JULY 16 & 17-LOWDOWN HUDSON BLUES FESTIVAL.

75 is the new 25. That’s what guitar guru Buddy Guy proved at this festival in 2012, playing with more passion and aggression then he did even 50 years before. This year’s edition, at the Brookfield Place Waterfront Plaza, looks to be memorable as well. Last night, the No BS! Brass Band, Lake Street Dive and Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings kicked things off. The No BS! Brass Band actually lives up to their name, putting on funky, high energy shows that could turn the biggest wallflower into James Brown circa ‘71. They cover a wide range of songs, from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” to Led Zeppelin’s “The Ocean.” Tonight features the killer triple bill of the James Carter Organ Trio, John Hiatt & The Combo and The Robert Cray Band. Like Buddy, Cray keeps getting better as he gets older. I’m sensing a major guitar jam at the end. Looks like there will be fireworks over the Hudson this year, after all.

6:00 PM-Brookfield Place Waterfront Plaza. http://www.brookfieldplaceny.com/blues

TONIGHT, JUNE 12-CELEBRATE ORNETTE: THE MUSIC OF ORNETTE COLEMAN FEATURING DENARDO COLEMAN VIBE.

All hail the man who put the “free” in Free Jazz. Celebrate Brooklyn! @ Prospect Park Bandshell honors composer/saxophonist Ornette Coleman with a show featuring his son, drummer Denardo Coleman and his band. If you always wanted to see Afrika Bambaataa and Bruce Hornsby on the same bill, here’s your chance. Other special guests scheduled to pay tribute include Laurie Anderson, James Blood Ulmer, Flea, Joe Lovano, Patti Smith and many more. This is why you live in New York City. Start standing on line to get in right now.

Beck

Morning Phase

When you first heard “Loser” in 1994, did you think Beck was going to be one of the preeminent musical artists of the next 20 years? And even remotely capable of creating a record like his latest, Morning Phase? Yeah, me neither.

“Loser” was a fun, goofy song from a guy who looked like the kid brother of the recently deceased Kurt Cobain. His future could have easily consisted of rotting in a 90’s dustbin with Crash Test Dummies. Then we heard the rest of Mellow Gold. Along with Superunknown, Ill Communication and others, it would become one of the albums of that summer, soundtracking our lives and memories of that time.

We know what happened next. A series of stellar records, leading up to his psych-folk masterpiece, 2002’s Sea Change. More quality material followed. Beck’s musical universe was vast enough to include Prince, The Beatles, LL Cool J, Nick Drake, The Muppets, etc.

Morning Phase is Beck’s first album since 2008’s Modern Guilt. That’s an eternity for someone who was one of the most prolific artists of the last two decades. For those expecting the horny 20-something from 1999’s endearingly sleazy, electro-funk Midnite Vultures, who insisted that you could “touch my ass if you’re qualified,” the 40-something Beck doesn’t party like it’s 1999 anymore.

This is an older, wiser version of the guy from Sea Change, who just made his equivalent of Sinatra Sings For Only The Lonely. A string section is prominent throughout, his father, the composer/conductor David Richard Campbell, leading an orchestra that uses strings as instruments of beauty and intensity. It’s similar to the dynamic Scott Walker and Wally Stott had on 1969’s Scott 3.

“Cycle” announces Beck’s long-awaited return with a 30 second orchestral overture, then leading into “Morning.” For his first album in six years, he greets us with “Woke up this morning from a long night in the storm.” “Woke up this morning …” is a popular phrase used in blues songs, and that’s fitting. With its pristine production and harmonies, Morning Phase is blues in Technicolor.

Jazz legend Stanley Clarke plays upright bass on “Morning,” and contributes electric bass to “Heart is a Drum,” where Beck is credited with “sound collage.”  The droopy sonic effects go perfectly with the lyrics, “Your eyes get stung by the rays of a sinking sun.”

