Now we were getting somewhere, we became entertaining! Though not as entertaining as Tiny Tim was the night we closed the Fast Lane and had a private party for Springsteen’s right-hand lady, Obie, with Tiny as the musical guest. That was the most hilarious thing to witness, Tiny singing “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy” while his wife go-go danced next to him and some old guy was musical director with a piano and some dinosaur rhythm machine spewing out half-assed beats.

This, dear friends, was the first time I actually pissed my pants, hanging on to Christian Rex (remember the hostage guy?) for support as we both fell to the floor. I still have the autographed tie (which he threw to the audience whilst doing a strip tease to the song!) from Tiny: “To Mr. Jack, Love Tiny Tim.”

We got more gigs out of town, including one legendary weekend in Greenwood Lake that went something like this: We were booked to play at a club in Greenwood Lake in upstate New York. Now this was big because it was a tour, albeit a two-day tour, but a tour nonetheless. Man, were we thrilled. We were to open up for legendary band Mountain featuring Leslie West. We packed our gear, and this time our suitcases, and drove the four or so hours up there. It was beautiful, a massive club situated on a beautiful lake. This was the BIG time, and we were psyched. So we go to our hotel (that was a thrill in itself, a hotel room!) and head over to the club for sound check, only to find out that Mountain cancelled and we were playing ourselves.

Fair enough. We go to the club after dinner and it was packed; I mean, over a thousand people were there. One slight problem though. It was packed alright, but the club was a two-story deal, and the first floor was like a disco with a cover band playing. The big time national acts were to play downstairs. We were happy as could be in the dressing room as we heard all of the people upstairs twisting the night away and then we headed to the stage only to find out that not one single, solitary soul from upstairs came downstairs to see us. So to add insult to injury, not only did we play to an audience of about four (our crew), but we heard at least a thousand less than ten feet above us rocking out to a fucking cover band.

Talk about a proverbial drag and kick in the teeth; speaking of teeth, our bass player Walter was one Hell of a nice guy but sometimes not the brightest tool in the shed and at that hateful club in Greenwood Lake, we came upon Walt using Crazy Glue to cement his front tooth back in place. Walter was a funny guy in his own way. Anyhow, after the major dejection of not one damn person coming downstairs to hear us play, we then went upstairs to find even more dejection as not one girl would give any of us the time of day because we were smack in disco central looking more like the Sex Pistols than John Travolta. Jon and I hastened back to our hotel and talked all night about dreams of making it big.

I remember distinctly the passion Jon conveyed that pathetic night, and he accomplished everything in that speech and then some. The next morning we went to feed the ducks around the lake and swore to each other never to tell anyone in Asbury Park the details of our sad little weekend. After we played that night, again to about five people, we packed our gear and headed straight home, arriving around sun up.
Now the big show was about to happen, for us it was Woodstock, maybe bigger than Woodstock.

Southside Johnny was going to let us open for him at Freehold Raceway! Talk about a dream, wow! We were ready; however, the crowd wasn’t, and for most of the show asked themselves, “Who are these clowns?” after we were introduced as friends of Southside, which we should have actually named the band. Now, I have to add, we asked our managers to provide a limo for Jon and me. Why? Well for one, we were young and full of piss and vinegar and two, why not? It was awesome, pointless, but awesome. Me, Jon, and our two girlfriends drove into the gig like the Beatles only to feel like idiots when Southside asked us why we took a limo. Our own band hated us for that, and The Jukes thought we were idiots, but man it was cool.

Remind me to tell you about the other limo when I flew with Bon Jovi to a gig in Massachusetts after his fame and the Michael Alago limo story at an Aerosmith show (downright comedic). Me and limos were not meant to be. So the gig somewhat failed, but it sure felt good for a few minutes. We went back to our world of rehearsal and weekly gigs in Asbury Park, waiting for stardom to come knocking.

