Hard-Core: Life of My Own

by Harley Flanagan

  After we played, Biohazard pulled up the entire audience onstage—every one of them—and had a big Japanese mosh pit onstage! The Dolls did a great but strange set; they jammed for like two hours, doing reggae songs and shit. David Johansen’s wife was walking around the stage, taking photos of all the shenanigans that were going on.

  It was like a strange dream. Everyone got paid really well. Biohazard said they had never been paid that much in their lives.

  The end of the last night in Japan, after smoking endless phatties, everyone was partied out. I’d been hanging with the Dolls and Biohazard all night long. I was wandering the hotel aimlessly; it was 4:00 in the morning and I bumped into David Johansen and his wife. We were hanging out. Now bear in mind, these are people from the generation that I started out from musically: this is Max’s Kansas City royalty. They were the shit when I was a kid. So there I was, 30 years later, with David Johansen in Japan. We were riding up the elevator to our rooms at the end of the night. I was stoned as fuck.

  The elevator door opened, they got off, and David and I just looked at each other and smiled, and I said, “When I say I’m in love,” and he said, “You best believe I’m in love!” and we both said, “L-U-V.” The door shuts, and you could hear all of us cackling. A very classic rock ‘n’ roll moment—a perfect end to a hectic week.

  While on that trip there was one last Cro-Mags offer, and yet another failed attempt to re-group the band. We got offered more than any other Hardcore band I’ve ever heard of to play one show: 40,000 euros. I’ve always wanted to get the band back together and do a reunion, but after all the drama, I can honestly say at this point, the idea of being locked in a van or a bus with John is not really pleasant.

  September 2009, we went back to Japan for Magma Festival with my old friends GBH, the Exploited, and one of my favorite bands, Discharge. Seeing my old homeboys was such a good time. It just reminded me what was real about the scene back in the old days.

  Everyone was getting drunk and partying after the shows; I was running around the hotel outta my mind wired on like eight Red Bulls from the gig at 6:00 in the fucking morning. I was playing bass in the halls and elevators with a fake dog-head hat on that I bought on the street earlier that day for like four bucks.

  People were up tattooing, drinking, and blazing phatties left, right, front, and center. Me and Wattie were up all fuckin’ night talking about the old days; he remembers the first time the Exploited played NYC at the Ukrainian Hall by St. Marks Place. When they did “Fuck the USA,” a bunch of my Skinhead buddies tried to pull him off the stage and were about to lay an ass-beating on him. I football-tackled him into the crowd. I just wanted him to know what was up. But then I pulled him back up onstage, and when my friends saw that, they left him alone for the rest of the night. He told me he was scared shitless—and that motherfucker doesn’t scare easily!

  Wattie gave me such a compliment when he told me, “Harley, you’re my favorite bassist in the whole fucking world. I really mean that.” His bassist later told me it was no bullshit, that he said it all the time. Wattie is one of the realest motherfuckers I know—I really respect that guy. And a compliment like that from him means a fucking lot to me.

  We also bumped into Charlie Harper from the UK Subs on that trip. He later reminisced about their first U.S. gig, and meeting me when I was just a little kid: “The first time we met, I think that was 1979, you were maybe 12. We were in New York to play with the Police, and we were hangin’ out to play with the Fall a few days later. You showed us around the city. But all the time, you wanted my Dr. Martens boots. I would have given them to you, but I was a size ten and you were a size six at the time! But we’ve been mates since.”

  That night when we played, Charlie came onstage and did a few UK Subs songs along with guys from GBH, Discharge and the Exploited. Between us all there was over 1,000 years of punk rock up there!

  I also got to connect on that tour with Rainy from Discharge. We spoke for hours about music, about all our old influences like classic shit blues and other shit. Growing up, he and Bones were such a huge influence on me and on my writing.

  I met everything from Japanese punks and monks, to pro fighters and Yakuza gangsters: guys covered in tattoos with missing pinkies and all kinds of shit, serious motherfuckers.

