A Ramone Leaves Home
Joey 1951-2001
by Lenny Kaye
The light has gone out of New York rock and roll.
Joey Ramone passed away on Easter Sunday,
at 2:40 p.m., in the endgame of a long battle
with lymphoma. Diagnosed in 1995 and given,
at that time, three to six months to live, he
managed to maintain his health and good
spirits until a fall in the snow at the end of last
year. He broke his hip, and after a painful
replacement found that his body was unable
to continue fighting on two fronts. The news
during the past few months-passed around
by his friends and followers the world
over-was progressively less and less hopeful.
The end came at a time when the Ramones' flame
has never burned brighter. With a quarter century
of "punk"-the music they helped template and
design, from black motorcycle jackets and chopped
eighth-note chordings to the pop chants of
"Hey ho let's go" and "Gabba gabba hey!"-now being
celebrated atop the scrap heap of history, Joey was
a Cover Boy. Even while his boundless energy was
a-lyin' in a hospital bed ("Doctor, doctor!" you could
hear the New York Dolls urge on), he graced
England's Mojo and America's Spin. The music he
played was beloved in garages in any part of the
world where the guitar was revered as a magical totem.
Last fall, I turned on the Subway Series to hear
"Hey ho" over the loudspeakers at Shea Stadium,
galvanizing the crowd much as Joey did during
dozens of nights at CBGB. It was too perfect, I
thought, remembering the Ramones traveling past
Shea on the Number 7 with their instruments in
shopping bags. They'd come the long way around to
get back home again.
It was the same with their music. They appeared on
the scene at a time when your average rock and roll
band was everything the Ramones were not. Hardly
Promethean, they occupied the gawk end of geek,
their sound minimalism to the max. They played
what they hardly knew, and knew that was more than
enough. Rock and roll can be as complex and arcane
as you want, but stripped down, a chorus hooker
reduced to a driving beat with nowhere to go but out
of body, it can be slick and fast, like a quick fuck
against a brick wall in an alley behind a Bowery
club-the one you pose next to in your ripped jeans,
emblazoned T-shirt, sneakers. A band.
Jeff Hyman was born in 1951, which would make him
about 23 when he changed his name to Joey Ramone.
They all transformed their names, Douglas to Dee Dee,
John to Johnny, Tommy to Tommy. They became a
cartoon family, piling 18 songs into the half-hour sitcom
that was their early set. Only they had the last laugh.
Every Ramones show kept you wanting more, which is
the great drug of rock and roll. The sets stayed short
even as their set lists grew lengthier. They just played
faster. Louder. Like everyone else who followed them.
The Ramones were the great port of entry into the
punk-rock kingdom. But unlike their brethren (and
sistren; Joey, especially, had a feminine lilt to his voice),
they were not merely about endurance and speed. Joey
loved the romantic sing-alongs of the Brill Building; in
another decade, he might have been Paul Simon, or even
Shadow Morton. But he'd also heard the surfer birdsongs
of the Beach Boys, the top-of-the-mops English Invasion,
the trailer-park nihilism of the Stooges, the teen drive of
the Bay City Rollers, the English glam of Gary Glitter and
The Sweet. He styled his hair into the pageboy of the
Hullabaloos' crowning glory. The Ramones wanted to write
hit singles, and they did.
Oh, you couldn't hear them on Top 40, but that was their
alternative cross to bear. Instead, the Ramones imagined
their own stations of the cross, invoking a golden age of
"Do You Remember Rock 'n' Roll Radio" ("Let's go!"),
situated in a "Rock 'n' Roll High School" with the Phil Spector
production to prove it. The topics might have been a little
bizarro, but gabba hey, truth is truth: "Sheena Is a Punk
Rocker" and "Carbona Not Glue." That's all you need to know.
Listen to any of their songs three times and it would own you.
Last December at the Continental, in what proved Joey's final
appearance (though you wouldn't have guessed it at the time,
so strong and confident did he seem), hosting one of his
annual Christmas extravaganzas with the local bands he
championed-the Independents, the Misfits, his sibling
Mickey Leigh of the Rattlers-he poured forth Ramones tune
after Ramones tune. To hear how immediate they were, how
much a part of cultural occurrency they'd become-"I Wanna
Be Sedated" in a Tokyo clothing store, "I Wanna Be Sedated"
spit out by a band in Barcelona, "I Wanna Be Sedated" at
three AM in Anydisco, Anywhere, "I Wanna Be Sedated" in
some random jam and having five musicians play along
whether they know the song or not-had me doing the
Blitzkrieg Bop, as I've been doing for lo these many years,
punching my fist in the air at each O-word and singing along,
because the words have the memorizing mesmerize of
universal rhyme, and it's great to feel the wind from the
amplifiers.
The Ramones kept their song on the road for more than 20
years, a remarkable achievement for any dysfunctional family,
surviving world tours, new members-Joey was the last of the
original Ramones, though each raw-boned recruit seemed cut
in the image of the Ramonic ideal, blunt force wearing a sleeved
heart-countless imitators and cliches. The Ramones stuck
doggedly to their formula one, watching it become prototype.
Joey was the frontman, and, ultimately, the band's biggest fan.
And a forever fan of New York rock and roll. One of the most
supportive members of the local musicians' community, he loved
to visit the nightclubs of his home turf, his lanky head bobbing
over the crowd, out on the town with his friends. He would cheer
the band on. Get up and do a tune. "Beat on the Brat"?
One-too-t'ree-faw!
Everyone loved Joey. Especially Ronnie Spector. At a Christmas
show at Life in 1999, she and Joey hosted a revue that included
cretin-hopper Keith Richards. Joining in on "Bye Bye Baby," she
became Cher to Joey's Sonny. He coproduced an EP for her,
and for one who grew up in the echo chamber of the Brill Building,
it must have been as fulfilling a circle as a spinning 45. He had also
completed a solo album, working with producers Daniel Rey and
Andy Shernoff, and though he had his "good days and his bad days,"
was an inspirational fount of future plans.
Yeah baby! We're watching ? and the Mysterians at Coney Island High
that same year, another sun-glassed spectre with a gift for the simplistic
epigram. Joey's birthday party had just been held there, a peer grouping
that brought together several generations of New York scenesters. At Coney
Island's "class reunion" last Friday night at Don Hill's, Joey's name hung
in the Good Friday air. By Sunday the rock had rolled away.
I take a walk into Joey's Lower East Side on Sunday night, after the
rain. Downstairs in a basement club on Avenue A, we put Ramones songs on the
jukebox. We dance into the dawn, the end of the century now.
7 responses total.
((( Spring Agora #89 linked as Music #307, by request )))
Author Lenny Kaye is Patti Smith's longtime guitarist. Salon had another piece worth reading at: http://www.salon.com/ent/music/feature/2001/04/15/joey/index.html and they also have eight pages (!!) of letters.
that was nice.
(a moment of silence?)
yep
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