Punk Rock Blitzkrieg

by Marky Ramone

  As we loaded in my drums on a hot, sticky summer night in early August 1987, I had an uneasy feeling. It wasn’t because the Pyramid Club was almost a textbook hole-in-the-wall. It was a cool hole-in-the-wall. It was a well-known venue for the drag and gay scene in the East Village. RuPaul had done her first New York show at the Pyramid Club, and celebrities such as Debbie Harry, Madonna, and Andy Warhol dropped by every so often.

  My problem was subliminal, but once I was inside the club, I understood. The flyers for the band, both outside the club and in, made no mention of Marky Ramone. I didn’t even get a tiny “with.” Maybe this oversight or snub shouldn’t have bothered me, but it did to a degree. Even as a simple matter of promoting the band, it made no sense. Marky Ramone was a name with far more recognition than Richie Stotts. There should have been a “Marky” somewhere.

  The show went okay. We played a set of both covers and originals for about a hundred people, which was about what the room could hold. We talked for an hour or so with our friends and supporters, and I drank a 7-Up. But once the drums were back in the van on Avenue A, I told myself no more of this. I deserved a better Marky Ramone experience.

  A few weeks later, I was home in Brooklyn when Marion handed me the phone. It was Monte. I wasn’t exactly expecting this call, but at the same time I wasn’t entirely surprised. The drummer who had replaced me in the Ramones was named Richie. I knew his girlfriend, who wrote for the music magazine Spin and who had given King Flux a good review. She had let me know that her boyfriend was unhappy with the money he was getting in the Ramones and wanted a cut of the merchandising revenue. He was considering walking out on the band to drive home his point, but his girlfriend warned him to be careful because the Ramones might call Marky back. Richie’s response was that would never happen.

  It was happening. Monte explained that not only did Richie quit suddenly on August 12 after a show in East Hampton, but he did it with zero notice and in the middle of a full touring calendar. The Ramones had quickly rustled up Clem Burke of Blondie to assume the name Elvis Ramone and fill in at a show in Providence, Rhode Island, then another one in Trenton, New Jersey. We all loved Clem and his drumming, but it was not the fast-handed, frenetically pounding, trademark Ramones style. After two shows, he was out.

  Monte and the gang were up against it. September was jam-packed and included a full tour of California. The following month was a massive tour of Europe. The potential lost income was enough to make John walk to the precipice, and the penalties and potential litigation were enough to make him jump. The whole band right down to Dee Dee and his devil-may-care attitude was desperate. So after Monte gave me the gory details, he laid it on the table.

  “Marc, we need you.”

  So it went back to where it all started—a meeting with John. This time it was just me and John, without the women in our lives. We met at Daily Planet rehearsal studios, where history ran deep. As before, there was an audition in name only. John knew through Monte who knew through Joey that I had been sober for four years. It seemed like John just needed to see for himself. As we settled into the studio and John plugged in his guitar, everything felt about the same. John even looked about the same except that as he tuned the strings, he stopped every now and then to touch the side of his head. The scar tissue from where he was kicked four years earlier probably still bothered him.

  We launched into “Commando” and that was that. I saw John nod his head as he whirled around like we were onstage. I felt a smile come across my face. John called out a few more songs—“Blitzkrieg,” “Affected,” “Shock Treatment,” “Sedated.” Nothing came close, at least musically. We were locked in. It was as simple as that. It was like a dry run backstage before the show, minus Dee Dee for the moment. It was like coming home. Or in my case, like riding a bike.

  After ten songs we wrapped it up and for about a minute I saw a side of John I didn’t often see. A side hardly anyone ever saw.

  “Marc,” he said. “It’s like you never left.”

  Even though I had lived a lifetime—a different kind of lifetime—over those four years, I knew what he meant. But then John threw me a curve. He told me he was grateful. Not just for the small fortune I would be saving him and the band over the next couple of months. John confided that until he walked in the door of the rehearsal room and played the first few chords of “Commando,” he was seriously considering retiring. That was really something coming from John. Whatever his faults, he was always a very goal-oriented person. He was one of the few people—let alone musicians—around our age who even thought in terms of building up a nest egg to fall back on. If he was ready to the pull the plug, he was really at the end of his wire.

