by (epub)
One day, I noticed a phone number written in very small print at the bottom of an old cardboard poster from the fifties a friend had given me. That poster was beautiful. It read: Hilton Hotel, Los Angeles, October 14, 1957, from 8 PM to midnight, $2.75 The biggest show of stars: Jerry Lee Lewis, Fats Domino, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, Lavern Baker, Bo Diddley, Eddie Cochran, Bill Hailey & the Comets, and the Everly Brothers.
I wondered if the company that printed the poster could possibly still be in existence, so I decided to call the phone number to find out. Some lady in Indiana answered.
“You’re looking for who? A poster printer? Ah … you know, there was a printing company at this number, but they moved to the other side of town at least twenty years ago. They were called … hmm … Show Print. Yes, that’s it, Show Print.” I called information in Earl Park, Indiana, and found Show Print right away. Not only did they still make those posters, but they were really cheap too. I ordered a bunch, and they sent them over by mail. Show Print had survived by doing boxing and wrestling posters. Cardboard posters with black and white pictures of Mexican pro-wrestlers on rainbow backgrounds in horrible orange, yellow, green, blue … a dream! Not only were those cardboard posters beautiful, but they were also much easier to put up on the street. No more need to mess around with glue—we simply stapled them two by two around lampposts and trees. It was so much easier, and on top of that, we were the only ones in New York to have those kinds of posters. Unfortunately, someone finally noticed the little phone number printed at the bottom of each one—just like I had—and we got copied.
We also had buttons made, black and magenta, like our T-shirts. We were flattered to see that John Felice of the Real Kids was wearing one on his leather jacket on the cover of their new record.
The Heartbreakers had buttons with the title of their song “Chinese Rocks” on them. I thought that was a great idea, but we didn’t have the money to make more buttons. Rebop had a few boxes of old fifties buttons with weird little slogans on them, so I figured why not write songs that used those slogans as titles? That way, I would automatically have buttons to go with them! That’s how everybody ended up wearing buttons with the title of our latest hit, “I’m a Stranger Here Myself.”
“Wow! You have buttons that go with your songs?”
“No, we have songs that go with our buttons—just don’t tell anyone!”
Rehearsing at Steve’s loft was starting to become a problem. The upstairs neighbor, who had let us do whatever we wanted, moved out, and two real unfriendly heavyset Puerto Ricans took his place.
I was alone at the loft one day, when one of them knocked on the door. “How ya doing?” he said. “I wanted to ask you something. That music you’re playing, is that punk rock?”
“Um, no it’s just rock, blues. …”
“Really? Are you sure? Because they were talking about that new thing on TV—punk rock—and they were saying that this music brings out violence in people, that it can even make you want to kill someone after a while, and when I hear you guys play, that’s exactly what I feel!”
We decided to start rehearsing somewhere else. We rented a rehearsal space at the Music Building on 7th Avenue—a building that lived up to its name. Eleven stories of rehearsal studios—three per floor. A fucking band-practice factory!
One night, as we were packing up our stuff after a show somewhere on Long Island, I noticed Bill was carrying some large object wrapped in a blanket.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s the fish!” he said, trying to maneuver it into the trunk of the car.
He had stolen the big stuffed fish that hung above a door in the club.
“You’re crazy! They’re gonna see that it’s missing.”
“Gimme a break. You stole a fucking porcelain cat!”
“Yeah, but not from the club where we were playing. You don’t shit where you eat.” I laughed.
The fish ended up on the wall of our rehearsal studio on 7th Avenue. This studio was great. We rented it by the month, but since we weren’t playing there every day, we sublet it to two other bands; we tricked each of them into paying half the rent, which let us use the space for free. We could have rented it to five other bands, not practiced at all, and made a whole bunch of money—we could have dropped the music and started a career in real estate!
