And so the day finally arrived, after weeks of nauseating self promotion.
New vinyl on Hostage Records? Check.
A reissue of Fear of Life on Drastic Plastic? Naturally.

Post after shameless post on social media, complete with darling new photos? You got it.

There is even the new Indian Summer IPA in the bottle, and it seems as though our appetite for cross promotion knows no limits.

We do, however, walk away from negotiations to lease the new CH3 Hydraulic Horizontal Drill to the fracking concerns in Eastern Ohio.
Hey, we still have souls ya know!

We even ventured back to Cortner Ave in Cerritos, scene of so many charming youthful crimes, to compete with all the Cat and Dog videos already clogging up YouTube:

And for what, all of this smoke and noise? For Record Store Day?
Hell yeah man, and why not?

Oh I hear the bitching alright.
How it’s become such a thing.

How the very heart of this day has been ripped out and stomped by the vultures who would commit these one-off treasures to Ebay!
Such a young holiday, already mourned for losing its mission, and a million breathless voices cannot agree on just what we’re trying to accomplish here.

Oh come on man!
It’s like the local drunks bemoaning St. Patrick’s Day, the one goddamned day of the year the bar finally gets some real business!

And like writing letters to Auntie, (you know, the one who just will not trust this new email fad) it’s something we neglect far too long: a visit to our local shops.
And if it takes a kooky day that celebrates vinyl measured in grams, like any other precious drug, then so be it.

Let’s do this!

It’s gonna be a long one, so we fill up on franchise Bánh Mì and icy cold Belgian style IPA (ahem) at the well lit CH3 offices.

We have a full crew onboard, and the we chatter happily along the 5 freeway to our first stop:
Left of the Dial Records in Santana.

We’re guilty of not visiting the new location of LOTD until now, and we are well impressed.
And though it was awfully nice to have a true Record Store in our sleepy little town, the store seems to fit well in the funky arts district here.
Besides, I’m betting you’ll find a better goat birria out here than in Seal Beach, am I right?

It’s a cheerful crowd we wade through, amps and drums in hand, and we’re soon set up amongst the racks and bins, mere inches from our pals—cozy!

We go through a few of the oldies before attempting the new songs, and we somehow pull them off.
Who knows, we may even commit the ultimate crime and include some new songs in the set!

Wait, don’t go! We were just joking!

And then we unplug the guitars and work the crowd like corrupt politicians, kissing every baby and signing anything that is within a yard of our reach.

It was just a grand afternoon, and we could stay here all day, loitering outside and drinking beer on the sidewalk, chatting up our chums, but we have more work to do.

We say our goodbyes to Geoff and crew.
Promises are made to not make it a whole year before meeting again!

Back in the van now, and we venture South for stop # 2:
McGreat Records in San Clemente.

The drive is fine on a Spring afternoon, and our spirits soar as the hills finally give way to the glowing Pacific.
The van conversations meander, as van conversations tend to do, especially when fueled by char siu pork and smooth, hoppy ales. (#4)

Alf searches the van for open power ports, Ant calls someone out on a bogus Facebook status.
Everyone is online, logged in, checked in, and talking all at once.

Someone chimes in with the 2 finest phone apps, the true reason smartphones should exist: TouchTunes jukebox and BofA digital check deposit.

It turns out Dell has never heard of Grindr, so we immediately install it on his phone and tell him to start looking for good places to eat in the area.

We get to the store well before sundown and find a cheerful little shop nestled in this wacky little beach community.
The front of the store is well stocked with your CH3 essentials, and there’s an actual performing space in the back.

It’s a younger crowd in here, and it’s heartening that Ian and his crew have really nurtured a good place for the kiddos.
Seems they actually have music lessons in-store, as well as schooling the groms on proper music out front, so this place walks with light in our book.

Now, if they could only produce a refreshing but bold Indian Pale Ale (#5) they’d have all the bases covered, am I right?

We set up and kick it off, and things go all wonky!
The PA cuts off in the middle of each song, a midget pit breaks out and a can of Sprite (Sprite!) goes sailing into the walls.
Dell disappears into the night, as his phone has been beeping out some sort of alerts like a horny squirrel.

In other words, it is perfect!

We play our second set of the day with renewed energy for the kids, and when the PA cuts out yet again, we just scream the lyrics into the night, baptizing the crowd with saliva and the bitter words of a man who’s seen too much—hooohah!

