Punk Avenue

by (epub)

  We played the Rock Against Racism festival. We had no idea why we were headlining that big outdoor show one afternoon in Central Park—especially considering that when the guy had called to ask if we would play, Steve had replied, “Why not? We’d play against any race, man!” Also on the bill were the Invaders, Lenny Kaye, Joy Rider, The Stilettos, Cheetah Chrome, Panic Squad, and a few others. We played in front of two thousand hippies of all races, all wearing tie-dyed T-shirts.

  A few hours later, we were opening up for Crazy Cavan & the Rhythm Rockers at Max’s. Kings of the British Teddy Boys and a fabulous rockabilly band, Crazy Cavan—who were unknown in New York—had brought with them about sixty authentic London Teds, complete with drapes, drains, creepers, spectacular pompadours, and tattoos everywhere. As their last visit to the States was a complete flop, they decided to bring their fans along! There were two busloads of them parked in front of Max’s. Inside, it was like you were in a fucking movie. They did the whole tour like that, bringing their British retro fifties fanatics across the States with them: Nashville, Memphis, Norfolk. … They must have placed an ad in London to the effect of: Teddie Boys go USA! Visit the United States and go see Crazy Cavan every night. 300 pounds all included.

  As far as rockabilly went, Robert Gordon was unbeatable in the Elvis style. His band, the Tuff Darts, were not especially interesting, though. So he left them and started another, first with Chris Spedding, then with none other than Link Wray on guitar, which was cool as fuck. We played with them a few times at Max’s, as with all the other bands who formed the retro fifties–early sixties clique in the New York scene, like Mink DeVille, the Stray Cats, Levi & the Rockats, the A-Bones, the B-Girls, the Fleshtones, the Comateens, the Zantees, the Rousers, the Cramps, Buzz & the Flyers, etc.

  Michael Gene, the guitarist for Buzz & the Flyers, blew his brains out. We couldn’t believe it. I’d arrived at Rebop to find Risé in tears. Since he hadn’t shown up for work, she called his house and learned the terrible news. It seemed that earlier that day a doctor had told him he was infected with that terrible new disease we were all suddenly hearing about: the “gay cancer,” which some were starting to call by its real name, AIDS.

  New York lost a great guitarist that day and a really cool guy.

  Kevin, one of Bruce’s friends, got it too, and he died in the blink of an eye. I had last seen him on St. Mark’s Place, and when I saw him again at the same spot two months later, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. He looked like he had come straight out of Auschwitz. I hardly recognized him. Three weeks later, he was dead. Same thing soon after with Genaro, our friend from Provincetown. Bam, vanished. Then it was Brent, our friend from Boston. Then Cathy, then Chris, Michael, Michelle, Patty, Alan. …

  Suddenly, people were dropping like flies, and panic set in. Overnight, everything changed—forever. It was simply the end of an era—an era when we were free like we never would be again.

  AIDS immediately dug a huge hole in the history of New York’s culture, affecting so many artists, who often were gay or drug addicts or both. All those paintings that were never painted, all those books and songs that were never written, those melodies never composed, those dances never choreographed, those movies never made. … It was as if AIDS was taking all the best people first, all those who had something interesting to say … and who never got a chance to say it.

  We had to close Rebop. The rent had gotten too high. It was sad, but we had no choice. Since we still owned a large inventory of retro clothing, we rented a storage space and filled it up. We started selling our clothes at the flea market on Canal Street every weekend. On Saturday night, after a whole day at the flea market, I’d run to play with The Senders, come home around four or five in the morning, down a coffee, and run back to the flea market to make it there by six to rent the space. I looked pretty funny by Sunday night!. … And more than a few times, I had to go back to play yet again that night, too.

  I woke up one morning—well, one afternoon—finally realizing that dope had completely taken control of my life and destroyed everything in it. My marriage with Risé was falling apart. We fought all the time, and the only moments of peace we had together were when we were stoned, passed out somewhere in the apartment. Now there were only the stoned days and the days we were waiting to be.

