Wednesday, June 7, 2017


When I first discovered Williamsburg, Brooklyn, it was more than a wee bit dangerous. No kidding. There was a wonderful loft turned performance space called the Lizard's Tail from '88 to early '90, run by a very wonderful European couple named Terry Dineen (from Ireland) and Jean Francois (guess where). Located right under the Williamsburg Bridge, it was a great space to play and hang out in, and Jet Screamer and I played there as Living Guitars no less than three times. But it was in an area some of us were a bit unsure of. As such, we traveled there in packs for safety's sake. And indeed, I recall one night when Billy Syndrome almost lost his life to some merciless muggers while foolishly walking home alone across the bridge. I also remember a couple of years later, in '91, when I visited my friend and bandmate Scott Prato and we walked to the subway together past rows of menacing looking burnt-out crack houses. It was frightening for sure, but nothing really happened that time, we just minded our own and kept walking.

Anyway, the Lizard's Tail was the greatest performance space ever. I hung out there frequently, and me and all my friends played there at some point in their too-short existence. I vividly recall one Living Guitars show there in which we performed to accompaniment from a visual artist friend of ours which presaged my recent work with Josh Rogers' Broken Machine Films, though sadly, no video document exists. Syndrome was a regular fixture and I think he even lived there for a short while. We had lots of fun at the Tail throughout '89 and into early '90. Then some subhuman piece of shit torched the Happy Land Social Club speakeasy in the Bronx, cremating 87 people, after which a crackdown on similarly illegal nightclubs in the city was announced. Having just been reviewed in the Times that very same weekend, the Lizard's Tail closed up shop and re-emerged shortly thereafter as a floating operation renamed the Cat's Head, putting on shows of a much larger and more ambitious scope in abandoned buildings on the Williamsburg waterfront.

There were many of those hollowed out buildings and art shows taking place inside them at that time. There were also plenty of happenings and raves going on inside and outside like Keep Refrigerated (so named for the fact that the building they squatted was an abandoned meat storage facility). Then there was the Radioactive Bodega, which took the music fests out of the abandoned warehouses and literally into the streets. The all-day festival they staged right on the trashy East River waterfront in June of '94 still stands in my mind as the absolute coolest music fest I ever attended, a large but informal affair featuring all local bands, artists, good friends and personalities. What always impressed me about these affairs was the way they would incorporate the remains of whichever abandoned space was being squatted in creative ways, turning every room into a conceptual art piece. The June '94 affair even had an installation aboard an abandoned ferryboat!

The warehouse parties quickly came to an end when the cops came calling, but the aesthetic of those house affairs would be carried over to a space opened by members of Fly Ashtray (the world's greatest rock and roll band, and an all-too-huge influence on Pavement) called Rubulad, a combination party and recording studio space which hosted some very wonderful and surrealistic parties over the years, some of the best parties I've ever attended in my life. To this day Rubulad still exists, somewhere outside of Williamsburg now. But they're just about the only real link to the Williamsburg I once knew that's still functioning. God bless 'em for it.

Billy Syndrome, who was there right from the Lizard's Tail onward, was fond of using the sentiment "You either know or you don't" to describe it. Williamsburg was a place only truly cool, genuinely hip non-poseurs knew about. Working-class cool as opposed to rich pseudo-hip. With the gentrification of Greenwich Village came this bold new movement right across the river, setting up shop in what was by the early '90s a genuine sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of downtown. The place was getting safer, and rent was still cheap. There was a melting pot of influences all blending into a vibe that seemed urban on one hand, but down-home on the other.

Around the same time the Lizard's Tail closed, a new place opened around the corner, in a quiet area right on the waterfront, a watering hole called the Right Bank. This place would become a secret society of sorts for me and many others, one which not only fit Billy's motto, but would quickly involve him as well. Lots of great bands sprang up in the area around this time, and I myself was in two of them, beginning with Thundering Lizards, founded in 1991 with the abovementioned Scott Prato, which at one point had Jason Trachtenburg, pre-Family Slideshow Players, in its lineup. I left the Lizards around the same time as Malcolm Tent, the world's first and foremost punk rock accordionist, and in late '94 we formed Thai Raid. It was with these two bands that I would get to live out my most decadent rock & roll desires, including touring the Midwest (with the Lizards, which resulted in both Malcolm and I leaving the band), ingesting the occasional psychedelic substance (which I freely admit I greatly enjoyed), and making my kinkiest sexual fantasies come true (the details of which are none of your business, thank you).

