In 2007, a much younger me sits silently, perched on a black-lacquered stool in an awkward pose. His legs extend upward towards his chest, because, you see, the rungs of the stool are set a little too high, forcing the young man into a most un-flattering semi-squat. Refuge from tortured soles maybe, but most totally grotesque and unattractive. This particular furnishing is an antique, but uncharmingly so. Chips in the shiny black coating, reflecting in panes of silky even light, only to be broken apart by harsh chip marks, solid evidence of heavy usage and abuse, and apropos obviously, for the human condition. This skinny memory is the security guard for one of the many Madison Avenue Upper-East Side fashion-peddling installations.
Growing up a punk rock kid is filled with dichotomies. On the one hand it is all honesty and expression while on the other it is draped in leather and scowls. On one hand there is finger- pointing and sing-alongs while on the other is the merch guy (or girl) that intimidates you to buy an LP for fear of… I don’t know…. I can only speak from personal experience of course but I always found these two contrasts pulling at me any time I put on a record or went to a show. If I dropped the needle on a new L(P)ove I often times had trouble wanting to convey this to friends. The side of me that wanted to constrain my passion was