I saw GG Allin in New York City in 1988. Well... kinda.
It was a Saturday night in November of that year and I was just hopping around the East Village by myself, feeling rather bored, when I was informed that GG happened to be playing in town that night. The gig was at the Lismar Lounge on First Avenue, and believe it or not, it was his second of two appearances there! It could very well be that the Lismar was the only club in NYC brave enough to actually have him back a second time. GG's first gig there, unbeknownst to me then, had been a full year earlier, in November 1987. Years later, I was rather shocked to learn of this, and for good reason: I played my very first gig in that very same bar just three months later, not knowing at the time who had taken that small, dingy stage before me (though honestly, it didn't make much difference in the end).
But anyway, I somehow found myself all by my lonesome at the Lismar, contemplating whether or not I should actually avail myself of this golden opportunity to see GG Allin. It was early and the doors to the downstairs band room wouldn't be open for maybe another hour. This gave me plenty of time to think about it, so I figured I'd do so over a drink. And as I sat there at the bar on the Lismar's main floor nursing my beverage, I looked over to my right... and there he was. Yes, it was GG himself, entertaining a tiny crowd of about 3 or 4 fans who looked just as slimey and decrepit as he was.
Oh, he was totally behaving himself. In fact, he seemed to be doing little more than just talking to this trusty, crusty little circle of followers while having a quiet drink himself. If I hadn't known who he was, I'd honestly have thought he was just another punk sitting at the bar with some friends. I certainly wasn't fearing for my life, but I just as certainly wasn't about to move over to the barstool next to his and introduce myself. So I just stayed where I was and watched GG out of the corner of my eye. There really isn't more I can say about my close encounter with GG because truthfully, nothing happened.
At any rate, I soon finished my drink and then made my way downstairs, still trying to decide whether I should stay for GG's show. And truth be told, I was this close to throwing all caution to the wind and going for it -- you only live once, right? But when I got downstairs, just as the doorman took his place at the entrance to the basement (which would, again, play host to my own very first live gig just months later), I was immediately informed admission would be a full ten bucks. Again, bear in mind that it was 1988, and ten dollars was then roughly equivalent to just over twice as much money in today's currency (about $22). I felt that was a bit too much more than I was willing to pay to see GG Allin, and that settled the issue for me once and for all. And so I made my excuses and headed to a quiet evening at home instead.
It turned out I'd made a very smart choice. For just a few days later I found out what I'd missed... or rather, didn't miss. It seems that sometime after our little "encounter" at the bar, GG shot up some very potent heroin a fan had slipped him, and by showtime he was completely incoherent and unable to even stand up. I'm told he stumbled down the stairs to the basement, mumbled his way through just two songs, and then collapsed, and that was the whole show. No pooping, no self-mutilation, no attacking the crowd, none of the things you'd have expected GG to do. He was simply too fucked up. With the doorman refusing to offer refunds, the crowd is said to have then turned on GG and given him a hearty dose of his own medicine, and that was that.
I wasn't sorry I missed it. Deciding against seeing GG Allin "perform live" on that night in November 1988 was the wisest decision I ever made in my entire four decades' worth of going to live shows. But at least I can say our paths crossed... and that's more than enough for me!
Anyhow, here's footage from Youtube of GG's set at the Lismar the previous year. I'm rather surprised that GG live videos are actually (presumably) allowed on YT, and even more surprised that this performance is actually pretty tame by GG standards -- he seems almost laid-back here! Perhaps it's not all that surprising that they allowed him back a second time...
(This is the long-overdue continuation of a multi-part blog entry I began early last year, and would've continued much sooner had it not been for several recent unforeseen and tragic events in my personal life. Part 1 can be read here. I dedicate Part 2 to the memory of Wendy Chioji, who inspired one of my many songs discussed here, and who sadly lost her long battle with cancer in October 2019. Rest in power, Wendy.)
