In between sets, the interludes for videos and speeches gave us the chance to chat with some of our neighbors.

"You know, I always thought The Who was the original punk band," I commented out loud in response to some prerecorded celebrity or other commenting that the Remones originated punk.

"You have a point," said the guy next to me, a thoroughly respectable African-American gentleman with a stud through his lower lip. "It does go back to that era. . . The Who, Jimi Hendrix, The Doors. . ."

"No, actually, I've always thought the Doors were the original goth band."

"Ah," he said. "You speak truth."

"Of course, if you consider goth as a spin-off of punk, then things get complicated. I dunno. I'll see you later. I'm going up front. This show is too good to be back here."

I made my way past the mosh pit in time for Blondie's set. I literally grew up listening to Blondie (and have had a crush on Debbie Harry since the age of 7), but seeing them live is a completely different experience from hearing them on the "adult contemporary" station. Live, the band has a definite edge, a sort of hardness that lets you know that they cut their teeth in the pre-Rudy Giuliani lower East Side. Debbie Harry crooning "I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend" will, no doubt, fuel the fantasies of hundreds of young men and women in the audience for years to come. Unfortunately, Ms. Harry apparently, couldn't hear my offer of marriage over the crowd. I've always liked older women. Ah, well. C'est la vie.

The last two bands were Cheap Trick and the Damned. I've always dug Cheap Trick, and they're incredible live performers. Robin Zander and Rick Nielsen fairly ooze charisma, and Charley Drayton did a great job of filling in on the drums for Bun E Carlos. Being approximately as old as the Rolling Stones, or, in fact, stones, Cheap Trick can't rely on theatrics like those whippersnappers in Bellevue. Robin might break his hip or something, and then where would they be?

Unfortunately, that one drunken asshole who is always present at concerts utterly ruined "Surrender" while I watched him trying to pick fights with everyone around me. I briefly considered choking him into unconsciousness with my amazing martial arts skills and enlisting my fellow concertgoers in passing him overhead to Security, but then decided the legal ramifications weren't worth it (and besides which, getting kicked out would've sucked). Thankfully, he was more stupid than dangerous, and eventually found his own way back into whatever hole he crawled out from.

This the part where I have to admit that I am a poor excuse for a punk rocker, for I know shit about the Damned. Here was my first impression: a diminutive British guy named Dave with an Elvis haircut and his pants pulled up nigh to his chest belting out lyrics for all he was worth; a guitarist named Captain Sensible with a Ziggy Stardust look and a talent for disproving the existence of God ("Why is Joey dead and Britney Spears still alive?!"); a bass player named Patricia Morrison who looked like an elegantly aging, but still incredibly hot, Elvira Mistress of the Dark and who reminded me of a dominatrix I used to date; a keyboard player named Monty the Moron who danced like a spastic and dressed like Ludwig Von Beetlejuice; and a drummer with the Christian name of Pinch. I fucking loved them. Oh, yeah-and now I know who recorded "Smash it Up." I believe that I shall buy their entire discography, and use it to corrupt small children.

The concert ended with a sing-along of "Happy Birthday" (I believe the bands couldn't perform it because Michael Jackson owns the rights), a reading of a Congressional pronouncement declaring May 19 Joey Ramone day (for Chrissake, it OUGHT to be a national holiday), and, of course cake for all. I hope that, as Mickey promised, Joey's Birthday Bash becomes an ongoing tradition. The chance to see a whole lot of different bands just get up and rock isn't something that comes along every day.

Altogether, it was an incredible show, even if those darn Misfits didn't show up. Charlotte and Mickey are truly to be commended for pulling this together for all the fans, even in the midst of their grief, so we could all remember Joey in our own way. . . and thanks also to everyone who went for making the concert really fucking special. While Joey never received the commerical success, recognition, rewards, and breakfast cereals that fall, unearned, upon lesser talents who are fortunate enough to be shilled by the media, he was and is, adored by millions of fans. Much like Picasso, he may only be truly appreciated after his own lifetime.

Then again, if the concert was any indication, what Joey achieved in one lifetime was far more appreciated and influential than anyone could ever ask for.

Gabba gabba hey.

About the writer: Tristan Trout is a pinhead.

Were you at the gig? What did you think? Have any Joey stories? Drop us a line at editor@corporatemofo.com