A Lure

I was 22 again Friday night. I braved the new weekend contingent of downtown Manhattan -- drunken yuppies, frat boys, white trust fund kids, tourists, the odd suburban goth or gangsta -- to see the Waldos, with Walter Lure -- one of the last true old-school downtown NYC punk rockers.

I met George Snow one month after finally moving here in 1989, and it was he who introduced me to the New York Dolls, Johnny Thunders, Walter and so many others. And gave me my greatest education in music history. At least that of New York's heyday. And how to dress cool. And how to be street smart. And how to just have fun. And how to devour two bottles of cheap white wine before playing a show, only to vomit afterward in a gravel parking lot somewhere out on Long Island. And how not to order lemonade at a rest stop in France. I digress . . .

Walter used to play with Johnny Thunders (after the Dolls split), and is the only surviving (working) member of that band, the Heartbreakers (who played the infamous European "Anarchy in the U.K.” tour with the Sex Pistols). Walter's a stockbroker now -- white hair, paunch, but with the same beat up Les Paul, backed by a band of broken-English speaking Japanese punks, still plays the cool old repertoire: "Chinese Rocks", "Too Much Junkie Business" (to which he pantomimes like a broken marionette), "Born to Lose”, “One Track Mind” . . . mostly tongue-in-cheek odes to heroin. He’s still handsome, his facial features and wit still pointed and sharp, his stage persona equal parts Laurel and Hardy (he even wears a black bowler onstage), the Three Stooges and Carey Grant; still charming and nutty; clean and alive, thank god.

When George and I recorded a tribute to Johnny after his death, Walter graciously played lead guitar, arriving to the studio in a huge Lincoln Continental, requesting as payment a bottle of Johnny Walker. Now THAT’S class!

Familiar faces in the crowd, Friday at the Continental (Divide), included Little Steven van Zandt, Bob Gruen, George “Tickets” (the most notorious ticket scalper from the 80's, who at 47 still has a long, shaggy, feathered mane, and jumps around like a teenage maniac), members of the Dictators, the Fleshtones, who knows who else . . . the same crowd the likes of which I haven't seen in over a decade.

The funny thing is, loving the late 70's/early 80's New York: Jim Carroll, Lou Reed, Patti Smith, Warhol, Ginsberg, Blondie, Talking Heads, Laurie Anderson, Basquiat, etc . . . . . I always felt cheated moving here so "late", like I just missed the best part of New York. But tonight, for one rare night, I felt like the genuine article, not old, just legit.

It took awhile to sink in: 16 years. I guess rock n roll keeps me young. George has the same crazy, appealing personality (he’s lost his hair but not his heart and humor). We ended up at Ace Bar, where I always see neighborhood friends, although George and I have a history, I realized. You never really think about these things on a daily basis, but 16 years . . .

We drank, "danced", sang along, caught up with old friends, met some new ones, missed others, and stayed out ‘til 6:30am. Just like 22.

© christopher peifer