The Ramones’ debut 1976 album was a perfect, explosive introduction. The Queens band stripped rock‘n’roll back to the studs with powerful, fucked up songs about huffing glue, Nazis falling in love, and bat fights. It didn’t chart well in the U.S., but they had a cult following, and when they toured England, Johnny Rotten and Joe Strummer showed up. Two more classics followed: Leave Home and Rocket to Russia. With just three albums, the Ramones canon was strong and their formula was unwavering. This was punk's ground zero.
Then, Tommy Ramone resigned as the band’s drummer—life on the road wasn’t treating him well—and decided to do what he did best: produce Ramones albums. With Marky Ramone behind the kit and Tommy behind the boards, they made 1978’s Road to Ruin. For all its high points, it was their weakest effort and biggest commercial flop to date. Contemporaries like the Talking Heads and the Clash were about to reach new heights; the Ramones decided that a change was in order. For 1980’s End of the Century, they dumped Tommy—their guiding hand in the studio since day one—and hired Phil Spector.
Consider that for a minute—the beacons of rock‘n’roll restraint hired the “wall of sound, little symphonies for the kids” wildcard. Marky Ramone described the producer rolling up to his hotel room with a cape, bodyguard, bottle of kosher wine, and unprompted tirade about the 1966 death of Lenny Bruce. He was an untethered, erratic, odd man, and that’s sugarcoating it heavily. This was the same Phil Spector who kept Ronnie Spector locked in a closet, shot a bullet into the ceiling of John Lennon’s studio, and held a gun to Leonard Cohen’s neck.
It’s amazing to think that anyone would hire him at that point, but they had their reasons: Sales were slipping, Spector persistently offered his services, and their label was willing to pay the legend’s rate. If the Ramones were interested in becoming more popular, why not roll the dice with a guy who made “Be My Baby” and “You’ve Lost That Loving Feeling”?
After he reached his creative and commercial peak in the ’60s, Spector briefly left the business when Ike & Tina Turner’s “River Deep —Mountain High” failed to become a bigger hit. He returned to the game at the request of the Beatles. He was responsible for finishing up Let It Be (to the disdain of Paul McCartney) and co-produced two of the best solo Beatles albums: Plastic Ono Band and All Things Must Pass. There was the aforementioned fraught Leonard Cohen album Death of a Ladies’ Man. His other projects, with their huge production value, weren’t all that visible—records with Cher (including a Nilsson collaboration), Dion, Ronnie Spector, and Darlene Love.
Given his penchant for schmaltz, there was no reason to expect Spector to show interest in punk. But at the urging of close friends Dan and David Kessel (sons of Wrecking Crew legend Barney Kessel and fans of L.A.’s punk scene), Phil saw the Ramones at the Whisky a Go Go in 1977. Every time the Ramones came through L.A. after that, he’d attend their shows, meet them, and give them the same line: “Do you guys wanna be great or good? ‘Cause I’ll make you great.”
Spector’s infatuation with the band definitely made sense. The Ramones were loud, back to basics rock‘n’roll in an era of disco, yacht rock, prog, the Eagles, Journey, Boston, and Kansas. Their song structures were simple and the harmonies were there. Early ’60s pop was a key part of the band’s DNA—some of their first covers were “California Sun,” “Let’s Dance,” and “Surfin’ Bird.” It was gnarly music unafraid of being pretty, and while their nuts-and-bolts songs appealed to Spector, he also loved how irreverent they were. (For reference, ctrl+F the word “fuck” in Spector’s 1969 interview with Rolling Stone—dude had a filthy mouth.)
