Rocket To Russia (1977)

Rocket To Russia (1977)

Like a shitty MP3, time distorts by compression. The disposable, timeless pop that permeated the Ramones’ songwriting ruled the airwaves just a decade before they formed a band. And the year after Rocket To Russia, a Santa Ana outfit named Middle Class put out the Out Of Vogue EP; the tempos that had stunned Bowery crowds were nitro-boosted, resulting in an omnidirectional thrash that couldn’t be sustained for much more than sixty seconds. The hardcore scene shared the Ramones’ thirst for playing anywhere, but Black Flag and Hüsker Dü didn’t settle for a BTO opening slot. While punk outfits from Boston to Long Beach were scavenging the country for every handful of true believers, the Ramones kept chasing hits.

The closest the Ramones came to a hit was here, with “Rockaway Beach” b/w “Babysitter.” The B-side, a lovely little tale of the bluest balls, was a last-minute replacement for “Carbona Not Glue” on the UK version of Leave Home. The A-side is fucking “Rockaway Beach,” surf rock nirvana with the twang banned, introduced by Dee Dee’s immortal count-in and an all-time opening line (“chewin’ out a rhythm on my bubble gum”). It was painfully clear by now that the Ramones were good for a half-dozen punk-pop gems like “Rockaway Beach” on every LP, and that every single one of them was doomed. And this one had all the hits, both original (“Cretin Hop,” “Teenage Lobotomy,” “We’re A Happy Family,” “Ramona”) and secondhand (“Do You Wanna Dance, “Surfin’ Bird”). With “Here Today, Gone Tomorrow,” there were even the signs of sophistication: the ghost of a solo poking through a downcast strummer. Joey’s second vocal keeps slipping loose, a bummer echo; the topline doesn’t resolve, it dissolves. “I Don’t Care” predicts Danzig while channeling Iggy; Dee Dee’s plaintive “he don’t care” is beamed in from Planet Shangri-La.

With Rocket To Russia, the recording budget climbed to five figures. The investment was calculated; Warner Bros. took control of Sire’s distribution in ’77, and before recording, a cross-continental tour re-pollinated the West Coast and Great Britain. The Ramones replenished their store of hits, releasing their third classic in an insane 21 months. They could do funny, urgent, nihilistic, lovelorn. They wrote a little comic-book world and liberally drew themselves into it. They had the image and the urge to succeed. When they didn’t, they pointed fingers inward and out: running through eight producers on the next seven albums, blaming the Sex Pistols’ antics for tarnishing punk rock in the public’s eyes. Of course, the Ramones were a genre unto themselves, but when it came time to record Road To Ruin, they worked the edges, toughening up Johnny’s timbre while introducing elements of country-rock and power pop. I’d like to think that there was some night in November — perhaps in a Manchester hotel room, possibly in a van heading to Pittsburgh — when Tommy, Dee Dee, Joey and Johnny cracked some beers and toasted their accomplishments. They had become world-beaters in all but name.