Glorious.
Before we hit the studio Davey had told us he was out. He had a real shot at becoming a professional skateboarder and putting out a racist record would negatively influence his chances. We didn’t want to hold him back, so we parted ways and brought in a new bass player, Skinhead Mark, to fill his role. Though, unfortunately, this didn’t happen before Davey “wrote” a song that we inadvertently recorded and put on the record without knowing he’d entirely ripped off the main hook lick-for-lick from a New York City hardcore band called Sick Of It All.
Despite that, the mood in the studio was electrifying. Literally.
Well into a long midnight session, while I was recording my lyrics I accidentally knocked over and spilled a beer on the vocal booth floor. Trying not to interrupt our flow, as time and money were limited, I gripped the microphone and was instantly sent flying back violently against the wall. My boot had been resting in the puddle of beer when I gripped the shoddy microphone, nearly killing me via electric shock.
If you listen closely to the track “Happy Death”—which we cheekily decided to name the song after my close call—you can hear a faint pop where we were unable to fully scrub the sound fluctuation from the track without having to redo the entire song.
I didn’t care. I would have died happy.
We recorded and mixed the entire record in five days for exactly $1,372, paid for by Rock-O-Rama. The album was pressed first as a vinyl LP and later made into a compact disc when that format hit the mass market the following year. The album was officially listed as Rock-O-Rama #123: White American Youth, Walk Alone. It was primarily sold in Europe, though a few record stores in Canada also carried it. But mainly, if you lived in the U.S., you had to order it as an import by airmail and postal money order from Germany. I was incredibly proud.
From a financial standpoint it was a lousy deal for us. We didn’t make a single dime and didn’t even get free promotional records like bands typically do. Without knowing it, we’d essentially signed over one hundred percent of the rights to our recorded music in perpetuity to the label. Feeling both angry and foolish, I scraped up some cash and ordered fifty copies of the record at the wholesale price and sold them to our friends at cost to save face. The label handled all mass distribution.
Everybody in Blue Island and the surrounding Chicago area knew we’d recorded the album. We were celebrities, even though I didn’t get treated all that differently since I’d been treated pretty well already, but it was the cherry on top of the white power sundae for me. Another notch in my belt.
Even some of the Antis were surprisingly cool about it and defected to our side because of the record. Local kids loved that somebody in their neighborhood had actually released an album and they wanted to be a part of the fun.
Despite the hodgepodge way Rock-O-Rama promoted their releases and managed the relationship with us, it didn’t take long for the record to become popular among skinheads. We officially joined the ranks of America’s first few white power bands. Along with Bound For Glory, Bully Boys, Arresting Officers, Max Resist & the Hooligans, and Midtown Bootboys, we were in good company. Exalted company as far as I was concerned. Aside from WAY, Bound For Glory was the only other active American band on the legendary Rock-O-Rama roster.
Getting to play on a bill with Bound For Glory continued to be important to me. Hailing from the Twin Cities of Minnesota, they were the white power musical outfit that had every skinhead talking. Many had pegged them as the “Skrewdriver of the States,” after Rock-O-Rama released their first album Warrior’s Glory the previous year to critical skinhead acclaim. Their style was different than most of their British or American Oi! counterparts, bringing more homegrown thrash metal flavor to back up their pointed lyrics. Bound For Glory quickly became the band everyone wanted to emulate and associate with. I made it a priority to get our bands to play together.
Rehearsals were awkward at first. Before we cut the record, half the group didn’t know how to play our instruments and none of us had performed in a band before. But we worked hard and built something tangible with no roadmap or instructions. Few white power skinheads had traveled this road before us. And we persevered. We had the confidence that came along with having an album and a legitimate label behind us, a group of friends intent on making music that meant something, and a desire to succeed against all logical odds.
The whole experience was exciting beyond words. I’d put our band together, written the lyrics of every song, and in two short months after we recorded our demo I’d landed us a record deal that allowed us to eventually sell tens of thousands of albums worldwide. We’d performed a dozen concerts, mostly in smoky Knights of Columbus halls or in friends’ musty basements. But now we had the royal stamp of validity. We weren’t just on our way.
We were the WAY.
Not long after we released the Walk Alone record in early December of 1991, I was arrested yet again. To keep the movement alive—to make sure my name was seared into the brain of every kid in high school—me and one of my associates showed up at Eisenhower one morning to protest in support of white students. We waved large signs emblazoned with “White Pride,” demanding “Equal Rights for Whites.” I’d coordinated a dozen or so white kids in the school to join us by staging a cafeteria sit-in, refusing to go to class until the school agreed to grant them a white student union to rival the various minority student groups already in existence.
Car horns beeped both approval and disdain. Passersby threw supportive shouts and disapproving projectiles at us. A news crew showed up. Cops came. The young protesters inside the school succumbed to the pressure of impending suspension and were shuffled back to class. Even though I had never left the public sidewalk, I was arrested and charged with criminal trespassing on school property since I was no longer a student there. The previous restraining order against me didn’t make it any easier. The demonstration made the local newspapers, and a Blue Island police sergeant identified me in an article as a “white supremacist mob boss.”
