Flaming Pablum

Save Los Angeles

I made a few pilgrimages to Los Angeles in the `90s when a couple of my friends moved out there (specifically to a bungalow in nearby Costa Mesa, as I discussed here). As a lifelong New Yorker, all I knew about L.A. was stuff I'd seen in movies and television, romanced by locales from films like "Repo Man," Penelope Spheeris' "Suburbia" and "The Decline of Western Civilization." I dutifully logged hours in music joints like The Troubadour, the Whiskey A-Go-Go, the Roxy, the Viper Room, the Jabberjaw Coffeehouse and the Rainbow ...specifically to pay homage to Lemmy from Motörhead's perch at the bar. We ate and drank copiously in places ranging from Barney's Beanery to the Formosa Cafe, and hung out everywhere from the La Brea Tar Pits to the arid bed of the Los Angeles river and even tried to reach the Spahn Ranch, where the Manson Family briefly held court. It was all so alternately exotic and sleazy and intriguing and glamorous and historic and beautiful. So, yeah, I was basically a completely insufferable, doe-eyed tourist, but the place left an indelible impression on me that sustains to this day.

Earlier this week, a friend of mine posted a video of the smoldering remains of her home, and then came reports that the flames have reached Sunset Boulevard, where several of the concerns listed above are. To see all this unfurl has been shocking and heartbreaking.

There are lots of ways to help. If you are in a position to help, consider donating to MusicCare's Los Angeles Fire Relief Effort to Help Music Professionals Fund or the Los Angeles Regional Food Bank or Salvation Army California Fire Relief, to name just three.

Hangin' with The Hurdy Gurdy Man

I mentioned it sort of obliquely here, at the time, but in the spring of 2021, I had the rare and somewhat bizarre honor of putting together a project for my office with Scottish songwriting legend Donovan. In a nutshell, he wanted to present a songwriting masterclass for the affiliates of the performing rights organization I work for, and it was my job to bring that goal to fruition while simultaneously goading the storied Gaelic bard into adhering to some of our guidelines. Suffice to say, while an exceptionally charming, pleasant and tirelessly ebullient gentlemen to deal with, Donovan was never going to do anything other than exactly what Donovan wanted to do.

Throughout the process, I ended up exchanging countless emails and having multiple, lengthy conversations over the phone with the great man. This was still all happening during the middle stages of COVID, so I was remotely sequestered with my family at the Lamb Cottage — which i spoke about here — out in Quogue, while Donovan was holding court in his castle in County Cork in the southwesterly portion of Ireland. It was a truly odd experience sitting with my laptop on the back porch of the endearingly tiny cottage we were subletting, chatting with the guy who penned classics like “Sunshine Superman,” “Mellow Yellow,” "Atlantis," “Season of the Witch,” and so many more.

While Donovan might not strike some as an artist I’d normally ever give a damn about — he being one of the preeminent proponents of Flower Power and the like — I was actually already a fan of the man’s music well prior to this unexpected assignment. I’d certainly heard some of his canonical standards via classic rock radio growing up, but it was one of my housemates during my senior year of college, Ben K., that decided to circumvent our off-campus house’s steady diet of Jane’s Addiction, Ministry, fIREHOSE and Fishbone with regular lashings from a well-loved copy of 1969’s Donovan’s Greatest Hits. Despite some cries of “what’s this silly hippie shit?”, that LP went into very heavy rotation, with tracks like “Hurdy Gurdy Man” becoming a high-decibel house favorite.

Some years after that, I remember my great friend Sean W. going through a somewhat cloying Dylan phase (sorry, I’ve absolutely NEVER been a fan) and making me watch D.H. Pennebaker’s “Don’t Look Back,” wherein Dylan allegedly shows up rival folkie songwriter Donovan with a spontaneous performance of “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue,” after the junior songwriter dared perform a tune in Bob's presence. I never liked Dylan prior to that, but that scene only cemented my disdain for the man. I’ll continue to take Donovan over Dylan every time.

Anyway, after much spirited back-&-forthing, we finally managed to complete the masterclass video by the summer, and I posed a series of questions to Donovan for an interview piece to accompany it, all of which he scrupulously copyedited, somewhat unsolicitedly. When he was finally finished jovially re-constructing my written piece, we launched the project. Should you care, you can see that all here, including the video.

Once the project went live, the surprise phone calls from Donovan stopped, although he did very graciously implore me to come visit his castle in Ireland, an invitation I thanked him profusely for, but never took him up on.

