Flaming Pablum

22 Years Later

Bye Bye, Miyabi?

Of all the vanished spots around Manhattan I’ve devoted myriad posts to, Bleecker Bob’s is probably in the top three, right behind CBGB and the old Cedar Tavern on University Place. This is somewhat ironic in that, while the shop in question was indeed a widely beloved landmark for music geeks of all stripes, the shopping experience at Bleecker Bob’s was frequently somewhat fraught, largely thanks to the titular proprietor’s infamously bad temper. The late Bob Plotnik, who left us in 2018 after complications from an earlier stroke, accrued a storied reputation for screaming at customers and staff alike, establishing an atmosphere of hair-triggered derision that made even browsing in the store often unrestful … or amusing, depending on your sensibility.

Regardless, as first invoked in this ancient post, when I first discovered the place in the early `80s, it became a regular spot for me for decades, even if that meant weathering a storm of spittle-flecked invective from dear old Bob. The sheer volume of vinyl I procured at the West Third Street iteration of Bob’s shop (for a while, he operated a smaller place on nearby MacDougal Street, just off West 8th) was pretty staggering.

In any case, I’ve unspooled countless yarns about Bleecker Bob’s over the years, and a simple Googling ought to bring up more of them than you’d probably care to read. Most of these were penned to document the slow, painful demise of the shop and the rumors of what business was going to replace it on that strip of West Third Street. First reports asserted it would become a — wait for it — Starbucks, but those turned out to be false. Then it was supposedly to be a frozen yogurt place, who even hung a “coming soon” sign in its window. That venture, too, failed to materialize, and it started to seem like the space would become just another dormant storefront.

Eventually, about a year and change after Bleecker Bob’s cleared out, the space became occupied by a Japanese restaurant called Miyabi. In 2015, a friend and I decided to go dine there, resulting in a post I titled “Bento Boxing at Bleecker Bob’s.” As I recall, while the meal was perfectly fine, it was in no way especially distinctive, although my projections may have been tainted by my associations with the address’ former tenant.

Much as with the aforementioned CBGB, while there was fleeting chatter about a new iteration of Bleecker Bob’s opening up somewhere, it unsurprisingly never happened. As I’m prone to laboriously point out, the demand for brick-&-mortar record stores here in the new millennium isn’t exactly robust, least of all for a comparatively niche concern like Bleecker Bob’s. While they indeed hung a Madonna poster in the window during their latter eras, not many people went to Bleecker Bob’s looking for chart-based pop bullshit. You went there for obscure proto-punk vinyl, rarified out-of-print editions, hardcore 7”s, hard-to-find imports, bootlegs and a wide array of badges, patches, t-shirts and posters designed to frighten, provoke and/or witheringly insult the mainstream, … which was precisely how we liked it.

That said, and again, much like CBGB, in its latter years, the shop started to gradually degrade. The stock was no longer quite so well looked after, there wasn’t a lot of turnover and the staff seemed less and less enthused about the prospects of their employment. I remember stopping in on the final day with every intention of buying something to show my support, and finding really nothing I was interested in.

That’s all ancient history, now. Bleecker Bob’s, the shop, closed up in 2013 and Bleecker Bob, the man, passed away in 2018. That was that.

Today, meanwhile, I stopped in for a slice in neighboring Ben’s Pizza on the corner of West Third and MacDougal. It’s not that the slices at Ben’s are anything to write home about (they remain pretty perfunctory, as pizza goes), but they've been holding court on that corner since before I can remember. As I was departing, I glanced up and noticed that Miyabi’s gate was down and that all its signage — both on a hanging sign and above it’s window — had all been spray-painted over.

I found no mention of its closure online, but could Miyabi also have left the building?

Squeezing Furs

I've spoken about this before, but one would be exceptionally hard-pressed to make a convincing argument that Squeeze were ever a proper "Punk Rock" band (I believe I once described here as "more JG Melon's than CBGB's"), but I do vividly remember first hearing this song on WPLJ circa 1980 and being legitimately struck by how entirely *different* they sounded, squeezed -- pardon the pun -- incongruously between shaggy warhorses like Bad Company and ELO. They may have lacked the adrenalized sprint and weapons-grade barre chords of their punkier peers, but those taut, chugging guitars and futuristic synths made them sound positively revolutionary.

They're opening for the Psychedelic Furs tonight (sort of a strange double-bill) at Radio City, and my son and I are going. To whet my appetite, I found this on YouTube, and it's kind of an amazing clip. 

