A Stray Cat Struts (24 page)

Everyone at the barbecues was somehow linked either by rock and roll, movies, or baseball. TJ was the lone kid in the mix. I didn't have a nanny, so I was the guy with the kid. He went everywhere with me. John and Linda's house in Sherman Oaks was a combination of Pee-Wee's Playhouse and Graceland done up in exact 1950s Palm Springs Rat Pack style. They hadn't really ever hung out with anyone in New York, and now that they had a house in LA, I think they liked entertaining their friends and bringing a certain group together.

There was a small guesthouse where the roof hung out over the pool. TJ, Eddie Vedder, and I would climb up the back fence, scamper over the sunbaked roof, and jump out and over the patio into the water. It was a bit challenging, ill advised, and dangerous. We did it until Eddie slipped and hit his head. They asked us to stop, and we did, but not before dozens of successful jumps were made over the years.

John and Linda were the perfect rock-and-roll hosts. They tried to keep everyone's favorites on hand. If someone mentioned a preferred brand of potato chips or beer, it was there the next week. There were vegetarian and fish options available off the grill. The ball game was on the TV, some vintage rock music was on the stereo, and everyone chatted away and got along well. This was a punk rock So-Cal version of a salon. Everyone there had been through it all on their own time and had lived to tell in a nonpreachy way. There was no darkness, no drug vibe, and no one was there to pick anybody up or do any business. I think that after years on the road and living in cramped quarters in New York City, they genuinely enjoyed being in sunny LA, entertaining and bringing together interesting groups of people that they were friendly with. Britt and I had done this when we lived on Doheny Drive, so I related and respected what they were doing every weekend. I also appreciated the good home-cooked food that TJ and I would get without going to the Rainbow.

Linda was the queen of her pink-and-green castle. She would cater and serve everyone while always tooled up in classic designer miniskirts and boots under an apron like June Cleaver–meets–Nancy Sinatra with a twist of Debbie Harry. The queen's accent and expressions never softened.

“Wadda ya need, Slim? Yoo got wot ya want?”

“All good.”

I liked ginger ale, and TJ liked root beer.

“I got Canada Dry and Schweppes.”

“Whatever. They're both fine.”

“Well, which one?”

“Um, Schweppes.”

“Coming up.”

A glass full of ice and ginger ale complete with lime wedge would appear with a cocktail napkin underneath.

When it came to the root beer and dealing with TJ, John got really involved. He liked root beer, too. Each week he would stock a new brand, and he and TJ would sip and compare like wine connoisseurs. TJ had a Ramones-style pageboy haircut, and the sight of the two of them in their bathing suits comparing notes on root beer is a classic image in my mind. These afternoons were good for me to unwind, as TJ would swim with the others and hone his skills of being able to hang with anyone.

One time, John asked TJ what he thought of that week's selection.

“It's okay, but last week's was better,” TJ answered as he shrugged and slurped.

“It's the same kind; you said you liked it last week, so I got the same one this week,” replied John in his clipped tone.

“No, it's not; this one is different,” answered TJ.

“The same,” said John.

“Different,” said TJ.

This went back and forth a few more times, and it was starting to get like a school yard argument. I saw this from across the room and stepped in to tell TJ to back off and not argue with an adult. Linda had also seen it and told John, “Leave the kid alone, John. Who cares?”

There was one last round of disagreement before I glared at TJ, and he told John he was sorry and that he was thankful for any root beer. John accepted the apology, and we moved on with the day. John was forty-seven, and TJ was eight.

Next week, we turned up as usual for a barbecue and a swim. There were a few of the gang already there, Dion and the Belmonts were on the record player, all was cool on another sunny Sunday. John greeted us, said hello, and then gave TJ the come-here motion with his finger. TJ obeyed and followed John to the kitchen. John went to the counter and presented a tray with a white napkin over it. He pulled the napkin off like a magician doing a flourish to a trick. On the tray were three Dixie cups, each with two ounces of root beer in them. Each had a little index card to correspond to the cup.

“Drink this one,” John said as he handed the first one to TJ.

This was repeated three times, and after each one, John asked TJ to identify the brand of root beer and then turned over the index card to reveal the brand name, written in his perfect little printing.

“A&W,” TJ said.

“Wrong; it's Dad's,” answered John dryly.

Next one, TJ guessed, “Barq's, definitely!”

“Wrong again; it's Hires!” John confidently answered.

