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...

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, 

ALL THE WAY FROM MANCHESTER, UK

I PRESENT TO YOU

PHILLIP TORRIERO

...for this one I used my special "cyclops" eye lens...

???WHY A GUESS WRITER???

I met Phil completely by accident, and now we are life-long friends. While I don't live any place close to Manchester, UK, I sure do like a lot of bands from there; most notably THE FALL, THE SMITHS, THE STONE ROSES, CHAPTERHOUSE, and so many other amazing bands of the shoegazer classification. So, at least in theory, Manchester has a very particular place in my heart, musically speaking.

Panic on the streets...

Well, things change. Now, instead of me just having this slight interest in going to Manchester to see Mark E. Smith get in a fist fight outside of some backwater pub or another, just like I saw him do the last time I saw THE FALL play in Philadelphia (disappointing, disappointing, disappointing), I honestly consider Manchester a place to go to hang out with the friends I made there in December of 2009. 

AND, THAT IS WHERE IT ALL STARTED, REALLY...

I blab on a lot about the 2009 tour, mostly because it was sort of my crazy Aquarian version of the mid-life-crisis sports car, 20-year-old-girlfriend, reliving my highschool football years, etc. You get the picture. It was a big deal, but mostly to me, and a few hundred people who are going to be in Barred For Life, and for those who became my new friends all over the country, and, predictably, all over the fucking world. 

Phillip, day one...

Booking the European part was not easy. I didn't really want to go, except for the fact that my friend was able to get me dumpster-bottom prices on airfare, and that I had a few connections over there already, and that I was going to head over for a break in Italy for the Christmas break anyway. So I did it. Sadly, I have no idea or recollection as to how I met Phillip, but I do know that he sort of came out of nowhere.

One day my tour assistant, the lovely and talented Audrey Traum (formerly Dwyer) were sitting and making our travel plans, and next thing I know MANCHESTER, UK is on the itinerary (I put it there). Phillip, or PJT as he likes to be called sometimes, was probably the most amped person regarding this project that I'd dealt with up to that point, and I happily allowed him to throw together a party for us just a few days after our shoot in London. 

Arriving at the rail platform in Manchester, we were late-as-hell, and yet PJT grabbed one of my bulky bags, shook our hands, and ushered us to the spot where we'd be shooting pix all day. We met a lot of amazing folks there, and so Ms. Audrey and I decided to stay for about a week. In that time we were introduced to so many cool people, taken to so many cool places, and did so many amazing things, that I think both of us remained friends with at least a handful of the people we'd me there. It was, if nothing, a very easy thing to do for a person who'd been on the road for almost three months without a significant break. 

White Balance Model

THEN SOMETHING HAPPENED...

Over the next few months Phil decided that he wanted to be part of the book crew, and given his strategic location in the UK (they speak English pretty well over there), he became my European Promotions Manager, and has been at that post ever since. He, more than any other person connected with Barred For Life, seems to take it more seriously than even me sometimes. He is, as you may have guessed, amazingly on it. 

I am happy that we became such good friends. 

GO WEST YOUNG MEN 
(well, at least one of us is young)

Phil, and the amazing Mr. Edward Colver

When I told Phil that I was flying to California to interview noted photography legend, Edward Colver, and with the hopes of interviewing Raymond Pettibon, he decided that he wanted to join me. Phil bought his ticket, made it a mad ruckus to pick his sorry ass up at the airport in LA, and then we just had the best time imaginable. Setting up shop at the home of another friend named Phil, we rented a pretty nice car and just spent 10 days playing around in California, going to shows with Keith Morris, taking more photos of Kira Roessler, interviewing, videotaping, and hanging out with Edward Colver, and camping out on the doorstep of Raymond just praying that he would agree to an interview. He never did. Doesn't matter. We hung out on his doorstep for hours. It was a blast.

Kira's house

So, anyway, I am going to turn over the controls of this blog to Phillip for a few posts about his experiences on our trip to California. Sadly, by the time we'd gotten there I was just not taking a lot of photos of my surroundings (and was quite focused on getting shots of the people who were to be in the book), so Phil will give you the straight dope, as where I might just talk your ear off.

If you would like more information about my guest blogger, he fronts a pretty cool photo blog at http://peejaytee.tumblr.com/... Look for his first post next this coming Monday. He took notes on the trip. I was just relaxing.

