by Marky Ramone
I didn’t believe in ghosts but I believed in the DTs, and this was the closest I had come to seeing things since drying out. My mind, like every mind, was filled with movie scenes and random phobias, and a place like this was a mirror to every fear you could dig up. The Headless Horseman may or may not have been right around the next towering headstone, but he was definitely in our collective minds. Besides, dogs had better sensory perception than humans, and this dog, now growling in the backseat, was picking up on something frightening. I hoped it was only Dee Dee.
“I’m freaking out,” Dee Dee said. “I just saw something with like a horn on it, Marc. And wings. We’ve gotta get the fuck out of here.”
“Dee Dee,” I said. “How do you think we all feel? Do you think any of us want to be here?”
I stopped the car and idled near a little footbridge. Off in the distance I saw a bright stream of light and heard a gentle whoosh. That had to be Broadway, otherwise known as Route 9, which went all the way back to the city. A little closer, I saw an interior road that seemed to head straight out to Broadway. The problem was I didn’t know how to get from here to there except to drive straight through, which is what I did. I put the Coupe in gear and rolled over a curb, then onto some grass and over a little hill. I swerved around one headstone then another and thought I missed them both. In the end, it didn’t matter. They were already dead and we were just trying to stay alive.
We hit the pavement and tore out the front gate. It was like the end of our own little bonus Ramones horror video without the soundtrack. I wished I had brought along my Hi8 camera, but getting out was reward enough. I had never seen Dee Dee so desperate to get out of anything. Almost never.
On a sunny afternoon in April 1989, the Ramones held a press conference at the Hard Rock Cafe a little north of Times Square. Brain Drain was out and so was the movie, Pet Sematary. The song “Pet Sematary” had hit number four on the Billboard Modern Rock chart. Number four. In the United States of America. I sipped my seltzer and glanced at Dee Dee, who was sitting next to me and shifting around in his seat. Then I thought about a song he had dashed off in another restless moment and how every time from here to eternity the movie ended and the closing credits rolled people would hear our song. The chart success wasn’t the reason we were still together after all this time. But it was nice.
I picked up my seltzer again, put it to my mouth, and gagged. Some of the liquid dripped to the tablecloth but some went down my throat. Whenever something went down that wasn’t supposed to there was a shock to the palate while the brain tried to identify the substance, fast. It took about a second. It was an old friend and enemy—vodka. Dee Dee grinned and took credit for the prank.
“Now I have more sober time than Marc!”
“Dee Dee,” I said, “I wouldn’t get too proud if I were you. It’s a little early.”
Dee Dee had just over thirty days sober. He had shown all of us his one-month medallion. We were glad for him. But this was not a prank worthy of the Ramones. It was like tripping someone in the last mile of a marathon. Or pushing a Flying Wallenda off a high wire. It was low class, low rent, low mentality. If there was anything I wanted Dee Dee to compete with me in it was sobriety. This was not the way to go about it.
Dee Dee’s rap album, Standing in the Spotlight, had flatlined. There was no chart action. While looking to do a solo album of his own, Joey was actually rooting for Dee Dee. John was rooting for the opposite. I was in Dee Dee’s corner as much as anyone. A cover song like “Mashed Potato Time” was silly to begin with and too ridiculous to put on an album competing with N.W.A and artists who had already been at the rap game for half a lifetime. But a song like “2 Much 2 Drink” could have been sold to the Beastie Boys and done well.
There were other songs on the album I thought Dee Dee should have saved for the Ramones. In a thumbs-up/thumbs-down world, I hoped Dee Dee had a little perspective on the album’s flopping, but at this point I wasn’t sure if he had much perspective on anything.
I looked up at the 1960 Cadillac Coupe hanging from the Hard Rock Cafe ceiling. It was my car. Not simply the same model. It was my actual car, salvaged from the scrap yard and put on display like an Eric Clapton guitar. I thought about my state of mind when the car caught on fire on Ocean Avenue. More than a car was going up in flames back then. Every single day these days, even a simple uneventful one at home, was a tribute to being sober and healthy. A day like today was even better. When you’re sober, you can truly appreciate what you’ve done and what you have. That’s what I wanted for Dee Dee.