I've also written about my love for the Furs here before, notably here, so I won't bother re-hashing that, but here they are from roughly the same era....

“Halfway Between 'Casablanca' and The Titanic”: Back to The Gramercy Park Hotel

I was somewhat surprised, last week, to read on a website called 6 Sqare Feet (about NYC real estate, one presumes) that the Gramercy Park Hotel is reopening. Now, obviously, after Ian Schrager’s re-imagined iteration of the hotel closed in the height of the pandemic, any sign of recovery from those dark days should be welcomed. The part I found slightly dispiriting, however, was this line about the building’s new developer, Tyler Morse.

Morse intends to transform the hotel into one of the city’s most luxurious hotels.

Yeah, `cos that’s JUST what New York City needs, isn’t it? ::: sigh:::

Before Ian Schrager got his mitts on it back in 2003, the Gramercy Park Hotel had already acquired a colorful reputation. Lodging itself firmly in the psyche of rock fans everywhere following a storied, two-week residency by David Bowie, the Gramercy Park Hotel (cheekily re-dubbed “the Glamercy” in homage to Bowie) became the hotel of choice for all stripes of visiting bands. Bands like The Clash, U2, The Psychedelic Furs, Siouxsie & the Banshees and, I’m dead sure, many, many more all darkened the doors of the hotel. Alan Vega of Suicide (recently invoked here) actually lived full-time at the Gramercy Park Hotel for many moons. It wasn’t posh or fancy, but it was affordable and situated right at the mouth of Downtown Manhattan, walking distance from landmarks like Max’s Kansas City, Irving Plaza, The Palladium and other likely haunts.

I actually ducked into the old Gramercy Park Hotel a couple of times. A friend of mine from college booked a room there in the early `90s, which allowed me to actually go upstairs and check out the rooms, although I didn’t run into any musical luminaries, at the time. In the late `90s, whenever my then-future-in-laws came to town, they liked to enjoy a few bevvies at the bar, so I logged some hours there, as well. Again, despite my best efforts, I failed to spot any favorite musicians amidst the guests. Oh well.

But when Schrager got it in 2003, all that changed. He completely modernized the lobby, ripping out the wall-to-wall red carpeting and dismantling the signature wood-paneled walls, and giving it a modern, bespoke “re-boot,” with a pricey exclusivity to match. Apart from the address, all resemblance to its earlier incarnation was gone. I mean, sure, it was nice (I must confess to visiting both its bar and its roof deck, during this era), but you’d never have known the place once had leather-clad members of the Stranglers, the Buzzcocks and Iron Maiden running around its halls.

While it’s not a periodical I’m regularly prone to lionizing, Rolling Stone did publish a great rumination on the old version of the hotel, lovingly penned by the son of its original proprietor. Check that out here but remember -- Rolling Stone is now irritatingly paywalled, so prepare to be annoyed.

As for what comes next on that fabled corner, I can only hope that it’s undertaken with a reverence for the establishment’s history. We shall see.

Catch a fleeting glimpse of the old Gramercy Park Hotel (and other notable Downtown spots) here….

On The Last Day: The 2023 Summer Survey

I wasn’t originally going to do another one of these, because … honestly … why would anyone care? But, then again, that same argument could be applied to pretty much every entry I post here, so, fuck it…here goes.

Defining Moment of Summer 2023
At the risk of drudging it all back up, I’d suggest the defining element of my summer involved my stupid, broken foot and having to wear that goddamn boot (see above) for four weeks. The worst of it is that here on the precipice of Autumn, it still doesn’t feel much better. I’m going back to see my quacky podiatrist in two weeks to discuss other courses of action, but it may be high time to find another doctor. Watch this space, if you care.

Best Purchase of Summer 2023
Back in June, we were invited to my nephew’s wedding, which was to be held in late August in Northern California. It was a “black-tie optional” event, so I used that as an excuse to go buy myself a proper black suit, hoping it would help me feel like more of a functioning adult. In it, I kid myself that I look like a reservoir dog, when the truth of the matter is probably closer to a middle-aged head waiter.

Best Meal of Summer 2023
Never mind just the summer, the best meal of my entire life took place in late June at a tiny eatery in Rome called Collene Emiliane. My main course was a dish simply called "Roast-Beef con purea,” which is basically just roast beef with mashed potatoes. I realize how banal that sounds, but it genuinely was the most lovingly prepared, succulent and immeasurably tasty meal I’ve ever consumed.

