PUNK DRUNK LOVE

PUNK DRUNK LOVE

Born to Booze

What’s Jesse Malin doin’ out on a Sunday afternoon? Jonathan Toubin finds out!

Jonathan Toubin

As a great NYC hardcore (in a sense) band once said, “You don’t have to try so very hard/lf you live in this world/You’re feelin’ the change of the guard." And so, with tears in our eyes but hope in our hearts, we witness the passing of the Born to Booze torch, from Kirk Podell to Jonathan Toubin. Our new cocktail cub may be familiar to the louche amongst our readership as the head cheese at New York Night Train, the one-man collective that, for two decades, has put the “show" in late-night punk ’n’ garage showbiz all over the world, or the equally international Soul Clap, the dance party/ contest where JT disc-jockeys the funkiest 45s of yester-century, cohosted by a who’s who of legendary soul shakers and otherwise stirred denizens of what remains of the underground. To paraphrase another freak of the industry: “Oh yeah, he also likes to write.”

My first ’90s New York job was delivering food in Hell’s Kitchen. And while I wasn’t the most industrious employee, both on and off the clock I became a diligent explorer of the wide variety of dives still dotting the Times Square area. While I discovered a number of suitable locations to indulge my wide-eyed Bukowski on Mean Streets twentysomething romanticism, particularly along Ninth Avenue near the shadowier end of Port Authority, my absolute favorite bar was smack-dab in the belly of the beast. Jimmy’s Corner, with its tattered boxing posters, yellowing photo collages of ancient regulars, and soulful jukebox, was also chockfull o’ characters, good vibes, and affordable booze. For only a couple bucks you could grab a drink, find a ringside barstool, and become a fixture among the mise-en-scene of a mythical Times Square noir narrative— a living relic from the end of an era when boxing intersected low life on the sidewalks of New York in life, books, and cinema. The owner, Jimmy Glenn, a former 1940s boxer, trainer, and gym proprietor, reliably lorded over the end of the bar until he passed away from COVID complications in 2020. While Jimmy is missed by all, his family still runs the iconic watering hole. Not much else has changed. And while I’ve done time in my fair share of barrooms in the decades since my first Jimmy’s experience, after all these years I still can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be. Thus, I am beyond thrilled that my old friend Jesse Malin picked Jimmy’s Corner as our rendezvous point.

Jimmy’s is a quintessential New York bar, and Jesse is a quintessential New Yorker. And just as Jimmy’s has been everybody’s consistent midtown go-to since 1971, Jesse Malin has been an omnipresent force in our city’s culture for decades. A Queens native who emerged upon the downtown scene in the early ’80s with teenage hardcore heroes Heart Attack, Malin next spearheaded the ’90s glam punk resurgence with D Generation and has since prolifically troubadoured throughout the 21th century as a critically acclaimed singer-songwriter and solo rock ’n’ roller. Much more than a musician, Jesse is also an indefatigable communityoriented mensch and nightclub impresario—a driving force behind legendary institutions like Niagara (since 1997!), the much-missed St. Mark’s Place double-decker venue Coney Island High, and contemporary downtown nightspots like Berlin, Bowery Electric, Dream Baby, Lovers of Today, Heaven Can Wait, 96 Tears, Cabin, and Johnny.

While Jesse was recently blindsided by a paralyzing spinal stroke that would’ve knocked most of us down for the count, he’s spent more than a year fighting his way back up on his feet. And though he’s not yet all the way there, and recovery and physical therapy are his full-time jobs, he’s filled his limited free time with a dizzying array of extracurricular activities. Since staging his live music comeback with two sold-out nights at the Beacon Theater in December, he’s been writing, rehearsing, and performing with his band, running at least eight nightclubs, completing his book, and embarking upon his autobiographical career-spanning musical Silver Manhattan: A Musical Guide to Survival at Gramercy Theater. Also, when he’s not making the rest of us feel lazy, he somehow still finds the time to throw back a couple of Sunday beers at Jimmy’s Corner.

Squinting into the bright afternoon, we eagerly make our way through the picturesque street scene across from the historic Hudson Theatre. We then pass under the Virgil’s BBQ sign, only to find Jimmy’s front door locked. Since the bar historically opens by 11 a.m., and I’ve yet to find it closed during the day, I am immediately overcome by the New York nausea we all feel when we learn the hard way that a favorite old haunt has closed (I’m at a loss but certain the Germans have a word for this phenomenon). I next hear Jesse breathe a sigh of relief after peering inside to find the staff readying the bar for business. A line develops behind us, and the mass anxiety dissipates once we learn they have later hours on Sunday.

The door flings open promptly at 4 p.m., and we find ourselves herded into one of the city’s most iconic interiors. Everything is exactly as we remember it. A blurry museum of boxing memorabilia dating all the way back to Louis/Schmeling, every inch is crowded with photos, portraits, and posters featuring all the greats. Middle-aged Jimmy with Muhammad Ali, silver-haired 21st-century Jimmy with his notable customers, and, while you’ll have to ask which one it is, you can probably still find young mid-century Jimmy’s boxing portrait. Jesse rhapsodizes about the frame placement. “I love that the pictures are crooked and people bang into them and nobody gives a shit, you know? It’s not all OCD fussy.”

