We did the record fairly quickly. I remember the vocals for “TV Party” taking a long time because there were so many parts to do.
It was fun to work with Spot at this time. Spot was the band’s producer and soundman. He produced several records for SST. He was one of a kind. He would go in and play Greg’s guitar so Greg could hear it at the mixing board. He could play any Black Flag song, no problem.
I never thought Spot liked me. I got that feeling as soon as I joined the band. I had a feeling that I was intruding on some imagined territory. It was just bullshit. Years after the band had broken up I wrote him and asked him what was up, and he told me that in his opinion, I had ruined the band. Whatever. Listening back to the records he produced, I think he ruined them. It doesn’t matter at this point.
It was the best time I ever had doing a Black Flag album. The rest were hard to get through for a number of reasons. Financial stress was a twenty-four-hour-a-day reality for the band. We were up against it for the entire time the band was together. There never was any “sellout,” any “rock star” bullshit. People would sometimes talk that shit, and it was always so funny to us.
Soon after the recording was done we set out on the first tour with me singing. It was amazing to me. A few months before, I was working behind the counter at a straight job, and now I was hitting the road with the baddest band in the land.
June 27, 1982. Asbury Park, NJ: One long day. We got pulled over by the police on the way into Asbury Park. The pigs made us pull the van onto the grass median strip. We were ordered to stand outside and not move. In our hurry to get out of the van and do what the fuckheads wanted us to do, no one woke up Emil, who was still asleep in the back of the van. They were crawling through the van, and I guess they stepped on him or something, but they scared the hell out of him and vice versa. They freaked out on him. The poor guy wakes up to New Jersey highway pigs screaming in his face. We finally get to the place. I sat out front and watched three fistfights take place in front of me. Hours later we’re about to play and I have to run out and get something out of the van. I get can’t back in because the door guy doesn’t believe that I’m in the band. I can hear the band on the stage. He let me in and said that if he didn’t see me onstage he was going to take me out and beat me up. A few songs into the set I saw him come in and check. I love this town.
June 10, 1982. Buffalo, NY: The club owner said that we had to play three sets. We played for most of the night and did every song we knew and just took breaks every thirty-five minutes or so. It was pretty much like a regular night. I got pulled into the crowd at one point and some guy was trying to kick me in the skull. A road-crew guy took him off me. After the show the guy was hanging around the parking lot and some guy walked right up to him, stabbed him in the stomach, and walked away. At first no one knew he was stabbed, including him. He was so fucked up. Finally his shirt began to turn red and blood started going down his pants. He got in his car and drove away. It was a strange sight.
June 25, 1982. Lawrence, KS: I learned a powerful lesson that day. We were pulling into town and we smelled smoke. The bottom of the van was on fire. We all got out and backed away from the van and watched it burn while backing slowly away. There’s no gas cap on the van and we knew that it could go up any second. Dukowski grabbed a towel and got underneath the van and started trying to put the fire out. He yelled for us to help him. All I could do was watch. Mugger ran across the street to a gas station and got a fire extinguisher to help put it out. Dukowski’s forearms had burning oil on them. He must have been scared shitless, but he saved the van and our equipment and he could have been killed. All I did was stand there. I felt bad. Later that night a pig came into the gig and told us to turn it down. He looked like Don Knotts and we didn’t turn down and we kept on playing and nothing happened.
September 1, 1982. New York, NY: At this gig some huge guy jumped off the stage and I watched him land on top of this girl. From where I was, it looked bad. I met her a year or so later. I remembered her. I asked her if it hurt when that fat piece of shit landed on her. She showed me her glass eye. The guy took her eye out with his boot. I didn’t know what to say. What do you say? “Sorry about that. How about a free shirt?” She said not to worry about it and walked away.
September 12, 1982. Montreal, Canada: We played with Discharge and Vice Squad, two big punk-rock bands from England. I remembered the singer of VS from the show in Leeds back in ’81. It was good to see them opening. The Discharge guys were cool. We played hard and my right knee, which had been giving me trouble for the last few weeks, finally gave out. I had a piece of cartilage floating on the side of my knee that I had to keep shoving back into place with my hand during songs. We had to cancel the rest of the dates.
