From Waves to Wreckage: The Turbulent Saga of Joey Harrison's Surf Club in Ortley Beach
Perched on the sun-drenched sands of Ortley Beach, a narrow barrier island sliver in Toms River, New Jersey, Joey Harrison's Surf Club once pulsed as the heart of Jersey Shore revelry. For nearly four decades, this oceanfront oasis drew hordes of sun-soaked partygoers with its thumping basslines, frothy cocktails, and unapologetic embrace of summer excess. Named after a hard-hitting middleweight boxer who anglicized his Italian roots to Joey Harrison, the club embodied the raw, unfiltered spirit of Shore nightlife—big hair, bigger attitudes, and nights that blurred into dawn. Yet beneath the neon glow lurked a reputation for rowdiness, where fistfights spilled onto the sand as often as spilled beers, earning it a notorious edge that both thrilled and terrified. From its 1970s heyday hosting rock legends to its gut-wrenching demolition in 2021, the Surf Club's story is a gritty chronicle of coastal boom and bust, immortalized in faded Polaroids and the salty regrets of generations.
The club's origins trace back to the 1930s, when a modest "Surf Club" first dotted the dunes between Sixth and Seventh avenues, offering simple beachside respite amid the Great Depression's gloom. It evolved through owners like Augie Hoffman's iteration in the 1960s, a humble spot for locals to sip drafts while watching the Atlantic churn. But the true transformation came in 1973, when Joseph J. Barcellona Sr., a tireless Newark native with deep ties to the state's bar scene, snapped it up for a song. Barcellona, born in 1936 to Italian immigrants, had cut his teeth in family hospitality ventures, including spots in Essex County. He rebranded it Joey Harrison's to honor his father, Joseph Barcellona Sr.—the pugilist who traded Barcellona for Harrison in the ring, climbing ranks with a knockout style that mirrored the club's future vibe. At 75 when Superstorm Sandy struck in 2012, the elder Barcellona poured his relentless work ethic into the place, expanding it into a sprawling complex: indoor dance floors throbbing with disco beats, outdoor patios slinging frozen daiquiris, and a private beach where waitstaff in bikinis delivered trays right to your towel.
By the late 1970s, Joey Harrison's had shed its sleepy skin, morphing into a Shore staple that packed in thousands nightly during peak season. Admission hovered at $10-20, with themes like "Foam Parties" turning the sand into a sudsy mosh pit. The menu was pure Jersey indulgence: cheese fries doused in Old Bay, towering cheesesteaks, and pitchers of cheap domestics that fueled all-night ragers. But it was the music that sealed its legend. The open-air stage, mere feet from the surf, hosted a pantheon of acts drawn by the electric crowd and ocean breeze. Surf guitar godfather Dick Dale shredded reverb-drenched riffs in the 1980s, his "Miserlou" echoing over crashing waves. Irish rockers The Saw Doctors packed the house with anthemic pub tunes, while local heroes Dramarama brought gritty new wave energy, their "Last Cigarette" becoming a de facto Shore hymn. The Rebirth Brass Band's New Orleans funk ignited Mardi Gras madness, and annual "Surfstock" festivals—multi-day blowouts blending surf rock, ska, and reggae—drew 5,000-plus fans, turning the beach into a tie-dye frenzy. House bands like the Flying Mueller Brothers kept the energy high on off-nights, their covers of Springsteen and the Boss's own "Jersey Girl" resonating with homesick urban escapees from Philly and New York.
What made Joey's unforgettable—and infamous—was its unbridled chaos. This wasn't a sanitized club; it was a pressure cooker of hormones and hops, where 18-to-enter policies let teens mingle with twentysomethings in a haze of Aqua Net and baby oil. Fights erupted like clockwork: over spilled drinks, perceived slights at the bar, or just the testosterone-fueled bravado of guidos flexing under tank tops. Yelp reviews from the era paint vivid vignettes—"danced all night, dodged a punch at dawn"—while Reddit threads brim with tales of brawls spilling from the deck to the dunes, bouncers wading in like lifeguards hauling in drifters. One infamous 1990s melee, sparked by a DJ set gone wrong, cleared the floor in seconds, with shards of bottles glinting under blacklights. Police runs were routine; Ortley Beach cops knew the address by heart, often quipping that the club's real draw was the overtime pay. Yet that edge magnetized the masses. As one TripAdvisor alum recalled, "It was wild, woolly, and worth every bruise—pure Shore magic." Barcellona ran a tight ship, his no-nonsense demeanor—honed from Newark bar brawls—keeping the lid on just enough. "He never had time for nonsense," a friend eulogized after his 2024 death at 87. The family expanded the empire, launching "Surf Club North" in Fairfield for year-round action, but Ortley remained the crown jewel.
