All The Young Punks Pt. 20

Joe had lunch with Simon the day after the canceled gig at The Belmont. They were nursing their drinks with the check on the table. He asked Si if he was ready to step on stage if Johnny let the band down again. Simon restated his position that he'd only fill in for Johnny if Sal was on board.

"After last night," Joe said, "I think it's inevitable that he'll fuck off on us again." He sipped his coffee. "Sal will have to see that we need a plan B if he wants the band to survive."

"When I hear it from Sal, I'll believe it."

"You've said a few times that you'd love to get up and play with us."

"Not as a replacement for Johnny," Simon stirred his tea.

"I still haven't seen you play a chord," Joe smirked. "How do I know you're not full of shit?" He stared at Si. "All this talk about London music conservatories and playing five instruments could be rubbish."

Simon didn't take the bait, so Joe poked him again. "This music degree from NYU, what good is it if you're not making music? The least you could do is be in some music-related field. You work the third shift at a bakery."

"I owe you no confirmation of my skill and knowledge, or an explanation," Simon said while sipping his tea. "And we do honest work while you sleep in your warm bed."

"Right, you don't owe me, but I sure would like to see evidence of said skills." Joe smiled. "And you're right, Tina's bed is so warm and cozy."

"Piss off, wanker."

"What are you doing after this?"

"After what?"

"Lunch."

"Not a bloody thing."

"Great," Joe picked up the check. "I'm buying you lunch and you're paying me back with two hours of your day."

"Oh bloody hell. Even I get sick of record shops. Vinyl is your heroin."

"It's not a record shop. I promise. It's better. I hope." Joe threw cash on the table and motioned to the waitress. He stood and pointed north. "Let's go ya lazy limey."

Simon sighed and got up, grabbing his brown R.A.F. leather and putting it on as he walked.

From the West Village, they took the One-train to Chelsea. They were quiet on the train. Joe people watched, including Simon. He was a thick Brit but he wasn't muscle-bound. Si was a little spongey. He had big hands, like Sal. Joe smiled at him. He couldn't believe how close he felt to Simon after only seven weeks of friendship.

They got off at 23rd Street. Joe led Simon west to The Chelsea Hotel. They walked inside. Joe stopped and took in the lobby. He turned to Simon. "Do you know who lives here?"

"It's a hotel," Simon said. "Tourists and businessmen."

Joe smirked. "So you don't know? You've been in New York City for what, five years?... and you don't know Sid and Nancy lived here? This is where they found her last year."

"Oh, fuck," Simon said. "The Hotel Chelsea. Yeah." Suddenly Simon was interested and began taking in the lobby.

"They were the riff-raff. The Chelsea has upstanding, resident literary giants, like Ginsberg and Bukowski. And there are a few disreputable amongst them."

"Huh," Simon examined a painting. "I didn't know. I've been busy with my studies."

"You claim to love New York. You should know more than you do. Dylan lived here." Joe walked toward the restaurant. "And they all drank in here. Let's check out El Quiote."

After a quick stroll through the hotel's South American restaurant and bar, they sipped out the El Quiote entrance, and they were back on the street. Joe led Simon south on 8th Street to 20th.

"I have some unfinished business to attend to," Joe said. "I need to do this before I leave town. I shoulda done it already but Tina is fucking my brains out so hard I've become forgetful."

"You're such an arse."

"And a lucky arse at that." Joe stopped in front of a plain office building, three stories. There was an empty street-level unit and one other. On the door read Cohen Studios. Joe pulled the door open and waved Simon in. The reception desk was empty. They stood quietly. No one came out.

They waited longer.

Joe snooped around the desk. "Hey, there's a buzzer. I'm gonna hit it."

"No, what if it's an alarm?"

"That's what I hoping for." Joe pressed the button on the desk. A red light turned on down a hallway. Joe saw the glow. There was no sound. Fifteen seconds passed and a voice called out.

"On my way."

When Marty Cohen saw Joe standing in his reception area, he smiled and put his hand straight out, kinda awkward and stiff-armed. Joe took his hand.

"I'm surprised to see you, Joe," he said. "I guess I gave up on you."

"I'm sorry about that. We've been gigging and digging New York, and I just..."

"He fell in love," Simon jumped in.

"Simon," Joe said, "This is Marty Cohen. He gave me his card at Tommy's a month back." He turned to Marty. "Simon's one of the neer-do-wells at Tommy's."

Marty shook Simon's hand. Si looked at Joe. "Fucking neer-do-well?" He turned to Marty. "I have a fresh degree in economics from NYU and another in music."