The next few days sucked. Our van broke down somewhere in Canada. We camped out in a gas station waiting for it to get fixed. The attendants must have thought we were crazy. We slept in the van and hung out in the parking lot for next to three days. My knee was fucked up and I couldn’t go anywhere. The record company we were dealing with at the time eventually sent us some money, and we managed to sell our van and buy another used one. We rented a U-Haul trailer to put the backline into. We set out for LA.
It was good in the back of the van. There was room for everyone. We had never had so much. It was cool until we hit Des Moines. It was raining in sheets like some movie scene. I was looking out the back at the gray sky and all that rain. All of a sudden the U-Haul became smaller and smaller. The trailer did a spectacular flip over the railing, flew through the air, and disappeared. It nearly took out a car on its way. We pulled over and backed up. The damn thing was way down in a ditch partially submerged in water. My knee made it impossible for me to do anything. The rest of the guys slid down the grassy bank and opened up the little doors at the back and started to pull the cabs out. They tried to drag them up but slid back down. All the while, the rain was relentless. Some of the cabs were too damaged, so we left them. We left the U-Haul down there as well. We loaded all the wet gear into the van and went to some roadside place. We called U-Haul and told them that their shitty hitch had cost them a trailer, and we gave them the approximate location of the thing and that was that.
The van that we took on the tour and ditched in Canada didn’t belong to us. It belonged to Saccharine Trust and they had lent it to us. We had some pretty bad news for them when we got back to LA a few days later. Another tour over. I had surgery done to my knee.
October 23, 1982. Redondo Beach, CA: This was fucked up. We got the call to play a party at this place near where we lived. It looked like an old recording studio. None of us knew the guy or any of his friends. We just showed up with some of our friends. The setup was good though, and it looked like it was going to be a good night. The guy pulled out a large bag of cocaine and threw it on a table. It was a lot of damned dope. We just kind of looked at these people doing drugs, and we just kept playing. A few songs later the police came busting in and all these people just kind of disappeared. In about a minute’s time it was just us, the police, and this big bag of coke. One pig comes up to me and asked why I’m sweating and out of breath. I told him that I’ve been playing. He shined his light in my eyes and looked at me all hard while his buddy pounded his stick on a chair next to my leg. Eventually they let us go and we went back to SST. I never found out what happened to the guy with the coke. A few weeks later, I was in a burger place up the street from SST. One of the pigs who busted the party came in and spotted me. He stood over me and hit the seat with his stick like the other guy did at the party. He stood there until I left. I didn’t get to finish my meal.
February 15, 1983. Hamburg, Germany: On a day off in Hamburg. Didn’t do much. Some guy came to talk to us. Me, the guy, and Dukowski went out and walked around. We got on this train and the guy told us that you didn’t need a ticket unless you got asked to show yours. You could risk getting shit, but if you went for it, you could ride for free. We went for it and it was fine. On the
way back we ran to catch the train and we all got on except for the Duke, who had to pry the doors apart. This little boy comes running up to him and starts trying to push him out the door. The little fucker is yelling loudly and causing all the people to look over at us. Right then a pig came over and took us out at the next stop and proceeded to give us a lot of shit when we couldn’t show our tickets. We tried to play it like we were stupid American tourists, but it didn’t work. He knew we were sleazy. He kicked us out. Other than that I ate a lot of oranges and slept a lot. I needed it.
Greg went off on the guys who were running the food store below the hotel. They were trying to rip us off and I didn’t think much of it because I expected these guys to be sleazy, but Greg was so pissed. He and Dukowski started eating food out of the refrigerator and yelling at the guys. The guys behind the counter knew they were busted and had no choice but to let them do it. They looked at the rest of us and realized we would have beat the shit out of them. There’s something about your eyes when you haven’t eaten for a while and you’ve been fucked with by skinheads that just says don’t fuck with me.
