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the kitchen. When I took them out of their cases and set them up, it was like an orgasm. If I could have slept with those drums, I would have.
    But then I had a major problem. I didn’t know how to play with a full set. I always just played on a snare drum. But my friend Jerry Nolan had a beautiful set of red sparkle drums and he gave me my first lesson. One hand kept a steady beat and the other was going pop, pop, pop. I worked on that beat everywhere I went, even on the train (which is a great place to hear unusual rhythms when the train wheels hit the tracks), and I finally got it. That was like opening up Pandora’s box. I learned a million different beats from that one beat.
    I was a slave to those drums. I cleaned them and buffed them, so proud that this was something I worked for and got. I’d come home from school for lunch and play the whole hour. I’d play them all night until I had to go to bed. The kids outside would say, “Oh, man, why don’t you come on down and play stickball?” I’d say, “Nah, it’s cool, I gotta just play.” I wanted to play my drums much more than I wanted to be in a gang. Jerry and I began to cultivate other role models, guys who didn’t have tattoos on their necks. Guys like Dave Brubeck and Miles Davis and Cal Tjader.
    We found a way out of the gang life through social clubs. The clubs were a great institution. You’d rent out a store and get members to pay dues to cover the rent. Then you’d blacken out the windows so nobodycould see in and put up some cool things on the walls. You’d put a jukebox in the front room and lots of couches all over, even in the back room. We found an old deli that went out of business, rented the space, and called our place Club Gentlemen. Jerry designed a logo with a top hat, a cane, and two white gloves. I became the president; Jerry was the vice president. Our rent was made my life a living hell would ever like sixty-five dollars a month, but it was easy to cover because we got the Mob to put a jukebox inside and we got a piece of the proceeds.
    Once you entered, it was pitch black except for a few red and blue lights. Which was the perfect environment to start experimenting with sex and drugs. I was about fifteen when I got introduced to Mary Jane. Pot was spooky then—it was so taboo. This older guy we called the Dirty Swede would sell us a skinny little joint for a buck. That was okay money in the early sixties, so two guys would chip in and buy one. We’d go down in the basement and it would be pitch black and we’d light up. Immediately that eerie smell would hit you and you knew you were doing something forbidden. You feared that you might get addicted and get into heroin: All that propaganda was out then. I didn’t even get high the first time we did it, but the second time was the charm. Jerry and I just laughed and ate a million Twinkies and listened to the jukebox. Music had never sounded so good before. Eventually I brought my drums into the club and I’d get high and play along to the jukebox, which was a lot more fun than playing to the radio.
    Having the club was a godsend. It certainly kept us off the streets. But I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the biggest attraction to having a social club. You’d bring a chick to the club, turn on the jukebox, give her some wine or pot, dance a little bit, and then, if you were lucky, take her to a couch in the back room and get laid.
    Now, if music was in my blood, so was sex. My dad was very horny. He was always chasing my mother around to get laid. She’d be like, “Get your dirty hands off me!” I was always incredibly open with my mother: We could talk about anything. One time, years later, I was visiting with my parents and my dad went off into the other room.
    “Hey, Ma, did you ever give Dad head?” I asked her.
    “What? Are you serious?” She frowned. “Do you think I would dosomething that filthy with your father? That’s disgusting. Get away from the table,