The
Real Kids, The Weaklings, Loose Lips, The Prime Evils
Satyricon 125 NW 6th Ave., 243-2380
10 pm Sunday, Nov. 21
$8
Let's just say I have all the luck.
In September '98, I happened to be in New York the same
weekend the legendary Real Kids reunited for two incredible,
cut-to-the-bone nights of action at Coney Island High, on
Manhattan's Lower East Side.
Those Coney Island reunion shows were so successful that
events followed hard and fast: a much-read article in Maximum
RocknRoll, two Norton Records discs of never-before-released
Real Kids material (Better Be Good and No Place
Fast) and another reunion gig, this one in San Francisco.
The 'Frisco stint landed the band a deal with TKO Records.
Now, in 1999, the Real Kids are, unbelievably, up and running
again. For real. A new single is out, an EP will appear
in December and January will see the first new Real Kids
full-length in nearly 20 years.
Now for the sad part.
This Sunday at Satyricon, the Real Kids will surely torch
every heart within range. Not mine, though. I'll be on a
plane, heading east for Thanksgiving. This, I would say,
is very bad luck, the absolute worst.
In a perverse effort to salve my grief, I called chief
Real Kid John Felice at his home in Brighton, a patch of
metro Boston full of Irishmen and hospitals. Felice discusses
the Real Kids and their sudden new lease on life in tones
of quiet and intense amazement. He takes it very seriously.
"I don't want this to be a reunion tour," says Felice.
"I didn't want this to be anything like that. What I want
is the Real Kids to be a working band, to get back together
for the long haul, as long as it will be this time around."
The Real Kids' legacy is based on the mid-'70s definitive
lineup of Howie Ferguson on drums, Billy Borgioli on rhythm
guitar, Allen "Alpo" Paulino on bass and vocalist/songwriter
Felice on lead guitar. Together they hard-shouldered their
way through the rush of bands in the late '70s Boston-New
York scene that included the Ramones, The Heartbreakers
and DMZ. In that sweaty throb, the Real Kids struck a distinct
note. Their tightly wrapped sound bridged the rocketship
might of the MC5 and the street-corner elegance of the Velvet
Under-ground, leaning heavily on Buddy Holly and Eddie Cochran
for support and inspiration.
"We always considered ourselves very much a Boston band:
no frills, no nonsense, it-better-be-good Boston rock and
roll," Felice says in his typical straight-on way.
That uncompromising attitude helped the Real Kids preserve
their fashionless, street-bred integrity during punk's first
wave.
"There was no more apolitical band than the Real Kids,"
says Felice. "We could just care less about it, and a lot
of punk was about politics. Especially in '76, when we were
first kicking it out. What our thing was, we wanted to play
rock and roll. We thought rock and roll had taken a beating
over the previous few years. There just wasn't any good
bands. Nothing on the radio at all. What we wanted to do
was just simplifiy. Strip it down. Play it in its essence
and just bang it out as hard and true as we could."
The Real Kids further distanced themselves from their contemporaries
by displaying an uncommon tenderness in their songs. "When
the Real Kids played, couples could come and see us play,"
Felice recalls. "Guys got off on the fucking attitude of
the band and the girls got off on the fact that a lot of
the songs were love songs. We had just as many fans that
were girls, and their boyfriends would dig the fact that
we were a real working-class, no-nonsense band. There weren't
many bands that could appeal to both sides of that coin."
The band cemented its long-standing reputation as a seminal
'70s punk outfit with its incredibly influential 1978 self-titled
album on Red Star. Unfortunately, poor business decisions,
personnel changes and that crazy rock lifestyle put the
Real Kids to bed in the early '80s. They were gone but,
as it turned out, not forgotten.
"I've played with some very good people over the years,"
Felice says. "I was just never able to duplicate the feel
the Real Kids had."
A lot of people felt the same. Over the years, an underground
current of fans grew into a legion around the world. Amazingly
enough, the disbanded Real Kids had no idea. To say the
least, their recent reunion shows have been eye-opening.
"It's a constant source of amazement for us," Felice says.
"We cannot believe these young kids coming up and telling
us that the Real Kids album changed their fucking lives
and shit, and how they looked at rock and roll. Saying,
'You guys inspired me to put a band together.' That kind
of shit just blows me away. Because that was me 25, 30 years
ago.
"Most of the people who showed up at the reunion
shows were not old-timers from the '70s," Felice continues.
"There were a lot of kids in their 20s. We were playing
to a whole new audience who probably was 1 year old when
we made our first album. So, we said, there might be something
to this. And just the fact that we were still all around
made us pause, made us think it was worth trying."
I left our conversation flush with the satisfying thought
that the Real Kids, who Felice says sound even better now
than they did a year ago, burn with a determination to please
their audiences and, especially, their long-standing fans.
It should be great.
Have fun. Bastards.
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Willamette Week | originally
published November 23,
1999
|
