2-12-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #40 (Summer of Sam & the Big Blackout)

A reader has requested that I write about the Summer of Sam. Hmmm. There are a few things I remember about it. . . Summer of 1977, in New York City. I had moved to “The City” just a year previous, was still in school (attending Hunter College), getting homework done, writing up a storm as Trixie A. Balm, and playing in the newly-formed New Wave pop band, Nervus Rex.

That summer, after breaking up with my other beau, JW, I was dating a young man who lived in the West Village, also wrote for Creem, loved to sing Everly Brothers harmonies and play the harmonica. He was a gentle soul whose initials, BA, were the same as my dad’s.

He didn’t like my being in a band and throwing away my writing career -- although he never seemed to have much positive to say about my writing. He saw that Shawn had designs on me. . . and when the big blackout happened in July (the 12^th or 13^th?), I was at the Krushenick’s loft, rehearsing music with Shawn. The blackout was pretty exciting -- I love candles and flashlights -- and I doubt we were very prepared for anything like that.

I stayed over and slept on the Krushenick’s couch that night -- it seemed too dangerous to go outside, and travel by subway up to East 65^th street (my then address) was prohibitive.

I know that BA was angry at me for not going home, but really, what could I do? And we didn’t have cell phones, so calling people was kind of out of the question. . . anyway, it was kind of a mess (though on a way smaller scale than the city, where looting and burning on Broadway reached epic proportions). I wrote a short story called “But Uptown’s Too Far. . .” and I’m not sure what happened to it, but I do remember writing it as a sort of apologia.

Meanwhile, back in Queens, my mom was worried sick over all that “Son of Sam” stuff going on. . . she always urged me to be careful and carry around mace or something for self protection. I didn’t tend to hang around at night by myself (even though I’d feel alone in my head quite a lot), and going out clubbing meant going somewhere we played, like CBGB’s or Max’s Kansas City.

I do remember the day that Elvis Presley died, August 16, 1977. On a sticky hot summer’s night, BA and I were walking around the village, on Eighth Street, crossing Sixth Avenue. I have no idea why I remembered that particular moment; memory is a tricky little beast. (And Shawn, we only started dating later in ’77, remember!)

My little apartment on East 65^th Street was kind of dark and small -- and I didn’t like being there too much. When I had a deadline -- which was often -- or some homework to do, I would gladly stay in, but otherwise, I’d try to hang out anywhere, even on my building’s stoop. I had no air conditioning, but luckily, it wasn’t roaringly hot in the apartment, being as it was out of the sun and on a lower floor (second floor, in the back, no elevator, of course!).

My neighbor, Kenny, and I became sort of friends. He and his family owned and ran a little newspaper store on First Avenue, around the corner from 65^th Street. He was a small, rather neurasthenic man, who wore glasses, had thinning hair, and was really into “juicing” -- using a juicer to extract vegetable juices.

. . . Not too exciting, but that’s all for now!! Next blog: Meeting Dianne Athey. . .

2-10-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #38 (Growing Up in Public at CBGB’s pt. 4- 1977 & the end)

All right, well, I was talking about change at the end of the last blog. . . and how I kind of

“grew up in public” at that great divey club on the Bowery, CBGB’s. So many good things happened there, esp. in the early days. I met Danny Fields, who I really liked because he was smart, cool, warm, humorous, and, well, if you ever met him, you know he’s a guy who not only knows rock music & legends (like the Doors and Iggy Pop), but he managed the Ramones early on. He was a great gossip but also able to keep confidences -- his expressive eyes and knowing nod gave a feeling of being in on something very intimate and exciting.

Anyway, I really wouldn’t want to hear any dirt about Danny Fields because I was very fond of him (not in “that way,” but just as a great human being) and he made you feel special just by paying attention to you. That’s what I want to be known for, too: making others feel special. And that, my friends, is a special talent. . . I also thought that Terry Ork, Television’s jolly elflike manager with the dark glasses and booming chuckle, was a laugh and lots of fun. Sadly, he’s gone now.

OK, so there were people who made you feel good, and others you just wanted to avoid. Some of those people were in bands, one of whom I won’t name but he was a guitar player in a band that played often at CB’s, a short and skinny guy who acted very slimily around girls and tried to stick his tongue down my throat one time when I naively accepted a ride uptown with him (to be dropped off at my then-boyfriend’s studio apt.). Ugh! Anyway, he’s deceased now, so I don’t want to speak ill of the dead. . . he did play a pretty good guitar and cut a good figure onstage back in the seventies.