Cut to 2024, and after spending three lovely days outside of Edinburgh visiting my daughter at her college, we all flew over to Dublin to spend Thanksgiving in Dublin with my son. While my wife was checking into our hotel, I was loitering around the lobby when suddenly, in walked Donovan. Not imagining I’d ever again have the opportunity, I sheepishly introduced myself, referencing the masterclass video and our many exchanges during that spring, three years earlier. He stared at me blankly for a hot second, then his eyes lit up with recognition, and then next thing I knew, he had me sitting across from him while he regaled me with one of his signature, detail-heavy anecdotes about the origins of music publishing, royalties and how the folk-tradition informs all facets of contemporary music. While he still lives down in Cork, he was fleetingly in Dublin to discuss a new project he was working on.

Even at age 78, the man remains tirelessly committed to his art and evangelizing his music.

Back from La Belle France

Two entirely unrelated posts later, yes, I am indeed back from France.

Ostensibly, my wife and I were there as a surprise for my sister-in-law’s 25th wedding anniversary. Her husband – my brother-in-law – invited us along, which was sincerely nice of him. We did one night in Paris, then took a train to Provence to stay in a ridiculously picturesque town in the Luberon valley outside of Avignon called Gordes (pronounced, I believe, like “gourds”). We stayed there for a few days, then zipped back to Paris for one more night and then flew back to NYC.

Unlike my otherwise usual rituals when visiting foreign places, I didn’t really get to go to any record shops or music venues. It was pretty much my brother-in-law’s party, so largely just went along with the program.

At the very least, I ate and drank like a marauding Visigoth (my brother-in-law is something of a “wine guy,” so I periodically strayed from my beloved beer). I’m now paying for it.

Allons en France

Hey all. As a quasi-birthday prezzie, the wife and I are bound for la belle France for a few days, so please pardon the slowdown in posting here, while I’m briefly overseas.

I first went to France on a bicycle trip in 1987 and somehow stumbled upon the amazing Parisian record shop advertised above. I went back in 2004, and that shop was long gone, replaced by a delicatessen. But, on that trip, I found another great music shop called – inexplicably – Bimbo Tower. When I went back in 2019, however, Bimbo Tower was also gone, but on that trip, I discovered a third great, cool, punky record shop in Paris called Born Bad. Last I heard, Born Bad was still there. We’ll see.

It's funny. For country with great record shops, I’m hard pressed to name that many notable French bands, but here’s a rude industrial metal band from same called Treponem Pal, which – if I recall currently – is an untranslatable variant of some venereal disease. I interviewed the lead singer, Marco, back in the early `90s, and he was a bit of a whack-job, but very nice. Here they are butchering “Planet Claire” by the B-52’s.

Speak with you all when I get back.

Back from Ireland

Hi again, all. Apologies for the tardy follow-up, but there’s been a lot going on, on the home front and elsewhere, and I’ve not had the opportunity — much less the energy — to update proceedings here.

First up, drop-off of the boy (as mentioned here) was successful. With a bare minimum of hiccups, my son Oliver was effectively ensconced at his college and, after only a week in, is already having a fabulous time. As predicted, it’s quite strange to be back here at home without him, and we miss him terribly, but he’s off to a rollicking start, and we couldn’t be happier and prouder. Mission accomplished.

My daughter is also safely back at her school in Scotland after a couple of weeks of traipsing around Western Europe with her flatmates. Neither of our children get Thanksgiving off, for obvious reasons, but we’re hoping to swing back over in November to see each of them. We’ll see if we can pull that off.

In any case, now that we’ve been back and forth to Dublin a few times, by this point, I thought I’d unsolicitedly give you a dilettante’s not-at-all-comprehensive guide to the city. You’re welcome!

BEST MEAL:
As I’ve been laboriously pointing out, it’s exceptionally hard to have a bad time in Dublin — I mean, you have to really work at it. There are so many great places to eat, drink and be merry, it’s ridiculous. That all said, if I ate and drank as I did last week for the duration of a month, I’d be fucking dead. It’s not just the drinks either. I mean, the food is hearty and heavy and not exactly the healthiest of options, in most cases, but goddamn if I didn’t enjoy myself, in that capacity. But since returning last week, I’ve been trying to sharply curtail the worst of my habits to do a bit of course correcting. We’ll see if that takes.

Anyway, on our second night of this past jaunt, while we’d intended to find a brand new place to dine, we ended up repairing to a spot we’d been before, a lovely restaurant on Dawson Street in central Dublin called The Ivy. The last time we ate here, I fielded a call from my office to tell me about a sizable bonus I was about to receive and my son got an acceptance email from a school he was interested in. As such, we consider the place charmed. Nothing so dramatic happened this time, but I had a steak that was verily to die for, so to speak. I highly recommend the place.

