by Steve Miller
Irene DeCook: I think about one incident that really sticks in my mind, and this was the first hint that something was rotten. I give the managers credit for believing in this band. Although they were managers at Big Boy before they took on the Romantics, believing in this little band that they were fans of so much that they were going to invest a lot of money and really push them and promote them and make them famous and basically tell them what to do. But of course, the Romantics, they wanted to be musicians. They didn’t want to do the business. And they didn’t look at their accounting for four fucking years. When they finally did, they saw that the management was flying first class and letting the band pay for it and taking 20 percent and this or that and taking all of their publishing. I talked to Jimmy about it, and this was very early on—maybe the second album—and they were getting ready to go on tour, and they all come over and we’re doing fittings and they’re ordering up all these clothes. I called management to get money to pay for materials, and they’re like, “What are you talking about? They don’t have any money.” I said, “What?” Arnie goes, “Well, maybe we can loan them some money.” I went and told Jimmy about it. The Romantics weren’t watching it. It was after the fact that they really found out, you know, four years later, when they started looking at shit. Then it was, “Wow, you’ve been screwing us all this time.” So it’s like they don’t have any money, but maybe we can loan them some. The Romantics were still living with their fucking parents, and Arnie and Joel, of course, had their own condos. They were driving better cars while the Romantics are driving twenty-year-old cars. At the end there was no money after being, you know, famous and traveling the world. Where is the money? Well, Arnie and Joel took all the money.
Mike Skill: Coming off In Heat and a couple years after that I’m going, “Look, this doesn’t seem right. We’re not getting paid what we’re supposed to be getting paid.” I wanted to change management. I talked to Wally and we split and that was that. And then over time we looked through records and files and followed down this, follow the money, follow the money. There was discrepancies. We took them to court, and, you know, no one wins in that situation. But we won in that we got our copyrights back. And when you have the copyrights then you can sell off, you can sell out, license your copyrights and that, so we did make some money on that after that.
Tex Newman: When this whole thing was starting, the Romantics had the most money because of Arnie and Joel. They thought they were the Beatles playing this homogenized power pop. I think people were jealous because they were successful; they wore the leather suits, and I mean it’s Detroit—they do well with that in New York. They were outsiders, because pretty soon really big bands started coming to Bookie’s. So instead of having a weekend of local bands, you’d have these big out-of-town bands.
No Hands Clapping
Kirsten Rogoff: The Police played at Bookie’s for maybe forty people.
Vince Bannon: The funny thing about it is you’ll probably talk to two thousand people in Detroit that said that they were there that night at Bookie’s, but there were no more than forty people there. We might have paid them $200.
Scott Campbell: We were dealing with one of the Copeland brothers, who ran the booking agency for the Police in ’78. He wanted us to take his brother’s band, which he said was called the Police, and he sent us a 45. They wanted $300 first, then $200. Nobody played the “Roxanne” single outside our club. I DJed at Bookie’s and played the hell out of it. We booked the Police for a Sunday night, and Andy Peabody was going to run the PA—he had this little thing. The band showed up and was bitching about the PA right away because he had these small speakers. They were pissed off, but it was their fault—they were too loud. The Police were too loud—imagine that. They weren’t adjusting themselves for the room, and they didn’t set up right.
Vince Bannon: The Police invented the touring model. I will hand that to Sting and Andy and Stewart. They basically came over here and forced their hand, where it used to be that, you know, you had to get on a big tour, you had to have a lot of air play. They just came over here and played. It was them, their road manager/sound man, and roadie. And the band had a station wagon. You remember that Andy Summers had played Detroit before when he was in Soft Machine opening for Jimi Hendrix.
Chris Panackia: I rented the Police my soundboard when they played Bookie’s. I’ll bet there were thirty people there. They all bitched about Bookie’s sound.
Vince Bannon: After the show I was having a beer with Andy Summers, and he was explaining to me that they were a reggae band and asked if we promoted the show in the black areas of town. I had to explain to him that black people in Detroit didn’t know what reggae was. But you know he was probably living in London, and he goes to Brixton and that’s all they’re listening to: reggae. He figured, “Well, gee, it must be the same thing.”