So, come ’77 or so, the fun nights at CB’s came fewer and farther between. Unfamiliar faces popped up more and more, and where I’d formerly waltz in and see somebody I knew, it just didn’t happen anymore. On my 21^st birthday, I sat in the audience (rare for me -- I hate sitting down at clubs; leaning against a wall in the back is more my style) at CBGB’s while the Dead Boys played. They weren’t my faves, but I didn’t know where else to go and I was on a date with a guy I wasn’t too keen on. If we went somewhere with loud music, I wouldn’t have to talk or hear him talk. . . he was one of the few inane guys I (briefly) dated. Most of my “dates” were pretty darn interesting, or at least in some ways felt worth my while.

Well, in 1978, Nervus Rex were playing CBGB’s one slow February night, and two of our musician friends, Clem Burke and Jimmy Destri, were taking Blondie producer Mike Chapman out on the town in NY. As we happened onstage, the half-sodden Chapman was told by our friends that he should listen ‘cause we were good -- I think that’s what happened.

So, after our set, this drunken Australian nutter (skinny, med. Height, thinning reddish hair, big blue eyes) comes backstage to drawl, “I’m going to put you on the CHARTS!! I’m going to make you STARS!!” Ever the polite girl, my other’s pride, I nodded and smiled, yes, of course. Then I cornered our worldy older drummer, Jonathan Gildersleeve, to ask, “Jon, who IS that weird guy?”

Jon could hardly breathe, he was so excited. “That’s Mike Chapman!!!” he whispered.

“Oh.” I sort of knew who that was, but my cynical side wasn’t convinced of his ability to do all that Charting and Starmaking. I don’t know why. . . I just didn’t trust it. Shawn, on the other hand, went with it -- but I still am not sure how he felt at that moment.

Anyhoo. Once we got signed and started to work on our debut album with Mike Chapman and Nicky Chinn (of the ChinniChap Production company), the whole scene in NYC and at CBGB’s never was the same. Talking Heads, Television, Patti Smith, the Ramones, Blondie: they all went on tours and became recording artists of note. Nervus Rex didn’t fare too well once our album was in the can and held back for a year before it was released to lukewarm reception and low sales. The B-52’s came out before us, and we were labeled “B-52 like,” only not as good. It was sad, but that’s the breaks.

Things change, and if you can’t change with the times, He who marries his generation becomes a widow in the next (Leonard Cohen).

It was time to find another survival job and maybe ship out. . . so let’s talk about Chrissie Hynde, Squeeze, and running off to Blighty for 18 months to lick my wounds after Nervus Rex broke up.

2-09-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #37 (Growing Up in Public at CBGB’s pt. 3- 1975)

Hmm. What can you say about Hilly Kristal, the owner and brain behind the new NY epicenter of “New Wave” and punk music, CBGB’s? I thought he was a nice man, very fatherly in a bearded, shambling, slow-boned, drawling way. His reddish-brown bushy hair, beard, and china-blue eyes belied a kindly soul who was also keen to make his fortune somehow. I didn’t know it at the time, but CBGB’s at Bleecker and Bowery was a former Hell’s Angel’s hangout. That makes sense, just because Hilly DID somehow resemble a biker -- but a non-violent, avuncular Hell’s Angel kind of biker -- a friendly one, like a friendly gh-gh-gh-gh-ghost.

I must have been nigh oblivious back then, because these biker guys would regularly sashay into the place, get a drink, glare at the music scenesters, and lumber off to their (pray-to-God untouched) Harleys on the street.

Word was, Hilly made a deal with the Hell’s Angels that they could drink free and would “protect” the bar -- i.e., not kill any of us. Sounds good in retrospect; what the heck! Hilly liked to make a deal and he was a really good “people person,” very accessible. We approached him in early ’77 to get a gig there (for Nervus Rex) and he was amiable enough about it -- we did get the gig and played there, regularly.

To my recollection, the way it went musically was, Television started out at CB’s as the Neon Boys in ‘74, playing regularly, like paid rehearsals (probably not much $ but they’d get a few rounds of drinks, most likely). Then later in ’74, 75 Patti Smith, Talking Heads, and the Ramones joined in. . . then in like, ’76, along came The Shirts, Blondie, Tuff Darts, the Mumps, and other pretty darn interesting groups, including Richard Hell and the Voidoids. But then, I’m not acting as fact checker here so some of my info could be slightly off (but just slightly!).

