Flaming Pablum

Inevitable End-of-Year Needless & Meaningless Music-Ranking Thingy for 2022

I wasn’t going to do a “best music of 2022” post, originally, as, frankly, I don’t think it was really a banner year (I speak only for myself and my own tastes and perceptions), but my son Oliver got involved and his enthusiasm bowled me over, so we came up with some official categories. If your favorite stuff isn’t cited, I’m sorry — leave a comment as to what we missed out on, in your opinion. 

 

Favorite New Song of the Year

I’m going to go with a truly strange toss-up, here, dividing the title between “Total,” a track off of Killing Joke’s 2022 EP, Lord of Chaos, because … well, it’s new Killing Joke, isn’t it, and that’s always a good thing.  My other favorite new song is a truly unlikely one, for me. A couple of weeks back, I went with my next-door neighbor David to check out the WFUV Holiday Cheer Benefit at the Beacon Theater, ostensibly to see the headliners, Spoon. Spoon were great, but one of their opening acts was a band called Lucius, featuring two ladies whose soaring harmonies — sort of a folky/country vibe, although their albums are a little more modern/dancey — filled up that massive room to stirring effect, and I was quite struck by it. This was, I believe, the penultimate song of their short set, and it really put the hook in me. I find the “piano version” more indicative of the rendition I heard that night. Don’t mind me … I’m just losing my edge. 

 

Favorite New Album of the Year

Been saying this for quite a while, but the debut long-player by the Art Gray Noizz Quintet (up top) handily claims this title, although I feel like I’m cheating, a bit, as their live album from last year pretty much featured most of the same material. Still, the studio versions are absolutely fucking ace, and the tactile artifact (available on LP and via Bandcamp, sadly not on CD, as yet) is a splendid object to behold. 

 

 

Favorite Concert You Attended

Live music came roaring back, for me, in 2022. Off the top of my head, I saw Lydia Lunch’s Retrovirus and the Art Gray Noizz Quintet (them again) at DROM in the East Village in February. I saw Henry Rollins do his spoken-word shtick at Warsaw (if that counts) in March. In May, I took Oliver to his first proper concert, that being DEVO at Pier 17. I’d gotten Oliver tickets to see Bauhaus in August, as well, but they cancelled (again) when Peter Murphy had to go to rehab. As a consolation prize of sorts, I took Oliver to see the Violent Femmes at City Winery, which is a bit like seeing a band at a Christmas-office-party venue — it was a great show, though. Beyond that, I saw LCD Soundsystem at Brooklyn Steel, and they were great, but crazy goddamn louder than I’d have ever expected. 

 

All of these shows were really enjoyable, but just seeing Oliver thrill to his first show — the DEVO one — definitely seals the deal, for me. 

 

 

Favorite Re-Issue of the Year

In terms of re-issues that were officially released in 2022, I’d have to say that the 40th Anniversary of the Virgin Prunes’ …If I Die, I Die gets my vote. I would otherwise cite the re-release of Chronic Town by R.E.M., but it came bereft of any bonus tracks. I mean, it’s still the best thing they ever did (fucking fight me), but I was hoping for just a little bit of an extra or two. The whatever-anniversary edition of Animals by Pink Floyd was pretty nice, too, even if the new cover art is kinda lacking. 

 

 

Favorite Discovery of the Year

I don’t know if “discovery” is the right word, but I was genuinely pleased to learn that Wet Leg and Dry Cleaning — two newish British bands I’d prematurely written-off because of their “indefensibly stupid names” — were both pretty goddamn excellent. See? I can be wrong! 

Band You Wished You Saw in 2022

Well, as bemoaned in this post, my son Oliver was greatly looking forward to seeing Bauhaus, but due to Peter Murphy’s evidently spiraling substance-abuse problem, that show had to be scuttled. Beyond that, I can’t say I feel I missed out on anything super special. I did miss The Cult and both Peter Hook & the Light and New Order when they respectively came through, but I wasn’t about to open a vein about it. 

