Flaming Pablum

Bad Happenings on Avenue B

Evidently, Harvey Weinstein stepped out on the town, last night, to attend an event at a frankly douchy-looking new L.E.S. establishment called the Downtime Bar. Back in the 90’s, there was a Goth club called Downtime on West 30th Street – this is not affiliated with that. In any case, during the course of the evening, it was gleaned by certain event participants that the infamous Mr. Weinstein was in attendance. Tempers unsurprisingly flaired, although the outcome didn’t result in Weinstein’s ejection from the bar, but rather the ejection of two of his confronters. You can read details of the whole icky account on Gothamist.

If even a fraction of the stories about Weinstein have even a modicum of truth about them, he’s the abhorrent scumbag we all assume he is, and he deserves no pity. I hope he had a shitty evening. But speaking of shitty evenings, there was something strangely familiar about the location.

I did a bit of Googling and found Downtime’s website – which revealed it to be just as, once again, douchy as I’d been expecting. It turns out, however, that it’s located at 25 Avenue B, and that’s what put the hook in me.

I don’t remember what sort of concern 25 Avenue B was back in the comparatively carefree, balmy days of 1993, but it was considerably less salubrious than what Downtime aspires to be today. In fact, the address is directly across the street from the former site of the infamous Gas Station, a notorious venue I’ve spoken about here a few times. Depending on who you ask, The Gas Station is arguably most renowned as being the site of the final performance by the late GG Allin in June of 1993. GG went on to overdose on drugs later that same day, but not before needlessly stripping naked, assaulting a few people, pelting anyone within pelting-distance with fistfuls of his own excrement and inspiring a riot that spilled out onto the busy byways of Avenue B. You can see lots of same in the grainy video below.

About twenty-five minutes into the video, after the “concert” has been effectively scuttled, watch how the Geeg boldly bounds out of the Gas Station and onto the avenue, wherein he proceeds to bash his head against a light pole, roll around naked in the middle of street – as one does, I guess – throw a bottle at a bus, flip off said bus, and then fleetingly take shelter from the scrutiny of the nearby constabulary by hiding in the doorway of what -- I think -- today is the Downtime Bar.

Here in 2019, GG Allin has been dead for twenty-six years. The Gas Station was razed and a new building with a Duane Reade now stands in its footprint. Harvey Weinstein, meanwhile, is still walking the streets. 

There’s some bad kinda karma on that strip of Avenue B, to be sure.

Whither The Pit?

Because I’m a fatuously geeky fanboy, I am a member of a group on Facebook devoted to the Sisters of Mercy. This post is not really about the band in question, but I’m just citing this for context.

Over the past several weeks, members of this group have posted a couple of photos of enigmatic Sisters mainstay Andrew Eldritch sporting variations of black t-shirts (shocker!) emblazoned with the logo and legend “The Pit – New York City.”

I was, of course, immediately intrigued.

As an Upper East Side kid, I first started exploring downtown Manhattan during my early high school years. When the parents of my friend Spike (immortalized here, although still not his actual name) got divorced, Spike moved with his dad to an expansive apartment in Greenwich Village, down on Cornelia Street. This particular spot became my preliminary staging ground for acclimating myself with this captivating new (well, new for me, circa 1981 or so) part of the city, having already bored myself senseless looking for comic shops and record stores all around uptown and midtown.

During those early sorties (wherein I discovered crucial locations like Bleecker Bob’s, 99 Records, Subterranean Records, Second Coming Records and It’s Only Rock’n’Roll …. all gone now, of course), I do dimly remember a selection of places that haven’t gone onto become as well-documented as others. For example, I seem to be the only person who remember a heavy metal shop on MacDougal Street between West Third and Bleecker called C.C.& Star. I have vivid memories of the tiny joint, but there’s no evidence on the internet (apart from my own invocations) that it ever existed.

Similarly, I want to say I remember a concern named The Pit, but I may just be projecting.

Some members of the SOM group on Facebook suggest that it may have been situated on St. Marks Place. Was it a shop? A live music venue? A bar? Did the Sisters play there? It’s difficult to discern.

Much like my search for anything to do with C.C. & Star, nothing really comes up, other than the t-shirt design above, although that comes bereft of any info of the image’s true provenance.

