I see Tina and Pete walk in. Before I can greet them, Jack runs over and gives them a big, gay welcome. Pete is getting used to it. I walk over.
“Hey, you came. Come outside and see our dressing room,” I tell them.
The girls and Grant are already in the limo. The four of us pile in. It is classic.
“Flo, Edi, Mary, Grant, these are my best friends from the Bronx, Tina and Pete,” I introduce them.
The girls instantly start speaking Spanish and the ‘chisme’/gossip is flowing. They need to quiz Tina. I tell Tina that Flo is also ‘mi novia.’ The girls dissect my craziness and charisma. Jack is discussed but dismissed as a newcomer and way too slutty.  Grant has no idea what is being said. I try to explain.
“So, yer boyfriend and two girlfriends are all here now?” he laughs.
“Yeah. They’re really laying into me.”
“Wanna step outside before they decide who gets to cut off yer balls?” He shows me a Miami spliff. The three guys immediately exit. Michael and Jenna are about to get in the limo.
“You might wanna wait until it cools off in there,” I warn them. We all jump into the De Soto with Uncle Tam, who smokes with us for the first time. Jenna abstains. She’s the only one who wants to know why I put all three lovers in the same car together.
“Guys are gross,” she concludes and leaves to catch the dirt in the limo.

Everyone breaks up after she shuts the door.
“Don’t be giving Jenna any idea that I want your arrangement,” Michael warns me.
So, we proceed to dissect Michael’s steadfast loyalty to monogamous abstinence. Grant’s ganja gets us super high. Jack is about to cum all over me, so we venture back to the limo.
“There he is, the player,” Mary announces. The girls break up.
Jack sits between Tina and Edi and begins making out first with Tina and then with Edi, Pete pulls Tina away from him. Michael has Jenna on his lap. I start making out with Flo. Grant puts his arm around Mary, who cuddles with him, Robby be damned. The limo’s air conditioning comes on.
Martin sticks his head inside the limo, “Time for sound check, lovers.”

We all pile out. There isn’t enough room on stage for everyone. A third mic is set up on the opposite sides of the stage, with Grant, Mary and Jenna at the left and Flo and Edi on the right. Jack, Michael and I are on the stage, which is about 6 inches above the bar floor. Hippie is nowhere to be seen. We page him with the mic. He comes running out of the lady’s room, trailed by two skanky looking groupies. We mix the vocals. Grant does a Doo Wop ditty to keep everyone amused. Michael is done setting the drum mics in 15 seconds with no Robby to duel over levels. I turn my amp down and set the guitar level from the PA, giving me room to amp it up. Hippie follows my instructions to do likewise. We run through ‘Sneakin’ Around” to give Jack a chance to set the monitors so he can hear himself. The sound man says everything looks good. I tell him, “Now we need you to make us sound good.”
Jack, Grant and I walk around the room to set a route for our monkey shines. It looks very doable except the place is such a wreck. We need Grant in case a pipe breaks.

Martin is talking to Bill Page, CBGB’s Manager. I go over to see what is up. We plan to be the opener, so we can relax afterward and enjoy the rest of the show. Bill is telling Martin that since we have been getting press, notably in the New York Post, and since Interview has photographers there, and since Martin is filming, they’ve had a lot of calls about when we are going on. He wants to bump us up to headliner. Bill is mostly interested in the bar receipts. We argue to go on first, claiming we are not a headline act, just kids from Miami.
“Well, how old are you?” he asks.
“We’re all 18,” I lie.
“Okay, you wanna go on first. That’s fine. But if I get complaints, ya gotta play a second set.”
I whispered to Martin, “How much do we get paid?”
“Hell, I’m paying him, so I can film it.”
I look Bill Page in the eye. “We’ll play when and as long as you want, but we get 25% of the bar for the night.”
“No way, kid. 15%.”
“Then 20%. Remember, we keep track.”
He agrees and we walk away. Martin grabs his cameraman. “Did you get that.”
“Of course.”
“Kid, I may have to say you’re actually eighteen in the movie if we use that. How’d you know how much he’d pay.”
“Hell, these clubs never expect the crowd to get all hot and sweaty, so the bar’s negligible. We were making a thousand a night in the Southern road houses. Half the beer bought got thrown at us for calling them out for their racism. Hell, at five bucks a beer here in the City, we’ll double that.”
Martin just shakes his head, turning around to make sure the camera is still rolling.

