At long, long, long, long, long last . . . THE HANDSOME DICK MANITOBA

TOGETHER WITH the mystery of the origins of life in the universe, but infinitely more complex and challenging, it is a question which has provoked, puzzled and exasperated the prophets, seers and sages of the ages: Just who the hell is Handsome Dick Manitoba?
As long ago as July of 1982, whilst upholding the noble office of Letters Editor of this very organ, your correspondent endeavoured to answer this eternal riddle in response to yet another reader’s enquiry.
Here is what I wrote on that long-ago day . . . “Just who is Handsome Dick Manitoba? A vital question indeed. Myth? Matter? Anti-matter? Uncle Matter? A pun? A punk? A punk panther? Perhaps we will never know the real truth. Personally, I’m inclined towards the views expressed by Kierkegaard, who, in his famous pamphlet entitled “If God Created Man In His Likeness, How The Hell Do We Explain Away Handsome Dick Manitoba?” wrote: Handsome Dick Manitoba is all things to all people. To some he’s a cheese-burger with a side-order of French fries. To others, a triple Big Mac – with lots of tomato ketchup please – four chocolate milkshakes, an American pancake soaked in maple syrup, five orders of French fries, a one-and-a-half litre bottle of Coca-Cola to take away and . . . Oh Jesus, I think I’m going to be ill.”
Not quite the definitive reply, perhaps, but as the Attorney General might put it, it was the best I could do . . .
What we can say for certain about Handsome Dick Manitoba, is that for five cherished years in the late ’70s and early ’80s, the former roadie and cook fronted one of the best-kept secrets in the west – New York’s utterly fabulous Dictators.
Spread out across a mere three studio albums and one posthumous live recording appropriately entitled ‘Fuck ’Em If They Can’t Take A Joke’, the self-styled Handsomest Man In Rock ’n’ Roll and his merry band of accomplices – Adny (pronounced Andy) Shernoff, Ross The Boss and Scott ‘Top Ten’ Kempner among them – created a body of work unequalled, never mind surpassed, in the annals of rock ’n’ roll lunacy; a heady distillation of killer hooks, punk energy, cartoon fun and cultural influences as diverse as wrestling, television, beer, fast-food and even faster cars. Bob Dylan has written many fine thing in his time, but he never got to put his finger on the essential teenage pulse with quite the same pithy accuracy as Handsome Dick Manitoba did when he bellowed: “The best part of growing up/is getting sick and throwing up.”
You still doubt The Dictators’ genius? Let me call as my witness, co-founder of Trouser Press, Ira Robbins, who in his New Music Record & Tape Guide published by Omnibus Press, assesses the band’s ground-breaking influence as follows: “Considering that The Dictators’ first album came out in 1975, scads of credit is due these hearty pre-punk New Yorkers for being there first. All four of the Dictators’ albums (including the posthumous live tape) are great and, although wavering wildly in terms of style and track-to-track consistency, serve as memorable cornerstones for much of what followed. As protégés of genius music journalist Richard Meltzer, the Dictators helped translate a lot of intellectual fandom’s crazed hypothetical theorising about rock ’n’ roll’s possibilities into wretchedly wonderful reality.”
I couldn’t put it better myself; well, actually, I could, but since I get paid by the word, why not let some other poor sap do the work while I pick up the cheque?
Handsome Dick Manitoba would approve. While others suffered for their art in draughty New York lofts, he and the Dictators blasted through the city like an amped-up, beer-belching hurricane, knocking ’em dead in the clubs with tongue-in-cheek humour and instant punk-metal classics like ‘Science Gone Too Far’, ‘Sleepin’ With The TV On’ and ‘Faster And Louder’, as well as inspired covers of The Stooges’ ‘Search And Destroy’ and The Flamin’ Groovies’ ‘Slow Death’.
Shernoff was the band’s musical prime mover, but the man who was born Richard Blum and re-invented himself as Handsome Dick Manitoba was the undisputed focal point, right from the fateful moment when he was upgraded from roadie/cook and appeared on the cover of their debut album ‘Go Girl Crazy’ clad in sequinned wrestling cape, shades and an afro the size of a small Central American country.
He was, in short, not one of nature’s beauties, but when he grabbed the mic to tell the world that all the other contenders would “go under the thunder of Manitoba,” he became an anti-hero to worship.