On the flight back east from our California tour, Dee Dee told us the July 5 show we had just done in Santa Clara was his last. He had been saying that for a few weeks, but in Dee Dee’s case, we took things with a grain of salt. More like a truckload of salt. Still, we had to give him credit. He had proven he could make absolutely horrendous decisions and follow through on them. The previous month, he had left Vera. Dee Dee was off his medication, Vera insisted he go back on, and Dee Dee decided to ditch them both.
On the plane ride back, he proudly showed us a new pair of boots he had picked up in LA for his new girlfriend. He was pretty thoughtful for someone completely out of his mind. Even the punks knew that Dee Dee had blown it. When we were walking together on the Sunset Strip, a couple of spiky-haired kids with nose rings shouted from across the street, “Go back to Vera!”
John was one of those punks, at least in theory. He was outraged that Dee Dee left his better half and told him to his face he couldn’t treat Vera like an old pair of shoes. This was more than a little ironic coming from someone who had left more than one pair of shoes behind. It was still more ironic considering that back in ’78 John was dead set against the marriage. If he had shown up to the ceremony—and he did not—John might have been the one standing up in the back and telling the priest why this union should not take place.
John’s concept of rock star marriage was a page out of the early Beatles playbook—don’t do it and if you have to, hide it from the fans, especially the young girls. They wanted their knights in shining leather eligible. That’s what Brian Epstein had John Lennon do with Cynthia, and that’s what Johnny Ramone wanted to do with Dee Dee Ramone. Worse yet, over the years Johnny Ramone took potshots at Dee Dee and Vera Ramone whenever he could. It was a little late in the game to be a marriage counselor.
A few days later, John called me at our apartment in Brooklyn. Gary Kurfirst had called him to say that Dee Dee’s quitting was 100 percent real and we needed to have an emergency meeting. If this was an emergency, it was like Venice sinking. Even the dead flies on the van windshield knew Dee Dee was looking to quit. But I went to the meeting.
John said it was fine that he quit. Let him. John had a master plan to find a young Dee Dee without the drugs. Nothing was going to stop John. And anyway, he said, Dee Dee was still going to write songs for the Ramones. I agreed we should continue as a band. That was the practical, business side of me talking. In the rear of my mind, I was trying to make a mental adjustment and not getting very far. Dee Dee quitting the Ramones was like Paul McCartney quitting the Beatles. Talk about brain drain.
I tried to remind myself that the Ramones were not a person. We were a band made up of people, and one of those people was very unhappy and had serious problems to deal with. He was Dee Dee Ramone for almost twenty years. He was Dee Dee King for about a day. But he was Doug Colvin his whole life, and I hoped he would find some real joy in that life.
19
PUNK GOES POP
You could advertise for almost anything in the Village Voice and get at least a few responses. The Voice readership could not be shocked. But at least a few people had to be surprised to spot a musicians-wanted ad in mid-July looking for a bassist to replace Dee Dee Ramone. We rented out the big room at SIR downtown for auditions.
On the first day, at least fifty guys lined the hallway. They came in all shapes, sizes, and colors. I didn’t recognize anyone, but they definite
ly recognized us. There was a buzz in the hallway and anytime John or I poked our head out of the rehearsal room, they looked like fans waiting to get a peek backstage. And that’s basically what they were—Ramones fans hoping to get that once-in-a-lifetime shot, sort of the punk version of the movie Rocky.
Gary Kurfirst had his office make some calls, and there was no one of any punk or hard-rock notoriety available. They were all in their original band or in their next band or the one after that. It was just as well. The Ramones started as the ultimate do-it-yourself band, and here we were, still doing it ourselves and by the seat of our pants. Besides, you never knew who you might find out there.