I get everyone to pile back into the limo to discuss the show.
“Okay. We’re going on first and maybe last, if we do good. I got our usual bar percentage for the night, so we gotta rile the crowd up. Patti tells me it’s okay to do a couple of covers, but the policy is no cover bands here. So we live or die on our own songs. We’ll reverse the Skynyrd and Neil Young songs, but only play ‘em as tune ups before we do our own. I’ll play the ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ intro and Jack will do the ‘Neil Young will remember’ line. We’ll stop once the crowd realizes we’re mocking them. Then we’ll do “Sneakin’ Around.’ Jack you have to taunt the crowd about being poseurs and burnt out hippies. Hippie you do your lame defense of your tribe. Grant, you start complaining that we never do any soul music. I’ll do the intro to the Silhouettes’ ‘Get a Job.’

 

 

“Once you do the first verse, we’ll stop and complain that we’re sick of rock n roll being taken over by Motown. You okay with that?”
“No. But we’re going for outrage, so don’t complain when you get it from me.”
We all laugh. Jon Landau sticks his head in the limo.
“Pile in, man. Where ya been?”
“You goin’ on soon? The crowd’s waitin’ for ya.”
“You’re right. This is the Good Friday show. We wait much longer, they’ll wanna to call it Saturday morning cartoons.”
We all get out and go back into the club. It’s 11:35pm. Time to open the show.

There is a good-sized crowd, standing around and self-absorbed. The smoke is thick and the air is buzzing from a hundred different conversations. Martin turns the movie lights on and the cameras are rolling. We walk across the stage. Jack grabs the stage mic, leans forward and stares at the crowd.
“Where ya been?” someone yells out.
“Down South, deep in the heart of Dixie,” he answers.
I play a couple of the opening riffs from ‘Sweet Home Alabama.’

“Y’all ready for a country good time?” I riff again.
“Fuck you,” the same guy yells back. “Get some shoes, hayseed.”
“I had my shoes but gave ’em to some bum sitting outside the bar. Then he spit on me for asking for a thank you.”
“Grow up kid.”
“Well, I am growing up. In my hometown. Miami. Ever hear of it. This is our Bad Friday show. We’re False Gods. Here to make you fall to your knees. First song is ‘Deep South.’”
I switch from Southern Blues to thrash metal chords, with hippie coming in with heavy bass riffs.

“Go deep to the South
When you can go no more
Find our city to try to score
Come to our cool house

Miami drug
Life too rough?
Take the time
Follow our sign

Girls are free
Always please
Jack your shit
Get into it.

We bewilder with our drug
Whether it be love
Or just need of a hug
We’re free to meet the need

Miami drug
Life too rough?
Take the time
Follow our sign

Girls are free
Always please
Jack your shit
Get into it.

Miami’s here to serve
Keeps you safe and sound
Southern man beats you down

That’s what you deserve

Miami drug
Life too rough?
Take the time
Follow our sign

Girls are free
Always please
Jack your shit
Get into it.

 

Then we jump right into ‘Drugs’:

 

I take drugs but I don’t understand

How you let things get so out of hand

Its no fun to be a bore

Waiting around for you to score

 

When you’re high stay close to me

Teach me to fly & how to be free

Please don’t cry, its only the drug

You won’t die, just give me a hug

 

Heroin & cocaine make a speed ball

Dilaudin or codeine soften the fall

Thorazine puts you away for awhile

Acid & beer will make you smile

 

Needles give hep, death & the flu

For that rush that’s what you must do

Crystal meth is the best

But forget about sex

 

Whiskey & ‘ludes make me real rude

Acid & pot will make your brain rot

PCP takes you away from me

Red & beers chase away the fears

 

Do you still love me or is it the drugs

I love the sex but I need your hugs

Together we are happy, apart I am sad

Without a connection we always go mad

 

The verses are stretched out and we do the choruses up tempo. I finish with a screaming metal riff, turning my amp up several notches.
“Take that, fuckers,” I yell into Jack’s mic. The Jacettes follow Grant’s lead and are doing the ‘Walk on the Wild Side’ doo wop to fill in before the next song.