BEST PUB:
Much like trying to determine the best pizzeria in New York City, pinpointing the “best” pub in Dublin seems like a fool’s errand. That all said, while we did belly up to the bar at any number of pubs from the celebrated to the seedy, I’d have to say that while I do love the Stag’s Head in the Temple Bar area of town (that’s me imbibing in same up top), it’s a bit on the touristy side. My personal favorite was a comparatively humble joint we happened upon on Lower Baggot Street, just a few doors up from the birthplace of Francis Bacon, called Thomas Rody Maher’s or, simply, Maher’s. It’s just a cozy, unpretentious space with lots of atmosphere and elbow room. The pints of Guinness kept coming, the vibe was convivial and the music was excellent. I’d go back in a heartbeat.

BEST FISH & CHIPS:
A standard order in that part of the world, a plate of fish & chips in Dublin is not unlike, once again, a slice of pizza in New York City. Some iterations of it are sublime, whilst others simply check the box. I partook of this aquatic delicacy quite a few times, during this last visit, but if I had to pinpoint the “best” one, I’d say it was had at a comparatively expansive seafood joint on Pembroke Street Lower called Matt The Thresher. Everything about it was absolutely perfect. In all fairness, the fish & chips I had the night before (yes, I had it for dinner two nights in a row) at The Woolen Mills, a lovely riverside restaurant off the Ha’Penny Bridge, was also exemplary. But I’m still giving it to Matt the Thresher.

BEST PLACE TO ILL-ADVISEDLY SPEND:
I got a bit carried away at the Tower Records on Dawson Street.

BEST PLACE FOR SUNDRY ITEMS FOR A NEWLY MINTED COLLEGE KID: 
We stocked up at Dunnes in the otherwise somewhat grotty Stephen’s Green Shopping Center. We were able to outfit our lad with everything from basic accessories to rudimentary culinary items. Plus, they have a great, expansive grocery section in the basement.

BEST PLACE TO STAY:
The first time we came to Dublin in 2017 or so, it was my brilliant idea (not) to rent a room over a pub in the Docklands called O’Brien’s Ferryman. Inspired by the sepia-toned video of “Pride (In the Name of Love)” by U2 — I’m so embarrassing — I assumed the Docklands would be a manageable neighborhood in which stay. Suffice to say, the Docklands had long since morphed into a lively nightlife destination since the mid-`80s. Imagine renting a room above a bustling East Village bar on a Saturday night. When the Ferryman closed, each evening, the party would simply move outside and continue for another hour or so. It became a bit of a “if you can’t beat’em, join’em” kind of scenario, which —while fun — was ultimately unsustainable.

Our more recent trips to Ireland have found us lodging at the much more respectable Stauntons on the Green, a lovely little hotel just off St. Stephen’s Green that is but a stone’s throw from several key points around central Dublin, including Grafton Street, Temple Bar, Trinity College Dublin and loads of other places. It’s a great staging point for any Dublin expedition.

BEST DISCOVERY:
As an alternative to yet another heavy pint of Guinness (ironic, in that your average pint of Guinness actually packs LESS alcohol than a pint of lager), I went with a local Dublin brew, on occasion, called Hop House that wasn’t bad, despite some skepticism from the locals.

BEST PHONE SERVICE:
The 3 network is way, way better and more flexible than Vodaphone.

BEST WAY TO GET AROUND TOWN:
I will always opt for walking, but the tram (aka “The Luas” … pronounced like “Lewis”), is quick, clean, intuitive and efficient …. and quiet. I almost got slammed from behind by one on Dawson Street, because I’m a clueless American.

There & Back Again

Hey again. The Dublin excursion, should you be curious, was a tremendous success. My son was super-enthused about Trinity Dublin, so we’ll see, but it was great to check the place out, walk around the campus and meet some of the student body and faculty, etc. We didn’t make it to the Book of Kells, alas, but oh well … maybe next time.

If you’ve not been, Dublin is a warm and inviting city. The food was superb, the people were terrific, and we drank at multiple pubs on both side of the Liffey. It rained a fair bit, of course, but that wasn't unexpected. As threatened, we also hit Dublin’s network of record stores like a well-wielded shillelagh, rifling through the bins at likely spots as The Rage, Freebird Records, The Sound Cellar, Spindizzy Records and both locations of Dublin’s still thriving Tower Records. I was hoping to find a far-flung rarity or two by favorites like Stump, the Stiff Little Fingers and the Virgin Prunes, but no such luck. I did pick up some discs by comparatively newer Irish bands like Sprints, the Fontaines D.C. and a band called the Mary Wallopers that I’m greatly looking forward to listening to.

Anyway, I’m now trying to reacclimate after our whirlwind jaunt, so please do bear with me.

Back to The Old Town

Hey there, all. Just a quick heads-up. M’self and the fam are jetting off to Dublin, for a few days, to look at some college opportunities for my son, Oliver. I’ll be back in the New York in a flash, but don’t expect any updates here between now and next week, as I’ll either be busy downing pints of Guinness, combing through dusty Irish record shops and/or speaking with school admissions folks. Or possibly downing pints of Guinness while in dusty Irish records with school admissions folks. We’ll see.