“Say Goodbye” could be Beck singing under Neil Young’s Harvest Moon, with its mid-tempo bluegrass bounce and banjo of Fats Kaplan. The Ringo Starr drums and orchestral backdrop on “Unforgiven” resemble one of John Lennon’s collaborations with Phil Spector, but with a hint of Walking Dead menace in the strings. There’s more where that came from on “Wave,” which is just Beck’s voice and strings, ending with him repeating the word “isolation.” “Country Down” is another Harvest-flavored tune with weepy pedal steel guitar, that asks the question “What’s the use in being found?”

Appropriate for an album consumed with solitude, the majestic closer, “Waking Light” has Beck accompanying himself with himself, performing an ethereal background vocal that sounds like Carl Wilson’s ghost. He leaves us with the words, “When the morning comes to meet you, fill your eyes with waking light.” A watery guitar solo mutates into swirling feedback, the pastoral baroque world we’ve spent time in coming to an abrupt conclusion.

The suddenness of how the record ends perhaps might signal the start of another phase for Beck. Whatever he decides to do next, Morning Phase is the sound of an artist entering a new golden age. And nobody does sea changes like Beck.

Originally published by DAEP Media. 

The Hold Steady

Teeth Dreams

The Hold Steady wear ambition well. Their latest album Teeth Dreams features songs that take place in bars and clubs, much like they’ve done in the past. The difference is they now sound powerful enough to reach the cheap seats in arenas, thanks in part to the addition of guitarist Steve Selvidge. When keyboardist Franz Nicolay left in 2010, he took his E Street piano stylings (and modern hipster-Rollie Fingers moustache) with him. His departure left a sonic void that Selvidge and longtime guitarist Tad Kubler fill with punchy riffs and leads that breath new life into the band.

“I Hope This Whole Thing Didn’t Frighten You” kicks off Teeth Dreams with an R.E.M. circa Life’s Rich Pageant thumping drums/guitar arpeggio combo. In keeping with their new wide-screen scope, these Brooklyn by way of Minnesota dudes see fit to include a chorus that’s more Barclays Center than Knitting Factory.

“Spinners” is about a woman who likes to go dancing in clubs by herself, drunkenly grooving to catchy rock tunes much like this one. But the words in this particular ditty describe the underlying darkness of this scenario. Singer/lyricist Craig Finn conveys how life can be simultaneously too long and too short with “The same guy buys another round to let her know he’s interested. The nights go on forever now, but the morning comes up quick.” It brilliantly combines the milieu from a Hopper painting with the poppy contagiousness of 80’s one-hit wonder Tommy Tutone’s “867-5309/Jenny.”

Teeth Dreams may be The Hold Steady’s most axe-heavy record, but it still doesn’t skimp on the ballads, containing perhaps three of their best. The first, “The Ambassador” has the memorable line “A Bay City tire shop. It’s just a temporary stop. A touchdown on a trip that was mostly undefined.” It’s as if Purgatory was a Stephen Shore 70’s road trip photograph.

“On With the Business” continues the theme of disappointment and dashed hopes with the first line to end all first lines; “I’m really sorry about that prick in the parking lot. I wanted this to be our year.” That could’ve been Albert Brooks in Lost In America, which would’ve made an apt alternate title for this record.

“Wait A While” is a microcosm of Teeth Dreams, an up-tempo rocker layering acoustic guitars on top of electric, making for an epic, classic rock feel. Back when rock’n’roll radio still had some sway over the mainstream, this was the kind of song that could define a summer.

“Almost Everything” is a pensive acoustic ballad akin to Chris Cornell’s immortal “Seasons” from the film Singles. Finn is like your old pal who pulls up a stool at the bar and tells you about how “The bus it rolled up into Franklin at dawn and everything seemed super slo-mo. The Waffle House waitress that asked us if we were Pink Floyd. Sat in the back of the theater just drinking and talking about movies and Krishna and hardcore and Jesus and joy.”

The album ends on a major high with the almost ten minute ballad “Oaks.” This could be a future encore, the kind that demands cell phone lights beaming from a swaying audience. It mixes Neil Young and Crazy Horse guitar thunder with the gentle strains of organ fading in and out, like the vanishing dreams of the people represented on this album.

