crippled self.
But something momentous happened on my birthday that brought back energy sorely
lacking. My ex-wife of sorts, she just named her first child after me. Born April 2nd, another
demon Aries adopts the trademark. It reminds me that even though I’m in a bunker behind my
own wall 99% of the time, there are those who think highly enough to name their children after
me, or insist their kids to refer to me as “Uncle Bartek.”
It rebirths an essential notion of why I’m doing this. I’m an Architect building a new
world for my people. The steps may seem small and incoherent, but everything feeds the grand
design. This quest may be summed into a book, but the foundation will live on. No geographical
boundaries, all that skittles and unicorns fairy tale bullshit…
This is why there is no more room to play it safe. All the easy targets have been
conquered – Southern California, Albuquerque, Denver. It’s time to play hardball and San Fran is
first on the list. Unlike other locations, I do not have a solid contact that I know on a personal
level. I only have two people I can count on, and probably only good for a day each. I have a full
6 days to kill, just me versus the street. At the finish line will be a white van ready to escort me
through a swathe of unexplored territory.
I’d called an old pal from D Town to check some online tour dates, and in the process
randomly scored my first spoken word tour. That character would be Neil Patterson Esquire IIIrd,
vocalist/guitarist from cult goofball act Downtown Brown. About to launch their first full-scale
USA tour, Downtown Brown were in desperate need of a driver/merch fool & I just happened to
be randomly available: “Just grab the microphone and pound them with mental artillery Bartek --
leave no man standing.”
Yet back to San Francisco. My contacts are a shadowy character named Raul from a
grind/death hybrid called High Intensity Discharge. Last week he arranged my visit after a series
of frantic calls in which he declared he was “serious as a fucking heart attack” and that he’d put
me up for a week. He says he’s been in the SF metal scene since the early 90’s and knows
everyone important – Impaled, Machine Head, James Murphy…
The other is an older lady named ‘Black Metal Martha’ who runs a metal zine and knows
everyone in town. She’ll be back 3 days after my arrival, because she’s at the famed Inferno
extreme metal fest in Norway. I also have dates with Jello Biafra’s Alternative Tentacles World
Headquarters, that label’s first-ever black metal band Ludicra, an industrial act named
Stormdrain, and death metal legends Severed Savior. Most importantly, I have an immediate
rendezvous with DWARVES front man Blag Dahlia soon as I step off the greyhound…
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8 hours north of Los Angeles the scenery has dropped from Desert wasteland into a slow turnover
of luscious green pastures enclosed by mountains… What I would assume to be Scotland. The
surrounding lakes appear to be lochs; rural sheep farms & wooden post enclosures… The sun is
blotted out by low-coasting fog as we ascend in altitude… Heavy fog decapitates freeway, huge
white lane highway…
BAM. One slick turn and you’re in San Francisco cruising down a high-rise freeway into
the city. Art deco houses are a perfect grid on the side of the mountain, like green and red
Monopoly pieces lined perfectly on Baltic Ave. or a Toho Film set Gojira would annihilate. They
slop down the hills same as Mexico populism viewed from the San Antonio line.
The high-rise highway connects to a half dozen other aerial freeways which twist around
the outskirts of San Fran. The city is a distant view; an air of New York can be felt. We’re shot
into a darkened tunnel with zooming fluorescent lights, then dumped into the massive Greyhound
station on Market Street. There a hundreds rushing around this transport; outside I embrace the
humidly cold chill.
Market Street appears Frisco’s answer to Wall Street -- the architecture is still the old SF
you’ll recognize in b/w photographs circa 1910. You can tell that the econo-friendly “yippy”
movement is immersed in such preservation. SF won’t let their heritage cripple to modernization.
Trolleys, busses, cabs, tens of thousands on the street exploding in Friday night rush
hour. I need to get across town to Haight/Ashbury, because Blag Dahlia is only hanging around
for an extra hour, tops, because he needs a rental car and to exit the state by 8pm.
It’s a little after 6pm already, and the deal is that we are to meet for a quick 15 minutes at
the most convenient of bars for him. I cautiously call and apologetically explain the situation.