The Right Bank was a particularly special place and indeed, my single fondest memory of those glorious days of the '90s when Williamsburg was actually cool. It sprang up literally out of nowhere on Kent Avenue, just under the Williamsburg Bridge and directly across the waterfront from the World Trade Center. Nowhere was Billy's "You know or you don't" motto more applicable than there, and fittingly, he was a key player in the scene which sprung up there, convincing its owner Kerry Smith to start putting on shows and promptly booking himself and his friends in there. I played the Right Bank with Thai Raid several times, and the studio we practiced in, which our drummer Jim designed and built, was right around the corner on a one block alleyway called Dunham Place. Jim and Greg had joined us at a time when their previous band Nice Undies, who featured the amazingly spine-tingling lead vocals of Amanda Pollack, was close to breaking up, and elected to stay on full-time when the Undies finally imploded.

The Right Bank became a home away from home to a crew of self-proclaimed "Baltimorons" who would make the place their main HQs when traveling to NYC from Maryland, with great people such as Mike Bell (drummer from Syndrome's band and a man of many other projects) and Tommy Tucker bringing their music and their local beer to the party on a regular basis. Mike remembers how the place known to some as "Little Baltimore" began when a close Baltimore friend migrated to NYC and took a job there: "Bonnie Bonell was the first bartender, which led to Kerry booking Baltimore bands who slept on the floor on the second story. That was also our home base for visitors and even bands that were playing other clubs. The first place you would go was the Right Bank to 'check in.' Eventually, Kerry started selling our hometown brew, National Bohemian aka 'Natty Boh.' We would bring up cases with us, and Kerry would drive to Baltimore himself to buy kegs. It was the ONLY place in NYC you could get Natty Boh!" New York magazine somehow took notice of the Right Bank and promptly put the bar on its front cover. Bear in mind that the headline is from 1992... a full quarter century ago!

Being just around the corner from the Hasidic section, the bar also attracted a young Jewish renegade known to its patrons as Curly Oxide, who was invited to join local space-rock legend Vic Thrill onstage one night (clad in his full traditional outfit no less) and kicked off a brief spell of regional stardom which caught SNL's attention and almost made Curly a movie star before his family finally got wise to what he was up to. It is very likely he's living a straight orthodox life to this day.

Our little music scene in the mid-90s was very unique to say the least. The bands represented all styles of music and then some, everything from punk to psych to country and rockabilly and even zydeco and merengue. So many cool bands... The Billy Syndrome and the Astro Zombies were my favorites, both just totally insane and loud and experimental. Vic Thrill, Colored Greens, Nice Undies, Xloty Fric 'N' Frac, Slick 50, Edith Frost and the Marfa Lights, TNT Mix, and so many others played the Charleston, the Ship's Mast (one of the few bars I've played that actually PAID its performers), Rocky's, and of course the Right Bank, whose "house band" soon became Tommy Tucker and the Bum Rush Band, a country-punk fusion led by "Baltimoron" Tucker and featuring members of Thai Raid. Only the Charleston still stands, and only as a mere shadow of what it once was. no longer serving pizza.

As a member of the Thundering Lizards, I saw our EP get reviewed in High Times. As a member of Thai Raid, I saw our EP spend two weeks at number one on Bill Kelly's Teenage Wasteland hit parade on WFMU. Neither honor brought us much fame outside of Williamsburg (or maybe even within for that matter). But we were SO much cooler than any of today's pseudo-hipster inhabitants, and I will participate in absolutely no arguments about that proclamation, thank you very much.

Bedford Ave. in the 1990s. Oh, to have it back again. It didn't resemble St. Mark's Place in the slightest then. Band practices would routinely end with various configurations of band members grabbing pizza at the Charleston, then a combo pizzeria and bar run at the time by an old couple who had opened the place right there in the late '60s and loved to brag about how Kool and the Gang used to play there regularly before they hit it big. It was a great place, and a great block, to have a QUIET slice after a hard evening's work. The real beauty of Bedford, though, lay in the way it was zoned. The north side was largely Polish, spilling over from neighboring Greenpoint, but as you made your way from north to south the area suddenly became Hispanic, and by the time you hit the deep south you were fully immersed in a Hasidic wonderland. It was almost like visiting Warsaw, San Juan, and Tel Aviv all in just fifteen minutes. Oh, and there was a great Salvation Army Thrift Store just outside the Bedford Ave. L train stop. And NO fucking Starbucks. Earwax Records did exist, but it was much less slick then, more of a crate digger's haven than anything else, though always run by WFMU's Fabio Roberti, and it's cool to see he's still there at least. But who else remains with him?

