All The Young Punks Pt. 16

The last time Joe felt this nervous before a gig was his very first show. Since then, his act rarely failed when they debuted at new clubs. It was always a blast to unleash his sideshow on an unsuspecting audience, but he wasn't sure about this place, or these punks.

As they dragged gear through his place, Tommy was present to lend a hand. Joe noted to Sal, "When was the last time a club owner helped us move our shit?

"Randy," Sal said, "just the other night."

Joe laughed, "Never mind."

As the band took the stage and began setting up, Tommy delivered a round of beers and offered words of encouragement. "First round is on me, the rest is all you. I'll keep a tab. My regulars look tough and seem like assholes, but they're actually sweet. Just don't suck. It brings out the worst in them."

"What do you mean sweet?"

"They can be pussies."

He wasn't kidding. His crowd looked tough and they weren't friendly. Some of the punk chicks were scary. Joe whispered to the guys that he didn't want to fuck them or fight them. Not one person spoke to the band, not even a smile. Three were ready as Johnny was still tuning his Gibson. It was 9:05.

"Hey, the show starts at nine, asshole!" A male voice shouted from the bar.

Sal looked at Joe as the kid stepped up to the mic. He'd been in this spot before. He knew that how he responded to a heckler could set the tone for the night. It was a moment of truth.

"How about you go fuck yourself? We'll start when he's ready."

Sal's eyes got wider. 'What the fuck are you doing?'

The same voice came back. "What are you, a tough guy?"

"You wanna come up here and find out?"

Some of the crowd laughed, there were a few "Fuck Yous", someone shouted "faggot", and there was a "Suck my dick." up front - from a woman. The rest of the room mumbled, but no one was stepping forward.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. If you can't back up your mouth, shut the fuck up."

That earned Joe a few cheers, two more "Fuck Yous" and one "Who the fuck does this guy think he is?"

Johnny was ready. Joe had something completely different up his sleeve. A new opening. Composer John Philip Sousa is an American icon. He composed many marches. In 1883 he wrote the 'The Liberty Bell'. It's better known as the theme song for Monty Python's Flying Circus. The band were big fans of the Pythons. Joe stepped up to the mic, crashed a single chord, and let it linger.

"And now for something completely different."

Marching guitars are a cool sound if you play the same chords a half octave off so each guitar is distinct from the other. Thin Lizzy was the master of tandem guitar, and Joe was an admirer of their music. He and Johnny often used that technique, and it was perfect for The Python theme.

Nate and Sal provided the marching drums and bass, a solid foundation, as Johnny and Joe played the Sousa brass on guitar. This was their first time playing it at a show, and they got the reaction Joe had hoped for. There were furrowed brows and people looking at each other in a collective, "What the fuck?"

They segued straight into the Clash, 'Tommy Gun', then, without missing a beat they played The Sex Pistols and The Damned. Joe went hard with UK punk hoping to win Hell's Kitchen over with song selection. He then gave the audience a moment to respond. It was half-hearted, or half the crowd, he couldn't tell.

"Okay, thanks... I guess." He shrugged at Sal. "We're gonna do a couple of original songs. This is the first song I wrote when I was fifteen, and I was really into The Ramones."

They cheered for The Ramones, not his song.

"This is called, You Don't Want Me."

Hard three-chord punk is simple and fun to play. The Ramones were the kings of three power chords. Joe's first composition in high school was a copycat, with basic chords, simple lyrics, and repetition. It was a two-and-a-half-minute thrashing punk song about his first crush, Sandy Ruggerio. They seemed to like it.

"This next song is Six Day Sinner." They were less enthusiastic about Joe's song about religious hypocrisy. He glanced over at Sal, annoyed. Joe had not often played his original music at a gig. He whipped these out because he had removed NY punk songs from his set.

"Fuck these guys," he said to the band, picked up by his mic. "Let's play the chick songs."

When the band broke into 'You're So Vain', hard as fuck, Tommy looked up from his bar duties. The band would not be run off the stage for playing Carly Simon. Like every crowd before, the New York punks laughed. Joe changed some of the "don't yous" in the chorus to "Fuck you."

He followed Carly with 'These Boots Are Made For Walking' and created more smiles in the crowd. The cheers were a little louder when they finished the chick songs."

"Look, you guys can hear punk covers any night of the week, our set is completely different."

The bar stools still weren't giving him any love. Joe stepped up to the mic and paused a long time to make sure everyone noticed the silence.

"Before the show, Tommy told us you guys at the bar look scary... but you're actually pussies."

They went back to boos, jeers, "Fuck yous" and "Suck my dicks."

