Dead Boys Don't Take Things Off The Shelf

Dead Boys Don't Take Things Off The Shelf

THE BEAT GOES ON

INDIANAPOLIS—Back in 78, when I went up to New York to do my watershed feature on the Dead Boys (see Feb. '79 CREEM; group broke up soon after the story was published), their lead guitarist, the indefatigable Cheetah Chrome, accidentally revealed his “real” name to me, somewhere amid a monologue as nighttime-frantic as the hurtling Manhattan cab ride we were aboard at the time. I was already reaching for my pen and notebook, but the cheetah-swift Mr. Chrome, without missing a beat in his life&-times-of-Hilly-Kristel anecdote, quietly grunted, “.. .and I’ll kill you if you print my real name...”

Cheetah’s somber threat didn’t scare me, even if the Dead Boys were at the acme of the American punk scene that very evening, and even though they had just finished regaling me with tales of their pleasant Saturday afternoon outings with Sid Vicious, to window-shop for knives amid the flash of Times Square. Naah, I kept Cheetah Chrome’s birthright Clevelandhousing-project monniker out of my story as it was the gentlemanly thing to do; Cheetah and I were just a couple of orange-brained Ohio hipster naifs out on the rock-culture make in bitch-goddess N.Y.C., no use giving the critical establishment poobahs any more gratuitous tags to hang on us goofy Midwest boys.

Come the harsh, bright, postpunk (but still rebellious) light of modern-times 1981, and Cheetah Chrome and I meet again, this time on our own boiiight & paid for Midwestern turf, at Crazy Al’s club in Indianapolis. Cheetah’s glad to see me, he’s effusively grateful in his inimitable batteredprizefighter verbal style for my Dead Boys article and the little plugs I’ve given him since then, he’s pleased that I’ve come out to see his new band, Cheetah Chrome & the Casualties, he thrusts the first beer of the evening into my hand, and says simply, “If you give me a bad review, I’ll kill you.”

Well, Cheetah, I have been known to admire consistently yountj, loud & snotty r’n’r artists over the years, so here goes nothing: I read somewhere before tonight that Cheetah’s “off hard drugs” (whatever that means) now, but here in Indianapolis he’s ON! beer with a vengeance. Each bottle he downs seems to smash into his Clevelandized metabolism with the force of a 16-oz. cup of black coffee from 7-11. Cheetah’s wearing a 3/4-length leopard/ cheetah-skin print nylon ladies’ garment of some kind (maybe a housecoat in a former life; “I traded a full-length leather for it,” says Cheetah proudly) over his basic streetwise street costume, and he looks like a mad punk professor as he rams around the small club, with his cheetah coattails flying behind him.

Cheetah wants to see and confront everybody in the club with his ROCK’N’ROLL! inevitability, all at once, he grabs me by the shoulders as he goes by, stares hard at me through his makeup-outlined dark eyes (while I’m realizing that the white headband that hold’s Cheetah’s wild orange-blond hair in place, in combo with the feminine coat, suggest some kind of bizarre Eleanor Roosevelt in drag, sorta Mrs. R hot and sweaty, just off the courts from a rousing round of tennis with her lesbian lover), he excitedly force-feeds me quotes for my story: “American punk is different than British punk—it’s not political!” “I was never happy with the Dead Boys except on stage!” “The Stooges were better than the Pistols— people will realize that in years to come!” “I just wanna enter, tain people!”

All these gems in Cheetah’s awestruck, dumbfounding, strangely expressive throatgrunts, a unique voice that Teresa instantly, incisively metaphorizes as the sensation of being in Wendy’s, munching on your burgers, and this Amerimetal voice suddenly comes over the drivethrough microphone, amplified for the whole restaurant to hear: “Uh gimme uh Triple with tih mustard and ketchup and uh pickles, an order of fries and uh, uh Frosty to go.” Which is Cheetah’s charming conversational tone exactly, could be him out there in the drivethrough line in the old primered Nova with the fat tires and its ass raised way off the ground, he just thinks he’s all alone in his driver’s seat...

Cheetah Chrome and the Casualties take over Crazy Al’s stage after a riproaring set by Indianapolis’ own Zero Boys, basic 77-style punksters who are mostly mere literal teens now, they’re convinced Johnny Rotten/Lydon’s an old guy , already, and ain’t that rock ’n’ roll? “Punk—it isn’t a trend anymore, it’s serious business!”, . a beery Cheetah has promised me, and sure enough he and rhythm guitarist/keyboardist Chuck Chrome (“my ^cousin”) tune up for many seconds more than the usual punks, with grand Hendrixian snarlwah flourishes.

Cheetah’s always had a touchingly psychedelic devotion to lead guitar for its own sake, and that was often the beauty of the Dead Boys’ sound, the way those Cheetahrific, against-alllogic, impossibly lyrical guitar swirls would suddenly materialize amid the chugga-chugga punk rhythms of their songs. As Cheetah and the Casualties begin playing tonight, I note that the strange lyrical-punk sound has survived well from the Dead Boys era, though of course Cheetah does his own lead vocals now—legendary Dead Boy co-personality Stiv Bators is off somewhere else tonight with his new band and his vision of furthering the grand Dead Boys tradition (“Stiv has a formula for making a million dollars,” Cheetah’s already told me, with affectionate sarcasm; the Lennon & McCartney of the Dead Boys still get together in the shuttle diplomacy of on-off Dead Boys reunion concerts in NYC, and the imminent release of their vintage live tapes in the Night Of The Living Dead Boys album on Bomp could create a public hunger for more and more such reunions.)

For tonight though, Cheetah Chrome sings it as the throbbingly fluid guitar runs that have no right to issue from his blasted punk psyche. But of course they do. Cheetah gets very thoroughly rhythmic support from all the Casualties, including bassist Muggsy Franklin and drummer Sheebo Duvar besides the aforementioned “other” Mr. Chrome, all of ’em looking far more ’77:English than the last real U.K. powerpopsters who played your burg. Don’t ask me for the lyrics to Cheetah Chrome’s new songs— I’m digging his guitar, see/—but watch for a possible EPfrom the band, maybe produced by Genya Ravan on Polish Records, in the near future.

But I sure do recognize the lyrics in the group’s cover of the Beatles’/Silkie’s “You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away,”complete with bizarre Cheetah Chrome metallic-drone vocal, and guncrontrol plug, viz. the Lennon assassination (with close associates Peter Laughner" and Sid Vicious already lost to rock-related deaths, Cheetah’s list of people who died is overtaking Jim Carroll’s.)

At least Cheetah Chrome’s back and healthy and punk’s never stopped being serious business, just like we shoulda figured in ’77, and if I could only remember Cheetah’s real name now, I’d brave his retribution and reveal it to the whole world, ’cause everybody whould know just how much he’s one of us. Let’s see, it’s, uh...uh “Roy!”, that’s it! The magnificent-cat ‘-‘Cheetah” personality may have been clawing it way out all along, but back at 28th and Detroit, folks always knew him simply as “Roy Chrome”! One of the Cleveland Chromes! Accept no substitutes!

Richard Riegel