Wednesday, July 17, 2024

Josef K on trial

A cool new book about Josef K  by Johnnie Johnstone published by Jawbone Press

 Perusing it reminded me of the unhappy occasion of the group’s debut album – which was savaged by the two journalists who had championed Josef K most fervently: Dave McCullough of Sounds and Paul Morley at the NME.  

Which reviews were coincidentally made available again recently by those wonderful Twitter scanners NME1980s and Zounds Abounds 

Neither review is among either’s finest moments – it’s as though the anguish of assassinating a pet group has mutilated intelligibility. 

I wonder if it was Morley who instigated Propaganda's cover of "Sorry For Laughing" on A Secret Wish -  either to "do it properly" or as a kind of belated "sorry for destroying your morale and career", maybe earn them some royalties. 

It got me wondering about other examples of debuts by much-touted groups that have disappointed.

The only one I can think of is from the same era – A Certain Ratio’s To Each, which was gently demolished by Ian Penman.

It also got me wondering if I’d ever been in a similar predicament.

The answer is not really.

I did find myself in the uncomfortable position of having to slag off the first Breeders album –  I didn’t have massive expectations, but “Gigantic” plus the involvement of Tanya from Throwing Muses, created some hopes for Pod.

Uncomfortable because of being friendly with that camp, an early supporter. But you just have to steel yourself. There can be no pulling of punches. 

Also from that same camp: Hunkpapa from Throwing Muses (admittedly not a debut) was one where I had to adopt a stern, “can do better” tone.

I suppose this is where the old cliche of “they build ‘em up just to knock ‘em down” comes from. 

Usually, though, it’s someone else at the paper that does the take-down, and “they” is about a perceived institutional inconstancy or spitefulness.

That’s what is so unusual about the Morley and McCullough reviews of The Only Fun in the Town - they are the ones who'd most extravagantly heralded Josef K. It gives the reviews that tang of bitterness, feelings of “how could you show me up like this?!?” combined with the fan’s savage sense of let-down

The subject of Disappointing Albums has come up before on this blog constellation  - but that was about albums where the expectations had been built up by a fantastic debut and in many cases excellent second, third, even fourth records. 

The Disappointing Album is the first glum sign that your heroes are fallible – that they might be creatively running on empty, have exhausted all that they have to say… the first hint of self-parody, or commercial-minded caution.


Repeat airing of Melody Maker retroactive reviews of Josef K from Steve Sutherland and yours truly


McCullough love for Postcard and Josef K 


Friday, June 28, 2024

Neil Kulkarni - Insides - Soft Bonds (The Wire, 2021)


Soft Bonds

(Further Distraction)

The Wire (February, 2021)

by Neil Kulkarni


It’s like these angels have never been away. Like the return of friends.

It’s been 20 years since Insides -based around the duo Kirsty Yates and Julian Tardo - released their intuitive, intriguing, enrapturing music. This dew-fresh new record has been assembled over the past eight years from ideas they’ve been haunted by and it will haunt you once you hear it, with past connections lost, with futures derelicted. It’s utterly, transfixingly, fearlessly beautiful. It’s not just consolation, though it is that too. It’s inspirational. Insides have found a way to stay beautiful, to remain, to keep going: and it’s the seeming simultaneous heaviness AND deftness of their music, the existential tightrope it walks between being self-evidently ravishing & resistant to being transitory but also entirely un-egotistical or pushy - that waste of beauty into the void that’s so galvanising, so impressive.

God it’s so good to have them back.

‘It Was Like This Once It Will Be Like This Again’ offers immediate reassurance and delight - Kirsty’s voice and vocals are still direct, in your ear, ambiguously always between declaration and disappearance, Julian’s guitar is still a pellucid skin-puckering contact high.

Were Soft Bonds merely more-songs-like-’Euphoria’ it wouldn’t be quite as wondrous as it unfolds to be - ‘Ghost Music’ shows a new darkness and space, a pulsing minimalist dubstep-without-the-dankness over which Yates’ vocals strafe with strength and oomph but no strain or sweat. Her Grace Jones deadpan-ness on the astonishing ‘Misericord’ (‘You should know to keep your doors and windows closed BY NOW’) pull the tiny crepuscular elements around her into the slipstream of her will.

