Much like the Sears Catalogue dominated the world of retail sales in 1911, Amazon has become the only place to buy anything. I will admit that walking around with a store that has literally EVERYTHING living in my phone has led to some sadly impulsive purchases like a three LP set of Pink Fairies records, a biography of Beau Brummel, and lint brush that I just know will finally free me of the consistent shedding of my ambivalent two stinky old basset hounds. Despite the limited benefit of the lint brush and Pink Fairies records (I should have stuck with the Fuzz Freakout live record and called it a day), it was the book purchase I regretted most. I am, without question, a loyal shopper of independent used bookstores. My $9 spent at Amazon was a betrayal to the Used Bookstore, one of the last American retail stores that appear to stoically have no interest in business success.
I recently stopped at a store in Lakewood that really fits the bill of the perfect used bookstore. It is run by a man that has no apparent interest in selling potential customers anything. It appears the shop mainly exists so he can have a place to sit around and read, and avoid actually “working”. Bravo. The shop is stuffed to the gills with used books focused primarily on the shopkeeper’s interests. The eclectic in-store music mix of Captain Beefheart, Echo and the Bunnymen B-sides, classic Animals, and Mazzy Star tracks match up with the music bio section which has seven Bob Dylan books, three Neil Young, Clash, and “Please Kill Me” with no bios in sight of any recording artist that has sold more than eleven records in the last 20 years. The books are stacked floor to ceiling with no possible way to reach up and inspect anything in the top 3 rows. There is no ladder. There is no step stool. The shopkeeper pays absolutely no attention to me straining to reach an upper shelf. I saw a used copy of a Kurt Vonnegut book that was more like a museum piece as I had as much chance to hold it in my hands as I would have the Rosetta Stone in The British Museum in London. However, I was able to grab a used copy of “Meet Me In The Bathroom” which I purchased for the princely sum of $12.
”Meet Me In The Bathroom” is a book about "the rebirth of rock and roll in New York 2000-2011”. I was interested in reading the book as The Cowslingers bore some witness to some of the bands detailed in the pages. While The Strokes, Jonathon Fire*Eater and Interpol strode about the East Village like the indie rock royalty clique they were, we had one degree of separation from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the “garage rock” hopefuls of the day like Mooney Suzuki, Turbo ACs, Electric Frankenstein. We weren’t friends with any of these people, but we were friends with their friends, and in a lot of cases these folks worked at the bars we drank at whenever we went to New York. The guy that gave you attitude when you went to the bar at Brownies for a beer probably played bass at the club last night for a band Spin was calling “the shit” the night before. Of course, his show was packed and ours was much more modest, hence him being part of the crowd that was “the shit” while we were rubes from Ohio.
I have read a million of these music books where the scene being analyzed grows in the storyteller’s eyes as to reach mythic proportions. Has there ever been a book written about CBGBs that didn’t make it seem like every night when you went in that Joey Ramone and Iggy Pop were cracking wise with Deborah Harry at the bar as David Byrne and Richard Hell helped bring in the Dead Boys gear? Everyone at the bar was famous, amazingly talented, and each night was a fabulous adventure more incredible than the night before. It’s not just the CBGBs scene either. It’s the Haight in 1966-67, Athens GA in the 80s, Seattle in the 90s, Nashville five years ago, hell, Paris in the 1920s. It was awesome and YOU weren’t there. This is why “Meet Me In The Bathroom” was of special interest to me. I wasn’t “there”, but I passed through every 3 months or so. I had a pretty good eye for what was happening.
The thing that struck me was like all of these rock scene books, there is a common ground. A group of young adults, untethered by any constraints of responsibility, make their own creative playground. It is the best time of their lives because each day was about fun and possibility. It’s like when you see people get glassy eyed about the shithole apartment they shared with their best friends when they were 23. The rush of possibility, lack of authoritative oversight and the ability to experiment with what it means to be “you”, to try on different versions of yourself, IS exciting. The enthusiasm of that time in a personal sense should be very real. It still doesn’t make Jonathon Fire*Eater records any good. When someone writes about a “legendary” gig at the Mercury Lounge, I’m sure it was a big deal to the giddy scenesters at the time. As the years go by, the story becomes bigger, the impact larger, just like an old high school football player telling that story about the State Regional Game. "...and we would have won State if Coach had put me in..."
The biggest takeaway I got from the book was the self mythologizing nature of the story telling is probably no different than the creaky old hippies still making a living trying to rekindle the summer of 1966 in San Francisco. There were probably guys sitting around the bar in 1947 rolling their eyes when some small time writer spoke up about how Fitzgerald and Hemingway got into an argument with Picasso that they settled with a foot race down the Montparnasse. You weren’t there man! That’s the way Paris was in the 20s. You missed it!
We used to play Brownies in the East Village. It was on Avenue A. It was generally understood that you could walk down Avenue B somewhat safely, but if you went down to Avenue C, there was a decent chance some drug addict would stab you for your sunglasses. Being in a group of four guys in cowboy outfits, we could sort of walk around anywhere and look equally ridiculous and harmless, so we walked all around the general area. It was mostly a shithole. We first started playing Brownies in the mid 1990s, when Brownies was the only decent place a fucked up retro inspired cowpunk band like us could play. In theory we could have played Maxwell’s, but we were never quite cool enough or possessed any kind of draw to play there, a fact confirmed later when we disasterously opened up for a rockabilly DJ in a N’oreaster to literally no one. That sealed our fate in Hoboken.
