Tune into “Saturday Night Live,” these days, and the musical guests will doubtlessly not be pushing any envelopes in any meaningful capacity. At some distant point, the booking policy started adhering rather strictly to already-established, mainstream artists who were promoting brand new albums. Ultimately, it became less about introducing audiences to new and different music and solely about shifting units and selling product.
Suffice to say, `twas not always thus.
Turn back the clock to the show’s earlier incarnations, and you find an entirely different scenario. SNL gave a stage to bands who’d otherwise never have gotten that kind of broad exposure, from Devo, Sun Ra and Gary Numan to Frank Zappa, Laurie Anderson and well-pre-Let’s Dance-era Bowie (when he was still pretty damn freaky). And, of course, let’s not forget FEAR.
Below is another perfect example. Clips from this episode have been on and off YouTube for years, but someone recently uploaded both numbers from that evening, and they are a revelation.
Dating back to April of 1980, here are the mighty Specials in their kinetic prime. Introduced by veteran character actor Strother Martin (his last television appearance prior to his death), the Specials launch into “Gangsters” and “Too Much Too Young” with their signature, nattily-dressed aplomb (note that they change outfits between songs). Even within the cramped studio, the band loses none of their high-stepping frenzy. Simply put, NOBODY moved like The Specials.
Enjoy it while it lasts. This is how it’s done, kids.
I wanted to weigh back in the wake of both my last post and on the larger story as a whole, which continues to snowball from being a local concern to now one garnering sensationalist headlines in UK periodicals like The Independent and The Daily Mail. There is indeed a lot of stuff going on in Washington Square Park, of late, but I think it’s prudent to point a few things out.
Firstly, the park in question has gone through myriad iterations over the decades, to say nothing of its fairly grim past as an execution ground and a potter’s field in previous centuries. As recently as the late 60s/early 70s, the park was a fairly grotty hub of desperation, as depicted in the documentary film embedded in this comparatively ancient post, wherein I alluded to 2016’s version as being “comparatively idyllic.” Defenders of today’s version, meanwhile, will be quick to point out the druggy, dirty and edgy version of the park that held sway in the `70s and into the `80s. There is indeed truth to that. In my own experience, I certainly remember regularly walking through Washington Square Park in the `80s, invariably on my way to any number of since-vanished Greenwich Village record shops. The park, by that point, was certainly awash in drug sales, but predominantly just weed (or, more accurately, oregano posing unconvincingly as weed). Even at this point, though, I never felt a sense of menace in the park, although I was also young and naïve. To my mind, the experience of Washington Square Park in the `80s is perfectly captured in the video of “Que Pasa/Me No Pop I” by Coati Mundi.
Of course, by the Giuliani era, the drug trade was pushed out (largely to points east) and actual video cameras were famously installed, some allegedly hidden in treetop birdhouses, if the myths are true.
I don’t remember seeing a striking difference in the park, though, until the mid-2000’s, when they started carving up the space in an arguable upgrade (the crux of the plan being to move the fountain so that it was flush with Fifth Avenue). By this point, I was regularly visiting the park with my kids, them having both spent sizable amounts of time in the park’s playgrounds. As I mentioned here, I don’t believe I was entirely onboard with the renovation.
When Washington Square Park fully re-opened in 2009, it was indeed lovely, and myself and my family resumed our regular visits.
From that point on, I think we all just took the park for granted. There were always going to be elements of it that didn’t entirely play nice with others, but such is the nature of public space. To think it was going to remain squeaky clean, especially given its long history, is kind of ridiculous. Just as there will always be old hippies hoarsely crooning out-of-tune John Lennon tunes there, there were always going to be some shady goings-on if you looked hard enough for them.
The pandemic, however, gave another spin to proceedings, revitalizing Washington Square Park’s former status as a hotbed of a public activism, demonstration and protest and becoming a favored spot for rallies of various causes, most notable among them being Black Lives Matter. Anyone who was shocked or upset by that probably isn’t very versed in the city’s history.
But this spring brought something different. The shady goings-on alluded to two graphs up were no longer especially well-hidden. The drug trade came back with a vengeance, and – as mentioned – we’re not just talking about pot. Crack and heroin took up residence in the northwesterly quadrant of the square (uncomfortably close to the smaller children’s playground). Both the collective trauma of the pandemic and the seeming relaxation of both basic amenities and law-enforcement within the confines of the park sort of morphed the square into a permissive oasis for some and a scary headache for others. Then the late-night raves started.
