All The Young Punks Pt. 02

"Mom's always on my back, don't give her fuel for her bonfire of the anxieties."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing, just don't be Mom's spy."

"I'll try."

---- JOHNNY COOL ----

Four days after learning he needed a new drummer, Joe arrived to find Johnny Bucci tuning up his guitar with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Sal mostly smoked outdoors, out of respect for his dad. Johnny apparently didn't get the memo.

"Hey, kid." Johnny smiled. "I haven't seen you in ages."

Joe walked over and shook Johnny's hand. "How did your dad take the news?"

"What, me leaving school?"

"Yeah."

"He saw it coming, so it wasn't so bad." Johnny took a drag and removed his cigarette from his mouth. "This band better work out or I'll have to get a real job." He smiled, pointing his cigarette hand at the kid. "So don't let me down."

Joe walked over to his Tele, strapped it on, and plugged it in. When his amp hummed, he struck a few power chords. This was the true start of Joe's guitar lessons. He had spent two years playing alone at home, learning in a vacuum, and most of the next year playing with high school kids barely better than himself. Sal was two levels above them. Johnny was a level above Sal.

When Joe broke into some random rhythm, not an actual song, just chords he used to warm up, Johnny played lead notes over him, in perfect tune and synchronicity. Joe smiled and kept playing. Johnny followed him.

'Oh yeah,' Joe thought to himself as he continued. 'This is gonna work just fine.'

When Joe stopped, Johnny smiled. "Okay, you can play. Sal said you were okay."

"Yeah, I'm not great but I get by. When we learn new songs you'll see my... flaws."

"I have one rule," Johnny said, pulling a new cigarette from the pack. "I will not play Kiss."

"That's fine. I saw them at the Civic Center two years ago, but that's not what I want to play."

Johnny was the son of Tony's best friend, John Bucci Senior, a.k.a. Johnny Bats. It seemed every Italian man on The Hill had a nickname that made it sound like they were in the mafia. Some were, most weren't, many were posers. While Joe was certain Pops was not in the mob, he was not so sure about John Senior. He got his nickname in the fifties after tuning up a couple of hoodlums with a baseball bat, and it wasn't the only time. The joke was that Johnny Bats bats a thousand. Joe didn't ask questions.

Because Sal and Johnny's dads were best friends, they grew up together, since diapers. They were best friends of sorts, but it was a tested friendship with fights and lapses. Joe's band actually brought Sal and Johnny back together after a long cold spell. When Johnny moved down to Kingston to attend URI, he stayed near the coast most of the year and made new friends.

Just like his skills on guitar, Johnny was a level of cool above Sal. He was a little taller and a lot leaner. Johnny had semi-wavy black hair almost to his shoulders and a wry smile. He didn't say much, but it seemed Johnny had constant unexpressed thoughts. He often laughed to himself, especially at Sal's bullshit. Joe immediately took a liking to him.

It took another week for Sal to locate the drummer he knew. In the meantime, Joe, Johnny, and Sal jammed without percussion until Nate showed up, carrying his bass drum, and barking at his new bandmates.

"Can someone give me a fucking hand?"

Joe looked across the garage, not budging, strumming light chords. Sal put his bass down to help. Nate placed his drum down and stared at Joe and Johnny.

"Well? Can I get a hand?"

"You picked drums, man," Johnny said while blowing smoke. "Your gear is your problem."

"Yeah." Joe nodded. "I'll never ask you to carry my heavy-ass amp."

"So that's how it is?" Nate turned away. "Fuck you both."

Joe put his Tele down and made one trip, carrying two cymbal stands and a drum stool inside. Sal introduced him to Nate. Nate just nodded, focused on setting up his drums, still agitated. He worked fast, talked fast, and seemed a little twitchy. Immediately, Joe saw the contrast between Nate and Johnny. Nate was gonna be a lot to handle. After he was set up, he explained recent events.

"I'm sorry I was incommunicado, but I was at the ACI, waiting for a hearing."

