Flaming Pablum

Fermenting New Firewater: Tod [A] Looks Ahead

With the possible exception of Killing Joke, I don’t think there’s a band I’ve scribbled more about here than Cop Shoot Cop, the former NYC-based, clangy noise-rock ensemble of one Tod [A], who bowed out of said band, in the mid-`90s, during the recording of what would have been their fifth studio LP. Upon leaving C$C under arguably not the most amicable of circumstances, Tod turned his attention to forming Firewater, a loose collective of musicians who’d go onto to explore, over seven diverse albums, a far broader vista of musical styles than Tod’s previous band was ever likely to dare. Largely jettisoning Cop Shoot Cop’s full-frontal industrial assault in favor of a sinuous amalgam of influences from klezmer to ska to Middle-Eastern folk music to Romani to bhangra to sea shanties to Russian drinking songs to straight-ahead punk fucking rock and virtually all points and ports of global call in between, Tod’s inherent sense of wanderlust became deeply imbued into the music he was making. Putting his money where his mouth was, by the band’s sixth album, 2008’s The Golden Hour, Tod pulled up stakes and set out on a formidable trek across the imposing terrain between New Delhi, India and Istanbul, Turkey, recording with local musicians along the way. This experience not only fueled that album -– arguably Firewater’s finest -– but also served as fertile fodder for his first novel, “Banging the Monkey,” which surfaced in 2019.

I’ve been friends with Tod since the very early `90s, when I was tasked with writing up a cover story for a local freebie news weekly about “a hot new band that typifies the New York sound and sensibility.” Without skipping a beat, I chose Cop Shoot Cop, having become enamored of their wilfully chaotic live performances, their boldly unconventional approach (two basses, no guitars), their dark sense of humor (lost on large swathes of their audience), their unwieldy aesthetic and their cryptic poster campaign. Over the course of Cop Shoot Cop’s tumultuous rise and fall and then into the Firewater years, Tod and I have spilled many gallons of beer and ink about our respective trajectories. Now ensconced full-time in Istanbul, Tod only gets to New York City every so often, and he and I only get to convene in person every couple of years or so, usually around the holidays. The last time he was in town back in December, we caught up for a drink at an old favorite, the Ear Inn on the westerly end of Spring Street, and it dawned on me that I’d never subjected the poor guy to the Flaming Pablum Interview. So now, joining the estimable ranks of Big Paul Ferguson of Killing Joke, Chris Egan of Missing Foundation, RB Korbet of Even Worse, Erik Sanko of Skeleton Key, Fran Powers of Modern Clix, J Yuenger of White Zombie, Brooke Smith of Sunday Matinee, Don Rauf of Life in a Blender, and Andi Harriman of Some Wear Leather, Some Wear Lace, here with the Flaming Pablum Interview with Tod [A]…

FP: You’ve now been living in Turkey for almost 12 years. How’s that going? Of all the places you’ve lived, how does Istanbul compare?

I've lived in NYC, Denpasar, Phnom Penh, Calcutta, Surat Thani and now Istanbul. Though I didn't expect to be here quite so long, I can't complain about the city. Istanbul is the NYC of Turkey: it's a port city, which means it's quite multi-cultural. The cost of living is far less than NYC, and the town has public transport that doesn't reek of urine. It has a lot more cats and a lot less rats (do the math). I guess I feel as at home here as I have felt anywhere else, though the current Turkish government leaves much to be desired. Hopefully the people of Turkey will get rid of He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named in the upcoming 2023 general election.

It’s been eleven years since you released International Orange, but now, I gather, have new music demoed and ready to be recorded — can you give us an update?

Having decided to procreate, I took some time off from recording and touring to concentrate on raising my daughter. I didn't want to be the father who was never there. In the meantime, I wrote fifty songs. I am now a free agent and I think I'm almost ready to get back to recording and touring. We shall see who winds up releasing these records.

Firewater has counted many illustrious names in its ranks, over the years — are you in touch with all those players? Might we hear from them again on the next LP?

Yes, we are mostly all still buddies. It's quite possible there will be some appearances from old friends once it's time to go into the studio and begin touring again.

If you had to characterize the direction and sound of the new material, how would you do so?

My itinerant lifestyle has certainly colored the new batch of songs, melodically, sonically, and rhythmically. There is a Turkish flavor to many of them. But somehow I can't seem to scrape all the American mud off my boots. I feel like my time abroad has given me perspective to write about the country of my birth.

Your first novel, “Banging the Monkey” was published in 2019. Are there more books in you waiting to come out?

Yes. I am working on a few new books at the moment: a novel (for adults), and some others for children. But I take my time. They will be done when they are done.

You were recently back in the States and in New York City for the first time in a while. How does your former home turf feel to you in the wake of all that’s happened?

I still love NYC. But as I told you when I saw you last, I feel safer raising my daughter in a quasi-dictatorship like Turkey where almost nobody has a gun, than in America where everyone seems to own multiple firearms.

In 2016, you joined some of your former Cop Shoot Cop bandmates for the commentary track of the live DVD New York Post Punk / Noise Series 1. Are you still back in contact with those guys today?

Yes, I am in touch with Jim Coleman and Phil Puleo and we are on good terms. During the lockdowns, we made some sporadic attempts to collaborate from afar, but nothing seemed to catch fire. Jim and Phil seem to be doing quite well with Human Impact, so more power to them.

Is there any Firewater (or, for that matter, Cop Shoot Cop) material left “in the vault,” so to speak? Stuff that was never released? If so, will it ever see the light of day?

Yes, there is quite a bit. But tracks get left in the vault for a reason, usually because they weren't quite ready.

What’s your take on the music of today? Are there any new artists you’re particularly enthused about? What have you been listening to?

