ALL THIS AND MORE
While I became a constant presence at Max’s, I also took over CBGB’s. I had first gone to CBs with my friend Leslie Swiman, who took me there to see Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers in 1976. She lived in New Haven, Connecticut, with her family and was a few years older than me. We found each other through our mutual fanaticism for rock ’n’ roll.
I saw many bands there, but, ultimately, it was the Dead Boys that mattered the most to me.
The Dead Boys were the house band at CBGB’s. Hilly Krystal, the owner of the club, managed them because they were one of the most popular groups on the scene. I went to every single one of their shows.
I adored their loud, “piss-in-your-face” rowdy, hard-core, violent stage antics. They had come out of Youngstown, Ohio—Stiv Bators, Cheetah Chrome, Jimmy Zero, Jeff Magnum and Johnny Blitz. They were pure punk—loud, brash, dirty, fast, and their music blew me away. Stiv, in his rough, cocky way as the lead singer, was also outrageously charming, and I had a wild crush on the drummer, Johnny Blitz (I had a thing for drummers). During this time, I also met Jody Robelo. She was another huge fan of the band and the two of us were forever in the front row at all their shows.
At one point, the guys asked Jody to start a fan club, which is exactly what I had planned to do. Our mutual friend Antone DeSantis brought Jody and me together and it was a love-fest at first sight. Together, we decided to do both the fan club and create a fanzine.
We called the ’zine,’ All this and More, after one of their songs. It was a cut-and-paste affair of different sized letters and images and was very punk rock. We only ended up doing the one issue because, well, we were kids—we were just going out and having a blast. We weren’t focused on “band business,” like building up a fan base for the Dead Boys or getting media attention, even though we were dedicated to them. We just wanted to be connected to the band in any way possible.
Because I was always at CBGB’s, I was at almost every Ramones show and I became fast friends with Arturo Vega. Arturo was the creator of the legendary Ramones logo and the lighting director for their entire career.
He was tremendously attractive, brilliant, and one of the most demanding and belligerent people I had ever known in my life. He was also my friend for thirty years and shared the same birthday with me—October 13.
We spent so much time together. He visited me regularly when I developed AIDS. He had Thanksgiving dinner with my family—he even became close with my mom during those holidays, endlessly gabbing with her in Spanish.
Arturo and I went to hustler bars and porn clubs all the time and we always dragged our straight friend, Jimmy Marino, with us. But because Arturo and I were two gay men out to have a pretty depraved time, Jimmy sometimes found himself a bit mortified by our antics. He stuck with us anyway because he knew he had no choice and wanted to make sure we all got home in one piece at the end of the night.
One evening, after a Ramones gig, Arturo—who had $22,000 cash in his fanny pack from merchandise sales—decided that we should go out on the town. Jimmy, Arturo, and I piled into a cab to head up to Times Square, where we would end up at Stella’s, a bar where young straight men snuggled up to the gay clientele to make a fast buck and pay the rent; or to Cat’s, a dive bar where we found ourselves mingling with the rough trade, amid “testosterone-driven theatrics.”
Meanwhile, Arturo was so friggin’ high that night.
“Arturo!” I said to him. “You have $22,000 cash in your bag and you’re not paying attention! Let’s go back downtown to the loft, put the money away in the safe, and then we’ll go back to Stella’s.”
So we took the taxi downtown and we had this whole fuckin’ to-do in the backseat. When we arrived at Arturo’s place on East 2nd Street, we got out, and I noticed that Arturo didn’t have the fanny pack with him. We had left the money in the cab! I looked at Jimmy, freaking out.
I ran like a maniac down the street, back to the taxi, and pounded on the trunk.
“We forgot something!” I screamed, though I didn’t want the driver to think I was too out of control. Finally, he stopped, and I opened the back door. There was the fanny pack—on the seat! I quickly grabbed it and ran back to Arturo.
Sweating and trying to catch my breath, I handed it to him. He didn’t seem very grateful and was a bit obnoxious.
“I told you about this!” I said.
Then he opened the fanny pack and started throwing the money all over the street.
“I don’t care about this!” he snapped.
I started picking up all the money.
“We’re goin’ back to the loft now!” I said. When we got there, I put it in a safe in the bedroom although Arturo, of course, had already taken out ten grand—to party with later. That’s what it was always like with him—expect the unexpected. From the Ramones gigs to hustler bars to throwing cash in the street. He was crazy, and I adored him.
