My Life
as a
Rockabilly
Rebel
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Table of Contents
About the Author
Copyright Page
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For TJ, Christy, and Madison
INTRODUCTION
I love watching television. I’ve always loved it. The fruits of my labors are the afternoons spent changing the channel thirty or forty times an hour, keeping up with all major-league baseball games, vintage TV shows, the Game Show Network, any live concert performance being played, and the news of the day. I travel all over the world doing gigs to hustle up the rent and keep coming home to the premium cable TV package and my pals who enjoy our eclectic way to pass the day. I’m not alone in this. I read early on that John Lennon and Elvis Presley were well-known TV addicts. This knowledge only helped justify my life choice at a young age. I won’t name all the names, I don’t click and tell, but most of the time, any number of other household names in pop culture are on the other end of the line watching with me. As Harry Dean Stanton likes to say to me, “Don’t just do something, sit there!”
Today was an especially gratifying TV day. I had just gotten back from my first visit to Buenos Aires. I had gone very far this time to pay the cable bill. It was a reminder that it’s hard to make a living as a living legend. Being a member of the Stray Cats, I helped launch a thousand ships—not all of them are yachts, but it has enabled me to keep it all going in a relatively hand-to-mouth lap of luxury. We really created a new breed of rock fan that has continued to transcend the comings and goings of countless trends. We will outlive many, many bands that sold more albums than we did but will never reach the souls of these kids in the way we have.
Argentina was a classic example. I played for 200 kids, and 175 of them had a Cats’ head tattoo. The other twenty-five were children and will get one the minute they are old enough. Their parents will take them to get the tattoo. The people who have chosen rockabilly as their 100 percent lifestyle are uninterested in any other facet of pop culture. The children were all dressed in different incarnations of me from past album covers and photos. There were kids in little leather jackets with red bandanas around their necks. There were kids in little rockabilly cowboy suits. There were kids wearing little baggy pants, fleck jackets, and black-and-white shoes. There are twenty-seven hot rods in all of Argentina, and they were all in the dirt patch parking lot behind the roadhouse-style gig. Big tough guys in the front row were holding their women and shaking, a few of them crying with joy during “Runaway Boys.” These people have based their entire lives on the influence they’ve gotten from the fact that me and two guys from school rediscovered, retooled, reworked, and ultimately saved American rockabilly music from extinction and made those classic records during the 1980s. We call it Rockabilly World.
In 1979, if you had told the eighteen-year-old version of me that thirty-five years later I’d be traveling the globe, playing the drums, and introducing brand-new kids every day to all things rockabilly in exchange for my soul, I would’ve signed on the dotted line. I fell hard for the whole thing, all the way, when I heard Elvis Presley and then Gene Vincent, Eddie Cochran, and Carl Perkins. It was all we thought about, and we never looked back. Rockabilly music and style and how to earn a living through it was our crusade in life. If meeting and befriending most of my childhood influences, the feeling of true equality with any band that’s ever done this, and having adventures along the way were also part of the devil’s bargain, I would’ve signed in blood. It’s still a huge underground movement, and I’m confident I’ve done my part to keep it alive. The only thing you can hope for in rock and roll is to make up your own lasting original character. Can someone draw a cartoon of you? Can someone draw a cartoon of your whole band? The Cats have achieved this part of the game in spades. This part cannot be contrived. This must develop honestly and organically. I think I’ve succeeded, but to do that you do sacrifice any normality your life may have had. I’m that Slim Jim guy, the one who always looks cool, wears odd socks and plays the drums standing up, and always has a superhot chick with him. It is the only way of being that I’ve ever known.
I’ve had similar experiences in Japan, Australia, every country in Europe, and all over the USA. As I’m playing on this tiny stage with a couple of locals who have learned the songs and play fine, my mind wanders. The classic devil-on-your-shoulder argument begins:
“I can’t believe I’m here having to do this to hustle up the bills.”
“Shut up. You’re lucky to be here. We created this fantastic thing that brings true pleasure to all these people all over the world.”
“Yeah, but if the other two guys are with me, it’s for five thousand people, not two hundred.”
“You have no control over that; everything’s cool. I need this gig!”
“Imagine just being the drummer in a band that no one ever recognizes but sold twenty million records, living off royalties—what’s that like?”
“We saved rockabilly; if it wasn’t for us, it would have died.”
“It’s gotta be worth more than this!”
“So what? Play the next song!”
Before I know it, it’s over—I’m on a plane back to the friendly confines of Beverly Glen in Los Angeles.
So I’m happily changing channels the next day. In between innings at the Yankees game, I hear “Rock This Town” over the PA. That’s cool. Johnny Ramone would approve.
I change over to the live music channel, and it’s showing a live Stones gig from the ’80s. Bill Wyman is wearing a Stray Cats pin on his jacket. Wow! We’re onstage with the Stones.
I click over to VH1 and then MTV. Every guy in every band has a tattoo, and in one video the guy is standing up and playing the drums. I think yours truly was the first musician to do these things at the same time.
