1970s NYC music scene's Journal|
[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 18 most recent journal entries recorded in
1970s NYC music scene's LiveJournal:
|Thursday, August 14th, 2008|
Bob Dylan Revisited
Paul Nelson wrote: "It is hard to claim too much for the man who in every sense revolutionized modern poetry, American folk music, popular music, and the whole of modern-day thought; even the strongest praise seems finally inadequate. Not many contemporary artists have the power to actually change our lives, but surely Dylan does—and has."
Paul wrote this in 1966, the year after Dylan "went electric" at the Newport Folk Festival and left behind a heretofore devoted audience of dyed-in-the-wool folk-music enthusiasts (an event that also contributed to Paul resigning his post as managing editor of Sing Out!
magazine—but that's another story).
Performing Tuesday night at Prospect Park in Brooklyn, Dylan remained just as artistically unyielding.
The last time I saw Dylan live was 20 years ago and also outdoors, near Park City, Utah. His face was puffy and he was slightly hunched forward, as if he were being crushed by the weight of his own reputation. One of his surlier periods, he would just blast through song after song, each one almost indiscernible from the next. This wasn't Dylan gone electric—it was Dylan gone electrically bombastic.
But I was not surprised. I knew from recordings that Dylan performing live was a chameleonic chimera. There was the bellowing Dylan (with the Band) from 1974's Before the Flood
; and two years later there was the punk-rock Dylan spewing fiery deliveries on Hard Rain
. What we got at Prospect Park this week was a defiantly elegant Dylan, his voice at once ravaged and ravishing, as thin as a whip and just as dangerous. His band was sharp and exact—like a surgeon's knife, or Jack the Ripper's blade. He played his music the way he wanted to play it, everybody else be damned.
So it was with some amusement that, on our way out of the park after the concert, we heard grumblings to the effect that Dylan "didn't even know the words to his own songs," which "didn't sound the same," and (my favorite) "He didn't even play 'Mr. Tambourine Man'!"
Forty-three years after Newport, he's still got it. And 42 years after Paul's words, even the strongest praise still seems inadequate. Copyright 2008 by Kevin Avery. All rights reserved.
|Monday, April 23rd, 2007|
Everything Is an Afterthought
I recently sold my first book. In conjunction, I've established another LiveJournal to report on the project's progress, occasionally provide links about, and writings by, its subject, Paul Nelson
(famous for his Rolling Stone
cover story about Warren Zevon's battle with alcoholism), and share snippets of information or parts of interviews that may or may not be covered further in the final product.
The new journal shares the book's working title, Everything Is an Afterthought: The Life and Writings of Paul Nelson
. Just follow the link.
Anybody interested in learning more about this brilliant critic, whose own life proved just as mysterious and fascinating as the artists' about whom he wrote, is welcome to join. As well, tracking the process of how a book goes from sale to publication should prove interesting. I'm rather curious about that part myself...
|Thursday, April 12th, 2007|
Elliott Murphy, Part 1
Some say my songs are long and over-complicated
But they’re highly personal – I say they’re underrated
So sang Elliott Murphy
in 1990, summing up the state of his now 34-year rock & roll career. The Long Island native debuted promisingly on Polydor Records in 1973 with Aquashow
, which Rolling Stone
graced with a sprawling, rave review by Paul Nelson
(who, still working in A&R at Mercury Records at the time, had unsuccessfully attempted to sign Murphy to the label). Other feature articles appeared in Penthouse
, and The New Yorker
. Over the next few years, Murphy would record albums for RCA and CBS, among others. None of these corporate music giants had any idea how to publicize this young singer/songwriter who penned songs as literary as they were lyrical. (Columbia Records’ lofty but misguided ad campaign boasted “He Could Write a Book but He Chose Rock and Roll Instead.”) The critics were sold – the albums didn’t. ( Read more...Collapse )
|Sunday, September 3rd, 2006|
The Dean Gets Expelled
Last Tuesday evening I had the pleasure of sitting down with Robert Christgau, the self-appointed Dean of American Rock Critics, in his East Village apartment. This was indeed a big thing for the kid here, considering that I've read Christgau's work, well, ever since I was
a kid. His Consumer Guide
to music has appeared in The Village Voice
since 1969 and has since been collected in three volumes of books that have long shared a space on my reference shelf alongside the first --
and best --
edition (the one edited by Jim Miller) of The Rolling Stone Illustrated History of Rock & Roll
, Andrew Sarris's The American Cinema: Directors and Directions 1929-1968
, Greil Marcus's books, and all of Pauline Kael's collections. As a teenager in Utah, so that I might stay on top of what Christgau (and Sarris) had to say, I subscribed to The Voice
Through the years, Christgau became part of the very pop culture he writes about. On 1972's live Take No Prisoners
album, Lou Reed wondered aloud from the stage: "What does Robert Christgau do in bed?" I'll forgo quoting where this line of thinking took him; suffice it to say that it culminated with Reed rhetorically asking, "Can you imagine working for a fucking year and you got a B+ from an asshole in The Village Voice
?" In his review
of the album, Christgau responded with his usual humor and aplomb by thanking Lou for pronouncing his name right. And he only gave the album a C+.