Our pals in No More Saints come in to bat cleanup, leaving us to shill on.
We sign more records, bomb more selfies, chat the night away.

And once more, we load out and pack the van, get ready for the ride home.
And it’s almost wistful, seeing the day end.
Like pushing a broom through spent confetti on a bleak New Year’s Day, you get the feeling like it’s all gone too quick.

But we’re satisfied, ultimately, with what has been done here.
Sure, some T shirts have been sold, some platters signed and sent to their new adoptive homes with our blessings.
All in the name of Record Store Day, though this should be done any old Saturday of the year, shouldn’t it?

If we can’t gather at these jewel-like hearths of music, then what have we become?
Will we get our music with a swipe of thumb across a touchscreen and have music delivered to us in zeroes and ones through the ether?

Or would you go into a store, and talk to someone who knows, and feel these songs in your very hands?
And then you can take something home with you, something with weight and presence, and then you can sit.
And listen.

Additonal photos: Martin Wong, By The Barricade and ripped off from Facebook!

I’m in the bathroom now, and lean my full weight back against the swinging door.
Still it’s no use.

The incessant chug of the oom pa pa, the drunken melodies of the Fatherland odes, these come at me still through the steel and wood.
A bathroom attendant is there and he gives me a quick smile, he’s seen this before.

“You get used to it man,” he says with a wave of paper towel. “Hell, I don’t even notice that shit anymore, not any more.”

I’m aware of the absurdity at play.
We’re in town, after all, to play a gig at a club appropriately named The Dive Bar.
In a couple hours we will be on a moist stage and setting the Marshall JCM900’s to a lethal 7 on the main volume, and then shouting ourselves hoarse for lack of proper monitor.

All the while, a sound man gives us the universal mating call of his species: Turn it down please!

But for now I’m huddled in the bathroom of a faux-German tourist trap, a noise induced headache working its way to the temporal lobes.
I can hear the noise ratcheted up yet another notch, as some group sing along starts again, all beery tears and hugs out there.

What am I afraid of?
Being forced to suffer the humiliation of the goddamned Chicken Dance?
The inevitable shouts of Kill the Jews! that will come right after Komman Mein Herz ??

But this peace is artificial and not to be possessed for long, like a stack of twenties dispensed from a strip club ATM.

The bathroom chap gives my hands a squirt of soap and holds out a paper towel as I wash my hands and check for gray nose hairs in the mirror, then sends me back out to the beerhall with an encouraging smile.
I toss a couple bucks into his tip bucket and take a mint from the counter, one kind human engagement fulfilled in a town known for cruelty.

We brave another round and a bite of sausage more, and then we load into the cars.
It’s a Saturday night after all, an easy one nighter, but perhaps Vegas has lost some of its charm for us grumpy fucks.

I used to love that initial descent into the valley after a 4 hour drag along the 15, that magic moment when the lights of the Strip would come into view, amplified by the blackness of desert sky.

But now it seems as though Vegas is expanding like a toxic spill toward the State line.
The city grows larger and brighter, and those thrilling casino lights that used to shine like jewels now seem as just more dots among the millions.

To walk through the outrageous casino lobbies now, it’s harder to recognize the thrill and chance of treasure.
And now those green and black chips illustrate a different value, tanks of gas and groceries for a week.
Is this what they call growing up?

Turns out the Dive is a proper bar, with a lively crowd come out to play.
We are immediately cheered to find some friendly faces inside, and the night is off!

We get ready to set up when I see Joe and his crew roll in.
Now, I’ve known this kid since he was a teen, when he would only come to see us at the rare all-ager or stand out in the parking lot of Alex’s.

Now he’s a card carrying adult, of course, and a familiar and welcome face at a lot of the gigs.

Still, it’s strange to see the homeboys from East LA here in Vegas, especially on a weekend that doesn’t involve bowling or an appearance by The Adicts!

Turns out it’s Joe’s birthday–his 23rd!—and the gang has decided on a classic Vegas road trip to celebrate!

Ah 23.
Let’s look at the immortal lyrics that will forever earn us shit.
Oh, I imagine Roger Daltry cringing each night he has to sing, I hope I die before I get old.
But we had to go one further and get all specific, motherfucker!

