Joe and Billy went to Vancouver in 1977. They started a band in 1978. The first lineup of the band broke up in 1979 when the rhythm section mutinied. Billy and Joe didn't get Hard Core Logo back together until the end of 1980, start of 1981.
Billy finds himself thinking about that year a lot, these days, now that Joe is fucking dead. There had been an uneasy few months in 1980 when it seemed like the band was done forever, and him and Joe were going to have to find something else to do with their lives. That had been the first and last time that Billy was worried he wasn't going to be able to make it as a musician.
Thinking back now, he kind of wishes that the band never got back together. That they'd given it up. Billy could have found another band, but Joe would have probably quit music forever if he didn't have Billy to back him up.
Joe couldn't really get by on his own. He needed a lieutenant, someone who would do his bidding and enforce his orders. Volunteers were in short supply.
It seems pretty undeniable now that Joe would have been better off without the band, without the music. Maybe Joe could have gone to film school like he talked about - he did some college classes before he dropped out. Joe was smart, even if he sometimes didn't like to show it, and he'd gotten good grades in school. Billy was a musician because it was the only thing he could really do. Joe was barely a musician at all, he could have gone away and done something else.
Hard Core Logo could have ended there. A few memorable gigs, a single, an interview in Public Enemy: plenty, that would have been plenty. It was more than a lot of other bands got. Maybe a reunion ten years later for some middle-aged nostalgie de la boue, when Joe was a film director or a lawyer or a big swinging dick at the CBC. Disgusting bourgeois self-satisfaction would have looked good on him.
But in 1981 things had changed - Ed Festus had asked them about a couple of support dates for the Dead Kennedys gigs in Vancouver, and then Billy had met John at the hospital and brought him home....
The point was this. In that woozy in-between period, Billy used to go and visit Joe in his apartment all the time, hang out. Joe's place was in a scary neighbourhood, but it was a lot nicer than the room Billy was renting in a slightly less scary neighbourhood for $100 more a month. The hot water tap worked, the heating usually stayed on.
This was after they stopped squatting, and before Joe started squatting again.
Joe's place was a lot bigger than Billy's but felt more crowded, with all of Joe's stuff everywhere (records, tapes, magazines, kiddy toys, Jesus pictures, booklets of weird kinky photos).
Joe didn't have a job then: he had a good welfare scam, and occasionally posted flyers or tended bar for cash in hand. Mostly what Joe seemed to be doing now that he didn't have a band was staying home and listening to old records. He'd wander around his apartment with the radio or the stereo on, sometimes singing along with a bit he really liked, or playing the same record over and over.
Billy would come over, usually after wondering for a couple hours if it was a good idea, if Joe would be in a good mood or not. Usually Billy'd bring some alcohol with him or scrounge it from Joe if Joe'd been working recently, and then he'd sit on the sofa and listen to Joe's records while Joe clattered around doing whatever it was he was doing. Writing a letter to someone who ran a fanzine, maybe, or coming up with lyrics.
Joe had explained the process. "You practice your guitar, right?" and Billy said yeah, because he did practice, over and over, and he still couldn't play barre chords like Johnny Ramone. "Well, you can't practice singing, and you can't practice writing lyrics, so this is what I have to do. This is my practice," he'd said, waving an arm to the spinning record on the table, and then lit a candle. Joe was in a dispute with his landlord over his electricity bill at the time.
Billy had been pretty sure Joe was bullshitting about how he couldn't practice singing - what did opera singers do? - but he never said nothing. Anyway, Joe was right about writing lyrics. He had no idea how Joe did it. Billy could sit there for hours trying to come up with two lines, and then he'd realize they were from an old Beatles song. But Billy would show Joe a tune he'd written, something kind of sad, and within a couple hours Joe would have most of a song written about a waitress in Downtown whose feet hurt.
Joe's place didn't have a TV, but otherwise it was a perfect place to get drunk. More often than not, Billy would end up sleeping on the sofa too, because it was late and he was kind of toasted and he didn't fancy his chances getting home without getting mugged. Joe was tolerant. The sofa was mostly clean, and there were some blankets and stuff around so it wasn't too cold. Hudson Bay.
Records Joe had: The second Wire album. African Dub All Mighty Chapter Three. Heavy Manners. The first Patti Smith album. Before And After Science by Brian Eno. He had all the punk records too - Angelic Upstarts, Clash, Sham 69 - but he didn't listen to them so much anymore. One time there was a party at Joe's and this little pissant punk kid made fun of Joe for his wimpy taste in music, until Joe said "Are you fucking stupid? I don't need to listen to shit I could write myself."
Billy knows. The ego on him. Joe shut that kid up, though.
Joe wasn't as avant-garde as he pretended to be, anyway, because the album Billy heard most at Joe's place was the first New York Dolls album.
Billy had never really gotten what was meant to be so great about the New York Dolls - he'd liked all those songs better the first time, when the Rolling Stones did them - but Joe had been a fan from way back. He got that album when they were still kids together on Vancouver Island.
This one particular night that comes to mind, that record had already been blaring when Billy knocked on the door. Lonely Planet Boy. You pick me up, you're out driving in your car. When I tell you where I'm going, always telling me it's too far.
He doesn't actually remember much about what happened after that. It was probably pretty much like every other night he spent at Joe's. Billy let himself in, because Joe never kept his door locked. Joe said oh hey Billy, didn't know you were coming by. Joe spun some records. Billy drank. Joe made fun of the "idiot teenager" he was writing a letter to - maybe a chick who ran a punk fanzine, or a lunkhead who played bass in the only punk band in Medicine Hat, or that mentally ill guy from Regina who wrote in purple ink, or any of the other social rejects that Joe corresponded with, somehow able to look down on them and sneer even though he was something of a social reject himself. Billy kept drinking until Joe's insults were funny.
Can't you hear me calling? I'm a million miles away.
There was only one thing that had been different this time, that meant Billy could remember it now. Joe'd finished his letter and crashed down next to Billy on the sofa, as he always did, and reached for one of Billy's bottles to take a drink, as he always did, and Joe'd said: "You know I love you, right?"
Billy blinked. No, he couldn't say that he knew that.
He looked at Joe, expecting to see him cracking up, but Joe looked serious, serious as the grave, and as the seconds ticked by there was a terrible, terrible expression coming across Joe's face - Billy wanted to say something, but he had no idea what he could fucking say.
After a minute, Joe smiled. It looked awful. "Hey, well, whatever, man," he said.
"Joe," Billy said, but it was too late. Joe stumbled to his feet and grabbed his coat. "I'm going to the corner store," he said. "I'm out of...out of lemons. You want anything?"
He was out the door before Billy could say Yes or No or come back.
The door slammed shut behind him.
The New York Dolls were still playing on the stereo. Dinah won't you blow, Dinah won't you blow your horn, David Johansen sang.
Billy was pretty sure Joe hadn't even looked at a citrus since he moved out of his parents house.
After a while, he turned out the lights and lay down on the couch.
Joe came home a few hours later. Billy pretended to be asleep, and Joe let him.
Not long after, Joe's landlord got him evicted and Joe lost most of his record collection, left out in black bags for the refuse collection. They took the support gig and got the band back together so Joe could afford somewhere to live.