As ever, lyrically, Insides can be so tender, so touching, and yet so hard-boiled, so grown-up too. A lot of  Soft Bonds is a celebration of the tiny connections that bind us even as the world attempts to drive us apart and it's this stripping away of illusions, coupled with a sure knowledge of the RIGHT illusions needed to survive that makes tracks like the sublime Talk Talk-esque wonder of ‘Subordinate’ and ‘The Softest Bond Resists Resistance’ so uniquely and deliciously consoling and confrontational.

I love the way also that as the album enters its final reel it actually gets more gaseous, more musically diffuse and unplaceably sparse (heavy hints of Annette Peacock and Arthur Russell throughout this record) even as Yates’ lines get more concrete, harder, tougher to face but even more relishably real - the closer ‘Undressing’ sees us in for surgery, dimly apprehending the final black door. Without looking back,  Kirsty rushes into the end through a growing buzzing tunnel of light conjured around her. You’ll want to join her, join them, join these spirits of light. Soft Bonds is nothing short of heroic.


Welcome back angels.



And from a few years earlier,  as part of his 'A New Nineties' series for The Quietus, here's "My Needles Are Breaking" - Neil rhapsodizing over Insides / Euphoria + interviewing Kirsty Yates and Julian Tardo.



Me (+ the missus) rhapsodizing over Insides (+ Earwig)

Friday, June 21, 2024

Chris Scott - My Bloody Valentine - Melody Maker - December 5 1987


December 5 1987

Wellhead Inn, Wendover

by Chris Scott

To hear loud guitars you needn’t cower in grimy London hell-holes while more Americans take themselves seriously, still convinced that grunge in inextricably connected to the intestines of life. In a pleasant country pub, not 50 yard from the Ridgeway prehistoric footpath, My Bloody Valentine kicked up a floor-to-ceiling din for the hell of it, then had the cheek to sing, ‘Let’s fall in love, it’s exciting.

Imagine Radio 2 in 1967, pleasant sub-psychedelia, overloaded with a howling of static that could only come from an H-bomb explosion. Some musical constructivist has celebrated 50 years of the Soviets by nuking the summer of love on the spot.

Forget the devaluation of ‘perfect’, ‘pop’, ‘noise’, words which now hold all the promise of unsold fanzines mouldering beneath a thousand beds. My Bloody Valentine are an awesome barrage of charm and crackling electricity, wrenched into motion by sheer physical force.

Guitar textures? A 12-string is produced, making even more of a screech, and still sounding like a bell. Maybe they can’t name a chord, but this is science made exquisite.

Wednesday, May 22, 2024

Simon Price - Tricky - Pre-Millennium Tension - Melody Maker - November 9 1996


Norman Cohn, Nik Cohn, Revelations, Goya, Baudelaire, and Eric B  & Rakim - the spirit of golden age Melody Maker persisted, yea even unto the late '90s. 

Pricey here makes me want to give P-MT a relisten, having never managed to get into it at the time. 

Rather like my Van Morrison opinion (Astral Weeks and that's it), I'm of the "Maxinquaye is all you need, all that's worth bothering with", viewpoint. 

Well, apart from "Makes Me Wanna Die".

Nearly God, Starving Souls, P-MT, Angels with Dirty Faces, Juxtapose - it's one of the most anticlimactic arcs of an artist after a mind-blowing and epoch-defining debut. 

Trying to think of similar inexplicable droops.... 

Well, there's Goldie. 

Mark Fisher -  being much more auteur-loyal despite his avowed defacialisation/impersonal-machinic-processes/anonymous collectives stance - rated both Saturnz Return / "Mother", and Tricky's post-Max albums.  And in fact repped for Tricky around the mid-2000s albums too - Knowle West Boy.

I'm much more inconstant and fickle, I fear... I tend to move on rather rapidly. 

