The Scar Boys

HELLO, I LOVE YOU


(written by John Densmore, Robby Krieger, Ray Manzarek, and Jim Morrison, and performed by The Doors)




I arrived at Johnny’s house on Halloween night 1981 decked out in my dad’s tattered cotton trousers, faded button-down shirt, threadbare suit jacket, and old fedora. I was sporting the costume of choice for discriminating suburbanite teens: I was a bum. I’d even burnt a piece of cork and smeared it all over my cheeks, nose, and chin.

Everyone was already outside when I got there. They were all dressed exactly like me and all holding pillowcase sacks filled with eggs and shaving cream, ready to battle each other, mailboxes, cars, or anything else that got in our way. We looked like a pack of short, skinny 1940s hobos.

I’d expected to find Johnny and a few boys I knew from school. Instead, it was Johnny and a whole lot of kids I didn’t know, including a bunch of girls from the Our Lady of the Perpetual Who-Can-Remember-the-Name Catholic School.

Girls.

Catholic school girls!

“Harry, I want you to meet someone.”

I froze.

“This is Gabrielle Privat.”

My tongue tied itself in a neat little knot and a bowling ball dropped from my esophagus to my stomach. My fingertips and toes went numb.


“Harry?” Johnny asked. I finally managed to mutter a sheepish hello back, though I said it more to my shoes than to Gabrielle’s face.

Right from the start, I was smitten with Gabrielle. I was a gargoyle around girls on a good day; hideous, mute, and petrified. And this wasn’t a girl, this was a goddess. She was my age, and even with her own smudged face and porkpie hat, I could see she was beautiful. The softness of her skin, the delicacy of her features shone through the smeared ash. The way I remembered it later, she was glowing, literally glowing. I’m surprised I didn’t pass out. I secretly cursed Johnny for turning the night into a disaster before it began.

But that’s the funny thing. It wasn’t a disaster at all. It was one of the best nights of my life.

For reasons I’ve never fully understood, I stepped outside of myself that night. I was possessed by some holy spirit, speaking in tongues and walking on water. I was my wittiest, funniest, and most charming self. Maybe the burnt-cork-soot on my face was a mask, a safe place to hide, a place from which I could finally venture forth. But I think the real reason was Gabrielle.

She and I spent most of the night talking and laughing. We covered every topic held sacrosanct (SAT word alert!) by white, middle-class thirteen-year-olds: Our favorite TV shows, like Taxi and WKRP; the classes in school we didn’t totally hate, like English or history; and MTV, the newest, coolest thing either one of us had ever seen. We ignored our solemn egging responsibilities and existed outside the group, outside the world. We were lost in the sphere of each other.

Our friends, boys and girls both, recognized what was going on, and other than the occasional squirt of Barbasol on the back of my head, left us alone.

As the night drew to a close, Gabrielle and I offered each other a nervous half-wave, our faces ready to crack from suppressed smiles. I headed home with no candy and with no mischief accomplished, but with a strange and wonderful fluttering in my heart.

When I visited Johnny the next day—the visit a pretense to see Gabrielle—it, of course, all came crashing down.

She was disappointed to see me in the light of day. With no soot on my face or hat on my head, my disfigured skin was revealed in all its gruesome glory. And with my mask gone, I reverted back to my shy, awkward self. We spent a few uncomfortable minutes chatting before she made a weak excuse and left. Johnny walked her to the door.

I didn’t need to read between the lines of Johnny’s white lie—about Gabrielle not being allowed to date, about how sorry she was—to know the truth. She saw the real me, a scarred little boy, scarred on the outside and scarred on the inside. She turned tail and ran.

I would learn later, on a class trip to the Bronx Botanical Garden, that Gabrielle Privat was the name of a species of rose. Its flower had a delicate, fleeting beauty, its attraction one of form over substance. I guess that sounds kind of petty, but hey, it’s the truth.

Anyway, I must’ve folded myself up like an envelope, sealed with no way in or out, because the next thing Johnny said was, “We should start a band.”

It was a strange thing to say. He could’ve said, “Don’t worry, there will be lots of other girls,” or “Let’s go listen to some records,” or “How about we walk down the hill and get some ice cream.” But no, he said, “We should start a band.”

