Cleveland's Finest - 2010

Cleveland reportedly was supposedly the site of the first rock and roll concert. March 21, 1952. A little more than two months before birth in late May. 20,000 youths crowded the 10,000 capacity Cleveland Arena. The police shut down the show before the opening act, Paul "Hucklebuck" Williams, finished his first song.

The civic leaders of the lakeside city have claimed this preseminal rock concert giving Cleveland the right to open the Rock and Rock Hall of Fame in 1993, despite its thin musical heritage of The James Gang, Dean Martin, and The O'Jays. Yoko and Little Richard hosted the opening, but no one ever mentioned Cleveland's greatest rock band. Not even in my trip to a wedding there in 2017.

The Dead Boys.

SONIC REDUCER is a punk rock classic.

Stiv Bators hanging himself by the microphone a showstopper.

The guitarist Cheetah Chrome once fell asleep in the underneath storage bin of the Damned's tour bus. He woke up in Pittsburgh. After the drummer was stabbed on 2nd Avenue, CBGB's held a benefit for Johnny Blitz. It was the Altamont of Punk. Blondie, Patti Smith, Suicide, the Ghosts, Jerry Nolan, Sic Fucks, Ramones, Senders, and a dozen other bands played at the Bowery bar May 2-6, 1978.

I saw every show.

Paid for them too. Johnny Bltiz survived the attack and the Dead Boys

I loved the Dead Boys. Cleveland's Finest, but they were really a New York band.

Dead Boys Who? 2015

This Halloween weekend I traveled to Cleveland for my nephew's wedding.

I arrived on Friday afternoon with my departure planned for Sunday at noon.

On the afternoon before the rehearsal dinner I checked into the Rennaissance Hotel and then conducted a walking tour of downtown; down to the Sttlers Land trolley stop and along the famed Cuyahoga River. At various bars I asked scores of Cleveland natives, if they had ever heard of The Dead Boys, the fiery rebellious punk band from the shores of Lake Eire.

"Nope."

"Sonic Reducer" According to Wikipedia their tradmark song is considered a punk anthem and has been covered by bands as varied as Guns N' Roses, Overkill, Pearl Jam, Foetus, Dozer, Leeway, Die Toten Hosen, Bad Religion, and Saves the Day. The song appeared on the UK compilation album New Wave, produced by UK actor and mystic, Pete Knobbler

"Nope."

Once more Wikipedia The album Young, Loud and Snotty, which features the song, peaked at #189 on the Billboard 200 in 1977.

Throughout 1977 to 1979 I saw them often at CBGBs.

They deserved better, but Sire Records mismanaged the band into its present obscurity and the band were demons onto themselves.

Here's to Stiv Bators (Steve Bator) – vocals Cheetah Chrome (Gene O'Connor) – lead guitar Jimmy Zero (William Wilden) – rhythm guitar Jeff Magnum (Jeff Halmagy) – bass Johnny Blitz (John Madansky) – drums

The Dead Boys remain alive for me and thousands of other punks.

Loud and Snotty.

To hear HEY LITTLE GIRL, please go to the following URL;

Hurrah Nightclub

Hurrah disco on West 62nd Street died after the opening of Studio 54. The owners experimented with a dance club featuring mainstream rock with video monitors hanging from the ceiling. When this scheme didn't work, the owners called on Jim Fouratt to animate the ex-dance studio with New Wave and Punk and the impish impresario booked punk and new wave bands. The queer activist hired his friends to work the door and DJ booth, since they were all into this music. I was put out front as the doorman, my security was an old black boxer Jack Flood, and a moonlighting cop named Bobbie Gardiner, Haoui Montauk and Aleph Ashline sat at the desk dispensing tickets and free passes to the VIPs, and upstairs George Wrage took the tickets, Carlos Rodriquez was the lightman, Sean Cassette spun reggae, punk, and new wave, Randy the bartender was so so handsome and Jhourry his partner was so very wicked, Barney and the Odinesque Ron Jaggar, one blue sapphire eye and another blank white, paid our salaries every Saturday night.

The owners fought with Jim about paying the bands so much money.

It was the height of the cocaine era.