Hilly managed a few of the bands -- like the Shirts -- and later on, Artie Lamonica of the Shirts lamented, if only they’d have done a cover song like the Talking Heads did with “Take Me to the River,” they could have had bigger success. But most bands were too proud to do anything but original songs. At CBGB’s, we in Nervus Rex would always enjoy doing covers like “Stop, Stop, Stop,” “Baby Blue,” or “Venus” and throw them into our sets. But then, each band had its own rules, its own goals and priorities.

And The Shirts had the adorable, talented, hard working Annie Golden, whose onstage vocals cut through like a mini Grace Slick with curly hair, cracking gum and talking Brooklynese. All of The Shirts were very talented -- and real nice guys, very down to earth. My recollection of them is either onstage or hanging out, smiling -- esp. Artie Lamonica, bless his heart! His later band, Rome 56, was quite good and more rootsy, to boot.

And as much as I liked being part of the CBGB’s scene, and seeing Hilly, Roberta, BG, and Mort with his ever-present hardhat -- and Charlie the hippie soundman (he was a really good guy, too), I didn’t like when everything changed. . . but change things must, as that’s the only constant in life: change.

2-08-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #36 (Growing Up in Public at CBGB’s pt. 2- 1975)

Like I said last blog, Wolcott had a great description of early CBGB’s in his excellent new book, Lucking Out, My Life Getting Down and Semi-Dirty in Seventies New York:

“At CBGB’s, rough democracy reigned. There were no separate tables for press seating (unlike at the Bottom Line), no backstage VIP playpen, no caste system, no dress code, everything informally in flux, not even any strict restrictions on entering and reentering the club, which allowed everybody to circulate, spread their germs. The one checkpoint that had to be crossed was Roberta Bayley’s station at the front of the club. . . Reddish haired, pale, white thin, beautiful, smart, quick, Roberta was (to put it in Mad Men terms) the Joan of CBGB’s, the goddess gatekeeper who had the authority of decree, the power to banish.”

Yup, that pretty much sums it up. I like JW’s comparision of Roberta to Joan of Mad Men. . . and true, Roberta was also at times haughty, standoffish, and severe with people. I probably envied her skill at dealing harshly with people because I had a hard time dealing with anger, confrontation, and unkindness. She put people in their place effortlessly, remembered names, had great skill at dealing with one and all. Put it this way, she could be a smart bitch and I admired that!!

Luckily, I wasn’t much on her bad side, so getting by Roberta and into the club wasn’t a chore. I tried to make small talk sometimes, but I’m not really good at that with everybody and I think she had other fish to fry (I always try to respect when people are busy at their jobs & believe me, working the door at a place like CBGB’s on a popular night could be a Promethean task). I do know Roberta was very highly regarded on the scene, and her photography grew in depth and reputation; she was part of several prestigious photography shows in the past decade, along with shooters-in-arms Stephanie Chernikowski, Godlis, Ebet Roberts, Laura Levine, Joe Stevens, and George DuBose.

Come to think of if, my shyness aside, I really liked hanging out with the photographers, writers, and musicians. All of these creatives were kindred souls to me, and the general zooeyness of a place like CBGB’s was mitigated by these new-chum comrades-in-arts. To be honest, I guess we were kind of an avant-garde in the truest sense: we were on what a friend calls “the bleeding edge,” which precedes the cutting edge: and those on the bleeding edge aren’t as fortunate as the following wave. You see, the cutting edge gets kudos and the cash, whereas bleeding edge suffers derision and a gash. . . back to the topic, now.

Especially in the summer, much of our time at CB’s was spent outside, on the wide sidewalk, milling and/or mulling about. The honest-to-God Bowery bums next door at the Palace hotel would sometimes toss bottles out their window down at the street (maybe not always AT us, but that would depend on how soused or pissed off those Bowery bums got).

With all that intensity and intrigue indoors at CBGB’s, you really needed a break every now & then. Besides, how could anybody hear over all that loud rock music? LOL. Yeah, I might sound like an old duffer but hey, it always felt weird, trying to converse while not really hearing well and worrying about whether your talking into their ear was deafening or perhaps, unwittingly seductive (as in the old adage, “blow in my ear and I’ll follow you anywhere”). Ah, the perils of CBGB-ness!