"What the fuck did you do?" Joe asked.

"I beat the fuck out of my lead singer."

"He was in a punk band in Cranston," Sal interrupted.

"I can tell the fucking story." Nate glared at Sal. "The motherfucker banged my girlfriend and stole three grams of coke. What the fuck was I supposed to do?"

Joe nodded as if he empathized.

"I was more pissed about the coke. He can have that bitch."

"He's out because they dropped the charges," Sal added.

Nate glared at him again. "The douchebag scored the coke for us. I told him if I go down for the beating I gave him, I'll have to tell the cops where I got my stuff. So he came to his senses."

That was Nate's story, and they never spoke of it again. He sat behind his kit, Joe started the power chords for 'I Wanna Be Sedated', and the band was whole again. Nate was a banger, too hard at times. That made the strings have to crank their amps even louder. Joe liked it, but it was probably too loud. Two days later, Pops raised an objection.

"Hey, guys!" He shouted from across the garage as he carried in groceries. "Hey, turn it down!"

Joe was playing shoegazing rhythm during one of Johnny's leads. Johnny was focused on his work. Nate had his head down, banging away. Sal looked at the wooden beams near the ceiling, thumping his bass. Their punk version of 'Satisfaction' was deafening, the sound bouncing around the hard industrial space. Pops became very annoyed. Sal eventually saw the old man waving his arms after putting his groceries on the red fifties kitchen table.

Sal stopped playing, Joe looked up, he stopped, and the other guys caught on.

"Jesus Christ!" Pops yelled at them, "That's a bit deafening, isn't it?"

The band nodded in unison.

"Sorry, Pops," Sal said. "Do you need a hand?"

"No, I need some quiet. Your mother is up my ass at home and you young punks are making my headache worse."

Sal turned to the guys, "Let's take a break."

The band joined Tony in the kitchen, taking chairs at the six-seat table, as Pops filled the fridge with meats, cheese, and produce. He was preparing to cook something.

"Why are you so goddamn loud?" He asked, looking at Joe. "You didn't play like this before."

"It's mostly Sal and Nate," Joe said with confidence. "And Johnny's amp is a beast."

"And you bought those pedals to give your sissy Fender amp some balls," Johnny answered.

"I had to buy The Rat for the boost... so I could hear myself."

Joe had a Telecaster and a clean Fender amp. Sal joked that his rig sounded like Buddy Holly. So Joe cranked up his 40-watt Champion to the point of it breaking up and getting dirty. Johnny played a red Gibson SG through a Marshall Plexi amp. He didn't need pedals. As Joe said, that amp was a beast. Joe had to buy a distortion pedal to meet Johnny's level. The Pro Co Rat was the hot new thing in dirty guitar tech. He also bought a compression pedal that works well with his single-coil pickups. Johnny had hot humbuckers.

It felt like everything had changed in Joe's life. A few months ago he was in a high school band playing in his dad's backyard garage, now he was a seventeen-year-old with three guys over twenty spending half his free time in this factory garage a half mile from home. It seemed to happen so fast. He and Pete were plinking away playing Kinks, and Stones and now Pete was gone and they were playing The Ramones, The Police, and The Clash... really fucking loud.

--- SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER ----

It was the most popular film of Joe's Junior year, especially with the Italian disco queens in high school. Out of nowhere three dance clubs had opened, one on Federal Hill and two downtown. Joe read an opinion piece in Rolling Stone expressing concern that disco would kill local live music scenes as disco DJs were far cheaper than paying bands.

Joe despised disco, The BeeGees, and the guys in his neighborhood who transformed into low-rent Tony Maneros. Suddenly, silk shirts were left unbuttoned, hair was blown back, and the shoes became platforms. This stuff already existed in major cities, and there were disco cliques in his school, but once Saturday Night Fever hit theaters, it exploded. Joe hated everything about it. He sat in the garage kitchen. Sal was eating lunch Pops had just made, penne and gravy.