“And proud of it,” I would have added if the reporter had bothered to interview me.
White American Youth concert at The Ice Pick, Muskegon, Michigan, 1991
18
VICTORY MARCH
Finally, after months of hard work, we’d been booked to play in the same venue, on the same stage, as Bound For Glory, my favorite American white power band. I’d corresponded with them some, but the interest was more on my part than theirs. WAY had been lined up to perform with them twice before, but skinhead concerts and fests were routinely shut down when some half-wit concert promoter got scared that we’d start trouble.
But now we were slated to play with Bound For Glory in Muskegon, Michigan. And not just in some basement or at some kegger party. We were playing in a real club. The Ice Pick. It was in the middle of a ghetto, but it was a legit punk rock venue. The interior of the place had seen its fair share of rock and roll abuse, every inch of the walls covered with nihilistic graffiti. The smell of piss and stale beer was overwhelming.
On the day of the concert, The Ice Pick was overrun with at least three hundred white power skinheads from around the Midwest and East Coast. A whole shitload of young hooligans full of rage and fury, waiting for an excuse to erupt into violence. The club was so packed I was surprised the fire marshal wasn’t summoned to shut the show down. But nobody wanted to mess with us.
I played it casual when I met Bound For Glory the first time, intent on not letting any traces of anxious fan-boy energy show through. It was important to be perceived as an equal, even if I was slightly starstruck and much younger than them.
Despite my nerves, Big Ed Arthur, the guitarist and leader of Bound For Glory, and I hit it off immediately. Felt like we’d known each other for years. We became fast friends, bound by the fact that we were both first-generation Americans. His family had emigrated from Croatia around the same time mine had come over from Italy.
But as soon as W
AY took the stage, one of the drunken East Coast skinheads in the crowd threw a beer can toward Rick, our guitarist, and accosted him for his long heavy metal hair.
“Hippie scum,” he babbled, headed for Rick, fists in the air. “I’ll kick your fucking commie ass!”
Incensed anybody would go after Rick, I jumped in front of him, ready to beat this drunk asshole to a bloody pulp right there on stage for all to see.
Big Ed hopped up in a swift, sure move and wedged himself between us. His stare communicated to this dude so much more than what came out of his mouth. “They’re with me.”
The drunk backed down without hesitation. Everyone respected Big Ed. He was a massive, fully-tattooed bear of a man. It was hard not to be intimidated by him. I liked the way he’d handled it. Made a note of it. Quiet power and choice words could come in handy. Silent strength. I tucked the concept away for future use.
But all wasn’t well. After our set was over, Rick was in a hurry to leave.
“This is crazy,” he said. “That fucking guy wanted to kill me!” I tried to calm him down, but he was having none of it. Being a part-time racist, Rick wasn’t used to the violence that came with the territory.
With Rick still stewing on our drive home from Michigan, things got worse when we stopped at a rest area to call home and received word that a skinhead mate from our crew, Jason Silva, had stabbed his girlfriend twenty-one times in a lover’s quarrel. Shit. We’d all been close friends with Jason and his girl. We often joked that all they did was argue like jealous lovers so they’d have an excuse to fuck like rabbits and make up. Maybe we should have seen it coming. Jason was overly possessive, but we never thought he’d physically hurt her. For them, it was ultimate passion or shameless aggression, but never violence. They loved each other.
Now he’d stabbed her twenty-one goddamn times?
Jesus fucking Christ.
I felt sick about it, hoping that she’d pull through. She’d survived, but the horror of it was surreal. We were all speechless the rest of the drive home.
I knew between being confronted on stage and now this news, Rick wasn’t going to be with WAY much longer. And if he quit, Larry, our drummer, would follow. They were best friends. Had been forever. They’d stick together. As friends should. I couldn’t fault them for that.
I immediately began thinking of who could replace them. I’d only recently come out in the Belgian skinhead zine Pure Impact saying we were planning to release a second album with nine new tracks. I’d be a laughingstock if the band disappeared shortly after we’d gotten started. I had to assemble another band. And fast.
Meanwhile, my personal life couldn’t have been going better. Even though high school took up Lisa’s days, we spent our nights together. We never ran out of topics to discuss. I wanted to hear everything about her day. Nothing she said bored me. I kept most of my skinhead activities to myself, not wanting the ugliness that sometimes erupted to touch her. I shared the victories—progress with writing new songs, an interesting conversation I shared with somebody I admired—but never discussed the fights or the drama. And sure as hell never used the language with her that I used on the streets. Our love was pure, and nothing remotely dirty had any part in our world together. It was a nice reprieve from the constant madness.
