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  We quickly discovered that Dee Dee couldn’t play and sing at the same time, so we had to make another move. Meanwhile, Joey wasn’t working out either—he was bad—and it was getting worse every practice. Our limitations were starting to show.

  Two months after we started, on Saturday, March 30, we played at Performance Studios and invited all our friends. We even charged a buck to get in. I don’t think they ever went to another Ramones show.

  We were a three-piece, and it was bad. Dee Dee still couldn’t sing and play at the same time, and I wasn’t going to sing. As Dee Dee and I were getting better on our instruments, Joey kept getting worse. His limitations were catching up to him. Tommy said we needed more rehearsing, but I realized that Joey just wasn’t right. I said, “Tommy, we need to get rid of Joey. He can’t play drums.” But Tommy said, “No, he can be the singer.” Joey had been a singer in this bad band called Sniper. Tommy said that I should stand on one side, Dee Dee on the other, and let Joey stand in the middle. I wanted a good-looking guy to be the singer. But Tommy said, “No, it will be like Alice Cooper. It’ll be good.” It didn’t take much convincing. I believed Tommy.

  From the start, we were aware that our visual appeal was different. It worked and drew what was kind of a geek factor. But I think one of the reasons our audience was mostly male was because girls want to see a good-looking singer. I would hear that over the course of our career on occasion—you know, “How did you select him as vocalist?” At that point, though, it was all Tommy, and it turned out to be a good move.

  Then we auditioned drummers, but they kept turning us down. We’d like them, but they wouldn’t like us. I think we tried out five, six, seven people. Then one day no one showed up for tryouts, and Tommy just sat in. He’d never played drums before, but it was working. So we convinced Tommy to stay in the band, on drums, and things started gelling. Now we got heavy into rehearsing. And it was the real formation of the band. We were the Ramones.

  Dee Dee came up with the name; he was the first to use it. He’d heard that sometimes Paul McCartney would check into hotels using the alias “Paul Ramon,” so he started calling himself Dee Dee Ramone. We all decided to adopt the same name. It would give us a sense of unity, and we thought it would help us become more established. It would be much easier for people to remember our names, and we’d automatically be promoting the group anytime one of us went out, everywhere we went. So Douglas Colvin became Dee Dee Ramone, Jeffrey Hyman became Joey Ramone, Thomas Erdelyi became Tommy Ramone; and I was no longer John Cummings—I became Johnny Ramone.

  We started developing a song every time we practiced. I was getting by on unemployment and had some spare time. After we got Tommy in on drums, we went from practicing once or twice a week to almost every day. We got more committed because we saw that we were good.

  The songs were just pure rock and roll. I never liked blues music, and I really didn’t like jazz. I liked Chuck Berry as far as that went, but he was rock and roll, not blues. I liked rock and roll music the way the Stones played it. They made it more interesting. They made it in a way I could relate to, which was what our music was intended to be like. The early rock and roll came from more of a country influence anyway, not a black influence. The Everly Brothers, Eddie Cochran, and Buddy Holly were all more country influenced. I listened to some blues records, and it was great stuff, but I was never interested. I never liked long guitar solos and over-indulgence. Our songs just came from a space of pure rock influence. They had to be simple. We were forced to play that way because of our limited musical skills.

  Our first shows were at CBGB’s on August 16 and 17, 1974. It was just an old, dumpy little bar on the Bowery, as everyone knows. Hilly Kristal and his wife ran the place, and they had nothing going on there besides winos, so they started letting these new bands play there, like Television and Patti Smith’s band. Dee Dee had heard about it, and so we decided to give it a try. It was like a practice in front of ten people. We had gotten a lot better by then, and we had more songs.

