Old Book Review: Richard Hell’s I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp

The following book review, which I am pretty sure was the second one that I ever wrote,  originally appeared on DigBoston.com in March or April 2013.

Since today is Richard Hell’s 70th birthday and his name has popped up more than once in the book that I am currently reading — Girl To City: A Memoir by Amy Rigby — and because all of my pre-2015 online Dig material has long since vanished, I figured this was a good opportunity to revisit my long-neglected blog by posting it here.

In his new book I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp (HarperCollins), Richard Hell—arguably the first New York City punk rocker—writes that “the ground work that we’d laid was paying off big for complete strangers.”

The “we” in this statement was the early 1970s line-up of his first band, Television. The “complete strangers” were, among others, The Sex Pistons.

Granted, The Damned and The Ramones released the first punk recordings in 1976, one year before Richard Hell & The Voidoids released their debut album, Blank Generation. However, “punk” designated a style and attitude before the sound associated with the term was captured on vinyl.

I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp tells the story of how this way of life was realized by a boy born Richard Meyers in the Bluegrass State in 1949.


Meyers was a poor student and a bit of a troublemaker growing up, but he was no dummy. His father, who died in 1957, was an experimental psychologist with a Ph.D. from Columbia University. If the shirtless, poolside pic of him on page 2 is any indication, he was damn handsome, too. (Hell himself was not much of a looker, but lucky for him, “playing rock and roll made a person handsome.”) His mother got a Ph.D. in 1965 and taught American literature at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, Virginia.

Having such brainy parents must have helped him get the “highest scores in the whole school” on a standardized achievement test in junior high. This, in turn, was his ticket to admission to boarding schools in Kentucky and Delaware. He was frequently suspended from both and eventually expelled from the latter.

After being expelled, Meyers made a deal with his mom to attend a public high school in Norfolk until he saved enough money to transplant himself to New York City. On December 26, 1966, at age 17 and sans a high school diploma, Meyers hopped a bus to the Big Apple.

This happens on page 51 of the book. The remaining 230 pages cover his life in New York City—with one brief excursion to Santa Fe, New Mexico—from 1967 to 1984, when he retired from music. Thus, “A Memoir” would have been a more accurate subtitle than “An Autobiography.”

After he arrives in the Naked City, Hell tells nothing of what became of his mother or younger sister. Nor do we learn when and how he met the woman to whom he is currently married. I found this disappointing.

The story he does tell, however, is fascinating and poignant.

In New York, he worked many jobs. These included a construction job during the course of which he got hit on by Allen Ginsberg. (Not to be, it would turn out, the last time that he would reject something that Ginsberg offered him.)

Although Meyers moved constantly and never made much money, he never wanted for female companionship, even if it meant having to pretend that he liked Sgt. Pepper by The Beatles.

In 1968, he began an affair with the soon-to-be ex-wife of artist Claes Oldenburg. This one-and-a-half-year relationship brought the young tramp, very clean or otherwise, into personal contact with the artists Robert Rauschenberg, Jasper Johns, and Willem de Kooning.

Tom Miller, Meyer’s only friend from school in Delaware, eventually moved to New York as well. Together, they resumed what Hell calls “the most meaningful friendship I’ve had, I think, and the last male friendship of its importance.”

In 1972, Meyers and Miller changed their “hopelessly banal” last names to Hell and Verlaine, respectively, and started a band called The Neon Boys. This band went nowhere, but Television—the band that they formed a year later—was a different story.

In describing videotaped 1974 rehearsals of Television, Hell writes, “modern punk can be seen first emerging …: four pathologically skinny guys in ripped shirts, tight black and blue jeans, and spiky short hair blasting their brains out … in the service of compelling, noisy, contemptuous, angry, but also lyrical, rock and roll.”

Hell further describes the band’s fashion sense: “In early 1974 we were dressed in cheap black leather (before the Ramones) and torn shirts stuck together with safety pins, thrift-store suits, sunglasses and sneers and throwaway grins and short hair …”

To sum up, “Television at CBGB represented the Future [sic] …” and “the beginning of the rejection of hippie values and the rejection of star worship …”

Hell is not giving himself undue credit for his influence on American and English punk rock. After all, the man who saw Television at CBGB in 1974 and 1975 and offered to take Hell under his wing after he had left Television and joined The Heartbreakers (not Tom Petty’s band) was Malcolm McLaren.

Hell recalls a 1976 incident in which Chris Stein—the Blondie guitarist who had unsuccessfully auditioned for The Neon Boys—called Hell over to look at a picture in a European rock magazine of, in Stein’s words, “four guys who look exactly like you!” Those four guys were The Sex Pistols. Their manager was Malcolm McLaren.

Hell’s response was, “Malcolm really did like me … This thing is really breaking out.”

By this time, Hell had left The Heartbreakers in the hope of forming a new band of which he would be the leader. That band was The Voidoids, who recorded the classic punk songs “Love Comes in Spurts” and “Black Generation.”