  On that trip, I was also invited to a Jiu-Jitsu dojo. At our first gig, a stocky Japanese guy, about 5’9”, 180 pounds, came up to me backstage with our promoter and tour manager as translator, and told me his master had invited me to his dojo to “train” the following weekend. He added, “Everyone is looking forward to training with you.” It was well-known that I train with Master Renzo Gracie.

  My band members, especially Sean, got wind of it, and they started breaking my balls, preparing me for an ass-beating. So all week I was anticipating that this could be anything from a warm welcome to an ass-beating. I kept remembering when a Japanese fighter had come into Rickson Gracie’s Academy back in the day, with photographers and all of that shit, and got his ass beat. So I couldn’t help but laugh and wonder what was in store for me. And it didn’t help that I hadn’t trained in a couple of months.

  Anyway, I was looking forward to training with some serious Japanese dudes. The week went by quickly, the gigs were great, but of course, I was out drinking with the promoters the night before I was set to go train. He took me to his family’s restaurant, and we got drunk as hell on soju. It’s like sake, but instead of being made from rice, it’s made from potato, and they water it down. They add ice and a little green tea, and let me tell you, the shit is deadly! I am not a drinker and don’t really party anymore, so it got me fucked up. But Sean, who is a very good drinker, got so fucked up he almost puked on the promoter!

  So the next morning they booked me a car to get me to the dojo in time for class the next day. I kept remembering his words, “All of the guys want to train with you.” We got there almost 20 minutes late ’cause of traffic. When I got there, the head instructor and Master Ippei Onuma were standing at the door with the student who invited me. They brought me into the academy and I saw about 15 guys sitting there waiting for me, and waiting for class to begin, which was being delayed until I arrived. I went to change, came out, and hit the mats, and warm-up began.

  There was a student there who had lived in Queens, New York, who spoke perfect English—he was my translator. While we were warming up, a crowd started to gather. Word had got out that I was there; the promoter for Magma and some photographers gathered, as well as some video people, so the pressure was on a bit. I didn’t want to embarrass myself and more importantly, I didn’t want to embarrass Renzo. Despite being a little hung over, I did quite well, I trained with a bunch of guys, and had a great time.

  After training, we all took photos together in front of the academy logo. The master gave me a belt with a message embroidered in Japanese, saying “Ground Control Family.” He said from now on I don’t need an invitation, just to come by and train with them whenever I’m in Yokohama. Then one of the students gave me a plaque with the name of the dojo, “RB Academy,” in English and Japanese, and pictures of me and the guys from the academy. It says “Harley’s War NY/YC”—for New York and Yokohama City.

  I was honored to be there. And I walked out with a whole new level of respect from the Japanese promoters and the booking agents, who had all come down to watch me train.

  The next day we headed home. Sean Kilkenny recalls: “We were headed to the airport to fly home. We drive for hours to the airport, at like 6 a.m. We get stuck in Japanese rush hour traffic. We are on the verge of missing our flight. Then we get pulled over at a traffic check-stop. Our Japanese driver has an expired license. Taka Kikuchi, our main man in Japan, explains the situation to the police—in Japanese. Next thing I know, we are put in the back of police cars! We thought we were going to prison! Turns out we got a full-on police escort—straight to the airport. We were given stickers on our shirts that let us run through security and everything
. It was amazing. Like some Led Zeppelin-type shit.”

  After training in Yokohama, I was really inspired. I got right back to training at home in NYC with Renzo at the Academy. It re-ignited the fire in my training, and I trained five days a week, and I started to help teach classes. I had been teaching both of my sons at home since they were babies, but they started to train at the Academy and have been training and competing since they were five and seven years old. And I’ll tell you, the first time I looked down at the other end of the mats and saw my boys training, it was one of the greatest moments of my life. My youngest son spent his birthday at the Academy with Georges St-Pierre and all the rest of the fellas. My eldest son had his birthday there with all the Gracies and about 30 kids, a full house, and a cake with the Renzo Gracie Academy logo on it.