Sincerely,
Stewart.Dean.Ebersole.2

From the makers of Le Tour de France, I present to you Lyon

THE PUNK ROCK RIVIERA
LYON, FRANCE

ALL GOOD JOURNIES BEGIN WITH A DRAMATIC INTRO

AND HERE IS MINE

France is probably about the size of the states of Pennsylvania and New York put together, but as for culture this place is just outrageous. Much like the kinds of cultural diversity that I’ve experienced in Italy, France is just as dotted with culturally unique spots that are intimately tied to geography, resources, and just how many invading armies crashed through its gates once the Roman Empire fell; leaving most of western Europe just a bit on the unprotected side of the equation.

I don’t know, call me culturally sympathetic but I think that France took a lot of grief in the past two thousand years, but the pay off is a pretty diverse country and a bunch of culturally interesting craziness that will definitely find me back sometime in the near future. Some things, such as the realities of modernity, do catch me off guard sometimes, and Lyon made the first move.

For example, if somebody asked me the first thing that came to my mind when hearing the word France I would think, um, wine, rich foods (with lots of meat), famous artists, Le Tour de France, and stuff like that. The last thing that I would think of would be, say, vegan straight edge kids, or even vegetarian straight edge kids, but we did manage to meet some in Lyon. So, needless to say I was caught a bit off guard. But fuck my perceptions because, after all, I am writing a book about an endearing part of Punk Rock culture and not a book about French popular culture. Anyway…

Both JB and Benoit told me of these big Hardcore scenes in both Lyon and in St. Etiennne (very close by Lyon), and both had some friends in Lyon with The Bars. Lyon was not on the schedule but it found its way there very fast. With Patrick on the phone in seconds, we had our first contact there and he was going to organize his people for a noon shoot the next day, which gave us precious little time to make arrangements by train. Somehow we managed, and by noon the next day we were at least on our way to the station in Paris, thus making it necessary for us to rebook the shoot for around 2pm, which was fine by most of the Lyon folks since most of them were drinking heavily the night before.

Our train to Lyon was fast as fuck, and it only stopped in Lyon, and in one of Lyons suburban stations (which is the one where we had to depart). Upon landing I couldn’t get any of the phones that I found to accept my coins, and so I decided to catch a cab. We were told that the tattoo shop was just a short hop from the train station but it turned out to be a 10 Euro short hop (roughly two miles), which I would have had to carry my massive bags across to get to our location. Upon exiting our taxi we were greeted by a tall, handsome, clad-in-all-black Jean-Luc, the shop owner and Audrey’s grandest obsession.

Jean-Luc told us that the others would be showing up shortly so we took the time under the clear blue sky to shoot Jean-Luc outdoors. We arranged a bunch of furniture on the first floor of the studio and took one big furry black chair outside, and about the second that we finally pushed it out the door the rains came. Not one to back down in the rain, we shot Jean on a black furry chair in the middle of a rather heavily traveled street in Lyon (which is about as artsie as it has gotten thus far).

In the next few hours we became quite friendly with our host, and after shooting about 6 people that day I became quite friendly with a bottle of single malt scotch. What I love most about single malt scotch is the way that it makes me feel so good at first and, then, how god-awful it makes my stomach feel afterwards. So, after shooting we walked back to the house of a friend of a friend named Lucien where I fell to drunken sleep, and where we would prepare to shoot our final French victim IN THE NUDE.

Yup, Lucien would become our first NUDE Barred For Lifer. Not even the guy in New Orleans that had the bars on his ass was ballsey enough to be documented naked, and so Lucien made it so. It wasn’t too difficult to talk him into getting naked, and word has it from a few of his friends that he is part of a crew of kids in Lyon that gets naked at shows and dances it up in the pit. Trust me, I like fun and all but I think that I would probably stay off to the side at a show where there were sweaty naked dudes running the pit. At some point I would have a hard time enjoying myself while getting splashed with ball-sweat. Anyway, Lucien not only got naked for the camera but he drove Audrey and I to the airport at like 3am so that we could wait for three or four more hours to be processed for our flight to Rome, which would be Audrey’s last stop on the tour.

So, a few hours later we are both half sleeping on our luggage waiting for our flight, and everything goes as planned, which is quite rare for me in Europe. Comfortably on our flight (after being totally condescended by the person checking us in), the sun begins to shine for the first time in a few days.

LUCIEN
FIRST NAKED BARRED FOR LIFER

MANARCHY in the UK, cont'd...

