I first reported about it back in January of 2018, but after a long quiet spell, photographer Karen O'Sullivan's documentation of the early New York hardcore scene (much like this one I recently invoked) is finally coming to fruition.
Slated for an October release, "Somewhere Below..." promises another gritty look at a scene and a subculture that, for all intents and purposes, is now virtually extinct on these New York City streets.
I spotted this particular bit of fetching street art above from about a half-a-block away. I do not know the name of the artist, but his stuff is all over certain bits of SoHo and the Lower East Side.
This is, of course, a portrait of the inimitable Siouxsie Sioux, affixed to an edifice on Bleecker Street between Lafayette and Bowery at about Elizabeth Street, ... obviously, just a stone's throw from the former site of CBGB, where I don't *believe* Siouxsie & the Banshees ever played, although I could be mistaken.
This image can be spotted on a narrow strip of brickface adjacent to that lamentable -- to my mind -- boxing joint, Overthrow. You might remember them from that incongruous mural of Joey Ramone from some years back. Not sure if they have anything to do with the Siouxsie image or not. I kinda hope not.
To be fair, I have nothing against boxing, really. I just hate that this particular chunk of downtown has been redefined as an epicenter of physical fitness, what with there being numerous other gyms and fitness franchises like Barry’s Bootcamp, Soul Cycle, Rumble and several others all over the map between Astor Place and East Houston. I’m tired of seeing all that friggin' activewear every damn morning.
Anyway, just in case you live in a cave and are woefully unfamiliar with Siouxsie & the Banshees, here’s a taste…
Following up from here and then here and then here.
While consensus seems mixed across the board, I’d suggest it’s fair to say that Robert Mueller’s testimony, on Wednesday, largely failed to meet some fairly lofty expectations.
Sure, certain cogent points were established -- however tersely –- but it was not the cinematic gamechanger many had been counting on. Despite the best efforts of Jerry Nadler and Adam Schiff, Nancy Pelosi remains reluctant to initiate impeachment proceedings --- even regardless of the revelation that Mueller feels Trump can be prosecuted for his crimes once he leaves office.
I watched much of the first half of Mueller’s day behind the mic, but had to look away after a bit, as I had work to do and, frankly, my face hurt from fucking wincing.
My takeaway from yesterday -– like anyone cares -– is that honorable Mr. Mueller was scrupulously adhering to lawful point and protocol in an environment otherwise beset by anarchy. While his commitment to the fragile principal of impartiality is laudable, it only did him –- and, writ large, the American people -- a grave disservice.
In any ideal situation, Mueller would have answered the questions and floridly expounded on each under the assumption that not only had no one READ his actual report, but that our nation is ultimately comprised of illiterate, easily distracted slackjaws who wouldn’t have understood its dense text if they tried. He could have done this while still staying under the directive of not departing from what’s in that report.
But he didn’t.
And what happens next?
Some of you might remember a post here from December 2017 wherein I culled together a bunch of photographs I’d taken of examples of … shall we say … “outspoken” street art -- graffiti, flyers, murals, posters, tags, stickers, etc. -- here on the streets of New York City, specifically of a stripe that expressed a pointed degree of contempt for the Trump Administration and its policies. In case you missed it or are curious, you can find it here.
A little while after that, the following May, I posted a brief follow-up, which you can find here.
Since then, on a personal level, I’ve been consumed with other things, work has been very busy and, well, blah blah blah. In that interim, however, the steady, roiling stream of street-art expressions of severe dissatisfaction, shame, frustration and, again, utter contempt for Trump and his GOP cronies has continued.
As such, I thought it was high time for another update.
Enjoy.
Refuse.
Resist.
Walk a few blocks in any direction, in Manhattan, and you’re bound to encounter a new construction site.
But in passing this one on Broadway and East 11th Street, earlier this week, I was stopped dead in my tracks by some familiar figures in the depiction of the building that will soon be erected on the former site of the St. Dennis Hotel. I'm talking about the foursome depicted walking away from the building.
These were not added on by some street artist, they are part of the entirety of the image.
Someone has a sense of humor.
