When I Was a Rockstar: My Life in the 1980s Hardcore Scene

 

The Gateway: Metal Magazines and Mystery Bands

The first time punk rock entered my radar was around 1983, flipping through metal magazines like Kerrang!, Circus, and Hit Parader. Buried among the glossy photos of spandex-clad hair metal bands and Ozzy Osbourne's latest antics, I spotted an advertisement for Black Flag's "Damaged" LP. The cover alone was arresting—a stark black-and-white image that looked nothing like the airbrushed fantasy covers dominating metal at the time.

Then I started noticing a very young Metallica in these same magazines, their members sporting t-shirts from bands I'd never heard of: Misfits, Dead Kennedys, Discharge. These weren't metal bands. There was something very fringe, very underground about these mysterious groups, and I needed to know what punk rock was all about.

The mystique was intoxicating. Here were metal bands I respected—Metallica was already building a reputation—wearing shirts from bands that seemed to exist in some parallel music universe I hadn't accessed yet. If Metallica thought these bands were cool enough to advertise on their bodies, I needed to investigate.

The First Disappointment

I remember saving up the $5 postpaid fee to purchase my first hardcore punk album: "Family Man" by Black Flag. The money came from mowing lawns and washing cars—five dollars was a significant investment for a thirteen-year-old in 1984. The graphic depiction on the cover instantly drew me in. I had the impression this was going to be some brutal sonic assault that would make heavy metal look like nursery rhymes.

I cannot tell you how disappointed and disturbed I was when the record finally arrived from SST warehouse in California a few weeks later. I was absolutely gutted.

I had no idea it was Henry Rollins ranting in his so-called poetry on one full side of the album and almost all instrumental madness from Greg Ginn on the other side. There was only one track that could actually be called a song, and that wasn't redemptive enough to prevent me from feeling completely scammed by what I thought was going to be the next milestone in underground music.

My introduction to punk rock was a spoken-word album and experimental guitar noodling. It was like ordering a hamburger and receiving a philosophy lecture with a side of ambient noise. I felt betrayed by SST Records, by Black Flag, by the entire punk rock movement I'd been so eager to discover.

The Dead Kennedys Incident

I didn't roll the dice on punk again until later that year, 1984, when my dad drove me to Peaches Records and Tapes. I was more cautious now, having been burned once. I browsed the stacks of vinyl in search of something good, making my way to the Heavy Metal section to see all the usual suspects.

I was on my second cassette copy of Black Sabbath's "Mob Rules" by then, having worn out the first one so badly that the tape broke inside the cassette and was forever lost. Even though I had seen Metallica in all the metal zines, I hadn't really listened to them yet. I flipped past their current release, "Ride the Lightning," not ready to make that leap.

I moved to the singles section and almost immediately saw what I knew very well to be a swastika on the cover—but it was crossed out, circled and slashed like a "No Smoking" sign. The words "Nazi Punks Fuck Off" titled the release. This was the now-infamous Dead Kennedys.

I had to have it. The imagery was provocative, yes, but the message was clear: anti-fascism. Punks against Nazis. It seemed righteously subversive.

I carried it somewhat reluctantly to where my dad was browsing in the jazz section and asked if I could buy it. Back then, at fourteen, kids still sought permission for such purchases. He saw the swastika and the F-bomb and said no. His tone left no room for negotiation.

I hung my head and returned it to its bin, defeated again.

The State Fair Salvation (and Satanic Irony)

That fall, my mother took me to the Virginia State Fair. My parents had been divorced since I was three, but I stayed with her every other weekend, and this was her weekend. After much fun on the rides and eating terrible fair food, I was attracted to the vendor stall selling band t-shirts.

There were Loverboy shirts, Waylon Jennings tank tops, and Duran Duran tube tops. But wait—what was that I saw? A black tee with a huge crossed-out swastika and the words "Nazi Punks Fuck Off" emblazoned across the top.

It had all come full circle. Fate was giving me another chance. I was destined to dive into the punk abyss.

I asked my mother if I could buy the taboo tee. She read the writing across the fabric and said, "I don't think so, honey. Your daddy wouldn't like that."

It wasn't that she had a problem with it—it was that my father would ostensibly take issue. The divorced parent diplomatic dance. Foiled again!

Then she pointed to the shirt hanging next to it, which read "Venom... Welcome to Hell," and asked if I liked that one instead.

This blew my mind. The cognitive dissonance was staggering. Punks against fascism wasn't allowed, but Satanism was okay? I couldn't process the logic, but I wasn't about to argue. Of course, I left the fair wearing the Venom tee.

That's how I got into extreme metal proper before punk rock—through parental inconsistency and a complete misunderstanding of which subcultural messages were actually dangerous.