  My sons have grown up with Renzo like an uncle. Igor, Rolles, Gregor, Daniel, and Neiman—all the guys treat my boys like family. They’ve known their instructor, Magno Gamma, since birth; he came to the hospital to see them hours after they were born, and Renzo they have known since they were days old.

  My eldest and I have been on Greyhound buses in the middle of the night, traveling hours away to represent RGA and Team Renzo Gracie. I have competed with my sons at nationally ranked grappling submission and Jiu-Jitsu events. One of my proudest moments was when we both competed at the same event—my son took first place in his division and I took second place in the Expert Masters division in the 30-to-35-year-old age bracket, although I was 44. Renzo joked when he first saw my son, “This is the proof that even though the fruit is rotten, the seed is still good!”

  In 2002, when I had just put Harley’s War together, we were playing the Continental and CBs just about every month. I was in the studio working on a record, and that’s when I found out my father died—it was the same week I found out my girlfriend was pregnant with my first son Harley. I only saw my father once after my parents split up. It was at the Chelsea Hotel, when I was like four or five. It didn’t go too well. I think I had maybe two phone conversations with him in my life. Anyway, he was dead. Granted, this was a guy I had no memory of, but nonetheless, it was a blow, especially since I was going to become a father myself, and I knew that I would never meet him.

  When he died, his mother and his half-brother had no way to reach me. They didn’t know anything about me or where I lived. But they did have copies of both The Age of Quarrel and Best Wishes, which I sent to his mother’s for him back when they came out. So his half-brother, Sean, called the number on the back of the record, for Profile Records. Now mind you, Profile Records had not existed for quite a few years. But the phone line still existed, and it was still in the same office. There was a new record label in that office; I don’t even know which label.

  He called there looking for me. It was around the time that I was getting ready to sign with Equal Vision Records—which actually never panned out—but the buzz was out that I was getting ready to ink a deal with them.

  The secretary he was talking to said my name out loud: “I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I have no idea who Harley Flanagan is. I’ve never heard of the Cro-Mags.” And as she says that, somebody in the office who happened to be into Hardcore walked by her cubicle and said, “Harley Flanagan? I think he just signed with Equal Vision Records.” Crazy shit, like I said, as I never even signed the deal. The chances of such shit are way less than a million to one. So, that secretary called Equal Vision Records. Equal Vision got in touch with me while I was in the recording studio to tell me that my grandmother, whom I had never spoken to in my life, called to tell me that my father was dead.

  This was a man that was never around, so I didn’t have many feelings about him, bad or good. He was just this name that I heard. For some reason, one night, I got really angry with him. I was like, “Y’know, if that motherfucker wanted to, he could have found me. He could have tracked me down. If he ever would have tried or wanted to.” That was the first time I felt anger toward him. Two days later, I got that call.

  Telling the story doesn’t have the same impact.

  My father died from a fire that he set himself to keep warm. He was in a dumpster trying to keep warm on a cold night. He was drunk, and the smoke got to him. Unfortunately, he didn’t die from the smoke. I managed to get his autopsy report, and he was still alive when they got him to the hospital. It was weird to fly all the way out to fuckin’ Amarillo, Texas, to basically bury a cigar box. I never got to look in his eyes as a man.

  I still have a cassette that he sent me in the ’80s of him in a halfway house, basically telling me a bit about his life, and sharing his regrets and pain—in his words, over being “the ass” that he was back in the day, and hoping that now that I’m all grown up, I don’t want to kick his ass for whatever rotten son-of-a-bitch he was back in the day. He’d start playing blues guitar and start singing little songs he’d written. It was kind of touching. So that’s it, other than being handed the phone once or twice when I was young. I didn’t even know his name was Harley until I turned 21—and that was another kick in the ass.

  I don’t remember what we talked about on the phone. What do you say when you’re eight or nine, and your mom goes, “Harley, there’s someone on the phone who wants to speak to you… it’s your dad.” It’s not like there are any pieces to pick up, because I’d never been there. I was talking to a stranger.

