PUNK LIFE:

(One of the best descriptions of what we were up against is provided here in this quote taken from the Damage #11 article which can be found in its entirety under the Hollywood vs. Beach Punks discussion):

Genophobia in the USA

I don’t mind being picked on, I think it’s cool... but we are harassed, very much.... the cops... people in my high school.... society alone... For example, I was standing out in back of Tony’s house the other day and there’d been talk of this black guy going around and beating up all the punks, just walking up to them and punching the... and there’s little punks there, there’s thirteen-year-old punks there that walk around, they’re not that tough or anything and they get their ass kicked all the time... so this little guy, this black guy walks up to me and I’m standing their and he goes, ‘You got a problem, boy?’ And I instantly recognized him and I went ‘You’ve been beatin’ up on my friends,’ you know, and he pulled a knife on me and said, ‘Now what you gonna do about it, crophead punk-ass motherfucker?’ you know, and I had to defend myself.  That’s harassment, right there... we cannot walk down the street without getting pulled over by cops and getting searched, I’ve had cops pull guns on me and tell me to hit the ground just for walking down the street, they search us, they run warrant checks... (a well-documented and very common practice among suburban police consists of pulling over anyone they see walking, biking or skateboarding on the street who looks even vaguely like a punk and taking a Polaroid picture of them for their “punk file,” which must be mostly daughters and sons of the solid burghers the cops are serving and protecting - Ed.).... I’ve gone to jail before for throwing a match on the ground... we have a friend down in Huntington Beach, his name’s Potatohead.  He was walking down the street with these two girls two weeks ago and this car just, ‘Hey, punk?’ totally mowed ‘em over.  They hit them, threw them on the ground, and apparently one of the guys in the car was his next door neighbor.  I don’t know if it was because he was a punk or what, but they just mowed ‘em down... and usually the cops, if something happens in the city, it has to do with punks whether it was their fault or not... they say, ‘You’re punks, you’re not part of society, it’s your fault.’  They know what they’ve read about us and what society makes of us.  We don’t usually go out and make trouble... like when I got in a fight with that black guy, the cops were looking for me, and everyone in the tract, the whole housing tract had seen him pull a knife on me and they told the cops that I pulled a knife on hi... yeah, I have a chip on my shoulder.  I have a chip on my shoulder about the way we get treated.  We’re human beings like anybody else.  Just because we’re different from society, we’re outcasts.  I like being an outcast, I’ll shave my head just for shock value, but I’m still a human being and I’ve got human rights, American rights, Constitutional rights and everything.  And it seems when you turn punk, where we come from, you all of a sudden have no rights. like I’ve gone to jail before and the cop will turn around and tell everyone, ten, fifteen guys, ‘This guy’s a punk rocker, he’s a faggot, he’s into pain, do what you want,’ and they put me in the cell with them.  What am I supposed to do?  I’m a person, a human being, just the same as you, just the same as the normal working class person.  I just have different beliefs...”

(Also please see my “About Me” page for my personal accounts as well as commentary I have provided through the Hollywood vs. Beach Punks Discussion. - Michele)

Club Scene/Various Articles:

L.A.’s Clubs and Bands: Action and Interaction

BY RICHARD CROMELIN

MAY 27, 1979

Los Angeles Times, M64

This third article in a series on L.A.’s rock scene focuses on clubs.  Below, an examination of Madame Wong’s and the Troubadour.  Also included: a look at some of the other major clubs (Opposite page); Masque proprietor Brendan Mullen’s ongoing crusade to maintain an alternative platform (Page 66), and John Mendolsohn’s reminiscence of the original rock-club boom (Page 69).  The next installment will look at L.A.’s grassroots record labels. 

Esther Wong didn’t seem the type to become a patron of the rock arts.  Born and educated in Shanghai, she spent much of her early life traveling the world with her father, a prominent exporter.  She and her Hawaiian husband George settled in California in 1949, and in 1970 they opened Madame Wong’s restaurant in Chinatown.

The Polynesian revues, which Mrs. Wong personally recruited on trips to Hawaii, drew good crowds for awhile, but by last year attendance had dwindled.  Enter budding entrepreneur Paul Greenstein, a habitue of Madame Wong’s bar: “It was a great place, but it was always real dead.  I’d been looking around to start something, so I talked to George Wong and he said, ‘Sure, let’s do it.’  I talked to Esther and she said, ‘No way.’  She finally agreed to try it on a one-month basis.  The first night we had like 350 people.  Considering that they’d had 30 people the night before, it was quite a change.”

Rock ‘n’ roll came to Chinatown last October and it’s been picking up steam ever since.  Not only has Madame Wong’s escalated from one to six nights a week, but a rival-the nearby Hong Kong Cafe - is due to enter the fray come June 5th.   As local rock bands and their followings proliferate, so, naturally, do the platforms for their music.  Not long ago a group couldn’t hope to find a job without a record contract. Now more than a dozen clubs - spread from Monrovia to Riverside - are thriving on a diet of homegrown talent.

While old standbys like the Whisky and the Starwood feature unsigned bands in both support and headliner positions, and Madame Wong’s leads the field of new venues, perhaps the most remarkable symbol of L.A.’s musical vitality is Doug Weston’s Troubadour, which has regenerated itself through its alliance with local bands.

On a recent afternoon, Weston was digesting - with difficulty - the news that the Motels had canceled an upcoming weekend date with Sumner, due to recording commitments.  Why not just pick a replacement from his list of available bands (Numbering close to 2,000)?  It’s not that easy.  Weston books his shows with the painstaking care of a network TV programmer.

It’s heartbreak,” Weston moaned.  “I’ve waited three months to put these acts together. I’ve been combining them to build to that show.  There’s a tremendous amount of interaction between myself, my staff and the acts,” he elaborated.  “It seen a band the first time they play the Troubadour.  That shows me what perspective to place them in, how to combine them with other groups so that the whole will be greater than the sum of its parts. I’m not just a pub owner.”

The Troubadour, supplanted by the larger Roxy as the prime showcase for record company acts, actually closed down for restructuring in 1975.  the recovery began in 1978 when Weston began booking unsigned bands such as Stage, Jasmine and the Weirz.  He picked up some tips from other local operations, initiated his pump-priming system of complimentary and half-price ticket distribution (whose workings he jealously guards), and started to dip more deeply into the expanding pool of grassroots groups.

“The club owners were forced into caring about the local bands, because there were not enough recording acts at the club level,” he said.  “Look at the situation.  An act gets signed by a record company.  they spend time waiting to get into the studio, during which time they’re stale and not working.  they drop out of the scene.  They change their phone numbers and they lose contact with the whole community waiting for the record company hype to occur.  they don’t even work in their own areas, so the clubs obviously were not able to survive.  More and more, the business got very remote.  the club scene now is bringing it all back to the public, and these acts are very aware of the need to stay with the public.”

In the 60’s, Weston sifted through new albums in search of acts for the Troubadour.  The process is the same today, but now it’s cassette tapes - cartons of which clutter the den of his West L.A. home.  Weston takes on all comers, and the result is an unusually eclectic array of shows.  The Monday night hoots remain an L.A. institution, and have sent some bands on their way to regular bookings.  Weston tries first-timers on Tuesday and Wednesday, building toward weekend shows that generally feature new wave and what Weston calls “Contemporary or progressive pop” - bands like Sumner and Paul Warren.

While the bands might appreciate having a place to play, not all are happy over the Troubadour’s remuneration.  One musician complained that after playing to a full house, his group was paid $6.

“That’s the situation on a comp night,” Weston responded.  “That’s all explained to them up front, and they have their choice as to the way they come in here. At the same time, that exposure has considerable value, and it could be rented out for a lot of money.  It’s much preferable to do it in a real situation to a real audience.”Others have griped about the prevailing attitude of area club owners.  “they act like they’re doing you a big favor,” said one local artist.  Weston wouldn’t completely disagree: “In a way, the clubs are exploiting the groups and the groups are exploiting the clubs.  But that exploitation is mutually beneficial.”

The Starwood, in operation for six years, replaced the Whisky for a time as the main venue for record company rock acts, but it now strives for a 50-50 balance between signed and local acts.

“We make more money from local bands,” says general manager Gary Fontenot.  We have played and built bands like Smile and Quiet Riot, and from a Thursday through Saturday they’ll draw 2,000 paid.  Very few record company acts will do that kind of business.”

The Whisky, which has regained its stature as L.A.’s key rock showcase (having presented the L.A. debuts of Elvis Costello and the Police, among others), maintains a similar balance, peppering its diversified label bookings with local bands in opening slots and as occasional headliners.

In contrast to the varied bookings at the Troubadour and the Whisky, the Starwood goes for the heavy “boogie” bands that delight the club’s constituency. 

Madame Wong’s had some trouble with some of the more rambunctious punk bands, aggravating the personality differences that led to her split with Greenstein and resulting in a 21 age limit.  “I look for new wave, high energy, melodic bands. I think it’s the sound of the 80’s,” says Jan Ballard, who now books the room.  The Motels and 20/20, both now signed to contracts, spearheaded Madame Wong’s musical reputation, and it also attracted a regular clientele with its “underground” ambience and its status as a hip hangout.  Madame Wong’s recently scored a major coup when the Police passed up a second night at Santa Monica Civic to play an unannounced show there on May 18.

