Flaming Pablum

NYC Summer `97

While waiting for some work documents to arrive on Friday morning, I stumbled upon this video on YouTube. Essentially just a short snippet of a summer day in Manhattan in 1997, the video is nothing very special, but I still found it kind of striking.

At the time this was filmed, I’d have moved into my apartment on East 12th Street, and was still working at the TIME Magazine News Desk. The news cycle, at the time, wasn’t exactly the jam-packed Hellscape it is today. The biggest stories would have been the return of Hong Kong to China, Wimbledon tennis matches, Autumn Jackson found guilty of trying to extort $40 million from … er… Bill Cosby, the debut of “South Park” and the …. ummmm … birth of Kylie Jenner (i.e. the antichrist). Giuliani was still mayor and still quite a dick, but hadn’t quite lost his fucking mind, yet. Towards the end of this particular summer, Princess Diana would be killed in a car accident while being feverishly pursued by paparazzi.

On the streets, you’ll notice no Citibikes. No cannabis emporiums. No sidewalk sheds. No 5G towers. No hedge-fund bros with golf bags. There are several businesses depicted like Crunch, Tower Video and Gaseteria that no longer exist, but also old school mom’n’pop ventures like since-vanished bodegas and pizzerias. Things are a little rough around the edges and not quite so squeaky clean, but no one’s really in a hurry. No influencers are gabbing into their smartphones. No one’s posing for selfies.

Travel from lower Fifth Avenue to Lafayette Street and then Second Avenue before you’re down on the Lower East Side for a lulling spell in Hamilton Fish Park off East Houston Street before repairing to the sleepy streets of Two Bridges and Chinatown.

Now Ear This

Happy Easter. Sorry for the relative slowdown, here, but it’s been a busy several days, and I’ve been having some trouble with my ear.

As I’ve discussed here many times, I have a long history of doing terrible things to my ears. When I was a kid, I was prone to ear infections, which were capable of being incredibly painful. My mother recounted one instance wherein, as a very young lad, my eardrum was punctured and I literally passed out from the pain. As a petulant teen and, later, smug twentysomething convinced of his own imperviousness, I routinely listened to my headphones at the maximum volume and attended far too many high-octane rock shows without wearing any semblance of hearing protection. Not wise. 

Then, one bright morning in October of 1999 (just days before my now-very-distant 32nd birthday), I woke up with tinnitus screaming in my right year, a clarion ring that has never, ever abated. As a hilariously little side-dish, my hearing has been significantly diminished in the OTHER ear (the one without the ringing). I've since acclimated, although I only enjoy a fraction of the sounds I would otherwise be experiencing. Earlier this week, however, my right ear (the one with the ring) was feeling inexplicably stopped up, so I rather foolhardily applied two ear drops into that tiny, labyrinthine chamber of horror. The trouble is, they evidently didn't drain properly and now the compromise is worse than before (nice job, eh?) I'm disinclined to fish around in there any further.

So, after several days of bitching about it, I took my problem to a professional. I'm (sorta) happy to report that the diagnosis from my local Urgent Care was that I have some inflammation in my eustachian tube, which is to say that the problem is in the middle-ear (i.e. behind the drum) and not something in my external ear or ear canal. I was informed that this is likely the result of some allergies, which certainly tracks. I was prescribed a nasal spray called Fluticasone which I'm to administer twice a day.

So, y'know .... watch this space.

Guitar Wolf Destroy Mondo Kim's

I know I said I was going away on vacation, but we don’t actually leave until Tuesday, and I spotted this video and felt compelled to share, so … fuckin’ sue me.

I went to go see explosive Japanese rock trio, Guitar Wolf, in about 1999 at CBGB, and they were entirely hilarious and amazing, but it was worryingly loud. Like, not just “my ears are sure gonna hurt tomorrow” loud, but more like “I think my fillings are dislodging themselves from my skull” loud or “I’m about to lose control of my bowels” loud. Mercifully, neither of those things happened, although that was also the same year I my Tinnitus revealed itself, so there may be a smoking gun in there, somewhere.

In any case, the below video might very well have been shot during the band’s same brief stay in New York City wherein I caught them at CB's, but it isn’t dated, so who knows? In any case here is Guitar Wolf practicing their nuanced, finesse-laden craft within the narrow confines of the ground floor of what, at the time, was Mondo Kim’s — the esoteric music and cinema super-store that held court on St. Marks Place before shuttering for good in …. fuck …. 2009.

Anyway, I love this video in that it captures both the rough-hewn, high-volume attack of the Guitar Wolf experience, but also because it brings me back to that room wherein I used to spend so much time perusing the racks.

Here in 2023, the space that was Mondo Kim’s is a lame video arcade with booze dubbed “Barcade.” Guitar Wolf, meanwhile, are STILL AT IT.