On the subject of pre-millennium tension.... one thing that I puzzle over a bit, when looking back to this period, is the extent to which I and others would be blathering on about apocalyptic dread, darkness, doom 'n' gloom. Like this piece on jump-up / techstep jungle.

But compared to now - indeed compared most of the 21st Century bar the first year or so of the Noughties....  96-97 seems like a relatively calm, stable sort of period. Prosperous too, right? The Tories were still clinging to power but you knew they were doomed, it was only a matter of time. Republicans were making mischief but Clinton was chugging along. 

A complacent time, a stasis time, yes... but where did all the premonitory "Hell is Round the Corner" stuff come from? (I know in my personal life I was incredibly happy...  work was going well too).

One final thought about this moment - 1996 (which Nothingelseon is trudging through at the moment - that's where I got the Simon Price review) is just about the most dead-arsed year in UK music.  Looking at the covers of MM, it's an endless procession of post-peak Britpop acts - Cast, Bluetones, Ash, 60 ft Dolls. Ladrock's reign interrupted only by the unexpected appearance of DJ Shadow on the front cover. 

Mind you, I seem to remember being excited and happy with music this year and into the next. 

But then again, I had barely any contact with alternative / indie by this point. I had stopped writing for MM that summer - not on purpose really, it just seemed to happen - and I got out of the habit of picking up the paper as an import (living in NYC as I was). I was just totally immersed in dance music, which was ticking along excitingly on multiple fronts simultaneously. That and the mainstream rap / R&B was leaving the guitar-y stuff for dust. 

Saturday, May 11, 2024

Steve Albini RIP - his review of Slint's Spiderland (Melody Maker, March 30, 1991)


Apparently this review was not commissioned - it just arrived in the mail and reviews editor Everett True ran it. 

Albini actually started as a music  journalist, writing for zines while at college even as he was making his first dabbles into music. 

No shortage of caustic opinions about music - some of which seem idiotic to me, but at least they were categorical and vehemently expressed. 

Here's Steve in enthusiast mode:

Enthusiasm but also some caustic opinions in this not Rebellious Jukebox but  Invisible Jukebox  (The Wire, April 1994) - particularly mordant re John Zorn, the Beatles and Black Sabbath. 

Then there's the Forced Exposure writing, much of which should probably have a veil drawn over it (and which he recanted, advisedly, given that some of the non-music provocations were indefensible).  

The Eye Witness Record Reviews is a classic of sorts, though - a conceptual innovation, and oh so mean about his clients. (He later retracted some of the acidic jibes at e.g. Pixies. If ever "mellowing with age" was a good thing, so it was with Steve Albini).  

Look out for the appearance of the phrase "Bad Music Era" which might be where I picked it up from, although I think it was used a bunch of times by different people at Forced Exposure. However, they were referring to the pre-punk '70s, as opposed to the mid-80s.

Eyewitness Record Reviews by Steve Albini

from Forced Exposure #17, 1991:

Record reviewers have been at an enormous disadvantage since the advent of the multi-track recording in the late 1950s. No longer can any assumptions be made about the conditions under which a record was recorded. I am now able to write the first truly informed series of record reviews since the dawn of that accursed technology. I can comment on records I saw being made. When I am hired to record a band, I make it plain to my clients that I do not wish to be associated with their charming little records. I will do a good job for them, but that does not include shouldering any responsibility for their lousy tastes and mistakes.

When I was employed as a photo retoucher, I was often involved in the alteration of reality for the noble purpose of increasing cigarette sales. Not once did I expect or desire to see "produced by Steve Albini" on a Marlboro ad, simply because it was this, and not some poor other sap, who toned down the excessive lipgloss on Darryl's pout or removed the unfortunate sarcoma from his forehead. I apply the same logic to my current occupation. Often these clients disregard my wishes and publicize the fact that I worked on their records. Oh, man. Today, they get their just desserts. I will make little comment about the actual music on any of these records (figuring everybody has formed an opinion already or couldn't care less), and will say nothing except "Bless you" about those who have respected my anonymity.