Enter into our world of local stardom, one Billy Squier. I had befriended Billy around the time of his band Piper. In my typical ball-busting way, I had become chummy with one of his guitar players, Tommy Gunn. After Piper broke up, Billy and I became closer (or so I thought) and would spend many an afternoon at a vintage guitar store in Red Bank called Guitar Trader eyeing and playing the vintage guitars neither of us could afford. We’d then cap off the day with a trip to Friendly’s for a fish sandwich thing and a Fribble. So it went on for months while Billy searched for a record deal just like we were doing.

Capitol signed Billy, and he made his first record, Tale of the Tape, which didn’t sell well but got him one step closer than us, so he became my hero and surrogate big brother (or so I thought). After our failed demo with Southside and Gary, we cooked up a few new songs that seemed to ring true with the audience and had something different, more compelling than the others. We then hatched the idea to do another demo and have Billy produce it.

Now as where Southside and Gary not only produced us for free and got us free studio time, Billy wanted to be paid, and we needed to rustle some studio time. It was an effort to convince management, but they came through and off we went to the next demo. Billy wanting dough should have been the first sign that maybe we weren’t buddies after all. These were the sessions in which I sat with Ronnie Spector, so all was not lost!

We had to work the graveyard shift because studio time was cheaper that way. Our sessions typically were 9 pm until sunrise, which lead to some interesting NY moments for some NJ kids as Jon and I walked the streets. One fond memory was going into a Chinese restaurant with just enough money for two egg rolls, which after eating them and paying the bill, the waiter chased us down the street screaming that we didn’t leave a tip. Another time exiting the studio at sunrise, some poor unfortunate bag lady started screaming at us, lifted her dress and pissed on the sidewalk, much to our shock. Rubes in the big city, which we were.

We finally finished the demo, and it sounded amazing, so we went record deal shopping once again with renewed belief and hope alive. Shortly thereafter, Billy released his second record which exploded onto the scene and established Billy as a superstar. We were overjoyed and followed Billy like dutiful little puppies. You see, Southside and Bruce and everyone else in our scene were already famous when we met them and got to know them. With Billy, he was one of us and suddenly exploded into stardom, so it felt like we were next. It gave us hope and brought the brass ring that much closer.

At first Billy was still Billy, and we went to his concerts and video shoots and cheered him on, feeling even better about ourselves because Billy was our big brother (or so we thought). We worshipped him until one fine day when Jon and I phoned him, and he said: “Guys you can’t just call me like this anymore, things have changed.” Well crushed can’t even describe that level of rejection. Dude, you are our bro, what the fuck? Jon and I crawled away feeling like total losers, and Billy left our lives going on to bigger stardom until he made a video in which he danced like Carmen Miranda and destroyed his own career.

There are a million Billy Squier stories I could tell and so could many other people. Like (according to her, but I believe her) him dumping the girlfriend who supported him by having his road manager call her and say, “Billy wants you out of the apartment before the tour ends, but please have it painted before you leave.” Or the time we went to Billy’s apartment with a pizza we barely could afford and after we all took a slice, Billy proceeded to wrap up the remaining pizza and put it in his own fridge, thanks fuck face.

Billy once told me he was related to the US president William Henry Harrison. I didn’t care then and I care even less now.

Or the time I went to a party with him and in his annoying New England drawl he said, “Jack, I think I could score any woman here, I’m bored and want to leave.” Or after his success he asked my dad to help him buy a Porsche (my dad had connections in the car business, and Billy is cheap) and he showed up at our shit-hole little apartment with a pizza box that contained one slice for him and one slice for his then current designer girlfriend (pizza seems to be a recurring theme with this ass).

Suffice it to say, he was a self centered dick of the highest order (IMO). Well, the caveat to Mr. Squier Superstar was many years later he having to open for the mighty Bon Jovi at a stadium show in the sacred Meadowlands in NJ and then Billy telling everyone backstage that he felt he was better than Skid Row. Apparently someone forgot to tell Billy it was for one show only and not an entire tour, oh well.

Yes Billy, things have changed, like that scene in Godfather 2 where Michael grabs Fredo in Cuba and with all his soul says, “You broke my heart.” Billy’s rejection broke the heart of two young kids who worshipped him and looked to him for answers.

Thanks, asshole.

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