More Memories: Alpine Theater, Bay Ridge

All photos taken from Web

During the much of the ‘70s, I worked at a couple of local movie theaters as both an usher and a ticket ripper. I had my little red jacket, white shirt and black bowtie as a uniform in both.

Alpine Theater
The second one, in the late ‘70s, was at the Alpine Theater, in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. It’s the kind of place that events that happened sound like they are made up, but that is far from the truth. It was a period of cosmic weirdness, in an area made famous by disco, the 2001 Odyssey Dance Club, and "Saturday Night Fever". Here are some stories of working there; they are not chronological, but just as they come to mind. And this is just a smattering.

By the time I started the job, I had already been involved in the punk scene, and my fanzine was well underway, between my third and fourth issue. Of course, I was the only one there who had any idea about things like CBGB’s, Max’s, Ramones, or anything other than Kansas, Yes, CSN&Y, and especially disco. When Sid allegedly killed Nancy, the ushers kept teasing me. When Sid died, I knew they were going to really bug me about it, so I took one of those huge metal laundry safety pins and put it in my lapel. One by one the ushers came in and before they could say anything, their curiousity piqued, they asked, “What’s that?” I answered firmly, “Its for Sid!” They left me alone.

There is a book called “Billy Lives”, by Gary Brandner, which is basically a novel about the marketing of a rock star after he as died in an accident. It’s cynical as all hell, but one thing that made me buy it in the first place was the cover, which is a painting of a photo of the New York Dolls. It’s is a kind of crude rendition, but it’s definitely them (If I remember correctly, it was taken from the cover of the “Too Much Too Soon” LP). One day, in 1978, I was on my lunch break, and was reading the book while eating a tuna salad sandwich at the luncheonette diagonally across the street from the theater. I was sitting on a stool at the counter (where have all the counters gone, long time passing…)

As I’m chompin’ away, there is a middle-aged woman sitting next to me is waiting for an order she placed. She turns to me and says, “Isn’t that David Johansson on the cover?” Mouth filled with tuna and a head full of “Wha?”, I nodded my head to the affirmative. She started saying how she was from Staten Island, and her daughter used to date him when they were teens. Took me totally by surprise. I mean, now it would not seem uncommon for someone to recognize him, even from a piss-poor drawing of him, since the Dolls have been around for so many years and David had such an illustrious solo music career (every middle class person probably knows “Hot Hot Hot”), or even his limp stab at acting, but in the ‘70s, someone that age would not necessarily be familiar…unless of course he took their daughter to the prom!

I’ve never been a fan of pot. Tried it, found it boring, so I stopped. Late one night, during the last show, one of the ushers pulls out a joint the size of my arm, and says, “Let’s smoke!” The manager had gone home and we were closing, so except for the dozen people watching the film and the candy counter person (who hadn’t had a sale since the film started), we had the lobby to ourselves. “Nah, I’m not interested, but you go ahead, I won’t tell.” He lights up, and before long, he’s leaning on a column, wrecked. I snuck up behind him and started whispering, “Reeses…..Reeses….Reeses.” With an anguished cry, he ran – nay, stumbled – over to the candy counter and bought three huge and expensive packages of the candy, then stumbled back to the column. Just as he was about to take a bite, I jumped up and make a goofy face saying “Boogah boogah!” He started laughing, inane as it was, because he was stoned. I kept doing goofy things to keep him laughing, so even though he had the candy, he couldn’t eat it, as it quickly melted in his hands. The next day, he was really mad at me, and probably rightfully so.

Late one night, I was in the utility closet putting away one of those tiny brooms, when the security-guard-for-hire walked in. “Hey, Larry,” I said. Without saying a greeting, he took out a non-legal handgun, cocked it, put it to my forehead, and said in a dissonant whisper, “You know, if I wanted to, I could kill you right now.” I quickly thought, “This is ridiculous…this guy isn’t going to kill me in a utility closet in a movie theater.” So I looked at him straight in the eyes and said, “Go ahead.” He uncocked the gun, lowered it, and said, “You know, you’re the first person that didn’t crap in their pants!” I thought, “What a jerk,” and left the closet.

