Portrait of my life as a young San Diego punk rocker

(Blake, a k a Matt, Wilson, revisits his history in the San Diego scene.)

I got into the Southern California punk scene with my friend Jesus Reyes, a kid from Tijuana living in Bonita, in about 1981 through the older punks at school; school being Bonita Vista in the South Bay, the punks being Matt Hemlin; Adam Morgan; Anna Stjerne; Cindy Vitalich; and mostly Scott MacDonald, who was my best friend’s older brother.

Scott was in the SDSH, which eased the way a bit as a kid in what could be a pretty intimidating scene for a 15-year-old. Mike Stobbe was a year ahead of us at the junior high, and he was into the same scene, but we weren’t tight. I used to ride my bike into Chula Vista from Bonita to buy records at Licorice Pizza at Broadway and H Streets when Bart Mendoza, Peter and Donnie worked there. They had a little “Punk/New Wave” section, and I think we bought most of it.

I befriended Kevin Chanel, later of the Front, at the Wherehouse Records shop at the (then new) Plaza Bonita Mall. I’m sure we were both digging through their “Punk/New Wave” section as well. I think the first “punk” record I bought was Ramones “End of the Century” when it was brand new, which would have been February 1980. That sounds about right.

Before that, music was the standard surfer/stoner stuff, but thanks to an uncle I also had Patti Smith, Elvis Costello and Bruce Springsteen records, which I think made the punk stuff a little easier to understand. So, prior to actually making the “commitment” to “go punk,” and prior to hearing what’s now called “hardcore,” we were digging the happening underground punk/new wave bands like the Go-Gos, the Psychedelic Furs, the Cure, the Jam, Joy Division, the Clash, and Echo and Bunnymen. Around this time, bands like the B-52s and Devo were huge, and other kids at school might wear the odd skinny tie, but we didn’t like them. They were the mainstream versions of the stuff we liked. We wanted to be different. No one at our school knew who Joy Division was … except us (or so we thought).

… As I write this, I look back and realize that these post-punk groups were in fact fairly popular at the time (1980-81), but not with our age group or with our “demographic.” If you were older, or in college and somewhat hip, you would have been into that scene or at least parts of it. Rolling Stone regularly covered all those groups, but finding out about them was a challenge at that age.

But the best thing to happen was finding out, through the grapevine, about Off the Record at El Cajon and College. We couldn’t drive yet, and living in the sticks (but nice sticks!) in Bonita meant that the College area was a long way away. I found out that College Avenue Baptist Church sent a van down to Bonita/Chula Vista to take kids to a Christian thing called “Thursday Night Live”… and that Off the Record was right around the corner.

So my folks would drop me off at the Love’s Barbeque parking lot on Bonita Road, and I’d ride this van into East San Diego, sign into this evangelical/born-again Christian youth group meeting, hang around for a bit, then play hooky at Larry Farkas’ and Rich Horowitz’s mighty Off the Record. That’s where the records, philosophy, people and fashion of the punk scene changed my life. We bought the local and LA ‘zines there (Noise for Heroes, Flipside, etc) and the records by the bands of the day like DKs, Black Flag, Minor Threat, Misfits, and the English bands like GBH, Discharge, and the whole Crass scene. No one at our junior high, except for Mike Stobbe, at that time was into punk. It was a potentially dangerous move.

But the pull was too strong. We shaved off our long, feathered hair; sliced up our clothes; found some boots at the Spring Valley swap meet; and suddenly found out just how fucking badly you’re treated just because of your clothes and hair. But, as everyone knows who was there, it opened up this whole new world: You suddenly feel like what it means to be a minority, your natural instincts of hatred and distrust of authority are worn on your literal sleeve (if you had any left; punk fashion required many cut-off sleeves), and man, it was fun. You read, you listened, and you got harassed.

Jesus got a Honda Passport for his birthday around this time, which would have been 8th grade or so, and his parents didn’t care if he rode it on the street despite being too young to get a license. We figured out how to get to San Diego from Bonita, and I’m sure it was a pretty funny sight seeing two gangly teenagers riding a 90cc motorcycle down Euclid from Bonita to National City, through Skyline and Chollas Creek/Encanto, then up 54th Street to El Cajon Boulevard and on to Off the Record. We took this route to see “The Decline of Western Civilization” when it premiered at the Ken (we also saw all the other punk-related movies there: “DOA,” “Dance Craze,” “The Punk Movie”) and started meeting other kids in San Diego and from all across the county. In my mind, we were full-fledged punks but hadn’t even seen a show yet! The older kids in our area accepted us but didn’t take us to shows. I guess they thought we were too young.

