I Don’t Want To Go To Hazlet

Seeing my band without me in it.

A dilemma: The Nihilistics – now consisting of original members Ron (Singer) and Troy (Drummer), plus Ajax (Guitar) and who-the-fuck-knows (Bass) – headline a show tomorrow at a rehearsal studio slash performance space an hour away in Hazlet, NJ. For weeks I’ve been stumbling across mentions on Facebook and debating whether to go. It feels necessary, if only for research. There’s also a vague thought I might patch things up with Ron and Troy, who I’d love to interview for the book. Sweet T.’s definitely not into going to the show. Instead, I text Keith Hartel – professional guitar slinger and teacher, veteran of the NJ hardcore scene – and ask him. He’s down for it. Good. I don’t know how I’ll be greeted and might need backup. Also on the bill is Fear Gods, with Jack Steeples and Paul Richard, formerly of AOD. Maybe they’ll jump in too if things go south? Why am I worried shit will go down? That Ron and Troy might not be happy to see me? Let’s review the Nihilistics origin and timeline (makes time-travel sci-fi theremin sounds) and sift for clues.

In 1981 when my idea (“idea” is fucking highfalutin’: there’s only inchoate rage) for what becomes The Nihilistics coalesces, the degree of happenstance is so high no one thinks This band will go on forever! but We might break up after this show! Somehow, we’re still together four years on. But just barely. I’ve had it. First, Ron – three or four years our senior – drips his sleazy, corrupting corrosive on Mike until the naïf I met in Junior High is worn away. Mike – working through a series of girlfriends – joins Ron in mocking my lack of sexual experience. I’m the only virgin in the band – even Troy, with his dog-maul scars, pulls chicks. Ron sidles up to me at gigs, deliver “suggestions” in his trademark Lawn Guyland purr, a smile never leaving his lips.

See this chick, Chris? You won’t believe how hairy her pussy is. No, really. Ask her if she’ll show it to you.

Chris, this one here? She can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. No, really. Ask her for a blowjob. Go ahead. She’ll do it.

Ron finds me pitiable, hilarious. If I ask him to back off he says I’m trying to help you. No, really. His shit works on Mike. Who turns it on me.

Hey, buddy boy. You still a virgin? Why don’t you stop hangin’ around with Alex* and find a chick to fuck?

Ron and Mike also ridicule one of the only Nihilistics songs written entirely by me – Combat Stance (inspired by the Bernie Goetz bullshit). They call it corny, say my lead break is like something from a shitty country tune. The two of them are listening to more Judas Priest and heavy metal and now Ron agitates to add his younger brother on lead guitar. We try and I don’t see it. Another rift opens. When Mike yells You’re no Nihilistic! and punches me in the face at the Showplace in Dover we never make it on stage. Things go rapidly downhill. We play a few more shows before it all falls apart. There’s a failed reprise around 1985, the band inviting me back to record five or six songs (which they later use on an LP without crediting or telling me). I move off Lawn Guyland circa 1986 and later discover I’ve been replaced by someone named Ajax.  I’m not surprised. But when they carry on long after Mike’s dead I don’t know what to make of it. Ron Rancid – whose Facebook band picture posts never include me (Mike appears but yours truly has been erased) – somehow gets hold of all things Nihilistics, determined to hang on like grim death. Me, I don’t remember signing anything agreeing to his use of the name (which, again, I came up with). How he can lay legitimate claim to all the songs, the recordings, graphics, etc., is also beyond me. This is what happens when you remove yourself from the narrative by death or disinterest. The roadsides are littered with the corpses, real and literal, of band founders and members no one remembers. To many, the current Nihilistics lineup is the only one that’s existed. Should I be bothered? I suppose the book is your answer. It’s my chance to set the record straight. Excepting NIHILISTIC research (and the chance to record yet another travelogue with Keith) I’m not thrilled about going to Hazlet. Seeing a band you launched, you named, playing sans you is so out-of-body. Years ago Sweet T. and I are vacationing in Bradley Beach and ride our bicycles into Asbury Park, lock them up, begin walking a side street to the boardwalk. I spot Ron’s 1974 Cadillac hearse. How do I know it’s his and not just anybody’s vintage hearse? Blood red “dripping” letters spelling NIHILISTICS on the side (me, I wouldn’t advertise This vehicle is loaded with musical gear!). I get excited. Sweet T. and I follow the sound to a little club on the boardwalk. I run inside, straight up to Ron, who’s bent over the lip of the small stage yelling into a microphone. He sees me, I yell something – “Fuck you!”? “You suck!”? – in his face and he shakes up his beer, tries to spray me. But – as the loathsome Eagles sang – I was already gone. The Nihilistics have played local shows since and I’ve never gone. Ron and I have a love/hate relationship. Part of me appreciates he’s kept the band’s name alive, another resents how I’ve been locked out. While I appreciate he’s shared proceeds – like payment for a few of our songs recently used in an indy film – I wonder how much I’ve been shortchanged. He’s also uniquely and thoroughly full of shit. Always keen on spreading a mythology of The Nihilistics, it’s hard to believe much of what he says. I once thought there’d be value in interviewing him for NIHILISTIC. We scheduled a time pre-pandemic but then Ron made sure it never happened. Troy did the same. I drove out to Lawn Guyland, went to his Central Islip house. He’s not in. Troy’s son is, working on a Mopar in the driveway.

