The Mad Dog Speaks: Original E Street Drummer Vini Lopez
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Vini Lopez
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UP CLOSE ⭐️ Vini Lopez ⭐️
Vini by Maureen Daye Pietoso
Has there ever been a more colorful, controversial figure within The Jersey Sound as Rock’n’Roll Hall Of Famer Vini “Mad Dog” Lopez, the original drummer for Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band? Now, on the precipice of Vini’s unfinished tell-all book, The Madman (his former nickname) tells it like it is, and how it should have been. Fired by Bruce in 1974, ostensibly for his explosive temper, Lopez tells a different story to this reporter in a phone call last month.
The Jersey Sound: So you’re writing a book!
Vini “Mad Dog” Lopez: The First Beat Of E Street, yeah. Because the very first place I ever played drums with a band in front of a crowd was with Sonny & The Star Fires. It was on E Street at the church on the corner. Sonny played the blues. We rehearsed in a garage and when our pastor came and asked us to play for a bunch of kids, we said sure. That was fun.
TJS: You were the drummer of the E Street Band from ’68 to ’74, including on the first two Bruce albums. After you left, you returned to perform with the band at Giant Stadium and the Spectrum in the 2000s, and, of course, when you were inducted into the Rock’n’Roll Hall Fame with Bruce in 2014. That must have been some night!
VL: That was really something for me. I didn’t expect it. I hadn’t been in the band for years at that point but when it came time to be inducted, I got the call. That showed class on Bruce’s part but, hey, I kinda started the whole deal.
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Vini at the church on E Street where he first played music in front of people.
TJS: How so? Are you saying you put the E Street Band together?
VL: [E Street Band co-founder/keyboardist] Danny Federici [1950-2008] and I played in The Bill Chinnock Band in 1967. Bill only played originals. We toured on the “Electric Circus” tour, some 40 Northeast cities, college gymnasiums, clubs and little theaters. That band broke up when Bill and the bassist had a falling-out but Danny and I still wanted to keep going. We liked doing all-original music. We did not want to go the covers route at places like The Dew Drop Inn. So Danny and I started to search for guys who also wrote music and wanted to perform it. We met a lot of such guys, actually, but this one guy stuck out. Bruce. He was in a band called Earth playing at The Italian American Club in Long Branch. I liked them a lot so I went up to Bruce and introduced myself.
“Hey Bruce, I’m Vini Lopez.”
“I know who you are. I used to come and see you play with Sonny Kenn in the Star Fires. You opened for Jerry Lee Lewis. You opened once for a monkey.”
“You saw that? Yeah, We opened for J. Fred Muggs, the famous chimpanzee who played piano and toured.”
We had a good laugh over that. It sorta broke the ice so I told him that Bill Chinnock broke up his band over a spat with his bassist and we’re looking for another singer-songwriter because we were only down with playing original material. So I asked Bruce a question.
“Do you write any songs?”
“Well, I’ve written a couple of songs, yeah.”
So I invited Bruce to the Upstage where we jammed all the time. I figured maybe we could make something happen. I went to see Bruce at The Italian American Club. Two weeks later, Danny and I walked into the Upstage and on the stage at the time was Bruce with Steel Mill bassist Little Vinnie Roslin and drummer Big Bobby Williams. They were doing “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” by Iron Butterfly. When they got done, Danny and I went up to the stage.
“Hey Bruce, I want you to meet my friend Danny Federici. Maybe we can jam a little bit too.”
So we did. Basic blues stuff. And it sounded good. We were good together. Bruce, Danny, Little Vinnie and myself. It might have been that night when, after the three-song jam, we went back downstairs and began planning to put a real band together. We called it Child. That morphed into Steel Mill. I’ll never forget when we went out to California together and played for [legendary concert promoter] Bill Graham [1931-1991]. Recorded some stuff too. Steel Mill ultimately became The Bruce Springsteen Band which then became Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band.
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TJS: Is it true that Columbia Records President Clive Davis gave you your Mad Dog name?
VL: Yes.
TJS: Why? Was it because of all the fights you got into?
Steel Mill (l-r) Vini, Little Vinnie Roslin, Bruce, Danny Federici 1969.
VL: Not at all. I didn’t get into fights all the time. Don’t believe everything you read. Well, uh, on second thought, don’t get me wrong, I grew up in a rough neighborhood in Neptune. You always had to be ready to defend yourself. So I learned how to do that. I never took no shit from anybody. See? But that’s not the reason he was the first person to call me Mad Dog. Not at all. There was a time when we all had nicknames. It was in-between Steel Mill and The Bruce Springsteen band. We had this offshoot band called Doctor Zoom & The Sonic Boom. We opened for The Allman Brothers once. We had all our friends in the band. We had two of everything. Two drummers. Two singers. Two bassists. We made five dollars-a-night each. There was only one rule. Everybody had to have a nickname. Bruce’s nickname, of course, was Doctor Zoom. Danny Federici would come to be known as The Phantom. But not yet. Our other singer, John Lyon, became Southside. Steve Van Zandt became Miami Steve. Garry Tallent was The Funky Chicken. I was Madman.