Like most parents of teenage punk rockers, my mom and dad were not into it. We were tearing up our clothes, or just letting them fall apart, and finding new uses for egg whites, Aqua Net Extra Super hold, gelatin, and even Elmer’s Glue as hair products. Boots are important to punks, and we found motorcycle boots at the swap meet. We discovered the local Chula Vista thrift shops. Like most punks who hadn’t yet discovered the “ready-made” punk gear, we made our own band and slogan T-shirts. I have to give my parents credit for not trying to “stop” all this. There was plenty of typical adolescent teen/parent fighting and discliplinary problems, but very little regulation of the clothing and hair styles. My dad would say “If you want to look stupid, go ahead.” So we did.

So I think we’re at about 1982 here, which would have been 9th grade. Still no shows! I don’t remember the first one, but Kevin Chanel might have driven us to Kings Road on 30th Street for the Bad Brains show. He was a couple years older than us. Or was it Salvation Army? Both? In any event, the Brains show blew my mind, like all minds that got to see them back them. They burst onto that tiny stage, just to your left as you walk in, and for the next 20 minutes blew the roof off that place. Then, suddenly, they stop, go off stage, return in a haze of pot smoke, and the backup lady singers start doing that slow reggae stuff. We left. But it was a show and many, many more followed, particularly after getting my driver’s license.

My first punk girlfriend was Anastasia, who lived somewhere around Normal Heights. She was older than me and had a very cute little sister. I wonder where they are now.

The second Misfits show at the Lions Club in October 1982 was a big one for me. I had gone to England that summer and, for the first time, experienced “punk gear” for sale on the Kings Road (all the shops up in LA had creepers, Docs, etc., but we hadn’t been up there yet). I bought your standard-issue leather motorcycle jacket along with lots of records, shirts, and so forth. I was wearing the jacket at the Misfits show, and, when I went to the bathroom, an older guy said it was his and that I had stolen it from him. He was serious, and he wanted my jacket. He said he was “taxing” me and started to pull it off. I stood up to him (I was 6 foot 2 inches at the time, but only 140 pounds!) and wouldn’t let him take it. Someone came in, and he stopped and left. I later found out it was Mike Woods. I told Scott MacDonald what had happened. I had met his buddies Arturo and Chuey from SDSH and felt, well, somewhat protected by those guys, although they were into something far more violent than me, and I was not a fighter. Needless to say, I think they said something to Woods, and he never bothered me again. The show, of course, was awesome. Necros and the Bats opened. When the Necros came onstage, Barry jumped into the crowd and ran through the Lion’s Club, pushing and instigating people to dance and have fun. What a great night, despite the intimidation.

By the 10th grade, we were going to shows and parties all over the county. There are too many to mention. I had become good friends with Robert Parker and Dave Reynolds, a k a Hinge, and my band Atrocity Exhibition started to play around. Robert and Hinge were a good intro into the scene and knew a lot of people. Over the next two years, I was friendly with people like Brent (RIP, see below) and his girl Leslie; Girl Renee (a heavyset lady with short hair); Guy Rene from Poway; Alan Clark; Cameron and his Normal Heights gang; Jonathan from Hawley Street; the Nematode guys from San Carlos (Ministry of Truth and Kenny Summers); Robert Sansom; Robert Pollard; Gary Gadsen and the Coronado/Imperial Beach Crew; Marky (drummer for Morlocks); Diatribe; the Front; and more people and bands I just can’t remember.

I did not really know the older crew like Garris and Terry Marine. I was around for the parties and shows but hung with a younger crowd and obviously couldn’t go to the clubs and bars. We went to all the shows at Adams Ave., Fairmount Hall, Wabash, Lion’s Club, Headquarters, and so on. Memorable shows included Cramps, Black Flag, Discharge, and GBH (Iggy Pop circa ’82 looked like he quaking in his boots at the sight of the crowd) at Adams Avenue, Social Distortion at Headquarters, Savage Republic and 11 sons at the SDSU Backdoor, Samhain at Wabash, Adicts and Peter and the Test Tube Babies at Fairmount, Minutemen just about everywhere, the Vandals throwing those dead science-class frogs at the crowd at Kings Road, several Meat Puppets shows, Christian Death at the Rock Palace, and of course the San Diego bands like Battalion of Saints, the Front, and Personal Conflict. We hung out at the Fruit Loop, Dave Hinge’s place on University at Louisiana or so (just down from Garris’ place on Florida/Uni), Cliff Cunningham’s house in North Park (I still have a VHS tape Cliff made me of “Great Rock and Roll Swindle” and the Samhain show at Wabash in 1984, all on one tape!), the castle up in Encinitas, the Pink House in Imperial Beach, etc. Again, too much to recall due to the multitude of pills, smokables, snortables, Olde English 800s, Blue Nun, Boone’s Farm, green pyramids … You know, you were there, right?