 

Band/Artist You Want to Go Away

How could it be anyone other than Kanye West? FUCK that guy. 

 

Band You’re Excited to See in 2023

Well, as of right now, I have tickets to go see Depeche Mode at Madison Square Garden with Oliver in May and The Mission (with Theatre of Hate) at Le Poisson Rouge in October (that’s a long way off, of course). I’m trying to finagle a way to get to the Killing Joke show at the Royal Albert Hall in London in March, but that might be tricky … especially considering it’s already sold out. But, we shall see. Lydia Lunch and Retrovirus are playing at TV Eye in Brooklyn some time soon. Might try to go to that. 

 

Album You’re Most Anticipating

No idea, really. I know SWANS have something new in the works. I’m kind of curious to pick up the “super deluxe” re-release of Low-Life by New Order, but I need another “super deluxe” anniversary edition like I need a swift kick in the head. 

 

Musical Trend You Want to Die

Good fucking lord, where do I start? I think the biggest trend that burns my toast, these days, is the penchant for contemporary pop singers/rappers to adopt this sort of affected mush-mouthed baby-talk vocal delivery. It’s pretty rampant, but I think one of the worst practitioners is this guy who calls himself Grandson, and this idiot called Kid Laroi. I think ass-clowns like Post Malone do it, too. It’s the worst shit in the world and no punishment would be too brutal for it, in my humble opinion. 

 

Musicians You'll Miss the Most from 2022

Well, let’s see ... Mark Lanegan, Howie Pyro, Andy Fletcher, DH Peligro, Mimi Parker, Hamish Kilgour, Keith Levene, Wilko Johnson and, most of all, Jet Black. AND NOW FUCKING TERRY HALL. 

 

Favorite Medium on Which to Listen to Music

While I will always appreciate the physical heft and ceremony of vinyl, I'm still in love with compact discs ... as laughably anachronistic as that might seem to you. I have reluctantly taken more interest in the abjectly evil empire of Spotify, more recently, as it's really the major way my kids listen to music, and we've been sharing playlists. I don't honestly believe my 18-year-old daughter listens to the stuff I send her (and, really, if you were an 18-year-old college freshman in 2022, would you give a crap about your father's musical recommendations?), but Oliver's been very enthusiastic, so that's been fun. I'm milking that for all its worth.

 

Favorite Live-Music Venue You Went to 2022: 
Hmmm... let's see. Well, I quite enjoyed being at back DROM at 85 Avenue A in the East Village which, a quadrillion centuries ago, was a metal club called Beowulf. Pier 17 is open-air and summarily spacious, but beers cost $17 a pop, which strikes me as a bit unduly pricey. City Winery was fine but a bit antiseptic and kind of incongruously genteel (while we were enjoying watching Violent Femmes, there were patrons enjoying vintage merlots and plates of pasta primavera in the same room). I mean, it's not like Violent Femmes are Napalm Death, or anything, but the venue is very much not a divey rock club. Brooklyn Steel in Brooklyn (somewhere in the hinterlands between Greenpoint and Williamsburg) remains a great venue, easy-to-navigate and smartly laid out, but kind of a bitch to get to and from (if you're a dyed-in-the-wool Manhattan snob like myself). I think of all the spots I revisited, this year, my favorite is still the stately expanse of Warsaw in Williamsburg, not least for the old-school Polish fare on offer. I've never had a bad time there. 

 

 

Favorite Summer Song of 2022

Opinions seem to be split on this, but I quite enjoyed Gorillaz' new track with Thundercat. 

Favorite Fall Song of 2022

Not a new song by any stretch, but during election season, this was definitely in my head...

Favorite Winter Song of 2022

I'm not sure I'm totally onboard, and I thought the finale of the show was sorta anticlimactic, but I gather this song is having a bit of a moment, and that's cool with me....

