As the line to the door of the Gaelic snaked up Devnnshire street, a steady stream of ticketless would-be punters scoured the crowd on the off chance that a spare way into the club would present itself. The number of people trying to get in – hoping against hope! – was indicator enough that this was a gig of some note. Marky Ramone – Marc Bell to his parents – was in town to talk about his history, NYC, booze, pills and rock. While it was a spoken word evening, there were also plans afoot to perform a set of Ramones tunes – hence the clamour for tickets. Those that had managed to snaffle some were up for a memorable night, to say the least.

The evening kicked off with a typically energetic set from Melbournian three-piece The Spazzys, the first of two outings on the boards that they’d make this evening – the second would be as backing band for Marky. And while the band played with great enthusiasm and vigour – bassplayer Lucy’s slew of Big Rock moves received a full work-out – the sound quality for their set was, unfortunately, less than optimal. Kat’s vocals, especially, were drowned out by the rest of the band, though their sound as a whole seemed a lot muddier than it had on previous occasions. It’s a shame, as whenever The Spazzys play, they put more into their performance – whether it’s honesty, youth or just plain arse-shaking rock – than many other bands, so it was disappointing to hear them let down by the PA.

After a shortish set, they left the stage – leaving many punters with fingers crossed that their appearance later on would receive a mix they deserved. Next up, the Gaelic darkened – after a projector was installed centre-stage – and the screen on the back wall flickered into life. On it, footage of The Ramones was played. Switching between interviews, award acceptance speeches and oldschool performances to an insane record of the band’s crowd evasion techniques while on tour – which largely consisted of drivers tear-arsing around and hoping they’d not mow down too many fans – the footage saw excitement in the room rise. Catcalls, slow-clapping and general amounts of “Woo! Yeah! MAAAAARRRRRRKY!” shouting filled the air.

Then, it was time. Clad in black, Marky entered. Gripping the projector’s controls, he began recounting the story of his life, from geeky kid to punk superstar. Touching on key figures in the NY punk scene – Richard Hell, NY Dolls, The Voidoids, Wayne/Jayne County, Blondie and others – the wide-ranging tale took in poverty, single-mindedness, Keith Moon’s drumming style, arrests in Japan and appearances on The Simpsons as Marky recounted his journey from suburban normalcy to musical notoriety over ninety minutes or so.

A technical hitch with the slide projector brought the talk to a halt for about ten minutes, in which time Marky took questions from the audience. An absence of roving mics through the crowd meant that he was largely restricted to answering queries that originated in the front couple of rows of the crowd – something that wasn’t taken particularly well by the crowd in the Gaelic’s upstairs section, who made their discontent pretty plain. Sadly, when an attempt to include anyone further than arm’s length away was undertaken, the questions were rendered inaudible.

This sort of heckling interaction was a more vocal version of what had been bubbling through the crowd for the whole night. Perhaps it was the weird amalgam of spoken word show and live performance, but it seemed that a large portion of the audience had already made several trips to the bar, resulting in a fairly audible undertone of conversation the entire way through the show. Every time somebody’s name was mentioned, a boozy cheer would go up from the audience – no matter if it was a memorial pause or a passing comment. Enthusiastic, sure, but ultimately, it meant the flow of the night was frequently stifled while Marky waited for some level of quiet to descend again so he could recapture the threads of conversation.

Of course, the hard-arsed nature that drove The Ramones onwards was still close to the surface – despite Marky’s lack of leather jacket. There wasn’t too much ill behaviour he’d tolerate. A fan down the front – who later showed his appreciation for such a great evening’s entertainment by throwing cups of piss on the stage… what a gent! – wouldn’t shut up. Marky had asked him before – nicely – to keep quiet and calm down. But it wasn’t to be: increasingly incensed by his interruptions, the rocker leant down into the crowd and – with the aid of the term “Fuckface”, silenced his opposition. He may not be 20 any more, but the threat of a Ramone arse-kicking still carries some weight.

Micturition-based distractions aside, the audience was enthralled by the collection of bravado- (or stupidity) filled tales. Marky was candid about his bouts with addiction (of all kinds) and always keen to salute those that’ve passed on as a result of such dalliances. “I ain’t a preacher,” he said, before giving the crowd license to do what they wanted, within reason. But bear in mind that this is a guy who’s swallowed drugs thrown over a fence, and managed to survive rubber rooms and crashing his (unregistered) car through a furniture store after consuming enough alcohol to lay low a football team. There’s probably a bit of wisdom passed on here!

Instead of coming across as an I-Was-There-And-You-Weren’t kinda guy, Marky’s generosity, honesty and general easy manner made the spoken word part of the evening a lot more enjoyable than it might’ve been with other artists. Rather than being an offhand discussion of well-known events with disdain for his fans, the night felt like a great conversation over a couple of beers. Yeah, the guy on stage has lived his life with some people who have become – as he has – legends. Yeah, he’s been through some incredible things. But he carried with him the simplicity and the lack of pretentiousness that made the evening a pleasure.

After a second bout of questions, Marky left the stage for a short break. The members of The Spazzys took up their instruments – with the exception of drummer Alice, who was relegated to vocal duties while Marky took his place on a much larger kit, set up at the rear of the stage. The drum sound put out was bigger than ever, and when that familiar “One, Two, Free, Faw!” count-in began, the place went wild.

The set list for the set ran as follows:

I Just Want Something To Do
California Sun
Sheena Is A Punk Rocker
I Don’t Care
I Wanna Be Sedated
Rockaway Beach
Rock’n’Roll High School
The KKK Took My Baby Away
It’s A Wonderful World (as covered by Joey Ramone on his solo disc)
Chinese Rocks
Pinhead

As Pinhead came to a razor-sharp end, the band left the stage, though everyone knew that they’d be back to rectify the glaring omission from the performance: Blitzkrieg Bop. And as an encore, it was great. Hey-ho, let’s go! Like the rest of the set – though it was prefaced with a big grin from Marky, and the admission that he loved everyone in the audience (perhaps with the exception of Mr Fuckface?) – the song kicked the crowd into overdrive. Thunderous drumming saw the moshpit spark up for a final two-minute all-out thrash, knowing that their time with a legend was almost over. And by the end, there was a sea of smiles.

Sure, there’s no way anyone – a noble effort by drummer Alice aside – can ever replace Joey on vocals. Not really. Sure, the performance seemed like a Spazzys set with more solid drumming. But that was the point. Again and again, Marky had pointed out that the great thing about The Ramones was that anyone could play their kind of music. He seemed flattered at the relevance of the music he was a part of – and tonight, the crowd in the Gaelic Club showed their appreciation in that time-honoured way: by getting pissed and going absolutely apeshit.

Somewhere, The Ramones were smiling.

A FasterLouder photographer was there: check it out here.