"Some chick at school said disco is just another kind of rock & roll," Joe said in disbelief. "Can you believe that shit?"

"Do you like Motown?" Pops asked.

"Yeah, I do. My dad has some old R&B records."

"People said the same thing about Motown fifteen years ago. It wasn't rock & roll, it was for colored people."

"It kinda is," Sal said, "isn't it?"

"Pfft," Pops scoffed. "Music doesn't know race. I listen to jazz. That was for black people too." He turned to Joe. "Have some pasta. This gravy is my wife's recipe, basil and garlic."

"Check this out," Sal said, holding up his fork with a big garlic clove on it. "Soooo, good."

Joe took a plate from Pops and served himself. "You're gonna make me fat, Pops."

"Good," Tony replied. "You could use some meat on those bones."

"I'm not buying this music doesn't know race line," Sal said. "How about the blues?"

"Well, it knows ethnicity," Joe said, "because you wops are loving Tony and Connie. Every weekend this neighborhood is overrun by disco queens." Joe looked at Sal. and smiled. "Now that I think of it, you'd make a good Tony Manero if you lost your sideburns."

Sal raised his middle finger, "Go fuck yourself."

"No, seriously. If you swap out that greasy stuff you put in your hair for a blow dryer and slap on a silk shirt, you could be stayin' alive at Club Danza. It's right around the corner from the liquor store."

"I know!" Sal's hands flew up. "I worked late Saturday night. You should have seen the disco pansies coming in for Tequila Sunrise and Peach Brandy. Those queers don't drink beer."

"C'mon Sal," Joe smirked. "You popped in there after your shift for a little night fever, didn't you?" He raised his butt off the chair. "...Tony Manero."

Sal lunged at him, grabbing air where Joe once was because the kid was too fast. Sal glared at him. "Don't call me that. You know I hate that shit as much as you do."

"But the women," Pops added.

"That's what sucks about it," Joe said as he sat down. "The girls are moving over to disco."

"Bullshit," Sal said. "When we polish our set we'll have a party here. There are plenty of rock chicks around."

"When are we doing this?"

"When we have enough songs to fill a couple of hours, I'll get a keg and we'll throw a jam party for the hoodrats."

"You know who owns that Club Danza, don't you?" Pops asked.

Sal shrugged.

"Let me guess," Joe said, "he's Italian."

"Rocco Pastore."

"Of course the mob runs that shit," Sal said half under his breath. "Who else can get the permits to open a place so fast? It was a pool hall one day and disco the next."

Pops laughed. "They don't pull permits. The Patriarca boys do what they want in this town."

Joe was curious about Tony's connections but he didn't know how to ask without offending the old man. Since they were on the subject, he decided to ask. A recent news story gave him a way in.

"Hey Pops. Do you believe this guy who's saying Patriarca was involved in the plot to kill Fidel Castro?"

Pops laughed, "No. Raymond's turf is New England, and the feds are always up his ass. I doubt he's doing hits in Cuba."

"Why not?" Sal asked. "He had that guy whacked in San Francisco not long ago."

"That was personal," Pops said. "Joe Barboza flipped and put the boss away for five years. Patriarca won't whack you unless it's personal."

"Not even for money?" Joe asked.

Pops shrugged. "If one of the New York families needed a hit done, Ray would do it. Ya know it's not like the movies where guys get rubbed out for looking at you cross-eyed. A hit is the last resort."

"It's not the Wild West," Sal mumbled with a mouthful, barely audible.

Pops pointed his fork at Joe, "So, you like local history? You're a Sox and Celtics fan, so you like Boston too, right?"

Joe nodded rather than talk with his face full of penne.

"Rhode Island has been in a war with Boston on and off for decades, long before I was born. The Irish run Boston, in politics and the rackets. The Italians are second... up there in the North End. They used to be the top wops in New England until Patriarca ascended and the throne moved to Providence. Here, it's flipped, the Mics are second after Patriarca and Cianci."

Joe took a sip of beer. "My Dad told me Patriarca was the pick of the New York families to run New England."

