WAIT!
It’s not what you think!
Honestly, this would not be my preferred distribution forum for such news or personal drama. Besides, pregnant without intercourse? Absolutely no fun at all and not MY preferred means to that end! Rather, I am participating in a very animated online discussion on Canadian music with such columnar luminaries as the Globe & Mail’s Carl Wilson, the National Post’s Aaron Wherry, the Ottawa Citizen’s Peter Simpson, and other music geeks like me. Blame the CBC, if you want to know why. Indeed Fat Citizen, PWI’s host, has kindly laid it all out for you on his site, so check it out. He even has pictures, the technology for which I have yet to master.
Cheers & Happy St. Patrick’s!
Carol
Thursday, March 17, 2005
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Music Review: Retriever
Title: Retriever
Artist: Ron Sexsmith
Label: Sony
Year: 2004
Retriever is a perfect record. Buy it. Now. Ron Sexsmith is every great pop songwriter distilled into one: Burt Bacharach, Paul McCartney, Matthew Sweet, Elvis Costello, Joe Pernice. No exaggeration. No flag waving. No touting CanCon. The heart wrenching beauty of “Tomorrow in Her Eyes” reigns in enough to save itself from Macca schmaltz. Coy turns of phrase in “Imaginary Friends” rivals Costello, but the latter’s spitting cynicism is tapered by Sexsmith’s grounded gentleness. “Happiness” splits the darkest face into a sunny smile dispelling the myth that great pop must have a dark underbelly. Retriever fails wonderfully on the saccharine front delivering no one to a dentist due to sugary rot. Indeed, it’s the perfect record to deliver the winter weary through the dog ends of the season.
For more music information, visit AMG All Music Guide
Artist: Ron Sexsmith
Label: Sony
Year: 2004
Retriever is a perfect record. Buy it. Now. Ron Sexsmith is every great pop songwriter distilled into one: Burt Bacharach, Paul McCartney, Matthew Sweet, Elvis Costello, Joe Pernice. No exaggeration. No flag waving. No touting CanCon. The heart wrenching beauty of “Tomorrow in Her Eyes” reigns in enough to save itself from Macca schmaltz. Coy turns of phrase in “Imaginary Friends” rivals Costello, but the latter’s spitting cynicism is tapered by Sexsmith’s grounded gentleness. “Happiness” splits the darkest face into a sunny smile dispelling the myth that great pop must have a dark underbelly. Retriever fails wonderfully on the saccharine front delivering no one to a dentist due to sugary rot. Indeed, it’s the perfect record to deliver the winter weary through the dog ends of the season.
For more music information, visit AMG All Music Guide
Monday, March 14, 2005
The Famous Five 50
So Toronto’s Now Magazine’s John Akpata doesn’t think it’s appropriate to have Emily Murphy on Canada’s fifty dollar bill because she held questionable views with regards to minorities. Murphy, by the way, is one of the “Famous Five” — along with Irene Parlby, Henrietta Muir Edwards, Louise McKinney, Nellie McClung — who fought to have women legally considered persons in the constitution. Up till this point (1930) we weren't. As a result of their success, women could be elected in Parliament and hold seats in the Senate.
Under the pseudonym “Janey Canuck”, Murphy wrote in venerable Canadian publications like Maclean’s hateful articles disparaging Asians, Blacks, Jews and Eastern Europeans who chose to make Alberta home . Of course this is unfortunate, but not without precedent.
The suffragette movement in the states included white women who wanted the vote before black men. Fortunately abolitionists made up a larger part of the movement, but one cannot forget the past. In England, too, the vote for women split the Pankhursts leaving Sylvia to fight for rights of working class women with Labour party leader Keir Harding while her mother and sister campaigned to get the vote for rich conservative white women.
The fight for human and civil rights has never been pretty or pure. It still isn’t.
Akpata agrees that Murphy was a woman of her time. As was Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King who thought Hitler wasn’t such a bad guy and under whose watch Canada returned boatloads of Jews to their doom. Mr. King graces the $50 bill . No campaign to rub that guy out. Just Murphy.
Or what about H.R.H. Queen Elizabeth II, Queen of Canada. Yes, that is one of her many titles. Despite the fact that we are a sovereign nation with our own nationalized constitution, the matron of the family most responsible for atrocities at home and abroad graces not only our bank notes, but our coins and our stamps. Indeed, Akpata sees nothing strange about the Bank of Canada spending tax dollars changing the image of the Queen because some nutcase with a magnifying glass saw the “devil” in her hair.