“Yeah,” someone yells.
“Okay.”
“Far out.”
They like the familiar New York sound.
I go back again to ‘Sweet Home Alabama.’
Jack eggs them on. “You ain’t nothin’ but a bunch dumb rednecks dressed in black.”
I start playing the Trashmen’s “The Bird,’ cutting it short after the first verse.

Jack gives the crowd his middle finger. He walks over to Flo and Edi. They go over to Martin’s table and get Tina and Pete to join them at the mic.
“What the fuck do you guys want?” Jack yell.
Hippie and I start ‘Oy Como Va”

and the Jacettes plus Tina and Pete on the left do the Spanish vocals while Grant’s crew does a ‘bob shu bob’ on the right.’
“Too shy to speak up?”
“Suck my cock.” someone yells.
“I only suck his,” Jack points at me.
“I start ‘Sex 1,’

“ He’s the boy who breaks all the rules.
He takes his time until you’re primed,
then gets it done 60 seconds flat.
Out the door always wanting more.
Don’t tell him you’ll do it later when you know
he’s gonna do you now.

Love it.”

“Fuck yah,” three girls yell.
“Fags,” the same guy yells back.
The three girls confront the yeller. “You want some of me?”
He disappears toward the bar. Ka-ching, 20%.
“You wanna see us kiss?” Jack cajoles, as he walks over behind me. I start playing the Doors’ ‘Love Her Madly.’ Hippie is strutting his bass leads. Jack starts licking my ear.

The Jacettes are chanting the ‘do what I say,’ chorus. Grant sings the line ‘gonna be your Daddy.’ Jack is kissing me on the neck until I stop playing and turn to French him over my left shoulder. The crowd gasps.
Hippie turns toward Michael and yells, “’Sneakin’ Around,’ one two three four.”
Jack jumps away, winking at a leather guy in the front. He comes in perfectly,

“Sneaking around
Never been caught
All over town
Better than not.

Thrill’s in the chase
No time to waste
Folks on my case
All is in haste.

Waiting’s the worst
You were my first
I need you now
We’re on the prowl.

Back of an alley
Sprawled in the dirt
No time to dally
Who will cum first.

shaka shaka love?
‘shaka shaka love shaka shaka
Shaka shaka love shaka shaka.”

The Jacettes on the left come dancing out front and shake their boobies to the chorus, pushing the crowd back. Finally, two guys watusi up to them and start dancing back. A dozen girls run up, joining the Jacettes’ shaka line. We keep on playing the song over and over. More guys jump up and we have a whole disco scene going on. Grant comes in with a low and deep ‘love’ in the middle of each chorus line. Jack raises his arms. Grant’s Jacettes righteously stop.
“Do we havta show you what you want? Speak up. mo’fo’s”
“More thrash metal,” from Iggy in the Back. I start playing ‘Paranoid.’

“Hey, assholes. Like that? Here’s our version of heavy metal.”

We match the thrash energy of Black Sabbath with our own ‘Curfew.”

 

 

“Anyone patriots out there? This songs for you: ‘My Uncle Sam.”

 

 

“Don’t like a little World War 3? Well, screw you. This is what we think of y’all: ‘Fools Who Laugh.””

 

 

I stop and step up to the mic, “Our second drummer caught some disease in Washington Square, so I’ll sing our band anthem in his place. We did belladonna and this vision told us to start the band and send out this message, ‘Get on your knees you pitiful fleas.’”