When I was a young punk I thought the way to move forward was to obliterate the past. Now I'm much more interested in the historical continuity of music. I'm trying to catch up on the homework I should have done when I was 21, learning the musical secrets of all the songs I love. I'm delving back into the past: jazz, the birth of rock 'n' roll. I listen to a lot of early blues, jazz, folk and psychedelia. Mainly I'm focused on developing as a songwriter and composer. I've been studying soundtracks (Morricone, Elfman, Zimmer), and I try to learn from the lyricists I admire (Dylan, Waits, Bowie).

Of all the spots you lived around New York City, which was your favorite, and why?

It was definitely fun living in Williamsburgh in the late 80's – early 90's. The rents were incredibly cheap, and there was much fun to be had exploring the empty buildings. I remember setting fire to an abandoned car in a vacant lot and watching it burn. Neither police nor the fire department ever came. That's how much of a no man's land it was at that time.

…which was your least favorite, and why?

By the time I moved to Bushwick, I had already pretty much had it with NYC. The locals weren't too enthused about the bohemian gringos encroaching on their turf, so there was quite a bit of aggro. Also, I was arrested for drinking a beer on the street outside my building, about 20 feet away from the corner where a bunch of jackasses had been selling smack and crack for years. So once I got out of jail, I was off to Thailand.

Where in the world is the food the best?

Italy, of course. I have worked there a lot, and the Italians really know what they are doing. But I also love Thai street food. Such an amazingly subtle combination of flavors. And usually $1 a plate. Indian and Mexican. Turkish food is also amazing.

What’s your favorite Firewater album?

The Golden Hour certainly was the most fun to make. The adventure of recording it, in India, Pakistan, and Indonesia, combined with working with my buddies in Tel Aviv to complete it. Everything seemed to come together on that record.

What’s your least favorite? Why?

International Orange was a nightmare to make. My record company didn't support the concept, so I had to cut a lot of financial corners. As a result, even though the songs were as good as those on The Golden Hour, the sound quality on International Orange suffered because of budget problems. I would love to re-record those songs someday. My ugly experience making International Orange also made me want to wait until I could afford to record in the right way.

What’s your favorite Cop Shoot Cop album?

Release. At that time CSC was firing on all pistons, and we had producer David Sardy at the controls. After that record, everything went rapidly south for the band.

What’s your least favorite? Why?

White Noise. It just hasn't aged well.

The irony here is the White Noise continues to be my favorite album by the band. It’s aged just fine, to my ears.

Why do the vinyl re-releases of Get Off the Cross... and Golden Hour have different cover art?

When Scott Schaefer approached me about doing vinyl releases of the Firewater catalog, I saw it as an opportunity to make something special. So I decided to re-make all the covers by hand. It's been really fun to re-imagine the art. The vinyl series will be continued in the near future.

Beyond from family and friends, what do you miss most about the United States?

A genuine NYC slice, and a real bagel. And not much else.

What sort of music is your daughter listening to?

I knew going into this parenting thing that I had a window of maybe four or five years in which I could vet the music my daughter would hear. Being a control freak, I took full advantage of those years. I wanted her developing brain to get a solid grounding in classic melody and song structure before she was exposed to bullshit musical 'content' from off the internet. So I made her tons of mix tapes: nursery rhymes; classical stuff like Carl Orff, Peter and the Wolf, and the Nutcracker; plus kid-friendly songs from folks like Raffi, the Beatles, Donovan, Ivor Cutler, Monty Python, Spike Jones, Woody Guthrie and the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band.

Yeah, well, to answer your question, the window has closed. You don't want to know what sort of music torture I am subjected to now. I can't wait till she's a teenager, and will start hitting me with some cool sounds.

What was the best concert you ever attended?

I can't name just one: Black Flag at some bowling alley in New Jersey circa 1984, Nirvana at the Reading Festival circa 1992, Tom Waits at the Beacon Theater 1999, Bone Machine tour, Motorhead in Istanbul, 2011. Plus any Jesus Lizard show. 

What five albums can you not live without?

Ramones - Ramones
Tom Waits - Rain Dogs
The Doors - The Doors
David Bowie - Diamond Dogs
Bob Dylan - Highway 61 Revisited

The best songwriter is….

There are seven: Tom Waits, Bob Dylan, David Bowie, Robyn Hitchcock, Leonard Cohen, and Ivor Cutler. (and me.)

Two Records, Two Summers

One summer in the early `80s, my mother and step-father rented a small, two-bedroom house on Quantuck Lane in Quogue, out on the East End of Long Island. We’d previously owned a house about two blocks away from that spot, but my Mom & John had sold that, which should have been a giant bellwether of things to come, but I was an oblivious and petulant teen, at the time. Unbeknownst to my older sister and I, this particular summer would be one of our little family’s final ones all together, but things hadn’t quite gotten to that breaking point, just yet.

In any case, as my collegiate elder sibling claimed the rear second bedroom for herself, I was bequeathed the house’s ersatz “den” as my bedroom, which I immediately decorated by sloppily taping an Iron Maiden poster to the deep forest-green-painted wall. At the end of the summer, upon removing said poster, I would unwittingly remove some of that paint, but that’s a different anecdote.

I honestly don’t remember all that much about the house, other than having to — under pronounced protest — periodically mow its lumpy, uneven lawn with end results that failed to please any of the concerned parties. I also remember rummaging through its closets and finding a vintage, electronic sign for Champale — a festive malt liquor that allegedly tasted like sparkling wine — that changed colors when you plugged it in. I’d made a furtive plan in my head to take that with me when we left, at the end of the summer, but was talked out of it in the wake of sullying that aforementioned paint job in the den.

