The sanity of the title probably refers to the fiscal variety, as Johnny exchanged pop possibilities for dirt-cheap production work, courtesy of Daniel Rey. A Rey-recorded demo had made it into the band’s care; impressed, they called him up. As a Ramones fanatic, Rey wasn’t exactly about to push market rate for his services. He ended up an indispensable part in the Ramones machine, as important to their continued existence as C.J. Ramone would become. At this point, however, he was an affable presence who could quickly and professionally track some punk rock. The rest of the band seemed to pick up on this shift, if only subconsciously. Their gift for the arresting pure-pop single, discovered in the middle of their career, disappears as suddenly as it arrived. Joey offers up “Bye Bye Baby,” a simpering Spector knockoff that limps to the finish line, its singer mumbling about 10 words while looking at his watch. It’s a gloomy bit of regression, the kind of cynicism the band had resisted so fiercely.

Joey’s songwriting slump continues, as he gets a mere three songwriting credits, all stashed on the back half of the record. “Death Of Me” is a numb depiction of co-dependence that insists on the resonance of the phrase “crazy carryin’ on.” It’s like a piss-take on the Misfits. “A Real Cool Time” is much better. Harkening back to the first few albums in its melodicism, cheerfulness and the inclusion of a specific location (here, the Cat Club). Joey still has to work up to the refrain from the bottom of his range, though; it emotionally derails the song every time. Dee Dee’s “Go Camaro Go” is its own little time capsule: it’s loaded with the papa ooh mow mows from “Surfin’ Bird” (covered on Rocket to Russia), it features old pal Debbie Harry on harmonies, and it boils the Jan & Dean ethos down to four words. The melody cycles relentlessly — identical for the refrain and verses — making this a sort of rock ‘n’ roll tone poem.

Daniel Rey, meanwhile, scores two co-writes on the front half, the only two songs to make Rhino’s Loud, Fast Ramones compilation. “I Wanna Live” is a fever-dream revenge tale, fortified with BÖC-style arpeggiation and Johnny Marr chime, courtesy of Secret Fifth Ramone Walter Lure. “Garden Of Serenity” ends up as a loving homage to the Misfits. Ghosts and graveyards abound; Joey barks the title phrase like a cheesed-off dad, an eerie foreshadowing of Frank Costanza. Rey puts the toms up front, then quickly changes his mind. On “Worm Man,” though, he goes all in on Richie, letting the kit eat up space, the better to cover up Joey’s impression of a bloated Jim Morrison. Richie’s handling of the broken meter on “Weasel Face” similarly distracts from his singer, but this time Joey elevates the crummy material with scratchy yells and nasal honks. The lyrical Sabbath homage “I’m Not Jesus” clarifies a confusion held by absolutely no one, but everyone capably navigates the hardcore passages, and they sound suitably demonic on the chorus. The mumbling priest is a bit much, but still: a capable composition from the drummer.

Halfway To Sanity runs for less than a half hour, the Ramones’ shortest record since the debut. Hell, even the titles are shorter: for the first time, nothing exceeds four words. Even a dispirited Ramones record is worth listening to, but this is pushing it. One bright spot, though, is the reappearance of Dee Dee’s vocal chaos; his songs may not be up to snuff, but one wonders what would’ve happened if his bandmates had written an entire LP around him. “I Lost My Mind” is his one lead, but he’s expelling enough demons for 12 cuts. It could never have been, though; he went to hospital and emerged as Dee Dee King, trash rapper. He had given his band the best of his warped outlook, but that wasn’t enough for either party. (According to Johnny, Dee Dee didn’t even play bass on anything from Animal Boy through Brain Drain.) He stuck around for one more record, leaving before Alternative Nation made his band the most beloved legacy act of the era.