A word about my fees: I charge whatever the hell I feel like at the moment, based on the client's ability to pay, how nice the band members are, the size and directly-proportional gullibility of the record label, and whether or not they got the rock. For example, Slint or Mudhead I would lend money to. The Didjits or Fugazi I would do for free. Shadowy Men on a Shadowy Planet and Jesus Lizard would pay beans. Most everybody else pays $150 -- $450 a day, except that anybody on a major label gets fucked whole-dong outright, figuring that they're never going to get paid anyway, unless it's somebody like Ministry or Depeche Mode or Guns 'n Roses or Bullet La Volta who suck so wildly that I wouldn't endure them for a fortune.

The straight skinny from an eyewitness:

The Pixies "Surfer Rosa" LP: 

A patchwork pinch loaf from a band who a their top dollar best are blandly entertaining college rock. Their willingness to be "guided" by their manager, their record company and their producers is unparalleled. Never have I seen four cows more anxious to be led around by their nose rings.

Except that I got to rewrite their songs with a razorblade, thought the drums sounded nice, and managed to get Nate the Impaler on the LP as a cameo, I remember nothing about this album, although I thought it was pretty good at the time. During the recording, a sibling of the sexual partner of a Pixie was lounging around making little fuck me noises, so I took her home and got stiffed. Had to retreat to Byron's "den of satisfaction" and run a batch off by hand. I seem to remember that their Filipino guitar player was pro-Marcos, but I could be wrong. The album took about a week maybe two all tolled. Fee: $1,500.

I later recorded a single track with them for a label-stroke compilation album. The band had been getting the Big High Building "pampered performer" treatment for a couple of years by then and were consequently bored and dour. It took a couple of hours after dinner one night. Fee: $4,000. About a year later, Bob Krasnow, the geeb at Elektra's Big High Building who fathered this dumb idea sent me a truly revolting nickel-and-gold Omega wristwatch (the kind Record Producers wear), with tacky Biz inscription and tacky presentation case. As soon as somebody at the pool room offers me what it's worth, I'm gonna have a hell of a nice dinner.

The Wedding Present "Brassneck" single: 

I was told they wanted to record three songs, we ended up recording six, the most embarrassing of which is an as-yet-unreleased adenoidal rendition of Penetration's "Don't Dictate." I should say right out that the band are truly swell guys. Nice enough to go our with your sister and everything, but Jesus, are they vulnerable.

They started out like any independent band, and now are in the unenviable position of trying to operate like one while unquestionably in the jaws of a Big High Building-type record company. These poor guys are under the delusion that the staff of RCA actually gives a shit about whether they draw breath or not. They sweat their tours out in a tiny rented van, pinching every penny, lost in the assumption that the label dorks back in the Big High Building "feel" for them in some way.

Meanwhile, I'm chatski on the cellular phone in the limo, keeping my appointment with the club car of a Britrail, where I'll be treated to a fucking filet on my way to my private room in the four star Hotel Picadilly in Manchester (where the three telephones and electric towel warmer are an ergonomic distance away from the toilet, but the closed-circuit porn movies have the penetrations and cum shots excised.) "Not to worry," the grand dork says, snapping the Amex down on whatever Formica is handy, "it's recoupable." It took about four days. Fee: $9,500 plus "niceties."

The band recorded three songs in Chicago during a break in their US tour, and while the music was otherwise a big improvement over the songs recorded for "Brassneck," I have to report that they also did a version of a Steve Harley song called "Make Me Smile." Supposedly this was a smash hit in the Bad Music Era across the pond, but back in Montana I only knew one guy who ever listened to Steve Harley. He was a Sparks fan and he later died of a brain tumor. I'm not going to risk it myself. Fee: $4,260.

The Breeders "Pod" LP

For reasons too subtle to describe accurately [boing! -- Hat Ed.], I really enjoyed going to Scotland and working on this. The actual record is nothing special, of course, but I have a much deeper understanding of the twin phenomena of synchronous menses and breast swelling than I previously would have dreamed.