"Pfft," Joe rolled his eyes. "It's a minor in music. Big whoop."

Simon's eyes bugged. He pointed at Joe. "This mother fucker just graduated high school, and I'm guessing barely... and he's fucking pissing on my education. A neer-do-well?"

Joe laughed and looked at Marty. "I love winding him up. His accent pops when gets going, and Simon is an excitable boy."

"He's an arse like that. Puts lovely Tina through hell."

Marty's quiet, mundane day was loudly interrupted. He was a bookish Jew, maybe 5'7" and thin. Joe saw a slight resemblance to that guy who directed Jaws, but he couldn't recall the Jewish director's name. That annoyed him. 'Fuck, what's that guy's name?' Marty's eyeglasses and hair created the likeness.

"So, Marty," Joe said. "I do feel bad I didn't get here sooner. I had to check in before we left town just to touch base. I wanted you to know I didn't blow you off. It's not like we would be recording this time out... but in the future?"

"I'm happy to see you." Marty stepped aside. "Come this way. I assume you'd like to see my studio."

"Yes, of course."

Joe and Simon got the tour. Two sound studios, one larger than the other, two control rooms, one larger than the other. The bigger studio had two isolation booths. Marty walked them past two offices to his artists' lounge area. As they walked, he explained his business.

"I own the building. The office tenants upstairs pay for this entire operation. I can't wow you with music credits. This is a working studio. I've had hundreds of musicians come through here, but not even a one-hit wonder."

"We should probably fix that," Joe smiled as Marty offered him a seat on a couch in the lounge.

Joe sat down. "We won't take up much of your time." Simon sat beside him. "I just wanted to tell you we're heading home to Rhode Island. The band won't be back for a while, but I'll come to see my girl, and we'd like to visit again."

"That would be great. You're welcome anytime."

"I'll call ahead," Joe said, "I might want to use that small studio. This bloke will be with me if that's okay."

"Of course. Just the two of you recording?"

"No, just to use your space to play loud guitar and work on original music. That's the missing piece to my band. We only have a handful of original songs and we don't play them enough. They're not that great."

"They're fine," Simon said. "I like You Don't Want Me." He turned to Marty. "It's very Ramones in style and tone."

Joe smiled. "I totally ripped off their style. It's fun to play."

"If you call ahead, I'll squeeze you in." Marty leaned closer and whispered. "Don't tell anyone, but we're not that busy here."

Back on the street, Simon poked Joe. "You pulled a move in there, showing me this place and telling Marty you want to record original music. Did you expect me to take the bait?"

"I'm gonna put that fucking music minor to work if it's the last thing I do." Joe turned to Simon as they walked. "Do you have any idea how much it annoys me that you don't play? You're letting that education..." he wiggled his fingers. "And these... rot on the vine."

"Yeah, yeah, you've said it."

"This high school punk has done a lot more than you with a lot fucking less... and that's bullshit, Si. We need to fix that."

"What about Johnny?"

Joe stopped. "This has nothing to do with him. This isn't about The Young Punks." He turned and resumed walking. "It's about you."

A half block away Joe shouted, "Steven Spielberg! Fuck. That was driving me crazy."

Simon stared at Joe. "What?"

"Never mind."

---- THE VILLAGE VOICE ---

The following night, Johnny was not high for the final show at Tommy's, but he wasn't well. He started off playing okay but deteriorated as the first set wore on. It seemed to Joe that Johnny might play better on smack than he did without it. That was not a comforting thought. Johnny was trying, but struggling to hit his leads, and then resorted to his half-assed shortcuts.

At the bar, between sets, Monk called Joe over. "Do you have your setlist written down?"

"Yeah."

"Can I see it?"

"No. I never show it to anyone outside the band."

"Jesus Christ, you're not Joe Strummer. Let me see it. It's important."

Joe pulled a folded piece of yellow legal pad paper from his pocket and handed it to Monk. He then brought it over to the hard punks a few stools down. He unfolded it, read it, and then called out.

"I have New Rose," Monk handed the sheet to Zip.

"I'm taking You're So Vain," Zip handed it to Judy.

Judy ran her finger down the list. "The Saints Are Coming."

One by one, the punks looked at the list and claimed a song, eight punks in all. When they offered it to Tommy, he glanced at Joe and waved them off. He then poured Joe a pint and delivered it.

"How much?" Clyde asked the group.

"I'm good for five bucks," Sunny said.

Tommy leaned over the bar toward Joe, "They have a pool going. What song will Johnny puke during? He looks like shit, kid." Tommy looked to the opposite end of the bar. Johnny had his arms folded on the bar, head down.

