by Mick Rhodes | editor@claremont-courier.com

The first time I saw Eddie Neville was at a party in Glendora in 1982. My punk band Human Therapy was playing, and he and his group, Red Brigade, walked in like they owned the place. From a faraway land called Ontario, they were dressed to the nines with spiked hair, engineer boots, torn jeans, leather jackets, and studded wristbands. I was in awe.

Our bands were technically rivals, but in truth Ed and his mates were far beyond us. I’d heard legendary DJ Rodney Bingenheimer play one of their songs, “Radio Moscow,” just a few nights prior on his incalculably influential “Rodney on the Roq” show on KROQ. They were on the freakin’ radio!

Ed was quiet, which to this blathering extrovert came off as a person not to be trifled with. His bandmates were more gregarious, and though I was intimidated by their style, swagger, and talent, we became fast friends, and eventually bandmates.

Ed lived in the same house pretty much the entire 43 years I knew him, and I don’t recall ever seeing the inside. He had two older brothers, both genuine motorcycle club outlaws, the oldest reputed to be a member of the Hells Angels. For a big skinny kid from Glendora who was only playing at acting tough, being around someone like Ed, whose siblings were the genuine article, was another kind of intimidating. Ed had that toughness too, and he’d flash it when needed, like if someone threatened one his friends. But I never saw him deploy anything other than a sneer and a presence that said, “This is a very bad idea for you.”

The late Ed Neville performing at the Green Door in Montclair in the late 1980s. Photo/by Scott Collins

Ed was loyal to his band, to his friends, his town. He was quiet, but sneaky funny. He chewed tobacco for a long time, and I can still picture him with a wad of Skoal in his mouth, me leaning in to hear him say something hilarious under his breath. And despite enduring a less than ideal home life growing up in Ontario, he was a sweetheart.

Many came to love Ed through the music he made. He was a ferocious punk rock drummer for Red Brigade, Kent State, the Idolls, and the Flamethrowers. I joined him for a time in most of those groups. His favorite band in the world was Motörhead, the famously loud English punk/metal progenitors known for their iconic anthem, “Ace of Spades,” and its late leader Lemmy Kilmister’s live fast and leave a tattered corpse lifestyle. Ed must have had a dozen Motörhead T-shirts. I’ve never seen that logo without thinking of him.

Regardless of station, bands are full of temperamental types, with egos butting up against one another often, in innumerable ways. Every band needs a general, a second, and soldiers. Ed was the most loyal, dependable soldier in every band he was in, a true brother in arms.

We hadn’t been in touch regularly for a decade or more when I ran into him at a Cheap Trick/Joan Jett show at Fairplex in late fall 2018. He’d been sober for a while, and it looked good on him. We laughed a bunch, hugged, and said we’d hang out soon.

The Flamethrowers, circa 1987 (L-R) Jeff Moses, Ed Neville, Kurt Ross, Mick Rhodes, and Rocko Occhiato. Photo/by Scott Collins

Like many of us, Ed had demons. And he could be reclusive. He apparently suffered in isolation over these past few years. I feel bad about not reaching out to him.

That chance meeting at Fairplex turned out to the be the last time I saw him. He died sometime this summer. We don’t know exactly when, and didn’t find out about it until weeks afterward. By that time his body had been cremated, and a traditional memorial was off the table for various reasons. He was 60.

Last weekend a roomful of mostly 60-something longtime musicians and friends — some who had known him since grade school —  got together at Strum Brewing in Ontario for a proper sendoff, complete with reunions from three of Ed’s bands. You see, Ed was most happy sitting behind his meticulously maintained drum kit. He would have wanted to go out like this: loud, proud, and brazenly punk rock.

I caught up with people I hadn’t seen in decades. There were some somber moments, but it was mostly a celebration of a guy we all loved who had somehow slipped away from us over these past few years.

As things were winding down another 40-plus-year friend passed through the room with his phone aloft, taking video of the crowd. After mugging a little (blathering extrovert, remember?) it crossed my mind that the next time I see some of these folks might just be at another memorial, and I wondered who among us we might be celebrating.

The late Ed Neville performing in the late 1980s. Photo/by Scott Collins

I’ve heard tell that many people think about death from the time they are quite young. I never really did. That changed when older family members — and a couple young ones — began disappearing about 15 years ago. But even though death had become a regular visitor, in my hubris I removed myself from the pool of likely next candidates. I always imagined I’d live a very long, happy, active life. I still might. Who knows? But I no longer see myself outside that circle of likely next candidates. As Ed’s and several other recent losses have made clear, I’m in that zone now. In fact, most everyone at that memorial last week is right there with me. We’re going to be raising glasses and having more and more bittersweet reunions in the coming years. I hope to stay among the celebrants, not the celebrated, for as long as I can.

In the meantime, here’s to a sweet, quiet, talented, and troubled man. Ed was loved by a great many, probably many more than he realized. I hope he knows it now.

“You know I’m born to lose
And gambling’s for fools
But that’s the way I like it baby,
I don’t want to live forever …”

“Ace of Spades,” Motörhead