Touch – 1980

Touch was never quite a “New York  band.”  Even though for the most part we all lived in the city, built and rehearsed our act in a rat-infested loft next door to the Mid-Town South Precinct on West 35th Street (up the block from Reverend Sun Myung Moon’s zombie hostel in the old New Yorker Hotel) and my entire social life at the time revolved around places like CB’s or Max’s, Trax, Privates… or The Odessa and Wo Hop for 4AM club-fogged sustenance, still Touch was never thought of as a New York thing.  Comprised of Mark Mangold (keys and vocals), Craig Brooks (guitar & vocals), Glenn Kithcart (drums) and myself… and built from the ashes of the Columbia Records act “American Tears,” Touch for a variety of reasons was always assumed to be a UK/Euro, or an otherwise “elsewhere” band.  Likely because the vast majority of our fan base and successes always seemed to be any place other than our home, we were the picture-perfect example of the line “Well, we’re really big in Europe, man…”   It was also likely because we never did much in the way of live shows in or around NYC prior to our signing with Atco/Atlantic Records in 1979.  It was always just assumed by most of the New York scene that we were Brits, or perhaps Swedes.

Touch, while ridiculously talented (if I do say so myself), was for the most part a one, perhaps two hit wonder (in the States anyway…) that eventually drifted apart after the recording of our second album.  The individual members thereafter moving on to work with a host of other acts and endeavors.  However about two years ago (40 some odd years since the last time we’d worked together), a couple of record labels contacted us, lobbying for a reunion album.  It was explained to us that we apparently held the unique status of being one of the “OG” bands wherein all of the original members were still alive and sentient, and they were willing to bet that a new album would be well received.

“None of you are dead yet.  It would be a great idea to do an album before something happens.”  While that pitch sounded like a line out of a bad Mafia movie, it still kind of made sense.

So, after much cajoling (and the check didn’t hurt), we plowed through COVID and cobbled together what we anticipated to be a tidy little “thank you,” to the fans that never forgot us. Touch – “Tomorrow Never Comes” was supposed to be a quiet period at the end of the sentence for a band that never quite broke through that often arbitrary ceiling into super-stardom, but also never seemed to simply go away.

What we didn’t anticipate however was the album’s success.  Though of course limited to our now somewhat archaic musical niche, within our milieu its release made noise.  We were almost embarrassed by the critic’s consistent approval.  Calling ‘Tomorrow Never Comes’ “…come-back album of the year” and “…a triumphant return,” giving us ratings of tens out of tens and all sorts of thumbs going everywhere.  All these years later… go figure.   The noise now is all about us possibly touring.  We’ll see… we’re old… we’ll see.

That said though, this blog is ultimately about New York and not necessarily how fabulous Touch is, or was – though PLEASE DO consider adding us to your favorite streaming app playlist as my house could really use some new siding!   Because without New York… Touch and all that followed thereafter would never have happened in the first place.

The author as a young delinquent.

I consider myself a grateful native New Yorker.  I attribute a good chunk of my survival in this loopy business to being both that and a musician during that once in a century time when the city’s creative stew combined with the insanity that was late 1970’s/early 1980’s New York boiled over. I’m thankful for how New York took what I had out of the gate, and honed it.  Street smarts, instinct, edge, knowing how to hustle (how to spot one… and how not to be taken by one) and to have been exposed to all that was excellence.  The best in art, music, performance and just an overall “only in New York” scene… these were, and remain New York’s elementary gifts.  And while it may no longer be quite “my” New York (I occasionally get lost in mid-town now with all of the old landmark buildings gone), it still remains, deep down… always New York.

Thousands have eulogized about New York’s gilded, grotesque compound of capricious cruelty and its simultaneous capacity to make anyone’s dreams come true.  To paraphrase Richard Hell, “New York is the only place where if you screw up, you can simply reinvent yourself over and over until you get it right.”  It rewards tenacity, punishes stupidity, raises or crushes the puritan alongside the villain … pretty much giving everyone the same shot at ascendency, or self-immolation, or perhaps both.  An asphalt field of dreams, though not a playground for the delusional.  New York doesn’t have the time to waste on false hopes.  “Fake it till you make it” doesn’t fly here.  Not for long anyway.

