Binky Philips/The Planets

Prime Time at Coventry

By Binky Philips

In 1973 and '74, the years of Glam, if you were in a band doing your own material in New York City and infinitely cool, with the right connections (as in, you knew one of the New York Dolls), you might have been able to get a gig at Mercer Arts Center or Max's Kansas City...maybe.

If you were a folkie with an acoustic guitar, there were probably still a dozen little joints in the Bleecker/MacDougal Street area in the center of Greenwich Village (the Bitter End being the most famous) where you could get an occasional pass-the-hat kinda gig. But, there was really only one venue in all of New York City where a band of regular rock schmoes could get booked playing original material through Marshall stacks: the Coventry Club on Queens Blvd. in Sunnyside, Queens about three miles east over the 59th St. Bridge.

The club was a dump, but not like CBGB (still over a year away from opening). Not a cool atmospheric dump, but, a totally bland, faceless everything-flat-black dump. There were two rooms. You walked into a run-of-the-mill space, about 25 feet wide and 40 feet deep, jukebox, cigarette machine, bathrooms, on the west/left, a standard issue bar running the length of the room on the east/right. Behind that was an opening about 15 feet wide into the other room, a 40x40-foot square with a small stage on both the east and west walls -- while a band played on one, the next band set up on the other.

You will not be surprised to know the Coventry Club was, uh, suspected to be a flat-out Mob front for money laundering. Every time we played there, there would be about 5 or 6 guys sitting at the bar who clearly hated rock&roll, hated rock bands, hated having to keep their jackets on to hide their frickin' guns. I mean, this wasn't even a maybe; these guys were hardcore lower level gangsters. Tough, scary, chip-on-their-shoulder thugs.

And, yes, if you're a hardcore KISS fan, you recognize the name Coventry. My old high school buddy, Stan ("Paul Stanley") Eisen had me come down to a show he and his Kabuki-faced cohorts did at the Coventry, opening for a blatantly all-lesbian Blood, Sweat & Tears/Chicago-style band called Isis who had insisted on headlining. Quite a mistake! KISS already had the backing of Casablanca by then and had brought in their full show. Huge electric sign, fancy black leather outfits, full make-up, blood, fire, flash-pots. Ooops, gals!

A digression. In late 1963, about 10 weeks before the Beatles hit Ed Sullivan and changed everything, I went to my very first live-performance Rock show in the main ballroom of the Hotel St. George in Brooklyn Heights, literally around the corner from where I lived. Coppola used the cocktail lounge in that hotel for the scene where Luca Brasi gets strangled in "The Godfather."  My hand hurts just thinking about it. 

Anyway, it was ridiculous show. Doo-wop groups lip-syncing to their 45s, with the record-player right onstage in plain view, with the needle jumping around if any of the groups had dance-steps that were the slightest bit aggressive. The one live act was an all-girl band called the Satin Dolls.

Instrumental Surf music was the rage, and more than anything in the world, I wanted  to be a drummer. "Wipeout" was all that mattered. So, as the Satin Dolls played covers of current hits, I stared at the drummer with all the intensity I could muster. She was good and good looking too. Blond pixie haircut behind a pale pink champagne sparkle kit. She looked a bit like Stella Stevens.

But, as the show progressed, I found myself distracted by the electric guitar the singer was playing. The more I looked at that guitar, the more intrigued I became. By their fourth song, I was paying no attention to the drummer anymore. I was simply transfixed by the sunburst Fender Stratocaster 4 feet from my face.  For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what ‘the gearshift' did. 

After the show, I tried to screw up the courage to ask the singer what that was for, but she seemed so tough, I chickened out. It would be another year before I discovered what  a whammy bar did. Anyway, 10 years later, the Satin Dolls had evolved into Isis! One album on Kama Sutra, I think. Featuring a song called "Do The Football." Sheeesh! Okay, back to Coventry.

By the end of 1974, my band, the Planets, had played Coventry several times. We had finally earned our first prime weekend slot, 10:30pm on a Friday night. A friend with a van drove our equipment out to Queens at 7 p.m. with the understanding that he'd be back to pick us up at around 1a.m.