  I could appreciate the feeling of despair. I could appreciate a lot of things I was unable or unwilling to feel just a few years earlier. One of those things was how small a world it was. It was a cliché, of course, but also a reality. Not just with all the “Richie” trouble on both sides of the fence lately. Not just with the intertwined circles of people in the world and how somehow everyone knew everyone, and everything you did eventually came back to you in some strange way.

  The most amazing thing was how a long-standing difference could just evaporate like a little moisture on a drumhead. When I was asked to leave the Ramones, I needed their help and didn’t get it. When I considered over the years how any of this could ever possibly be resolved, I never imagined it would be this way—through my helping them.

  There was a higher power at work here. The collective miracles of people could unfold even in a well-worn rehearsal room. So I thought I’d share with John, for a minute, a side of myself he had probably never seen. I told him getting back in the band was the third best thing that ever happened to me. And getting kicked out was the second best thing.

  18

  KING FOR A DAY

  When you look at a photo of a US president at the beginning of a term and another photo near the end you’ll see a difference. Same face, but the aging is obvious. Gray hairs replace brown or black. Skin sags and creases. There is a weary look in the eyes that says this was harder than I thought it would be. To you it was four years. To me it was a lifetime.

  Monte’s four years in my absence were all over his face. He mediated civil wars and prevented international incidents. He served as diplomat, negotiator, and counselor. He was a friend, confidant, and psychologist. Not to mention driver, tour manager, and den mother. There was no retreat to Camp David for Monte. There was just another trip in the van.

  John was still in the front, and he still didn’t talk to Joey, who also didn’t talk to John. If anything, the wall between them was thicker and taller. Not even a word slipped through. Any absolutely necessary communication went through Monte, who also served as a messenger and translator. John still had the band’s affairs mapped out. Joey still tapped things. But now Dee Dee rapped.

  “I’m a Negro! I’m a Negro!”

  Dee Dee shouted it out from the rear of the van on our way down to Washington, DC, my second show back.

  “I’m a Negro! I’m a Negro!”

  “No you’re not,” John said. “You’re a fucking white guy who can’t rap.”

  Dee Dee was heavy into Run-DMC and Public Enemy. He was dead serious about hip-hop and working out rhyme schemes in the van between popping Thorazine and Stelazine. Once he figured out he could rap and annoy John at the same time, Dee Dee was off to the races. He was a funky man, and he let his funk flag fly.

  Linda was gone from the van. She was gone from sight. The long awaited and inevitable had happened. She had left Joey and moved in with John. John assured me she would never be a problem. She would never go on tour again and would only come to an occasional show and remain in the audience to avoid any drama. Switching apartments was one thing, but switching seats in the van was another. Linda was not to be seen. That was simple, understood, and one more line in Monte’s face.

  In spite of everything, I made meetings on the road wherever I co
uld, and the shows were on the money. In DC, Long Island, the Ritz in Manhattan, San Diego, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, I spotted signs in the audience that read “Welcome back!” “We love Marky!” “Marky’s back!” I was back for sure.

  I always thought the Ramones had the best fans in the world, but now there seemed to be more of them, and they included a lot of younger faces in the audience. There were fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds jumping around and singing the words to “Sheena.” They were barely walking when the first album came out. But somehow, watching Rock ’n’ Roll High School on video and listening to Rocket to Russia, Road to Ruin, and End of the Century had gotten into their bones. They brought a new energy to the shows and a new energy to me.

  It took no time at all to remember how great it was to perform in the Ramones. The insanity, neuroses, arguments, feuds, innuendos, and mishaps were all worth it the moment we stepped onstage. There was an excitement and a bond with the audience that trumped all the bullshit before and after. It beat any substance, hands down. I especially wanted Dee Dee to feel that way. Sometimes it seemed he got that. Sometimes it didn’t. When the encores were over, I knew it would soon be time for parts two, three, and four of whatever lunacy was going on before the show. But I would drink a seltzer and not let it bother me. These guys were crazy, but they were my brothers.

