Brian Edge (compiler), �924 Gilman�
Brian Edge lists himself as �Compiler� for this book as you can�t really say it�s his. Instead, this is a collection mostly comprised of interviews of people who were involved with the legendary all-ages volunteer run punk club in Berkeley nearing its 20th anniversary.
Since they didn�t bother to interview me, I can put my story here. You may want to grab a snack.
A quick word of explanation for those who might not know about the club. 924 Gilman (Or Gilman Street as it�s commonly called) is a fairly small, ratty, smelly club that operates as a not-for-profit all-ages venue. In a world filled with $40 ticket prices for concerts, I�ve never seen the price go higher than six dollars for five bands.
And not for shitty bands either. I�ve seen bands like Fugazi, Bad Religion, Gwar, The Vandals, Rancid and more other bands with a semi-offensive name that you can think of. I also had some of the best times of my life there, both as an attendee and as a performer. We played with three of those five previous bands mentioned on Gilman�s stage, usually as an opener. But I still have bragging rights that Green Day opened for us.
But I�m getting ahead of myself. Last chance on that snack.
My first visit to the club was also the first time we got to play there. It was 1988, and our band Preachers That Lie (or PTL for short; this was the Jim Bakker era after all) were playing our first real show. None of us had cars at that time, and we didn�t have many friends with vehicles either. One of our friends filled up his aging Pinto with half of our equipment, myself, and the bass player. Stopping to refill the radiator two times, the 45 minute trip turned into a nearly two hour journey. He then dropped us off and turned around to pick up the rest of the equipment as well as the rest of the band.
The show was a benefit for the club. None of the four other bands were anybody we had ever heard of before. I suppose the reasoning was that by allowing newer bands to play, they would bring their friends. Of course, said logic failed with us, as we had no friends with cars or money.
We were dropped off around 6 p.m. The show was slated to begin at eight, and we were supposed to be the opening act. The booker, who I later realized was Cammie from the Yeastie Girlz, seemed impressed with the trouble we were going to in order to play, and said we could play second. When the second band stared playing and the rest of our band still hadn�t shown she said we could play third.
We ended up headlining that night. Of course, as we didn�t bring any of our friends, we played primarily for the staff and the bands that hadn�t left already. It took another six months before we were allowed to play again.
That probably wouldn�t have happened either, if we hadn�t decided to use their facilities to record our demo tape. While we were recording a ridiculously long tape with something like 26 songs, some people came into the recording area to watch us.
One guy looked at us like we were interrupting an important social call and stood directly in front of us, arms folded with an irritated expression. I made faces at him as I played, but stopped when I realized it was making me fuck up more than usual.
Finally, while we were taking a break he shouted out from the other end of the room, asking what we called ourselves. We answered.
�You want a show?� He yelled back.
�Uh... yeah!�
The booker, Stewart, was a godsend for us. Not only did he like our band, but he also liked us. He liked that we put on shows in San Jose instead of letting everybody else do the work, and more important, he liked that we followed the same principles of Gilman � low door prices, fair pay for bands, And no tolerance for bands with egos. He started giving us great shows with big headliners � The Melvins, Agression (yes, that�s how they spelled it, remember, spelling isn�t punk.), and Samiam. Then he gave us a show with The Vandals.
At the end of the show, The Vandals were acting like dicks. They were pissed about how much money they were getting and were demanding more. The singer was berating the staff and making everybody uncomfortable when I took our eighty dollar cut, wadded it up and threw it in the singer�s face, telling him to shut the fuck up. He did.
�Thank you,� Stewart said when the singer left.
�No problem,� I answered. �Can we play again sometime?�
�You bet your ass you get to play again!�
For the punk rockers that were around in the early 90s, imagine getting this phone call: �Okay, you can either play on the last show for Christ on Parade, with Neurosis and Econochrist, or you can play the next week with Bad Religion, NoFX, and Downfall.� (Downfall was the band that formed out of the ashes of Operation Ivy, who later morphed into Rancid.)
We took the Bad Religion show. The show sold out while we were playing our third song.
Of course, as this book illustrates, burnout among the volunteers is high, and Stewart eventually left. This was also the time that political correct behavior was at its most stifling. I always wanted to do political punk, following in the footsteps of some of my favorite bands like Dead Kennedys, Crass, and the Subhumans. But most of the members liked the retard rock of the 80s with bands like Angry Samoans, Descendents, and the Ramones.
Not that there is anything wrong with those bands, all of which I also love, but for those who know the lyrics of these groups, you know there is a bit of misogyny with their lyrics. We compromised, doing half of the songs about girls, beer and friends, and half with lyrics I wrote about organized religion, elitism, and the military.