In mid-2013 Arturo became very ill with liver cancer and ended up at Beth Israel Hospital. Jimmy and I went to go see him and Arturo’s family was there, but they wouldn’t let us into his room. His nephew, from Chihuahua, Mexico, was standing guard and said to me: “We don’t want you here. He doesn’t look good.”
“It’s a fuckin’ hospital!” I shouted. “Nobody looks good! But my friend is dying and I’m going to say goodbye to him. You can stay or you can leave, you can do whatever you want, but me and Jimmy are going in to say goodbye.”
Arturo heard my voice and he called for us to come into the room. When we went in, we saw he was sitting on top of a closed toilet seat. He waved us into the bathroom and Jimmy and I chuckled while we squeezed in there.
“It’s cancer,” he said. “and I don’t have long.”
We hung out with him for a little while but he started to get tired so we gave him a kiss and left so he could rest. Jimmy and I went out to eat and talk about the genius, bossy queen that Arturo was. He died a few days later.
Arturo Vega . . . spokesman, logo designer, T-shirt salesman, lighting director and omnipresent shepherd for the Ramones, the speed-strumming punk quartet that helped rejuvenate rock in the mid-1970s, died on June 8 in Manhattan. He was 65.1
In the middle of 1977, I graduated from City-As-School. I decided to take a year off before planning on college, which Mom seemed okay with though she wasn’t very happy about it. She had this certain trust in me and because she was a woman of faith and always prayed that I would be okay, she believed everything would be fine.
As a graduation present, she and my dad gave me enough money to take a trip to Los Angeles with the Dead Boys. The Mumps went along as well because they were the opening act during the short West Coast tour.
That trip was an incredible experience for me. We were there for about a week, bouncing between L.A. and the Old Waldorf in San Francisco. The shows at the Starwood in Los Angeles were legendary and the audience loved them.
When it came time to go north to the San Francisco shows, I rode in the equipment truck with the band’s roadies, Scratch and Eugene. I was thrilled with this plan because I was so hot for Eugene. He was gorgeous—a big, strapping cowboy, just the kind of man I liked.
As we were driving north, Scratch kept hounding Eugene to let him drive. Eugene didn’t want to do that, because Scratch was always a little out of it. He relented and, sure enough, we were pulled over by the state troopers about a half-hour later. Those cops were real fucks—it seemed like they were looking for a fight. They ended up taking Scratch to jail in Pismo Beach, and Eugene and I continued on to San Francisco.
Later, we checked into the Pacific Motel while the Dead Boys stayed at the Miyako down the street. At one point I had to rush to the pharmacy and get some Kwell lotion for Stiv. He had developed scabies and needed me to swing over to his hotel room and help him into the bathtub, so he could soak in the lotion to get rid of the infestation all over his body. It was kind of gross but I was so happy to be there for him.
Back at the Pacific Motel, I had all these fucking people asking me if they could crash in my room, but I turned them all down because I wanted to be alone with Eugene. There I was again—going for the straight guy.
Later in the evening, Eugene’s girlfriend, Candy, showed up. I was super disappointed, but as it turned out, it didn’t actually change anything. I got to sleep with Eugene anyway. When I woke up, I found myself lying in-between his legs. I quickly looked around and saw his girlfriend passed out in the next bed. It looked like I dodged a bullet.
When the Dead Boys finished their gigs in San Francisco, they went back to L.A. to do one more show, then to New York before they left on a European tour. I didn’t go with them, but before I returned to New York, I went to see Iggy Pop at the Old Waldorf. He wowed the crowd, coming out in a black skin leotard. It was one of the best shows I’d ever seen. Afterwards, I went backstage, where I got a big hug from Iggy and his autograph for my scrapbook. Then he turned around and started talking with Jennifer from the Nuns while I started chatting up Hunt Sales, Iggy’s guitar player.
Just like when I insisted on going backstage at The Rocky Horror Show—I always got backstage. After the show ended, and everyone left the venue to go home, I was the one who always stayed until last call.
During my year off after graduation, I was still living at home, but I was constantly gone. One of my most exciting exploits during this time was an experience I had with Bruce Springsteen.
I went to see him on his “Darkness on the Edge of Town” tour at the Nassau Coliseum in the summer of 1978. I was so excited. I felt the same fevered energy for Bruce that I had for Patti Smith. I had first seen him at the Palladium in 1976 with my friend Leslie on his “Lawsuit Tour.” I actually got to meet him then at the stage door, where he autographed my scrapbook.
