ing became more hectic. More THRASHER stickers flew. People
were doing swan-dives into an ocean of jittering bodies.
Possibly the best "skate band" to date, J.F.A. lashed out a
memorable performance that was incomparable by any means.
J.F.A is J.F.A. They stand on their own, there are no deviations to
this fact.
After the show, everyone cleared out. Unfortunately, some indi-
viduals ran off with the only existing THRASHER banner. Luckily,
I found out that it was some Berkeley female juveniles. If so, the
next time I see them, I'll lift them up by their little necks and politely
ask them to return the banner.
It was about 3:30 in the morning. Another long day, with still
more on the way. I expressed my gratitude for a job well done to
Bill, the guy who runs the Tool & Die. Then, not two steps out of the
joint, Fish accosts my person.
"You comin'?" he says.
"What?"
"Big session at The Dish. Everyone showin' up."
"Not me."
"J.F.A. told me they're goin' to." J.F.A. was to be leaving right
after the session. I needed some shots of those guys skating. It
looked like I absolutely had no choice. The glamour of this job
never ceases.
J.F.A. proved to be the formidable skaters they claimed to be.
Bam-Bam was doing footplants off the mogul in the center of the
Hilltop Dish. Brian flew over the hump, and also utilized it for hand-
plants, along with Don Pendleton, the guitarist, and Mike, the bass
player. Also sessioning at this ungodly hour of 4:30 am. were the
Skoundrelz. Tony Alva was sailing around the place, shredding
and sliding. Steve Caballero was there too, adding his flair of the
unreal
By this time, the sky began to lighten up. Holy Hell, it's already
tomorrow. Enough of this stuff. I bid J.F.A. adieu. It was a quarter
to six, Monday morning, and they began their long drive back to
Phoenix.
Back at my house, I wasn't even prepared for what lay in store
there. The number of bodies on the floor had multiplied. Out on the
sundeck was a six foot long "Down Slug" named Keith. In the sun-
ken TV area was half of the skateboard population of Sacto. The
TV was blasting MTV to eyes behind eyelids. Over the sound of
the video garbage came another music-a chorus of snorers,
mainly from the Sacto boys, Folslam, Rats Ass, Jerry, Ricky and
Goofy.
Billy, Lance, Caballero and Steve shared a common pillow and
were giggling and farting a lot. The sun began to rise. I went to
sleep right after setting the alarm for two hours rest. There's more
work ahead.
8:30 a.m. Monday morning. Memorial Day. A few phone calls
finalized some details for the evening's gig. Paul Rat and Dirk
Dirksen, head dudes at the On Broadway, inform that all systems
are go. The "skate meat" carpet lies still on the floor. Rob Roskopp
lay on his back snoring by the stereo, his mouth wide agape like a
dead man. I had to spit. I was hungry, but I couldn't eat, sometimes
it's like that. If you don't eat, you don't crap. You don't crap, you
die. Still, I couldn't eat.
The call for today was a session at Scott's Banks, named so be-
cause they were discovered by the ironworker Street Scott one
day while working on a nearby highrise.
The events and strange goings-on that happened here are too
bizarre and too numerous to even mention. A few highlights were:
the dork session, the son of the dork session, Christ bomb-drop-
ping off a five foot high stack of shipping palates into the banked
area, Street Scott attempting a rad "flying through the air and land-
ing on the board trick and crashing heavily the first five tries,
Christ jumping off of the roof of the Creator's van into the banked
area, more dork sessions, serious posing, dork posing, Lance's
cane plants,...
By the time 5:00 rolled around, I was heading over to the club to
see the soundcheck. Tonight The Faction, Minus One and the
Skoundrelz were to play again. Also on the bill were the Big Boys,
Drunk Injuns and the Black Athletes.
Present and ready to roll are the Big Boys, Skoundrelz, half of
The Faction, some of the Black Athletes, no Drunk Injuns and no
Minus One. These skate types are so predictable by being so un-
predictable. After a while, I decided to get something to eat. Out-
side the club I met up with two members of Los Olvidados, Mike
Fox and Mike Voss. They were playing downstairs from the On
Broadway at the Mab. We three went around the corner to Clown
Alley for some grub. I powered a big steak sandwich.
It was nearly 8:00 by the time I got back to the club. Most of the
bands had gone through their checks already. Tony Alva was in
the bathroom taking care of business when I entered.
"How does everyone sound so far, Tony?"
"Ripping. It'll be a good show," he said as he buckled his belt.
"You guys were hot last night, bro. Did the Drunk Injuns show
yet? I wanted to meet Joey Headbone."
