Tuesday, July 15, 2014

Give the Drummer Some!

The art of percussion took a couple of very sad hits last week.

Tommy Erdelyi (1949-2014)....

...and Skip Meyer (1949-2014).

Both of these guys played on the earliest, groundbreaking albums by their respective bands, i.e. The Ramones and Shoes.

And if you don't care about those two bands, I have no idea why you're reading this here blog.

RIP Tommy and Skip.


Alzo said...

The backbones of two of the very best bands of our lifetimes. Now I'm beginning to feel my age. Sigh.

Anonymous said...

Two guys who knew how to keep it simple and steady.

Re: The Ramones -

And then there were none. Now the band's complete! 1,2,3,4...Hey ho, let's go!

Vickie Rock -The smack up there is white as snow. Pack my bags, man — here I go! Maybe in an hour or so
I’ll catch a G.G. Allin show.

Anonymous said...

Guys I Went to the Ramones With the First Time Around: The California Shows

Part 1

One of my boyfriends and I caught the Ramones and the Groovies in the summer of 1976. The Ramones pretty much camped out in California during that bicentennial August. I know it was August because there were some unforgettable meteor showers that month.

From about 7,000 feet high on Mt. Baldy, that guy and me made love, smoked opium and watched those falling stars streak across the sky. We were on top of a huge, smooth, flat-topped rock in the middle of the San Antonio Creek. Water was rushing by us on both sides. The 75 foot falls were in front of us.

A girl doesn’t forget stuff like that. It was wonderful. Especially, since I picked the spot. It was an old favorite. I dubbed it “The Altar of Wicked Abandon’s Divine Spark.” The Altar of WADS for short, if you need an acronym.

I deceived my boyfriend about the opium and told him it was black gooey hash. He was kind of conservative regarding opiates and I don’t think he would have shared the high with me had he known the truth. He sure dug it though. Who wouldn’t? That shit’s the best for a dreamy romantic body high under the stars.

Me and my guy saw the Roxy and Starwood Ramones shows. All of these were on week nights, if I recall correctly. And then later they played at the Smoke Stack in Redondo. I drove us to these shows in his souped-up red 1973 Duster. You know, smog shit removed, raised like a stink bug, fat tires, four eleven posi-traction, headers, Hurst linkage, the kitchen sink. Fuckin’ bored and blown.

I had convinced him to drop a 440 into that car. I persuaded my dad, a big car enthusiast, who obviously rubbed off on me, to help him. We had all the tools and skill necessary. My dad was serious. We had our own cherry picker and everything else in the shop that he built behind the house.

When it was all said and done, the modified Duster had more Mopar muscle than my boyfriend could handle. Being somewhat of a pussy, all those horses scared the bejeezus out of him. At first, … anyway. Thus, I drove.

He was afraid of me in the beginning too. I got his cherry. At a party, a mutual guy friend had recruited me expressly to deflower the sweet boy. So it was kind of a mission of mercy turned romance. The dude was already nineteen and he’d never been laid – and this was 1974! Unbelievable, considering the nice package he came in. His religious upbringing had stifled him. And his mother was the most emasculating and domineering bitch of all time. I could write a book about our hilarious altercations. She fuckin’ loved me. I gave her a reason to live.

He was pretty cute and I loved the idea of claiming his innocence. So I figured I’d ruin him for anybody else. I gave him a glorious piece of sweet benevolence.

I took the direct approach and walked up to him at the party and whispered “let’s go, baby,” in his ear. I took him by the hand and led him into his parent’s master bedroom. He had to be wondering if this was a dream. I was faster than the speed of light.

I breathily sang a bedroom-eyed variation of “Don’t Worry Baby.” My best friend Sandy and I had naughtily changed a few lyrics to it in grade school. I sang it in his ear between tonguing and kissing it. I already had him on the original first line “Well it’s been building up inside me for, oh, I don’t know how long,” His throb meters pegged.

Vickie Rock

Anonymous said...

Part 2

He was ripe for the taking. He was malleable and yielding as a child. I could mold this guy into anything I wanted. It was an intoxicating sexual power trip. The possibilities intrigued me. I’d have to school him in the basics and, not so slowly, work him up to the finer, kinkier points. It goes without saying that the whole bag of tricks would be necessary, including my special brand of sorcery.

I found his inexperience and bashfulness downright charming. He was adorable. He had a really nice bone too. This guy wouldn’t be slipping out when I kicked it into gyration-overdrive and power-shifted through his gears. It’s one of the reasons I adopted him as my new long term project. He had potential. So rather than deflower him and say you’re welcome. I decided to become his eternal Thank You Girl … at least for the moment

But first I had to teach him how to relax and not dwell on his inexperience and guilt. He was raised a Bible banger. I convinced him that this would be a new way for him to appreciate God’s General revelation and praise Him. I’m serious! It was sooo condescending of his religion on my part. But the love-struck fool didn’t realize this! It fuckin’ worked to free his spirit up when I galloped him to glory. He did have a tendency to mutter and affirm God’s name repeatedly when it was feeling really good. So maybe that was why.

