The Agenda

Compiled by Ted Rao

Got a story to share? Send your memories, stories, and anecdotes to i_remember_randy@agendanation.net!

Of all my years spent both around and on the stage of the Living Room, my biggest regret is that I never got to try Ma Hien’s cooking, unlike countless other musicians, both local and national, who are of the age group I like to refer to as “I got to see Hüsker Dü and Black Flag and you didn’t Ted so nyahh-nyahh-nyahh....” Fuckers. Yeah, that means YOU, Pete Burr. I mean, what the hell have I got to hang over the heads of kids five to eight years younger than I? Teenage Fanclub? Uncle Tupelo? The Posies? Not even comparable. “Oh man, there was this one Replacements show in ’86 where Westerberg like, totally did a full-gainer onstage and they had to carry him off; he was so drunk…then we all went to Silver Top.” Or, “Back in ’88 I made out with Kim Deal in the Pixies’ van on Holden Street around the corner…” SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!
Anyhow, back to my real regret. Yes, by the time of my ascent to the apex of the musical mountain top that is Providence, the woman who had cooked countless meals for bands (Mike Watt still raves about “the killer chow!” that Randy’s mom would make) had retired her apron, and we were given food from…Angelo’s. Not bad I guess, but no substitute for homecooked love. But that all brings me to my big Randy story, so brace yourself. I remember the first show I ever booked. It was one of those Sunday afternoon punk matinee deals that went from like one ’til seven and the cover was five bucks. I believe Blanks 77, a bunch of mohawked doo-dads from New Jersey who for some reason were notable in the punk scene back then, were scheduled to headline but failed to show up, which was their M.O., I later discovered. So the Pist ended up headlining instead. But none of that’s really important, so Matt or Ashley should just take that part out. [Ed: Of course we should!] So anyway, over the previous month or two I was on the phone with the bands, then Randy, then more bands, then Randy, and eventually it got set up. I flyered the entire town for weeks straight, had my friends promote it on WRIU’s Shindig!, which was at the time the hub for local punk rock radio in Rhode Island, and on and on. The bottom line was, it was a big deal to me. Your first show that you book, when you’re like eighteen and punk rock is your raison d’être, always is. That’s good, because after a bunch of them you kinda get jaded and cynical and all that. But the first one, you’re psyched. It’s all about the scene, man. You’re making it happen, bringing the underground to the people. You truly think you’re changing the world. What utter horseshit, in retrospect.
So I rolled up to the club that Sunday in my ’83 Rabbit, and like two bands hadn’t shown up, and there weren’t many people there, and I was starting to get nervous. Unnecessarily, I might add. But that’s my M.O., you see. I walked into the club, and there’s Randy and his son Charlie, sitting at the bar, eating this big spread of food from Angelo’s. Well, don’t you know that I went right up to Randy and had a million questions, like who’s doing the door, I need to show you the guest list, this band needs this and this band that, these guys haven’t shown up yet and what am I gonna do, and just to add Randy I think-I’m-gonna-have-a-coronary and throw-up-all-over-you-right-here Randy so-you-better-pay-attention-to-what-I’m-saying Randy Randy Randy NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW!!!
And he just looked at my with those Santa-Claus-with-a-hangover eyes of his, smiled, and said “Hey, hey, what’s your name…Todd?”
“Umm, no, it’s Ted.”
“Ted! Right! Here Ted, have some food.” And then both he and his son started spooning out fried peppers and sausage onto pieces of Italian Bread and handing them to me. I started to say “No, actually I’m fine, but I was really wondering about…” and he shushed me, ever so gently.
“Here Ted, sit down with us. Relax. Everything’s gonna be fine, we’re gonna have fun, it’ll be OK. Have something to eat.”
So I sat there with them, ate some sausage and peppers, talked about the Red Sox, and for about a half an hour, though Randy and Charlie’s kind hospitality, was forced to relax. Now, I’m not sure how many club owners you’ve dealt with, but I say that among that field of ex-Hitler youth, this is not common behavior. Not by a long shot. And that, my friends, is why Randy Hien was so great.
After his tragic passing, I reflected a bit on his legacy. Without question, he was the most important figure in Providence’s music scene over the last twenty-five years. There’s a reason for that plaque hanging on the wall in his office, given to him by R.E.M. in 1987. It was their appreciation for all he’d done for them. Through Randy, thousands and thousands of people on both sides of the stage got to take part in something life-changing. And through his club, so many saw what was unfolding in front of them and realized what D Boon meant when he said “Our band could be your life,” and so they started their own bands. And of course, Randy let them play. I’ve lost a few friends over the last year, and I was plenty sad. But for some reason or another, I didn’t cry. Randy made me cry. With sorrow, with joy, and with gratitude. He will be missed.
By the way, the show was a complete shitstorm, but that’s a whole other tribute.
Ted Rao
Shotgun Flu, Double Nuthins, Thrillions