After losing the last available roof over my head in NY/NJ in August 2007, it became obvious to me that there was no further point in trying to stay up there any longer and I should just submit full-throttle to a new life in central Florida... so I did. Mind you, my credibility amongst those who had come to know me there had been given a fairly considerable boost while I'd been away, thanks to a very brief (and highly disillusioning) collaboration I'd undertaken with a certain lo-fi pioneer I honestly didn't even think anyone in Orlando would ever have heard of. I soon learned this enlightenment was in large part due to said artist's associations with Ariel Pink, an artist with a loyal following amongst the Florida folks I'd met. But while this sudden increase in my notoriety in O-Town had given me something to build on (despite my continued desire to ride no one else's coattails in that regard), it still didn't make the idea of starting over yet again seem much easier at first.
During my first stay in Florida, I had written the first songs I would write in my time there. Surely in those difficult early days, I had a lot of time to do so. It was inevitable that these new compositions would reflect my new situation and the things I was finding in Florida, and at first they were totally bitter and negative in nature ("Country Club Prison," "Leesburg Is A Lie") until the experience of seeing Dodger at the Peacock Room finally inspired my first Florida-positive song, "022605" (cryptically named for the date of my Orlando epiphany, February 26, 2005). Soon afterward I would write a second, even more lighthearted tune about a local newscaster named Wendy Chioji who I'd first heard about via the WPRK 100 Hours Marathon and seen on TV a bunch of times since then. One day, while bored out of my mind, I took to attempting to rhyme Miss Chioji's unique surname and came up with enough silly couplets to base some lyrics on, resulting in a song simply named "Wendy Chioji." I had no intention of releasing this song, though... at least not then.
But eight months after I settled into Orlando life, in the spring of 2008, Wendy announced she was retiring from the anchor post she'd held at WESH 2 News for over 20 years. As she'd become a local legend in her time, her announcement sent shockwaves through the city, and it was only then I realized I'd written a song about a true star. That's when the lightbulb went on above my head and I rewrote the song by changing the lyrics into a plea for her not to leave Orlando and expanding its title to "Wendy Chioji Please Don't Goji." Then, on a wild and sudden whim, I posted the song on Myspace and sent notifications to both the Sentinel and Orlando Weekly announcing the song's release.
My crazy-ass scheme worked. Both papers reviewed the song and the resulting attention translated into hundreds of plays. Wendy was even quoted in the Sentinel praising both the song and my singing talent, which I honestly admit made my heart tingle. And as fate would have it, the very first two folks I'd met in Orlando took quick and profound notice of my bold stunt and deemed it worthy of further exposure. Matt Kamm, by then doing business post-Dodger under the name of Tele, offered me my very first live gig in town that July 4th weekend, and Dave Plotkin, Mr. 110 Hours himself, invited me to plug the song on WPRK, promising an on-air, face-to-face meeting with Wendy herself as part of the deal.
Mind you, I had very likely crossed paths with Wendy at the 110 Hours Marathon, on which she had been a live guest, but of course I didn't know a thing about her at the time and so regarded her as just another face in the crowd. I only wish I'd known better back then, for ultimately she was a no-show for my big turn on Plotkin's program. Nonetheless, Dave and I engaged WPRK's listeners for two hours on a show which aired in a prime midweek afternoon drive-time slot. As for my first-ever O-Town gig, on July 5th, 2008 at a brand new dive bar on the Mills 50 strip called Uncle Lou's, I ended up playing to 10 people on a hot, sweaty afternoon in a smoke-filled room on a shitty acoustic guitar, clearly unaccustomed to playing my new songs for any sort of audience, especially one in a city I'd never played before. But by now it was clear a new chapter had begun and I had officially crossed over from the outside to the inside of the Orlando scene. Suddenly my NJ homeland seemed farther away than ever... but that was not such a bad thing anymore.
Sometime just before my '06 move back to NJ, I'd written yet another song... though this one wasn't quite about Florida. I guess you could say it was inspired somewhat by Orlando, as it was written in the afterglow of a visit to Will's Pub (then at its original location) and a dream I'd had when I got home. There was a band onstage in the dream at a place quite like Will's, singing a song which went, "New music women have such cute noses." When I woke up, I wrote a real life version of the song in my dream. Like the Wendy Chioji song before it, this song was also initially unintended for the public's ears, but one day a couple weeks later I said "what the hell" and put it up online. But I didn't think anyone would like it, nor did I expect anyone to take it seriously.
