King of Norway

I watched the Towers fall from Union Square. It’s the sound I remember most. And the smell. A couple of weeks later I wrote this story.

Being in a rock and roll band is like getting in bed with a rattlesnake; you don’t get much sleep and there’s a good chance you’re going to get bit in the ass. At least that’s the way the King taught me to see it.

That night we rocked. Jerry the drummer found just the right pocket for the groove; Larry on bass locked to it like a leech; Tom sang from way down deep somewhere, straight from his soul to the ears of the rocking and bopping crowd; and I played guitar, laid out hooks honed to a razor sharp edge.

The name of the band was ‘The Jacks’ (actually the name of the band was ‘Jack and the Jackets,’ but everybody called us ‘The Jacks’) and the lower east side of NYC was our playground.

We lived on those streets, fed off the buzz of them, the people and the cars and just the whole thing ramped up twenty-four hours a day. But it was the middle of the night that belonged to us.

After the gig we went to a place called the Hudson Deli. The deli wasn’t anywhere near the Hudson River, but we gave the guy behind the counter four bucks each, and he piled enough pastrami on our plates to keep us going for a day. Best deal in town.