At first, with each auditioning bassist, I missed Dee Dee a little more. Then things started to get a little better. A couple of auditions looked like they weren’t going to melt down from nerves. Then a few showed some chops. Nothing amazing. Promising, maybe. But John wasn’t so much listening as looking. There was a guy with a long beard who was decent, and once he left the room, he became “Rabbi Ramone” to John. A capable black bassist was dubbed “Spook Ramone.” A Chinese guy auditioning was “Li-Li Ramone.”
John was having the time of his life not only coming up with names but also knowing how much I hated it. What I hated even more was sending talent out the door. The Chinese guy was really good. He had a nice, clean, powerful attack on the strings. When he played “Sedated,” I didn’t have to make little adjustments for his timing. We started, and he was right there all the way through.
“That’s not our image,” John said.
“John, the ad didn’t say we were looking for a Dee Dee clone.”
A few more bassists came and went, but then John lit up. A long-haired guy named Chris from Long Island played an okay version of “Sedated,” but Johnny Ramone looked like he had just seen a young Jack Bruce. John went over and spoke to Chris for a while and made sure we had his correct home phone number. The kid looked like he had just talked to God.
After the last audition closed the door behind him, John told me Chris was it. I didn’t see it, and I told John so. Chris seemed like a finger player who wasn’t experienced at using a pick. His downstroke wasn’t as strong as Dee Dee’s, and some of the fast eighth notes weren’t all there. His hands weren’t as big, and so his left hand didn’t have the control over the frets I was used to hearing. The strings not being played at any given moment were supposed to be muted, but that wasn’t happening consistently. The overall effect was a lot of clicking in the bass sound.
John told me I was getting way too technical. The kid had a youthful look, John said, and a lot of energy. Most important, he could be molded. I knew John would be doing most of the molding, and that scared me.
Chris came back for a second audition, did a decent job on “Blitzkrieg Bop” and “Rock ’n’ Roll High School,” and got the job. His situation was apparently all systems go. He had been in the marines but explained he was honorably discharged and living with his parents in Deer Park. He was free to hit the road and dine in a wide variety of Cracker Barrels. Monte told him the first thing he needed to do when he got back to Deer Park, even before he called all his friends, was apply for a passport. We were headed to England, Australia, and New Zealand in October.
Chris’s full name was Christopher Joseph Ward. “Chrissie” rhymed with “sissy” and was already the first name of Chrissie Hynde, who fronted the Pretenders for many years. So we took his first two initials and C. J. Ramone was born.
A little later in the summer, Marion and I were invited to dinner by Dee Dee and his new girlfriend. Dee Dee had moved into a large loft on Broadway just south of Houston Street. When we arrived, we realized that Dee Dee and his girlfriend were two of six people living in the loft. I traded a few quick startled glances with Marion. It wasn’t that Dee Dee was bouncing off the walls. He was, but we were used to that. Either he was on his medication, off his medication, or on some new combination. What was strange was seeing Dee Dee transplanted into a whole new apartment, crowd, and context. I wanted the old Dee Dee Ramone back. At this point, I would even take Dee Dee King.
Dee Dee told us his girlfriend was going to be the next big thing. She was a folk-rock singer, and he was her bandleader and cowriter. We were all invited to see them play. I pulled Dee Dee aside, out of earshot from everyone.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Does it look like I know what I’m doing?”
“No. Not really.” I was being honest.
The following week Marion, Monte, and I went to Dee Dee’s show at a dive bar downtown. Dee Dee’s girlfriend had kind of a Marianne Faithfull thing going on. Dee Dee apparently was looking to be her Mick Jagger. We were supportive and polite, but Monte couldn’t hold back a comment or two under his breath.
“Don’t quit your day job. Oh wait a second—you already did.”