  At that point, we were still dressed in partial glitter because the Dolls were still the big thing in New York. I had these silver lamé pants made of Mylar and these black spandex pants I’d wear too. I was the only one with a real Perfecto leather jacket—what the Ramones would later be identified with—which I had been wearing for seven years already. We were starting to throw in sneakers, Keds. I also had this vest with leopard trim that I had custom made for me. It was like the thing Iggy was wearing on the Stooges’ Raw Power sleeve.

  We were still evolving into the image we’re known for, but it was trial and error at first. We didn’t know what to do because glitter was still in. So for the first month or two, we were a little torn on how exactly to incorporate what came natural for us, as well as the glitter. We knew we had to get away from the platform boots and so on, and our look was developing, but it wasn’t as important as it would get later. No one was coming to see us. And no band is going to look the same at the first show they play as they do a year down the road.

  The first couple of times we played at CBGB’s, our set list was six or seven songs long. We started playing there every week, charging a dollar at the door. We’d get ten or fifteen people to show up. Our September 15 show at CBGB’s got taped by a theater group that was opening for us, and we watched that over and over. After that clip, we made a lot of changes. Tommy and I would assess what we did and how we could do things better. Then we’d tell the other guys what to do. Joey was still doing these kicks and getting down on his knees and singing and doing this fag rock thing, this dumb stuff. It was really terrible, just ridiculous, and we realized it was no good. So we told him to just stand up straight and hold on to the mic stand. Dee Dee was still playing with his fingers, and we told him that it looked better to play with a pick. After that, we were always taping, whenever we could, looking to figure out what we could improve on. We learned a lot from that. As soon as we looked at that first tape, we realized we had to get uniformed. So we got the costume down better and refined it as we played more and practiced more.

  I’d give Tommy a lot of the credit for that look. He explained to me that Middle America wasn’t going to look good in glitter and said that we needed a more streamlined image. Glitter is fine if you’re the perfect size for clothes like that. But if you’re even five pounds overweight, it looks ridiculous, so it wouldn’t be something everyone could relate to. It would be limited, and by the time Middle America finds out about the fashion, it’s dead already. We wanted something that kids could relate to, something timeless. If we had never been around and came out right now with that same look, it would work.

  It was a slow process, over a period of six months or so, but we got the uniform defined. We figured out that it would be jeans, T-shirts, leather jackets—Perfectos, like the one I had—and the tennis shoes. We wanted every kid to be able to identify with our image. And there’d be no problem for kids coming to the shows dressed like us, or anything like that.

  Now all the mental notes I had been taking over the years came into play. No tuning up onstage. Synchronized walk to the front of the stage and back again. Joey standing up straight, glued to the mic stand—for the whole set. Keeping it really symmetrical. We studied this. We’d get up there later on and start measuring out things and make sure to close the amp line, and close the PA line, just so we wouldn’t look lost on stage. I remember seeing the Dolls opening for Mott the Hoople at the Felt Forum and noticing how lost they looked on a big stage. Nothing looked right. And then Mott the Hoople came on, and everything did.

  Some bands blow it before they even play. I mean, the most important moment, the most exciting part of any show, is when a band walks out with the red amp lights glowing, the flashlight that shows each performer the way to his spot on the stage. You come out, no talking, no tuning, and it’s crucial not to blow it. It sets the tempo of the show; it affects everyone’s perception of the band. It was a requirement we adopted, a regimen that started as s
oon as we’d hit the stage, to make sure you immediately go into the song and not lose that excitement before you even start.

  We established those kinds of things in the first six months. It was basically Tommy and me in control. The power struggle hadn’t started yet. Tommy would be in charge of talking to everyone outside of the band, but he knew I’d be in charge on the inside. He’d come back to me with what we were doing, and then I would convince the rest of the guys what we were doing.

  We did twenty-five shows at CBGB’s in 1974. On November 16 we played Performance Studios again, and we’d continue to go back there from time to time through 1975. We ran the door at those Performance Studios shows, collecting the money. It wasn’t much at all; nothing really came in. We just wanted to play there, and it was a bring-your-own-drinks thing. The same people showed up each time. At that point, we didn’t even put what we made back into the band.