The Evolution of Bleecker & Bowery

For those of you who are invested in such things, you’ve probably already seen that the next iteration of the mural on the southwest corner of Bleecker Street at the Bowery, which I recently invoked here, is complete. That’s it up above and, yes, it’s another Shepard Fairey piece, this one paying tribute to Bad Brains by way of a rendered composite of images from the photography of my former next-door neighbor, Glen E. Friedman. That’s it above.

Now that this work is complete, I thought I’d turn back the clock to look at what this particular patch of real estate borne witness to, over the years….

In 1982, as I recounted here and here, photographer Drew Carolan set up an ersatz, outdoor film studio on this same corner to capture images of the burgeoning NYHC community, which he’d later compile into a handsome coffee table book, “Matinee.” In writing about this project, I had my kids pose in the exact spot Carolan had used. See that below.

In 1983, Jim Jarmusch filmed an iconic scene of Eszter Balint crossing this particular byway as part of the opening montage of his 1984 film, “Stranger Than Paradise,” which I tried to replicate with my kids as some point in 2012.

Skipping way ahead to 2015, a mysterious mural of Joey Ramone sporting a pair of boxing gloves came up. I speculated as to why, but then it occurred to me, as recounted on this post, that it was ultimately a wafer-thin and frankly misleading promotion for the then-just-opened UpperCut boxing gym, which I continue to think was stinky and lame of them. I was glad when it vanished.

Joey was replaced, of course, in 2017 by Shepard Fairey’s tribute to Blondie, which was completely cool. Despite this, it got defaced, a few times, but shitty taggers because people basically suck.

And now, five years later, Debbie Harry has been replaced by Bad Brains. I managed to capture a quick shot of Fairey himself, in the process.

 

The Ear Punk Broke

I haven’t posted anything about Tinnitus in a little while, so thought I’d revisit for a quick update, although, ultimately, it’s not like I have anything new to relay in that department.

The ceaseless ringing in my right ear commenced one bright morning in October of 1999 (on the eve of my now very distant 32nd birthday), and has been a constant, cloyingly unwelcome companion ever since. When it first revealed itself — after years upon years of cumulative damage presumably brought on by irresponsible headphone-usage and continued exposure to amplification without protection — I plunged headlong into a pronounced depression, forsaking my steady diet of live music and routine ear-pod usage for a good two years, or so. During this fraught period, I sought the counsel of different ENT doctors and audiologists, experimented with a host of so-called homeopathic “remedies” (like the promisingly named “RingStop” ... as if) and allegedly effective combatants like Whey, Ginko Biloba and Lipo Flavonoid. I even tried a few nuttily ill-advised stunts like ear-candling and Chinese ear-picking. Honestly speaking, I regret to concede that none of the above ever did a single goddamn thing for it. The ring rang on.  

I’m sure I was a complete barrel of laughs to be around, during those days, especially upon gleaning that, along with exposure to loud noise, allegedly a succession of otherwise largely banal elements like the intake of salt, sugar and alcohol could all potentially make the ringing worse. “Oh, that’s great,” I'd routinely express, “… everything that makes life worth living. They might as well add oxygen and sex to that list and really seal the deal.” I was histrionic about it at the best of times.

This all said, for the most part, I was getting off light. I only suffered from the ring in a single ear, while several musician friends of mine (and one who believes he contracted it from scuba diving) had it — and invariably still have it — in both. It could have been significantly worse, for me. Tinnitus has been widely reported to drive certain individuals to unthinkable ends. Like I said, comparatively speaking, I had it pretty easy.

In time, after all those purported treatments and supplements failed me, I just acclimated. I was never interested in any masking devices or white noise machines as I wasn’t intent on hiding the noise so much as DESTROYING it. But, then as now, despite some hopeful developments, there is no quick fix. Tinnitus has no cure.