By the time we went on there were about 60 people sitting at the tables in the middle of the back room. Not great, but not bad. The nearest tables being about 15 feet from the stage. We were doing the standard 35 minute/9 song set.

As we started the last song, one of the overt hoods that spent the night sitting at the bar walked directly up to the lip of the stage, in plain view of the entire audience, and gave me the universal finger-across-the-throat sign to cut the show. I mouthed back to him, "This is the last song."     

He mouthed back, "I don't care... get off the stage."  I tried again, "Okay! This is the last song!"

"Get off. NOW!"

In a pissed-off, embarrassed, impetuous Pete Townshend moment, I full-force kicked my mic stand at the guy. It flew by him, missing his face by about 6 inches. Within the next 15 seconds, there were at least three guys from the bar onstage throwing our equipment off the stage. Literally picking up amps that were still plugged in, drums, guitar cases, all just flying into the audience. The guy who had just missed having his head smacked by my mic stand grabbed me and shouted into my face, "Who the fuck you think you are, Elvis?!"   

The head guy, named Tommy, walked up to me and said, "You have three minutes to get your equipment outta here. You and your Planets are banned from Coventry. Out. Now!" "But, our van won't be here ‘til 1!" "I don't give a shit. Anything of yours still in this club in three minutes, my guys will destroy! Go! Jesus!" And he walked back to the bar shaking his head.

While the audience stared agog, we gathered up our scattered gear and got ourselves out onto the sidewalk as quickly as possible. This being only decades before cell phones, there was no way to get in touch with our van driver, and consequently had to settle down for a two-hour wait with our enormous amps and double bass drum kit stacked up on the sidewalk of busy Queens Blvd.

We'd been out there for about an hour when a bright orange Brickin pulled up in front of the club. Two blatant hoods, one very Italian, one very Irish, got out and swaggered into Coventry. We stood around admiring the Bricklin, a sleek Ferrari-wannabe with gull-wing doors. About 5 minutes after these guys had disappeared into the club, a VW Beetle came slowly cruising down Queens Blvd. and stopped parallel to the Bricklin. Suddenly, an arm reached out of the shotgun window of the VW and into the wide open driver's window of the Brickin and yanked out a pale tan leather jacket. I heard cackling from inside the VW as it sped away with the jacket. We all started howling with laughter, and then, we all stopped laughing. Oh CRAP! Those hoods are gonna think we did this!

My pal, Jake, who'd come to the show, walked up to me and said, "I got the license plate number off that VW; you might need it."

Just then, as luck would have it, our van guy pulled up half an hour early. We piled our stuff into that truck as fast as we could and got the hell back to Manhattan.  The next day, early evening, my phone rang. "Hello?"

"Is this Binky from The Planets?" "Yes." "This is Tommy at Coventry. Okay, listen carefully. You can keep the fuckin' jacket, punk, okay? [and this was about three years before Punk, nomesane!] But, you're comin' out to the club right the fuck now with the address book in the right-hand pocket, understand?  You keep the jacket, you little fuck. But, you get that address book back here in the next 30 minutes or you will be very, very sorry, and I'm only calling you this once." Click.       

I waited 10 minutes, called Tommy back. "Listen, Tommy, I just spoke to my lawyer and..." "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Kid, do you actually think I give a shit about a fuckin' lawyer?! You got any idea who you're dealing with, Binky?"

"Wait, wait, my lawyer says I have to tell you the truth. While we were waiting for our van  to show up, a pale blue VW pulled up and a guy in it reached in and took the jacket. I have  the license number, Tommy. Honest, it wasn't us."

"Gimme the number. If this is bullshit, I can't tell you how bad things are gonna be for you." Oh, boy.     

Then, two days later, I got another call. "Binky, it's Tommy at Coventry. Hey, you were right. We got the address book back. Look, we all feel bad about what happened that night. No hard feelings. How's about we give the Planets a Saturday headlining spot next month, that okay?"

"Yeah, Tommy, that'll be cool. I'll call you next week to set it up."

And I NEVER set foot in Coventry again!