By then there was glass all over the inside of the vehicle. Believe it or not, we managed to come out of it completely unscathed. The only things that got busted up were the side windows of the vehicle. The kid I originally humiliated, his ego got damaged—and our vehicle got damaged. I guess he got even with us!
All I know is if it were any of my friends, and there were five people trying to hold us back, those five people would have gotten fucked up. That’s why I’m saying Hardcore ain’t what it used to be. Now it’s like the jocks that people hated in high school, or the frat boys in college. It’s all these little fucking stupid clique crews. I always handled my own shit. When I was a kid, I didn’t need 20 motherfuckers to carry my balls for me.
Our drummer, Ryan Krieger, was away from the club when the shit went down. When we found him later, with the van windows smashed and glass inside it, he was all like, “What the fuck happened?” I started breaking his balls, telling him, “Man, they didn’t like your drumming. They said you guys are all right, but your drummer sucks, so they attacked us!” Meanwhile, Parris was having a minor nervous breakdown. The rest of us were actually having a good time, all things considered. My adrenaline was so pumped that it took me a few days to wind down and for it to sink in just how close we came to getting fucked up by a bunch of motherfuckers. Of course, people out there tell the story a little differently, but the one fact that doesn’t change, no matter who tells it, is that I held off a mob of motherfuckers by myself, and I didn’t take no one’s shit! It ain’t the first time.
Needless to say, the next time we went out there as the Cro-Mags, it turned into a full-blown follow-up episode, because those guys had kinda looked foolish—five people and a chick had held off their whole crew! I knew it was coming; I just had that feeling. So I called the club in advance, and told them to get additional security. And they did. So at the end of the night, there was a big scene with all the Samoan bouncers, who were all gang bangers, plus there were Hell’s Angels there. None of the dudes who had beef came into the show. It was a sick show; it was packed, but at the end of the night, a bunch of them tried to bum-rush the doors of the club. Well, the Samoans kept them out, but shit was getting crazy. And there were a bunch of those dudes outside the club across the street, waiting for us to come out.
I was hanging out inside laughing about the shit with some of the Samoans, they were all gang bangers/big fucking dudes. I don’t know what set they were from; they all had guns. We were talking about the whole shit that was going down, and some chick who was all drunk walking around like she owned the joint overheard that there was some kind of beef going on with the band. She was related to Sonny Barger, so she speed-dialed the Angels and told them she needed some people to stand in front of the club.
So at the end of the night, we were walking out of the club with these Samoan bouncers, and there were all those Hardcore dudes from that crew standing on one side of the street yelling shit, and across the street from them, there were all these dudes with beards and trench coats on. This chick was all, “They’re here for me guys, just stay close to me.”
It was a fuckin’ hilarious, insane, crazy, and highly volatile situation. I didn’t know if the dudes in the coats were gonna start blasting if the Hardcore dudes were gonna try some dumb shit or what. The Samoans escorted us to our van while the bearded dudes in trench coats kept watch on the crew of dudes talking shit. We were in a big fenced-in parking lot next to the club that was connected to a much bigger parking area that took up the rest of the block. All of a sudden a bunch of the dudes from that crew ran around the block to try and bum-rush the parking lot. I guess they thought they were gonna bum-rush and climb the fence while we were fenced in and the Angels and Samoans were back in the club.
We cracked out a .357, fired off some rounds, and sent them scattering. I’d told my tour manager, “There may be an incident in California,” so he brought his toolie with him. We didn’t usually travel with shit like that; that wasn’t our thing. We were musicians, not gang bangers. I mean, yeah, usually just bats, tire buddies, clubs, pieces of drum stands, ball-peen hammers or whatever, in case shit got crazy at a show. But people don’t roll like that anymore; they have serious weapons. I never got in too many situations where it’s like one person has a problem with me. I somehow manage to rile up whole crews!