Marc had painted HE-MEN, WOMEN HATERS CLUB in big white letters on the door of our studio. It came from the old TV show The Little Rascals; the titular characters had that same slogan painted on the door of their tree house. Swans—a crazy experimental band—were in the studio next to ours, and at the end of the hallway was Madonna, who wasn’t famous yet. She flirted with me in the elevator a few times, but I thought she was tacky, and besides, I was married. At the time, she dressed like Pat Benatar, in black-and-white zebra-print tights with yellow knitted legwarmers over them. She was very … disco.
I have a theory about this: God was watching The Senders rehearse one night and, thinking we were cool, He decided to throw His almighty magic power unto us, pointing His holy finger toward our studio and instantly sending a great white lightning of success in our direction. But even God isn’t perfect, and he doesn’t aim so well … he missed us by only a couple of feet and the great white lightning landed on Madonna, who was waiting for the elevator!!
On top of that, I bet she still has no idea, because she’s never thanked us or nothing.
Heading to rehearsal one night, I spotted a drunk businessman throwing up in the doorway of a building. I assumed he was a basketball fan coming out of Madison Square Garden, a little further down the avenue. It wasn’t an unusual sight.
Poor guy, I thought. Given the state he was in, he was sure to get mugged—especially at this hour, in this neighborhood. Besides, he looked like he wasn’t doing so good. He was doubled over, gripping the wall in front of him, and his wallet was sticking out of his back pocket. The only thing missing was a little sign saying HELP YOURSELF. I was hesitant to get involved as I thought he might be dangerous—given how loaded he was—and kept on walking. I was surprised to see him again the next day, in the exact same spot, still retching.
“This guy throws up here everyday?” I asked the doorman of the Music Building.
“No, he’s a cop,” he said, laughing. “And he isn’t drunk at all. As soon as someone grabs his wallet, he spins around with his gun. There are three others in a car across the street. They bust about a dozen guys in an hour or two, and they throw them in a van parked around the corner so they don’t have to go back and forth to the station every ten minutes. They leave when the van is full.”
Those undercover cops were amazing. I once witnessed a mugging in the subway, during which a Hassidic Jew, a construction worker, and a rapper all pulled out their guns yelling, “Police!” I also once saw a little schoolgirl in Brooklyn slam a huge Puerto Rican guy against a wall, shouting in her walkie-talkie, “I got him! We’re at the corner of Jay Street and Fulton. I need reinforcement!” Or maybe I saw that on TV—I can’t remember! Anyway, it made me wonder if everyone around me was a cop. …
We were talking more and more about adding a new guitar player so we could once again be five—just like we were in the beginning. Rolling Stones style, which makes for a great sound. We were doing a sound check at Max’s one afternoon, when a kid with a suitcase in one hand and a guitar in the other walked right up to me and said, “Basile Nodow!” He stuck out his hand and added that he had just arrived from Oklahoma City and that he had come to see us play after reading an interview in which we said great things about Dr. Feelgood, his favorite band! He asked us if he could plug in his guitar and play a song with us during the sound check. We liked his style a lot and invited him to come up and play a song during the show, too. He must have really knocked us out, because after a short meeting backstage, we unanimously agreed to hire him on the spot, before he could even drop off his luggage at the hotel.
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After the show, Joe Strummer of the Clash, who was visiting from London, insisted on meeting with us. He really liked our music and told me that before the Clash he played in the 101ers, a pub rock band, and that he loved old American Black R&B just as much as I did. I didn’t often meet anyone as cool or as interesting as Joe, and I offered him a drink right away—a Sender, of course, for which I didn’t have to pay!
A little later, I was hanging out upstairs in the dressing room with Risé, waiting for Peter Crowley to count the money and pay us, when Bill came running up, yelling, “Phil, come quick! Steve’s getting beaten up downstairs!”