Given the Hell’s Angels’ until-recent foothold in the East Village, I’m guessing The Pit might have had something to do with them, given the biker aesthetic at work – something the Altamont-fixated Sisters of Mercy would certainly have gravitated towards.

In any case, while the name rings the faintest of bells with me, I’m fairly certain I never set foot in the place, and probably only walked by it, at best.

Who can share more about The Pit? Weigh in…

For more context, here are the Sisters…

 

Brûlant Pablum à Paris: Part 2

Just to complete the recap...

The flat we stayed in was literally steps away from the current Picasso museum on Rue de Thorigny in the Marais. We couldn't not go, obviously, it being so damn convenient. As cool as it was, however, Picasso strikes me as an artist that has reached such an iconic level wherein literally every single thing he ever did is now treated like absolute gold. This is not to say that his work isn't striking to the layperson, but we didn't see anything within the collection that was especially well known, so the "wow" factor was slightly diminished. Against my better judgment, I was privately hoping they'd be selling beach towels with "Guernica" on them, but -- to the credit of their taste -- this turned out not to be.

Much to the chagrin of my kids, we made it to the Francis Bacon show at the Pompidou. While m'self and the wife are fans of his work, the kids weren't really buying it (nor is much of Bacon's work especially "kid friendly"), but the element that made it especially tough was the crowd size. Enjoying Bacon's paintings is somewhat difficult when you have people stepping on your feet and breathing down your neck. Still, while not for everyone,if you're a fan of the man's stuff, it's worth seeing.

While they didn't necessarily dig Bacon's splattery grotesqueries, the kids did quite enjoy the view from the top of the Pompidou.

While significantly decreased here in Manhattan, street art is still alive and well in Paris...

Oh yeah, and the French don't like him either....

The day before we left, Peggy & the kids went to do some shopping, letting me off my leash long enough to go track down a punk rock record shop I'd read about across the Beaumarchais in a slightly less salubrious area of Paris. I found Born Bad Records in the end, tucked around a corner on a quiet little street. They didn't really have anything I crucially needed, but I bought a t-shirt to be supportive. Vive Le Rock! 

I will say this. If you're planning a trip to Paris, you very well may have heard about the Bateaux Mouche, which are those boats that sail around the Seine, giving sight-seers a view of the City of Light from the water. While that certainly sounds nice, lemme tell ya.... if you hate tourists as much as I do, avoid the Bateaux Mouche like the plague. It will put you swiftly in touch with your inner xenophobe in no time. Packed with competing hordes of German and Japanese tourists (the former are way more annoying than the latter, I decided), the experience made appreciating the visual splendor on offer very difficult. Don't say you weren't warned.

So, yeah, Paris was just as magical as we're all repeatedly told it should be. I ate like royalty and regained the fleeting remnants of my sanity that have otherwise been robbed of me by the daily grind. That is, of course, when I wasn't squabbling with my teenage daughter, who took a bit of time acclimating to the pointedly unhurried nature of Parisian living ... something native New Yorkers have a harder time adjusting to. In the end, she was heartbroken to have to leave. We all were. 

We will go back. 

Brûlant Pablum à Paris: Part 1

You're probably all getting bored sick of hearing me continuing to invoke Paris, so before any more time goes by, I thought I’d just post a quick recap not unlike the one I did for our trip to Beirut last year.

It should come as zero surprise to anyone who has been lucky enough to go there that our quick trip to Paris was nothing short of delightful. Say what one will about the French, but they do know how to live. If you’ve not been, I cannot recommend it highly enough.

For maximum fromage effect, click on the video below for a suitable soundtrack as you view the pics.

S'amuser

The courtyard of our AirB'n'B on Rue de Thorigny in the Marais...

Oliver enjoys a crepe...

Action at the Louvre....

As is to expected, everyone loses their shit for a glimpse of the "Mona Lisa," which -- to be perfectly candid -- left me a little underwhelmed. In an adjoining gallery, however, I came finally face to face with a painting I'd both studied in high school and adored from the cover of the Pogues' Rum, Sodomy & The Lash, that being Gericault's "Raft of the Medusa." I'd never realized the sheer scope of the painting before, and to see it up close stopped me dead in my tracks. Forget the "Mona Lisa" and check this out!