We also made several trips up to LA during this time, and saw the Misfits at PUNX #4 in Watts. Robert, Marky and I drove up in my old ’66 VW. Since Robert knew Marc Rude, punk artiste extraordinaire (and now sadly deceased), and Marc was tight with the band, we got into this little side room that was being used as a dressing room. PUNX #4 was like an old ballroom, way up on the fourth floor, with these little side rooms and one big room where the bands played. Glenn had just gotten his “Wolfs Blood” tatoo. Jerry just sat there with a Bud tall between his legs. Despite all the crap that Danzig has received (and given!) over the years, the man was great to his fans and a friendly, fun guy. The show was great as usual, and ended with the police invading the hall. We wanted to go to Poseur on Melrose the next day for Robert to buy some creepers, but we had no where to stay. We ended up sleeping in a church courtyard across the street from the Seven Seas on Hollywood Boulevard. When we came back to San Diego the next night, my parents were out of town for the weekend. So did the logical thing and threw a party. I met Luis Guerena that night and watched him drink a bottle of my dad’s booze and then toss it in the pool.

We saw the Misfits again a few months later at the big Santa Monica Civic show with Vandals and the first Black Flag vocalist reunion show. Fucking awesome. After Doyle smashed his guitar, he dropped it into the crowd. Robert Parker and I were right there, and Robert got the guitar. We took it back to San Diego, put a new neck on it, and I played it for a few months. Robert let me keep the strap with the massive spikes, which I stupidly gave away a few years later. At least I kept a Doyle guitar pick! Other LA shows included a couple of those massive gigs at Olympic with Subhumans (UK), GBH, MDC, and so forth, and the massive Dead Kennedys riot in Wilmington at the Longshoremen’s Hall.

I was an avid record collector during those years, and ran an ad in Maximum Rock and Rock (and maybe Flipside) looking to trade with folks. I ended up sending a lot of 7″ records to the UK and got a lot back. All trades. By 1984, I had about 75 percent of the “holy grails” of punk records, meaning lots of Misfits, Minor Threat, Dangerhouse label and the like, and lots of Crass-related bands. Over the years I’ve been able to turn to the collection when I need money. It’s pretty much gone now but ended up being the best investment I’ve ever made, financially. The Misfits 45s I bought at Off the Record for $2 (and some directly from the Fiend Club) have all sold for well over $100. And although I still like the music from that era, I’m more interested in jazz nowadays.

My band, Atrocity Exhibition, played lots of parties and a handful of shows. We did Goth-type music, more influenced by Joy Division and “Pornography”-era Cure than Black Flag, so despite being into the “hardcore scene,” for lack of a better term, we didn’t play fast or jump around or anything like that. We also wore all black, stuck our hair out, and wore eyeliner, so the 1-2-fuck-you punk crowd didn’t always like us. We were also heavily into the “peace-punk/Crass” thing, so that tended to have a polarizing effect with certain people as well. The band started out with me on guitar and vocals, Jesus on bass, and Eric Goodrich on drums.

Atrocity Exhibition plays “Oasis”: Listen now!

Neither of the other guys could play an instrument before the band started, but I had been playing for a couple years. When we started, we did fast, aggressive material, heavily influenced by Rudimentary Peni, Discharge and Crass. We never got out of the garage doing that type of stuff. After a long, endless sleepless night listening to Public Image’s “Second Edition” over and over, I told the other guys were scrapping all the songs and writing new ones. You might say we “mellowed out” a little bit and let the pre-hardcore side of us emerge.

We even covered some Joy Division songs. Jesus ended up leaving, and then Eric. I think I was changing too. … In any event, Finn Lohner and Tony Powers came in on bass and drums, respectively. We played Che Cafe with Faces of Drama; Greenwich Village West with Wallflowers and Ministry of Truth; Studio 517 with the Front (I also played with Acme Social Club from Coronado at this gig); the Jackie Robinson YMCA (with Iconoclast from San Francisco); North Park Lions Club (with Manifest Destiny); one of the early Anarchy Day picnics at Mariner’s Point with the Front, Yang and Diatribe; and parties, including a couple at the Pink House (with Diatribe), right on the beach in Imperial Beach. I think I met Toby Gibson at the Pink House, but he doesn’t remember me. We even played the proverbial high school gym!

One of my favorite memories of the band is when we played at a fundraiser party at a big La Jolla mansion for the San Diego Draft Resisters’ Defense Fund, which was a group of old hippies doing the right thing regarding one of the few “movement”-type causes left over in the ’80s from the ’60s. The crowd was all turtlenecks, beards and patched-elbow sport jackets on the men, and long graying hair and flowing skirts on the women. … the “liberal elite”, perhaps? We’re in black, with black hair and eyeliner. We start playing our sludgy dirge and I start singing about nuclear annihilation, and the crowd comes up and starts dancing that kind of hippie shake dance, holding their glasses of Chardonnay. They loved it and were very appreciative. Neil Morgan, editor of the San Diego Union, lived next door and called the police. Even in La Jolla the cops hassle the punks! Our last gigs were at these weird clubs in Tijuana around 1985, when I left San Diego to go to San Francisco State.