Sadly, like so many other great cult bands, The Dictators discovered that, beyond the confines of certain Big Apple watering holes, the world was not yet ready to be dictated to. And so they called it a day, leaving only a handful of grieving devotees, your correspondent among them, to mourn their passing.
Towards the end of the ’80s, Handsome Dick suddenly reappeared with a new band, Wild Kingdom, whose debut album also proved to be their last, despite the presence of at least two solid senders – ‘The Party Starts Here’ and ‘Haircut And Attitude’ – worthy of inclusion in the ’Tators Hall Of Fame. But Wild Kingdom vanished almost as quickly as they’d arrived. And, after that, all was silence . . .
Thus, did the time-honoured question ‘Who the hell is Handsome Dick Manitoba?’ give way to a still more baffling conundrum: where the hell was Handsome Dick Manitoba?
Forsaking all spiritual sustenance and material goods, your correspondent devoted himself to trying to solve this riddle for many long years. It was a lonely passion and one not without its moments of dark despair.
Alleged sightings of the half-man, half-myth proved tantalisingly inexact. Someone claimed to have seen him driving a New York cab. Others said they’d been served by him in a bar. One excited informant stated, under oath, that he’d had a letter delivered to him by a postman answering Handsome Dick’s description. But, repeatedly, the trail grew hot only to go cold again.
Your correspondent, down to eight stone and living entirely on a diet of cheeseburgers and Dictators’ albums, began to be shunned in polite society. But I could still hear the whispers: they wondered if Handsome Dick Manitoba wasn’t just a figment of my fevered imagination. And, frankly readers, on certain long, dark nights of the soul, I even wondered this myself . . .
But then, out of the blue, came a report of a close encounter. Conor O’Mahony, manager of top pop combo Something Happens, and a saintly man if ever there was one, arrived at my hermitage in the Dublin mountains with astounding news. Just back from New York, he told me that he’d spent some time conversing with a bartender who claimed to be none other than the one true and indivisible Handsome Dick Manitoba. What’s more, he said, the great man was gearing up for another shot at the heavyweight crown, this time with a band called The Plug Uglies.
This was uplifting news to be sure, but coming so late into my star-crossed quest for the Holy Grail, it wasn’t enough. “Proof,” I hissed. “I need proof.” O’Mahony, crouching, backed out of my humble mud hut, promising to return.
A few months later, he was back. He’d been in New York again, he’d met the man claiming to be Handsome Dick again and, this time, O’Mahony had something tangible to offer.
He had handed me a piece of paper which, unfolded, turned out to be half a CBGB’s flyer, on the reverse of which was a hand-written note in the style of a blues verse.
“Hey Liam,” it began, “Writin’ some tunes, it’s goin’ sló/Band done broke up, well whaddya know/Just bartending now, makin’ good bread/Until the next message, this is all I got to said!”
There was no doubting its authenticity. The magical use of language, the bold inspired rhyming of “bread” with “said”; it could only be the work of the man – nay, the legend – whose name was appended to the foot of the note. “H.D. Manitoba,” it said.
But my joy proved short-lived. There was to be no “next message.” O’Mahony gave up rock ’n’ roll to follow Cat Stevens into the Islamic faith and we lost contact. The pursuit of the truth about Handsome Dick Manitoba had long-since exhausted all my funds and I couldn’t afford to fly to New York myself. The trail went cold again – this time with an icy finality.
Time passed. I underwent therapy, determined to rid myself of this crippling obsession and, gradually, I re-entered the world of everyday life. I buried my Dictators’ albums, put my rock ’n’ roll shoes in cold storage and went off to interview bishops and write about football.
The odd nightmare apart – when I would suddenly sit bolt upright in my sleep, sweating profusely and calling ‘Handsome Dick! Handsome Dick!’ to which my uncomprehending partner would invariably respond “No, it’s not, you pillock” – I was able to forget my dismal past life and get on with my new one.
At least, until two weeks ago. It was a dark and stormy night and I’d had that recurring dream again, the one in which Handsome Dick appears in the press room at Lansdowne Road during half-time and says “About time we did that exclusive interview, eh?”
But this time I was wide awake when I jerked upright in the bed and was immediately aware of an eerie light that appeared to be emanating from my contacts book. As I approached, it fell open as if manipulated by unseen hands. And there on the page, in a strange silvery script, was an entry I’d never seen before. Sandwiched between “McCarthy, Mick” and “McGrath, Paul” it was a New York telephone number and a name . . . “Handsome Dick Manitoba.”
