This guy Sweet lived there since the first time I was there in ’82. He died while I was there in the ’90s, and no one even knew he died. He was in his room, in bed, and it was days before anyone knew—he had like melted into his electric blanket. That place was insane; everyone was fucked up on speed, trippin’ balls drunk. Those Bad Posture guys were a mess—everyone was.
I also used to hang with the guys from the local skater crews Jak’s Team and Eb’s Team; there were all these crash pads and party houses everyone used to bounce between. I don’t think they had ever heard of straight edge in San Francisco back then. I swear, they were all fucking savages.
I eventually wound up moving into an infamous San Francisco squat called the Vats. It was an abandoned Hamm’s Brewery that was turned into a squat/party-central/living quarters for tons of Hardcore kids, punks, runaways, drug addicts, and freaks.
I first lived in one of the building’s air vents. You had to crawl down these vents, then up some small ladders, and down other vents; it was a total maze. Some of them you could stand up in, but not all of them. Where I was, I had about enough room to lay down. I had my sleeping bag and some flyers on the wall. I eventually got taken in by this chick Spike and her boyfriend, Marc Dagger, and moved into an actual vat, where they used to store the beer. I think she felt bad for me, ’cause I was so young and on my own.
The Vats themselves were big, square, rubber-coated rooms, with no electricity, and a manhole with a chain on it as a door. We had hot plates, lights, radios, and whatever else, all running into a big cable down the hall. There were like 20 or more Vats on each floor, and a few people living in each one—sometimes up to like five, sometimes six or more. We called ourselves “Vat Rats,” and can you believe people used to actually pay rent to live there?! There was this scumbag speed freak dude that had moved in first and had it on lockdown with security and shit. It was like some kind of apocalyptic chaos zone, in a very desolate area by train yards and train tracks. On the first floor of the Vats there were rehearsal studios, but on the fifth floor, it was nuts. The parties there would be insane. People would be fucking right there in the middle of a room full of people walking around, drinking, and getting high. There was even a family with a baby living there!
Anyway, Marc and me became like brothers. We’d have to steal together to eat, and we fought back-to-back all the time. It was a bad neighborhood, and the cholos, blacks, and the white-boy rock ’n’ rollers were always jumping us back then. It was always a brawl, just like NYC, but it was a new environment, and I was having a ball. We eventually moved up into the yeast culture room of the building, which was on the top floor. It was like “the penthouse.” It was the only room in the building with windows. It overlooked the train yards and it was covered in tile. We got it rent-free, ’cause me and Marc were now doing security for the building.
A lot of crazy shit happened with Terry, Marc, and me. After I left San Francisco, they became two of the most notorious Skinheads out there. But it wasn’t always that way. I always used to break their balls about their mohawks, and tell them to shave their heads. The funny shit is, after that one serious acid episode with Terry where I stopped wearing shoes for a while, I actually let my hair grow into a mohawk. At first it was just ’cause I ran out of razors. But the acid probably had something to do with it. I also had an “X” carved in my forehead. It really was crazy; we were kids in our teens and on the streets, trying to eat, get high, and just basically survive. We were into music and drugs. We had nothing, and had no hopes for what the future was gonna bring. It was just day-to-day madness and chaos.
While I was living at the Vats at one point, the three of us were trying to get work, any kind we could. There wasn’t much available for teenage runaway punk rockers on the street. But there was this company that delivered newspapers and hired anybody. It didn’t matter who you were; you didn’t need ID. You didn’t need shit, and they paid cash. They just needed people to walk paper routes and deliver papers and ads. So we delivered papers in the outskirts and suburbs of San Francisco. The shit was pitiful. You’d go there at like 5:00 in the morning. There’d be all kinds of illegal aliens, bums, and homeless freaks. It was in this big parking garage, with all these trucks, newspapers and bags. You’d stand around in a big group, and hopefully they’d pick you to work. So we would try to dress down a little. Marc and Terry would flatten down their mohawks and put on baseball caps, so we wouldn’t look too crazy—leave all the chains and spikes at home, and try to look a little more low-key so we’d get picked.