A rumble! Shit! I had just smoked a joint, so talk about bad timing. I would have much rather talked about the universe or watched TV, but this seemed urgent. I grabbed my brass knuckles from my bag—they went perfectly with the rest of my getup. Brass knuckles are illegal in New York, but I’d recently seen a very funny ad in a biker magazine that read: Magnificent Brass Paperweight, exact replica of classic Brass Knuckles!! Haha! I figured they might be good to have in case of trouble, given where I lived. I wasn’t particularly fond of switchblades—especially after what happened to Johnny Blitz—so, for ten bucks, I ordered a “paperweight.”
I grabbed my paperweight and ran downstairs. I found Steve at the bottom of the stairs, near the front door, fighting three pretty big guys. Punches were flying in all directions. Two of his opponents held broken beer bottles, which they were using to hit Steve. Where were those fucking bouncers when you needed them? Without thinking about it too much, I grabbed one of the guys from behind, putting my arm around his neck like I had learned as a kid in judo class. Then I started to consider my situation, I’m holding this guy here, and he doesn’t look too happy about it, and I’m gonna have to let him go eventually and then he’s gonna kill me! Which is a terrifying thought—especially when you’ve just smoked a joint. So I let him go and quickly climbed backwards a few steps so I could be on higher ground before he turned around—which he did right away, real pissed. Immediately, I kicked him in the face and sent him flying into the doorframe, causing everybody to fall onto the sidewalk outside. Bill jumped on them, too. I pulled my weapon from my pocket, slipped it onto my hand, and grabbed one of the guys by the hair just as he was furiously stabbing Steve in the back. I clocked the shit out of him. It was the first time I’d ever used the thing, and I couldn’t believe how good it was. The guy collapsed on his knees in front of me like a bag of potatoes. Blood poured down his face. I must have broken his nose. I’d just smoked pot and certainly it hadn’t been my desire to seriously hurt anyone! Not to mention the fact that I’d never really been in a fight before, and immediately I felt real bad. As ridiculous as it may seem, I could think of nothing better to do than to ask him, “Are you okay?” Of course, he thought I was joking and that I was being totally arrogant and sarcastic. He looked at me, horrified, as if I were the worst bastard in the world, a sadistic maniac à la A Clockwork Orange. Right then, I felt a hand fall heavily on my shoulder. I turned around only to discover it was a cop, in full uniform. He immediately ripped the brass knuckles from my hand, handcuffed me, and threw me into the back of his car.
Steve and the guy I punched were taken to the hospital, and the two other guys and I were taken to the police station, where I was handcuffed to a chair. Suddenly, I heard someone yell, “I saw everything! I saw everything!” It was Wayne County, the Electric Chairs’ drag-queen singer, who had broken Handsome Dick Manitoba’s shoulder. She had just strode into the station, screaming and shouting, saying that she was a witness and that she had come to set me free. Good Lord!
Unfortunately, the police station was only a few blocks away from Max’s and everyone decided to come save me! One nut after another, they all descended upon the station. Neon Leon, with his blond wig, reeking of pot; a few groupies in spandex with makeup everywhere; Mikey Zone of the Fast, who entered the station with two pencils in his ears and two up his nose. … The circus had come to town. I sank a little further into my chair with each new person who showed, but hey, it was nice of them all the same.
In the end, it appeared as though the fight had been more or less Steve’s fault. Completely wasted, he had gone looking for trouble—for no reason he could remember—and he found these three guys from Queens. It went bad quickly. He must have been really drunk, because that wasn’t his style at all. I was arrested for assault with an illegal weapon. At six in the morning—three hours before going to court and being told my fate—Risé found me a lawyer.