Best Concert of Summer 2023
Oliver and I saw some great shows, in the late Spring and earlier Summer, notably Depeche Mode back in April and then the Sisters of Mercy in Brooklyn in June. Both of those were great fun, but I’d have to say the best evening of live music I experienced this summer was only a few weeks back, seeing Calexico perform the entirety of their 2003 album, Feast of Wire at (le) Poisson Rouge over on Bleecker Street. They’re an amazing band, and I cannot recommend them highly enough.

Best Book You Read During Summer 2023
I read some fun stuff this summer, including “Heady Daze,” the second installment in the sprawling autobiographical series by Wayne Hussey of The Mission. I also enjoyed "World Travel," a collection of essays from the late Anthony Bourdain, “I Die Every Time I Hear the Sound” by Mike Doughty, “Nothin’ But a Good Time” by Tom Beaujour & Richard Bienstock,” as well as “Sweet Dreams: The Story of the New Romantics” by Dylan Jones. But, far and away, the best book I paged through this summer was “This Must Be the Place: Music, Community and Vanished Spaces in New York City” by Jesse Rifkin. I honestly cannot recommend it highly enough. Rifkin’s attention to chronological detail, musical minutia and geographical accuracy across multiple genres and local music scenes - from bongo-bangin’ folkies through Brooklynite hipster kids and the myriad musical tribes between them — is genuinely astonishing, and handled with a reverence that is inherently readable and illuminating. Even if you’re not familiar with the particulars in question, it’s an endlessly engaging journey. A MUST-READ book, full stop.

Best Movie of Summer 2023
I saw neither “Barbie” nor “Oppenheimer,” and feel not a jot of regret. I can’t actually think of a film I went to (as in, in a movie theatre) this summer, but I did quite enjoy “Squaring the Circle,” the new documentary about the album-cover design team of Hipgnosis. I also quite enjoyed “Living” with Bill Nighy, which was lovely.

Best Gift You Received of Summer 2023
For father’s day, my son gave me a fetching Love & Rockets t-shirt (his latest favorite band).

Biggest Loss of Summer 2023
On a personal level, I actually went to three funerals, this summer, which seemed a bit out of the ordinary. Mercifully, no one in my immediate circle passed away, but these were extended family members (the siblings, fathers and godparents of in-laws, etc.), and I attended to show my support for those loved ones who suffered those losses. Beyond that, I have to say that the losses of both Pee Wee Herman and Sinead O’Connor were both painfully palpable.

Song That Sums Up the Summer of Summer 2023
I don’t know if there’s truly a single song that wraps it all up, for me, but if pressed, I’d say my favorite album of Summer 2023 would be Negative Stars by local noise-rock trio, Skull Practitioners. Their vocals need a bit of work, but they mine a compelling terrain that is reminiscent of several so-called “pigfuck” bands while also somehow calling to mind the noodley prog nuttsness of early King Crimson. On a song-level, though, being that our fleeting time out in Quogue, this summer, was largely scored by the strikingly limited playlist of Sirius XM’s “Yacht Rock Radio,” I’d probably have to cite “Diamond Girl” by Seals & Crofts as the tune that might continue to remind me of this summer. I also listened to the title track of Robyn Hitchcock's Shufflemania quite a bit. 

Happiest Memory of Summer 2023
While we bicker inanely like every other family, the fact that my wife and I had the pleasure of spending so much time with both of our kids, this summer, brought me much joy. We only packed our daughter back off to Scotland this past Friday. Summer is thus officially done and dusted, as far as I’m concerned.

Saddest Memory of Summer 2023
Learning of the sudden and awful fate of Jesse Malin after suffering a spinal stroke really took the wind out of my sails. During the early weeks of the COVID 19 pandemic, when uncertainty held sway, my department at work — all sequestered in our respective homes and duly “sheltering in place” — was tasked with conceiving new content to produce to keep our audience (our creative community of affiliated songwriters, composers and publishers) informed. I pitched a series of short Q&A’s with certain songwriters to see how they were handling the challenges of this new strange era. I got the green light, and started firing off emails to various names. To my very great joy, the very first guy that got back to me was Jesse Malin, who was entirely game. I lobbed a handful of questions over and within a day, he hit me back with some great, thoughtful and inspiring responses. At this risk of lapsing into fanboy hyperbole, Jesse has always been the mover, the shaker and the tip of the spear. A true believer in the music of New York City, he makes things happen, and has kept the spirit of Punk Rock alive in a downtown Manhattan riddled by gentrification. He’s also a tireless advocate for giving BACK, and has been involved in more charitable initiatives than I can count. He’s truly one of the good guys. May he swiftly recover from this latest setback.

