JerryNolan. Lydia’s parents lived just blocks from Jerry in Queens. After a date, I used to tell Lydia I was going home and then I’d go over to Jerry’s house. We both wanted to be famous and we knew that image was everything, so we’d sit in front of a tanning lamp, then give ourselves facials with the creams and lotions that Jerry had. Jerry had gone to barber school and he’d razor-cut my hair. We looked like two gigolos!
When I met Lydia, I was still playing with the Barracudas. But that was getting old pretty quick. We were still playing instrumentals like “Tequila” and “Wipeout,” along with some Motown and some Beatles and Stones. I was pushing to play Procol Harum or Hendrix. But Carlos was older, twenty-four or so, and he just didn’t have that feel. He liked Motown but he wasn’t that crazy about the British invasion bands.
Around that time I went to see my friend Joey Lucenti’s band and he had a guy named Pepi Genneralli who played a mean Farfisa organ. Pepi was a great-looking blond, blue-eyed Italian chick magnet. He wasn’t happy in his band either">We played all over the city. Trudy Hellers, the Night Owl, Café Wha?, the Purple Onion. We worked constantly, playing a month at each club. After a while, we all wore matching double-breasted suits and ties, and we looked sharp. We even got gigs out of town.
Back in 1967, it was amazing how much hatred and disdain you could generate just by wearing your hair long and dressing like Jimi Hendrix. But I didn’t care. I wanted to look like a star all the time. Jerry called it “profiling.” We’d sit in his apartment figuring out what to wear so that people would stare at us. We were total nonconformists, total rebels. In a way, we had just graduated to a different gang.
I’d leave my apartment wearing a purple satin shirt, gold pants, and a velvet jacket and walk to the subway. All along the way, the Puerto Ricans would whistle at me and call me puta, which means whore, or paco, which meant gay. They’d make kissing sounds and go, “Paco, paco, suck my dick, baby.” But I didn’t care. I was cool, as far as I was concerned.
Coming home it was a different story. My parents had moved to Greenpoint and they lived over a bar. I was back living with them and I had a cool room. I painted the ceiling black and put stars on it so it looked like a galaxy. My mom and dad even grew pot for me on their roof—that’s how cool they were. (Of course, when I finally told them that that leafy green plant they were having so much fun cultivating was pot, they freaked out.) My dad would meet me at the subway at four in the morning when I was coming back from my gigs in the Village and help me with my drums. We had to push the drums fifteen blocks, and the Polish drunks who were coming out of the bars would ridicule me. If I didn’t have a gig, if I had just been clubbing in the Village, they would chase me all the way home and if they caught up to me, they’d push me around and pull my hair, pull out a switchblade and threaten to cut it off. I used to think, You motherfucker, five years earlier I would have fucking broken your knees with a bat. But now I wanted to be a rock star, so I had to endure it.
I even got that shit on the road. One time the Sounds of Soul were playing in upstate New York and we got hungry. We pulled into a truck stop, and they sent me in to get some food. I sat down, ordered some hamburgers to go, and these two huge truckers sat down on either side of me. One of them leaned over to the other and said, “I bet you I could punch him so hard that my fist could come through his brains.” Then the other guy described what torture he’d do to me. They started calling me Goldilocks, and I freaked out and ran out the door. And they ran after me.
Tommy was driving and he saw me running toward the van with these two huge truckers hot on my heels, so he started to take off. Meanwhile, Pepi opened the back door of the van and just as
When I met Lydia, I was still playing with the Barracudas. But that was getting old pretty quick. We were still playing instrumentals like “Tequila” and “Wipeout,” along with some Motown and some Beatles and Stones. I was pushing to play Procol Harum or Hendrix. But Carlos was older, twenty-four or so, and he just didn’t have that feel. He liked Motown but he wasn’t that crazy about the British invasion bands.
Around that time I went to see my friend Joey Lucenti’s band and he had a guy named Pepi Genneralli who played a mean Farfisa organ. Pepi was a great-looking blond, blue-eyed Italian chick magnet. He wasn’t happy in his band either">We played all over the city. Trudy Hellers, the Night Owl, Café Wha?, the Purple Onion. We worked constantly, playing a month at each club. After a while, we all wore matching double-breasted suits and ties, and we looked sharp. We even got gigs out of town.
Back in 1967, it was amazing how much hatred and disdain you could generate just by wearing your hair long and dressing like Jimi Hendrix. But I didn’t care. I wanted to look like a star all the time. Jerry called it “profiling.” We’d sit in his apartment figuring out what to wear so that people would stare at us. We were total nonconformists, total rebels. In a way, we had just graduated to a different gang.
I’d leave my apartment wearing a purple satin shirt, gold pants, and a velvet jacket and walk to the subway. All along the way, the Puerto Ricans would whistle at me and call me puta, which means whore, or paco, which meant gay. They’d make kissing sounds and go, “Paco, paco, suck my dick, baby.” But I didn’t care. I was cool, as far as I was concerned.
Coming home it was a different story. My parents had moved to Greenpoint and they lived over a bar. I was back living with them and I had a cool room. I painted the ceiling black and put stars on it so it looked like a galaxy. My mom and dad even grew pot for me on their roof—that’s how cool they were. (Of course, when I finally told them that that leafy green plant they were having so much fun cultivating was pot, they freaked out.) My dad would meet me at the subway at four in the morning when I was coming back from my gigs in the Village and help me with my drums. We had to push the drums fifteen blocks, and the Polish drunks who were coming out of the bars would ridicule me. If I didn’t have a gig, if I had just been clubbing in the Village, they would chase me all the way home and if they caught up to me, they’d push me around and pull my hair, pull out a switchblade and threaten to cut it off. I used to think, You motherfucker, five years earlier I would have fucking broken your knees with a bat. But now I wanted to be a rock star, so I had to endure it.
I even got that shit on the road. One time the Sounds of Soul were playing in upstate New York and we got hungry. We pulled into a truck stop, and they sent me in to get some food. I sat down, ordered some hamburgers to go, and these two huge truckers sat down on either side of me. One of them leaned over to the other and said, “I bet you I could punch him so hard that my fist could come through his brains.” Then the other guy described what torture he’d do to me. They started calling me Goldilocks, and I freaked out and ran out the door. And they ran after me.
Tommy was driving and he saw me running toward the van with these two huge truckers hot on my heels, so he started to take off. Meanwhile, Pepi opened the back door of the van and just as
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