A man with slicked-back hair, a salt-and-pepper beard, knuckle tattoos, neck tattoos, and an anchor tattooed on his cheek strides into GiGi’s Antiques in Red Bank, NJ. One of the old women at the counter, perhaps GiGi herself, clutches her chest, and the other reaches for the cash register. Respectfully, Mike Ness takes off his sunglasses and in a sweet and low voice says, “Good afternoon, ladies.” He looks back to his equally tattooed entourage juxtaposed next to priceless art, china older than the People’s Republic, and other antiques, and says, “I never get tired of that reaction.”

By now what the delicate purveyors of the antique shop can best surmise is that a motorcycle gang of ruffians casing the joint has made its way to the thimble sets and tapestries. The boldest of the women scampers after the gang, watching her inventory.

“Excuse me, miss, you wouldn’t happen to have any old watches?” Ness asks.

“We do, but they’re behind glass, so I’ll have to look at them with you,” she answers, with the emphasis on placing herself in proximity to the product.

The two go to the corner of the store that houses the watches, and Ness immediately starts identifying them by make, model, year, and quirk—his knowledge and charm shows that he isn’t a scofflaw and puts the woman at ease. The discussion of art deco watches only interests Ness and the seller, so the entourage disperses throughout the store to sift through baseball cards, old magazines, or prewar toys. But word hasn’t gotten around that the guys in leather jackets are safe, and the boys are met at every shelf with treasures from bygone years and the steely gazes of octogenarian men—the other woman has called in the muscle. A stand-down finally occurs when the first woman brings up a watch from the back to hold at the register for Mr. Ness.

“The great thing about touring is that I have the opportunity to check out antique stores in places I’ve never been before,” Ness says during the short walk to the next shop. He still has a few hours before the sound check for Social Distortion’s concert in central Jersey. Walking into another of the many Red Bank stores selling secondhand wares, the group is again greeted with uneasy looks and, this time, a small dog that thinks it’s a pit bull. The tattooed crew passes the terrier’s sniff test, but the clerks are beyond leery. The man running the shop lets his curiosity get the best of him and comes over to point out some of his pieces. Ness meanders around a collection of clocks and lamps, his eyes landing on a traffic light in the corner.

“You like the traffic light?” the man asks.

Ness gives him an opening: “I think so.”

“I know it comes from the City,” he says, meaning New York City. “I think Brooklyn.”

“Does it work?” Ness asks.

The man shows him that it does in fact function, and they discuss the finer points of traffic lights. Then, when the price is revealed, Ness informs him that he wants the piece, but regretfully he can’t see paying the quoted amount. The man explains that he is actually selling it for a friend of his and if Ness wants to come back later in the week, he could talk to the owner. “See, I’m only in town today,” Ness says nicely. “I’m from California.”
“What brings you here?” the man asks.

“Me and my band are playing a rock ‘n’ roll show tonight,” Ness explains. Then he throws it out there to see if it rings a bell: “Social Distortion.”

It doesn’t. It’s not like Ness is looking for a handout, but in the antique world the lead of one of the most prolific rock bands might as well be a janitor. Ness takes one last look at the traffic light, tells the owner that if he wants to call his friend with the offer he may stop back in later, and then leads his crew out the door. Is Ness bothered by the way the antique sellers react to him? “If I really cared about what other people think, I wouldn’t have pursued rock ‘n’ roll music—I’d still be pushing a mop,” he says.

The same dance between Ness and the proprietors occurs at the next den of antiquities. Ness picks up a Virgin Mary statuette and says, “I’m really into religious iconography because it seems important to people—the object meant something to someone.” He moves on to another area and thumbs a license plate from the ’30s. “I also really like the Gasoline Alley stuff,” he says. “Back then there was a craftsmanship to everything.”