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The Ramones are my band. Over the years every song has been for me. Why

else would they have written ``53rd &3rd,'' about my current subway stop,

valorized glue, my favorite high school drug, or canonized Rockaway

Beach, my beloved birth turf? Without them I could not have survived

suburbia. The Sex Pistols' sensationalized image may have hogged the

media spotlight from the New York scene, but it was the Ramones' trip to

the UK that instigated a cultural revolution in punk rock. Fans in the

audience one night were bands onstage the next.

By now the best bands from 1977 are gone. Johnny Thunders, Jerry Nolan,

and Stiv Bators are dead. But 22 years later a Ramones show will still

connect me instantly to thousands of other misfits, cretins, pinheads,

and warthogs. And now they say it's over. After the Adios Amigos tour,

the Ramones are packing it in.

From their earliest shows at CBGB's the Ramones were different--a quirky

hard rock band, not some smug, dull art-school revue. Talking Heads were

college kids. Ramones were hyper, as cool as AC/DC, but they were our

local product. They gave us asylum from the culture crimes of the 1980s--

hair bands, MTV, Madonna, Michael Jackson, and dance clubs. One million

black leather jackets out on the streets say it's true: if the Beatles

gave us part one, the Ramones are part two.

As we all know, the original Ramones grew up in middle-class Forest

Hills, Queens. Disaffected boomers repulsed by peace and love, they

cranked out their ``sick bubblegum music.'' Junko partners Johnny and

Dee Dee had alienating day jobs, they were two loners who just liked to

get fucked up. One day in 1974 they went to the guitar store--Dee Dee

picked up a bass and Johnny got a Mosrite. They asked Joey, more

juicehead than doper, to play drums. He had been selling acrylic-dip

flowers in the Village and painting with vegetables. Joey replaced Dee

Dee as the vocalist and Tommy Erdelyi, recording engineer and producer,

became the first official Ramones drummer. Tommy was soon replaced by

Mark Bell of the Voidoids. Then no changes until 1989, when Dee Dee quit

the band and CJ replaced him.

The Ramones took their name from when the Beatles were known as Silver

Beatles and Paul McCartney called himself Paul Ramone. They mutated the

Beatles' uniformed clean-cut appearance with matching Harley jackets, T-

shirts, ripped jeans, and Keds--American-made sneakers only. They used

Tiger Beat boy names, taking rock right back to where it once belonged.

In their younger years, the Ramones had trouble getting girls. Later on

they couldn't get airplay or MTV rotation. But critics loved them and so

did the fans.

I heard something else in their music that made me feel right at home.

There's no sex at all in the Ramones sound, but there's another motive

force. Some of the Ramones claim they sniffed glue in high school

because it was a cheap high. You can hear the influence in their songs.

Edgy like speed, it wipes the floor with hippie drugs like acid and pot.

You feel your whole body picked up and thrown against a brick wall. No

pain, you're just bouncing, you ricochet, BOOIIIINNNNNGGG!!!! Then come

the cartoons, figures marching in formation, high-pitched beeps grinding

membranes, lights piercing. It all happens very fast. You'll feel horny

but you won't have sex. You'll drool instead and then pass out. If you

want to know what glue sniffing really feels like, listen to the Ramones

cover of the Chambers Brothers' ``Time Has Come Today.''

Of course, I was sniffing glue long before I heard the Ramones sing

about it--it just brought us closer together. It was a status indicator

in my book, separating the men from the boys. Can you imagine David

Byrne tripping the holy buzzwheel? Yet the Ramones glue songs were never

meant as encomiums to brain damage. ``Now I Wanna Sniff Some Glue'' is

about teenage boredom, while ``Carbona Not Glue,'' is a rant against

household chemical toxicity. According to the Ramones, by the time they

wrote the song they were sure nobody was doing it anymore--it was just a

goof.

The Ramones helped form the foundation of my glue-sniffing

intellectualism. When I was a Ph.D. lobotomy in graduate school during

the 1980s, the music reminded me to keep ideas clear and to the point.

Following Dee Dee's Queens logic--``I think rock &roll should be three

words and a chorus, and the three words should be good enough to say it

all''--I hoped to apply this to social theory. At a time when American

intellectuals turned away from the social world and towards ``the text,

'' the Ramones had guts, raving against mandatory psychotherapy, world

decline, and personal alienation. They bestowed a magnificent linguistic

toolkit--going mental, being sedated, gimme shock treatment, hey ho,

gabba gabba hey!