"Does he have to puke? Zip asked. "What if he falls down, or just quits."

"It's all the same," Monk said. "Hurling, passing out, walking off stage in the middle of the song. Agreed?"

"What if he walks off between songs?" Roberto asked.

"I say the last song he played is the winner," Zip suggested.

"Hey," Sunny said, "what if he plays the whole set?"

"The last song taken takes the cash," Clyde smiled. "That's why I took White Punks On Dope, it's the closer. I'm betting Johnny goes the distance."

No one agreed with that bet. Joe appreciated that someone had faith in Johnny. After the bets were placed, Monk called over to Joe. "Can we keep this to see how...."

"Fuck off," Joe said. They handed it over. He put it in his pocket and turned toward the stage to see a young man standing a few feet away. He smiled at Joe. It was weird. Then he approached.

"Hi, Joe? I'm Greg Stanhope. I'm with the Village Voice. Could you spare a few minutes?" He gestured to a table behind him where a woman sat. There were two empty seats. Tina walked up behind Joe and hugged him. He turned to her.

"This guy's from The Village Voice. I'm gonna talk with him, okay?"

"Oh," Tina smiled. "You should definitely do that."

Joe had seen this guy at Tommy's before, at least twice. He sat across from him, the woman between them.

"This is Mika, my fiance."

Joe nodded, "Nice to meet you."

She smiled and leaned in, "You guys are great, so much fun."

"That's the word on the street."

Joe glanced over at Johnny, passed out on the bar, hoping he'd get back up for the second set. He didn't want the Village Voice to print that his lead guitarist was too fucked up to finish a gig.

"I know you've already seen us and you'll write what you think, but I'll give you three questions. I have to get back up and earn my pay."

Stanhope nodded. "This first item is not a question. I want to verify facts I've picked up from talking to the regulars, okay? These kids really like you."

"Sure." 'Kids?' Joe thought. 'This guy isn't much older than them.'

"You're from Providence. The band has been playing together for a year and a half. You first played this bar in mid-July. You're going home soon. All good?

"You did phrase that in a question," Joe smirked. "but I'll let it slide. Yeah, that's all good."

"I've heard a couple of originals in your set. Do you have any plans to record?"

"Someday, hopefully soon. We're working on it. I've looked at a studio here."

"Who's writing your songs?"

"I write our music." Joe sensed that his short answers annoyed him.

"What's the origin of the show? Where did you come up with the tricks?"

"I wanted to do something different. There are thousands of cover bands playing at bars. You need to stand apart from the pack and grab people's attention. The singalongs and contests we do make our fans part of the show. Don't you think?"

"Oh yes, that's why we're talking. Your show is great. Are you the leader of the band?"

"Oh no, don't print anything like that." Joe pointed at him. "We all bring something to the table. Sal is a huge influence on us. He's our fixer. It's a long story. And that was five questions."

"I know, sorry. Can I verify your names?"

Joe sighed. "I'm Joe, Sal's on bass, Nate is drums and Johnny is lead guitar."

"Thanks for the time, Joe."

"It was nice meeting you," Joe nodded as he stood.

The couple smiled from their seats. As Joe was walking away, Greg added one comment. "Hey, you just made a club full of jaded punks in this cynical city sing cartoon theme songs, that's pretty fucking cool."

"We're punk rock Vaudeville," Joe smiled. "a carnival sideshow."

Greg grinned and scribbled on his pad.

Joe walked off thinking, 'He's printing that line, guaran-fucking-teed.'

Johnny got back up and did his job, on the edge, white-knuckling through the second set. Joe noticed he went from pale to green, thinking whoever picked Born To Lose as their song might win the puke pool. Somehow, Johnny hung on and kept his churning stomach in check.

Near the end of the night, Joe quieted the crowd with the universal stage performer's move of waving arms like wings to lower the din.

"Hey. I have a question for you regulars. Has anyone here ever witnessed our resident Brit play guitar?" He paused a long pause. "I mean, Simon talks a good game with his fancy London conservatory music education and his..." Joe paused and then punched the word, "Minor music degree from NYU, but has anyone ever seen him actually perform?"

Joe looked over the crowd. Tommy was smiling alongside cousin Jerry. They knew Joe had something up his sleeve. Simon did not look happy with so many eyes on him, including Joe's.

There were no affirmative answers as Joe scanned over the room.

He nodded, "Okay, two hundred and forty punks, and not one has seen Simon play?"