I could only guess he was trying to distract me, trying to stop me from falling down a well of self-pity and self-doubt. It was either an act of kindness or sympathy or both. Whatever it was, I should’ve just walked away. But Johnny was Johnny. He had a knack for knowing the right thing to say, the right joke to tell, the right expression to wear on his face at just the right moment.

Neither one of us had ever touched an instrument or knew the first thing about playing music, and none of this was going to erase Gabrielle—even time, healer of all healers would do a half-assed job with that one.

The only thing I could think to say was, “Sure, let’s start a band.”

And that was how it all began.





DAYDREAM BELIEVER


(written by John C. Stewart, and performed by The Monkees)




That same afternoon, the day Johnny had suggested the idea of a band to soothe my dented ego, we were lying on his bedroom floor, daydreaming and planning our meteoric rise to superstardom. We were at an age when kids were starting to identify themselves by the music they listened to: there were the headbangers and clubbers, the rockers and punks, even the Broadway musical wannabes. And then there was us, determined to defy definition.

Johnny’s older brother Russell had a collection of albums spanning thirty years and we devoured every disc, every track, every groove. We started with the Beatles (Help! and Rubber Soul all the way through The White Album and Abbey Road), graduated to Exile on Main Street, Physical Graffiti, and Quadrophenia (the greatest album ever recorded), and did our postdoctoral work with Elvis Costello, Richard Hell, and the Clash. We sampled Miles Davis and John Coltrane. We even dabbled in Johnny Cash and Merle Haggard. Nothing eluded our grasp.

Every day we spent hours and hours watching those black discs spin, listening to the pop and hiss of the needle riding the imperfections in the vinyl until the first chords took over. We’d lie on our stomachs poring over every inch of the album cover, the back album cover, the liner notes, and, if we were lucky enough to have them, the lyrics.

As we lay there that day, a new record from a band called Black Flag was on the turntable. If the Sex Pistols made the Who and Led Zeppelin sound like they were singing anthems from another age, Black Flag made the Sex Pistols seem overproduced and corporate, if that’s even possible. This was a bunch of guys with a guitar, a bass, and a drum set that were—or at least it sounded like they were—recording in someone’s living room. And they sounded drunk. (While I didn’t have any frame of reference for knowing what a drunk band would sound like, I was pretty sure this was it.) Songs like “Six Pack,” “TV Party,” and “Gimme Gimme Gimme” stitched themselves into a kind of manifesto for Johnny and me.

These guys really didn’t care what anyone else thought. It’s like they were giving the world the finger, and they thought it was really, really funny. We did, too. The entire album, from the first note to the last, infused our conversation with energy and excitement.

Johnny, as usual, did most of the talking. He would be the lead singer. I would play guitar. We’d find a drummer and a bass player, and maybe a second guitar player. We’d write our own songs because nobody cool ever did cover tunes. We’d have “gigs” (a new word for me that day) at clubs in the Village, and we’d drink beers, and we’d go on tour, and we’d meet girls, and we’d get laid. (Not a new word.)

I just listened, letting the daydream wash over me, cleansing Gabrielle from the surface, letting her sink to a deeper place where she could live in my memory to teach and occasionally haunt me.

“What should we call ourselves?” Johnny asked the question more to himself than to me. I’d hardly said two words as he laid out his vision for the band, so I surprised us both when I spoke.

“How about the Scar Boys?”

For a moment, Johnny was startled. Then he smiled wider than the Grand Canyon. “Brilliant, Harry. F*cking brilliant!”

When I woke the next morning, a rain-soaked Monday, the memory of that afternoon seemed real but insubstantial, like steam. I knew all that stuff about starting a band would be forgotten as quickly as it had been said, that its purpose was to make me forget about Halloween, to ease the blow of getting dumped before ever having had a girlfriend. But when I caught up with Johnny at school, he was standing at his locker with a seventh grader I recognized but didn’t know. “Harry, meet Richie, the Scar Boys’ drummer.”


Richie, whose unruly chestnut hair made him seem every bit of his five foot ten inch frame and then some, let out a whoop and high-fived me. My jaw must have gone slack (something physical therapy had helped me learn how to do), because the two of them just stood there laughing.

Later that day, Johnny, who worked the school like he was running for office, found our bass player. A quiet kid from period seven social studies, Dave spent most of the class creating intricate drawings of birds, planes, or trees blowing in the wind on the margins of his spiral notebook.

