This will matter to an exceptionally small few of you, but it’s been bugging me, so perhaps it’ll intrigue you as well.
Regular readers might remember an entry I posted back in the fall of 2020 about By Any Means Green, which was a benefit show held at CBGB in the summer of, I think, 1991. I’d stumbled across a poster of it on instagram, and later found a better scan of it on a Jon Spencer fan site. Here it is now…
This artwork, as mentioned in that first post, is the handiwork of “Dirty” Danny Hellman, an illustrator who used to do amazing work for outlets like New York Press and Al Goldstein’s Screw, back in the day. Like I said, Hellman had also drawn an amazing illustration of Cop Shoot Cop and Iggy Pop in 1993 that I bought off of him several years back. To see Hellman reunited with Cop Shoot Cop again warmed my heart, and I asserted that if anyone still had a copy of this poster, I’d pay handsomely for it.
I actually reached out to Danny himself about it, but he conceded that even he didn’t have a copy of it, remarking instead about how he hates having to draw horses. Oh well.
I pretty much figured that was that until spotting a variation of the poster above last week. Beyond being seemingly divorced from Hellman’s illlustration, the details of the gig are different on this bill, finding the mighty Lunachicks occupying the top billing instead of Cop Shoot Cop.
Check it out below, and click on it to enlarge…
Now being that the benefit gig in question -- organized by Marguerite Van Cook and held on behalf of the Park Rights Council to “save Tompkins Square Park” -- transpired a whopping three decades ago this July, information on who played and how it all went down is all a bit hard to track down. But in doing some further creative Googling, I happened on this page, featuring a third flyer advertising the same gig. Once again, click on it to enlarge...
Heightening the mystery further, this fetching flyer –- drawn by John Terhorst, based on an original illustration by James Romweber, husband of event-organizer Marguerite Van Cook, and father of Crosby Romweber, the plucky tyke pictured on the sleeve of Cop Shoot Cop’s 1992 album, Ask Questions Later -- puts the colorfully named Reverb Motherfuckers in the top spot, despite citing C$C at the bottom. The Lunachicks get nary a mention.
So, I’m putting it out there – who went to this gig? Did you? What’s the story? Who officially ended up headlining By Any Means Green?
Today, meanwhile, whether effectively saved or not, Tompkins Square Park is still there, thirty years later. Cop Shoot Cop broke up circa 1995, although the resultant acrimony is largely water under the bridge, at this stage. The Lunachicks reformed quite recently, albeit without guitarist Sindi Benezra (pictured above). CBGB closed for good in 2006.
By request of my friend Howard, I blew up a few prints of the thing and mailed one off to him. I also figured that the new proprietors of the space at 35 West 19th Street – now Vinyl Steakhouse -- should have some sort of documentation of their restaurant’s former incarnation, so I slipped one in an envelope and dropped one off for them. Evidently, they’re currently offering a signature cocktail in honor of the occult emporium’s namesake, so be sure to ask for that.
Just a quick recap of last night’s DEVO shot at the Rooftop at Pier 17.
This was my first time at this venue and, for the most part, I was pretty impressed. Essentially situated on top of what once was the “South Street Seaport” mall (that sort of red, barn-like building, back in the day), the views from the rooftop of Pier 17 are indeed pretty iconic; the looming spires of Manhattan’s financial district behind you, the promenade of Brooklyn Heights just over the water, and the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges behind the stage, etc. It was a warm, beautiful night, so in that respect, it was perfectly idyllic. That all said, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have a couple of grievances (who? ME??). So, let’s take care of those now, shall we?
Not unlike the restrictions mandated back at that McCarren Pool show I re-invoked yesterday, the Rooftop warns all and sundry well in advance that the event will end and remain very much over at 10pm sharp. Now, as a 54-year-old dad coming off a long, busy day at the office, that news didn’t really upset me, knowing that I’d still be back at home at a decent hour. But, honestly, it did serve to irk me a little bit when the opening act -- actor Creed Bratton from “The Office” …er….fame -- went a little long. I should preface this by saying I’ve never been a big fan of “The Office” to begin with, but Bratton’s acoustic singer/songwriter/raconteur schtick was really ill-considered for this event. Moreover, the man’s meandering set dribbled on past 8:00 pm. Devo didn’t hit the stage until 8:30 pm, so we got an hour and a half set, but one can’t help feeling that Bratton ate up extra time and did absolutely nothing to benefit proceedings beyond pissing off the Devo faithful.
Beyond that, I thought the merch stand was a little spartan, considering that, under usual circumstances, Devo practically rivals KISS in the needlessy gratuitous merchandising deparment. There was one (1) variety of t-shirt, one (1) variety of sweatshirt, some Devo socks, some stickers and the inevitable energy domes. That’s it.