"I always admired Christgau's writing and wit and courage," singer/songwriter Elliott Murphy
wrote yesterday (before we even knew about Friday's goings-on at The Voice
), "and when he gave Aquashow
[Murphy's debut album] an A- it was the only grade I ever got that I was proud of."
All of which brings us back to Tuesday evening in the East Village. Christgau had kindly consented to an interview for a book I'm putting together about the critic Paul Nelson
. I didn't agree with everything that the Dean had to say, but what he said was never uninteresting. Such had been the tacit terms of our writer-reader relationship for over three decades (we should be so fortunate in all of our relationships). Earlier that day, he had even more kindly arranged for me to get into The Voice
's library, where I was able to glean invaluable material from 30- and 40-year-old bound volumes of the newspaper. I owe him big-time.
So it was with considerable shock last night to discover an article in The New York Times
that told, in part:
In a move that decimated the senior ranks of its arts staff, The Village Voice, the New York alternative weekly, yesterday dismissed eight people, including Robert Christgau, a senior editor and longtime pop music critic who had been at the paper on and off since 1969.
In a statement released yesterday, Village Voice Media described the layoffs as an effort “to reconfigure the editorial department to place an emphasis on writers as opposed to editors.” The company added, “Painful though they may be in the short term, these moves are consistent with long-range efforts to position The Voice as an integral journalistic force in New York City.”
The article went on to say:
Mr. Christgau, 64, who noted that he had forged the paper’s style of music criticism, with its “serious consideration of popular music at a critical level,” said in a phone interview that before he learned he had lost his job, he had begun organizing the paper’s Christmas consumer review. “I was really thinking about what I was going to do. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” he said. “I was doing my job.”
What befell Robert Christgau on Friday is not uncommon in everyday corporate America. I watched the same thing happen to people I'd worked with for years, as they fell victim to the ever advancing bottom line. Unlike Christgau, as it got closer I was able to make the decision, to paraphrase Keith Richards, to walk before they made me run.
I have no doubt Christgau will do just fine, that this, like many seemingly life-crushing changes, will turn out to be an opportunity in disguise, an unexpected detour taking him down a path he wouldn't otherwise have taken to a better destination than he could have imagined.
In the meantime, Christgau's website
remains available online and, in an act of sheer generosity and (deserved) egoism, reflects virtually everything that man's put into print. With his recent review
of the New York Dolls' latest album, his writing demonstrated the same thing that the resurrected Dolls did with their music: that rock & roll done right is ageless. Current Mood: exhausted
|Friday, August 4th, 2006|
Gone Again by Patti Smith
Ten years ago, in June of 1996 when Gone Again
was first released, I had just received word from a friend, the terrific short story writer Alison Baker, of the untimely death of a mutual acquaintance. It had been the second such letter in about as many months. "Sorry to send bad news again," she'd closed. "As we age, you know, this sort of news becomes prevalent. One will come to dread the personal letter." I'd hoped she was wrong then and I today remain hopeful of the same. I love receiving letters --
even if it means suffering the occasional bad news. I've yet to reach the age where each morning I scan the obituaries, like a vulture scouting out carrion, looking for familiar names among the grainy black-and-white faces that have gone the way of all flesh. Instead, I prefer to mark my time on this earth by the friends I've made, the movies I've seen, the books I've read, and, perhaps most of all, the songs I've heard.
The best rock & roll has always been a kind of musical letter-writing --
"song-mail," if you will. Given rock's roots and the social significance it has garnered through the decades, this is not an inappropriate view of the music that has documented my generation and perhaps yours. Always meant to do more than merely fill the space between our ears, rock combines words and music and provides a vehicle by which the artist can report in and say, "This is where I am at this point in my life. This is what I think. This is what I want." Or, like Rutger Hauer's replicant Roy Batty at the end of Blade Runner
, making sure his memories aren't lost like tears in the rain: "I've seen things you people wouldn't believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion..."