Scott Campbell: The Police were traveling in an extended Dodge van, so it was like a standard van but it was like a B350, where they weld on an extra two feet at the end. Ian Copeland told me, “It’s only a three-man band; it’s not expensive.” Maybe that’s why they took the $200. They came back late ’79, and Vince goes, “This is my show, this is my show.” We had a battle over who was running the Bookie’s. So I just go, “What the fuck.” I guess they got the door, and he oversold the tickets to the point where he sold five hundred tickets, and he knew he could only hold four hundred people, tops. I didn’t have a deal with the cops, but Bookie did.
Cathy Gisi: The Police played Bookie’s twice, and the second time was just amazing. They must have paid off the local police not to shut the place down; it was packed that second time, about six months after the first. For Vince to book ’em once was amazing and twice was better.
Tesco Vee: We’d go to see everyone at Bookie’s, like the Revillos, Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers, Gang of Four, the Effigies, and the Misfits many times. You know it’s funny—all the Detroit bands would warm up all those national acts—the Mutants, the Algebra Mothers, Flirt, the Cubes, the Sillies. We talked about them a lot in Touch and Go. It was like new wavy stuff, but still it was new music, and we covered new music, and it was probably just to fill up the pages. That’s not very nice is it? In retrospect Coldcock was just okay, but really. What do we like about Coldcock? They played like every show because Vince managed Bookie’s, so he put them on the bill. But Andy was a good front man, and Vince had a backwards haircut way before Justin Bieber came on the scene. So what’s not to like?
Scott Campbell: Everybody started coming through. The Cramps were there a couple of times. The first time Tom Ness, the guitarist, was watching Bryan Gregory, and he goes, “I know that guy. I went to high school with him.” Sure enough they went to Redford High, they both graduated, and they were talking to each other afterwards. They both went to Redford High, and they both played Flying Vs, but Tom played the shit out of his Flying V and Bryan’s playing was very limited.
Skid Marx: There were all kinds of people around Detroit who were “managers,” and with all these national and international bands coming through, more people came along. We were in Ann Arbor getting ready to play the Second Chance opening for Sonic’s Rendezvous, and this guy comes up and says, “I really like your band. You know, you should be playing all the time.” Then he said, “I worked with Aerosmith,” and I’m thinking, “Okay, here we go—bs.” This guy says, “Go check it out on the Bootleg album. My name’s on the back.” I say, “What’s your name?” And he says, “Gary Brimstone.” I check it out, and sure enough. We got together, and he paid for our first trip to New York, where we made only like $36 at Max’s. Yeah, it was great. We became good friends, and it turned out he was in the import/export business. Gary Buermele was his real name. People called him Brim.
Chris Panackia: Brim looked almost like John Oates from Hall and Oates. Little black mustache, curly hair. Had gold chains, the whole thing. Brim managed Flirt and was the drug runner for Aerosmith. When he booked Flirt in New York I wen
t, and Skid kind of took me under his wing. I was eighteen years old. We were at Max’s Kansas City playing in front of Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers. We did two nights at Max’s with the Heartbreakers, and after the first show Johnny handed me his guitar and said, “Bring it back tomorrow,” because he would have pawned it. We had been talking during the evening, and he figured out I was this straight kid and I wouldn’t fuck up. He trusted me because I didn’t do drugs. There was a real Thunders/Detroit connection. Jerry Nolan was a good guy that I really got along with. He was much older than those guys. I was at Thunders’ loft that trip, and he goes, “Do you want to buy those drums?” It was Nolan’s original Dolls set. The pink fuckin’ premiere set. He goes, “Give me two hundred dollars you can have ’em.” They were in a fucking closet. And it was the fucking 10 by 14 rag tom. It was his set. The pink Premier. It had two floor toms, a rack, and a kick drum. Two hundred bucks, and I had no way to take it home.