I click to the hockey game; “Rumble in Brighton” comes on before a face-off.
I’m on a roll; I gotta keep going.
On the action movie network, they are showing a Bond film, The Man with the Golden Gun. My former wife is there on the screen dodging bullets in a bikini.
Over on the oldies TV channel, my former girlfriend is playing the nanny on Growing Pains. On the Fashion Network, my current girlfriend and love is living in a house with a bunch of models.
I can’t help thinking that this must be worth something.
Maybe Time Warner will give me a month’s free cable? Maybe I’ll write it all down, do some talk shows, and get some easier, higher-paying gigs? Maybe I’ll get my own show about world-famous TV addicts? We could all do it together.
Maybe the guys in the Cats will all get along, and we’ll go out and do all the top-dollar, primo gigs we should be doing and finally cement our place in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. I hold out hope for this but never hold my breath.
I do know that if I stick to my five rules of rock and roll, I’ll be okay:
1. Face reality.
2. Show gratitude.
3. Always be with t
he hottest chick in the room.
4. Always wear at least one thing around your waist that has nothing to do with holding your pants up.
5. Continue to listen to and be awed by Elvis Presley’s Sun Sessions record.
In telling my story, I’ve tried to stay away from the tiresome rock bios that are in airports and on the racks in the few remaining record stores. Most rock bios I’ve read are loaded with braggadocio followed by a chapter of remorse or just a scorecard for how many chicks and empty bottles the writer has acquired, like a horror story where the dead bodies just pile up. I’ve tried to take a subtler approach and entertain you with less blood and guts. It’s all about entertainment. As is true of my approach to the drums, rock and roll, and life in general, I’ve tried to take a slightly different approach.
1
Early Moments of Clarity and the Luck of the Draw
As far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be the guy in the band. I never gave anything else much of a thought. I didn’t have that Beatles on Ed Sullivan moment; it was something I just knew early on in my life. It was more of a slow burn. I liked music on the radio, and anytime a band played on television, I watched with awe and curiosity. The musicians seemed to be mythic figures. It seemed like a different world. The only thing I knew about it was that I wanted in.
I loved the whole idea of living an alternative lifestyle and traveling with a gang of guys doing something that was fun and exclusive. The Boy Scouts seemed square and regimented. I knew about baseball but couldn’t be good enough to get past Little League. I still follow the game closely today. Even during the crazy years, with only the USA papers three days old in a European airport, I always knew what was going on with the Yankees.
I played trumpet in the school band but was always attracted to the drums. I played the drums on the side and took basic lessons at the local Massapequa music store. Brian took lessons there, too. The guitar, piano, and saxophone seemed too unreal to me. I couldn’t imagine possibly being good enough on them to be a professional. I could relate to the drums; I thought I could do it. I was pretty good at drumming naturally, and I just kept at it. I hung around with a few of the guys who played in my class. Someone had a guitar, someone had a keyboard, and everyone had a garage or a basement. There were a lot of pretty good musicians in our town. I was very serious about it and was always the guy hustling up the jam sessions, school dances, or backyard parties. I liked the feeling of being onstage and also the way it enabled me to be alone in a crowd. I straddled a few fences with all the different types in school. The guy in the rock-and-roll band can get away with being a bit of a book reader and a baseball fan, as long as you can rock out at the keg party and keep everyone entertained. It was a way to fit in without having to give too much of yourself away and without engaging too much. It allowed me to be involved and still slightly detached at the same time. I really dug being part of a team, and as the drummer I could steer in a friendly way.
I’ve always had a love affair with the drums. I’d save up to get Modern Drummer magazine, cut out pictures of drummers, and pin them on the wall behind my bed next to pictures of my favorite ballplayers. I’d send away for the free catalogs from Zildjian cymbals, Gretsch drums, and Vic Firth sticks. I thought the old jazz cats were supercool. The English guys were even more exotic and didn’t seem like real people. I’d study the different ways drummers set up their kits. The fact that forty years later I’m in those catalogs and speak to and have been endorsed by Fred Gretsch, Armand Zildjian, and Vic Firth still turns me on. All drummers will tell you this. Having your cymbal setup in the Zildjian catalog is just as important as getting your picture in the paper. More than any other type of musician, drummers are just happy to be here. Without a good drummer, no band of any kind can progress.
I started out with a practice pad and a pair of sticks, then graduated to a used kit, and finally, after I proved to be serious, a real drum set. I saved money from birthdays and lawn-mowing jobs and raised a couple of hundred dollars. In a very positive memory, I went with my father to Forty-eighth Street in New York City and came home with a four-piece black-chrome Slingerland kit with all applicable hardware.
