turntable talk

They were my band in the 80s. They were the first band I got into on my own. Not on the suggestion of a friend, or by listening to my parents' music, or by hearing them on the radio. The Clash. My dad had a weekly newspaper in South Jersey and he suggested I write a music column for it. He even suggested the title, Turntable Talk. So I guess I've been reviewing pop culture since I was a tween ...

Anyway, once I had written a bunch of columns I felt like I had run out of subject matter. I had already written about all my favorite singers and bands. "Why don't you write the record companies and see if you can review some of their new albums?" said the old man "But I'm just a kid!" I argued. "They don't know that." So I drafted a letter, got the record company addresses from the backs of my albums, Dad proofed it and we sent it out to CBS, A&M, Epic, etc.

A few weeks later, the free albums started pouring in. So many of the albums were by obscure bands and one-hit wonders—Huang Chung, who changed their name to Wang Chung, The Dickies, Gino Vannelli (which came with a full-size poster of Gino which my mom brought to the newspaper and put up on the wall behind the typesetter), the Ethel Merman Disco Album (I kid you not.) And I listened to all of them, all the way through, no matter how difficult, or how far it drove the family out of the house. We only had one stereo in the house. I took my "job" of reviewing very seriously, even the questionable loot.

Multiple-photo collage, by Elizabeth Periale

But I also got some really great stuff. The Police, Joe Jackson, Elvis Costello and The Clash. I'll never forget the first time I put on The Clash one weekend morning. I was the only one home at the time. Maybe instinctively I knew to wait until I was alone, that I was about to have an experience. The sound coming out of the stereo was loud and raw and scary and exciting. My neighbor, Mrs. Dembski, who was walking her dog, or watering her lawn, or doing something that caused her to come out onto her front lawn across the street stopped whatever it was she was doing and stood still, staring at our house. Inside, I bounced around, afraid yet thrilled, and knew that suddenly this column and album-reviewing wasn't just something I was doing for my Dad to be part of the family business. I was really into this.

Greeting folks at the door to my installation.

Years later, when I went away to art school at Parsons I took my Clash and Police records (I left Gino Vanelli at home with Mom) and eventually stopped in at CBS to introduce myself to the contact who had been sending me all their records. She was probably only about five years older than me, but seemed a little surprised at my youth—but only for a moment before she loaded me down with an armful of new records. I didn't end up going to any of the other labels I had been corresponding with while I was still in high school, as I just didn't have time with all my classes and assignments. But I continued to write and send dad the occasional column until the paper folded in my junior year.

During that year I really came into my own at Parsons and was experimenting with photography and film and performance, as well as taking the drawing and painting classes in the curriculum. I had talked my way out of taking any more sculpture classes (usually required) when my sculpture teacher and I both agreed that I just didn't have a 3D-eye (hey, that story was convincing at the time), and I added printmaking instead. I started using a lot of the publicity materials that the record companies had sent me as the subject matter and even raw material for my artwork.

My ten red panels in a darkened room.

I was listening to a lot of different music, but I listened mostly to the Clash while I created a large-scale installation for my drawing class. I had draped a room with plastic sheeting, painted black, the paint chipping off of it until it became a tunnel which led viewers to a set of ten painted wooden panels with words pres-typed onto them. I wanted people to feel as if they were walking into my painting. I knew I would need music, the music I was listening to while I made the panels, to fill the room. I asked my friend Steven Parrino, if he would make a tape for me, using the Clash's music. He didn't necessarily think the band was cool—he was always onto whatever he thought was the nextest, bestest thing—but he agreed.

I did a little research and found out the Clash had an "office"in New York called Clash, Inc., and called and made an appointment. When I visited, it was a big empty loft somewhere in midtown with a young woman with a British accent who seemed to be the lone staff person. I told her my story and asked if I could include some of the band's music as background for my art installation. She said yes and asked me to send her an invite. "Maybe we'll come and see it." I was beyond thrilled and handed over my albums to Steven and told him to go nuts.

Steven Parrino, artist and mixtape-maker extraordinaire, expounding on the meaning of art,
or something. I miss you, Steven.

Of course Steven distorted the songs and did so much scratching, etc. that my familiar favorites were hardly recognizable. But it did sound cool and was perfect for the enveloping, claustrophobic nature of the piece. The girl from Clash, Inc. showed up and was probably as befuddled at first as I had been when she heard Steven's wall-of-Clash-sound, but she congratulated me on the installation and told me that "The Boys" would have loved it.

I gave all my old albums many years ago to my cousin, the only person I know who still has a working turntable. I've got quite a few of my favorite Clash songs loaded onto my iPhone—the kid sings along happily with me to Should I Stay or Should I Go. But recently I've been feeling the lack of Sandinista. There's something about putting on such a massive album as that one and letting it envelop you ... sort of like my installation. I haven't done that in a long time.

