names like The Weirdos, X, FEAR and The Germs. Sort of the West Coast’s answer to New York’s Suicide, the Screamers completely eschewed guitars in favor of drums, electric piano, synthesizers and the voice and disarming stage presence of lead …er… screamer Tomato du Plenty. While the band has since garnered a reputation as a formidable influence, marked by their confrontational performances and stylized presentation, they never released a proper album. They’d made plans to release a video-only collection of music, but the finished product never came to fruition. Here in 2025, there are bootleg live recordings, demos and a few of those video performance clips floating around, but they never signed a record deal and never released a proper record. The band broke up, and Tomata moved around a lot, but passed away in San Francisco of cancer at the age of 52.
None of that explains why the band’s logo — designed by one Gary Panter, and modeled after the face and head of spiky haired Tomata — now adorns this North Shore Neon billboard.
This is not the first time the Screamers logo has been appropriated, though. Billy Idol approximated it in the animation for his video for …aptly enough.. “Scream” in 2005, but this is a little further flung than that.
Anyone know?
One clue: the artist responsible for the logo, Gary Panter, according to his website, lives in Brooklyn.
Regarding a certain news story of the day, it should be pointed out that to "86" someone just means "get rid of" or "kick out." The term originates, funnily enough, right here in downtown NYC. Beer enthusiasts of a certain stripe might remember age-old West Village watering hole Chumley's, which was a delightful speak-easy that dated back to the 1920's (don't look for it today, it collapsed and then went through a noxious bespoke makeover, because people suck). If you were ever perceived to be over-served or simply making an ass of yourself at Chumely's, you were forcibly shown the door. That door was 86 Bedford Street. GET IT? It is NOT an allusion to any sort of nefarious foul play.
In fact, here I am with my fellow former TIME Magazine News Desk comrade, Mitch circa 1994 or so, within the walls of Chumley's. While not quite yet making asses of ourselves in this picture, the pair of us were almost certifiably over-served here, so we were invariably within behavioral proximity of a warranted 86'ing.
For that last show at Pier 17, I brought my then-16-year-old son, Oliver, making DEVO his very first concert, too. The boy returns this very day from his first year at Trinity Dublin in Ireland, and tonight, we are going to see DEVO at the Brooklyn Paramount.
The picture in the frame was taken by the great Allan Tannenbaum, who captured it at the 1981 show that was my first concert. He lives in TriBeCa, and I bought a print of it from him several years back. He’s also got a great retrospective show happening at the Morrison Hotel Gallery that is well worth everyone’s time.
The daughter of some dear friends of ours just got back from spending a semester in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Back over Labor Day weekend, we’d all gotten together and Ella — the daughter in question — heard me laboriously bloviating about the whole Clics Modernos saga. It’s a long, convoluted story, but if you’ve not been following this blog for very long, I played a small role in determining the exact location of the cover of the landmark 1983 album by preeminent Argentine rock star, Charly Garcia — via an old photograph by a Swedish tourist of Cortandt Alley at Walker Street in TriBeCa. It’s actually way more complicated than that, but you can read more here, if you’re curious.
In any case, I posted that all that here on my silly blog, back before the days COVID, and intrepid Argentines Inaki Rojas and Mariano Cabrera went a bit berserk, suggesting it was like determining the precise location of Abbey Road.
Fresh in my head since doing this post, I strolled by the Ritz … or, more accurately … Webster Hall of East 11th Street, over the weekend and snapped the photograph above. I’m trying to think of the last time I was actually inside the building, and I think it must have been when I saw the Secret Machines and …And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead there in … cripes… 2009. So, yeah, it’s been a minute, but it’s still near and dear to my heart.
In any case, some may remember a post I did back in 2017 wherein I recounted some of my favorite shows there, notably a pair of shows featuring the triple bill of The Toasters, Murphy’s Law and Fishbone in December of 1987. Here’s what I had to say about it in 2017…
My favorite anecdote about The Ritz, however, involves one of a pair of shows in December of 1987, which featured Fishbone, The Toasters and Murphy’s Law. My friend Rob D. and I attended both of these Christmas gigs (hot on the release of Fishbone’s holiday EP, It’s a Wonderful Life), and the room was jam-packed with an army of punks, skinheads, rudeboys, rockers, hardcore kids, college types and all points in between. It was, as they say, the event of the season.
On both nights, each band whipped the capacity crowd up into a complete frenzy, but on the first of the two evenings, I remember being amidst the pit during Murphy’s Law’s frenetic set. The heat coming off the crowd was intense, and the action was nonstop. I managed to weave my pipe-cleaner-like physique through the merry melee to the western side of the room, clinging to the bar as if it was the side of a deep pool. Sweaty and exhausted, I petitioned the bartender -- via a variety of complex hand-signals, given the stentorian din of Murphy’s Law at full throttle -– for a COKE! As if on cue, right as the barkeep was completing my order, lead singer Jimmy Gestapo (a moniker he has since tastefully renounced, truncating to simply “Jimmy G.”) heroically vaulted from the Ritz stage and onto the very bar to which I was leaning. Just as my cup of ice-laden Coca-Cola was put down in front of me, Jimmy started enthusiastically skanking down the bar, with limbs akimbo, flailing in time with the music. Just as I was reaching for my beverage, Jimmy brought his battle-weathered Doc Marten down on my cup with a splattering-STOMP. Fittingly or unwittingly, no soft drinks were going to be consumed on his watch.