I went to the (bubble) Living Room countless times using my older brothers fake ID, seeing Black Flag, Hüsker Dü, Replacements, Sonic Youth, Bad Brains etc, but whenever I think of the Living Room, I think of one particular night in late 1987. I went to the show with three friends and got separated but afterwards, when I walked back to the car, it wasn’t there. I walked around the parking lot many times and didn’t have any luck finding them. I was really fucked and I only had 7 bucks on me. Being 20 miles from home and there were no cell phones back then, I really didn’t know what to do.

So I started to walk down the street and into a huge empty lot with dirt piles everywhere — this is now where the Mall / Waterplace Park is. It was a very foggy, chilly fall night and I really was in a panic. As I walked across the lot towards the old bus station, a Monte Carlo pulled up near me, rolled down the window and a voice said “you must be lost” and asked if I wanted a ride. I looked up to see a guy wearing a huge red mullet glitter wig. I did the math in my 18 year old head: in Providence, unlimited crazy people. In this car: one. So, I got in and offered him my last seven dollars for gas money. I was so clueless, I didn’t even know which highway to take to get me back home, so this poor guy drove for what seemed like forever, first to 95N then 95S then Route 10. Finally, we ended up on the correct highway — 195 East — and we were on our way. He drove for ten minutes to the Warren / Newport exit and dropped me off. I begged him for two dollars back, in case I needed it for the last five miles to get home and he said OK. It had to be almost 3 a.m. as I started to walk towards home and took about ten steps before a car was exiting the highway. I turned, stuck my thumb out and who was in the car that came rolling out of the fog? The friends I went to the show with! They had gone out to eat after the show and I don’t know how the hell the timing worked out but to this day I have never been so pissed off and happy at the same time to see someone I knew. To Randy, thank you for the many years of live music — and to the red mullet glitter wig guy, whoever you were, thanks to you too.

Mark MacDougall
Six Star General / 75orLess Records

Randy was the kind of guy that would rather give you fifteen cents than a quarter. That was always a joke amongst the bands. But honestly, he was the one guy who gave us all a break when we were starting out. Randy believed in sincere rock bands that needed to be seen but somehow, weren’t. You could go toe-to-toe with Randy, but he still loved you in the morning. He knew, far before everyone else in this godforsaken town, that our form of rock n’ roll deserved attention. And he provided it for us.

Thank you Randy, for everything…and most of all, for putting up with our beer-infused antics!

Peace Brother,
Pete Burr
Collision Service, Backwash, Mother Jefferson, The Sleazies

This is less a story than a flood of memories:

My Living Room / Randy Hien experiences go back to the original Living Room on Westminster Street. It was set up like a living room, albeit the old ratty couch-filled living room of a college apartment. I remember standing on the arm of a tattered couch watching the then-young Neighborhoods play some of the freshest music around. Locals like the Mundanes and the Nads (remember them? Probably not). The androgynous Lou Miami and his Kozmetix put on some great shows. That place was great.

The second Living Room, the one with the bubble, brings back great memories as well. Randy was generally around and seemed to have good rapport with some pretty choice national / international acts, most of which had local bands opening for them. Coat of Arms opening for the Meat Puppets at a matinee show, for example.

