Having spent a significant portion of my desperate teenage wonder years residing primarily in a dank, one room studio apartment in the N.Y. Bowery with a vicious cat and two upscale (one, less so...) junkie prostitutes, 'sometimes masquerading as N.Y.U. film students, and hangin' around after hours clubs like Neither/Nor and Save The Robots fulla transvestites, junkies, and beat 'em up bizarros of all stripes; when not shoplifting books with the aid of Lower East Side legend and flim-flam artiste non-parallel, John Spacely, I was consorting with a rough-hewn buncha N.Y.C. hardasses, excruciatingly intellectual jazz snobs, all-around scum-lords, and my accident-prone fellow runaway drifters, right? So my idea of rock'n'roll and it's accompanying lifestyle was apparently considered unacceptable in certain circles of polite society, particularly in certain parts of New England and the Bible Belt, ok, who are we kidding--basically anywhere outside the once exceedingly tolerant and festive Lower East Side of Manhattan. It seemed like my own personal threshold for magic and madness tended to extend miles beyond my former peers proclivities for feeble hearted record hording and part-time bondage pants wearing. "I thought it was supposed to be a party...Who do you gotta know to ROCK in this town?" etc., etc. I took my cues from the fearless agitators, bohemian clowns, gutter poets, and counter-cultural shock-troops of another time, and felt strongly, that it was not a "privilege", but indeed, one's DUTY to have fun, live an authentic life, express one's self, search for meaning, ask questions, create art, defy mindless authority, generally make the fur fly, and rush flagrantly, headlong into the very heart of the FLASH METAL MAELSTROM, heedless of the mores and customs, and various zipcode pecking orders and highschool cafeteria hierarchies I was expected to condone and enable. I steadfastly refused to give my consent to the rule of inheritance, intimidation, corruption, and abuse, and vigorously defied the idea that fun was the exclusive monopoly of the governing elie... Rockin' was my business, and business was good. I looked up to self-possessed action shakers and sovereign fire-eaters like Alex Mitchell and Frankie C. Starr. Stiv Bators and Axl Rose. Bon Scott and David Lee Roth. Tex Perkins and Claude-from-Smack. Billy Idol and Texacala Jones.

Anyway, throughout my fantastic voyage as a young firebrand, it got real "Pirates Of The Caribbean", as I began encountering violent opposition, from walking-dead social climbers, and status-seeking, nine-to-five automatons, who seemed to despise my unfettered sense of go-at-large latitude. Horatio Alger fables be damned! "How DARE this longhaired freak NOT obediently jump through psych. profiles and urine tests for the privilege of donning a Taco Bell uniform to spend all $159 on utility bills and video-games like the rest of us?" ...But it was still sorta easy to shrug all their bad energies off, in those years, cos I still had the impervious bravado and relentless self-belief of youth-on-fire and a crazy ocean of faith-in rocknroll and real-connections, open hearted traveling, freedom, frivolity, week-long conversations, music, writing, the beach, the highway, the proverbial camp-fire...my purity was my protection, and I was able to frequently tap into people's higher nature.

U.S.A., but underneath that contrived surface of transparent, heavily mannered, church on time, law abiding, birds in the trees sweetness, lurked the usual hypocrisy, money games, sicko abuse of power and corruption that festers like a malignant tumor in this country, but who can stand against the perverts and sadists, and homicidal propogandists who control the laws, the courts, the media? The FIX IS IN, KIDS! Say it with me, again. THE FIX IS IN!

But in the simpler childhood years, these Hutchinson Brothers , like many of us, were super-saturated in the naive idealism of 70's rock culture, immersed for entire weekends in "Creem" and "Rockscene" magazines, they'd lose themselves for hours in the escapist pop fantasy worlds of Ziggy Stardust and T.REX. They learned to harmonize like the Beatles and play guitars like Mick Ronson and Wally Bryson. And Jimmy played drums. They dreamed of someday relocating to London, or L.A., and living out all their idyllic, sensationalist yearnings for redemption through rock stardom, and eagerly awaited the day when they'd move to the big city to tread the boards of Rodney's English Disco on the Fabulous Sunset Strip , like all their shaggy, bespangled pop heroes in the pin-ups of "Circus" magazine.

All their milky white-and-gold-flecked, young adolescent innocence was shattered abruptly, when their talented, and much beloved brother was murdered by a crooked cop "who made it look like a drug deal". Courageously, after an ongoing grieving process, before that permanent sense of lonesome acceptance takes root in the heart's of those left behind, the Hutchinson bros. summoned up the faith and stamina to soldier-forth, in tribute to their fallen siblings' spirit(s).

At some point, they finally did manage to make their way out to Hollywild in the eighties and formed a sparkling glamour-pop foursome with bassist Danny Dangerous, and another sad eyed N.J. native, SAMMY SERIOUS on lead vocals. They all wore Converse like the Ramones, wrote silly, catchy bubblegum trash like "Sticky Sweet Girls", "Death Rock Girls", "Rich Chicks", "Take A zero Home To Mom", "Oh Yeah", and "Pina Colada Bang" with fun, singalong lyrics and choruses and arrangements and serious pop hooks worthy of all the best rock and pop groups like, Redd Kross, Queen, Ramones, Cheap Trick, Generation X, T.Rex, the Sweet, the Kinks, and Badfinger, but maybe dumber. They all dyed their hair the perfect shade of purple, and because of the legendary Escovedo Brothers punk band, they'd forever be referred to as "purple haired Zeros". They smashed some attendance records, and frequently drew one the most ardently faithful club followings of anybody on the Sunset Strip since Guns N Roses quit playing the clubs, and the Glamour Punks discovered heroin. They signed a deal with Enigma Records, and SAMMY SERIOUS, JOE NORMAL, DANNY DANGEROUS, and MISTER INSANE looked to be the next big thing.