The irony is, in depicting the diminished, lowered expectations of these burnt out characters, Teeth Dreams shows off a re-invigorated Hold Steady. They’ve never strived higher.

Originally published by DAEP Media.

http://daepnyc.com/culture/review-hold-steadys-teeth-dreams/

The War on Drugs

Lost in the Dream

Sometimes they do make them like they used to. The film Drive owed a great deal to 80’s touchstones like Miami Vice (and anything else from Michael Mann), To Live and Die in L.A., and what would on the surface be an unlikely source, Risky Business. What all of these have in common is they found the excitement in stillness, and tension in tranquility. Each contains music which emits that kind of ambience. The War on Drugs would’ve fit perfectly on any of those soundtracks.

Coincidentally, 2011’s Slave Ambient, the second album from the Philadelphia band, came out around the same time as Drive. Actually, they’re not really a band so much as a collective masterminded by guitarist-singer-songwriter Adam Granduciel. Slave Ambient connected incongruent influences such as The Replacements, The Verve, Tom Petty, Paul Simon and the experimental German acts of the 70’s like Kraftwerk. One of the many highlights from the album is the moment in “Your Love Is Calling My Name,” when the “Rebel Yell” drums hit like a Tyson uppercut and the celebratory “Born in the U.S.A.” keyboards become more prominent. It’s ideal music for speeding through a tunnel with the top down.

Lost in the Dream, the latest from Granduciel and company, is more than just an album title, it’s a mission statement, featuring even more atmospheric excursions with rootsy folk underpinnings.

“Under the Pressure” presents an alternate universe where Bryan Ferry left Roxy Music before recording Avalon, and was replaced by Bob Dylan. Essentially, you’ve got Infidels-era Dylan mixed with the sonic splendor of  “More Than This,” particularly with Granduciel’s Phil Manzaneraesque guitar colorings throughout. The last line of the song, “Just trying not to crack under the pressure” is followed by a few minutes of the droning sounds of synths entwined with guitar feedback. This section concurrently captures the anger and melancholy of someone attempting not to drown in stress, while being hypnotic and oddly relaxing.

“Red Eyes” is more upbeat, really coming alive when Granduciel lets out a rockabilly “whoop” right out of Springsteen’s Nebraska. Seniors graduating high school in a few month’s should be dancing around bonfires to this.

“Suffering” is a mid-tempo ballad, the kind of song you put on while laying on the hood of your car at night, looking up at the stars. It’s even got a guitar solo right out of 70’s Santana.

In fact, there’s more guitar than on their previous records. “Disappearing” opens with such lyrical guitar work it would seem Granduciel might have a hankering to be Tom Petty and Mike Campbell. The song already has a glowing beauty to it, when midway through, a poignant piano melody takes it to a whole other level of exquisiteness. And that’s on top of a rhythm fit for dance floors everywhere. It’s a perfect example of what makes The War on Drugs stand out. They have a gift for making introspective music that also grooves. And as a bonus, how many ambient dance tunes feature a brief harmonica solo?

“An Ocean in Between the Waves” has fluttering guitars that live up to the title. And “Burning” starts with the feel of someone suffering through a sleepless night, the keyboards lightly flickering like the colon between the numbers on a digital clock. After about a minute, the drums suddenly come to life, with bouncy synths similar to the melody of Rod Stewart’s 1981 hit “Young Turks,” which was Rod’s raise of the pint to Dire Straits. It’s got a triumphant-sounding, sunny afternoon, sing-along chorus reminiscent of another band from Philly (and the 80’s), The Hooters.

War may be part of the band’s name, but don’t let that fool you. Every now and then, there’s more tension in the calm before the storm, than the storm itself.

Originally published as an edited version by DAEP Media. 