Out on that sidewalk and inside the club, I met and became good friends with more than a few interesting people there: Stephanie Chernikowski, Fran Pelzman, Mary Harron, Judy Wilmot, Billy Ficca, Fred Smith, Tish and Snooky, and, of course, Chris and Tina. I’d talk to almost anybody, especially if they were nice, and wound up chatting with dozens, maybe hundreds, of others who I might still know by name and/or sight -- but perhaps I should describe the big macher of ‘em all, Hilly Kristal. . . next blog.

2-07-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #35 (Growing Up in Public at CBGB’s pt. 1- 1975)

Once I started rock writing for the Village Voice, covering rock concerts and such, I started leading an exciting double life. Back and forth to the city and SUNY Purchase I went, with occasional visits to mom in Douglaston, Queens -- where, oddly enough, the Christgaus, parents of fellow rockcrits Bob & Georgia (his sister), resided.

At any rate, I would occasionally haunt the offices of the Village Voice to see what life there was like -- and to possibly scarf up some more work (or would it be “scare up” ? -- in my case, probably both). Luckily -- don’t they say luck is 98% showing up? -- I met some cool & talented editors and writers, like Richard Goldstein, Karen Durbin, Jamaica Kinkaid, Guy Trebay, and James Wolcott. At times I felt a little out of my element, but as I aspired to be witty and urbane and very grown up, it was good to hang with older people -- even if most of them were only five or ten years my senior!

So. Having read some press about this interesting place, CBGB’s, then meeting another writer who offered to bring me along -- that’s how I got to “CB’s” and got into the habit of being there, early on. Although rather independent in thought and action, it’s comforting to go with somebody initially who knows the scene and is respected. You gain good rep by association that way, and have someone to “fall back” on if the insecurity or the dark ponies start waltzing around in your head (and believe me, they did!).

My initial impression of that dive, CBGB’s -- and oh brother, it was definitely a dive -- was that it didn’t smell good (sweat, beer, piss, dog poop -- yes, there really was dog poop on the floors, sometimes); was long, dark, mysterious; and seemed like a living, breathing thing or a “sentient entity.” I swear, the place had a schizo-affective personality and moodswings galore. Like the whaling ship, Pequod, of Moby Dick, its walls and ceilings pulsated with a quasi-sordid emotional history, the vibe of a past mostly violent, sad and pickled. However, the present and the future shimmered hopefully like a glistening patina of sweat trickling from the upper lip of a punk rock drummer, maybe Tommy Ramone or Billy Ficca. Then again, those guys on drums or offstage were too cool to break a sweat (and I do mean that they were damn nice guys, too).

The gatekeepers of the portals of the infernal early CBGB’s were either BG Hacker or Roberta Bayley. I guess I didn’t rub them the wrong way because I always got in -- generally as a comp (member of “the press”) or with a paying friend.

At any rate, Wolcott said it quite well in his excellent new book, Lucking Out, My Life Getting Down and Semi-Dirty in Seventies New York. I’ll continue with a quote from him next blog. . .

1-25-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Non-Job #23 (Being Trixie. . . Knowing Your Rock Writer Pt. 1)

I love hanging around young people; their sense of self importance usually makes me giggle, although when in a darker mood I just want to roll my eyes and walk away. . . taking long walks are very therapeutic indeed.

I remember being young(er), but I don’t think I had too much of a sense of self importance, as my Catholic upbringing cautioned against thinking too much of yourself. Humility was a virtue; as was patience, compassion, and a vow of poverty, chastity, and obedience: none of these virtues were mine, and I’m still working on a few of the more appealing ones.

Do these kids want to hear about me playing pool with a very tall, shy, gangly Joey Ramone at CBGB’s? Or playing pool with a rather drunk Alan Lanier of Blue Oyster Cult in an Atlanta, GA, hotel barroom? Or watching/hearing Jonathan Richman jamming in a basement in Boston before he hit it big as a beloved solo cult artist? (I’m not a hotshot pool player but it does pass the time, and as for the Boston visit with Jonathan Richman, I felt awkward and excited and after having a small Greek salad and cranberry juice in a little dive diner with him, I threw up, in a bathroom.)