Ron Cooke: I knew Gary Brim from him showing up. I was living in Ann Arbor, and we were at the Second Chance, hanging at parties, and Brim was always engaging, a real musicologist. He loved the Beverly Hillbillies; we used to smoke dope and watch the Beverly Hillbillies. He was quite the guy. We used to hang out at the Whiffle Tree, this bar in Ann Arbor. I don’t know if that was the real name or not—we called it that, it was a real cocaine hangout. We’re in there drinking one night, drinking champagne. Brim was not a very big cat, and these two big thick-necked assholes were sitting at the bar, and one of them said something to Brim, and he says, “You know what? I’m gonna crease your forehead with this bottle.” And I thought, “Oh shit, these are some big motherfuckers we’re going to be rolling around with in here.” A crease in his forehead? Thankfully those guys left us alone.
Skid Marx: I was at Brim’s house one night in Ann Arbor, and we were listening to the Rolling Stones Some Girls album without vocals. He got that kind of thing—he knew people. We’re smokin’ some joints, and there’s a knock on the door. And he goes, “Skid, I’ll be right back. I got some business to take care of.” I’m like okay. Then he stops and he says, “You can come along.” I get up and walk out to his garage, and I wanted to go home. There were bales of pot out there. I didn’t want to be around THAT. I mean, you know, an ounce or something is great, but bales? But he took care of the band for a while. He eventually got murdered. You hang out with people like that, and it’s going to happen. When you’re dealing in such big quantities. He was the one that actually brought Johnny Thunders to Michigan. He was very good friends with Aerosmith, and I met all the Aerosmith guys through him. Yes, he did import/export “finer powders.” That’s how he became friends with Aerosmith and Johnny Thunders.
Scott Campbell: We booked Johnny Thunders one night in the summer of ’79. We thought it was just gonna be Johnny and some pick-up band. He didn’t say it was going to be the Heartbreakers, with Billy Rath and Walter Lure and Jerry. A great surprise. After they did a check, Johnny was sitting around the bar, and he kept saying, “A band with me and Wayne would draw.” That’s when he met Wayne, who I knew. When he was just out of prison. Wayne used to call me up and ask, “Do you want to go to the beach?” or “Do you want to go shoot baskets?” or whatever. I’d interviewed him for a magazine, and we just became friends. So they met that night.
Skid Marx: Up in the dressing room that night, just before the Heartbreakers were ready to go on, Jerry was passed out in one of the stalls. Everyone’s going, “Come on, Jerry. We gotta go, we gotta go.” Brim came through, and he had a big baggie full of white stuff. I don’t think it was coke, but I took a snort of it anyway. Then they went into the stall. I don’t know how much Nolan sniffed and snorted, but I tell you what, he played the best I ever saw him play. Wayne Kramer got up there at the end and did “Do You Love Me” with them. They used my car to go to the club, and all four tires got slashed outside Bookie’s. So Brim had to buy me new tires.
Ron Cooke: Johnny Thunders is coming to town. Bookie’s, that Heartbreakers show, that’s where I first met Thunders. Brim says, “We should get Wayne, man, and it will be a great band.”
Wayne Kramer: I knew Johnny was a heroin user, or I certainly figured it out pretty quickly. Rushing into toilet stalls, “No, gimme the spoon, man, ahh motherfucker, yahhhhhh.” He said, “You wanna come over to this drug dealer’s house with me? He’s got coke.” I said, “I don’t think so. I just got out.” And he said, “Well, he’s got kilos!” Through sheer self-will I was able to say no that night. But eventually I went up to Ypsilanti, and of course I’m an addict, and how long does will power last?
Ron Cooke: Next thing I know we’re in rehearsal as Gang War. In the hands of Wayne and me, Johnny Thunders was a pliable fuckin’ baby. Because we were tough guys. Wayne had been in the joint. Johnny ain’t never met no real hard guys before. We used to fuck him up hard, man. I whipped him once. I slapped the dog fuck outta him. He just deserved an ass whipping; we were in Toronto or something. The money we had to record and do some other weird shit came from that dope Brim was selling. I whipped his ass too. In the end someone did more than that. He went downhill fast; that blow just ate him up. Him and Thunders, I saw them go through $60,000 worth of dope in a week. Not gonna live like that very long.