Oh, those wonderful days before 9/11. The Twin Towers glowing from across the river, and the rich kids staying on that side of the river where they belonged, while we, the true pioneers of whatever you know today, had OUR special little thing going on which none of them could touch. But times have changed. Billy Syndrome is now deceased, and so are Jean Francois of the Lizard's Tail and Kerry Smith who owned the Right Bank. Most of those still living have moved far away, myself certainly included. The kids of today will never know what Williamsburg really was or coulda, shoulda been. They've inherited a very different 'hood than the one we lived in, one where all that remains of the old world is the view from the bridge. I'm sure they have memories of their own to make. But goddamn it, at what cost to mine?

Wednesday, May 10, 2017


(all photos from Brazen's own private stash)

The bad news just seems to keep coming too fast and hard for music fans everywhere. The great, great drummer and singer Cecilia Kuhn passed away on May 4, 2017 from cancer. She was 61 and a pivotal member of the San Francisco punk band Frightwig, who were deeply influential on many of the all-girl punk groups we know today. As I reflect on her life, my personal memories of being a Frightwig groupie during the band's peak period in the mid '80s, when they were spending practically entire summers in New York, come rushing back to me all at once. Indeed, this lady and her band were unforgettable, and I got to know them quite well way back when for awhile. Of all the accidental new musical discoveries I ever made in my life, one of the absolute happiest accidents of all was the night I discovered Frightwig. 

It was July 1985 and I was calling myself Ray Zinnbrann back then. I had gone to a seafood restaurant in Montclair, NJ to see a local experimental punk band called Children in Adult Jails open for them. Yes, that premise sounded strange right off the bat. And it was about to get even stranger that I could even have imagined. The word on the street was that Frightwig were not to be missed, so I stuck around for them. Suddenly, four of the wildest, kookiest yet loveliest looking ladies I'd ever seen in my life were playing the trashiest yet most wondrous rock & roll in the middle of a fucking seafood joint. They struck me at first as kind of a cross between Flipper and Kiss with a bit of Raincoats thrown in. Their playing was loud and crude, but it all melted into one big, glorious noise. And it all sounded like heaven to me... especially as I found myself in love at first sight with Mia Levin, their guitarist. She was a long legged, daisy duke clad vision of blue-dreadlocked heaven out to steal my freak flag-waving heart. And much though Deanna, Susan and Cecilia did their best to keep up with her, all I could pretty much see for most of my first Frightwig show was Mia.

But at the end of the show, Mia put down her guitar and took over the drum chair, and the tall, blonde drummer became frontwoman for the last song, "l'll Talk To You And Smile." The sweetness of Mia suddenly gave way to the fireball that was Cecilia, and with an open minded crowd totally digging it, she let it all out in a fiery yet controlled ball of rage, with humor injected in the form of musical quotes from "A Day In The Life" and several false endings after which Cecilia would jokingly ask, "Are you irritated yet?" It was one of the greatest and most dramatic endings to a band's set I've ever seen. She owned it, baby!

That was it. In the blink of an eye, my summer of 1985 had suddenly and gloriously become The Summer of Frightwig. Naturally, I didn't fight it -- I submitted full throttle without asking a single question. I met them after the show and they were the sweetest, coolest ladies you'd ever want to meet. I then followed them pretty much everywhere they went the rest of the time they were in NYC/NJ, which was pretty much all summer long. God I loved them. So much so, in fact, that I even remember the riffs to all the songs they played live but never released. (Oh, to hear "Summer Love" again... it surely fit the mood.)

I followed Frightwig to a live radio interview at WFMU where they were hosted by two of the members of the aforementioned Children in Adult Jails. I followed them to Danceteria, decked up in Frightwig magic marker tattoos (oh, to be young again!), where the ladies walked in on an argument between me and the asshole working the door who didn't want to let me in, and threatened to hand his ass to him if I wasn't allowed in at once, FREE... then invited me backstage to hang out. But the best night of all was when I followed them to Tin Pan Alley, one of only two gigs I've ever attended in the Hell's Kitchen area, where I finally got my wish to be alone with my beloved Mia for awhile... just indulging in something green and medicinal and talking about hip hop music with her before they played their second set, during which Deanna made me get up onstage and perform a male striptease during Mia's stunning rap showcase "A Man's Gotta Do What A Man's Gotta Do." I obliged down to my underwear as she tried in vain to get me to take it further still. Fortunately, there was no Youtube in those days.

