AUSTIN is EXHAUSTIN...

THE LONG WAY HOME
ACROSS THE BARREN SOUTHWEST

I couldn’t have picked a more wicked route across the southwest of the US if I tried to punish myself purposefully. However, I must admit that when I began booking the US tour I had never envisioned it being (1) so damn long time-wise, or (2) so damn long distance-wise. So I gave first-come-first-serve precedence to those people that contacted me in order to set up an event. And, well, that is the story of the last three nights that have had us covering thousands of miles and sleeping many a night in the car.

If you have a map handy you can do the math: San Diego, CA to Las Vegas, NV (6hrs) then to Pheonix, AZ (9hrs), then to Salt Lake City, UT (roughly 10hrs), to Denver, CO (roughly 8hrs), and tomorrow to Austin, TX (12hrs).

I admit that there are a lot of other towns where we could have gone, or a lot of ways one could have juggled the towns that we did have confirmed, or we could have even simply contacted individuals from my MySpace or FaceBook lists and went directly to their houses (and gotten more shots), but, well, I didn’t do it that way. I did it the way that I did it, accepting it, and moving on with my √life.

Once upon a time I was in this little band called Railhed. We were this tiny four-piece band out of Newark, DE, and one summer we went on tour (I think that it was 1991) with two much bigger bands; World’s Collide and No Escape. I must admit that I enjoyed the fuck out of our days playing with those other bands, but the point of the story is not a recount of that tour. The point of the story, and I cannot remember why we did it like this, but we only played from the East Coast to the West Coast, and after our show in Thousand Oaks, CA (a small suburb of southern Los Angeles) we drive the rest of the way home to Delaware straight through in like 30 hours.

By all accounts we did that drive faster than anybody could have anticipated much due to the fact that me and our guitar player (and now good friend, haha) Mark McKinney, took these long-ass night shifts across route 40, and were able to squeeze nearly 100mph out of our little wagon the entire time. The result, a quick trip home. The trip home didn’t come without its weird personal legacy for me in that we had covered 3 time zones in two days, and I had to sleep myself into oblivion to make it back to East Coast time. It was a radical mess by all accounts, but two days later I was either working for my father trying to make money to sustain me through my last year of college, or I was enrolled in a college class.

The next year Railhed broke up after her gig in St. Louis, MO, must before we took off to go south, and so I didn’t get to see the southwest again until 1997 when I toured with my friends from Columbus, OH, in a band called Ambassador 990. In a rather interesting twist of events, we played more or less the same cities that Stefan and I have hit over the past week, but it didn’t seem like this much driving, but I guess that it was, and I think that we did it in the reverse order too. Anyway, what I am saying here is that, okay, I could have planned better but based on what I remember from my past tours the dates didn’t seem so wonkie in terms of travel, and now I am finding out once again that both Stefan and I are going to return home fucking mega-exhausted.

THE DATES

LAS VEGAS:

After all of this time I still don’t equate “Las Vegas” and “people living in some US city” at all. Vegas seems like some place where robotic automatons deal cards, clean up tables, serve food, dance, sing, rob, steal, and recreate, and have replaced human beings. But, well, I’d be lying if I didn’t meet some living and breathing Las Vegas residents.

Early on the Reverend Rob Rukkus had learned of the book from his NYC contemporaries (and Barred For Life friends) at Double Down Saloon NYC. He was on board faster than I could say, “Am I really gonna quit my job and tour the US for this book..?” So, yeah, Rukkus was on board almost immediately, and curiously I still haven’t met this mystery man. Rukkus, strangely not at the shoot even though he is rumored as having some pretty big Bars tattooed on him somewhere, had found his way to San Fran to see a show, and so his Double Down crew graciously allowed for us to set up shop and shoot Barred folks for a few hours.

Prior to the shoot I was asked to participate on a radio show that takes place every Friday night from their stage at 8pm, and so after Stefan and I traversed the UNLV campus in search of food from Cappriotti’s (a Delaware based sandwhich company best known for their vegetarian and vegan sandwhiches), we returned to Double Down and set up shop.