With this monotone, emotionless voice he kind of sounds like an operator doing tech support. He
gives me concise directions to his house and lays out 5 intricate bus routes -- the cost of transfers,
street corners, numbers, the probability of variables…
30 minutes of curb before I catch the bus. Raul from High Intensity Discharge calls. I tell
him I’ll be in Hashbury and ready around 7:30ish, and to wait for my signal. He says to take my
time and be ready to party. By Haight my head is spinning. There are hipsters, vegans & squatters
everywhere, but I can’t stall a minute to register. I have to run up and down 4 huge hills over five
blocks to get to Blag’s pad sweating, panting, tardy, and Raul ringing my phone off the hook with
no ability to answer.
Quickly meditating to gain my composure, Blag opens the door. I almost didn’t recognize
him -- just an older looking guy with graying hair & glasses in a black sweater, blue jeans and
converse sneakers. He is tall and skinny, static and unphased like he smoked a bowl 2 hours
beforehand and was working it off. I shake his hand and he leads me up a large flight of stairs. He
kind of points around at everything – his book shelf, his cat, his computer. It is sparsely decorated
with a couple posters, barely any furniture, a few boxes of vinyl. He’s lived there over 15 years
and it looks like he just moved in. We go over the usual formalities and asks if I need any coffee
or to use the shower.
Everything maintains a punctual air until I instinctually start babbling about Alan Arkin
and Groucho Marx. This gets everything on track as we head out to grub Arab cuisine. Blag stops
to talk to an old black guy on the street corner and introduces me to rapper Sam Quen’s father.
The old fellow gives me that slick curling fingers handshake, and the punk icon and I wander off
into a grey Friday seeking the nearest shwarmas…
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BLAG THE RIPPER (DWARVES OVERLORD)
When you’re strolling alongside a fellow that’s so accomplished and still pushes on you no ego
trip whatsoever, you know you’re in the company of someone who deserves the respect they
maintain. Originally formed as Suburban Nightmare in 1986 outside Chicago, THE DWARVES
have steadily left their mark on the world of punk.
Known for the iconic imagery featuring scummy little people engaging in a plethora of
non-Ann Landers appropriations, DWARVES are visually known for their two leading original
members. Heroin-thin guitarist He Who Cannot Be Named has an over-riding penchant for
Speedos, leather gauntlets, and luchadore wrestling masks. He’s like a forked tongued, fire-
breathing El Santo Villain.
Vocalist Blag The Ripper is an unmistakable mutant, standing 6 foot 5 with a menacing
lurch and cocky hip-hop swagger as he spins the microphone like a medieval mace pouring sweat
and blood all over the crowd. Other members go by pseudonyms such as Rec Tom, The Fresh
Prince of Darkness, and XXXXX, who supposedly disappeared in Detroit while on tour in a
massive, ungodly crack binge.
One is never certain the antics of these ghouls. In fact the entire punk world turned on
them viciously when He Who Cannot Be Named faked his own death via international press
statement in 1997, causing the band to be dropped from the famous “grunge” label Sub Pop. In
response, DWARVES began their own label Greedy Worldwide.
Seven records in, many of which are hard-sought collector vinyl’s, DWARVES have
toured on both sides of the Atlantic AND Pacific. From the seminal hardcore album Blood Guts
& Pussy to their latest genre-spanning opus DWARVES Must Die, their filthy legacy has left a
mushroom-shaped imprint on the foreheads of their hapless fan base. Sleeze, dirge, nudity,
insults, violence, hysteria – all in a nights performance, guaranteed…”
“Tell me about San Francisco.”
Blag Dahlia: “Well right now you’re in The Fillmore… I don’t know, I call it The
Fillmore. A lot of people call it the Western Addition. It’s somewhere between a slum and a cool
place. There’s beautiful houses and Victorians. But people get shot periodically in front of their
house.”
“Is this what Seattle is kind of like?”
“It’s a little different. Women aren’t quite as ugly as Seattle. The farther north in
California you get the less attractive the women get.”
“They have pimples running down their backs like the mane of a lion…”
“Exactly. You start down in San Diego and LA, the women are gorgeous. By the time
you get to San Francisco, they’re starting to slip heavily. By the time you get to Seattle, its bad.