Ah, well, it all depends on who the audience or person is -- some younger people dig that whole “Spirit of ’76,” which is cool. Some people -- whatever their age -- are wiling to stop talking for a few precious minutes to let others get a word in edgewise, even to listen and learn a little something.

Most of my life, I ask the questions (I’ve done over a hundred interviews, mostly with music people) and I feel comfortable as the questioner. Still, it’s very flattering when others ask ME questions. In fact, I am indebted to people who are curious about others & their lives; I am especially indebted to younger people who ask me what NYC in the ‘70’s was like & that whole music scene.

Thanks to Lenny Kaye for interviewing a jejune young Trixie and using Lauren Agnelli in print. That was so sweet of him to make me “Know Your Rock Writer” in Rock Scene magazine (and for Stephanie Chernikowski to take that, and many other, cool pics of me back then).

Sure, my perspective is personal AND flawed, and I admit it! But it’s at least entertaining to me and, possibly, to others. If it’s good for YOU, thanks again for reading.

I’ll continue on 1-26-12 with a story about what it was like for me as Trixie A. Balm . . . and why I had to write.

1-21-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #19 (More Roots of “The Rex” -- Second Wave band Nervus Rex in ‘70’s NYC)

Okay, as for the early days of Nervus Rex, we did all sorts of nutty things, but mostly started getting gigs at places like CBGB’s, Max’s, and later the Mudd Club, Hurrah’s, the Peppermint Lounge, and numerous other dives. At the time, Giuliani hadn’t yet busted the mob for running music clubs, so there was a lot of “dirty” money needing laundering, and paying bands $1,000 a night wasn’t unheard of; some even made more.

And since the drinking age was young -- 18 -- kids came out to hear bands in droves. You COULD play the city (Manhattan) more than once a month. You could also do private parties in rented spaces and people’s lofts. The scene was small, but lucrative for musicians.

One such party came to be because I was friends with an otherworldly woman with a lazy southern accent -- Atlanta & Athens, Georgia -- named Judy. Her blue eyes were psychedelically dazzling, and she was a sweet, shy, gentle soul. She asked me, outside CBGB’s one night after Nervus Rex played, if we’d help out some friends of hers. Her ex-husband, Kevin, was guitarist in a Georgia band called The Fans. But this favor wasn’t for them.

Judy’s friends, Danny Beard and Maureen, came with the deal -- but they were so nice, too. They were the band’s record company and management -- and they were all friends. Judy said this:

“Would ya-all mind throwing a party for some friends of mine, a band from Athens? They’re called the B-52’s. You know, after the hair-do.”

“Well, they’re from Georgia? I like people from Georgia. Are they good?”

“MMmm hmmm,” Judy nodded, “REAL good. That would be so nice of ya-all. . . “

Sight unseen and band unheard, I told Shawn we should do this, because it would be a cool thing to do and a fun party, no doubt. Our last party was a big success, and Shawn’s parents seemed OK with us using their loft. At this time, they were probably in their forties, so I’m sure it was fun for them, too.

At any rate, Judy and Danny and Maureen introduced us to Kate, Cindy, Fred, Ricky and Keith a few months later, and they couldn’t have been nicer, as people. When they played music together onstage, they were so tight that you could feel, and almost see, the energy, like a V-shaped wedge or force field. I had a similar reaction to hearing Television on a good night. . . whatever “it” was, they-all had it.

One night, we did a double bill with the B-52’s at Max’s Kansas City, and it was just an amazing experience, when they got into a groove and played “52 Girls,” “Why Won’t You Dance With Me,” or “Rock Lobster.”

I couldn’t even feel envious that they got all the attention and scooped up management and a record deal in record time. They were simply awesome live, and so much fun. Long live the B-52’s, and Ricky, rest in peace.

1-20-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #18 (An aside during “The Rex” -- Second Wave band Nervus Rex in ‘70’s NYC)

Miriam wrote: "Lauren- I remember you lunching on a bowl of cole slaw with Sweet n Low sprinkled atop.. and a cup of tea, of course... at the University Coffee Shop on University and 12th Street. No wonder you maintained that girlish figure! X M"

Of course, I think that sounds totally gross, but at the time, I guess my strange menu choices (and the Sweet ‘n’ Low -- ugh!) were dictated by pocketbook and anorexic disposition. Yup, I was hospitalized for that at the age of 16, and sometimes, old habits die hard. I always wanted to be skinny, and never ever felt skinny enough (even at 79 pounds, in the hospital!). Oh well. Crazy is as crazy does. I am at a sane weight now, but sometimes I miss being the skinniest gal in the room. . . nobody comments on me being thin any more, so being healthy is my lot in life of late. And that’s cool by me.