  On New Year’s Eve day in 1974, I suffered a burst appendix while I was hanging around the apartment. I didn’t want to go to the hospital, so all day I lay around with this poison going into my bloodstream. I was writhing on the floor, curled up in a ball.

  My wife called my parents, and they came over and told me to get to the hospital. But I insisted on driving myself. I got there and told them I had to get this done and get back home because I had things to watch on TV. I asked if I was going to be out by the next day. I was delirious, with a 106-degree temperature. I was in there for a couple of weeks. The only visitors I had were Rosana, Tommy, and my parents.

  I never take medication for pain. I want to know if the pain is getting better or worse. I had a crown put on my tooth a couple of years ago and didn’t take a needle. I doubt I’ll do that again.

  I was in intensive care for ten days. My appendix had been burst the whole day, and the doctor said I would have had another hour to live if I hadn’t been treated. That’s a long time in intensive care. I got out of the hospital on January 15. I was back to rehearsing soon, and I went to see Blondie and Television at CBGB’s on the 24th. We played there three nights the first week of March. I was fine.

  We were starting to get a little following; people were coming down to check us out. We kept playing at CBGB’s and Performance Studios, two- and three-night stands. The people who came were just a bunch of weirdos. Andy Warhol and those people even came down to see us, but to me they were just a bunch of freaks. I wouldn’t be very sociable or friendly to them. I just came off as nasty and unfriendly, but they were fine with it. I think they probably wanted the abuse. I met Warhol and he gave me a copy of his newspaper, Interview. I threw it in the garbage. Yeah, I watched all of Warhol’s movies, but that was make-believe. In real life, it was another story.

  But the band was doing well. We were putting up ads all over, flyers, to get people to come to the shows. Tommy was in charge of all that. He’d use the name Loudmouth Productions for the business side of things, so we’d sound professional. Sort of. We were trying to make it look like there was a company behind us. The name came from our song “Loudmouth,” which would be on our first album. Tommy would send out correspondence on Loudmouth Productions letterhead using his real name, Erdelyi, as our manager, to avoid people realizing he was also our drummer.

  Lou Reed came down to check us out, and every time we played, a large part of the audience was other bands, always, checking out the competition. I always looked at the Heartbreakers as our major competition. Johnny Thunders led them, so they had to be good. At the same time, they were junkies, so I knew they wouldn’t last. They were the next-best band in my opinion, but I knew their career would be short. Blondie was just a lightweight pop band, and no one really cared about them. They became big later on, but at the time, they were just an opening act. The Talking Heads were doing something totally different from us, so it didn’t concern me. It wasn’t really rock and roll, it was something else.

  It was interesting because this was my introduction to a real artistic community, whereas I was from a construction-worker background. I wanted to keep that work ethic, and I realized that this had become a job and I was taking it seriously. I realized that we were very good and that we might succeed.

  I mostly went to our shows alone, though sometimes I would bring Rosana. I really didn’t talk to anyone. I’d go out to CBGB’s and I’d think, “I’m surrounded by a bunch of assholes.” People would think I was unfriendly, but I wasn’t. I just didn’t like the people I was around, and felt that I didn’t have anything in common with them. I would go home while the others hung out at CBGB’s with the same people, night after night, drinking until it closed. It seemed like a waste of time. I just didn’t go by what everybody else was doing. I had no friends involved with the music scene. We were working. CBGB’s was where I worked. When I was a construction worker, I didn’t really hang out with those guys after work, either.

  Ramones songs were basically structured the same as regular songs, but played fast, so they became short. When I saw the Beatles at Shea Stadium in 1965, they played a half-hour show. I figured that if the Beatles played a half hour at Shea Stadium, the Ramones should only do about fifteen minutes. So in the beginning, we kept the set at about fifteen minutes. I’d based it on that. I’ve always thought you’re better off playing shorter. You get in your best material and leave them wanting more. I don’t think anyone, even big bands, should play for more than an hour.