But I love it here, it’s my neighborhood. People get shot here, but it’s also a family environment.
It’s hard to explain.”
“Tell me about The Dwarves.”
“The Dwarves are rock legends -- the undisputed, sonic champions.”
“Has the ‘Illuminati’ took notice of The Dwarves?”
“(Laughs) I hope so.”
“Where’d you come from originally?”
“Illinois, the suburbs of Chicago, a place called Highland Park. I moved here about
twenty years ago. We played all our early shows at The Cubbie Bear, The Metro…”
“Oh yeah, The Metro. I went to Columbia College in Chicago for a bit...”
“Our old drummer went down there. I always considered myself Chicago originally. I
think its good to come from the Midwest to figure out the world is not a glittering picnic like
California appeared to be.”
“This is my first real excursion in California. How’d you feel about Hollywood and
seeing that for the first time? I felt like it was glamorous as I expected and just as empty but
not as sleazy. I was a little disappointed.”
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“Wow, I guess it depends on where you went. If you’re in West Hollywood on the strip
there’s lots of fake tits, people with money running around, but when you get east of Hollywood
it’s a little dodgy, you can get in some trouble down there for sure. LA is bigger with people
firing guns.”
“[Waitress hand us the menus which list huge prices] Oh wow…”
“(Chuckles) That’ll give you some idea… that we built this city on rock and roll.”
“What other cities have been built on rock and roll thanks to The Dwarves?”
“You know I think that we, in some small way, helped put Seattle up on the map. We
were there before those people were, a lot of people thought we were from there, we were on Sub
Pop long before.”
“Did The Melvins like you?”
“We always had kind of a feud with The Melvins. But as the years go on those things are
kind of wiped away. We’re all friends now. We used to feud with a lot of bands, because that was
the nature of The Dwarves.”
“So did Good Charlotte really sleep on your couch at one point?”
“No. (Laughs) Good Charlotte never slept on my couch. I helped work on their big hit
record. I threw some lyrics on it and I made some money or it. I’m not very proud. I think they
suck. I think they’re one of the worst bands ever. They didn’t give me any credit. I think they
knew that I didn’t think very much of them.”
“What about the Creed reference in that song?”
“Creed I never actually met. But they’re just so loathsome. And I hate rock bands that
push god. It’s completely fucked. Its two separate things. Don’t push your god in rock and roll.
Like Great White. Their shows sucked so bad. And you know it’s always the people running
around talking about god that are the most hypocritical, cheap, lazy, fucked up, ignorant men.
That’s why they need god to convince everyone they’re a nice person. They think they’re actions
don’t bare them out.”
“What do you think of Fidel Castro?”
“Wow. Castro? I thought that he did a pretty interesting thing when he first took over the
country. The US government wasn’t quite sure which way to go with him. He asked the large
multi-national companies there to put a value on their company for tax purposes. Since they all
put so many low values, much less then they were actually worth, they thought they’d pay lower
taxes. Fidel turned around and asked ‘are you sure?’ They said yeah, and he paid them that in
cash and said get out and nationalized their industries. I thought that was a good move.”
“So when you walk the streets do people identify you or chase you?”
“You know it depends on the context. People are more likely to do that at a show. It’s not
like I get mobbed walking down the street. Occasionally people do, but I don’t really care as long
as its girls.”
“The last time I interviewed you it was in Detroit in 2005, and you told me that the
meaning and the message of The Dwarves was to snort a lot of cocaine and have sex with 14
year old girls. Does that still ring true?”
“(Busts out laughing) That sounds like something I’d say… I’ll relay this story: I was
watching television with a friend of mine, an older woman that has a kid that’s 22 years old. And
we were watching a show called Are You As Smart As A 5th Grader. I wasn’t really paying
attention and I looked up and I see this girl on there with glasses, she’s cute, she looks like my
type and I said ‘wow, she’s hot.’ And my friends like ‘she’s in fifth grade!’ That gives you some
idea of how my brain works. But I don’t act on those things. That wouldn’t be fair.”
“Yeah, it’s great to be a dirty old man to some degree.”