Competing for space with the radio show, we managed to fire off about five or six folks in rapid succession before I got called on stage to rap with the DJ about the project. A minute later it was all over. I was free to go. It was somewhat anticlimactic.

After the initial group of Barred citizens we respectfully waited out Rukkus, both to shoot his photo for the book and to ask him for a place to stay, but Rukkus never materialized. So, after a text telling us that he wasn’t going to be able to make it to the shoot we saddled up the white Hyundai and got the fuck out of Vegas. Honestly, I just couldn’t stand the glow of that town any longer. That place is 24 hours of electricity burning out of control and I just wanted to get on the road.

A hundred or so miles into our drive, me behind the wheel (and sleeping behind it for who knows how long), we slept at our first gas station of the trip; mostly because this had been the first place where we didn’t score accommodations and the temps were warm enough to sleep in relative comfort.

PHOENIX:

Getting into Phoenix in the early afternoon, the promoter called to tell us that a local “PUNK ROCK” owned tattoo shop called Golden Rule was giving The Bars at a reduced price, and that we were allowed to shoot there. So we high-tailed it to Golden Rule where Stefan and I wandered the city in different directions before returning to shoot a fella getting some pretty tricky bars in the shaped of the state of Iowa.

Others would come in and take advantage of the reduced price of the bars, but we would not be there to photograph them. We would be at Jughead’s Bar where we would be shooting pix while the band BLACK FAG would be rocking BLACK FLAG covers while dressed in full DRAG of some sort or another.

Soon after setting up my lighting the amazing folks from BLACK FAG asked if I would shoot pix of them in a “professional way” and I obliged them. They changed into stage clothes and returned to the stage where I had am amazingly difficult time wrangling them into a decent pose conducive to making them look serious. Finally I managed to sneak off about 10 shots of them that blew me away.

We shot about 8 or 9, or maybe even 10 folks there before jumping in the car and racing off to Salt Lake City. What stood out to me about that night, besides how hard our host at Jughead’s Bar pushed people to come out to be photographed, was that BLACK FAG blew me away. Here are all of these folks dressed up as the variety of perceived “gay” stereotypes, and they played Black Flag songs in and evil and aggressive way. Besides the singer changing some lyrics to sound “gay,” they handled the material so well that I was, well, blown the fuck away. I couldn’t believe how coincidental their playing and our shooting on the same day was for both parties. They ended up with some great photos and I ended up with another great experience.

SALT LAKE CITY:

Stefan took the first leg of the drive and made it until sunrise before I took over the driving duties. We were in the middle of this huge canyon. I was totally disoriented, and quickly realized that we were on a back road that was still more accommodating than most major access roads we’d been on for most of the drive.

Once behind the wheel it was 80-90mph the entire way to SLC via some of the most awesome landscape I’d seen up to this point. While desolate and a bit depressed, it was proven to me once again that the US has some of the most awesome empty space, public space, and we should visit it more frequently instead of sitting behind the television and complaining that there is nothing to do. Now I am not saying that everybody should write a book and go on tour, but just getting out to see the landscape does so much for ones mood. If you get it you feel an instant connection. If you don’t get it, well, then stay in the city and pretend like everything that you need to be healthy. It isn’t, but you can keep believing it. Go for it. Dude.

We were amazingly early for our SLC shoot and even from that early point I had this feeling that there wasn’t going to be a lot of folks coming out for this one. I am developing this weird premonition-system on nights when we should expect at most two or three tattooed folks to show up at a public event, and in general the ones that do REALLY, REALLY, REALLY want to be there. There stories are good and their enthusiasm for the project makes up for the ANTITHETICAL HIPSTER ATTITUDE that determines any project that is not “yours” to be unworthy of your collaboration. And, well, as we know hipsters don’t do much so they end up being a pretty reclusive bunch unless Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah makes their way to town. Or any event sponsored by PBR. Cannot forget PBR. Or can we…?