  Our first label audition was in June with Richard Gottehrer, who was with Sire Records, a little label with big-label connections. He came to see us at Performance Studios and offered us a single deal for “You’re Gonna Kill That Girl.” We turned it down. We didn’t want a single; we wanted our own album. Then we auditioned for Blue Sky at Performance Studios. And after that, we auditioned for Arista. They passed.

  But Blue Sky, which was Rick Derringer’s label, wanted more. So they sent us up to Waterbury, Connecticut, on July 11 to open for Johnny Winter at the Palace Theater. Stories, the band who did “Brother Louie,” were also on that bill. We weren’t even listed. The lights went down, everybody started cheering, and we thought, “Wow, they know about us. This is gonna be great.” We were thinking we were big shots, you know. But they thought we were Stories. After a song, I guess we insulted the audience somehow, and then the boos started, and they threw stuff—bottles, cups, whatever—at us. We just wanted to get the set over with as fast as possible and get out of there. It was a disaster. We were not prepared for that at all, but we played great. As soon as we walked off, Blue Sky told us they didn’t want us. We got in the van and drove home; it was very quiet in the van that night. We made no money, since it was an audition. I don’t recall being really discouraged, though.

  It was the summer of 1975 and everything was really starting to click. We’d built a big following and CBGB’s was getting packed whenever we’d play. We were the first ones to raise the ticket prices to three, four, and eventually five dollars. We saw it as a business, and we’d have our own person at the door to make sure we weren’t being cheated. Less than a week after the disaster at the Palace, we played the CBGB’s Rock Festival, with Blondie, the Talking Heads, and some other groups. It became apparent that we were the best there.

  Rolling Stone covered the festival with a one-page article. Most of it was about the Ramones, then the Talking Heads, with the other bands just casually mentioned. I thought that we were going to become huge and be the biggest band in the world and change music as part of this massive movement. The Ramones were easily the biggest of the CBGB’s groups at that time, so we’d suggest who should be on the bill for the festival. We wanted to make sure it was a good show, and we needed to choose the right bands to help start a movement. I figured that we were going to be playing with these other bands, forming a scene. I had very high aspirations, and I knew that to start a movement, we needed to have other bands and had to influence kids to start new bands. We couldn’t be out there like that on our own.

  We were also recording some stuff at the
time. We did our first demo in February of 1975 at a studio on Long Island, which was most of the songs on the first album. It took a couple of days, and it cost us a thousand dollars. We recorded about fifteen songs at that session; some of those are on the Rhino 2001 CD reissue of the first album.

  At the time, we were still looking for a manager that could help us get to the next level, someone with connections. Danny Fields had been a publicist at Elektra Records working with the Doors and was responsible for the Stooges and the MC5 getting signed. I figured, with those credentials, if anyone was going to understand what we were doing, maybe it would be Danny. He was an important person in the scene and knew a lot of cool people, and that was impressive to us. Danny was writing a music column for The Village Voice back then, so we would invite him to our shows and send letters from Loudmouth Productions. We met in the spring of 1975 and asked him to manage us. But he was the editor of 16 Magazine and didn’t want to leave his steady job. We were consulting with him for advice from time to time for about six months, but he wasn’t our manager yet.

  On September 19, we recorded demos of two songs, “Judy Is a Punk” and “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend,” with Marty Thau at an upstate studio. He had been part of the Dolls’ management team, but he wanted to be our producer, not our manager. Tommy had the producer role sewed up.

  We sent five of the songs we had recorded to record companies, and they quickly sent them back. You could see that the tape was rewound after they had only listened to half a song. They never even bothered after the first thirty seconds. We never even considered that the music was seriously whacked or anything. We were wondering what was wrong with them. We called Warner Bros. and they said that we sounded like bad Zeppelin.