I began taking lessons from a jazz legend who lived a few towns over. Mousey Alexander had played with Benny Goodman, Red Norvo, Billie Holiday, and Clark Terry, among others. I took the Long Island Rail Road a few stops and walked the rest of the way to Mousey’s house, where he had a little studio with two drum kits set up in his basement. He was a real cool cat. He had a goatee, wore white shoes, and spoke in jazz lingo. Mousey was the real deal. He had toured with these jazz greats all over the world in the 1950s and 1960s. He told me of a tour he did with Benny Goodman in the Far East. The idea of touring Japan and Hong Kong with a band was beyond my comprehension, but I knew I wanted to do it more than anything. He stressed rudiments and syncopation, and he really helped me get comfortable with swinging on the drum kit. My natural feel, which I call rocking swing, really came out under Mousey’s instruction. In Mousey, I found an actual person who did these things I thought were just dreams and wishes. He proved it was possible. If I had a chance to travel the world playing music—and, when I got old, settle down and teach the drums—that sounded like a good life.
There were quite a few rock guys in our school and neighboring towns who could play faster and harder than I could. None of them had any fashion sense or a dream to travel off Long Island. I’ve always felt that there are a few aspects to the type of musician I wanted to be. You had to have a look as well as a musical style. I always felt I had a certain style to my playing, and I worked on it. I also liked to dress in some style that combined a rock look with some vintage piece of clothing like a hat or old sweater. I’d look in the back of one of my father’s or uncle’s closets for something they didn’t wear anymore and mix it with jeans and a T-shirt. I’d continue to take the train into the city and hang out at Manny’s or Pro Percussion on Forty-fifth Street, taking three hours to buy a pair of sticks. I’d test cymbals and compare the different sounds with the different sizes. I’d roll the sticks on the countertop to make sure they were straight. The cats working in the store were always cool with me. They sensed I was serious, and I did always buy something, even if it was just a pair of sticks. I thought it would be a great job to work at a place where you talk about drums all day and have sticks in your back pocket. I once saw Louie Bellson hanging out in Pro Percussion. I thought then and still do that being a respected drummer is the best possible job in the world. If you can squeeze out a living at it, more power to you. I took little neighborhood jobs like gardening and dog walking to save up to replace a cheap cymbal with a Zildjian every so often. All the while, I was taking lessons and practicing along to any records I had or could borrow. There was a Hank Williams record around the house, a Burt Bacharach, the first Beatles, and a Roger Miller album. Later I would save up, stash a little pocket money from aunts and uncles, and use Christmases and birthdays to get a few records I wanted. I had to turn up the headphones as loud as they went to hear the record over the sound of the drums. There was an hour a day where everyone in the house and the neighbors knew I’d be practicing. I went to any drum clinics I heard about. The guys at the newly opened Long Island Drum Center were all right. I briefly met Joe Morello, who played the immortal drum part on “Take Five” with the Dave Brubeck Quartet, and saw him do a clinic after he had already gone blind, his Seeing Eye dog sitting in front of his drum kit, never moving a muscle. I met future friend Carmine Appice at one of his clinics there. Carmine was supercool to an unknown, questioning young drummer and took me for a slice of pizza. Years later, we would remeet, and I remembered every detail and sincerely thanked him. Later still, I did an instructional drum video for his production company. These little incidents were big events for me as a young drummer with dreams of making a life out of the drums. Anytime I could meet living proof of the possibility, it fueled the fire. Most important, I lugged my drums around and jammed with as
many other people as I could.
I met Leon Drucker in the fourth grade. He was in my class, and even at an early age, the serious rock-and-roll guys find each other. In our personalities, it’s the classic case of “he’s the bass player and I’m the drummer.” Even as a kid, he was always more pragmatic and less impulsive than I was. He always thought about things a few extra seconds longer than I did. This could be good and bad. We spent hours in his parents’ garage practicing as a rhythm section. He would play boom, and I would play bop. He was on the one beat and the three beat, and I played the snare on the two beat and the four beat. We were very tight as a unit and as friends. By the time fate weighed in, we were ready as a rhythm section. We wrote songs together and really worked at it. We played with a few of the older guys around town at backyard keg parties, and we would sneak through the back doors of a few bars to do the gigs. We were always willing and into playing. I learned a lot of songs during that time and learned all the different grooves and beats for the various types of blues songs. It’s training I still remember and use. By the end of high school, we had already formed a band, and we hustled up and played dozens of shows. In the year following school, we had secured a couple of residencies around Long Island and had written two solid sets of original songs. We augmented our songs with blues covers and were really starting to get good at it. We spent a lot of time together and knew each other very well musically and personally.
Lee was my first true pal. I’ll use this phrase a number of times about a few people. I don’t use this term loosely. It perfectly describes what I feel and believe about a few choice people I’ve known in my life. Some of them just happen to be well known. They are the people I’ve met in my life. In a nutshell, a true pal is someone who I’d do anything in the world for, and without my expecting it, I know would do the same for me. If any of them call at 4:00 A.M., I answer the phone. I’ll listen to anything they want to talk about. I don’t have to speak with them every day, but I do stay in touch with everyone I mention in this way. If you can count ten true pals in your life, you’ve had a success. Any adventure or life-changing event in my life between the ages of fifteen and forty somehow involved Lee.
A Stray Cat Struts Page 1