No. Akpata would rather one of the few women officially acknowledged for furthering women’s rights in our colonial nation erased from official history, which is replete with celebrated and acknowledged drunks, racists, thieves and misogynists.
Mr. Akpata would like to render Mrs. Murphy persona non grata.
Some things never fucking change.
Under the pseudonym “Janey Canuck”, Murphy wrote in venerable Canadian publications like Maclean’s hateful articles disparaging Asians, Blacks, Jews and Eastern Europeans who chose to make Alberta home . Of course this is unfortunate, but not without precedent.
The suffragette movement in the states included white women who wanted the vote before black men. Fortunately abolitionists made up a larger part of the movement, but one cannot forget the past. In England, too, the vote for women split the Pankhursts leaving Sylvia to fight for rights of working class women with Labour party leader Keir Harding while her mother and sister campaigned to get the vote for rich conservative white women.
The fight for human and civil rights has never been pretty or pure. It still isn’t.
Akpata agrees that Murphy was a woman of her time. As was Prime Minister William Lyon Mackenzie King who thought Hitler wasn’t such a bad guy and under whose watch Canada returned boatloads of Jews to their doom. Mr. King graces the $50 bill . No campaign to rub that guy out. Just Murphy.
Or what about H.R.H. Queen Elizabeth II, Queen of Canada. Yes, that is one of her many titles. Despite the fact that we are a sovereign nation with our own nationalized constitution, the matron of the family most responsible for atrocities at home and abroad graces not only our bank notes, but our coins and our stamps. Indeed, Akpata sees nothing strange about the Bank of Canada spending tax dollars changing the image of the Queen because some nutcase with a magnifying glass saw the “devil” in her hair.
No. Akpata would rather one of the few women officially acknowledged for furthering women’s rights in our colonial nation erased from official history, which is replete with celebrated and acknowledged drunks, racists, thieves and misogynists.
Mr. Akpata would like to render Mrs. Murphy persona non grata.
Some things never fucking change.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Book Review: A Complicated Kindness
Title: A Complicated Kindness
Author: Marion Toews
Publisher: Knopf Canada
Year: 2004
Where to start. Well, I hate coming of age stories. I’ve read two that I’ve liked: Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations and Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex. There remain only two. Problem is I don’t know to what degree I dislike Winnipeg author Marion Toews third book, A Complicated Kindness.
The narrator, 16 year old Nomi Nickle, tells us her version of her life as a Mennonite girl growing up in rural Manitoba with her family through flashbacks and the present tense; a natural structure. From the outset we learn that sister Tash has left followed by mother Trudie. Her depressed father Ray and Nomi reside together in the family home. The bulk of the book attempts to explain how this situation came to be.
Technically, this is a fine book; it meets all the requirements of how a book ought to be written. A solid resume: Marion, you get the job.
But does it grab me? Was I moved? Was I compelled to crawl into the character’s world when I crawled into bed? No. Even the dark humour that reviewers raved about failed to elicit a chuckle; I laughed once at a reference to Air Supply. Nevertheless, I slogged through to give Canada’s critical and award-wining darling a fair read.
Then rabbits starting appearing out of hats. First it was French horns, then affairs, then blackmailing; it just got ugly and the shunning began. A tidy but complicated ending to a tidy and depressing book.
I really need to read something funny now.
Author: Marion Toews
Publisher: Knopf Canada
Year: 2004
Where to start. Well, I hate coming of age stories. I’ve read two that I’ve liked: Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations and Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex. There remain only two. Problem is I don’t know to what degree I dislike Winnipeg author Marion Toews third book, A Complicated Kindness.
The narrator, 16 year old Nomi Nickle, tells us her version of her life as a Mennonite girl growing up in rural Manitoba with her family through flashbacks and the present tense; a natural structure. From the outset we learn that sister Tash has left followed by mother Trudie. Her depressed father Ray and Nomi reside together in the family home. The bulk of the book attempts to explain how this situation came to be.
Technically, this is a fine book; it meets all the requirements of how a book ought to be written. A solid resume: Marion, you get the job.
But does it grab me? Was I moved? Was I compelled to crawl into the character’s world when I crawled into bed? No. Even the dark humour that reviewers raved about failed to elicit a chuckle; I laughed once at a reference to Air Supply. Nevertheless, I slogged through to give Canada’s critical and award-wining darling a fair read.