Over the years, great shows included Tom Verlaine, numerous Mission of Burma gigs, the Minutemen, the Screaming Trees — for that one I think I was in the midst of a 45-hour sleepless, thesis-writing daze (as I recall, Soundgarden also played but I didn’t care for them, and the opening act was Mother Jefferson), the Pixies (especially before they hit it big), the reborn Buzzcocks, Firehose, and of course, many, many ’Hoods performances. Friends of mine would sneak out of the now-defunct boarding department at Moses Brown just to catch a ’Hoods show, it was a can’t-miss kind of thing.

Yes, there was a disastrous Replacements gig, at which the Young Fresh Fellows became the “replacements for the Replacements.” And Camper Van Beethoven without David Lowry, who had laryngitis. Given the choice of getting our money back or staying, most of us stuck it out. It turned out to be a really good and memorable show. I recall “Take the Skinheads Bowling” performed barbershop quartet style.

I haven’t spent much time at the latest incarnation of the Living Room and my main context for Randy Hien in recent times has been the Lincoln team at the Little League World Series. Randy’s humble, humorous and encouraging coaching style was a perfect counterpoint to the rah-rah bullshit that’s too often the subtext of youth sports. He and his team had me glued to the tube.

What a well-rounded guy — baseball, rock and lots of memories. R.I.P.

Dave Everett

I was never in a band that played at the Living Room, but Randy was my Little League coach when I was a kid growing up in Lincoln. I was the only girl on the team, and I got to play with the boys. Randy used to treat me basically like one of the guys. He told me to “hit the runner.” My family used to eat at Hien’s Family Restaurant on Front Street all the time. I didn’t know him very well through the nightclub. I just remember him as my coach.
Amy Boulet

When I first started going to shows it was just after the original Lupo’s had closed and you basically had two options — The Living Room or The Rocket. The Rocket had a lot of great matinees, but for bigger bands, it was all about the Living Room. I would tell my Dad I was sleeping at my friend’s house and my friend would say he was sleeping at my house. Surprisingly we never got caught. The 2nd Living Room location on Promenade is still one of my favorite clubs ever in Providence. I stage dove for the first time there at a Neutral Nation show when I was 14. I felt like somehow I was a “real” punk afterwards. I also remember being pulled up on stage and singing along with 7Seconds, which at that point was just the coolest thing that had ever happened.

At my high school the Living Room was a thing of great mystery and intrigue. There were always rumors of fights or bands playing secret shows. “Did you hear someone fell out of the Bubble at the D.R.I. show? This girl was sitting in it and it fell right out onto the parking lot!” Lots of urban legends swirling around and I got to feel like the cool guy because I would actually go. After shows we would hang around in the parking lot and maybe get something to eat at the Silver Top. Then we would head back to Woonsocket and try to figure out a way to pass time the rest of the night until morning broke and we could go home without arising our parents’ suspicions. Hours upon hours talking about our favorite bands and drinking coffee while driving around aimlessly. We were doing everything and nothing and growing up without even realizing it.

Liam Gray

Randy vs. Yosemite Sam
Around ’87-’88 I was working coat check at the Living Room during a Dickie Betts show. Those southern/classic rock shows were horrible to work—lots of ignorant, violent drunks and hopped-up rednecks—but the bar was guaranteed to make a ton of money so Randy and Brian seemed to think it was worth the aggravation. Plus, at that period of time there was no other larger-capacity music venue in Providence—so the Living Room was the place to play if you were going up (or down, in Dickie’s case) the success ladder.
The band had already gone on, and the front entrance—where we sold tickets, checked IDs, and had coat check—was empty and relatively calm. Then suddenly everyone started shouting and screaming, “Get down! Get down!” and this BIG guy came busting through the crowd. He was tall, rotund and sweaty with an enormous handlebar moustache, incomprehensibly wasted, and waving some crazy looking pistol in the air. It wasn’t your garden-variety service revolver. It was one of those long-barrel, wooden-handled things that you associate with General Custer—or, in this case, Yosemite Sam. The guy was demanding that he be served another drink (hmmm, don’t think the NRA or the 2nd Amendment covers that bud.) while Randy was calmly, yet quickly, moving him out the door. “I’m sorry but you need to leave my club. I need you to step outside now. I understand you’re upset but I need you to leave now.” Randy accompanied the fellow outside and then returned, closed the door, and announced to the staff that had congregated in the entryway, “All taken care of. No problems. Back to work.” And that’s exactly what happened. The band kept playing, we all went back to our jobs, and the police never appeared. The pre-cellphone era certainly had some benefits.
Laura Zurowski