Beyond all that, however, my most indelible memories of the Quantuck Lane house involve the stereo system in the living room, a hotly contested piece of consumer electronics over which my sister and I vied for absolute dominance. Her copies of, say, the Flashdance soundtrack, Thriller by Michael Jackson and All This Love by DeBarge sat nervously in fragile and unconvincing detente alongside copies of some of my favorites like First Issue by Public Image Ltd., No Sleep `Till Hammersmith by Motorhead and the live hardcore compilation, Rat Music for Rat People. The conflict was constant, and each of us would brazenly disregard the other’s commandeering with blithe dismissal. It wasn’t at all uncommon to hear the jarring, signature scratch of a stylus being hastily wrenched from a record mid-spin, replacing an emphatic bash through “Live Fast Die Young” by the Circle Jerks with an umpteenth airing of “What a Feeling” by Irene Kara. It was simply that kinda summer.

But there was one LP, however, that always managed to restore the tenuous peace. Procured, I believe, during the latter portion of her years at Milton Academy in Massachusetts, my sister’s well-loved copy of So Far…, a compilation of songs by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, was a record that soothed both our intra-sibling ire, and whose melodic mellifluousness also appealed to our long-suffering mother and step-father, who were swiftly losing patience with our perpetual squabble.

While inexorably steeped in the very freewheelin’ hippie ideals my favorite punk bands strove to decimate, the songs off of So Far.. were pretty hard to argue with, although I tended to steer well clear of the more cloyingly twee selections like “Our House” (still kinda hate that one) and “Teach Your Children” in favor of the more assertive fare like “Ohio” and “Wooden Ships.” But whether they were singing about social injustice or the comely charms of folk singer Judy Collins (allegedly the subject of “Suite: Judy Blue Eyes”), the sheer combination of those voices — Graham Nash of the Hollies, Steven Stills of the Buffalo Springfield and former Byrds firebrand David Crosby (and, on occasion, Neil Goddamn Young, also late of the Buffalo Springfield) — that richly distinctive, inimitable sound could sway all skeptics and silence all naysayers. It may have lacked the ponderous heft of Venom, the splenetic fury of Black Flag and/or the willful contrarianism of John Lydon, but So Far.. was undeniable to me. And, again, beyond its sonic warmth and timeless songwriting, those songs became synonymous with moments of harmony and happiness in that little house on Quantuck Lane.

At the end of the summer, instead of swiping that flashing Champale sign, I swiped my sister’s copy of So Far…

Seemingly a bajillion summers later, when my own children were just barely out of their toddlerdom, I remember buying a copy of Greatest Hits by Crosby, Stills & Nash at a long-vanished bookstore in Westhampton Beach. That disc went onto become a “car favorite” of my little family’s, with both “Marrakesh Express” and “Southern Cross” becoming crucial to my kids (the latter being re-dubbed “The Beach Song,” as it perfectly scores the drive from our home to the beach, and the former because its opening guitar parts made my little Charlotte and Oliver giggle inexplicably).

We lost David Crosby, yesterday. I could write several paragraphs about why he was rightly revered as a true voice of his generation, a wildly talented songwriter and a notoriously erratic, drug-fueled rock star, but I’m relatively certain all that material has been well covered by every major music and news periodical. I figured it might be more impactful to express what his music meant to me, and that is nigh on indefinable.

I will forever associate the music of David Crosby and of CSN(Y) with family, happiness and home, and the loss of that singular voice is tremendous, no matter which particular band t-shirts you’re inclined to wear.

May he finally rest in peace.

Point It at Daniel Ek Deux: The Hitchcock Kibosh?

In the wake of posting my curious Spotify quandary yesterday, I reached out to a number of different folks -– one a former colleague who now works within the Spotify organization. That individual didn’t immediately know what the answer was, but vowed to “look into it.”

Another colleague of mine, meanwhile, used to work for a indie label to which Robyn was fleetingly signed and has remained somewhat in touch with the great man. She said she’d fly the story by him, but he’s allegedly notorious for taking ages to answer texts and emails (which isn’t entirely surprising). That said, I have faith that he will eventually respond to her, so watch this space for that.

On top of all that, however, a regular reader named S. Norman (a cheeky allusion to a fabled Monty Python sketch involving a gargantuan hedgehog named “Spiny Norman”) helpfully wrote in with a very plausible explanation -– that it’s all Robyn’s doing.

Spiny cited two bits of evidence to back up his theory, the first being this 2020 Tweet from Robyn himself…

And the other being the following passage from this Brooklyn Vegan piece from August of that same year…

Robyn Hitchcock, who has been selling his paintings online to supplement income he would've made touring, says he's actively trying to get all his music off of Spotify and other similar services. "Needless to say, once I’ve clarified the digital distribution situation with my former label, all my past recordings and those of the Soft Boys that we have control of will be removed from exploitative streaming services."

Hitchcock's partner, Emma Swift (whose music is not on Spotify), broke the situation down with Robyn as the example. "Some math, brought you by hacking into @RobynHitchcock’s Spotify for Artists app. Based on these stats, RH would bring in 1.4 million streams per year. Which is about 5600 dollars. 50 percent which gets paid to his record label. In Robyn’s case, he is a prolific artist with more than 20 albums on there. He’s written over 500 songs. It has been his full-time job for 40 + years. He’s been playing guitar since before Daniel Ek was born. Mr Ek seems to think Robyn and artists like him don’t work hard enough. Record labels have made Mr Ek believe artists are utterly replaceable, when the fact is each artist is unique and special. We’re not iPhones. We have individual talents and gifts to offer." She adds that with an artist like Robyn, who had been on major and independent labels, getting off streaming services is not as easy as pushing a button. "It’s not as easy for signed musicians to boycott."

With all this in mind, I’d suggest that Robyn sounds like he’s in the process of doing all in his power keep his new music off Spotify and to remove all the music of his that’s already accessible there. That might conceivably include putting impediments towards his songs being put in playlists, right? Sounds possible. 

Personally speaking, while that somewhat thwarts my original intention of turning my son onto Robyn’s vast catalog of unique and vibrant music, I am 100% in support of Robyn’s position here. To further put my money where my very big mouth is, I’m also endeavoring to indoctrinate my burgeoning-music-fan son into the faith of the tactile artifact. With my daughter now sequestered back at college, I’ve offered to exhume from storage a portable turntable I bought a couple of years back at a school auction, set it up on his temporarily absent sister’s desk (they share a room) and give him full access to my unwieldy collection of vinyl LPs.