Until I heard they were retiring, I never wanted to meet the Ramones in

person. What would be the point? I felt I already knew them. Dee Dee was

my favorite, he wrote the best songs, he was the most intense. Johnny

was mean looking, I was afraid of him. Like all drummers, Marky was

always too far back to think about. Joey was my boyfriend, nobody can

sing a love song like he can. I didn't spend too much time analyzing the

Ramones. If I took them too seriously, I'd be missing the point. If I

simply embraced them as a cartoon, I'd be overlooking their brilliance.

By now, me and the Ramones had a bond way beyond Testor's. But knowing I

might never see them again, I wanted to learn their views on life, truth,

and politics. To see who they were as human beings. And if the party's

really over, it's time to situate them in the pantheon of U.S. cultural

history.

I met John at the Empire Diner on a September day at high noon, Joey

afterwards in his East Village apartment, and CJ over the phone. I never

got to talk with Marky or Dee Dee, the Ramone at large. Originally I

only wanted to interview the articulate, opinionated Joey, but Ida the

publicist suggested that the Ramones' opposing political views might

interest me--I should meet with Johnny as well. I wasn't convinced until

I read a rant of Joey's in Pulse! magazine, ``We got Rush Limbaugh on

guitar. Life would be a lot easier if I didn't have to hear about the

fucking NRA all the time...'' There's a line I liked in ``Scattergun'':

``I got a Mossberg by my bed.'' I have a Mossberg myself, I happen to be

a card-carrying member of the NRA. I was gearing up to caucus with

Johnny. Yes, this would be a real meeting of the minds. Pure epoxy.

Johnny Guitar

Johnny arrives exactly on time like everyone says. Offstage, he looks

``normal''--the suburban term for an average guy, someone driving a

truck. I asked him about Joey's Limbaugh remark, was it just a joke?

``Oh, I think he meant it in a mean-spirited way. Most left-wing people

have animosity toward conservative Americans. They get touchy. But we

don't get that way about them. Here I am talking to you, a left-wing

paper....I want our fans to know that I don't read it.'' When his

friends found out he was being interviewed by the Voice, they made fun

of him: ``You're gonna talk to that Commie paper?'' Then he defiantly

points to his T-shirt: ``Kill a Commie for Mommy.''

I hadn't noticed it. Like everyone from Long Island, I have a wardrobe

of patriotic and paramilitary shirts. I even had a ``Kill 'Em All''

series courtesy of my dad. It turns out Johnny does not belong to the

NRA. CJ does, he's the one who wrote ``Scattergun.'' I start going off

about politics. ``The left wants to take away my best guns. The right

wants my porn collection--they don't even want people to fuck anymore. I

hate them all!!''

Johnny spent two years in military school. He and Dee Dee were obsessed

with war movies. Dee Dee grew up in Germany on a military base, an army

brat. Together they make up the psycho paramilitary faction of the

Ramones. Joey's mother is an artist. Marky's father was a longshoreman

who got a law degree at night. As liberals, Joey and Marky are probably

neurotic, all worried about the human condition. Johnny on Joey: ``He's

a bleeding heart.'' Johnny on Marky: ``A socialist!'' Without mercy,

Johnny dismisses them both as ``a pair of old hippies.'' The worst thing

anyone could say about a Ramone!

I've always been interested in right-wing bohemians like the Hells'

Angels, Johnny Ramone, and my musician parents. Bohos, generally, will

eschew a middle-class work ethic. I had read that after John retires he

plans to do ``nothing.'' I thought that was subversive. Other Ramones

had big plans. But not Johnny. ``I can stay busy all day just doing

nothing. I make my own rules as I go along. I think things out for

myself. I used to be a construction worker. Work is bad.'' He has his

baseball player autograph collection, he loves horror movies, goes to

the gym, writes letters, watches sports. I liked his philosophy. Why

work?

While the rest of the band intends to pursue new music projects, Johnny

does not. ``No other music I could play can ever top the Ramones.'' I

wonder why they ever thought punk rock, which was anticommercial at the

core, should ever be commercial? ``We didn't realize we were doing

something so different. We were just trying to be like other people,

writing normal songs, and we couldn't. This was the best we could do.''

Over the years the band has gathered a wide fan base--a curious influx

of Latino kids from the death metal scene, straightedge and neopunks.

He's pleased to turn a new generation of kids on to the Ramones. Does he

resent being outsold by bands like Green Day and Offspring? ``It makes

no difference, my career is over, I'm done.'' I interject that these are

marketplace issues though, not art. Johnny erupts, ``This ain't art,

it's entertainment! It's a great job, but it's a silly job. I jump

around playing funny songs; I can see in the kids' faces that they are

having a good time. I'm playing from the heart. I love rock and roll and

just want the kids to have fun and be happy.''