The Living Room — Big Bubble location — provided the venue for my first non-arena show, Suicidal Tendencies in 1986. No seats, no ushers, no binoculars … just sweat, flying bodies and loud, sonic skatecore twenty feet away. At age 16 there weren’t a lot of options for checking out underground bands on the club circuit, but thanks to Randy’s policy of allowing kids in — without a wristband so they couldn’t drink, of course — he provided myself and countless other local adolescents the chance to witness some otherwise unobtainable rock and roll. When my friend and I were turned away at the door of a sold-out Hüsker Dü appearance in early 1987, we hung out in that classic patio area in front of the club until the band came on, then climbed up and sat in the window and watched the entire show. The Living Room wasn’t hard line about kids like the other clubs; I’m sure Randy knew that these are the memories that always stick around.

Jay Litchfield
The Double Nuthins / Record Collector

I only saw two shows at the Promenade location; Verbal Assault with American Standard and 7Seconds with Color Blind and Voice of Reason. I often think back and try to figure if those shows were really that amazing or if it was the newness of it all that was so exciting. I knew at that time this was the place I wanted to be, a place where I belonged. Soon after those shows, that location was closed for fire code violations.

I next crossed paths with Randy years later at a club in New Bedford. I can’t remember the name, but we played to an empty room. Randy was booking for the club, trying to get things in order to re-open the club in Providence. That night he told me the story of the original club, the Promenade location and the comeback he was planning. I remember feeling like I had met a living legend, and I had. My mind was racing with the thoughts of how great it would be to have the Living Room open again. That night our bass player quit and I was once again searching for another musician to continue playing. At this point, I could not imagine not playing in a band.

I was living on Jewett St. when the club as it exists today opened. I remember thinking the scene would be saved, things would go back to the way they were when I went to those shows all those years ago, and best of all the club was within walking distance from my apartment. Things didn’t work out quite that way, but Randy was always willing to offer up the club for countless bands that would contact me thru MR&R’s “book your own fucking life”. Randy would book the shows, work the door, work the bar, he did it all — and as he did he would talk, non-stop. Always positive.

In ’97 we booked a bunch of shows on the east coast and we started things at the living room. A bunch of people came out to see us off, it was probably the first time over 20 people came out to see the band. At the end of the night Randy gave us all living room t-shirts and wished us luck. Randy always gave the band something, I swear there were many nights when the $25 he gave to the out-of-town band for gas came from his own pocket.

I still go to shows, many times I’m the oldest guy there with the thinnest hair. I look around for the kid’s who’s experiencing their “Verbal Assault” show. Occasionally I’ll find him, up on stage at a DarkBuster [show] or in the parking lot trying to talk to the guys from Against Me. There will always be a need for a place where these memories are made and Randy recognized this. His passing leaves a hole in the scene, he will be greatly missed.

Mark Lambert
Downtide, Returnaround, currently in Sharks Come Cruisin’

Wow! The Living Room. I had always gone to schools in very small towns before Brown so I was in rock and roll heaven from the start in Providence 20 years ago. Nepotism and being in the right place at the right time got me airtime right away at WBRU without an internship, and I thought I had truly died and gone to heaven with all the guest list we got at the Living Room. Up to that point I always had to travel a couple hours for shows and (choke!) pay. Fond memory number one is making out in the parking lot with my date after the Georgia Satellites (I know, lame band, but very hot date). Fond memory number two is getting pulled onto the stage at the Circle Jerks because my friend Jeff’s cast from his broken arm was squashing me between the pit and the stage and the band took pity on me.

