I’ve written about Punk co-founder and illustrator John Holmstrom here a few times, but he recently appeared on my favorite podcast, Killed By Desk (which I’ve also discussed several times here). In any case, it’s a great discussion — John delves into his origins in illustration and publishing, his travails with mainstream magazines and, of course, his days putting out Punk Magazine with Legs McNeil, including a tale about “lost issue #9” that evidently featured and in-depth interview with Kiss. One can’t help wondering how the publishing of that issue might have affected Kiss’ credibility (in possibly a good way). We’ll never know, because — to hear John tell in — dark forces intervened.
We lost the great Ronnie Spector, yesterday. I actually got to see her perform as a surprise guest at one of Joey Ramone’s birthday bashes at Coney Island High back in 1997. I was there to see The Dickies and the Pristeens, but who shows up but a bona fide rock n’ roll legend. The chemistry between her and Joey was palpable.
In any case, someone posted the below clip on Facebook today, and it immediately struck a chord. Here are Ronnie Spector and the Ronettes pursuing some hapless Italian fop on Mott Street in SoHo in 1964. Crazily enough, the bakery featured towards the end of the video is actually still there here in 2022, although the rest of the street looks entirely different.
Watch any documentary about a since-closed music venue, nightclub or bar, and you’re bound to hear some of the same stupid shit. Whether conscious of it or not, at least one of the participants will make one ridiculously clichéd remark or another about how the establishment in question was this unique confluence of poetically unlikely factors that could not, should not and never will exist again. Invariably, there will also be florid testimonials about the fabled proprietor of the place which portray that individual like some sort of star-crossed visionary from another dimension. While such declarations might even have varying degrees of truth to them, these soundbites have become so deeply and dependably rote as storytelling devices that these movies all practically blend together.
Given my blog’s brazen predilections for New York City nostalgia, I am, of course, no stranger to these sorts of films. “Life After Dark: The Story of Siberia Bar,” a 2008 documentary directed by one Jack Bryan, is no exception to the rules lamented above. That all said, you should still check it out.
I’ve written about both Manhattan iterations of the Siberia Bar here a few times, notably here and here. I honestly cannot remember who first told me about the place, but being that I worked at TIME Magazine, just down the block from the subway stop that played host to the first iteration of the bar, once I learned about it, I had to go check it out. This would have been around 1997, I’m guessing, and I swiftly became one of a cloying legion of irritating, drunk-journalist types prone to hanging out within its endearingly decrepit confines. I’m the inebriated jackass in the center of the photo above, taken at Siberia around `98, given the then-recently-procured Damned t-shirt I’m sporting (they’d played a Coney Island High — also gone, but no documentary yet — a few days prior). If you were a self-styled, world-weary, laboriously smug scribe of one stripe or another, you were bound to be found drinking irresponsibly there sooner or later.
Around 2000, the Siberia Bar decamped from its celebrated closet-sized perch in the midtown subway system and moved into Hell’s Kitchen. While the new location lacked its predecessor's seedy charm and intriguing mystique, the much roomier second version of the Siberia Bar retained the spirit of the old place … complete with those infamous stipulations about swearing and gratuitous hittin' on women.
Around the same time, however, I’d gotten married. As such, my nights darkening the already-very-dark doors of Siberia were somewhat sharply curtailed. I’d go every now and again, but hardly with any frequency. And then, sadly, in 2007, it closed for good.
I never knew of the documentary below’s existence until earlier this week. A reader named CB hipped me to it. Granted, I’m about 14 years late to the table, but for your viewing pleasure and edification, here it is….
A couple of weeks back, I was motivated to write a post about my Christmas vacation of 1987. I was a junior in college and back home in NYC for a couple of weeks. During said two weeks, however, I was blessed enough to catch a string of shows at the Ritz, including incendiary gigs by Fishbone with Murphy’s Law and The Toasters (which i discussed in greater detail here), a rousing stop on the Ramones’ tour for Halfway to Sanity, a high-spirited performance by ska-malgam (I just made that term up) band Urban Blight and, kicking it all off, another floridly chaotic reunion show by The Dead Boys (see flyer above). It was one of my most memorable and cherished weeks as a feedback-deafened, rock-addicted newly-minted twenty year old.