About 20 minutes later, what he said came back to me, that I was the first person…. That meant he had does this to others. One by one, I questioned the other ushers, who were tough Irish and Italian kids, and they confirmed that sure enough, he had done that to just about all of them, which scared the hell out of them because many of them were “connected”, and a gun meant something else to them than it did to me. I gathered the boys (back then, ushers were male, cashiers were female), and we collectively went into the manager’s office. She was a morbidly heavy woman in her ‘60s who was known to walk through the lobby picking up stubs people threw down, and then sent them to the district office claiming them as refunds, keeping the cash. Her son was a police officer at the local precinct, so we figured she would back us up.

When we told her, she said, “So?” Not what we were expecting. We said, “We want your son to come down here an arrest him. He’s not supposed to be carrying a gun.” She said, “I don’t want to bother him, he’s busy.” I said, “You don’t understand: he held a GUN to our HEADS.” Her reply was, “I don’t want any trouble, so just ignore it.” The biggest usher, who was her favorite, said, “look, either he goes, or we all walk off the job together.” Finally, she relented and said she would ask for someone new the next day, but she wanted him to finish out the night because of the hour.” We agreed and started to walk out the door. Then I grabbed the sleeve of the big usher and dragged him back, and said, “You cannot tell him why. If he’s dumb enough to pull a gun on us, he’s dumb enough to come looking for us for revenge.” She looked like she was about to argue when the big usher said to me, “You go, I’ll talk to her.” He was in there for about 10 minutes and we could hear loud voice. Finally he came out, and gave me the thumbs up. It was the last we saw of the rent-a-cop, but you can bet we all looked over our shoulders for a while after that.

Patience, please

My apologies for the length between blogs here, but here is the reason:

I was recently let go from my job, and when they confisgated my computer, they also took away about 30 CD reviews for my column in Jersey Beat, and about 4 blogs that I was getting ready to put up, including those dealing with the Media Ecology Association conference at Santa Clara University in June.

Also missing now are about 800 photos that I had PhotoShop'd of the conference, that I will have to redo.

Sigh.

So it goes...

School Violence with Mr. Carr

All images for this piece are from the Internet

There was always a level of violence that occurred in schools where I was a student during my pre-college days. Because it was a different time, some of it was at the hands of the teachers, who did things in the ‘60s and ‘70s that a teacher could not even dream of doing now….

When I was in 8th grade science, I had Mr. Carr, who was quite old. In fact, he had taught my mother in junior high, who went to the same de facto school, PS 281 (which had recently moved into what was then known as Bensonhurst Junior High, but became Cavallaro Junior High during my second year there).

Not only was Mr. Carr old, he was quite diminutive. Standing at less than 5’5”, he always wore a white lab coat. The only other thing I remember about him physically was his hair was shock white, and he had a very neat and trim moustache.

About the second or third week into the term, he gave us a surprise test. Science, it seems, was made for pop quizzes. The next day, he passed them out. As he got to the front of the class, a huge 8th grader (I’m guessing one who had been held back a few times because he was built like a pro football player) stood up and said, “What do you mean an “F”? You better change it, motherfucker!”

Mr. Carr turned around and said, “I’m having a little trouble hearing you. Would you please come to the front of the class as say it to me again?”

The brute stormed to the front, and demanded, “I said you better change my grade mothe….” That is as far as he got. All I saw was a blur as Mr. Carr picked up this guy who was taller and seemed to weigh twice his mass, and slammed him down flat on the ground so hard, the floor reverberated.

Mr. Carr put his finger in the student’s face and said, “Show some respect for your elders.” He then ordered the guy to the principal’s office, and he meekly went.

As it turns out, Mr. Carr was a high level black belt, and about once a year or so, he needed to show his capabilities.

After that, NO ONE messed with Mr. Carr.