Before seeing the judge, I was taken “downtown” to the general detention center for criminals in transit. I was thrown in a cell with about ten other losers, including a few fucked-up businessmen in suits, two or three Puerto Rican bikers, and the two guys we had fought against! The one I’d kicked in the face was sporting an impressive black eye. He stared at me from the other end of the cell, and then slowly got up and came over to me. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offered me one. I knew it had to be a setup and that I was sure to get mine any minute, but since I didn’t have much choice and I did want a cigarette, I took a chance and accepted his offer. He sat by me, offered me a light, and started to apologize for all that had happened. While he was at it, he told me that he was already on probation; if Steve pressed charges against him and his friends, he would be sent back to jail for a long time. He said he would be very grateful if I would talk to Steve about it. Sure, this guy had attacked Steve with a broken beer bottle, but seeing the shiner I’d already given him, I accepted his request. Anyway, it wasn’t like I was going to tell him to go fuck himself while I was still locked in a cell with him and his pal. After awhile, we started chatting about music, and we more or less forgot why we were there in the first place.
Then we were called to see the judge. Their other friend did indeed have a broken nose. Steve was covered with stitches, with cuts just about everywhere on his chest, back, hands, and forearms, but none were particularly deep or serious. Being as cool as he was, and admitting he had provoked his attackers, he didn’t press any charges. In exchange, he asked that the guy with the broken nose refrain from pressing charges against me, thereby keeping my cellmate with the black eye from being sent back to jail. My lawyer managed to get my weapons charge dropped, explaining that I had bought the brass knuckles legally and acted only with the intention of helping Steve, who could have been killed—which was the truth, and which put me officially, or at least personally, in the category of a superhero.
From behind his desk, the judge was less than impressed by my heroism. He addressed me personally and said, “I don’t welcome in my court delinquent foreigners who come to commit crimes in my city. Very nice to meet you, mister. Next time I see you, I promise you will be sent right back to France!”
I didn’t ask for my paperweight back.
At the time, we had a Mexican roadie named Lalo, who was small and skinny and had a face full of acne. But he was a really sweet guy, and he would drag our equipment around without saying a word but always with a little smile. He was shy to the point that he could have passed for “simple.” One night, just before a show, I got to Max’s and found everyone in a panic. They told me Lalo’s little apartment on Lafayette Street had burned down the night before. A terrible fire. Everything had been reduced to charcoal and ash, and worst of all, no one had seen Lalo since, and the firemen weren’t giving any information about survivors.
We started to set up our equipment ourselves, and still no sign of Lalo. Where could he possibly have been last night other than at home? He was such a loner. What had happened to him? Was he dead? And what a horrible way to die, too. …
The evening started with Buzz & the Flyers onstage, but we were all just sitting, waiting on the third floor, stunned. We couldn’t believe it. Damn it! Lalo was so nice—it was a complete shock. …
It was just as we were about to get onstage that Lalo appeared. He casually strolled in backstage and se
eing us, he said shyly, “Sorry I’m late. Sorry, you guys!”
“Lalo!!” we all screamed, jumping all over him. “You’re alive! We were so fucking scared, Lalo! Are you all right? What happened?”
“Oh, umm … I forgot there was a show tonight. I’m sorry … really sorry!”
“Are you kidding? We’re the ones who are sorry, Lalo. We heard the news. … It’s really horrible. We can put you up if you want. Don’t worry about anything. What happened?”
“Umm … what?” he asked, bewildered.
The rest of us exchanged looks, all starting to think the same thing.
Steve tried again. “Your apartment, Lalo. What happened?”
“My apartment?”
“Yes, your apartment. Where did you sleep last night?”
“Umm … at this girl’s house. I have a girlfriend, well … I think I do. I met her after the show the other night …”
“You’re coming straight from her place, aren’t you?”
“Yes …” he admitted. “But I had also forgotten that there was a show tonight, I’m sorry.”
We were all so relieved that he was alive, and besides, the whole scene was so absurd that we all started cracking up.
“Lalo,” I said, trying in vain to keep a straight face. “Your apartment burned down, you do know that, don’t you?”
“Yeah, yeah, really funny. I’m sorry I’m late!” he said.
“No, we’re not joking, your apart—” I started laughing so hard I couldn’t finish my sentence. The rest of the guys were even worse, completely delirious—probably about to piss their pants. Of course, the more we tried to restrain ourselves, the worse our hilarity got.