In rounding up bandmates, Johnny had also committed us to play three different holiday parties in late December. There was no turning back.





ROCK AND ROLL BAND


(written by Tom Scholz, and performed by Boston)




My parents, even five years later, wore the incident of the thunderstorm like a Scarlet A. Their guilt at finding me tied to that tree half alive—as if they could’ve controlled or prevented it—hung over our house like summer smog. As time wore on I grew to resent it. It made me feel like I’d done something wrong, but it had its advantages, too.

When I told my mom I wanted to play guitar, the same day Johnny had introduced me to my new bandmates, she lit up like a Christmas tree. Before I knew what was happening, I was whisked to the local music store and outfitted with a new Fender Stratocaster, a Peavey amp, and a schedule of lessons once a week from Rick, the long-haired, tattooed “dude” who ran the guitar department.

Rick played lead guitar in a sixties tribute band called the Skittish Invasion. Their set list covered everything from Gerry and the Pacemakers to Jimi Hendrix, and they appeared regularly at a handful of local bars.

“The money’s decent, but the best part’s the chicks.” Rick talked to me like I was an equal. Strike that. He didn’t talk to me like I was an equal at all. He was Kung Fu and I was Grasshopper. But he didn’t talk to me like I was a freak. He made me believe it was my right to expect every success he’d found with the guitar. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that the success he’d found was, well, kind of lame. Back then I thought Rick was a rock star, and I wanted to be just like him. I really did.

In the year and a half I spent taking lessons, Rick taught me basic music theory, gave me drills to make my pickhand nimble, and showed me how to use a slide. Together we went to school on blues, rock, and country guitar styles, covering everything from pentatonic scales, to how to dampen the strings when using a distortion pedal without causing too much feedback. And, most important, he imbued me with the ancient and sacred knowledge that the most beautiful part of music is the space between the notes.

I don’t think I can ever repay Rick for giving me the gift of music. It is the single greatest gift I’ve ever received. Praise the lord and amen.

But all that took time.

When I arrived at the Scar Boys’ first rehearsal, a mere four weeks and four guitar lessons later, I’d only managed to learn three chords—A, D, and G. Through relentless hours of practice, groping the Braille of the fret board, I’d trained my hand to creep from one chord to the other and back again. As Johnny, Richie, Dave, and I stood there, staring at each other like a bunch of Neanderthals trying to figure out how to make a fire, I started to play.

A to D, A to D, A to D to G. A to D, A to D, A to D to G.

Dave, who had even less musical experience than me, asked what I was playing, so I shouted out each chord as I strummed it, and he managed to find the matching note on his bass.

A to D, A to D, A to D to G. A to D, A to D, A to D to G.

Richie, who had even less musical experience than Dave, found what little rhythm we were cobbling together and added a flailing but rudimentary four-four beat.

Tick tick tap tap. Tick tick tap tap. Tick tick tap tap.

Johnny grabbed his old Invicta cassette recorder, pressed the “play” and “record” buttons together, and started to sing. I can’t remember the words now, but I think it was called “Middle Class Blues.” It was a song about the drudgery of doing chores and the ills of authority, an anthem for teenage angst. When I listen to that tape now, I’m surprised at how earsplittingly, dog-howlingly awful we were. But when you’re thirteen and you can string three chords together in any organized way, to your own ears you’re the Beatles.

A few weeks later we played four original songs at each of those three holiday parties. Maybe no one had the heart to tell us we stank, or maybe they saw the chemistry and the potential of the Scar Boys and wanted to egg us on. Whatever the reason, they loved us. Or so the other guys told me.

Being onstage, having a spotlight shining on me, even metaphorically, was terrifying. I was still the misfit, still the monster. I played each of those gigs with my dad’s fedora (the one from Halloween) pulled low over my face, a pair of dark sunglasses, and a denim jacket with the collar turned up, and I spent most of the time facing Richie, with my back to the audience. Johnny tried to convince me that the name of the band would make a lot more sense if I could let my guard down, show my face. But I wasn’t ready. After a while he backed off and stopped asking.

We played on like this through ninth and tenth grades, making occasional appearances at friends’ parties, but mostly just jamming in my parents’ basement.