I did almost all of the work, though, just testing his limits. I already had a lot of notches on my bedposts to the point where my vagina was pretty telepathic. I knew when to accelerate, slow down, coast, convulse, squeeze and clamp down. I have to say that he had pretty good stamina for a rookie. It was a win – win all the way.

I drenched the sheets real good that first night. I was almost ready to call it a draw, but he finally declared Uncle. His Mommy was gonna know for sure. Her sheltered little boy finally got some. Actually, he got a hell of a lot. I fucked him till his balls hurt and then I fucked him some more. And it was Grade A pussy. No brag. Just fact.

Generally I preferred older men, but I wasn’t above taking advantage of virgins with nice cocks.

I wasn’t shy about showing him how to please a girl. He needed schooling and I was the perfect headmistress. I found it exhilarating getting him off of his training wheels. Also, the impish part of me thoroughly enjoyed blowing the circuits in the brain of his Victorian witch of a mother. I had been quickly banished from his parents’ property. This was because she caught me Lovelacing him at the edge of their Jacuzzi following a church function.

A few spellbinding and ritualistic weeks after my original conquest, we had worked up some much needed ceremonial callus on his phallus down at my place. By then, he knew damn well who his Laylah was. I owned his soul. As it should and always will be.

In between all the fucking I taught him how to handle, utilize and skillfully abuse all that horsepower and still keep it on the road. I had lots of experience ricky racing my dad’s projects and other boyfriend’s cars all over town. Once, I got three traffic citations in one afternoon! And those were in three different cars! The local cops all knew me as a spirited lass. I brought a lecherous smile to their faces when they shook their heads and wrote me up.

Vickie Rock

Anonymous said...

Part 3

I was the proverbial car crazy cutie and, fuckin’ A, if I didn’t walk, look and drive like an ace. I really knew how to shift gears. Had that race clutch technique mastered. I did go to the Bob Bondurant School of High Performance Driving at the Ontario Motor Speedway in 1971. Those skills helped me evade arrest on several occasions, which is a story for another time. Shirley Muldowney, who I worshipped, had nothing on me.


My boyfriend’s Duster even got fourth gear scratch. I loved flaunting it and challenging dudes to races. I told them that if I lost I’d give them a blow job, knowing full well I wouldn’t lose,… unless I wanted to. It pretty much guaranteed they’d accept the challenge and fall into my trap. If they lost, they either owed me dinner and a drive-in movie [if I thought they were interesting], an ounce of weed or a rack of whites.

That car was a sleeper because everyone assumed it had a 340, not a 440. Sur-fucking-prise! I loved leaving them eating my dust.

My boyfriend used to let me use his Duster all the time. I’d drop him at work and I’d wash it for him, have the oil changed, get it detailed, run general errands, etc. But being the free-spirited and independent bitch I am, I used to pick up other guys in it and go to the beach or mountains and such.

Fuck it. It wasn’t like we were married or anything. I made that abundantly clear to him. He put up with it cuz he didn’t want to give up my blessings, but he didn’t like it. Possessive, insecure, jealous guys were a dime a dozen. They bored me with their whining and presumptions of settling down. In the end, they all got the go-go boot, including him.

But I never fucked another guy in that car. The Duster was sacrosanct. Besides, there were lots of better places to bone.

That being said, our relationship wasn’t only about cars and sex. We both dug rock ‘n’ roll. When I met him, he was creaming all over BTO and the debut Rush album. I turned him on to Secret Treaties. The fucker had no Blue Oyster Cult records. And the only Kinks he had were from 1972’s Everybody’s In Show-Biz through 1974’s Preservation Act 2. Yikes!

He was also a Who and Stones fan. According to his way of thinking, It’s Only Rock ‘N’ Roll was of equal merit to the likes of Exile, Sticky, Bleed and Beggars. He was one of those people that if he liked a band, they could do no wrong. A blind devotee. I thought he needed to be a bit more discriminating.

So I introduced him to Raw Power, Big Star, Nuggets, Back Door Man, Dave Edmunds, Who Put the Bomp and the finer points of Rock Scene magazine, among lots of other shit. I dragged him to the early Patti Smith L.A. shows at the Whisky, Roxy and Golden Bear. It was bonding and revelatory. The Roxy shows were some of the best concerts I ever attended. We were fucking Smith-acized.

I bent his will with sex and used it to soften his resistance to taking drugs. The altering of his consciousness and perception were necessary for him to fully understand all the sensual arts. Corruption was my specialty. It was my lifeblood and sustenance – my reason for existence.

I drew him closer and closer to the flame. The bait was too tempting to let go. He became willfully ensnared in my limitless lustful imagination.

Vickie Rock

Anonymous said...

Part 4

Under the influence of hash or opium we repeatedly fucked to Side Two of Horses like it was sexual ballet. We often came together magnificently during the climax of Land. We galloped into that sea of possibilities and blasted off into the ether receiving the Pentecost’s universal tongue.