THIS JUST IN
VIRGIN OWNS EUROPE

Boarding a Virgin Train, two hours later we landed in the northern town of Manchester. Virgin owns just about everything. They have their own planes, trains, communications networks, record labels, fast food joints, rocket ships, and stuff like that. One cannot walk but a few feet before stumbling into something owned by Virgin, and this seems especially true of England. So, yeah, okay, we rode a very fast train to Manchester owned by Virgin.

So we were a little late and oddly our host Phillip was waiting for us at the station. I've never met Phillip, and from his FaceBook picture (in makeup), I wouldn't have been able to pick him out of a line-up. But somehow he saw us getting off of the train and ushered us to The Studio where people were waiting to be photographed for Barred For Life.

Before talking more about Barred For Life and the Manchester participants just let me explain that I FUCKING LOVE MANCHESTER. Besides there being so many great bands from Manchester, like the Smiths and Stone Roses and Chapterhouse and, um, millions of other bands like that, there was just such a chill and open vibe going on there. Given that Audrey and I spent half of our time in downtown London dodging commentary and criticism by a consort of frat-boy-looking-douchebags, the open-mindedness of Manchester was both refreshing and chill-as-hell.

Phillip and his crew took us under their wing, gave up their beds and their food to share with us, and three days later it seemed like family to me.

The Studio is a rather interesting tattoo-joint-slash-punk-rock-shop just off of Pickadilly Square. It is just one of about 50 punk-rock-shops jammed into one huge punk-rock-building, and this is where Phillip organized our shoot, which ended up taking two or three days to document all of the people from Manchester with the bars tattooed on themselves.

Tattooist Claire became a fast friend, and on our last evening spent the entire night tattooing our fingernails, and herself, with the bars (among other things; Audrey got her boyfriend's name on hers and I got RISE ABUV on mine, duh). On all of my journies Claire was the first person to tattoo herself in front of my camera and I will be damned if I DIDN'T LOOSE ALL OF THOSE PHOTOS TO SOME RANDOM SAVING ERROR..! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK...

11 people came forward with the bars, or had the bars consturcted on them for this shoot and, and as I mentioned before it took us about three days to do the documentation (and I lost some of them too)...

Thrown in for good measure was a trip to see Jay Masckus (sp?), a few nights of awesome cooking, a trip around the city, drinks in the space shuttle, some well placed showers, a few bottles of wine, more dinner, and a lot of fucking rain. Oh, yeah, and a bunch of rather angry bus drivers that seemed intent on not letting us ride their busses or be helpful in any way at all. Oh, yeah, and there were some museums, some coffee shops that made their cappuccino with milk cooked so long that it was almost merrangue. Okay, so not everything was perfect, but it was not a bad scene at all. In the end it was exceptionally hard to leave that city, however necessary it was.

Then night before leaving the internet made it quite difficult to book our flight to Paris but somehow we managed to score some alright priced plane tickets to Paris. Due to some flight constraints we almost missed out on the opportunity to shoot a man from the south of France in Paris, but more on that later. Long story short, because of a number of unforseen difficulties some events did not work out as well as they could have. But somehow everything worked out and, not only did we get to Paris, but we had a total blast in Manchester.

WHERE THINGS STAND.

I could have called this tour quits after the US and Canada, and this trip would have been a success. However, rummaging through Europe and finding no shortage of amazing people here with The Bars, and equally inspiring stories has made this an amazing success. Just as in the US, some places shit-the-bed and some have risen well above the standards.

One thing that i've noticed about our European shoots, and our European promoters, is that the ones that don't drop the ball are REALLY, REALLY, REALLY seriously amped, and they will work so hard to rally people to the shoots that it warms the heart to watch them in action.

Making phone calls on our behalf, helping us book our trains and flights, speaking to people in their native language, and going out of their way to make us feel welcomed, um, I don't want to come home. It is unfortunate that we will not be shooting in Germany (and most likely not in Spain either), but if I decided that I wanted "full coverage" of cities, towns, countries, and people with the bars I could easily spend the rest of my life (and definitely the rest of my savings) trying to make this a reality.

The fact of the matter is that when Black Flag was a band, and long before we Punk Rock Historians decided what parts of the DIY ethic to attibute to them, they were a relatively unknown band here in Europe. The only facts (if you want to call them that) that I know of BF's European tours is from "Get In The Van," and from that the tours didn't look like they went that well. For many early US punk bands making their way in Europe seemed to be a daunting task. Figuring out tour routes, working with promoters that didn't speak English, and dealing with punk cultures that were not really all that similar to that of the US. Just traveling as a solo traveler in Europe is a humbling experience. In America I can at least call somebody and instantly communicate, so if I need a place to stay or a person to organize a shoot or whatever, the communication barrier is only personal. Here however there is just this huge communcation and cultural barrier from easy flow of information and movement; though it is not impossible.