Originally the stately home of Eliza Hamilton, the widow of — wait for it — Alexander Hamilton, the townhouse of 4 St. Marks Place, otherwise known as the Hamilton-Holly House, is rightly considered a historic, designated landmark in the heart of what is now referred to as Manhattan’s East Village, a neighborhood descriptor Mrs. Hamilton’s tenure well predates.
As far back as I’ve ever been able to recall, however, 4 St. Marks Place was the home of Trash & Vaudeville, an enterprise I’ve discussed many times here.
Along with housing Jimmy Webb’s fabled punk clothing shop, the building also boasted an iconic stoop, one that frequently played host to the the local color of the neighborhood, so to speak.
I probably first called it out in the post that led to my interview with RB Korbet of Even Worse. I’d posted the photo below, and she’d gotten in touch to let me know the photographer’s name (Dave “Daze” Parsons). RB is the lady in black looking at the camera.
Over the years, the building has seen a lot of wear & tear, much like the surrounding neighborhood, but in the last fifteen-to-twenty years, or so, gentrification in the East Village (as well as its surrounding neighborhoods) has seen a sharp uptick.
In due course, while that stoop had long played host to any number of denizens of St. Marks Place, it was eventually gated off.
In 2016, meanwhile, Trash & Vaudeville was jettisoned from Hamilton-Holly House. Don’t fret. They relocated over on East 7th and, by all accounts, are still doing well. Webb even opened up an adjunct show further down in the Lower East Side.
Back at 4 St. Marks Place, however, a sidewalk shed was erected and plans were enacted to whip the former Hamilton-Holly House back into shape, so to speak.
Following the closings of St. Marks Sounds and the Grassroots Tavern just down the block for similar purposes, this development didn’t bode well for those who — like myself — who still cling to the idea of St. Marks Place remaining the endearingly chaotic and arguably grubby gateway to the East Village.
Recently, the shed was removed to reveal a newly refurbished facade. A quick Google search reveals that the townhouse is back up for sale (no price listed), and described thusly:
The space was previously occupied by Trash and Vaudeville's since 1975, and has historically been an epicenter of counter culture, bohemia and rock-and-roll. This landmark building is now being gut renovated, modernized and fully restored.
For those used to looking at 4 St. Marks Place during its Trash & Vaudeville days, it’s a slightly jarring transformation. My son and I walked by it yesterday, and I couldn’t stop from taking a picture (that’s Oliver below).
Technically, it’s the same stoop.
But you’d never know it.
As it happens, I walk through SoHo every weekday on my treks to and from my office. During same, I cannot stop myself from taking pictures. Even though the neighborhood and its surrounding environs have dramatically changed over the last few decades, I am still moved by its singular architectural character, its vibe and the sense of history – both personal and civic --- it continues to exude. That above image of Broome Street I shot just this morning.
I haven’t mentioned her excellent blog in a little while (or not since 2017, I guess), but Yuki Ohta revamped her SoHo Memory Project not too long back, and it’s a wonderful trove of pictures and anecdotes for those who pine for the SoHo that was prior to it being a hotbed of prohibitively expensive real estate and luxury retail outlets.
I also noticed she has her own Vimeo account. Click here to check out some of the clips she’s amassed, lovingly capturing glimpses of that bygone SoHo. Enjoy.
“Daddy, everybody there looked just like you. It was just old guys in blazers for miles.” So sayeth my 15-year-old daughter, yesterday, upon sending me the picture at right of Flea’s bass guitar, as housed in the Metropolitan Museum’s latest rock’n’roll-themed exhibit, “Play It Loud.” While I was pointedly underwhelmed by the Met’s last venture toward anything rock-related -– as you might remember from this ancient post -– I am indeed curious to go check out “Play It Loud,” as it’s more about actual instrumentation than fashion.
But of the myriad rock/punk-related exhibits going on right now -– you might remember my recent, pedantic takedown of the Museum of Sex’s somewhat one-dimensional “Punk Provocation” show -– I was quite enthralled by the Museum of Art & Design’s “Too Fast to Live, Too Young to Die” retrospective of so-called “punk graphics” (as first mentioned here yesterday). I qualify that with “so-called” as many bits of the ephemera on display had precious little do to with bona fide punk by any definition. I mean, I’m sorry, but while lead singer Holly Johnson may have been a veteran of fabled Liverpool punk club, Eric’s, Frankie Goes to Hollywood were not a punk band, nor were trailblazing all-female British band Girlschool, who were heavy metal to the bone. That said, I get it --- had punk not happened, neither of those two outfits would have existed, or certainly not as we would come to know them.