While I’ve made my peace with it (and long-since re-entered the realms of attending live music and headphone-usage, albeit responsibly), it still comes with a hefty price. Just last night, the wife and I went to a live taping at Carnegie Hall of NPR’s news quiz-show, “Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me!” (how’s THAT for punk rock?), and up in the balcony of that great room, I still had to cup the back of both of my ears to credibly discern anything from the stage. If I’m at a crowded function of a certain capacity, there invariably comes a point wherein I can’t hear a fucking thing anyone is saying and basically just resort to smiling and nodding. That part genuinely sucks.

When it comes to concerts and rock shows in grubby clubs, I usually fill my jacket pockets with angry fistfuls of ear-plugs ahead of time in preparation, although just a few weeks back, I went to go see LCD Soundsystem at Brooklyn Steel and forgot that precaution. Never considering LCD to be that kind of band, I figured I’d be okay, but lemme tell ya, when James Murphy & Co. hit the stage, it was loud — like fuckin’ SWANS loud. After just a couple of songs, I retreated to the rear bar, and even there it was pretty stentorian. I went right to the merch booth and bought a pair of earplugs for way more than they should’ve cost.

Incidentally, a quick word about ear-plugs: While, no, they don't look cool (who cares?), they actually do help you experience the music better by ostensibly filtering out all the noise and distortion. You actually hear what's being sonically conveyed in a clearer, more manageable way, I promise you. 

In any case, I’m lucky in that while my hearing has certainly deteriorated a bit (aging does not help), the ringing has remained at a more-or-less tolerable level. It’s worse in the mornings and sometimes after a night of big imbibing, but nothing I’m not able to handle.

But, y’know, every person reacts differently. Recently, I came across testimonials from folks I personally really admire like Nick Cave (above) in his Red Hand Files (read that here) and Lol Tolhurst of the Cure and Budgie of the Banshees, who discussed in the most recent episode of their “Curious Creatures” podcast, in this instance interviewing comely Primal Scream bassist Simone Marie Butler. Hear that here.... if you can. 

By the way, if anyone ever tells you you’re too old if it’s too loud, kick them squarely in the fucking balls.

Farewell, Jet Black

In very sad news, today, it seems one of my all-time heroes, Jet Black of The Stranglers, has passed away at the age of 84, dying peacefully at home surrounded by his family.

I’ve spoken of my adoration for The Stranglers a thousand times here on this blog, so this one hits me pretty hard. An iconic presence since the band’s mid-`70s inception, drummer Jet Black – also boasting inarguably the coolest punk rock moniker ever – was already 39 when 1977’s summer of punk dawned. Like the scowly band he founded, Jet was the embodiment of wilfull contrarianism in an era of herd mentality. For a start, having honed his chops in jazz, Jet Black could actually play. And quite unlike the acne-speckled, safety-pin-punctured teenagers in the bands of the day, Jet Black was an unapologetically older, portly gentleman who even deigned to sport facial hair (as if having a keyboard player in the ranks of The Stranglers wasn’t heresy enough). But if punk was all about disdain for convention, what could possibly be more punk than eschewing the subculture’s own rigid uniformity?

Helming the band through their post-pub-rock years into the breach of punk and giddily antagonizing all and sundry along the way, Jet Black and The Stranglers happily played up their differences and continued to evolve where many ran aground. After two albums of still palpably bracing punk (the endearingly nasty Rattus Norvigicus and No More Heroes) the band started to shift gears into more experimental territory with Black and White, while simultaneously retaining their richly cultivated air of menace.

Later eras found the band morphing further still, then shedding members along the way and continuing to evolve. Jet finally stepped down from the drum kit, officially, in 2018, but even the last time I saw the band perform here in New York City at the Highland Ballroom in 2013, Jet was not with them.

Strangely enough, in more recent years, my own son Oliver has become a sizable fan of The Stranglers. Many recent evenings have heard him sequestered in his room trying to play “Peaches” on his acoustic guitar. He, too, will be crushed by this news.

