Flaming Pablum

Prior to the Punks, Years Before the Yuppies: East Village 1967

Next month, I am to cross the perilous Rubicon of my 51st year. I’m not especially enthused about that number, but what is to be done? Arriving, as I did, if my mother is to believed, at “cocktail hour” during the early evening of October 13, 1967, following a harrowing ride in a yellow cab across congested West 14th Street en route to St. Vincent’s Hospital, I was officially born in downtown Manhattan. My family did not live downtown, at the time, which might explain why that cab ride was so fraught, but they made it to St. Vincent’s all the same. My grandfather, a doctor, has practiced at St. Vincent’s, which might be why the decision was made to have me delivered there. Decades later, both of my own children were born at St. Vincent’s. Today, despite my multiple personal connections to the place, St. Vincent’s Hospital is sadly gone, razed to accommodate a new and prohibitively expensive cluster of condominiums. `Cos ya know … those are more important to a community than having a proper hospital in the vicinity. But, I digress…

In any case, in my regular perusals around the internet, I stumbled upon the clip below and let out an audible gasp or two. From the AP Archives, the video below captures scenes from the East Village – including footage of East 9th Street, First Avenue, Tompkins Square Park, St. Marks Place, The Dom and the Electric Circus, among other locales --- circa 1967. In fact, the story accompanying the footage was evidently posted on the very day of my birth. While these hirsute hippies right out of central casting were depicted strolling -– in some instances barefoot -– around the largely-still-recognizable East Village, I was busy preparing my early entry into the world about five avenues to the west.

Anyway, enjoy the trip back in time… and please note that while some footage repeats itself, it’s worth sticking around for the whole 8:26 of it.

Word on the Street

Seventeen Years Later

Today, of course, marks the seventeenth anniversary of the events of September 11th, 2001. It’s hard to believe, but there it is.

You may remember that I wrote about the “Tiles for America” project about ten years ago…if you’ve been following me all this time. The pic below is of one of the tiles in question, of course. Since that post, a whole lot has happened to that particular path of real estate, but some of the tiles still remain … however tenuously.

En route to a much needed haircut, I passed by the remaining tiles over the weekend, and was stuck by this one in particular. “America in Distress” is pretty self-explanatory, but in case you’re not aware, “Title 4” refers to Title 4 of “The Flag Code,” which states the following…

The flag should never be displayed with the Union down, except as a signal of dire distress in instances of extreme danger to life or property.

Were there ever a time to invoke Title 4 of the Flag Code, September 11, 2001 was certainly the day. Even seventeen years later, I can still vividly remember what it was like here in New York City on that otherwise crisp, beautiful morning.

Given the current state of proceedings with Trump still at the helm, it feels like Title 4 of the Flag Code is starting to feel worryingly appropriate once again.

Missing Foundation at The Marquee, 1990

Peter Missing shared this video below — only uploaded yesterday — on the official Missing Foundation Facebook page, so I thought I’d share it here as well, given that footage of Missing Foundation in action from this particular era is fairly hard to come by.

According to the person who originally posted this fifteen plus minute clip on YouTube, this is Missing Foundation in 1990 at the Marquee, then situated on the way western end of West 21st Street. It’s a venue I’ve spoken about many times here — most recently here — but I simply do not remember Missing Foundation ever gracing that particular stage. That’s not to say it didn’t happen or that YouTuber Jess 77714 is mistaken, but I simply don’t remember it, and it surely would’ve been something I’d otherwise have attended.

The first show I ever remember attending in that space was actually the Pretty Hate Machine-era Nine Inch Nails. At the time, the venue was a club called Sonic’s, and had sort of a schlocky “surface of the moon” interior design aesthetic, for some reason. Shortly afterwards (like, within the year?), it turned into The Marquee, and started playing host largely to alternative bands, British indie acts and loads of noise and industrial outfits … like Missing Foundation, I suppose. I guess I’m just surprised MF played there, given their pronounced reputation for inciting riots and inflicting wanton property damage. Still, I guess the Marquee management was either unaware of that, or simply strenuously understanding of MF’s singularly confrontational approach to live performance.

Anyway, this is probably the best footage of the clamorous and chaotic live Missing Foundation experience I’ve seen since that Jane Hotel video from some years back. Turn it way up and brace yourselves.

Summer in the City, 2018

A look back....

 

 

Beirut Daze

Have you ever been in a car driving along and come to an on-ramp to a highway where everyone seems to driving at about 80 mph? You have to assimilate to that speed really goddamn quickly, or it’s curtains. That’s what the past week has kinda felt like.