If you did get picked they’d put you into different groups; different trucks drive you out to drop-off spots, and then you had a certain amount of time to walk fucking miles and miles—up and down hills, dropping off papers. You’d be getting attacked by dogs the whole fucking way in the hot-ass sun. It was hysterical. One dog would start barking, and then all the neighborhood dogs would start barking. They knew it was time to attack the paperboy! After getting attacked by like three dogs, I got attacked by this little poodle. I was like “Fuck you!” and I chased it back to the house. Then this fuckin’ Doberman came running out the door at me, but it had a cast on its leg, so it didn’t catch me.
We’d usually still be fucked up from the night before. It was funny but it sucked. It was illegal work too, so they only paid like three bucks an hour, and then they’d charge you money as well for getting picked and for rental of the bags to carry the papers. It was a total fuckin’ scam. We were better off panhandling or stealing food. The shit was a joke, but we tried. There wasn’t much a runaway street kid could do for work. A lot of the fucked-up things I did, I did because desperation will cause people to do desperate things.
I remember one time Spike sending me and Marc out, saying, “Motherfucker, if you don’t come back here with some kind of food or some kind of money, you fuckin’ better not come back!” I guess she was getting pissed ’cause we weren’t bringing any money in. We had nothing. We were living in an abandoned brewery, what do you think we had?
The one time I tried to grab anything from somebody older, like an old guy, was once when we were panhandling and trying unsuccessfully to get some dinner. We were starving. We hadn’t eaten in days, maybe some Top Ramen noodles the day before at best, and this guy was walking out of a restaurant with his leftover doggie bag. We were so desperate that we ran by him and tried to snatch it out of his hand and run—and we dropped it! The leftover rice and little bit of leftover dinner went all over the street. He just looked at us like, “You assholes.” We could have probably just asked him if he could spare it, but no one had hooked us up all day and we were desperate. I guess we didn’t want to risk him saying “No.”
I am still ashamed of that one. It was just so pathetic. We were such unsuccessful crooks, we couldn’t even pull that off. We were never the kind of people that would do something to old people or women—that was really as low as we ever went. But we were hungry. It was straight-up strugglin’ on the streets. After a while, we got to know what bakeries and restaurants were throwing out their food which nights. We’d go grab all the old bread and cakes and shit, and bring them back to the Vats and feast.
There was the occasional mugging, mugging attempt, or “fag bashing” as people would later call it. But that’s not really what it was. It was usually just a crime of opportunity, not a hate crime. I guess at the time we didn’t have as much of a problem with robbing a fag because half the time, we were the ones getting “approached.” When you were young homeless kids like us, especially living on the streets in San Francisco, you’d have creepy men hitting on you all the time on the street, and offering you money, drugs, and food, to try and get you to go home with them. So when we had the opportunity to rob someone who’s trying to taunt you with money, when you don’t have shit, that’s what you’re going to do. Some of my friends would let them think they were taking them into the alley to suck their dicks, go back in there with them, and then they would rob them.
It’s like, this motherfucker is trying to “chicken-hawk” on you, ’cause he thinks you’re lunch. It’s like, “All right motherfucker, we’ll see who’s going to be lunch.” And not to justify my actions, but a lot of my predatory behavior at that point was directed toward people who were trying to be as predatory with us. We were young-ass homeless kids. I was 14, but I was a hard-ass 14. I wasn’t a 14-year-old little fake punk, I didn’t play that shit. So yeah, me and my friends did rob a lot of fags; it’s just the way it was on the street. But it’s not like there was this big homophobic thing going on, ’cause I had so many friends who were gay. A lot of people used to try to be like, “Oh, Harley and all his friends are Skinheads and homophobes.” I guess some people were, but that wasn’t it for me. The Stimulators’ singer was gay, the Stimulators’ manager was gay—I mean, Christ, Allen Ginsberg was a close friend of my family. Me and my friends were just criminals, and a vic was a vic.