"I'm not making that shit up." Joe looked over at Sal. "He said that, right Sal?"

"Yup. He called you pussies."

Tommy looked up again, at Joe and then at his patrons, who glowered at him.

Nate launched into 'Five-0', another song no one expects to hear in a punk club. After that, Joe didn't give the New Yorkers a moment to breathe, or heckle him. For the next twenty-four minutes, they played straight through, connecting a half dozen punk and garage rock covers. When Joe stopped to take a sip of beer, the applause and cheers were good enough.

In a moment of quiet someone yelled. "Play the Ramones!"

Joe looked at Sal. He was shaking his head. Sal leaned into his mic. "This idiot said you guys wouldn't want the Ramones, because you can see them any time you want."

A punk shouted. "They don't play here!"

The requests rained down on them. "Blitzkrieg Bop!", "I Wanna Be Sedated", "Teenage Lobotomy."

Joe mouthed an audible to the guys to change his game plan. They jumped into three straight Ramones tunes. The room went nuts. Joe realized he could not have been more wrong. When that run of Ramones ended, the band had a clear majority of the crowd with them.

It was time to set the hook and reel them in. Joe went into carnival barker mode, "Ladies and Gentlemen, step right up!" and did the Punk Chick Dance Off. They definitely liked watching their punk chick friends getting slutty in a dirty dance contest.

The chick jumped up and down. "What do I win?"

"The shirt off my back, if you can take it."

She stared at him, not understanding what he meant.

Sal stepped to his mic, "Kick his ass and take his shirt."

Joe was wearing an orange Hot Wheels shirt. He put his guitar down and squared off like a wrestler. That's when she understood and charged him. He fought her off until he took a hard slap to the face, he went down, faking injury. The hard punks of Hell's Kitchen loved that slap. She eventually prevailed and jumped up and down waving Joe's shirt.

The crowd loved it.

"Okay, I need help with this next song, you know the words. They sing this loud in Boston."

Sal laughed. "There's no way these New York pussies will sing better than Boston."

"Oh, did you hear that? A challenge!" Joe paused. "Yabba Dabba Doo!"

During the set break, the band sat in Tommy's back room. He delivered a round of beers, and was all smiles, like he was having a good time.

"What the fuck was that? My people don't sing. The Flintstones? Who comes up with that shit?"

Johnny pointed at Joe.

"And they didn't throw us out for playing Carly Simon," Joe smiled.

"They thought it was pretty funny. I think the assholes are beginning to warm up to you."

"Yeah, because we played the Ramones," said Sal.

"I admit, I was wrong on that one."

"And I'll never let you forget it."

The second set went better than the first; maybe because Joe had won the punks over, or maybe because they were now drunk. When they requested Johnny Thunders, the band played all four Heartbreakers songs they did. This night was the first time Joe dramatically changed his set list on audience request.

Very late, with only a handful of songs remaining, the punks sang 'Gilligan's Island'. They were drunk and happy, singing along when a blur whizzed by Joe's head. He felt a wet splatter on his arm and neck. People up front flinched. He turned to see Johnny, in shock, not playing, beer and broken glass splattered around him. Joe stopped playing, and Sal and Nate followed.

"What the fuck?"

When Joe turned his attention to the room, several kids were staring at a tall skinny dude with a crew cut, eight rows back, jumping up and down with a wicked smile on his stupid face. The punks looked back to Joe, then again at the beer-throwing asshole. Joe removed his Tele. The crowd parted and he jumped off stage. The lane opened as Joe rushed him. The asshole was waiting, fists clenched.

Joe put his face down, charging like a bull, taking away his target. Bottle Boy landed a grazing shot to Joe's noggin as he buried his head into the punk's chest. He fell back hard. Joe landed half on top of him. Reaching out, Joe's fingers dug into his face. He pulled himself up and over him, then Joe started swinging. He was too close. His punches were weak. Joe crawled over the punk, straddled his torso, and began pounding down. Bottle Boy punched up, then tried to grab Joe's swinging arms.

Someone from behind punched Joe in the side of the head knocking him sideways. As he turned, that guy went crashing to the ground with Sal on top of him punching from above. Bottle Boy was reduced to covering his head. Joe's blows smashed his hands against his face. He squirmed beneath trying to break free. Joe whaled on him like a windmill in a gale.

As he reared back for another shot, someone grabbed Joe's arm. Two punks began pulling him off. When the weight of his body lifted, Bottle Boy tried to get up. Joe pulled his knee close to his chest and unloaded all his energy in a devastating kick. The bottom of Joe's Timberland boot caught him square in the face. He fell back and didn't get up.

