One time he was hassling some punk chicks I knew that I think may have walked on him in the past and he was trying to get them to do it again. They didn’t feel like it or whatever, so we started having words. My boy Mark Dagger walked up and said a few words to the guy, and he responded in a way Mark didn’t like. So Mark blasted him in the face; the guy got stomped to a bloody mess. I actually had to pull Mark off after a while. That asshole didn’t enjoy it that time.
I didn’t see him again for months after that. Then one night, I was walking west on 8th Street with a friend of mine. It was late, maybe 5:30 in the morning. The sun was almost coming up and the streets were empty. We were all the way over by West 4th Street and we saw a carpet rolled up lying across the sidewalk near the garbage cans. I laughed and said that I wouldn’t be surprised if that asshole was rolled up in there, so I gave it a good couple of kicks, jumped up and down on it a few times, and kept walking. Sure enough, as we were walking down the block, I look back and I see the rug moving around and this fuckin’ asshole wiggling and crawling out of it, and he’s all running up to me, “Hi, how are you? What’s going on? How are you doing?” Bullshit nervous small talk. We just laughed and kept walking.
By the mid-late ’80s, there was a whole influx of new Skinheads. Some of those guys would beat up winos and shit like that, then they’d head back out to the suburbs or their middle-class families in Long Island or wherever. Even when me and my friends were at our most belligerent, A Clockwork Orange-style, we were never the type of guys who’d set fire to a bum or something like that. But some of these cats would do shit like that, fucked-up cowards with no balls. Those were the cats that we’d eventually run into shit with—the so-called Krishna Skins. So I started fucking up the new Skinheads.
See, I wasn’t in it to impress people or to make friends or to be liked or loved. I didn’t care. I was there when Hardcore began, I didn’t “come to” it. Me and my friends started it; I didn’t give a fuck about all the new-jack bands. What should I care about new kids who were all in awe of me and my buddies? Not to sound like a total dick, but I just didn’t give a fuck.
In the ’80s, one cat I used to see around the ’hood from time to time was Jaco Pastorius—an amazing bass player. He played with Weather Report and a lot of famous jazz cats. He was one of the greats, but he was also a fuckin’ maniac, and a bit of a mess as well.
I was tripping my face off on mushrooms when I had my first Jaco encounter. I was in Washington Square Park under the arch and I was just peaking off these ’shrooms. This old black guy always used to walk around with a speaker on a little luggage-type cart, and he’d push it around playing jazz. He’d sing songs for money on the street with a mic through his speaker to instrumental tracks. And this time, he happened to be walking by and was playing “Teen Town” by Weather Report. Now mind you, I had already started getting into some “out there”-type music. Darryl from the Bad Brains and Mackie turned me on to Return to Forever and other jazz fusion, and Parris was into shit like Rush, Yes, Brand X, and Dixie Dregs. I was already into Miles Davis and John Coltrane from when I was a kid, so I had an open mind to music. But I wasn’t really up on Weather Report.
So there I was, tripping my balls off and just starting to really peak, and that old dude was playing this crazy fuckin’ song, “Teen Town.” I’m listening, going to myself, “Damn, this is like the craziest shit I’ve ever heard!” Again, remember, I was tripping under that arch, and the music was blasting and echoing. The sun was shining in my face, and I was bugging out on that song. All of a sudden, this crazy fucking drunk dude with no shirt and no shoes comes running up. He started jumping around, and he was all “This is me! I wrote this!” He started air-bass-playing along with it, and I don’t know if it was ’cause I was tripping or what, but I could almost see the bass in his hands. It was fucking note for note. It was insane! I was sitting there tripping balls, and Jaco—who I had no idea who he was at the time—was going off, playing air bass. That old black dude just sadly shook his head.
