strings, punishing them for the long list of things that were wrong with the world.
THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKIN’
(written by Lee Hazlewood, and performed by Nancy Sinatra)
With the band graduating to new levels of musical prowess and interpersonal chemical connection, it didn’t take long before we were ready to play out.
Johnny and Cheyenne took our new demo tape down to CBGB’s and tried to convince Carol, the booking agent, to give us another chance. She did.
Having been through the pre-gig routine at CB’s once already, we knew exactly what we were doing and what to expect. What we didn’t expect, what I didn’t expect, was the feeling I got from being onstage, on a real stage.
Playing in front of people was like a drug. The walls dropped away and I found myself surrounded by open air, floating above everything. The energy of the audience—even the tiny audience at that first gig—wrapped the entire band in a protective bubble. Only the music and theknowledge of each other existed. We were four individuals merged into one seamless being, each inside the other’s head, each inside the other’s soul. Music, I discovered that night, was a sanctuary, a safe place to hide, a place where scars didn’t matter, where they didn’t exist.
We didn’t bring enough friends through the door to get a paying gig, but the soundman liked us, so they invited us back to play another showcase.
Besides the CBGB’s gigs, we were playing Monday and Tuesday nights at the unsung clubs of Manhattan’s Lower East Side—the Bitter End, R.T. Firefly, A7, and an aptly named dive called the Dive. These were the least desirable gigs in all of New York—the rooms were cramped, the bartenders were surly, and sound systems were seemingly hijacked from a White Castle drive-thru window—but they were gigs.
We got a small write-up in the
Village Voice
, and a DJ at WNYU, the only college station playing alternative music in all of New York City, had taken a shine to us, comparing us on the air to the Jam.
The more we played, the better we got. We eventually graduated from showcases to paying gigs, from Mondays and Tuesdays to Thursdays and Fridays. By the time we played our first Saturday night at CBGB’s, in February 1986 and a little more than a year after Chey had joined the band, we’d started to gain a small but legitimate following.
We were the first of four bands on the bill that night, so we had to start our set at the ridiculous hour of eight o’clock. But even that early the room was wall-to-wall people, two hundred or more. It was by far the largest crowd we’d ever seen. When I strummed the opening notes of our first song, our friends and small but growing fan base gathered around the front of the stage like an eager congregation.
Richie and Cheyenne were in perfect sync. Their groove served as a polished steel backbone for the guitar and melody. The sounds screaming out of my big Peavey speakers were the exact blend of twang and balls I was always striving for but never quite seemed to nail. And Johnny moved and shook like he was possessed by the Holy Ghost.
In short, we kicked ass.
When we were called back for an encore, a palpable buzz made the walls of the nightclub shake. A coordinated throng of Lower Manhattan’s rowdy and raucous punks—our thirty fans having swelled to two hundred disciples—hopped in unison and sang along as we lurched into our one and only cover tune, Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.”
Johnny practically made love to the mic with his low, sultry voice while the three of us scratched out a punk arrangement of the music. Cheyenne marched in lockstep to the snare drum, her red cowboy boots keeping time with the beat, the sole of each foot sliding in smallrhythmic circles on the dusty planks of the CBGB’s stage. Watching her had a physical effect on me—my palms and neck started to sweat, my sunglasses fogged up, and my heart, which was thumping along
THESE BOOTS ARE MADE FOR WALKIN’
(written by Lee Hazlewood, and performed by Nancy Sinatra)
With the band graduating to new levels of musical prowess and interpersonal chemical connection, it didn’t take long before we were ready to play out.
Johnny and Cheyenne took our new demo tape down to CBGB’s and tried to convince Carol, the booking agent, to give us another chance. She did.
Having been through the pre-gig routine at CB’s once already, we knew exactly what we were doing and what to expect. What we didn’t expect, what I didn’t expect, was the feeling I got from being onstage, on a real stage.
Playing in front of people was like a drug. The walls dropped away and I found myself surrounded by open air, floating above everything. The energy of the audience—even the tiny audience at that first gig—wrapped the entire band in a protective bubble. Only the music and theknowledge of each other existed. We were four individuals merged into one seamless being, each inside the other’s head, each inside the other’s soul. Music, I discovered that night, was a sanctuary, a safe place to hide, a place where scars didn’t matter, where they didn’t exist.
We didn’t bring enough friends through the door to get a paying gig, but the soundman liked us, so they invited us back to play another showcase.
Besides the CBGB’s gigs, we were playing Monday and Tuesday nights at the unsung clubs of Manhattan’s Lower East Side—the Bitter End, R.T. Firefly, A7, and an aptly named dive called the Dive. These were the least desirable gigs in all of New York—the rooms were cramped, the bartenders were surly, and sound systems were seemingly hijacked from a White Castle drive-thru window—but they were gigs.
We got a small write-up in the
Village Voice
, and a DJ at WNYU, the only college station playing alternative music in all of New York City, had taken a shine to us, comparing us on the air to the Jam.
The more we played, the better we got. We eventually graduated from showcases to paying gigs, from Mondays and Tuesdays to Thursdays and Fridays. By the time we played our first Saturday night at CBGB’s, in February 1986 and a little more than a year after Chey had joined the band, we’d started to gain a small but legitimate following.
We were the first of four bands on the bill that night, so we had to start our set at the ridiculous hour of eight o’clock. But even that early the room was wall-to-wall people, two hundred or more. It was by far the largest crowd we’d ever seen. When I strummed the opening notes of our first song, our friends and small but growing fan base gathered around the front of the stage like an eager congregation.
Richie and Cheyenne were in perfect sync. Their groove served as a polished steel backbone for the guitar and melody. The sounds screaming out of my big Peavey speakers were the exact blend of twang and balls I was always striving for but never quite seemed to nail. And Johnny moved and shook like he was possessed by the Holy Ghost.
In short, we kicked ass.
When we were called back for an encore, a palpable buzz made the walls of the nightclub shake. A coordinated throng of Lower Manhattan’s rowdy and raucous punks—our thirty fans having swelled to two hundred disciples—hopped in unison and sang along as we lurched into our one and only cover tune, Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.”
Johnny practically made love to the mic with his low, sultry voice while the three of us scratched out a punk arrangement of the music. Cheyenne marched in lockstep to the snare drum, her red cowboy boots keeping time with the beat, the sole of each foot sliding in smallrhythmic circles on the dusty planks of the CBGB’s stage. Watching her had a physical effect on me—my palms and neck started to sweat, my sunglasses fogged up, and my heart, which was thumping along
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