FRED RADTKE IS NEW ORLEANS

I'm tired of the bitching and whining about Fred Radtke, aka "The Grey Ghost." I'm tired of the cutesy t-shirts, tired of people moaning that he should be arrested, tired of the endless internet threats and letters to the editor. Fred Radtke is fucking amazing. Not only is he the best at what he does, but he represents a number of mind-blowing conceptual breakthroughs, bold steps forward in a long-stagnant "graf" scene.

For those not familiar, Radtke is the artist responsible for the huge variously grey blotches you see all over the city. A good Radtke has a mesmerizing, existentially provocative post-Rothko quality: a quilt of overlapping neutral shades addressing notions of totality and aspiration. It's miles (and yet mere millimeters) above most of the amateur-hour 'art' writers our city has to offer. Beyond his work itself and its awesome omnipresence-- both of which are significant in their own rights-- Fred is notable for his revolutionary methods and approach. He goes out in his old van with a bunch of grey paint and some rollers, and slathers it all over anything that catches his eye. Someone put a bumper sticker on a stop sign? SPLAP: the whole sign's just a big grey octagon now. Someone wrote "RIP Li'l Stinky, 1992-2008" in chalk on the brick wall of an abandoned 19th-century factory building? SPLUP: thick grey paint, eight feet square.

Quik-print plastic signs stapled to a telephone pole, advertising 2 gold teeth for $150? SPLOOP! 'Lost Dog' flyer? SPLUPP! Cringe-inducingly earnest NOLA RISING folk-art? SPLAPP! Radtke is a machine, a marvelous, superhuman grey-paint juggernaut, and if you have any problem with what he does, up to and including his fondness for violently assaulting passers-by and threatening to shoot them, do you know what you are?

Jealous. You're a hater, nothing more. I understand your petty resentment; Radtke is the king of New Orleans, and you're nobody. I sympathize; you're living in his horizon-spanning grey shadow. It must rankle. But please, stop hating. If you're a graffiti artist or sign-maker or DPW employee, take a minute to appreciate just how massively outplayed you are.

Radtke doesn't creep around with a bandanna over his face, furtively scribbling, toting a clanking backpack. No, he's out in the sunshine, getting up right on front street all day err' day. You approach him, he pulls a gun on you, or maybe splits your head open. He's real gangster, and cowboy paints where he wants when he wants. Historic French Quarter facades, traffic signs, private residences, corner stores, churches, Radtke don't give a fuck. SPLOPP! grey paint.

Everyone knows his tag, because he's all-city in a way no-one else is. The cops don't bother him, the City funds him, the paint store welcomes his business. He's taken it to the next level. Authorities turn a blind eye to his work, because he's outsmarted them. He's gotten their blessing to establish his tag on every surface in every neighborhood, and by god, he doesn't half-ass it. He has subverted the 'buff' and made it his personal trademark. How sick is that??

NOLA RISING tried to fuck with him, and NOLA RISING got knocked. Fred Radtke is the face of New Orleans graffiti, and to me, he's much bigger than high-concept clowns like Banksy or whoever else populates coffee-table "street art" books these days. Radtke doesn't need words, doesn't need appropriated 70s underground-comix imagery, doesn't need scene cred or 'authenticity.' His tag is primordial, both pre- and post-verbal. His tag is an entire PALETTE... he is the color grey, bitches, and you all know it. He goes over everything. You can love him or hate him-- he's way beyond you-- but give the man the respect he deserves. He IS graffiti, he IS the king, and he IS New Orleans. Keep talking shit... Radtke's out painting.


--the mighty d-block

An invitation to sodomy

Enough of this peace/love B.S... let's talk about hatred. Let's talk about these apple-cheeked clowns in red berets on their mountain bikes, rolling around Bourbon St.: the "Guardian Angels." Who the fuck are you kids? Are you from here? Do you live here? I thought the "Guardian Angels" were supposed to be grizzled ex-gang-members, but all y'all look like national guard rejects from Iowa. Where are the Guardian Angels recruiting from these days, Jesus Camp? Besides looking barely old enough to vote, why are you all 100-pound doofuses with skin the color of the pope's thighs?

Seeing you self-importantly "patrolling" the quarter and the marigny with your color-matched web gear and sheafs of plastic flexi-cuffs calls to mind a cross between mormon missionary boys, eagle scouts, and santa's workshop elves, three demographics that have in common 1.) me hating them and 2.) me wanting to sodomize them. It's one of those complicated lust-hate relationships, and you Cherry Lane paramilitary wanna-bes in bike shorts are all three combined. I don't know anybody who takes you seriously; police certainly don't. They know as well as anyone that you're just amateur-hour liabilities. Who sent you teeny-boppers here to "protect" New Orleans from itself? Go home. Or come by the Rail sometime when I'm working and we'll go out in the parking lot and have a nice old knock-down scrap, and then enjoy angry sweaty sex in the gravel, with your trim, hairy do-gooder ankles flexi-cuffed behind your neck. If this sounds like a good time to you, come holler at me. Otherwise, go get a real job back in whatever whitebread hell-hole spawned you.

Love,

the d-block