But like my old mates from Dogs D'Amour, Motorcycle Boy, and Circus Of Power always remind me---it's one thing to become the "It Band" of N.Y. or Hollywood, and another thing entirely to make a dent in the flyover states. For that kind of fame must be purchased by a big business machine strong-arming it's show-biz kids into our acceptance against our will by ceaseless-rotation, brainwash-programming. Hangdog charisma and Bazooka Joe hooks are never NEARLY enough. Just ask Francois. Or Inger Lorre.

To this day, the purple haired ZEROS still enjoy a frenzied, world-wide cult-following of fanatical true believers, much like Candy, or the Beat Angels: The fans won't let 'em forget. I'm eternally charmed by how devoted their fan-base is. They really seemed to have left their mark on countless fans of poppy glam metal that remain almost hysterically faithful to the enduring image of these four violet mop tops and their lasting legacy of heart of gold chewing gum punk-pop. Long after everyone's forgotten how the ZEROS wrote and performed the Howard Stern theme song, or how the LORDS OF THE NEW CHURCH themselves covered a Joe Hutchinson song for that John Cusack movie, "Tapeheads", (Stiv and the boys, naturally played an evil punk band called THE BLENDER CHILDREN! RENT IT!) or that the world famous Coconut Teaszer (R.I.P.), itself, was once painted Zeros purple in tribute to their imminent ascension, THE ZEROS are still worshipped by a sincere demographic of impassioned glam-bastards, everywhere! I think it even shocks the band.

For one brief, shining hour, these four ZEROS had to have been certain that their mega-stardom was just up around the bend. Everything seemed so perfectly aligned. They were like the Monkees, or Poison, or Ramones--just gratuitously marketable. Who wouldn't want their own DANNY DANGEROUS action figure? I have no idea in the world what went wrong. Did their record company go bankrupt, or just sign 'em as a tax-write-off? Were they in the wrong place at the wrong time when that grunge thing exploded-all those moaning flannels making them seem too naff, like the Bay City Rollers or something? Were they just too much of an anomaly, in that they invested all their music and live shows with a bouncy, sunny optimism, in a dreary era, where the establishment was keen to divide and conquer the faint din o' teen, and replace it with the cynical and artificial constructs of a many splintered, plastic, fake "Youth Culture"? OR was it all just cause, as the Sleazegrinder himself has suggested in the past, that the Zeros were just another of those bands who fell through the cracks for HAVING TOO MUCH HEART in darktimes like these and those, when it's been persuasively argued that it is not "Rock" that's dead, but maybe, love.

I dunno all the gory details, but at some point, the Hutchinson Bros. split acrimoniously from the group, taking alot of the musical credibility and anthemic songwriting with them to form a more serious minded pop band, THE HUTCHINSONS (later shortened to HUTCH) seeking a more adult sort of power-pop glory with their essential, well-worth having debut, "Plastic Fruit & Popcorn " ("What Woolworth's used to smell like...") that album featured three or four really unforgettably classic songs. Esp. the slinky, soul-baring, "Hipster", and the autobiographical tearjerker, "Elizabethtown". Joe also went onto join the Mott The Hoople/Babys/Silverhead throwbacks, SLOW MOTORCADE.

Broken hearted SAMMY SERIOUS "replaced" the Hutchinson brothers with disposable Sunset Strip casualties with still more zaney non de plumes, like Toy Staci, and Jimmy Glitter. I think Toy Staci went onto join the L.A. cult faves, The Mistakes. SAMMY SERIOUS could never let the dream die, cos in his heart, he's still the band's biggest fan, the truest Zero-monger of 'em all. SAMMY continues to cling masochistically to the days when he was king of the whole scene and got to hang around with cats like mick Ronson and shit. David Lee Roth knows how he feels. Be careful, Sammy, nostalgia kills, baby...SAMMY'S always on-line and sometimes continues to sweetly, sadly pine for a "Reunion" with all the ORIGINAL ZERO blokes, who seem evermore unlikely to wanna go back and dye their hair purple again. Joe "Normal" Hutchinson continues to evolve as a critics darling, preferring to spend time with his family, while co-authoring smash hits for the Saviors and Sammy Hagar. Occasionally threatening to retire. "People Move On."

SAMMY SERIOUS might still host a local cable-access show in Hollywood and has shitloads of merchandise available at his website. Zeros, solo albums, and his quirky side project Serious Suicide. He oughta sell purple shirts with a big white Zeros logo.

I last saw DANNY DANGEROUS cadging drinks and eating from the melty deli-tray on the set of that DRAMARAMA Video twenty years ago today.

So if you like 70's arena-pop and fun punk bubblegum trash like say, Redd Kross, JellyFish, Tigertailz, Ramones, Trash Brats, Toilet Boys, Celebrity Skin, American Heartbreak, Candy, TSAR, Hanoi Rocks, etc. Look for "4,3,2,1," and probably skip "Zeros Rule The World", unless you're a hardcore fan.

If you like the Poptopian Songcraft of Adulthood like Jason Falkner, Tal Bacman, Dwight Twilley, Supergrass, Star Spangles, Marvelous Three, 60 Ft. Dolls, Fountains Of Wayne, Oasis, The Move, Cheap Trick, Blur, etc., then pursue Joe Hutchinson's solo albums and work with Slow Motorcade.