So, yeah, I thought about writing up a whole post about that Christmas break and those shows and that venue, but then it occurred to me that I’d pretty much covered all that ground here already, and why would anyone really care? So, I abandoned it.
This all said, I found the video below … recorded about a month after that Christmas Dead Boys Reunion show … that really captures what the band were like at the time, and thought I’d share it here.
Music geeks around my age love to wax rhapsodic about the first time they heard certain artists and having that epiphany, ...that bolt of lightning that immediately changed everything for them. While it’s ostensibly a statement about the groundbreaking nature of the music in question, all it often boils down to is a desperate assertion on the part of the storyteller, designed to subtly telegraph the notion that he or she was hip enough to immediately recognize said music’s groundbreaking significance and was cool enough to get in on the ground floor (i.e. “when it mattered, maaaaaaaan). This is how gatekeepers are born.
While I was indeed fortunate enough to hear a lot of bands “early on,” it was usually either (a) purely by accident or (b) via the good graces of genuinely hipper friends. As has been said, people who introduce you to new music are good people to have around. People who laboriously lord it over you? Not so much.
In any case, while I was fully onboard upon my first exposures to outfits like The Ramones, Devo, Blondie and the Sex Pistols, there were indeed several artists that I was either very slow to appreciate or that I simply “did not get,” at the time. I am somewhat to ashamed to admit, for example, that I did NOT immediately warm to the B-52’s.
Having cut my teeth on the juvenile spectacle & bombast of KISS and the po-faced pomp & circumstance of Pink Floyd, I didn’t quite know what to make of the first B-52s record, the one in the blindingly dayglo-yellow sleeve. It was my older sister that first brought it home, having already introduced the household to records by Blondie and The Police. At this stage, I’d sank my teeth into Devo, The Ramones, the `Pistols and the Clash, but …this wasn’t that. The B-52’s lacked the buzzsaw attack of those latter three bands. And while the B-52’s certainly shared a lot of the willfully odd aesthetics of early Devo, they lacked the Akron quintet’s pronounced penchant for confrontation. The B-52’s weren’t cynical iconoclasts. They just wanted to have a good time.
Beyond that, though, they were just silly. I mean “Rock Lobster”? What the Hell is that? My sister’s tireless spins of that now-iconic single and “Dance This Mess Around” frequently prompted me to skulk back into my own room for yet another world-weary spin of Pink Floyd’s The Wall, the ponderously self-indulgent magnum opus unleashed on the world just four months after the Athens’ band’s comparatively spritely debut. I suppose I figured I’d find more solace in the bitterly heavy-handed exhortations of Roger Waters than the giddily nonsensical declarations of Fred Schneider. It’s odd, now, to think that these two vastly different records were released in the same era.
While they basically annoyed me, at first, I did gradually warm to certain tracks, notably “Planet Claire” and “52 Girls,” the former for its spacey re-imagining of the Peter Gunn riff and the latter for its insistent surf guitars, both courtesy of B-52’s string-bender Ricky Wilson, a crucial element of the band that stopped them from being just a kitschy novelty act. He may not have been Ace Frehley or David Gilmour, but Ricky played his battered Mosrite (the same brand of guitar used manfully by Johnny Ramone, though you’d never know it, given the differing styles of the respective players) to incendiary effect, adding a muscular, pugnacious shove to even tracks like the otherwise idiotic “Rock Lobster.” It’s no accident that Ricky’s guitar is pictured prominently on the album’s back cover. Beyond the retro outfits, Fred’s inane barking and Kate & Cindy’s signature harmonies, it was the B-52’s’ secret weapon.
While I’d indeed started to slowly appreciate the first record, all it took was a solitary spin of “Private Idaho,” the first single of the follow up album, 1980’s Wild Planet for me to completely surrender. The opening notes of Ricky’s guitar alone were so goddamn satisfying. While I still have absolutely zero idea of what the song’s actually about, “Private Idaho” completely redefined the band for me, and I became fully invested from that point forward.