Fear of Life

I’ve grown so fond of this weekend life, no responsibilities
I’m not ready for the real world, wake me up when I’m twenty-three
Eat mom’s pills, drink dad’s beer
Anything to forget my fear
Got no job, got no girl, got nothing at all
Sounds like a life of misery, still I’m having a ball
I live in my own little fantasy, I won’t listen to you
You tell me to act more seriously, hey man, fuck you

Hah.

So it’s only fitting, mid set, that we bring Joe up onstage and have him spit out the song himself–Fear of Life!

The kid nails it, breathing a new life into a song that has been perhaps missing a spark.

And with that we are energized.
We finish out the set strong, play all the old hard fast ones for good measure.

When we finally get outside to gulp down some cool air and let the sweat dry, the lights of the city look new.
Joe and the kids are full of fire.
I hear them chatting and plans are made for a night that is a still young at 3am, for this town, for people 23 years old.

Us? We call it a night.

We get back to the hotel and pause before heading to the elevators and ending the night.
There’s still time, it seems, to sit down at the bar and feed the video poker a twenty, order up one more drink.

There’s always the chance, isn’t there? to win.

Well, it’s that time again, time for that laziest of all blog entries: The Year in Review!
Think of it as the clip show that every lame sitcom rolls out on the occasion of episode 100: Wacky hijinks, the buffoonish men past their prime, sexual innuendo—Hey, that’s us!

Roll em!

January: Old Friends, New Year

We start the year off with a jolly gig at the Observatory, with Cheap Sex and Lower Class Brats.
Good to catch up with old chums, we compare gray hairs and trade chile relleno recipes backstage.

And then a gala night benefiting Mike Atta of the mighty Middle Class.
Good thoughts Mike!

February: Now, get outta here ya crazy Canucks!

It’s a teary farewell jaunt with legendary DOA!
Of course, the fellas have just announced another twenty gigs on the farewell tour, but who cares?
We’ll take whatever they got!

March: The little people! Can you see them too??
There’s hardly time for the usual St. Patty’s debauchery, with a little roadwork up North with The Adicts!

After a stop in San Luis Obispo at Slo Brew, we hit Slims for a proper SF gig with the Ones in White.
Hilarity ensues:

April: Go Away! This is Willy’s Time!

May: Rolling the Rock

Well, if it’s May, it must be goddamn Punk Rock Bowling time, am I right?
After bowling, what? like 16 games in a row? (and failing to make it to Round 2–ahem!) we are thrown onstage in the blazing sun.

June: A final wave of the Flag

An annual tradition, we welcome Jay’s return to our shores with a Simpletones gig at Alex’s–..ooooh, California, indeed!
It is bittersweet to think this is the last time we will see White Flag on the boards with Bill Bartell.
RIP ya nut, we’re gonna miss you, not to mention the Flying V’s and cop mustaches!!

July: Hey baby….

We’re in the hot days of Summer now, brother, and what better way to cool things off than a harbor-front matinee?

It’s a rare all ager day-thing with Agent Orange, and we take advantage of the locale and float over on the trusty California Sun.

August: You won’t have CH3 to kick around any more…..we’re outta here!

What can be said about the 2013 European Tour that hasn’t been already said?
It all boils down to lack of sleep and fatty sausages, missing luggage and warm smiles.

Stay with me people!

September: More loss, and a loss for words.

A benefit at the Redwood bar for the Punk Rock Rovers, just a week after saying farewell to the best rover ever.

October: The big man goes down

An East coast jaunt with our old pals Kraut, it looked so good on paper!

We hit the ground running in Philly, a great set at Legendary Dobbs before heading to NYC for a Grand Victory gig….

The late night drinking at Trash Bar spills over to the next day at Manitobas, and seems a grand idea to cap our day in the city with fat steaks and gin martinis at The Homestead.
By the time we finally hit Brighton Bar in NJ, we’re fucked!

…..yeh yeh, a druken sloppy mess, our worst set of the year, and judging by social media, we suck!
Oh that’s no secret to us, but Jersey, we will make it up to ya— if you’ll let us—next time!

November: A look back

It’s back to Alex’s Bar as the Fall turns chilly–why, it hit below the 60’s right there around Thanksgiving!
This is a different kind of gig, a night celebrating our Cerritos/Artesia roots with the people that made it, you know, not such a bad place to grow up!