Last one, TJ sipped and offered his expert opinion and guessed wrong again. John defiantly stood in front of TJ like a prosecuting attorney who had just gotten the criminal to confess and said, “I rest my case; you don't know the difference!”

TJ was momentarily flabbergasted, as were Linda and I. Then I was flattered that John had gone to all this trouble to prove his point to my kid. I think that TJ was the first, last, and only child that John ever interacted with. He needed to prove his point even to an eight-year-old. That was who he was. TJ said, “Okay, you win,” and went off to jump in the pool.

John had a two-toned blue-and-white 1957 Ford convertible with a retractable hard top. This car was heavy and hard to stop, start, and steer. It was a real beast to drive. I have always driven old cars and am familiar with them. John, being a native New Yorker, didn't like to drive in general, but this car was supercool, and he liked being in it. I would get the chauffeur's job, and we'd all pile in for cruises along snaky, scenic Mulholland Drive.

When John got very sick, a few of that gang would go and visit him. We sat on the leopard-skin couch and watched baseball games and talked about everything except the fact that he was terminal. He just wanted to spend as much time as he could in the house that he loved, to pursue his hobbies, go to baseball games and good restaurants, and entertain some friends on the weekends. He looked at rock and roll as a job, saved his money, and wanted to retire in a civilized way. He was one of those cats who, like me, is very happy and proud to be from New York but really understands and loves living in LA. You can turn on the New York when it's needed but have had most of the rough edges rounded off by traveling the world. It's unfair that he worked on the road for so long and brought such great music and attitude to the world only to have his retirement spoiled by illness.

*   *   *

He was a special guy, one of a kind, and I'm very honored that he was a close friend. I'm still very close with Linda. Every year, there's a tribute where she celebrates Johnny's life at his graveside statue at Hollywood Forever Cemetery with the showing of an old horror film on a drive-in movie screen, a little gig, and some remembrances. This past year was the tenth one, and it's turned into a fan favorite, drawing a couple of thousand people. All the old gang helps out, and it's a chance for everyone to be in the same place at the same time. A little bit of a sadder occasion than a poolside barbecue in the sun, but it's a good charity event that raises money and awareness.

John's early passing made everyone feel a bit more mortal. He was the strongest, most rigid guy I knew, and if it could happen to him, it could happen to anyone, including me. It seemed like a bum rap for him. Unconsciously, I felt that every day in Beverly Glen, every ball game, every drive in the hills, every box score in the sports section should be appreciated a little more and not taken for granted. I was definitely affected by his death. It was the first time I had ever experienced the slow passing of a friend. I had known a few people who died suddenly from drugs or a car accident, but this time, we sat on the couch together, and I watched it happen slowly. We still go up to the Ramones' ranch for the occasional barbecue, where we inevitably talk about the fabled root beer incident.

 

20

Whatever I Can Do to Help

I was standing around, drinking coffee late at night next to the van with Captain Sensible and the crew members, at a truck stop somewhere in England, when Mikey Boy Peters came back over to the van and calmly told us, “My cancer has come back.”

There was a collective gasp. How do you respond to that? This was one of my truest pals ever and the singer in a band we were currently on a tour with. No one spoke. We were all bundled up, shifting from foot to foot, trying to stay warm, and even in the cold, no one was anxious to get back into the van. I remember getting very hot under my heavy overcoat; my scarf was pulled up around my face, and the steam from my breath was fogging up my glasses. It was English weather—damp, cold, and windy in the parking lot—the nearby motorway traffic was whizzing by, and the whole scene was lit by the usual fluorescent streetlights and signs in an English roadside services stop parking lot at 2:00
A.M.
We had just finished a show, and we were driving overnight to the next one. More luxury and glamour, but with this gang, I didn't mind; we were all pals and equals.

The Jack Tars is a good side project. We each bring a few hit songs to the table, and the fans like this combination of musicians. We continue to do this band with Captain Sensible, Mikey Boy in remission from his cancer, and current permanent member Chris Cheney from the Australian rockabilly/pop/rock band the Living End. He sings and plays guitar as good as anyone I've ever worked with and is a true pal. We first met when his older sister had to smuggle him into the shows on a Cats Australian tour in the 1980s. My son, TJ, later discovered his band, and we stayed reconnected. The Jack Tars is a bunch of beloved characters. Sometime guests and members include true pal Billy Duffy from the Cult, true pal Glen Matlock from the Sex Pistols, good buddy Duff McKagan from Guns N' Roses, Mick Jones from the Clash, Rami Jaffee and Chris Shiflett from the Foo Fighters, and good buddy and super-talented fellow Long Islander Fred Armisen.

