The Dictators

So there we were. Tompkins Square Park up on Avenue A. The usual rabble was encamped and loitering about. Joe Strummer looks on from the memorial mural, a patron and a brother. He is the only figure I consider to transcend the genre of punk rock. SS and I cross the southeast corner and spot our destination: A well-worn and easy bar called Manitoba's, continuous with the peacefully dirty atmosphere of the street, like a matte painting. A solitary goon sits in the grubby pavement, leather leaning against the brick wall, salami log-wrists resting on knees. He is the size of a buffalo, has furnace stoker skin, a blue bandanna and twinkling eyes. We walk up and try the wrong door. You go in over there he says, like a prophesy. We go in over there, and I love the place. An accidental museum of rock and roll photographs, autographs, relics and artifacts. I slide in under a candid photo of Lou Reed and Wayne Kramer and whisper, I think that guy outside was Handsome Dick Manitoba. The buffalo steps through the door, walks behind the bar and pours us two pints of Brooklyn brew. The place is a little quiet tonight, HD says, because of the Motörhead show. The television, no joke, is running a VHS tape of Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! The world's best jukebox. In the basement I find an air hockey table and a Wonder Woman pinball machine. The coin slots have been disabled to allow free play.

The Dictators are the most FUN band of the 1970s. The Stooges were more dangerous, the New York Dolls were sleazier, T. Rex was sexier, the Dead Boys were darker, Johnny Thunders could play better, Cheap Trick had broader appeal, Kiss had better branding, AC/DC rocked harder, the Ramones were more revolutionary and the UK punks had worse hygiene. But gosh darn it, no one wanted to make you laugh more than the Dictators. The kind of grin-stupid belly laughs that erupt when you shoplift a tub of beef jerky and escape in your friend's dad's Oldsmobile while mooning the cops who crash into a manure truck, and then pick up a couple of rollergirls who think you're hot shit but ditch them at the quarry and drive off with their bras. And the thing is, you're a bunch of dorky Jews who never actually do such things, but you pronounce yourselves rock gods, recruit pro-wrestler Handsome Dick Manitoba (probably your cousin) as your roadie-vocalist "secret weapon" mascot, kick out brazenly basic learned-it-today hard rock anthems and somehow seem to show off while performing elementary licks (the way you do when playing Guitar Hero), keep a straight face while making total clowns of yourselves and get totally laid.

Oh, Weekend!
Flashing rock and roll guitars
Cruising in my daddy's car
I'll do my homework in the bar!