It is a grand night at our beloved club, a room full of a lot of familiar faces from the past:

December: Let’s wrap this fucker up!

And it comes back around, the jolly holidays, and we break out the ol Santa Suit once again.

It’s a fine way to cap off a nutty year, and as the last sticky guitar cord is rolled up and packed away for the year, we can only exhale, finally, with a contented if weary sigh.

Let’s go to the stats, shall we?
Yer old pals played a measly 28 gigs for the year, 25 of them at Alex’s Bar!—*rimshot*

We hit five different countries, drove approximately 13,798 KM, ate the equivalent of 11 medium sized feral pigs, drank an aboveground pool’s worth of shitty domestic lagers and destroyed several rest stop toilets on the way.

This here blog was read by 11,000 extremely bored people, presumably during work hours, on the toilet via disease ridden smartphones.

So what have we learned here people?
That another year passes, and we shake our heads in wonder.
That old cliche’, the one about time speeding up as you grow older?

Is it the shortened perspective, measuring these dawns and sunsets against our approaching doom?
Or maybe we’ve just seen it all before, in some form, these roads and clubs, rooms and faces.

We stare at the blank spaces on the new calendar, pen in hand, and start scribbling: filling in a new year, yet again.

It’s a quiet backstage at load in.
For a change, there’s not a bunch of young guys running around trying to scam extra wrist bands, no yelling over the lineup due to sold-tickets status.

Everyone works with the quiet efficiency that comes from decades of humping anvil cases in and out of sheds on countless Saturday nights.
Lots of gray hairs and crows feet smiles: hushed greetings and hugs are exchanged, as if we are all reveling in the brief calm before the lights drop and all hell breaks loose on that stage and in the pit.

This is a solid lineup of working bands, the combined age of the players tonight approaching millennial status!

First up is The Vermin, old schoolers out of Vegas.
They got a nice crowd going early, and after the set Bad Ink boys Dirk and Rob eye my trusty straight edge tattoo and think it might be fixable….hah!

We’re up next to do the damn thing one more time for the year:

Usual Santa Tbone has to work late, so we go with the only suitable replacement, madman Paulie!

Paul comes out for Blue Christmas, and proceeds to provoke the crowd with his white trash stripper moves and extreme liberal politics.
But that all blows over once he brings out the sack and throws a few shirts into the crowd!

We get the hell off stage and change into sensible holiday sweaters, then head up to the balcony before the mighty 7 Seconds comes on!

The crew up yonder is in the holiday spirit, drinks are being tossed back, drunken promises are made, sloppy kisses are avoided…..
See? We have office Christmas parties too!

The 7 Seconds crew sounds just great, the whole joint is all Whoa and Oh like a singular beast.
There be a fearsome pit brewing down below!

There’s time to run backstage to pester our pals The Adolescents
while they’re trying to get ready to play.
They shoo us away, though not before we’ve swiped most of the good beer out of their dressing room!

Adolescents: No Way!!

The Adolescents kill it once again, and when the lights come up on the room it looks like a bomb has gone off.
A sweaty, happy bomb.

Again with the backstage shenanigans:

And just like that, it’s all over.
The night has sped by way too fast, too many people we never got a chance to talk to and too many things left unsaid.
This wraps up the year for us, and what better way than with a bunch of fine folk.

We load out into the December night air with that twinge of satisfied sadness that the year end always seems to bring.
*sniff*

Now get the hell out of here, and Merry Christmas, ya nuts!

additional photos: thanks to Jesse Naber, Max Gardener, One Punk Army, Rob Simundson, Videos via Sex_N_Violence channel

Who knew?

We’re loaded in and set on backline, ready to stroll over to Joe Jost’s for our usual
pre-game: Special and a Schooner. Maybe an egg.

Johnny’s doing sound tonight, and he comes in with a box of mics, looks around the room and stops me on the way out.
“What’s going on in here, all these people?” he asks.

I look around, and it’s true.
The room is already half full, this at 7:45pm. Every barstool taken, people already camped out in the booth stage right.

We’re used to the room being empty, at least until 25 minutes into the second band.
Oh, you know… Long Beach.

“Huh.” I say.
“What, some kind of party earlier today?”