They asked Jim to leave. He was rightfully pissed at them. They wanted me to help him leave. I asked him nice. If I had been more honorable, I would have left with him, instead he told me to fuck myself. I was a hothead back then. Still am a little bit, but that night I escorted him out of the club.

I owe Jim Fouratt a big apology.

He was a true radical and visionary.

And not only with music.

But then this is about Hurrah and it was simply sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

To view the entrance of Hurrah circa 1981, please go to Merrill Aldighieri VDO

December 29, 1978 - East Village - Journal Entry

Disco was king on 1978. Rock and roll was a distant second and punk barely scratched the airwaves. Everyone was into Disco. Donna Summer, a Dorchester native, ruled the charts with MacArthur Park and Last Dance, Chic took over in December with Le Freak. The shout for Disco echoed across the country and world. While Jimi Hendrix had played the National Anthem soloing with her teeth at Woodstock nine years ago, thankfully no one disco covered GOD BLESS AMERICA or THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER.

Rock's dilemma is that the genre has stagnated with the corporate middle-of-the-road all stars simply recording formula stadium rock. Only metal and punk fight the trend with the old aged executives taking the easy path for profit. The radio is all MOR and Disco. Where have Motown and Stax and Philly gone? After the race uprisings of the 60s and 70s, white people didn't want to see blacks anywhere. The NBA is dying and disco has no politics to it.

I sit at home listening to the old 45s, playing solitaire, and await a phone call from an unknown source saving me from further ruin. None come, and solitaire loses its appeal once you cheat at it.

Tonight I'm going to CBGBs. I haven't been there since last Friday's peyote trip with Bill Yusk. Completely fried.

Rock and roll decay The Rolling Stones mellow Mainstream The Beatles dead Still on the radio Fucking Rockie Raccoon The stars of the 60s Fat, drunk, or dead Useless, boring, or wasted. Not Van Halen or Black Sabbath Certainly not Iggy Or the Dead Boys. They'll never make it on the AM charts.

Drinking beer has temporarily killed my thirst. In the world Iran awaits the Shah's death. Taiwan feels betrayed by our treaty with Red China. Murders never-ending murders across the USA. Fuck it. No one cares about anything,

The old wind shivers through the drafty windows. I wait for the clock to hit 11, then I'll head over to CBGBs. The Theater. The Dictators and the Dead Boys.

Lame Ass Poser

Editors and agents have asked for a definition of my writing. Corporate executives like neat niches. I tell them the easy answer, "Semi-fiction."

"What's that?" None of them are familiar with that genre, since it doesn't really exist in their marketplace.

"Whatever is interesting is true." My employer Richie Boy had once described my story-telling technique as that. I have never disputed that my tales are a melange of truth, demi-truth, and outright fabrication. The same goes for my grammar.

Most recently I had written a story about a concert by the English punk band, the Damned. I recounted the evening to the best of my memory's ability. One reader took exception. Cheetah Chrome of the Dead Boys lambasted my remembrance of that night.

"Nice story , too bad it never happened. Do yer research man.The only gigs we ever did with the Damned in the US were at CBGB.The only tour we ever did with them was in England. Documented fact. Christ, you lameass posers."

Lameass poser.

Coming from Cheetah Chrome, I consider that a comment.

Thank you for SONIC REDUCER.

The Damned Live 1978

Hurrah was a walk-up nightclub on 32 West 62nd Street. The second-floor had been a disco in its previous reincarnation. Studio 54 put it out of business. The new owners brought downtown uptown by booking having Jim Fouratt book punk bands.

Between sets video monitors played music and strobed a kaleidoscope of images. My friends and I worked the punk disco throughout its heyday as barmen, DJs, bookers, management, security, cashiers, and me employed as the doorman.

Our crowd were cute high school girls, long-legged models, generous drug dealers, wild movie stars, aspiring musicians, though teenagers from the outer boroughs, off-duty cops, druggy diplomats, doctors, and ne'er-do-well artists as well as a diverse collection of undesirables.

$20 bought entry for anyone other than a rat pack of macho boys. They were trouble.

