When I was a teenager, I seriously wanted to be a rock star. No, really. I looked at going to college as a fallback and to appease my parents, just in case my dreams of becoming a famous musician didn’t happen. I played and practiced for hours every day, way more than I studied. I had the advantage of youthful ignorance – I didn’t know that the odds of becoming a rock star were overwhelmingly slim. I was mesmerized by the electric guitar and rock music. (Still am.)
In the late 1970s and early 1980s, I was actually living the dream. I played in a New Wave band called the Lines (we’re on Discogs with a single and an EP), and, as I’ve mentioned in previous installments, we achieved some measure of notoriety in the New York area. (There were other bands called the Lines and we wound up getting sued by one, but that’s another story.) The tri-state club scene was huge, New Wave was an exciting new thing, punk hadn’t quite yet been co-opted, and we had an astute manager who booked us with many national and British acts. They had a big influence on my musical education. Oh yeah…the Lines were good.
I also worked at the Sam Ash music store in Hempstead, New York, where a number of famous and not-so-famous musicians would hang out.
I’ve been playing since 1968.
So…I have some stories.
Let’s start out with a doozy: Madonna’s band once warmed up for mine. And I got to see her in her underwear.
No, really. It was before she became Madonna, when she sang and played guitar in a New York City band called the Millionaires. We were at some club in Manhattan on a bill with multiple bands, and the Millionaires went on before us. So technically, Madonna’s band warmed up for our band.
The bands all shared a dressing room – well, more like an area by the kitchen that was partitioned off with a sheet. As a result, we all had this tiny little area to change into our stage clothes. Neither Madonna nor any of the guys or gals had any problems with getting undressed in front of each other, a theater tradition I learned about in college when I played in a couple of pit bands.
At one point, while I was just randomly hanging out in the dressing room, Madonna came in and started taking her clothes off. Being the single young guy that I was, I can’t say that I looked away. But, knowing the theater tradition and not wanting to come off as some perverted a-hole, I took it in stride. Mostly. I mean, she had it going on. She looked great in her underwear. We made some small talk which I can’t remember a word of, but she was really nice. I was somewhat embarrassed because I had psoriasis all over my body and trying to hide it, not because we were taking our clothes off.
I was really curious to see her on stage. Even then, she dressed like…well, Madonna, and played a blue Rickenbacker guitar, cutting a striking figure. I turned to a bandmate and said, “she’s an OK guitar player but wow, she’s a really good singer.” She had that it factor that you could vibe from across the room. I said, “I think she’s really got something.”
The Lines played our set, and in those days, we were filled with piss and vinegar and adrenaline and other not-naturally-secreted substances, so we were really good. As a Long Island member of the bridge and tunnel crowd, I was stoked to be part of the Trendsetting New York Scene that I’d read about in Creem, Newsday, and the Village Voice. And this Madonna woman had really left an impression on me.
A couple of years later I was at Legz, a Long Island New Wave club where DJ John Lamarca played the hippest new music before everyone else did, and Madonna’s first song, “Everybody,” came on. It was fantastic. She soon followed with the even more sensational single “Holiday,” and her eponymous first album with other great songs like “Lucky Star” and “Physical Attraction.” You know the rest, as she soon went from being an underground club sensation to a worldwide megastar.
I should have gotten her phone number.
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The Lines used to play at a Massapequa, Long Island bar called Heckle and Jeckle. One of many in an endless string of not-so-classy New Yawk jernts. We played there a number of times. The crowd liked us, and so did the management, and there was a real stage, and there was a used-record store across the street that I would go to during breaks, and the drinks were free.
There was another band who played there called the Bloodless Pharaohs. We played a gig with them and really liked them, and they dug us as well. They had ferocious energy and were darlings of the in-the-know New York music crowd. I though the guitar player was stupendous and I’m sure I made a serious effort to up my game the night our played together. When not playing in the Pharaohs, the guitar player worked as a bartender at Heckle and Jeckle. A Massapequa guy. His name is Brian Setzer.
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I am told we played with the Bay City Rollers at a disco called 2001 in West Islip, New York. I don’t remember a thing about it.