As far as I’m concerned, I don’t really give that much of a damn what people are up to in the park. But I do take strenuous objection to the hard drugs, the crime, the violence, the proliferation of garbage and the abject lack of basic consideration. As I said in the last post, by all means utilize your public spaces to their fullest potential, but show some fucking courtesy, restraint and respect while you do it. I posted something to that same effect on social media, and swiftly came the “Hey you kids, get off my lawn” rejoinder. More like, “Hey you kids, stop giving hand jobs to crackheads in full view of the playground, shitting in the fountain and assaulting people.”
In terms of the late-night parties, I don’t live close enough to actually hear what’s going on, but I see what the place looks like in the mornings, and I’m just not down with the ensuing melees that have been the result. The bozo behind all that is this idiotic asshole, who is as egomaniacal as he is myopically stupid, … which is saying something.
In any case, this all said, while the park has indeed seen better days (however you’d care to define that), this is not to say that you cannot still sit down and enjoy its green, open pleasantness. I passed through it this past weekend and took the picture below – not the roiling sphincter of acrimony and bloodshed the headlines would otherwise have you believe.
Whether you’re going to Washington Square Park to be your authentic self, let your freak flag fly, commune with the similarly inclined, enjoy the nice weather or because you’re simply trying to walk through it to get to the other side, can’t we all agree that – as it’s a public space – it should be an experience that DOES NOT involve brazen drug abuse (we're not just talkin' weed), prostitution, the threat of violence and late-night, high-volume bacchanalia in a residential neighborhood?
It’s also a complete, goddamn bomb-site every morning with trash all over the place. I’ve lived in NYC my entire life, and even compared to the freewheelin’ 80s, it’s never been as off the rails as it is now. By all means, use your public space, but at least attempt to demonstrate some courtesy, restraint and respect while you do it.
So, just to close the circle on this, here is the rest of the story….
In the wake of learning that a UPS package with my name on it had mysteriously shown up at my former address 19 years after I’d moved out, I was understandably intrigued. New occupant Carl mentioned that he’d shoot me an email after he’d left it downstairs for me to pick up. All day, however, from the banal to the bizarre, I was bewildered by what the explanation could be.
My first guess was that it was the next phase of an eBay scam I’d somehow gotten ensnared in. A month or so back, I started receiving strange, small UPS packages that were obviously not actually meant for me. Containing these plastic shoelace-protector things for sneakers, at least nine or ten of these parcels showed up with my name and current address on them, all from different eBay buyers, and all seemingly intended as “goods returned to sender.” I believe it’s technically called a “brushing” scheme, and it’s sort of disturbing. After a while, though, they stopped arriving. I still have them all in a box in my front closet, uncertain what to do with them. But upon first hearing about the mystery package on East 12th Street, I became concerned that the problem might be spreading to my old address. So, yeah, that was my first thought.
Sticking with the eBay theme, though, I also harbored the notion that the package may be some long-errant item I’d won on the auction platform that had been languishing in limbo this whole time, finally reaching its appointed destination. Maybe it was a vintage Stranglers poster or a rare Bad Brains 7”. This, by far, was the option I was hoping for the most.
Thinking even further afield, however, my next concept was that it was something more personal, potentially from someone I’d have fallen out of regular contact with prior to moving in 2002. My mind entertained wild notions of it being a box full of personal effects from a far-flung, estranged relative or a bag of ancient mixtapes from a disgruntled ex-girlfriend or a neatly-packed and meticulously counted bundle of 100-dollar bills in tight plastic bands or, y’know, a severed head. The possibilities on this thread were maddeningly endless.
Carl emailed me again early Monday afternoon to say that the package was with the doorman. I left my office downtown around 5:30pm and went to go solve the mystery.
With my brain now spinning the scenario into a fanciful hybrid of “Paddle to the Sea” and the denouement of “Star Trek: The Motion Picture” (wherein robotic interstellar probe, Voyager Six, returns from the hollow vacuum of a black hole in deep space to reconvene with its creator), I walked into my old lobby to retrieve my fateful package. I didn’t recognize the doorman on duty, but having not lived there for almost two decades, that was not entirely surprising. “Hi, I’m Alex,” I said, "I’m picking up a package that was left for me by Carl on the third floor?” I pictured the doorman reaching under his desk to reveal a weathered, battle-faded parcel, pockmarked by age and festooned with stickers from various ports of call like the pages of a secret agent's passport. I imagined it being covered in dust with barely-discernible handwriting scrawled across it.
Instead, he handed me a thin, flat UPS mailer that very assuredly did not date back to 2002. Sure enough, my name and former address were on it, with the return address being simply the “mail room” of some fulfillment center in West Virginia. I thanked the doorman and took off.