It had been eight years since Patti Smith last graced us with a letter from home. Before that, Dream of Life
, the album she recorded with her husband, ex-MC5 guitarist Fred "Sonic" Smith, was the first time we'd heard from her since she dropped out of the rock & roll limelight in 1979. She'd moved to Detroit, married the other Smith the following year, and, by all accounts, had happily become a Midwestern mother of two. And, for the rest of the world at least, stopped making music.
Happiness is brief.
It will not stay.
God batters at its sails.
Patti Smith's Gone Again is a musical letter of the sort that seldom gets released in the musical marketplace, mainly because it concerns itself with the aforementioned "bad news." Death inhabits the album, raises its impressive lizard-like head throughout, but is held at bay by Smith and her stalwart band of rock & roll argonauts. This may be Smith's show, but it's Death's dance, it's Death (this time, at least) making her sing. To wit:
- March, 1989: Robert Mapplethorpe, for whom Smith had been lover and muse, dies a very public AIDS-induced death.
- June, 1990: Original Patti Smith Group keyboardist Richard Sohl dies of a heart attack on Long Island. He was 37.
- April, 1994: Fred and Patti Smith weep at the news that Kurt Cobain has committed suicide. Old enough to be the Nirvana leader's parents, they adored his music.
- November, 1994: Smith's husband Fred dies of a heart attack.
- December, 1994: A month later, Smith's beloved brother Todd, in whose face Sid Vicious once smashed a glass, dies of a heart attack.
All things considered, how could Gone Again be about anything but death? Current Mood: jazzed
The fine album reunites Smith not only with her two bandmates of old, guitarist Lenny Kaye and drummer Jay Dee Daugherty, but also features Television guitar virtuoso Tom Verlaine, ex-Velvet Underground founding member John Cale (who'd produced Smith's debut album Horses in 1975) on organ, Tony Shanahan on bass, and Smith's sister Kimberly (immortalized in song on that debut album) on mandolin.
The tone of Gone Again tends more toward the stately than the raucous, though the latter certainly finds its moments. There is a transcendent, mantra-like quality to some of the songs; the overall effect meditative. But within the music's self-imposed aural constraints a shitstorm brews, blowing in a full-force gale capable of taking out everything in its wake, as in the wash of droning electric guitar that becomes a tidal wave in the Cobain tribute, "About a Boy."
The title cut is Native American in its rhythms, with Smith coming on like the "crazy and sleepy Comanche" she declared herself to be so many years before in "Babelogue." "Dead to the World" is a folksy, whimsical, Dylan-influenced death dream, proving that she isn't blind to the humor inherent in the subject matter she's grappling with. And, in a nod to Dylan himself, with whom she toured when she returned to the stage in December of 1995, she delivers a ballsy rendition of his angry anthem, "Wicked Messenger."
But best of all there is "Summer Cannibals," the album's first single. With Daugherty's sinew-snapping drumsticks and Kaye's guitar lines shooting like spears around her, Smith erases any notion that eight years have passed since we last heard from her. Like a little girl reciting a jaunty, macabre nursery rhyme, she sings:
and I laid upon the table
another piece of meat
and I opened up my veins to them
and said, "come on, eat"
The anger. The joy. The sense of humor, funny and transcendent. Everything about the song, from her oh-so-perfect pronunciation to her guttural, Linda Blair-way of saying eat, makes it one of her best songs ever.
And if, at the time, the album as a whole struck us as something less than we'd hoped for -- too subdued or contemplative in spots -- perhaps we should have questioned whether it was our own expectations that were out of whack. In Smith's absence, the value of her musical legacy, especially in light of the overdue artistic and commercial vindication of punk rock, had increased many-fold.