  How could that have happened? We didn’t get it. The Senders, either.

  You take heroin or you don’t. There is nothing between the two. It isn’t a recreational drug; it’s a lifestyle. You don’t take “a little” heroin, and anybody who believes you can has a bad surprise waiting for them around the corner.

  Heroin is a spider, and once it gets you in its web, it has all the time in the world. It can eat you right away or it can save you for later, but without exception and with no pity at all, it will eat you.

  Risé and I decided to go our separate ways.

  I slept on the sofa at Cookie’s Bleecker Street apartment for a couple of weeks before finding a little studio on 3rd Street by Avenue B.

  What sadness. Those were perhaps the most miserable months of my life.

  Things weren’t much better for The Senders, unfortunately. Steve had gone completely deaf in one ear and was now wearing a hearing aid in the other. To top it off, not only were Steve, Marc, and I seriously strung out, but now so was Basile. Only Bill had never touched the stuff, and he was now locked up in the psychiatric hospital!

  He’d been having dinner with friends one evening when suddenly, to everyone’s surprise, he became a statue. He stopped mid-sentence, frozen. They called an ambulance. It was sort of a nervous breakdown, a motor shutdown. He hadn’t slept for three days, the nut! He’d been taking some sort of bad speed or something on which he didn’t need to sleep at all.

  Basile was in pretty bad shape, too. He decided to go back to Oklahoma.

  Marc Zermati, the French underground music producer, came to New York to have us record an album for his label Skydog. We told him that Bill was in the hospital and that it would be a while before we could record anything. Marc was nice enough to give us some time, and he went back to France for two or three months. When he returned to New York to make the record, Bill still hadn’t made any improvement. They’d doped him up with barbiturates, and he was still at the hospital, totally out of it. It was One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I spoke with his mom on the phone almost every night; it was really sad. I would tell her that a project like a new album might do Bill some good, that he should come out of the hospital, if only to get a little fresh air. … But time was passing and nothing was changing. We finally got Bill out of there for a practice session for the recording, but it was a disaster. He limply shook my hand and got his guitar out of the case very slowly. He could hardly play at all and definitely didn’t remember the chords of our songs. He’d look at his hand, quietly muttering, “G … one finger there, and A … like that with the other finger here. D, with that finger there …” We were holding back tears. He was fucking gone, even worse than us. … He went back to the hospital, and we went to get some dope.

  He let us know through his mom that he wanted us to record the album, that we shouldn’t wait for him, and that he didn’t want us to quit because of him. …

  We made some tapes for Marc Zermati in a studio in Times Square with Barry Ryan, the Rockats’ guitar player, filling in. But we were utterly demoralized … and completely strung out.

  And then came the final blow. The doctor told Steve that he should learn sign language as soon as possible, because he was going to be totally deaf within a year. The doctor said the damage was irreversible, even if he stayed away from noise. Poor Steve, it was horrible. But the boxer took it with an impressive grace, smiling through it all.

  So all that was left of The Senders was one deaf guy, one in a nuthouse, and two at the dope house. … There wasn’t much else to do other than call it a day. We played our last show at the Peppermint Lounge with Barry Ryan and W
ayne Kramer on guitars and Danny Ray on saxophone. Before going onstage, Steve told us, “Whatever you do, don’t change the song’s arrangement, because I can’t hear you. Just follow me and we’ll manage.”

  It was a pretty good show anyway and the room was packed.

  Thank you, thank you. See you real soon. Goodnight, everybody.

  I started working as a printer for a company that did mail surveys.

  I printed their questionnaires from nine to five, and then I went home. My place was only a block away from the dope house, and I could get my dose—which had become daily—in five minutes.