February 19, 1983. Munich, Germany: Been driving since 8 a.m. It’s now evening. Last night was pretty wild. The Minutemen were great as usual. Three songs into our set, I got hit square on the forehead with an unopened can of beer. Good shot. I grabbed a mic stand and begged the guy to come and get killed. He ran out of the place. The rest of the gig was a lot of sweat and smoke. These people seem to smoke as much as they breathe. At the end of the set the PA got turned off and we did “TV Party” without it. The crowd joined in. After that we got some food and slept in some freezing rooms. We had to double up in the beds. There was no hot water.
February 23, 1983. Italian/Swiss border: The Italian border is on strike. They don’t want to let the equipment van through. They threatened to beat up Davo. Last night was real cool. When we got to the club, there were all these kids there. We pulled up to the front door and they started rocking the van and pounding on the windows. I thought they wanted to kill us. I was getting ready to get out of there as best I could without getting hurt too bad. When we got out of the van they all started hugging and kissing us and giving us presents. A lot of them had Black Flag logos painted on their jackets. They thought that the Minutemen were Hüsker Dü.
After that, a lot of people started coming to the place and wanted to get in for free. The owner went outside and told them no way. The kids started throwing rocks at the club’s windows and started fucking the place up. In the main office they had a video camera set up, and we watched the whole thing from inside. The police came and started kicking ass on the kids. A couple of hours later we got to play. It was wild, to say the least.
So tonight, if we get out of Italy, we play Geneva. After tonight we have a three-day space-out. The drive here was amazing. I have never seen castles like these before. I’ve seen some in England years ago, but they weren’t like these. The Alps blow my mind. Everywhere you look, looks like a postcard. Tonight’s crowd will be the basic German type I bet. We were spoiled in Italy, all those people being so nice to us and all. Now I guess it’s back to the hostile shit.
I wonder what we’re going to do for the next three days. We have no money to stay anywhere. By now I’m used to this, but in Switzerland? What will this be like? The next three days are going to suck. Davo has to drive back to the border to get some paperwork filled out that they wouldn’t do the other day. What a waste of time. You should have seen these assholes, fat pigs. One of them tried to buy Dukowski’s watch.
Denmark is a two-day trip from here. That’s the next show. Food will be hard to find. Tonight’s crowd is coming in, not many of them either. They look like the basic punker type.
Later: At the hotel. We played real tight. The toughest skinheads were total chickenshit. A guy threw a cup of piss on Dukowski as he left the stage. Duke went berserk, man, it was wild. He started wrecking the dressing room. I have never seen him like that before. I have never had a cup of piss thrown on me either. I gave it all I had, but it’s hard to dig all the way in with a bunch of gluehead punks casually spitting on you. Some dick spilled his beer all over my bag tonight. All my stuff is wet. I wanted to kill the guy, but he was a friend of the promoter. Me and Dukowski packed up all the food that was left in the dressing room. I made myself a sandwich for later. Who knows when the next meal is coming around this place.
February 24, 1983. Geneva, Switzerland: Still in Switzerland. Hanging out in some punker squat. Tonight we will stay here and then we will go on to Denmark. The people in this shithole are gross. All they do is rip shit off, get drunk, and listen to shitty punk rock.
Dez had some fun with one of the punkers. He put a ZZ Top tape into the community blaster. All the punkers started yelling at him. Dez told them that the tape was the new Exploited album. The punkers were stupid, they all believed him. One guy started crying, no shit.
These days off are bad for us. We lose our momentum. The last few days have not been all that great. I liked Berlin the best so far. I like the desperate shows the best. I don’t play good unless I’m pushed. I know that sounds stupid but it’s true. The more bashed up I get, the better I play. One of these days someone is going to get me good and that will be it.
February 27, 1983. Osnabrück, Germany: Richard Hell played here tonight and let us and the Minutemen open up. We went off. I got all cut up. I bit a skinhead in the mouth and he started to bleed real bad. His blood was all over my face. While we were playing D. Boon was in the crowd and gave me a glass of beer. I broke the glass over my head. I am all cut up. Hell went on and told the crowd that Black Flag kills. No shit. I took a bath and had to wash myself three times to get all the dirt and glass out of my skin.
