Joey Ramone

1952 - 2001

by Jim Macnie

Rock has given us several characters whose physicality and fashion sense are apt metaphors for the music they created. Janis Joplin was exuberance personified -- her life joy spilling out of her wild hair, countless wrist bangles, and onstage energy. David Bowie? His gaunt cheeks and regal demeanor underscored the weight of whichever dramatic character he assumed. From Ziggy Stardust to the Thin White Duke, he managed to be extravagant yet chic.

And then there's 49-year-old Joey Ramone. The singer, who died of lymphoma Sunday afternoon, was the living embodiment of the pop noise his band created over the last 25 years. Our little clique used to describe him as a "turtle without a shell" -- a measly mook whose tall and skinny frame trumpeted all things ordinary, and a front man whose stage stance effected the prow of a great battleship: left foot out, mic stand shoved forward, body poised at a determined pitch, plain in delivery, resolute in execution, void of extraneous movement. Dressed in leather and jeans, with worrisomely pale skin and a ridiculous caveman haircut, he was perpetually primed to do the dirty job of making great rock 'n' roll ("The kids are all hopped up and ready to go/They're ready to go now"). Without an iota of histrionics, the prototypical Noo Yawk rocker delivered some of the most captivating music ever created. He didn't look left, he didn't look right, he just barreled along. Is there such a thing as a Zen punk? Odd duck, that Joey.

Of course, the Ramones' music trumpeted all things ordinary as well. As innovative as it was influential, the reductionist stance taken by guitarist Johnny, bassist Dee Dee, and drummer Tommy was a genuinely iconoclastic move when it slapped the status quo in the puss in 1976. Genius? Well, let's not go overboard. The band's guitar/bass/drums/voice schematic applied itself to profoundly simple song structures that tittered as they reveled in cluckishness. And the lyrics were shrugged-off poesy cribbed from curbside small talk. But the profound revitalization the band gave rock often moved as genius does. Comic books, monster movies, Betty and Veronica love quandaries -- all forms of juvenilia were spouted and touted by the outer-borough band who made a second home on the Bowery. All their musical elements were utilitarian -- thrust and hooks, thrust and hooks, thrust and hooks. Bubblegum with a mean streak. Abba with attitude. Call it what you want, but in the blink of an eye, and without a shred of real strategy, a squad of witty urbanites had sounded one of pop's loudest alarms. What Mike Watt recently called "correct rock" was under siege. Ta-ta, Tarkus! Hasta la vista, Zoso. En garde, Silk Degrees!

Joey and company made rock 'n' roll for kids who didn't want to eat their vegetables. Dumping the broccoli and ditching the spinach, their songs went right to the sweet stuff: pure pudding followed by a big gulp of Yoo-Hoo. Choruses and refrains triumphed over verses: The "and oh, I don't know whah" bit from "Jackie Is a Punk." The "Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh-oh," from "Beat On the Brat." The "ooohoooh-ooh" from "I Remember You." As a vocalist, Joey loaded his lyrics with a kind of chintzy melodrama learned from Phil Spector's singers. His pal Ronnie Spector perfected the approach on tunes like "Walking In the Rain." But Joey had the Ramones, who largely sidestepped ballads and put the pedal to the metal 1-2-3-4. Velocity -- the "straight line and tight wind" Joey urps about in "Blitzkrieg Bop" -- defined the band's approach. Couldn't get to Coney Island to ride the Cyclone? The Ramones brought the Cyclone to you.

Or a lot of yous, actually. In the obit in Monday's New York Times, one-time editor of New York Rocker Andy Schwartz called the foursome a "Johnny Appleseed" unit. Wherever they went in their first three years, similar bands sprouted. When the Ramones toured London, heads turned; their shows were inspirational to innumerable young punks. Their self-titled Sire debut was an immeasurably rich template for other records. There would be no Never Mind the Bollocks, no Singles Going Steady, no New Day Rising, no Sorry Ma, Forgot To Take Out the Trash, no . . . well, you get the point. For all we know, we might be listening to Breakfast in America XXXII if Joey's craft and charisma weren't what they were. The band's second and third discs, Ramones Leave Home and Rocket to Russia, solidified the approach. Their stage shows were like rides on a waterslide -- whoooshh! The songs may have had a buzzsaw edge, but they hugged you as you spilled along. The attractions were obvious and sublime, and underground youth culture clung to them dearly.

Joey's battle with cancer has been in and out of the news for a few months. He lived across the street from an office I frequent in New York, and I spotted him a few times last fall. Out in his leathers hailing a cab, or darting into the Duane Reed drugstore with sweatpants on -- he always looked different than anyone else. The hair, the thick yellow glasses. Every time I'd see him, it'd remind me to grab another song to play. Most of the action happened through Napster. And revelations occurred. A minor piece like "Locket Love" proved itself to be major to me. Sometime last month a pal and I got all wrapped up with "Danny Says," the band's opus to the boredom of touring. After umpteen spins, I'm sure it's one of rock's most eloquent comments on the subject. And Joey sings it perfectly: "Hanging out in 100B/ Watching Get Smart on TV/Thinking about you and me and you and me." Its melancholy fed my melancholy regarding the singer and his illness. And when that sadness became too much, I clicked on "Bonzo Goes to Bitburg," the 1985 indictment of Ron Reagan's visit to the German camp where members of the SS were buried. Go put it on if you haven't heard it in awhile. You'll find Joey watching the tube and wailing in frustration. Who said the Ramones were without politics?

Spin dedicates its current issue to the punk scene; Joey's on the cover, an immediately identifiable symbol of the music's pomp-less power. Last month's Mojo also celebrated the 1977 rock revolution. Michael Hill's profile of the Ramones' genesis is a wonderfully detailed portrait. That turtle without a shell was a real agent provocateur. And by stumping for pop essentials -- purity, pleasure and, as one close pal used to contend, jocularity -- he had massive cultural impact. Gabba-gabba, we accept you, we accept you, one of us. It turns out mooks can be rock stars, too.