According to Hell, “One could say I’d been good, as well as happy, for five minutes in the Neon Boys/Television and ten minutes in the Heartbreakers, and I would be happy and good for twenty minutes in the Voidoids.”

He may have been happy, but he was also trapped in the throes of drug addiction.

“What had begun as an occasional vacation …in the Television days,” Hell declares, “had become a regular routine in the Heartbreakers, and by 1977 I was using a bag or two [of heroin] every day.”

Before long, cocaine and speed became a regular part of his diet.

The story of Richard Hell the musician is sex, junk, and punk. I Dreamed I Was A Very Clean Tramp tells that story effectively and—as far as I know—honestly.

Hell does not glamorize or demonize anything of which any reader is likely to change his or her opinion. He does not preach “just say no” when “I was sleepless, in full-body pain, and sweating and vomiting and spurting diarrhea” might send the same message.

Hell is a pretty good writer who knows how to turn a phrase, such as “It tasted like cold God.” Although what he has written cannot properly be called an autobiography, he succeeded grandly at writing “about a person through time” and “time through a person.”


Friday Flashback: In the City by The Jam

The three paramount British bands of 1977 stood out among one another by emphasizing an individual aspect of the punk movement more than its peers did. The Sex Pistols focused on anger to a greater extent than politics. The Clash put politics just a notch above anger. The Jam, meanwhile, incorporated pop and R&B–i.e., mod–elements into its social and political commentary.

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In the City is the least revered of the debut albums by these groups. However, it established its creators’ punk credentials every bit as much as Never Mind the Bullocks and The Clash’s debut did for their creators. The Jam was not as angry or overtly political as the Pistols or The Clash, but were enough of each such that, when it stirred in sharp pop hooks and R&B grooves, the result was just as much of a tinderbox.

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The Jam (l-r): Bruce Foxton, Rick Buckler, Paul Weller

Among the dozen songs on The Jam’s debut are 10 originals by the still 18-year-old Paul Weller, who was two years younger than Johnny Rotten and six years Joe Strummer’s junior. His youth manifests itself mostly for better throughout the record. People who might compare In the City unfavorably to other punk albums cannot legitimately reduce its alleged inferiority to the fact that Weller was a mere pup at the time.

The songs on In the City can be grouped three or four at a time into the categories of punk, mod, and rock. An example of each of these is presented on the first “side” of the album. “Art School” kicks down the door with as much brains, brawn, and urgency as can be found on a late 70s punk album. It is driven by Pete Townshend-inspired riffs that define The Jam’s early sound. “I’ve Changed My Address,” however, emphasizes a mod-loving R&B groove made punky by Rick Buckler’s steady drum beats and Bruce Foxton’s funky bass lines. It kind of sounds like a lost R&B nugget, and lyrically recalls The Who’s “A Legal Matter.” “Away From the Numbers” is a more straight-ahead rocker with thoughtful if not profound lyrics. The tempo is slower on this catchy tune, which has an almost Beach Boys-like “oooh-oooh” interlude.

“In The City” is the album’s literal and figurative centerpiece. While it stands out because it was The Jam’s first single, it is really just another one of many great songs on the album. An equally proportional pop/punk mix and an infectious riff stolen by The Sex Pistols make it a worthy inclusion among the defining songs of the punk era.

The second half of the record–including the title track and its B-side, “Time For Truth”–reinforces the elements introduced in first half. “Sounds From the Street” is the album’s catchiest rock song, and includes a shout out to the band’s hometown: “I know I come from Woking/And you say I’m a fraud/But my heart’s in the city/Where it belongs.”

In addition to Weller’s 10 originals, In the City includes two covers. The first is a punked-up version of Larry Williams’ “Slow Down,” which had also been done by The Beatles. The second is “Batman Theme,” which accounts for the album’s one truly unforgivable dud. This is the earliest instance in which Weller’s love of The Who counts against him a bit. It is one of a few songs that were covered by The Who and then by The Jam, in addition to the Who originals that The Jam covered. Plus, The Who had a song called “In The City,” which I cannot say for sure was the source this album’s title.

Part of me wants to think that The Jam’s lack of success in America can be explained by a sentiment expressed in “Art School”: “Fools only laugh `cause they envy you.” This probably isn’t fair. The fact is that The Jam was simply not marketed effectively in the States. That they were the opening act for Blue Oyster Cult on an early American tour suffices to make that obvious.

No worries though, as The Jam was the most popular band in England during its six-year existence. Unlike The Sex Pistols, Paul Weller’s band was able to survive for long enough to record more than one album. Unlike Joe Strummer or Mick Jones, Paul Weller knew that it was time to hang it up before his band began to look ridiculous.

(“Look ridiculous is exactly what he did in The Style Council,” you say? Maybe, but that is an argument for another review.)