Scariest Moment of Summer 2023
Apart from some testy moments when looking at my dwindling bank account, I’m relieved to say that Summer 2023 didn’t come with a great deal of sudden scares.

Word That Best Describes of Summer 2023
Over.

Too Much is Never Enough

A little earlier this month, a friend of mine was planning a birthday party for his wife with “an `80s theme,” and he asked if I could help him out with a playlist. “But” he qualified, “please -- nothing TOO obscure or esoteric, y’know?” Knowing my bug-eyed zeal for the era in question, he didn’t want me to deliver a playlist choked with arcanely unwieldy chestnuts from bands like Belfegore, Naked Raygun, Theatre of Hate, Clock DVA and the Virgin Prunes. He was looking for something a bit more accessible. Of course, I said “Sure,” and got to work on it immediately.

I pretty much banged out a stately collection of suitable songs right away but kept periodically adding titles as they occurred to me over the course of the following few days. After a while, I felt sufficiently satisfied that I’d checked all the requisite boxes, I emailed my playlist to my friend. As I did so, I happened to spot the running time. At 225 songs, it clocked in at a ridiculous 15 hours and 53 minutes.

In my defense, I would assert that one person’s `80s is all Prince, George Michael, Madonna and Michael Jackson, while another’s might be Loverboy, Huey Lewis, Journey and Pat Benatar. My own would inarguably be Killing Joke, the Circle Jerks, Motorhead and The Sisters of Mercy, but another’s might very well be LL Cool, Salt N Pepa, Run-DMC and Public Enemy. The era is many different things to many different people.

To compile a playlist that felt even remotely comprehensive was no small task.

Anyway, the party in question was this past weekend. Held on his back lawn, my friend had one amplified source playing a mix his daughter had made at one end, and my epic-length opus playing at the other. As one drifted drinkily between these two poles, I believe the intended atmosphere of the event was well-achieved.

In retrospect, I suppose I could be credibly accused of maybe giving this assignment a little too much thought, but who am I to turn down a playlist request? I was all too happy to do it.

And unlike the painstaking mixtapes I used to agonize over for hours in bygone decades, I still have a laboriously unwieldy playlist to share with you now, days after the event.

Now, once again, don’t come in hot, expecting this to be filled with Einsturzende Neubauten, GBH, Coil, Black Flag, the Butthole Surfers and Gaye Bykers on Acid. Sure, there are a few curve balls in there, but by and large, this playlist was designed for the broadest of possible audiences. I even slipped several tracks in there by artists I legitimately cannot stand.

Anyway, if so inclined, put on your parachute pants and have at it. Oh, be sure to play it on "shuffle," too. 

What did I miss?

Injury, Oatmeal, Salad & Resentment: A Summer 2023 Overview

Hey again, all. I apologize for the relative slow-down, once again, but here at the high-end of the summer downslope, life’s been a bit busy. I’m sure your own personal circumstances are no different.

By way of a quick update, though, at the risk of boring you right off the blog, I finished my fourth week in the boot and went back to wearing standard footwear. In exceptionally short order, however, my resumption of regular activity revealed that the foot in question didn’t actually feel that much better. I mean, sure, not walking directly on it for four weeks had alleviated some of the discomfort, but I’ve since still been grappling with soreness, stiffness and numbness. I’m still doing the bone-stimulation treatments (for whatever they’re worth), but I cannot say the problem has been meaningfullly rectified. Dr. Quip (you remember him) says to check back in with him in a month, wherein we’ll investigate whether I need physical therapy. Oh joy.

Elsewhere, I was breezily informed by my primary care physician that, in the wake of some long-delayed lab tests, evidently both my cholesterol and triglyceride numbers were higher than they should be. He then proceeded to give me a laundry list of comestibles and imbibables to curtail from my diet, like dairy, egg yolks, cheese, fatty meats, sweets, pasta, breads, rice, potatos and – WAIT FOR IT – alcohol. In typical form, I suggested adding oxygen, music and sex to the list to really seal the deal in making my life as joyless as possible. He laughed. I didn’t.

So, y’know, it’s been oatmeal, salad and resentment for me, in the past couple of weeks.

