After Chestnut Mare, I found myself just hanging out for a while. Steve and I would hang out all day then go out at night drinking or going to clubs. At this time, in New Jersey and New York, there were loads of clubs to visit. From the smallest bars to the bigger clubs like LaMore', Mothers, Great Gildersleeves, Bottom Line, CBGB's etc., there were no shortage of places to hang out and go see bands. Steven and I, having been around for a while, were known to all local musicians in the area. It was like hanging out with the guys and talking shop when going to a club. During this lull, I got fired from my job, and having no band had plenty of time on my hands. I also managed to find a way to collect unemployment. Steve had told me about a building which was rented out to musicians after hours and I decided to get a room there. Steve was in a band which had a room on the third floor and since I got one on the sixth, was easy to ride the elevator up and down. The guitar player in Steve's band was named Sal Mumiani, who will figure into the story later. You could go up to the rooms after the bank closed (did I mention it was in a BANK!!!) and play as loud as you wanted all night long. It eventually became a local hangout for musicians until it was closed. Rumors have it there were certain individuals' behaviors which contributed to its closing, but on this I take the fifth. We used to hangout, drink, and jam all night long. My room, I used to have people up and jam. Plenty of times we wound up on the roof (the building was 13 stories tall) and sit on the ledge and drink. We had a fondness for shooting guns (22's) at anything inside or outside the building. We also had a tendency to invite people up to jam then the next night (for some strange reason) throw their equipment off the roof.

Into this combination we now throw John Cox. I had met John through Steve, and had hung out a few times with him. John came up the bank a few times and let me tell you we had quite strange times. John was the originator of the home-made 22 which we used to shoot out many things at the bank. Seems he took two pieces of steel pipe, had them bored out, attached a plunger to the end, and presto instant gun. It's a wonder we still have all our fingers. When we weren't hanging out at the bank we would go to an area on the Jersey City-Bayonne border where the ships came in and docked called Global. There was a strip at the end a quarter of a mile long where all the kids would hang-out, drink beer, and generally do all the things you couldn't do anywhere else. John introduced me to the pleasure of setting off propane tanks. We would go and grab pallets for the fire then ride around and find a place to break into. We would go to their propane locker and steal all their empties. Seems that propane tanks when heated go off just like a rocket. I remember one night being so drunk we couldn't even walk. We had placed a tank on the fire which didn't seem to be going off. I told the guys I'd go take a look and found out that the tank was laying over sideways. I called to the guys telling them I had found the problem and straightened up the tank. As I turned it decided to go off but, having been cooked sideways for some time it wasn't going to go up and blow it was just going to blow. I remember turning back towards the guys then flying about 30 feet in the air and landing right on my chest on a four foot square chunk of concrete that was sticking out of the ground. I had also had the soles of my sneakers completely burnt off. Whew...Hot time in the old town.

But, all good things must pass and eventually the bank closed its doors to us (assholes). After this, I mainly went to auditions for bands, and at one found out my old guitar player was playing with some new people in a band called (gasp) Tyrant. Needless to say, I got the gig and started playing in the band. My demise with them found me rolling my Sun Bass Reflex cabinet down a hill 5 blocks to my house in the middle of winter. Ah, the good old days.

One night after this, Steve and I were hanging out and drinking and decided to go visit Sal Mumiani (see I told you we'd get to him). While visiting him we met Steve Rodway, a musician from England, who was visiting Sal's sister. A few days later I get a call from Sal telling me Rodway was putting together a band. Seems Rodway had recorded a 45 in England and picked up a small contract with RCA who had advanced him $5000 to make another record. Rodway decided to come to the United States, put together a band, and promote his record. He also hoped to hook up with a bigger label in the states.

Seeing as I was without a band at the moment, I agreed with hopes of a record contract floating through my head. Seeing as Rodway had the money and we knew of rehearsal studios, it was understood that Rodway would pay for practice. We recruited a drummer and off we went. The Band (SAL, Rodway, Mike and I) practiced for a few weeks then we sent Rodway out to get some gigs. I must admit it had to be the bullshit of the combination of his accent and mentioning he had a contract with RCA but, he managed to get some decent gigs. We played Asbury Park and all the big clubs in New York. After a time, Rodway decided he wanted Keyboards so Steve joined the band. He also decided he wanted a female backup singer so we got one. Things seemed to be going well until the money ran out. Rodway wasn't the type record producers flocked around and I believe the only reason he stayed in the states was to fuck Sal's sister, who I must admit was quite a looker. All things as they were the band just slowly fizzled out with Rodway on his way back to Merry Old England.