Fred's the creator and star of the fantastic sketch TV show
Portlandia,
and he did a long, successful stint on
Saturday Night Live
. Fred and I have a good connection. His childhood train stop on the LIRR was in Valley Stream, not far from ours in Massapequa. He's a longtime musician and fan; it turned out that he had seen the Cats play very early on. Besides being a real drummer, he has an act where he sings and plays a perfectly researched, invented punk rock character called Ian Rubbish. He is a perfect fit for the Jack Tars. I'm happy to know him.

Captain Sensible is almost indescribable, a one-of-a-kind, unique character. As a founding member of the original punk rock band the Damned, he's become a British institution. He's reinvented himself a few times along the way and is now a punk rock elder statesman in the best sense of the word. I'm fortunate to count him as a true pal and a bandmate. We've piled up a lot of road miles and sound checks together. One of our tours in the UK coincided with his attempted run for Parliament, as the Blah! Party representative. It didn't seem to me to just be a stunt. The guy is passionate and knows his stuff. It's not easy, punk rock and antipolitics.

There are tales around him of legendary bad punk rock behavior. I've only had positive times with the cat, although I did have to hold his hand a few times on bumpy flights and once had to read to him during some exceptionally rough turbulence on a flight from London to New York City. At the end of the day, he's a wicked good guitar player and a lovely bloke.

Mike Peters and I go back thirty-five years. His band, Seventeen, would later become the Alarm. They were the opening act on the first Stray Cats UK tour in 1980. They turned up at the gigs and pretended they were the official opening act. It took ten shows until anyone realized there was no official opening act. By then, we all liked them, and they did the rest of the tour. The last night of the tour was in Blackpool, and we whooped it up at the show. It was Christmas 1980, and the Cats had a top-ten hit record on the British charts; “Runaway Boys” was at number nine when they froze the charts for the two-week Christmas break. We had followed through with everything we knew we could accomplish and had been shooting for.

In a tragic coincidence of that tour, we were in Liverpool on the day John Lennon was killed back in our hometown of New York City. I was and am a Lennon guy. I can't even say how much I love and respect the man and his music. I can get choked up every time by thinking about it for too long. Liverpool was a mythic musical place to me like Memphis or Lubbock. The club we played was called Erik's, and I think it's been on the club circuit a long time. Everyone has played there. It's right in the section of town where the Beatles had played the Cavern Club a hundred or more times. At the time, this place was the closest thing to playing the old Cavern Club, which was across the street but closed down. We were looking forward to visiting a music mecca. No one we knew had ever been there, for sure. The pile of flowers in front of the club was ten feet high. People were just walking by and throwing bouquets on the pile. There was a heavy vibe in the city, but we didn't cancel, and everyone was nice to us, and we had a great show. We did an encore of “I Saw Her Standing There” with Seventeen coming up to sing along. Lennon was a well-known Gene Vincent fan and a rockabilly at heart. I've always liked to think he would have dug the Stray Cats.

After a high-energy show and big encore, I was in a bathroom stall doing a little powder when the door was kicked in and flew off the hinges toward me. I was dragged out and knocked to the floor by some angry security guards. They kicked me over and over again. I tried to crawl away and hide under the sink. With the help of crew member and buddy Bobby Startup, I got to my feet and out of the bathroom. There was a full-scale riot going on in the club and in the parking lot. I later found out that a girlfriend of one of the security guards was in the dressing room. All of this happened over the untrue and mistaken idea that some awful drunken woman was in our dressing room. One thing led to another, and the security guards stormed the bathroom where I was. This led to someone in the club getting a foot stepped on or beer spilled, which led to someone throwing a punch, and it was game on, and the audience was involved, too. People were just fighting each other, and the club security was going at it for no good reason other than it was Saturday night in Blackpool. These were the classic tuxedo-clad, no-neck or -brains gorillas that worked in the clubs in the north of England. These are horrible characters and would even be funny caricatures if not for their violent nature and quick tempers. I was unaware of this sort but have seen them a lot in the years since. They seem to propagate in club culture. This time it was not my fault. A few of our crew guys were caught up in the melee and were busted up pretty good. Lee and Brian were both uninvolved and unhurt. They had gotten out of the dressing room and into a car and avoided any injury.