There were no replies, just murmurs and people looking around at one another, and casting gazes on Simon. He squirmed on his bar stool with Monk, Zip, Clyde, Jett, Sunny, and all the hard punks staring intensely at him, smiling, exchanging glances, loving that Joe was calling him out.

"Wouldn't you like to see him get up here to prove he's not full of shit?... or is it shite?"

The room erupted, especially around the bar. Joe looked over at Sal.

Sal nodded. "I'd like to see it."

"Let's do this, Si," Joe said with glee. "Sal's on board. Show us what you got. Put up," he paused and pointed at Simon, "or fucking shut up."

The room cheered at the drama Joe had created out of thin air.

"I don't have my guitar!" Simon shouted from the bar.

"You can use mine." Joe pulled his Jag over his head and presented it. "I'll just sing."

The punks cheered. Zip and Clyde pushed Simon toward the stage. He resisted, but as the cheers grew the pressure mounted. How could he not accept the challenge? He slowly made his way to the stage. Joe offered him a hand to pull him up. As he landed on stage, Simon pulled Joe closer and spoke in his ear.

"You asshole. You planned this whole bloody day."

Joe smiled, "Yes, I did." He slapped his R.A.F. shoulder patch. "You can thank me later."

Simon took Joe's '64 Fender Jaguar with his friends cheering, strummed a few chords, fiddled, and looked at Joe, then at his punk mates at the bar. He leaned into a mic. "When this nonsense is over, you'll all know how mediocre Joe is on guitar."

Paying no regard to Joe's setlist, Simon launched into a song they had not yet played that night. The band joined in and Joe followed Simon's lead, singing their punk version of Paint It Black.

Joe watched Simon play, pointing and making faces at the crowd. Then he sang his parts, paying no attention to the guitars. Joe liked being a frontman vocalist. It was a nice break to not play guitar on every song... freeing.

Simon didn't play flashy, he even deferred to Johnny on the lead. It seemed Johnny rose to the occasion, maybe seeing Joe's latest stunt as a passive-aggressive message... which it certainly was. On the second song, Simon chose The Saints Are Coming by The Skids, a Scottish band. That's when he cut loose. The band jammed on rhythm while he ripped an extended lead that led them into a long jam, not punk, just a great instrumental jam. When it was over, Joe bowed to Simon.

"He's right," Joe shouted. "I suck."

Simon handed Joe his guitar, "This Jag is cherry." Without another word, he walked off stage to cheering punks. The band completed their set, two punk covers, Rebel Rebel, and the F Troop singalong. When they reached the final song, White Punks On Dope, Clyde yelled from the bar, "You're the man, Johnny!"

---- THIRD WHEEL ----

Maybe it was the fact they were done playing in New York and he didn't have to stress about his strung-out guitarist, the moment Joe stepped off the stage at the end of their set, he felt a weight of weeks in this city lift off his soul. He had promised Tina she would have him to herself for the last thirty-six hours. He was looking forward to keeping that promise.

He joined Tina and Simon at the bar. "What the fuck was that commotion during Rebel Rebel?" He asked Simon. "Were you in the middle of that?"

"Yes. I was walking to the men's room and this wanker gave me a hard shoulder. I turned and he looked like he was ready to go. He got in my face and threw an elbow."

"It looked like more than an elbow."

"His mates joined in. Clyde and Monk moved in. It was just stupid schoolboy threats and pushing."

"Tommy saw the whole thing," Tina added. "He called in his goons and they gave him the boot."

Simon smiled. "The hard shoulder landed on his arse on the sidewalk, face down."

Joe shook his head, "I wouldn't mess with Tommy's Goons."

After the post-game one beer and one shot, Joe nudged Tina. "Are you ready to roll?"

"I'm really hungry," she said. "Can we get a bite?"

"Sure," Joe said, then turned to the punks. "Alright ladies, we're out of here. I'll see you... I don't know, maybe in a couple of months?" He reached across the bar and shook Tommy's hand. "Thanks for everything TG. I'll call you when I know for sure."

"Be good, Joe."

After saying goodbyes to the crew, saving Simon for last, Joe stepped toward the door.

"C'mon Simon," Tina said. "We're getting food."

Joe furrowed his brow and leaned in to whisper, "I thought it was just you and me?"

"I didn't say that. I said I'll make the rules. Simon can come for breakfast."

Joe shrugged, "Okay, you're the boss."

He didn't mind having Simon as the third wheel. Joe was glad Tina adored Simon. Life is easier when the best people in your life are also friends, especially if your girl is one of them. This late-night diner tradition was started by them. Simon should be at the last diner stop of their summer in the city.