  Steps Four, Eight, and Nine of the Twelve Steps had to do with making lists, making amends, and taking personal inventory. Those weren’t altogether easy, but at least musically speaking they were enjoyable. I was focused and wanted to be the best I could be. I was determined to be on the money and eradicate any memory anyone might have of my onetime flakiness or inconsistencies.

  My spare hours were spent rehearsing. I enabled myself positively by planting drum kits all over the city. I had one in my friend’s loft and another in a studio. I had my main kit at SIR in Lower Manhattan. My drum pads were always with me. I played three hours every day, sometimes more. I was addicted to playing. Getting back to my earlier peak in the Ramones was not the goal. It was the starting point. When the fans at a show waited for the drum fill on “Sedated,” I didn’t want to disappoint. I wanted it to be like it was on the record or better. I made sure I could do the roll with just my left hand.

  The Ramones weren’t models or model citizens. They made a living on music and attitude. Punk ethic and all, they were well aware that not every comment, problem, or prank was for public consumption. They generally didn’t want cameras around. So I brought one along to Europe.

  It was a Nikon Hi8 analog video camera. The tape looked a lot like a smaller version of VHS, but the quality was better. The way I saw it, if someone in their inner circle was filming, the band’s guard would be down. The footage would be honest, funny, and preserved for posterity. Not to mention, filming would give me something constructive to do in transit.

  On the flight to Copenhagen, Dee Dee, Vera, Marion, and I occupied four of the five middle seats in one row of a wide-body jet. We were a little jammed in and it probably seemed even more crowded than it was with Dee Dee rapping away. One of the stewardesses walked over and told us we didn’t have to squish in. There was plenty of room in the rear and we were more than welcome to go back and spread out.

  “No, thanks,” Marion said. “But we appreciate it.”

  She didn’t look back, but for good measure I did. Joey was sitting in one of the rear five-wide rows. There was no one on either side of him or in front. Or behind. Two or three rows in front, a few passengers were scattered. It was like a ripple effect, when you tossed a stone into a lake and concentric circles formed. No one wanted to sit near Joey because of his body odor. He was having a bad hygiene day. Maybe a bad hygiene week. He was drinking and doing cocaine, and I wanted to help him just like I wanted to help Dee Dee.

  Things weren’t all bad with Joey. While I was out of the band, he’d had a girlfriend named Angela. She and her sister, Camille, hung around the Tropicana in Los Angeles. Angela moved in with Joey and the sister moved in with Monte, so Joey and Monte became practically brother-in-laws. Angela was pretty and sharp. They made a good couple, and a big part of that was the great job Angela did taking care of Joey. By the time I came back, they had split up. Joey was a handful again.

  But they were still friends. Not in the clichéd sense of a cheap consolation prize. They really liked each other. Taking all that into consideration, Angela was the best thing that had ever happened to Joey. As for Camille, she was a wild one and a drug addict. Monte came back one day from tour to find his computer, stereo, camera—everything—gone. She had taken and sold it. When I heard that, I was very sad for Monte.

  The next show after Copenhagen was Hamburg. The tour bus picked us up from the ferry across the Great Belt Strait then took us south along the peninsula that was Denmark. Dee Dee showed up that morning in a red Adidas warm-up suit with black stripes. He had a spiky haircut, multiple rings on his fingers, and a large, gold Mercedes-Benz medallion hanging from his neck on a chain. He looked like the white Flavor Flav.

  “What about the gold teeth?” John said. “Where are those?”

  “I’m working on it,” Dee Dee said.

  “Don’t even think of setting foot onstage looking like that,” John said with his icy blue-eyed stare.

  “We’ll see how I feel,” Dee Dee said.

  How he felt was like working on his rap project all the way to Germany.

