For the sake of posterity, if nothing else, I’d like to share a charming tale with you, Pilgrim.
It’s the story of where and how I came up with the name that has become my pseudonym for nearly three decades.
In the days of my more carefree youth, I used to go to this club back in Boston called the 1270. It was located on Boylston Street (named after its address number) not a far hop and skip away from Fenway Park, and across the street from FM rock station WBCN. I was introduced to the place by a friend and became a semi-regular there for quite a while until I got married, and even afterward I can recall dropping in with my then bride a couple of times. It was one of Boston’s most now-legendary gay clubs, but attracted weird young outsider artist types (raising hand) and (trendy at the time) professed asexuals and just plain confused or unsure youngin's (raising my hand again, yeah I'll admit it, at least I thought about it a little for a while back then, but I got over it and back to full breeder status pretty quickly) and BU coeds with out of state boyfriends looking for a nice safe environment, all showing up for the cheap drink prices, the oozing stench of casual but neat alt-hipsterism, and, more importantly, its selective (and rumored to be intentional) laxity towards carding the underage, especially on Wednesdays when the crowd was most mixed.
It was the week of Halloween 1981. I was on Urban Camping Expedition One, having been evicted from what was my parents' place for trying to kick out some fuckups who in turn, fucked up the apartment to the point that the fire department condemned it. My mother was in the hospital dying of cirrhosis, my father was on his umpteenth stay in the Salvation Army detox, and I had just spent the night in a city jail a few nights before thanks to my former friends’ redecorating job. My brother, who used to be the radical left wing lunatic of the family, was paradoxically now the most normal, well adjusted one, pursuing his fanatic and never ending deconstruction of James Joyce 3000 miles away in grad school at UC Berkeley.
I was sleeping in the park, the subway, and, for one of those nights, in a dumpy flop hotel near the Combat Zone. At least I had a job, and more importantly, still enjoyed drinking, so the mid-autumn New England chill didn’t bother me at night so much as it could have.
I dropped by the “12” that night, and of course, there were plenty of patrons in costume. Not only did I get my 18-year-old ass in the door without getting carded, they were also nice enough to disregard my seriously dirty and disheveled appearance. What counts here is that I was let in.
The 1270, if anything, was a unique night spot. There were three levels and a roof deck. The basement had a pub like setup, complete with jukebox, pinball, a grill menu and occasionally a transvestite (or maybe TS) pianist singing show tunes. On this particular night she was singing:
I'm as corny as Kansas in August,
I'm as normal as blueberry pie.
No more a smart little girl with no heart,
I have found me a wonderful guy!
The ground level was more of a dance club setting, where the set could segue from, say, “Tainted Love” to “Holiday In Cambodia” to “Dreaming” to “Safe European Home” without anyone so much as blinking an eye and dancing right through them all. I didn’t get up to the upper floor or the rooftop much,if at all, and usually just stuck to the lower areas.
It was in the middle of the ground level dance floor, sort of early in the evening, that a monumental event in my life had occurred.
Sipping on my second or third Black Russian, I was in a circle with my friend from high school and a few folks I had not met yet. People began to introduce themselves each in turns, and I had noticed that some of them were using what can best be described as punk or otherwise underground tragically hip pseudonyms. “Hi, I’m Pogo.” “Hi, I’m Lily White (a toss to the DKs’ “Kill The Poor”)”.
My mind began to turn it into a game, like when I’d be in various drama classes and we’d play call-out “Telephone” like games to improve our improvisational skills and whatnot. Actually, I can’t recall exactly why the fuck we did those. Anyway, it was my turn, and I reached out and shook hands, trying to act as natural as possible:
“Hi, I’m Michael Psycho. How’s it goin'?”
And with that, a name was planted upon me for time immemorial. It wasn’t some well thought out scheme, it wasn’t conceived by a band manager, and it wasn’t brought to me in a dream by some angel with a fuckin’ flaming sword on a bronze tablet. It was spur of the moment, I decided after the fact that I liked it, and I have used it ever since.
I did, however, attach meaning to the name with time. Contrary to what most people may assume, it has nothing to do with the popular use of the slang term “psycho” to denote a crazy, violent or otherwise unstable person. My personal interpretation of my last name Psycho goes straight to its root, to suggest my preoccupation with matters of the mind or, as all of you romantic and metaphysical chic types out there might put it, the workings of the creative soul. Coincidentally, according to certain ancient legends, the Archangel Michael is considered a psychopomp, guiding the souls of the dead to the Great Beyond.
In time, my name has graced flyers, zine articles, and music releases, among a bunch of other stuff (and of course, a site address). Sure, folks have used variations and reverse applications of the name since then, among them being pro wrestlers, video game characters, radio personalities, and at least a couple of other musicians, one of them being a self-styled Satanic rapper who has the most interesting variation I’ve seen yet.
I’m not worried. I’ve lived with this name for so long that I’m completely confident that it (and I) will outlive anyone who tries to co-opt it in any form whatsoever. I’ve survived way too much bullshit to be convinced otherwise. But the thing that sets me out from the rest isn’t how I chose my last name. What closes the case for me is how my first name was chosen.
In late September of 1962, my brother came home from parochial school to a mild dispute between my folks. My dad wanted to name me after his late father, Albert. My mom, in the later stages of carrying me inside her, wasn’t having it, and insisted that they come up with a better name.
Enter my brother. The archaic Catholic semi-holiday of Michaelmas (September 29) was happening, and religion class that day was all about the Archangel Michael, and how cool he was for kicking Satan’s ass straight to Hell and a whole bunch of other superhero type stunts. He was not to be swayed. If this was to be a little brother, Michael was his name, and he wasn’t having it any other way. My parents, impressed by little Jackie’s rhetorical delivery, and from a kid only eight years old at that, were easily sold.
Later on, shortly after I had picked up my adopted last name, I was on a phone call with my brother and mentioned what I had done. He heartily approved of the name change, remarking that Michael was “the crazy angel” who “stood up to the old guard” when it tried to take everything selfishly for itself. Thus, the guy who gave me my first name condoned my choice of a last one. I can live with that.
So you see, Pilgrim? For me, it’s not just a stage name. It’s nothing short of who I am. No one can take that away from me.
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