Random memory: Brooklyn Shakespeare

All images for this piece are from the Internet unless indicated

I spent my later teen years in Brooklyn, attending Lafayette High School. Good things were rare and far in-between back then (such as meeting my friend Bernie Kugel). In the past few years, it has been referred in local papers as "The School From Hell." In fact, it is so bad, the city has decided to close it down shortly.

Back then we were always told that the school was known for high academics, and yet I was surrounded by…well, it was best said by Dan Aykroyd in a spoof on Saturday Night Live called “Samurai Night Fever”: “Isn’t it great to be young, stupid, and have no future?! I love Brooklyn!”

Here are a couple of true examples of living in Bensonhurst in the ‘70s, the first being a digression, the second getting back to Lafayette:

I was coming off the train station, and there were two teen girls who looked like they stepped out of “Grease” mixed with “Saturday Night Fever” (as both movies were released around this time). As I came down the el steps, Girl #1 says to me, “She likes you,” and both start to giggle in a way to indicate a “Let’s embarrass you and see how you react” thing going on. I looked at Girl #2, who supposedly “liked me”, and said to her, “What’s Tony gonna say?” Both girls turned white. “Ohm'gawd, he knows Tony; if he find out, he’s gonna kill me!” With that, both girls ran off, near tears.

[FFoto by RBF]
No, I’m not Kreskin. It’s just that Girl #2 was wearing a high school football jacket that had the name “Tony” sewn into the front, so all I needed to do was read.

See, that’s the thing about where and when I grew up. If one saw a group of people standing on a corner, and walked over to them and asked anything from “Define Sartre’s philosophy of existentialism” to “Where is the corner”, you’d pretty much get the same answer: “Hunh?”

With that as a foundation, the main story I want to tell has to do with Lafayette High School and Shakespeare.

We had an imaginative teacher, who tried to be hip and find new ways to get her students to learn. Her idea was to try an experiment where the boys read the female parts, and the girls read the male parts, hoping it would shed some light on the way characters lived in the time.

At first, it went well. The girls in the class did a bang-up job reading the opening. But the trouble came when it was the guys' turn, who (a) were NOT interested in the play, and (b) resented reading a female piece of dialog and risk having their friends see them as anything less than macho.

So, the scene where we first meet the titular female lead, as the Nurse is calling to Juliet. As this piece is read, hear it in thick Brooklynese (if you have problems with that, try it as one of the Sopranos, which would not be far off).

Nurse says (and the Guy #1 shouts) “WHAT!!!! Juliet, ya called.”

Guy #2 as Juliet responds, “Who calls?”

To which the Nurse Guy #1 yells back “Ya MUTHA!”

That was the point where the teacher realized the error of her ways and stops the experiment. She gave up, and ended up taking us to see the Franco Zeffirelli version of the film at the local theater.

Traveling in Canada, April 2008

All ffotos by RBF

The airport was pretty empty at the Canadian airport at 5 AM. It was late April and the sun was already rising. At the ticket counter, while checking-in, there was only one person ahead of me. I was nice and calm as there was an hour before my flight home.

Amazingly, the duty free/newsstand/gift shop was open, so I went in and bought some presents for the person who was taking care of our cats, and a book on local ghost stories that was perfect for travel on a little amount of sleep in that they are short and do not take much brainpower.

There were about 30 people on line for the security check, but the line was moving relatively swiftly. Everyone seemed in a good mood, albeit sleepy. I had my backpack and a small carry bag, with nothing checked. I like to travel light, if compact.

Soon it was my turn and I took off my jacket and put it in the gray plastic basket, put my computer in another, and passed along my bags through the x-ray. They didn’t want my shoes, which is always a bonus. Everything was going smoothly.

However, if there was a soundtrack, the tones would probably be turning into disonant.

I stepped through the metal detectors without a peep, and waited for my bags. And waited. I was used to this; for some reason my bags always get second looks, my guess is usually because of the cords and cables that come along with the computer, or whatever. As I am not a smuggler, and as such had absolutely no contraband, I wasn’t worried. This happened plenty of times before.

