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Ridiculed in some quarters for their tattered musical talents, the Ramones in fact let fly with a very basic but very winning instrumental intensity and write songs of underhanded subtlety. Their melodies, which deliberately evoke memories of the Top 40 circa 1960, fall somewhere between American Bandstand and a rent party. Slow sales, slight chart action, intermittent air play and a sense of being trapped by their own well-rounded limitations drew them to Phil Spector. A producer responsible for some of the greatest vintage rock, Spector put the band through his often intricate, sometimes tortuous studio paces, came up with an album that smooths the Ramones out without cutting them down.
End of the Century is a neat and boisterous meeting of the traditional and the vanguard, with no quarter asked or given on either side. The album begins with a bit of pyrotechnical nostalgia, Do You Remember Rock 'n' Roll Radio?, then rockets on through some tough short stories (Chinese Rock, a scary dope song, and Let's Go, a tidy account of mercenary activity) and some wistful sentiment (Danny Says). There are rest stops for punk satire (The Return of Jackie and Judy) and mean strutting (High Risk Insurance).
There's even time for the unofficial class anthem, Rock 'n' Roll High School, the title tune of a rambunctious B picture that brought the Ramones to the drive-in circuit. The whole album is the kind of virtuoso feat one expects from Spector, but it is livelier and more intense than anything he's done since his work with John Lennon. For the Ramones, it's both a consolidation and a subtle change-up; a record that proves professionalism does not have to dull the gleaming amateur edge the Ramones like to affect. End of the Century might even help avert the grim destiny that Johnny Ramone, during dark days, can see looming ahead. "It'd be terrible to spend ten years being a rock-'n'-roll star," he frets, "and then go out and have to get a job."
Pass Phil Specter's wrought-iron gates above Sunset Strip, and you're on posted ground. To get to the 40-room Spanish mansion at the end of the road, one must negotiate four speed bumps, pass through an electrified fence and heed the warnings about burglar services, armed guards and watchdogs, then reconsider the owner's written notice that YOU ARE HERE AT YOUR OWN RISK AND ARE HEREBY ADVISED TO LEAVE IMMEDIATELY. Not even Charles Foster Kane required such baronial fortification; it would have been easier to crash Xanadu.
Once past all the obstacles, alarms and early-warning systems, there is a final notification for visitors right inside the front door. Just underfoot, in fact. One welcome mat carries the injunction GET LOST! A second simply demands WIPE YOUR FEET, STUPID. Spector would have everyone believe that he dwells in the outer darkness, but all the barriers, threats and entreaties are really just billboards erected for the incidental glorification of rock's most baroque imagination. They are, in fact, like many of the records he has produced over the past two decades, brazen, grandiose and wittily orchestrated for maximum impact.