Whether we were at the Winternationals, or seeing the Tubes play the Goldenwest with a very green Runaways, I kept it interesting and memorable with daring and passionate sex. I always instigated and was trying to figure out how far I could push him. It was thrilling. By this time, we were both pretty big partiers. The drugs and alcohol blew away any shred of inhibition or decorum we had. I could do anything to him, anytime, anywhere. Our flesh became spirit and we were untouchable beings. It was all roar and remembrance.

Truth be told, he was way deeper into some of the newer music than I was, even though I loved Horses immensely. He loved the Ramones debut. I understood it, but considered them a novelty act. I certainly didn’t want to fuck to it. When the Runaways album came out a month or two later, he bought it and championed it to me as well. I was kind of ambivalent. They weren’t consistent.

However, when I saw the Ramones live in 1976, I realized they were a force of nature. Sometimes they even played more than three major chords! That Mosrite through those Marshalls slashed right through my consciousness. That handful of little white pills we each took before the show was the perfect drug to compliment the aural tachycardia.

Was this stupid music for smart people? Did their stage uniforms make them seem like they were impossibly awkward long-haired juvenile delinquent henchmen in a campy Batman episode that I hallucinated? Were they wrestling the music of the people out of the hands of British art schoolers and progsters and putting it back into the hands of morons, where it rightfully belonged? Could anyone really believe they were as stupid as their image?

Who gives a fuck?! It was a no brainer adrenaline rush and sweet release. Like a hot Bazooka Joe bursting all over your Double Bubbles.

My guy and me saw a few of their early shows, but one probably would have been enough. It wasn’t like they were doing anything varied. I mean, they certainly weren’t going to improvise or jam. It wasn’t like they had a lot of stage moves. They shot their wad quickly and only played about six different chords throughout the entire 25 minute performance. Blitzkrieg indeed.

Around this time, when “borrowing” my boyfriend’s car, I picked up a longtime fuck buddy of mine and headed for Huntington Beach. During the late Sixties he was in a rather dreadful band called The Battery Operated Portal Plunger. I kid you not!

This guy was a sexual power player and we had a mutual admiration thing going. We’d talk about all the people we were doing in juicy detail. It was foreplay. We'd get ourselves horny, and then do the hell out of each other.

He was one of the best I’ve ever had. Other girls would send him glowing “Thank You” cards after he fucked them. I’m not kidding! He had drawers full of them and he was vain enough to keep them all.

He was a guaranteed zipper dipper. The kind of guy that can send you free-falling breathlessly through space for ride after glorious ride. He was a rattlesnake Roar-A-Saurus rollercoaster. A keeper. At least occasionally, so you could be reminded of the only thing that he was good for.

Vickie Rock

Anonymous said...

Part 5

Anyway, I had some business in Westminster so we ended up taking Beach Boulevard to Huntington. Just before we got to the beach we noticed there was some kind of fair going on. You know, portable amusement rides and food and stuff. We checked it out and, much to our surprise, the Ramones were playing on a makeshift stage with power supplied by a generator that failed a few times.

While they were well received in Hollywood, the crowd at the fair was unimpressed and booed. Some trash was also being tossed at the band. I have no idea whose idea it was to book them for this fair, but it was kind of stupid. Oddly, the crowd seemed to be a mix of families and bikers. I don’t think the bikers took too kindly to a bunch of dorky pussies from Queens wearing leather jackets and all. The power problems sure didn’t help them either.

In these early days of so-called “punk rock” the crowds looked like people you’d see at any concert. My boyfriend wore plaid Pendleton flannels over his JC Penny two-toned pocket T-shirts. He either wore button-up Levis or Nuvos and fuckin’ Wallabees. I usually wore a halter or tube top, cut-offs and sandals. We were typical. Judging by the way the crowds looked at these early Ramones shows, it coulda just as well been a Creedence show.

No one had started wearing the punk uniforms and safety pins yet. No one was gobbing on anyone. No one was stage diving or slam dancing. No one was preaching politics. No one had to conform to the phony nihilistic lie it became later.

So, like ‘em or not, the Ramones were sincere, important and influential. Hell, they were lovable. They were a spearhead act.

I'd compare ‘em to the Seeds but I think the Ramones are the more influential of the two. Both bands were limited musically, but very important for their punk-garage ethic, style and attitude.

But you already knew that. Hope you find something more interesting to do now.

Mucho besitos, Vickie Rock - taking you for another ride

P.S. Led Zeppelin’s Communication Breakdown is just as punk as the Ramones. It’s also better than most anything the Ramones ever wrote. I mean how many songs do you know where the singer hollers “Oooooh Suuuuck” before the manic guitar break.


Also, for years I misheard the line “Won’t ya let me hold you? Let me feel your lovin’ charms” as “Won’t ya let me hold you? Let me feel your lovin’ twat.” I was somewhat disappointed when I found out the real lyric.