alexzola's Open Salon Blog

Remembering Robert Quine

Thu, 31 May 2012 02:05:34 -0400

Times have changed. It used to be I’d crawl to the corner to find a cup of coffee, a copy of the New York Post and a bagel every morning while cursing the man who invented 8am and weaving in and out of the fashionable dressed men and women on their way to a 9-5 gig. Now, I start the coffee, grab a banana and log on Facebook to check out the action. The moving carnival that was the New York streets replaced with the occasionally narcissistic news of my friends and me. Welcome to 2012.

There are times when the actual information posted is actually breath taking. Such was the case this morning when James Marshall, owner of the now defunct Lakeside Lounge, reminded the Facebook world May 30, 2012 is the eighth anniversary of Robert Quine’s death; a fact that felt like a gut punch to your occasionally intrepid blogger.

I’m sure too most out there the name Robert Quine means nothing. Your point of view wouldn’t change if you saw the man on the street. He was bald, wore round sunglasses, frumpy oxford shirts, a blazer and jeans. Bob could have easily passed for a piss poor insurance agent or the middle-aged neighbor who mows his lawn in white shorts and dark socks - instantly forgettable. However, Bob Quine was one of the greatest guitar players to ever hit the circuit. His violent, burning, brutal and occasionally lyrical no wave jazz influenced solos can be heard on Richard Hell and the Voidoids two records, Lou Reed’s The Blue Mask, Matthew Sweet’s Girlfriend and on tracks by many other artists.

Quine wasn’t like other the other guitar heroes of his generation who relied on the lazy listeners to overlook their lack of ideas from the jump – see Steve Jones – or recycled third generation blues licks picked up from old Led Zeppelin LP’s and played behind dreamy hair – see Slash. Bob Quine’s punk rock solos were equivalent to Charlie Parker or Miles Davis riffs, every nuance had to be listened to and accounted for. Something I had been doing ever since I first heard his long sustained notes and staccato screams on the title track of The Blue Mask in December of 1986.

Quine and I became ‘street’ friends on a late September day in 1988. That was the year of the great New York Telephone strike and since NYU did not supply its students with phones for their rooms, I had to go to the NYT office every day in an effort to put down the deposit so someone would flip the switch and my suitemates and I could call home to Mom and Dad. After another unsuccessful afternoon spent in a line, I walked past Quine on 2^nd Ave in between 12^th and 13^th Streets. I literally tackled the man screaming, “Do you know who you are? You’re Bob Quine.” Fortunately, Bob had a sense of humor, thanked me for being a fan and took me to Eileen’s Reno Bar. He bought me my very first bourbon – a Jim Beam – in that dive. I almost got sick after my second glass looking at the leopard skin wallpaper and fake moose head over the bar.

Two months later I went to see Richard Thompson and his electric band at the Bottom Line on the Amnesia tour. I was quite sick with the latest swine flu to arrive from Southeast Asia and sitting right up against the stage proved to be a bad idea. After the third song, the vibrations bouncing off my chest managed to get me very nauseous. By the end of “Don’t Tempt Me” I ran to the bathroom barely making it in time to throw up into the first stall on the left and scaring the bald guy at the urinal. The bald guy just happened to be Bob Quine.

Shockingly, Quine remembered my name and love for Richard Thompson. “Alex, I think he’s playing ‘Shoot Out The Lights’,” he teased. I turned my head to say fuck you but all I could manage to do was vomit on my hero’s shoes. Quine lifted my head out of the bowl, felt my forehead and dragged me to a cab, all the while bitching at me for even thinking about coming to a concert with a raging fever.

I wouldn’t see Bob again for 3 years. This time I ran into him on 7^th Avenue South near 10^th Street where once again, he remembered my name and took me to Woody’s for a bourbon or several. He was happy I was working at SPIN but displeased I was living with a Princess and he guaranteed she would break my heart – he was right.

