It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…
Charles Dickens
And you’re a Prima Ballerina on a Spring Afternoon,
Change on into the Wolfman, howling at the moon
David Johansen and Johnny Thunders
This one goes out to The New York Dolls, in honor of the 50th anniversary of the release of their self-titled debut album. I seek no converts here – either you’ve heard about The Dolls or you ain’t. Either you get The Dolls, or you don’t.
I was exposed, and hooked, early. So early, in fact, that I remember when their feature record dropped, with perhaps the perfect cover art to capture the moment:
While this image is pedestrian by modern standards, it was positively outrageous in 1973.
As was their sound. They were, in some measure, artistic successors to another great New York ensemble – The Velvet Underground. But rawer, more visibly outrageous.
They paved the way for, among others, The Pistols, The Ramones, even The Clash. Probably, these bands would’ve done what they did anyway, but The Dolls came first, and no one since has ever matched their sound.
I have met DavidJo on two occasions (he was rude the first time, gracious the next) and Sylvain Sylvain — that magnificent Egyptian Jew Rhythm Guitarist, once. Syl’s dead now (having somewhat improbably made it to almost 70), as are all but DJ. Their founding drummer, Billy Murcia, died of alcohol and drug poisoning in ’72 – before our feature album was even recorded. He was, however, immortalized in the Bowie classic “Time” (“Time, in quaaludes and red win, demanding Billy Dolls, and other friends of mine”). Jerry Nolan and Johnny Thunders OD’d. Bassist Arthur (Killer) Kane went bat shit, was rescued by a Mormon Missionaries in L.A.’s Skid Row and was living as church librarian-in-residence when the band located him and patched him together sufficiently to include him in a 2004 reunion show in London. I don’t think he played a note, but was there, looking fabulous.
He returned to L.A., checked into a hospital, and died three weeks later.
The initial enterprise lasted less than two years, and now, as indicated above, all but Johanse are dead. But God Oh Mighty, did they kick up a fuss during that initial surge.
So much so that the then-iconic Creem Magazine’s 1973 listeners poll voted their debut album as both the best and worst record of the year.
Which, if you ask me (and plainly you didn’t) is kind of Dickensian. Ala “A Tale of Two Cities”.
Something akin to this best of times/worst of times vibe also appears to be transpiring in the markets.
I survey standard economic indicators with what I can only describe as wonder and astonishment.
The Earnings season, now at its precise mid-point, if not a blowout, has at minimum produced several amazing beats – particularly at the top of the valuation food chain. One can fairly conclude, worst case, that nothing in these realms is likely to detonate the burgeoning rally.
Macro data had been nothing short of sublime. Q2 GDP materially surpassed expectations, and every single one of 900 different inflation metrics is showing an easing of pricing pressure.
The three major Central Banks weighed in this past week, and each, in its own way, re-affirmed the fight against the dreaded Õ. The Fed’s action was the most straightforward – a simple, widely anticipated 25 bp hike, combined with admonishments that they might not be done. Madame LaGarde, never one to be upstaged, called this bet, and raised – accessorizing an equal magnitude ECB rate hike with the announcement of the discontinuance of interest payments on member bank Reserve balances. The eternally inscrutable BOJ stood pat but succumbed to pressure to expand the bands associated with its controversial Yield Curve Control policy.
All of which caused a noticeable but dignified selloff in the Global Treasury Complex, as well as some wiggling and jiggling in Foreign Exchange markets. But other Risk Assets, as particularly exemplified by Equities, continued their inexorable ascent.
And why not? The economy ignores the lead flying about its ears and charges ahead – higher rates be damned. Companies are making money. Inflation, if not dead, is arguable comatose.
It is, by real-world standards, the best of times for investors. And not much on the horizon is visible to kill the magnificent buzz.
But Hell’s Bells, it’s hot out there – so hot for so long as to even bestow upon us climate skeptics some cause for doubt.
There is ample evidence to suggest that the leaders of both American political parties, each odds-on favorites to capture their nominations and thus subject us to the gruesome spectacle of a ’24 octogenarian match race, are both confirmed felons.
Undoubtedly, this has happened before (Nixon vs. the Kennedys in 1960 comes to mind), but in epochs where it was much easier for polite society to look the other way.
Commercial debt demand is plummeting:
It is not difficult to deconstruct this one. All rational players borrowed to the hilt at pittance level interest rates these past couple of years, and unless they blew that stack with too much celerity, are wise to hold off for now.
But this does raise a couple of challenges. For one, debt issuance is the main engine for monetary creation. Also, it’s a near certainty that as earlier, cheaper obligations mature, demand for credit will increase under much more problematic terms.
I reckon I could go on, but why bother? I simply find it beyond bizarre that the capital and commercial economy is demonstrating so much strength against a backdrop of so much melodrama and agita.
I could live with this era extending itself, but it probably won’t. Not even for much longer. Either the sushi will hit the fan, or we will all stop whining. Maybe both.
Because eras are meant to be finite. One bleeds into another. It was ever thus.
Case and point. On the weekend when our feature album was released, the peroid’s largest ever rock festival of was transpiring in a park outside Watkins Glen, NY. It featured a mere three bands (The Dead, The Band and The Allman Brothers). It lasted more than 12 hours, the last quarter of which featuring a combined jam session in which members of all three ensembles participated.
The audience numbered 600K; the musicians and the crowd were as different as night from day to our featured artists, who, somewhere down I87, were not only releasing a new album but ushering in a brand-new vibe. I don’t think The Dolls ever played before a crowd more than one thousand.
It too passed. Glam yielded to Punk, Disco, New Wave, etc. DavidJo ditched his eyeliner, grew a pompadour, and started recording Louie Prima covers, under the dubious moniker of Buster Poindexter. He’s David Johansen again, for which I at any rate thank the lord.
His high-profile years coincided with the ignominious end of the Vietnam War, Watergate, and the beginning of a decade-long, crippling surge in Inflation. It was a rough spell for the markets, but then the ‘80s unfolded and we barely looked back.
We can therefore anticipate more change – at an unknown pace. Which is twice piteous. First, because the good times never last, and second, because we never know when the party has ended.
Perhaps it’s already over. Perhaps it ended a while ago. Truth is, we just can’t be sure. Which is what makes this the great game it is. A Prima Ballerina on a Spring Afternoon can change into a Wolfman by nightfall.
It’s happened before, you know, so be forewarned.
TIMSHEL