I remember a different tour, when my drummer then was Garry Sullivan. He can tell you some hysterical tour brawl stories. One time, I fucked up this huge black dude. He was like 6’5”, 6’6” and around three hundred pounds; I shit you not. I hate telling these stories myself, it sounds like I’m exaggerating. But I ain’t making this shit up, bragging, or lying! I don’t need to: G-man will tell you. We got into what seemed like a mini “race riot” in Texas, which was fucking ridiculous because two of the guys in our band were black; it was like these two punk rockers, me, Garry, and my roadie Ali, versus these three or four guys. But then shit started jumping off and more people started running up; in fact every brother in the parking lot started running up. Motherfuckers from down the block. Before we knew it, we were outnumbered. And it all jumped off over some stupid shit.
We were just standing there talking to these kids at the load-out at the back door to the club we just played, and these dudes walked up and started talking shit. They were like, “Anybody got weed? Yo, let me get that beer.” Then they just started being total dicks. The one punk rock dude had a Rebel flag belt buckle, and one black dude started saying, “What are you, a racist? What, you don’t like niggers?” He was totally revving himself up to hit this punk rock dude. Meanwhile this one chick was like, “Yo, what’s your fuckin’ problem, man?” And she got sucker-punched for it. Before you knew it, it was “the brothers” vs. “the punks”—two or three punks against these three or four big dudes. It got real fuckin’ crazy in seconds. I picked up this 2x4, and I basically “fed it” to this dude that was running toward me. I pushed it into his face as he was running at me hard. Knocked his teeth the fuck out, and knocked his ass on the floor. The dude he was with was huge, a human I have no business even thinking about tangling with, nor do I want to. He hit one dude, knocked him the fuck out, hit another dude, put him down cold. He knocked our roadie out, and then punched him in the face three more times, when his face was down against the cement!
Then that big-ass motherfuckin’ guy turned around, hit me, and I saw like “the flashbulb” that you see when you get hit real hard. But I came to instantly. I was starting to go down. I was already looking at his knees, ’cause I was on my way down. So I lunged forward, and did a double takedown on him. My reflexes kicked in, and I took him down with such an impact—because he was such a big man—that when he hit the concrete from the takedown, it discombobulated his whole shit. Yo, a strong takedown, especially on cement, can end a fight. And I took him down good.
Immediately, I rose up, put my knee to his stomach, postured up, and started pounding him in his face. Then, within seconds some other dude kicked me from behind. I rolled to my back, and started scooting away from him. Two people that I knew ran up, grabbed me, and started to pull me away. As they were pulling me, I got to my feet. Then, the cops started coming. By that point, I ran and hid in the van underneath some blankets. It turns out the big dude who was knocking everyone out was a corrections officer! So this motherfucker is yelling at the cops, “Yo, I’m a C.O.! These dudes jumped me!” So now all of a sudden, the cops were harassing all the punk rockers; I was under the blankets, and all I could hear is, “Where’s the dude with the stick? Where’s my teeth? He knocked out my teeth!” So they got out flashlights, and were trying to find the dude’s gold teeth. The shit was crazy.
So, we went back to Europe on a second leg of the Revenge tour. The promoters advised against going back to Europe so soon, but Parris insisted that they book more shows. It wound up being a disaster for the band, but it was fun for me, my girlfriend, Garry and Rocky. I mean, despite the riots and brawls and whatnot, everyone had a good time
except for Parris. Even the driver had a blast! But this tour was definitely the end of that era.
Let me just say that I’m not the only one who felt that Parris had started to become a bit of a dick at that point. And I loved the guy. I don’t even like saying it like that ’cause it sounds like I’m just talking shit about him. But even his closest friends, everyone in the band, and most of the people who knew him, felt there was a change. He just wasn’t the guy—or should I say kid—I knew growing up. He tried to flex on me a few times like he was some kind of a hard-ass, and I just laughed it off it as comical.