Since the wife and I came back from Lebanon last week, we’ve both been trying to re-enter and re-acclimate to the blitz of activity involving our respective office workloads, the impending school year for our kids and everything else that comes along with the end of the summer. As such, I haven’t had quite as much time to devote to the blog. Apologies, but I’m sure you understand.

In any case, while I’d originally intended on drafting a long, detailed post about the trip to Beirut, I’m instead simply going with selected highlights, punctuated by my photos. I want to post this while it’s all still relatively fresh in my head, although we’ll already have been back a full week by tomorrow.

Anyway, basically, the wife and I spent a little over a week in Beirut, also spending some days outside of the capital city in the higher elevations like Bsharri to the north (not too far from the Cedar Forest … or “Forest of God”), the quaint fishing village of Byblos and in a region southeast of Beirut referred to as “The Chouf.”

It's hard to encapsulate in a single nutshell, but our trip shattered a lot of my preconceptions about this part of the world. To the last, everyone we encountered was unfailingly gracious, especially when they learned we weren’t there on business but on holiday. The Lebanese are incredibly warm, polite and familial people, happy to help, extrapolate and share. Obviously, theirs is a history rife with a well-documented share of turmoil, but between the factions of the city in everyday life – Christians, Sunni Muslims and Druze peacefully coexist … except, of course, when they don’t, and the visual remnants of those conflicts are still evident, in certain places.

Herewith some other observations....

While largely a good-natured, relaxed and big-hearted bunch, the Lebanese drive like absolute maniacs. Speed limits, traffic lights and even basic rules of the road are all essentially blithely ignored suggestions. Protected turns? One-way streets? No parking zones? These are all sort of subject to an endearingly unbothered “says you” sensibility. I spent our first few trips by car hyperventilating accordingly, but after a while, the Lebanese laissez-faire approach rubbed off on me. That said, you DEFINITELY need to look both ways a couple of times before daring to cross any streets. Oh, those same streets are often completely bereft of any helpful, identifying signage, but that’s another matter entirely.

This probably isn’t limited to the Lebanese, but I was truly struck by the sheer volume of selfie-taking on display. In many instances, certain folks – mostly women – could be observed snapping selfie after selfie after selfie for half-hours on end. If you thought it was bad in New York, rest assured it’s a global problem.

Speaking of gratuitous selfies, though, here's me in a strangely Eighties-ish, David Lynchian men's room of a restaurant in Downtown Beirut...

 

Enough of my yacking. Enjoy the pics.

Incidentally, the woman making the odd cameo here and there, here, is my wife. 

I got excited by the STOP signs, as they were one of the few signs I could comprehend.

While the wife was resting one afternoon, I went out in search of the mythical Chico, arguably Beirut’s preeminent record store, buried deep in Hamra, kind of Beirut’s Williamsburg, if you will. I found it. Nothing too exciting, although I did find this slab of wax from Martin "Youth" Glover's post-Killing Joke outfit, Brilliant.

These next few are from a day spent in Dayr Al Qamar in the verdant hills of The Chouf, truly one of the most breathtakingly idyllic places I've ever been fortunate enough to visit.

M'self & one of my excellent cousins-in-law, Naji

Even in the hilly wilds of the Chouf, no one escapes the portentous prose of Don Henley.

These next few are from the fishing village of Byblos...

Back in Beirut...the mighty Mediterranean...

Three Things That Seem Somehow Connected

As I've mentioned several times here before, while I was too young to ever visit the place during its heyday, I've always been romanced by the story of The Mudd Club at 77 White Street. I've posted about it multiple times of course, everything from spotting James Chance sitting on its fabled stoop last year to tracing back the strange performance by Judas Priest on its comparatively intimate stage to finding out a former neighbor was now living in the iconic building's fourth floor. I routinely walk down Cortlandt Alley on my treks to work (often documenting same), and I'm always searching for that vanishing "sense of place" about the location.

Today, I noticed three arguably alarming developments.

1. While it's always been in a shifting state of repair, the stretch of Cortlandt Alley between Canal Street and White Street is covered with the lattice-work of scaffolding, suggesting a rigorous makeover is underway, and probably one that will further erase the byway's signature mystique
   
   
2. Evidently, there is a fuckin' musical about the halcyon days of the Mudd Club in production. Stop me if I'm wrong, but commemorating the Mudd Club in the form of musical theatre seems like the swiftest possible means of sucking any semblance of remaining coolness out of it. 
   
   
3. It seems that Seymour Stein, the music industry pioneer behind Sire Records and the forward-thinking individual who singularly fostered the careers of Mudd Club-regulars like Talking Heads, Madonna and the B-52s (among many, many others) is out of a job at Warner Bros. after 51 years.
   
