The Death of the ‘Godmother of Punk’
August 26, 2005
I first got thrown out of one of Esther Wong’s clubs at the tender age of 16. At the time, Wong was already well into her 60s and looked like your typical Chinese grandmother. But that was just a façade. The woman was tough as nails. She was as strict as you’d expect your Asian grandma to be, but possessed a temper that would send the Incredible Hulk cowering. And nothing seemed to bring out that temper more than finding an underage kid in one of her clubs with a fake I.D. and a flask full of Jack Daniel’s in his pocket. More on this in a second.
I’m assuming most readers will not know of Esther Wong. She passed away of natural causes on August 14 at the age of 88. But for those of us whose lives revolved around rock ‘n roll, she was a legend — “The Godmother of Punk.” The two Los Angeles clubs she owned — Madame Wong’s in Chinatown and Madame Wong’s West in Santa Monica — gave birth to and nurtured the punk and new wave scenes in the 1970s and ‘80s.
Some of the musical acts that built their reputations playing in Wong’s clubs include: Oingo Boingo, X, the Motels, the Police and the Go-Gos.
Madame Wong’s was where Blondie’s Debbie Harry handed me her perfumed, sweat-soaked handkerchief after her set, sending me into instant puberty. It was where I first saw a young band named the Red Hot Chili Peppers take the stage wearing nothing but socks on their penises. And I could go on …
You also had to be 21. I was probably 15 when I first snuck in. But Wong would have none of that.
This was the woman who would walk around her clubs and if she smelled marijuana on you, she’d grab you by the ear and drag you right out the front door. This was the woman who refused to let the Ramones play their set until they cleaned up the graffiti they had painted on the bathroom wall.
As she kicked me out of her club that first time, she continued to berate me “Aren’t you ashamed?” she said to me. “You should act like a nice Chinese boy, not sneaking around here like a low-life!”
I informed her I was Korean.
She stared at me for what felt like the longest beat.
“You’re Korean?” she finally said. “Well, that explains it!”
Then, she laughed.
Of course, I continued coming back. The music was just too good, the girls were drop-dead beautiful and besides, I always seemed drawn to the clubs that kicked me out (I think I’m still not welcome back to the Formosa Café for a drunken stunt I performed to impress a girl 17 years ago). But by the late ‘80s, I had moved away to college and left the club scene behind. Madame Wong’s had already closed by then (in 1985) and Madame Wong’s West would shut its doors in 1991 — both victims of the evolving styles in music.
At the time I was frequenting Wong’s clubs, my cultural identity was a long way from being formed. But looking back now, I’m more aware of the significance of the presence of someone like Wong, this fierce Asian American woman, who was in many ways the heart of this hip scene. That thought still blows my mind — it would be like seeing my grandmother holding court with people like Joey Ramone and Axl Rose. But there was Wong, doing just that.
I don’t know what currently stands at the site of her old clubs. I hadn’t given it any thought until I heard of her death. But I think I’ll drive by this weekend with my flask of Jack Daniel’s and drink a toast to her memory.
And if she’s looking down on me from heaven, I’m sure she’ll be saying, “He’s Korean. What do you expect?”
Philip W. Chung’s column, Reel Stories, appears in every other issue of AsianWeek.
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