Alas, my "romance" with Mia was doomed both to last only the summer and to end in heartbreak. On Labor Day Weekend '85, at the Peppermint Lounge, Frightwig turned up for their final gig before returning to Frisco... without Mia. I suspected something was up immediately, and my suspicion grew when I overheard two of them whisper to each other: "Have you told him yet?" "Uh, no." When they then went onstage without Mia, I knew the heartbreak was dead ahead. And I now confess I was a bit pissed off at them afterward for waiting all night to break the news to me that Mia had quit the band and returned home early with her husband (who was super-laid back and didn't seem to mind my fawning over his girl one bit) after finding out she was pregnant. In the end I forgave all involved (including Mia), but still, 'twas a very sad night in Wigland indeed.

Despite the loss of Mia, I still kept on loving Frightwig, and wrote them a sincere and heartfelt letter thanking them for making mine a wonderful summer nonetheless. A few months later, an envelope bearing the words "FRIGHTWIG LOVES YOU!" in big magic marker letters turned up in my mailbox. Inside was a long, lovely letter from Deanna, announcing the birth of Mia's child and telling me they were coming back to see me again soon. And indeed, Frightwig would return to the east coast in the fall of '86 with a new girl replacing Mia. Her name was Rebecca and her guitar talents extended to actually building her own axes. She added a new and somewhat darker vibe to her role than Mia, but I grew to like her. Shortly before they arrived, I walked into Pier Platters in Hoboken one day and screamed with delight upon finding an album with the new lineup waiting for me. You didn't stream new releases in advance on the internet back then either, folks.

During the fall of '86 I saw Frightwig three more times: at Irving Plaza with Sonic Youth and Firehose, at CBGB with 7 Seconds (whose drummer kicked my ass at pinball that night), and finally at the Lismar Lounge, the very same stage that would host my very first live performance in NYC just over a year later. I remember they were sick as dogs on the last night from food poisoning. But they played and I got all four of 'em to sign my album. Rebecca's signature read "Beware of Philly cheese steaks," while Cecilia simply wrote "Wig out!" I still have the signatures. I only wish I knew what the fuck happened to Deanna's letter. I'll never forget that on all the gigs in this tour, they extended "Punk Rock Jailbait" to ten minutes, with Cecilia once again stealing the show and my heart, and she and Rebecca getting into some harsh-noise guitar dueling during the song's extended finish. She was a tremendous performer who looked like she was always ready to burst out from behind the drum kit at any moment -- and always did at the end of every set.

I may have been crushing on Mia in '85, but after she left the band I admittedly took to fawning over Cecilia, and we ended up talking for hours after the Irving Plaza and CBGB shows. Looking back, I would have to say she seemed the most grounded of all the members, the one who looked after the others. She was warm and inviting and great to talk to about all sorts of things. We exchanged addresses but somehow never did get around to corresponding. It's unfortunate that we never did, for I think we could have been great long distance friends. I am deeply saddened to know she is no longer with us, especially since Frightwig had recently reunited -- complete with my lovely Mia back where she belonged -- and were sounding better than ever to these ears, even releasing some strong new material. I was hoping we'd ultimately meet again. Frightwig truly loved their fans, and their fans loved them back, and always will. I'm so glad I got to know such a great band, and a great lady named Cecilia Kuhn.

To conclude my wondrous Frightwig tale, you can see the legend for itself in the form of an almost hour-long video of the classic lineup (Cecilia, Mia, Deanna and Susan) playing a full set live in SF in '84, complete with a VERY definitive version of Cecilia's incredible showstopping finale "I'll Talk To You And Smile." It's enough to make you cry now.

Sigh. Goodbye, Cecilia. Wig out in heaven, sister.

Friday, March 10, 2017


For whatever it's worth, here now are my memories of all the times I ever set foot on the stage of that prestigious and hallowed hole in the wall, CBGB -- all two of them:

The first was totally unplanned and spontaneous. It was late '83 and Bedlam, the band my high school pal Tommy Koprowski had just  joined, was making its CBGB hardcore matinee debut opening for Adrenalin OD. They'd brought along a friend to videotape the occasion for posterity, and were open to the idea of my jumping up onstage to join them for their cover of the Flintstones theme song as I often did when hanging out at their practice sessions (which were often more pot parties than they were rehearsals). Midway through their very messy and noisy set, I took the stage and introduced my number. On the video of the occasion you can neither really see nor hear me, but I'm there somewhere, and I recall nothing of my performance but a total blur. Me being the cocky kid I was then, when the song ended I couldn't resist throwing in a quick "Thank you New York, you're a great audience!" whereupon Davey Schwartzman of AOD picked me up and carried me offstage as Tommy reclaimed my mic and proclaimed, "NOW you can beat him up!" Thus ended my first onstage appearance at CBGB.