All this shit started to happen slowly over a period of a time. He even started getting into beefs with cats he used to get along with, cats like Biohazard, who he had done videos with; he almost got into a fight with them, and Type O Negative and Pete Steele, who he looked up to and also did some video work for. He got in some shit with a band called Merauder, who he produced a record for. He got himself into some shit with Sick of It All at some show, and got jumped or something; I don’t know, I wasn’t there. I think he even got into a scuffle with Mackie that ended with them rolling around on the floor like two girls. I heard Mackie broke his hand hitting Parris on top of the head or something.
I mean, look, I’ll say it again: I admit that I’m not always an easy person to get along with. But the fact is I was getting along with everyone else in the band. I wasn’t having problems with anyone or getting into any beefs with anyone at the time on the scene or otherwise. The only person I had issues with at the time was John and at that point I didn’t even really give a fuck. He was a non-issue. We were all having a great time, pretty much—except Parris.
I don’t know, he used to be a good guy; I loved the guy a lot. I think he was just under a lot of pressure and it got to him. But hey, that’s the Cro-Mags; we all had problems and issues, not just him but John, Doug, Mackie and me. We were all difficult motherfuckers at times—a lot of the time. And I have to laugh when sayin’ this ’cause I feel deep down all of us know that it’s true.
That reminds me of how Parris used to say that Pete Hines was the one guy in the band that he got along with. But Pete hated Parris so much that one time on tour, when Parris always used to mark his food with a black Magic Marker so that no one would eat it, Pete jacked off in Parris’ peanut butter, stirred it up with a fork, and then put it back in its place. You really gotta not like someone to do that shit.
Anyway, it seemed like Parris thought he could control the whole situation, control me, the rest of the band, the money and so on. I guess ’cause he was handling the business, he felt like he had that right or was entitled to, and he started doing some shady shit. At least that’s how we all saw it. Up until that point, I felt me and him had really re-bonded after the whole Alpha Omega disaster. I loved playing music with the guy and I really didn’t see it coming. Ever since he started managing our business, everything I thought he was doing for us and for the band, I guess he wasn’t really doing for “us,” he was really doing it for himself, with merch, CD sales, etc. He did stand to make a lot and probably has. He had all our bank info, all my personal info. But anyway, my dumb ass didn’t realize how much resentment and bitterness was boiling inside of him. That was until one day, I accidentally opened up a Beatles book, of all things.
The Beatles book is what finally set it off. It was a book that he was always walking around with, and reading and writing in. He even mentioned a few times what a good book it was. To me it was just a “Beatles book”—full of stories and photos of the band. So one morning I woke up, I was still half asleep. I walked to the front of the bus, and there was the Beatles book. So I picked it up to thumb through the pictures, and… Boom! There was all kinds of shit written in the book, shit about the rest of us—little thoughts and shit, like a journal. Parris would sit there and scribble in the book, as he was either reading or pretending to be reading, when he was really just sitting there looking at everyone else on the bus having a good time, and him just being miserable. He wrote a lot of fucked-up shit. Not just about me, but everyone on that tour: Rocky, Garry, my girlfriend, her family, our road crew, tour manager, driver—everybody.
The more I read through it, the worse it got. I wanted to kick the shit out of him as soon as I saw him. He’s lucky we all didn’t. He had little notes to himself about all kinds of deals he was doing without my knowledge. I mean, why would he even write stuff like that down, and then leave it around? Did he want me to find it? It burned me the fuck up.
So I was like, “Fuck this.” I went through his notebooks, and that’s were I started finding out all the really fucked-up shit he was up to. It was as if he was trying to set me up to fuck me over; it was all in the book. It was some total backstabbing betrayal shit. After going through the book, I put it back; I guess I wanted to see what other shit he was gonna write about all of us. More so, I was interested in what kind of business shit he was up to behind my back and what else he was gonna write down like a dumbass. So I put the book back, and was gonna confront him at a different time. Now, I wish I would have saved the shit; I could have printed it here so you could see for yourself. But what would that solve? I wish none of it would’ve happened. It was a fucked-up way for it to end. He was a childhood friend and I don’t forget the good times, but this was just fucked.