While the rest of the joint is preserved in amber, including the prices (drinks are primarily $3 to $5), the only missing piece is Jimmy Glenn and his wife, Swannie. Neither of us could remember a pre-2020 visit without the proprietor’s presence. Jesse noted that, “It was very much like CBGB’s. If you went into CBGB’s, you saw Hilly Kristal, the owner, sitting right there at his desk, like Archie Bunker in his favorite chair. And you went in, and he might just quietly nod at you in this elderly-statesman guise, like it was his place. And Jimmy would be sitting back here, and he might just nod that he recognized you or welcome you with just a simple nod. I don’t think Hilly maybe gave you that much at CBGB’s, but it’s that type of thing where the people lived in their place and it was just a part of them, what they did.... Their day was spent there. His wife was running the bar, and she was bartending, and this went on for 30 years.”

While the house drink is a “Jimmy’s Hurricane,” I haven’t yet encountered it, and I’ve never ventured far from the basics here. Jesse is no different. I wind up with a silver Espolon on the rocks, and Jesse gets a Heineken. We pass the bar and the majestic glow of the CD jukebox, climb a couple of stairs, and find our chairs in a far corner of the back room.

Whether you sit at the bar or at a table, the first thing you notice are the yellowing photos epoxied to the tabletops below your drink. And you’ll want to know the stories behind these frozen moments. Who are these smiling Jimmy’s patrons immortalized beneath our glasses for eternity? Where are they now? Is one of them 40 years older and hunched over the bar a few feet away? I look up at Jesse and wonder aloud how long he’s been frequenting the liquid Shangri-La of Times Square.

JIMMY'S IS A QUINTESSENTIAL NEW YORK BAR, AND JESSE IS A QUINTESSENTIAL NEW YORKER.

Jesse says he didn’t hear about Jimmy’s until the 1990s when Joe Strummer and Jim Jarmusch told him about it. He adds that anytime the Clash’s frontman found himself in midtown, whether at MTV, or a hotel, or a recording studio, he’d come to Jimmy’s to drink at the bar and talk to the regulars. “It’s also been a place that I’ve come to after shows. Not just Broadway shows...but there were venues up here not that long ago. Roseland and Hammerstein Ballroom. You just find yourself here. Like me and you, we walked down from Lincoln Center. ’’ The last time we were together at Jimmy’s was after the New York Film Festival debut of Martin Scorsese’s David Johansen documentary at Alice Tully Hall. We strolled down 20-plus blocks just to stop by our favorite bar on our way downtown. A beacon in the Times Square fog and a safe house of sorts when Warriors like us get stuck in midtown, Jimmy’s is well worth a short geographical diversion.

Great bars are all about people telling stories, and Jesse is beyond talented and generous in this regard. He recalls adolescent encounters with the kung fu cinemas, peep shows, arcades, hustlers, pimps, and perverts of Times Square in the '70s. Or coming up from his apartment on “the safest block in the city,” next door to the Hells Angels, to see the Butthole Surfers across from the Brill Building at the venue Tin Pan Alley in the ’80s. Or his experience opening for KISS around the corner at Madison Square Garden in the ’90s. But in addition to recounting his own journeys, Jesse is also a cultural anthropologist of sorts who both collects and relays the memories of others. He explains that around 1991 D Generation did a photo shoot at Jimmy’s, and, not long after, his sister did a stint behind the bar. Thus Jesse got to know Jimmy and his wife, Swannie, well enough to get the typically reserved barand-boxing legend to open up about some of his experiences.

“One of the stories Jimmy told me was about the blackout of '77 and how the lights went out in the whole city and in the middle of Times Square. In those days, there was all of this danger. But everyone in this place was okay.... They lit up some candles, and they went all night until the power came on.... There was looting. People were going crazy out there. Fighting, trouble, breaking into places. And they were just here in this fortress. Everybody was having a great time.”

Jesse and I start surveying the walls.

“Pictures from famous fights...Ali, Frazier.... Pictures of Jimmy and other people he was training. I think he had a gym around the corner on 42nd Street.... Great posters from old fights...and stills from Raging Bull. That’s Scorsese with De Niro.... They shot the end of the film here, when Jake LaMotta is washed up, and he’s fat, and he’s doing comedy for nobody in empty bars...” This is why you do New York with Jesse. How did I miss that Raging Bull was shot at Jimmy’s Corner? Really? “The scene at the end. Yeah! And there’s a shot from it there on the wall—the stripper that’s right above the gentleman’s head there.... Can you see it? And then over there, by the bar, you’ll see De Niro doing Jake. I think they reversed the place somehow.”

I get another round and Jesse points toward the front of the bar.

“Directly out that window you could see Playland. And you see all these traces in these movies...Midnight Cowboy, Taxi Driver, Mean Streets.... And you walk into Jimmy’s Corner and you’re in that movie. You feel that thing and carry that energy. And nobody’s putting on a show here. Nobody cares about what they dress like and everyone’s just comfortable and it breaks everybody down to that level. I think it’s the ultimate New York place, and I still live in New York because you walk out your door and mix with all kinds of cultures in a small space and you’re forced to deal with that.... It might get on your nerves. But interesting things happen that you wouldn’t expect. And it forces you to take in humanity. And it’s inspiring as a writer. As a musician. It gives me an energy.... And we live in a world now where everybody’s on the phone. So it’s really nice to get out of the internet bubble or whatever and get offline and just be in the street, even if you’re bumping into telephone zombies.... And this place, if we go around this room and look: It’s 4 o’clock. All different kinds of people, and everybody’s having a good time.”