Another favorite gig, which we recorded and I’ve still got on cassette tape, was at the Pink House in Imperial Beach around 1983. I don’t remember who lived there. It was this big two story house with a massive empty first floor that had been used as a store or something. It was full of broken shit, display counters, and trash and boarded up. You walked up to the front door of the house, then down into this dank shithole basement. The guys living there threw together a stage at one end and we played a couple raucus raging parties using the PA I owned (which might have been the only reason we were asked to play, come to think of it!). The stage sat right underneath the leaking bathroom plumbing. Creative fellows as they were, one of the tenants hung a cooler to catch liquids as they dripped from the pipe, so you got to perform with an orange cooler right in your face. In the picture, I’m playing bass because sometimes Kevin Chanel joined us on guitar to jam out some Joy Division tunes. On the tape, you can hear someone yell “Play faster!”, which we heard a lot at these type of events. I answered, “Diatribe is coming on next, and they will play fast for you”… and they did!

Another gig was at the North Park Lions Club.I think this was not a “gig” per se, but a birthday party. I’ve got a tape of that one too, and at one point I say “Happy Birthday to … ” Manifest Destiny also played.Right before the show, we were short a mic or two, so I rode with some younger guys over to someone’s house in a canyon in North Park who’s “dad was famous and they have a lot of electronic stuff.” We climbed up into a storage room and found a mic, and on the way out I figured out it was Jim Croce’s house, and the kid was A.J., who’s gone on to some fame. He was about 13 years old at the time. The gig was great: clean sound, no distortion on the guitar for a change, and nice echo on the vocals thanks to the (then brand new) Boss DD-2 Digital Delay which had just come out. Afterwards, a guy comes up to me and says “Oh wow, man! I was on acid and your music was perfect! Thanks!” That was pretty cool.

The band didn’t achieve what I thought we were capable of. We never got into a proper studio, but a live recording of our song “Family, Church, Estate” did appear on an English compilation cassette called “Now It’s Our Turn” with about 40 other bands from around the world. Jason Traeger did the cover. We were into the Crass political ideology in a big way and that’s never really left me.

It’s been said, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” The absolute pit of hell for me was when Brent was murdered at a party in Allied Gardens in 1983. I was spending the last couple months of 10th grade in an ongoing war with my parents, and resolved to move out. I was friends with Brent and Leslie, and they said I could move into their garage out at their place in El Cajon. So I packed my clothes into a couple garbage bags and was ready to go. That night, our crew pulled up to a party to find yellow police tape around the house, and heard a kid had been stabbed. We asked some shaken-up kid leaving the house what happened, and he said a big tall guy with blond spikes got stabbed with his own knife. Shit, that’s Brent. He carried a big knife around with him, and was in a continuous war with my old semi-nemesis Mike Woods. I think he actually stabbed Woods in the ass at one point. The rumor quickly spread that Brent was dead. We drove out to Law Street in Pacific Beach and wailed and cried.

I went home that night. My clothes were in still in the bags. The next morning someone called and I got the whole story, which I won’t repeat. Needless to say, Brent had pulled the knife and ended up getting killed with it. He was dead. I was crying so hard my dad came in and asked what was wrong. He knew I was leaving and had said a couple days earlier, “If you go, you’re gone and can’t come back.” Brent and Leslie had come over to the house the week before, so my dad had meet them. I said, “Remember that tall blond guy who was here last week? Well, he’s dead!” My dad paused (I’ll never forget this) and said, “Son, we’ve tried to tell you what can happen if you hang out with people like that.” People like that? Like what? Like dead people? I was so mad at him. … Talk about saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Another memory: About a week before he died, we were drinking beer at the Fruit Loop in Balboa Park. Someone was taking a leak, and it looked like he was doing it on the back wheel of Brent’s car. Brent jumped up and ran over to the guy and pulled out the knife. He was joking, for the most part. The guy said “Hey, man, you live by that and you’ll die by that” — an ominously precise portent of what what was to come.

I moved to San Francisco after high school in August 1985 and stayed in the scene for a bit more. Lots of San Diego people moved up there including Robert Parker, Robert Sansom, John Moore, and Roger Pinell. There were some great shows and it felt good to be on my own and older. I ended up going to law school and practicing criminal defense with famed people’s lawyer Tony Serra. After 15 years, I came back to San Diego, and despite having a great relationship with my family, I found great truth in the old adage, “You can’t go home.” I never felt comfortable there, and was constantly reminded of all the reasons I left San Diego when I was 18. I met my wife, quit my practice, and now live at 7,200 feet elevation in the Rocky Mountains above Boulder, Colorado. We like it out here.

— Blake Wilson