"It was not their decision, but Patriarca was the strongest family at the time. The guys in Boston were getting beat down by the Mics. That's why they lost the five families' confidence and New York backed Providence."

"And everything east of the Connecticut River is New England turf," Joe added.

"So you do know some things," Pops smiled. "For a canuck."

"That's not an insult, Pops. I'm a proud Quebecer."

"Joe got picked on a lot as a kid because he wasn't Italian," Sal noted.

"Not anymore," Joe smiled.

"Is that still happening?" Pops asked. "Are kids still getting beat up because they're not Italian?"

"Yup," Joe said, "but not me."

"Pops, it was Joe who broke Frankie's nose."

"Are you serious?"

Joe nodded.

"Okay. If my brother-in-law Dominic ever shows up here, don't mention that. Those medical bills killed him. He might take it out on your ass."

"Is he one of the boys?" Joe asked.

"No, but he wanted to be. Dominic is just a piece of shit, like my nephews. Those apples didn't fall far."

"My Mom's family is thick with thugs," Sal noted, then smiled. "And Pops' side is all sweet."

"And my wife is the meanest thug of them all," Pops said lowly.

Joe didn't get any closer to learning if Pop's had any connections. After so many years doing business on The Hill, he had to have some friends in the family. Tony Meats started as a butcher in the fifties, before diversifying into retail liquor, restaurants, and other real estate holdings. Tony had many tenants.

Tony conducted his business in the shadow of the family and its many associates. He likely passed an occasional fat envelope to keep in good standing with the boss. Joe didn't know for sure, but that's how business was done on The Hill, and it was safe to assume Pops had to pay someone at some point. The truth was, Tony and Sal secretly loathed the mob and the notoriety they brought to their neighborhood and the good Italians in town.

These local facts are not pertinent to Joe Theroux's story, but they explain a great deal about where he grew up and his love and loathing relationship with Italian Americans. He knew the worst of them, as well as the best.

-- BAD INFLUENCE --

Back at home, Joe kept his family up to date with his band developments, the new guys who replaced his high school friends. Mom did not approve of him hanging out with twenty-year-old men, especially that Mancuso boy. She hectored Joe while Jackie peeled potatoes.

"He's a troublemaker," Mom said.

"No, he's not," Joe said. "Sal looks scary, but he's cool."

"You're spending too much time in that garage. I don't know what's going on there, but I know I don't like it."

Joe met Jackie's eyes in the kitchen. "We do Bible readings on Tuesday nights. You should come over with your rosary and pray with us."

Jackie stifled her laugh, barely

Mom's eyes narrowed, "Don't mock me." She pulled a folded paper from her pocket and waved it at him. "I found this in your room. You said you hadn't gotten it yet."

Joe scrunched his nose. "Fuck," he said under his breath.

"I called your father at work. He'll see this report card tonight, and he won't be happy."

Joe stared at her without a word. He knew he was cooked.

"You're at the garage every day. Are you even going to school?"

"Take it easy, Ma. It's not that bad a report card."

"Then why did you keep it from us?" She waved it again."That Sal is a bad influence and I'm not going to have you getting in trouble because of him."

"He does a good job of getting in trouble by himself," Jackie smirked at Joe.

Mom turned to Jackie, "This doesn't concern you." She put the report card back in her pocket. "You stay home. Your father would like a few words with you."

Mom left to get ready for work. Joe joined Jackie at the counter, filled a pot with water, and placed it on the stove. They said nothing for a moment.

Jackie leaned closer. "She told Dad over the phone that you should be grounded. She wants him to forbid you from hanging out at the garage."

"Fuck."

"I know."

Joe wiped his hands. "Do you have dinner handled?

"Yeah."

"You can set one less place. I won't be home." Joe kissed her forehead, grabbed his leather, and walked to the door.

"Joey! Mom is gonna freak out."

"Yup." He smiled. "Enjoy."

"Thanks a lot, jerk."