Amy Arbus

Leica Gallery

William Shakespeare wrote “All the world’s a stage.” Amy Arbus understands there is no better stage than the streets of New York City. She spent the entire 1980’s taking over 500 portraits of New Yorkers for The Village Voice’s monthly fashion feature, “On the Street.” The Leica Gallery currently has over 40 of these photos in an exhibit titled Amy Arbus/On the Street 1980-1990.

Sometimes empires start with stained camel hair coats and bowling bags. “Madonna, St. Marks Place” from 1983, is perhaps the most famous of the pictures showcased. Madonna’s self-titled debut, full of catchy, melodic dance anthems, would soon be released, poised to become one of the defining albums of the decade, and a soundtrack to millions of people’s youth. By sheer coincidence, the week this photo was taken, she received her first review from The Village Voice. What makes this portrait so unique is that it captures the ambition waiting to burst out of the blemished coat, with that slight glint of impatience in her eyes. In the background, two people are pushing a stroller, their obliviousness to what was happening a stark contrast to the amount of attention Madonna would soon receive.

“Ann Magnuson, Lincoln Center,” features the performance artist/actress/singer/DJ in 1981 looking uncannily like a young Shirley MacLaine, had MacLaine been cast as Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, instead of Audrey Hepburn. Magnuson was about a year away from filming that unforgettable opening scene with David Bowie in the cult classic The Hunger. At the time, she was a DJ and performer at storied venues like Club 57 and The Mudd Club. Arbus immortalizes her leaning against steps at Lincoln Center, a downtown nightlife icon juxtaposed with the ultimate uptown establishment. They’re complete opposites, but equally vital to the artistic soul of the city.

Also from 1981, there’s “The Clash, Broadway” taken from the set of The King of Comedy, where the band and others in the photo were extras, credited as “street scum.” This was around the time The Clash did their fabled series of concerts at Bond’s International Casino in Times Square. Sandinista!, one of the most diverse albums in rock history, was fairly new and already making a huge impact in the city. The first track off the album was “The Magnificent Seven,” and R&B station WBLS had a remix of it called “The Magnificent Dance” in regular rotation. In the song, Joe Strummer has a line about “gypsies on the pavement.” Which is exactly how Arbus portrays them. My girlfriend once said of The Clash that “they seem to have a strong sense of self.” That especially seems to apply to bassist Paul Simonon. He’s staring confidently off into the distance, looking like he owns the city. If you ever need to be reminded, this is what actual freedom looks like.

From 1984, there’s “Hat and Men’s Tie.” Filmmaker Miranda Pennell poses like Annie Hall, if she had listened to a steady diet of The Feelies and The Dream Syndicate. With floppy hat, bandana and tie, Pennell personifies 80’s downtown bohemian cool, although ironically, the picture was taken on Columbus Avenue.

We stay on Columbus for “Moccasins” from 1982. While the elderly man in the photo isn’t as well known as the others, he’s just as memorable. To paraphrase the old editorial, “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and he’s standing in the middle of the street wearing nothing but ball-hugging leopard-print underwear, shirt and moccasins.”

If you resided there back then, or only know that period from movies like Desperately Seeking Susan or After Hours, Amy Arbus takes us back to when the size of your creative ambition brought you the city, not just the size of your wallet.

Originally published by DAEP Media. 

Fred W. McDarrah

Steven Kasher Gallery

There wasn’t much Fred W. McDarrah missed. The 1939 New York World’s Fair? He bought his first camera there. Occupied Japan at the end of World War II? It’s where U.S. Army paratrooper McDarrah first started taking pictures. It’s quite a remarkable prelude, but he still had the rest of the 20^th Century to document.

With his Zelig-like ability of being at historic occasions, a neighbor told McDarrah he was starting a newspaper called The Village Voice. He ended up being their first photo editor and was the only staff photographer for over 20 years. The Steven Kasher Gallery presents some of his greatest work from this time period (1958 to 1979, all in black and white) for an exhibition titled Fred W. McDarrah: Save the Village.

The exhibit covers everything from Stonewall, the closing of the Cedar Tavern, Warhol’s Factory scene, 1960’s peace marches, and everyone from Hubert Selby, Mayor John Lindsay to Donald Trump.