So, in the late ‘70’s, I made friends with Fran Pelzman and Mary Harron at CBGB’s. Fran was the cutest little gal, very bubbly, whip-smart, short curly reddish brown hair & laughing brown eyes. She was working as a photographer and going out with Billy Ficca, drummer of the awesome New Wavers Television. And Mary Harron, her friend, was also pretty, thoughtful, intellectual, stammered at times, had an English accent (Canadian by way of Oxford education), blonde hair, blue eyes, and was a friend of cool English bands like The Gang of Four.

At any rate, dear Fran Pelzman wrote about my band, Nervus Rex, a lot, and photographed us in the early days. She had a friend, Diana Clapton, who edited this short-lived New Wave Rock Magazine (all of our friends were in it). The fashion editorial called for a lovely “Gamine Waif” type -- and Fran asked ME to pose!

I always wished I could be thin and pretty -- and I never thought I was good enough. But now I was a model! Wow! (or Woe! I dunno.) So for me to pose in color for this really cool ‘60’s tribute fashion spread, I was on Cloud 9. I was in a band at last, and getting recognition for other talents (and looks -- women especially are judged on this and so we sometimes need to know we’re gorgeous). Very cool. Thanks again, Fran.

Now, seeing Diana Clapton’s name and New Wave Rock Magazine makes me remember another really wacky job I had for a few months. . .

. . . But that’s for another blog!!

1-19-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #17 (The Roots of “The Rex” -- Second Wave band Nervus Rex in ‘70’s NYC)

Even though my memory isn’t a paragon of accuracy, with dates and timelines I can be all right. With Nervus Rex, Shawn and I met in late ’76 (my upper east side apartment era). By early ’77, we knew we needed a drummer and a bass player. Although I later had a passionate affair with the electric bass (circa 1991) that continues to this day, in Nervus Rex, I was to play rhythm guitar, some keyboards eventually, and sing harmonies. (I also danced around because I’m kind of antsy and when I hear the music, it gets me boppin’.)

We got Miriam Linna (ex Cramps) to play drums a la Mo Tucker of the Velvets (lots of floor tom) and a very chipper, slim, curly-headed young guy on the bass, Lewis Eklund. He was into the Stones, and who could fault that in a bass player? Real rock & roll rhythm section!

Back to Shawn for memory: “Our first gig was at CBGB, early '77. It was early - about 10 PM and we were doing a soundcheck and then, without even leaving the stage, the sound guy said, "You're up now. This is your set.". So, we just started playing. People were just starting to drift in and get seated while, petrified and ambushed, we tried our best.”

From there, we kept improving, playing in the Krushenick’s loft, getting tighter. I had written lyrics for a melody of Shawns for an early N Rx song called “Dubrule 1250.” In true Velvets fashion, it was about a guy named Norman DuBrule who had horrific dreams, so he went to a hypnotist, Dr. Weems, who put him into a trance. . . Norman saw people burning, crosses -- much worse than what Neil Young sang about in “Southern Man.” I had looked up the Albigensian Heresy in history -- they were a French religious cult who were persecuted and burned at the stake circa 1250 A.D.

Anyway, after that song, I didn’t get to co-write in Nervus Rex with Shawn (bummer! That was to change in future groups) and “Dubrule 1250” got phased out of the set after Miriam left. As to WHY Miriam quit the band, I wasn’t totally sure why; sometimes I think I’m the last in line in the game of telephone, but then again, I didn’t clue in, sometimes: too much internal conflict and drama going on for me to be truly aware, esp. in the past. So I go to others who knew the score, luckily:

(From Shawn Brighton, co-founder of Nervus Rex) “Miriam left when she met Billy. I was there for that event - went with her to his apartment, which looked just like hers; wooden record bins filled with vintage vinyl. I could see the look in their eyes and knew they were meant to be. She also was more of a purist and wanted to do roots rock and roll rather than the arty stuff I was coming up with at the time.”

In sum, Shawn says, “But I really think it was because she was in love and wanted to play with him.”