I had other encounters with Jaco over the years. I actually wound up with one of his basses: I bought it off my friend, Twilight, this Jamaican cat from my neighborhood, who used to sell coke. I think he traded Jaco some blow for it. Anyway, one time he was naked in the street, pouring a Foster’s over his head, while these two chicks were unsuccessfully trying to get him to get into a cab with them. This bartender chick I knew was a good friend of his. I remember after he died—this was back when I was still wilding—she told me, “I can’t hang out with you. You remind me too much of Jaco,” meaning my behavior, not my bass playing, I’m sure! “I already lost one, I don’t want to lose another.”
Darryl had a couple of funny Jaco stories, too. One time, Jaco told Darryl he was gonna give him a free bass lesson. Well, of course Darryl got all excited. Darryl showed up to where they’re supposed to meet. Darryl had his bass with him and Jaco showed up, and he had no keys to get into the building. So he made Darryl climb up the fire escape with him into some apartment. And when they got in, he broke out a crack pipe, and he was like, “Are you ready for your freebase lesson?” Darryl almost cried! But yeah, poor Jaco—another sad story; a great player and a tortured soul.
Another great bassist I knew was a guy named Hayward Peele. He was so nasty. You never heard a cat like that. He used to play a lot on the street in the city, with different musicians, by the Cube at Astor Place and in the parks. But he also played with a lot of famous cats. He was one of my favorite bassists to just watch and listen to. And he was super cool. But he also sold a lot of “weight,” both weed and other shit. He liked me and my bass playing for whatever reason. I think he felt I had potential as a player. He took me into his world, and the shit was nuts; homeboy had safes that were the size of rooms, and crazy shit was going on. He was one of the first really serious rollers I knew. I guess he got into that game when he was younger, hustling and shit. It’s a hard life to get out of.
That was some sad shit—he got set up by some of his own friends. They tortured him to get him to open his safe, but he wouldn’t, ’cause supposedly from what I heard, he owed a lot of money from having been robbed years back or some shit. So he couldn’t afford to get robbed again. His life was kind of on the line for it. From what I heard, they cut his fingers off, shot him in the chest, and he died. That was really some of the saddest shit; it really bothered me a lot, and still does. Two other people also got killed in that home invasion, a couple that happened to be there at the wrong time. From what I heard, they were coming up the stairs of the building, and they got bum-rushed by the scumbags who did it. They used them to get into his apartment, and then they were shot. That’s another reason I say “Trust no one,” ’cause you never know who the fuck is gonna set you up.
Chapter Eight
NEW YORK “KRISHNA” CORE
HARLEY, BY DAVID SORCHER
In the early ’80s, people on the Hardcore scene didn’t take the Hare Krishna stuff too seriously; people made fun of that shit a lot. John Bloodclot had been away for a while—he had left the Hardcore scene and he was doing the Hare Krishna thing. But I guess he couldn’t really shake his “material desires.” He came back and wanted to start a band. We’d be hanging out and he’d be trying to talk Krishna consciousness to me, while we’d be burning spliffs or sitting there panhandling change for weed. It was funny as shit: “Hare Krishna” one second, then the next second, “Spare some change for some weed?”
Yeah, John was funny like that: always up to some no-good shit, but preaching all kinds of holy righteousness. One time we jacked this dude up for his weed. I was still in “street mode,” so it was no big deal to me. But here’s Mr. Hare Krishna. We brought this dude back to our squat ’cause he said he had Hawaiian bud and he was gonna smoke a joint with us. He was trying to sell us some shit. Meanwhile, we didn’t have any money. So we brought him back to C-Squat, and he cracked out this shitty-ass bag of dirtweed, and tried to sell it to us. We were like, “Are yo
u kidding? Where’s the Hawaiian?” The dude tried to tell us that shit was Hawaiian, and he pulled out a big-ass sheet of Bambu.
John looked at me and started laughing. I was like, “Fuck this asshole.” I grabbed him by his shirt and dragged him to the door of our squat to throw him out. I started dragging him down the stairs. Then I said, “Fuck it, gimme what you got, motherfucker!” John’s all like, “Yo, you better give it up! You better give it up!” So I start pounding the guy out, with John yelling at him, “Give it up! Give it up motherfucker! He’s gonna fuck you up!” John was egging me on and all the while he was going through the guy’s pockets.
