The thing about Joey Ramone is that, even though it was his mother Charlotte, brother Mickey, and other close friends up on the stage at the Hammerstein Ballroom sharing stories and anecdotes, it could really have been any of us. Sure, we never knew the real Jeffrey Hyman like they had the privilege to, but everyone in New York in a certain age and social group has a Joey story. Even if you never had the chance to meet him, you know someone who went to see the Ramones back in the CBGBs days, or have a cousin who had their first bass player as their 11th grade social studies teacher, or shared a cab with someone who got into a fight with Joey at Rockaway Beach. Hell, a year ago, my ex-girlfriend grabbed Joey's ass in the bathroom at Le Bar Bat on 57th street.

" 'Thanks for making an old man happy,' " she reported him as saying.

"He's not old," I scoffed. Joey could never grow old. Joey would be there for us forever. Screw Dick Clark. Joey was the real eternal teenager.

About three thousand of us crammed into the Hammerstein last night to pay the largest shiva call in history. We didn't know what bands would be playing when we forked over the ridiculously low amount of fifteen bucks (not including TicketBastard service charges) for tickets; we just knew that we had to be there. All kinds of people showed up: old-school punks with Mohawks glued in place, balding guys in their 30s and 40s who looked like pudgy, out-of-place accountants, seven-foot-tall transsexuals, mothers with children, 14-year-old kids from Long Island with green hair, Japanese punks with magenta hair, bikers with shaved heads-it didn't matter who or what you were. Everyone belonged. Everyone was family. The music was mind-blowingly great, but it was the crowd that made the show.

"Damn, when the lights go on, you can see just how ugly everyone is," my friend Vinny said.

"Beautiful people listen to Britney Spears," I said. "Real people listen to the Ramones."

The real people didn't go home disappointed, either. The show, ably MC'ed by Little Steven of the E Street Band, was a full four hours of one great band after another. To keep us entertained while the roadies were changing the equipment between sets, there were speakers, sing-alongs with Ramones videos, and pre-recorded birthday messages from various celebrities (noteworthy moment: the crowd yelling "sell-outs!" at the members of Metallica).

The opening band was the Independents, whose cause Joey had long championed. I had never heard them before, but as soon as they took the stage, their energy and obvious muscial chops really blew me away. Why this band has not achieved commercial success is probably due to the fact that they look like real people, instead of like N'Sync. Contemporary music seems to have entered its Mannerist phase: Artifice is admired above soul. As a punk rock pre-Raphaelite, I consider it my cultural duty to support this band by buying their entire discography as soon as Ken pays me for this damn article.

Joey's brother Mickey Leigh and his band Stop played next. Mickey looked as if he was about to cry as he gave a heartfelt rendition of the Ramones' "Outsider," Hell, I thought I was going to cry. Charlotte Lesher must be a proud woman indeed to have raised two talented sons. I can imagine the conversation around the mah jongg table:

Mrs. Leibowitz: "I'm so proud of my Harold! He just got accepted to medical school. Such a son!"

Charlotte: "Well, my Joey is a Ramone, and my Mickey has a band called Stop."

Mrs. Leibowitz: "Your son admitted to you he was a Ramone? And I thought his name was Jeffrey. . ."

font size="2" color="#000000" face="Geneva, Arial, Helvetica, san-serif">Following some more speeches and videos, Bellevue, a really great band rising like a phoenix from the ashes of D Generation, gave a performance that, honestly, I thought was perhaps a bit histrionic and "show-business-y" for the occasion. Then again, I also think that their singer, Jesse Malin, looks a little bit like Robert Smith of the Cure. All the same, Bellevue really impressed me, and I'm looking forward to more from them. Malin is a really charismatic frontman, and I think his band could really go somewhere.

In between sets, the interludes for videos and speeches gave us the chance to chat with some of our neighbors.

"You know, I always thought The Who was the original punk band," I commented out loud in response to some prerecorded celebrity or other commenting that the Remones originated punk.

