I'm back--hopefully on a far more prolific basis than I was throughout 2006. Sorry, my head was just in a whole 'nother place, so the best I could manage were various little updates here and there. Thanks to all the fine folks who left comments, corrections, and encouragements--your input is most appreciated.
A while back, and I'm ashamed to say it was well over a year ago, Peter Crowley--former booker for Mother's and Max's Kansas City and manager of W/Jayne County--stumbled upon my sketchy entry on Mother's and contacted me about it. Deeming it "pretty accurate but incomplete," he kindly offered some further background details on the joint, which I shall henceforth paraphrase.
Crowley's association with Mother's began in 1974. He had been attempting to get Wayne County and the Back Street Boys a gig at CBGB to no avail, and asked a friend named Mike Umbers if he knew of any other bars where he could put on shows. Umbers recommended Mother's, a gay bar that was struggling to make a go of things. The management were amenable to Crowley's ideas and allowed him to turn the place into a rock & roll club.
Mother's occupied two narrow storefronts on 23rd. They shared a common disused kitchen area at the back, which served as a makeshift dressing room. Entry to the club was through the right-hand/eastern storefront, where the bar and jukebox were located. At the rear by the end of the bar you'd find the entrance to the "back room," or the left-hand storefront, where the shows would take place; admission, usually 3 bucks or so, was collected at this doorway. There had been a tiny stage by the blacked-out front window when Crowley arrived, but he enlarged it to accommodate bands.
During the first week Wayne County and the Backstreet Boys played two shows a night, with rotating support from the Fast and the Outkids--and the response was so good punters sometimes had to be turned away. Crowley stayed on at Mother's until a point in 1975 when he was hired to be the music and art director of Max's Kansas City. Some Mother's regulars took the place over and changed its name to ZEPPS. They continued to book bands there for a couple of years afterwards, but I have been unable to locate any reference to this incarnation of the club.
Showing posts with label 23rd Street. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 23rd Street. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Midnight ravers
MIDNIGHT RECORDS--263 W. 23rd Street between 7th and 8th Avenues (also occupied the adjacent storefront at 255). Though many in the record collecting and garage rock "communities" have mixed feelings about Midnight Records and its proprietor, most cannot deny the contributions J.D. Martignon's store/record label/mail-and-Internet-order business have made to the scene. Timothy Gassen's garage-revival reference book The Knights of Fuzz (Telford, U.K.: Borderline, 1996) sums up Midnight's influence succinctly:
J.D. Martignon's New York Midnight Records label and store became an important counterpoint to the California scene as well. Martignon released early efforts by the Fuzztones, Plasticland, the Outta Place, Plan 9 and a slew of others--continuing its mission into the 1990s. (The Midnight retail store and mail-order became a mecca for rare new garage/psych discs, and it has continued in its role as a candy store of goodies for this writer on numerous occasions.) Martignon points out that his widely circulated mail-order catalog, The Midnight Thymes, "had articles, a news section, and loads of hype on the garage/psych scene. It helped to propagate the music and the distribution of it worldwide." Midnight published one of the first books detailing the contents of 1960s compilation albums, which Martignon notes "was very influential on bands and collectors." Martignon also says rightfully, "Midnight became the inspiration for many of the (garage/psych) labels, mail-order companies, and distributors both in the U.S. and overseas--whether they will admit to it or not!"
Midnight deals in domestic and imported rock & roll, R&B, and blues, and particularly specializes in '50s and '60s sounds and revivalists thereof--on vinyl and CD. "Limited edition" live recordings and "rarities"--otherwise known as boots--are staples. The Midnight International label had a number of '80s garage bands and comps on its roster. The mail-order business, founded in 1978, has long been an essential resource for hinterlands garageniks (including my husband, who used to have $100+ orders shipped to his native Thunder Bay, Ontario home on a near-monthly basis). But the darkly atmospheric, intermittently open shop was shut down in early 2004, as reported in this Village Voice article by Hillary Chute from the March 17-24 issue:
On its last day, March 6, Chelsea's vaunted garage-rock record store Midnight Records was packed for the first time in recent memory. Owner J.D. Martignon—ever the enigmatic Frenchman, with cigarette, rattail, and paisley shirt—chatted with lightly eyelinered Rudolph Grey, who reminisced about using chainsaws in his late '70s band Red Transistor. Martignon's son, 10-year old Clovis—ever the '60s rocker, in a gorgeous mop-top and bemused expression—wandered crammed aisles. Shaggy-haired collectors, some spending upwards of $700, scoured rows of hard-to-find vinyl, grumbling "sad reflection" and "damn shame."