He was just a fuck-up like me and everybody else. The only difference was that he was on his self-righteous religious kick. That dude got me into more trouble than most people ever did. Like I said, most cats I knew when I was young were trying to steer me right. The Brains woulda checked me quick for that type of shit. Their old roadie Pip, every time he’d see me, he’d always hook me up a fat spliff or some buds, just so I’d chill out instead of running around, getting into mischief and fighting. John didn’t give a fuck, as long as he was getting over.
It’s funny ’cause besides John Bloodclot getting into the Krishnas, a few other friends of mine got into it too—like John Watson, who I had known since the Max’s days. Then my best friend Eric got into it too. It was that dude Tomas who got them all into it. He was living at 171A with Jerry Williams and the Bad Brains. That’s how John got into it too. Even cats like Googie, who played drums on the classic Misfits Walk Among Us album. Googie later changed his name to Bliss and founded Antidote, with Louie Rivera and Nunzio. I knew Louie since the Stimulators days. He used to bounce at TR3, and all the old clubs: Reggae Lounge, Mudd Club, Berlin, Danceteria, and Peppermint Lounge.
I remember being really freaked out by it for a minute, like, “What the fuck is going on? Why are all my friends turning into fuckin’ Hare Krishnas?” As far as I was concerned, they might as well have been turning into Jesus freaks or Moonies or something. I even wrote lyrics about it: the original words to “Do Unto Others,” which was called “Wake Up,” were about not bowing down and being subservient to religion.
I couldn’t figure out why the fuck my friends were all being lured by this religion. I was really unimpressed with the whole thing. But here’s the kicker: when I was a baby, I was in the presence of A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada, the founder of the movement, both at the Second Avenue preaching center and Ratha Yatra in San Francisco. That’s a big deal if you’re a Hare Krishna. It’s like being in the same room as Jesus or something.
Allen Ginsberg knew Prabhupada, and that’s how my mom wound up hanging around the devotees. My mom almost named me Harley Krishna. She said she didn’t ’cause she was afraid I’d wanna kick her ass when I grew up. Ain’t that funny though? I actually have a few drawings she did of Krishna from before I was born, and I have vague memories of the devotees. And of course, that George Harrison record with “Govinda Jaya Jaya” and “Bhaja Bhakata-Arati” I remember from when I was a kid.
I used to make fun of John in the beginning and break his balls about the whole Krishna thing, especially ’cause he was such a hustler and he was using the philosophy to justify it half the time—him and the rest of them like Bliss and Louie. It was hysterical, ’cause it was all the dudes with the shady reputations that were getting “religious.” I don’t know, maybe it was ’cause each of them had a guilty conscience or something.
One reason that John was so good at his Hare Krishna shtick was because he was such a good bullshitter. He was good at convincing people whatever the fuck he was trying to convince them, ’cause he was a hustler. So he was real good at doing their gig, which was basically panhandling—what they call Sankirtan, which is when you sell books and stickers. A lot of times, you’ll see guys dressed as clowns or Santa Claus, selling stickers for charities and children’s food programs. The ones he used to collect for usually didn’t even exist. That was John’s gig when he was with them. He would go to concerts and sell stickers in the parking lots. He had different scams that he’d do and tell me about. We’d be sitting there smoking spliffs, and he’d be laughing his balls off, telling me all kinds of stories about different ways he used to hustle money and scam people.
As far as I’m concerned most people who make spiritual claims and are self-righteous are usually full of shit. People who claim to be “spiritual” and criticize others often turn out to be total hypocrites. People who truly are spiritual don’t proclaim it, they just live it.
But anyway, John couldn’t shake his “material desires.” He was all into the Bad Brains, and he wanted to do his own thing. He split the temple and started pursuing the idea of starting or joining a band. One morning, some Hare Krishnas came to C-Squat looking for him, to try to get him to come back to the temple.