The 1990s tested that resilience. A brutal nor'easter—the "Christmas Storm" of December 1992—hammered the coast, shearing off the deck and flooding interiors with corrosive saltwater. Deemed a total loss, the club teetered on oblivion, but Barcellona rebuilt atop the wreckage, layering new foundations over old debris in a defiant nod to Shore stubbornness. It roared back stronger, capitalizing on the MTV-fueled "Jersey Shore" mystique years before Snooki made it national. By the 2000s, Joey's was a multigenerational ritual: grandparents reminiscing over White Russians, millennials grinding to house mixes powered by Pacha DJs on Sundays. Attendance swelled to 10,000 on holiday weekends, the parking lot—a 100-space asphalt lifeline—clogging Route 35 like a bad hangover.
Then came October 29, 2012: Superstorm Sandy, the billion-dollar behemoth that redefined disaster. Ortley Beach, the thinnest stretch of barrier island, bore the brunt; waves topped 14 feet, surging 1,000 feet inland and pulverizing 90 percent of structures. Joey's, that proud oceanfront sentinel, was eviscerated first—walls sheared off, stage swallowed by sand, the iconic sign dangling like a broken promise. Barcellona, surveying the rubble at 76, vowed rebirth: "This is our life; we'll build it back better." Cleanup lagged; debris festered for months, a skeletal eyesore amid the Shore's slow crawl to recovery. A 2013 rally drew hundreds protesting insurance delays—"Save the Surf Club!" chants echoing over the dunes—as neighbors in Seaside Heights rebuilt boardwalks while Joey's languished. Partial demos in 2014 and 2015 chipped away at the husk, unearthing '90s relics: rusted kegs, faded posters of long-gone bands. But red tape strangled revival. Flood maps recast the site as high-risk, jacking insurance to astronomical heights. Barcellona and his wife, Dolores, retreated to Florida retirement, their dream drowned in bureaucracy.
By 2019, the tide turned definitively against resurrection. Toms River officials, eyeing Blue Acres funds for flood-prone buyouts, petitioned the state DEP for $6.6 million to acquire the 1.5-acre parcel, including the lot. Legislators like Sen. Jim Holzapfel championed it: "Vacant seven years—time for public good." The Ortley Beach Voters and Taxpayers Association, led by Anthony Colucci, lobbied fiercely for beach access over nightclub noise. Negotiations dragged; the Barcellonas held out for fair value pegged to pre-Sandy assessments—$9.44 million. Closure came December 30, 2021: Toms River sealed the $8 million deal, blending state cash with local open-space coffers. Demolition crews razed the remnants that week, excavators clawing through concrete laced with 1992 storm scars. "An improved beachfront starts today," Councilman Tony Maruca declared, as the last beam toppled.
As of October 2025, the site slumbers under chain-link fences, a grassy void where waves lap hungrily. No bocce courts or gazebos yet materialize; the parking lot idles empty, its future tangled in DEP regs barring structures in Blue Acres zones. Paul Jeffrey of the Taxpayers Association laments the stasis: "It's crucial for recovery, but delays persist." The boardwalk extension and dune fortification inch forward, promising public access by 2026. Meanwhile, the Barcellona legacy endures elsewhere: A "Joey Harrison's River Club" flickered briefly in Toms River before folding, and reunion bashes—like the 2024 Jenks Beach affair with Mueller Brothers jams—stir ghosts of glory. Joseph J. Barcellona's February 2024 passing at 87 closed a chapter, his Miami obituary hailing the "hard-working showman" who built an empire from sand and sweat.
Joey Harrison's Surf Club was more than a venue; it was a rite of passage, where first kisses tasted of saltwater taffy and regrets faded with the tide. Its notoriety—fueled by brawls and boundless energy—mirrored the Shore's dual soul: paradise laced with peril. Sandy's wrath exposed vulnerabilities, but in demolition, it gifted renewal—a public shore where once private parties raged. As Ortley rebuilds, whispers of foam parties linger in the wind, a reminder that some legends, like the sea, crash hard but carve deep. Raise a phantom pitcher to Joey's: wild, wounded, and forever etched in Shore lore.
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