At one point, I hitchhiked to L.A., and stayed with Black Flag for a few days at their infamous SST offices. It really was how it’s been described—very small, complete chaos, where people slept anywhere they could, under desks or on reclining chairs. It was as insane as you could maybe imagine. I just found a place on the floor and stayed there.
I had a run-in with an L.A. cop along the highway before I showed up at SST. I was walking along the highway trying to find a bus stop, and I saw a cop car pass on the other side of the highway. He made a U-turn, came back my way, pulled me over, and started searching me. He had me on the hood, and then he started pushing me around with his nightstick and talking shit: “So what are you into, punk rock? What are you, some kind of a punk? Some kind of faggot?” And right when I was sure the cuffs were going on, he got a call on his radio, jumped in his car, and split. I told Henry, Mugger, and the guys about it when I got back to their place. Henry was fucking pissed. They had a genuine hate for the cops, and with good reason. The L.A. cops fucking sucked.
The Bad Brains toured California during my stay in L.A. I showed up at their sound check. They were surprised to see me, and not too happy to see the state I was in. I was turning into a bit of a mess. Darryl especially was like, “Harley man, you’ve got to come back home with us!” But I wasn’t really ready to. They did one show at the Santa Monica Civic Center; it was them, Discharge, Circle Jerks, Bad Religion, and Duff McKagan’s old band, the Fartz. That was the first mega Hardcore show I ever saw. It was like going to a “rock concert” except there were like five mosh pits going.
At that show, I got into some shit with the bass player from Suicidal Tendencies. I don’t even think Suicidal was a band yet, but they may have been a crew. It wasn’t really a fight; I got sucker-punched by Louiche Mayorga, and went down. I had a little buzz on. I’d been drinking and smoking some weed and was walking around, just looking at everybody, checking out the scene. I accidentally made eye contact with this dude; I didn’t make anything of it. All of a sudden, I’m looking up at the sky like “What the fuck just happened?!” I got up, and I’m like, “What the fuck, man?” And he’s like, “What’s up?!” Suddenly it dawned on me that I was not dealing with this one guy; he was with several people. This punk rock dude and his girlfriend were walking by and said to me, “Let it go! Let it go!” I heeded their advice as my senses started to gather. I looked around and I was like, “I’m going to get my ass kicked. I’m outnumbered, and this dude is three times my size.” So I tried to save face by talkin’ some shit, and I kept walking.
For the rest of the show, I noticed him on the side of the stage. I watched him all night, and I really got a good image of his face. I wanted to fuckin’ punch him all night, but he was with all these people. Years later, our paths would cross again.
But I was having too much fun to really care, the pit was insane. I was stage diving into the biggest mosh pit I had ever seen, cannonballin’ across people’s heads, rollin’ across the crowd and taking people down with me, and hanging out backstage with the bands. At one point that night, either at the end of the night or between bands, I remember being outside the venue in the parking area standing with H.R. watching the sun setting. The sky was red and he said something about the sky being red like blood and that it was a sign, and then started quoting Bible stuff. Later there was some big police riot, but that was so normal out there back then. That was pretty much the way shows ended in L.A.
All in all, my trip to the West Coast was pretty nuts. But by going out there, I fucked up one of my greatest opportunities—one of my biggest regrets. I’d just started jamming with the Misfits on drums before I left New York. So I was kind of poised for that slot. To tell you the truth, it came down to the fact I was eating too much acid at that time. I split, got out West and called Glenn and Jerry. They’re like, “Dude, what the fuck. Where are you? We’ve got to fly you back out here!” I was too fucked up. I don’t know how many acid casualties are going to read this and relate, but I was just too lost in my trip to really give a fuck about much else except riding it out. In my head, I had some mission to complete: I had to get some shit off my chest before I could focus on being a functioning musician in a band. Like Frank Sinatra said, “Regrets, I’ve had a few.” That’s one of the few that I’ve always kicked myself in the ass for—I coulda been in the Misfits, and drummed on Earth A.D. Eventually, after almost a year on the West Coast, it was time for me to go home.