  But I don’t have ill feelings toward him really, ’cause he simply wasn’t ever an issue. The ’60s fucked up a lot of people, including my folks. And here I am, “a product of the ’60s.” All that peace and love, boy, was that a failed experiment!

  It’s crazy though, ’cause over the years, my father would encounter Cro-Mags fans, and I would hear stories. People would be like, “Dude, I met this guy on Venice Beach, he said he was your father. I’m not trying to insult you, but he was kind of a bum—I mean, like, homeless. Real nice guy, funny as well, so I gave him a buck.” He knew my band because I sent him those records. So whenever he saw Skinheads or punk rockers, he’d approach them. And he’d ask them, “Did you ever hear of a band called the Cro-Mags? That’s my son!” And of course, nobody would ever believe him. One guy took a picture of him, and a few years later, gave me the picture of my father on the beach in California.

  One time on the tour in support of Best Wishes, I tried to track him down to the one letter I’d gotten from him—to a halfway house; I believe it was in Oregon. We pulled up in our fancy Winnebago, and all the bums and scumbags on the block were like, “What the fuck is this?” It must have looked like the USS Enterprise or some shit to them. But he wasn’t there. So I broke into his room, and left a picture of me on his bed—and I actually also left the Bhagavad Gita—with a phone number where I was going to be.

  We did our gig, and the next morning, I was getting ready to leave, and the phone rang. I picked it up. They said, “It’s Harley.” I’m like, “Yeah, this is Harley, who is this?” And they were like, “It’s Harley.” I’m like, “Shut the fuck up, who is it?” And then all of a sudden I’m like, “Oh shit, dad! I’m sorry—I wasn’t thinking!” We only had like five minutes to talk, because it was checkout time and everybody was in the vehicle. I talked to him for a few minutes, and he said, “Well, where are you guys going to be playing? Maybe I’ll try and hitch a train and try to run into you?”

  It hurt in a way. As much as I wanted to meet him, on one hand, I was like, “What am I going to do, drag this old-ass vagabond motherfucker around with me on tour? This can’t become my problem right now.” In a lot of ways, I was probably better off growing up without him. I had a great stepfather in my life for a little while, and maybe that gave me the edge on trying to be a good father myself, or at least wanting to be. I don’t know.

  So that was my father. The only things I got from him were my name and my face, and maybe my temper. All I know is, unlike him, my kids changed everything for me.

  My first son, Harley, was born in 2002. My second son, Jonah Odin, was born
in 2005—both on the 18th, but in different months. 18 must be my lucky number. And I am so lucky, especially after the life I’ve had. They really did save me from myself. I’ve always been a maniac, and will probably be struggling with that side of myself until the day I kick the bucket. But they definitely keep me more focused, and out of a lot of trouble.

  Even with little shit, like one day I was going to pick up my boys from school and some asshole nearly ran me down on Queens Boulevard. I yelled, “Watch where you’re going,” and this big Muslim dude got out, talking mad shit. He grabbed me and tore my shirt. So I swept him and he went down. I went to start pounding him out and then I realized my sons were getting out of school in minutes, so I backed off and kept walking. He started yelling, and I kept going. I couldn’t be giving this asshole a beating. I’m a father, and I have responsibilities now that are greater than a torn shirt or my pride. I have to be there for my sons, not getting into fights or breaking some dickhead’s arm. So I guess it’s made me grow up a little; I don’t act on every impulse like I used to.

  I guess part of being a father is learning how to eat a certain amount of shit. You do it for your kids, ’cause they need you. You just throw on a little salt and pepper, and maybe some Tabasco, and smile ’cause you gotta be there for them.

  One thing my father said was, “I’ve got all these years of experiences that I don’t know what to do with.” And that’s kind of how I feel with my boys. How do I come in for a graceful landing after so much fuckin’ turbulence in my life?

  Hopefully, I can guide them better than I was guided, or at least maybe they will learn from my mistakes; God knows I have made enough for everybody.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘THE FINALE’ — STABBING SLASHING BITING AT THE CBGB FEST

  LAURA AND HARLEY FLANAGAN, BY FERNANDO GODOY