Bobby Latina was really young then, probably 16, when we first started going to play New York. He was incredibly naïve, as well he should have been. He was a suburban high school kid from Richmond Hts for fuck’s sake! We played Brownies, and later Coney Island High, the Continental and the Mercury Lounge. As we came there more often, we settled into the reality of the New York rock scene. Two thirds of any crowd in these clubs was also in a band themselves. They would all stand there with their arms folded and think “I’m better than that” while looking at their counterpart in the other band currently on stage. I should note that I have been rightly dismissed by quite a few notable indie rock front men, and most of those dismissals were warranted (but not ALL of them). At no point would this portion of the crowd offer any energy or enthusiasm to the performers on the stage. This would of course be repeated when they played and the people on stage now would turn the tables and judge the people that had just watched them as being unworthy of attention. The other third of the crowd were people that had somehow gotten hold of our records, and through the tribal drums heard about our gig. They were always VERY enthusiastic. This was a counterpoint to the people that worked in the New York clubs, who were always mean. The “nice” ones were just jaded. However, there is a certain energy and magic about New York. It is undeniable. This is where magic happens! (or so the New York based media always reminds us) Rumors would fly around how Lou Reed was eating a burrito down the street or some famous actress was here last night doing The Twist with the Shakin’ Neckbreakers. Insert the classic line said to all touring rock bands- “You should have been here LAST night!”.
We got to know the lay of the land, the cool bars to pre and postgame, some of the bartenders, and the prominent scenesters. We knew that not only was there a secret back room at our favorite bar, but an even more secret curtain leading to an upstairs lounge where I once unwittingly sat next to Alyssa Milano and tried to impress her by offering up a guest list to her and her friends. At the time, I wondered why she was so amused… Ultimately though, it was all the same, just with better clothes. Brownies was the Beachland was the Magic Stick was the Local 506 was the Star Bar but with regional differences that stopped it all from totally blending into one thing. The New York rock revival happened. It was energetic to everyone living there at the time, but it was s-m-a-l-l.. While a four block radius was in awe of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs, you could still put 20,000 people in an arena to watch Cher anywhere else in the country who had no fucking idea who the Yeah Yeah Yeahs were. The NY scene was the best time in most of the participant’s lives. It just wasn’t that important. It was fun though.
Let's talk about that first trip to New York though. We had taken a gig at Brownies playing with the Devil Dogs and (I think) the Lyres. I loved those Devil Dogs guys, really ball busting quick witted guys that could fucking rock. We played second of five as I recall, so we had to get there early to load our shit in somewhere inconvenient. The entire drive up Bobby kept asking Tony about New York. Tony was positioned as the NYC expert as I think he had road tripped to stay with Johnny Teagle a couple times, hence making him an “insider” to the machinations of the NY rock scene . Bob had already consumed a roomful of rock biographies by that age. Rock music/gear remain the only thing he truly knows about. He peppered Tony with questions about how he should act in the club. Tony, sensing an opportunity, begin to tell Bob that things were different in New York and he better understand the language of the club scene so he didn’t come off as some green kid. For example, Tony told Bob that in New York they called the men’s room the “glory hole”. Bob, not sure if he should believe this or not, asked me for confirmation. “Yep. That’s what they call it there Bob” I told him.
We pulled into Brownies at some absurdly early time, our eagerness shining off us like a new dime. We did that rock band thing of walking in liked we owned the place with facial expressions meant to suggest “Hello, we are weary travelers from the road well versed in your rock and roll culture, but please read my mind and tell me who the manager is and where we should put our gear”. In reality we had driven from our well appointed homes in the Cleveland suburbs, but that road weary thing is something all young bands admire in real touring groups. It wasn’t until years later that I learned that the reason that these guys always looked so tired and bored is because they were tired and bored. Being in a touring band is 23 hours of waiting for your 60 minutes of fun on stage day after day.
Bobby walked in and made a beeline to the bartender, who promptly ignored him and kept stocking his cooler. The bartender was in one of those noteworthy bands. I forget which one, but it was somebody who had recently signed to Matador and carried himself like he was Joe Strummer in 1979. He had that leathery lean look hard won by cigarettes, bourbon, flea markets and free drugs. He was much cooler than we were. Bobby leaned over the bar further to get his attention. “Hey… Hey man…” The bartender guy looked up, clearly annoyed. “Hey… where’s the glory hole?”
There was a pause as the question didn’t quite register on the bartender’s face. What did that kid just ask me? Bob repeated the question. “Where’s the glory hole?” That’s when Tony burst out in hysterical laughter, barely able to breathe. It was a joke he had waited a full 6 hours on for the punchline. He was laughing so hard he was crying. “Oh my God! He just asked him about a glory hole! Oh my God! Who is this sick little boy asking about glory holes? HA HA HA HA HA!!!!” The bartender, clearly pissed about this distraction and our juvenile antics, went back to work. Bobby shrugged his shoulders and walked towards the back looking for the glory hole.
They didn’t ask me to contribute to “Meet Me In Th Bathroom”. That’s the story I would have told though.
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