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.

This is Fine

I’ve mentioned Jon Fine a couple of times here, over the years. Of course, he is primarily notable to insufferables like me for his role as guitarist in the trio Bitch Magnet, a band I was quite fond of back in college. Once Bitch Magnet closed up shop at the dawn of the `90s. Fine hopscotched around with some other bands before reluctantly changing lanes and branching out into a career in journalism. He wrote an excellent book about all that, tracing his life through a fractious career in punk rock and then into the odious realm of corporate office cubicles and back again, “Your Band Sucks” in 2015, which is a slavishly entertaining read regardless of your musical taste and disposition. It’s like a “Kitchen Confidential” for disgruntled music geeks.

I was also kindred spirits with Jon in that he confessed to The Atlantic, in 2011, that he suffered from tinnitus, an affliction I, too, have grappled with since 1999, although at least Jon got it from irresponsibly playing loud music and not just irresponsibly listening to it, as I did.

In any case, Jon and I had loads in common. We both loved splenetic punk rock, both went to college in Ohio (he to Oberlin, I to the strenuously less cool Denison), both worked in journalism and were both cursed with tinnitus for our sins against common sense and propriety.

Cut to late 2015: After slogging it out in the trenches of “professional journalism” for about 25 years – logging precious time at SPIN, LIFE Magazine, TIME Magazine, The New Yorker, MTV News Online, MSN and TODAY.com -- and getting laid off too many times, I ended up taking a job in corporate communications for a performing rights organization. In one of my first weeks at the new office, I stepped onto the elevator and standing across from me was a familiar looking gent with a Black Flag pin on his lapel. “Holy Shit, … you’re Jon Fine,” I exclaimed. As it turned out, Jon worked at a prominent magazine on a neighboring floor.

While he was doubtlessly wary of me at that stage (with good reason), Jon and I swiftly became elevators pals and regular confidants. Today, I am proud to call him a friend, and was sad when he decided to leave the magazine in our building. But he’s still out there hustling, writing and making music.

The only reason I’m talking about him now is that he was recently a guest on the podcast “Killed By Desk,” and it’s both hugely illuminating and entirely hilarious. Check it below or simply click here….Tell’em Flaming Pablum sent ya.

John's Bag

I first came in contact with John Darnielle via Ilxor, which — as Urban Dictionary so succinctly describes it — was “a rather fine but occasionally tempestuous, pretentious and easily-distracted internet-based message board, initially conceived as a music forum.” I should’t say “was” as, technically, it’s still going today (find it here). John and I were both regular fixtures there for a great while in the late 90s through to the late-2000’s. Or at least that’s when I largely dropped out. John might still regularly participate there, I’m not sure.

While it might seem like heresy to some, I must admit that upon first engaging with John, I was entirely unfamiliar with his status as the singer/songwriter in the Mountain Goats. As far as I knew, John was just some similarly inclined music head with just as much of a passion for discussing all facets of the subject, and given his predilections for several of the same hoary goth, punk and metal bands that I voluminously espoused on a regular basis, we became fast friends in that forum. From where I was standing, John and I spoke the same language, and he managed to jovially overlook my pugnacious penchant for contentious overstatement (something not exactly everyone in said forum was inclined to do, much to my continued embarrassment, this many eons later). As the years went by, we bonded further over a mutual affliction (John and I both suffer from Tinnitus, although I haven’t heard an update from him on the subject in some time) and both became doting dads.

The funny thing, though, is that while I just sorta considered him this super-knowledgable music-geek pal o’ mine, it only gradually dawned on me that he was critically revered in several significant circles. Beyond being an established musician of some renown, John’s also a burgeoning author, having now published a couple of well received novels. Not too long back, another friend of mine was looking at my contact lists and spotted John’s name. “Dude, you know John Darnielle?” For some reason — inarguably to John’s credit as a regular, approachable human being — it still never occurs to me that he’s this crucial figure.

In any case, the last time I saw John in person, I believe, was actually the first time I saw John in person. I was walking up Thompson Street in SoHo and he suddenly shouted my name (see pic above). To this day, John and I are in fairly regular contact on Facebook, but I just spotted something that showcases both the bottomless depth of John’s affinity for music and his perpetually inclusive, affable nature. John was featured on “What’s In My Bag?”, Amoeba Records’ excellent web series I wrote about back on this post. To my mind, despite his numerous accolades and notable cameos (he was a featured guest on Damien Abraham’s “Turned Out a Punk” podcast, last summer), this is a true honor befitting his vast wealth of knowledge and his convivial, big-hearted nature. Way to go, John! 

I am in awe and roiling with envy.

Enjoy….

Gimme Gimme Shock Treatment?