No matter what one thinks of him, Trump is a fascinating subject for the camera. Is there anyone else who somehow looks simultaneously miserable and content? (James Spader, perhaps?)

Trump’s photo is from 1979, and it’s odd to see him pre-80’s, as most tend to associate “the Donald” with the Gekko decade and beyond. Looking down at McDarrah with his characteristic doughy, pouty smugness, it appears as if he can smell the Grey Poupon and “trickle-down economics” just around the corner.

And there’s Susan Sontag, looking like insouciance personified, staring at us staring at her, while holding a cigarette at a 1962 sex symposium. She comes across as a slightly more mainstream Morticia Adams in a French New Wave film, about to ignore the advances of a drunken Roger Sterling.

On April Fools Day 1966, the Velvet Underground are shown performing, bathed in darkness, silhouettes dwarfed by the giant eye of Nico on the screen behind them. The image perfectly captures the grimy phantasmagoric beauty of their music.

Another indelible image is McDarrah’s fellow photography giants, André Kertész, Sylvia Plachy and Fred Ritchin at a gathering in 1978. Plachy is in the middle of the two men, focusing a mildly amused, yet loving grin at a young boy conversing with the adults. It takes about a minute to realize that the child is Plachy’s son, a five-year-old Adrien Brody.

Those of us who were also children (and musically obsessed) during this time can practically hear songs of that era like “Reminiscing” by Little River Band or Billy Joel’s “My Life” emanating from this photograph.

McDarrah photographed plenty of artists as well, including Franz Kline in 1961 standing casually proud by one of his black and white abstract paintings. He also managed to get a classic shot of a Pop Art summit featuring Warhol, Wesselmen, Lichtenstein, Rosenquist and Oldenburg together at a 1964 Factory shindig. To be a fly on that paint splattered wall.

You might recognize the iconic 1959 photo of Jack Kerouac giving a reading in a Lower East Side loft. He looks burnt-out, with arms held out in the Jesus Christ pose.

A much darker portrait of LES life is portrayed in a 1967 photo of Robert Kennedy, a year before his assassination, visiting a run-down tenement that had once been occupied by Jacob Javits. The appalling effects of poverty are reflected in the haunted, furrowed brow of this rich and powerful man, who can only stare at the floor. Hanging crookedly on the cracked wall behind him is a portrait of Christ wearing the crown of thorns, gazing toward the heavens, giving the appearance that even he can’t bear to look at these conditions.

These disparate people and events are linked by one man with a camera who bore witness. Now we can too.

Originally published by DAEP Media. 

That sound you hear is 1.3 million unemployed people who have lost their extension benefits and therefore no longer have any source of income, muttering expletives and raising both middle fingers to new Seattle Mariner second baseman Robinson Cano.

After almost a decade with the Yankees, he left to sign a ten year deal worth $240 million. Nothing wrong with that. Even the most zealous, obnoxious, loud mouth Yankee fan realizes deep down that you can’t blame someone for seeking out the most money in that situation. If we’re being honest, most of us would do the same thing.

But during the press conference to announce the signing, Cano stated that he felt disrespected by his old team. Turns out the Yankees “only” offered him 7 years for $175 million and wouldn’t budge from that. Again, nothing wrong with taking the higher offer. However, when one reaches a point in life where $175 million is a sign of disrespect, you’ve now entered a world where reality no longer applies, and are trapped in fantasy land.

Baseball has always had an otherworldly, fantastical element to it, and a big reason why the game can occasionally make otherwise macho grown men cry like infants. It also may unintentionally provide you with some life lessons along the way. The perfect example are the 1986 Mets. They could’ve been a film by Disney, albeit one made by Martin Scorsese and a soundtrack heavy on Thin Lizzy, with all of the fighting (on and off the field), drinking, drugging and other tomfoolery.