A shiver ran down my spine, as I dialled the number. The shiver ran back up again, as I heard a distant ringing tone. By the time the phone was answered at the other end, the shiver was out on the floor, dancing the watutsi. Fittest damn shiver I’ve ever had.
And the voice on the other end of the line? That of an answering machine, and not even the full message at that. But, oh, it was enough, a gravelly, New York drawl saying “. . . after the tone. See ya babe!” Clearly, this was not the White House.
Well, when the moment of truth finally came, it was, in the manner of such things, almost mundane, after all that had gone before. I called again and this time I was answered by a man who readily agreed that he was indeed Richard Blum aka Handsome Dick Manitoba. Conor? Yeah, he remembered Conor. Hot Press? “That’s Irish, right? Hey, that’s a cool magazine.” And would he consent to do an interview? Indeed and he would though not right this moment, ’cos he had to go out and buy some stuff. How about the next day, then? “Sure, no problem! And, by the way The Dictators are reforming! Talk to you tomorrow, babe.”
And so it comes to pass. 15 years, five months, three days and 14 minutes after I embarked on my solitary quest – how they laughed, the bastards! – I finally get to go mano a mano with Handsome Dick Manitoba. The tape starts here . . .

LM: So what’s this about The Dictators reforming?
HDM: Well, we’re talkin’ ’bout doin’ a project, yeah. About doin’ an album and a tour. But it’s goin’ slow. We have new songs but the thing is that it’s really hard to get together at this stage of our lives and stay focused on one thing. It’s not like everybody’s goin’ ‘let’s do The Dictators a hundred per cent’. I mean, one of the guys in the band has got a wife and kids, so he’s gotta do what he’s gotta do. He can’t sit around and wait to be a rock star, y’know? But if and when we do get together it won’t be a reunion tour. Sure, we’ll do some of the old songs that we still think are great toons, but we’ll be doin’ a whole album of new songs as well. Right now, we have four 24-track songs done without vocals. Supposedly, I’m goin’ into the studio this month to finish up the four vocals. Then the plan is to get together in January and do another seven or eight songs. One thing at a time. But if we can get a deal then we’ll see about touring.
To take you back, how did you fall in with the other guys in the first place?
Well, Scott and I were childhood friends, grew up together in the Bronx. Y’know – ‘Ireland Part 2: The Bronx’. Then we met the other guys in college and we just started a rock band.
Legend has it that you were a roadie/cook before you became the phenomenon that was Handsome Dick Manitoba.
Yeah, but before that, I was a mailman. I dropped out of college because I got a letter from the post office to try out as a mail carrier. I hated college, it was just boring, so I became a mailman. And on weekends I used to go upstate to where the band was practising and I’d make breakfast for ’em, and we’d get all fuckin’ drunk, eat big breakfasts, hang out and be a rock band. And then when they really started happenin’ I wanted to work more closely with the band so I became a roadie. But I wasn’t a very good one. I lost a couple of amps and did a few other things.
Such as?
Well, there was one situation when the top of the truck caught onto an awning and yanked the awning right off the wall. And so it was like, ‘We better make this guy lead singer, he’s costing us too much money as a roadie’.
But, really, it was kind of natural that I fell into the position of being a lead singer. Put me in a room fulla people an’ I come alive. Actually, Handsome Dick and Richard are not that far apart. Handsome Dick is just a little bit more . . . outgoing. But even when I tend bar, I put on a show. I’m not one of these bartenders that’s quiet; like you come in and I just give you a drink and leave you alone. No, I talk to everybody.
Which begs the question: what kind of mailman were you?
I’ll tell ya a funny story. I was deliverin’ mail in Queens one day when I found I was deliverin’ a copy of Playboy. It used to come in one of those brown paper wrappers that covers about three-quarters of the magazine, y’know? Fits real snugly leavin’ about an inch at the top and bottom, right? So I’m standin’ in a hallway of an apartment block one day and I go, ‘shit, the new issue of Playboy’. So I take it out and I’m lookin’ at it and suddenly this guy comes into the building. And I can’t get it back in the wrapper properly. So it’s like I’m this pervert mailman tryin’ to sneak a peek at Playboy. That’s the kind of mailman I was. I lasted about six months in the job. I couldn’t take getting up at 4 o’clock in the morning to go to work. It was horrible. Rock ’n’ roll is better; you’re only comin’ in at 4 o’clock in the morning.