Once again, fuck Spotify.

Point It at Daniel Ek: My Mysterious Spotify Quandary

As previously mentioned, while I abhor the platform in question, I've started using Spotify more often, lately, as a means of evangelizing music to my kids. Charlotte doesn't really give a rat's ass, but Oliver's been fairly receptive, thus far. In any case, I started making him a playlist the other day of one of my favorite songwriters who's coming to town in a few weeks and who we hope to go see perform live. He's got a sprawling catalog, so it took a little while, but before I could complete it and send the link to Oliver, I got a “takedown notification” email saying: "We have found the following content to be in violation of our content policies, and we have removed it. Please see our Spotify Terms and Conditions of Use for more information."

Now, while it’s certainly true that I’m an avowed fan of several bands who trade in the brazenly objectionable, this was not a playlist packed with selections by naughty bands like the Revolting Cocks, Cop Shoot Cop, the Murder Junkies, Butthole Surfers, Pussy Galore or the Strangulated Beatoffs – this was simply a collection of songs by British singer/songwriter Robyn Hitchcock.

At first, I assumed this was a scam, but then sure enough, I looked at my Spotify account, and the title of the playlist had vanished. The playlist itself was still there, but there was a blank space where my title had been. I had called it– oh so imaginatively -– Robyn Hitchcock for Oliver. Beyond the fact that the word "cock" happens to appear as part of Robyn's surname (and, yes, it’s his actual name – no relation to Alfred), I cannot imagine what the problem might be.

As they’d voided that playlist title, however, I assumed that that was indeed the case, so I simply re-titled the playlist as Robyn H for Oliver. This morning, however, I woke to *another* takedown notice with the same reprimand. I mean, seriously, Spotify, what the actual fuck?

I perused the Terms and Conditions of Use page, but nothing really jumped out at me. While taste is all relative, I can roundly assure you that nothing in Robyn Hitchcock’s catalog – either with his bands The Soft Boys, The Egyptians or as a solo act – is really anything anyone could genuinly consider offensive, unless whimsical psychedelia and surrealist wit are now considered obscene.

Then, I consiered another explanation – however abjectly ridiculous. The opening track on my playlist is a Robyn rarity that I’d first heard on the great man’s collection of “leftovers and outtakes” called Invisible Hitchcock. Incidentally, don’t bother looking for Invisible Hitchcock on Spotify as, like these awesome nine albums, they don’t seem to have it, but that’s another matter entirely. While not the version I’d first to come to love, I used the version from the I Wanna Go Backwards box set of a song called “Point It at Gran.”

Is that what’s bugging Spotify? Do they deem that title as too aggressive or triggering?

Listen to it and you tell me if this is worthy of a takedown notice that says I violated their terms of service. The offending playlist, meanwhile, can be experienced beneath. You'll notice it has no title. Enjoy, if possible. 

9 Great Albums You Absolutely Will Not Hear on Spotify

A couple of months back, a colleague of mine who edits content for our company’s intranet had the idea of putting together departmental playlists of music all we employees were listening to. When it came to our department — Corporate Communications & Marketing — I was asked to submit two songs I was currently digging, one new banger and one old favorite. For whatever reason, for the “old favorite” I went with “Into the Valley” by the Skids (invariably because I was shortly to depart to Scotland to drop my daughter off at college). For the new song, I wanted to pick a track off my favorite album of 2022, that being the debut studio LP by The Art Gray Noizz Quintet. At the time, however, the only track by that band to be found on Spotify (the go-to platform for this exercise) was their cover of an old Lubricated Goat song (which makes sense, being that Art Gray is yet another name for Lubricated Goat’s Stu Spasm, i.e. Stuart Gray). I mentioned this, and another colleague scoffed openly at the notion that there was music out there that wasn’t on Spotify. “Oh come on,” she laughed incredulously, “Spotify has all the music.”

Yeah, no they don’t. Not even close.

My misgivings with Spotify are multiple and visceral. I don’t respect the platform. I think it’s evil and that it’s further cementing the notion that music is just this banal commodity that can be blithely plucked from the ether. It has contributed to the ongoing devaluation of music and continues to fleece artists and songwriters at every opportunity. Fuck Spotify.

To this day, I still insist on buying the tactile manifestations of the music I’m interested in whenever possible. I deeply resent Spotify’s avaricious stranglehold on the industry. But, as I mentioned in this post, I’ve recently started it using it with reluctant frequency, but primarily as a means of evangelizing music to my kids. Again, my daughter Charlotte doesn’t really give that much of a rat’s ass about what tunes I think she should check out (I mean, if you were an 18-year-old college freshman, would you?), but my 16-year-old son Oliver has been pretty receptive. I know it’s only a matter of time before he divines his own path, so I’m enjoying this part of it while it fleetingly lasts.

But, in much the same way Spotify failed me, at the time, when searching for that eponymous debut by The Art Gray Noizz Quintet (which, incidentally, now can be found on Spotify in its entirety), there are several records that still cannot and will not be heard, found, experienced or enjoyed via the streaming service. Here are some of those records that you’re missing out on…

Heaven Born and Ever Bright by Cardiacs (1992)
I remember first hearing the track “Day is Gone” by this frankly confusing British indie band by way of a compilation cassette attached to one of the weekly music papers during to trip to London in 1993 and being genuinely blown away. Paring the ambitiously intricate musicianship of the most impenetrable prog rock with the bug-eyed, adrenalized sprint of early-`80s punk, Cardiacs truly sounded like no one else, and I instantly went out searching for the whole album, finding a lone copy of the imported compact disc at Rebel Rebel on Bleecker Street (RIP). While lured in by the comparatively accessible “Day is Gone,” I don’t know that I was fully prepared for the album’s other ten tracks, which largely eschewed all semblance of conventional song structure in favor of maniacal detours in tempo, time-signature and tone, veering wildly from expansively anthemic sing-alongs, whimsically ecstatic pop forays, intensely complicated thrash and all frantic points in between. I dutifully snapped up the next few albums by the maddeningly prolific Cardiacs, each less comprehensible and even more bonkers than its predecessor. Cardiacs sadly came to a close when their primary singer/songwriter Tim Smith suffered a heart attack — cruel irony — in 2008, only to pass away in 2020.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Day Is Gone,” “Goodbye Grace,” “The Alphabet Business Concern (Home of Fadeless Splendor)."