Mrs. Wong herself is an additional attraction.  A feisty, no-nonsense woman, she once stopped the show until two members of the Ramones cleaned up what they’d written on the bathroom walls, and she can often be seen scurrying around and sniffing the air for illicit smoke.  The club also enjoys the respect of local bands for its payment policy - the groups split the entire door.  “I like it because you get paid by your popularity,” says Gary Valentine of the Know.  “that’s the lace we’ve made the most money in L.A.  And you don’t get this real show-bizzy feel like the Starwood and the Whisky.”

How does Esther wong feel about the music she’s fostering - a far cry from the ukuleles and the steel guitars of bygone days?  “Before, I didn’t think I’d ever like rock music,” she says.  “Now I can turn it on, and it doesn’t bother me.”

THE END

The L.A. Rock Scene: A Dramatic Resurgence

BY ROBERT HILBURN

July 24, 1979

Los Angeles Times, pg. F1

The beat on the local rock scene continues to get stronger.  The lamppost outside the Roxy last weekend was so covered with makeshift posters advertising new groups that a guy had to stand on a ladder to find room for his own band’s circular.  The various paper sheets promoted upcoming dates at nearly a dozen clubs, including the Whisky, the Starwood, Troubadour, Madame Wong’s, the Cuckoo’s Nest, Hong Kong Cafe, Gazzarri’s, the Bla-Bla and the Sweetwater.

The thing these clubs have in common is that they all concentrate on the local unsigned bands that have contributed to the most dramatic rock ‘n’ roll resurgence in Los Angeles in more than a decade.  But the most telling sign of the local upswing was the name on the Roxy marquee: THE SCREAMERS!

Seventeen months ago, the Screamers were just one of a dozen bands that performed at a two-day benefit concert at the Elks Building near MacArthur Park.  The bands were at the Elks Building because other industry showcases around town were closed to them.  Most of the clubs that now spotlight the groups were either not open then or featured other types of entertainment (Madame Wong’s specialized then in Polynesian revues).  The Starwood did try new groups on slow nights, but the Roxy booked only bands that had record company support.  The reason was simple:  There wasn’t enough audience for the new bands.  Without record company subsidies, the Roxy would lose money on an engagement. Explains David Forest, who books acts at the Whisky now for owner Elmer Valentine:

The rock audience was satisfied in those days with the veteran, big-name groups.  They weren’t looking for anything new.  We booked Devo and Mink DeVille into the Santa Monica Civic on New Year’s Eve of 1977 and we only did two-thirds of a house. We had a 1,000 empty seats.  But that’s all changed. People are into new things now.  They’ve seen people like Elvis Costello and the Police and Joe Jackson and they want more.  Devo came back to the Santa Monica Civic a few weeks ago and what happens?  They sold out two shows.  That’s why all these clubs have opened.  there is an audience for bands.  The record companies sense this and they have been signing the groups, which in turn brings other bands here from around the country.  L.A. is now a nurturing place.”

The Whisky has gone from experimenting with one or two unsigned bands a week to the eight it’ll feature this week.  But the most dramatic breakthrough for the local bands was the Screamers’ three-day engagement at the Roxy.  It was the first time one of the unsigned bands was headlined at the city’s most important pop club.  Because of the Screamers’ veteran status on the scene, it was only fitting that Elmer Valentine, who books and co-owns the Roxy, slipped the four-piece group into his schedule first.

“We had some open dates and the Screamers did well at the Whisky so we thought we’d give them a chance here,” he said before Friday night’s show.  “We won’t sell out tonight but I think a lot of that is because we have tables and chairs in front of the stage.  The Screamers audience likes to pogo (the frantic, up and down dance/movement associated with the British punk scene).  Next time we bring one of the new bands in we’ll probably take out the chairs so they can dance.”

The Screamers whose recent Whisky performance was reviewed at length in these pages by Kristine McKenna, responded to the Roxy challenge Friday night with one of the most powerful shows I’ve seen this year.  Lead singer Tomata du Plenty’s hair was greased to stand straight up, giving him the look of a man who had just stuck his finger into an electric socket. His performance reflected the nervous, relentless anxiety of someone whose troubles are even deeper.  Du Plenty, who once spoke of his concert manner as a “human illustration of struggle, anxiety and fear,” came on stage wearing a tuxedo, thus giving the outward appearance of someone who has tried successfully to conform to society’s expectations.

But certain, unnamed forces won’t let him be. By the end of the 40-minute set, du Plenty has gone through the same disintegration of the human will that we associate with such books as “1984.”  Eventually, the tuxedo jacket, shirt and tie are ripped off, leaving him symbolically naked in his attempt to maintain some dignity and individuality.  As if suddenly put in another man’s body, he asks in horror: “Who am I?”  While du Plenty’s extraordinary power on stage was evident back in the Elks Building days, the question surrounding this band was how well the music would develop.  The answer Friday was positive.  The group - a foursome joined for this engagement by a second (female) singer and two violinists - is one of the rare rock outfits that operates without either guitar or bass.

For all the artsy elements of its live shows, the Screamers have some catchy, compact songs.  Mainly, however, the group’s synthesizer/keyboard emphasis (supplied gy Tommy Gear and sidekick Paul Roessler) makes its music reminiscent of the moody backdrops of a band like Kraftwerk. Despite its energy, the Screamers’ instrumental sound is filled with the subtle emotional shifts of a motion picture score as it highlights the commentary in du Plenty’s aggressive vocals and movements. It’s a challenging, absorbing approach.

The remarkable thing was that another unsigned band matched the Screamers’ impact a few hours later.  The Motels, who headlined Friday and Saturday at the Whisky, are no longer truly an unsigned band.  The outfit has been picked off by Capitol and its first LP is due in September.  But the Motels has been one of the most active and appealing groups on the club scene for months and thus part of L.A.’s growing Basin Brigade.

While not as extreme as the rock-as-shock approach of the Screamers, the Motels also has an exceptionally charismatic lead singer in Martha Davis and explores delicate emotional feelings, most of them tied to romance.

Because the Motels’ songs deal with a more specific, universal concern than the Screamer’s more ambitious stance, the Motels reach out on a more personal as opposed to theoretical level.

Davis is such an absorbing figure on stage that it’s easy to lose track of the rest of the music and just concentrate on her.  More electric than Blondie’s Debbie Harry and more consistent than Patti Smith, Davis could become one of the most influential female performers to rock.  She mixes a disarming accessibility with haunting intrigue.

At the start of Friday’s late show, she sang in an alternately pouting and purring manner similar to many new wave vocalists. But her style was free of the Smith-like yelps and shrieks that many female singer have adopted recently.  As the set unfolded, Davis began reflecting visually and vocally some of the harrowing and erotic elements in the group’s songs- and the effect was riveting.  The band - featuring Fretts Ferrari, guitar; Marty Jourard, keyboards-sax; Michael Goodroe, bass; and Brian Glascock, drums - delivers a taunt, disciplined sound, leaving all the flash and dynamics to Davis.  The Whisky engagement was the first one in town since the completion of the album, and it suggested the group is rounding into top shape for its first national tour.

Among those lured to the Motels’ show with the Kats (a fast-improving, but still uneven group that deals in a lighter, schoolboy brand of pop-rock) was Graham Parker, whose “Squeezing Out Sparks” is one of the top rock LPs of 1979.

“I came Tuesday to see Code Blue (a local band recently signed by Warner Bros.) and they were great.  so, I thought I’d come back and see some other bands. It’s great what’s happening here - it’s like what has been going on in England.  There are bands everywhere.”

Tom Werman, a record producer who works with best-sellers like Cheap Trick, also stopped by the Whisky Friday.  He wanted to see the Kats, who haven’t been signed yet.  He, too, was enthusiastic about the local rock resurgence.  “I’ve been so busy in the studio that I haven’t had much chance to see the new bands,” he said, standing amidst the crush of people at the Whisky entrance.  “But it’s real exciting to have all this interest in newcomers.  The only problem,” he added, with a smile, “is there is so much interest that you can’t get in the club. I’ve been standing out here for 15 minutes now.”

THE END

Club Scene: Getting in on the Ground Floor

Unknown Author

Unknown (possibly 11/27/77 or 79?)

Los Angeles Times, Calendar, pg. 92

(NOTE:  Unfortunately the first page of this article didn’t get scanned by whoever was in charge of doing the scanning for the library. But this is so interesting, I’ve presented what is here - Michele).

He or she was just 13 in ’70 when Elton John, Jackson Browne, Linda Ronstadt, James Taylor and Randy Newman were regularly playing Doug Weston’s Troubadour on Santa Monica Blvd.

Why no recent club tradition in rock?  It’s a matter of economics, the nature of the business and  - some feel - a cyclical turnover of talent.  One of the things that made the Troubadour the world’s most influential pop music showcase in the early ‘70’s was the industry’s emphasis at the time on folk flavored singer-songwriters.  As those acts moved on to larger halls, they showed good staying power.  More than half the Universal Amphitheater lineup last summer consisted of former Troubadour headliners.  The Troubadour, meanwhile, has been struggling to keep its doors open.