Nearly 30 (!) years later, Game 6 of the ’86 World Series is still one of the most exhilarating things I’ve ever seen. There were a few times the Mets were a mere strike away from the Red Sox celebrating their first world championship since 1918 at Shea, their home field. You know what happened next. One of the most indelible images from that magical autumn evening is Ray Knight rushing towards home plate as the winning run with a skip in his step and both hands on helmet, the expression on his face simultaneously showing delirium, disbelief and bliss. They overcame seemingly insurmountable odds, lived to fight another night and won the series 24 hours later. The lesson learned was echoed by a song from Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush which had come out that summer; “Don’t Give Up.” That profile of tenacity has stayed with me ever since.

And just a few month’s ago, the Red Sox won their third championship in ten years, one season after finishing in last place and having their worst year since 1965. Their manager in 2012, Bobby Valentine, the Iago of baseball, performed his usual divide and conquer style of managing with predictably dire results. Then with a new manger, and some new players, the Sox go from worst to first.

Life doesn’t always have these happily ever afters, and triumphant turnarounds. But the beauty of baseball is it’s an escape from reality that helps illuminate it. To quote James Earl Jones in Field of Dreams, “It reminds us of all that once was good, and that could be again.”

Robinson Cano’s situation is the dark side to all this, what happens when you completely bubble yourself from real life. While his regular season statistics are excellent, averaging 24 home runs, 97 runs batted in and a .309 batting average, his postseason stats tell a different story. In the 2009 World Series, he batted .136. In the 2012 ALDS against the Orioles, he hit .091. Ooof. Couldn’t possibly get worse, right? When the Yanks advanced to the ALCS versus the Tigers, his average was .056. There’s shitty, then there’s shit-taaaay. Fittingly, his overall postseason batting average is .222. That’s right, it consists entirely of the number 2. Perfect.

The postseason is where you’re supposed to step it up. It’s the moment of truth, that Kenny Loggins-“This Is It” time, the reason why you play the game in the first place. In the real world, if any one of us had performed that poorly at our jobs, we’d be shit-canned. In the world of baseball, not only do you get a raise, you get the raise to end all raises.

$240 million dollars can buy you many, many things. But in Cano’s case, it still can’t afford him perspective.

“What a drag it is getting old.” Mick Jagger and Keith Richards wrote that opening line to “Mother’s Little Helper” in 1965, when they were 22. Ever since then, they’ve proven that doesn’t necessarily have to be the case.

The Rolling Stones have been redefining what it’s like to grow old for a long time, and the latest example is the recent news that Mick Jagger is going to be a great-grandfather next year. Plenty of 70 year olds have become great-grandparents. But how many of them played a part in sexually liberating an entire generation, whose band’s logo consists of lips hanging suggestively from tongue, and entertains millions of people by running (and I do mean running) and singing for two hours?

The Stones were viewed as old, even way back in 1978. The conventional wisdom was that Disco and Punk had threatened to make them look like Perry Como. Plus, these guys were in their (gasp!) mid-30’s. It sounds so stupid now, but age was looked upon as some sort of obstacle. That year, the Stones came out with Some Girls, which may be their all-around best album. The title track compared and contrasted women from different ethnic/racial backgrounds, including an infamous line regarding the sexual appetite of African-American women. I don’t recall Perry Como ever recording anything like that.

In a year that included Blondie’s Parallel Lines, Cheap Trick’s Heaven Tonight, Elvis Costello’s This Year’s Girl, Bruce Springsteen’s Darkness on the Edge of Town and the debuts of Van Halen, Ace Frehley, Magazine, The Police and The Cars, Some Girls was just as funky, intense, rocking, and sexy as any of those records.

One of the best known songs from it is “Shattered,” which kind of sounds like The Cars, with its bouncy, urban new wave energy. Their self-titled debut and Some Girls had come out at the exact same time, so the song anticipates The Cars rather than apes them. For some reason they even say “shadoobie,” but the Stones were so smooth, they pronounced it “Shadoobay.” So they took a nonsensical word and made it sound like a glamorous French fragrance. Overall, there’s such a palpable lust for life bursting from Some Girls, it’s too bad Iggy Pop had already used that phrase to title his album the year before. Not bad for a bunch of “old farts.”