  It was quite a homecoming. He took the stage in Hamburg without the warm-up suit and medallion. The spiky hair remained, but if that was punk enough for Richard Hell, it had to be good enough, just barely, for Johnny Ramone. Backstage Dee Dee was all pissed off. He told us somebody in the audience, remarking on his weight, had yelled, “Hold in your gut!” We didn’t know if it was shouted out in English or German, but Dee Dee could be insulted in two languages. He stood in front of a mirror in the dressing room with his shirt half up and gazed straight ahead.

  “Do I look fat?”

  “Yes,” John said matter-of-factly as he walked by.

  A few minutes later, Dee Dee disappeared into the bathroom. We could hear him retching. It was a universal language, but through the stall and the wall it sounded guttural, like his native tongue. It was hard to listen to. Dee Dee had all the bases covered. He was overweight and bulimic at the same time.

  When we finished the tour in London and got ready to board at Heathrow, I needed a different strategy as far as my camera was concerned. Terrorism was spreading around the world, especially in Europe. Security was intense and everyone had to go through a metal detector. When we first arrived in Copenhagen, I reviewed the tape in my video camera and received an unpleasant surprise. The tape was erased. It had evidently been demagnetized going through the metal detector. I couldn’t let that ever happen again. Especially not now. I had too much good shit on those tapes.

  I walked up to the head guy at the security gate and explained that I was on tour filming my band and would cooperate with any reasonable security procedure so long as he didn’t run the tapes through the metal detector. My plea aroused more suspicions than it relieved. They patted me down, front and back. They went through my bag thoroughly. They opened the camera case and eyeballed the battery as if it were hooked up to a bomb. But in the end, they let me through and ran my tapes around the metal detector. I breathed a little easier. I now had an effective MO, and the images of Dee Dee in a jumpsuit were safe for the ages.

  Dee Dee was dressed normally when I met him at his apartment in Whitestone, Queens, on a chilly day in early March 1988. I had a strategy. I drove my Cadillac Seville to the apartment and got Dee Dee to drive us to the meeting in his Camaro. Before we got into the Camaro, I spent a few minutes talking to Vera. I wanted to help her maybe even more than I wanted to help Dee Dee. Vera was pretty much the nicest, warmest person Marion and I had ever met, and she suffered tremendously through Dee Dee’s addictions. If there was a punk version of the country song “Stand by Your Man,” she could have wr
itten it.

  My strategy was to get Dee Dee to the meeting nearest to his apartment. That way, if there was a second meeting he ever wanted to go to, it would be convenient. By the same token, if he took the driver’s seat in his own car maybe it would be the beginning of a good habit.

  Dee Dee was hyper but in a reasonably good mood talking about his record deal. Seymour Stein had signed him to Sire/Warner for a one-album deal as a solo rap artist. Seymour’s eternal encouragement and long leash with all of us meant total creative freedom for Dee Dee. And strictly as a business venture, Dee Dee’s writing ability had not only been very successful in another genre—it helped launch the genre. So from Seymour’s point of view, it was worth a shot.

  Dee Dee would need help, and he was getting it. Vera was managing the project behind the scenes and developing the artwork. We had deep resources in the musicians department. Dee Dee asked me to play drums, but I preferred just to advise him on the beats to use and quietly take an acknowledgment. I was a rocker, not a rapper.

  The kind of help I was trying to get Dee Dee was up ahead in the First Presbyterian Church on 149th Street. The large wooden structure had a sanctuary with a steeple on the left and the entrance to the rectory on the right. Dee Dee rolled his Camaro right up onto the neatly manicured front lawn.

  “Dee Dee,” I said. “You can’t do that. You can’t park on the lawn. People go to church here. A minister lives in there. People pay money to maintain this place.”

  “How long is the meeting?” he asked.

  “That’s not the point,” I said. “This is not the way to come to a meeting. You have to show some respect. Plus you’re gonna leave tire tracks.”

  I got Dee Dee to pull out slowly and repark in the lot, which I supposed for him was Step One. The moment we walked into the meeting room, he asked me where the coffee and donuts were.