Roxy, Johnny Thunder, Pacha, Oh My! - BlackBookThe death of rocker Willy Deville the other day reminded me of an old story. When rocker Johnny Thunders mysteriously died in New Orleans back in 1991, Willy happened to live next to his hotel. When reporters started to ask him what he knew, Willy made up the romantic story that the New York Dolls Heartbreakers superhero was found dead with his guitar in his hand. In reality, Johnny was found locked in a death grip “u shape” with his large methadone supply, passport and other valuables gone. My buddy Dee Dee Ramone blew the whole thing up and blamed the death on the unsavory characters that Johnny was hanging with. Yet the New Orleans police seemed to not give a damn about anoyher dead junkie and didn’t look too hard for his killers.
I grew up around the corner from the punk guitarist. He was Johnny Genzale back then, and he was the neighborhood creep. I remember him as a loser, a loner, the guy most likely to sniff glue. He was a few months older than me, and I at one point tried to be his friend. Even as a kid i was drawn to the fringe. He repaid me by stealing my baseball glove. I chased him down and got it back. He hadn’t sold it, he just wanted it to play ball with. For months after he would cross the street in fear of me. I reconnected with him back at Max’s Kansas City. We developed a loose friendship based on a common youth and neighborhood. He once pulled a beautiful blond groupie around the balcony at the old Ritz, now Webster Hall, to impress me, and degrade her. She allowed him to treat her like a dog and he winked at me with a “look how far I’ve come” look. It was frighteningly pathetic, but to most he was a fabulous rock star living an enviable life. I just saw the neighborhood sad sack faking happiness. I pulled a few needles from his arm over the years upstairs at Max’s, and bought him a few meals, then drifted out of his life as he sought stardom and embraced demons. I’d see him around the Ramones loft, Max’s, CBGB’s and the rest of the local joints. I’d always catch his bands. On stage he was lightning, power, anger, fear. He was a guitar hero. The dolls broke out glam, broke all the rules, but then broke up. Malcolm McClaren pushed the Heartbreakers who were just a hair from stardom. One night when his face looked like it was going to crawl away, Ramones artistic director Arturo Vega turned to me and said “when he first hit the Bowery punk scene, he looked like an angel. His skin was perfect, white like porcelain.” The price of limited fame and not enough of really anything except drugs and groupies was exacting its toll. Advanced leukemia was his very secret burden as well. Willy Deville said that “he went out in a blaze of glory,” and told a little white lie to add to the legend. Now my boy Black John has adapted a screenplay called Who Killed Johnny Thunders? into a one man rock show. I’m gonna catch it next time it plays out.