“We are ‘False Gods,’

 

“Where others feared to tread,
they gave us up for dead,
memories linger on eternally,
as Lucifer’s proud plea,
a world of our own,
on high a black throne,
we sing to make them see,
to be happy for eternity

…we are False Gods, we are False Gods…
a world meek and blind,
laugh at all of mankind,
fools misunderstand,
we’re of Satan’s band,
a world of endless flaws,
facades and miracles applause,
eulogized but despised,
shed your false disguise,
fall to your knees,
utter useless pleas,
cause

…we are False Gods, we are False Gods…

pray in foreign tongues,
shoot useless guns,
sacrifice hallowed sheep,
shun cold, dark streets,
you’re just nasty fleas,
Set your minds to be

…False Gods, False Gods…

we live eternally,
hear painful screams,

Just wait 20 years or so

You will know just what we mean
….We are False Gods, False Gods..

… False Gods”

 

Copyright MIB Dave Delgado

It confuses everyone to go from disco to metal. The dancers stay up front, while the metal heads are pushing their way forward from the back of the crowd. A couple of fights break out when the disco dollies get pushed aside. Their boyfriends push back. The bouncers jump in and start whaling on the disco people.
Jack uses my line from the frat party, “Hey, Leave those kids alone. They’re our friends.”
Max comes bounding out on to the tiny stage.
Somehow he has fans in New York, as several people call out his name, “Max.”
He barks until the bouncers stop punching our fans.
“Chill out, people. Who’s got a joint. Gimme a joint,” I yell into the mic.
No one volunteers.
“Max, weed,” I tell him. He bounds into the crowd and stops before a girl in fish nets and a cocktail waitress dress. He sits and barks. We know what that means.
“You got a joint?” I ask her.
She pulls one out of her purse.
“Spark it up and pass it around. Kiss Max with a shot-gun hit.”
She does as I ask. Max barks and goes to the next weed holder, sits down and barks.
“Spark it up.”
We soon have four or five joints going around. Casper is sitting next to him taking the second-hand hits, as well.
“Take it down a notch,” Jack tells everyone. “We got a silly love song fer ya.”

“I never feel this way.
Just happy full of play.”
“I wake up every day,
You’re by my side,
You reach and touch,
I say goodbye.

There’s no future,
But we have now.
Don’t ask,
some way,
somehow.”

“We’re perfect for each other,
I never think of another.”
Can’t be love, but who can say
I know you’re here to stay?”

There’s no future,
But we have now.
Don’t ask,
some way,
somehow.”
‘We can’t live by ourselves.
We need people that we love
We hate those who hate themselves
We know what they’re made of.

Love, love, love

I need your love
I need your love
I need your love
I need you…”

Jack is on his knees in front of me, singing the ending chorus to only me. I start fucking my SG guitar, thrusting it into him. Naturally I start getting hard. I am going commando tonight, so it is swelling and riding up my left thigh.
“Faggots,” the tormentor yells.
I throw down the SG, readjust my dick, and yell at him, “You want some of this. Come and get it. My jeans top button pops open and the head looks out at the crowd. The girls scream. The tormentor is only stunned for a second. He charges me right through the crowd. I’m not watching because I’m trying to button up as he is about to punch me. Hippie clocks him with his P bass. Down he goes. More screams.
“You asked for it now,” Jack screams, “’Barefoot in the Park.’” Hippie and Michael stay on stage playing, while Grant, Jack and I chase the guy to the back of the bar. His friends are there, ready for us. Jack and I leap up on the tables and then into the rafters, catching the sprinkler pipes, and swinging away from the haters. Grant holds his ground, stopping the five assholes in their tracks. He turns and runs under us as we swing hand to hand around the club. More people are pushed out-of-the-way. The Jacettes come in with the monkey cries. We echo them from the various corners of the bar. Grant gets into it and is doing his own Cheetah dance and singing,

“Ha ha ha
He he he
Haw haw haw
Chee chee chee”