Over the next 7 or so years, Bob and I would run into each other twice a year, usually at the corner of 6^th Avenue and Houston Street; if Bob was with his wife Alice and we’d shoot the shit for a few and then part. However, if Bob was alone, he’d drag me to a bar, buy me bourbon (he never let me pay for a round) and talk to me about my life. That changed in 1999 when he read a wild untamed piece I published on Al Aronowitz’ webzine The Blacklisted Journalist entitled ‘Toe Sucking Night At The Vault.’ One of my old editors at SPIN who was running a new start up magazine had given me a few dollars to write a semi-biographical article about a misadventure at the Vault, a sex club in the Meatpacking District and then rejected it out of hand as too risqué. It was then our chats about my life turned into lectures.

“You can really write,” he told me. “Stop existing and start living.” I was never quite sure what that meant but he repeated it every time I saw him and we ended up in a bar.

The last time we had a drink together was sometime in early 2001. After that I lost track of Bob until the early spring of 2004. Once again, we ran into each other at the corner of 6^th Ave and Houston. This time he looked terrible, ragged, drawn. There was no polite small talk, Bob got right to the point. “You’re a writer. Stop existing and start living.” With that gem of wisdom offered, Quine turned his back to me and walked away. I with a hearty New York “fuck you” and walked into western SoHo. In early May, I heard Alice had died a year or so earlier and then came word Bob had committed suicide on May 30 by heroin overdose.

I wish I would have known about Bob’s troubles. Although I had no idea where he lived, I would have been happy to have wandered his SoHo neighborhood with frequency and looked for him. Maybe he would have let me buy him a bourbon.

We lost an American Master I was fortunate to sort of know eight years ago today. The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.

Rest in peace.

The Rabbinic Version Of Hell

Tue, 29 May 2012 04:05:12 -0400

Hell, Hades, Damnation, where the souls of the believers and non-believers alike go final punishment, for obvious reasons, has never been mapped but there are many different versions of the Netherworld available to the religious consumer demanding education.

Hieronymus Bosch created wonderfully weird paintings that showed Hell to be a sadistic chaotic environment for revenge.

Dante took us on a tour of the Circles of Damnation and showed us some very creative ways to punish the sinner.

Zoroastrians believed in several versions of Hell including annihilation.

Rod Serling believed Hell was a place where gamblers could never lose, ever.

Jews believe Hell is the absence of G-d. A long-winded way of re-phrasing the Eleatical approach to the afterlife – is and is not. Or so the Talmud would have us believe. Last night I had a front row seat for the true Hebraic version of hell.

I spent 5 hours at a Rabbinic Ordination in Beverly Hills. The first hour was spent eating – we’re talking Jews here, there will always be food not to mention cake even in the ninth circle of Hell where Hitler is constantly changing a bevy of Yenta’s light bulbs. The last four were spent listening to 15 Rabbi’s speak. That’s four hours of metaphor after metaphor after metaphor. And there was no booze to be had in the house.

Note to the Great Magnet: from now on I’ll be good. Pinky swear.

Incinerating Chivalry

Tue, 15 May 2012 04:05:51 -0400

One of the first things a bartender learns to recognize is the dreaded first date. The awkward pauses and weird body language give it away to the average pub voyeur but the barman/maid learns to read the other signs; the initial handshake instead of hug and cheek kiss and lack of touching during the strained conversation are the dead giveaways. Of course, there is also the quick shot the guy will generally throw back both before the meeting and when she goes to the bathroom to text her BFF.

Surprisingly, most first dates I’ve seen are successful – success in this case defined as both parties have a good time and agree to see each other again. The few first dates I’ve seen fail have one thing in common: economic considerations i.e. who pays. In the not so distant past, the man paid for everything without question. These days, proper etiquette in the confused dating scene dictates the check should be split. ‘Modern’ chivalry, however, (not to mention taste and breeding) dictate the man should offer to pay and if his date says no, let’s split the check then graciously concede the point or propose she get the next round at the place.

‘Modern’ chivalry, gentlemanly behavior and dressing like an adult seem to be lost on the male members of Generation Y.