My second appearance was a little over five years later, in early '89 with Jet Screamer in Living Guitars, and it happened on everyone's favorite night, Sunday a.k.a. CBGB Audition Night. For those unfamiliar, this was the night they would test the pull of various local bands to determine which were worthy of playing a regular gig there. Somehow we got our audition just two months after we'd formed, though we really had gotten fairly good in that short a time. We arrived early enough to witness the end of the hardcore matinee, which was ruined by a very pathetic bunch of Nazi skinheads. Naturally, we waited until they left before we even thought to load in our gear. Again, somehow in spite of the fact that it was unannounced and we were shoved onstage at 9 PM, we had a good turnout of friends along with a few folks left over from the hardcore matinee. I used to have a soundboard tape of this performance but it has long since vanished. I seem to recall that for some odd reason, this lost tape sounded quite a bit murky and echoey, which was strange considering CBGB's reputation for having one of NYC's best sound systems and the fact that our music had sounded good coming through it live.

As it turned out, Living Guitars did pass the audition -- for two gigs in the spring of '89 not at CBGB itself, but the CBGB Record Canteen that had recently sprung up next door, which also housed CBGB Pizza (which is still high on my list of worst pizzas I've ever had in my life). The first of these two gigs went so well we thought we'd found a potential new home of sorts there. But the second gig was a disaster and we never returned after that.

So there you have it. My illustrious performing history at that legendary rat cellar, CBGB. I hope you enjoyed this intriguing and action packed tale!

Monday, March 6, 2017


On March 3, 2017, I had the rare and precious honor of being Wreckless Eric's opening act at a show at Will's Pub in Orlando, Florida. It was a great experience to share the stage with a musician who has influenced me and my own music so deeply.

Sometimes I think there's not enough love in Orlando for the legends who matter most. I thought the show would sell out, but Will's would wind up barely half full for this one. A shame, especially since this is the guy who wrote "Whole Wide World." And lo and behold, there he was, Wreckless Eric himself, shaking my hand with a very firm and steady grip and welcoming me to his show. 'Twas a very strange feeling to be face to face with him again, particularly since I was his opening act this time, and naturally I felt humbled and shy in his presence most of the evening, though we did talk a fair amount and got to chat about mutual friends at WFMU, and even about that great Stiff sax man, Davey Payne.

Opening for Eric felt even more strange. Especially so when midway through my set, Eric suddenly wandered in fresh from his pre-show supper. I don't know how I managed to soldier on with the man himself in my audience, and didn't quite know what to do at the moment he walked in --- so in a bit of an attempt to impress him, I actually covered one of his more obscure numbers, "Waxworks," a move some in his fan base would later take into question when his humorous online remarks about it were taken a bit too seriously. But the man himself was okay with my little tribute -- "You got more of the chords right that I would have!" quoth Eric. Fueled by the situation at hand and the fact that we were playing my favorite stage in Orlando, Will's Pub, I somehow actually managed to play a good set, which was recorded and will be released as a live tape soon.

And then, of course, there was Eric.

Again, as with the first time I saw him 27 years earlier, just him and his acoustic and electric guitars. And though he's in his early 60s now, age hasn't mellowed him one bit, in fact he's even more fierce and cyncial now than he was in '78. He joked at length about Florida's turnpike and its abundance of pro-life billborards, and began "Reconnez Cherie" with some insight into how the song was written. He didn't play much from the Stiff days, doing only "Cherie," "Walking on the Surface of the Moon" (great to hear that one without the silly "Star Trek" effects!) and of course "Whole Wide World" with the crowd respectfully not singing along TOO loudly. There were songs from his excellent new album "AmERICa," and surprising experimental noise breaks which echoed the vibe of his very strange "Bungalow Hi" album and wouldn't have sounded out of place at the International Noise Conference in Miami. It was a different and even somewhat darker show than the one he'd played the first time I'd seen him, but seeing as how Eric and I are both aging now, there was that sense of mature wisdom this time that I found easy to relate to. Mark this show down next to the July '90 show as one of the best I've ever seen... and maybe the best I've ever played as well.

Eric was ever the gentleman to me and everyone throughout the night, chatting with all of us and signing my album and posing for a photo with me. And according to my collaborator and friend Joshua Rogers who was watching my merch table, Eric even stopped by there to pick up a copy of my cassette single. Pretty wild to think he owns one now! It was a once in a lifetime experience both to open for Wreckless Eric and to see him come through Orlando, and a lot of local people I know really oughta kick themselves for having missed this. It was truly one to remember, and one for the ages.

Thank you so much for playing, Eric. And thanks to Rich Evans for booking the show, and Alex Goldman for a great job with the sound, and Josh for doing his Broken Machine Films visuals during my set, and Rod Leith and Dave Scott Schwartzman for moral support. I couldn't have done it without you guys!