Just a hairstylist on the Beaumarchais whose name caught my eye...

He is rightly everywhere still...

As first invoked back on this post from way back when, we made it back to surreal taxidermy emporium Deyrolle. To be honest, I'm not sure my kids knew what to make of it. Oliver was certainly intrigued by the beasts on display, but Charlotte -- who is a bit woke, it must be said -- was somewhat horrified by the whole endeavor. I did manage to spot the afore-cited poster for "Squelette de Lapin," but they had none left for sale, alas...

More to come ... watch this space. 

The Old Man on The Bridge

True story. Prior to boarding our flight home from Paris, yesterday, we actually had to go through border security again. I’d encountered that upon entering a country, but never exiting. In any case, I gathered up all our passports and went up to the clerk. She checked through each passport, calling out my wife and both kids by name to come collect theirs. When she got to mine, she looked down, and looked up with bug-eyed mock-surprise, as if to say “That’s you? What the Hell happened?” She then laughed in her merry French way, stamped my passport, and off we went.

Settled on the plane, I whipped my passport back out. The picture on same dates back to 2012 -– seven years ago. Have those seven years really taken that much of a visual toll?

As previously mentioned, I crossed the Rubicon of my 52nd birthday while in Paris. On the day of, we found ourselves walking along the Seine and happened upon the stately expanse of the Pont Neuf, a bridge I was photographed on during my first trip to Paris the summer of 1987. I handed my phone to my daughter and asked her to capture me in the very same spot. The results are below. 

Technically, I was 19 years old when the top photo was taken. Behold the difference of 33 years.

Paris was, of course, beautiful. Look for more photos and unsolicited anecdotes to come.

Firehouse 1-2-3

Drinks on Ms. Adu: Settling the Great Sade Debate

A reader named Gabriella (I believe) just weighed in to assert her piece on the Sade question (which I’ve already devoted two posts to), but I unwittingly deleted her comment by accident -- so please weigh back in, Gabriella! Apologies.

The gist of her comment, however, was to emphatically confirm that Sade never lived in New York, thus never poured drinks at Danceteria and that her former boyfriend, the afore-cited Robert Elms, never worked as a New York club DJ. I picked up that last bit of info from Wikipedia, so go know, as they say. I don’t pretend to be an authority about any of this – I’m just trying to get to the bottom of the rumor.

With all this in mind, I reached out to my old comrade Willie (not his real name). You might remember me invoking him on a few posts here (notably here, here and here). In a nutshell, Willie was a precocious high-school classmate of mine, who somehow gained carte blanche at several Manhattan nightclubs while the rest of us snivelling teens were still squeezing blackheads, listening to Motley Crue and playing our Atari 2600s. Willie attracted quite a bit of stick from the rest of our class, at the time, as we were somewhat roundly incredulous at his presumably tall tales of late-night debauchery alongside the hip glitterati. In a nutshell, many thought he was simply full of shit. In later life, as I became immeresed in a frankly dubious “career” as an ersatz “music journalist,” I found myself regularly chatting with veterans of the New York City club community. When I did so, I could never resist the urge to ask if any of them knew my pal Willie (that sounds like a euphemism for something, but I assure you it’s not). More often that not, they answered in the affirmative. As it turned out, Willie was not quite as full of shit as many might have assumed.

Anyway, in the wake of this great Sade debate, I figured I’d reach out to Willie, Jack of All Clubs, as he would at least have some degree of an informed opinion on the notion. I put the question to him: Did Sade ever bartend at Danceteria?

Willie, in turn, reached out to Danceteria’s owner (who he is indeed Facebook friends with). Here is that answer:

“She probably went behind the bar and served a few drinks as a promo stunt when she played with her band Pride, but best to ask _______ [name redacted by me], as she put the whole thing together. Sade was not on the payroll or scehdule, though.”

Again, at this stage of the proceedings, I have zero reason to doubt my friend Willie’s contacts and information. I don’t know the individual who allegedly “put the whole thing together,” so I’m not going to pursue that, but as far as I’m concerned, this legend has been debunked.

….unless you have evidence to the contrary?

Here's what the most celebrated former iteration of Danceteria at 30 West 21st Street looks like today. Not as much fun is had within.

And here's how it used to look ...