Blonde Spiked Hair tried to calm Joe. "Stop, it's over mate. You fucked him up. Take it easy."

Joe looked to his right, Sal had his guy in a choke-hold. He turned back to see Nate plow his fist into some dude's face. Nate's nose was flowing crimson. Johnny was beside Nate, holding a punk by the arms. Nate turned and buried a punch into that kid's face. The first guy bounced back and jumped on Nate. Red Mohawk rammed a fist into that guy's head. Green Mohawk joined the fracas. Big Spike Hair pushed people back, clearing the front stage area. He was joined by Buzz Cut and Short Black Spikes.

"Let me go. I'm good." Joe broke his arms free from the two referees.

Joe's head swiveled from Sal's choke-hold to Nate and Johnny's scrum, which had devolved into a wrestling match of exhausted men. Joe caught Tommy's eye, who shouted orders from behind the bar. His day-drinking punks were in the brawl, smacking down the assholes who were fighting the band.

Sal left his victim lying in a heap. Bottle Boy was delirious from the heel of a boot, his nose pancaked, running red. When he tried to get up, Blonde Spiked Hair kicked him back down. Joe stared at him, confused, 'Is that Billy Idol?'

"Get back to the bloody stage!" He yelled at Joe and Sal. "We got this."

As Joe turned to walk back, Nate and Johnny were being herded by Green Mohawk and Big Spikes toward the stage. Red Mohawk and Buzz Cut were dragging the bloodied patrons toward the door where Tommy's two bouncers waited. Sal and Joe sat on the edge of the stage. Johnny and Nate were seconds behind them.

"Can you believe this shit?" asked Sal.

Johnny was uncharacteristically animated. "That fucker hit me with a bottle."

"Yeah, I know. It almost hit my head."

Nate's cousin Jerry came over with wet bar towels, threw one at Nate, and then looked at the rest of them. "You guys did okay, barely a scratch."

Nate wiped blood off his face and held his head back. His nose was still leaking.

Joe showed Jerry his bloody knuckles. "I need ice for my hand."

"I'll be right back."

Sal smiled big. "You broke that asshole's face with your boot."

"Good, I hope he's scarred for life. That piece of shit could've killed someone."

They sat four abreast, adrenaline still pumping, while Tommy's bouncers threw the fighters to the curb. Billy Idol pushed a dazed Bottle Boy toward the exit, punks slapped him in the head as he passed. They disappeared into the throng of onlookers. The crowd stood gawking at the band, bloodied and bruised, and then a chick started slow clapping. She was joined by another girl, and then the whole crowd. Jerry returned with ice wrapped in a bar towel for Joe's throbbing right hand. He stood up, stepped onto the stage, and took the mic.

"I think our night is over boys and girls."

Someone shouted. "You pussy! Finish the job."

"Our drummer might have a broken nose." Joe pointed at Nate who was stuffing balled-up bar napkins in his nostrils.

"Does he drum with his face?" The whole bar laughed.

Nate stood tall. "I'm good. Give me a minute. Let's finish the set. How's your hand?"

Sal laughed. "Does it matter? He can barely play with good hands?"

"I'll sing."

The crowd cheered as they took the stage, Nate covered in his blood, Joe's new shirt stretched and ripped, his hand wrapped in a dripping towel of ice. Johnny had someone's blood on him, but he was good. Sal was unscathed.

They finished the set to an appreciative crowd. There was no more booing, no heckling and when they closed out with 'I Wanna Be Sedated', they gave The Young Punks a rowdy send-off. As the band packed their gear, Billy Idol walked up.

"Hey, mate, good show, especially the bloody melee." He had an accent. "I'm Simon."

"I'm Joe, thanks for the help."

"No trouble at all. You handled yourself, we just didn't want a riot."

"Does this happen a lot here?"

Simon shrugged. "There have been a few fights, but never with the band."

Joe introduced Simon to the guys.

"That wanker you beat down, his face is destroyed. His mate took him to the hospital."

"Fuck 'em, you don't throw bottles at a band."

"No quarrel here. This place will clear out soon. Before you pack your gear, have a pint with the gang. Don't leave your equipment in your van, never, anywhere in this city, it'll get nicked."

"So, what are you, Limey?" Sal asked.

"Yeah, I came here for university, NYU. I graduated last month. I'm staying in the States for a while. I love this city."

Ten minutes later the band was belly up to the bar with Tommy's asshole punks.

Simon pointed them out. "This is Joe, Johnny, that's Nate and he's Sal." The punks nodded.