Joey, Baby...

I never got crushes on rock stars. Why bother? There were always enough

great guys on the local scene to meet my needs. But three stars do stand

out as spectacular. Lemmy is in England with Motorhead, James Hetfield

is in California with Metallica, and here I am ringing Joey's bell. All

week long my girlfriends were teasing me: ``Say hi to Joey.'' ``He's so

sexy, try to get a date with him!'' Joey is awesome, but I had a higher

purpose: a bunch of old songs I'd taped that I wanted Joey to cover once

the Ramones retire. I even ate pizza, the national food of our homeland,

Queens, before the interview, hoping to hedge my bets. By now the cheesy

grease had my stomach in knots. But the moment Joey opened the door,

everything was purple. I felt relaxed, calm. ``Purple is for healing,''

he says, in a soothing tone, his Taurean voice rich and plush, as when

he sings. Joey had been playing a tape of a show he produced at the Ritz

in 1989, ``Joey Ramone Presents the Grand Inquisitor's Circus of The

Perverse.'' Joey is singing the Ronettes' ``Baby I Love You'' with

Debbie Harry. The tallest rock star on earth looks at my tape of the

Chantels, Skyliners, Moonglows. ``This is a good tape.'' Johnny told me

Joey likes oldies--maybe I had a chance. Phil Spector could produce it.

Imagine Joey singing ``This...I swear...is tru-u-ue.''

With a tight Sun-Mars conjunction, Joey is very masculine. But standing

in the light, against the window, he looks just like Mary Weiss, my teen

idol from Cambria Heights, Queens, lead singer of the Shangri-Las. Looks

a little like Ronnie Spector too. In fact, Phil Spector had once

approached Joey to do a solo album; his voice reminded the former teen

tycoon of Ronnie herself! Standing there next to him I wonder, what

color are his eyes? (I didn't know, he was always wearing rose-colored

shades.) He's so tall, I have to look up. He takes them off to show me.

Big beautiful brown soulful eyes just like my mother. She was a singer

too, a band vocalist in the 1940s. The sun is shining, streaming in

across his shoulders. I see rainbows, needles and pins of light bursting

all around. I want to ask him to dance. But I get hold of myself and

start futzing with my tape recorder.

Joey's purple emporium is also very high-tech, filled with the essential

gear for the rocker lifestyle. Endless magazines, machines, CDs, framed

collector's series Fillmore East posters, huge speakers. Plastic

dinosaurs and Ramones memorabilia, including the band's one gold album,

Ramonesmania. I notice a slick little laptop on the desk. Seems Joey

does road reports for Addicted To Noise, an online rock magazine

(http://atn.evolve.com/atn/). Joey explains, ``The computer is a black

hole into the universe. I'm not a high-tech guy, I'm primitive,

primal.'' But he enjoys writing for ATN.

``So who are the friends and enemies of the Ramones?'' I inquire. Moon

in Scorpio Joey isn't likely to forgive so easily. ``Well, now that we

want to retire, everyone wants to talk to us, everyone is coming out in

full support,'' he says. ``It would be nice if they gave us some support

earlier, everyone who's ignored us--MTV plays our videos at 4 a.m.! It's

all politics and bullshit and money.''

Meantime, I too was somewhat disillusioned. It seems Joey does not eat

pizza! Hasn't for years. He can't hack dairy products; bad for singing--

mucus. He's also a vegetarian. Five years ago he had an accident and a

revelation about his life. He got sober and health conscious. ``This was

a reawakening, a spiritual rebirth.'' I noticed his attitude seemed

amazingly upbeat. Adios Amigos has a mix of dark and bright songs--Dee

Dee's ``Born To Die in Berlin'' is somber, fatalistic. Some songs are

fun, childlike and playful. But Joey's ``Life's a Gas'' suggests a world

full of joyful possibilities.

I felt comfortable with Joey, so I told him something I rarely told

anyone. I was a fat girl until my early twenties. For this reason, the

Ramones' spirit of inclusion penetrated to the core. Like me, Joey also

had three fathers; two of mine died, he came from a broken home. I knew

he understood what I felt like being fat in high school without my

having to explain. ``The Ramones are there for all the outcasts,'' Joey

says. ``Alienation was definitely a feeling we went through in the early

stages of the band. We were outsiders, loners. Okay, this is me, I'm

myself. I'm an individual. I don't wanna be like you, I wanna be who I

am.''