The most common mistake I’ve witnessed many wide-eyed pilgrims to New York make when coming here is thinking that “winning” is the end game.  The truth is though that the only thing resembling “winning” here is being allowed to play the game at all.  Yes, you can become wealthy and famous, perhaps both, or one or the other.  Very much so.  There is no doubt that the trajectories exist for aspirants to achieve Master of The Universe status in any number of fields of endeavor.  But soon (and the sooner the better) you begin to realize that no matter how much you earn, or how famous or powerful you get to be, there is always… always… someone richer, more famous, more talented, more beautiful and more powerful…. than you.  And if not on the immediate horizon, it’s a sure bet that they will be getting off the bus very shortly.  At that point, you should recognize that it’s the game itself that counts here.  It’s not about the finish line.  Because ultimately, there never is one.

In New York, you both achieve and fail. Equally ennobling and humbling, you glory in triumphs and writhe in defeats. You work and play harder, love more deeply, despise more venomously, empathize more profoundly and generally live more intensely than you ever could elsewhere.  Anywhere.  Roller-skating around the dining room on your yacht is not the end game (though it’s certainly very nice if you do).  Being allowed into the game in the first place, and holding your seat at the table… that is the payoff.  And to me, that’s enough.  More than enough.

Some random examples (in no particular order): I performed in 19 consecutive sold out shows in 10 days at Radio City Music Hall. I never won a Grammy, though I went to the altar twice.  I got torched by the Village Voice for being pretentiously camp  (whatever that means).  I shared stages and worked in studios with some of the most legendary and jaw dropping talent on the planet.  I was loosely used as fodder for a character in a book about an iconic novelist’s sex life.  I found myself in the offices of, and was invited to work with some of the most powerful people in the business of entertainment.  I was a bartender at the already by then time-worn Hotel Taft in Times Square, where I kept a baseball bat under the bar and used to let beat cops (some who worked two extra moonlighting jobs to support their families) “rest” without being disturbed in the back room. I built a company that has survived and thrived in an industry that is legendary in its ruthlessness.  I was launched out on tours that performed in just about every city on practically every continent.  I got thrown out of the China Club one night because I dissed the men’s room attendant’s shitty taste in music.  I made the cover of NY Daily News Parade Magazine.  I thoroughly humiliated myself by once mistaking Bette Midler for the office manager of a recording studio (my eyesight has always sucked).  I got my first record deal on my birthday, with the ensuing album coming out on my next (the party was legendary… even the cops hung around).  About three years or so thereafter I got divorced, went bankrupt and was audited for two years’ worth of tax returns… all of that last bit within the span of a couple of months.

Where else can you live like that?  And how could anyone ever settle for anything less?  Now it seems I’ve made full circle.  Only in New York… only in New York

Touch “Try To Let Go” from the Deko/WMG album “Tomorrow Never Comes” © 2022 Geezah Entertainment

As you may or may not know, or could for that matter care less, I have found a new focus in line with my ongoing mid-life crisis. Actually I don’t see how it can be considered a mid-life crisis as I have always strictly maintained the perspective of a 12 year old in all things, but regardless… the point is I have decided to get back on a horse.

While some men of a certain age buy a red Porsche or a motorcycle, some slather themselves with Rogain or snort Viagara and take up snowboarding, or even some go so far as to trade in long suffering wives for newer models, convincing themselves that it’s for love and love alone, while Trophy Wife #Whatever plugs an industrial grade vacuum cleaner into their wallet… a man’s brooding sense of  panic over his inevitable and progressive decline can take many forms.

Me? I get on a horse.

Understand that this is not an out-of-the-blue, new found passion as I formerly competed in a variety of equitation events when I was much younger… much, much younger. But that of course was way back when horses were steam powered and a bear claw would buy you a spot by the fire and hot bowl of mud.   Much in equitation, particularly jumping, has changed since then … the primary being of course, my body.

First thing I have learned is that I am no longer made of rubber. I can no longer bounce off of things, like the ground for example, with the same level of grace if not outright glamour that I once possessed. I can now actually, really hurt myself. I could also die if push came to shove, which of course would ironically and quite pathetically undermine the whole point of this latest manifestation of my fantasy battle against time. So a certain amount of caution is in order where there previously was none.