What’s the story about the gig at which Handsome Dick Manitoba was born?
What used to happen is that I’d get drunk at parties and just get up and sing a song for fun. Then one time, in a place called Popeye’s Spinach Factory, way out in Sheep’s Head Bay in Brooklyn, I got up on stage and sang ‘Wild Thing’. Eric Emerson, who subsequently died, was in a band called The Magic Tramps and was a friend of the Warhol crew; he was there and thought it was great. The writer Richard Meltzer was there too. And he eventually persuaded Murray Krugman and Sandy Pearlman, who later produced the first album, to sign us. So, it was, sorta like, a star was born.
I mean, I was drunk and just havin’ fun but the crowd reacted! And what it really boiled down to was that Adny, even though he was the singer and songwriter, he didn’t really have . . . I mean, he’s just not a frontman. Even if you just talk to him, you could tell that he’s not a frontman. Whereas, I’m a natural-born frontman; I’m, like, jump up on stage and let’s see what happens.
The first album was released in 1975, which would have coincided with the beginnings of the whole New York punk/new wave scene. Were The Dictators part of all that or were you seen as outsiders?
Outsiders really, ’cos we were never really accepted by that arty community. We were, like, Bronx ruffians or somethin’. But, although there were some people who probably hated our guts, the crowds in the clubs used to love us. And even though we never sold a million records, even now I run into people who go ‘Oh man, I useta love The Dictators’. Everybody says that now (laughs).
What was that story about you getting into a fight with Wayne County, when he supposedly fractured your collarbone with a mic stand?
(reluctantly) Uh yeah . . . it was a horrible, stupid incident that happened about, oh, eighteen years ago now. Uh, you can read about it in the history books.
But had it something to do with the fact that you were seen as ‘outsiders’? Did that create some tension?
Well . . . it probably had somethin’ to do with the fact that I had, uh, a reputation that preceded me. I dunno. I mean, to me, that guy was like a fuckin’ basket-case. I don’t know what he thought I was thinkin’ or doin’ but, like, I’m not dumb enough to go up onstage outnumbered five to one and start a fight, y’know?
I see. They were on stage and you weren’t giving them a good review from the audience?
Well, see, the old CBGB stage was, like, a foot high and you actually had to step across the corner of the stage to get to the bathroom. I probably had a coupla drinks on me and, walkin’ by, I probably said somethin’ that I thought was funny. But it wasn’t like, ‘Fuck you, assholes’; it was not . . . engaging in a negative way. But it was taken as such and also because I was on the side of the stage and so I had ‘broken down the barriers’. So he curses me, I say ‘Fuck you’ and the next thing I know – boom – it’s an attack. And it became this huge incident in New York with people taking sides and some had me down as a ‘gay-basher’ and all that shit. And to this day it hasn’t been resolved. But I ain’t fuckin’ apologisin’. I did nothing wrong. I was the one who got attacked.
Were you on friendlier terms with any of the other bands?
Not really. We were, like, a bunch of regular guys from the Bronx who happened to love rock’n’roll. But the rest of them – Debbie Harry, The Ramones – they were more accepted by the art community. We were never hip. And, believe me, I’m not sorry. I never wanted to be that kind of hip.
Do you think that the humour in the band meant you weren’t taken seriously on another level?
Probably. I think people who take their music very seriously thought we were kidding. But we weren’t. The best thing about our humour was that we couldn’t take ourselves too seriously. But we worked very hard at being a good band and crafting songs. That was very important to us. But those bands who go out on the road goin’ ‘Hey, Cleveland! Are you ready to rock’n’roll’. I couldn’t deal with that. That’s so stoopid.
Looking back on the three albums, what do you make of them now?
The first one (‘Go Girl Crazy’) was a band of teenagers makin’ a record that we thought was cool. That was our in-joke record. And nobody bought it. And I think Adny freaked out a little; actually, we all bugged out. So the second one (‘Manifest Destiny’) was really a loss of identity in terms of ‘Let’s make an arena record’. And that didn’t work either, even though there were some really good songs on it. The third (‘Bloodbrothers’) was actually my favourite. I sang most of the songs on that one and it was the punkiest as well as being a bit more serious. But it didn’t sell much more than the other two did.
And, presumably, that’s what led to the band calling it quits?
Right. We’d had three records and we weren’t gaining any momentum. The band just had enough one day. Plus, I was all fucked up on drugs.
What happened?