CJ's Army

The moment I dialed the 516 area code I was homesick. Long Island has a

loosely connected network of pomo prole bohos and rockers, so CJ knew a

lot of people I knew. I moved to New York City last summer, and I miss

Long Island's culture of hot cars, pumped-up guys, Harleys, tattoo

parlors, garage bands, and guns. CJ grew up in Deer Park, near the

infamous 231 drag strip. At 30, he is second-generation Ramones; he

replaced Dee Dee in 1989. Baby bust, heavily bomo (body modified--i.e.

tattooed), CJ was 11 years old when the band's first album came out. A

Long Island son, he grew up on Ramones, Dead Kennedys, and Metallica.

The most-inked Ramone was on his way to get some new designs when I

called. CJ likes Harleys, too, he and a friend were building a Custom

EVO and a Shovelhead. He also has a '70 Nova, 350-cubic-inch engine. CJ

is a life member of the NRA. Goes skeet shooting in Calverton like I

used to, goes hunting too. Has a Mossberg 590 assault shotgun--his

scattergun, and a Sears Roebuck from the 1950s, bolt-action shotgun. His

dad got him a .22 caliber Marlin rifle for his 16th birthday. CJ was an

U.S. Marine but had to go AWOL for personal reasons. He has a bad

conduct discharge and a felony conviction on desertion. Now he can't get

a handgun permit.

When the Ramones retire, CJ wants to move to Arizona. Long Island has

gotten bad--crime, pollution, drugs, traffic. As a latter-day Ramone, CJ

isn't as conservative as Johnny or as liberal as Joey. He's somewhere in

the middle, more suburbia, like me and Howard Stern.

Turns out we're both registered Independents. ``Anyone who gets all

their information from one party is very ignorant,'' he says. ``They're

all liars. Even if I didn't like guns I'd still be pro-NRA, trying to

uphold constitutional rights. We're losing them left and right--

everything they do is to fuck the middle class. They ain't fucking no

rich people, it's always us. They take more from us and more of our

money every year. They give it out to all the lazy, shiftless people who

don't want to work jobs and you gotta grin and bear it.''

CJ was the voice of everyone I knew. My family, my friends, guys in

bands, people who feel the country caving in at the center. There's

bitter resentment towards societal institutions across the board. We

need something. We're sick of being told by liberals and conservatives

what's good for us and what's not. CJ says, ``When you live in my world,

then you can tell me what I can and cannot have!'' Right-wing Ramones,

left-wing Ramones. Thesis and antithesis. In CJ, I found synthesis.

Like all Ramones, CJ has plans. He's helped produce a band called

Blackfire, played percussion on a track on their first album. He met

Blackfire's Jeneda, a Navaho lady from Flagstaff, Arizona, at a Ramones

show. She and her two brothers tour the reservation as a band, teaching

kids to walk in both worlds. On the day we spoke, CJ had been up until 5

a.m. playing with his other band--Los Gusanos, which means ``the worms''

in Spanish. (Los Gusanos also put out a single on Alternative Tentacles

and the proceeds will go to Oglala Lakota, in South Dakota, which is the

only Native American-run college in America.) CJ's singing voice sounds

like Mike Muir from Suicidal Tendencies. Check out Blackfire and Los

Gusanos at the Continental, Saturday, January 13, in a show emceed by

Joey Ramone.

Future lifestyles of the Ramones? Johnny will be busy with baseball and

horror films, Joey will open a multimedia, eclectic, interactive club in

Manhattan, he'll produce some bands and cut that solo album I dream of.

Dee Dee is living in a farm commune in Amsterdam where the pace of life

is more relaxed. He's found a new love, is writing madly and

collaborating with Nina Hagen. Marky will focus on his other band, Marky

and the Invaders--they have a CD coming out. He's married now, sober,

and really into cars--he just got an SS Impala, having recently sold his

'65 Imperial to CJ's sister's boyfriend. In contrast to the sour-grapes

impression in recent rock press, the Ramones are looking forward to the

next phase of life. No regrets, mission accomplished.

When I moved to New York, I gave my cousin my Harley jacket. It was the

end of an era. Now that SPIN magazine has voted their first album the

number one alternative record of all time, the Ramones are breaking up.

Guess it's time to see the rest of the world.

G-d gave rock and roll to you, and put the Ramones on earth to police

it. Whenever rock gets too up its own ass, too bloated, too toney, when

it falls too far from grace, the Ramones' songs are there to enforce the

law, to say, ``No, that's not what it's meant to be, it's this way,

simple, direct. And it belongs to you.'' Today your love, tomorrow the

world. Adios amigos, gracias.

dgaines @interport.net

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By Donna Gaines