"They're here somewhere. Wait till you see them. I don't think
you'll believe it. They wear masks. No one knows who they are."
"I'm sure. How lame."
"You'll see."
The show got under way a little later than planned. Being that
this was the last day of a long weekend, the attendance was not
quite what was expected but the enthusiasm made up for it.
The Faction, Minus One and the Skoundrelz put out more than
enough energy. The Skoundrelz' set was blistering. A little dif-
ferent from last night's set, but blistering all the same. Mike Ball,
their guitar player, is one of the fastest-fingered dudes around.
Dana of Minus One is not so bad himself. Minus One's perfor-
mance tonight surpassed last night's by double, and last night they
were ripping. Dana broke some more strings. Mike Henry on bass
pumped and raged the bottom beat to a great set. These guys are
getting better by the day.
It seemed like half of San Jose was in the club to see their home
boys, The Faction. The people began to move and did they ever
move. T.A.'s compadre, Mongo, drug Steve Caballero off the
stage and administered a few hard noogies. Mongo was having
fun. Everyone was.
The stage went dark after The Faction. Next was the Drunk In-
juns. Did they really come here all the way from North Dakota?
The Editor said that they came out in a horse-drawn Volkswagon
bus. He said he saw it. They started out with a tom-tom number
that went into some weird heavy metal fusion jibbage. No one was
ready for what they saw when the lights went on partway through
the first song. Standing there were five mutilated looking men.
Their masks were decayed and frightful looking skulls. They're
hideous, but their songs are okay. The singer, Joey Headbone,
sported a foot high wire mohawk. They dressed like deviated In-
dian Scouts. Halfway through the second song, the steak
sandwich 1 had earlier started doing back flips in my gut. It was
awful. By the time I got out of the toilet, the Injuns were off the
stage. I went up to the dressing rooms and asked around as to
where they were. One guy pointed to a door. Inside, all that was
left were five masks and some clothes. I looked back outside and
the guy was gone. It seems the Drunk Injuns were gone. No trac
I put the masks in a bag and stashed them. They might be worth
something.
The Big Boys, all the way from Austin, Texas, are about my
favoritest band in the whole world. They play a good show, with a
real good sound. Biscuit, Mr. Vocalist, has never sounded better
in all the times I've seen the Boys. They just came out with a new
album and the new songs on it are killer in the live performance.
Fred doesn't play drums in the Big Boys, but their new drummer is
more than an adequate replacement. I had a hard time keeping
still enough to take pictures, so I decided to thrash and click.
One more band and I guess that will wrap up the whole Skate
Rock deal. The Black Athletes are a culmination of several excel-
lent musicians, hardly any of them are Black. Singer Paul Castell
(not Black) is one of the hottest street skaters in San Francisco.
At the beginning of their set, Paul tossed his JAKS colors onto
the stage poured lighter fluid on them and lit them on fire. Two
JAKS members in the audience stood up and walked out. The
Athletes slid into their first number. Paul's voice is somewhat unor-
thodox, but he sounds good in a strange, strained sort of way. The
two JAKS team members walked back into the room, threw two
beer cans at Paul and walked back out.
At the end of the show, I contacted all of the representatives of
the bands to thank them and pay them their money for doing the
show. I distributed all the money evenly, and since the "paying
attendance" level was a little shy of substantial, THRASHER Mag
kicked in an additional hundred and some odd bucks. There was
still no sign of the Drunk Injuns. Nothing, so there was more
money for the rest of the bands. I grabbed their masks that I
stashed, took all of my marbles and went home. Who are those
guys?
It was Tuesday aftemoon and I was milling through some paper-
work down at my office when the phone rang. It was Brian of J.F.A.
"What do ya want, Brian?"
"I need a big, big favor."
Talk to me, bro, talk to me."
"The bus broke down."
"What's the deal?"
"I need to know if somebody can come save me?"
"Where are you?"
"Mobil city."
"Mobil city?"
"We call it that because it's got a Mobil station. That's about all
it's got. It's about two hours out of San Francisco.
"Is that as far as you guys got?"
"Yup."
"What have you been doing since then?"
"Everyone's been smoking and playing cards."
"I can't get away, bro. Don't know anyone who can either."
"I'm getting a flight out of SFO on Friday and I want to see The
Damned tomorrow."
"If you make it into town, you can stay at my pad, everyone else
has."
"Yah." Click
Far lett Steve Cabaero (top) executes a backside Bone ess one and Lance
Mountain (bottom) a frontside channel plant in the center. The Sondre
(Above Dork doubles with Christ and the Farmer Below Me Fox of Los
Olvidados
THR
SKA
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