I WAS SO HEAVY, MAN, I LIVED ON THE STRAND; Part Two

 

I WAS SO HEAVY, MAN, I LIVED ON THE STRAND 

(PART TWO)

Beautiful Rincon Point near Santa Barbara

SO, ANYWAY, WHERE WERE WE?

Oh, that's right, we left off around hanging out in Hollywood. Okay, so we had nothing book related scheduled for the next day (but wait…we’re getting there…) so Stewart and I headed north along the Pacific Ocean, our destination - Santa Barbara. Before I explain what can be viewed roadside on this drive, I want to tell you about the etiquette of the ‘All American Freeway.'

Hold on while the dramatic music is cuing up…

What a messed up system..! Other than surfing, celebrities and all year round sunshine – Los Angeles is famous for one other thing - traffic – and lots of it. Stewart gave me a brief history lesson in ‘Carpool Lanes’ (a whole inside lane ‘the fast lane’ to you or I) that is solely reserved for cars with a driver and a passenger. Yes, that’s right - if you are driving with another person alongside you, you can sail past the traffic…  Most people on the road out here are sole drivers because Los Angeles barely has any public transportation, and the city is so vast and spread out, that driving is necessary; but not quite justifiable. Everybody in LA drives as a result, just to get around and roads resemble a rollercoaster version of our UK  ‘Spaghetti Junction’. 

Remember, I am British. In the UK we have a solid public transportation system, so I was just not used to NOT having public transport… ALL THE TIME!

The drive to Santa Barbara is varied and ultra scenic, from picturesque red foothills to vast valleys of citrus fruit, you just end up with retina strain trying to soak up the visuals. It was at this point that I remember zoning out and listening to the radio, which was playing an array of Mariachi, I realised a ‘non-point’ that Stewart had been driving with one foot on the dashboard pretty much the whole time we were on the freeway - as most cars in The States are automatics with cruise control, not stick shift like back home. So, yes, just a side note. Sorry. 

We took a break at Rincon Point, a famed natural point break surf spot with a horizon and surroundings that has to be witnessed. It’s so beautiful! In total cliché, I perched on some driftwood and cooled myself in the sea breeze watching the surfers hanging for waves and smiling at the passing ladies. Being a fan of our animal friends I was super happy to spot some sea lions swimming alongside the surfers, I rolled up to Stewart grinning and pointing like an idiot to which he informed me is a bad sign, as seals being so close together usually means sharks in the area or at least attracts them in this environment. Oh shit, of course, they have fucking sharks out here, I am petrified of sharks.

We jump back in the car and soon enough we pull into Santa Barbara. We take a walk around and find ourselves on the main high street that is cluttered with cool craft shops, weird high-street bronze statues that look like everyday workers cleaning windows, super high-end designer stores and various eateries. We look around somewhere suitable to feed and find a Vietnamese place, which was just incredible. Planning our next day over a mountain of food, we walked around a little more and headed back to the rental car. It was somewhere along the trip back where I remember I could barely keep my head up…I remember thinking… 

 “I wonder if I ate something that doesn’t agree with me? I feel like shit!”

 I felt like my body was made of lead and I just fell into the deepest sleep, which leads me to my next point; The Mysteries of Jet Lag. The thing about Jet Lag is it is never finished in one sitting; it hits you like a wave and just comes out of nowhere…I’ve never had it that bad visiting the US before, this time it just floored me and pretty much finished me off for the rest of the day. So in the car we climbed and all that I remember was, well, the next day.

The next day, Stewart had arranged for us to go for coffee with a guy called Robert Arce. 

If I remember correctly – Robert used to work for SST (Black Flag’s homegrown label) and is currently in the process of making a Black Flag documentary in the vein of 2007’s American Hardcore. We met up and he showed us the trailer on his laptop, it looks like a great project. Over coffee we talked about the string of interviews that Barred For Life had conducted thus far and the interviewees and just general geek Black Flag trivia. We explained to Robert how tough it was for us trying to reach Raymond Pettibon (Greg Ginn’s younger brother, and exceptional artist for Black Flag and others), and Robert kindly he gave us his home address – which happened to be in the Venice Beach area. After a little debating in the car park we decided to just head out there and go knock on his door and see what happens. 

An hour later we arrive in Venice Beach, and this is what kind of went down…

There is a fine line between wanting an interview and stalking a man, and both can be risky business.  Happily we were not stalking, but Raymond didn't know that. If legend is to be believed, Raymond is notoriously reclusive, so the thought of disturbing him was awkward and weird – but totally worth a shot if we could secure an interview for Barred For Life. So we parked and walked along Venice Beach Boardwalk, which has to be witnessed with all it’s human oddities and accepted pan handling freaks…

We soaked in the visuals and simultaneously psyched ourselves up. Venice Beach is amazing and terrifying all at the same time. It is a melting pot of every type of culture you can imagine, and completely full of whacko’s and chancers. We watched a Jimi Hendrix look-a-like (played a left-handed Stratocaster strung upside down) on the beach, saw the beefcakes pumping iron at the outdoor Gold’s Gym (hilarious), amazing Skateboarding in the bowls and I got totally hustled by some Hip Hop guys giving me a signed ‘free’ CD and then trying to charge me for it. The whole experience of Venice Beach can be summed up as WEIRD. 

