Brother Wayne

I love the MC5, but my one interaction with guitarist Wayne Kramer left me feeling sore. It’s only now, after his death, that I see who he really was.

Wayne Kramer photographed by Marcia Resnick

I was pissed at Wayne Kramer.

It was October of 2018. Earlier that month, I’d met him backstage during the Portland stop of the MC50 tour through my friend Brendan, the drummer for this leg. When Brendan introduced us I played it cool, resisting the urge to fan out on someone described as a “godfather of punk,” a “guitar god,” the “leader of the MC5” and various other honorifics, but the fact was that I wanted something from him, and badly. It was coming up on the anniversary of the death of Kramer’s former bandmate, Fred “Sonic” Smith, and I’d pitched an article based on this milestone. Getting an interview with Kramer could make or break the piece.

I wasn’t sure what to expect, but Kramer was friendly and unguarded. When I asked him if we could talk later on, his response was immediate: “Of course!” He whipped out a business card for Jail Guitar Doors, the organization he’d co-founded with Billy Bragg to provide musical instruments to the incarcerated. “Here’s my business number,” he said, scribbling on the back, “and here’s my cell phone. Call me anytime.”

I left the gig walking on air. The article was going to be a smash, and it’d help me deepen my reach as a sometime music writer (and a full-time fan of the MC5). Checking the tour schedule, I waited till it was a day off, and then I called. The first number went to voicemail. No big deal. The second one did too. I’m sure he’s insanely busy. Then I waited for him to call back.

A few days later, when he hadn’t, I texted his cellphone. Hey, I’d love to grab a moment to talk. Nothing.

A week or two later, by which time I’d left another message, I was full-on furious. Behind it, of course, was the dull red glow of embarrassment. I felt like a chump, and it stung.

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After Kramer’s passing—last week, at the age of 75—a flood of tributes poured forth.

Many spoke to the fact he’d co-founded a band which helped kick off the entire genre of punk; other, more personal ones spoke to his warmth and his generosity, his capacity to put words into action. Still, I clung to the merest scrap shred of pettiness. Huh, I thought. Not as generous as all that. Wondering how Brendan was doing with it, I went to see if he’d posted anything. That’s when I saw what another D.C. friend had left.

I’ve known the guy—let’s call him H.—since I was a teenager, first making my way in the D.C. punk scene. Older and savvier than me, his sweetness was muddled by a thick streak of darkness. It’d been a few years since we’d seen each other, but he’s important to me, and I believe he feels warmly towards me, too. He’s someone I looked up to.

Like me, H. met Kramer backstage through Brendan on that tour. But H. wasn’t looking to snag an interview or bolster his résumé. As I began to read what he’d shared, everything else dropped away:

“It was one of the lowest points of my life. That night, Brendan invited me backstage to meet one of my heroes. There he was, engaging with a couple of writers and other admirers. I mustered the courage to approach the circle of people and gently pushed past the two that were closest to him. I kept approaching until I was directly in front of him. I told him I was a friend of Brendan and that I wanted to tell him something. I had his attention then, and so moved my face right up to the side of his head, until my lips were right up against his ear. That’s when I whispered what I knew he knew.

At that moment, he excused himself from everyone and took me into a corner where we talked for about ten minutes. He gave me his card and told me to call him. He was everything I conjured in my imagination. His kindness, understanding and love caused me to break down, and as I stood there weeping like a little kid, he hugged me and told me it was going to be alright. And eventually it was alright.”

I shut the screen of my laptop and sat for a long moment. I saw now how little I’d really known, both about Kramer and about my friend. How close I’d come to losing him, and how Kramer—for all the energy and attention coming at him that night—had chosen to do something quiet and kind. He’d put words into action.

I’ll never know why Wayne Kramer gave me his number but never picked up the phone. Maybe he was too busy, or maybe he didn’t really want to talk to a stranger about a relationship with a now-dead creative partner. Maybe he really thought I was a nobody and not worth his time. I’ll never know. It hardly matters

All I know was that when a desperate stranger, who just happened to be someone I love, asked him for help, he gave it. He changed my friend’s life, and thus mine as well.

Rest in power, Wayne.