The dinosaurs are Johnny and Joey, right? The repeated claim that the Ramones never enlarged their sound is dubious. As the years passed, their ballads more closely resembled their inspirations; Johnny’s quest for a tougher sound resulted in a clutch of hardcore tracks and a distinct sleaze-rock flavor. Still, they remained four-chord weirdos at heart, content to punch out failed hit after failed hit. And, thankfully, they got to exit on their terms: a mid-tier touring juggernaut, bringing the heat every time. Their stint on Lollapalooza’s main stage even provided a bit of closure: Eddie Vedder, Kim Thayil, James Hetfield, Billy Corgan — truly, the Lou Reeds of their time — paid mad tribute; the crowds, primed by a previous “farewell” tour, sent the boys off in style. Plus, Johnny finally banked his million bucks. Outside of a cameo on Pearl Jam’s live rendition of “The KKK Took My Baby Away,” he became a retiree with no need to wield his tools. The Ramones hit the last stop with their cred intact. They didn’t notch the traditional markers of success — the hits, the sold-out American arenas — but their influence was insidious.

The last Ramones song to chart was, neither fittingly nor ironically, a cover. Introduced with the traditional bassist’s count-in, their take on Tom Waits’s “I Don’t Want To Grow Up” is a surefooted romp with nary a fill from Marky. Like most rockers, the Ramones got to stay kids; thanks to Joey, though, they beamed innocence, not noxiousness. They could have really pushed the point with the second track, Dee Dee’s “Making Monsters For My Friends,” but C.J. got the chance to yelp away. Largely, the Ramones approach ¡Adios Amigos! as a final curtain, not the sideshow door. “I’ve done all that I can do,” Joey sings on “It’s Not For Me To Know,” “I don’t have any illusions any more.” “Life’s a Gas” is one final teary tribute to the Ronettes; it crushes with just 13 words. The C.J.-written, Joey-sung “I Got A Lot To Say” cracks mordantly wise with just nine. “Cretin Family” has a piss-off text, but ultimately, it’s the band honoring itself, even if C.J. works in a bunch of “oi”s.

Out of all of these worthy candidates, “I Don’t Want To Grow Up” (childlike, determined, negating) would’ve been the perfect closer, but the Ramones had one final trick up their sleeve: Dee Dee himself. Make that two tricks: “Born To Die In Berlin” features the original bassist singing a verse in German. Mixing baroque imagery (“Intoxicated by the orchids/ Abandoned in the garden”) with unnerving confession (“I sprinkled cocaine on the floor/When no one was watching”), it’s a fine summation of the man’s gifts, even if it forgets that there once was joy. Joey takes the chorus, repeats the final line, the riff repeats in classic Ramones fashion, and everything stops.

The Ramones’ singular career was over. There would be no reunion shows. The original four, plus C.J. and Marky, turned up at a Virgin Megastore in 1999 to autograph copies of Rhino’s Hey Ho Let’s Go anthology; Dee Dee spent a good deal of the event grousing about having to cab it, and Johnny nearly clocked him. Two years later, I walked into a mall in Bryan, Texas to buy a Ramones shirt. Back then, I was built like Joey, just a little shorter; I bought a small, and it held up against my frame for a couple years. Joey died the spring prior, having finally released that solo record. Dee Dee was next, overdosing in his Hollywood apartment. Thirteen months later and two miles away, Johnny was interred, dead from prostate cancer. Tommy followed last July: the first and last original Ramone. They had winnowed rock ‘n’ roll to its ultimate truths, sowing their skewed sincerity around the world, building a legacy of heart and humor nearly unmatched in popular music. There may never be another Ramones, but the lineage will never conclude.