Rather than put the few new acts on clubs for more than one or two-night showcase engagements, managers and record label executives have steered them to the concert halls.  the same thing happened in rock in the early ‘70s.

Since it can easily cost $5,000 to $10,000 a week to keep a new act on the road, it seemed wiser to stick the band in a concert hall show where it would be seen by 3,000 to 20,000 people than to put them in a club to be seen by 300 or 400.

But it didn’t work out so neatly in many cases, the opening acts on a concert hall were ignored.  The audience, intent on seeing only the headliner, would either show up late or mill around the lobby.  There was even booing by those impatient for the headliner to arrive.  “Of all the tours in recent years, I don’t remember more than three or four that actually broke a new act,” one industry observer said last week.  “The system isn’t designed to spotlight the newcomer.  It’s built strictly for the headliner.  Aerosmith was an exception.  Leber and Krebs (Aerosmith’s managers) beat the system.  They very carefully placed Aerosmith on the bill with headliners who could still draw a crowd but were on the decline.  So what happened? Aerosmith blew the headliners off the stage, night after night.  They wowed the kids and became one of the biggest acts in rock.  but the industry is geared against that happening.  If you’re the manager  of a headliner, you want an opening act that is compatible.  That usually means harmless.  No one wants to be upstaged.

Aware of the problems with concert shows, record companies are again looking to clubs to spotlight new talent.  Most acts come across best in he intimacy of a club setting. by playing two or three nights rather than the usual concert hall one-night stand, it also gives more chance for word-of-mouth to draw in key record industry figures. It all means money to club owners.

Because record companies often will buy 25% to 50% of the house for promising acts, they virtually underwrite a club’s expenses.  The groundswell of new bands these days means there are lots of possible attractions. The result is a lot of clubs are reopening.  “It was hard a couple of years ago to put together a meaningful cross-country tour,” says Bob Regehr, vice president of artist development for Warner Bros. Records.  “There was only the Roxy here, the Bottom Line in New York, two or three more.  But now there are a dozen clubs and more opening up it means you can hit most of the major markets through clubs again.”

The club situation had gotten so bad in rock, that Elmer Valentine closed the Whisky in ’75.  The move was a boost for the 600-seat Starwood.  Formerly P.J.’s, the club opened in ’74 with a varied but mostly rock musical format.  Some Whisky-type acts however, moved to the Roxy, which is also co-owned by Valentine.  But the Roxy’s format, too, was general rather than just rock. It also offered jazz, R&B, country and some mainline pop.

For the rock fan, there was no place to turn with confidence each week to see a solid- or at least highly-touted, up and coming - rock act.  That changed last November when Elmer Valentine reopened the Whisky.

“I kept reading about all the new wave stuff in England,” Valentine said, explaining his decision. “I saw that rock ‘n’ roll was ready to come back.  There were also a lot of bands forming around town and all the action in New York.  “ti has been a real exciting year, probably the most exciting time for the Whisky since the ‘60s.  There are some great new acts.  And I don’t think it has begun to peak.  That’ll probably come next year some time.  Kids are just discovering they can see the next Jaggers and Zeppelins.”

If you haven’t kept up with clubs the past 11 months, you’ve missed the most exciting crop of rock newcomers in years.  Tom Petty, the Jam, Cheap Trick, Elvis Costello, Dwight Twilley, Mink DeVille. You also may have missed some hot performances by such veterans as Peter Gabriel, Tom Waits and Dickey Betts.  And that’s just in the rock area.

In mainstream pop, the stylish, 180-seat Studio One Backlot Theater has featured several noteworthy attractions.  Two of them - Jane Olivor and Helen Schneider - have enormous potential. Olivor returns there Dec. 26-31.  Bette Midler’s Dec. 8-18 return to the Roxy has been sold out for weeks.

Four country music fans, the Palomino in North Hollywood is probably the most important club outlet in the nation.  Besides such veterans as Jerry Lee Lewis, Buck Owens and Bill Anderson, it regularly features impressive newcomers Joe Ely’s debut there was summer was the most memorable since Emmylou Harris early in ’76.  Tom T Hall, one of country’s most productive and gifted songwriters closes a two-day stand tonight.

There are also numerous clubs specializing in jazz. The Troubadour still offers a variety of acts, including occasional rock.  For rock fans, however, the key spots are the Whisky, Roxy and Starwood.

The Golden Bear in Huntington Beach presents many of the same acts that play the L.A. clubs, but in an even ore informal setting.  The Masque in Hollywood specializes in local punk-rock bands on Saturday nights.  The Starwood has been the scene of several debuts in recent months. Dr. Feelgood, Cheap Trick, the Damned, the Dead Boys.  The Roxy, too, continues to weave rock acts into its schedule but the Whisky is the symbolic home of the new wave.  As such, it offers the most consistently interesting rock fare.

THE END

L.A. Rock: A Club - Ography

BY DON SNOWDEN

September 7, 1980

Los Angeles Times, Calendar, pg. O69

Here’s a look at the latest additions to the Los Angeles rock club scene, plus a recap of the continuing mainstays.

THE MAINSTAYS

Whisky A Go Go (8901 W. Sunset Blvd., Hollywood)

The Whisky has largely superceded the Roxy as the premier rock showcase club in town.  It boasts the best live sound for rock bands and fatures the most popular local bands as well as virtually every major punk and new-wave band making the West Coast rounds.  Choice booking this week:  the GoGos, Friday and Saturday.

Starwood (8161 Santa Monica Blvd., West Hollywood)

The Starwood has largely become a showcase for local bands, both new-wavers and more orthodox hard-rock and heavy-metal outfits. Tuesday and Wednesday nights almost exclusively feature local punk bands and on these evenings the club’s dance floor occasionally resembles a war zone.  Choice: Wall of Voodoo/BPeople Tuesday, The Last/Textones, Wednesday.

Sweetwater (264 N. Harbor Drive, Redondo Beach)

This club has expanded its capacity to about 300 while booking a diverse lineup of performers ranging from new wave to country.  the Sweetwater seems to be developing into the cheif local showcase for roots artists like Chicago bluesman Son Seals and zydeco king Clifton Chenier. Choice:  The Blasters, Thursday, Clifton Chenier, Friday.

Troubadour (9081 Santa Monica Blvd., West Hollywood)

The Troubadour isn’t as significant as it was when it was home base to the Knack and was the only major Hollywood club whose stage was open to the local hard-core punk bands.  the club, however, still books a full schedule of band in the pop and nw-wave rock vein. 

Club 88 (11784 Pico Blvd.,  West L.A.)

The “musician’s hangout” retains its funky charm and, despite improvements in the stage setup and P.A. system, the sound still tends to turn into a muffled roar about 20 feet fro nthe bandstand.  Nevertheless, the club continues to book punk and new-wave bands breaking into the local circuit as well as bands like X, which played many of its early gigs there.

Hong Kong Cafe (425 Gin Ling Way, Chinatown)

Along with Club 88, the Hong Kong was one of the only clubs to book bands like X when the major Hollywood venues wouldn’t touch them.  The Hong Kong still caters to the hardcore punk bands more than any other local venue and it’s often the place where new bands get their first taste of live performance.  Choice: Keith Joe Dick, Friday.

Bla-Bla Cafe (12446 Ventura Blvd., Studio City)

One of the few outlets for original rock music in the San Fernando Valley, the Bla-Bla is a small room with a booking policy that tends to focus on pop and new-wave oriented acts.

Blackie’s (2709 Main St.,m Santa Monica)

Blackies Hollywood location has been abandoned but the club continues on the West Side with an eclectic booking policy ranging from punk and new-wave performers to straight rock bands and the occasional blues artist. 

THE NEW CLUBS

Joey Kill’s (433 S. Victory Blvd., Burbank)

If you require plush surroundings to enjoy live music, cross this place off your list.  the furnishings are spartan and the bar serves only beer and wine, but the newest club in town has the refreshingly informal quality of a neighborhood bar.  The booking policy runs toward punk and new-wave bands.

The Arena (11445 Jefferson Blvd., Culver City)

The Arena began putting on shows nine months ago and it’s that rarity among local clubs, a spacious venue.  The upstairs room features a large, low stage with plenty of room left for dancing, and the sound isn’t bad considering the bare cinder-block walls.  Thursday is currently reggae night and the rest of the week offers a mixed bag of local groups with emphasis on straight rock and pop-oriented new wave.  Bonus:  the Arena is off the beaten music-business track so you don’t find many “trendies” or industry hangers-on.

Flippers (8491 Santa Monica Blvd.)

The roller boogie palace is the most bizarre setting for live music locally.  The bands perform on an island in the middle of the skating rink, playing to an audience seated in boxes outside the perimeter while skaters go whizzing by.  Flippers features live music only on Tuesday and Thursday, the former featuring new-wave acts and the latter devoted to more traditional rock bands.

O.N. Klub (3037 Sunset Blvd., Silverlake)

This contribution to the local club explosion is dedicated to dance music in the form of ska, reggae, and ‘60s soul, both live and on tape.  The club has been open for about five months now and is open Thursday through Saturday nights from 8:30pm to 2am.

Twenty Grand West (5812 Overhill Drive, L.A.)