Most upsettingly, beers at this venue -- and we’re only talking about tallboys of friggin’ Heineken or Dos Equis -- cost $17.00 a can. You read that right: SEVENTEEN dollars. Sip it slowly, spuds.
But all such bellyaching aside, the show was pretty great. This was my son Oliver’s first show, so that was kind of special, especially since Devo had been my first show, back in 1981 (as I’m keen to laboriously point out). The set wasn’t exactly rife with surprises -- most of the favorites were duly dusted off and given robust run-throughs (although I was a little disappointed not to hear “Praying Hands” and “Wiggly World,” but you can only cover so much ground in an hour and a half). For Mark Mothersbaugh’s 72 years (it was his birthday, yesterday), he’s in fine, fighting fettle (especially considering a severe bout of COVID, last year). This late in the day, Devo shows lack a bit of the energized chaos that marked their heyday, but hey -- these guys are kind of in their (late) autumn years. I hate to suggest it, but I can easily imagine the band curtailing their touring schedule a bit, following these dates.
Below are some of my pics, ….which brings me to another rant (sorry).
Look, I realize it’s 2022, and we’re all slavishly devoted (pardon the pun) to our multifaceted smart phones. Hell, I can barely walk one city block without whippin’ it out, taking a picture, filtering the shit out of it and posting it on Instagram. And yes, I took a handful of shots last night. But there was a guy right in front of me -- not unlike the girls I lamented at that Spoon show on this ancient post -- who somehowCOULD NOT STOP HIMSELFfrom constantly taking out his iPhone to shoot video of portions of songs (and when he wasn’t doing that, he insisted on doing a wavy-arm/grindy-hip dance as if at a fuckin' Mariah Carey concert). But song after song, he evidently felt compelled to document (and edit, and zoom, etc.). I finally fucking snapped and tapped him on the shoulder, imploring him to “PUT THE FUCKING PHONE DOWN AND JUST ENJOY THE GODDAMN SHOW!” Amazingly, he complied (that never happens) and there was no confrontation or fallout (that usually happens). But, seriously – I know we all CAN capture live video at any time, but the resultant footage of those endeavors are never really that good, are they? They’re shaky and the sound is shit and you can hear people talking, etc. etc. Don’t believe me? Click over to YouTube -- there are clips from last night’s show up already.
Whatever happened to just savoring the moment?
The Mariah Carey/videographer can be seen below with his arms up, in a rare moment of not trying to video every nanosecond of the show...
This is not a consequential one, but what the Hell?
Longtime readers – again, if they exist – might remember a few posts last year wherein a serendipitously unearthed a photograph of something I’d long been searching for, that being a depiction and exact location of a graffiti mural of The Plasmatics that I’d seen back in the early `80s from behind the window of a school bus traveling south in Spanish Harlem.
As first invoked here, then brought to fruition here. the wall in question ended up being the eastern-facing façade of a plot of real estate on East 106th & Park Avenue dubbed “The Graffiti Hall of Fame.” After some diligent Googling, I’d managed to pretty much divine the latitude and longitude of the spot and even found a representation of the (presumably) long-one bit of artwork.
Shortly after that, as documented on this follow-up post, I picked up a fetching coffee-table book about the Graffiti Hall of Fame and came across a better photograph of the wall and artwork in question. I reached out to the photographer in question – that being one Martha Cooper – and inquired about possibly purchasing a print of the photograph. Alas, the figure her handler quoted for same was a bit steep, so I didn’t pursue it. Oh well.
In any case, in the wake of that, I did indeed go up to re-check out the spot. As expected, the rendering of the Plasmatics logo (alongside a cartoony depiction of Wendy O. Williams brandishing a signature chainsaw next to Richie Stotts’ signature Flying V guitar, bisected and spurting blood) had long-since been painted over. I snapped some pics, but never got around to posting them here.
Over this past weekend, however, my son, Oliver, and I went back up to that neck of the woods, specifically for the purposes of checking out the Museum of the City of New York’s excellent “New York, New Music” exhibit (which is still there through September, incidentally). On the way, we got off the 6 train at 96th and Lex and walked up to Park Avenue and down the hill of that very tributary up to East 106th.
Here’s that same wall here in 2022. That's me in front, looking like I just spotted something unspeakable happening just off-camera.
A photographer named Peter Bennett captured the shot below in 1983, presumably from within (or on top?) of 770 Broadway (formerly Wannamaker's and later K-Mart, and allegedly soon-to-be Wegman's). I spotted it on Facebook, and it stopped me dead in my tracks, as they say.
Here we're looking east over Astor Place and its surrounding, East Village environs. This was obviously taken well before the Cooper Union dormitory was erected in 1992, before the comparatively squat NYU building on the left was razed to accommodate the giant Death Star/Rubik's Cube building went up, before the shampoo bottle condo tower was built in the southernly parking lot, before the corner of St. Marks & Third was razed and before the Gringo mural was painted over.