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Speaking of 2001, I’ve already mentioned the Lines’ bummer gig with the Go-Go’s (jeez, they couldn’t even punctuate their name right) in Issue 224, “When Good Gigs Go Bad, Part Two.” It wasn’t our shining hour, and I added injury to insult that night, literally, when I fell off the stage. Thanks to the Go-Go’s goons, we never did get to meet any of them.
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The Lines played at two of the most famous Manhattan clubs, CBGB and Max’s Kansas City. I was hoping to get a glimpse of Bowie, or Warhol, or Lou, or Patti, but it was long past those clubs’ glory days, and we wound up playing to a bunch of nondescript audiences. But at least I can say I played there. Three times at CBGB, in fact. I thought it would be intimidating. I was a bridge and tunnel guy walking into the epicenter of the New York music scene. It was in a seriously bad neighborhood at the time, and I remember picking a bottle out of the trash and walking around with it one night because I felt the need to have a weapon in hand. My car was broken into one gig.
But once you got into CBGB, you realized you were with a bunch of music freaks like yourself, and it was a great vibe. That said, when you played there you didn’t take your eyes off your equipment for a second. And you had to hold your breath before walking into the bathroom, and I am not exaggerating. Of course, over the decades the media has romanticized CBGB (now it’s a John Varvatos, and a portion of the original sticker- and graffiti-filled wall is preserved), but for us, it really was a special place to be with like-minded music people. And this music sounded so new and different and revolutionary back then. It really was an incredible time.
The CBGB stage. Yes, this is where so many famous (and not so famous) bands got their start. It was as grody as it looks here. Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons/Tabea Huth.
Aside from playing there, I have fond memories of CBGB because it was the first time I saw and met Gary Wilson and the Blind Dates, who were mind-altering. I was struck by the fact that Gary was wearing a suit spattered with red paint that he had just flung on himself before the gig. We weren’t in Kansas anymore, baby! His You Think You Really Know Me is an outsider music classic. Listen to it and you will think I’m either insane or like so many other OG (Original Gary) fans, you’ll be hooked. I had to meet the guy, who is not some crazed maniac but rather an artist who is very serious about doing his thing. If that involves wearing sunglasses with Saran Wrap stuffed into them, taping mannequins to his back, and rolling on the floor while band mates throw flour on him while playing funk/jazz/rock/noise grooves, well, more power to him. (I’ve been friends with Gary ever since.)
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Synth-pop band Our Daughter’s Wedding had a huge (well, huge underground) hit with the irresistibly oddball “Lawnchairs.” They made some more noise with “Target for Life” and other songs, but “Lawnchairs” is the classic. We played on a bill with them at a club called the Left Bank in Mount Vernon, New York, which was about an hour and a half from Long Island, so we felt like we were real road warriors. We had to get there for a soundcheck hours before the show, and spent a lot of time killing time with the ODW guys, Layne Rico, Keith Silva and Scott Simon. They were really likeable. I was expecting a bunch of oddballs considering they had lyrics like “Lawnchairs, they’re everywhere, they’re everywhere, my mind describes them to me” and “she’s a boy that we like and he’s gonna go far,” but they were down to Earth, regular guys who were a lot of fun to hang out with.
When they went on, I was really impressed by the fact that they were actually playing all the parts of the synth-pop songs, not relying on sequencers and drum machines. This meant that they were frantically pounding out the bass and lead lines all night on their Roland, Moog, and Prophet 5 synthesizers, and one of them was walloping on a Synare electronic drum, which resembled a flying saucer and could produce some very 1980s sounds. It made for a very impressive stage show. One of the best performances I’ve ever seen. Everyone was dancing like crazy. And they looked like a New Wave band straight out of MTV, one of the many who made us realize the Lines had better start shopping for stage wardrobe at Trash and Vaudeville and not the Smith Haven Mall.
I know we did at least one other show at the Left Bank with Romeo Void, and maybe with some other bands. But my memories are nonexistent. I loved Romeo Void’s song “Never Say Never,” which bristles with the energy the best New Wave bands could produce, before it all went commercial by the mid-1980s and limp stuff like “99 Red Balloons” and “Sunglasses at Night” started schlocking up the airwaves.
