Thoughts On The Death Of Johnny Thunders by Cliff Hausman

Thoughts On The Death Of Johnny Thunders
gigs. Often they were some of the best rock 'n roll shows I have ever seen. I would sneak upstairs
(John always provoked the worst in me) and catch a portion. As rocking as some shows were, others
were incredibly bad. It was always a matter of John's coherence. One night he came late (as usual)
into the restaurant with a shoddy bandage over an elephantine wrist, claiming he'd been to Bellevue
because he'd slammed his wrist in a door. In John's case, using the wrist for a shot was probable
cause. Well, you know the show biz cliché. John stood wasted on stage. The guitar slung around him
was unplayable, a prop, as he sang like a Bowery wino and badgered the audience incoherently.
Terrible.
Those are the images most remembered: John's fuck-ups. Images which often brought audiences
hoping to catch the show where he keels over dead. The same reason people watch those cars zoom
5000 times around an oval track. Except the shows were exciting. And the end was the worst part.
Heartbreakers' shows always fell apart at the end like an old junker revved up only to sigh and
whimper into oblivion.
When John was there to play, Heartbreakers shows were visceral and magnetic. John, Walter Lure,
Billy Rath and whoever was drumming, especially if it was Jerry Nolan, pounded out quintessential
rock 'n roll saturated with corruption. Intense, straight ahead rock with an attitude was the lesson John
gave to punk culture through the Heartbreakers and the Dolls. The sound perfectly fit the black walls
and the cool crowd. And we were all transfixed by them. Each musician had the clearest distinction
of character. And John was at the center, exuding a short, long nosed, heavy eyed charisma as thick
as the tone of his whining guitar solos. And he always looked sharp: black suit jacket, fluffy white
dress shirt and Western bow tie. And on his guitar, his logo "LAMF". "Like a Motherfucker". That
was the Heartbreakers. That was John.
John could be a terror. He could stomp and squeal like a baby until the Deans paid him an advance to
quiet the spoiled brat. He could use the awed entourage for a door mat or squeeze them of anything
he wanted. He hated being fawned over and had no respect for any fawning prey. I gained his respect
when I came home a couple mornings and found him, uninvited, sleeping in my bed. It may have
been cold of me, I don't know, but when I kicked him out, he became my friend.
Though I may not have been as close as many in his life, through my friendship I was able to see
John in fullest light. I saw him sober in morning light. I found him warm and charming. John was a
beast backstage with a whip-like tongue, often jousting with the savage, cutting wit of Walter. But in
the morning he was sweet, with a true kindness. Those intimate, quotidian moments are why I have
kept John's memory alive in my mind. Of all the musician friends I met through working at Max's, or
in the years since, it is John who is closest to my heart. He's a legend. He deserves it. His soul was
huge. Listen to his voice and his guitar and tell me I'm wrong.
Appropriately like an American myth, they say he died with his guitar in his hand. I don't know. He
was great with it and without it. And whatever the truth is, he's got the guitar. Let him have the guitar.
Last thought: Midday on 1st Avenue in the East Village. John walks downtown hand in hand with
John Jr. They are peaceful, innocent, cloud-like in their matching ice cream suits.
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