The club has been presenting live Top 40 R&B cover bands for five years but has started expanding its live musical offerings recently.  Twenty Grand West appears to be becoming the principal local venue for live reggae, featuring Jamaican artists from two to four nights a week.  Starting this week, Wednesdays will be alternative Night devoted to new-wave and rockabiilly bands, while R&B cover bands hold down the remaining nights.  The Twenty Grand West is a comfortable, sizable club with good sound and a spacious dance floor.

THE END

What Makes Punks Tick?

BY WILLIAM OVEREND

August 30, 1981

Los Angeles Times, pg. G1

At 1 a.m. on a Wednesday about 100 people are milling around a place called Danny’s Hot Dogs on Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood.  Most of them are just sort of waiting for the sheriff’s deputies to arrive and clear them out.  By now this has become part of the nightly routine for this group.

The people here are all into the punk rock scene.  The hot dog stand, known by the punks as Oki Dog, serves as their unofficial headquarters after any local concert.  There is no mistaking them.  Either the heads are shaved or the hair is dyed in most cases.  They are dressed primarily in black, with links of heavy chain around the necks of some.  Earlier, there were 3 groups performing at the Whisky on Sunset, and most of these same people were there.

Monster Music

Sometimes it seems there are almost as many punk bands in the Los Angeles area as there are punks. Almost anyone you talk to turns out to be playing the guitar or singing for one group or another.  On this occasion, the groups were 45 Grave, Social Distortion and Christian Death.  “Monster Music,” one punk says of the performances.

Whatever that means, it doesn’t really seem worth pursuing. for that matter, that’s pretty much the attitude of a lot of people about anything connected to the punk scene. The punks have this violent image that scares some people and offends others.

It doesn’t matter in some respects whether or not the image of violence has been exaggerated, which is the feeling of most of the punks themselves.  What matters is that many punks often talk about violence as if it were something of a virtue.  They also talk a lot about destroying society, which doesn’t win them a lot of friends.

At the same time, however, they also complain about the sheriff’s deputies who regularly run them out of Danny’s because of complaints from people in the neighborhood.  The sheriff’s deputies are too rough on them, the punks say.  they shove them around unnecessarily, they add, sometimes even pushing them away from the hot dog window before they can get their food.  At 1:35am later than usual according to the punks, the sheriff’s men arrive and do pretty much what the punks say they usually do.  After ordering the crowd over bullhorn to disperse, they move in on the group with batons in hand.

One deputy, noticeably rougher than the others, spots a free-lance photographer with short hair who is taking pictures of the scene, grabs him from behind without further warning and throws him back a couple of yards.  Using the baton like a cattle prod, he jabs his way to the service counter and later drives one protesting female punker away from the area.

Mild Confrontation

The style isn’t really much different from the typical approach of police in breaking up a crowd in any other situation and is certainly less violent than the dancing at some punk concerts.  Still, the punks see it as harassment.  (You don’t see this as harassment?! - Michele) They don’t expect much sympathy from anybody else, however. More than anything else, the mild confrontation merely illustrates one of the problems faced by those in the punk scene here who would like to be thought of as a serious challenge to the social order.

For some of those who have grown up in Southern California and now speak of the need to topple society, getting chased away from a hot dog stand with insufficient gentleness just may be as close to social injustice as they’ve eve come.

With all the attention that’s been lavished on punk violence, it’s sometimes forgotten that most punks in Southern California are still teenagers who most often live with their parents and probably have to lug the garbage out when they’re told to do so.

They could be anybody’s kids. They come from all kinds of backgrounds, rich and poor.  The overwhelming majority, however, are white.  A few qualify as legitimate street thugs, but most are friendly and reasonably articulate.  Some are on their own new working punks who pay the rent and the utility bills like everybody else. But mostly they live with their mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers.  The handmade swastikas on the walls in some of their rooms are there likely s not only because the folks have been persuaded they aren’t really Nazis.

News Media Image

The image most people have of them comes mainly from the news media.  It is a picture of furious music and songs of rage, of punks hurting their bodies against each other on the dance floor in some sort of agonized ritual, of concerts that seem more like riots, of hopelessness and anger and a world view that primarily consists of the teenage wisdom that life stinks.

In England, where the punk movement began in 1976, all this is said to have a certain social validity because it is led mainly by unemployable lower class whites who have been pretty much shut out of the system by an economy increasingly dependent on the cheap labor of Indian and Pakistani immigrants.  Here, however, one of the lingering criticisms of the punk scene has been that the fury of punk music and protest is out of place.  Local punks have been dismissed by some as little more than bored teenagers tired of going to the beach, looking for something new.

The thing that’s strange about this social phenomenon is that I can’t understand them or really figure out what they want,” says Lt. Howard Wold, night watch commander for the West Hollywood station for Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department.  “To law enforcement, I would say they are just another group,” he adds.  “But I think the community regards them as a problem.  They’ve offended the Jewish community with their swastikas.  They’ve offended the gay community with their anti-gay remarks.  They scare a lot of the senior citizens... to tell you the truth, it’s hard to find somebody who likes them.”

(This, of course, was the typical smear piece, written about American punk.  These writers always basically said, in so many words, that American punks were nothing but a bunch of spoiled brat crybabies.  In their view, they sought to discount the entire movement because they didn’t like it.  They said, in effect,  there was nothing warrantlng the emergence of American punk rock, whereas in England, they had REAL social and economic problems, etc.  Here in America, these are just bored teenagers with no real axe to grind.  Well what punks did for America is create a social and musical revolution which is unmatched, IMO, in popular American history (ok, maybe that is going too far, but our impact has been immense).  I’d like to confront this journalist today and ask him what he thinks of the legacy left by the punk music scene of the 1980s.  Today’s corporatized rebellion/alternative music/new alternative record lables/alternative lifestyles, (corporate chain stores selling punk attire, etc.)  -  WE created that.  We paved the way for all of that to happen!  That counts for quite a bit in my book. Today’s teenagers never had it so good, and that was because we DARED to do what we did back then.  Stick that up your ass L.A. Times!  -  Michele)

In response, the few defenders the punks have besides themselves suggest that it’s not the fault of the punks that they don’t have a war in Vietnam to protest or a civil rights movement to join like the protest generation of the ‘60s.  The general apathy of society, the lack of passionate concern about anything, the violence of society itself are all worthy subject of protest, they reply. to them, the punks are merely a new breed of young idealists trying to shock the larger society into some sense of its own faults.

(He’s wrong, in my opinion.  It may have not come across as one monolithic coherent message but in the end what we were protesting was the homogenization of American teenage culture and the corporate rock structure.  I watched a documentary recently about the big “summer of love” event the hippies had in San Francisco.  All they did was give each other venereal diseases and be stinky because they would live in the parks and not take a bath!  - Michele)

Outside the Lingerie Club on a Monday night in Hollywood, Shirley Lewis looks on with mild disgust at the costumed men and women arriving for the concert that’s been billed as marking the arrival of the newest rival to the punk scene.  It’s another English import called the New Romantic movement, and the singer is Steve Strange, credited with creating the concept.

Some of the people going inside look like they’re heading for the Renaissance Fair.  This is a reaction to the anti-fashion look of the punks, and the punks don’t like it.  they also don’t like the fact that this club, once a punk hangout, won’t let punks in to see what the latest fad is all about.

(Of course Lingerie did not have bouncers standing at the door, saying “I’m sorry, you’re a punk and you cannot come in.” Give me a break!  I’m sure if a punk wanted to pay to get in, they’d gladly take their money.   He has gone out of his way to pick the stupidest people to interview - or made them look stupid - and even says there was male chauvinism - something I NEVER encountered as a female journalist in this scene.  And I don’t recall people getting really upset at the New Wave bands that Madame Wong’s preferred to book after she decided to stop booking punk.  Why is this writer making it out that New Romantic was some sort of threat to us?!  This is ridiculous.  Many of us bought these records too and went to see Adam & the Ants, etc., and it didn’t cause any type of inferiority complex.  I don’t think punks ever felt like they were going to become extinct because of New Romantic music!  Besides, the whole New Romantic thing unfortunately fizzled out. - Michele)

Lewis, 28, is a senior citizen by punk standards.  She stands there watching the fashion parade for a few more minutes, then decides to take off for Oki Dog with her boyfriend, Tony, a 17-year-old runaway from the Valley with whom she’s been living for about five weeks.  Things are pretty quiet at the hot dog stand on this night.  Lewis settles down at one of the outdoor tables, talking about the punk life and why she decided to be part of it.  She has her hair cut in Mohawk style, a severed chicken’s foot dangles from her jacket (she’s a sick chick!!!! - ed.) But the punk look has only been her style for the last year or so. 

“For five years I was a legal secretary and making a lot of money,” she says.  “I even went to discos for awhile. At first it was the music that attracted me to punk. It had a lot of energy, something missing in my life for a long time.”  As she talks about her gradual shift to total commitment to the punk world, a couple of other female punkers arrive to see what’s going on and join her at the table.  women are a minority within a minority in the punk scene. On top of everything else, it appears there may be a little male chauvinism among some punkers. 

