Caryn Rose is a New York City-based writer and photographer who documents rock and roll and urban life. She is the author of two novels, B-SIDES AND BROKEN HEARTS and A WHOLE NEW BALLGAME, and three non-fiction books, RAISE YOUR HAND; ONE GIRL, ONE TEAM, ONE CITY; and GAS, FOOD, WIFI. clips | [more]
Contact info: caryn dot rose at gmail / @carynrose
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Messrs Patell and Waterman kindly invited me to contribute my own NYC-themed playlist to to their blog, in honor of the publication of their 33 1/3 tomes on Some Girls and Marquee Moon (highly recommended!).
(Also of note, their appearance at my local bookstore, Word, later this month!)
Jesse Malin with guests Tommy Stinson and Billie Joe Armstrong covering Johnny Thunders, 2/19/11
Jesse Malin performed two shows at City Winery last night which featured his first album, The Fine Art of Self-Destruction, played in its entirety. Tommy Stinson opened. (I will get to that in a bit.) It’s a great record, so getting up and playing it start to finish with a great band (imo Jesse’s best band ever) has to result in an amazing show. The performances were strong, every single one of them. I do wish that he had set the record up with one key story, and then just played the thing from beginning to end with no stops. Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled by the performance, but I wish there had been less chat and more music on this one night.
Despite more than a little gray hair in this audience, it was another one of those situations where, at first, I’m a little unsure if I’m meant to be there. That feeling lasted until the beginning of “The ’59 Sound,” just a few songs in, where I was singing along with the 20-something kid from Jersey sitting in front of me, along with the rest of the audience. The fears that the hallowed halls of RCMH would mute the energy were for naught for the rest of the evening.
Lou Reed, Mo Tucker and Doug Yule in conversation with David Fricke, Live at the New York Public Library
The Metropolitan Museum of Art
17 October 2009
I keep trying to figure out what it means to be American.
When I look at myself I see Abyssinia, nineteenth-Century France, but I can’t recognize what makes me American. I think about Robert Frank’s photographs – broke down jukeboxes in Gallup, New Mexico, swaying hips and spurs, ponytails and syphilitic cowpokes, hash slinges, the glowing black tarp of US 285 and the Hoboken stars and stripes.
Patti wrote the words above in 1971. I thought about those words as I walked through the new Frank exhibit at the Met. I thought about Bruce Springsteen describing Bob Dylan a few weeks ago – “it was the country I recognized” – and how both of those sentiments describe what it was like being in the same room with “the Hoboken stars and stripes”.
I spent a lot of time seeing Jim Carroll when I was in college. This was when I went to poetry readings and gatherings and everything I possibly could, and Jim Carroll was, well, Jim Carroll. I also got to see his band play, a lot. Lenny Kaye was in his band, and while I would probably cringe today if I found a live recording of one of their shows somewhere, at the time I thought they were great. And Jim still read almost every year at the New Year’s Day reading at St. Mark’s.
Jim was accessible. Jim was kind. Jim never treated me like a stupid kid from the suburbs, which is what I was at the time.
Selfishly, this shit is getting entirely too close to home.
I got the best fucking seats in the WORLD in the drop this morning.
I was writing a post about concerts I have seen at Shea Stadium, and my paragraph on the Who prompted me to dig around on the hard drive for this masterpiece. Tweet Enjoyed this post? Consider signing up for my monthly newsletter.Related Posts(Waiting To) Hear One Of The Who: Pete Townshend in conversation with Jann […]