  I hadn’t been living on 3rd Street very long when one night, around midnight, I shot up and OD’d immediately. By some miracle, I woke up. I pulled the syringe out of my arm and I looked at the clock. Shit! It was one in the morning—I’d been out for almost an hour. I pulled myself out of bed, noticing that all my muscles ached. Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I couldn’t believe what I saw. I looked like I belonged in Night of the Living Dead. I’d gone completely gray, my lips were blue and badly cracked, and I had two black eyes.

  I knew right away that it must have taken me longer than an hour to get to that point. I jerked the curtains open, and the sun splashed the room with light. It was one in the afternoon, not one in the morning. I had been unconscious with a syringe in my arm, alone at home, for more than twelve hours. … I started to cry.

  This time I’d nearly done it. I could just as well have never woken up.

  It was more than a miracle. It scared me enough that I was forced to accept reality and look at things as they were.

  I sat there for a long time.

  There was nothing left. No more Risé, no more Senders, no more Rebop. … And it was also painfully obvious that I wasn’t going to be lucky enough to wake up after a twelve-hour overdose too many more times. … Yet, I was already thinking of buying some more! I was going to die all alone in here if I didn’t do something quick. I needed help. I was too ashamed to go to my family, which was stupid because I know they would have helped me faster than anyone.

  Fortunately, I still had a few good friends left who weren’t junkies. Bill Moser came to mind right away.

  Bill was a former bouncer at Kenny’s Castaways and had been a part-time roadie for The Senders. He was unbelievably nice, but he was also one huge motherfucker. He stood over six feet tall and was terrific at basketball. He’d obviously had no problem finding work as a bouncer. His presence alone would stop any fight on the spot. He was a gentle giant. Since I didn’t own a gun, I figured that if he blocked my way, I simply wouldn’t be able to go cop. I knew that was what I needed: to be physically restrained, to be tied to a chair.

  I grabbed the phone before I could change my mind and dialed his number. I told him what had happened and simply asked if he could maybe stay with me a bit, because I wanted to quit but didn’t trust myself anymore.

  “Hey, it just so happens that I don’t allow good rhythm and blues singers to die!” he answered me, laughing, before adding, “I’m sorry, but since you’re asking me so nicely, it is, from this moment on, my full responsibility to make sure you don’t even think of going to buy that shit. … Or hurry the fuck up, ’cause I’m coming over right now. You see? Now you got a problem, Phil! Hahaha!! See you in a minute.”

  Indeed, he got there five minutes later, yelling, “Your syringe! Where is it? Hand it over! In the trash!”

  Bill seemed happy to put himself between me and the dope house. He stayed with me in my little apartment for almost a week. He lived with three roommates anyway, so he didn’t mind spending a few days over at my place. If things weren’t going too well, we’d smoke a joint but for the most part we managed.

  Sometimes I would tell him I was feeling better, that he could go home, and every time he would roll his eyes. “You think I’m stupid?”

  He followed me everywhere. I hardly had the right to go to the bathroom on my own. We went to the supermarket together. We looked like lovers.

  I didn’t sleep for several nights. You know the score: every muscle aches, it’s kind of unpleasant. … I had terrible nightmares. Every half hour, I would wake up shivering in a cold sweat, my legs crushed by the blanket—turn to the left, turn to the right, kick my feet a few times in the air, growl, fall asleep again, have a few more nightmares. I’d be onstage with The Senders, the microphone didn’t work, I had no voice left, people were starting to boo us, laughing cruelly. … I’d wake up screaming, delirious with fever. I was thirsty, throwing up, had the runs, terrible headaches, pain in my shoulders, in my arms, cramps everywhere. … I was more miserable than if I had the worst flu.

  Bill Moser snored peacefully on a mattress in front of the door.

  There was also a terrible grumpiness that came in heavy waves, but I couldn’t get too aggressive with Bill—he could break my nose. I was forced to stay as polite as I could, and that kept me from completely losing it.