The Meaning of Punk

The new arrivals, however, are among the veterans. One calls herself Jet Screamer, but says her real name is Kimberly Cram.  She’s 18, lives with her grandfather and uncle in Silverlake, and works as a delivery driver for an auto parts company.  Her friend, Leslie Doarino, 18, is from Silverlake, too. She lives with her parents and works at a discount dress store. 

“It’s got to come from the heart,” Leslie says about the meaning of being a punk.  “It’s looking weird, outrageous, going to the extreme, giving the trendies trouble....  It means not being bored on Friday, taking drugs and partying,” Kimberly cuts in.

Lewis and Tony are headed back to their hotel room now.  It’s a dingy little room up one flight of stairs in a Hollywood hotel. It costs them $55 a month. there are also hot and cold running cockroaches at no extra charge, Tony says.

She works as a typist now and supports the two of them for the moment on her take-home pay of about $100 a week, Lewis says.  Settling down on the mattress that takes up most of the room, she makes the punk scene sound much gentler than most reports portray it to be.  “For me, being a punk to about being different,” she says.  “it’s not being afraid to be different. It’s an expression of individuality... Most of the people I know are all normal kids.  they’re just rebelling a different way.”

While Lewis talks, Tony sits idly, adjusting his electric guitar.  The two agree there’s more violence now than there once was, but not as much as the media makes it seem.  The new converts think they have to start trouble to be accepted, and that’s part of it.

“It’s gotten kind of rowdier,” Lewis says. “I don’t like seeing people get hurt.  That’s not what any of this is about to me... It’s just growing pains.  A lot of punks will probably be doctors and lawyers someday, and they’ll be outraged at whatever the next generation is doing.”

The guitars are like machine guns in the hands of Chuck Dukowski and Greg Ginn as the group known as Black Flag blazes into the opening number of a matinee performance at the Cuckoo’s Nest in Costa Mesa.  It’s a barrage of raging sound almost drowning out the group’s lead singer, Henry Rollins, who is jumping all over the stage, occasionally diving into the audience and screaming out the lyrics of one song after another with so much hot anger that it seems the veins bulging from his closely shaved head are about to burst.

In the pit, while this is going on, about eight punks are smashing into each other in the ritualized dance of the punks that now generally known as the Slam.  the contact is rough, but stylized.  the dancers circle each other, throwing shoulder blocks at every opportunity. About 150 others in the small punk club are watching. 

Although there are some concerts where up to 200 or so punks might join in the dancing, the number is usually more along these lines.  While punks speak frequently of how a non-punk might get ganged up on for venturing on to the dance floor, that happens only rarely.  On this afternoon, the action’s not nearly as rough as most high school football scrimmages and nobody is hurt.

Black Flag is one of the best known of the local punk groups. It has a hard-core reputation, and police regard it as a group that is more likely to trigger some kind of violence than most.  Members of the band claim they have been harassed by the police, and lately have been living at virtually secret locations.

The early hero of the punk movement in England was Sid Vicious.  In Los Angeles, it was Darby Crash. Both of them are now dead from heroin overdoses, and there’s no single punk idol to take their place.  to the degree that there is any punk spokesman, however, it appears to be Dukowski.

Constant Change

In the constant change of the punk scene, one punk club after another has either folded or decided against further punk concerts.  The Cuckoo’s Nest, proclaimed to be the largest punk club in Orange County, was closed by police earlier this year.  but that was overturned in the courts and the club was allowed to reopen. 

Despite the presence of black Flag, the afternoon performance turns out to be something of a flop, with the club only half-filled. Later in the evening, however, the club is packed to its capacity of 350 or so punkers.

Dukowski, Ginnn and Rollins have an hour or so to kill between shows, and they spend part of that scribbling down some of their lyrics to the songs they think represent some of the key feelings of punkers.

One called, “No Values,” contains these lines: “Do you try telling me/Everything’s all right/I might start destroying/Everything that’s in my sight/I’ve got no values/Nothing to say/I’ve got no values/Might as well blow you away.”’

Offstage Dukowski, 27, is soft-spoken, laughing to himself from time to time as the punk movement is discussed. Ginn, 27, is slender and serious.  As founder of the group that’s now thought of as the most notorious of the local punk bands, it’s surprising to note his hair is medium-length, not cut to the public’s idea of how punks look.

The point they keep stressing is that the media likes to put labels on everything. These days some punks have taken to saying they don’t call themselves punks, just people.  Along the same lines, Dukoswski and Ginn emphasis they don’t see themselves as leaders of anything.  

“Here’s this new group of people that aren’t laying down yet,” Dukowski says.  “That’s what all this hassling is about.  Who knows what’s right for anybody else? our songs are personal. We don’t advocate anything. We try to express the thoughts that some people have.”

“We have no faith in the punk movement to do anything,” Ginn interprets.

“that was the ’60’s,” says Dukowski.  “the ‘60s were big on solutions. In fact, there were too many solutions.”  A lot of anger is expressed at punk concerts both by the bands and the audience, he adds.

“It makes me feel good to thrash around,” he says.  “That’s not a menace to the world. Is everybody who plays football a suppressed, frustrated person? I don’t think so.”

Mark Shaw, a 28-year-old free-lance photographer, began taking pictures of punk rock bands and their followers about a year ago. Now hoping to make a book out of the thousands of pictures he has taken, Shaw has become something of a guide to the punk world.  At the beginning, he wasn’t too sympathetic to punk music, Shaw says.  But he sympathized with the idea that it is good to have somebody challenging the established order, and now he is clearly a punk enthusiast.  Still, Shaw says, it is dangerous to generalize about the punks.  There are constant contradictions, he says.  In his view, there are elements that are both “superficial and deep” within the punk scene.

Orange County and the South Bay beach communities wee among the initial strongholds for the punk crowd.  But there, too, punks seem to come in about as many different shapes and sizes as opera lovers and jazz fans. 

The four-bedroom home of Fountain Valley where Marcella Sakert lives with her teenage son and daughter would be the envy of many families. Outside the house sits a black Lincoln continental for Mrs. Sakert to drive.  There are two slightly battered Ford Pintos in the driveway for the children.  Mrs. Sakert is in a back room now, watching one of her favorite soap operas.  She teaches fourth grade at an elementary school in Westminster.

She is divorced, but the children see their father, too. A former career Marine officer, he now runs an Orange County flight training school and lives not too far away.  The daughter is named Marcella, too. She is 19, a year older than her brother, Jan.  Both are graduates of Fountain Valley High School, and part of the Orange county punk scene since 1978.   “I was laughed at in high school,” Marcella says. “there were five punks out of 4,000 students..  I lost all my friends in two months.”

It’s in vogue now,” Jan cuts in.  “I see 12-year-olds with orange hair. It’s grown much more in the last year.”

They’re sort of mellowed with age, they say. His hair has grown out now, and the only punk trace his sister shows is a blond dye job that’s not easily noticed.  They both work now, but they consider themselves part of the punk scene. They’re not too happy, however, with some of the ways it has changed.

“It started as a protest against society, not doing the 9-to-5 thing,” he says.  “Now it’s more of an excuse to stay out to 2 or 3 am and get drunk.”

“I don’t like what it’s turned into,” she adds.  “For the girls now, it’s a place to meet guys. For the guys it’s a way to be a man faster.”

Sex and drugs are part of the lure, they agree.  He knows 15 or so regular heroin users.  LSD and speed are both popular.  Mrs. Sakert  joins the children now.  It’s all just part of growing up, she says. She doesn’t seem to have many worries about them.

In Jan’s upstairs room, there is a small black swastika on the wall.  In the drawer is a T-shirt with a swastika he painted on it to shock the kids at school one day.  She’s not troubled by the swastika, Mrs. Sakert says.  “Only that it pokes holes in the wall.”  while most punks still share the same roof with their parents or one of their parents, the scene changes dramatically once they set up camp on their own.

In Venice, Mike Muir, 18, his brother Jim, 23, and Mike Ball, 23, share a $600-a-month rented house that’s painted orange and looks something like a Chinese pagoda turned upside down.  On a Wednesday afternoon, Ball and Mike Muir look a little like refugees from the Revolutionary War fife and drum team.  Mike Muir has broken his right hand in a fight, something he apparently keeps doing over and over aain. At the moment, there’s a cast on it.

One of Ball’s arms is all mangled up, and there a (is) big bandage wrapped around his head.  Some local gang members were after their pet Doberman, he explains. he went after them with a bat, but they took it away and beat him on the head with it.

Ball and Mike Muir are both members of a punk music group called Suicidal Tendencies. Another member happens by at this point, his hand also wrapped in heavy bandages. It turns out, however, that his injuries were not sustained in a fight. Employed by a delicatessen, he sliced it up in the bolonga chopper.

Muir estimates that in the previous month he’s probably ben in about 20 fights.  He must enjoy fighting, he concedes. but he also enjoys arguments, sneaking into punk concerts and getting money.  “The things I don’t like are Eugene (another punk), the New romantics, police, hippies and the Wasted Youth (another band),” he says.  “I think society is going to change,” Muir continues.  “I know I’m not going to be like a lot of these hippies.  “They don’t know how to survive.”