To psyche up my lad, here’s a playlist I made for him of exclusively Irish bands. Enjoy & cheers. See you next week.

Back From The Boot

Hey there, all… Apologies for the relative slowdown, but upon my return from Italy this past Saturday, I’ve really hit the ground running. Well, may be not so much running as urgently limping. See, while I’m incredibly grateful to work where I do, the work itself does not wait for me when I’m away. This was compounded by the relatively sudden departure of a colleague of mine just prior to my vacation. As such, I came back from Italy with twice as many demands on my plate, and I’ve been doing my best to catch-up and make it all work. I’m sure you can understand.

In terms of the trip, what can I say? It was spectacular. Truly, one has not properly eaten food until one has experienced the culinary richness of Italy. They know what they’re doing. Just as one fleeting example, at a friend’s recommendation, we stopped by a restaurant in Rome called Colline Emiliane and it was without question the greatest meal I’ve ever had in my 55 years. I’m not kidding. Every other meal was amazing, as well. Even if you’re getting the most clichéd dish – arguably the Carbonara – it’ll genuinly blow a new part in your hair.

Beyond that, Rome is a tirelessly remarkable city, from the warmth of its people to the breathtaking art and architecture around virtually corner to the fascinating wellspring of its rich, magnificent history. Similarly, the Umbrian countryside is absolutely stunning, as are its myriad towns like Orvietto, Assisi, Spoletto, Spelo and Todi, each with their own, individual aspects to recommend them. The whole trip was amazing.

It wasn’t all delicious gelato, though. As I mentioned just prior to leaving, to my continuing astonishment, I have been walking around on broken bones in my left foot for some indeterminate amount of time, and the increasing discomfort brought on by same was already reaching a new level before I’d even departed. Rome and Umbria, meanwhile, are basically all uneven ground. I basically spent ten days subjecting my dumb, lame foot to uneven stone stairs, cobblestone streets, maddening inclines or combinations of all three (see picture above). That aspect was honestly torture, but what was I gonna do? Not walk around? Fuck that! I just did my best to bite the bullet, keep my complaining (relatively) at bay and get through it, which I did.

Upon my arrival home, I checked back in with cheeky Dr. Quip (not his real name, as immortalized here). I relayed my ambulatory exploits, and he rewarded me with a “prouder” (i.e. more pronounced) pad to be tucked into my left sneaker whilst I await the arrival of the my “short air cam walker fracture boot” which I’ll presumably be sporting later this very week. I’m sure I’ll have a litany of anecdotal grievances to relay from a few days of lurching around in that shit, so look forward to that.

Beyond the heartbreaking news about Jesse Malin, I was saddened to learn of the deaths of local hero Philipe Marcade of the Senders (who I’ve discussed here before), guitarist John Waddington of The Pop Group (and so soon after the demise of his bandmate Mark Stewart) and Teresa Taylor of the Butthole Surfers, who finally passed away from her illness this past weekend.

Back at you soon. 

Ciao For Now!

Okay, it's now time for me to truly shaddap my face and get going. We leave for Italy this afternoon, where I'll be limping around Rome for a few days before repairing to the countryside of Umbria. While I'll certainly be checking in, I doubt I'll be doing any proper posting, but hey ... ya never know. 

In the short term, enjoy your June, be good to each other, stay healthy, call your mother, etc. 

Tornerò

The Exacerbation Vacation

Hey there, all. Sorry for the slowdown in regular posting, but between the revelation of my foot injury (as floridly recounted in the last post), the usual flurry of activity at the start of the summer, some unexpected developments at my office (a colleague just gave his notice, which means I’m inheriting his workload … hopefully temporarily) and the ongoing image-hosting problem here on this blog, I just haven’t had a moment.

This all said, I’m afraid you’re going to have to probably wait even longer, as my family and I are just about to depart for a ten-day vacation. Honestly, the timing isn’t ideal – between my foot injury and mounting responsibilities at work – but plans were made months ago, etc. etc.

A good friend of ours rented a villa in Italy and had originally planned to host her entire family. As it happened, she couldn’t bring that plan to fruition, for whatever reason, so she reached out to my wife to extend an offer for us (me, the wife, the kids) to come stay for a spell. It sounded (and may very well be) too good to be true, but we’re taking her up on it. Watch this space. 

We’re stopping in Rome for a bit first, which will invariably not do my ailing foot any good, but … Hell, I’ve been walking around with broken bones in it for at least a year – what’s another week or two?

The day after we get back, I’m going back to my podiatrist to get (hopefully) fitted for …. the boot.

But first, Italy … which explains the image of Mario with a foot injury above. Thanks, Internet!

Everybody play nice while I'm gone. I'll be back.