John told me he was making thousands of dollars a day hustling for them; so when he split, they sent the Hare Krishnas’ Secret Service, as he called them, to the squat looking for him, ’cause they wanted him back! At least that’s what he said. He said it was ’cause he was making them so much money, and that’s why they were there looking for him.
One morning, these Hare Krishna devotees, dressed undercover without their robes and with hats covering their haircuts, showed up at the squat looking for his ass; it was hysterical ’cause he was totally ducking them. My ass was asleep on my dirty-ass mattress and I woke up to “Excuse me, have you seen Jayananda?” I’m like, “John?” and they’re like, “Yes, John.” They were looking around at the broken walls and debris all over the place. One of them said to the other two, “This is what he wants over Krishna?” The other one said, “He’s in maya.” I was like, “I have no idea where he is.” The first one who woke me up said, “Tell him we stopped by looking for him,” and then they said “Hare Krishna” and left. When I told him, he freaked out. He had snuck out of the temple a few days earlier. He pretended that he was taking out the trash, but he had already packed his stuff and tons of merch and stickers that they would sell and had hid it outside, planning to sell the stuff himself to make some money, and then split.
It had been three years since Parris and me hooked up and started writing together. On November 2, 1984, and on February 16, 1985 the Cro-Mags went into High Five Studios on 27th Street and Park Avenue and recorded 12 songs—The Age of Quarrel cassette, which is released on CD called Before the Quarrel. Jerry Williams and his brother Tim Williams engineered it. It took us just a few days to do the tracking and mixing. It was my favorite recording besides Revenge, which didn’t come out till 2000.
That first recording was so raw; it was high-energy. There was an urgency to it. We were young as hell, and we just blasted it out. There were a few mistakes here and there, but it was great. I played my old semi-hollow-body Guild Starfire through an old Vintage Acoustic. It was just me, Parris, Mackie, and John—no so-called “producer.” The original singer of Warzone, Tommy, and Illroy, and possibly Carl sang backup vocals. The pitiful shit is that we only pressed like five hundred cassettes. But since Parris’ father paid for it and he used to be in the music business, he kind of fucked us. Even though we only pressed a small number, he was still the “publisher.” He looked out for his own interests, meaning Parris, who held that over our heads years later since they “published” the material.
Anyway, looking back, those were good times, Parris and me; the musical chemistry we had was undeniable. It was fun and we really did get along in those days, even though me and him were never as close as me and Eric or even me and John. We were all a lot wilder and way more street than Parris; in that sense the rest of us had a lot in common, and we were kind of the image of the band.
CRO-MAGS, BY STACIA TIMONERE
Around that time, we did a benefit to raise some money to do some work on C-Squat at Danceteria. Cro-Mags, Reagan Youth, and Agnostic Front played; it was a successful show. Well, a day or two days later, the building burned the fuck down! Thr
ee people died in it. To this day, I’m convinced that it was the slumlord that was trying to get us out of the building for a long time. He had hired local gang members to jump people and try and scare people out of the building—we got into serious battles with them, with two-by-fours, flying bottles and bricks, and people getting stabbed. He hired dirty cops to come and fuck with us and intimidate us out of the building. We fended for ourselves—which was kind of pathetic if you saw what a mess the building was. One dude was walking up the stairs one night and two steps broke out from under him, and he had to go to the hospital to get his balls sewn back together, ’cause the rusty fuckin’ metal almost cut his balls off!
It was a fucked-up building. There were no lights, no running water or plumbing. John and me used to have to shit in paper bags, ’cause there was nowhere else to go. We’d throw ’em out the window at the building across the way in back, and try getting them in the window! There were shit stains all over that building from us throwing paper bags. Despite all the madness of that building, me and John were like the only ones who tried to maintain some standard of cleanliness. We bathed in the fire hydrant in front of the building with buckets and liquid soap every morning, no matter what it was like out. Even in the freezing cold, with slush on the ground. People thought we were fucked up.
Hard-Core: Life of My Own Page 17