We finally located Raymond’s house and rang the bell. Dammit, Nobody home. I spotted a telephone book lying next to a gate; we looked him up. R. Pettibon was listed. What the fuck. We called his home number and got his answering machine. His answering machine gave us his studio number, and his receptionist told us he was out with Thurston Moore ‘on the town’. So, we were close. We talked to his gallery rep, we sat on his front stoop. We called his house, and at one point Stewart talked to somebody, who could have been Thurston Moore or David Markey (he was also mentioned along side Thurston Moore by his rep). Well, you can’t win them all. We cut our losses and went to eat gigantic pizza to calm our stomachs, and to give a chance for Stewart to give a call over to Chuck Dukowski (Black Flag’s original bass player), who lived just up the street from Raymond. 

Okay, so this is where the story gets even weirder, so I may as well cut it short and pick up from this point next time. Hope that you enjoy the images, and thanks for reading…

Regards,

PJT

I WAS SO HEAVY, MAN, 

I LIVED ON THE STRAND

Lovely Whittier, CA

On the 4^th of December 2009, I hosted a last minute shoot for ‘Barred For Life’ in Manchester UK (see Stewart’s prior post for the summery). I followed the project online, reading this very travel blog you are reading now - and as the tour unfolded beyond Manchester, into Europe and the New Year – Stewart and I kept in regular contact via email. To cut a long-winded story short,

Stewart asked…

 “I’m going to Los Angeles this summer to conduct a series of interviews – why don’t you get yourself a plane ticket and get out here?”.

I did just that and here is what happened...

I left Manchester Airport for a connecting flight at Heathrow (LONDON) bound for LAX (LOS ANGELES). This was the first time I’ve covered serious mileage on my own before - I was excited but admittedly, I was pretty fucking nervous, too. It had been awhile since I saw Stewart, my life was in a state of dis-harmony and I thought ‘fuck it’ this is going to be a story no matter what happens or how broke I am...I should do this because it will be the silver lining on a shitty couple of months… I may never get asked to do something so cool again…

So I got to Heathrow, I wandered around – and it’s kind of like a scaled down, actually, NO, it is pretty much like a full shopping precinct within an airport. I’ve never witnessed anything like it - it’s so fucking unnecessary. Who would visit an apple shop and buy a macbook or an ipad on a whim before boarding a trans-wherever flight?

I had about two hours to kill before boarding time so I headed straight for the bar to pound a couple of beers - hoping it would take some sting out of the waiting around. I watched whoever it was playing that day in the World Cup propped up against the bar staring at the TV.

Finally my gate opens, I stroll up with my boarding pass and passport then I’m stumped with the question;

“Where will you be staying for the duration of your trip Sir?” the gate lady asked.

“Somewhere in the suburbs of Los Angeles, Whittier if my memory serves me correctly?” I flatly respond.

Basically, due to the tightening of homeland security in the US since the events of September 11^th, you now have to provide the accommodating airline with the FULL ADDRESS of where you are staying. Something I didn’t have. As far as I was concerned, I was just going to get picked up at the other end and taken to wherever I was staying.

I missed the flight as a result and had to wake up numerous people on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean trying to find out this shred of information that I COULD have probably made up – but wasn’t going to risk it just to be received in the US of A and sent right back to the UK, which I have heard had happened to people in the past.  Off to a flying start. At this point I’d been in two airports for about 8 hours. Without smoking, and I’d not even left British soil; excellent.

Stewart

I finally got the address, boarded the plane, found my seat and started to tinker with the on-flight entertainment. A very attractive Californian lady sat next to me and we talked for the majority of the flight. She looked just like one of those ladies from ‘Desperate Housewives’ all teeth and cheekbones with a healthy complexion. We shared anecdotes of airport hell and a bottle of wine. She asked me for my reason for my visit and I told her about the book. I asked the same – it turned out she was a real published author who had been in London writing a novel about a young girl coming of age. She was real fun to talk to, we laughed at the crummy movies and I remember envying the fact that she was petite enough that she could sit cross legged comfortably in her seat but I can’t remember her name.

Adieu, adieu…

We touched down in Los Angeles 16 hours later. At this point I had been travelling for around 24 hours and I was delirious from air conditioning, lack of sleep, too much booze and no cigarettes. I said my ‘good byes’ to the author lady as she sailed through passport control and I stood with the cattle through immigration, knee deep in sniffer dogs and police security types.