This change of circumstance and condition was made clear to me upon my first visit to my local riding academy, where once the truly wonderful staff got over their initial shock at the idea of me being there in the first place, took great pains to keep me out of harm’s way. For example… by not letting me get anywhere near a horse. Bloody brilliant! I loved this place immediately! And this very well intentioned safety protocol worked quite well on my first day as I sat in the tack room, far from danger, staring at the walls of assorted saddelry as my brand spanking new breeches, boots and helmet glowed in their recency.  Eventually however I began to sense a bit of a lack of accomplishment and so I got a little pushy (as I am known to do, just ask anyone who says “no” to me… it rarely goes well, regrettably) as to how long I would be required to drink well meaning coffee and admire the inspiring framed photos of other riders, captured in the midst of heroic leaps… and I asked when I might be able to actually meet a horse. It was then that I was introduced to “Mabel,” a 24 year-old paint, dray mare who was also lovingly referred to around the stables as “Princess Comatose.”

It was love at first sight. At 16 hands, she was also as wide as a bloody barn, but I was fortunate in that she appeared to have no withers whatsoever due to her basically being an oil tank with legs. This was a real plus in light of my anatomical difference from the female riders in the barn and thus outfitted with the proper Crosby saddle (favored by men, I am told) I felt no particular need to spend all of my time riding constantly in a half seat.  We were off to a great start!

My “romance” with Mabel was a whirlwind. I soon found myself thoroughly charmed at her coquettish habit of backing up from the mounting block just as I prepared to insert my foot into the stirrup. Over and over, and over again we would play this little game. Back and forth, back and forth. What joy!  Such laughs!  Her uncanny ability to drift directly towards a random cavaletti lying to the side of my path the split microsecond I’d position myself to begin a trot… I found this utterly charming. And her adorable way of spooking and completely bugging out at alarming distractions… such as say dirt, or sunshine… Tellement Amusant!   After a week or so of this, I was ready to shoot her and then myself. I began to see a similarity between my riding this rolling refrigerator and the poor sap who was being cleaned out by the blonde Marie Besnard with implants that he’d left his wife for. Guys are dumb. Mable knew this.

Regardless, I was determined. I was good at this… albeit years ago. I was told back then that I showed promise. “I am not dead yet – I can do this – I don’t like red cars,” I told myself. So I focused in on the training patiently dolled out by my tortured, yet saintly instructor. And lo and behold, once I had figured out that I needed to use the other outside rein (in other words, tug with the other left hand, idiot), and that my legs should probably not be sticking out in front of me as though I were planted in a Barcalounger doing a History Channel binge, I began indeed to sense some progress.

But it wasn’t just a ‘sense’ of achievement.  I was told I was making progress. While encouraged by my instructor and praised or chided accordingly, I was flat-out told I was making progress… by Mable, herself.  She began to respond to my commands.  Of course she still loved our little “Okay. Get on me… come on. I won’t back up again. I promise!  No, I really mean it this time. I love you.  I’m not lying.  BWAHAHAHA!” game, but she began to do what can only be described as placing her trust in me.  She began to offer me respect.  A respect I had to earn, but given with trust when due.  ‘Click,’ we turn. ‘Click,’ we trot. ‘Click‘… we focus and fly.

I am one month into this. I am having the time of my life. I have no delusions of grandeur only in that I consider myself so damned fortunate to not be that guy at the gas pump with the bad hairpiece and the red Carrera. I will keep you apprised.

Doug Howard

3/28/14 (Originally published November, 2005)

Recently I was quite surprised to find that I am, in some warped circles apparently now considered a writer. This in spite of the fact that I have two horrid little novels that actually speak to me in the middle of the night, just prior to my falling asleep… and plead with me not to finish them. They cannot seem to take it any longer and I do not blame them.

Now while I may be a songwriter (of sorts having written virtually nothing for the past decade or so), I am not a novelist, or a journalist for that matter, but rather it would now appear that I am considered a “web pundit,” an editorial satirist, a social commentator. And all this time I was under the impression that I was simply a functional alcoholic who had found in his laptop an acceptable substitute for making late night drunk calls to ex-wives and former employers. Who would have imagined? Amazing!

