Joey Ramone, RIP
He took “limited” to a new level.

By Chris McEvoy, NRO managing editor
April 21-22, 2001

t's hard to picture Joey Ramone ever sitting behind a set of drums — which, in the early 1970's, was his original seat in

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rock-&-roll. He didn't physically belong there. And his better technical skill was that of vocalist for the soon-to-be-called Ramones. That's the Ramones — the band that brought the least amount of technical skill to the rock-&-roll stage.

So, Tommy Ramone took the sticks, and Joey went forward to the microphone, spelling bassist Dee Dee, whose voice couldn't hold up for the length of a Ramones' set (which was only about a half hour in the early days). Another repair of a technical miscalculation, and the Ramones, pretty much, were born.

The band was fronted by Joey in 1974, the Ramones's coming-out year. Nothing like this act had been seen before. In retrospect, their uniform of black biker jackets and tight, ripped jeans seems tame enough. But it was the young men in the jackets and jeans who provided the band's trademark deformity. Each band member wore the surname "Ramone" — a binding oddity out of the gate. Bassist Dee Dee and guitarist Johnny wore neck-length, bowl haircuts. Their hair, as much as their suspect guitar playing, was the equivalent of flipping the bird to the rock establishment. And then there was Joey, the embodiment of the Ramones's divergent look. Tall, lanky, long-faced, sallow-cheeked, bushy-haired, and droopy-eyed, here was a thing conjured from the underworld.

Together, this band of not-really-brothers performed lighting-quick sets, featuring no talk between songs and a wall of crushing, yet simple, sound. Rock was again reinvented by the outrageous. And punk had a godfather.

Joey Ramone, born Jeffrey Hyman in Queens, N.Y., died of lymphatic cancer at the age of 49 this week. Expectedly, deservedly, the tributes poured in. Joey's "signature yelp," the obits reminded, helped trademark the band that would pave the way for the Clash, the Sex Pistols, and, eventually, Green Day. The obituaries also made frequent mention of the limitations of the Ramones. Yes, this was a breakthrough band — the group that unleashed popular punk. But this was also the "limited" band, the "amateurish" band.

Which is all true. And which was exactly right for their time. In the mid- to late '70s, to be a three-chord band with shallow lyrics, short songs, and questionable musical ability was to go counter to the rock-&-roll establishment. And counter, of course, is what rock-&-roll thrives on.

In 1976, the Ramones first put their brand of punk on vinyl, sneering at the pop movements du jour — 20-minute suites, moody ballads, disco, etc. They would punch it out — without ever gaining a coveted top-10 album — until disbanding in 1996. Here and there, the band's sound strayed, but it never moved too far from the Ramones's true center, which was a blend of volume, speed, childish simplicity, and humor. (This is the band that wrote and performed "Everytime I Eat Vegetables It Makes Me Think of You.")

"Blitzkrieg Bop" was an initial hit for the Ramones in '76. The song's chant of "Hey ho, let's go/Hey ho, let's go" is burned forever into the rock-&-roll canon. For the next twenty years, the band tackled such subjects as sniffing glue, having nothing to do, finding something to do, being bored again, and living the punk-rocker life — which usually happened at night, after being bored all day.

Their songs are mostly three-chord and four-chord constructions. The controversial early hit "Carbona Not Glue" actually has eight chords (six if you don't count the trademark power-slide which delivers an A from a G#, and a G from an F#). But you won't find any diminished chords, or minors, or sevenths. The Ramones were the 8-Crayola set — no aquamarines or burnt siennas.

Joey fit three-chords very well. He was exceptionally good at looking bored and doing hard punk at the same time. He was influenced by Iggy Pop and the Stooges, Alice Cooper, and the Beach Boys. In a way, he mixed all those into his delivery. His voice featured minimal range, and his sound was pouty — energized, but assuredly sedated. There was little talent there, which was, of course, a key requirement for all members of the Ramones.

Like most rock-&-rollers, Joey's band life included infighting, drugs, and booze — Dee Dee being the worst offender in each of these categories. Joey did his cocaine and drank, but he cleaned himself up by the early '90s. After the group ended their run with Adios Amigos, Joey went on to do some DJing, host some punk shows, and begin the terrible rock-&-roll process of fading away.

But Joey was spared much fading. His illness, as life-threatening illnesses go, was as quick as an early Ramones's set. But his legacy, and that of the Ramones, will be much longer.

Joey Ramone was once asked by an interviewer what it's like to be a living legend. He said, "It's amusing." That's the attitude Joey and the Ramones brought to rock — they were reactionary punks, but they were just looking to "have some kicks," as the lyric goes. Joey had his kicks, but he also launched punk. His seat in rock's pantheon is secure.