   

Baxter Street

Is The Party Back On?

On my way home from work, this evening, I took a circuitous route through the eastern end of SoHo, largely heading north from Canal Street on Lafayette Street. Along the way, I spotted several invocations of the stencil below on various building facades, and it immediately struck a familiar chord. I have no idea what it’s about, but I couldn’t help thinking it was maybe something of a knowing dig at Missing Foundation’s old “The Party’s Over” tag, an overturned cocktail glass over three slashed tines.

For those who might be unfamiliar, Missing Foundation was — and still is — the creative outlet of artist/musician/multi-hyphenate Peter Missing. Back in the 80’s and 90’s, one used to frequently see his cryptic insignia scrawled on many an edifice in downtown Manhattan. What ostensibly started as a symbol of the band quickly evolved into a demarkation of squatter’s rights and an ominous warning to potential gentrifiers.

From a musical standpoint, Missing Foundation formerly occupied a volatile middle-ground between bare-bones industrial clamor and deliberately rudimentary, post-No Wave noise. Their confrontational gigs were the stuff of anarchic legend, frequently resulting in mayhem, property damage and alleged riot-incitement. As an entity, Missing Foundation represented an extreme, and their antics and austere lore garnered colorful rumors and sensationalist news stories. In later years, Missing decamped to Europe, changed his sound and started espousing a less aggressive sentiment.

Here are a couple of examples of some vintage Missing Foundation.

More on Missing Foundation on Flaming Pablum...

Missing to Be Clever
Missing in Action
Still Missing After All These Years
Missing Pieces
Cocktails for Two: In Conversation with Missing Foundation's Chris Egan
Maron Misses Missing Foundation
A Missing Link
'I Will Destroy You'

Back to Canal Street

You might have seen the article from last week in the New York Times that applauded the gentrification happening on Canal Street, rife with strenuously objectionable quotes about how it’s suddenly “coming to life.” I’m relatively certain everyone who read it in my little circle felt the same way, but leave it to Jeremiah Moss to craft the perfect response to it. You can find that here.

In my own experience, my fascination with Canal Street dates back to my grade school years, when my late friend Danny and I used to make the trek there for army/navy ephemera at The Trader (long gone… see below as captured below by a Dutch tourist in the late 70’s) and contraband martial arts gear (as documented here). I always felt Canal Street – kinda like 14th Street to its north – was a neighborhood unto itself, separate from the West Village, SoHo, TriBeCa, Chinatown, Lower East Side etc. that it runs through. From end to end, it’s always retained its own flavor, … its own vibe. As I mentioned on another post, Canal Street seemed like one third industrial depot, one third casbah and one third Mos Eisley spaceport, a veritable hive of scum and villainy.

I was also reminded, this morning, by my comrade Yuki Ohta from the SoHo Memory Project of the old Canal Street Jean Co. For its time, Canal Jeans was just an amazing resource for one’s burgeoning fashion sense. Circa 1985, I remember going there and prizing this great, repurposed security-guard shirt – complete with a shield-shaped patch on the left arm just below the shoulder and epaulets. The compelling aspect of the garment was that it was looked vaguely militaristic and was all jet black. It sounds absolutely ridiculous in 2018, but you just could not find black clothing so readily back then. You weren’t about to walk into The Gap and find that sorta thing. Paired with a black Stranglers t-shirt procured from the flea market across Canal on the corner of Greene Street, I remember wearing said ensemble to Danceteria later that evening. Again, this sounds abjectly silly and trivial – and it was --- but for my 18-year-old self, it was a big deal, at the time.

These days, I’d imagine one would be significantly hard pressed to find any army/navy gear or contraband martial arts weaponry on Canal. In 2018, the Canal Street Jean Co. (on Canal Street or otherwise … there was a second one on Broadway) no longer exists. The space it occupied on Canal Street is currently vacant, I believe. The space the Trader occupied, meanwhile, is now a newspaper/espresso joint. There are still shady joints hawking goods of dubious origin lining the long byway, but much of the whiff of the casbah-like quality of old is gone. Even Cortlandt Alley, which I’ve devoted time to here before, is getting something of a makeover. Sure, it’s still caked in grime and graffiti and often smells like an open sewer, but its tall facades are now pockmarked with scaffolding, hinting at a major cosmetic alteration coming to the once-forbidding, narrow passage to the former Mudd Club.

Is Canal Street getting the Meat Packing District treatment? Time will tell.

ADDENDUM: A regular reader reminded me of another longstanding establishment just a few steps to the south of Canal on Church Street wherein you can still, by god, buy army/navy gear. I'm talking, of course, about the great Church Street Surplus (as captured below this very morning)..