A concert took place at Chicago’s iconic Park West music theater in May of 1980. It was unlike any other venue I’d experienced before, and possibly since. With a capacity of only about one thousand, it was intimate and had great acoustics. Not that quality sound was required for the band we went to see. The Ramones could overpower a nightclub, a stadium or anything in between.
Four of the original band members were there: Dee Dee, Joey, Marky and Johnny. All had taken the stage surname Ramone, though none were related. At that time they had released five albums with limited commercial success, but would be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of fame in 2002. As an early entry during 1974 from Queens in New York to the exploding Punk music genre, they had a loyal following that would develop into cult status over the following years. Perhaps you’ve seen their trademark black t-shirt emblazoned in white with a parody of the U.S. presidential seal surrounded by their names. In the center is an eagle holding a club in one talon. I bought one at the show in 1980. You can still pick one up online for $5.99.
The loud, intensely rapid electric thrumming sound of their songs, which average 2 minutes and 37 seconds, almost immediately causes a listener’s heart rate to ramp up to 165 beats per minute. There’s no sitting at a Ramones concert, which by virtue of the short song lengths is not all that long. The crowds were young, on their feet and dancing the entire time, specifically doing the Pogo. As the name implies, this is a frantic jumping up and down that my now 65 year-old knees would not endure for even one playing of Blitzkrieg Bop or Suzy is a Headbanger. But at that time we were young and we Pogo’d the night away.
This is all background information for a recent brief encounter I had outside a diner in Port Charlotte, Florida. There’s no punk rock in town, at least not among the predominantly geriatric crowd that flocks here during “season” to escape winter in the frozen north. As I stood outside waiting for a table to become available I noticed a disheveled younger man, waiting alone on a single red lacquered bench next to his bicycle. He wore a woolen knit cap, a beat up jacket and what appeared to be bicycle pants. It’s possible he was delivering for GrubHub or Postmates, but his unshaven face, toothless grin and rather uneasy expression was more characteristic of someone who is homeless, waiting for a handout of food. Indeed, the owner soon appeared with a plastic bag filled with carryout boxes. This is not a restaurant that typically offers this service, but the owners have a reputation for hard work and extreme kindness.
On the young man’s black hat, facing front and center in bold white letters was a single, memorable name. I smiled. Catching his eye, I gestured toward the hat and simply said, “Ramones!” For a second he looked startled, discovered, but then his own smile broke out, ear to ear.
“That was one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to!” I said.
He proceeded to tell me about the times he’d seen them, a short story about a prom he skipped in order to make it to a show, and some general small talk about great music and good times. Over an otherwise insurmountable cultural and generational divide, we bonded.
My table became available, I wished him a great day, and we parted, friends for a moment, passing through life on very different and divergent highways.
A lingering warm feeling lasted through breakfast and into the morning. When I got home I called up a few of the old tunes on Spotify. It only takes about ten minutes to listen to their four biggest hits, but like the encounter earlier, the music ignited something deeper, powerful, and lasting. It gave me more energy than my morning coffee, and more importantly, it made me happy.
😎
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