The only chafingly unpleasant thing about the experience was an unbearable shithead gopher who loitered around the studio during those hours when he wasn't actually engaged in plugging the guitar player (the only function he truly served). Josephine, the bass player, looks quite a bit like an emu, except that her hair is thinner. The studio owner had a pathological fear of raw eggs, and entertained us with stories about the ex-Bay City Roller he buys beef from. His wife, a voluptuous, once-attractive singer, would occasionally strip down to her frillies at the bountiful dinner table.

I pounded everybody through the album in about a week, but the label insisted that we stay at the studio and dream up another three weeks of work for me to do. The drummer accepted any excuse to go across the road to the pub and get stupid drunk, and finished one evening dancing in the arms of a Freemason transvestite named "Dora" (John). On the last night in Scotland, the drummer went to a meeting of The Angler's Club, and didn't return until well after closing time. Presented to the front door by two Anglers, each holding an elbow (the little drummer's legs had failed hours earlier), Shannon was completely blackened with soot from the fire, except for bright blue rings drawn with pool table chalk around nose and chin. Anglers, I swear!

The well-plugged guitar player (noted above) tipped me to a bit of Boston gossip. It seems that Suzy Rust has been getting some social mileage out of a rumor that she and I are well-acquainted with the contours of each other's nakedness, and once traded orgasms in the growler at Chet's. Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I have never been in the toilet at Chet's. Fee: $4,000.

Tad "Salt Lick" EP:

 There has been debate in some quarters about the validity of the whole Tad thing. Such talk comes from mouths unassociated with either ears or brains. That Tad now introduces himself as "Tiny" whenever he gets a chance is only further evidence of apparent genius. His first words after stepping off the plane and enveloping my forequarter with a handshake however, were, "Say, do you know where we can get any pot?" Fortunately, a terrible band of my acquaintance was recording in the studio upstairs from us, with a singer known to travel with commercial quantities. "I'm not carrying that much pot nowadays," said the singer, his expression inverting. "I'm tired of getting arrested all the time." Tad was not a happy Tad that weekend.Fee: $600.

Poster Children "Flower Power" LP: 

They had a really fruity drummer for a while, but I think he died of the syph. This one took two days. Fee: $300.

Daisy Chain Reaction LP: 

Their current drummer, Crazy Bob, does occasionally scream "Hey, fuck me in the ass Steve, right here, right now!" from across a crowded room at me, but somehow that isn't as irritating as wearing a beret and scarf simultaneously. While recording their second record, Crazy Bob got to meet Aerosmith, whose drummer shared this joke with him: How do you get a nun pregnant? -- Fuck her. I laughed. Fee: $2,400.

Bitch Magnet "Star Booty" EP: 

Listen, all I did was help three college bozos remix some sorry class-project recordings, and all of a sudden, Ding! I'm their "producer." Listening to this poor wittle wecord is about the dumbest thing you can do with it, especially if you're short on dinnerware. I did work on an actual record of theirs later, and it wasn't unpleasant, but Orestes "Toast" Delatorre, their drummer and interesting member, has left the band to pursue dog grooming in Alaska or someplace, so who really cares. That B'gnet routinely fires Jon Fine (token hebe) immediately after each recording session is testament to his personality. Fee: $100, I think.

Jesus Lizard "Pure" EP: 

Recorded before the band existed, and therefore neither representative nor any good. They recorded with a drum machine, against all advice, instead of waiting for their excellent actual drummer (a sort of tragic genius) to materialize. A shame, considering how tremendous a band they've become. This record is a blight on a soon-to-be-enormously-significant career. Bands have overcome more shabby beginnings, but not many. The only one of their three records that is not absolutely stellar, but boy is it lunar. Fee: about a buck, I think.

Bastro "Rode Hard And Put Up Wet" LP: 

See previous review. In my opinion, a Zoviet France tattoo is stupid even when compared to genital piercing.