While Marky Ramone described Spector as a drinking buddy and friend, his bandmates had a far more acrimonious relationship with the producer. Dee Dee and Phil hated each other. The bassist and songwriter was taking lots of sedatives at the time, which may have contributed to his paranoia about Spector’s guns. In his memoir, he told a story about Phil pointing a gun at his heart before forcing the band to stay all night at his house while he sang them “Baby, I Love You.” Marky would later deny stories about the Ramones being threatened or held hostage by Spector, though Dee Dee always remained firm in his account. The drummer confirmed that multiple guns were present throughout the recording process: Spector apparently carried four on his person at any given moment, which doesn’t include what his bodyguards had on them or the turrets mounted to his house.
Johnny, the band’s general who instituted fines for lateness, was not a fan of Spector’s studio perfectionism and verbal abuse. One of the most famous scenes from the album’s sessions transpired when Spector forced Johnny to play the opening chord of “Rock‘n’Roll High School” repeatedly for hours on end. It was an attempt to get the same sustained chord effect from the “Hard Day’s Night” intro, and it was taking forever. This band was used to bashing out albums quickly, and now, they were being asked to draw everything out—to ponder the resonance of every chord. At some point, after appearing to grow increasingly agitated with Johnny’s performance, the producer started laying all of his guns out on a table in the studio. “After he shot that girl, I thought, ‘I’m surprised he didn’t shoot someone every year,’” wrote Johnny.
Joey was clearly the reason why Spector wanted to work with the band at all. Phil loved Joey. The first time Phil met the gangly frontman, he showered him with praise, calling his voice “one in a million.” David Kessel hypothesized that the two hit it off over rock history and their common “New York street-corner” upbringing. Spector would refer to the band as “Joey and the Ramones,” which obviously irked Johnny (who especially hated the producer saying “it’s all you, Joey”). There were private, late night vocal coaching sessions, and at least two different people present for their interactions claimed that Phil saw Joey as “a male Ronnie Spector.” It’s hard to fathom what that means, especially considering Phil’s horrific relationship with Ronnie, but that vague insight helps explain why Joey ended up singing one of the most famous Ronettes songs.
Even with a full understanding of End of the Century’s context, “Baby, I Love You” is jarring. Coming directly off the scorched earth “fight for fun” mercenary basher “Let’s Go,” the B-side of the record opens with this lavish, white gloves string section. Joey’s voice teases, pouts, and pleads; everything feels saccharine. The Ramones had tons of success with ballads in the past. “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend,” for example—Johnny’s guitar sound was still tough, and Joey’s performance, while sweet, was stiff. Now, assisted by Spector’s wall of sound arrangements and hours of vocal coaching, Joey was singing his heart out—hitting high notes and emoting broadly. No other Ramones appear on the track, which means there’s no Johnny Ramone guitar crunch or nearly-flat Dee Dee Ramone harmonies to offset Joey. It’s all billowing, pillowy softness: wedding music.
It’s the most plain example of Spector’s influence over the band’s sound, and it illustrates his narrow understanding of what made the Ramones great. Yes, Joey Ramone was a treasure whose instrument was unrivaled, and in that sense, Spector was right to try and pull out the best performance from the singer. But his focus on Joey seemed to undercut how he approached the rest of the band, who were readily swapped out with session players. “To this day, I still have no idea how they made the album End of the Century or who actually played bass on it,” Dee Dee quipped in his book.
Several times throughout the record, songs are forced to face the bar set by previous versions. Spector’s “Rock‘n’Roll High School” lives in the shadow of the original Ed Stasium version from the film. Next to the comparably crisp, direct original, Spector’s wall of sound vocal recordings gives the track a soupy, echoing effect—not the ideal soundtrack for Riff Randall blowing up her school. Then, in a move highlighting the band’s status as students of the game, they wrote sequels to Ramones songs. (There are several precedents in rock history for the sequel song: Buddy Holly’s Peggy Sue got married, Lesley Gore got her revenge on Judy, Chubby Checker twisted again like we did last summer, and so forth.) “The Return of Jackie and Judy” is a subpar Ramones song that continues the narrative of a great Ramones song. The same thing happens on “This Ain’t Havana,” which is a goofy, worse flip of “Havana Affair” that’s built around Joey singing the word “banana.”