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
You can find Heaven Born and Ever Bright on Bandcamp, as well as several other of their releases. You can also order music and merch directly from the band’s website.

Invisible People by False Prophets (1990) 
While originally a hardcore band, New York City’s False Prophets never strictly adhered to the parameters of that sub-genre, inflecting their music with huge chunks of folky agitprop and conceptual drama beyond the splenetic fury of what became NYHC. Never was this more the case than on their 1990 album, Invisible People. While it still has its punky moments, the high point of this mini LP is easily the title track, a stirring acoustic depiction of the homeless existence in New York City. Hardcore with a heart, and New York City to the bone.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Invisible People,” “Never Again, Again”

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
Good luck. I’d suggest eBay, maybe? False Prophets are not on Bandcamp and have no website. The full album, though can be experienced on YouTube, for whatever that’s worth. Beyond that, check the used bins and eBay. 

Retrovirus by Lydia Lunch (2015)
A live album recorded at the Brooklyn iteration of the Knitting Factory (RIP), Retrovirus finds No Wave matriarch Lydia Lunch flanked by incendiary guitarist Weasel Walter of the Flying Luttenbachers, drummer Bob Bert (ex-Sonic Youth/Pussy Galore/Bewitched/Chrome Chranks) and former SWANS bassist Algis Kizys delivering a taut, paired-down sprint through the best moments of Lunch’s extensive back catalog. While Lydia is as endearingly caustic as ever throughout proceedings, the sheer musical fire-power at her beck and call, captured here, delivers a performance that is nothing short of explosive. To my ears, it’s the best thing she’s ever recorded.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Love Split with Blood,” “The Gospel Singer.”

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY, WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
You can find this album and several other choice selections via Bandcamp. 

Fantastic Spikes Through Balloon by Skeleton Key (1997)
The brainchild of former Lounge Lizards bassist Erik Sanko, Skeleton Key garnered a big, clangy buzz on the NYC scene in the mid-to-late `90s, playing a skronky blend of disjointed, punky rock that frequently sounded like a broken machine about to explode. With guitarist Chris Maxwell, powerhouse drummer Steve Calhoon and odd-&-ends percussionist Rick Lee (Lee would pound the living crap out of various hapless metal implements — including a child’s red wagon — in a manner not unlike what Bob Bert did for Pussy Galore, Phil Puleo did for Cop Shoot Cop and what Einsturzende Neubauten spent their noisy career doing), their debut LP, Fantastic Spikes Through Balloon was expansively produced by Dave Sardy of Barkmarket (who later became a very big-time knob-twiddler). The end results are endearingly weird, but always melodic and periodically very satisfyingly heavy. Sadly, it was not to last — Chris Maxwell jumped ship and went solo. Rick and Chris also left, leaving Sanko to rebuild the band from scratch and later make a couple of more similarly inclined records. Despite being on major label Capitol records, you can’t find Fantastic Spikes… on Spotify.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“The World’s Most Famous Undertaker,” “Wide Open,” “Vomit Ascot.”

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
Well, you can read all about it on the band’s official website, and you can hear the whole album on YouTube, but otherwise, you’re better off searching for a used copy of the CD. Good luck with that.

Headkick Facsimile by Cop Shoot Cop (1989)
Recorded when the band was still just the trio of Tod [A] on bass/vocals, Phil Puleo on drums and metal percussion and Dave Ouimet on sampler, Headkick Facsimile — released on Japan’s short-lived Supernatural Organization label — was the first official release by notorious New York City guerilla-noise ensemble (and Flaming Pablum favorites), Cop Shoot Cop. Later re-released on cassette by the band’s Subvert Entertainment “label” with “Robert Tilton Handjob" from the 1990 follow-up seven-inch Piece, Man, neither the original six-track album nor the seven-track cassette were ever released on compact disc (despite comparatively recent rumors that Reptilian Records were going to issue a CD version, nothing ever came to fruition). As an opening salvo, the mini-album firmly established Cop Shoot Cop as an outfit to watch out for. I have both the pricey imported vinyl 12" (gifted to me ages ago by a friend) and two copies of the cassette ... one still shrinkwrapped, `cos I’m that type of insufferable nerd.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Shine On, Elizabeth,” “Triumphal Theme,” "Lie" 

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
Once again — good luck with that. While most of the C$C discography can be had on Spotify (including the post-breakup Red Expendables album), neither Headkick Facsimile nor the Piece, Man tracks can be found there. They’re not on Bandcamp, either. Certain blogs have uploaded MP3s over the years, but ya can’t count on those staying up. Certain tracks are available on YouTube (see above), but you owe it to yourself to hunt down the original, out-of-print editions. And that’ll probably cost ya. Earn it.

Look At My Bum by The Hot Corn Girls (1994) 
The Hot Corn Girls were an endearingly amateurish quartet of Lower East Siders who date back to the mid-90's. Being friends with Joanne their bass player and Dean Rispler their drummer (a punk rock renaissance man who'd later go onto play for bands like The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black, Murphy's Law, Tiger Mountain, the Brought Low and a latter-era iteration of The Dictators, as well as becoming a sought-after producer in his own right), I was fortunate enough to catch the band performing live a couple of times (notably at the Pyramid on Avenue A and again at Under Acme on Great Jones Street). Rounded out by one Bob Limp on vocals and the enigmatic Squeaky on guitar (an erstwhile member of the similarly inclined Japanese band, The Chimpanzees, despite not being Japanese himself), the Hot Corn Girls were both hilarious and surprisingly catchy, as this album handily demonstrates.

