The bass and drums together, the way Richie and I played them, were like a grandfather clock or a heartbeat. They provided a road map for the guitar and vocal. Or maybe they were like a trail map, because more often than not Johnny and Harry would wander off the trail, always finding their way back out of the woods. It was beautiful.
But the piano was something else. Most people think a piano is a string instrument. I mean, it makes sense. Vibrating strings make the notes, right? But it’s not. Little hammers hit those strings to make them vibrate, so a piano is a percussion instrument. Did you know that? Don’t feel bad; most people don’t. The point is, a piano is like the bass, drums, and guitar, all together. It’s a whole band inside one box. So when you add a guitar, bass, and drums on top of a piano, it’s . . . it’s . . . exponential.
Johnny’s private lessons and hours and hours of practice had paid off. Like everything else in his life, being good at playing keyboards just came naturally to him. He added rhythm to the songs we already knew and brought new songs to the band based on some piano riff he’d whipped up. The riffs were always incredibly simple—even Johnny wasn’t going to turn into Billy Joel after just a couple of months—but they always worked.
We were all blown away. Well, Richie and I were blown away. It seemed like Harry already knew.
The first new song Johnny brought to the band, the same day he finally plugged in his keyboard, was called “That’s Not My Leg.” It had an Allman Brothers, chunky groove of mostly G and C chords, and he played the piano more like bongos than anything else, beating on it with his hands, keeping time like a drummer.
As soon as Johnny started to play, Harry added the perfect guitar riff, like he’d heard the song before. I couldn’t be sure at first because Harry was like that. He’s a guitar genius, always playing exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. But any doubt I had went away when they started singing the song together.
Hey, Doctor, put away your saw.
I don’t want to see my leg lying on
your operating room floor.
Don’t tell me to count backward from ten.
I don’t want to go to sleep and never
see my leg again.
(Harry) Ten.
Take this mask off my face.
(Harry) Nine.
Get me out of this place.
(Harry) Eight.
I’ve got to hold on.
(Harry) Seven.
Oh, no, I’m gone.
That’s not my leg
Below my knee.
That’s not my leg
Strapped to me.
Doctor!
That’s not my leg.
“Fucking A!” Richie was right. It was really, really good. But I couldn’t get over the fact that they’d written it, had figured it all out, without me. Not only that, but Johnny, who wouldn’t plug that piano in for anyone, had been playing it for Harry.
I know, I was crazy to be jealous of them. Everything in the world was better when Johnny and Harry were getting along. But I couldn’t help feeling like I was on the outside looking in.
“Dudes,” Richie said, “play that again.” And they did. And we did. Richie and I added the backbone, and the first new Scar Boys song in more three months was brought into the world.
“We need to play out,” Richie said.
Harry and Johnny looked at each other, then back at the two of us, and said together: “CBGB’s.”
HARBINGER JONES
This is going to sound counterintuitive, but my favorite place in the world is to be onstage. Part of it is that the guitar and the music act like a shield, protecting me from everything bad. But another part is that I get to step out of my skin and become someone else. Wait, strike that. I get to step out of this costume that’s been forced on me and become who I’m really supposed to be. For a little while, I’m not this damaged little turd; I’m a rock star.
I know I’m not actually a rock star, but it’s how I feel, and that’s what’s important.
That we now had a date on the calendar for a gig in what was basically our homeport, was like a tonic for me. I was so excited I could barely contain myself.
I couldn’t freaking wait.
CHEYENNE BELLE
I was maybe twelve weeks pregnant when Johnny called CBGB’s and about sixteen weeks when we actually played the gig.
The last time we’d played CBGB’s was in May, and this was the end of October. We’d started to gain a bit of a following before we left on our tour, so it was easy enough to get a gig. Carol, the booking agent, put us right back onto a Thursday night, a prime spot. She gave us a slot opening for a band from out of town called Chemicals Made of Mud. Mud, as we called them, was touring the US in support of a record they had just put out on Twin/Tone. That was the label that put out the Replacements and Soul Asylum and was something of a Holy Grail to indie bands, so we were ready to be impressed.
We weren’t.