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There was nothing fancy about the guitar virtuosity of Johnny Ramone who died September 16 in his Los Angeles home. There was certainly nothing elaborate or sophisticated about his band, the Ramones, either. But Johnny's and the Ramone's sonic bursts of thudding bass, crunching guitar bar chords, pounding drums, and Joey Ramone's unmistakable voice left indelible marks upon the rock 'n' roll landscape. In the arts, especially in rock 'n' roll, honest simplicity always makes the most lasting impression.
I too was an honest and simple lad in the late 70's and early 80's, as were the thousands of other snot-nosed punk kids worldwide who greedily gobbled-up vinyl and tape versions of the likes of Road to Ruin, Rocket to Russia, and It's Alive. If I could only find my 8-track of Rocket to Russia, I could retire now.
The Ramones, like the innumerable punk bands that followed in their wake were primal and masculine. They were the perfect antidote to the hair bands and self-indulgent heavy metalists who were moving the most commerce at that time. Like the music, they dressed simply in a uniform of black leather jackets, t-shirts, black pants and shoes. They all had long straight black hair. They were straightforward, no nonsense, very workmanlike, yet intense and powerful. The Ramones made going through the motions uproariously fun.
Seeing the Ramones live was not an arena experience of reserved seats and butane lighters held aloft, but a club experience of spilled beer, sweaty bodies, and the occasional bloodied nose. Long before the faceless, swirling-mass mosh pits that accompany today's pale version of disaffected youth, there was 'honest to God' slamming, a punk version of the animal kingdom's battle of the alpha-males. I lost many of those battles in my day, but I was always proud of the bruises I displayed over the following days and relished the stories of how they were imprinted on my body.
But bruises, blood, broken bones, or not, a Ramones show was always special, no matter how lame the well-scrubbed suburban rock clubs they chose to play. I saw them swing through Houston twice, once in 1982, and again in 1984. Both times the club management regretted selling bottled beer. There was always enough broken glass onstage after the show to fill several industrial trashcans.
The '84 show at some long-forgotten venue on outer Westheimer Boulevard was an absolute melee. Everyone in the club, including myself, was in a riotous mood. Bodies collided and flew off stage. Security attempted to halt the stage diving, but it continued anyway. During one of my own attempts to leap from the stage, I was hauled-off just behind the band, in plain view of the crowd, by three guards and given several kicks to the ribs while my head and neck were held in a vice grip. The security men made the mistake of releasing me back into the crowd.
As the guards retreated behind the band, it began raining beer bottles. I saw two of them get pegged in the torso. One took a bottle to the forehead. During this whole time, the Ramones never missed a beat. None of the band members moved or seemed to notice, except Johnny, whose eyes followed several of the bottles to their targets. Johnny just shook his head, grinned a bit, then turned back toward the crowd, put his head down, and played harder than ever.
Johnny thrived on the mayhem.
This is how I will always remember Johnny Ramone, smiling amid a torrent of beer bottles. That's the sign of a true rock and roller, my friends.