Then rabbits starting appearing out of hats. First it was French horns, then affairs, then blackmailing; it just got ugly and the shunning began. A tidy but complicated ending to a tidy and depressing book.
I really need to read something funny now.
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Book Review: Passage
A bit of preamble: Despite the links to Amazon, I encourage you, dear reader, to patronize your local independent book shops.
Title: Passage
Author: Connie Willis
Publisher: Bantam
Year: 2001
Now boarding for the most needlessly longest read I’ve have in a while. Connie Willis’ Passage should have seen another edit before allowed on the lido deck. There’s far too much detail that isn’t used to warrant this amount of paper between two covers.
Briefly, Passages is about a psychologist Dr. Joanna Lander’s research into near death experiences (NDE). She works with a new neurologist, Dr. Richard Wright, who hopes to make a scientific breakthrough by manufacturing the NDE and prove that it is a survival mechanism. Throughout we meet New Age-y colleagues, desperate parents, reticent volunteers, overworked nurses, and critically sick children. Each stereotype is fully documented. To a fault. Thankfully, though, Willis steers clear of overt love subplots.
Willis has an interesting idea, but doesn’t investigate it thoroughly. Lander spends too much time running around avoiding people, pagers, and navigating the hospital’s labyrinth. Willis should have used these themes creatively rather than sacrifice them to sentiment. Despite the so-called “cutting-edge technology” she’s involved with, we witness nary an email nor barely a cell phone. The tools to weave a story about messages, passages, and plane of existence remain simply not used, rendering the fabric weak. As it stands, the books reads like a TV show; I could even place the commercial breaks. Not a good sign.
Long form is not this author’s strength. I’ve also read Doomsday Book which also disappointed. My first exposure to her work was “Even The Queen”, a concise, wry, and smart short story about menstruation which appeared in Impossible Things. I hoped that experience could be replicated; it wasn’t.
Title: Passage
Author: Connie Willis
Publisher: Bantam
Year: 2001
Now boarding for the most needlessly longest read I’ve have in a while. Connie Willis’ Passage should have seen another edit before allowed on the lido deck. There’s far too much detail that isn’t used to warrant this amount of paper between two covers.
Briefly, Passages is about a psychologist Dr. Joanna Lander’s research into near death experiences (NDE). She works with a new neurologist, Dr. Richard Wright, who hopes to make a scientific breakthrough by manufacturing the NDE and prove that it is a survival mechanism. Throughout we meet New Age-y colleagues, desperate parents, reticent volunteers, overworked nurses, and critically sick children. Each stereotype is fully documented. To a fault. Thankfully, though, Willis steers clear of overt love subplots.
Willis has an interesting idea, but doesn’t investigate it thoroughly. Lander spends too much time running around avoiding people, pagers, and navigating the hospital’s labyrinth. Willis should have used these themes creatively rather than sacrifice them to sentiment. Despite the so-called “cutting-edge technology” she’s involved with, we witness nary an email nor barely a cell phone. The tools to weave a story about messages, passages, and plane of existence remain simply not used, rendering the fabric weak. As it stands, the books reads like a TV show; I could even place the commercial breaks. Not a good sign.
Long form is not this author’s strength. I’ve also read Doomsday Book which also disappointed. My first exposure to her work was “Even The Queen”, a concise, wry, and smart short story about menstruation which appeared in Impossible Things. I hoped that experience could be replicated; it wasn’t.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Movie Review: Finding Neverland
Finding Neverland
Director: Mark Forster
Writers: Allan Knee (play), David Magee
Fear, information, and control. Parents use all three tactics to raise their kids. Fear has created “play dates”, schedules, filters. The dissemination of information available all day everyday sends parents crazy with fear that they feel they ought to tell their offspring everything in “preparation” for the “real world”. This may well stem from peoples fear of what the neighbours might think as opposed to what their children might think; if they manage that feat at all. So we have a generation of children and teenagers raised by paranoid Boomers ready to be adults, but who haven’t yet been kids.
You remember kids, right? They’re those short people under the age of twelve (when they get weird and all bets are off) who run outside, yell, scream, torture their siblings, skid their knees, dirty their clothes, ring doorbells then run away. Memories of a simpler time when child molesters and ax murders hadn’t been invented yet.
SCRATCH.
Ok, you caught me. Clever monkey. But what has that got to do with Finding Neverland? Everything. Intentionally or not, Mark Forster (Monsters Ball) has directed a film about the misery of growing up without the magic of being a kid.
