DAVID JOHANSEN: Lonely Planet Boy comes Home

It's somewhere between the hours of three and four a.m. on a rainy Monday night in early May and the atmosphere in the back room at the Bells of Hell is getting so deliriously high-spirited that a raid by the po-lice any minute now would not surprise me one bit. Not that we're doing anything illegal, mind you; it's just that, well, as fellow conspirator Nick Tosches said to me the next afternoon when we met for lunch to try and get our minds and bodies back into semi-working condition, "That scene last night was like, you know, Communism. Absolutely everyone having a really hot time, all so matter-of-factly. Kinda spooky." I knew what he meant. I mean, Elvis Costello laughing? In public? Yes, there he is, off to my right, chuckling it up with the rest of us as we sit watching David Johansen, in trademark sailor shirt, his red cap lopsidedly hanging on his head and a glass of Guinness hoisted high in the air, leading the tuxedo clad pianist A1 Fields (Bells' fixture, Village legend and the man that I had invited everybody over to see after Nick Lowe's late show at the Bottom Line had ended and no one could decide where to continue the evening's festivities) and the rest of us in a follow-the-spilling-suds medley of "Over There," "Give My Regards To Broadway" and "Harrigan." Fifteen minutes before, Johansen was dancing a waltz with Syl Sylvain as Fields pounded out an original composition entitled "Chopin The Pimp" (Why the pimp, you ask? Let A1 explain. "You know, man, that George Sand dyke that supported him for awhile. Hell, she got more pussy than he did!"), and fifteen minutes from now he'll be boogie-woogie-in' away to the surreal strains of Al's rather unique interpretation of "One O'Clock Jump" ("I'm lettin' my hair down, ladies and gentlemen—this ain't the museum crowd we got here tonight. I'm A1 Fields and you're a beautiful audience"). By the time Barry, the stoically patient bartender, finally persuades us to adjourn the meeting of the crazies at 4:30, we've run the musical gamut from great theme songs ("Ben" and "The Young And Restless," the latter being a special request by Mr. Syl vain) to lounge classics ("Misty" and "Summertime") to the Carpenters' "Bless The Beasts And The Children" (done as a "name that tune" by Fields; no one got it, either) to the infamous "Happy Birthday Concerto," Fields' signature piece that comes complete with anywhere from three to eleven variations, depending on how much Fields has consumed at playing time.

Things are a mite cramped as we pile into photographer Bob Gruen's old car—something like four in the front and seven in the back. Our destination is an all-night Greek diner (is that redundant?) on the east side which Johansen recommends highly: "You can get as rowdy as you want and they never throw you out. Great place." We throw on the radio and damned if the first song that comes on isn't "Funky Blit Chic." Everybody starts howling and David looks down at Syl, who may at any second go comatose on us. "Hey, Syl," he says, lifting up his chin in mock brag fashion. "I'm on the radio. Ain't that a kick?"