Also as common, they asked permission to swab the top of my bags to test for anything weird. No problem. They swabbed and tested. And they closed the line of people waiting to go through behind me. A very stern woman in uniform came over and said, “If it’s all right, I am going to ask someone to come over and frisk you.” Again, nothing of concern as I didn’t have anything on me, other than some minor amounts of paper cash, and cards in my back pocket, such as for the likes of Costco, my work building pass, and the New York Public Library.

She signals over a guy who pleasantly explains that he is going to search me, and is there anything he should know about before he does. I said the truth….nope. After putting on a fresh set of non-rubber gloves, he asked me to stand, with my arms outstretched. He then pats me down. As we’re in the middle of the airport, I wasn’t worried about a cavity search, but it got quite intimate. I was almost expecting him to say, “Mind if I move it over to the left?” It was thorough as it could be, though I didn’t feel violated, but more curious and bemused. I asked him if he wanted me to remove my shoes, but instead he just had me lean of the counter with both hands, and then lift one foot at a time, and he checked them out that way.

Meanwhile, I noted that there were three or four official people taking everything out of my bags, and my jacket, again quite thoroughly. The stern woman asked me (sternly, of course), “Do you know why we are doing this?” I told her no, but that I was definitely curious about it. She said, “Not only did your bag test positive for TNT, but it tested for a large amount of TNT.” Well, she got my attention with that one.

She then inquired if I was near any explosives, or if my bag was near any. Of course, I answered in the negative, explaining that the only place the bag has been in the last 10 days was either on the floor of the bedroom (where there are no explosives), in the cab, and at the airport. That’s it. While I was explaining this, they also swabbed my hands and test it, along with most other things.

Then they had me turn on my computer and my camera, to make sure they were legit. At this point, the stern woman started filling out a form, and I told her my name, rank, and serial number…and anything else she wanted to know (what my job was, where I worked, etc.), and carefully writing with nice, large penmanship).

At this point, I was beginning to wonder if I’d make my flight, as this was taking some time. We never left the space just past the x-ray machines. It was weird, as I was more worried about making the flight than anything else, remaining calm and somewhat cheerful.

She asked me a question that made me nervous then: what is my work phone number. Crap, I don’t know that. I never dial it, so I never remember it. I gave her the area code, the main three digits, but I don’t know my extension; hell, I don’t even know the main front-desk. The idea of checking the computer bottom came to mind, as it is bar coded and property of the place, but all it had was the name of the company. And my work badge is a building pass, not a company pass, so it doesn’t say the name of the company on it. She asked for a business card, but I don’t have one of those either. She finally settled for my home phone.

Still, she seemed to be calming down after this. My guess was it was probably (hopefully) the most exciting thing that happened in that building in a while, other than someone complaining about not being allowed to carry more than 3 oz onto the plane.

Once again she asked about it, and I told her I was flummoxed (though I don’t think I used that word). Basically she said she was flummoxed as well (again, not that word), as just the top of the one bag had the heavy traces, but nothing else did, including the contents of the bag or my hands. I was wondering about the backseat of the cab on the way to the airport, but the trace would have been on the bottom of the bag, not the top. Stern woman said that the fact that it was only present on top eased her conscious, and she turned to the x-ray area and shouted (heck, it was only about 6 feet, she could have whispered), “Open line 3”. With a “have a good day,” she took the form and left.

I zipped up the bags where they had put everything back (would they have returned the contents in NYC?), and walked, somewhat started and bemused, to my gate, and just walked right onto the plane with no wait.

As I only had about 40 minutes between the two next flights (yes, they broke the way home into three sections), I was concerned that my name was on a list somehow, and they would search at each and every turn. But the first connection was smooth, I went through customs with no hassle whatsoever, and when I had to go through the x-ray area again before heading to New York, there was no problem and sailed right through. I wonder what’s going to happen the next time I go through that airport again, though.

