Photographs — Alex Waterhouse-Hayward
Today, February 21 is Randy Rampage’s birthday. He was born 55 years ago at St. Paul’s Hospital.
The first time I saw him, up in the air, legs wide open, bass guitar in his arms I saw a wonderfully scary and angry man who was one of a few very good reasons why I would want to go to a D.O.A concert. I could have never ever guessed at the time that a friendship would grow between us and that it did not take long to find out that Rampage was not scary, not angry but a gentle and kind human being.
And so there I was tonight at his party enjoying Susanne Tabata’s cooking, a fine fireplace and a friendly crowd of people with interesting things to say.
Zippy Pinhead goes to a lab for a blood test. In the waiting room there is a tall burly man (“He must work out,” Zippy said). He stares at me. I may have seen him five or six times. He could not place me but somehow he recognized my face.” When I left I said to the man, “Goodbye Bruce[Allen].”
Ferris Jak, the man with the pork pie hat in the group picture looked awfully familiar to me.
Sometime in the 80s I photographed the punk group Dayglo Abortions (formerly the Sick Fucks) in my Hamilton Street studio using black lighting. It seems Jak was their manager.
One of the women at the party, Renee Tabata, beautifully dressed in a low cut blouse and legs arrayed in fishnets, had photographed nude men for many years. Since I did this for a while in the late 70s we compared notes.
With Rampage, we shared our preference for the Rolling Stones over the Beatles. We discussed Robert Frank’s seminal 1972 documentary Cocksucker Blues.
With the appropriately-named virtuoso guitarist Duane Chaos we exchanged notes on our friends who owned strip parlours in the 80s.
Gary Taylor, only a few months older than I am (he is 73 I am 72) was hustling me about two fabulous bands he is promoting. He was wondering if either of them were blog material.
On my part I told my Zippy story. Many years ago I was with him at a Western Music Award ceremony at the Bayshore Hotel. We were indulging in some punch when a beautiful woman came up to us. She noticed Zippy’s filthy hands and said, “Your hands are filthy.” Zippy explained, “I fix cars in a shop. I put my hands into car engines. This is grease.” She then said, “What is your phone number?”
When I left, I left feeling a nice glow (I did not drink) of satisfaction that indeed while I am an old man I can enjoy an evening of guilt-free time with old friends.
Originally published at blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com.