The Gang on Greene

Someone posted the above photo on the Greenwich Village Grapevine group on Facebook, this morning, and it caught my eye.

It's evidently titled "Teenage Gangs, Greene Street," and was taken in 1950 by Douglas Jones for Look Magazine, and it's currently part of the collection of the Museum of the City of New York.

As I look at it, though, I'm having a very hard time placing it on the contemporary Greene Street. The building on the far left corner with the burly columns doesn't ring any bells for me. Of course, the building might have simply been razed, by this point. Let's face it, 1950 was a little while ago. 

Can anyone accurately pinpoint this intersection? 

The Continental is Dead

I already said my formal goodbye to The Continental in February of 2006, when they removed the stage at the rear of the room and stopped hosting live music. I literally never set foot in the place again, after that. Once it reverted into just another shitty East Village bar – the type of venture the neighborhood already had in unwieldy abundance – there really was no reason for my further patronage.

This all said, in the last couple of weeks, the easterly strip of Third Avenue between the corner of St. Marks Place and the Cooper Union dormitory has been effectively razed. The buildings that once housed that McDonald’s, the Continental, St. Marks Pizza (and its many abortive, follow-up concerns) and the vape shop on the corner that used to be an Optimo newspaper shop are all gone for good, soon to be replaced by a massive development that will block out the sun and decmiate any remaining semblance of neighborhood character.

You may remember I posted a pair of “then and now” pics of that strip in recent weeks, which prompted one specific regular reader to typically take me to task for lionizing and lamenting a patch of the East Village the viability of which as a genuine hub of subculture (or whatever) has been long extinguished. I don’t argue with that point, necessarily. It’s been a long, damn while since this strip held fascination for anyone beyond SantaCon participants. This all said, despite its final thirteen years as just another antagonistic douchebag bar, once upon a time, The Continental counted me as a regular.

As laboriously cited elsewhere on this blog, during the 90’s, I was routinely found in attendance at the venue in question for any number of shows by bands like Nashville Pusssy, The Unband (above), The Figs, The Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black, The Upper Crust, The Pleasure Fuckers, The Candy Snatchers, Furious George, Falafel Mafia, Iron Prostate, The Niagaras, Mephiskapheles, The Bullys, the criminally short-lived Lee Harvey Keitel Band, and countless others. No, it wasn’t the nicest joint, and the stories of owner Trigger’s thorny eccentricities are myriad and colorful, but as a place to catch bands of a certain variety, it checked all the right boxes and then some.

One of my favorite pictures of my dear friend Rob D. and myself was captured there. We’re depicted downstairs, loitering outside the restrooms while – if memory serves – the Candy Snatchers were dodging projectiles above us. Here’s the photo now. Decorum was not necessarily the order of the moment.

And here’s all that remains of The Continental now.

Never Say Never Again: The Return of The New York Never List

Inexplicably loyal readers might remember a certain entry here from the teeth-gnashing days of 2015 (I was unemployed for most of that year, y’see, which might explain the preponderance of lengthy posts) wherein I windily cited with typically laborious aplomb both all the notable, “quintessentially” New York City things I’ve done/tried/seen/visited and a tidy list of ten such things that — despite being an oft-cited native of these Manhattan streets — I had never done, for whatever reason.

There wasn’t necessarily an overarching point to the whole endeavor. I think it spoke to both the perception of what constitutes the quintessence of something and also the lazy inclination to take certain things for granted. I mean, if you literally live just down the street from something, you might not feel the same sense of urgency to go check it out as someone who is only visiting. Convenient proximity is the enemy of exotica.

Anyway, I don’t know that it’s necessarily worth noting, as they say, but since I first posted that entry back in 2015, I have actually stepped inside One Fifth Avenue (albeit, only its dark, stately lobby), and I did finally make it to The Top of the Rock only a month after I’d claimed I’d never been, and proceeded to replicate a fabled Bob Gruen portrait of Joe Strummer with my son Oliver.

In any case, for no readily apparent reason, I thought I’d throw another few “nevers” into the mix and see what happens. Herewith a few more arguably “quintessential” New York City activities I’ve never bothered doing.