When we weren’t playing music, Johnny and I spent every free minute together. We’d lie on the grass hill by the elementary school, spotting animals, cars, and musical instruments in the clouds during the day, and counting stars at night. We’d leave empty soda cans, and pennies, and once even a history textbook, on the commuter rail tracks, watching the ten-car train demolish whatever was in its path. We’d cut school and sneak in through the movie theater’s back door to see Return of the Jedi, or War Games, or The Right Stuff. We’d try to work up the nerve to talk to girls at the mall, Johnny so effortlessly succeeding, me staying back, lurking in the shadows like the Phantom of the Opera.

And, of course, I’d join Johnny on his nightly run.

It was this last thing, the evening run, that was my favorite ritual. While I didn’t have the same soul-infusing love of running that Johnny did, I saw the appeal. It was easy to lose yourself in the sound of shoes slapping on the pavement, in the whoosh of wind in your ears. It felt good to be moving. Whether we were running away from something or toward something I didn’t know, and I didn’t care.

My friendship with Johnny was making everything better. Even school was becoming bearable. I was still one rung lower on the social ladder than Tina, the girl who’d crapped her pants in the second grade (there are some things you can never live down; her family probably should have moved after that happened), and two rungs lower than Lance, our school’s one and only deaf kid, but classmates who used to laugh at me would now at least nod in my direction, and a small but growing group of kids—mostly the ones that circled Johnny—were becoming my friends.

And then, when we hit the eleventh grade, something strange happened. Something no one anticipated or could have predicted. The Scar Boys got good.





SCHOOL’S OUT


(written by Michael O. Bruce, Glen Buxton, Alice Cooper, Dennis Dunaway, and Neal A. Smith, and performed by Alice Cooper)




It was around this time that my grades hit rock bottom and my parents were called to the school for a meeting with the principal.

Mom and Dad got there a few minutes early, and the three of us sat in the seats outside the principal’s office in uncomfortable silence. That this meeting had been called wasn’t a surprise to anyone.


The first few years after the lightning strike, when I was spending more time in hospital beds than classrooms, I was never able to catch up in school. The best I could manage was to squeak by. It’s not that I wasn’t smart enough, it’s that I was too physically and emotionally tired to do the work. My parents tried hiring tutors, but there just wasn’t enough gas in my tank for academics.

Even after I stopped the doctors’ visits and even after I started to live a more normal life—thanks in large part to Johnny—I never became the kind of student my parents hoped I would be.

“You know, Harry,” my father would tell me each time he saw my report card, “a boy like you will have few prospects in life if he doesn’t go to a good college.” I didn’t know if a “boy like me” was a boy who looked like me or a boy who tested like me. I’m not sure which one was worse.

My dad, who didn’t look pleased to be sitting outside the principal’s office, was just raising his finger to say something when the door opened and we were called inside.

“Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Harry, please come in,” the secretary said. She closed the door behind us as we entered.

The principal, Mr. Sewicky, was a thick, lurching man who wore suits that were too small; it always seemed like he was going to bust out of his clothes like the Hulk. His hair was cut short in a military style, and on his desk was a gold-colored golf ball affixed to a piece of wood with a plaque that read “Hole in One, Stillwater Greens, October 1978.” Behind him on the wall was a mounted and stuffed fish that didn’t look happy. Why Mr. Sewicky was a principal in suburban New York instead of, say, Oklahoma, is a mystery to me.

He didn’t come out from behind his desk to shake anyone’s hand. Instead, he motioned to three empty seats and we all sat down.

This was the first time my parents had ever been called to Mr. Sewicky’s office. Not so for me. The principal and I had become well acquainted over the years. While I had been called down once or twice to talk about grades, more often it was because one or more of the school’s thugs had been picking on me.

Even though I had started to make friends, and even though hanging around a popular kid like Johnny McKenna offered a certain level of protection, that protection had its limits. I was still a favorite target of the school’s Nazi youth. There was no shortage of kids like Billy the Behemoth in high school, and I was one of their go- to guys.

There were the obvious things like wedgies and punches and kicks, but sometimes the more twisted of the school’s goons would get creative. There was a kind of art to it.

The worst was in ninth grade shop class when a boy named Alvaro Dimatteo discovered the mystery and wonders of a blowtorch. (You need a license to drive a car or own a gun, but the board of education will hand any fourteen- or fifteen-year-old a blowtorch. I need someone to explain that to me.)