One thing that I have learned in my many travels is that being humble and appreciative is the best way to move. Making demands just doesn't work, and it just doesn't work for me personally. It is a cool way to live, always being thankful for the little things, and by being thankful and showing it in as many ways as you can just makes good sense. Anyway, I don't mean to be all sentimental here but I swear that so far our hosts here in Europe have been so incredibly helpful that I cannot explain it exactly. And for that, and for their efforts, Barred For Life is going to be an amazing product that represents a very, very broad swatch of people who are all struggling to be part of something bigger than themselves. And, honestly, The Bars are just totally representative of that. Sure, they are becoming a pretty cool HIPSTER tattoo, but it just doesnt' matter. It never has. Hipsters suck. They will always misrepresent everything. The rest of us know this, and it is the "we" that will be represented here. The HIPSTERS CAN SUCK IT, thank you very much.

MANARCHY in the UK

ENGLAND'S
screaming
NOOOOO FUTURE

Arrival. Prejudices. Hurdles.

I never wanted to see London. I am a crabby, cranky, pissy guy with some serious hang-ups on what I like and what I don’t like. So, for most of my traveling through Europe I determined any country that speaks the same language as me, thus making it easy for me to communicate and exchange information, as culturally inferior to those that spoke incredibly difficult languages (and many with crazy dialects).

Well, I’ve grown up a bit since those days and have overcome many of my hang-ups simply by understanding that the worlds’ cultures do not live-and-die in the world of Stewart. It just makes sense to try new things every once and a while, whether you determined them to be lame in a former lifetime or not. So, after a rather insane commune with the multitude of travel routes that got me from my home in York, PA, to Philadelphia, to Jersey City, NJ, to NYC, to Queens, NY, to JFK airport, I fell asleep on my carry on baggage at my gate and proceeded to worry a lot about what was to happen to me once my plane landed at Heathrow International Airport.

Language be damned, in a world dominated by mobile phones, and me without mine, I had to take a massive breather in the airport and sip across my first British cappuccino for nearly 2 hours while I made my plans to enter the city, meet up with my contact, Wayne, settle in at the POGO CAFÉ, and prepare myself to photograph Europeans tattooed with an obscure American Punk Rock band’s logo; a band that broke up 25 year ago; a tattoo whose wearer’s average age is around 24 years of age. Weird. Here, yes. And, in the US too.

Weird.

My assistant, Audrey, flew into Manchester with a layover in Frankfort, Germany, and was slated to arrive in the UK about 4-hours after me, and then take a 2-hour train ride to London, where I would meet her and bring her back to the café. Only one problem stood in my way of making this a basically flawless operation: The Pogo Café was closed due to some unforeseen plumbing problems and, so, I had to wait outside for quite a while until I could communicate with Wayne so that he could get me into the café, drop my gear, and then run to pick up Audrey.

Understand that if I were simply traveling by myself through Europe I could get on with simply a backpack and a weeks worth of clothing. But since I am taking pictures for Barred For Life I found it necessary to travel with my bag, a FUCKING HUGE bag for my lights, plus my camera case. Once these three pieces of travel luggage find their way into/onto my arms all at once it become incredibly difficult to carry them comfortably and safely. In fact, if, while walking, somebody decided to try to rob me I would have to allow them to do so even if it took them 20-full-minutes because I would hate to have to reposition my bags, or try to run with them, or try to fight off an attacker with them on my arm. It would just suck, so I would let a robber rob me. It would just be easier that way.

Finally, after taking a series of underground trains and overground trains, and then finding my way to an ATM to pick up some cash, and then a seemingly long walk up a crowded avenue in the rain, um, I found POGO. I found it closed, locked, and the lights out. I found a closed, locked, and uninhabited POGO CAFÉ. FUCK ME.

Toting all of my bags back down the street I called Wayne on his mobile phone. Wayne works as a bicycle messenger so he was busy, busy, busy, but found some time to call a fellow co-op friend and get me under a roof and into warmth; and there were some comfy couches. Oh, and there was internet.

Dropping my bags, scooting down the street, buying more train tickets, training it to Euston Station (yup, the same on as in the “LONDON,” the song by the Smiths), I met up with Audrey and totted her back to POGO.