This is the Astor Place I fell in love with. Click on it to enlarge. For more of Bennett's work, but sure to check out his website.
I was shocked and saddened to learn, this morning, of the passing of bona fide New York City Punk legend, Howie Pyro (above, as captured by Manel Armengol). There was certainly nobody cooler, but he was also just a genuinely nice, funny and inclusive guy. He actually left a couple of comments on this blog, over the years.
Rest In Peace, sir.
Here he is on bass detail with DGeneration in 1994 at Irving Plaza.
Just a quick follow-up to this post. Being that this photo keeps getting strangely invoked every couple of years, I figured I’d dig out the negative to make some better prints of it. My friend Howard (invoked here, a million years ago) actually expressed interest in getting a blown-up print of it, so that’s what I did. Honestly, it’s a wee bit darker than I’d prefer, but it’s still pretty nice. I made a few, so if you’re interested, as well, do let me know.
Once again, here in 2022, the space that once was Magickal Childe at 35 West 19th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues is now slated to open up in May as Vinyl Steakhouse. Find out more about that venture right here.
Meanwhile, here's a glimpse of Magickal Childe in it's hellfire-flecked heyday...
ADDENDUM:In searching around, I also happened upon this video ... an homage to Magickal Childe by an ensemble called Cruz Machine. My photo again appears here about three minutes in, wherein they try to conjure its return...(and still I get no credit). Anyway, enjoy...
I’ve spoken about the late Nelson Sullivan here many times before, but in a nutshell, he was this sort of visionary character who took tremendous pains to document his life and his experiences on video, which, circa the `80s when he was doing so, involved some comparatively unwieldly equipment.
This particular strip below was actually shot be Nelson on Super8 film, which is not quite as clunky an affair as video. In any case, there isn’t a date on this, but here Nelson captures some revealing footage of Greenwich Village and what is now frequently referred to as “the West Village” (usually incorrectly) from the 1970's. It’s striking how some aspects of it don’t look that different, even this many decades later. Here’s the official description.
Super 8 films shot by Nelson Sullivan on and around Christopher Street in the 1970s. These five reels feature shots of everyday life, focusing on pedestrians, traffic, and the buildings in the area, beginning with a long shot of the vacant Stonewall Inn. Other scenes feature Paws and Claws pet shop, the intersection of Christopher and Gay Street, Tor Restaurant, Rastro Importers (383 Bleecker Street), Frankel Pharmacy, Village Cigars, Riker's, the Christopher Street-Sheridan Square 1 Train station, St. Veronica's Church, and the inside of the former post office at 152 Christopher Street. The final reel begins on the uptown platform of the 1 station, where Nelson boards the train and rides for several stops before the film runs out.
As mentioned in this post, I was never a weed guy. It just didn’t suit my sensibility. And I just never cared for the dumb culture around it. I find it continually depressing that people continue to get so fired up (pardon the pun) about a stupid plant. But, then, I’m an avowed beer-drinker, so there’s me being a filthy hypocrite, once again.
In any case, were the uptick in depressing “hemp shops” around the downtown Manhattan environs not quite enough, yesterday, April 20th, was “420,” the unofficial marijuana holiday. If you’re curious about the dopey (again, pardon the pun) etymology of this holiday, may I steer you to this article. Personally, I just don’t give a fuck and find it all very moronic and dispiriting.
This morning, on my way to work, I took my usual turn into Washington Square Park – itself frequently already in a state of deplorable dishevelment – to witness first-hand the fallout of “420.” It looked like London after the fucking Blitz.
Clean up after yourselves, you fucking stoner shitheads.
At some point in the spring or summer of about 1997, I snapped a picture of the storefront at 35 West 19th Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, which was a shop called Magickal Childe. I’ve spoken about it before, here, quite a few times, but Magickal Childe was essentially an occult emporium, selling esoteric books and black magic knickknacks for spells, rituals, ceremonies, conjurings and the like. It was the perfect gift shop for all the Aleister Crowley acolytes in your family. A lot of folks spoke about Magickal Childe in hushed, ominous tones, but I never felt any sense of dread or unease in the place. The one item I remember actively buying there was an inverted pentagram pendant because,….well… METAL!
Personally speaking, Magickal Childe, to me, always embodied that now-rarefied essence of New York City. It was this wildly niche sorta concern that catered to a very specific demographic, but was still a thriving venture, very much an “only in New York” sorta place. It was there for several years, as I remember, until it closed in 1999, in the wake of the death of its proprietor, a guy named Herman. The vacated space at 35 West 19th Street became a tapas restaurant, as reported here, named Sala in 2004 and lasted until the pandemic forced its closure in 2020. Today, the space is in transition, but there are signs in the window that say “VINYL STEAKHOUSE,” suggesting a strange amalgam of record store and steak joint. Not quite sure how that works, but I being that I like both records and red meat, I wish them all success.