"You have a point," said the guy next to me, a thoroughly respectable African-American gentleman with a stud through his lower lip. "It does go back to that era. . . The Who, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors. . ."

"No, actually, I've always thought the Doors were the original goth band."

"Ah," he said. "You speak truth."

"Of course, if you consider goth as a spin-off of punk, then things get complicated. I dunno. I'll see you later. I'm going up front. This show is too good to be back here."

I made my way past the mosh pit in time for Blondie's set. I literally grew up listening to Blondie (and have had a crush on Debbie Harry since the age of 7), but seeing them live is a completely different experience from hearing them on the "adult contemporary" station. Live, the band has a definite edge, a sort of hardness that lets you know that they cut their teeth in the pre-Rudy Giuliani lower East Side. Debbie Harry crooning "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend" will, no doubt, fuel the fantasies of hundreds of young men and women in the audience for years to come. Unfortunately, Ms. Harry apparently, couldn't hear my offer of marriage over the crowd. I've always liked older women. Ah, well. C'est la vie.

The last two bands were Cheap Trick and the Damned. I've always dug Cheap Trick, and they're incredible live performers. Robin Zander and Rick Nielsen fairly ooze charisma, and Charley Drayton did a great job of filling in on the drums for Bun E Carlos. Being approximately as old as the Rolling Stones, or, in fact, stones, Cheap Trick can't rely on theatrics like those whippersnappers in Bellevue. Robin might break his hip or something, and then where would they be?

Unfortunately, that one drunken asshole who is always present at concerts utterly ruined "Surrender" while I watched him trying to pick fights with everyone around me. I briefly considered choking him into unconsciousness with my amazing martial arts skills and enlisting my fellow concertgoers in passing him overhead to Security, but then decided the legal ramifications weren't worth it (and besides which, getting kicked out would've sucked). Thankfully, he was more stupid than dangerous, and eventually found his own way back into whatever hole he crawled out from.

This the part where I have to admit that I am a poor excuse for a punk rocker, for I know shit about the Damned. Here was my first impression: a diminutive British guy named Dave with an Elvis haircut and his pants pulled up nigh to his chest belting out lyrics for all he was worth; a guitarist named Captain Sensible with a Ziggy Stardust look and a talent for disproving the existence of God ("Why is Joey dead and Britney Spears still alive?!"); a bass player named Patricia Morrison who looked like an elegantly aging, but still incredibly hot, Elvira Mistress of the Dark and who reminded me of a dominatrix I used to date; a keyboard player named Monty the Moron who danced like a spastic and dressed like Ludwig Von Beetlejuice; and a drummer with the Christian name of Pinch. I fucking loved them. Oh, yeah-and now I know who recorded "Smash it Up." I believe that I shall buy their entire discography, and use it to corrupt small children.

The concert ended with a sing-along of "Happy Birthday" (I believe the bands couldn't perform it because Michael Jackson owns the rights), a reading of a Congressional pronouncement declaring May 19 Joey Ramone day (for Chrissake, it OUGHT to be a national holiday), and, of course cake for all. I hope that, as Mickey promised, Joey's Birthday Bash becomes an ongoing tradition. The chance to see a whole lot of different bands just get up and rock isn't something that comes along every day.

Altogether, it was an incredible show, even if those darn Misfits didn't show up. Charlotte and Mickey are truly to be commended for pulling this together for all the fans, even in the midst of their grief, so we could all remember Joey in our own way. . . and thanks also to everyone who went for making the concert really fucking special. While Joey never received the commerical success, recognition, rewards, and breakfast cereals that fall, unearned, upon lesser talents who are fortunate enough to be shilled by the media, he was and is, adored by millions of fans. Much like Picasso, he may only be truly appreciated after his own lifetime.

Then again, if the concert was any indication, what Joey achieved in one lifetime was far more appreciated and influential than anyone could ever ask for.

Gabba gabba hey.

 

Were you at the gig? What did you think? Have any Joey stories? Drop us a line at editor@corporatemofo.com

Posted January 1, 2002 10:18 PM