Part of the cult band Dagon in France, Martignon followed a woman to New York in 1973 and never left. A journalist for the underground magazine Parapluie, he covered the Stooges and the Dolls, interviewed the Cramps and Real Kids before they put out albums, and blew his mind on DMZ at CBGB. Punk bands were playing '60s garage, he noticed. Martignon began collecting records, but quickly amassed so many that he "had to sneak them into the house when my girlfriend wasn't around"—so he decided to start selling them. He kick-started a mail order business in 1978, and the store—which became the center of New York's garage revival in the mid '80s—opened six years later. Martignon even ran his own label from 1984 to 1993, putting out cult bands and Screamin' Jay Hawkins live tracks.
Now Martignon is fighting eviction and a lawsuit. The landlord wants to double the rent, and business has not been booming. (The current garage revival "generates zero sales" of his obscure inventory, Martignon says.) Meanwhile, Martignon is being prosecuted by the U.S. Attorney's office in conjunction with the RIAA for the sale of, to quote one of his lawyers, "what they're alleging are unauthorized recordings of concerts." Midnight is the only store of its kind facing prosecution. "A collector's store that cannot sell some bootlegs is kaput," the owner sighs. According to store employees, when Midnight was busted in September, Martignon was led off in handcuffs, protesting, "We're not harmful people! We're music people!" For now, he's mired in his court case (famed Stanford law professor Lawrence Lessig is working pro bono) and wants volunteers to revamp midnightrecords.com, where the store will now solely exist.
Seems like Ms. Chute had a soft spot for Monsieur Martignon. In the Voice's 2001 "Best of NYC" issue, she voted the shop as "Best Store for Rare Garage and Psychedelic Records," and praised its "supernice staff" and "long, easy-to-decipher catalog." In the 2004 "Best of" issue, she dubbed Martignon "Best garage-rock cran" (?), though she carefully notes that he "does not hesitate to get all Frenchman-bitchy on your ass." That may be something of an understatement. I never personally experienced his near-legendary surliness, but perhaps I'd been so intimidated by other customers' stories that I just knew to steer clear. He had a rep for unsavory business practices as well, but again, I always got decent service from the store. Read some of these accounts and decide for yourself.
In late September, 2004, Martignon made headlines when his federal indictment was dismissed on the grounds that the 1994 bootleg law was deemed unconsitutional. Google Jean Martignon for further details.
No longer a licorice pizza parlor, the storefront now serves up Ben & Jerry's ice cream.
J.D. Martignon's New York Midnight Records label and store became an important counterpoint to the California scene as well. Martignon released early efforts by the Fuzztones, Plasticland, the Outta Place, Plan 9 and a slew of others--continuing its mission into the 1990s. (The Midnight retail store and mail-order became a mecca for rare new garage/psych discs, and it has continued in its role as a candy store of goodies for this writer on numerous occasions.) Martignon points out that his widely circulated mail-order catalog, The Midnight Thymes, "had articles, a news section, and loads of hype on the garage/psych scene. It helped to propagate the music and the distribution of it worldwide." Midnight published one of the first books detailing the contents of 1960s compilation albums, which Martignon notes "was very influential on bands and collectors." Martignon also says rightfully, "Midnight became the inspiration for many of the (garage/psych) labels, mail-order companies, and distributors both in the U.S. and overseas--whether they will admit to it or not!"
Midnight deals in domestic and imported rock & roll, R&B, and blues, and particularly specializes in '50s and '60s sounds and revivalists thereof--on vinyl and CD. "Limited edition" live recordings and "rarities"--otherwise known as boots--are staples. The Midnight International label had a number of '80s garage bands and comps on its roster. The mail-order business, founded in 1978, has long been an essential resource for hinterlands garageniks (including my husband, who used to have $100+ orders shipped to his native Thunder Bay, Ontario home on a near-monthly basis). But the darkly atmospheric, intermittently open shop was shut down in early 2004, as reported in this Village Voice article by Hillary Chute from the March 17-24 issue:
On its last day, March 6, Chelsea's vaunted garage-rock record store Midnight Records was packed for the first time in recent memory. Owner J.D. Martignon—ever the enigmatic Frenchman, with cigarette, rattail, and paisley shirt—chatted with lightly eyelinered Rudolph Grey, who reminisced about using chainsaws in his late '70s band Red Transistor. Martignon's son, 10-year old Clovis—ever the '60s rocker, in a gorgeous mop-top and bemused expression—wandered crammed aisles. Shaggy-haired collectors, some spending upwards of $700, scoured rows of hard-to-find vinyl, grumbling "sad reflection" and "damn shame."