In 1989, when they were mounting their “Steel Wheels” tour, how many times did we hear the same old cliched “Steel Wheelchair” jokes? Jagger and Richards were 46 and Ronnie Wood just 42. The incessant mockery of their ages made it seem like they were frail, incontinent senior citizens taking a break from the extended care facility. (Although it didn’t help that “Steel Wheels” is kind of a lame title for an album and tour)

The notion that musicians in their 40’s or beyond couldn’t perform live at a high level was a moronic one to begin with, and one the Stones made extinct with the “Steel Wheels” tour. I saw them at Shea Stadium in the fall, and they were one of the more exciting and dynamic live acts you’ll ever see. No one had seen a 40-something sprint across stadiums for two hours a night. It’s easy to forget that was a big deal then, and that’s not even 25 years ago.

To put it in perspective, bands like Wilco, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden and Metallica all have members older than most of the Stones were in ’89. When was the last time you heard a hacky old guy joke about those bands? Yeah, I’ve never heard one either.

And there’s Bruce Springsteen, who at 64 is roughly 20 years older than the Stones of the “Steel Wheels” era. He routinely gives his usual maximum energy performance, averaging three hours a show, with sometimes the set getting into four-hour territory. We’re all used to it by now, but that doesn’t make it any less extraordinary.

Bill O’Reilly is 64, too. Over the years I’ve noticed he’s sprinkled some “Hey, mans” in his exchanges. Seems fairly innocuous, but a conservative Irish Catholic from Long Island is using vernacular from the Beat 50’s and Hippie 60’s-70’s. It would’ve been unthinkable for earlier generations of Bill O’Reilly’s to talk like Tommy Chong, man. O’Reilly may be an employee of Fox News, but he’s also just another baby boomer raised on bands like the Stones.

The impact of Jagger becoming a great-grandfather probably won’t hit people until the next year or so, when either the Stones tour again, or he drops by an awards show or tribute. By then we’ll be seeing him performing those same moves and gyrations he’s done for the last 50 years, moves that have made him a sex symbol to women and men. And then it will truly dawn on all of us that Mick Jagger’s daughter is a grandmother. Yikes.

The second line in “Mother’s Little Helper is “Things are different today.” Thanks in large part to the Rolling Stones, they are.

Punk: Chaos to Couture

The Metropolitan Museum of Art

I could feel my grin starting to reach shit-eating territory. It was the early morning of New Year’s Eve 2005, and I was walking up the steps of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’d gone somewhat regularly for awhile, but this was the first time as a member. My sister had recently bought me a year-long membership as a Hanukkah gift, so I’d been very happy that this would be the first of many free visits. But that’s not the reason I was smiling.

The museum was open exclusively to members an hour before everyone else. The Met can get sardine can crowded, which is why I like to get there early. As I neared the entrance, a 70ish couple that had been on the other side of the steps got closer to me, with the woman giving a disapproving glance in my direction, as if I had excrement smeared on my forehead. (I did not.) She then blurted out, “This is for members only!”

I have nothing but contempt for people like this. With those five words spat at me, she had conformed to the negative cultural stereotype of the rude, elitist Upper East Side snob. For a split second, I was seething with anger. But I had to keep in mind that no matter what kind of grotesque caricature this woman may have been, she still could’ve been someone’s mother or grandmother. Plus, losing my temper and saying something rude back only would’ve confirmed her own foolish, preconceived notion about me, whatever that was.

Taking the membership card out of my wallet and holding it up, I replied, “I am a member.” My response was firm and calm, but I could barely contain the venom dripping from my voice. The expression on her face was a mixture of surprise and shame. I never got an apology from her, but that was ok, as she seemed to be humbled. That was enough, hence my shit-eating grin.

I was smiling also because I thought of that scene in The Last Detail, when the bartender tells Jack Nicholson that he’s going to call shore patrol. Nicholson’s classic response is, “I am the motherfucking shore patrol, motherfucker!” I suppose that was my “shore patrol” moment.