I see a few familiar faces in the room, but for the most part it is not the usual Alex’s crowd.
Fewer tats, less ironical facial hair.
Smiles.

These people look, well, excited to be here.

We threw a party of old chums and had no idea if anyone would show.
After all, it’s one thing to join the party on Facebook, just a mouseclick of commitment while you sit in your footie pajamas on a cold Wednesday night, bottle at hand.
But to venture out into the night, post-daylight savings, and brave the bewildering parking laws of Anaheim boulevard?
Iffy.

Oh, they came out brother, and from the looks of things they wore their sippin’ shoes!

The night kicks off with Full Tilt Trio, and Tbone gets his chance to show the hometown crowd he’s all growed up!

The room is packing by now, and it’s a true pleasure to catch up with Joe Wood and his Lonely Ones!

Let me tell you, we’re having fun now!
Drinks are spilled as people rush across the sticky floor—faces from the past come through the front door, shouts and hugs are exchanged.
Wide grins, weepy smiles.

It’s like a high school reunion for all the bad kids—finally!

Mike Eldred Trio is up on the boards, and Mike and company do that thing they do:

Rocks the joint, dusts the broom, shakes the moneymaker:
You know, all those Bluesy sexual things, that’s what they do!

I vaguely remember us up there too, something about shoes being thrown and very bad behavior from fifty-year old men in the pit.
But what the hell?

No one’s working tomorrow, so we let ‘er rip!

It’s like being back in the yard, a Cerritos night party, when I look over and see old pal Larry Kelley onstage.
And the years past are erased when I feel his familiar bass lines coming to me from stage right.

Center stage, we’re singing one of the old ones now, and it’s in my periphery that I sense Larry there: there’s no gray hairs or wrinkles coming between us from this angle.

It’s as comforting a sight as a full bottle of Xanax next to the NyQuil on the nightstand, I tells ya!

All too early, it’s over.

Kisses are planted upon cheek and mouth, phone numbers entered and saved on borrowed phones.
We make drunkenly solemn promises not to let another 30 years go by, but you know how that goes.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, and everyone has plans.
At this age, this generation, we’re left largely without parents.

Gone are the days of the automatic Thanksgiving meetings at Mom’s house, maybe still off the 91 freeway and those familiar offramps.

We had those years of just showing up, fighting with our brothers and sisters and going back to our shitty apartments by the beach for bong rips when we had our fill of family.

But it’s different now.
We are the parents now, and new traditions have begun.
It’s a terrifying thing if you stop and consider the ongoing march of time, and how we take the place of those we held solid as boulders not five, ten years before.

But we take our seat at the big kids’ table and now make the turkey ourselves.

And who knows, if we are starting our own traditions now, around our own families, who’s to say we haven’t started another one?
This one, with the family we’ve chosen.

Additonal photos from Ronnie Lyon, Martin Wong, and ripped off of Facebook!

The 91 freeway cuts a perfect part down the middle of Cerritos, and growing up our nights were always haunted by the constant whoosh and sizzle of unending traffic.
A soundtrack that finally faded into subconscious with the years, just as the faint smell of cowshit from those few remaining dairy farms became the normal perfume of a new day.
You would lie in bed and have to listen for the sound of the freeway to finally hear it again, ever present yet unnoticed like the surge of ocean tide.

We’d been practicing in the garage for 8 months, had a set list heavy on Ramones and AC/DC covers.
We played them and played them again, and when Dave Gaumer mentioned a kegger and a chance to play in front of people we said yes, then immediately regretted it.

Oh, we were badass in Mom’s garage alright, playing Blitzkrieg Bop and Whole Lotta Rosie again and again.
Getting the shit down, learning how to play the guitars a little lower, throwing in the windmill now and then. Garage stuff.

But to get out there-to the backyard party!-this was a new and scary day.
The Big Friday finally came, and with it the night of our party debut.

We didn’t have a guitar tuner, so we brought our guitars up to Kimm’s bedroom and tuned up to Led Zeppelins’ Custard Pie, that riff a perfect key of A.
We tuned the guitars and took one more look at the casual outfits we’d spent a week assembling. We put the guitars in case and went to Dave’s.

Now, I don’t know how you kids do it these days.