C.J.’s day job was not only to learn a lot of Ramones songs. It was to learn to be Dee Dee. It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it. The assignment was for the stage only. John did his best to make sure C.J. was clean. John also put him to the test a lot like you would a Broadway understudy. C.J. was responsible for learning Dee Dee’s performance moves—the jumping, midair splits, bouncing, the half-crazed “one-two-three-four . . .” I had to admit C.J. had a great attitude. He did what we asked him and didn’t complain, and in that sense was as far from Dee Dee as you could get.
Then one night in August, I got a call from C.J. and freaked out. He was calling from a military prison. I got the story in bits and pieces. The story I was told was that he had asked his commanding officer to be released so that he could help his mother who had been diagnosed with lupus and also deal with a couple other unfortunate family situations.
It was complicated, and C.J. was rambling, but the bottom line, I was told, was he left the base before receiving his papers. When it came to learning that you were military property, there was a hard way and a harder way. The harder way was to wake up to your mother screaming that the military police were at the door. I knew what C.J. was thinking even before he said it. It was what any at least half-sane person in the same position would have feared. He was almost in tears.
“This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” he said. “I want you to know I appreciate it, and I’m sorry. But I blew it. I fucking blew it.”
“Hold on,” I said. “You didn’t blow anything. Do you have a lawyer?”
“Yeah . . . yeah, my parents are getting one for me.”
“Okay,” I said. “Good. If you have any trouble with that or need another referral, call me. In the meantime, if what you said is true, that you did inform your commanding officer, you may have a way out of this. We don’t have to leave till the end of September, and you already know most of the songs. So hang in there, okay?”
“Thanks, man. Thank you.”
I tried to handle the phone call the way my father would have—calm things down, put everything in perspective, and make sure there was legal representation. I had been given a second chance and everyone, including C.J., deserved one—especially since he hadn’t really had a first chance. I told him to make sure he talked to John. C.J. was nervous about that, but I assured him it would be no problem. John was his number-one fan and wasn’t crazy about military school back in the day.
C.J. was released within a couple of weeks with an official discharge. His first real day on the job was doing the Jerry Lewis MDA Telethon on Labor Day. C.J. was more grateful to be there than Jerry or any of his kids. The only problem was, the prison barber had given C.J. a military buzz cut.
We had to wait so long to go on, C.J.’s hair grew back a little. When we told people we were doing the telethon, they seemed to think we were flying out to Las Vegas to hang with Jerry and Ed McMahon. Maybe Frank Sinatra would drop by and bring Dean Martin along for a surprise visit. But we were in WWOR-TV studios, Nine Broadcast Plaza in Secaucus, New Jersey, with the other New York performers.
We watched Jerry on TV
like everyone else. He looked drained and by two in the morning complained of a migraine from the phones not ringing enough. Around two thirty, he looked wearily into the camera and said, “It’s the right hour. Get off your ass, for crying out loud.” Around three, the Ramones got off their asses and played. We were not making our national debut as a skinhead band. C.J. wore a bandana.
Our tour of Germany brought us to Berlin on November 27. The Ramones were happy with C.J., who brought a ton of energy to the shows. He had learned a lot of moves from old tapes of the band. His playing was getting better. His backup vocals were solid. He was as grateful to be in the band as anyone had ever been to be anywhere, and his attitude was good. His hair was even growing back quickly.
But I had one problem with C.J. It wasn’t that he gravitated toward John. That was natural. John was his biggest advocate. The problem was that he started to sound like John. I had to hear it in monotone for so many years. Now I had to hear it in stereo.
I was watching a transformation take place slowly in vans, buses, airplanes, and dressing rooms. It was exactly the kind of “molding” I hated to see. Without a doubt, there was some brown-nosing going on, and at least for me, viewing it that way made it more understandable. He was the new guy in the band aiming to please and being led down the wrong path.
Personally, I was definitely not there to be a killjoy. I was still pranking people and being pranked. I was still eating an occasional windshield bug. But there were times when I couldn’t let the “schooling” continue without a pushback. Some shock treatment was needed.