Tommy placed four beers in front of them. Simon listed off Tommy's punks. Red Mohawk was Zip. His tall, leggy girlfriend with pink and black hair was Judy. Green Mohawk was Clyde. His bleach-blonde girl was Sunny. Big Spikes was Monk. His girlfriend looked like Cher. Her name was Jett. Buzz Cut was Roberto. Blue spike hair was Adrian.

Simon gestured to the tall blue spikes. "Aid didn't mix it up with those Nazis because of this magnificent coif. He doesn't want to break it."

"It's so fucking impractical," said Zip.

Clyde agreed. "That monstrosity is too much work."

Adrian replied. "You pussies just aren't committed."

"Did you say Nazis?"

Simon nodded. "The nose you flattened belongs to Herman the German. You didn't see his tattoo? He's got the swastika on his arm and the iron cross on the back of his neck."

Sal leaned across Joe. "He's a Nazi, from Germany?"

"Fuck no," answered Clyde. "He's a skinhead from the Lower East Side. His two buddies are Nazis too."

"Do we have to worry about them?" Nate asked.

"Hard to say."

"What about the fourth dude?"

Simon smiled. "He's just some poor bloke who picked the wrong side of a brawl."

Sunny chimed in. "I doubt the German will come for you, but if you run into him again, expect trouble."

Clyde nodded. "Right. He likes to fight, but those tattoos have gotten his ass whipped far more than he's dished out."

"Thanks for having our backs," said Sal.

Monk raised his bottle. "We let it go for a bit to see how you guys handled yourselves before we joined the party."

Zip raised his glass. "Here's to kicking Nazi ass, again." They clinked glasses and bottles.

"Will you guys be okay to play Monday night?" asked Tommy.

"I think so," Joe pointed to his empty pint. "One for the road."

"You should come by tomorrow night," said Zip. "The chick who fronts the band is wild. You'll love her."

Simon agreed. "Jada is amazing. You should check out The Studs."

Joe looked at Simon. "Hey, has anyone ever mentioned that you look like Billy Idol?"

The uproarious reaction of the punks startled Joe. Simon steeled his eyes on him while his crew slapped the bar in laughter. Joe didn't know what the joke was.

Simon turned to his mates. "Which one of you cunts put him up to it?"

Zip was practically in tears. "Nobody man. It's too perfect."

"Bollocks. Who told you to say that?"

"No one," Joe said. "When you stepped into the fight, I thought Billy Idol had my back."

Monk talked through his fading laughter. "Simon hates the Billy Idol likeness. It's so obvious, but he denies it."

"Sorry man, you could easily pass as his brother."

"Fuck you, wankers."

Joe smiled. "You're a dead ringer when you snarl."

The punks laughed again. Simon flipped Joe off.

---- AMAZING AND DISGUSTING ----

Nate woke up with two black eyes, but not a broken nose. Joe's knuckles were badly bruised and raw from cuts. The band had tried to sleep in late but it got so damn hot in that apartment after sun-up that it was hard to rest comfortably. When Uncle Babe showed up with his power tools, they decided to go out and find food. After breakfast, Joe took off on his own to run errands. He first stopped at a payphone. There was a phone in 3C, but he didn't want the guys breaking his balls about calling his sisters,

He had promised Dad he'd call every few days. It was day three.

"Yes, we'll accept the charges," Jackie said to the operator. "Joey?"

"Hey, sis. How's life at the asylum?"

"It's okay, kinda quiet. How's New York?"

"It's gross, amazing, disgusting, incredible, smells like vomit and dog shit, fantastic, and hard to wrap my head around. It's so fucked up here. I love it."

"What are you doing?"

"We played our first gig last night."

"How'd it go?"

"Perfect. Everything was great."

"What else are you doing? Let's see, Sal pissed on Yankee Stadium, he stepped in dog shit in Central Park, we take the subway everywhere, or we're just walking around and checking shit out. I'm out to buy supplies right now."

"Like what?"

"Bed sheets for me, and some stuff we need in the apartment. So is Mom making you crazy?"

"Actually, not really. She seems okay."

"That's good."

They talked a little longer. Joe shared a couple of anecdotes about the hard punks in Hell's Kitchen and promised he'd call again in a few days.

"Give Jules and Jeanie a hug for me and tell Mom and Dad I called... and everything is great."

"I will. Love you, brother."

"Love you, sister."

When Joe returned to apartment 3C, arms overloaded with bags, he found Sal and Nate at the kitchen table. He placed two bags on the brand-new kitchen countertop Uncle Babe had installed the afternoon before and one big bag on the floor.

"Where's Johnny?"

"You didn't see him on the front stoop?" Sal asked.

"No."

"He was just there having a cigarette and talking to that couple on the first floor."