Well, basically, I survived another boring musician-addiction story. I got really fucked-up.
Were you close to losing it completely?
Oh yeah. I was really bad. I mean, I would walk into CBGBs and Hilly, the owner, would say, ‘Here comes Richard, hide the liquor’. Now here’s a guy who makes a living selling booze, sayin’ ‘Hide the liquor’. That’s how bad I was. My line used to be ‘I’m a Jew, I can drink any Irishman under the table’. That was my big line. My big macho bravado: ‘I can drink more than anyone, I can take more drugs than anyone, I can eat more than anyone’. But heroin was really my great weakness.
And did you get off everything simultaneously or did you have to take them on one at a time?
All one shot. I was ready. I was, like, an inch away from death many times until I suddenly realised, ‘Hey either you’re gonna fuckin’ click or you’re gonna lose everything’. Friends helped. One night, after I did a ridiculous array of drugs, Scott and Manny from The Del Lords, they kinda put me up against a wall and said, ‘Look, we care about you and if you don’t stop this, you’re gonna die’. That came at the end of a really bad period of self-destructive behaviour and something that was buried deep down inside of me woke up and I decided ‘I really do care about my life’. So I joined NA and AA, got clean, and now I’m eleven years without a drug or a drink. And I’m a bartender!
That must be the last job on earth the textbooks would recommend.
Yeah, but I like the job and I can trust myself. I know what I can do and what I can’t do. I love bartending but I don’t wanna drink, because I know that will ruin my life. It’s very simple. But I don’t take any credit for bein’ that strong. To me, it’s more like a gift that I can do that. I hardly go to AA meetings any more, but once in a while, I’ll drop in to see people, to shake hands and maybe to speak. I haven’t completely disassociated myself. But it did work for me. I got what you’re supposed to get out of it. I got a life. I got back into music, I did Wild Kingdom and now rock’n’roll is rearin’ its head again. And I feel good. Better than I ever did. And I feel I’m ready for it again.
I want to ask you about wrestling. That always seemed to be a big thing for The Dictators.
Yeah, we liked the spirit of it, we liked the fact that it was an insular reality in which you could create your own world and make up the rules as you go along. It was comic books coming to life. A bit like The Dictators, actually.
Are you a big sports fan?
Yeah, I follow everything and I play everything a little. I’m the type of guy, I’ll go bowling even if I suck, y’know? A lotta guys won’t go bowling ‘cos they’re afraid they’ll look bad. I don’t care. I’ll go skiing this winter. I just like to try things. But, sport, yeah. I grew up in the Bronx near Yankee Stadium and I’ve always loved baseball. I love football too. And boxing.
What about soccer? Did the World Cup make any impact on you?
Sure! You guys beat Italy. That was pretty amazing. But, lissen, I won money on the World Cup. I bet Brazil to beat Italy in the final. And I won money against Ireland.
What? Are you telling me that you backed Holland against us?
Oh yeah. Do you think I’m stoopid?
No, but you shouldn’t go telling an Irish magazine!
(laughs) Hey, it wasn’t an anti-Irish thing. I’ve got a Dutch girlfriend. What could I do? But I tell you, I used to work for the guy who owns Sin É. So I’d go into the bar when they were watching the World Cup, and it was, like, 150 Irish guys packed in there starin’ at the TV. And I’m like, ‘Oh shit, I ain’t sayin’ nuthin’ man’. I mean, I bet Ireland to beat Italy but when your girlfriend’s from Holland . . . (Orator’s voice): The Irish people were a fine group of people to serve.
Well said sir.
No, it’s true. (Pause) I have to make it up a little (laughs)
By the way, is it true that you were once a New York cab driver?
Yeah, on and off for years. When you’re a musician who’s not full-time you need a job that helps pay the bills and allows you to take time off when you want to. But, lemme tell you, it’s a horrible job, the worst, the suckiest fuckin’ job in the world. It makes you feel like a piece of shit ‘cos people hate you. What’s nice about bein’ a bartender is that people like you until you fuck up. Bein’ a cab driver, people hate you until you prove yourself. But everyone loves a bartender . . .
Which reminds me, I gotta get goin’. I gotta be in work before 4.
Okay. One last thing: What’s Handsome Dick Manitoba’s Christmas message to all your fans in Ireland?
I’ve got no Christmas message. I’m Jewish.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you – Handsome Dick Manitoba. This is all ye know. And all ye need to know.