Part of the cult band Dagon in France, Martignon followed a woman to New York in 1973 and never left. A journalist for the underground magazine Parapluie, he covered the Stooges and the Dolls, interviewed the Cramps and Real Kids before they put out albums, and blew his mind on DMZ at CBGB. Punk bands were playing '60s garage, he noticed. Martignon began collecting records, but quickly amassed so many that he "had to sneak them into the house when my girlfriend wasn't around"—so he decided to start selling them. He kick-started a mail order business in 1978, and the store—which became the center of New York's garage revival in the mid '80s—opened six years later. Martignon even ran his own label from 1984 to 1993, putting out cult bands and Screamin' Jay Hawkins live tracks.
Now Martignon is fighting eviction and a lawsuit. The landlord wants to double the rent, and business has not been booming. (The current garage revival "generates zero sales" of his obscure inventory, Martignon says.) Meanwhile, Martignon is being prosecuted by the U.S. Attorney's office in conjunction with the RIAA for the sale of, to quote one of his lawyers, "what they're alleging are unauthorized recordings of concerts." Midnight is the only store of its kind facing prosecution. "A collector's store that cannot sell some bootlegs is kaput," the owner sighs. According to store employees, when Midnight was busted in September, Martignon was led off in handcuffs, protesting, "We're not harmful people! We're music people!" For now, he's mired in his court case (famed Stanford law professor Lawrence Lessig is working pro bono) and wants volunteers to revamp midnightrecords.com, where the store will now solely exist.
Seems like Ms. Chute had a soft spot for Monsieur Martignon. In the Voice's 2001 "Best of NYC" issue, she voted the shop as "Best Store for Rare Garage and Psychedelic Records," and praised its "supernice staff" and "long, easy-to-decipher catalog." In the 2004 "Best of" issue, she dubbed Martignon "Best garage-rock cran" (?), though she carefully notes that he "does not hesitate to get all Frenchman-bitchy on your ass." That may be something of an understatement. I never personally experienced his near-legendary surliness, but perhaps I'd been so intimidated by other customers' stories that I just knew to steer clear. He had a rep for unsavory business practices as well, but again, I always got decent service from the store. Read some of these accounts and decide for yourself.
In late September, 2004, Martignon made headlines when his federal indictment was dismissed on the grounds that the 1994 bootleg law was deemed unconsitutional. Google Jean Martignon for further details.
No longer a licorice pizza parlor, the storefront now serves up Ben & Jerry's ice cream.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Mother's ilk
MOTHER'S--267 W. 23rd Street, between Seventh and Eighth Avenues. A gay bar that briefly served as an early punk club in the mid-'70s. Clinton Heylin writes in From the Velvets to the Voidoids (New York: Penguin, 1993), "In the spring of 1975 Mother's, a gay bar on 23rd Street, began competing for the best new bands...[it soon became] the main alternative to the CBGBs/Max's duopoly." Peter Crowley, who was then Wayne County's manager, handled the bar's booking duties. Among the bands he booked were:
Blondie, October 3-5 and November 13, 1975, and an unspecified date in January, 1977. In Making Tracks (New York: Da Capo, 1998), Debbie Harry remembers, "The first gig we played together [with Jimmy Destri] was at Mother's, which was a bar made into a small club on W. 23rd Street across from the Chelsea Hotel, where everyone played at least once."
The Ramones shared those October dates with Blondie, and also played December 5-7, 1975 according to this ad (accessible from the Blondie gig list above if this link doesn't work). An A&R-hunting Linda Stein checked out the band on one of these nights, and later gave a full report and thumbs-up to her flu-stricken hubby, Sire Records owner Seymour Stein. As she recalls in Jim Bessman's Ramones: An American Band (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1993), "It was a gay bar for elderly gays. It was really a cold, winter, snowy night. Of course, they did 'Blitzkrieg Bop' and all the standards. I was fascinated by the simplicity of the lyrics and the beat, and by Dee Dee, who was always so sexy and cute! I came home and told Seymour, 'You gotta sign them!'" He auditioned them soon thereafter, and the rest is gabba gabba history.
Television, with Bananas, October 17-18, 1975. Richard Lloyd describes the place as a "little teeny crappy club" in this article.