Through the beneficent affiliation with the Chimpanzees (whose lead singer, Naoko Nozawa a.k.a Diarreah Naoko, was -- evidently -- a hugely popular television comedienne in her native Japan and Bob Limp's girlfriend), the HCG were fleetingly financially solvent enough to be able to go into the studio and cut an album. Look at My Bum came out in 1994 on Stingy Banana records, graced with a suitably pervy cover photograph by transgressive shutterbug extraordinaire, Richard Kern, and fifteen luridly surreal tracks with largely improvised, unintelligible lyrics. Despite their willfully challenged aesthetic, the sound (produced, once again, by budding knob-twiddler Dean Rispler) absolutely crackles with depth and definition (not things normally associated with humble East Village bands).

I believe the song titles were assigned to their respective tracks with Burroughsian arbitrariness, so don't bother listening for the song's title in the already indecipherable and quite-possibly-not-sung-in-any-language-known-to-man chorus.  Incidentally, the name "Hot Corn Girls" itself does not refer to any deviant sexual practice but rather to a book by Solon Rovinson called "Hot Corn - Life Scenes in New York" from 1854. The Hot Corn Girls themselves were Irish-American immigrants who peddled hot corn in the streets. There's also the arguable theory that the Hot Corn Girls doubled as murderous prostitutes who slew their johns. I'll defer to the historians over that one. The Hot Corn Girls went onto record another 7" single before splitting. Dean Rispler went onto work with dozens of other great bands. Joanne got married and left NYC. Bob went off to Japan with Nozawa where they perform as the tastefully named Ass Baboons of Venus. For more of what Squeaky got up to, click here.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE: “My Pile of Leaves”

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
Not on Spotify and not on Bandcamp, but the whole album is on YouTube. For a physical copy, hit eBay and/or your nearest used CD shops … but don’t hold your breath.

The Niagaras by The Niagaras (1990) 
These days, info online about the band is pretty damn scarce, but the ensemble centered around two brothers -- Robert and Frank Whaley -– and a guitarist name Tony Grimaldi. If any of those names jump out at you, it’s probably Frank. Along with being the erstwhile drummer of the Niagaras, Frank is an actor, having been in notable films like OIiver Stone’s “The Doors” (playing guitarist Robbie Krieger), “Career Opportunities” (wherein he is locked in a department store overnight with lovely Jennifer Connelly), “Swimming with Sharks” (wherein he kidnaps and tortures his toxic boss, played by Kevin Spacey) and, of course, “Pulp Fiction,” where he portrayed big-brained Brett, the Big Kahuna Burger-enthusiast who gets shot at point blank range by Samuel L. Jackson. He was in other stuff, too, but those are probably the biggies. His brother Robert, meanwhile, was the dynamic lead singer of The Niagaras. Whether guitarist Tony Grimaldi is in any way related to the Grimaldi’s pizza dynasty, I don’t know. You’d have to ask him.

In any case, the Niagaras played a sort of theatrical blend of jangly, hook-laden rock, which often included a trumpet for extra flourish. While not exactly punky, the nattily dressed band frequently played with a high-energy garage fervor that made for an excellent live show, largely punctuated by Robert’s improvisational stage patter, mannered vocals and frenzied, good-naturedly confrontational performance style.

Hotly touted as a “next big thing” band, the Niagaras accrued a buzzy reputation following residencies at venues like The Continental, Mondo Cane and some gigs at Wetland’s Preserve in TriBeCa. They started getting tv spots and things started happening and then ...  nothing.

I can’t say I know the particulars, but for whatever reason, their big break never came. I have this eponymous indie debut disc from 1990, but I gather there was at least a second album in 1997, recorded for a different indie label and produced by Tamir Muskat (of Firewater and Balkan Beatbox). I’ve yet to track down a copy of that one.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Reborn,” “Overdrawn on Your Account"

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I GET THIS?
Apart from a few selections on YouTube (see above), I doubt you’ll have much luck finding this anywhere on the internet. Sorry.

1933 Your House is Mine by Missing Foundation (1988) 
Anyone who spent any amount of time whatsoever in the East Village and/or Lower East Side of Manhattan during the `80s and `90s will doubtlessly recognize the cryptic insignia of Missing Foundation (an upside down cocktail glass over three slashed tines), which was ominously scrawled, sprayed and jaggedly carved all over many a downtown edifice in those days. I’ve written about them countless times here on this blog. Ostensibly an “industrial” band, Missing Foundation was more of an elusive collective masterminded by one Peter Missing, a firebrand who used his particularly confrontational brand of cacophonous music as a means of disseminating vehemently anti-authoritarian/pro-squatter/anti-gentrification agitprop. Initially, MF records were hard to track down until about 1990, when an indie label named Restless Records re-released their first five albums, this one from 1988 being my very favorite. While arguably Missing Foundation at their most cohesive, 1933 is still a long fucking way from accessible, finding Peter Missing exhorting angrily through a bullhorn over ponderous, slave-ship percussion and brutalized guitar riffs.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Burn Trees,” “Jameel’s Turmoil” 

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I FIND THIS?
While Spotify does surprisingly have some Missing Foundation on its platform, this record is absent from the offerings. Peter Missing, however, has taken huge advantage of the Bandcamp platform and pretty much uploaded his entire musical oeuvre there, including demos, rarities and live albums, as well as the album of his first band, Drunk Driving. I wish every band would follow his lead.