Now if this declaration seems presumptuous of me, I honestly could not agree with you more were it not for the ever-increasing amount of mail that I receive from readers. Outside of the occasional death threat from people writing in capital letters things like “Allahu Akbar,” or ‘Jesus Hates You”, which of course do not count as I have been receiving those since my very first album which I recorded with Charles Baudelaire in 1863 (loads of laughs… good times!), I have of late been receiving notes from people who actually think I know what I am doing. This I find hilarious of course, but once I get over it and wipe the tears from my eyes, a sense of deep concern washes over me when I find that some people are actually asking me for advice on how to become a writer. How deeply disturbing.

Well, far be it for me to let anyone down. And while under any normal circumstances I charge significant amounts of money to preach happy horse-shit to people who are silly enough to think that I actually know what I am talking about at an given time, I shall attempt to impart upon those who have been asking… some of the secrets of my success.

Firstly, try to write good. Don’t write bad. People don’t like that and it makes the baby Jesus cry.  If you are currently writing bad… try to write more good.

As well, and I paraphrase my good friend Tara in sharing with you that all writers for the most part simply want to smoke, drink and copulate and they find that writing as a career facilitates that well. So try to get in touch with your own personal vices. Know them well. There is method here… and in saying that I would ask the reader at this time to pause in review and mosey on down to the local Liquor Locker, and pick up a gallon of the least expensive vodka on the shelf. But something that sounds vaguely Russian of course and comes in plastic. I personally recommend Popov or Chernobyl.

I’ll wait.

Back? Dandy!

Now, get yourself a large glass and some ice, place the bottle near your chair and we shall proceed.

Oh, sorry… forgot. Do you have any cigarettes? Well, even if you don’t smoke, get some and start. Excellent! Now, where were we?

Good research is imperative when writing. A good writer always does his or her best to back up their assertions and premises with solid research. And this is where proper use of the web has become essential to good writing. By way of example, when researching an article on evolution and you wish to quote from “The Origins of Species” by Charles Darwin, I would recommend opening your browser and typing in “co-ed bondage hi-jinx” or “lathered suburban housewives” in your search. This may be considered by some to be the long way around to finding what it is you are looking for, but once you get the results back you probably won’t care.

By they way, you should require some more ice at this point, but if you are doing this at all properly then the ice, and very likely the glass itself for that matter will have become completely irrelevant… so go ahead and feel free to just start swilling it directly from the bottle at your feet.

Now would also be a good time to light up a few more cigarettes. So let’s take a break shall we, and have a smoke. It also would be appropriate at this time to take out a firearm or two and go out on your deck and blow off a few rounds. See if you can manage to take out the bird feeder or hit that wasp’s nest that your wife has been asking you to take care of since last May.

All done? Fantastic! Now let’s get back to it.

Continuity and flow are extremely important in both engaging the reader and giving you as the writer a clear line of sight as to where you would like to go. Thus you should begin every new effort by starting with the words “The End” on your very first page. Place this page to the side so that you can quickly grab it and slap it on the back of whatever you have put down when you get to the point where you just can’t stand the idea of having to write another word, or when you become so blind drunk that you have to hold your hand over one eye in order to find the letters on your keyboard.

Now then, spelling, proper grammar and punctuation always count. While artistic license is most certainly granted in creative writing, using acronyms such as LOL, ROFLMAO, or posting Smiley’s at the end of your sentences will likely make you appear completely retarded to any serious readers over the age of 9.

But then again …what the hell.  Do whatever you want. Who cares? It’s amazing how this paint thinner gets better tasting after the first 12 blasts, isn’t it? Next time we should try running it through a Britta water filter. I hear that works pretty well actually.

What was it we were doing anyway? Oh, right. An article on “Pipe Organs and Cat Feces” by My Favorite Martian… and a fine article it will be. So let’s refill our glass (or just suck back another pull), light up another ciggy and finally get down to it! Huzzah! Thus far we have done our research, begun our first page, and emptied half of the bottle… and it isn’t even 10 o’clock in the morning. 

Excellent! Well done! You are most certainly on your way!

Now in my experience, at this point in time there could possibly be a loud banging going on at your front door. This is either the fire department responding to the flames shooting out from your windows likely caused when you started putting your cigarettes out on the drapes… or you missed shooting the bird feeder entirely and the SWAT team has come to call.  

Write to me soon and let me know how this all works out for you.

Thanks for stopping by.