The Times – good for them – have a full page obituary of Johnny Ramone, who’s just died in New York from prostate cancer. In Isaiah Berlin’s fox or hedgehog terms (and how often do you get Isaiah Berlin and Johnny Ramone in the same sentence?) Johnny was one of life’s hedgehogs. He had one great idea, and he stuck with it: very fast buzz-like chords, catchy tunes, moronic pop-culture lyrics. That was Ramones-style punk, which was punk at its purest. If Lou Reed was the godfather of punk, Johnny was the real father. The rest of the New York crowd like Tom Verlaine, Richard Hell or Patti Smith had some sort of intellectual or artistic pretensions, could quote Rimbaud, and imagined themselves as poets maudits transferred to Manhattan, but for the Ramones it was American culture all the way; notably horror flicks like Todd Browning’s “The Freaks” which supplied the signature “Gabba Gabba Hey”. And it was after seeing the Ramones that the Sex Pistols and the Clash saw the way to go.
Here’s Johnny expounding at length on his philosophy, the state of the world, and the inner demons which he could only exorcise through the transformative power of his art:
“I basically tried to play normal stuff. We didn’t sing about surfing or cars or girls because we didn’t surf, didn’t have cars and didn’t have girlfriends. So we wrote about sniffing glue and the boredom of suburbia.”
And here’s life on the road for the Ramones, in between fighting off the groupies:
On an early tour, their manager remembered, he was accosted by a filling-station clerk as the band (in full Ramones regalia) milled around in the forecourt. “Mister,” he was told, “it sure is nice of you to take care of those retarded people.”
Yep, a true American original.