Chapter 8: Teenage Lobotomy

The lights go down and the gathered mass hushes, turning their attention to the stage. The theme from the 1966 Clint Eastwood movie “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” comes on over the sound system. My Dad loves Clint Eastwood, so I know his movies well.

I see the silhouettes of four guys take their places. As the intro theme builds in intensity, the guy positioned in the center, screams, “ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!”” The blinding lights burst on as the drummer begins to pound the rolling beat. Fists are pumping and the crowd chants, “Lo-bot-tomy! Lo-bot-tomy! Lo-bot-tomy!”

The low bass line is followed by the crushing roar of the guitar joining in. The wall of Marshall Amps behind the band are cranked to the max delivering a thunder that is an absolute sonic assault on my senses. This is my first time seeing a rock band perform live and good god this is loud, so loud I can feel it as much as I’m hearing it! And it’s fucking awesome!

Fists stay in the air, heads are banging, bodies are slamming, and the throng is moving; an unrestrained release of energy surrounds me.

Four guys, all dressed the same, open black leather jackets, white t-shirts, blue jeans, sunglasses and tennis shoes. Their hair is semi-long, cut in mop-top style, obscuring their faces most of the time. One drummer, one bass player, one guitar player and one singer; their look is as basic as their music. It’s nothing complicated, but, damn, it sure sounds good. That’s what made the Ramones so special, they mastered the art of pure, simple, loud, rock and roll.

Mosh pits form and open-up, then close and dissipate, only to re-appear in another location, it’s quite a spectacle to witness. No-one takes offense to being pushed or shoved, slamming each other around is the name of the game. If one should fall, hands reach out to pull him back up. You could call it Controlled Violence, a show of love by the fans for their passion of this the loud, roaring music.

Eric, Gavin and their buddies are right in the middle of all this craziness and they are having a blast. Me? I’ve been keeping my distance to the outer perimeters, I’m not too sure about diving into that agitated hive. Maybe if I had a few beers in me, my inhibitions would be low enough to say, what the fuck, looks like fun, but I promised not to drink. Being, probably the only sober individual in this place provides its own unique perspective on things.

Teenage Lobotomy continues to burn through their set of Ramones tunes. They sound good, I would guess almost as good as the real the band, from what I can tell anyway. I already know many of these songs. “I Wanna Be Sedated”, “Rockaway Beach”, “I Just Want to Have Something to Do”, “Beat on the Brat”, “Judy is a Punk”, and “Pinhead”, to name a few.

They quickly transition from one similar sounding song to the next by a brief pause and the singer belting out, “One, two, three, four!” to launch the next jam. It’s not so much about each song’s musical individuality, it’s about keeping the high-octane energy in the room alive and the crowd moving.

I feel hands from each side grab my arms from behind, pulling me towards the moving mass. Eric and Gavin are ushering me in. “Come on buddy, you gotta experience this!” Eric screams over “Sheena is a Punk Rocker”.

“I don’t know, Man!” I skeptically shout back.

“You’re gonna love it!” Gavin yells in my ear, “Just try to keep your balance!”

WHAM! I’m shoved from the left. BAM! I’m slammed from the right. “Put your weight into it and shove ‘em back!” Eric shouts.

Okay, I’m getting the hang of this. I keep my eyes open wide all around me and brace for impacts, all the while timing and delivering my own body-slam shoves right back. I don’t know these people I’m throwing my weight into, they don’t know me, but who fucking cares, this is fun! The music is deafening, it’s a pure release of good-natured aggression and adrenaline, I can see why these rowdy fans are loving it.

Uh, oh, Eric is grinning as he’s lining me up and he is no small guy. I brace myself for the eminent strike, but suddenly I’m pushed from behind from someone falling into me. Eric is already charging and grazes me, knocking me into a spin which causes me to slam into someone else. I immediately feel, cold, wet liquid spill down my side. Was this person I just rammed actually trying to hold on to a beer out in this chaos?

I look down and see some little guy about 5’ 2” feet tall getting in my face. He’s hollering something, but who could hear anything over the band. He’s quite visibly pissed, my bumping him caused him to spill his beer. I hold my hands up and mouth the words, “I’m sorry,” it’s all I can offer.

I focus my attention back on the band, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see this little dude is still chewing me out, he just won’t let this go. I’m no expert lip-reader, but anyone could make out that he’s motherfuckering me up one side and down the other, all while flipping me off. I raise my hands and again shout, “Look, I’m sorry. What do you want me to do about it?”

I’m not a super tall guy, but at my height of 5’ 10”, I have at least 8 inches on this little twerp. What the hell, does this guy want; to fight me of something? You know what they say about short guys with Napoleon complexes? Here is a true, walking example. I try to ignore him and go back to watching the band.

Now I feel little fingers poking at my side, what now? Believe it or not, he’s still motherfuckering me and now he’s waving his finger in my face like he’s my mother.

I’m sorry that my bumping him caused him to spill his beer, not mention, all over me. And what in the fuck was he doing bringing a beer out into this mosh-pit/slam-fest for in the first place? He should be the one apologizing to me, I’m sure I smell like a damned brewery now.

Okay, I’ve had enough of this pip-squeak. I raise both my arms up over my head and yell, no, it is more accurate to say, I roar, I roar right into his face, “WHAT THE FUCK?” This caused him to jump back a few paces. I even got the brief attention of everyone around me, they all take a step away from me, giving me a little space. I think I might have just briefly out-volumed a stack of 3-dozen Marshall Amps. I’m sure I just blew out my vocal chords for the night, I will probably be raspy for a few days.

