Odds are . . . everything

An open love letter to favorite rockers

by John O'Neill

As the long-running celebration of Wormtown's 20th anniversary reaches its zenith this weekend with a two-day music blowout at Ralph's, nostalgia is thick in the air; and yours truly is filled to the brim with conflict.

There are two things I have personally come to loathe even more than Republicans and microbrews during my brief tenure on this mortal coil. They are: music writers who insist on using the word "I" and music writers who get off on the self-serving nostalgia kick, reliving their sorry-ass day in the sun, while the rest of us are left to utter, "Boy, the good old days sure did suck!" So, with that said . . .

It was a brisk, fall evening, early October 1983, when I first got to see the Odds do their thing live. Only a high-school senior and 17, I'd spent the better part of the week obsessing over how I'd get into the dance at then Becker Junior College. The thought that I'd blend in never occurred -- after all, these were college kids; and even though the campus stood just a few hundred yards from Leicester High School, it may as well have been a million miles away.

After pacing the parking lot outside the Big Dance, I walked in, skinny tie included -- from news clippings and second-hand stories, I knew they wore skinny ties and peg-leg pants. After receiving absolutely no flack at the door, I jogged down a flight of stairs and opened the door to my future.

There on stage and larger than life was Odds frontman J.J. Rassler, and I was instantly bowled over. Like a cross between Mick Jagger and David Johansen, Rassler embodied rock and roll at its purest -- he had the look, the banter, the sexual swagger, and a real boss guitar that he strangled and rode like some wild animal he knew he could tame. And just like that I had my first real, live rock-and-roll hero.

The Odds as a musical unit almost defy description because they really were that raw, and that wild, and that good. Like Satan's house band, ready to either break out of control or just break down at any given moment. They had more guts and grit, not to mention an intense narcissism and self-destructiveness, than anything Worcester had ever seen. Add to that a keen ear for what makes a great pop song (which they would overhaul and turbo-charge to an amphetamine-laced pace), and the result was a tough and infectious sound that was wholly their own yet reverential to earlier greats. You could see and feel the tradition of manic urgency that passed down from Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry to the Kingsmen, the Sonics, right up to the Stooges and, of course, the Ramones, burning right there in front of your eyes. And no one seemed immune from the stuff they were hammering out. After an Odds set, clothes were soaked, mascara ran like rivers, "big hair" fell, and everybody got laid.

After a few more live run-ins, I headed for college and the Odds continued down the road to impending oblivion. They released a couple of songs on two national compilations, toured the East Coast (where they continued to bludgeon capacity crowds and blow the other acts clear out of the water), and built a regional following that rivaled anyone you can name. Then, in late '86, things went sour. Bassist Steve Cohn, who had replaced original member Steve Aquino, quit. Rassler was now splitting time with a second band, the Queers. Preston Wayne, a blistering punk guitarist who sounded like a mix of Dick Dale and James Williamson, suddenly decided he'd rather play the blues.

By 1987 the band were slogging along in the basement of Rick's. The sound was unfocused, drug use was at an all-time high, nobody was having fun, and the Odds, the band who you'd expect to explode, instead limped off into the sunset.

In 1990, after re-forming to cut a track for the Troggs compilation, Groin Thunder, at the request of Australia's Dog Meat Records (an album that would find them alongside international big deals the Headcoats, Mummies, Bevis Frond, Muffs, and A-Bones), the Odds staged a big reunion show at Ralph's. It was also a semi-celebration of J.J.'s newly won sobriety. The atmosphere was absolutely electric as a jam-packed room buzzed with anticipation. A little older, but not yet gray, the Wormtown Nation came out in force for their number-one sons; and when the band received their introduction, the en masse cheer that followed actually made Steve Cohn step backwards. Preston hit the opening notes to his self-penned instro "Four on the Floor," and the room exploded into a flurry of twisters, torquers, frugers, and pogoers as the rest of the band kicked in. Three hours later, I knew that I'd just experienced a defining moment in my life. I wouldn't be heading back to the world of college radio, I was heading home to the garage I first came from.

I re-examined the old Beach Boys, Beatles, and Lyres albums and began to dig back into the past into '60s punk and early rockabilly. That would later influence the six-year run I had as a programmer at WCUW and now at the Phoenix. And all of it stems from that night in 1990, and to a lesser extent 1983, when a very special band almost single-handedly molded me into what I am today -- a bona fide, card-carrying, guaranteed-not-to-rust, relatively well-paid music scribbler. Sweet dreams are made of this. Not only that, a funny thing happened on the way to the bank. The Odds went from being my heroes to being my friends. Steve Aquino, the guy they laughed at when he left the Odds to concentrate on playing guitar, now slings an ax for the Lyres, the world's premiere rock-and-soul combo. He also lets me tag along to gigs, which is fodder for at least three more stories. Keyboardist Mike Cannon pops up for beers every now and again, and he finally moved out of his parents house on Vernon Hill and bought his own place, all before his 40th birthday. Steve Cohn packed up his successful neon-sign business and kited off to his dream location in Hawaii, a few years back, where he still bends neon. Maybe with the Japanese dollar falling through the floor we'll see him back again soon. Eddie Lavasseur has unfortunately fallen out of contact, and when last heard from didn't own a drum kit. Preston Wayne, the million-dollar guitarist with the 10 cent ears, is still the petulant man-child he's always been. If he isn't busy being shy or humble, he's usually bragging about how good he is. And he is. J.J. has been clean and sober for eight years and living in Boston where he works at Rounder Records. He leads a more settled life (both figuratively and literally), and even though he isn't the lithe, hard-rockin', hard-livin' rock-god of yesteryear, he still has a full head of hair.

It doesn't seem right that Cannon, Aquino, and Lavasseur won't be on stage together this weekend, especially since they all live in the area. I actually fear the greatest influence of my life will evaporate right before my very eyes in a blaze of mediocrity. But, with Rassler and Wayne up on stage ( that's the equivalent of getting Mick and Keith), there's a better-than-average chance they'll summons up that mind-blowing magic one more time. Which is why I'll be there.

People will drink and dance, check out receding hairlines and expanding body parts, catch up on the past, and tell stories about when they were king. And maybe, if all works out well, we'll recapture a little of that old spark the Odds delivered all those years ago.

I'll be twisting center stage floor, with my eyes fixed toward the mic, because, even with the all the bands I've been lucky enough to see, I've never seen anything like the Odds. And J.J. Rassler, to this day, is still my real, live rock-and-roll hero.