Anyone else remember calling Bob Guisti at the designated begging hour? What was it, 11am on Thursdays to see if he’d let my lousy local band play the opener on a Tuesday night? One such night where we begged our way onto the bill the headliner, the Leaving Trains from LA, were nowhere to be found at sound check. They showed up as the club was closing. Fond memory number three was the ass-reaming Randy gave them for stiffing him. It was epic.

Thanks for the memories. RIP, Randy.

Dawn Richardson, Brown ’88, WBRU ’86, Sleep that Burns 1987-1990, Pistolwhip 1992-1993

I met him the very first day I was in Providence. I went to the Living Room to look for work and met Randy, Brian, Bob Giusti, Tucker and Keebla all on my first stop. (Well, actually, after being hit by my first Providence driver and finding out that the Providence cops don’t want to stop for traffic accidents even if we were blocking the intersection at Dean and Broadway.) But I got to the room and got a job doing monitors and also a job doing sound for Rash of Stabbings in one stop. It was Randy who stood up to Ray [Patriarca] Sr.’s chief muscle, Bobo Marrapese, who was packing big heat, the night that they showed up to Jon Butcher Axis show demanding back payments from Jon from an old management contract they had with him, and now that he had a hit song they wanted a share and were willing to take all the equipment plus the PA from the club as a down payment. Little Randy, toe-to-toe with the infamous Bobo and his conspicuous shoulder holster, telling him the PA belonged to the club and it wasn’t going anywhere and he should just calm down and let the show go on and then discuss it with Jon after the show. Or me, in his office, asking him to bring Jimmy Gestapo in so I could apologize for beating him and his band up on stage. Or that every morning when I pour my coffee I remember him showing me how if you put your sugar in the cup first and then pour the coffee starting low and then lifting the pot high that it stirred the sugar for you. Not a big surprise, but he was just happy to pass the tip on. He gave me so much, from jobs to opportunities. As I’ve said before, it was the Room and Randy and Brian that brought me to Neutral Nation and Rash of Stabbings and sound for so many bands and recording and opening for the Ramones and inevitably all the friends in music that I have there in Providence, yourself [Ted] included. He taught me when you’re booking a band you can call the club once a week. That’s not annoying. More than that is, and if they say call back in two weeks, do as they ask. But generally once a week, and it keeps you on their minds without being a pest. It worked. Also, always count your money in front of the guy that pays you to verify the count. And the big one that he showed everyone every day: just keep going and don’t waste your time crying about your troubles. Every day is a new day and you make the most of it and it’s a pleasure to have it. And people in the club biz in Providence tried to screw him many times but he still kept it positive. And he did love the local bands. Sure, he was thin with the dough when you started, until you showed that you brought them in the door — but he never screwed you out of money when it was a good night, and he would give you the greatest tips to help you as a band or a person, and need I say it again he let me open for the RAMONES! He paid us the highest compliment when he booked us to headline and had Ma Hien cook for us. These are somewhat trivial recollections of a really wonderful guy but it’s the few things my mind readily grasps right now. I’ve been keeping track through the Internet of all the tributes he’s been paid by you and a lot of other folks in town and it’s been beautiful to see. Thanks for the ramble time here. I’m sad to have lost an old friend and I hope his family sees and gets all the support that all the facets of Randy’s life are sending them. Peace, Tom Buckland Neutral Nation

I could tell you a funny story about “growing up” at the Living Room, but as I sit here writing, I just want to say that if it wasn't for Randy, a whole lot of people in this town that are of a certain age and hung out during the golden age of music in Providence would have had completely different lives. He turned us on to music, in a pre-MTV world, that wasn’t played on mainstream radio, bringing together groups of people that didn’t really fit in anywhere, and gave them a place to watch and listen to cool bands and a place to play with your band and your rock star aspirations in an environment that was fun, freaky (in a good way) and most of all loving. Joann Seddon