One night as I lay in bed watching her sleep, a profound sense of peace washed over me. We hadn’t made love that evening, but my passion for her didn’t need physical union to flood me with feelings for her. As had become our habit, we pledged ourselves to each other before drifting off to sleep. Leaning over her on one elbow, I watched her chest move up and down with each breath she took.
How could I be so fortunate? I loved everything about her—her sweetness, her sincerity, her intellect, her loyalty, her kindness. We’d talked many times about spending the rest of our lives together. We both wanted children someday, and I loved that she could only imagine having them with me. I admired that she was serious about helping kids and I’d grown more comfortable with her plans to become a teacher. Maybe she’d find a way to change the system. Not all teachers had to push a false agenda. Lisa would be different. I was sure she was smart enough to not let college brainwash her.
As that thought hit me, a sharp realization accompanied it. If she were to go away to school, we would be apart. She would live in a world that didn’t include me. A blow far more powerful than any I’d received in the many fights I’d been in.
I could lose her—I would lose her—if she went off to college.
Without me there to protect her, the experience would change her.
And I would be alone again.
But it wasn’t just being alone again that terrified me: It was being without her.
The thought was unbearable and I struggled to breathe. I panicked and was overcome with fear.
Life without her was unthinkable.
There was only one solution. I had to keep her here.
I had to propose to her.
It wasn’t enough to tell each other we would be together forever. It had to be official. She had to say yes, she must marry me.
I blocked out the voice condemning me for such a selfish act. That knew marriage might mean a major change in her plans for college, for her own future. I wanted her with me; what she thought she wanted was secondary. And we’d be together. That’s what she needed most, right? I knew what was best for both of us. I was the strong one. I was the leader. It was my destiny.
I began planning my proposal. All worries about losing her faded as I began to visualize our lives together.
I bought her a chip of an engagement ring with what little money I had saved making pizzas, not at all certain how or where I’d ask her to marry me. She was still in her final year of high school. But I knew I couldn’t wait until she graduated.
A multitude of scenarios passed through my head. The when and where of it. What I’d say. The expression on her face. If I’d be able to hold it together when I asked her.
The time came unexpectedly in December, just after my eighteenth birthday. Lisa and some of our Beverly friends threw me a belated surprise birthday party, and as I was surrounded by people who loved me and who I loved, people who thought enough of me to plan this whole special event, I knew the moment couldn’t be more perfect.
In front of everyone, I held Lisa’s hand, got down on one knee and declared, “I love you, Lisa. I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”
She was shocked, looking around at the equally surprised faces of our friends, not saying a word. Excited gasps became contagious in the room around us.
“Nobody makes me happy like you do,” I managed to say before getting choked up. I cleared my throat. “Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”
She was taken aback. Sure, we’d spoken about marriage before, but never anything definite. We hadn’t even been dating a year yet. Not even half a year. But she didn’t hesitate. “Yes,” she said, “Yes!”
I took her gentle face in my hands and kissed her on the lips. The hushed silence in the room was shattered by cheers and beer bottles clinking. The girls in the room wiped their teary eyes.
I was eighteen. In love. And engaged to be married to a girl I cared deeply about.
I would make sure she never regretted joining her life with mine. Lisa would be proud to call herself my wife, and I began to see my actions through that lens.
Through the skinhead grapevine, I heard Bound For Glory was heading overseas to Germany in March of ’92 to play a concert. Doing so would make them the first white power band from the United States to ever play a show on European soil. They’d make history.
I had to be part of this. Didn’t matter to me that WAY had broken up when Larry and Rick left the group. I’d started a new band without missing a beat—Final Solution, in homage to the original band Clark, Carmine, and Chase Sargent had formed for a brief time in early 1985, at the genesis of the whole U.S. white power skinhead movement. I h
ad three months to prepare the band for our trip.
After some initial hesitation, I decided to write to Clark in prison about it. Asked his permission to resurrect the Final Solution name. Two years had passed since we’d corresponded and the materials that did still randomly trickle in willy-nilly from him bordered on nonsensical and repulsive. It had become clear to me that Clark was indeed seriously mentally ill. Relatively benign pornographic descriptions of women had turned into sadistic, rambling accounts of sexual violence and torture.
When a letter from Clark finally came back with his blessing on the use of the name, I didn’t respond to thank him. Thinking, even for a moment, how those sorts of twisted thoughts could enter someone’s mind and escape their lips turned my stomach and made me feel dirty. I quickly put it behind me and moved forward.
This time every member of my band was a skinhead. Two new guitarists, Mack and Hugo from the Indiana Hammerskin crew. Their friend Kenny Flanagan rounded out the group on drums. The only member of WAY that was part of my new band was Skinhead Mark, the bass player, whom we’d replaced Davey with a few months earlier when he’d bailed to follow his skateboarding dreams.
With some digging, I found out who was promoting the German concert. I phoned him late one night and said I’d toured with Bound For Glory previously in the States and insisted my new band travel with them to this concert as well. No resistance whatsoever from the promoter. He more or less said fine, if we could get there he’d let us play.
Romantic Violence Page 19