[NYC frowny face]
After I arrived home and called my partner to let her know I was alive, I told her of my adventure. She came up with interesting theory about the explosive. Seems the house she’s occupying had a new furnace put in while I was there, and according to the landlady, after it was lit and started, there was a sour smell that permiated the house for about an hour. She figured that perhaps some of whatever it was came out through the registers, and as my bag was on the floor next to one of these vents, it came through an landed on top of the bag. Another possibility was that it was a false positive, such as when one eats poppy seeds and a blood test will read it as positive for heroin.

Either way, I do know that as shortly after I got home, I washed that damn bag.

IBS/2008 National College Radio Convention, 3/8/2008

All convention FFotos on this blog © Robert Barry Francos

My pal, Boston’s music journalist (and so much more) Joe Viglione has been involved with the national college radio convention, run by the Intercollegiate Broadcasting System for 15 years. This year , the 68th annual convention was simply called IBS/2008, and was held at the Pennsylvania Hotel in NYC.

[Joe Vig center]
As someone had doped out of the first Saturday panel on March 8, titled “Radio on the Tube? Working with Public Access and College TV Stations”, he asked me to fill in. Even though was not my area of specialty, I figured, hey, DIY, why not? On my badge, I wrote FFanzeen (my blog) / Jersey Beat (for whom I write) / and Videowave (a cable access show I’ve worked on for my friend Alan Abramowitz since the early ‘80s). REPRESENT! For this panel, it was the latter for which I was there as it was the closest my experience would fit. There were about a dozen people from college stations there, which is actually a good counting considering the time, and hard rain.

[Jon Pagano]
Joe Vig moderated, and doing an excellent job of it, I may add, even with the loud Hawaiian shirt. The panel included a couple of people running college television start-up stations, and a quad of djs from the University of Stoneybrook (USB, who was also a co-sponsor of the event) radio station’s popular urban music show. The USB group basically took control of the panel, which was fine since they were quite personable and amusing (I’ve seen my share of dry panels). Plus, it worked out great for me, as other than explaining about the indie nature of Videowave, its historical and present importance, and contact (www.myspace.com/videowave), the panel topic was something in which I was not very well versed. But I held my own, and I must add I had fun doing it. It was the first time I’m been in this position since presenting my paper “The Role of Technology in the Birth and Death of Rock and Roll” at the Media Ecology Association conference in Mexico City last summer.

[Rew]
After the panel, I hung around to listen to the next session, “Independent Labels and Your Station”. There were a bunch of artists and labels (e.g., Bee, from the band RewBee, and the two guys who run Backlight Records, who put out Holler, Wild Rose) represented there, and it was well moderated by John Ottaviano. There were many interesting going back-and-forths between the panel and the station reps, on how to get bet the attention (and product) of the usually cash-strapped indies, and how the small record labels can best serve their target college market. It was an interesting hour.

[MilitiA]
Though I wanted to see the next session, which was a similar indies-stations topic, I more needed to grab some food, as I hadn’t had breakfast. I ran out of the hotel, getting pretty wet, and grabbed some grub. Coming back, I was heading toward the panel that had already started, and ran into Joe Vig in the WIBS Glass Studio (which was just outside the Zurich Room), who was checking his multiple emails and Web sites. We started talking, and was joined by the wife of one of the present panelists, Joe Vignola (Joe Vig was joking how much their names were similar, and how she was married to both of them). We three talked about music, DJ-ing, and Joe Vig’s ongoing battle with his local public access station near Boston. At some point, we were joined by IBS Chairman and Executive Vice President Len Mailloux, who had a magnificent FM-classic deep voice. He talked about his alcohol-fuel younger days, and how all his teeth were about to be yanked in a couple of days! At some point, I realized I was not going to get to the panel, so I just sat back, hung out, and relaxed (and took advantage of a very small and finally empty bathroom).