Punk Kicks Down My Door

It wasn't long before punk finally found me and kicked in my front door. By winter of 1984, I had acquired a Circle Jerks album, "Golden Shower of Hits," and it was on. This was the real thing—fast, furious, funny, and absolutely uncompromising. Keith Morris's sneering vocals, the breakneck tempo, the absolute rejection of everything mainstream rock represented.

I started a one-man band called Garden of Fetus. The name alone should tell you how seriously I took myself—which is to say, I was utterly serious but completely ridiculous. By my sophomore year in high school, I had recruited a few band members to play some really primitive punk-inspired garage rock.

I used an ancient rhythm machine that plugged into a Wurlitzer organ as my drummer. I recorded hours of droning guitars with squealing solos that sounded like Greg Ginn's worst nightmare—and not in a good way. My vocals featured a feigned California surfer accent despite never having been west of the Mississippi.

I had no idea what I was doing, and luckily, none of the guys I played with did either. We were making it up as we went, which was somehow perfectly punk rock.

Becoming the First

By 1985, I was fully punk rock. I was the first kid in my school to have both ears pierced, which seems quaint now but was genuinely transgressive in mid-1980s suburban Virginia. Then I added a second piercing to my left ear, then a second to my right ear, and on and on.

I had a rivalry with the pretty boy skaters who listened to The Smiths and Dead Milkmen. They were the art school punks with disposable income and supportive parents who thought their rebellion was "a phase." I was part of the crust punks who didn't bathe every single day and were too poor to buy Vans, so we wore hand-me-down Chucks and made our own band t-shirts with RIT dye and Sharpies.

My favorites were Circle Jerks, D.O.A., Black Flag (the good stuff, not that Henry Rollins talking crap), the Descendents, and Minor Threat. These bands represented different facets of what punk could be—political, personal, humorous, and uncompromising.

The Straight Edge Conversion

In 1986, after becoming a skinhead and sporting oxblood Doc Martens, my life changed when a friend lent me his DYS album, "Brotherhood." Dave Smalley became my hero overnight, and I mimicked his every move as faithfully as I could.

Straight Edge was now my life. The transformation was radical and immediate. I went overnight from snorting amphetamines in abandoned buildings in downtown Richmond and running away from home with two punk rock girls to New York City—where we slept in Central Park in a pup tent with a duffel bag full of machetes, throwing stars, and tear gas spray—to being vegetarian, drug-free, and espousing a positive way of life. Or else.

The "or else" was important. Early Straight Edge wasn't gentle or accommodating. We were militant, confrontational, absolutely convinced of our righteousness. We were teenagers who'd replaced one form of rebellion with another, equally uncompromising form.

Screaming for Change

My first Straight Edge band was called Screaming for Change! I had adapted the name from one of my favorite California bands, Uniform Choice. I made a practice tape and handed it to the king of the Richmond punk scene, Taylor Steele of the band Pledge Allegiance.

Taylor was the epitome of Straight Edge youth, even though he was one of the dinosaurs in the scene at twenty years old. After my failed attempt to abscond with two punk rock chicks to live in penury in Manhattan, Taylor had convinced my parents that he would look out for me if they agreed to let me leave home with their consent to live "downtown."

I guess they thought he was going to be my foster parent or something, but he really just provided the ride to the bad part of town and dropped me off. When I wised up and came home a few weeks later, tail between my legs and significantly humbled, Taylor was still around.

He was impressed by my music. He said it was the most unapologetic Straight Edge he'd ever heard. He said I had real balls to say the things I was screaming about, and he became the band's biggest supporter, helping us get our first few shows.

The First Show

Our first show was at Rockitz in Richmond, a venerable club that had seen every notable punk and hardcore band during the early and mid-eighties. We opened for a local band called The Guilty, whose singer and bass player would later become GWAR—though none of us knew that destiny at the time.

I recall that first show being pelted with pocket change as a few smartasses' attempt to make fun of our name, Screaming for Change! The coins clattered across the stage while we played. I was later told that some of the hooligans were Dave Brockie and members of the local band Honor Role.

Looking back, getting heckled by the future Oderus Urungus is actually a badge of honor, but at the time, it just felt like getting shit on by the cool kids.

Evolution and Reinvention

After a few shows, I felt the need to reinvent the band and changed the name to What If! We pretty much played the same songs and basically had the same members, but we were evolving, influenced more by Dag Nasty than DYS—both Dave Smalley projects, which meant I was still essentially a Smalley fanboy.

The highlight of the What If! era was when I arranged for Youth of Today to play in Richmond on their summer "Break Down the Walls" tour. My band and D.C.'s On Edge opened for these Straight Edge giants. On Edge would later become Touch Down, which I fronted for a brief but memorable period.

Youth of Today gave an unforgettable performance. After the show, Walter Schreifels, the bass player who would later pioneer Quicksand and contribute volumes to the New York hardcore scene, praised me on my singing. Then he quietly whispered that Ray Cappo was talking about signing us to Revelation Records.

