Lots of people who saw the band back in its heyday say we played ’em just like the records. But I gotta tell ya, every now and then when listening to those songs we used to play I fail to hear a bass riff or a drum roll or a guitar lick that I was sure was there—but never was. I guess what it comes down to is that sometimes we played ’em even better than the records. After our 40th or 50th rendition, we’d add a little something here or there in a song like “Sunrise” for instance, which opened many of Snerd’s shows, and make it our own. Musically, we were rather exceptional for a bunch of dopey high school kids.

Sometimes when I listen to an old tape of a live Snerd performance I’m mesmerized by just how good we were. How in the hell did we learn to play a song like “The Knife” when most other local bands were struggling through three chord KISS tunes or “Jumping Jack Flash?”

There were lots of bands in Sayreville and the surrounding towns and municipalities, but none seemed to be able to capture the hearts and minds of audiences the way we did. And every time I chance upon one of the songs we used to play on the radio that nobody else played back then, let alone listened to, like “The Real Me” by The Who or Ian Hunter’s “Once Bitten Twice Shy,” I find myself thinking, “Hmmm. I wonder if the program director was a Snerd fan?”

Larry Bogush was the first person I ever met that wasn’t a member of my family. I was just a couple of years old and my dad was taking me for a walk around the old Wilson School, just opposite my childhood home on Hart Street. Larry, who lived a block away on Whitehead Avenue was on a similar outing with his dad. We were friends from the day we met. Little did I know that fateful day that Larry would become my de facto older brother—someone I looked up to and emulated for the next fifteen years. When Larry started to collect comic books, I started to collect comic books. If Larry liked a certain TV show, I liked that TV show. When Larry started playing the drums, I started playing the drums. Well, I suppose I would have except for the fact that a band only needs one drummer. So, I chose the guitar.

Our first band was pretty amateurish. We liked to practice in Larry’s garage because when he opened the doors, and we turned up real loud we felt like we were our own radio station broadcasting to at least 50-60 residents of the surrounding area. I remember lightning striking the day we discovered that instead of playing every song using single notes on the guitar that the guys on the records were playing more than one note—they were playing chords! Our set list, which included classics like Cream’s “White Room” took on a neat new twist—they really started sounding pretty good.

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I met Tom Zebro on my first day in junior high school. Tom was writing “Black Sabbath” on his desk and that broke the ice. Tom was the most talented musician I ever met. Sure, I could learn complicated guitar parts by simply listening to the records (there was no guitar tab back in the ’70s), but Tom knew what the scale I was playing was named! He can probably still tell you what notes to change to create a diminished chord—something I don’t believe I was ever able to memorize. One more thing about Tom’s playing is that he rarely, if ever, made mistakes onstage. We got to talking and the next thing I know I was lugging my Fender Twin Reverb amp down Tom’s cellar stairs for a jam session. A short time later, Tom, Larry and I started playing together. Then Tom brought Mark into the band.

Mark Merriman played keyboards, but that’s not what we were looking for when we asked him to join the band. What we really needed was a singer. And Mark could sing. Good Lord, could he sing! All of a sudden, we were propelled like an Atlas rocket into set lists that included songs by bands whose hallmark sound revolved around great singing: Robert Plant, Paul Rodgers, Freddie Mercury—we were on our way.

I’m not sure when we started calling ourselves Mortimer Snerd, but I do remember how cool it was when somebody spray-painted it in 6-foot-high letters on the back of Krauser’s on Washington Road. The store had it quickly painted over, and it just as quickly reappeared, which was further confirmation that as far as local bands went, we owned Sayreville! Jon Bon Jovi was watching us back then, but I guess he had the last laugh in the end!

In Depth