Elvis Christ at the Che Cafe!

(Drummer and rabble-rouser Jack Gamboa recalls a memorable performance at our namesake venue.)

The Che Cafe was an island of freaky, funky freedom in the otherwise cold, institutional-strength rigidity of the mostly cement UC campus. They used to serve a bowl of brown rice and pinto beans with a giant glass of iced tea for less than two dollars. I survived on that chow when I was an art student. I also flirted with the hippie-honeys who worked there and smoked a lot of weed out back.

I played drums for Elvis Christ in those days, and it seems like half our gigs took place at the Che. We also used to practice there, and when Isabelle Tihanyi shot photos of us naked for a Guardian interview (Vol.60 #38), it happened there.

The and now: The Che Cafe!

Our concerts were like a comedy show. We tried to work a slam-dance contest into every performance, and we awarded goofy prizes to the winners. A skinhead won a giant comb, and in Las Vegas we gave away a surfboard. But the very best was when we gave away our bass player — in the middle of a Che performance! How was this amusing stunt accomplished?

First, our original bass player Kat (a girl!) moved to France. We looked desperately for a replacement, even a temporary one (even a dude). Mark volunteered. He was the polymath drummer from Night Soil Man. They were way better than us, they had cut a record, and we all knew it just couldn’t last for long. We got back to performing, but kept searching for a permanent bassist. Then someone had a brainstorm. There was Greg. An ex-boyfriend of Kat’s, he had been around since the beginning, he attended all the practice sessions and concerts, and he knew all our songs by heart. He could not play any instruments, but we were punks, so who cares?

Greg was a super cool-looking guy. He was tall and had the 18-inch “Exploited” style Mohawk. He wore a black leather jacket, drank Diet Coke exclusively and was a total sweetheart.

We purchased a cheap bass. Greg took lessons from Mark and soon mastered three songs. When Greg played, he jolted back and forth and laughed. We began to plan his debut. Then we got another great idea.

We were due to play a big show at the Che Cafe with Night Soil Man, Social Spit and Samba Hell. It was the “Ready To Shred!” benefit for the skaters who had to remove and replace all the plywood panels on their ramp every year. We decided to sponsor one of our famous dance contests, and the prize would be … Our bassist! In preparation, I filled a prescription bottle with the inert pills from my sister’s and girlfriend’s birth-control pill cases, and I filled a whiskey bottle with iced tea. Between each song, I poured the fake pills and whiskey down my throat.

We began the set with the three songs that Greg knew. The band was hot that night, and the kids discovered that they could hang from the exposed rafters overhead. I drummed cheerfully, looking up at the swinging teenagers, hoping nobody fell on me. As the second song of the night ended, Eric announced the highly anticipated dance contest, reminding everyone that Greg the bass player would be given to the winner.

One-two-three-four BAM! The next song started. We shredded mightily. I tossed out my wildest drum rolls. Greg jumped up and down, flailing his bass like a pro. Jory windmilled his guitar, blowing bubble-gum bubbles, and Eric, who had a deviated septum, screamed lyrics and blew his nose between verses. Then the song was over. There was almost a riot on the dance floor, as usual. A riot of LOVE and JOY.

Eric and Jory conferred. They decided that a big female in the front was the winner. Greg removed his guitar and pounced into the arms of the fan, who kissed him and squealed with delight. The audience went nuts! Then Jory took the microphone and asked if anyone in the audience could play bass. People looked at each other, mumbling in confusion. Then someone stepped forward, and said: “Hey, I can play the bass.” As the audience watched, a handsome young man approached the stage and repeated his statement. Eric, Jory and I looked at each other. “Let’s give this guy a hand!” said Eric. People slowly clapped as the newcomer took the bass, lifted the strap over his head and plugged in. Jory handed him a pick as Eric asked him what his name was. He leaned over to the microphone and said: “Mark.”

On that cue, I clicked my sticks four times, and we bolted into our next song. Of course, Mark played even better that Greg did, and there were members of the audience so completely amazed by the trick that they just stood and stared at Mark as people danced around them. I found it difficult to play without laughing. We kept the pace fast and furious for the next 45 minutes, and the stunt was a total success.

Later, I realized that my whiskey bottle full of iced tea and my fake pills were missing, probably stolen in the confusion as bands changed on stage. At least I would not have to worry about one of our fans overdosing, because they were Che Cafe punks, and I loved them.

Good times, great memories …

— Jack Gamboa