“Hey, is Troy around?”

I don’t know. He was supposed to be here. He was gonna help me with this car.

“What’s wrong with it?”

Carburetor. Something.

It’s Saturday, eleven AM, warm, muggy. A lawnmower nearby suddenly powers off. A moment later Troy’s addressing us through his own screen door.

Hey! How long you been here?

His son’s as confused as I am.

You were here? I knocked.

I was in the backyard mowing.

Shit. I thought that was someone else.

Troy leads us in with a warning.

The dogs are fine. They’ll sniff you but they’re fine.

I’ve always heard it’s not good to show fear to a dog. Hard to remember when two massive black Rottweilers lumber toward me slobbering. I do my typical thing in a high-pitched sing-song voice.

“Who are THESE puppies?!”

That’s Warlord and that’s Smasher.**

Part of the kitchen is walled off from the dogs – it must be what they’ve done to the vinyl flooring, scratching to be let out (how much dogshit did Troy just mow over?).

So you want to interview me? About the band?

“Yeah. I’m working on this book. It’s mostly about Mike and me.”

And you want to tape it?

“Yep. Yep. I have everything I need in the car.”

How long you think it’ll take?

“An hour, maybe ninety minutes.”

Or longer than Troy and I speak the entire time we’re in the band together. Shit I can’t believe he’s still in the band. He wasn’t awhile. Revolving drummers. Then he came back. He looks the same but beefier. Packed on some pounds. But that head and that bulbous nose? I’d recognize him anywhere. What’s so fucking bizarre about these Rottweilers is Troy was deathly afraid of dogs when I met him. He’d been mauled… in the face mauled. He had scars. He must’ve gone over a dog’s shoulder inadvertently. The dog took it for a dominance move and didn’t respond well (do I remember hearing he had to have a lip sewn back on?). He was always self-conscious of his scars. When he came over my house he needed to know where our dog Rufus was before he’d enter. Now these two gargantuan hellhounds circle. He must be over dogs. He’s over me, too.

Hey, would you mind coming back in, like, two hours? I have something I have to go do.

“Come back? Yeah, yeah. I can come back. I’ll go kill some time.”

His son and his son’s car are both gone when I exit the house. In my car I check Apple Maps for nearby flea markets, find one in Northport, almost due north. The drive takes thirty minutes and I’m pleased to find the flea is in the parking lot of a large antiques store lodged in an old house. I buy one or two interesting items – buy it when you see it! –  and on the drive back to Central Islip call Troy to let him know I’m returning.

Listen, is it okay if we reschedule? My son broke down on the Southern State and I went to help him.

“Wow. Sorry to hear. Of course.”

Fuck. I don’t want to reschedule. I’m here now. I leave, he’ll never invite me back. Why do I get the feeling he doesn’t want to talk about the band? Not on the record. Same thing with Ron. A bunch of bullshit – Sure! Come out to my place and we’ll talk! – leading nowhere. Now I’m also getting paranoid. Did Troy call Ron about me? Did Ron wave him off? How would I ever know?

In the interim I reach out to Ron, float the idea of coming back to play with the band, even for a show or two. Ron tells me the idea might not get past Troy. I’ve apparently offended him with a comment I made on his circa 2020 Presidential election post championing Donald Trump (it seems the remaining Nihilistics all lean MAGA). When I direct message Troy, try to apologize, he replies You’ll never be in this band again. I point out that I started and named the band and he says Not true! Not true?! What in the ever-loving fuck? Okay, I get it. In the grand scheme of things (not that there IS a theme, but play along) The Nihilistics don’t amount to a carbuncle on the ass of rock & roll. But I don’t appreciate being invalidated. If Keith and I go to the show tomorrow maybe there’s a chance to implore Troy that I need his help to make sure what I write is accurate. Maybe he tells me to go fuck myself. Or, like Mike, punches me? Ron? He’ll smile in my face, feed me a line, never follow through. He wants to control the story. I want to write the story. If nothing else, Keith and I will record our trip to Hazlet and back, like we’ve done on previous drives that became Aerial View shows. I’m not sure if any recording would end up there or here, as a NIHILISTIC Pod.

Please stay tuned. And check out the new NIHILISTIC podcast if you haven’t. It’s now on Apple Podcasts in addition to right here on Substack. (Oh, and there’s a live and new Aerial View tonight, 6 PM, on thehoundnyc.com).

*(Totino, my best “scene” friend and guitarist of The Misguided).

**That’s not their names. I’m sure Troy told me but this was long ago and I have more important things to remember.

BREAKING NEWS: A suspect’s been arrested in the Gilgo Beach Murders.