Ca-chink, ca-chink, ca-chink....That's what I heard when I was at a stop light, on a wet St. Marks Place, on my way home one night, twenty-odd years ago. Looking down at the feet next to me, well traveled pointed toe shoes, the sort of which were common in Tijuana shoe stores, but not the sort I'd been seeing on the feet of New Yorkers in the mid-eighties. I glanced to my right, and saw the pointed shoe wearer's companion, with a Ronettes style bouffant, and make-up right out of a Diane Arbus photo. Then I looked up at her man. A stoic, timelessly pompadoured, figure gazing straight ahead, waiting for the light to change. It was Willy Deville.
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I'd been in New York for a couple months, done a few clubs, did CBGB's, had a group of friends that included a D-list of grafitti writers, artists, drunks, and the drummer on the Heartbreakers "Live at Max's" LP,...in short, I had all sorts of fringe NY moments. But here was Willy Deville, with his woman, on a wet, rainy night, in the Lower East Side. Now it really felt like New York.
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Mink Deville (the band), though loved by critics, were vastly overlooked by record buyers. They first appeared on a lame CBGB's compilation, and likely because of that association, no one was really sure what to make of them. Deville's understated reverence for music that came before him was about as "old wave" as you could get, especially considering his CBGB's stablemates were the Ramones, Patti Smith, Blondie, et al. This was a guy who had a Spector alumni producing his first three albums, wrote with Doc Pomus, hired Elvis' rhythm section for his third album, and recorded in Paris so he could use Edith Piaf's string arranger. It's telling that, while most of his contemporaries can be pegged to a certain era because of their sound, his music is just like his look was that night, timeless.
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