I don’t know if Alvaro knew about my deeply ingrained fear of fire, but it didn’t matter. Five minutes into class he had me pinned into a corner, the lit blowtorch a few inches from my arms, which were held cowering over my head. When the teacher pulled him off and sent us both to the principal’s office, the other students cheered. They weren’t cheering for me.

Mr. Sewicky went through the motions of scolding Alvaro, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it. There was an unspoken understanding between the two of them: Alvaro had only done what nature had commanded him to do. He could no more help beating on me than a hawk could stop itself from scooping up a mouse. By the end of the session, the principal was telling me that I should do less to provoke other children.

As soon as he sent us on our way and we were in the hall, Alvaro shoved me hard into a row of lockers, laughed, and moved on. I never told anyone about that incident, not Johnny, not Dr. Kenny, not my parents. That’s just how things were.

“I think we all know why we’re here,” Mr. Sewicky said to my parents. “Harry, his difficulties notwithstanding”—the word difficulties stuck in his teeth like a piece of uncooked popcorn—“is failing two of his classes, and is getting a C in two of the others. The only bright spot seems to be arithmetic.”

I snuck a peek at my father. If he clenched his jaw any harder, he was going to need to see a dentist.

“His teachers seem to think he has more potential than that.” From the tone of his voice, it was pretty clear that Mr. Sewicky didn’t agree with them.

“We’re very sorry, Mr. Sewicky,” my father offered. His tone of voice suggested that he and the principal were both Men and that their Manliness gave them an intuitive understanding of the situation. “Isn’t that right, Harry?” my father asked.

I nodded.

“Harry,” my father said to me, “how much of this has to do with your little musical group?” (And yes, he actually said “little musical group.”)

“Oh, Ben, no,” my mother interjected. “That band is so good for Harry.”

Both Mr. Sewicky and my father looked at my mother like she had just parachuted in from a Russian Mig. Her cheeks flushed, she turned her head, and she looked out the window.

“I know about this band,” Mr. Sewicky said. “Johnny McKenna’s in it.”

I nodded again.

“Tell me, Harry,” he said, “how come Johnny’s grades aren’t slipping?”

The answer, of course, had nothing to do with music. It was because Johnny cared and I didn’t. But that didn’t seem like a smart thing to say, so I just shrugged my shoulders.

“Harry’s grades have slipped low enough,” Mr. Sewicky said to my dad, “that if he can’t turn things around, I’m going to be forced to consider academic probation.”

I didn’t really know what “academic probation” was, but I’d seen Animal House and all I could think of was Dean Wormer putting the Deltas on “double secret probation” and a small, barely noticeable chuckle escaped from my lips.

I say barely noticeable because Mr. Sewicky asked, “Are you finding this funny, Harry?”

“No, sir,” I said, and put my head down. That was kind of a lie. I thought it was funny for three reasons:

Reason #1: If you take a step back, the whole situation was kind of ridiculous. It’s like adults think that tackling problems at the surface equals tackling problems. It doesn’t. If they wanted me to do better at school, they probably should’ve been talking about why I hated the place so much, why I was terrified to set foot in that school each and every day. They should have been talking about Billy the Behemoth and Alvaro Dimatteo.

Reason #2: I couldn’t help staring at that mounted fish. I was sure it was watching me and I was sure it was smiling. No, I wasn’t taking any drugs, prescribed or otherwise. I guess I was bored enough by the whole situation that my imagination was getting the better of me.

Reason #3: I’d already given up on school. Playing guitar was all I wanted to do. None of what anyone was saying really mattered at all. And when nothing matters, it’s kind of funny.

Don’t get me wrong, I was smart enough to know that I had to pull my grades up at least a little bit, and I did. My parents weren’t going to tolerate a high school dropout living under their roof, so appearances mattered. I would play along, but only as much as I needed to.

My father and the principal talked some more, I nodded and said yes some more, and everyone left thinking it was mission accomplished. I knew better.


Later that night, when I was in my room listening to Elvis Costello’s Trust with the headphones on, someone opened the door.

It was my mom. She didn’t say anything; she just walked in, put down a mint chocolate chip ice-cream sundae with an Oreo on top, kissed me on the head, and left. That was the thing about my mom, she was always on my side. Yeah, she wanted me to do better in school, and yeah, she worried about my future every bit as much as my dad. But at the end of the day what she really wanted was for me to be happy.

No matter how much was wrong with the world, that, at least, would always be right.