[Wayne Robins]
When the missed session ended, I headed into the room for the next one, as I was looking forward to it: “An Audience with…Wayne Robins, Author of ‘A Brief History of Rock, Off the Record”. I was a fan and irregular reader of CREEM Magazine (introduced to it by my buddy Bernie Kugel in the early ‘70s, when we were still in high school), for which Wayne regularly wrote reviews and articles, so I wanted to hear him speak. His session was facilitated by IBS President, Norm Prusslin. Norm gave a very brief into, held up the book, and started asking Wayne about how he got into the biz. All of it was interesting, but honestly, at the time I wanted to hear more anecdotes, like when he told about how he played air guitar with Keith Richards in a hotel room around the time Richards was involved with the Chuck Berry project, “Hail, Hail Rock and Roll”. However, I also understand that (a) he was there to promote the book, and (b) these were college students interested in a how-to get started. Wayne came across a gracious, and a good oral storyteller. We touched base after, and Wayne said he’d have the company send me a copy of the book, so hopefully I’ll be able to share it with a review.

[Phil Minissale]
As soon as the session was finished, I am-scrayed to a birthday party WAAAY uptown, on the East Side, getting soaked in the heavy downpour. Considering how screwed up the subway was that day (only thing worse than the weekdays are the weekends…don’t get me started). Staying as long as I could, feasting on the likes of cheese and fruit, lasagna, coffee, and of course birthday cake, I headed for the long train back to the conference. Luckily, it was only drizzling at this point, and the trains, still slow, got me back just as the next session was starting, and it was one I wanted to see.

[Jan Horvath]
Titled “Musicians Showcase: An Audience with the Bands”, the scheduled guest list included three artists who had CDs that I had just reviewed for Jersey Beat: Jeff Mastroberti, Jan Horvath, Peter Calo. While Jeff and Peter were no-shows, the rest of the panel was interesting and definitely lively. From left to right, it was co-moderator and USB DJs Keri Fico, Jan Horvath, John Pagano (of JP Blues), Rew Starr (RewBee), Matt Clunie (Love, Robot), Ryan MacNeill (Madison Project), MilitiA (Swear on Your Life), Phil Minissale, Jan McComsky (Holler, Wild Rose), singer Jann Klose, Roberta Piket, and the other co-moderator who is also a DJ at USB, Anthony “Dob” Dobrini. While not an official moderator, Joe Vig helped move everything along.

[Matt Clunie, Ryan MacNeill]
The artists seemed very present, and were open to suggestion and needs by the crowded room of members of the college radio world, and the like. I also got involved by making comments on how the artists can help themselves and what we journalists needed to help promote/review their releases. In that way Jan Horvath realized that I was the one who reviewed her CD for Jersey Beat, which raised a big smile on her part, which made me feel acknowledged positively. Thanks for that, Jan!

[Jan McComsky, Jann Klose, Roberta Piket]
One of the things that impressed me about this panel was the wide range of styles represented, such as metal, folk blues, electric blues, singer-songwriter, pop rock, poetic rock, and jazz. There really did need to be some urban style present, even if I am not a fan.

By the time the panel was over, I had CDs to review from John, Matt, Ryan, MilitiA, Phil, and Jan. And shortly after I received one from Rew, and Jan had promised to send one as well. As I said, I had already reviewed Jan’s CD. What I’ve heard I’ve liked, and the reviews will appear in Jersey Beat (http://www.jerseybeat.com/; my column is called “The Quiet Corner”).

I am sorry now I hadn’t gone to previous conventions, and look forward to seeing them in the future, if I’m in town.

Additional conference ffotos by RBF:

http://community.webshots.com/user/ffranzos2006v1

A random memory along a strasse in Berlin

In 1998, I was walking down a busy street in Berlin. It was my second day there, and the first opportunity I had to walk around and take photos, as I love to do.

As I approached a corner, four guys on bicycles approached. They all wore multi-colored spandex so familiar with heavy-duty bike riders. One comes up to me, and in a thick West Coast US accent says to me:

"Dude! You know where [Whatever]-Strasse is, dude?"

"I'm from the States, too. I have no idea."

He turned to his pals and yelled, "Dudes! This dude dosen't know where the Strasse is either, dudes!"

With that he turned to me and said, "Hey, thanks, Dude!" And then he took off with his pals.

Which reminded me of this:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sEr8SYqTc3s