Before the tour, I kept hearing weird shit. Parris had been spending a lot of time with a friend of mine. One day he tells me, “Yo man, you need to keep an eye on Parris if he’s handling all your business.” I’m like, “Why?” And he’s like, “Well, I mentioned to him that you guys should look into some publishing deals, and that we should talk about it, and he completely flipped and started yelling at me saying, ‘Don’t ever discuss business with Harley—ever! Don’t put any ideas in his head!’” Now this was all stuff I had just heard right before the tour started, and I had other heard shit like this from other people, so I already had a bad taste in my mouth before we went on the tour. That shit stuck into my head. But when we were getting ready for the tour, Parris’ dad got very sick. The guy was old and in the hospital. I knew Parris was a little freaked out about it. So I thought to myself, “OK, I’m gonna wait until his dad’s out of the hospital, or until we get back from this short-ass European tour.” I didn’t want to jump on him and start flipping while his dad could be dying, that wouldn’t be right. I figured I’d wait for when we got home and the time felt more appropriate. Then I was gonna get to the bottom of this shit—for real.
I mean, who was he to tell anyone not to talk to me? I was so mad. And I guess he could feel it, ’cause I remember even on the way to the airport, he was looking at me all nervous and shit. I don’t know if he could just feel the tension, but I was definitely having a hard time looking at him and keeping my mouth shut. He came to me all trying to act concerned, saying, “What’s the matter? Are you all right?” And I’m saying to myself, “You know what’s up, motherfucker!” I tried to keep it in, but I’m just not good at hiding my feelings; maybe I should have talked with him about it then, I don’t know.
Anyway, at least half of the shows were total bombs on that short European tour. There was zero advertising, so no one knew we were coming at all. Plus, we had just been there a few months earlier. The booking agent told us it was a bad idea, but Parris insisted that we go for whatever reason.
So, back to his fuckin’ “Beatles book.” I was shocked and pissed. Throughout the book, there were things about deals he was trying to do that I never knew about, with comments like, “I’m gonna milk this for what it’s worth.” I was never “the math guy” so this got me freaked. We had a joint bank account that I didn’t have access to. We’d invested in gear together, plus recording gear and a van, and he kept the passwords to our bank accounts, PayPal account, our website, all my personal info, even my social security number! See, I was “the trusting type.” I was his friend forever, regardless of our ups and downs and whatever had happened in the past. It’s my nature. I wear my feelings
on the outside, always have. That’s why some people don’t like me, but at least you know what you get.
But in that book, there was a lot of hate that had been brewing for a long time that was a surprise to me. To this day, I can’t understand how someone can put themselves on a tour bus and sleep, eat, and be with people every day you have such bitterness toward. That’s something that I could not do. It’s crazy how people who used to get along can get so resentful. I mean, we all made some great music together, did great shows. It’s fucked up.
So anyway, I just couldn’t keep it in anymore, and I confronted Parris about the book. I was so pissed off that I taped up my knuckles, so I could beat on him more without wrecking my hands. Rocky and Garry thought I was gonna fucking kill him. They saw me taping my hands and left the bus. I walked up to him, and I was like, “Motherfucker!” He cowered and flinched, and I threw a punch at him. He crawled into a ball, and I stopped the punch right before it connected to his face. He’s like, “What?! What?!” I’m like, “Motherfucker, you better start thinking about ‘What’!” I didn’t even want to tell him everything I knew, because if I did, then he’d know what I didn’t know. Let me just keep him wondering, until I can get all the facts sorted out.
I told him, “When we get back, you’ve got two weeks or less to give me every fuckin’ accounting of everything that’s been sold. Every T-shirt sold through our website, every CD we’ve sold. I want to know every fuckin’ thing, and I want to know what’s left in our account.” It was a very fucked-up scene. Like I said, Garry and Rocky really thought I was gonna kill him. Later that night, Garry saw Parris ripping up all his notebooks and throwing them in a canal.
Hard-Core: Life of My Own Page 35