It’s not a subject I’ve posted about for a long time as, well, frankly, there are rarely developments to report. I’m talking, of course, about Tinnitus.

Personally speaking, I developed Tinnitus — a perpetual ringing in my right ear — in October of 1999, after years and years of systematic headphone abuse and blithely failing to wear hearing protection at loud rock shows. I woke up one morning, and the cumulative damage from those activities set off a piercing whistle in my right ear that I’ve spent the last 21 years living with. I tried a host of different remedies — from whey and ginkgo biloba trough ear-candling and a deceptively named homeopathic product called RingStop, but nothing ever worked. In time,  I just acclimated, and started being more responsible about my hearing. After swearing off headphones for a couple of years, I went back to them, but am mindful of how loud I go. When attending loud concerts — remember those? — I am scrupulous in remembering to bring proper, weapons-grade earplugs.

While I am not necessarily bothered by the ring anymore, I am always aware that it is there, even as much as I’ve resigned myself to it. But I heard a fleeting mention of a new remedy for the condition on NPR’s “Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, “ this morning, and my curiosity was piqued.

It doesn’t promise a cure, but evidently there is a new treatment out of Ireland that is said to relieve the symptoms for up to a year. As promising as that sounds, the method — called bimodal neuromodulation treatment — sounds a bit odd. It involves electric shocks to the tongue to “retrain” the brain to become less aware of the ring.

Putting electrical devices in one’s mouth and messing around with the hardwiring of one’s own neuroanatomy both seem like iffy prospects, but I am indeed curious as to how this might all work.

If you, too, are curious, find out more info here.

Hearing & Heilung

I can’t remember who first hipped me to Heilung, but it might’ve been via a highly entertaining review by former “Noise the Show” shouter Tim Sommer of their gig at Webster Hall several months back (y’know, before everything went completely kablooey). In any event, I found the notion of a gaggle of warpaint-slathered, spear-brandishing Danes wearing antlers and stomping around somewhat compelling, and their videos were both intriguing and not-just-a-little endearingly ridiculous. I immediately lamented not attending the show in question.

Further investigation bore out that the enigmatic Heilung occupied a strange, musical middle ground between, say, Dead Can Dance and GWAR, despite the fact that they seem to take themselves quite seriously, and despite some elements of their audience mistakenly getting the impression that there was some white supremacy bullshit at their core — there isn’t.

Then, further capturing my imagination, I watched this interview with members of the band, who suggested that fans had claimed that the live Heilung experience had purportedly relieved them of their tinnitus. As someone who has grappled with Tinnitus (in my right ear) for two decades, I was all for it.

On a lark, I picked up their live album, Lifa, and spent the next few weeks listening to their immersive brand of hypnotic whatsis.

Richly ripe for a meandering strolls in deep, primeval forests, Lifa by Heilung — which means “healing” in Danish — did absolutely fuck-all to relieve my tinnitus in any capacity, but it is some pretty remarkable stuff.

Here’s a helping….

Fuck You, Dry January

I mean, let’s face it, January sucks, no matter how you slice it. Between it being long, dark and cold and the comedown from the ostensibly festive holiday season, one can’t help but enter into it with some semblance of dread and despair. This, of course, comes coupled for many with a sense of guilt and obligation, whether it’s because of the resolve to honor one’s New Year’s resolutions or simply to detoxify via the self-imposed exile from boozeville that is so-called “Dry January.”

In past years, I’ve endeavored to accomplish the DryJan challenge, as routinely mentioned on my year-end surveys and at great length here last year. Last time around, as I said, I was knocked off the horse early by the arrival of the colorfully named winter weather event, the Bomb Cyclone. That’s just an excuse, of course. Had it not been the Bomb Cyclone, I’m sure I would have concocted some other reason. In short order, it was beery business as usual.

This year, however, it felt less like a whim or nagging twinge of guilt and more like a necessity. December had proven to be a robust month of imbibing, what with a preponderance of holiday events to attend. After weeks of office Christmas parties, a wedding and a few other booze-laden social engagements, we repaired to my brother-in-law’s place out in Pennsylvania for Boxing Day. I was pretty much handed an open beer when I stepped out the car at 2:00 pm, and that kept going until well into the evening. By New Year’s Eve, I was beyond determined to undertake a Dry January. Hell, I was positively looking forward to it.

I wasn’t getting sloppy-shitty, blacking out, slurring my words, starting fights with strangers or anything, but the burly intake of beer was becoming routine, and my tolerance was ascending sharply. Between the probable weight-gain, the conceivable strain on my liver (although my friend Keith keeps reminding me: THAT’S WHAT YOUR LIVER IS FOR, DAMMIT!) and, frankly, the expenditure -– I felt it was high time to flex my long-dormant will power, dry my system out and save some money… the latter reason reinforced by the arrival of some beefy post-Christmas Amex bills.