Anyway, Germ (a name given to our host by Darby Crash of the Germs back in the late 70’s) and his wife Shelly came to pick us up at NOBROW café and took us to their home in a northern suburb of SLC. After making some dinner (fish tacos), I set up a shoot with Jimi (who got his bars in prison, ironically) and Shelly, and then we all sat around and talked before going to bed.

Mind you, this would be the first night where Stefan and I were to sleep in a home, let along in beds, and allowed to sleep for as long as we wanted. I woke up, predictably, at around 7:30am to find that Shelly had given me a pair of hand-knitted gloves. We all got our things together and took off to shoot one more person (a lovely lady named Echo) at the café before hitting the road across eastern Utah and all of southern Wyoming.

Just moments from arriving in Denver it is hard to imagine that we will be breaking down at 10pm and driving all night just to arrive in Austin in time for our shoot at 7pm. Thankfully we have a day off before hitting up New Orleans, which I am looking quite forward to.

Stewart

I'm on my way, just set me free, home-sweet-home

IN TOWNS IDENTIFIED BY LETTERS
LA, SD, AND ON OUR WAY TO LV

Holy Shit Stefan and I are a machine. He processes, I shoot, he interviews, and off we go. We are getting so good at this that we don't really even need to talk to one another while doing it. Nods generally work. A wave from across the room, too. It is nice to be one half of a team that seems to function with such synergy. Don't get me wrong, we still get into tiffs here and there but, fuck, he and I are adults. We power through the little things. And, for what...? Well, I shall tell you what... Imagine being given the opportunity to sit in a room with a person, or some people, who generally do not sign on to be interviewed about things that happened 30 years ago, and then imagine that what they say, almost at every step, is a total revelation. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Yeah, for that. Kira, Morris, Dukowski, Reyes, and many more have been kind enough to invite us over to their homes on this leg of our mission and allow us to set up shop and interview them, to pry information from them, and to revel in their story; which happens to be the story of this book.

LA is the birthplace of so much awesome mythology. Think X, the Germs, Fear, the Circle Jerks, and Black Flag. Then, think of so many more awesome bands and awesome people, and how their contributions to the American Punk Rock ethos have afforded all of us the ability to be part of this lifestyle, subculture, and cultural imperative. So, I guess that it is safe to say that I am willing to overlook little things in order to revel in these moments. And I do.

Our LA host, Phillip Acala, is a tattooer. Not only is he a tattooer, but Phillip apprenticed with Rick Spellman; an oldschool tattooer that has tattooed folks from X, from the Misfits, and from Black Flag. So, imagine my surprise when Phillip says to me, "Hey man, would you be interested in photographing Rick Spellman tattooing London May (drummer for Samhain, Dagnasty, etc) here at the house...?" Um, hey Phillip, FUCK YES, FUCK YES, FUCK YES... And it was on.

Our last day in LA went as follows. Wake up, walk to the taco shop, meet some guy with the bars on his neck and ask him to come back to the house, walk home, set up shop and shoot Phillip in his driveway, get into the car, drive to Hollywood, interview and photograph Keith Morris, drive home, set up shop and shoot Rick and London, sleep momentarily on couch, get into long discussion with London about punk rock and Baltimore in the early 80's, look at his Black Flag "stuff" collection, wait for call from Chuck Dukowski, get it, get in the car, drive to Venice, get lost, get to his house, set up shop, interview Chuck Dukowski, take pix of him in his livingroom, get back in car, drive back to LA and drop off Sweettooth so that he might make it back to SF in time for his morning class, drive back to Phillip's house, go to sleep.

If that sounds like a lot of stuff to you, it was way more than you can even imagine. It was even more than I can imagine and I am a pretty productive person. It was intense int he best possible way. So, in looking back all that I can say is this; if it were not for meeting Phillip and being part of a fucking amazing crew, I am not sure any (and surely not all) of what we accomplished could have been even remotely possible. So, to Phillip, Sweettooth, and my man Stefan I present my heart-felt grattitude.