Let's face it: If Jesus Christ had come down off the cross, JD Salinger had written another book, and Hillary Clinton had come clean about something going on back then called "Whitewater" -- it still wouldn't have been enough. We Americans, like Smith's own "Summer Cannibals," are insatiable in our wants.
|Friday, July 28th, 2006|
Playing with Dolls
Current Mood: famished
In the early Seventies, the New York Dolls were the reigning rock & roll band in New York City, the darlings of David Bowie and the avant-garde intelligentsia, Bruce Springsteen and Patti Smith rolled into one, and America's principal purveyors of such newfound concepts as deliberate musical primitivism and the punk rock of futuristic, haute-couture street children. A cult band, they were passionately loved or hated, and more than a few critics (myself included) saw in them this country's best chance to develop a home-grown Rolling Stones. The Dolls were talented, and, more importantly, they had poisonality! Both of their albums made the charts, but a series of stormy misunderstandings among their record company, their management and themselves eventually extinguished the green light of hope, and the group disbanded... Like all good romantics, they had destroyed everything they touched.
-- Paul Nelson, Rolling Stone, May 18, 1978
The argument could be made that we have the Mormon Church to thank for One Day It Will Please Us to Remember Even This, the first studio album in 32 years by the New York Dolls. It may not be a particularly good argument, but all the components are there for a not even half-baked conspiracy theory:
As depicted in Greg Whiteley's fine documentary New York Doll, original Dolls bassist Arthur "Killer" Kane, who, following an an act of self-defenestration, had converted to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, was working in the church's Family History Center Library when he discovered that an almost 30-year dream, something he had prayed for again and again, was about to come true: the remaining Dolls (David Johansen and Sylvain Sylvain) wanted to reunite. Not only are his Mormon coworkers and bishop supportive of their friend, whose life of drinking and drugs had gone out the window with him, they help fund the retrieval of his guitar from a local pawnshop so that he can start practicing for the reunion gig. Had they not and had Kane not rejoined the band, and had New York Doll never been made, you could argue that there would not have been the press and acclaim and subsequent momentum to get the Dolls back into the studio, back on the radio, back on TV, and back in the stores.
If New York Doll isn't the best piece of pro-LDS propaganda the Mormon Church has ever had at its behest, it's at least some damn funny and insightful off-the-cuff filmmaking. (Has ever a movie come into being so accidentally?) The movie's wacky elements and plot twists -- a faded, jealous rock star, his bitter wife, a quart of peppermint schnapps, a handy piece of cat furniture, an open kitchen window, and an unexpected demise -- tell a tale of decadence and redemption worthy of Raymond Chandler.
But in the midst of all this craziness there beats a heart, and it's a sweet one. Such as when Kane, "the only living statue in rock & roll" and, in Johansen's words, "the miracle of God's creation," leads the group in prayer before they take the stage for the first time in almost 30 years. Or earlier, back at the library, when Kane explains the responsibilities of being a rock & roll bassist to the two little old ladies with whom he works. Or when he confesses to his Mormon bishop his apprehensions about getting back together with Johansen (who, when he finally arrives in the studio, looks like a haggard Allison Janney).
Which brings us to the Dolls' third album, One Day It Will Please Us to Remember Even This, which arrived in stores on Tuesday and which, like Bettie Page adorned in leather, is hard and soft at the same time. Lots of ricocheting guitar lines and anthemic pounding housed within four Phil Spectorish walls of sound; middle-aged men acting tough, vamping and posturing while sounding melodic as all hell. A reminder of how rock & roll ought to be. How it used to be.
Combining clever wordplay ("Evolution is so obsolete/Stomp your hands and clap your feet," from the pro-simian/anti-creationist single, "Dance Like a Monkey") and wordy cleverness ("Ain't gonna anthropomorphize ya/Or perversely polymorphousize ya"), Johansen, whose vocalizing and songwriting have both aged magnificently, proves that, despite his Buster Poindexter detour, he remains one of rock's savviest practitioners. He leads the Dolls through a variety of subjects and styles while spewing his trash poetry lyrics ("All light shines in darkness/Where else could it shine?") with his heart on his sleeve and his tongue firmly in cheek -- often at the same time:
Yeah, I've been to the doctor
He said there ain't much he could do
"You've got the human condition
Boy, I feel sorry for you"
Funny is one thing, smart is another; but funny and smart at the same time, that's tough. Ask Woody Allen.
Listening to the new album, I couldn't help but think of critic Paul Nelson, whose words opened this piece and who, back in the early Seventies, was the A&R guy who put his job with Mercury Records on the line when he signed the Dolls to their first record deal ("I knew they were going to have to be a big success or I would lose my job, and I did"). What would Nelson, whose body was found alone in his New York apartment earlier this month, have made of the Dolls' new effort and return to the spotlight? And would he have seen anything of himself in the song "I Ain't Got Nothing"?