  Finally, I slept for two days. Bill had me call my job to say that I had a bad cold and after giving up a week of sick leave to go “cold turkey,” I went back to work. He would drop me off and pick me up. After that, he put me on “probation” for a little while. He had a key made without even asking, and told me that he was going to frequently drop by without any notice, just to see the size of my pupils. If they seemed too small for his taste, he would simply beat the crap out of me.

  “No point changing the lock, either. I’d have no problem knocking the door down!”

  But more than that, I didn’t want to disappoint him. He’d been so cool, and that’s what helped me the most. I had already let myself down, but I hadn’t yet disappointed him, and I wanted it to stay that way—and that alone was giving me strength.

  Little by little, knowing that he was always keeping an eye on me, I started to move on and think of other things.

  So that was it, then. Had I finally won that fight for good?

  No. Not quite. Unfortunately, there was still one more round to go.

  Two months later, I thought I was far from all that, but then temptation came back full blast. One night, I started falling back into the old trap: “Only one time, I promise, it’s cool. …”

  Five minutes later, I was walking back up 2nd Street with two bags of heroin in my hand, ashamed of myself.

  And then, just like I was James Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life, an angel appeared—only this time in the form of a big Puerto Rican with a gun. He took me by surprise, sneaking up behind me and grabbing me by my coat, he pressed a gun into my stomach. I quickly gave him my dope, whispering, almost in tears, “It’s all I’ve got, I swear.”

  He gave me a disgusted look and said, “Faggot!” before letting go of me and casually sauntering away with my dope.

  I broke into a thousand pieces on the sidewalk, like a crystal vase, in slow motion.

  That time was my last, I can—fortunately—say, thirty-five years later.

  I went home and smashed everything: the dishes, the records (well, maybe not the records!), the furniture. … I lost it.

  Since I’d just had the heroin in my hand, I could almost taste it. In an instant, I had awoken that horrible beast inside of me and it was unbearable. I had to have some right away—now! I didn’t have a cent left, and my nerves were all catching on fire. “Oh, no—not that nightmare, anything but that, no, no, no!” I screamed, freaking out, throwing everything I touched across the room: the stereo, the TV. … Nothing was spared. It didn’t really matter. I didn’t have anything of real value. When you’re a junkie you never have much. …

  Stupidly, I had also managed to cut the inside of my hand pretty bad, after smashing a bottle of vodka against the wall.

  Actually, it was the “Faggot!” that had pushed me over the edge. The guy had just mugged me at gunpoint—wasn’t that enough? Did he really have to add that? I’m sure I’d been called a “faggot” many times
before, and I’m sure I never gave a fuck, but this time it was the time and the place, the contempt, the spit in my face, the smirk that screamed, You can’t do anything, you pathetic junkie, ’cause you belong to me.

  That was the final straw, because I knew he was right. With my whole place in ruins, I finally fell asleep on the floor—crying, exhausted, rolled up in a ball, blood gushing from my hand.

  It was over. I was cured.

  My two months without dope had already given me back so much of my spirit and self-esteem, and now I was lying there, covered with shit and stinking of shame.

  I had finally learned my lesson.

  I don’t know why I had the incredible good fortune of getting mugged that night of all nights, but I owe the guy my life, that’s for sure—even more than to Bill Moser. If I had been able to get high that night, I would certainly have gone back a second time, then a third. … And if he hadn’t called me a “faggot” like that, to top it off, I’d probably be long dead. The look in his eyes had pierced right through me, frustrating me enough to give me the strength necessary to finally hate this miserable drug and everything that went with it.

  Fuck that!

  …

  It was a beautiful sunny afternoon, and I was strolling down Avenue A. Things were starting to look up: I was rediscovering the joys of buying things other than dope and had gotten myself a new electric guitar, marimbas, records. …

  I was just starting my new project: The Backbones. Sort of a rock soul band, with only guys that weren’t drugging, including Danny Ray and Brett Wilder, and Kenny Margolis from Mink DeVille. And I had just met Maggie. …