This time was a little different. Before the concert started, I went into the Coliseum’s backstage area. I didn’t have an all-access pass, but no one stopped me—very different from today when you’re frisked the moment you approach backstage.
I looked around and knocked on the first door I saw and there was Bruce, alone, sitting quietly at a table. I went in and said, “Hi—I don’t know if you remember me, but we met when you played the Palladium in 1976. My name is Michael Alago, and I’m a huge fan.”
He smiled back.
“That’s really nice,” he said. “But I only have twenty minutes before I have to get on stage.”
“Of course,” I said. Then I looked closer at him. “You don’t look very happy, though.”
He lifted his head and said, “Well, I have this hangnail and it really hurts.” He reached out his hand and showed me his thumb.
Instinctively, I leaned forward, and I was about to bite off the nail, when he gave me a worried look, so I stopped and said to him, “Uh, we can take that off real easy.”
I tugged lightly at it and after a minute pulled it completely off.
“Thanks!” he said. He looked really relieved. I guess it had been seriously hurting.
Suddenly, the tour manager came in and I swiftly pushed the nail into my pocket. He seemed quite anxious as it was only minutes before the show was supposed to start.
“What’s goin’ on here? “Where’s your pass?”
“I don’t have a pass,” I said.
“Well, you have to leave!” he shouted. But then, with even more balls than I thought I had, I said to him, “Excuse me, but could you take a picture of us together first?” and I handed him my camera.
“Who is this kid?” he said to Bruce, but he ended up taking the picture of us anyway.
“Thank you,” I quickly said, because he looked like he was about to grab me by the neck, so I raced out and back to my seat, feeling around madly for Bruce’s hangnail in my pocket.
I ended up taping the nail into my scrapbook, but somehow, after many years, it slipped out and disappeared. My love and admiration for Bruce, however, has remained as strong as ever.
Anthony Alago, U.S. Air Force, 1955. (Author Collection)
Blanche and Tony’s wedding picture, November 15, 1958. (Author Collection)
Blanche in Brooklyn, 1960 (Author Collection)
Second Birthday with Mom and Dad in Brooklyn, 1961 (Author Collection)
Me, Mom, and Dad, Chauncey Street, 1962. (Author Collection)
First Grade, Our Lady of Lourdes School, 1965. (Author Collection)
Me and Cheryl, Brooklyn, 1969. (Author Collection)
Abuela Ursula in Brooklyn, 1960 (Author Collection)
Titi Jennie, Brooklyn, 1961. (Author Collection)
Me, Matthew, and Gloria Alago,New York City, 2018. (Author Collection)
Alice Cooper Concert Edition Program, Madison Square Garden, NYC, 1973. (Author Collection)
Marc Stevens, ‘Mr. 10½ inches,’ Adult Film Star (www.therialtoreport.com)
With Alan Vega, Max’s Kansas City, New York City, 1976. (Author Collection)
Wayne County & the Electric Chairs, Blatantly Offenzive EP Cover, 1978. (© Michael Alago)
Backstage at The Rocky Horror Show on Broadway with Tim Curry and Meatloaf, 1975. (© Sunny Bak)
Opening night ticket stub, A Chorus Line, 1975. (Author Collection)
Danny Papa, Brooklyn, early 1970s. (© Michael Alago)
The Rocky Horror Show Advertisement, 1975. (Author Collection)
Dennis Bremser snapshot, Hollywood, Florida, 1976. (© Michael Alago)
Dennis Bremser combing his hair, Hollywood, Florida, 1976. (© Michael Alago)
Self Portrait with Lewis, Homestead, Florida, 1978. (© Michael Alago)
With Dead Boys’ drummer Johnny Blitz, Tropicana Hotel, West Hollywood, CA, 1977. (Author Collection)
Dead Boys’ Stiv Bators, CBGB, 1977. (© Michael Alago)
Dead Boys’ Fan Club Flyer, 1977. (Author Collection)
Dead Boys’ Cheetah Chrome, CBGB, 1977. (© Michael Alago)
Patti Smith, Central Park Schaefer Music Festival, 1976. (© Michael Alago)
Lori Reese and Patti Smith, Central Park Schaefer Music Festival, 1976. (© Michael Alago)
At Max’s Kansas City, New York City, 1977. (Photo courtesy of Paul Zone, from the book “PLAYGROUND: Growing Up In The New York Underground” By Paul Zone, Published by Glitterati Editions.)