By the time we arrived back at the café a sizeable contingency of folks had showed up to await the plumbers and to prepare food just in the case that everything went well and they could open later that day.

THE LOWDOWN.

POGO CAFÉ is a fucking rad place. All vegan, mostly organic, and most of the food is prepared on the premises. Most of the kids that work there are dedicated squatter-types with an anarchist-bent, and seem to love bikes and alternative culture. If you are ever in London you gotta go to this place. Prices are fucking totally good and the food is amazing, especially the cakes and cupcakes. Yeah, what a blast.

WAYNE.

Wayne is one stand up motherfucker. Irish as the day is long. Barred For Life. Squatter. Amazing guy. He works all day as a messenger then comes home and cooks at POGO. Wayne was handed the torch to set up the shoot in London and managed to organize it in just a few weeks. In fact, most of my European helpers were able to do amazing things with very little time, and Wayne showed us the light rather quickly.

Giving us his room for two nights, hooking us up with free vegan food, and providing space on a crowded Saturday night for our shoot, this is the kind of person that is necessary to keep one’s spirits high while traveling in a foreign country. A consummate London-ophile, he knew where to go, how to get there, and what to do once there. It is good to know Wayne Glass. Fuck Yeah.

THE CITY.

Okay, even with a common language I still had difficulty doing a lot of things. I had a “LONDON UNDERGROUND” guide that should have made traveling a snap, but it didn’t always, but that was fine. Not all cities are easy to navigate. Over the course of two evenings Audrey and I managed to find our way to some of the more popular tourist sites, get a bit lost, and then find our way to an overpriced eatery even though POGO had us on its dole. I have heard the “when in Rome” saying but never the “when in London” version. But we did what we had to and made it happen.

Of note, even though London is a rather culturally diverse spot on the planet, um, if you look weird on your own accord you might just get fucked with like we did. Both nights in town found Audrey and myself on the catching end of some downright fucked up commentary from rather normal looking douche-bags and their haggard, dolled-up for no good reason, lady-friends. It was pretty fucked up but rolling with the punches is all part of the program. In the end I have some interesting memories of toting around London, but way more amazing memories of toting around, and shooting around, Hackney, where the POGO is located.

THE SHOOT

Between the number of social networking sites that I use to track down barred individuals, I had compiled a list of about 20 folks in the London vicinity. I reached out to them early on, just before the trip over, and then again once I landed. Mind you, some of these people reached out to me first, and I was just returning the favor. Many had pleaded that I come to the UK, so I did. However, once the shoot was on only 5 dedicated individuals showed their faces and tattoo. But as I like to say now that I am some 70 days into my tour schedule, THIS BOOK IS ABOUT DEDICATED PEOPLE, NOT SLACKERS. So slackers found their way to the door simply by slacking. Dedicated people found their way to the shoot despite the desire to say, um, stay at home and drink beer. You know. I don’t have to tell you.

Plagued with light difficulties, I managed to burn out two voltage converters inside 20 minutes. Running out of POGO at the speed of sound, I followed a trail of electronic stores to a full service shop and bought a converter capable of charging a fucking hospital and not burn out, and it cost me as much. Inside just a few hours of shooting abroad I spent a chunk of my travel budget on a necessary evil, a power converter that I could use all over Europe (or at least I had hoped)

Following my “OJ Simpson in a Hertz Rental Car Commerical from the 80’s” style hunt, find, and return the shoot went without incident. While I would like to offer a huge FUCK YOU to those of you that made it sound as though you would swim through shit to make it to a shoot if I made the effort to get to London. Yeah, FUCK YOU.

But what seems so strange about this whole thing is that Black Flag, at least according to Get In The Van, was hated by the Brits. Maybe it was a generational thing. Henry could have just been exaggerating his understanding of how the Brits treated Punk Rockers back in the 80’s, but it seemed as though a lot of them now draw quite a bit of inspiration from that band; at least as much as most American kids do. And this was a revelation to me. While I generally regard Rollins’ testimony as way on the DRAMATIC side of things, my feeling is that all the spitting and bottles breaking and the dark, smelly squats were just par for the course for the early British scene, and not so much part of the American scene’s evolution. So, who the fuck knows…? All that I know is that I had a blast inside a city that I never really thought I would go to in my traveling life and I owe an awful lot of thanks to Wayne, Audrey, the POGO staff, and the 5 folks that made it out to the shoot to rap it up with us and allow us to place a name with the face.

THE END