This made me absolutely ecstatic. Revelation was the Straight Edge label. Getting signed to Rev would mean we'd arrived, that we were legitimate.

Busch Gardens with Youth of Today

The band stayed with me at my parents' house, and we went to Busch Gardens theme park the next day for an experience I'll never forget. Here I was, a seventeen-year-old hardcore kid, riding roller coasters with Youth of Today.

Ray was visibly upset with the rest of the band because everyone was gorging on funnel cakes and sodas while he had demanded a strict health food diet while on tour. The contradiction of Straight Edge kids abandoning discipline for theme park junk food wasn't lost on anyone, but temptation proved too strong.

Poor Mike "Judge" Ferraro, the drummer who would become the frontman of the iconic band Judge, was left at my house with the flu. My dad took care of him, bringing him soup and checking his temperature—my conservative, jazz-loving father nursing a hardcore punk drummer back to health. The absurdity was perfect.

The Hare Krishna Hardcore Pioneer

Shortly after that summer, I reinvented the band again and called it Intact. There were some member changes, and ultimately I was trying to be as hard as we could be. The new Straight Ahead record had dropped, and everyone was blown away by this new New York hardcore sound—heavy, metallic, uncompromising.

Nothing ever came of the potential recording contract with Revelation, but I remained friends with all those guys and traveled up to New York to see and play shows at places like CBGB and Connecticut's legendary club, The Anthrax.

New Year's of 1988, my band Touch Down opened for a massive show with Wide Awake, Up Front, and Supertouch. We sold Touch Down t-shirts for as much as $50 because kids wanted them so badly. We also had a three-song demo that became legendary in certain circles—the kind of tape that got passed around, dubbed and re-dubbed until the sound quality degraded into beautiful lo-fi chaos.

During this time, I had started getting more into animal rights and wanted a band that reflected that commitment. I started Fed Up! with my best friend Jay. It was originally conceived as an animal rights activist band but quickly became a Hare Krishna hardcore band.

We were the first of this kind. Other bands like Cro-Mags and Antidote had members who practiced Hare Krishna, but this was the first self-proclaimed Hare Krishna hardcore band with all members practicing, and the message was solely inspired by the ancient Vedic religion.

Fed Up! released a couple of demos and was supposed to release a 7-inch, but it never materialized. Near the end of Fed Up! in 1989, I was asked to play bass in Four Walls Falling. We toured the East Coast and produced the band's first 7-inch, which became a minor classic in hardcore circles.

The Exit

During those last few months, my taste in music was shifting. I could be seen wearing Joy Division t-shirts and putting my hair up like Robert Smith. I was clearly exiting stage left from hardcore by 1990 and was effectively out of the scene by later that year.

After all, I had married and had a son in 1990. A second son was born in 1991. It was time to grow up, despite the urgings not to by the Descendents in "I Don't Want to Grow Up."

The transition wasn't easy. The hardcore scene had been my entire identity for six years—from age fourteen to twenty. Leaving meant abandoning a community, a set of values, a way of understanding myself in the world.

Reflections on a Scene

I had the great pleasure of befriending almost all of my musical heroes during the eighties. I played many shows with bands I idolized. I made a name for myself, even though it wasn't always flattering. I was known as intense, uncompromising, sometimes abrasive—all qualities that served me well in hardcore but less so in adult life.

But I lived authentically, for whatever that was worth. I believed in my causes and gave my whole heart to them—from drug-free and alcohol-free living to animal rights and vegetarianism. These weren't poses or phases. They were genuine commitments that shaped who I became.

Many of the bands I used to play with are still out there now, in their late fifties and sixties, still touring, still playing the same songs, still committed to the scene. I respect that loyalty and consistency.

But the world was just too fascinating for me to stay in that place. I had to move on. Some people are happy with what's familiar, and I genuinely wish them the best. My life took a different course.

The hardcore scene gave me something invaluable: the understanding that you could create your own culture, your own values, your own community from scratch. That DIY ethos—make your own t-shirts, book your own shows, start your own label, form your own band even if you can't play—has served me in every endeavor since.

I wasn't a rockstar in any conventional sense. I never signed to a major label, never played arena shows, never made money from music. But in the small, intense world of 1980s East Coast hardcore, I mattered. Kids knew my bands. People sought out our demos. We contributed something to a movement that, for a brief moment, felt like it might change the world.

And maybe, in small ways, it did. At least it changed me.

The mohawk grew out. The Doc Martens wore through. The X's I'd drawn on my hands with permanent marker eventually faded. But something essential remained—the belief that you could live according to principles, that compromise wasn't inevitable, that intensity and commitment mattered more than commercial success.

I was a rockstar. Not the kind MTV celebrated, but the kind that mattered to kids in VFW halls and basements, kids who needed to believe that another way of living was possible.

And for that brief, beautiful, chaotic moment in the 1980s, we made that belief real.