The live music was the main attraction to Hurrah. The bookers loaded the stage with New York bands such as Klaus Nomi, ESG, Polyrock, and Ballistic Kisses to opened for headliners like the B-52s, Gang of Four, the Dead Boys, and the Ramones.

In June of 1979 The Damned from the UK hit Hurrah for a one-night stand with the Dead Boys. I was familiar with the band from their newly-released LP MACHINEGUN ETIQUETTE. The Jefferson Airplane’s WHITE RABBIT was a cover from the album. I had the single. RABID was on the B-side.

Aside from letting in underage girls from Fieldston Academy and cuffing twenties for extra wages, one of my tasks as doorman was to lead the top billing bands from the dressing room in the rear corridor through the crowd onto the low stage.

A distance of 150 feet through a crowd crammed past capacity, since a cashier and I had racketed the door and resold tickets to SRO shows.

The night of The Damned’s concert I probably had packed another hundred fans into the club. The Dead Boys had torn up the 700+ boys and girls. They wanted more and the more that they were going to get was The Damned. Hundreds chanted for the band. Their boots stomped hard on the wooden floor. The booker signaled me that it was time to get the band onstage. I went to the dressing room. The band was sitting on its asses, surrounded by the usual punk groupies. Cheetah Chrome of the Dead Boys sulked in the corner. The lead guitarist was not used to being ignored by his faithful sluts.

“What’s the problem?” It was obvious that the Damned were going anywhere.

“No Vodka. Our contact stipulated four bottles of Vodka. We ain’t got none.” The lead guitar was wearing a gorilla suit. Pink top. Yellow bottom. It was a warm June night and sweat rivuleted down his face. Hot pants and a tube tops would have been a better choice.

“No vodka. No show.” The black-haired singer announced with folded arms. His skin was covered by a film of white. He so wanted to look like a vampire.

“Gimme a minute.” I reckoned that the owners had refused the vodka fearing the band would hit the stage drunk, but if they wanted vodka, I was going to get them some. Jhoury was the head bartender. Long thin and gay, he had a thing for the lead singer. I told him the problem and his hands elegantly seized four bottles of bar-well quality.

Old Cossack.

“Lead the way.” The bottles, glasses, and mixers appeared on a tray, as if Jhoury had been waiting for this call all evening. He had a thing for straight boys with English accents and reveled in his glory, when the band sprang to their feet at the sight of the vodka.

“Good man.” The albino lead singer grabbed the bottles and distributed to his fellow band members. He waved away the glasses and mixers. “We’ll be drinking it neat.”

The Damned screwed off the tops and lifted the open bottles to pour the vodka down their gullets like baby birds swallowing their mother’s spew. Some of it made it down their throats. The rest spilled onto their clothes and floor. Jhoury was in wide-eyed awe. He like his drink too. The bottles were half-empty within a minute. Cheetah Chrome drank most of one. The drummer Rat Scabies smirked at him and said, “It’s showtime. Get us on the stage and keep any lit cigarettes away from us. We’re combustible.”

“Jhoury, you’re coming with me.” I eyed his tray. Jhoury smiled with thanks. He never got out from behind the bar and now he was leading rough boys through a thick crowd. He didn’t have to be told twice and we wedged out way through the phalanx of fans. The band picked up their instruments and opened the set with NEW ROSE.

It was a great show.

They performed WHITE RABBIT as an encore.

By 3am Hurrah was empty and the band ready to hit the road on their bus.

The Dead Boys with them. They were a double bill for the tour.

Destination Cleveland.

No one could find Cheetah Chrome and the bus pulled out without him. It wasn’t until Buffalo that someone opened the storage area under the bus and found Cheetah passed out on the speakers. He didn’t wake up until Cleveland.

The lead guitarist knew the smell of his hometown.

I never saw the Damned again, but Jhoury and I spoke often about their glugging the vodka. They were our heroes, then again so were so many of the bands that appeared at Hurrah.

It was the best of times.

ps Cheetah Chrome called me a phony for writing him into the story, but I recall him under the bus.

Plus this is semi-fiction and I love the Dead Boys.

Check out NEW ROSE by the Damned

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTfyUqVqX-0