by Spencer Ackerman
In the mid-50s, a modern-day
Amalek seized power in Egypt. Merging a fierce critique of European
colonialism with a strident pan-Arabism, Gamal Abdel Nasser became the
savior of the Arabs. The final component to Nasser's charisma was an
anti-Semitism even more virulent that the young state of Israel had
contended with from Hajj Amin al-Husseini, the Hitler ally who had been
mufti of Jerusalem. Eventually Nasser self-destructed by overplaying
his hand. In May 1967, he began preparations for a "final battle" with
Israel, evicting the United Nations from the tenuous ceasefire line in
the Sinai peninsula. But Israel, not exactly content to see the Jewish
people come close to extinction for the second time in barely a
generation, struck first, destroying the Egyptian Air Force on its
runways, the opening salvo of a climactic June confrontation that
changed the Middle East forever. The first bomb dropped on the
Egyptians, I'm reliably informed, had a Hebrew message painted on it,
one that roughly translates to, "What up now, bitch?" Before
Nasser imploded, however, he prompted a mass exodus of Egyptian Jews
who understood what was in store for them if they stayed. And here we
have to admit that we owe something of a debt to our enemy. All actions
have unintended consequences. Nasser's was to bring the Mizrahi family
from Cairo to New York. Less than twenty years later, one of its
children, the delinquent Sylvain, hooked up with a gang of rock &
roll transvestites. He added an extra "Sylvain" to his name, dropped
his Sephardic last name, put on some rouge and some platforms, and
helped bequeath unto the world the legendary New York Dolls. It's
something of a stretch to say no Dolls, no punk rock, no salvation of
rock & roll--but not by much. It's a bit more of a stretch to say
to Nasser, no Mizrahi emigration, no Sylvain Sylvain and then no
all-the-rest. But would you really want to risk it? My
grudging appreciation for Nasser came as I caught the reformed Dolls at
the 9:30 club in D.C. last night. I should say a third of the New York
Dolls, since Johnny Thunders, bassist Arthur Kane and drummers Billy
Murcia and Jerry Nolan have sadly passed away. But Sylvain and a
living-dead David Johansen led a furiously sloppy performance of Dolls
classics, something mind-boggling for men in their late 50s (being
generous). There's a reason why Johnny Thunders was the lead guitarist
way back when: at one point, Sylvain delivered a solo so ragged that it
sounded like an electrified version of how he must have delivered his
Torah portion. But he more than made up for it with the rest of his
repertoire--and especially with his Johansen-baiting banter between
songs--and in appreciation I yelled out how good Syl is for the Jews.
He may not have heard it, but Johansen must have, because when Sylvain
promised an adoring audience that we'd see him again soon, Buster
Poindexter shot back, "Yeah, at the next seder." Syl, you can drink
Elijah's wine from my table anytime. After last night, I have to say it: thanks, Nasser. Now go back to rotting in hell.