It was 1978, around midnight and, for the first time ever, I was about to go onstage at CBGB’s. My band, Comateens, consisted of two people, myself on guitar and vocals and Nic North on bass and vocals. We played original angst-filled music to the backing of a drum machine we named Mini-Pops. At the time, CBGB’s was frequented by Hell’s Angels who positioned themselves as far away from the stage as possible playing pin ball and pool. Just before show time, I had the sudden urge to relieve myself.

The restrooms were behind the stage, past the dressing rooms, and down a short flight of stairs. I flew past graffiti-ed walls and into what looked like a washroom where rolls of toilet paper hung on ropes behind urinals and, to my horror, every stall was missing a door. I had no choice, but to act fast.

Sitting on the thunder box, pretending invisible, I remembered a totally random bit of advice from an old friend, “If anyone ever walks in on you while you’re sitting on the toilet just say, “Hey, drop in anytime!” Punk rockers came and went, all of them, in a sense, walking in on me. Aside from drop in anytime, I added, glad to see you, I’ll be done in a minute, I’m playing tonight, hope you can stick around, and nice hair.

A continued squat gave me the opportunity to reflect upon the reason I was at CBGB’s at all. There was never a plan. My musical expression was merely a cry for freedom, a rebellion against old and stale rules, an escape from suburbia and all that it stood for, especially the idea that you actually had to know how to play an instrument to be in a band, which is why, perhaps in stepping onto the stage, my heart starting pumping faster than a Ramones song. I wanted to weep, but instead I held my breath and promised myself; if this doesn’t work out, I’ll never do it again.

Nic counted off the first song; music the Hell’s Angels were sure not to understand or appreciate. Thirty minutes later, to a deafening silence, we stepped off stage. Someone leaned over and whispered into my ear, “You know the president of the Hell’s Angels is here.”

“What? The Hell’s Angels have a president?”

“Yeah, and he’s right over there.”

My 22 year-old self, lacking a fully developed frontal lobe, then walked right up to Sandy, yes that was his name, and boldly asked, “What does the president of the Hell’s Angels do during the day?”

“We shower and shave, same as you,” he said, “Well maybe not you,” he added with a wink and a chuck under my chin.

Huh? A chin-chuck? Really? I smirked and walked away.

I recently googled “Sandy, Hell’s Angels President” and found a ‘70’s youtube interview with him and Geraldo. And yes, Sandy Alexander was the president of the NYC charter of Hell’s Angels. I didn’t dream it.
Back in the dressing room at CBGB’s Nic was elated. “We just played CB’s,” he crowed.

“Yeah, I know. And now I’m best friends with the president of the Hell’s Angels. You never know when that might come in handy.” It never did.

Comateens would henceforth play CBGB’s on a regular basis in preferred time slots. The missing bathroom doors, and the club’s general atmosphere with its smell of urine, vomit, stale beer and Fresca would, from that point forward, be better tolerated by me. The Hell’s Angels would eventually be asked by owner, Hilly Kristal, to find a new haunt. Punk and new wave music would occupy the club for several decades until one day CBGB’s would become a luxury men’s wear shop.

Welcome to paradise.