Oh, you got your GarageBand apps and Bandcamp profile, and I hear this new Myspace site is all the rage these days, am I right?
And then what? is it pay to play at the local shithole?
Just another event created and posted on Facebook, distributed as casually and exponentially as the charming herpes simplex virus2 of our day?

I feel sorry for ya kid, I really do. Set loose in the wilds of sleazy promoters and soul-dead club owners, it’s no place for young pups to grow free range.
What happened to the backyard party, hmmm?!

What happened to the chance to set up next to the pool, what became of the kegger and blankets hastily thrown over Mom’s best coffee table?
The chance to play Rock Bottom very badly while the neighbors either called the cops or wandered over with an empty quart mug in hand.
And when the cops came, the word had already spread of the next party, Maybe Later or Metro Hotel playing just the other side of Studebaker, someone’s parents out of town and an Aunt already passed out upstairs!

High school days, it was the rockin bands that played the parties.
And admittedly, there was no way we were ever going to master the axe compared to those guys.
But what a thrill, to see someone playing music live, right there!
Ground level, in your face-loud!
To witness an actual band playing on the shag carpet, or out in the mud.
To be able to see what made the pick slide sound or see a drummer lose his stick–you couldn’t witness that from a Loge seat at the Forum brother!

And when a new type of band started playing at the parties, a rawer stripped down noise, it was all over!
Perry and Joe show up with Der Stab, the Hated brings the Pistols to the party: it was wild.

Each week someone else would show up with their surfer/stoner locks chopped off, maybe a fishing lure hanging from a bloody hole in earlobe or cheek!

And for some reason, our old hometown became a fertile place for these parties, two or three any given weekend night was not unheard of.
Directions and flyers were copied and copied again in Social Studies class, rumors of 2 keg bashes passed along the copper wire of actual landline telephones….

How did we get away with it? And where the hell did all the parents go?

Oh, occasionally there were those parents present, Dad more than willing to break out the booze for the kids and show them how he used to be, ya know, hip himself.
Moms with gleaming eyes amidst the palpable hormonal funk of teenage boys, this decades before the term Cougar is coined.

But for the most part, the house is empty and parents out of town. The kids are in charge.
We load in through the garage. Put a combo amp on the ottoman. A few planks of plywood on milk crates for a drum riser if we’re really going fancy.

Downbeat at 9 o’clock, and with the first chord of My Generation, the main breaker blows and the house is plunged into thrilling sexual darkness.
I would ask you, what the fuck could be better to a 17 year old kid?

We cut our teeth in the backyards and living rooms of that town, though sometimes the parties lasted only a few minutes into the first song.
Ah, but there were those magical nights, maybe the neighbors were gone too (or they were deaf!), and the party would go long into the night: 3 sets, maybe 4.
We’d play Devo and Monkees, Clash and Judas Priest, anything we could pull off, if barely.
20 minute versions of Wild Thing/Louie Louie, with six different people taking turns at the mic.

And we were learning how to play.
Slipping in an original here and there, keeping tabs on the other bands to see when they made the next logical jump:
The Hated gets an actual gig at Cuckoo’s Nest, Injected Insanity cuts a demo tape in an actual studio.

The day came, it always does.
We moved on.

Out of the backyard, and into the clubs.
Out on the road, into the studio, into the grinding machine we all jump into willingly.
Hopefully keeping our heads just above the blades that threaten to shred our very spirit as we keep playing the music we love.

And so, a real honor coming up.
A chance to play a show with our old chums from the backyard days.

And yeah, although there will be a cover charge and drink specials, a proper PA that doesn’t hide the thrilling threat of electrocution, we’ll have a blast!
We’ll play our songs like we were back in the yard, under the stars on a sultry Summer night, in a place that was home.

Dave had cleared out the service porch off to the side of the kitchen. We set up wordlessly, combo amps on the washing machine and our rental PA stacked on the kitchen counter.
We kept our backs to the drunken kids packed into the hallways.
And when we reached for knobs on the amps and guitars to turn and turn again, our hands shook.

We turned to face them and for just a moment they hushed in anticipation. We kicked off–999’s Let’s Face It was the first song we played.

We’d practiced the song endlessly, but we played it too fast and mindlessly, like rolling off the Act of Contrition at the end of a rambling and awkward confession.

But played it right and when we finished, all on the beat, there was a delicious moment of silence.
And then the whole party went whooo! and Yeah!!
And we were now, I guess, in a band.