The next morning we were up early and ready to roll to San Diego (meaning whale's vagina I think???), and most of the coast between LA and SD. Long, slow, chill, sunny, breezy, laid-back drive down the coast; something that I've always wanted to do but was never given the chance in the bands I was in prior because we were always in a hurry. In what seemed to be a 8 hour period we meandered south making it to San Diego in a relaxed state. There were some driver changes and all, but the vibe was quite pleasant.

SAN DIEGO:

I've always loved San Diego. One of my early favorite hardcore bands, the Batallion of Saints, was from San Diego, as were many of my mid-90's favorites (Antioch Arrow, Swing Kids, Heroin, etc), and so I always dream of finding my way there whenever I can. Arriving in SD we made our way to our host, Mike's, tattoo shop (Metropolis Tattoo). For me, my arrival in SD also signaled a re-connection with a friend that I haven't seen since 1991 named Lisa. I met Lisa in Jackson Hole back when I was in college, and now she is a rather brilliant photographer living and work in SD. So, yeah, my pleasures were manifold.

After a while we made our way to Kadan's, where we set up shop and shot some really, really, really killer folks, and some brilliant tattoos. Between shoots I was pulling people under the lights (including the lovely and talented Fatima once more), Lisa, Mike, Stefan, and some old folks that were wandering about the bar. What a fucking brilliant night of collecting stories.

Nothing to See here folks...

DISPATCHES FROM LOS ANGELES AND THE SURROUNDING 52 SUBURBAN TRACTS

Having grown up on the East Coast, or the Right Coast as I like to call it, I've had itsy-bitsy California dreams on occasion; but it was nothing serious. I woke up, shook off the cobwebs, and found myself right where I started. I was still on the East Coast. Don't get me wrong, I fucking love my coast and would defend it if the western part of the US (led by Texas, obviously) decided to break away from the union and begin a civil war. I would fight like hell for my rights to be offensive, loud, mean, evolutionarily-stalled, and somewhat unfamiliar with the basics of the English language. Yo, You'se, Whut(?), What'chu lookin at, and the like, would be used as a sort of secret code to help us defeat our mortal West Coast enemies. Honestly, we are just so much fucking meaner. Plus, on our coast time just moves so much faster. So, while the west coast army prepares to move forward into battle, well, we'd already have wiped them out just so that we would be home in time to see the Phillies win the World Series. We just wouldn't have the time to dally with strategy because, well, we just don't have the time. We are in a hurry. Period.

But for some reason, and I cannot explain it, but crossing that border between Oregon and California something happened to me. No more anxiety, no pressure, no freak outs, no more calls home to make sure that everything is alright. I had settled into my moments and had no idea why I should want to relive the past or project into the future. Sure, I could plan into the future, but I would have to be happy with what I got (which is not always the case with me as you might guess).

So, goddammit, I became a California hippie. The border, as borders do, kept the California posi-vibes from making it to my decision center, and so upon making it to the border, well, "dude, I just had to chill out, man..." That is exactly what the doctor ordered. I needed to chill the fuck out... And I did so with great authority. While in San Fran, despite the reasonably poor showing to the shoots, and the absence of promotion, I stayed level-headed. It was amazing. Stefan and I basically stayed at his friend's house for like three days and it felt suspiciously like we were just living there. No pressure, no problem, no nothing. Honestly, at times I feared that once we were on the road again to LA that things would get all crazy, and I would feel like I wanted to lose my shit again. But it didn't. In fact, LA has been a mirror image of the San Fran days. All is chill. All is well.

A TALE OF TWO CITIES:

The drive to LA was divided into two parts; the Stewart part and the Stefan part. The Stewart part included a handful of hours out of SF, across the flat-as-fuck desert-plains, and the Stefan part included more mountains (and more of me sleeping through them). Finding ourselves nearing the city I took over the wheel again and Stefan copiloted me into the Long Beach area for our first shoot.