Goodnight, farewell and thank you, Jet Black. You will be sorely missed.

Fuck SantaCon

Just heard that SantaCon, despite its organizers acknowledging that it’s not universally beloved (to say the fucking least) is happening here in New York on December 10th, to which I say …..Fuck That and Fuck YOU!

If you need me to explain why this annual blight is a problem, you’re clearly just not paying any attention. Suffice to say, if you’re a fan of SantaCon or are planning on participating in it this year, please get the fuck off my blog and never come back. Do not pass Go. Do not collect $200. Just go directly to Hell.

Say Yes to The Hess

Several years back, my friend Rob B. gave me a Christmas present I genuinely cherished, a pristine print of a Cop Shoot Cop gig poster from 1994 by illustrator Derek Hess. I immediately took it to be framed, and it hung on the wall of my apartment on East 12th Street from 1996 until we moved to East 9th Street in 2002.

When we moved, however, our living space went from being “my old apartment” to “our apartment.” As such, what artwork made it up onto the walls was no longer just my own snap decision. Unsurprisingly, I had a few choice pieces around our previous apartment that the Mrs. was never really that fond of. I have a massive Plasmatics poster, for example, featuring a black-eyed and scowling Wendy O. Williams that routinely put my poor wife in a foul mood. When it came time to decorate our then-new apartment (where we’ve now lived for the past twenty years … more than I’ve lived in any other space in my life), some compromises had to be made. Suffice to say, that Wendy O. poster now lives in storage. The Cop Shoot Cop poster, however, went somewhere else.

From the generosity of Rob B. to the accommodating shelter of “the other Rob,” Rob D., the Derek Hess Cop Shoot Cop poster traveled north to New London, Connecticut, where the latter Rob happily agreed to babysit some of my cherished and lovingly framed posters. Along with that C$C Hess print, he got a framed Ramones poster (Holmstrom’s art from Road to Ruin), a Stranglers promo poster (MenInBlack tour), a Clash poster (Sandinista promo), a massive poster from the Maysles’ Altamont documentary, “Gimme Shelter,” and another Cop Shoot Cop poster from a CBGB gig with the Cows circa 1990. To this day, I believe, he still has all of them (at least I hope he does).

Anyway, blah blah blah … this post wasn’t supposed to be about me and my shitty "collector scum" hoarding problems. I do still have a smaller Derek Hess print … another one for Cop Shoot Cop, but a flyer … and I’ll absolutely never friggin’ part with it.

In the interim, it seems illustrator Derek Hess’ artwork has become more and more revered and no longer relegated to the “rock geek” ghetto. Check out this sprawling documentary on the man and his artwork below….

The Candid Cashier

In recent weeks, the supermarket around our corner has seen something of a turnover in its staff of check-out cashiers. One new member of this team is a little lady named Consuela. This petite, elderly woman has checked my groceries out a few times, by this point, and now evidently feels entirely comfortable chatting with me, which I’m completely cool with. I’m pretty goddamn chatty myself.

A couple of weeks back, the wife and I had been planning on having some neighbors over for a few drinks, so I was dispatched to procure a few essentials. I hit the nearby liquor store first and got a bottle of white wine, then popped over to our supermarket, where I proceeded to grab a six-pack, some chips, some olives and maybe some cocktail napkins. With the wine bottle still tucked under my arm, I brought these items to the register where Consuela was waiting for me.

“Looks like you’re having a party,” she sighed as she was ringing me up. “Oh, just some of our neighbors,” I responded. She looked up at me expectantly as if to suggest that I might consider inviting her, too. “Oh, it’s not just you?” came her retort, augmented with a coquettish fluttering of her eyelashes. I laughed … not knowing quite what to do with that.