(from Miriam Linna, first N Rx drummer) “I only left the band because I ran off with Billy! I knew you guys were on the road to success, I absolutely knew it, and I loved the music we were doing together. I wish our time in a band together had been longer, but such is love and life.”

Regardless who sat on the drummer’s throne, we became scenesters of a sort. Shawn continues, “Don't forget the ‘happening’ that we had on Mercer street at my parents loft. It was considered the first official "punk" party. There were about 500 people in the street outside trying to gain entrance to the packed loft. We had 3 bands, us, The Fleshtones, and The Zantees - Miriam played with us and the Zantees that night - it was pre-Jonathan. It even made the event column in The Daily News the next day. It was just supposed to be a regular party but turned into an event. The cops shut down Mercer Street because of the crowds. Hilly Kristal was pissed. No one went to CB's that Saturday night.”

Right -- the loft parties back then. Wow. I do recall that one, dimly, but especially the one where we invited a young, out-of-town group from Athens, Georgia to play a party as their entrée into the NY music scene.

. . . But that’s for the next blog!!

1-12-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #10 (Patti Smith Weighs in on Education; Sweet Jane Friedman)

All right. In my last entry, I mentioned some musician friends on the scene who earned life experience credit at the alma mater of CBGB’s in the late ‘70’s (Chris and Tina of the Talking Heads, RISDEE grads), and Snooky Bellomo (NYU student).

At CBGB’s – the place I could usually be found on weekends away from SUNY Purchase in ’74 – ’76, I met Patti Smith and her manager, Jane Friedman, through James Wolcott, the hugest Patti fan ever (at least, at the time). Patti had the greatest way of being instantly intimate with people. I thought she might have been pulling my leg about a lot of stuff she made up about her past, but I do admire anybody who can make up a good myth.

She dubbed me “Our new Ninja” upon signing a copy of Seventh Heaven. I was taken aback when she told me I shouldn’t be going to school: “Go out with all the smart guys! Learn from them! Who needs college? It’s bullshit.”

While thinking in my heart how I had an unspoken promise with my father to graduate with a college degree and he had just died a month before I started, I blurted to Patti, “But I LIKE school! I LIKE learning!. . . “ and then, like Mother Superior, she absolved me and my sin of caring about something uncool. Fair enough.

Patti was really nice to my sister Carrie too, when I introduced them at My Father’s Place (a club) in Roslyn, Long Island, when the Patti Smith group played on a double bill with Television in ’75. I recall Patti borrowed a little corncob pipe from my sister for, um, you know. . .

People like Patti – and many other smart musicians I know – weren’t gung-ho for school but were still great learners and had a constant thirst for self-gathered knowledge. These autodidacts are definitely on the right path for them, but as for me, I like a little more structure and focus. I’m kind of all over the place, when left to my own devices. . . but of course, we all learn in life what we need to (and if you try sometimes, you get what you want, too?). There’s still some of that ceaseless autodidact in me, too. I just like having validation, a degree (or 2 or 3!).

Jane Friedman (Wartoke Concern, Patti’s manager) was a great person who treated me kindly and with immense respect. Somebody told me she was the girl Lou Reed wrote “Sweet Jane” about. When I visited Jane Friedman at her family’s in the Village that Yuletide (they were Jewish; what the hey), at a holiday open house, Jane took me aside and made a special effort to make me feel welcome by giving me a palm-sized round mirror backed with a myriad of tiny seashells, in a circle. Decades later, I still consider that little tchotchke one of my prized possessions.

1-11-12 Survival Jobs etc. – Starter Job #9 (Liberal Education background– towards a Creative Writing/English BA)

Before indulging in more tales of rock & roll, sex & drugs and all that good stuff back in the day, my Education Career deserves some attention – though, of course, R&R does play into it at times, as does the vagaries of boho slum life (before the lower east side got gentrified!).

First of, many back then asked why I was in school. Like, why bother? All we did was make music, wait on tables, bartend, work lower level clerical jobs, and dream of making it big. What possible use could a sheepskin have for people like us (the REAL new bohemians)??

Okay, here’s a BIG CONFESSION: I am a snob. Not your usual snob, but an intellectual snob. Coming from a highly intelligent, ambitious-achiever family (parents with advanced degrees before it became fashionable, aspiring to highbrow culture), education was key.