Dan Habershaw was our host, and on that day we would be shooting at a spot where hot-rodding in California was, well, invented. Masterson Customs is a shop along Atlantic Avenue, and in the back are about 8 or 10 classic cars in various states of restoration, and out front is Dans 48 coupe, also in a various state of restoration. We were amongst hot-rodders.

We were running late, and Dan contacted me to tell me that the woman from LA Weekly, like Elvis before her, had left the fucking stadium. She would not return phone calls or an email, and so I had to deal with not getting any publicity, even if it was to come out after we had left, for the LA area.

Shooting 3 or 4 people, I was thinking, "uh oh, here we go again," but had to keep in mind that we had about a week to organize this shoot. It was from-the-hip, off-the-cuff, and not really that well organized from my end. So, the shots we got were pretty awesome (including a baby with a custom Black Flag fan shirt) and the baby's mom with the bars on her throat), and off we went to Dan's house for a cook-out. Burgers, brats, mac-n-cheese, and some drinks later, we were still in the garage talking punk rock and hot rods, all before Dan stepped inside to be tattooed by a visiting tattooist friend from Oregon.

Trying not to be a burden, I fired off some shots and off we went toward LA proper to hook up with the host of the following day's shoot, Phillip Acala. Phillip is a tattooist who was trained by Rick Spellman (yes, the man who did Rollin's classic back piece, and work on most of the punk bands of the early 80's), and we would get to meet him at some point in our stay as well.

Phillip put us up in his home and we slept our asses off since in the morning we had to pick up Sweettooth (our videographer) at the train station and high-tail it to Kira Roessler (Black Flags only female member, and bassist)'s house up north. We would be cutting everything close but, well, the gods willing we would make everything happen before the photoshoot in Fullerton.

Dammit if things didn't work out perfectly. Kira stands out unique among Black Flag members, not so much because she was their only female member, but because she replaced the irreplaceable Chuck Dukowski. Let's say for a second that you were asked to step into Bill Gates position at Microsoft. The pressure would be on. Wouldn't matter if you were male or female. The pressure would be on. And, remembering events from that time, she did it pretty fucking well. So, it would be my pleasure to interview her and take her statement. Oh, yeah, and to photograph her. Yeah, that was fun.

Anyway, the whole thing went off without incident and we were off to Phillip's house for a nap before heading to Shelter Street and Skate for our show and shoot.

Now, I'd been to Los Angeles before but, fuck, dude, I never remember it being so fucking spread out. I've heard the stories, but dammit, this town is sprawling. I am still lost every time we walk out the door of Phillip's home. So, yeah, I've been getting lost a lot. The drive to Fullerton, well, I might as well have been blindfolded.

Upon arrival, the bands set up, I set up (under a cut little palm tree) and it was on. Non stop tattooed folks for about three hours. Both Stefan and I were so busy that we didn't see each other but for a few seconds at a time. The second I'd finish shooting on person another person would arrive on the scene. After some lighting changes I'd be firing shots off, and then there would be antoher kid waiting over my shoulder. Honestly, it was a bit exhausting. However, the results were amazing.

Between shooting of Barred folks I managed to get off shots of some rather fancy ladies in the crowd, and a shit ton of pix of the various bands. Could not beat the experience with a fucking stick. Loved it. Loved the venue. Loved the show. Loved how great a job Phillip did with the planning of the show. Loved meeting Mr. Spellman. Loved catching up with fellow East Coaster, London May. All tolled, fucking amazing.

Spent today at the beach. Not much to report. We are in LA folks. The cradle of West Coast Punk Rock. When the East Coast beats the West Coast in the next civil war I am gonna steal some land here. Well, not here in LA, but somewhere a bit further north where the women are a bit less uber-hot, and can probably beat me arm wrestling. And where there are no little dogs in purses. Oh, shit, yeah, that is everywhere. Sorry. Fuck little dogs in purses everywhere.

Stewart