sweet dreams
confetti.
are made of
Weng
By Jimi-Joe Jake Johnson Jr.
Rousing skate chorus' were the call during
the Big Boys set. Here Kiwi (right) and
another skater-type join Chris Gates
(center) on a hard note.
Sweet Dreams
A purple sky, he ripped her nylons and businessmen on business trips. Why do simple little trips have
to start out so weird? Fortunately I had no trouble making the flight, even did a few laps around the ter-
minal to kill some time. And prepared? Was I ever. Toothpaste, toothbrush, camera, Fante, Walkman,
extra socks, and a shatload of THRASHER stickers. Make that two shatloads.
It wasn't a contest this time, it was some
sort of skateboard concert in Hollywood. I
couldn't believe it at first. It was just in
passing when I said to the Boss: "Stacy
was just telling me he was thinking of going
to that 'Skateboard Rock' show at the
Stardust Ballroom on Sunset Boulevard in
Hollywood next Friday night."
"Really? Then you should go."
So I land at LAX. sipping a Long Island
iced tea in the nearest lounge. I figured it
would be the most logical place to hang
out. But then again, what's logic but just
another four letter word? Halfway through
the bevy, I thought back to the days when
I sat waiting in a Greyhound station
somewhere in L.A., waiting for Stacy to
pick me up. He was driving around outside
waiting for me to come out, and I was
waiting inside because I didn't want to miss
him. There I sat, thinking about that, then
figured that this was one of those cases in
which that was definitely the case. I went
outside, and I was right.
By the time Stacy and I arrived at the
show, we had missed the first band, which
was Tales of Terror, and the second band,
Ill Repute, was just about to begin. Stacy
took off in one direction with some custom-
painted boards for the Big Boys. Every
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time I go to a gig to see Tales of Terror, I
always miss them. But, heck, one of the
first people I see when I walk up to the
backstage, is Rat's Ass, singer of the Tales
of Terror. Now I've seen it. I took his
picture, but the sucker blinked. Word is out
that T.O.T. is one of the most havoc ridden
bands on the big underground circuit today.
The place was packed to the legendary
gills, and the bar was 20 yards long.
Perfect for zinging beer mugs. Ill Repute
hit the stage with harsh overtones, blasting
a horrendous flavor of hardcore, skate-
styled gusto. A projectile grazed my head,
and I decided to observe from a different
vantage point, but not before peppering
the stage with about 40 THRASHER
stickers. This kept those little skatepunk
buzzards occupied. They bashed the holy
shits out of each other trying to grab the
stickers, while the band played on. At my
new location I spotted Billy Ruff across the
way. He was grooving the grooves, eyeing
the bass player's approach.
Inside the ballroom were various
banners, hung on the walls in various
strategic locations. They were skateboard
manufacturers.banners, the same ones.
that they hang up at contests. On stage
behind the band was a big one, about five
feet high and 15 feet wide. After maneuver-
ing around a bit, I noticed the THRASHER
banner right inside the foyer of the place. It
was up out of reach and there were a few
big burly monster-type security guys right
at the front door, a reassuring confidence.
After III Repute finished playing, there
were some door prizes to be given away,
some skateboards and T-shirts, etc. Then
with his board, out of a dark corner
emerged Bob Schmelzer. He proceeded to
wow these nightlifers with some incredible
freestyle right in the middle of the floor.
The next band up was The Faction. The
Faction sounds a whole lot better live than
on record. The crowd churned across the
stage as Gavin delivered with his hard-
brow vocal approach. Flow after flow of
tennie-shoed kids ran across and dove off
the stage. Faces that have grown
synonymous with the skateboard scene
popped up from time to time. There was
Eddie Reatigui and Gary Scott Davis, a
flash and a blur in a chaotic churning
mayhem.
A kid in front of the stage was holding a
dead snake. He said that Tales of Terror
flung a couple out into the audience during
their set.
The crowd really liked The Faction set.
Bob Schmelzer tricked the crowd with some inspiring freestyle moves in the center of the Ballroom, an area usually
reserved for slam-dancing.
Agression was next. They're some old
core locals at the old Oxnard park. The
metal edge this band attains is a hard one.