I kinda figured Nancy Spungen would have been a regular there, since she lived about a block west on 23rd Street during this time. Her mother Deborah makes no mention of it in the essential And I Don't Want To Live This Life (New York: Ballantine, 1983; reprint, 1996), but McNeil & McCain's Please Kill Me (New York: Grove, 1996) does have an anecdote from the Senders' Philippe Marcade about the night she introduced herself and asked him to teach her how to shoot up properly.
That's all I've been able to find thus far. Peter Crowley went on to book shows at the second incarnation of Max's. Reports in Yvonne Sewell-Ruskin's High On Rebellion: Inside the Underground at Max's Kansas City (New York: Thunder's Mouth Press, 1998) state that new owner Tommy Dean was attempting to give the place a misguided T.G.I.F.'s-style makeover, replete with stained glass decor and bow-tied waitresses, when Crowley stepped in to bring rock & roll back. "He basically came on board as Wayne County's manager, and since Wayne was the DJ and was an attraction at Max's, Crowley became insinuated and sold himself to the Deans, who I think really didn't know the music at that point," says musician/writer Jim Lalumia. Under Crowley's direction, Max's shared--or rivaled for, depending on your P.O.V.--punk prominence with CBs, until its 1981 closure.
Not sure when Mother's closed, but the space is currently a branch of Ricky's, the beauty-supply chain.
[UPDATE 2/7/2007: Here's some further info, generously provided by Peter Crowley!]
Blondie, October 3-5 and November 13, 1975, and an unspecified date in January, 1977. In Making Tracks (New York: Da Capo, 1998), Debbie Harry remembers, "The first gig we played together [with Jimmy Destri] was at Mother's, which was a bar made into a small club on W. 23rd Street across from the Chelsea Hotel, where everyone played at least once."
The Ramones shared those October dates with Blondie, and also played December 5-7, 1975 according to this ad (accessible from the Blondie gig list above if this link doesn't work). An A&R-hunting Linda Stein checked out the band on one of these nights, and later gave a full report and thumbs-up to her flu-stricken hubby, Sire Records owner Seymour Stein. As she recalls in Jim Bessman's Ramones: An American Band (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1993), "It was a gay bar for elderly gays. It was really a cold, winter, snowy night. Of course, they did 'Blitzkrieg Bop' and all the standards. I was fascinated by the simplicity of the lyrics and the beat, and by Dee Dee, who was always so sexy and cute! I came home and told Seymour, 'You gotta sign them!'" He auditioned them soon thereafter, and the rest is gabba gabba history.
Dig some of the other bands listed in the ad, including Mink DeVille, Sniper (so they did continue after Joey's departure after all), the Fast, Tuff Darts, Knickers (Jimmy Destri's pre-Blondie band, also featuring future Trouser Press scribe Ira Robbins), Rosie Ross (formerly with the Stillettoes), the Heartbreakers, Talking Heads, and Wayne County. The ad's heading reads, "County Line presents New York's hottest rock & roll bands"--I guess Crowley named his company after Wayne.
Speaking of the Heartbreakers, their 1976 Live at Mother's is available from New Rose/Fan Club Records.
Television, with Bananas, October 17-18, 1975. Richard Lloyd describes the place as a "little teeny crappy club" in this article.
I kinda figured Nancy Spungen would have been a regular there, since she lived about a block west on 23rd Street during this time. Her mother Deborah makes no mention of it in the essential And I Don't Want To Live This Life (New York: Ballantine, 1983; reprint, 1996), but McNeil & McCain's Please Kill Me (New York: Grove, 1996) does have an anecdote from the Senders' Philippe Marcade about the night she introduced herself and asked him to teach her how to shoot up properly.
That's all I've been able to find thus far. Peter Crowley went on to book shows at the second incarnation of Max's. Reports in Yvonne Sewell-Ruskin's High On Rebellion: Inside the Underground at Max's Kansas City (New York: Thunder's Mouth Press, 1998) state that new owner Tommy Dean was attempting to give the place a misguided T.G.I.F.'s-style makeover, replete with stained glass decor and bow-tied waitresses, when Crowley stepped in to bring rock & roll back. "He basically came on board as Wayne County's manager, and since Wayne was the DJ and was an attraction at Max's, Crowley became insinuated and sold himself to the Deans, who I think really didn't know the music at that point," says musician/writer Jim Lalumia. Under Crowley's direction, Max's shared--or rivaled for, depending on your P.O.V.--punk prominence with CBs, until its 1981 closure.
Not sure when Mother's closed, but the space is currently a branch of Ricky's, the beauty-supply chain.
[UPDATE 2/7/2007: Here's some further info, generously provided by Peter Crowley!]
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