Now, in this part of the story, there are heroes and villains, rock stars and assholes, and many other sundry types lurking about. We lived in this odd universe of impending stardom and teenage incest. Whoa! When I say incest, I don’t mean family ties born of blood, but an odd and accepted we all date each other and hump our little libidos into high heaven whilst we wait for that elusive record contract. The Fast Lane was a magical place and a magical time, inhabited by a denizen of characters with a capital C.

We had the janitor, Louie La Buff, great name, full-time drunk with a mutt named Dukey that was amazing and haggard all in one. There was a WW2 vet named Tim, with a fake ear, a prosthetic thing made of God knows what, that he lost in my car one night. There was the fabulous wife of Willy Deville, Toots Deville, who would punch out female audience members for staring at her husband, and she never failed to ask me if I was “holding,” even though she knew I never did heroin. She also used to ask me if she could cut my hair, which was as scary a thought as could be. It was a cast of characters and clowns. There was Christian Rex, who got a singles deal with Polygram only to be dropped after showing up at the label dressed as a hostage during the hostage crisis and his punch drunk ex-boxer side kick Ricky who was a talent and calamity rolled into one, with a nervous twitch born of boxing way too long.

There were the Duke Street Queens; I know that because it said it on their satin jackets, girlfriends of the E Street guys and various Springsteen hanger ons. I would be remiss not to mention the Fabulous Perms; lead by the wife of Southside Johnny and assorted friends who actually thought they would form a band. Ah, Southside Betty, why Johnny married her, I don’t know, but she thought it proper to have an affair with a member of my band, a young member of my band, which only resulted in him getting some older sexy time and us into trouble, Southside getting pissed off, and me spending an evening watching TV with Ronnie Spector while Betty brought her little friend to a hotel in NY, and Ronnie and I were the “excuse” and cover.

I was all fired up until Ronnie looked at me and said: “Don’t get excited, I’m just doing Betty a favor.” So much for me having that notch on the bed post and that story to tell. Be my baby, my ass. We were two idiots helping Betty get her rocks off. Betty called me one day and said, “Johnny knows I’m screwing someone. I’m going to tell him it’s you because he likes you.” I was like, “Wait a minute idiot, I am not fucking you, I like your husband, and he is helping my band you fucking dolt”.

She went on to greater heights by hooking up with a rather young man from South Africa when he came in to NJ as roadie for his sister’s band, leaving her husband, getting the green card for the bright-eyed young immigrant, and having two children with him.

So you see, the Fast Lane was an altered reality, a cartoon comprised of solidified rockstars and a ton of rockstar hopefuls and a shit load of wannabes and wishful thinkers, surrounded by the greatest sideshow since P.T. Barnum. We were the house band for Oz. So my girlfriend at the time was the ex-girlfriend of my singer who took her cherry in high school and assured me she would never resort to activities beyond the baseline.

Can you imagine that level of communal sharing? And we were all good with it! It was like the 60s, all free love and shit with no insecurities in the mix. I will say John (Jon) was madly, madly in love with the woman who is now his current wife. I have never seen anyone hit so hard with the arrow of love. I remember the day he came to band practice extolling the virtues of this girl he met in school; he was hooked with a capital H. It was both sweet and sickening. We couldn’t wait to meet her. He brought her to the Fast Lane and there she was with Bo Derek braids and a vibe that we understood immediately. Good for him, I thought, while I was still in a relationship with his ex.

Fueled by my ego, Remy Martin, and many confused feelings, I broke up the band, but not before all I am about to tell you, including but not limited to, Billy Squier whom I believe is the biggest dick I have ever known. Our star was rising, but it did seem to go sideways real fast. We started to play gigs outside of Asbury Park, and that felt like the big time to us. I recall playing a hot new disco in NY called Heat, man that was a thrill. Jon and I walked around NYC prior to the gig truly feeling like it was happening, I mean after all, this was NYC!

I also remember he and I following two women up the street checking out their fine butts until we got up close and came face to face with our first transvestites. We were told by our road manager one John Belushi was in the audience, but when we went out there to play, the only celebrities we saw were one Disco Sally, some 80-year-old celebrity of the night scene, and I think David Brenner. So much for that moment of greatness.

So every few weeks we played out of town, courtesy of our manager (who owned the Fast Lane) having the ability to trade gigs by having another out-of-town act play the Fast Lane. We were feeling like stars. Jon at this point negotiated him and me an actual weekly stipend from management. Fifty dollars each! That was like a fortune. We didn’t let on to the band, but it solidified our partnership further, and I saw the first glimpse of his ambition in business with that move.

I next saw his passion after we drove six hours to Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, only to arrive at the club we were booked at, and it looked just like a scene out of Children of the Corn. Right next to a cornfield, the club had a moose head on the wall and a stage that couldn’t hold the drums, let alone the band. Now Jon was arguing with me that it was fine because to him just the thrill of playing was good enough, and he would play anywhere, but for me, I was now a rock star, and this was major step down. So after a few hours of arguing, we packed up the van and headed back to Asbury just in time to catch a show by Norman Nardini, who a few months prior came to Asbury to open for us (we did it as a favor to Gary Tallent, who was friends with Norman) and completely wipe the stage with us as Norman was one of the most brilliant and devastating live performers we had ever seen.

Years later during Bon Jovi mania, Jon brought Norman on stage in his hometown of Pittsburgh, introduced him as his idol and bowed before him. Norman was the real deal and another testament to how fucked up this business is because Norman never made it past Pittsburgh, and that my friends, is both a shame and criminal.

Norman Nardini was like Al Pacino meets Buddy Holly, playing simple blues-based rock songs with a band called the Tigers who were direct contrast to his diminutive frame, as they were all massive body builders. Quite a sight to see, and man could they rock! I mean rock like sweat and sex and guts and glory. Norman at first was a giant threat to us, but he was such a nice guy, such a charming character that he became a big brother to us. We really learned from him what was missing and that “connecting” with the audience, having great onstage banter (he sometimes made Bruce seem comatose) and having swagger, honest to God, rock star swagger.

We used to sit on the stoop of the Fast Lane, and Norman would wax philosophic as the sun came up with such tasty gems as, “There are two kinds of girls in the world, sluts and mothers.” Norman had awesome songs like “Love Dog” and “Ready Freddy”, all basic I-IV-V blues progressions, but shit he could entertain better than a standup comic. We now tried to emulate that slick, sleek stage persona but I found I could only do that if I drank before going on. That began my one year love affair with cognac much to the anger of my band mates, especially Jon, but it gave me the cover to go on stage and now entertain rather than just play.