Like many New Jersey punks of my generation, I first met B.T. back in the old Pipeline days in the '90s. There he was, the venue’s version of Norm from Cheers, sitting dutifully at the bar amidst the noise and chaos. Aside from an occasional handshake and nod, I didn’t really converse with him back then despite sharing the stage with The Wretched Ones numerous times. The guys in that band were our heroes — older dudes showing us young’uns how it’s done. Nobody could touch them.
Fast-forward to Labor Day 2023. I’m at my friend Kevin’s place in North Jersey when I spot B.T. grilling chicken. I reintroduce myself and start talking with him. That chat unfolded just like all the subsequent ones I’d have with him. He was always a little slow to engage at first, but then the conversation would gradually build to epic discussions on music and more. He was a humble, gentle, warm, and friendly dude whose company was never a drag.
When I got my YouTube channel going, I knew I had to get B.T. on the podcast. Although he seemed a little uneasy with the format at first, he quickly settled in to be one of my most engaging and insightful guests. Considering his history in the scene (which dated back to the '70s), it’s no surprise that it ended up being a three-parter. The final installment was posted just this past August. Please check out those episodes. Everything I’ve said about his personality will make absolute sense.
As a journalist, I try to seek out and document colorful people with stories to tell. My hope is to leave something of value behind if those individuals leave us too soon. What I didn’t expect was to see my channel represent fallen friends so quickly. I lost another guest and lovely guy, Jack Russell, just a few weeks ago. I had talked to Inger Lorre more than once about coming on, but she ultimately bailed as the trials of tribulations of her life and career had made her press-shy. The sting of her recent passing hasn’t gotten any better in the days since she left us. And now B.T. is gone.
I’m really tired of writing these fucking things.
The last time I saw him was this past Labor Day weekend, again at Kevin’s. He was in good spirits despite showing signs of bad health. As parties at Kevin’s often do, the night concluded with an epic jam. At one point, a group of guests started playing “Dead Flowers” by The Rolling Stones. I spotted B.T. sitting on an amp and playing tambourine. I immediately grabbed a tom-tom and played beside him. I had a feeling I should seize the moment and make some noise with him. It was my first and only time playing with the guy.
Yeah, I rehearsed with The Misfits, toured with Electric Frankenstein, sold out CBGB with The Undead, and got swept up in the Pigface maelstrom for 18 years. Who fucking cares? I got to jam with Billy Fucking T. My work here is done.
A short while later, B.T. got in his car and turned the ignition. I walked over and grabbed his hand through the car window.
“Take care, my friend.”
He nodded, smiled, and drove away.
EMAIL JOEL at gaustenbooks@gmail.com