Reeling from a combination of incredulity, confusion and, frankly, disappointment, I opened the cardboard envelope when I got back out onto East 12th Street to reveal its contents ….
…concert tickets for DEVO’s September show at Radio City Music Hall.
As expected, the explanation is somewhat strenuously anticlimactic. On June 11th, tickets went on sale for this show at the very same venue I first saw DEVO in 1981. I immediately purchased a pair of tickets via the site featured on Facebook — that being Ticketmaster. Evidently, I have not used my Ticketmaster account since 2002, when I lived on East 12th Street, so upon completion of the transaction, Ticketmaster sent my tickets to the only address it has for me. No scams. No rare Bad Brains single. No clandestine box of cryptic ephemera. No wads of cash. No severed head.
I came home and put the UPS mailer with my tickets in it on my bureau and told my wife the ridiculous news.
Later that night, she accidentally threw that UPS mailer out.
My son Oliver intrepidly fished the mailer out of the bowels of the trash in the basement this morning, averting further hysteria.
I know this only really speaks to a fairly elite coterie of readers/users/viewers/whatever here, but even though I only just posted that footage of Cop Shoot Cop at CBGB last week, someone else just posted two more archival clips, these both dating back to May 30, 1990 at the recently-shuttered Pyramid on Avenue A. I don’t reall know why these videos are suddnely becoming more frequent, but I’m not complaining.
As mentioned back on this post from 2015, I should preface this by saying I regrettably never made it to the Peppermint Lounge in either of its locations. A storied club dating back to the late `50s, the original venue was on West 45th Street and played host to everyone from The Beach Boys to Black Flag. The second iteration of the club appeared circa 1982 and lasted until 1985. Today, the original spot on 45th street is no more, razed at some point in the `80s, and the second spot on Fifth is currently an empty storefront in the wake of playing host to numerous retail outlets. There is no Peppermint Lounge anymore.
The clip below, meanwhile, dates back to 1981, and was captured in the 45th Street location. This is, of course, the original line-up of the Circle Jerks, one of my favorite all-time bands, arguably at the height of their powers. This performance would have been recorded just three months after Black Flag’s fabled appearance at the same club (with New York’s own Even Worse as opening act). By this point, the Circle Jerks would have also graced stages around town at spots like the Mudd Club, and would later play spots like The Reggae Lounge (formerly the Rock Lounge), Irving Plaza, the 10.18 Club (aka The Roxy), and The Ritz. I don’t know that they ever actually played CBGB prior to the `90s (when they famously performed a cover of the Soft Boys’ “I Wanna Destroy You” with Debbie Gibson on guest vocals), but don’t quote me on that.
As detailed on this post, I wouldn’t actually get to see the band until 1985, playing alongside DOA and Redd Kross, and by that time, original bassist Roger Rogerson and drummer Lucky Lehrer were long out of the ranks. When this video of the original band was captured at the 45th Street Peppermint Lounge – almost exactly a neck-snapping FORTY YEARS AGO -- I would have only recently graduated from 8th Grade, been sequestered out in Quogue, Long Island with my family, very deliberately NOT playing any tennis and otherwise begrudgingly mowing lawns for paltry sums. It would also have been that same summer when I was being lured away from comparatively conventional Punk records by The Ramones, The Clash, Generation X and the Sex Pistols and towards the splenetic strain of Hardcore by my friend Brad’s tireless evangelizing of records like the Circle Jerks’ Group Sex, Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables by Dead Kennedys and the seminal Let Them Eat Jellybeans compilation.
But while I was being indoctrinated, it was already happening, as can be vividly seen here. I think I was so struck by this video as it flies rather squarely in the face of the misconception that Hardcore was somehow a less “musical” variation of by-then-conventional Punk. While, indeed, Hardcore may have been a more feral and streamlined variation that was built for speed, so to speak, even a casual viewing of powerhouse drummer Lucky Lehrer amply demonstrates what a finessed and versatile musician he was.
Such highfalutin pretty talk aside, the band is fucking on fire here.
Someone evidently uploaded this fleeting slice of Cop Shoot Cop having a bash through "Shine On, Elizabeth" and "Hung Again" at CBGB in 1992 onto YouTube, and it's a great one, despite the shaky camera, the frequently black screen and the technical difficulties the band itself is grappling with (broken mic stands, etc.). I was actually at this show with my comrade Rob D., who would have been dancing with great, dramatic aplomb somewhere behind the cameraman here, sadly not captured for posterity. I'd love to know if there is more video from the night than just this.
