You guys! This week was crazy. Though I've been on a forced vacation (which would be great it I can afford it), some spectacular things have happened.
The top ten:
1) I met the wolf in THAT sheep's clothing. Good riddance.
2) I discovered that, for better and not worse, I am still my sixteen year old self.
3) was given a mind blowing jacket that makes me feel like a ninja
4) rode bikes to the exploratorium with some of my favorite people
5) met the dawn with a new and truly wonderful friend
6) was offered to have my blog featured on the San Francisco Historical Association's website
7) had a meeting with this dating site that wants to feature my new boss's killer events: KJ Paul
8) bought my train tickets for my annual sister adventure (which I leave for tomorrow)
9) got sun burnt during brunch and drinks in the park on a sunday, and
10) once again realized just how small this world is.
Good god. I'm a busy girl.
To understand the magnitude of these things, you should probably know this about me:
I am a lone wolf.
Until recently, I didn't believe that human relations can stand the test of time.
Every random face plant, shitty date, bad joke has led me here, and at the risk of sounding like a drugged out little hippy weirdo, it's all exactly where it should be.
Today, avoiding the heat, I assumed a stool at the Attic (this disgusting and perfectly magical dive bar in the Mission) and was reading about the history of music in San Francisco. I decided to ask Keith, the self proclaimed HillBillyLudditeBarTrash, about his experience. He immediately starts spouting off old club names. The first one he mentioned was The Farm.
 |
| The Farm |
 |
| jack wicket, farm, 1975 |
Once located beneath the freeway at Army and Potrero, this 4.5 acre park "was an eruption of nature in the middle of the concrete jungle... proving that life could still exist there." (Joan Holden, SF Mime Troupe; Found SF)
Existing from 1974-1987, this was a two story building which included a garden with a plethora of animals, a library, art gallery and punk club.
This reminded me of the Shamrock in Eugene, a free skool house in the Whitaker. Obviously much smaller by standards, this house had a garden, a kitchen that provided Food Not Bombs, a library, gallery, free HIV testing, and hosted music/literary nights there often. I remember one day trading a man a bucket of dumpstered pastries for a Chinese embroidered robe, with a pastel pink satin belt which I wore as a jacket to my next art opening. When I was twenty-one I thought that place was the shit and was so sad to see it go. It's cool to know that SF did it first.
According to Jack Boulware, co-author of "Gimme Something Better: the Profound, Progressive and Occasionally Pointless History of Bay Area Punk", the Farm was "The most violent nightclub in the 80s." That seems like a rather tall order. I bet you've got a story or two that could give that claim a run for it's money. What do you say? Tell me!
Up until today, I've focused on older historical elements with this city. I truly love the pioneering sprit that built this place. As Skinny said the other night, after Gringo Tacos, "Hippies didn't build this city; the Gold Rush did."
But it was the punks that kept it all going.
The punks, somehow, always manage to keep it going.
The other night, mid-fight with the most recent scum-bag, my friend invited me to his show at the Knockout, a music venue on Mission (where I go to play Bingo often). I had been half-in/half-out all day, until another friend gave me an amazing present....
Do you get like this, when you're ending a romantic relationship, that the only thing you could possibly need is something tiny but fabulous?
I had gone to my friend's earlier to pick up clothes for a music video I'm in, and she had discovered this old jacket of hers. I'm not joking. This thing is incredible. An almost ankle length blue leather trench coat. I put it on and immediately felt like a 1990s Vampire Slayer. This jacket was perfect on its own and for 'hiding' me in the crowd.
At this show were a bunch of friends, but I wasn't feeling all that talkative. I kept trying to escape, but my friends wouldn't let me. And then, two things happened. I was frantically taking notes when I looked up and saw Robert, a friend of mine who has recently passed, about two feet from me. I looked past him, and there was Mikey, and Chris and Dylan, and everyone I've ever let go.
Sardonic as always, I made the quip: You know you're old when the only familiar faces in the crowd you see are your dead friends. The next morning, that mood had changed. It was more reassuring/comforting.
The second thing that happened was this girl stepped in front of me with a shirt that had the definition of 'punk' printed out.