The story revolves around play write Sir James Mathew Barrie (Johnny Depp), his friendship with widow Sylvia Llewelyn Davies (Kate Winslet) and her four young sons. The boisterous family serves as his muse for Peter Pan and creative release from his latest theatrical flop. They also serve as contrast to Barrie’s now lifeless marriage to social climbing Mary (Radha Mitchell) and the moneyed patrons that flock to his plays. In turn, Barrie foils attempts made by the children’s grandmother (Julie Christie) at “discipline and order”.
It would be easy to demonize the wife and the grandmother who seem ready to snuff out imagination and whimsy. As the picture progresses, we find that their rigidity is simply a protective wall around what they’re afraid to lose. Unfortunately, walls block out the very nutrients that help things grow: children, imagination, love. In short, sheltering stilts.
Finding Neverland is billed as a “feel good movie” and there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, its much needed as an antidote to the saccharine pap that usually bears that moniker. Forster ably alternates between reality and fantasy without losing track of either. His images evoke the paintings of John William Waterhouse who captured a romantic vision of an Arthurian past. Some would argue that this vision never existed and perpetuates a myth. I say Bah! Magic and myth never hurt anyone.
It may be “proper”, “correct”, “adult”, and “realistic” to write off whimsy. It’s not part of the everyday. And that’s the problem. Cutting that out of your imagination makes you old, boring, and dried up. Worse yet, adult.
Now go play outside.
More movie reviews from my deep dark freelance past:
No Man’s Land
A Knights Tale
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin
Director: Mark Forster
Writers: Allan Knee (play), David Magee
Fear, information, and control. Parents use all three tactics to raise their kids. Fear has created “play dates”, schedules, filters. The dissemination of information available all day everyday sends parents crazy with fear that they feel they ought to tell their offspring everything in “preparation” for the “real world”. This may well stem from peoples fear of what the neighbours might think as opposed to what their children might think; if they manage that feat at all. So we have a generation of children and teenagers raised by paranoid Boomers ready to be adults, but who haven’t yet been kids.
You remember kids, right? They’re those short people under the age of twelve (when they get weird and all bets are off) who run outside, yell, scream, torture their siblings, skid their knees, dirty their clothes, ring doorbells then run away. Memories of a simpler time when child molesters and ax murders hadn’t been invented yet.
SCRATCH.
Ok, you caught me. Clever monkey. But what has that got to do with Finding Neverland? Everything. Intentionally or not, Mark Forster (Monsters Ball) has directed a film about the misery of growing up without the magic of being a kid.
The story revolves around play write Sir James Mathew Barrie (Johnny Depp), his friendship with widow Sylvia Llewelyn Davies (Kate Winslet) and her four young sons. The boisterous family serves as his muse for Peter Pan and creative release from his latest theatrical flop. They also serve as contrast to Barrie’s now lifeless marriage to social climbing Mary (Radha Mitchell) and the moneyed patrons that flock to his plays. In turn, Barrie foils attempts made by the children’s grandmother (Julie Christie) at “discipline and order”.
It would be easy to demonize the wife and the grandmother who seem ready to snuff out imagination and whimsy. As the picture progresses, we find that their rigidity is simply a protective wall around what they’re afraid to lose. Unfortunately, walls block out the very nutrients that help things grow: children, imagination, love. In short, sheltering stilts.
Finding Neverland is billed as a “feel good movie” and there’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, its much needed as an antidote to the saccharine pap that usually bears that moniker. Forster ably alternates between reality and fantasy without losing track of either. His images evoke the paintings of John William Waterhouse who captured a romantic vision of an Arthurian past. Some would argue that this vision never existed and perpetuates a myth. I say Bah! Magic and myth never hurt anyone.
It may be “proper”, “correct”, “adult”, and “realistic” to write off whimsy. It’s not part of the everyday. And that’s the problem. Cutting that out of your imagination makes you old, boring, and dried up. Worse yet, adult.
Now go play outside.
More movie reviews from my deep dark freelance past:
No Man’s Land
A Knights Tale
Captain Corelli’s Mandolin
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
A Rock Fan's Guide to NYC
“So you wanna be a rock and roll star…buy an electric guitar and learn how to play” Too much work for me. Plus, I’m not sure I could handle the whole male groupie thing; it could get tiring after a while. After all my time and money invested in records and CDs, my fate as a rock and roll fan/geek is pretty much sealed by now. Patti Smith can breathe a sigh of relief.