I was having a couple of whiskey’s at the infamous HMS Bounty, taking notes on a new project when a young 23 year old couple came up to the service well to order drinks. She was an attractive brunette, dressed to impress in a tiny black dress, off white sweater and a pair of heels that brought her almost to her date’s 5’10” eye level. He had on ripped jeans, what appeared to be a 1970’s vintage wrinkled oxford shirt and 4 days worth of facial stubble. He literally shoved two women out of the way so they could belly up to the bar. He asked his date what she wanted to drink and tried to get the barmaid’s attention by calling her ‘sweetie.’

Her body language, arms crossed Mona Lisa smile, led me to believe this was not only a first date but she was on the fence as to whether she should run from this boorish excuse of a boy she let take her out on a Friday night. When the glass of white wine and Captain and Coke were delivered, the brunette handed her card over to pay for the round. Her date was flustered when he saw her sign the bill.

“You’re paying,” he asked. “How rude.”

Two minutes later she had to go to the bathroom and was still there when I left an hour later. Her date was in a corner booth with some other guy. “Jesus, she’s been in there a while,” he commented. “I wonder which of her girlfriends she texting.”

Thus we can ascertain the concept of chivalry appears lost on this (and many other) Generation Y boy. As I walked home, I flashed on an event when I was four or five years old. Mother picked Rebecca Gleason and I up from pre-school. I opened the door and jumped inside. Mom made me get out, close the door, re-open the door and offer Rebecca a seat with an exaggerated wave of my hand. “Trust me, this is a lesson you’ll want to remember when you start asking girls out,” she said.

Well-played Mother. Well played.

The Watergate Hotel Solves The Kennedy Assassination

Fri, 13 Apr 2012 00:04:54 -0400

I have a new friend.

Most of you know this friend as, perhaps, he’s your friend as well. My new friend is located at the top right hand corner of my keyboard and he goes by the name of Delete Button. I find the button useful when writing to you dear reader – so many mistakes go bye-bye so quickly – and extremely helpful when sending nasty comments into oblivion.

Yesterday, I received my very first death threat via a comment sent to this blog. The comment from Anonymous described your occasionally intrepid blogger as a ‘dirty Jew,’ reminded me the Jews were the culprits for the Assassination of JFK (when we all know it was a botched job by inexperienced CIA operatives) and said he was going to kill me. Of course, said Anonymous individual couldn’t spell to save his/her and needed to retake elementary English grammar. Frankly I was offended. C’mon if you’re going to threaten my life at least you can do it in proper English although I’d prefer Iambic Pentameter. Thus, I introduced said message to my new friend Delete Button.

Unfortunately, real life doesn’t come with a delete button.

In early December, I found myself in a central Phoenix bar built into a former gas station talking to the barmaid about the then upcoming Magic Bullet Theory. After a whiskey or three, the slight guy in a faded blue-stripped shirt with a badly kept horseshoe haircut sitting four stools down moved over to join the conversation. “So you think they set-up the President to miss him,” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I replied.

He looked around the joint to make sure no one could hear our conversation. I braced myself for the worst; we were the only two patrons in the place and if the guy had to look around to make sure, I was scared of what was to come. He leaned in close and whispered in my ear “at home, I have to answer to who actually killed Kennedy.”

“Really,” I said.

“Yes, it’s at home. I live around the corner. I’ll go get it and show it to you.”

After he sauntered out the glass garage door, I called the barmaid over and asked about my conspiratorial pal. “Oh Bobby’s harmless,” she said. “But he knows a lot of things.”

In the occasionally freaked out mind of a man who deals with conspiracy freaks, ‘he knows a lot of things’ translates put your back against the wall. This guy might bring back some odd martial art weapon or could get violent if I told him his rifle wasn’t a real Mannlicher Carcano. I decided discretion was the better part of valor and asked for my check. However, before I could sign off on my tab, Bobby had returned.

He looked around again, craned his neck to look down the hallway to the bathrooms as well and handed me a crumpled piece of paper. “All the information you need is on there,” he said.