Not long after I got back to New York, there was a surprise birthday party for me at the Park Inn. I found out they were having it, but I didn’t want to go. I had eaten acid, and I knew my mom and her boyfriend Simon and other family and friends might show up. I remember being at Jerry Williams’ house on 11th Street, smoking weed and dreading going over there. Finally, I knew they were all expecting me to show ’cause that’s where I hung out pretty much every night. But by that point I was tripping pretty hard.
I remember walking in and heading to the back of the bar. I didn’t see anybody yet and the acid was really kicking in; everybody’s faces were starting to distort. So I got to the back of the bar, and all of a sudden everyone turned around and screamed, “Surprise!!”
They started singing “Happy Birthday” and my mom came out with a cake and candles. I was peaking on the acid. The candles were giving off this glow, my mom was holding the cake, and her teeth were glowing from the candlelight. The whole thing was quite an experience. Everybody’s faces were looking all cartoon-like.
The pitchers started flowing and they called open bar. At some point someone gave me some crystal meth, which was a rare thing in New York, and I snuck off and did it in the bathroom. I was wired, tripping, drunk and stoned. I vaguely remember Ginsberg stopped by and wished me a Happy Birthday.
For the next hour or two it was open bar and everybody was getting drunk. The crazy thing wasn’t just that I was barely in my teens and tripping my face off, but that I was having an underage birthday party in a bar—one of the craziest bars on the Lower East Side—full of drunken freaks, half of them high on drugs, and my mom is there with a cake.
But I didn’t stick around long in New York. Soon after I got back, I would head to Canada.
Chapter Six
SKINHEADS — AND THE GREAT WHITE NORTH
VOID SHOW, HARLEY, BY NEIL SCHWARTZFARB
Now before we get into this next chapter, I’m gonna try to give you a brief explanation of how and when the Skinhead scene started to turn ugly. It’s just my opinion, and I only give it so you can get a better sense of what was happening at that time. I’m not trying to give you a full-on history lesson; that’s not what this book is about.
In the early days, the Skinheads were into ska music, and a lot of them borrowed their style of music and dress from the Jamaican “rude boys.” So in the late ’70s, when the Skinhead revival started, and the whole “rude boy” Two Tone scene blew up, you had both white and black kids into it. In those days you had punks, mods, rockabillies, and whatnot all going on at the same time.
But then you had your
Skinheads that were into rock ‘n’ roll and punk rock. They were less about fashion and “dancing” and more about street fighting and just being hooligans. When the football hooligan scene blew up in the late ’70s and early ’80s, Skinheads were a major part of it. That’s when the National Front and the British Movement started making its presence felt. That’s when shit really started to change. I was into reggae and ska in the beginning, but I was definitely more attracted to the other end of it.
Some of the bands that started attracting Skinheads during the punk years were Sham 69 and the Cockney Rejects—one of the best bands, if not the best band, of that style as far as I’m concerned. These were punk bands minus the ridiculous safety pins and colored hair. It was a more down-to-earth rock ’n’ roll, but with street attitude: hooligan rock.
Then in 1983, a late-’70s punk band called Skrewdriver formed by Ian Stuart Donaldson, by then a Skinhead band, came out with the 45 “White Power,” and the Skinhead scene started taking a turn for the worse. They put out a few records, but that 45 brought them attention from the media and the right wing. Most Skinheads I knew back in the day were into Skrewdriver. But up until that infamous single, no one in the States knew they were Nazis. As far as we all knew, they were another punk rock ’n’ roll band. I had all of the earlier Skrewdriver records, and I was surprised when “White Power” came out ’cause up until that point, they had never expressed those types of sentiments in their lyrics.
Hard-Core: Life of My Own Page 13