My move back to Florida just happened to be three days before my birthday. I decided to celebrate by driving to Daytona Beach to soak up the waves and catch a performance by the very wonderful local singer-songwriter and ex-Dodger drummer Jeff Ilgenfritz, a.k.a. Mumpsy. Upon welcoming me that evening, he said he wanted to talk. We sat down together and right away he said, "Ray, I've been on your Myspace page listening to your music and I gotta tell ya, you have one song in particular that's definitely a hit." "Which one?" I inquired. "Wendy? Dirge For Justice?" The answer was no on both counts. "Actually," Jeff continued, "I can't remember its name..."
I continued to reel off the names of all the songs I'd posted, saving for last the one I was definitely NOT expecting to be a hit, namely "New Music Women." Ding! Suddenly Jeff jumped out of his seat and exclaimed "THAT'S IT! That's the one! Man, I'm tellin' ya, that song is CLASSIC." My mind was blown. THAT one? Out of all my songs, the one I wrote in 10 minutes based on a song with a strange chorus in a dream I had? Jeff assured me it was indeed that one. I appreciated his comments greatly, of course, but for a good long while I couldn't quite wrap my mind around the nature of his compliment somehow. In time, however, that would change... but we'll get back to that.
By late '08 I was feeling a bit more settled into Orlando life, and finding that my sudden notoriety was finally starting to get new people to notice me instead of the other way around. And one day, on Myspace, I received a friend request from a new band calling themselves Alias Punch. Appreciative of their interest, I accepted. 'Twas only fair that I'd check them out in return, and by Halloween I was at Austin's Coffee Bar in Winter Park watching them play live... and honestly thinking they sucked. They struck me as a band that was trying to be weird and quirky and psychedelic but were too naive and just trying too hard. The night would prove awkward for all parties involved as the boys in Punch seemed equally as unsure of me as I was of them. Nonetheless, since they seemed like nice enough guys who'd expressed interest, I decided to leave them with a stack of free Brazen CDs on my way out.
Three weeks later, at a now-defunct coffee lounge and music space called Natura, I felt a sudden tap on my shoulder and turned around to see Jasper Bleu and Dusty Mondy, two-thirds of Alias Punch, looming over me. This time they didn't seem quite so shy and unsure of me. In fact, suddenly it seemed like I was some sort of god to them. "RAY BRAZEN!!!!" one of them yelled. "YOU'RE AMAZIN'!!!" They then told me of how, after our previous meeting, they'd gone to someone's house for a nightcap and on a whim, put on one of the CDs I'd given them... and went nuts over what they heard. They were especially fond of one song in particular -- and to illustrate this, they pointed to the attractive females who were with them and said, "So what do you think, Ray? Are these New Music Women or what?" "Yes," I agreed, "they do indeed have very cute noses!" I ended up hanging out with Jasper and Dusty and their female friends the rest of the night, soaking up their sudden Brazen idol worship, along with their repeated sudden bursts into the chorus of "New Music Women," the whole time.
At the same time, though, I admit I felt a bit uncomfortable with the whole situation. Suddenly, Alias Punch had decided I was the greatest thing since sliced bread -- but I was still struggling with the fact that I felt anything but the same about them at the time. Still, when they invited me to visit them at their practice space a few days after Christmas '08 to listen to some new material they were working on, I vowed to approach the situation with an open mind and give them a second opinion. I sat patiently as Jasper, Dusty and Arkie played me their new ideas... and this time I heard something.
To my ears, the new songs were a great improvement over the ones they'd played live a few months earlier. The songs were heavier and more well thought-out, and convinced me they were trying harder. At last I began to feel like I didn't have to lie through my teeth when I said I thought their music had potential. As if to seal my newly increasing appreciation further, the boys then had me show them the chords to one of my songs, "Shoot Down The Harvest Moon," and said they were considering doing a cover version of it, with my approval of course. I gave my blessing and told them to go for it, though I don't believe their cover version ever materialized (if so, I have never heard it). I left their practice space feeling much more confident that we could have a mutual admiration society after all.