In any case, if you never made it to CBGB, here's a taste of what it was like...
My friend John (who I mentioned here) put up a telling post on Facebook recently that struck a firm chord with me. A similarly besotted music geek, John recounted coming back into possession of a big crate of records he’d stored at his mother’s place back in the 90’s. His mother had moved house, however, at some point, and a friend of John’s picked up those albums from her home and sent them back to him. Years after first sending them away for safe-keeping, John found many of the LPs to be in rough, unplayable shape. Coupled with the fact that he has since aquired the means – like most of us – to play most of the music on those records on multiple other formats, John was struck with a quandary, which he neatly summed up in the following three sentences….
I'm not going to play these records. They sit in their box taking up space in the house, and anchor me to a past that no longer exists. But I can't bring myself to just throw them away.
Maybe Freud could have a holiday with this particular syndrome, but I, too, stored many of my old records at my mother’s house. While I’d formerly been loath to part with any of them, when my wife and I moved from my old apartment on East 12th Street to our current apartment on East 9th Street in 2002, I stored about a third of my vinyl collection at a mini-storage space on Vandam Street (never do this) and packed the other two-thirds into a series of stylish flight cases procured at long-vanished Eightball Records on East 9th (which later turned into a long-running sushi joint called Yuba, which has also now closed) and kinda snuck them into the basement of my mom’s house in Quogue out on Long Island.
I ended up having to forego my Vandam Street storage place when it got too expensive and discreetly migrated those records into our apartment. The other two thirds – still in those flight cases, covered in deliberately offensive stickers by prurient hot-rod artist Coop so that my mom wouldn’t want to touch them – have been down in that basement ever since, tucked away in an ersatz playroom with board games, toys and old coats no one will ever wear again. At some point, this will have to change, especially if my mom ever makes good on her threat to sell the house.
We went out to visit mom over Memorial Day Weekend, and given the unseasonable chill and pervasive rain, I succumbed to a ritual I’ve been keeping for some time. Every three or four years or so, I go down to the basement and exhume my old records from those flight cases. At this stage of the proceedings, there is no turntable in my mother’s home to play them on, nor do I expect there ever will be. So, all I can do is take them out, look at them and feel that anchor John was talking about pull at my neck.
When not fretting myself an ulcer about work demands and pressing life matters, my brain frequently finds the time to wake me up in the middle of the night to plot out what I’ll have to do about those records. Honestly, I’d consider farming them off to my nephews, but I don’t know that they’d genuinely want them or even give a damn. I mean, truthfully, I don’t want to give them away, but I don’t know that I can keep them. I’d rather they go to “a good home,” so to speak, but who knows?
It’s been yet another crazy-busy period at work. I have multiple complicated projects on the burner, all requiring heaping amounts of deft navigation, thoughtful strategy and efficient execution. Similarly, I'm vainly trying to plot out my family's summer -- from my youngest's second COVID shot through transporting same back to camp in Vermont again and wrangling fleeting vacation accommodations, to say nothing of my wife and I's looming 20th anniversary. While I do genuinely consider the two posts I put up this week to be interesting and worth your time, I’m always looking to post more substantial things than placeholder entries built around esoteric YouTube videos. But, y’know, we all have our things to contend with.
In any case, I wanted to write about this sooner, but I was let off my leash briefly last weekend to meet an old friend of mine I’d not seen in two or three years. Now that restrictions are easing, it seemed like a fine time to meet up, so we settled on a place I’ve been dying to return to since the pandemic first turned our collective existence into a c-grade disaster movie, the Ear Inn over on the western end of Spring Street in SoHo.
A longtime favorite bar of mine, I’ve had more memorable evenings within the Ear’s storied interiors than I can count. It’s arguably the oldest bar in Manhattan, although McSorley’s and Pete’s Tavern make comparable claims. Regardless, I’ll take the Ear over both those joints every damn time.
Despite just being informed by my primary care physician —who I’d also not seen since before the pandemic —that I’d gained seven pounds since my last visit, I ordered a cheeseburger and had a few pints with my friend in that great bar. While it, too, boasts the trappings of responsible social distancing, I am very happy to report that its splendor remains undiminished.
If you're a fan of the band, you may have already heard about this documentary, Charles Atlas' "Put Blood in the Music," which is a profile of the New York music scene circa 1989, concentrating on John Zorn and Sonic Youth. You have to wade through about two minutes of needless extrapolation from "The South Bank Show," but the doc itself is well worth your time.
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