Five girls surround him and are doing the Watusi for him as he bounces up and down. We run out the door and escape into the limo. Grant stays to meet his new ladies. Jack runs back in the stage door, screaming the monkey chants, before running right back out again.
We all collapse in a pile, giggling and clutching one another. Martin is at the limo with his cameraman wanting in.
As he sits opposite us, he says, “They’re screaming for you to go back on stage.”
“Yeah, they want to lynch us,” I laugh. “Tell ‘em we’re doing a second set, after the other bands.”
“They’ll find out. What the hell happened out there?”
“We’re 16. We like to piss adults off.”
“We asked them what they wanted. When we could, we did it,” Jack asserts.
“The dog? Getting everybody high?”
Jack answers, “Max is like a police dog, sniffing out weed. He’s Spot from Our Gang.”
“Thanks, Hippie, for clocking that guy. I was so concerned about my dick, I didn’t see him coming,” I explain.
Martin need to confirm, “Your dick actually popped out?”
“The jean buttons popped. It wanted to be part of the show.”
“I’m gonna havta edit that. Exposing yourself is a crime.”
“Just doing what Morrison did.”
“Do I need to call Mike for legal aid?”
“The only ones who saw it were right up front. The redneck that Hippie clocked was totally insane that he saw my dick. Don’t bother Mike. We’re underage, so the worst they can do is put us in foster care.”
“You are one cocky son of a bitch.”
“Don’t be talkin’ about my mama. I got seven of ‘em.”
“Say, what?”
“Yeah. There’s hippie’s two moms, Jace’s Mom, Stu’s Mom, Jack’s Mummy, my dad’s fiancée Susan, and the mama that deserted me. I never tried foster care. I’ll bet I could pick up three or four more.”

Everyone is cracking up. We decide it’s so good in the limo that we do not leave. Landau squeezes in. “The next band can’t go on until the bar clears the line of refills,” he reports. “All the guys are waiting for you to come back so they can beat your asses. And all the girls just wanna kiss ‘em. What turns girls on from watching guys fag out?”
“That’s a band secret. You should see the 10 to 12-year-old girls. They buy briefs just like we wear and make their little boyfriends wear them. We even autograph ‘em.”
“We sing ‘Amazing Grace’ to them but change it to Amazing Jane or Amazing Claire,” Jack crows, pulling his briefs up above his waistband.
Edi grabs the back of the waistband and snaps his ass. He starts getting a bulge for everyone to see. Flo tries me, forgetting I’m going commando. Her hand slips down my butt crack. I squirm and the top button pops open again. Grant had been handing out drinks and beer from the limo mini bar, but we are dry now. Martin gives the driver a hundred bucks. We drive to a Bowery liquor store. No one wants to get out as the driver goes in to restock.
I say, ‘Fuck it,” and everyone piles out.
We must look scarier than the bums, because all the guys hanging out in front retreat to the corner. Finally, the youngest Black kid comes up and asks, “What’s a bunch of no shoe hillbillies doin’ in the City.”
We tell him we’re a band playing around the corner. He wants to get into the limo with us, but his older brothers come over. We share beers with them and hang out for about an hour. They’re a trip. We tell them we’re a boy band from Orlando.
“Like the Jackson 5?”
“Exactly.”
They mock Grant for hanging out with honkies. He tells them we all go to school together, which blows their minds. They start getting insistent about meeting the girls inside the limo.
“You put on some moves, they might just come out here to meet ya,” Grant tells them.
They whisper and someone brings out a harmonica. They do an a Capella version of ‘On Broadway.”

 

 

Grant is in his element and has us doing his Doo Wop act for them. Martin gets great shots and footage. The girls finally come out. It is much more relaxed, except everyone is trying too hard to be cool. The kids on the block jump into the limo which gets real crowded. Everyone exits when we get back to CBGB’s. We sneak the boys in through the side door. The other bands are done. When people see us, a shout goes up that we are back.
Jack grabs a mic. “I can’t believe you really want us to play again.”
The girls were all yelling, “Please, please.”
“What about the fag haters?” Jack asks.
“They’re gone. They were shamed by a bunch of gay boys.”
‘We didn’t plan a second show. So, tell us what you wanna hear.”
“Monkey song.”
“We made that up so we could escape. How about something by our favorite New York Band, Lou Reed?” – Wild Side

“The crowd starts clapping. Grant starts the girls doing the “Doo do doo, do doo, do doo, do do do doo.”
We do the whole song without a complaint from Bill, the booker. I get to do the ‘little Joe never once gave it away,’ in honor of Joey.
People are clapping and yelling, “Yeah.” We were back in favor. We do all of ‘Personality Crisis’,

 

I take the mic from Jack, “This ain’t the first time I been on this stage. I did that with David Johansen two years ago. Next he pushed me away, singing ‘Trash’ to my jail-bait ass.”