Amerikanski by The Lee Harvey Keitel Band (1997)
Despite their lazily stupid name (dumb on purpose?), Baltimore’s Lee Harvey Keitel Band were actually quite cerebral, … possibly too much so for their own good. A debut album rife with esoteric literary allusions and arcane academia, Amerikanski comes across like a quirky collection of jittery punk songs played by a quartet of cynically verbose, jaded intellectuals with a flair for the absurd, kind of like a beefier version of the Minutemen, but with obscure references to Samuel Beckett, the Marquis de Sade and French cinema instead of corndog lingo. But as pretentious as all that might sound, the album really fucking rocks from top to bottom. Comprised of ex-members of Buttsteak and Liquor Bike (if that means anything to you), the LHKBND kicked up a clangily catchy racket, and the album is a complete blast (produced, once again, by Dean Rispler of the Hot Corn Girls and countless other outfits). They were great fun live, too.

GIVE ME A QUICK TASTE:
“Capitalism vs. Schizophrenia,” “Divine Ashasia (from 'Waiting For Godot')"

OKAY, FUCK SPOTIFY! WHERE CAN I FIND THIS?
You pretty much can’t. The LHKBND do have tracks available on various platforms like YouTube, Bandcamp and even Spotify, but not this album, for whatever reason. Beyond combing the used racks, I could not even begin to tell you how to get ahold of this album, apart from maybe reaching out to the band itself (who broke up eons ago) via Bandcamp. Also maybe eBay? Maybe? Good friggin’ luck.

Broadway Boys

I hate to keep mining the Facebook group Manhattan Before 1990, but there’s so much gold to be found there. In any case, this morning a participant named Ino Yoon posted the photograph below by O Yoon (a parent, maybe?) from 1982, and it instantly rang a bell.

This immediately recalled a photo search I’d done back in 2011, looking for the location of a photo of the Beastie Boys that first appeared in SPIN, snapped by Josh Cheuse. Here’s that photo now.

The band later used a shot from that same session as the cover of this hits compilation...

In any case, this is the southwest corner of West 26th and Broadway, which is right around the corner from the St. James Building, wherein the Beasties had one sort of business arrangement or another.

Here's my then-still-very-little Oliver in that same spot in 2011. Today, this corner is occupied by a restaurant called La Picora Bianca Nomad.

Back ... Again... to Charly's Corner at Cortlandt & Walker

For those of you valiantly trying to follow the tangled thread that is the saga of the origins of the Clics Modernos wall on the corner of Walker Street and Cortlandt Alley (just to the right of where my little son Oliver was pictured heading towards in the above photo from 2014), I am happy to report that friend-o’-the-blog Iñaki Rojas has just released the fourth installment of his video series on the subject.

Let’s see if I can quickly condense, for those not interested in reading the last update: Preeminent Argentine rock star Charly Garcia, around 1982, was in New York City, renting a loft on Waverly Place and recording at nearby Electric Lady Studios of West 8th Street, when he went out for a walk with a photographer. While he’d already had an idea for the title and cover image of the album he was working on, when he spied some compelling street art in TriBeCa on the aforementioned corner of Walker and Cortlandt Alley (just down the way from the Mudd Club), he posed for a shot with it — and then decided to use that shot for the album cover, taking the title, meanwhile, from a tag scrawled on the wall — Modern Clix (translated into Spanish as Clics Modernos).

Unbeknownst to Garcia, the art in question was the handiwork of two individuals — street artist Richard Hambleton (renowned for his “shadow men” all around downtown Manhattan — ghostly black silhouettes) and local punk rocker Fran Powers, the then-lead singer of the band, Modern Clix.

Released in 1983, the resultant album went onto become a huge milestone for both Garcia and Argentine rock in general. From Wikipedia: "It was a decisive work to consolidate the modern trends that would mark the profile of Argentine rock during the 1980s,” and to this day is widely revered.

Back here in New York City, meanwhile — Richard Hambleton passed away in 2017 purportedly without ever knowing his work graced the sleeve of such a sacrosanct piece of music history.

Fran Powers, meanwhile, another comrade of the blog’s (after befriending him at party in for Yukie Ohta’s SoHo Memory Project some years ago, I interviewed Fran about his involvement in the local hardcore scene as documented by Brooke Smith, his music and his fleeting cameos in movies like “Hannah & Her Sisters” and my all-time favorite film, Martin Scorsese’s “After Hours” — you can read that here) — had been aware of his graffiti being lifted for Garcia’s landmark album, but didn’t really know much about it. Sadly, Fran passed away in 2021.

Here’s where it gets (even more) complicated.

I honestly cannot say if I was the first person to unwittingly figure this out, but after spotting some photographs on a Facebook group taken by a tourist named Bo G. Eriksson in 1984 of my beloved Cortlandt Alley, I typed up a post, in 2021, about it (somewhat brazenly lifting Eriksson’s photos without his express consent — sorry about that, Mr. E) and asserted that the location of Charly Garcia’s album cover — which, at the time, I had no idea was such a big deal — is the corner of Walker and Cortlandt in TriBeCa.

I probably didn’t give the matter another thought, but word somehow quickly spread. in short order, I was fielding missives from an Argentine writer named Iñaki Rojas alerting me of the significance of all this.

As I now understand this, this tiny little patch of downtown real estate had been a hotly speculated location. Now that the secret was out, there were people making actual goddamn pilgrimages to it. More about that in a second.

This whole saga is not at all unlike my series of posts wherein I tried — with the help of my Irish pal Dub — to pinpoint the exact location of the wall featured on the cover of Killing Joke’s first iconic record, or when I tried to divine the location of that one photo of the Lunachicks, or when I tried to determine the address of Plasmatics World Headquarters. Equally obsessed with this quest, Iñaki Rojas was clearly my brother, and started writing both a novel about it all, and a compelling video series.

The fourth installment of that series is now up, and I am sort of hilariously all over it. See that here….