Robbo and Phil

There’s something about airports in foreign countries that put me on edge; a feeling like I’m in possession of something I shouldn’t or an unexplained guilt - I always feel like I’m going to get put back on the plane home any minute. I went through all the ridiculous questioning and iris scans and headed for baggage claim. I grabbed my bag, fished out my tobacco and began to roll a cigarette, just as I was finishing the roll – random John Law pulled me to one side and asked me what I was doing ‘just then’. Rolling tobacco is somewhat of a rarity in Los Angeles it seems and a filter tip may as well have come from Mars. I had to explain it’s purpose about three times and he still disappeared with my passport and tossed my luggage. He let me go when he was content I was not a terrorist armed with underwear, a few gift 7 inches and filter tips. Anyway, Stewart was hanging around to greet me and off we drove into the City Of Angels.

Stewart informed me of a rough plan for the week and we took a detour en route to where we would be staying, as he wanted to show me the Pacific Ocean - a fine introduction to the start of my trip. We parked up in a sleepy town of Hermosa Beach. As far as I know, Hermosa Beach is where it all began for Black Flag, as in where it all started.  We walked a small strip of bars and restaurants, which is known as ‘The Strand’ as in from the song ‘Wasted’ (“I was a surfer, I had a skateboard, I was so heavy man, I lived on THE STRAND”). It sounds pathetic, but this trip was blowing my mind already, I walked out along the pier to the very end, stared at the murky waters, marvelled at the clear evening sky and it sunk in… I was actually out here doing this awesome thing.

We drove out to the house we were to stay for the duration of our trip - Whittier, which is a suburb South East of Los Angeles. Our hosts Philip and Robbo greeted us as we arrived, we ate, drank and then I crashed out.

Edward Colver

The next day we had an interview scheduled with the legendary Edward Colver at his home. Edward is primarily an artist, sculptor, photographer and back-in-the-hey-day an avid attendee of LA’s punk scene. He was the careful eye behind the lens of pretty much EVERY memorable image you have seen from that period. The man was there documenting punk rock shows all over LA five nights a week for five years and responsible for creating the iconic ‘Damaged’ album cover amongst countless other recognisable album covers, photo sessions and artworks from that time.

Edward saw it all and was cool enough to let us into his home and recount his tales of Black Flag and punk from that time.  The things that stick out in my mind from that interview the most was Edward’s eclectic garden with carefully hidden artworks in and around plant and rock formations. We sat on his porch for a while, smoked sweet smelling clove cigarettes and he told us the history of his home. He brought out his book ‘Blight At The End Of The Funnel’ and I browsed his impressive pictures and the varied roster of artists who he has worked with in his career. We were invited in and I was astounded with the various belongings inside. Edward’s other life long interest is in antique furniture and his collection is truly astounding.

We set up our equipment, interviewed and photographed Edward (complete with his talking parrot Zeus) for about an hour, he recounted the process of setting up the ‘Damaged’ cover shoot, memories of the LA punk scene, the ever increasing LAPD presence and more interestingly, what it felt like to be insider – watching how it all manifested into something so different then how it started out and ultimately his exit, his step away, when he realised he no longer wanted to be a part of it.  Edward took us through the back of his home to his outhouse where he has what only I could call ‘a museum of all things weird and wonderful'. I was totally awestruck. The icing on the cake was Edward’s business card that he gave me as we left…a ‘deepest sympathy’ card with his phone number on the reverse. This pretty much sums up Edward. A total gentleman with a wry sense of humour.

After we had parted company with Mr. Colver, we headed out to West Hollywood or ‘Westwood’ to shoot a Mother and Son who had identical ‘Bars’ and also the Minor Threat ‘Sheep’ jumping over said set of ‘Bars’. We had a little time to kill before the interview so I headed towards the numerous record shops that Hollywood Boulevard, Melrose and the surrounding area has to offer. I had a lengthy chat with the quintessential LA punk store - 'Headline Records’ owner Jean-Luc and hung out at Immaculate Tattoos on Melrose where our host Philip works. At this point I should probably note that Philip apprenticed under Rick Spellman (the guy who gave Henry Rollins his ‘Angry Sun Face’ and ‘Search and Destroy’ tattoos) who also is featured in Barred For Life.

Finally we head to the shoot just as the sun is setting, set up, get the interview underway and chit-chat until it’s time to head back. I barely remember much of the evening after the excitement of the day and general jet lag kicking in hard. We pit stopped at what was to be our regular morning breakfast ritual, an authentic Mexicali burrito joint called ‘Burrito Track’ and bed down for the evening with a full stomach and my head swimming with punk rock stories. This was only day number two…

...to be continued...