It didn't take long at all. I finally saw my second Alias Punch gig in January '09, at Uncle Lou's... and they totally blew me away that night. All the promise, all the potential, all of it solidified in a brutal performance that finally made me a believer in Punch for life, and from there our association grew by leaps and bounds. Soon after, I was invited to support Punch at a special acoustic showcase at Austin's Coffee in Winter Park. I was excited for the opportunity as it was only my second live performance in Florida. But holy shit, I wasn't expecting to have a substantial portion of my set list for the gig determined by no less than THREE requests, two from members of Punch and one from an unnamed person in the audience: "Wendy Chioji Please Don't Goji," "Shoot Down the Harvest Moon," and the song that was already starting to surpass "Wendy" as my biggest local smash, "New Music Women." It was quite a measure of how I was catching on down here, and it left me in a daze afterward.
That acoustic showcase, and a few other shows I also participated in, were meant to show off the talents of the new collective Punch were part of at that time called Soundvine. It was a conglomerate of local musicians who were trying to create an answer to all the usual run-of-the-mill independent music scenes. I made several new friends within this collective, some of whom I remain in close touch with to this day. Bands like Yogurt Smoothness, International Auxiliary, the Queues, and the very colorfully named Tam Tam the Sandwich Man and his Magical Sugar Cookies, all of whom played sounds which didn't quite fit in with the indie-rock norms, just like Punch. No pop-punk, no shoegaze, no hardcore or metal, none of the same stale old shit that everyone else was doing to death by then and too many are still doing now. The Soundvine artists played forward thinking music with a true identity and swagger. The "Soundvine Shuffle" series presented its bands in roundtable fashion, each band playing 15-minute sets in a predetermined lineup, then playing second and (sometimes) third sets in the same order.
Soundvine, like so many other well-intentioned musical experiments, didn't last long, ultimately collapsing for many of the same reasons so many such experiments do. But the bands soldiered on regardless, and I watched as Alias Punch grew from a band I hated the first time I heard 'em into a band that made one of the greatest albums ever made by anyone EVER, "A New Shade Of Blue," and perhaps the greatest fall season song ever as well in the insanely masterful 14-minute epic "Halloween '93" (see the equally insane video for it above). Jasper, Dusty and Arkie Jay left their mark all the way up to NYC, finding kindred spirits there in my very dear old-school mates Fly Ashtray of all bands. Punch were special and indescribable and I feel truly sorry for those who missed them. They sadly broke up in mid-decade and have reunited only once since then. Only Arkie Jay remains musically active today, and in a surprisingly mellower, more ambient direction far removed from that of Punch. On top of that, all three have left Orlando by now -- Arkie's now living in Phoenix, Dusty's now in Atlanta, and Jasper just moved to LA! They leave behind a contingency of locals who still hold them in their hearts and still hold out hope that someday they'll bless us with their presence again, if only as a one-off reunion deal. We'll see...
Another Soundvine band I grew to really love and become good friends with was Yogurt Smoothness, the duo of Dan Kirk and Brian Stabile (who in fact are still doing biz to this day under the new name of Deathcrusher). In fact, Dan was another one of many, many folks in that circle who told me his favorite Ray Brazen song was "New Music Women." This song's strange, ever-increasing popularity ultimately led to a strange incident one night at Austin's Coffee Bar in the spring of 2013, in which Dan booked me as a surprise last-second fill-in for another act one fine Friday night, where I made a young lady in the audience blush bright pink for some odd reason when I looked at her while singing the song, and then got a huge ovation from a packed house at the end of it! Dan also booked the show at Uncle Lou's in July 2010 which led to my first big write-up in the Orlando Weekly's live music column. My first meeting with Bao Le-Huu was perhaps even more awkward than my first meeting with Punch, as the review proves. But I'd made a start on the Orlando scene at last, and things would get better and more interesting as they progressed... especially when the Weekly started taking me more seriously, and a local label expressed interest in working with me.