Outside, after, Red Frances comes up and says we did ok.
I’d known her since 9th grade homeroom, but she was miles away from us all now.
The first girl in Cerritos to dye her hair and start hanging in Hollywood with the actual punks.

She smiled, and then cracked a Black Beauty capsule underneath my nose.

And later, as she had me pinned up against a palm tree trunk, I tasted not only the medicinal drip on her tongue, but also cigarettes, alcohol, lies—-the flavors I would end up living with for then next few decades as a musician.

The waves of the 91 freeway crashed once again and I shuddered involuntarily.
And though it was probably the amphetamine racing through my heart, I closed my eyes and kissed her back, and pretended it was something more.

This weekend, an early set at our beloved nautical dive The Redwood.

A benefit for Punk Rock Rovers supporting Pasadena Humane Society ya say?

Hell yeah, and why not?
These furballs are us, and we them–and they need our help.

Well, the dogs do, anyway.
Cats? They can take care of themselves, thank you!

Oh sure, we all know that cats are the goths of the domestic animal set, sneaky little devils that lurk in the shadows selling fake black beauties to minors and barfing up half eaten sparrows.
They drink absinthe, listen to Morissey a lot and smoke cloves still.

I know, I know–ya love the little bastards.
That’s cool.
Just be aware that they will not give a fuck when you have that aneurysm and keel over mid sentence:
They’ll simply slip out into the night and find the next sucker with a can opener and record collection to destroy.

The pup, on the other hand— this guy is pure punk rock, am I right?
Dogs are all beery slobber and panting enthusiasm, heart upon fuzzy sleeve.

The canine prefers Sham 69 and cheap domestic lager.
He is willing to stage dive at a moment’s notice, not caring if someone’s there to catch him or not!

Ah, fuckin’ dogs–how do they do it?
We bring these guys into our lives, easy as buying a new end table or leasing a car.
And you think–ok, another thing in the house.
Buy some kibble, couple squeakies at Petco, and that’s it.

But somehow, they wedge themselves into your life, into your heart, and become the very dearest part of your daily being.
In the darkest days of Winter , when you leave the house in weak gray light and make it home well after dark after that 75 minute commute, who’s there?

Ears up, mouth open, as excited as you feel on a sunny Summer Saturday, a world of promise and love, the last day of school—-and all of this on a rainy Monday night.

A dog truly teaches us not just what love is, but how to love.
To love without judgement, and more importantly , without words!

After all, why do ya think it is that we love them so?
It’s because they don’t talk back, no matter how many heavy confessions they have to endure!

And, oh, what they’ve seen.

Our triumphs, sure.
The walk in the park, a day at dog beach–those are the easy ones…

But the pup also bears witness to your lowest points, waiting on the other side of the front door as your drunken ass stabs at the lock with key for seven agonizing minutes, one eye closed and pissing your pants.

And do we really need to mention what else she’s seen, hmmm?–
Solo and shameful acts that the poor old girl had to witness, and never utter a word or go tattling to Facebook?
God bless them all!

Owner? Of a dog? yer fuckin kidding me–
It is at best a partnership, but in the end we know that the dog owns us, gives us the very reason to go on.

A tentative tether to the real world, so when you’re off on that 3 day bender, what keeps you from hitting the highway to Vegas or jumping the channel to Catalina?
The bowls need to be filled with food and water, the door needs to be cracked open—–don’t you see?

Who’s going to keep your heart filled?
Who’s going to keep your soul propped open, if just by an inch, to love?

You know the answer.

Lucy is with me every moment: lying across my numb legs all night, farting in the corner of the shop all day.
Enduring awful practices late at night, walking endless loops around Old Town Seal with me, hauntng the streets like restless ghosts.

That’s her snoring in the corner of the Irisher, only the occasional kick of legs and yelp signaling the never-ending rabbit chases of her dreams.

Dog hair has covered my house, car and clothes–my entire life—- the twelve years past.

We’re on stage, House of Blues Hollywood, a million miles from daily life.
They hit you with proper spotlights on the downbeat and there, floating in front of my eyes, I see the floating brindle hairs that come off of my shirtsleeves—

Son, you are never to escape or be able to forget–you have a dog!

But why am I even saying it? You know these things.
Every one that has ever had a dog in their life, they know.
They know the joy and sublime security of having a dog there.