Summer’s end is already visible, and I still have one lobster bake, one funeral, one wedding and one daughter to bundle back off to college in Scotland before it’s all said and done. This all said, I do have a few new items on the burner that I hope to bring to life here soon, so watch this space.

Continue having a nice summer. Mind how you go.

Remembering The Rickster

Regular readers may recognize the name Ricky Powell, who I’ve invoked several times here, over the years (notary here, here, here, here, here and this post, wherein the man himself chimed in on the comments). In Downtown NYC circles, he was a known quantity as a photographer, graffiti tagger, personality, and erstwhile comrade of the fledgling Beastie Boys. That latter association probably provided him with the most renown, but he was very much an established figure in his own right.

In any case, Ricky sadly passed away in 2021. Shortly after his death, Showtime released a documentary on the man titled “The Individualist.” Being that I don’t subscribe to that service, I was unable to ever see it.

Until now….

A regular reader named Crawford kindly wrote in …. with a link.

Enjoy it while it’s up. Thanks, Crawford! 

Still On Fire: Flaming Pablum at 18

It's hard to write these entries without dramatically lapsing into hoary cliché, but it does genuinely seem like only yesterday that I launched this blog. That fateful date was eighteen years ago today, believe it or not. Were this blog a sentient human being, it would now be legally eligible to vote, run for political office, enter a contract and/or make a will. 

Marching up hills of eloquently inspired fecundity and down into deep valleys of yawnsome, derivative drivel, Flaming Pablum has doggedly soldiered into its petulant late teens, with the pronounced penchants for willful obnoxiousness, door-slamming obstinance and acne-speckled histrionics that customarily come with that ill-mannered age. But I wouldn't expect a course-correcting dose of responsible maturity any time soon. 

As I've said in previous anniversary messages, I still legitimately feel, each and every time I post something here, that it could be my very last entry, as I have no earthly clue when I might be next inspired to share something. But, I don't think I'm ready to hang it up just yet. Thanks to everyone who wrote in, got involved and contributed, this year, notably the Desperately Seeking the 80's ladies, Inaki Rojas of Pop Secret for including me in his epic series about Charly Garcia's corner, Flaming Pablum interviewees like Brooke Smith and Tod [A] and everyone who took the time to leave a constructive, informative or even simply encouraging comment. 

The image at the top of this post, by the way, in case you can't decode it, is one of my stickers. This particular one was affixed to a light pole on East 10th Street between Third and Fourth Avenues (just a bottle's toss from the site of Jesse Malin's old Black & White Bar). I don't remember when I first slapped this one up, but where often they get covered, painted over, peeled off or amusingly defaced (my favorite being that one that replaced the word Pablum with the word Scrotum), someone actually tried to BURN THIS ONE OFF, with only middling success. 

But, technically, it's still there.

Puttin' The Boot In

I wasn’t going to post anything further about my stupid foot, but events took an unexpected turn, this week. Originally, you might remember, I was tasked with only having to wear the thing for three weeks. At the start of this ostensibly final week, however, I got in touch with my podiatrist to check in and he suggested that I should “stick with it for another week.” I was initially going to respond as to where he could stick it, but calmed down and thought better of it. I mean, after wearing it for 21 days, what’s another seven, right? It’s not that big of a deal.

Since last addressing the subject here, I’ve also started the “bone stimulation” treatments, which are in no manner as exciting as they might sound. It’s basically a little electronic device that I hook up to a strap around the “problem area” on my foot. I smear a little of this translucent jelly on its accompanying “transducer,” clip that into the strap and then sit with it for twenty minutes, ideally once a day. The device counts down the minutes, but I’ll be damned if I can feel it actually doing anything. I’m supposed to do that for about a month. We’ll see what happens.

Beyond all that bullshit, it’s pretty much business as usual. I’m not walking to work, during this phase, rather I’m taking the subway. While this is arguably less strain on the foot, it does mean humping it up and down a few flights of stairs, every morning, which is no fucking picnic. But, y’know, needs must.

I’m just really focussed on wrapping this up and moving forward, but the novelty has truly warn off. In terms of this blog, being that I’m not spending nearly as much time as I normally do walking these New York City streets, I’m not fielding the usual daily onslaught of random stimuli that regularly prompt any number of stupid entries I’d be posting here. Riding the R train four stops downtown and four stops back uptown just doesn’t inspire me in the same way. As such, I don’t have too much to share, at the moment, beyond frustrated banalities.

Watch this space.