By the way, her husband was silent during this encounter. I felt bad for him. Can you imagine what this poor guy had to deal with on a daily basis?

Almost a decade later, I was at the Met’s Punk: Chaos to Couture exhibit, looking at their replication of the CBGB bathroom, when I suddenly thought of that woman. If she were somehow aghast that a nice, well-dressed, clean-cut guy like me could be a member, what would she have thought of one of the world’s most treasured museums recreating perhaps the world’s most notorious, repulsive, filthy bathroom? (http://www.metmuseum.org/exhibitions/listings/2013/punk/gallery-views)

It had graffiti all over, most notably, the proclamation “Dead Boys Rule.” The same Dead Boys who in the summer of ’78 released We Have Come For Your Children. Thankfully, the Met saw fit to refrain from duplicating the bathroom’s odor, which I suspect would’ve ranked up there with some of the all-time worst smells. Some Ramones songs were played, but slightly muffled. This was done to create the sensation of being in the bathroom during their set. Good to see they made it to the Met in some form. When the Ramones started, people in the music industry found them so threatening, they wouldn’t be allowed to visit radio stations.

Throughout the exhibit, you’d hear snippets of stellar songs like “Blank Generation” by Richard Hell and the Voidoids, “Toilet Love” from Wayne (soon to be Jayne) County and The Electric Chairs, and The Damned’s “Neat Neat Neat.” To experience the propulsive drums of Rat Scabies, grimy guitar of Brian James and the slurry, fuck you vocals of Richard Hell (whose spiky hair, torn clothing and air of menace/goofiness helped inspire the look of punk) at the Met with a crowd of soccer moms and adorable grannies is one of the more surreal moments you will ever have.

Speaking of which, one room had mannequins decked out like Daryl Hannah in Blade Runner, with the phrase “No Future” prominently displayed on the wall. This was a reference to “God Save the Queen” by the Sex Pistols. Johnny Rotten was addressing the youth of Great Britain, acknowledging how bleak things were and would continue to be for them. Unemployment was high back then and prospects for even a relatively comfortable middle-class existence were low. (Why does that sound familiar?) When the Met had their opulent opening gala for this exhibit back in May with people like Kim Kardashian, Miley Cyrus, Tiger Woods and Seinfeld’s wife attending, I wonder if any one checked out the “No Future” room.

Overall, it was a fascinating show. Fashion born from poverty and anger was now being lavishly celebrated. Chaos to Couture, indeed. While at the gift store, I bought a Richard Hell refrigerator magnet. Couldn’t help it, just too odd to pass up. Yet another example of how punk, which was once considered part of the fringes of society, had become viewed as safe and respectable.

Or maybe not. I recently stopped by the Barnes and Noble on Broadway and 82^nd to pick up Detroit Rock City, an oral history on that city’s incredible music history by Steve Miller (not to be confused with the gangster of love/space cowboy/Maurice Steve Miller). When the woman behind the counter rang up my purchase, she gave no eye contact, and in general, radiated misery. This wasn’t unusual. People who work at bookstores can sometimes project an aura of comatose surliness. But aside from the customary anti-social tendencies found in some bookstore employees, she appeared to be disturbed at something. What was up with her? Maybe she was just going through a tough time. And why was I overthinking this in the first place?

That being said, even a minute or two of a complete stranger’s bad vibes is a minute or two too many. After this mysterious encounter, it felt almost cleansing to take the 20-block walk to Lincoln Center’s Midsummer Night Swing show at Damrosch Park. It was another beautiful NYC evening, and I was headed to see a free concert in one of the crown jewels of the city. Life was good.

Arriving at Damrosch, there was some time to spare, so I took the book out of my bag to read a little. Glancing at the cover, I had my eureka moment. The cover was Robert Matheu’s iconic photograph of Iggy Pop fellating the microphone. That’s probably why she acted so awkward. The provocative image more than likely offended her. If this was the case, the notion that punk could still cause offense was oddly comforting.

A shit-eating grin began to form.