 

We next even sneak ‘Look Before You Leap’ in,

‘Wanna

Set you’re your buddy on fire,

Better buy a rug.

Wanna

Send your friends to hell,

Better get a priest.

Wanna

Beat up a bully,

Better get a gun.

 

Look before you leap

Better to say no

Then end up in a heap

No place to go.

 

Leap, leap, leap

You friggin’ freak

Leap, leap, leap

Strip and streak.”

 

Wanna

Beat up your friend

Get new friends

Wanna

Steal a new car

You won’t get far

Wanna

Dis some sweet lass

A beating comes fast

 

Look before you leap

Better to say no

Then end up in a heap

No place to go.

 

Leap, leap, leap

You friggin’ freak

Leap, leap, leap

Strip and streak.”

 

Next  we do ‘Radar Love.’

 

It is all fun. Max searches out the potheads. The vibe stays mellow. Iggy is shouting for American metal. We have him come up and do ‘Search and Destroy.’

 

 

Max is standing next to him and barks until we start ‘I Wanna Be your Dog.’

We finish with ‘False Gods,’

 

but the crowd won’t let us leave. Hippie and Michael stay on stage to play ‘Barefoot,’ while everyone else goes into the crowd to sing, chant and get everyone dancing. The street corner gang is shocked that we want them to act like monkeys. When they see Grant surrounded by the ladies, they laugh and point at him. In a minute or so, they are right in there with everyone making fools of themselves. Jack and I swing around the ceiling and exit to the limo. The rest of the crew piles in. Martin tells his assistant to break down all the equipment and load it in the De Soto. Uncle Tam says he calculates the bar took in over $4000. I talk to Bill. He tries to tell me that cover bands aren’t allowed.
“I guess that means we’re fired. Pay up.”
He low balls the take at $3300, thinking I’ll be stunned.
I tell him that we kept track. “It’s $4000.”

He wants to haggle, but I stay firm. He gives me $800.
“And here’s a tip,” he says, “Grow up.”
“Never.”

When I get back to the limo I pay each of us $50. including the Jacettes and Grant. The remaining $200 goes into the petty cash fund.

Martin reminds me to be at Abyssinian Baptist in Harlem at noon for their youth group. He says he got great shots but was confused that our attitude had been so aggressive.
“Apathy, man,” I tell him. “We had to wake ‘em up.”
“Well, make sure you wake up on time this morning.” It is 4 am already.
Tina and Pete realize they are well past their curfews.

 

 

We have the limo drive them to the Bronx after he first drops off the Jacettes and Grant at the Waldorf in Midtown. The five of us and Max walk to the Chelsea.

We go to Michael’s room and find Robby finally awake. He apologizes for being a flake. No one says anything. We are not going to play parent to him. He wants to smoke us out, but Hippie, Jack and I are done for the night. Before leaving I thank Michael for being so great at the show. He kept it all together.
“Did you think it went well?” he asks.
“Not so great. It’d be nice to play to people who don’t need to be aggravated to get into it.”
“Would be nice. Maybe we need to go back to Shakespeare.”
We laugh.
Hippie asks if we need ‘time’ before he goes to bed. I realize he cannot tell if we are horny or not.
“No, man. You can sleep with Max,” who trots along behind us.
“Cool.”
Whatever floats your boat.
“You’re coming with us to Abyssinian Baptist for Easter, right?” he asks
“’Course.”

 

 

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CBGB OMFUG – RIP 2006