The allure of haunting the ‘hoods of my musical heroes remains. They span the continent, but New York, like it or not, shines the brightest right now spawning the likes of The Strokes and Interpol – darlings of the critical set. Trends come and go, but Lady Liberty always has something up her sleeve. Rock fans know this, of course, but where does one start? There’s a reason why it’s called the Big Apple.
Good walking shoes and street savvy will take you anywhere you want to go safely. New York isn’t that scary when you use common sense. Accommodation can be cheap, clean, and safe at the YMCA . I stayed at the West Side YMCA (5 63rd Street), steps away from Central Park and only a couple blocks from the Columbus Circle subway stop.
The subway is the best way for getting around town and the best bet for a stay of four days or more is the Metro card. For less than $20 (USD), it gets you on all buses and subways. I would have given my right arm for a “You are here” X to put on the subway map, but that’s part of the charm. You must walk around and pay attention. Don’t be shy – New Yorkers read the map, too. If you’re as lucky as I, you and your fellow passengers will be serenaded by a talented violin playing homeboy. Who needs the Lincoln Center?
Walking is the second best way for gawking at Gotham. Serendipity guided me to a lot of places of rock interest. Starting in my own “neighbourhood”, I explored Central Park. A quick stroll away was Strawberry Fields, the section of the acreage Yoko Ono dedicated to John Lennon’s memory. The tasteful garden orbits the “Imagine” mosaic on the ground. You won’t miss it as there’s always someone taking snapshots. The couple liked to stroll in this area of the park, which is close to the Dakota (W. 72nd Street). As you recall, this was where Lennon was shot and where Ono still resides. Fans discreetly take photos and pay quiet homage in front of this gorgeous building.
Pop music, that yummy sticky confection, got its birth in Tin Pan Alley. This was the area responsible for Gershwin, Hammerstein, and other show tune greats. None were axemen, but the Brill Building should be considered among the Holy Temples of rock music. Located at 1619 Broadway, the unassuming office building housed legendary songwriting teams like Gerry Goffin and Carole King (“Chains”); Cynthia Weil and Barry Mann (“Walking In The Rain”); and Leiber and Stoller (“Jailhouse Rock”). Without these talented folks, there may not have been Elvis, The Beatles, or The Ramones. Trust me - it’s all right there in the liner notes.
Right next door to the Brill Building is the Colony Music Centre housing what appears to be the most comprehensive inventory of Broadway sheet music anywhere. The store set up shop in 1948 on 52nd Street, which at the time was known as Swing Street. Squeeze through the narrow aisles and you’ll find Beatles and other rock memorabilia locked behind glass cases. Look up and you’ll see the signed guitars of many of the genres’ greats. The store itself has an interesting vibe. As I discreetly wandered around, earnest theatrical hopefuls fingered the sheets looking for that key piece of music that would give them the elusive break - if you can make it here, indeed.
The Chelsea Hotel at 222 W. 23rd Street remains an authentic bohemian mecca worthy of visiting regardless of any rock notoriety. Sid and Nancy didn’t exactly camp out for the cheap rates. Their checking out was a bit unorthodox, but that’s rock and roll. The gorgeous façade merely hints at the eclectic lobby. Art work from the landmark’s various residents welcome you. It’s the sort of place where you’ll hear muted yet animated discussion on Kant rather than Cats.
Greenwich Village is crammed with cramped, dusty record shops. Since New York is the birth place for so many rock legends, first issues, rare 7-inches, and hard to find pressings grace the walls and bins of many stores. Highlights include Bleeker Street Records (239 Bleeker), Rockit Science, and Underground Records. You’ll pick your pocket clean of green in St. Mark’s Sounds (20 St. Mark’s Place) and Other Music (15 E. 4th St.). Joke all you want – you really are six degrees separated from Lou Reed and regrettably, a few more degrees from Joey Ramone. Dollar for dollar, prices match those in Toronto and more for collectibles. And remember, you’re in New York, so stay away from the ubiquitous chain stores.