But I also didn�t have control over what our singer did � I sure as hell couldn�t understand what he was saying when tucked behind a shitload of drums and cymbals. It took two years before I realized that he had changed a song I had written about tough guys with gang mentalities and oedipal complexes, a song I had titled �If you don�t me to fuck your mother, keep her off the street� into a song about, well... fucking your mother.
Like I said, the PC movement was reaching an all-time high. Some of the new volunteers started to protest about some of our songs. Shows became harder to get, and we broke up after getting back from a tour that involved our bass player sneaking away in the middle of the night in Arizona to go home, and a fist fight between myself and the guitar player from the band that accompanied us.
Meanwhile, as this book details, Gilman was having its own problems. Pyramid Brewery wanted to open one of their bar/restaurant chains, directly across the street. Visions of drunken fratboys deciding to rush the club to beat up the freaks were on everyone�s mind.
As it turned out, the only problem from the bar is that I forget to go back to the show, such as what happened when I was there to see All You Can Eat back in January.
In the mean time (I told you to get a snack), I started a new band with some friends. We were all sick of how stifling the PC craze had become, as people seemed too eager to dismiss somebody as guilty of some sort of �ism� without actually using any analytical skills. We were discussing these problems at the same time as we were trying to figure out what to call ourselves. Our guitarist started giggling wildly.
�We should call ourselves, Idiot Bitch,� he said. �That way nobody will let us play.�
We looked at him in disbelief for a moment, and then the bass player started nodding in agreement. �Yeah,� she said, �And when Gilman tries to say that we can�t play because they don�t book racist, sexist or homophobic bands, you can say, �well, let me put our Hispanic, bisexual, female bass player on the line!��
Oh, this would be perfect.
We drew up a little mascot � a dog wearing a dunce cap with six nipples showing, the literal translation of the term Idiot Bitch. We put in a statement with the lyric sheet for our first record, saying that yes, the term has a visceral reaction that may make others angry or dismiss us out of hand. That�s the point. If you automatically dismiss something, who really is being closed-minded?
We sent a record to Gilman for consideration for booking, including a two-page letter making our points. We didn�t hear back from them. After a few months, I finally got a booker on the phone. I asked if they got our record and letter.
He thought about it for a moment, and then said, yes, they received the record, and it had immediately gone into the trash.
�Did you read the letter? Or any of the lyrics? Or listen to the music?� I asked.
�Nope, we just saw your name and knew we wouldn�t book you.�
What followed was a three-hour debate over semantics and the idea that if you don�t know the other side of the argument, you don�t know your own. The conversation lasted so long that the booker instructed me to call the next evening so we could continue the debate.
�Ready for round two?� I asked him when I called back.
�Actually, no. I got home and looked at my record collection, and realized that my favorite band is the Muscle Bitches. So, you want to play with Propagandhi on the seventh?�
�What, are you serious?� Propagandhi had boomed into one of the hottest bands around. They were also one of the most PC bands and made no bones about it, getting directly in the faces of those they disagreed with. �Of course we want to play that show!� I said. �And hey, listen, if you want to just put �I.B.� as the band, I�m against it, but I�ll understand.�
�Oh no, I thought about what you said, and you were right. The name goes as stated.�
Excellent.
Not so excellent, however, was the night of the show. When we arrived, the booker said that serious fights had erupted over us playing, and several people were trying to get us booted off the bill, based on name alone.
�You tried to explain what we talked about?�
�Yep. And you know what? The philosophy behind your name is spot-on accurate.�
At first they said we weren�t going to be allowed to play. After arguing how we had traveled six hours from a show the night before, they said we could play for ten minutes, no longer. I heard a group of people saying they planned to stand in the middle and turn their backs to us while we played.
It got closer to showtime, and we argued with at least six other people about our moniker. Some people actually screamed at us, refusing to let us get a word in edgewise, eventually storming away. As we were just about ready to start, one girl marched up to the front of the stage and waved me over.
She glared at us evenly. �Two of the bands canceled,� she said. �Play as long as you fucking want.�
We played our full set, and we were fucking great. I had the recording from that night and the place fucking exploded whenever we finished a song. Best of all, however, was when we finished and I went to our merchandise table, all the people who were hassling us previously ran up to buy albums and shirts.
At the end of the book, they have listed the show dates and bands who played for every show in the club�s 18 year history. I found the date for that Propagandhi show � our name wasn�t there.
Bitches.
Final note: To try and give an idea of how the club handles money, tickets and paperwork, they included one ledger. As it happens, the month they picked was for the time that PTL played our first show there.
It�s the lowest number of people and money taken in for the entire month.
If you made it this far, you deserve a record. Let me know where to send it.