And we all–we all have to some day know the devastation of loss.

And how else to say this?

Say you were parked on some side street in Westminster a recent Saturday morning, 10am.
You might see me, a mess, up all night, and carrying my beloved dog in arms into the vet.

And say you had reason to sit there by the curb.
You might be there thirty minutes later, when I came out alone, holding only a dog collar in hand.

And maybe you see Mr. big tough punk rocker shattered: real tears, unstoppable.

Tomorrow we’ll load in and unpack the gear, untangling cords last packed up in Blackpool, counting the drum sticks broken in Belgium.
And then we’ll open the guitar cases, and i just know what I’ll find.

The tell-tale brindle hairs still covering the guitar strap of the Fender.
BrownBlack strands, fine as whispers, reminders of something very precious that was once in my life.

Liner notes for the upcoming Fear of Life reissue on Drastic Plastic Records!

We were surprised and thrilled when Robbie Fields called us one day, it’s probably early in the year 1982.
We were to report back to the Brian Elliot studios in North Hollywood to begin work on this record…..an actual full length album!

Oh, we were getting along pretty well on the CH3 EP, playing bigger gigs all the time and snipping out some glowing reviews, but there weren’t many bands that actually went on to record that next record on Posh Boy, not to mention a third!

A lot of bands recorded one stellar EP or a smoldering track for one of the compilations, and then were gone.
But we were beyond proud to be on the Posh Boy label, and wanted to be known as one of the stable. Amazing to think we were on the shelves next to our heroes: Simpletones, The Crowd, Agent Orange!
And the mere fact that we had songs out there in the wilderness–-played on some college radio stations out there in the darkness for God sake! was beyond our sheltered Cerritos comprehension.

We would get interview requests from Lincoln Nebraska, Minneapolis MN—people wanting to know the back story of Manzanar, and Wetspots—is that song saying what I think its saying?? –and we were floored.

To think of a low wattage radio station, maybe playing for a just few pie-eyed students in the dorm on a Sunday midnight, but still–playing our songs!

So when we came in to do this album, we brought in all the songs that we’d had since the garage days.
We had these poppier songs before the EP, sure–Wanna Know Why and Make Me Feel Cheap, tracks that showed a slower—dare I say more sensitive?–punker than those leering knuckleheads on the back of the EP.

But Robbie in all of his wisdom left the love songs off the first go round, opting for the leaner meaner introduction. The plan worked: we got a foot in the door, but now it was time to let them all see what we really could do!
I don’t know who suggested Fear of Life as the title track, but looking back on this collection of songs it certainly fits:
This is a collection of songs reflecting our mindset at the time: confused, aroused, and yeah…..maybe even a little bit afraid of, for lack of a better word…. life!

The song titles pop out at you like the chapters of a cheesy self help book you’d see in the airport display rack: A Parent’s Guide to Troubled Teens.
Out of Control, I Wanna Know Why, Catholic Boy, Fear of Life, You Lie….oh yeah–Life Goes On!

Oh brother, I can only think now: Each a fitting working title for an afterschool special or a very special episode of Growing Pains!

Ah, but somehow they all fit together in a way, and I can forgive our former teenage selves for being a bit too earnest and over sincere. We ended up with a sort of concept album for the times: that the theme is drunken bored teenagers try to destroy themselves is irrelevant!

Musically, it was the magical mix of the original lineup that made the sound.
Madman drummer Mike Burton, never one to be restricted by coming in on even numbers or playing a song the same way twice, put down some remarkable tracks. And our dear Larry Kelley, whose up and down strum of index finger provided and unmistakable bass line completed the foundation.
We did all we could think of to differentiate between two guitars playing the same song, and Jay Lansford was never far away with a suggestion or even a line of his own to set a song to sail.
And now, listening to the test pressing, with all of these songs brought back to glorious audio life, I think:
Fear of Life, indeed!

We faced those fears as teens, and now we are worn men looking back on the smoking ruins: of lives remembered, the friends lost and the cars crushed.

But the record brings back all those sweet years as well, the freedom and wildness of being boys in a landscape that was just being defined. And as we plunged ahead into the unknown we did the best we could, relying on friendship and cheap beer to make sense of it all.

And you think, then, that maybe being afraid isn’t the worst thing after all.