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We played a gig with the Jam at the Northstage Theater in Glen Cove, New York. (Symbolically, it’s now a parking lot. Things change with time.) We didn’t get to talk with the band too much. At the time we played with them they had pretty much become British music legends, so I was surprised to see Paul Weller watching me from the wings while we were playing our set. I thought, what the heck is Paul Weller, a towering figure on the UK music scene, doing watching us? But when I gave him a look, he smiled back at me and gave me the thumbs up! I could have died right there and my life would have been complete.
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Not quite equaled by a gig the Lines did at Syracuse University (I think…I’m pretty sure…maybe?) with Defunkt (the gig I’ve mentioned previously where one of the band members was constantly pleading with the audience to give him a joint). Vernon Reid was in the band. While I wasn’t there to hear it, Reid told our drummer, “Your guitarist is really good.” If I had been there at the time, I would have been floating. Later, of course, Vernon Reid went on to fame with Living Colour and “Cult of Personality,” featuring that epic solo I can only wish I’d played.
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Speaking of guitarists, I once got to jam with my guitar hero, Donald “Buck Dharma” Roeser of Blue Öyster Cult. You can read about it here.
I interviewed Les Paul in 1991. You can read about it here. He signed my guitar. I won't be selling it anytime soon.
Your editor and Donald "Buck Dharma" Roeser at the Nassau Coliseum, Uniondale NY, August 2012. Photo by Tony DeStefano.
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When I was a senior in high school a bunch of friends and I met Harry Chapin. It was at the Long Island Rail Road Huntington train station while we were on our way to a concert in Manhattan. We were waiting to board the train when my friend noticed a guy carrying a Martin guitar case (one of those distinctive blue molded 1970s cases). My friend said, “that looks like Harry Chapin.” We thought it was him, but were unsure. My shyness prevented me from approaching him, but my pal had no such qualms. “Are you Harry Chapin?” he asked. “Yes I am,” Chapin replied. He smiled, and that broke the ice. We told him how much we liked his music. Seriously – some of us had played “Taxi” at a talent show, and we could recite the lyrics chapter and verse.
We boarded the train, which was so empty that we were the only ones in the train car. After a few minutes of kibitzing I told the guys we should leave Chapin alone and not pester him during the trip. But after a few minutes he asked us, “Do you mind if I practice a little? I’m on my way to The Johnny Carson Show and I’m doing a new song and wouldn’t mind getting some practice in.” Did we mind? One of our musical heroes was asking us if he could play for us? Naturally we said yes!
Chapin took out his guitar and proceeded to play for maybe 15 minutes, giving us a private concert. Just us, Harry Chapin and an almost-empty train car. It was like something out of his songs. I was about five feet away from him and could watch his fingers. I was struck by the fact that he looked like a regular guy, dressed in a coat and denim, and that was how he was going to show up on Johnny Carson. Just a regular guy, who happened to be internationally famous.
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I never met Billy Joel, but my wife and I met Billy Joel’s mother. It was at a flea market in Huntington, Long Island about 20 years ago. I was looking at a Manhasset music stand, the brand I like because they’re really sturdy, and an older woman was selling it among her other items. She saw me eyeing it and asked, “Are you into music?” I told her I was. She asked me, “Have you ever heard of Billy Joel?”
Well, being a Long Islander, and having listened to Billy Joel since my teens and seen him at the Nassau Coliseum and having played “Captain Jack” in my college band about a hundred times, I laughed and said, “Sure I have; he’s one of the greatest songwriters around!”
She looked at me and said, “I’m his mother.”
I was about to laugh out loud…how outlandish! But then I looked at her more closely and saw the resemblance. Once she had mentioned the fact, there was no question that I was looking at Billy Joel’s mother.
We had a very nice conversation and of course I bought the music stand, probably for around $10, maybe $5.
How cool – I now owned one of Billy Joel’s music stands!
Only thing was, I already owned a few Manhasset music stands. Hey, if I see a Manhasset music stand in a garage sale for $5, I’m buying it. But I never marked the music stand that Billy Joel had owned.
So now I have a bunch of them, and I don’t know which one was Billy Joel’s.
In New York, we have a word for that. Stunad!
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In the next installment: The Ramones, Duran Duran, Pearl Harbor and the Explosions, the Delta 5, Jools Holland, Ray Davies, Ian Hunter, Larry Coryell, and more.
Header image: the author's 1984 Gibson Les Paul Standard.
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