The East Village, as it is now known, is undergoing a renaissance. For good or ill, gentrification has hit bringing moneyed tenants and tourists. While this is good for business, the history gets façade-ed away. Bobby Pinn (AKA: Ron Colinear) runs Rock Junket, “NYC’s original rock and roll walking tour”. For $20 (USD) and two hours, he regales you with tales of legendary rock clubs, the last known residence of rocking residents, and trivia only a geek could love! Originally from Pennsylvania, Pinn followed his rock muse to the Big Apple, “I wasn’t going to see Keith Richards walking the streets of Philly!” The next thirteen years he lived the rock and roll life working for various large and small record companies. The East Village brims with history right before your eyes, you just wouldn’t know if Pinn didn’t point it out. The sites range from Joey Ramone’s last residence, St Mark’ Place; the site of the Fillmore East; the building used for Led Zeppelin’s album Physical Graffiti; Charlie Parker’s home, Gem Spa, where the New York Doll’s shot their first album cover; and Madonna’s first New York apartment. Pinn also points out the cool place to shop for clothes, music, food, and beer. Where rock history spreads across Manhattan, Rock Junket follows with tours planned for the West Village, Central Park, Harlem, and Union Square.
The punk rock pilgrimage must be made to CBGBs (315 Bowery). The venue is divided in two – the club and the gallery. At CB Gallery, you can down cold brew (I recommend Original Sin Cider) and purchase various t-shirts, stickers, and underwear. My acquisition of the LP sized messenger bag was my best ever purchase. At the bar next door, however, is where the real magic happens. The shadows mask the seedy nature of the club. Stickers and posters plaster the latest gigs all over the walls. Cracks inch across the vinyl seats. The band that blasted through the speakers that night hailed from Russia and received polite applause from the thin Sunday crowd. I expected no less, frankly. When the house lights went up, I quickly made my way to the stage. As I snapped away frames of film, I watched while these guys packed away like every rock band in the history of the club. The New York Dolls, the Voidoids, Blondie – before the fame when they had to tear down their own drums, talk to the sweaty fans, and drink the cheap beer. The lack of official memorial is memorial in itself - the continuance of young punk rock hopefuls.
The good, bad, ugly, and just plain weird in rock music has always been captured best on record – be it tape, vinyl or CD. Don’t believe me? Check out the WFMU Record Fair, but make a trip to the ATM first – despite what you see, they don’t take plastic. Running for about X years, the fair is one of a few fundraising endeavors for WFMU FM. Broadcasting from Jersey City, NJ, the freeform radio station supports itself solely on listener donations. Each year, it holds an on-air funding drive that brings in a bulk of their operating budget. In May and November, WFMU hosts a record fair that has become the largest of its kind on the East Coast, if not North America. Music and program director, Brian Turner says the event attracts vendors from around world. Collectors pay $20 for a weekend long pass or $5/day. Started in the basement of a church, the three day sale has grown to fill the Metropolitan Pavilion (125 W. 18th Street) and attracts about 2,000 people. Although vinyl doesn’t travel well by plane, my discipline wavered when I picked up some novel “gotta haves” – 60s Montreal’s psyche-punk band, The Haunted‘s LP I’m Just Gonna Blow My Little Mind to Bits, a 1956 release called Music to Break a Lease, and Katie Lee’s Songs of Couch and Consultation featuring such hits as “Shrinker Man”, “Repressed Hostility Blues”, and “Stay as Sick as You Are”. Original hits by the original stars, indeed!
After blowing the wad on music, cheap food is next on the list. And, like music, this is New York so steer clear of the Mc-chains; there’s tons of local eateries downtown. Gray’s Papaya (W. 8th St. and 6th Ave.) does franks, only franks and is a great deal. For $2.45 (USD), they serve up two dogs and papaya juice – a match made in heaven and the sweetest dog you’ll ever meet. When wandering through Greenwich Village, set your shopping down for tasty and filling Mexican at Flying Burritos (165 W. 4th St.). I enjoyed the vegetarian Sol Burrito with a frozen margarita. Great punk atmosphere and, in keeping with that ethos, they only take cash.
The clock ticks to 9 pm, you’re fed and watered and ready for live music. Pick up the Village Voice and prepare to be overwhelmed! In the summer free music abounds in festivals hosted at Central Park and South Street Seaport . Bands generally play multiple nights at multiple clubs in the area; notables are Bowery Ballroom, Mercury Lounge, CBGB’s, Continental, and The Rodeo Bar. Word of advice – get your tickets early as bigger name acts sell out fast regardless of how often they play. Checking Pollstar's New York City listing and buying your tickets on line or over the phone are your best bets. Having friends in town is another!
You many not run into Keith Richards, but veteran punk Richard Hell still walks the streets. Indeed, this is why John Lennon chose to settle here. New York’s electricity runs through your veins and keeps you completely aware. The ordinariness of its status makes your head swim. Like a narcotic, you simply need more of the experience.