As little kids, we went to school with the assumption that we’d be top of the class. I fell short by one or two kids (that Joyce Avellino! That Irene Buatti!), but other than that, almost without effort I got great marks & report cards that were commented on with, “Hmmm, that 92 is pretty good, but why didn’t you get over 95?”

You see, that need to achieve academically was drilled into me, early. Besides, I LOVE learning, and although schools are flawed places to learn, at least there’s structure – and the proof that you’ve accomplished something (a diploma, transcripts) that’s meaningful in the world at large.

I started out at Saint Anastasia’s kindergarten, then went to grades 1 through 8 there, too (only one block away from our house in Douglaston, it was certainly accessible – besides, we got to go home for lunch, as “walkers”). After that, I attended Bishop Reilly High School for less than a year (I hate, hate, HATED it), caught “mono” in April, then was kicked out (I planned it all along) for insubordination – and refusing to participate in religion class, one of the freshman requirements. Oh well. I exulted in my victory to attend public school and not wear a UNIFORM every day, as I had all through school up to then.

Sophomore year of high school, I got to go to Benjamin N. Cardozo High School (“Cardozo”) in neighboring Bayside. I wore what I liked, sure, but I had to walk up to the expressway (about ½ mile) and catch the 17A bus to Springfield Boulevard. We didn’t have a school bus; it was public transportation all the way in NYC. It wouldn’t have been too bad, but I was in a bad place back then (drugs, bad companions, severe dieting). I cried, had severe headaches, couldn’t concentrate. I also lost forty pounds in one year – which made me a mess. And I still didn’t think I was skinny, yet. On my 16^th birthday, my parents took us out for a fancy French dinner that I couldn’t eat, then drove me to the psychiatric hospital and had me committed for six months.

If you have come up with the diagnosis of Anorexia Nervosa (hysterical lack of appetite), BINGO! Long story short, I finished out sophomore year of high school in Hillside Hospital. My junior year was spent at a boarding school for recovering troubled teens, the Lake Grove School (on Long Island). Had a great geometry teacher, Arnie Pederson, who was ancient, very patient, sweet-tempered, and a Swede.

Back home to Douglaston, I spent my senior year of high school back at Cardozo. Classes were large (over 30 per), and the graduating class must have had about 1,000. I don’t recall attending graduation, but I earned my H.S. diploma, no problem. I had an 89 average or so, and applied to several state schools, my preference being for SUNY Purchase because it was artsy and that suited me to a T. (If a school had a reputation as a party school, like SUNY New Paltz, that was too scary to contemplate – partying was bad news for me in my fragile physical and psychic state.)

IF I HAD BEEN really together and put some thought into it – picking a school for me was a very quick and annoying task, not anything I was thinking hard about – I’d have tried to go to Sarah Lawrence. Not only is it more prestigious than a SUNY, my hero, Joseph Campbell, was teaching there and I could have studied with him. . . I coulda been a contender! But, that’s just a small regret . . .

To wrap up this way-long blog, I studied at three different colleges/universities to earn my degree in Creative Writing (minor in English), the only thing that could keep my attention, the only thing I could truly excel at other than music.

The three higher learning (!! Yes, at times, it really was!) institutions were:

1. SUNY Purchase (4 semesters – I moved to NYC in ’76 & transferred);

2. Hunter College (3 semesters – I lived four blocks away, which was handy);

3. CUNY or City University of New York (final semester – did a creative writing senior project, I wrote, edited, rewrote and finished my first novel, Shrinking, originally No Cal Nut or I Wanna Lobotomy);

4. CBGB’s (I’d say this qualifies as a learning experience – valid life experience, at least).

Speaking of life experience, I sought school credit for my thick portfolio of published work (Trixie A. Balm’s rock writing) because I figured it was a pretty valid request. In the end, I was awarded 18 credits. . . from either Hunter or CUNY. How cool! After four years in college, I graduated magna cum laude, with a 3.42 G.P.A. However, a diploma from CUNY doesn’t impress anybody (whereas a degree from Sarah Lawrence, Vassar or Smith? Hell, yeah!)

Of my rockin’ rollin’ friends who attended the CBGB’s alma mater, Chris and Tina of the Talking Heads were college grads (RISDEE), and Snooky Bellomo of Tish & Snooky’s Manic Panic was an English major at NYU. I was in pretty good company – but one night, Patti Smith made a comment about learning that just astonished me . . .