THE END

Punk Rock May Cost Theater Owner His License

BY DAN NAKASO

January 20, 1983

Los Angeles Times, pg. SB1

Hermosa Beach - A recent concert featuring skin-slashing, furniture-smashing and window-breaking was not unusual for punk rock.  But the stir caused by the 400 concertgoers when they ripped apart a theater and spilled out into the street may cost the theater owner, Barry Gott, his license to offer live entertainment.

During the Dec. 28 concert, according to police, patrons smashed the windows of nearby buildings, squirted fire extinguishers, damaged furniture and curtains, cut each other with razor blades and licked blood from each other’s cuts - a common punk rock practice.

(Wow, how does this guy know if licking blood is a common practice?!  Licking blood a common practice?! - Michele)

The bizarre events took place in and around the 650-seat Cove Cinema Theater on Hermosa Avenue a couple of blocks from the ocean, where surf and family movies are also shown.  Gott called the Hermosa Beach police about 12:30am on Dec. 29 because patrons listening to the Alley Cats, Red Cross, Channel 13 and The Jones were beyond his control. They became angry when Gott tried to settle them down by turning off the theater’s power, he said.

City officials have schedules a public Board of Zoning Adjustments meeting Jan. 31 to consider revoking the portion of a conditional use permit allowing Gott to stage live shows.  No one was injured or arrested and the concert did not turn into a full-blown riot, according to Police Chief Frank Beeson said the crowd was “raising hell.”

“We had 10 or 15 people who just got out of hand,” Gott said.

Gott said he has never had problems in 22 previous concerts and will continue to stage them.  He has scheduled a rock concert Saturday and another show Sunday, each featuring three bands.

A six-group “extravaganza to save the Cove” has been planned for the following weekend.  Gott hopes it will help bolster sagging attendance he said was caused by “sensationalized” publicity after the punk rock concert.  Fire Chief Ron Simmons, whose office administers business licenses, said Gott agreed earlier not to hold any punk rock shows.  Gott’s theater has already been closed three times due to fire hazards, Simmons said, and the punk rock concert may put him out of the live-entertainment business.

No Punk Rock

In his April application for a conditional use permit Gott promised, “I do not intend to allow musical presentations which encourage destructive behavior or bring undesirable conduct into our community, such as punk rock or music advocating violence, destruction or drug usage.”

The city can revoke the live-act portion of the permit if it has been violated, Simmons said.

Gott said he didn’t realize the bands he invited on Dec. 28 were punk groups. He said he thought they were a milder variety he called “pseudo punk.”  Gott claimed that police and fire officials have been trying to run him out of business for several years by using scare tactics and harassment because he has long hair and a beard - a charge police and fire officials deny.

Zenith of Career

“Just about the time I am flowering and reaching the zenith of my career, the political structure has become repressive,” said Gott, who lives in the theater.  Gott, 38, a Hermosa Beach resident of 14 years, made a living buying and selling surplus electronic equipment before he took over the cove Theatre in June, 1981.

Nearly a dozen complaints were filed after Gott’s Dec. 28 show, according to Lee Alton, director of the Department of building and Safety, including one from Assemblyman Gerald N. Felando (R-San Pedro).  Spokesmen for Felando said he filed the complaint on behalf of a constituent who opposes punk rock concerts in Hermosa Beach.  Gott faces another fire inspection Saturday, when he must have some electrical work up to standard.  Simmons, who described Gott as a “free spirit,: said Gott may get by the Board of zoning Adjustments but could still be closed by the Fire Department.

(What is so interesting about this, other than the hilarious fact that Gott is obviously a hippie who is booking punk bands and who thinks the world is still discriminating against him over his long hair and beard.  That boat has sailed. And his comment that he is at  “the zenith of his career,” - LOL - it seems to appear that the police may have been harassing him to stop him from booking punk bands because they obviously don’t want to have to be called out if there are any disturbances.  And what about the fact  that he is being told that he can’t specifically book punk bands.  This goes back to the question of is it legal to discriminate against one kind of music? - Michele)

Punk Rock Fans, Officers Clash in Streets After Show

BY PETER H. KING

February 13, 1983

Los Angeles Times, pg. A3

Freshly sprung from jail and still wearing spiked leather and the latest in military surplus fashion, a handful of punk rockers lingered in front of the Huntington Park Police Station at noon Saturday, hoping to catch a lift home and swapping war stories about a wild fracas the night before between fellow fans and police officers.

“It was a nightmare,” said Rick XXXX, a 20-year-old from Mission Viejo.  “It was horrific.  And all I wanted to do was go see a gig.  And then I got arrested for just trying to leave the area.”

Rick was one of 41 people arrested Friday night during a large-scale disturbance that broke out when police arrived to close down a punk rock show for alleged overcrowding and consumption of alcohol by minors.  Twenty-one stores were vandalized in the two hours it took 125 nightstick-wielding officers called in from several cities to disperse a crowd of 1,000 bottle-throwing punk rockers.

Obstruction of Justice

By his telling, Rick - whose black leather jacket had the word “Dischord” printed across the back - had been struck by several police officers with nightsticks and spent the night in jail for obstruction of justice.  Like hundreds of others, he had paid $9 for a ticket to a punk concert at the Mendiola Ballroom, an old brick building at the center of Huntington Park’s wide and bustling Pacific Boulevard.  The main attraction has been an English band called Exploited.  The warm-up groups were Suicidal Tendencies, Vandals, Aggression and Youth Brigade.

By all accounts, about 500 more people than there was room for showed up at the 450-capacity ballroom, and by 10pm the fans left outside began to feel a bit exploited themselves.  After reported bottle throwing, police came, decided to shut down the place and then, in the words of one police official, “all hell broke loose.”

Windows were broken and displays were vandalized.  Punk rockers hurled bottles at officers and officers retaliated with night sticks.  Six blocks were cordoned off as police swept the neighborhood.  When it was over about two hours later, seven officers were complaining of minor injuries - only one required stitches - 41 punk rock fans were in jail and shopkeepers and city officials were wondering about just what had been loosed in their otherwise pleasant city of 48,600.

“We are just booming, “ Huntington Park Mayor Thomas Jackson said.  He talked of a 300% growth in tax revenues, of white flight being followed by a growing Latino population that brought prosperity and a sense of community, of $50 million in building permits approved for the next year - “and now, all of a sudden, we have a riot here. I would hate for anyone to think what occurred last night occurs here on a regular basis.  We have a nice town.”

Shopkeepers arrived at dawn Saturday to sweep the sidewalks and patch shattered windows.  They compared damages and congratulated the lucky ones who had been spared.  By 10am the freshly swept sidewalks on Pacific Boulevard were crowded with shoppers. American flags were unfurled up and down the wide tree-lined commercial strip in honor of Abraham Lincoln.

“This sort of thing (the disturbance) is just aggravating more than anything else,” said Bob Fullbright, manager of a Thom McAnn shoe outlet a couple blocks away from the Mendiola.  The front window of his store had been broken out during the disturbance, and a display he had just finished putting up had been dismantled.

“You just got to roll with the punches; that’s life.  The only thing that makes me mad is that I just got done trimming that window.  Now I got to do it all over again. I wish they had gotten the other window.  I was planning to trim it on Monday anyway.”

Some punk fans complained that police overreacted.  Lt. Geano Contessotto defended his department officers.  “When you have kids throwing rocks and full bottles of beer at cops- well, they are human too.  We are very fortunate we didn’t have any serious injuries... I don’t think there’s any graceful way of closing down this kind of event.”

He said if there wee any key mistakes, they wee in not paying close enough attention to what kind of show was planned and in overbooking the concert.  Efforts to reach the concert promoter were unsuccessful.  Contessotto and other city officials found significance in the fact that most of the youngsters appeared to have been from out of town, some from as far away as San Diego.  there was amusement at police headquarters when one of those arrested was picked up by his father to be driven back to Newport Beach in a Mercedes-Benz.

THE END

Four L.A. Officers Injured in Melee With Punk Rockers

BY EDWARD J. BOYER

November 18, 1984

Los Angeles Times, pg. OC-A30

Four Los Angeles police officers were injured and 10 people were arrested early Saturday when a crowd of about 1,000 punk rock fans went on a rock- and bottle-throwing rampage outside Olympic Auditorium, police said.  “This has been an ongoing problem at the Olympic,” said Central Division Sgt. Robert Griffin.  “The potential for problems is always there, but I don’t know what turned those people into a nasty mood.  Punk rockers usually vent their anger on themselves.  They beat up on themselves so bad inside (the auditorium), then they go limping off into the night.”

One report indicated that the crowd, primarily teenagers, began milling outside the auditorium shortly after midnight while a punk rock concert was under way inside, Griffin said. The violence may have erupted because many in the crowd had tickets but were unable to enter the auditorium because it was already full, he added.   About two dozen officers from four police divisions converged on the scene and restored order in 15 minutes.

The injured officers were all struck by bottles, the sergeant said.  All four were treated at White Memorial Medical Center and released, but two - Steven Fritsch, 29, and his partner, Gilbert Zuniga, 32 - were ordered to take days off to recuperate from bruises.

Seven adults and three juveniles were arrested and booked for investigation of assault with a deadly weapon on a police officer, Griffin said.  The juveniles were released to their parents’ custody, and the adults are being held at Central Division Jail with bail set at $2,500, he added.