The singer delivered some spiritual
words between some songs. He said
something about THRASHER mag being
the only mag worth reading or something
to that effect. I couldn't let that comment
get away unrewarded so I gave him a
customized THRASHER T-shirt. With my
camera, I crouched around the stage,
taking shots of the mayhem. Got too close
to the edge a couple of times and got
sucked off the stage, still managing to
hang on to all the camera gear. Those kids
thought it would be fun to try to get in the
picture by flying right over me, but they
weren't any good at it. They kept hitting me
in the head with their feet.
Backstage, there was a lot of energy.
People yelling, screaming, and yelling
some more. When Agression finished
their set, they came back and the energy
escalated. People were so excited, they
began writing on the walls with big felt
pens. The heat inside was getting out of
hand. I scrambled outside for some fresh
air. Cruising up the street with wigs were
Lance Mountain and his gang of crazies.
They all looked like that tall blonde goof on
Real People.
My sinuses were acting up, so I wretched,
out a big brain-sucking loocher and spit it
at a sign. It had maximum elasticity and
took about a minute and a half to reach the
ground, all the while remaining intact.
Up walked Glen E. Friedman with the
Mackaye bros., lan and Alec. They're out
in these parts for a little sunshine i guess.
Back inside I tooled around to see if
there was anyone I could probably scam
something off of. At the backstage
entrance, I ran into a good friend I hadn't
seen in a while, so I scammed her
a backstage pass. Sometimes I even
surprise myself.
J.F.A. took the stage and the action level
in the crowd increased by at least 100%.
Brian Branon raged back and forth,
straight arming his vocals. Then he ran
back, grabbed the giant banner from
behind Bam-Bam and spun around with it
until he looked all "cocooned out." He was
lurching, twirling and singing all wrapped
up in this gigantic banner until he strayed
too close to the edge of the stage. The
fingers of the frenzied audience snatched
the banner and like hungry mouths they
swallowed it. It was at least a $500 banner.
Gone. It just disappeared without a trace,
now but a memory.
Still J.F.A. raged on. They don't make it
out to these parts very often so they
poured out enough raw power to last for a
long time.
Squelching around like a wounded frog.
I angled around the front of the stage for
more photos and continually got sucked in
by mischievous attendees. Í resorted to
throwing a handful of stickers in one
direction, distracting them like feeding
chickens hot after feed, and clicked off a
few shots before they recovered to a
subnormal thinking capacity.
After they were through, Brian Branon
came up to me and said, "You see what I
did? Am I off your shit-list now?"
"No way. My teeth still hurt, ya toad."
Now the Big Boys were setting up for the
grand finale. I ran into Steve Alba back-
Sacrificial Snake.
stage and he was gassing on all the
energy. The Big Boys punched the crowd
with an assortment of ravaging tunes that
turned your ears inside out. From bouncy,
harsh funk that pumped your feet in circles,
to ravaging gut-grinding pumpers that set
your soul on fire. There were so many
people all over the stage, you could hardly
see the band. I got in low for some more
shots and began getting pummeled by
knees, boots and elbows. This type of
picture clicking leaves you ultra-vulnerable.
During their song, "The Big Picture," the
MacKaye Bros. filled in on the back-up
vocals. Tim Kerr was spinning and raging.
wildly playing his guitar. Chris Gates
wailed back and forth with his bass, kids
peeling away in front of him. Biskit's hair
was bright orange-red and he just bounced
around feverishly. Three quarters through
the set, I became fed up with being bashed
around just trying to take pictures. I
entrusted my camera equipment to a friend
and proceeded to dish a little back of what
I had been receiving all night. I thrashed
'em like we used to back in 79 when it still
was a crude dance, not as refined as it is
today. Most of these kids were still shittin'
yellow in elementary school back then.
They went through the motions of thrash-
ing. I thrashed for effect and received
pleasing, if not satisfactory results. I took
out eight or ten in my first pass, and about
seven more on the rebound. They were
most of the same ones who had been
inflicting and pummeling me all evening, so
I added a little playful "UMPH" on impact
because they were deserving. I tended to
overdo things on a few passes, namely
running out of stage which resulted in more
than a few head-knots.
After the show, as everyone cleared out,
I grabbed the THRASHER banner and
searched out my ride back home. The
transpo: the J.F.A. school/tour bus. By the
time the bus left its mooring, it fell victim to
notorious graffiti: HAGS flow J.F.A.,
HAGS, HAGS and more HAGS. "You
always have comments on the thoughts
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