Later on, when we were doing the Greetings From Asbury Park New Jersey album, we were out in Los Angeles playing, and, for some reason, Bruce’s amp wouldn’t work. So I left the stage. A few nights before, all my clothing had been stolen. Everything! So Garry Tallent and I had gone to a Salvation Army store where I got me some Yankee pants, socks, sneakers, a red satin shirt, a nice red Bowler hat and other paraphernalia which I was wearing when I left the stage and ran into Clive Davis.
“Jesus, Vini, you look like you work in a circus!”
“My clothes were stolen. I just bought these.”
“Goes with your nickname, Madman, in that Doctor Zoom band.”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“No more, from now on you’re Mad Dog.”
And it stuck.
Problem with that name is that you get tested with a name like that. I’m telling you, I never started a fight. But I ended a few. I’d jump in when I’d see someone fucking with someone in my band. That’s for damn sure. Hell, I’m 6’3. I’ll get right in the middle of that shit.
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“When it came time to fight for more money from Apell, I would do it. I was tired of making $35-a-week. They kicked it up to $80-a-week after we recorded the second album. It was tough on everyone not having any real money. And whatever animosities they had, every one of ‘em, deep down in their hearts, knew that I was sticking up for them.”
TJS: Didn’t you beat up band manager Mike Appel’s brother?
VL: Not at all, that story was false right from the get-go. When we’d get paid, I would collect the money. They didn’t go to Bruce or anyone else. They came to me. Once when we got paid, it was for the five of us but we had added a guy. Now we have to get less? No way. I didn’t like that. When I got the money on that particular occasion, I told Apell’s brother it was wrong. He insisted it was right. So I hit him. Not my fault he tripped over his own two feet and went flying. That’s when I put the money on top of him quite nicely and calmly told him to bring it back when it was right. Mike didn’t have his brother pay us after that.
TJS: But Bruce came to your house and fired you.
VL: Yeah, that was upstanding of him, I must admit. I used to be the guy Bruce came to when he wanted to fire someone. I had to do it. When I was fired, Bruce did it personally. He manned up. I respect him for that. But he told me it had nothing to do with fighting or hitting the manager’s brother. He said he needed to change direction musically and go after a different kind of drum sound. I charge hard when I drum. Maybe he wanted something a bit more subtle. He apologized but said the sound he heard in his head going forward was such that he needed a different drummer. Period. Blah blah blah, whatever. I was upset at the time, sure. I told him, “there’s the door. You know what it’s used for.” And he left. He knew my house. Hell, he stored all his guitars at my house and I’d bring ‘em to rehearsals. Whether there was bad feelings in the band, I couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t there anymore. But I’ll tell you this. I don’t take crap from anybody. For instance, when it came time to fight for more money from Apell, I would do it. I was tired of making $35-a-week. They kicked it up to $80-a-week after we recorded the second album. It was tough on everyone not having any real money. And whatever animosities they had, every one of ‘em, deep down in their hearts, knew that I was sticking up for them.
TJS: So what’s your relationship with them now?
VL: We’re friends. There’s no ifs, ands or buts about it. If and when Bruce needs me, he knows where I am. And vice a versa. Look, let’s be honest. It took some time. I remember being in an elevator with Bruce but it was too soon. It was, “hey, how are you doing?” That was it. Maybe a year. They played the Tower in Philly on a New Year’s Eve once. I showed up late. But I walked right in. I used to be able to get in whenever and wherever. Next thing I knew I was up on the stage playing “Twist And Shout.” That’s when I knew everything was cool between me and the boys. The animosity melted away after about a year.
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TJS: So you’ve been a pro golf caddy, a DJ and a caretaker for youths with drug problems since, and you’ve continued to this day to play music.
VL: I do work for a lot of different charities, yeah. Right now I’m working with the Light of Day Foundation to combat Parkinson’s. I’ve caddied for 35 years, mostly for Mark McCormick and we made it all the way to the U.S. Open. I play golf too and try not to suck. I still do golf charity tournaments. Got to play with Phillie great Mike Schmidt. Pretty cool.
TJS: How was your relationship with Clarence Clemons?
VL: We were roommates. When we toured, we shared a room. He snored a lot. It got so bad I’d go sleep in the closet. I slept out in the van a lot of the time. Or in the truck. I didn’t mind. I even slept in shower stalls. Clarence was a good guy. We got to be good friends. The only time I remember ever getting into a serious argument with him was over some of the stupid stuff he used to do. I called him on it. We had a tussle over it.
TJS: Drugs?
VL: Kinda. I mean, we all smoked pot. No big deal there. Bruce not so much. Clarence, Danny and I smoked the most. But you can’t go overboard with it. And I guess we did.
TJS: Just pot? Pot’s good for you!
VL: [laughs] I know but back then it was illegal and I just didn’t like the idea of going to jail for getting high. But that was the only argument I ever had with Clarence.