Summer, 1978. My school pal Zoltan had gone off to summer camp, leaving his big brother behind. Laszlo Papp was the very first true punk rocker I ever met. I've written of him on this blog before. Ripped t-shirts, safety pins and bleached blond Billy Idol hair, the whole bit. He went to CBGB and Max's Kansas City every week and always took his camera. I remember him proudly showing off his collection of Dead Boys live shots, one of which would become the front cover of their live album years later. So while Zoltan was away at summer camp I began calling his number asking to speak to Laszlo instead. He would usually take the line and always sounded more than happy to talk about all things punk with me. And he knew every new band that was out there, and I mean every last one. (Just a couple of summers later, Laszlo would become my hometown's very first Crass fan and be responsible for my introduction to anarchism... but that's another story.)
It was also in the summer of '78 that I caught an episode of an army-themed sitcom on NBC called CPO Sharkey, with Don Rickles in the title role, in which a few of the men in his troop slip off base to a punk rock club and encounter their share of trouble. The scene in the punk club opened with a minute's worth of this mysterious band playing the toughest, most amazing song I'd yet heard. I had to know what it was immediately. I watched through the closing credits praying this mystery band would be named, and sure enough, saw the magic words "The Dickies: Punk Rock Music." (Watch this episode in its entirety here!)
I shut off the TV and rushed to the phone to call Laszlo. Not only had he been watching the show as well, but he told me he was totally hip to the Dickies and said they were from L.A. and had just signed to A&M and put out their first 45. Was there anything this man didn't know? And sure enough, about a week later, I finally found that magic 10-inch white vinyl single of which he spoke, did cartwheels across the record store, then flew straight home and slapped it on my turntable, whereupon the sounds of "Hideous" filled my room. Hell yes! The very song they'd played on CPO Sharkey! I was now fully and completely sold!
For a short while I thought Laszlo and I were alone in our appreciation of this new band that was playing punk rock a little bit faster and punchier than it had ever been played before. But soon after, I was quite surprised to find other actual Dickies fans lurked within the halls of my high school, and they'd seen that Sharkey episode too! It was all timed perfectly to coincide with the release of "The Incredible Shrinking Dickies" in early '79, one of the greatest albums of all time in my humble view. By this time my 14-year-old self was also regularly venturing into Greenwich Village and visiting shops like Bleecker Bob's with some special and wonderful friends I'd made at Sam Goody's in Paramus, and accessing all those great imported music newspapers from the UK like NME and Sounds and Melody Maker. That's how I learned that the Dickies had suddenly become overnight stars in England, thanks to their version of the theme song of psyched-out '60s cartoon characters the Banana Splits, which had actually become a top radio hit there!
None of the shops in New Jersey seemed to stock the imported yellow-vinyl 45 of "The Tra-La-La Song," which made me feel mighty lucky when I successfully scored it at Bleecker Bob's in NYC. And when word got around that I was the only dude in town who had it, I wound up having to lend it out to each and every last member of my HS punk circle. For awhile it seemed to spend more time on their turntables than mine! 40 years later, it still wears its battle scars proudly.
The Dickies formed in the first punk wave at the same time as the Misfits, and just like them found bigger success in hardcore. So it was no surprise to hear Tim Sommer play them on the legendary Noise - The Show on WNYU in the summer of hardcore of 1981 -- after all, their debut was one of the first speed punk albums! But then Tim took the mic and admitted he'd just played the Dickies for a sad reason: their multi-instrumental wizard of sax and keyboard, Chuck Wagon, "shot himself in the head last night!" It was a horrible moment, one of those rare instances in those days where I found out about a punk rocker's death almost immediately after the fact, in a pre-internet age where news of such tragedies often took weeks or even months to spread. In fact, it wasn't until many years later that I would finally get the full scoop on Chuck's suicide, and under some VERY unique circumstances. (But we'll get to that later.)
Following this tragic event, the Dickies appeared to lay low for awhile while they recovered from the loss of Chuck. They would not be down for long, however, and when they finally re-emerged, it would be a triumphant comeback not only for them, but for me and my friends who had followed them throughout high school. Word soon got around that the Dickies had started to make live appearances in our neck of the woods, and in late '83 a tape of one of these shows landed in the hands of Pat Duncan, WFMU's legendary hardcore DJ, who promptly played it on his show. It was proof that the Dickies were back with a bang. (Portions of this very tape were later released on their superb live album "We Aren't The World!") Then, in December '83, we got the greatest Christmas present ever -- the Dickies came to NYC for two live shows! At long last, our big chance to see them!