This is not how the end should have come
Who could imagine this when I was young?
Where is everybody?
It's not the way I wanted it to be
With One Day It Will Please Us to Remember Even This, the New York Dolls pick up right where they left off over 30 years ago, as if no time at all has passed. Which begs the question (especially with all the dancing like a monkey going on): shouldn't there have been some kind of evolution musically? If the Dolls remain just as smart and funny as before, and rock just as hard -- if just plain surviving isn't enough -- what have they gained?
We all should be so lucky.
|Wednesday, July 12th, 2006|
Paul Nelson in No Direction Home
I make lists. Before I moved to New York at the end of last year, I crafted a personal and professional to-do list. One item appeared near the top of both lists: reach out to critic Paul Nelson and let him know how much his work had meant to me. His writings, mostly for Rolling Stone
and mostly about music (though occasionally movies and books, about which he was equally qualified to write), helped form what still stand today as my tastes in music, literature, and film. He not only made me want to be a critic, which I did for ten years, he made me want to write about music in a bigger context than just something that plays in the background or fills up the space between commercials on radio.
Music mattered to Nelson and, if he thought an album worthy, he wanted it to matter to you, too.
Here was a man who was equally conversant writing about Raymond Chandler's hard-boiled detective fiction, the failed romanticism of F. Scott Fitzgerald and The Great Gatsby
, the great heart that beat at the center of Lou Reed and the Velvet Underground, and the magnificence of the Sex Pistols --
sometimes all within the same piece. He was instrumental in championing the early works of Warren Zevon, Jackson Browne, Rod Stewart, Elliott Murphy, and David Johansen, to name just a few of the artists who benefited from his critical eye.
During his stint as an A&R man, he got the New York Dolls their record deal. He also went to college with Bob Dylan, and ardently and elegantly defended the singer/songwriter when he went electric. Forty years later, Martin Scorsese included Nelson in his Dylan documentary No Direction Home
I wrote to Paul Nelson in February, in care of the Greenwich Village video store where he worked, but never received a response. Last month, when my best friend Ellis was in town, we happened into that video store one rainy Wednesday afternoon. I asked the kid behind the desk if Paul Nelson was around. "He hasn't worked here in about a year," he said. "But he stops in now and then." I left not knowing whether or not Nelson had ever received my letter.
Until yesterday afternoon, when I received a phone call from a gentleman who identified himself as Paul Nelson's friend. "I don't know if you know this or not, but Paul's body was found in his apartment last week." He told me that Nelson, who was 70 and whose obituary
appeared in The New York Times
on Monday, had indeed received my letter and that it had touched him.
Paul Nelson was a brilliant writer who did for music criticism what Pauline Kael did for film criticism: he blew it apart and demanded more not only from the works he critiqued but of the forum in which he critiqued them. While well more than a decade has passed since his writing last saw print, tonight I find myself missing him and his work more than ever.
To discover for yourself just how good a writer Nelson was, check out his reviews of the first Ramones album
, Neil Young's Rust Never Sleeps
, Jackson Browne's Running on Empty
, and his masterpiece, the feature-length article "Warren Zevon: How He Saved Himself from a Coward's Death."Photograph: Paramount Pictures Current Mood: reflective
|Thursday, May 18th, 2006|
Patti Smith described the man's sound as "like a thousand bluebirds screaming" and claimed the man himself "has the most beautiful neck in rock and roll. Real swan-like --
fragile yet strong. He's a creature of opposites. The way he comes on like a dirt farmer and a prince.’’
Dave Marsh wrote that the man was "an interesting Jerry Garcia influenced guitarist who lacked melodic ideas or any emotional sensibility."
Robert Christgau called the man's work "Supremely self-conscious, utterly unschooled," but said he "writes like nobody else, sings like nobody else, plays like nobody else. His lyrics sound like his voice sounds like his guitar, laconic and extravagant at the same time."
Tony Parsons and Julie Burchill (whom Pete Townshend took to task in "Jools and Jim") dismissed him as a "fish-fingered axe-hero."
U2's the Edge cited him as "the only guitarist I heard who was saying something musically" and as a major influence --
"not stylistically, but in terms of approach and tearing up the rule-book."