The only reason I’m thinking about them today was on my walk to work today, “Private Idaho” came up on my iPod just I was turning off Canal Street onto Cortlandt Alley, formerly the forbidding pathway towards the former Mudd Club at 77 White Street, a venue the B-52s were no strangers to.
Just a quick one. Now that the holidays are upon us, I thought I'd evangelize some pertinent links, should you be on the hunt for Christmas/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/whatever presents for the little n'erdowells in your own family.
Hey all. It’s the week of Thanksgiving, and life is busy, busy, busy. We’re doing college application stuff with my daughter, work is fairly demanding right now and I’ve got some medical issues I’m trying to nip in the bud, so to speak, before the looming Christmas holidays. I probably won’t have much else to post here prior to Thanksgiving, so I thought I share these two items and wish you a happy Turkey Day.
The first is the flyer above, which I believe dates back to this date in 1982. The mighty Bad Brains played at CBGB a ton of times in 1982 — some of its famously on video, but not this show, as far as I could glean. In November of 1982, I would have been a sophomore in high school — the same age my son is now. I was not, however, at this show. While I was certainly aware of Bad Brains, by this stage, I would not have been in a position to be venturing down to the Bowery during Thanksgiving week, although I know I couple of folks who were probably there.
The video below, meanwhile, is not from the show in question. This is some genuinely amazing footage from 1979 that looks to have only been uploaded as recently as this past October, and it’s really a striking document of the band’s earlier incarnation. The crowd is comparatively sedate -- more "pogo" than "pit," but you can see where Bad Brains were headed.
Please enjoy and remember not to spar with your relatives about politics, this Thanksgiving. It’s simply not worth it. Stay safe, smart, healthy and keep that Positive Mental Attitude, as Bad Brains would say.
ADDENDUM: Right after I posted this entry, I emailed it over to my friend Glen E. Friedman, who'd recently discovered that ancient Minor Threat video. As if by fate, I ended up once again running into Glen the next day on University Place, and we did our usual chinwag wherein both of us start multiple narratives and rarely finish any of them. In any case, in the course of discussing this Bad Brains video, he mentioned that he'd recently put one of his own photos of Bad Brains up for sale in a limited run on high quality paper. If you're familiar with Glen's work at all, you know he very rarely does this sort of thing. In any event, if you're interested in buying one, details and ordering information can be found right here.
Just a quick plug. I was tremendously blown away, yesterday, to receive my copy of filmmaker/archivist/musician Drew Stone's excellent new book, “The New York Hardcore Chronicles Vol. 1 (1989 - 1989): A Flyer Oral History.” I've invoked Drew several times here before (notably here, here, here and here, among others) but he gamely asked me, some time back, to pen a piece for this project, and I am truly honored to see my contribution so prominently placed as the forward to the book. While probably a niche concern to most, this book is a genuine labor of love and a crucial document for any fan of New York City's rich and vibrant history of underground music and culture. I was thrilled to be a small part of it.
Yes, I know we’re still only halfway through November, but let’s face it --- by and large, 2021 is over. I mean, sure, maybe I’ll post something in the next month and a half that I really like, but who knows? One can’t count on these things.
The following is a list of posts from the last eleven months that I really liked putting together. It’s not that they’re necessarily the best-written or the most viewed or the most-commented on (not really that informative a metric here, alas). They’re just the ones that I enjoyed researching and was pleased with how they turned out. Results may vary and you may beg to differ, but this is my list. Feel free to make your own.
Just a quick one. My friend EV Grieve just recently reported that the Patagonia outlet at 315 Bowery has decamped and shuttered. Prior to being a Patagonia, of course, that space was fleetingly a spot for the Morrison Hotel Gallery (they sell pricey rock photos) and, of course, before that it was CBGB’s 313 Gallery and, further back, it was CBGB’s Record Canteen.
It’s all, of course, ancient history, now, but I remember seeing a number of acts at 313, over the years. The space arguably lacked the atmosphere of its more storied namesake to the north, but it was still a cool spot. If memory serves, the very last band I saw perform in the 313 space was Paul Wallfisch’s Botanica.
Here’s a very early incarnation of The Unsane raising an unholy ruckus within the confines of 313 circa 1989.
Recent Comments