Related articles

• Joe Strummer Biopic On The Way (beatcrave.com)
• Clash's London Calling goes from vinyl to video (cbc.ca)
• Tsy Stle Hall of Fame Paul Simonon | How to Clash Art, Music and Style (theselvedgeyard.wordpress.com)

cinema village

When I was going to art school in New York many years ago, one of the fun things to do was to catch a movie (or two) after an exhausting crit or studio session. And one of my favorite theaters to go to was the nearby Cinema Village. It had at the time, I think, two screens and would show a great variety of revival double-features, as well as the occasional first-run or art-house film-school hit. I'll never forget seeing Stanley Kubrick's amazing Clockwork Orange there and feeling like one of the "droogs," wanting to take out passersby on the way to the subway after the film. I also got to see classics like The Maltese Falcon or A Hard Day's Night or East of Eden on the big screen. A very different experience from watching them on T.V.
I was also introduced to the films of Val Lewton in one of the theater's themed revival weeks. They would show a different double-feature each day of the week, enabling a film buff to saturate themselves in a particular oeuvre. I had loved Cat People growing up, but was in for a treat when I got to see other films like I Walked with a Zombie, Curse of the Cat People and especially, The Seventh Victim. That film, about a young girl who comes to New York in search of her older sister who has mysteriously disappeared struck a chord with a girl recently transplanted from South Jersey. Her investigation into her sister's disappearance brings her into contact with downtown New York, a devil or witchcraft cult, and possibly true love. It was a low-budget film, definitely a second feature, but it had an atmosphere that I have never quite forgotten, and is one of those little gems that I would love to see again.


I actually worked briefly at the Cinema Village after college. I sold tickets at the front booth (once to Emo Philips - whatever happened to him?), made and sold the popcorn (where I learned that it's not butter, it's soybean oil and a lot of it), and on a Sunday night, even had to climb up on a ladder and change the letters on the marquee for the next week's show. Cool, huh? No, I actually hated working there. I definitely was better suited to watching movies.

New York's repertory and revival cinemas died off in the 80s and 90s, making way for the more suburban-style megaplexes. I was happy to learn that Cinema Village has managed to survive, altering its menu to current needs, but survived nonetheless.

I hardly go to the movies anymore. Taking a kid to a movie theater is no guarantee of actually ever seeing the film. And if there's a "grown-up" movie I want to see, most times on my day off, spending the afternoon in a movie theater is the last place I want to be. So most times I catch things on cable. There's a DC alternative to Cinema Village in nearby Silver Spring, The AFI Silver Theater. I'm going to have to check that out one of these days. Maybe they'll even play some Val Lewton.

felix or oscar?

My daughter has inherited my allergies (sorry, kid.)

When I was a kid I loved to watch the Odd Couple on television. In New Jersey it was on a re-run schedule of I think, two episodes in the early evening. I loved both characters, and especially, the setting of New York City, where I hoped to live as an adult (and I did, for about fifteen years.) When I was first watching it I related to Oscar's sports columnist. I liked to write, too, but especially appreciated his ability to come up with the perfect wisecrack for every occasion. I could forgive him his Mets cap versus my beloved Yankees. I could never be as sloppy as Oscar, but surely I could never be as finicky as Felix, right?As I get older and my allergies change, I can hear myself almost honking as Felix would do. I also find myself relating to his fear of mold and dust and whatever else might lurk in Oscar's unbelievably messy bedroom.

The other day we were watching Clean House, which is the "wise-ass" version of many cable if-you-clean-up-your-stuff-you-will-clean-up-your-head shows. Sometimes these people's homes seem fake, as they are just too messy to be real. Except I know someone with a crazy house like that, and I'm afraid that they could use some mental spring cleaning, too. It reminds me of the Odd Couple episode "A Taste of Money" where the guys meet two older men, also roommates. One of the rooms in their apartment has been completely taken over by a gigantic rubber band ball. Felix looks at Oscar and says, "remind you of anyone?" I wish they'd put that show back into syndication...

Felix Unger: Everyone thinks I'm a hypochondriac. It makes me sick.

Oscar Madison: You want brown juice or green juice?
Felix Unger: What's the difference?
Oscar Madison: Three weeks.

Felix Unger: Oh, Oscar, Oscar, Oscar!

This ain't no Mudd Club, no CBGB, I ain't got time for that now...

Contrary to popular opinion, there is life outside of the Big Apple. But man oh man, that city is still and will ever be, a part of me. I tried to stay away, I really did, but the pull was too great. And what did I find when I returned? Basically the same city, with a shiny digital veneer, but one I could still navigate, fiercely (both Project Runway's and the Webster's version of the word).

I was a lot younger when I first lived there. This was pre A-Rod Yankees, people. CBGB's was still open for business, and it had probably the most terrifying restroom I'd ever seen. Now NYC is kid-friendly to the extreme. Every store is a theme park, with large ferris wheels and costumed characters inside, waiting, and ready to give you an "experience."

Times Square both repels and fascinates me. What used to be a sleazy area to try to walk through as swiftly as possible on your way to somewhere else is now the ultimate tourist destination. The Blade Runner-ification of New York is simply amazing. Everywhere you look there is a digital screen, talking and pulsing at you. And as New York leads the way, I'm sure the rest of the country will follow suit. D.C. already has a mini-me version in its Chinatown Verizon Center.

I love technology. I'm no Luddite. But there is something about the talking cabs, talking subway posters, talking, talking, talking, everywhere that freaks me out. Do we really need all this stimulation? How about a little quiet space? There is actually some terrific architecture to look at too, some of the greatest art in its museums, a cool walk through Central Park...OK, excuse me while I check how long the line for the Iphone is...