Whitehouse "Thank Your Lucky Stars" 45 and LP: 

William Bennett can effortlessly play almost any Yes song you could be pained to mention on Spanish guitar. I shit you not. Each of the songs Whitehouse recorded was structurally mapped by a famous heavy metal song. So much so, in fact, that all Bennett used as a headphone cue was a cassette recording of whichever Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden or Deep Purple song the track was based on. Tidbit -- three guesses which later-famous synthesizer guy that is on the back of that Prag Vec record you haven't listened to since 1980. Ding! Give that man a banana. Fee: $600.

Membranes "Kiss Ass Godhead" LP: 

I did not produce this record, despite what it says on the jacket. I worked on a couple of songs in Chicago, and helped them mix a few more songs in Leeds, but I no more "produced" it than did I reach into my butt crack and discover it. (Speaking of which, I have a good friend and billiard associate named Jon Spiegel whose magic act involves the disappearance of a volunteer's hankie and the subsequent appearance from between his own magnificent butt cheeks. It's a real PTA pleaser.) Neither Homestead nor Glass, the Membranes' two labels, ever paid me. John Robb is a stand up fellow, but he has lousy business associates, and talks like a Ferriner. Fee: Still nothing in the mailbox, Seymour -- you lying fuck.

Gore "Wrede" LP: 

The title is a Dutch pun combining the words "cruelty" and "peace." Oh you guys, you crack me up. This is a double album, made up of four monolithic instrumentals, the longest of which clocks in at nearly half an hour. I arrived after the band had spent three weeks recording, so there was basically nothing for me to do except oversee overdubs and mix one song. And take sauna baths. And eat like a pig. My favorite victual in Dykenland is a peppered raw beef called "filet American." Must be another Dutch pun. I also learned to love Vlokken, a chocolate shred that is eaten on toast.

I met a writer for the Dutch music magazine Oor (Ear), who always wore a glove on his right hand, which was always balled-up in a fist. I found out why when the conversation turned to fireworks, and he demonstrated (by sticking a thumbtack in it) that his hand was wooden. He had blown it off with fireworks as a boy. He asked me why Americans have such a low opinion of the Dutch. I told him that Americans seldom even thought of the Dutch, except for their elm disease, which we thought highly of. He gave as evidence the expressions "being in Dutch," "Dutch courage," and worst of all, "Dutch treat-- why that's no treat of all!" I told him that they were all puns.

The other engineer on the record was Theo Van Eenbergen, a swell guy who now handles live sound for Henry Rollins, a fate I wouldn't wish on a dog I didn't like. Theo told me about the pot farm he used to live on. Sometimes he and his friends would run naked through the plants and collect the resins from their skin to smoke like hashish. Neat.

Things I now know how to say in Dutch: "Zet je koptelefoon op, mietje, voor ik je tegens jehersens knal." ("Put your headphones on, you little faggot, or I'll come out and crush your brains.") "Vall kapot! Late we eten." ("Fuck it, this is a disaster! Let's eat.") I also learned why you should never ask a Dutch guitar player to hand you his "pick." Fee: $1,200.

Head Of David "Dustbowl" LP: 

The original artwork for this album said "Dustbowel," which I quite liked, even when I found out it was a mistake. My involvement here was limited to remixing a record that was fine before I touched it and got no better for the effort. I also had to endure the presence of Justin Pile, HOD's measly drummer, who spent long hours bemoaning the state of his hemorrhoids, playing with his dreadlocks and eating greasy vegetarian food (the better to fart you with, grandma) -- the turd.Fee: about $500, I think 

Friday, April 26, 2024

Dave McCullough - Kajagoogoo - Sounds - April 23 1983


From those crazy New Pop days when everyone was competing for the most startling transvaluation... 

But you know what? 

Dave McC (and Ross Middleton of the godawful Leisure Process) are right

The intro to "Too Shy" is gorgeous... And I thought that at the time. 

(Both are way off in their counting, though - Ross says it's "the first ten seconds", Dave says it's fifteen - it's actually 45 seconds of delicious elasticated suspense). 