Of course, they're all talking about Tom Verlaine
, frontman for the classic punk band Television and ongoing solo artist in his own right. Today in The New York Times
, journalist Ben Sisario provides a nifty profile of what the 56-year-old singer-songwriter has been up to lately. In "The Return of Tom Verlaine: A Reluctant Guitar God Makes Up for Lost Time
," the man who wrote "I fell right into the arms of Venus de Milo" is quoted as saying, "It's nice when people say nice things about you," he said, "but I don't always know what they're talking about."
|Friday, October 21st, 2005|
there's no stoppin' the cretins from hoppin'
Now that we've all been made
maintainers of this place, how about a thread on how or when you
discovered punk of the 70's NYScene variety? Here goes for me:
I was this wee little teen living in the Bible Belt around
'77. There was no good music on the radio. The days of
decent pop when I was sprouting - long gone. In Tennessee you had
stuff like The Little River Band.....it was grim, my friends.
Then things all sort of coalesced. I bought my first CREEM
magazine and there was a spread on Patti Smith in there. I read
about all these bands I'd never heard of and it all seemed so dynamic
and new. I don't know which came first...Patti Smith or The
Ramones. But those were my first discoveries of the stuff that
lay waiting. I had been into Bruce Springsteen back in the
lean hungry Bruce days. Then all of a sudden Patti Smith is on
the radio singing "Because The Night," co-written with him. I bought
Easter on cassette and had to hide it from my mom. Then I bought Rocket
To Russia and knew that there was a whole new ballgame going on on this
adjacent field to mainstream radio. YESSS. Record Bar still
existed back in those days and I would get someone to drive me into
Chattanooga and I'd paw through their import section, which was more or
less two rows of English bands. I bought The Clash, the first
album and then I transformed overnight into this little punker who
spent all the money she made working at Taco Bell part-time on
albums. Paydays were so great - I'd come home with five or six
albums at a time. Blondie, Television, The Dead Boys, etc.
It was like the world shifted. I started dressing strange for my
conservative high school (343 members, give or take) and took to
converting all the friends who whould listen. I started thinking
outside the sleeve. But yeah, for me....CREEM was the match to
the fire for me.
Current Mood: sleepy
|Wednesday, October 19th, 2005|
You are all now maintainers of this community. Good luck.
This case is closed...
Hey guys and gals!
I'm getting rid of my lj. Too much wasted time and emotional baggage. when i created this community it was the only one devoted to the '77 NYC scene. I haven't been a good leader and I'm sorry about that. just because i'm leaving doesn't mean this community has to die!
|Sunday, August 28th, 2005|
this is not an appilication commujnity.
if i have accepted you, you're in.
don't let this community die!
|Saturday, June 18th, 2005|
and the legacy continues...
Okay, I was out earlier today at a
chain store we all know, and I'm pushing my cart along. I notice
as I get over to the toys section (where I try very hard to ignore
Yu-Gi-Oh! items, especially the cards) there is a ten-year-old kid with
a Ramones t-shirt on ambling around. He is with his father, and I
was dying to be really nosy and ask if the t-shirt was a hand-me-down
or the youngster really digs The Ramones. The kid was never more than a
foot away from Dad, and it would've been weird to address either of
them so randomly. If the kid had looked at me I might've given him a
thumbs-up sign and pointed at his chest. I did not, however, so
the mystery will remain intact. All I know is that this kid,
whether it's he himself or his dad that is the fan - this kid knows
what "ONE-TWO-TREE-FAW!" means. And so all is right with the
(My mother, on a stealth mission, found and threw away my own Ramones
t-shirt when I was fourteen. For this, there is no
forgiveness. You can throw away the shirt, but you cannot erase
the three-chord epiphany..)
Current Mood: productive
|Friday, June 17th, 2005|
For all curious-
my email is: email@example.com
|Monday, June 13th, 2005|
a shoutout to both of the new members!
I look forward to you posting...
|Monday, June 6th, 2005|
just to clear up any confusion...
the membership applicaton was created to judge the level of compatibility with me and the rest of the community. I will not judge on the factors of race, religion or sexual preference. none of those factors matter to me. why questions based on said factors were included was to get a picture of you as an individual.
this is my community
please e-mail suggestions or if you want to join...
include this in your e-mail. its a requirement. put 'NYC membership'in the subject line
1.) What music do you like? Give specifics (Artist and albums...)
2.) What do you read? Again, gimme specifics.
3.) What television programs (if any) do you watch?
4.)Do you play an instrument? If so, what kind?
Opinions- write a brief paragraph detailing your views on the listed matters.
1. George W. Bush and the ongoing conflict in Iraq
2. the NYC scene in the '70s