The Dee Dee and Richard Hell-penned “Chinese Rock” was already recorded, masterfully, by Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers in 1977. Early on, Dee Dee’s bandmates rejected the song because they wanted to avoid recording more drug songs. (This begs the question: Why draw the line at Carbona, glue, and daddy’s dope?) When they were picking out songs for End of the Century, the Ramones came around on the song, which makes sense—it’s one of Dee Dee’s best. It’s easily the best example of the band’s old instincts kicking in, as the End of the Century version is faster, heavier, and more frantic than the Heartbreakers’ original. Frantic is a good look for “Chinese Rock,” especially because “everything is in the pawn shop” is a perfect line about living in junkie squalor.
The narrative about End of the Century is convenient if you just look at “Baby, I Love You” and “Chinese Rock”—that the ballads are lousy and the aggressive punk songs rule. It’s not that simple. “Danny Says” is the best song on the album and maybe one of the best ballads in Ramones history. It’s a gentle, beautifully performed song where Joey complains about touring. The thrill of meeting fans at record stores and hearing their songs on the radio is nothing compared to having a full day off. This is the exact zone where the Ramones work best—where sentimentality is cut with cynicism and where Joey’s cooing vocals are met with Johnny’s beefy guitar.
Spector labored for about six months on the album’s mixing, and right to the very end, he was drunk and abusive. Some of his work paid off, with songs like “Do You Remember Rock‘n’Roll Radio?” sounding appropriately enormous and triumphant with its sax skronk, radio announcer, and pulsing organ. Elsewhere, it seems like he was just overthinking it, and in the process, undermining a lot of what made the band powerful to begin with. Throughout “I’m Affected,” there are these big, thunderous drum fills that momentarily eclipse everything else. Where a few chords from Johnny could break up the melody and move the song forward with power and authority, Phil instead opts for a big production moment that swallows the band’s guitar sound. It’s a detail, but one that makes an otherwise powerful band sound feeble.
The Ramones had worked longer and harder on End of the Century than any album before it. They dealt with Spector’s fits, drunken rage, and firearms. Aside from Marky, the band wasn’t excited about the final product. Johnny hated “Baby, I Love You” and talked about how embarrassed he was by the song. The album technically did its intended job—it charted higher than any Ramones record that had come before it. Granted, it peaked at No. 44 and was outshone on the charts by the band's peers (the Clash’s London Calling, Blondie’s Eat to the Beat, etc.)
The album also marked Spector's unofficial retirement; he would stop working in the studio pretty much altogether after the death of John Lennon. His final production credits came on a 2003 Starsailor album, and that same year, he was arrested on suspicion of Lana Clarkson’s murder. He went to prison in 2009. Marky Ramone made an appearance in the courtroom to support his old friend.
It’s a record that sits at an interesting crossroads—the post-Tommy Ramones seeking the guidance of an almost-retired, wildly unpredictable, potentially dangerous Phil Spector. The result is a disorienting album with broad jumps in quality and tone from song to song. Where the first Ramones albums could shift seamlessly from ballad to banger (from “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend” to “Chain Saw”), End of the Century never seems to find its connective tissue. It had some of the Ramones' flimsiest songs, and too often, key Ramones weren’t involved in their creation.
On “Do You Remember Rock‘n’Roll Radio,” Joey seems to summarize his conversations with Spector—a song about how good rock music used to be. This conceit is where the Ramones lose the narrative. On early efforts, they condensed “California Sun” into a punk rock blast—using the language of the past to create something contemporary and vital. Their cover of “Baby, I Love You” is a museum piece—a pound-for-pound attempt to relive Spector’s golden years. The Ramones even romanticize old Ramones songs, revisiting their own mythology instead of carving out new narratives. “It’s the end, the end of the ’70s,” sang Joey. The Ramones lamented the end of their most unstoppable era, and then they refused to move forward.