THE END

Maniac, Hendrix & the Elvis Costello Poster

(AKA: Riot at the Hideaway awesome blow-by-blow account! - Michele)

Excerpts from “Welcome to the Warzone”

BY JONATHAN FORMULA

December 1980

Damage #11, pg. 40

....The Stains and a bunch of their homeboys were standing outside when we drove up.  The gangrenous glow of the late L.A. afternoon lent the grimy warehouses on the block an even  seedier air.  Everyones mood seemed to be in keeping with the oppressive heat and stench of the downtown industrial district.  The members of our party, Black Flag, their producer Pot and the friends whose vehicles they’d enlisted to move the gear from the dilapidated Hollywood rehearsal space to the soundcheck disembarked and began to half-heartedly sus out the situation some wandering over to hunker down with the Stains, some meandering inside to check out the hall and others lethargically dragging the equipment out to the cars.  The soundman who had been engaged for the gig was also there, uploading the PA from his van, and he already looked like he wished he were somewhere else as he rolled the big speaker cabinets across the asphalt.

The occasion was an all-too-infrequent one for L.A.: the opening of a new club. The gig had been set up and was being run by a woman named Carla, who had promoted her first show a few weeks before at Polish Hall, had a success and enthusiastically went on to find the huge warehouse a few blocks from the Atomic Cafe and talk the owners into renting her the place for a show which was to feature Black Flag, Geza X and the Mommymen, Circle Jerks, the Descendents, the Stains and Mad Society, and was to continue after hours with DeDetroit and UXA, Saccharine Trust and the Minutemen. 

On September 19, 1980, it was the only show in town.  Carla had seen to that by contacting bands from both the suburbs and from Hollywood, and thousands of flyers had been posted and circulated at gigs to supplement the ads in the LA Weekly.  The owners or lessors of the hall were a group of gay black men, some or all of whom also have a campy, nostalgia boutique named Alien on the West Hollywood end of Sunset, one of a row of cute; full-page-ad-in-stuff-type shops along a three or four block strip.  As people and equipment slowly moved into the hall, the amount of work the owners had put into the place was immediately visible, and everyone was duly impressed.  Walking through the narrow doorway adjacent to a securely locked, steel-reinforced, roll-up loading door, one entered a sort of lobby created by a Sheetrock partition the width of the room which had two doors, one directly in line with the entrance from the street and the other on the far right.  These doors led into the main room, the concrete floor of which had been painted glossy black.  Folding chairs lined the perimeter of the several-thousand square-foot space, and a high, wide and deep stage had been erected in the far right corner of the room.  The soundman could be seen grumpily working around Black Flag’s and the Stains’ equipment as he erected the speaker stacks on the two front corners of the stage. 

Immediately to the left of the stage was a large opening in the rear wall, which led to a sort of lounge area in the back.  The decor of that room added to the queasy feeling which had been steadily increasing ever since we’d arrived, nourished by the testy, sourpuss tech, the street vibes emanating from the vatos in the Stains’ entourage - already pretty well into the buzz from the smokables and the bottle of cheap wine they were passing around in a paper sack- and the persistence of the uneasy sensation  that no one was really coordinating anything or knew exactly what as supposed to happen or when.   The back room with its black and white checkerboard floor contained a bar along the left wall, a few swapmeet easy chairs and sofas in the right rear corner (over which was a loft space with chairs and tables), and, immediately to the right of the entranceway, an enclosed room with glass-paneled doors, containing a miniature version of the Allen boutique, crammed full of new wave-y clothes, jewelry, buttons, purses, shoes, magazines, etc.... the owners of the place were scurrying around, excited about the launching of their new club, decked out in Beverly Hills/Village Mews “punque vogue” drag, meticulously putting some last minute clean-up touches on the various areas.  They were giddily happy and pleased as peacocks with themselves, and they well deserved to be - they must have been building walls, painting, wiring, plumbing and decorating for months. 

People were already being let in as Black Flag caromed though an accelerated sound check.  The sound guy had gone all the way attitude by then, refusing to unplug the cheap piezoelectric “super-tweeters” (his term_ he’d thrown up on top of the stacks, despite the fact that they fed back continuously and added pure industrial pain to the already tooth-grinding noise ricocheting around the huge, square, concrete barn of a room, said refusal being made on the grounds that it was his system and he mixed the sound the way he liked it, and he liked frequencies over twelve LHz and if we didn’t he’d just pack up and leave.

Carla had set up a table, lengthwise, directly in front of the single, narrow door that led in from the street.  By this time, a couple of hundred people were crowding up to it thinking the bands had already started playing, and they were already hot, squashed and pissed off at the inevitable slowness involved in getting hundreds of people, pushing, shoving and anxious, through a doorway a relatively skinny human being would almost have to turn sideways to fit through (this is not to code! - Michele).  Adding to the congestion was the security system that had been devised to make sure as few people as possible could sleaze by the door without paying.  To achieve this purpose, Carla had enlisted the help of a girlfriend and given her a Byzantine ritual to perform with each paying customer, which involved not one but two hand stamps and a ticket which was to be delivered along with a litany instructing each ticketee with its proper usage:  “Hold on to this so you can go in and out.”  Standing by, absorbing this curious methodology while Black Flag still bravely attempted to work with the throwback PA chappie, the queasy feeling escalated into impending nausea as each “... so you can go in and out” communication was uttered - there were now at least five hundred people outside, all pushing for all they were worth to get in.  The idea of someone trying to get out would have been a lot more amusing if I had known of any alternative escape route than charging through hundreds of people with the exact opposite idea.  (LOL - this guy is great! - Michele)  Finally, soundchecks are “done,” ‘an hour after the doors... no, make that door, teeny, tiny, narrow little door... opened.  A couple of hundred people inside already, hanging around in the main room enjoying the feeling of not having thirty people per square foot of territory, and everybody working the door is getting skittish, including the burly, mustachioed bouncer at the door. He was real nervous, despite the fact that he’d told Carla when she hired him that he was a bodyguard to the stars, real experienced.  He’d been instructed to let people in four at a time, which he did, while restraining the by now seven- or eight-hundred-strong crowd by sheer physical force, clinging to the doorjambs and periodically stocking his hairy, aviator-shaded face outside and bellowing “Hey! I’m not gonna tellya again!  Quit pushin!”  The kids, of course, loved that. 

Carla and her friend were also getting seriously edgy at this point, but it only seemed to bog things down even more. With only a couple of nervous glances at the roll-up door, which people had started to pound on rhythmically, and completely ignoring the shouting and cursing which seemed to be getting louder and deeper and angrier, they continued to attend each group of four in a dreamy, slow-motion way, taking time to argue with people over the price, taking what seemed like five minutes for every transaction, refusing to rearrange the set-up so that people coming in wouldn’t have to walk across the room to Carla’s end of the table, be angrily yelled at for not clairvoyantly knowing to walk back the other way across the room to where the stamp and ticket benedictions were being dispensed, and then getting yelled at again for not knowing instinctively where to go from there.

Their confusion was completely understandable, since by this time about a hundred people were jammed tight in the door area on the inside demanding to know why the fuck they couldn’t get out, a few of them diving stalwartly into the mass of sweaty, semi-hysterical humanity jammed tight against the door.  Around this time, the Stains started their set.  The roars from the hopelessly compressed hordes outside doubled in volume and intensity and the pounding on the roll-up door took on a truly ominous, slow, determined rhythm, shaking the whole room, attracting more people from inside to see what was going on.  The main room was half-full, people crammed up against the stage, on the stage, the HBers flailing away dead stage center, the rest of the crowd dancing or watching, and, occasionally, a few flurries of heated by temporary fighting rippling across the body of the audience, if that’s what the people not on stage can be called at gigs like these, which could easily dissolve in the observer’s eye into the memory of a junior high biology film showing the movement of a digesting amoeba as shot through an electron microscope. 

As the pounding against the roll-up door evolved into crashing, with segments of the paneling cracking and splintering inwards, causing the crowd in the lobby area, who were either waiting for a shot at the outside world or simply checking out the development of the rapidly declining door situation, to back up, in turn causing some amount of counter-pushing and anger, the lobby being completely filed with people moving either inward or outward with all the dispatch of a banana slug-working its way up a tree trunk, Carla and her loyal friend, who had been joined by two other women who helped them out by standing around looking deeply concerned were jolted out of their blinders-on semi-catatonia into a state of Raw Fear by two events: the security goon at the door - his hair, mustache and Ivy League shirt liberally sprinkled with chips of wood and paint from the rapidly-succumbing roll-up, his physical person drenched in beer and spit and his perservering spirit defeated by the mounting degree of hostility from the indignant crowd, still hundreds strong, most of whom had been waiting in intimate proximity to their peers for a couple of hours - this poor opportunist geek of a “professional bodyguard” pulled a magnificent Houdini, leaving his wage and his pride behind, and high-tailed it into the night, probably to some bodyguard bar where he could get on the outside of a cold brew and have one hoohaw of a story to tell to the skeptical bartender. 