For no readily apparent reason, however I decided to augment the swearing-off of beer with two other stipulations. I would go without my iPod (yep, I still use an iPod … and you can go fuck yourself if you find that funny), as I’d been noticing a shrill uptick in the tinnitus that has been screaming in my right ear since 1999. Being that it’s been suggested that alcohol-consumption heightens the ring (along with salt, sugar and pretty much anything else that makes life worth living … like, say, oxygen and sex), I figured I should give my ears a break as well as my liver. A steadily stentorian diet of IDLES, Daughters and, strangely, The Upper Crust for much of December certainly weren’t doing them favors.

The third prong of my resolution was fairly simple: Take the stairs. Not at the office, mind you, but at home. It’s not a big deal, but I figured walking up and down the five flights would be a good habit to get into. To be honest, my building is fairly squat, and you’re on the second floor before it even hits you and while you’ve digested that information, you’re practically on the fourth floor. But hey, … couldn’t hurt, right? Regular readers might remember my running campaign from a few years back. Recurring knee problems forced me to abandon that, but I figure walking up and down stairs is something I should be able to regularly tackle.

Anyway, that was going to be my January – thirty-one days marked by sobriety, silence and strength.

Honestly, the toughest of the three directives to honor has been the stairs. It’s not that I’m lazy or that I find ascending those five flights too challenging, but rather that I just forget. I walk into my lobby, and muscle memory almost takes over. I check my mail and boom, next thing I know I’ve pushed the button and gotten on the elevator. There have been times when I have actually gone back downstairs and repaired to the stairwell to complete my mission, but I’m just finding it hard to remember to do it.

Swearing off my iPod has been less complicated, although I threw that particular towel in today. In the ten days without wearing earbuds, I’ve noticed the ring minimally rise and fall in its ceaseless pitch, but not necessarily as the direct result of anything I’ve been doing – as far as I can tell, at least. This morning, I was just bored, so I slipped them back in and scored the latter half of my commute with some vintage New Order at a reasonable volume. No one is hurt by this.

In terms of the beer? Last night, after a bone-chilling walk home from the bottom of TrBeCa to the heart of the Village, I reconsidered my decisions. Yeah, I was able to turn it off for ten days, and can completely keep going, but why am I punishing myself? It’s not like someone’s going to hand me a fucking medal at the end of the month. I’m sick of drinking seltzer and tea in the evenings. I sprang for a six of Sapporo and indulged.

And with that, yes, I’ve technically failed Dry January again. I may go back to it this evening, but it almost doesn’t “count” now, not that anyone’s keeping score.

Weigh in, readers …. How are you fairing with your resolutions?

Gentrify This? Too Little, Too Late

Whilst walking home last night, I passed by the corner of Elizabeth Street at East Houston and was struck by the above, the latest in a string of murals gracing the westerly-facing edifice.

At first glance, one might perceive this mural to be some sort of palpable blow against the empire, so to speak, but dig a little deeper, and it’s fairly dispiriting.

I’ll get into its content and execution shortly, but it should be acknowledged that for all the bravado of a legend like “Gentrify This,” it was still commissioned at the behest of the shop around its corner, Rag + Bone/Jean, a bespoke habberdasher specializing in ludicrously expensive casual menswear. The influx of businesses like Rag & Bone -- which displaced the restaurant, Café Colonial, which had, in turn, been there for fifteen years until a rent hike forced them out in 2010 -– represents the quintessence of gentrification. One could credibly argue that Café Colonial was equally representative of that same gentrification. Feel free to go down that rabbit hole, if you so please.

In any case, this mural is the street art equivalent of poserism, steeped in a slick patina of cultural appropriation. Rag & Bone doesn’t lament the gentrification of the Lower East Side. Rag & Bone is the manifestation of the gentrification of the Lower East Side.

These next points are fairly petty and pedantic, but you should expect as much from me by this stage.

Right off the bat, let’s get this right out of the way -– while the Clash are inarguably synonymous with all things Punk Rock and did indeed spend a shitload of time in New York City (recording at Electric Ladyland and playing venues like The Palladium, Bond’s Casino and Shea Stadium), at no point did they ever perform at CBGB, which makes the sloppy rendering of Paul Simonon smashing his bass (from the iconic cover of London Calling) adjacent to the approximation of the CB’s logo sort of lazy and incongruous. As a side note, there was a far better replication of this same image formerly adorning the wall of since-closed bar on East 12th back in the 90's. Don't look for it now, but here's how it's done:

The ersatz “SAMO” tag (the street art nom de plume of Jean-Michel Basquiat) also feels somewhat cheaply tacked on. Overall, the whole endeavor seems like something you might find at a Disney park.

Don’t believe the hype.