Insufferably arrogant, music-knowitall quibbles like that aside, the two-floored exhibit checked way more of the right boxes than wrong ones, showcasing a host of period-specific artwork from across the pertinent spectrum of bands/scenes/labels, etc. I audibly gasped several times at some of the posters displayed -– both out of genuine awe and affinity, but also out of recognition.
To be sure, it’s a very strange sensation to see things that formerly hung on your own walls now displayed in an official museum as rarified artifacts to be studied with reverence. Now sequestered at my friend Rob D’s place out in New London, for many years I had a lovingly framed poster from Road to Ruin by the Ramones on my wall, also framed at the M.A.D. show in a display case sturdy enough to hold The Shroud of Turin.
During the course of my prolonged meandering around the galleries, I was strenuously tempted to fact-check a curator who was leading a gaggle of patrons, but thought better of it. As much as she was getting some of the minutia wrong, no one likes that guy.
Anyway, if you’re as enamored of this stuff as I am, you’d do well to check it out. Below are some more of my favorite pieces from it.
Despite appearances to the contrary, this post is not really about AOC (Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez), but — since I just invoked her — I might as well concede that I think she’s pretty great. Sure, she’s young and probably still has a lot to learn about the office she now holds, but anyone who is capable of speaking truth to power with her level of conviction — to say nothing about causing so much angst and indigestion among key figures on the Right — is a-okay with me. You, of course, may beg to differ. That’s all.
In any case, a friend of mine recently posted the above photo on Facebook of AOC, posing with her signature, unblinking intensity on a weathered New York City stoop, her impeccably sharp, green ensemble creating a striking dichotomy with her otherwise rough-hewn surroundings. At first glance, I found it strangely familiar, but then I realized … there are doubtlessly thousands of stoops just like the one she’s depicted sitting on.
Then I thought back to an evening several weeks back. I was going to meet some out-of-towner friends who now live on the other side of the globe. They were briefly back in the city for a wedding, so we decided to meet up an at age-old favorite haunt, the Ear Inn on the westerly edges of Spring Street.
I’ve mentioned the Ear a few times here. It passively vies for the title “Oldest Bar in New York City” in meaningless competition with joints like Pete’s Tavern and McSorley’s, although — to my mind — it’s way better than either of those over-hyped establishments. Whether it’s genuinely the oldest bar in New York means nothing to me. It’s just a great place to meet friends and have a few beers. Long may it stay that way.
In any case, because I’m deeply neurotic and punctual to a fault, I arrived in the neighborhood ahead of schedule, which left me plenty of time to roam around the surrounding environs before assuming my place at the bar.
Time was when part of the Ear’s charm was that it was in such a remote, desolate backwater of a neighborhood. Apart from a deli or two, a couple of fellow bars (notably McGovern’s and the Emerald Inn) and, later, rock club Don Hill’s, there was practically nothing. The streets were empty and quiet. It’s for this reason that Martin Scorsese chose this patch of SoHo for many of the locations in “After Hours,” because it exuded such an eerily quiet, empty ambiance.
Suffice to say, this is no longer the case in 2019. These days, the westerly edges of Spring Street are a densely populated Emerald City of exclusive condos and monied luxury. Somehow, the Ear Inn has managed to hold on, but the days of it being a remote outpost are decidedly over.
This all said, there are still whispery elements of the neighborhood’s old vibe, if you look hard enough for them. As I circumnavigated the area on foot, I snapped a few pictures, trying to capture that rarified essence of place.
Circling the block on Renwick Street, just a street to the east of the Ear Inn, I came upon a certain stoop at the tail end of the building that formerly housed the Emerald Inn, the bar Scorsese re-cast as the Terminal Bar for “After Hours” (which I wrote about back here). I was struck by how grim and forbidding the stoop in question looked, so, I took a picture.
Sure enough, it’s the same stoop AOC was photographed on. Now, what was she doing there?
Hell if I know.
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