There's an equally wonderful patch of airy-aqueous Level 42-aspiring fusion-cloaked-as-pop in the middle of "Too Shy", at around 2.16 minutes -  misty curls of sustained guitar floating across the mix that could almost be John Martyn.

The song itself is promising: a subtle shimmy-shimmer through the verse,  and even that odd "hey girl move a little closer" pre-chorus is enjoyably New Wave weird. But then all fizzles out with that rabbit-punch-feeble-chorus.

"Ooh To Be Ah" as pop James Joyce? A dare too far for me, but you have to salute the provocation

Lovely to see the former champion of Postcard turn against Orange Juice and Aztec Camera for their drift towards rockist orthodoxy...

Critics moved so fast those days, nothing stood in their way - values were provisional, metrics unstable,  stances susceptible to reversal... whether through a major rethink or a skittish impetuous whim 

Monday, April 8, 2024

Lester Bangs - The Punk Rock Machine - National Screw - November 1976

How did this magazine come into my possession?

When we lived in New York, in our East Village apartment block... there was this informal tradition of people leaving stuff out by the mailboxes - old books, old records, old magazines. The aging bohemian / arty residents of the coop often had cool things they were offering to the commonweal -  Cahiers Du Cinema collections... a complete run of 1970s Artforum, left out in stages, to a fitful rhythm, over months and years... (I snatched and hoarded them all, have them still in a box in storage... never once looked at them). 

Occasionally, an actually intriguing and worth-keeping record in decent nick amongst the old Bread albums and Nana Mouskouri...  e.g something on Chatham Square, Philip Glass's indie label, I seem to recall. 

A hell of a lot of drek too... things no one would want... shabby used clothing... tea towels... unappealing crockery... defunct bits of outmoded audio technology .... half-finished tubes of ointment!

However the copy of National Screw was not left out by the mailbox area. The person who offloaded it clearly felt it was not for general view... there were after all children living in the building... 

What this resident did was to leave his old culture crap by the garbage chute on our floor

Now I had heard that someone in the building worked in the porn industry, or had once worked in it.. 

At any rate, boxes would appear, by the chute, containing old - and by today's standards, tame -  porn mags... some publications catering to specialist sexual tastes but fairly mild...  and, interestingly, some counter culture magazines too... including an issue of a late 1960s publication called Orpheus (a kind of digest of pieces in other Underground Press periodicals)  where every single copy had a bullet hole through it... They must have stacked the print-run in bunches and fired shots at them. A sales gimmick, or maybe a statement about the underground press and the persecution it faced? 

Anyway, among these dusty yellowed publications was a still bright, glossy copy of National Screw - the (shortlived - 1976-77) nationwide magazine version of Al Goldstein's NYC tabloid sex paper Screw... 

"First and best in the field it created" goes the legend for this "sex review".

The word "screw" in itself profoundly dates the publication, but amazingly it stills exists online, long after Goldstein's passing. 


Naturally the words "punk rock" on the cover caught my eye - and lo and behold, it turned out to be by Lester Bangs!

The history of rock writers earning a crust from skin mags is worthy of investigation... Mick Farren did some work in that field...  I believe Xgau contributed to Playboy...  I knew a Melody Maker writer who had a second channel of income from working for the woman behind The Sex Maniacs Diary and related publications. 

Well, Spin magazine was founded and chief-edited by the son of Penthouse man Bob Guccione.

Rock press straying into porn zone - from the NME Xmas edition 1977

The interface between the rock world and the porn world in the 1970s is a recurrent theme at Pete Stansfield's blog. Usually porn mags covering certain bands or scenes. 

Unexpected convergence of the world of Goldstein + Screw with the world of alternative rock - a  compilation, on Amphetamine Reptile of all places, as reviewed in Melody Maker in April 1996

This same mysterious neighbour on our floor also put out a whole bunch of VHS cassettes onto which he'd recorded both series of Rock Follies, from when PBS had first shown it in America, some years after the original airing in the UK. 

I watched them all avidly -  only to discover that the final episode of the second series was missing.