Little Napoleon gives me one last parting middle-finger and disappears into the crowd. Eric comes over and yells, “What was that all about?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I yell back.

The band plays about a dozen more songs, which in real time isn’t that long, considering a two-minute tune is lengthy by Ramones standards. They encore with everyone’s favorite “Blitzkrieg Bop”.

Once the band finishes and we can communicate beyond screaming and lip-reading, Eric and I find a couple of bar-stools and take a seat. I tell him about my little-friend out there who was all upset with me. Eric bursts out laughing, “Oh, you must have ran into Eugene!”

“Eugene?”

“Yeah, or Gene as he prefers. He’s here all the time, don’t mind him.”

“I mean, I’m sorry caused him to spill his drink, but what the fuck was I supposed to do? Everyone was bashing each other around out there.”

“You didn’t punch him or anything, did you?”

“No, but I wanted to. He kept getting in my face and shit.”

“Nobody likes that guy. He’s the nephew of the owner or something. I don’t think even the owner can stand him, just let it go.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“Hey, you want a beer, Man?”

“Nah, not tonight, but thanks.”

Eric leans over and puts his arm around my shoulder, “So, Buddy, I noticed you and Renee were both off work most of last week.”

“Yeah...” I grin, “We went up to their place up-north.”

“Oh man! You lucky-dog, you!”

“You gotta keep quiet about that,” I remind Eric.

“I know, I know ... Like I told you, I may have a big-mouth, but I can keep a secret.”

“Good man.” I tell him.

“So, how was it? Sex all day, ... every day?”

“We had a good time...” I nod, “A really good time.”

“I’ll bet you did and you know I want details, but I know you, you won’t get into that. I’ll just have to let my imagination fill in the details.”

I figure I can share at least one little tidbit, I tell him, “Let’s just say at times it was like fireworks were going off.”

“I’ll bet it was! Well, good for you, Dude!”

“Thanks, Eric.”

“So how did you like the band, pretty cool huh?”

“Yeah, they were! My ears will be ringing for a while.”

“You’ll be fine,” he slaps me on the back.

From behind, I hear an annoying, nasally voice, “Hey, Man! You owe me a beer!”

I turn around, it’s little Eugene, good god, this persistent little prick has some balls. “Oh, do you mean the one you dumped all over me?” I ask.

“It wouldn’t have spilled if you didn’t ram into me,” he pouts.

I shake my head, “What the fuck, Dude–”

I’m cut short as the big bartender, with a huge Grizzly Adams beard, comes over. He flicks his hand at Eugene. “Run along, Gene,” he tells him, like he’s had to do this a million times before. To me he says, “Sorry about him. What’re ya havin’ Pal?”

“Nothing right now, I’m fine, thanks.”

I would love to sit and talk longer, but I remember that my parents wanted me to leave as soon as the show was over. I also know that if I stay any longer, I may be tempted to have a beer or two with Eric. Trust me, a few beers sound great right about now. It was an awesome show, ears ringing, good times, but I made a promise. I let the guys know that I need to get going. We all high-five, fist-bump and Eric gives me his customary bear-hug, complete with lifting me off the ground.

On my way home, I almost forgot that Dad wanted me to text him when I left. I fish my phone out of my pocket, but it falls on the floor on the passenger side. Not thinking, I instinctively reach for it, this causes me to swerve a little bit. Stupid move, Kyle, I scold myself, I know better. I pull over onto the shoulder and put the Jeep in park.

I grab my phone off the floor and text Mom and Dad that I’ll be home soon. With that done, I continue on my way. As soon as I pull back onto the road, my rear-view mirror comes alive with flashing blue and red lights. I pull right back over onto the shoulder and put it in park.

As the officer approaches, I put my window down. “License, registration and proof of insurance please.”

I hand them over and he goes back to his car. When he returns, he slightly leans in. “Have you been drinking, Son?” he asks.

“No, sir.” I answer.

“Where are you headed to?”

“I’m going home.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to step out of your vehicle. I smell alcohol and you were swerving back there.”

“Okay, but I can explain,” I tell him as I get out.

“Feet apart and place your hands on the vehicle, Sir.”

“Are you arresting me?”

“I need to pat you down. Do you have any weapons on your body or in your vehicle?”

“No, sir.”

He pats me down and tells me, “Okay, you may turn around. Explain to me what’s going on.”

“I was at The Engine Room and someone spilled their beer on me, that’s probably what you smell. While I was driving, my phone fell on the floor and I forgot and reached for it, that’s why I swerved. I pulled over to text my parents that I was on my way home. I did not drink beer or anything, you can give me a breathalyzer or whatever you need to do.”

He has me walk a straight line and say my A, B, C’s forward and backward. He seems satisfied and hands my license and papers back. “Okay, Mr. Stevenson you’re free to go. Please remember to never text and drive.”

“Yes, I will.”

All along, I knew I didn’t have anything to worry about, but I’ll be honest, getting pulled over 1:30 in the morning and for the first time did make me nervous. I’m sure glad I wasn’t tempted into thinking, screw it, a couple of beers won’t get me drunk. I could have found myself in a heap of trouble, all over my stupid phone falling on the floor.

“Hey Sport, can you come back here a second?” Renee calls from the back office.