Skid Marx: Brim brought Thunders here, and he stayed at our house for a while; then his wife and kids came, and they moved over to Brim’s. After Gang War started, that’s when things started changing for them. December ’79. I think it started happening then, because Johnny would get his royalty checks for the Dolls and they’d be gone. Nothing for the family, just for his own pleasure, and he was getting maybe ten grand every quarter, plus publishing. It was heroin-ed out. We were just having a Christmas thing, and there’s a knock on the door, and it’s Wayne Kramer. Yeah, Wayne, you can come in. So we’re doing the thing, and then about one o’clock in the morning this guy comes knocking on the door. He’s like, “Is Wayne here?” “Yeah, I guess, come on in.” It’s Christmas Eve; I didn’t know him. We’re all smoking pot, hanging out, and Wayne, Johnny, and this guy take off. They went to a different part of the house. I didn’t know where they went, but they came back. Then I go into the bathroom, and there’s blood all over my walls and shit. I told them, “Get the hell outta my house!” I kicked them all out on Christmas Eve. I told Julie, Johnny’s wife, and the kids to stay—all the rest of you guys get the fuck outta here. I don’t want this shit in my house. That next day was actually the last time I actually talked to Wayne, to this day.
Kirstin Rogoff: We did some shows in Canada with some version of Johnny Thunders, but they weren’t doing real well. We had to draw straws to see who would sleep on the mattress versus the box spring. You know, that’s a way to make one room bigger for a number of people. So I got Johnny Thunders. So we’re sleeping in the same bed, but, trust me, nothing interesting happened there except that he was trying to watch TV, smoking a cigarette, falling asleep. The cigarette would float down and he’d burn himself. He’d wake himself up and smoke some more, and then he’d run to the bathroom and throw up. I said, “You’re going to die in ten years,” and he did. I took Johnny to the hospital at least once. He would shoot up in his hand, I think, and his hand would just blow up and get infected and the circulation would stop. I carried him off stage once and had to go to the hospital and sign for him. He couldn’t even write his name. I would hear him talk about his ex-wife. He said she was tall and blonde and had big feet. I thought, “Big feet?” He had a couple kids, and he said that they like listening to his music. I said, “Why aren’t you with them?” So he didn’t say anything. He seemed like he was very sad about that loss. He chased after Niagara, and she played very hard to get.
Wayne Kramer: One of my points in my narrative was Gang War as a stepping stone to New York. I knew Detroit was a slippery slope for me. Everyone I knew was in prison to some degree.
Ron Cooke: Wayne and I went and played this big show in New York with Thunders. These guys busted into the
motherfucking warehouse, tapped into the electrical system. There were twenty thousand people in the fucking warehouse, man. And they were probably selling forty pounds of heroin in the motherfucker. So we get all done, and we were counting the money up, and I go, “This is fucking bullshit, Wayne. Let’s go see these motherfuckers, man. We want some dough out of this gig, man.” Wayne goes, “Alright, let’s go.” So me and Wayne go down the hallway. There’s this big fucking guinea motherfucker standing out front of this door. He goes, “What do you guys want?” We go, “We want to see the boss, man.” He goes, “What for?” “We want to talk to him about some money.” He goes, “Who are you? Where you from?” I said, “My name’s Cooke. This is Wayne Kramer. We’re from Detroit.” The guy goes, “Hold on a minute.” Goes to the fucking door, the door closes, he comes back out and says, “Who’d you say you were? Where you from?” I said, “My name’s Cooke, that’s Wayne Kramer. We’re from Detroit. We’re from the band, man. We filled this fucking place. We want to talk about getting some more dough.” He goes back in and comes out and says, “C’mon.” So there’s this fucking dude sitting in there with a thin T-shirt on. Stone Italian mother fucker. He’s really a bad ass. Count the fucking money, man. He goes, “Who are you guys?” We have to go all the way back through this fucking thing. He looks at me, goes, “Cooke, you from Detroit, eh? You know what, man, you got fucking balls, man. And your buddy here.” He goes, “Frankie give them $2,500 bucks apiece.” We fucking hustled the fucking mob cats, man. Thunders? Who knows where he was at?
Vince Bannon: I booked Iggy at Masonic and then brought him back to play a week of shows at Bookie’s. That was a really big five sold-out days.