1. I’ve never ridden a CitiBike
No accident, this. I grew up riding my bike all over the city, and even then -- as I was blithely courting all sorts of stupid peril -- I knew my place in the great food chain of the Manhattan street. In the same way you don’t provoke Great White sharks while snorkeling in the Florida Keys, you did your best to remember that buses, delivery trucks, cars and taxis basically don’t give a rolling rat fuck about your wellbeing. After seeing a few too many frankly harrowing bike accidents, I forsook further bicycle-riding in New York City once my children were born. Then the bike lanes and the CitiBikes appeared, and suddenly the streets were filled with entitled bicycle dilettantes who selectively disregard certain traffic rules while ferociously adhering to the ones that best serve their own interests. I can tolerate that sort of brazen hypocrisy from seasoned cyclists and/or bike messengers (i.e. people whose lives and/or occupations are pronouncedly interwoven with that particular mode of transport), but not from the CitiBikers. If you’re pedaling one of those clunky warhorses around, you’re obviously not very serious about it. New York City is never going to become Amsterdam. That’s not a preference, that’s just a fact.

2. I have never been to the 9/11 Museum
While I have indeed passed through the site, and searched around the perimeter of the fountains for the name of my fallen friend from high school who died in the north tower that morning, I am routinely driven out by the hordes of selfie-stick-wielding tourists who feel comfortable posing and smiling in what is ostensibly designed as a place for reflective solemnity. I have never waited on line for – much less set foot in – the adjacent museum. While it may sound melodramatic and hyperbolic, the events of that day still seem too fresh to require a museum.

3. I have never been to the top of WTC 1
… which I will never refer to as the “Freedom Tower.” I harbor absolutely zero desire to ever visit the top of that.

4. I have never attended an event at the Barclays Center in Brooklyn
This one is somewhat surprising, as the venue in question has played host to numerous concerts that would have otherwise engaged my interests. My beloved Killing Joke are even slated to play there next month, although they’re opening for Tool. I’m not about to spend upwards of three figures to watch my favorite band of all time deliver an opening-band set (forty minutes at most?) to an arena full of disinterested Tool fans.

5. I have never visited the Hudson Yards’ Vessel
…and never will, if I have any say in the matter.

6. I have never taken an open-door helicopter tour over Manhattan
This trend was becoming kind of a big thing, for a little while, until one plunged into the East River, a year or so ago, killing three of its passengers in a horrible manner. I love a good photo-op of New York City, but I’ll pass on this option, thanks.

7. I have never been to the new Whitney Museum at the base of the High Line
I grew up roaming around the old Whitney on the Upper East Side (now the Met Breur). In the same way I never went to the new Hog Pig or the new Max Fish, I am sort of inclined leave the old Whitney in my head as I remember it. I mean, I’m not averse to checking out the new one, but it’s not my first priority.

8. I have never attended a show at the Apollo Theater in Harlem
Nine times out of ten, the bands I'm clamoring to see aren't likely to be playing at this storied venue, although Metallica did play there a little while back, if memory serves. I would love to go check it out, but -- as yet -- have not. 

The rest of these, meanwhile, are all food related...

9. I have never shopped at Zabar's on the Upper West Side
Yes, I know ... shock, horror, outrage. Sorry, I assume it must be some kind of fabulous, but being that I've never lived on the Upper West Side, it's just never struck me as a priority. I've been to Sahadi's in Brooklyn and Kalustyan's in Little India, if that makes you feel any better, but never Zabar's. 

10. I've never eaten at a Momofuku
I believe there are Momofukus in other cities as well, but no ... I've never partaken of their pork buns.

10. I've never sampled the soul food at Sylvia's in Harlem
In my defense, I'd cite that I did go to The Pink Tea Cup in the West Village for soul food on a few occasions, but have never, as yet, made it to Sylvia's. 

11. I've never bought anything at Russ & Daughters on the Lower East Side
If I'm being honest, I'm not really a whitefish/pickled herring/chopped liver/baked salmon kinda guy. I like that it's still there and that it's always crowded, but I just don't think I'm cut out to be a member of its culinary demographic. Given this information, it shouldn't be surprising that I've never shopped at Barney Greengrass on the Upper West Side either. That just means more sturgeon for you! 

12. I've never stood on line for a cronut at the Dominique Ansel Bakery
....and friggin' neither should you.