Indeed, it was quite an occasion, and while it was over three decades ago, those memories are still quite vivid, for me.
I started sniffing around the internet, recently, looking for any comparable accounts of those shows. I do this periodically, and usually come up empty handed, but I struck oil today.
The first find was an auction site called VNTG Shop, who are selling an original shirt – XL no less – from those shows.
Cool, right? Well, as delightful it would be to own that, VNTG wants $375for it, so … suffice to say, that’s not happening, for me. If you want to surprise me with a gift, someday, you now have all you need to know and act on.
I’m in there somewhere…no shots of the Toasters, sadly.
Tragically, as far as I'm aware, there is no video of either of the two show in question, but here's a little taste of what was on offer.
Here's Murphy's Law at the Ritz, at some indeterminate point. They're opening for someone here (notice the covered drum kit behind the drum kit?), but no idea of when and for whom..
This, meanwhile, is the Toasters circa 1987...
Lastly, this is the mighty Fishbone, as captured around the same era in Tokyo...
I’ve spoken about the old Knitting Factory – the original one on East Houston Street – a few times here, before (notably here, here and here). Like many of the live-music venues of its era, the club had its own vibe and character, even while hosting a truly wide array of different musical fare. I remember catching a diverse selection of bands there, including everyone from noise-rock royalty Sonic Youth to the post-hardcore oddballs in the Meat Puppets to quirky indie stalwarts King Missile through freaky jazz mutant James “Blood” Ulmer and the rock-disemboweling Casper Brotzman Massacre within its comparatively intimate confines. If you were looking to catch a bluesy bar band covering sleepy Clapton classics, you’d be shit-out-of-luck, but if you wanted to have you mind-blown and eardrums ravaged by members of the avant-garde giving the envelope a proper shove, the Knitting Factory was your go-to destination.
Suffice to say, that original iteration of the Knitting Factory is long gone. It moved to Leonard Street in TriBeCa, for a few years, and I saw some great shows in that spot, before it moved again to Brooklyn. I never went to that last version of it, but it closed in 2022. As I understand it, the venue that briefly took over the old Pyramid Club space on Avenue A, Baker Falls, had some affiliation with the Knitting Factory folks, but that, too, has moved and now conducts its biz out of the old Rockwood Music Hall space on Allen Street. I have no idea if the Knitting Factory is still a part of that venture.
But a reader named Jeremy found one of my old posts about the East Houston Street days of the Knitting Factory and reminded me of something. I can’t entirely remember where it used to hang in the interior (in the fabled “Knot Room,” maybe?), but there used to be this entirely cool, analogue collage of about a hundred 4x6 snapshots of the exterior that someone had painstaking assembled into a surreal depiction of the club, its fixed vantage point giving the subject and its surrounding an environs a sort of distorted, wide-angled bulbous quality you might otherwise capture with a fish-eye lens. I remember it also graced the cover of one of the CD compilations the Knitting Factory used to periodically issue. In fact, here’s that arresting image now…
Cool, right?
In any case, it turns out Jeremy, the guy that wrote in, is the artist who made that cool collage. Here’s a bit of what he had to say about it.
Came upon your blog looking for old knit stuff. I dated bartender/manager, knew Doughty well as a kid just out of college, made the famous photo collage at the Knit that was used as album cover and allowed me to see shows and drink free for years. That collage was in Houston Street, then Leonard Street, then in the Knit Brooklyn when it sold, and full circle is now in the dressing room of the former Pyramid Club on Ave. A. A second version of is in City Winery.
Bizarrely, I think Jeremy’s Knitting Factory collage was the inspiration for my friend Joanne to capture a similarly surreal depiction of some friends of mine and I at their wedding some short years later. That, too, hangs in a frame in Brooklyn. Today, the sophisticated digital technology readily available in one’s smart phone can conjure equally nifty visual projects out of thin air, but back in the mid-`90s, that shit took a whole lot more work, ingenuity and imagination.
Here's a far-less arresting image of that very same doorway today. The downstairs space is (still) a bar named Botanica, while the upstairs space -- while very briefly a compact disc outlet -- is now a restaurant called Estela.
If you’re curious about the backstory of the original Knitting Factory, check out this cool collection of antiquated clips…
Like many others, I adored the Great Jones Cafe, a funky little hole in the wall on Great Jones Street that served up amazing Cajun cuisine in a cool, relaxed, bohemian atmosphere. It wasn't at all out of question to be enjoying a meal or several beverages within its intimate walls and have, say, Willem Dafoe or Laurie Anderson or Matt Dillon walk in, or to be seated next to the full membership of The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black or The Unband. The place just oozed character.
I snapped the picture above of same circa 1999. It closed in 2018, to much hue and cry, only to be replaced by ventures named Jolene and, well, Elvis. I'd never heard this story, as hipped to me by E.V. Grieve, but The New Yorker just posted an amazing article about the Great Jones Cafe's legendary Elvis bust. Read it here.
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