The allure of haunting the ‘hoods of my musical heroes remains. They span the continent, but New York, like it or not, shines the brightest right now spawning the likes of The Strokes and Interpol – darlings of the critical set. Trends come and go, but Lady Liberty always has something up her sleeve. Rock fans know this, of course, but where does one start? There’s a reason why it’s called the Big Apple.
Good walking shoes and street savvy will take you anywhere you want to go safely. New York isn’t that scary when you use common sense. Accommodation can be cheap, clean, and safe at the YMCA . I stayed at the West Side YMCA (5 63rd Street), steps away from Central Park and only a couple blocks from the Columbus Circle subway stop.
The subway is the best way for getting around town and the best bet for a stay of four days or more is the Metro card. For less than $20 (USD), it gets you on all buses and subways. I would have given my right arm for a “You are here” X to put on the subway map, but that’s part of the charm. You must walk around and pay attention. Don’t be shy – New Yorkers read the map, too. If you’re as lucky as I, you and your fellow passengers will be serenaded by a talented violin playing homeboy. Who needs the Lincoln Center?
Walking is the second best way for gawking at Gotham. Serendipity guided me to a lot of places of rock interest. Starting in my own “neighbourhood”, I explored Central Park. A quick stroll away was Strawberry Fields, the section of the acreage Yoko Ono dedicated to John Lennon’s memory. The tasteful garden orbits the “Imagine” mosaic on the ground. You won’t miss it as there’s always someone taking snapshots. The couple liked to stroll in this area of the park, which is close to the Dakota (W. 72nd Street). As you recall, this was where Lennon was shot and where Ono still resides. Fans discreetly take photos and pay quiet homage in front of this gorgeous building.
Pop music, that yummy sticky confection, got its birth in Tin Pan Alley. This was the area responsible for Gershwin, Hammerstein, and other show tune greats. None were axemen, but the Brill Building should be considered among the Holy Temples of rock music. Located at 1619 Broadway, the unassuming office building housed legendary songwriting teams like Gerry Goffin and Carole King (“Chains”); Cynthia Weil and Barry Mann (“Walking In The Rain”); and Leiber and Stoller (“Jailhouse Rock”). Without these talented folks, there may not have been Elvis, The Beatles, or The Ramones. Trust me - it’s all right there in the liner notes.
Right next door to the Brill Building is the Colony Music Centre housing what appears to be the most comprehensive inventory of Broadway sheet music anywhere. The store set up shop in 1948 on 52nd Street, which at the time was known as Swing Street. Squeeze through the narrow aisles and you’ll find Beatles and other rock memorabilia locked behind glass cases. Look up and you’ll see the signed guitars of many of the genres’ greats. The store itself has an interesting vibe. As I discreetly wandered around, earnest theatrical hopefuls fingered the sheets looking for that key piece of music that would give them the elusive break - if you can make it here, indeed.
The Chelsea Hotel at 222 W. 23rd Street remains an authentic bohemian mecca worthy of visiting regardless of any rock notoriety. Sid and Nancy didn’t exactly camp out for the cheap rates. Their checking out was a bit unorthodox, but that’s rock and roll. The gorgeous façade merely hints at the eclectic lobby. Art work from the landmark’s various residents welcome you. It’s the sort of place where you’ll hear muted yet animated discussion on Kant rather than Cats.
Greenwich Village is crammed with cramped, dusty record shops. Since New York is the birth place for so many rock legends, first issues, rare 7-inches, and hard to find pressings grace the walls and bins of many stores. Highlights include Bleeker Street Records (239 Bleeker), Rockit Science, and Underground Records. You’ll pick your pocket clean of green in St. Mark’s Sounds (20 St. Mark’s Place) and Other Music (15 E. 4th St.). Joke all you want – you really are six degrees separated from Lou Reed and regrettably, a few more degrees from Joey Ramone. Dollar for dollar, prices match those in Toronto and more for collectibles. And remember, you’re in New York, so stay away from the ubiquitous chain stores.