I saw the second of those two shows, on a Thursday night at CBGB, catching a ride there with fellow fans Dave Scott and Bruce Wingate of the legendary NJ band Adrenalin OD. Of course, Leonard Graves Phillips and Stan Lee led the band as they always have, and Billy Club was still on bass. (I'll have more on him later, too.) Replacing Chuck was a second guitarist I don't recall catching the name of (I've included a shot of him here in case anyone can ID him), and on drums was Nickey Beat of fellow LA punk legends The Weirdos. The Dickies played all night, two whole sets worth, and were absolutely on fire the entire time, sounding just as tough as on that recent live tape, and I stayed till 3 AM in spite of having to be at school at 8!
They played all the hits and a few new ones as well, and Leonard was a total hoot in between songs, putting on a dog puppet for "Poodle Party" and that now-famous gigantic talking penis puppet for their newest hit "If Stuart Could Talk, What Would He Say?" and going through the audience asking boys AND girls if they had dicks and if so, have they named them? He utilized a ton of props on various songs and climaxed "Mental Ward" by almost literally exploding onstage, spraying the stage with a mess of confetti and streamers. It was a dream come true to finally witness the Dickies live, and at CBGB of all places! And for the icing on the cake, in between sets me and my pals actually ended up both meeting Stan Lee AND smoking weed with him! Whew... good shit!
But believe it or not, the most memorable experience I've ever had as a Dickies fan wasn't that show or even that encounter with Stan. Because in '94 I was making a fairly decent low-budget living as a street musician in the subways of NYC, and one fine spring afternoon while I was busking in midtown, this short, somewhat stocky guy took notice of my talents. Deciding to skip a few trains to listen to me, he soon struck up a conversation with me. For some reason, I didn't really recognize him at all. But suddenly he started talking about how he was a musician himself, and in fact he had been in a band years ago "who had actually put out a few albums on A&M." "Wow, who?" I asked.
The dude seemed apprehensive. "Oh... no one you've ever heard of, I'm sure." "No, seriously," I said. "I know a lot of obscure bands. There's a small chance I may have heard your name somewhere."
"Yeah, okay then..." He finally gave in. "We were called The Dickies."
And that's how I found to my shock and delight that I was conversing with none other than Billy Club, in between songs while I was playing in the NYC subway! And as soon as I recovered from the initial shock of realizing I had a new fan whose band I definitely HAD heard of, I got a wild idea and struck up "Nights In White Satin," in total Dickies style of course. And we treated a big midtown subway audience (who I'm totally sure didn't know they were in the presence of rock royalty) to a live duet between me and a (now ex-) member of the Dickies on one of their big hits! Billy sounded just as great on the falsetto backing vocals as ever, and I was on cloud nine, jamming with one of the Dickies and totally not giving a fuck what anyone thought -- this was OUR moment and no one else's. It was perhaps the most surreal rock star encounter of my whole life and I so wish some of you had been there to see it. How many out there can say they met a member of one of their favorite bands and jammed with him right there on the spot? Well, that's just what I did, and in the weirdest of ways to boot.
I randomly crossed paths with Mr. Club a few more times on the streets of NYC in the months following, and he was a very nice guy and interesting to hang out with. In the process, 14 years after hearing his death announced on the radio, I finally got the full story behind Chuck Wagon's suicide -- involving drugs, a girl who dumped him, a car crash which he survived, and his father's gun a few hours later. Billy and I met and talked a few more times in the mid '90s, then he disappeared from my radar and I never saw him again, but wow, it was really cool to get to know one of the Dickies for a little while, and great to meet someone whose music got me and my small-town punk crew through high school. Billy, if you're reading this, Ray Brazen remembers you fondly. And you too, Stan, and Leonard, and anyone else involved. The Dickies are forever.
(All of the live concert photos in this blog entry were taken by yours truly at CBGB in December 1983 and never seen by the public until now. Please enjoy these TRULY rare shots of the Dickies!)