This resulted in people pouring (one at a time, by necessity) through through the Munchkin-size door, propelled by the rearguard, pushing Carla, the hand-stamp priestess and the table itself back into the room and creating a true, no-way-out logjam, and bringing the already-sauna-like ambient temperature up to instantly enervating levels from the added pressurized body heat.  Almost as if on cue, just as the table went toppling over and Carla had to be hurriedly instructed to stop standing there staring at some personal apocalypse being played out on the inside of her eyelids and GRAB THE CASH BOX; and just as she set herself to the task of spinning the combination lock with which the box was chained to the table, giving her a temporary way out of complete paralyzing HORROR and TERROR, at being not only a lone woman standing in the middle of a truly ornery, high-density MOB, but the one responsible for the whole shebang, just as she bent down to attend to the cash box, the roll-up door exploded inwards with a devastatingly horrific creaking and groaning of shattered wood and twisted metal, and three hundred triumphantly cheering punk rockers crashed and swarmed through the enormous, gaping hole created by the immaculately-restored pastel-green 1947 Packard convertible the enthusiastic young black owners of the Hideaway had thoughtfully left outside with the parking brake off for the kids to use as a battering ram.

Meanwhile, things had gotten a bit thick around the stage as well. In fact, since there’d been no arrangements made for a stage manager or anything remotely similar, there were dozens of people sitting onstage, all around Mad Society who were nobly attempting to soothe the already ruffled crowd by urging them to stop fighting and stop trashing the walls, which activity had already begun on an individual basis.  The people on stage were not to blame for seeking refuge there, as the room was packed solid, and the action around the front of the stage was intense enough to give pause to anyone with a glimmering of abstract-thought capability.  And even the crowd cannot be condemned for reacting indignantly to the situation.  After several sweaty, hot, crowded hours, only two bands had played, and now the soundman was standing on the side of the stage, glowering, with his arms folded across his chest, clutching himself perhaps to keep inside the courage he had mustered to announce- over the PA to be sure- that the sound system would stay off until the three mikes he was missing were returned.  the crowd had also enjoyed the stand-up routines of various people begging, persuading with we’re-all-in-this-together logic, wheedling and threatening them to “cool out, cool out,” or else.  The answer to “Or else what?’ was provided by one of the Hideaway owners, literally in tears at this point, shouting hysterically into the microphone about calling the police.  Perhaps the dead-earnest force of the threat was lost in the deafening din of monitor feedback (those pesky “super-tweeters” again, dar it!), breaking bottles, shouted abuse from hundreds of parched throats and the sound of boots penetrating sheetrock. 

Meanwhile events were happening with furious speed, and at times simultaneously, so quick-cut back to the lobby - a semblance of order had been restored at the door.  The car was moved back outside, the roll-up was pounded back into something very remotely like its original shape and blockaded with tables.  Carla and Stamp Woman back at their stations, still still still at least a hundred people outside milling to get in, one or two friends of Carla’s outside calmly making an effort to get people into something like a line, with limited success.  Instead of Super White Boy at the door now, however, we have Maniac and Hendrix, a couple of huge 250-pound Chicans, way off into the later stages of intoxication (Maniac singlehandedly pulled the steel framework of the roll-up door back down), friends of the Stains who wandered into the brouhaha at the door and jumped right into the thick of it with great relish, causing a very slight return to normal human coloring to Carla’s relieved face.

After securing the roll-up, with the help of some band members, Maniac and Hendrix stood on the inside of the door, their impressive bulk blocking the entrance.  As they were standing face to face, each time Carla or Stamp Woman called out “four more!” the boys would grab the first four available bodies, drag them between their belies and HEAVE them into the room, where the poor dazed kids ended up on their feet if they were lucky, in a heap of leather, denim and skull-fetish adornments if they were slow.  If the heave-ees were girls, well, Maniac being a basically good-natured if not intellectual type with arms as big around as your thighs, and somewhat altered, consciousness-wise, he would grab a handful of agitated punkette tush as it went by and make smacking sounds with his lips.  A few times the girls stood up for themselves and delivered a “You fucker!” - punctuated kick to the shins before scrambling to safety, at which our homeboy Maniac would try to focus his eyes, raise a wobbly fist (as big around as a large frozen Cornish game hen) and woozily wave it in her direction with the required cautionary “Eeey, bitch,” badly slurred, of course. 

The presence of Maniac and Hendrix generally raised the spirits of the door crew, perhaps in some cellular-memory celebration of Dad-safety, and the door was restored for awhile.  Most of the remaining patrons who squirted through the labia-like dilatory valve created by the beefy bodies of Maniac and Hendrix did so with a gallant display of amused hilarity and good sportsmanship.  Even the couples who were torn apart the briefly by the fellows’ “Four more? Hokey, getcho ass in here!” zeal did not stay distressed for long.  It was too funny, and the hilarious metaphor of birth was wonderfully absurd enough to relax the tension to a tolerable point.  Unfortunately, the spit-and-chewing-gum status quo, with the restoration of a - comparatively - ordered entrance of people to join the wilder-than-ever masses within, did not last long.  More fuck-ups inside, more hysteria in the office, more threats shouted over the mike, the calling of the police, the complete abandon of the crowd, the tearing down of all the sheetrock walls, the fearful hiding in the office as the maddened crowd kicked out the windows demanding to know if Black Flag were in there, the arrival of the police, who had been by a couple times earlier, calmly (!) and in friendly tones urging people to stop breaking bottles in the street, to wait until they got inside to blow it off, the rout of the crowd, again by surprisingly restrained cops, although a few people inside were hit; and,m the sad scene in the office after everyone had gone, the owners walking aimless through the rubble, not a wall left standing, like survivors of an air raid, in shock the money changing hands - what money there was, for although well over a thousand people were there, only about four hundred paid.  the owners were given most of the proceeds for rent and damages, the soundman was paid off, the bands were paid and all went wearily home.  But curiosity did not cease even then. Wandering forlornly through the bombed-out main room, kicking bottles, chunks of sheetrock, ankle-deep debris, wincing each time one of the owners walks by slowly shaking his head, still amazed at the speed and fury with which the final explosion occurred.... reaching the back of the hall, the room with the two-tone floor, I stared with disbelief  at the cute little mini-boutique room with the glass doors, intact, untouched, and as I raised my head upwards, I was the most unexpected sight of all.... Elvis Costello, leering down in neon-green scorn, from his so-easy-to-reach, completely unprotected vantage point up on the back wall.

As we go to press, we hear that the owners of the Hideaway have rebuilt and are planning to reopen, with “very selective” bookings and an over-twenty-one policy.

THE(ir) END

(Dave Formula continues in the same article below to give an account of the riot at the Whisky - Michele)

Blood, Thunder & Sleeze

(AKA: Riots at the Whisky & Bace’s Hall, the article above continues with a blow-by-blow account! - Michele)

Excerpts from “Welcome to the Warzone”

BY JONATHAN FORMULA

December 1980

Damage #11, pg. 42

Black Flag had a couple of mikes and cables, cymbal holders were used for stands, and a guitar amp was used for power with one speaker cabinet on either side of the stage.  Surprisingly enough, the vocals were audible, albeit distorted as shit, and the show went on, with the usual crowd behavior - some people tearing it up in the center of the dance floor, most standing around them watching the band, with some existing in the cross-hatch zone, jumping into the war dance and back out again sporadically.

At the Whisky, the floor was packed for the first show.  Although the band had a low guarantee against a percentage if the club sold out to capacity at either or both shows, the management cut off the door for the first show at four hundred, but went on selling tickets for the second show.  The Whisky’s capacity is approximately six hundred.

The Whisky was designed as a record-company-showcase, and the PA speakers are flown from the ceiling and aimed at the back of the room and the reserved seats in the balcony where the fat cats would sit, leaving no coverage at all for the dance floor.  At the soundcheck, the only emergency measure available was to turn the sidefill monitors out towards the dance floor and hope people would be able to hear vocals. The first show was stupendous.  Both bands were tight, fiery and inspired, and the floor was packed.  This time, however, the majority of the people on the floor were of the war-dancing persuasion, and see from above, the incessant scramble of the mob was impossible to watch, it being too easy to get caught up in the dizzying blur of leaping, oscillating, caroming bodies.  There were no major incidents and the club security was comparatively tame, having been briefed beforehand.

Despite the suppression of press coverage of the Bace’s rumble, the Hideaway and especially the Whisky riots brought Black Flag enough notoriety that they have been approached by, among others, a local cable TV service called BetaCable for taping, a German TV film crew, and the national-network Tomorrow show.  The Rona Barrett-hosted show (scheduled for November 10) will have been aired by the time this issue hits the streets, and at this writing we don’t know what sort of things Miz Rona will be asking Black Flag to talk about.

This sort of notoriety is not a novelty to the band, who were arrested on stage the first time they played, at Blackie’s on Hollywood about one and a half years ago.  Having attracted the attention of national network TV, however, lends credibility to the comparison made by a cultural analyst of my acquaintance between the recent developments in Black Flag’s career and the media scam undertaken by the McLaren/Rotten swindoleros back in Year 1 AS (After Sid).  In BF’s case, however, there is no deliberate attempt on their part to manipulate events, and it remains to be seen how clearly the ideals they embody and represent can be transmitted to the people of this country on November 10.