The Scar Boys

Dave

The Scar Boy's first real gig was in the fall of 1984 at the world-famous CBGB's on the Bowery in New York City.

Ronald Reagan and Walter Mondale were trading barbs in a series of what seemed like staged presidential debates that October, and the whole country seemed to be getting meaner.

There were few places for social misfits like me to retreat from the exclamations of "Where's the Beef" and "Go ahead, make my day." CBGB's was one of them.

Every Monday the club held what it called a "showcase night." If they like your demo tape enough, they let you play for free.

If you brought enough friends through the door, they gave you a paying gig on a better night. CB's got free live entertainment, and every band in New York got a shot.

Carol, the booking agent for CB's, "loved" our demo tape. At least that's what Johnny told us.

We were going to be the second of sic band on the bill and we'd have an hour and a half, exactly enough time to play all seven of our original songs.

From the moment the gig was booked, we rehearsed nonstop. Every day after school we ran through each of those songs in my parents' basement.

Then Johnny would make us play them again. And again. And then again. We were determined and methodical, and it paid off. 

Richie, Dave, and I fused our instruments into a single, rhythmic buzz saw, while Johnny gave each song character and depth. We were becoming a well-oiled, punk-pop machine.

The Scar Boys were going to blow the roof off CBGB's, all the way from the Bowery to the East River. And we would have, I swear to God in heaven we would have. 

If only Dave had shown up.

The afternoon of the showcase, Johnny, Richie, and I skipped school and wandered around the East Village.

We went from one secondhand clothing shop to the next, trying on shirts with angry torn fabric, tight leather pants, and scaly maroon boots so pointy they could be classified as weapons. It was all a vain attempt to camouflage the fact that we were just a bunch of green kids from the suburbs.

I settled on an outfit of brown pants, a mauve smoking jacket, and a big burgundy hat with a floppy brim that would just about completely hide my face. I was planning to cap it all off with my trademark sunglasses.

For some reason, I'd convinced myself that looking like a pimp would make me blend in. Go figure.

It didn't matter. Johnny was having none of it. He was pushing me to wear a pair of skintight, red denim pants, and a black shirt covered with zippers that had no apparent meaning or function.

"C'mon Harry, you can still wear the hat and sunglasses," he told me. I really didn't want to call any more attention to myself than I had to, but you didn't say no to Johnny McKenna.

Johnny was the type of kid who'd been overindulged by his parents. You know these kids. They're the little brats who hear daily how smart they are, how handsome, how strong, how fast, how funny, how kind, how considerate, how cleaver, how wise they are.

One group of these kids gets addicted to the attention, growing up to need constant approval and reassurance. They throw tantrums in public and excel at school. They get good grades, partly to please their parents and partly because they're such insufferable  little jerkwads that they have no friends and nothing better to do with their time than study.

The other group of overindulged kids use the coddling to gain confidence. They walk with a strident gait, laugh easily, and test well. Johnny fit squarely into this latter camp. (I was overindulged, too, but for different reasons, so neither stereotype described me. One more way to not fit in, I suppose.)