Last night, meanwhile, I was again back amidst the aisles of our supermarket, grabbing some makings for quesadillas (Oliver is perfecting his Mexican culinary skills) and, again, yet another six-pack of beer. As before, Consuela was waiting for me, doubtlessly ready to dispatch another surreal observation.

When she got to my beer -– a regular item of purchase for me – she asked to see my I.D. Having now bought an ill-considered quantity of the beverage in question from this establishment, I might have assumed that she could eschew this particular step of the process, but Consuela is either ardently bound to protocol or possibly just forgetful. Or just really fuckin' bored.

“I’m 55,” I said, handing my card to her, “but I’m truly flattered that you think I look so young.”

Handing my card back, she again looked up at me. “Well, your face looks like the face of someone in their forties, but this…” she exclaimed while waving an accusing finger at my midsection, “yes, …. this certainly tells me you’re into your fifties.”

“Wait, WHAT?” I was both highly amused and taken somewhat aback. I laughed, finding her blunt assessment almost kind of endearingly refreshing.

“I’m sorry,” she continued as she handed me my change, “I just have to tell the truth.”

Whole World In His Head

Bear with me, please.

Oliver’s going to hate that I posted this, but I can’t help it. You already know I’m an insufferably proud dad, but this really blew a new part in my hair.

As I understand it, during some downtime during an extracurricular period, Oliver took it upon himself to draw the world map FROM MEMORY. We all have our own thing. When I was his age, it was comic books and punk rock. For whatever inexplicable reason, Oliver latched on to vexillology, geography and world history. You could put a gun to my head and ask me to replicate the correct placement (let alone accurate shapes) of each nation, and I’d have to take the bullet.

I am routinely amazed by my boy, but this is just some next level stuff.

Panic on Pier 25: Revisiting “All That I Wanted” by Belfefore

Never mind fuckin’ “Thriller,” the greatest music video of all time is 1984’s “All That I Wanted” by Belfegore, and directed by bugfuck-insane Polish cinematographer, Zbigniew Rybczynski.

Don’t believe me? Watch the below and get ready to admit you were fatuously mistaken.

I’ve spoken about this clip before, but someone uploaded the crisper, sharper iteration of the video onto YouTube a few days ago, so I felt compelled to share.

The video was filmed on Pier 25, across the West Side Highway from N. Moore Street in TriBeCa. Today it looks like this…

Back in 2013, I had my kids try to replicate the video. Here’s them doing that now.

Belfegore, meanwhile, didn’t last. Despite being produced by noted Krautrock pioneer and Killing Joke producer Conny Plank, their self-titled LP on Elektra was also their last. I believe the lead singer later became a physical therapist.

15 Years Later: Remember The Raven

It’s long been said that you should never meet your heroes, as, more often than not, they can frequently fail to live up to your expectations. This was never the case when I was lucky enough to meet the mighty Paul Raven of Killing Joke at some point in 2000.

Though I’d been a massive fan of the bass player since first seeing the video for “Eighties” in 1984, Raven and I became chatty on The Gathering (an online community of Killing Joke fans) and he rang me up during a quick visit to NYC. In very short order, Raven put to rest any standoffish rockstar bullshit, and we became actual friends. I’d frequently come home to find his big laugh roaring out of my answering machine. His was one of the first calls I managed to field in the strange hours after September 11, 2001. He also left a giddily profane congratulatory message upon the birth of my first child. We’d get together whenever he came to town and he looked after me when I was in London.

The last time I saw him was when he was playing with Ministry at the BB King Blues Bar in the spring of 2006. We went out for dinner afterwards, and I remember him seeming a bit more tired than usual. He passed away on this day a year later and has now been strangely gone for 15 years. Lots of folks tell very comparable stories to mine, but it’s all true – despite the bluster, the reputation of alleged pugnacity and his imposing physique, he was a truly big-hearted gent.

I wish all the pictures I have of us together don’t involve being, well, drunk, but that can’t be helped.

Rest in peace, RAVEN.