I viewed this latest episode on the train back from Pennsylvania with my family, earlier this week, and immediately felt I needed to stroll back down to that fateful corner to get Iñaki some updated pics. I ran into my neighbor and fellow music freak Mac and after a quick stop at the Bad Brains mural on Bleecker, I started unspooling the whole Clics Modernos tale (which is exceptionally difficult to encapsulate). From what he understood of what I was babbling about, he was intrigued, so down we both bounded to Cortlandt Alley, once again.

Right as we were approaching the corner in question, I spotted a cryptic little scrawl on the wall. Sure enough, it was related.

It reads, I believe, ...Clics Modernos Started Here...

As relayed in the fourth episode of Iñaki’s series, people now come to this spot as if it was the Argentine equivalent of Abbey Road or, to use my analogy, the Killing Joke wall in Derry, Northern Ireland.

I had Mac try to replicate Charly’s sleeve with me. I apologize profusely for being a fat bastard. Time for those New Year’s resolutions to be fiercely observed, eh?

Iñaki promises a final installment of the series soon. Watch this space. 

Merry Christmas from Flaming Pablum

We at Chez Pablum didn't manage to get our pesky Christmas ducks in order, this year, in time for a proper card. Adding festive insult to yuletide injury, when it came to which approach we were gong to go with, the wife didn't like the fact that we weren't all together in my design, whereas I thought the picture she selected of the kids looked more like placation than sincerity. We did not overcome our creative Christmas impasse in time, so here are both options. Voting closes at midnight on Christmas Eve.

Happy happy to one and all. Stay warm. Be good to each other.

Goodbye, 2022!

Yes, well, I suppose it's time to dust off this inane survey, once again, and take a look back at 2022. Seat-belts on, kids! 

What did you do in 2022 that you'd never done before?

Got myself a “global entry” card.

Did you keep your New Year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?

I don’t think I made any, thus I did not keep any. At this stage of the proceedings, if I make any bold declarations about swearing off anything, I’m pretty much dooming myself to fail. That all said, I could certainly stand to drink less beer, stay on top of my finances and keep my medical appointments. 

Did anyone close to you give birth?

No one in my immediate circle, no.

Did anyone close to you die?

Again, no one in my immediate circle, mercifully.

What countries did you visit?

We went to Greece and Scotland, and I highly recommend both. 

What would you like to have in 2023 that you lacked in 2022?

Oh, I’m not sure. I not inclined to spend time dwelling on the things I don’t have.

What date from 2022 will remain etched upon your memory?

August 20th, the day we left our Charlotte at college in Scotland and flew home to NYC without her.

What was your biggest achievement of the year?

Staying marginally healthy and gainfully employed.

What was your biggest failure?

My inability to impose some semblance of restraint and willpower.

Did you suffer illness or injury?

I have a continuing grievance with my left foot that I still need to see a podiatrist about. And, yes, I, too, eventually got COVID. 

What was the best thing you bought?

I honestly can’t remember. Well, I bought some concert tickets for my son that made him very happy. That’s always good.

Whose behavior merited celebration?

My kids. They have their moments like everyone else, but for the most part, they are kind, bright, do well in school and are genuinely lovely human beings.

Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?

Trump, Kanye West, Elon Music, various members of the Supreme Court and Republicans in general.

What did you get really, really excited about?

My daughter getting into college.

Where did most of your money go?

My building’s being assessed, at the moment, and our monthly fees have gone up significantly … and will stay that way until fuckin’ February 2024, hence the comment above about needing to impose restraint and willpower when it comes to all things financial.  

What song will always remind you of 2022?

I don’t know if it’ll always remind of 2022, but perhaps “The Man I’ll Never Find” by Lucius.

Compared to this time last year, are you happier or sadder?

I’d say about the same. I have concerns like everyone else, but overall, I have no right to complain about one damn thing.

Thinner or fatter?

Oh, invariably fatter.

Richer or poorer?

As mentioned above, we’re currently slightly financially compromised, so technically “poorer.”

What do you wish you'd done more of?

Taking care of things in real time as opposed to continually putting them off.

What do you wish you'd done less of?

Spending irresponsibly. I mean, I didn’t splurge, or anything, but in light of our current situation, some self-imposed austerity would’ve been a benefit.

How did you spend Christmas?

Well, it hasn’t happened yet, but we’re planning on spending it out at my mom’s place in Quogue.

Who did you spend the most time on the phone with?

No idea.

Did you fall in love in 2022?

I’ve been in love with -- and married to -- her for over 21 years.

How many one-night stands in this last year?

Zero.

What was your favorite TV program?

I quite liked “White Lotus 2,” “Slow Horses” and crime drama on Britbox called “Sherwood.”

Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?

I still hate most of the same folks – Trump, Trump supporters, key Republicans and various members of the Supreme Court.

What was the best book you read?

“Feral City” by Jeremiah Moss.

What was your greatest musical discovery?

Already discussed on this post.

What did you want and get?

Depeche Mode tickets for myself and my son, but oof were they ever expensive.

What did you want and not get?

Trump rotting in prison for the rest of this miserable fucking life.

What were your favorite films of this year?

Honestly cannot remember. Don’t bode well, does it.

What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?

I turned 55, which is not a number I’m okay with.

What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?

Trump’s conviction and permanent incarceration.

How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2022?

I own way, way too many dumb rock t-shirts for a 55-year-old.

What kept you sane?

Once again, who said anything about being sane?

What celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?

I never know what to do with this question, as every answer is going to sound creepy and inappropriate.

What political issue stirred you the most?

January 6 Committee

Who did you miss?

There was already a long list (as mentioned in this post), but Wilko Johnson, Jet Black and this week’s loss of Terry Hall of the Specials really hit me hard.

Who was the best new person you met?

The lovely ladies of Desperately Seeking the 80's, of course. 

Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2022

Not everything is worth an argument. Pick your battles.

Song lyric that sums up 2022

I've come here to make a ceramic shoe
And I've come to smash what you made
- Dry Cleaning

Twenty Years Gone

Rest in peace, Uncle Joe....