In any case, back in 1997, I was genuinely fascinated with Magickal Childe, so I snapped that picture. Those with a sharp eye for detail might notice that I even appear in the photograph, reflected in a mirror in the center of the shop’s window (just underneath and slightly to the left of the gold pentagram). I had no agenda in capturing the image beyond thinking it just looked cool.
Some years went by, and I ended up posting the photograph, along with several others, on an entry on this stupid blog under the title “Things That Are Not There.” As it turns out, photographs of Magickal Childe must be few and far between, as people started to reach out to me about it. I fielded a request from one reader to sell a print of it to him. I think I just ended up sending him a copy of it free of charge. I didn’t think much of it.
Years after that, some readers might remember my laborious search for the location of a certain photograph of the Lunachicks. When I finally got in touch with the photographer, a guy named Joe Dilworth, he graciously emailed me the contact sheet with the mystery photo in it. Along with the answer to my quest, that contact sheet also boasted a shot of the Lunachicks chatting with this guy who looked strangely familiar. I swiftly deduced that the guy in question was the same kid depicted in some age-old hardcore matinee photos by Drew Carolan. I realize this is all very confusing, but bear with me. As if on cue, that kid — named Anderson Slade — bizarrely got in touch with me out of the blue on Facebook. By this point, he was no longer a little punk rock kid from Staten Island, but now an aspiring actor and filmmaker who was putting together a documentary about Magickal Childe and wanted to use my photograph. I said “sure,” and then let him know about the photo of him and the Lunachicks, which blew his mind. You can read a more detailed about that whole chapter here.
Slade’s documentary, entitled “Horrible Herman’s Warlock Shop,” was in development for quite a while, and even had some trailers posted on YouTube, but those have since been taken down and there’s no news of any release dates. Anderson Slade is also no longer on Facebook. The plot thickened.
Cut to 2022. With the wife in London for the London Book Fair, I am suddenly free to watch stuff on television that I wouldn’t normally be able to. As such, I start watching “Sons of Sam: Descent into Darkness,” a four-part documentary series on Netflix that explores one investigative reporter’s feverish quest to break the story that David “Son of Sam" Berkowitz did not act alone. Even as a sniveling ten year old during the summer of 1977, I still vividly remember the atmosphere of paranoia that gripped New York City, so have always been fascinated with the story. Here’s the trailer…
In any case, halfway through the first episode, they start discussing the uptick in fascination with the occult in the `70s, stemming from disillusionment with the hippy ideal of the late `60s. In doing so, they start showing images of Wiccan ceremonies, illustrations from the Rosicrucian secret histories of the world, Anton LaVey’s Church of Satan, Aleister Crowley and …. fleetingly … MY PHOTOGRAPH OF MAGICKAL CHILDE.
I instantly sat up from my bowl of General Tso’s chicken and hit pause. What the fuck, Netflix? I don’t remember being asked about use in any Son of Sam doc. Laughably, I suddenly felt sort of violated, but then…. given the already-established paucity of images of the exterior of Magickal Childe, outside of screenshots from the Nicholas Cage film “Vampire’s Kiss” in which the shop makes a cameo, mine seems to be the first thing that comes up in a Google image search. Being no stranger to liberally appropriating images for this blog, I shouldn’t be surprised. But still, having a rinkydink blog post a pic without due credit is one thing — use in a major feature film on Netflix is another.
I started combing through my emails, with friends' voices in my head shouting “you can SUE them!” I wasn’t really interested in any financial gain from this, I was just kind of curious how they found it and a little hurt that they didn’t see fit to ask me if they could use it.
Then I figured it out.
Chalk it up to the fog of the pandemic or the steady erosion of my short-term memory, but in July of 2020, a company called “Radical Media” apparently reached out to me to say they were putting together “a documentary series for Netflix that features a storyline about the occult presence in NYC back in the 1970s and 80s, and we wanted to feature a photograph of the occult book shop Magickal Childe. It turns our there are very few photographs easily accessible, but a photo that you took of the storefront is one that comes up and is of good quality."
Evidently, I said “sure, no problem,” and even signed a release. I did not charge them anything for the use. They asked how I’d like to be credited, and apparently I wrote “Alex S./Flaming Pablum” in the email.
I watched the first episode to the end credits. Under the “photos courtesy of…” section, neither my name nor my blog’s dumb name came up. I watched the second, third and final episodes. A credit was never mentioned. I guess my signed release absolved them of that necessity, but that still kind of bummed me out.
That petty affront notwithstanding, I still recommend “Sons of Sam.” If you’re a bona fide New Yorker and a true crime buff, it’s a fascinating series, however grim (what? you were expecting frivolity??)
I was running errands earlier this week, and found myself not far from 35 West 19th Street, so took a short detour to revisit it.
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