In the early days of punk my boyfriend “Nick” outlawed my music. Back then, the rules of the scene were as rigid as “correct thought” under North Korean Communism. Nick sang in a band playing Max’s, CBGB, Continental and similar NY rocker strongholds where dress codes and taste cultures were strictly imposed. Following the NYC orthodoxies of Lou Reed, Nick hated anything from California. In 1978, when we met, that meant no Doors, Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane or hippie music of any type could be rotated in a New York home. Punk fundamentalist Johnny Ramone famously outlawed music in a blues field and broke the hegemony of the lead guitar. As the age of Disco coopted styles, venues, and sound systems across the land, there had to be law and order. Otherwise our scene would have died out---drowned out in the high tides of New Wave.
Long before the riot grrrls redefined music on their own terms, Nick bullied the turntable and I let him because that’s what women did. After all, he was a musician, I was a social worker, what did I know? Thanks to him, I immersed myself in the NY Dolls, the Senders, Dead Boys, Dictators, and Johnny Thunders Heartbreakers. We shared a holy love of all NYC’s finest bands and we still do. But that changed by the late 1980’s; Nick gave up around the time Metallica, Slayer and Motorhead entered my life. Dismissing my bands as “goons” he retaliated with his idiotic singer songwriters until I interviewed Stephen Malkmus of Pavement for Rolling Stone just to make the peace.
During our long life together, Nick has forced me to endure Morrissey concerts, lengthy monologues about Freedy Johnston, Elvis Costello, and Rufus Wainright. I learned to love them too, but it was always a one-way street. So I got back at him in the only way I could--- by embracing death metal. By 1992 I was managing Pyrexia, slamming my way through Suffocation, publishing devotional essays for the Voice on the “Spirituality of Death.” Instead of latter day boomer date night at the Waldos, I joined my Gen X pals (and my lover, Jack Daniel’s) at AC/DC, Iron Maiden, and Sabbath shows while Nick buried himself in his art. Rammstein, Ministry, Test Dept., Butthole Surfers we were able to fine some common ground, but by the 1990’s my musical conflicts with Nick were the least of my problems.
It was war all the time once the flannel hordes of grunge emerged victorious, displacing my precious metal. But the noise brilliance of Mudhoney, the Melvins, Flipper and Nirvana ultimately led me to a change of heart. And because grunge emerged from the same airspace as my lord and savior Jimi Hendrix, I found forgiveness. I was ultimately grateful to the Seattle kids for anointing the Ramones as their Godfathers. My war ended in 1996, with members of Soundgarden, Rancid, and Pearl Jam's joining the Ramones onstage at their last-ever USA show at the Palace in Los Angeles, California on August 6, 1996. And Motorhead’s Lemmy was there too, R.A.M.O.N.E.S.
And secretly, I liked Nick’s singer-songwriters and appreciated his critics taste in music while he remains baffled by my belief that Freebird should be our National Anthem, and Stairway to Heaven, our somber, sacred hymn. Forty-five years later, we are still working out our musical, artistic, spiritual, and political differences. For Christmas I got him LCD Soundsystem’s treasured 2007 Sound of Silver. He got me a subscription to Spotify and a pair of SONY headphones, so he doesn’t have to hear my goons.
Donna Gaines, 12/2022
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