May 14, 1984. London, England: Played the Marquee tonight. Me and Bill are on fuck-everybody mode. We came here two times before and got fucked with by these assholes, and now they can go get fucked. Before we went on we made the DJ play ZZ Top’s Eliminator album all the way through. He apologized to the audience because he hated them. Figures the piece of shit has bad taste in music. It saved us from having to listen to some weak punk bullshit.
So Bill and I are backstage stretching and Gene October comes in. He’s the guy from Chelsea that kicked me in the side and talked the shit about the band in Leeds in 1981. He wants to use the bathroom. Bill looks at him and asks me if this is the guy I’m going to kill. I say yes. Bill looks at me and says, “Kill him now. Kill him now.” Totally deadpan. October freaks and starts blubbering a bunch of shit about how he always liked the band. We started laughing and told him to get lost. What a piece of shit. So many people should just get killed.
It was hot as hell in there. I passed out in the middle of one song and climbed up Greg’s leg and kept going. We played well. People seemed to dig it. Doesn’t matter if they did or not. During the breaks in the beginning of “Slip It In,” Bill was standing up and screaming, “Fuck you, you limey pieces of shit!” It was great and it made me play harder. Fuck these people.
June 12, 1984, 4:28 p.m. Berlin, Germany: In the hotel. Gig was cool except for the guy who punched me out. This big guy was up front and just hauled off and whacked me one. It didn’t hurt really. He put me on the floor but I got up and kept on playing, but now I’m a little fucked up. Robert Hilburn from the LA Times was there. He liked it. He’s doing some article on European bands or something.
When we were loading out some guy took off with one of Greg’s guitars. The fucker just grabbed it and ran up the street. We were told he was probably a junkie. I barely saw the guy, it happened so fast.
I don’t talk to them much anymore. I’m in my own world. There are six of us in one room. We are on top of each other. I spend as much time as possible away from them.
I had to do photos with the Times photographers. We did shots at the Wall and Checkpoint Charlie.
We’re playing here again tonight, some small club. I hope that the guys from Die Haut come to the show. One
of my favorite bands. They live here. I have a black eye from last night. Fuck it. Three more shows on this one and then most of them fly back to LA. Me and Greg stay to do press.
I did something funny today. I picked up on a girl and didn’t know it. I came into the lobby and saw this gross American guy talking up the pretty girl behind the desk. He went away, and when I went up to get my key I asked if it was fucked to have to be nice to people like that when you really want to smack the shit out of them. We started talking and I told her we were playing at this club tonight, and she asked if she could go. I figured that anyone could go and told her of course. I told her that we would put her on the guest list. I thought nothing of it. It’s not as if we know anyone here. She shows up to the gig all done up and excited to see me. At the end of the show she’s trying to get me to come home with her. Whoa.
I think that Black Flag has reached its high point. Thinking about it, each record sells less and less and we can’t outdraw shitty bands in LA. I think that the new songs bum people out.
December 22, 1984. Canadian border: At the border office trying to get into Canada again. Apparently our papers are not together. The promoter from Winnipeg is being called now. The temperature is 20 below zero. I got freezing cold running ten yards from the truck to the customs building. Now people have decided that this is the time to lose ID’s and equipment lists. The Chicago show was one to remember. Some people were not too happy with the ticket price the promoter slapped on. They took out their grievances on the security and the band. The shit bums me out. I hate having to listen to the bullshit. Trying to get left alone in the dressing room and these people come in, sit down, and make themselves at home. The head security comes in to talk to me about all the shit that went down. I need this? No. Fuck you. It’s nights like this that make me act the way I do. It makes me want to run away and hide. I’m sick of people. Drunks yelling my name, spitting on me. I don’t need it. Some guy jumped onstage, kicked me in the side as he jumped off. Just another night. I hope we get out of the cold tonight. It will kill us if we don’t. It’s funny, I’m watching myself come to the end of my rope. It looks pretty ridiculous. I think I’m losing my crackers. A lot of things that are important to me aren’t anymore. I wish I had something in my head, but I don’t. This has been the usual for a couple of weeks.
The Portable Henry Rollins Page 16