PHOTO: “Greetings From Asbury Park, NJ” symposium at Monmouth University January 2024 with fellow E- Streeters David Sancious and Garry Tallent
TJS: Van Zandt?
VL: He wasn’t there a lot. I had met him but we never really hung out. He was just Bruce’s old friend from the old days. Those two go way back. Christ, Steve goes all the way back to the days Bruce was in that garage band, The Castiles, in 1964. He knew him back then. When we went out to California in Steel Mill, the bass player, Little Vinnie, would disappear. We were tight. We all stayed together all the time. But Little Vinnie, God knows what he was doing. I remember one time he was with some groupie girls and went to stay with them. So Bruce would call for a rehearsal and no Little Vinnie. That really irked Bruce. A lot. Bruce asked me, “what the hell are we going to do about Little Vinnie? If we really need to get a bass player, that’s going to set us back.” So I said to Bruce, “what about your friend Steve?” I think it was early in 1970. Bruce got impatient and told me Steve played guitar. End of discussion. “He wouldn’t want to do that,” Bruce told me. “Play bass? Bad idea.” But I persisted. “It’s the same thing almost! Four strings, man, he can do it! And I bet he’d be good at it.” Steve was nothing if not a great musician. Bruce goes, “well, uh, I don’t know but here.” And he gave me Steve’s number. So I called Steve and asked him if he wanted to do it. He didn’t blink. “Yeah, why not,” he said. That’s when Steve became Steel Mill’s bassist. But then Steel Mill broke up and we did other things and Steve sorta disappeared on us. I got to know him later. Steve’s one hell of a great guy.
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“The worst stories in the book are about me. I made some mistakes, sure. They’re all in the book. I’ll make sure to send the manuscript to Bruce before it’s published. I’m going to want to know what he thinks.”
TJS: Any particular remembrances of any of the other boys?
VL: Well, Garry Tallent and I, we go back to Neptune High together. We had a band before anybody had a band. Moment Of Truth. We used to play at The Student Prince in Asbury a lot. We were pretty popular. We’d rehearse at this Irish bar across the street. Irish bands. Non-stop. One night the Irish band booked to play there didn’t show up and the owner asked us to fill in. Packed house. They hated us. Within 20 minutes, everybody left. We played to five people. We didn’t play that Irish stuff. Still, the owner liked us. Gave us a gig the following weekend that went well and we ended up there a lot. A month later, there’d be a line to get in the door. It’s all in the book I’m writing. So many stories. I mean, look, sure, I’m in the Rock’n’Roll Hall of Fame. But I’m just a singing drummer. I know I wouldn’t get near the Hall of Fame if it weren’t for Bruce and all the other great people I’ve played in bands with. And they’re all part of the 300 interviews we did for the book.
TJS: What can you tell me in advance of publication?
VL: Not much.
TJS: C’mon.
VL: Fine. Brucie and his friend Tinker would usually be in the equipment truck. You had to double-clutch that baby just to shift it into another gear. Bruce couldn’t drive it. Danny and I would be in the station wagon. Once we got separated in Tennessee. They had all our money. There were no cell phones back then. You’ll have to get the book to find out what happened. I made sure not to get negative about people’s personal lives. The worst stories in the book are about me. I made some mistakes, sure. They’re all in the book. I’ll make sure to send the manuscript to Bruce before it’s published. I’m going to want to know what he thinks. I’ve sent him portions already and he asked me, “how do you remember all these names?” Plus, he seems to remember things differently. Memory’s a funny thing. We even interviewed people in our crowds.
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The Wonderful Winos with Vini on drums
TJS: Where you at musically today?
The Hula Hula Boys (l-r) Toney Hall and Vini.
VL: I always play. I’m in a band called The Wonderful Winos. We do a lot of blues, some originals, Jimmy Buffett, Warren Zevon, and, I also have a duo with a friend called The Hula Hula Boys down in Florida where we resurrect some of the old Bill Chinnock material plus some deep Bruce cuts and John Prine. Today’s music? I can’t understand the words. It’s all crazy shit anyway. I tend to listen to real old country stuff like Homer & Jethro or folk music like the Kingston Trio. Hey, I’m 75. I spell my name Vini in honor of one of my favorites of all time, Trini Lopez, reason being when I went to Catholic School in Asbury Park, Holy Spirit School, I sang Trini Lopez songs like “Michael Row Your Boat Ashore,” “Lemon Tree” and “If I Had A Hammer.”
TJS: Parting words?
VL: Yea, anything anybody says about me you can’t take for the truth. You had to be there. And those who weren’t there, don’t know shit. It’s ancient history anyway.
TJS: So you won’t be beating anybody up anytime soon.
VL: Not since I beat up on a guy who was picking on Southside Johnny. I don’t go for that.
TJS: Tell me.
VL: You’ll have to wait for the book.
TJS: You can’t leave me hanging like that.
VL: A guy was beating up Southside Johnny. A crowd formed.
TJS: And you saved Southside?
VL: No, no. There was nothing I could do. He got his ass kicked. But the next day in wrestling class, guess who my opponent was? The bully who beat on John! So I tore that motherfucker up.