I don't normally make fun of people. I'm against it on principle, but holy crap. This was the exact thing I had avoided by never identifying as 'punk'.
Really, three things happened. After all that nonsense, I realized that this was the exact place I needed to be. I've paid my dues fighting my independent battles. I've stood alone, I've defended myself alone, I will inevitably wind up alone. But to accept the camaraderie was a nice change.
It seemed very reminiscent of what Boulware was saying in his book. The SF punk scene consists of "very art-for-art's-sake people who aren't interested in making a dime."
He goes on to talk about how San Francisco was notorious for their huge female contingent. "Punk is a very male-oriented scene and women were always outnumbered by men, but the women were a very formidable force."
Speaking of formidable rad, female fronted punk bands? Have you heard the local group Fantasy World? Do it. You need to.
Another club that Keith mentioned was the Club Foot, at 2520 Third Street, opened by Richard Kelly, "a composer/visionary who had studied with John Cage and David Tudor," who intended to "Marry high art values to the vitality of underground performance art, to fuse Frank Sinatra, Roy Orbison and Albert Ayler and project that onto the art-rock stage."
This reminded me of my meeting today. Have I told you of my new job as booking agent/marketing who-ha for KJ Paul, another notorious San Franciscan? This man is awesome, and if you love to sing, come to any of his regular nights. Today, we had a meeting with one of the reps for How About We, a type of dating service for established couples, a kind of, we've got to keep the magic going somehow, type of thing.
She was asking him of how he got into karaoke. In describing bartending and hosting karaoke events, he mentioned how rough and tumble the crowd was until the singing managed to win. "I thought, forget bartending, let's all get together and sing Frank Sinatra."
According to Keith, one of the most legendary old school San Francisco punk clubs was the Deaf Club, 530 Valencia. He said it was so successful because the kids were some of the first supporters of the punk scene, as they listened through vibrations.
 |
| Deaf Club |
A big promoter at Deaf Club was Robert Hanrahan. "In the early days, the commander of the Mission precinct sent a patrol officer to the Deaf Club. He told me that we had their cooperation as the 'punks were changing the face of the neighborhood and appeared to be bringing the crime rate down,'. But he said if I fucked up he would unleash a shitstorm and close it down. 'Understood?' was his last word. And with that I was escorted out to the street by the patrol officer and walked back. Sometimes younger cops would drop in to ask about learning to pogo with the real intention of meeting those 'loose and wild' punk women."
I'm not sure if I told you but as a child I had some intense premonitions. My dreams were highly prophetic, to the point that, in waking life, I would manipulate a scenario if it happened to play out in the same sequence as my dreams. Eventually, I lost that capability, but it has since been replaced by this overwhelming hair-raising sensation that occurs when I find points of my life aligning.
I met Keith, years ago, at the Attic Bar, a gross pit that, ironically enough, my father recommended I check out. Since being at the Attic, I have run into three of my top thirty favorite Portland men, met an uber babe who's best friends with one of my major paintings crushes (and hopeful future husband) Barry McGee, made countless friends and memories, been proposed to, been accidentally married at, and led down a long road of very strange, and apt relationships.
These experiences are so rich, deep, and interconnected that I shouldn't be surprised when, in researching the Deaf Club, to find out that one of my favorite loner artists, Bruce Conner, was the man to host the last party there.
I get that most of you are seriously over this city. I read all your posts. I get the angst.
I'm upset that I missed all these beautiful things, but I still do firmly believe it's going to take a lot more than this to kill a spirit. I mean, really? Come on! Life gives you lemons, you fucking break something. If we can say there is a 'we' in any of this, then I'm pretty sure 'we' know how to fight, subvert, renounce and squash.
Or, if you're feeling lazy, come have a drink with me at the Attic before it's gone.
 |
| The Attic |
Let's keep it going.
A few random pics for you.
A few random pics for you.
 |
| my future scum-bag |
 |
| a penis drawing, just cuz |
 |
| exploratorium |
 |
| a pic i found of me, from eight years ago. |
No comments:
Post a Comment