The piece of paper he handed me was a barely legible 1974 receipt from the Watergate Hotel. As near as I could tell, he stayed there for two nights and had paid cash. “The numbers are in code, aren’t they,” I asked.

“Exactly.”

I was flabbergasted. What exactly was I supposed to say to this guy: stop watching the Bible Code specials on the History Channel? Go back on your Meds? Can I buy you a Mint Julep? Fortunately, the barmaid had a copy machine in back and offered to make me a copy of the receipt. “Do you mind,” I asked him.

“Oh no. That would be great,” he said.

“Excellent,” I said. I gestured with my chin and he came closer. “Look, if something happens to me I want you to take this receipt straight to the police and tell them what happened tonight.”

“No problem. I’ll call George Noory as well,” he said.

Note to Microsoft and Apple: can you please come up with the real time delete button, sometime before the end of The Magic Bullet Theory run? Thank you, the management.

The Fashionable Assassin - Yalie #2

Thu, 22 Mar 2012 03:03:59 -0400

Tuesday, I found a strange note on my outer door. It was hard to miss among the multi-colored business cards left in the black metal grates – a wonderful script written in black ink on cerulean blue paper. It read as follows:

I read your blog. My former partner was mistaken. Call 917-982-7089 to learn more.

Ever since Sacred Fools Theatre announced The Magic Bullet Theory (Premiering March 23!) as part of it’s 15^th season, I’ve been getting strange notes and e-mails from various conspiracy freaks, wanna be government spooks, the twisted, malformed and just plain crazy. Not that I’m bothered by all the attention. Frankly, it’s just the price of doing business in the Space Age. The e-mails I delete, the notes I tear up.

Yesterday, I found another note on the same paper, same black ink and beautiful penmanship asking me to meet at Taylor’s Prime Steaks at 8 sharp. The author claimed to have important information concerning the Yalie #1 post from March 3, 2012. I was instructed to wear a French blue Oxford style shirt and to carry a black umbrella. The writer would be wearing a long beige overcoat with pink carnation and would be drinking an Old Fashioned.

Ok, I thought. Someone’s been reading too many Ian Fleming novels. But I’m known at Taylor’s so I figured I was safe as long as I took a cab and made sure everyone knew what was going on. I arrived at 7:45 in a French blue shirt sans umbrella to find the author of the notes already sitting in the middle of the dark bar. We shook hands and he identified himself as Yalie #2 – the former partner of Yalie #1. He had some major issues with my old friend’s description of the proper way to assassinate a target.

“Eliminating a target is easy. Any fool can plant a bomb or pass a poison pill. Thinking ahead is the key to a successful operation. Proper clothing choices can make or break any operation,” he said as the bartender served my Manhattan. To that end, he offered the following tips for color scheming a government hit:

*Always wear midnight blue to a splatter event. You want to blend in with the crowd beforehand, and soak in the crimson of your targets insides without drawing too much attention at the after party.

*When the target is in my sights I don't see a bulls-eye, but rather a kaleidoscope of different shades of love.

*Strangulation is an event best accented with light auburn breathable turtlenecks. The vision of a warm, flesh colored neck on the assailant seems to accelerate asphyxiation in the target by up to 50%.

*Whenever firearms are involved, you've got to go with tortoise shell.

“These are the assassination imperatives, not tools. The right camouflage will go a long way to helping operation no matter how off the rails it may go.”

After several more rounds of Manhattan’s and Old Fashions and talk of events, targets and things, Yalie #2 had to leave. He instructed me to order a Baked Alaska with white and green frosting. When waiter lit the desert, I was to knock it over onto the carpeting and he would slip out in the smoke and confusion.

“They don’t serve Baked Alaska,” I said.

He seemed shocked. “Oh, well then. Thanks for meeting me,” he said, slinking out into the Los Angeles night.

This morning I found another note from Yalie #2 on my door. He claims he too will attend the March 31 showing of The Magic Bullet Theory. “Your friend and I have to have a chat,” it read. “Especially if he’s going to be giving proper advice on target elimination.”

(Hat Tip: Pete Caslavka)