The East Village, as it is now known, is undergoing a renaissance. For good or ill, gentrification has hit bringing moneyed tenants and tourists. While this is good for business, the history gets façade-ed away. Bobby Pinn (AKA: Ron Colinear) runs Rock Junket, “NYC’s original rock and roll walking tour”. For $20 (USD) and two hours, he regales you with tales of legendary rock clubs, the last known residence of rocking residents, and trivia only a geek could love! Originally from Pennsylvania, Pinn followed his rock muse to the Big Apple, “I wasn’t going to see Keith Richards walking the streets of Philly!” The next thirteen years he lived the rock and roll life working for various large and small record companies. The East Village brims with history right before your eyes, you just wouldn’t know if Pinn didn’t point it out. The sites range from Joey Ramone’s last residence, St Mark’ Place; the site of the Fillmore East; the building used for Led Zeppelin’s album Physical Graffiti; Charlie Parker’s home, Gem Spa, where the New York Doll’s shot their first album cover; and Madonna’s first New York apartment. Pinn also points out the cool place to shop for clothes, music, food, and beer. Where rock history spreads across Manhattan, Rock Junket follows with tours planned for the West Village, Central Park, Harlem, and Union Square.
The punk rock pilgrimage must be made to CBGBs (315 Bowery). The venue is divided in two – the club and the gallery. At CB Gallery, you can down cold brew (I recommend Original Sin Cider) and purchase various t-shirts, stickers, and underwear. My acquisition of the LP sized messenger bag was my best ever purchase. At the bar next door, however, is where the real magic happens. The shadows mask the seedy nature of the club. Stickers and posters plaster the latest gigs all over the walls. Cracks inch across the vinyl seats. The band that blasted through the speakers that night hailed from Russia and received polite applause from the thin Sunday crowd. I expected no less, frankly. When the house lights went up, I quickly made my way to the stage. As I snapped away frames of film, I watched while these guys packed away like every rock band in the history of the club. The New York Dolls, the Voidoids, Blondie – before the fame when they had to tear down their own drums, talk to the sweaty fans, and drink the cheap beer. The lack of official memorial is memorial in itself - the continuance of young punk rock hopefuls.
The good, bad, ugly, and just plain weird in rock music has always been captured best on record – be it tape, vinyl or CD. Don’t believe me? Check out the WFMU Record Fair, but make a trip to the ATM first – despite what you see, they don’t take plastic. Running for about X years, the fair is one of a few fundraising endeavors for WFMU FM. Broadcasting from Jersey City, NJ, the freeform radio station supports itself solely on listener donations. Each year, it holds an on-air funding drive that brings in a bulk of their operating budget. In May and November, WFMU hosts a record fair that has become the largest of its kind on the East Coast, if not North America. Music and program director, Brian Turner says the event attracts vendors from around world. Collectors pay $20 for a weekend long pass or $5/day. Started in the basement of a church, the three day sale has grown to fill the Metropolitan Pavilion (125 W. 18th Street) and attracts about 2,000 people. Although vinyl doesn’t travel well by plane, my discipline wavered when I picked up some novel “gotta haves” – 60s Montreal’s psyche-punk band, The Haunted‘s LP I’m Just Gonna Blow My Little Mind to Bits, a 1956 release called Music to Break a Lease, and Katie Lee’s Songs of Couch and Consultation featuring such hits as “Shrinker Man”, “Repressed Hostility Blues”, and “Stay as Sick as You Are”. Original hits by the original stars, indeed!
After blowing the wad on music, cheap food is next on the list. And, like music, this is New York so steer clear of the Mc-chains; there’s tons of local eateries downtown. Gray’s Papaya (W. 8th St. and 6th Ave.) does franks, only franks and is a great deal. For $2.45 (USD), they serve up two dogs and papaya juice – a match made in heaven and the sweetest dog you’ll ever meet. When wandering through Greenwich Village, set your shopping down for tasty and filling Mexican at Flying Burritos (165 W. 4th St.). I enjoyed the vegetarian Sol Burrito with a frozen margarita. Great punk atmosphere and, in keeping with that ethos, they only take cash.
The clock ticks to 9 pm, you’re fed and watered and ready for live music. Pick up the Village Voice and prepare to be overwhelmed! In the summer free music abounds in festivals hosted at Central Park and South Street Seaport . Bands generally play multiple nights at multiple clubs in the area; notables are Bowery Ballroom, Mercury Lounge, CBGB’s, Continental, and The Rodeo Bar. Word of advice – get your tickets early as bigger name acts sell out fast regardless of how often they play. Checking Pollstar's New York City listing and buying your tickets on line or over the phone are your best bets. Having friends in town is another!
You many not run into Keith Richards, but veteran punk Richard Hell still walks the streets. Indeed, this is why John Lennon chose to settle here. New York’s electricity runs through your veins and keeps you completely aware. The ordinariness of its status makes your head swim. Like a narcotic, you simply need more of the experience.
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