NYE 1983 - The Dead Kennedys

The show was  in N. Hollywood.  I was 20 years-old and didn't have a car, so I rode up from Newport with my neighbors Jeff and Lisa.  My friend Rodney came as well. ( I haven't seen any of these folks in more than 20 years, and can't believe I even remember their names).  The  Starlite Ballroom on Lankershim seemed more like a dungeon than concert venue.  The ceiling was only about 8 feet high and the place was packed...and hot.  It was only my second or third punk show, so I was unsure of the whole experience, and maybe even a bit intimidated by the rowdy crowd.  And I was hot.  By the time the Butthole Surfers took the stage, people were jumping up and punching out the fire sprinklers - breaking them so they would release water.  Every time one broke the crowd would push and squeeze toward the fountain of cooling water.  We were all that hot and sweaty.

I should also mention that the ceiling obscured part of the stage, and the performers, if standing, were cut off at the torso.  Gibby Haines of the BH Surfers, came out in with shaving cream all over his head and clothespins attached to his natty hair.  He was a nut.  At the time I was listening to Another Man's Sack and tracks like "The Shah Sleeps in Lee Harvey's Grave,"  but I wasn't prepared for the Butthole's aural onslaught - two drummers  pounding out tribal rhythms,  with layers of distorted guitar, and Gibby's delirious vocals.  It was like being in a drum circle at an asylum.  An asylum were all the inhabitants were art-affected schizoid slam dancers.  For some reason I lost my friends in the crowd, and was alone, bouncing around in the wild scene.

When the Dead Kennedys came on, the level of chaos increased.  Jello bent down under the low ceiling and incited the crowd.  It was 1984.  Every punk's symbol of totalitarian rule.  This was an overarching theme in the DK's music, and they were playing it for all it was worth -  The stage turned into a melee zone, and there were, at times, so many people rushing the stage, I couldn't see the band.  Jello was dog piled by the rowdy crowd.  At times the only evidence of his presence on stage was his mic chord, extending out from a pile of punks.  Somehow he kept singing.  It seemed he kept singing while crushed under the weight of thirty bodies.  It was a sight to behold.  I doubt there are many performers who could survive in those conditions - Jello survived and he seemed to relish it.

This is all I remember from the show.  I went into the show a bit uneasy, and nervous.  I'm not sure if my feelings were justified, but I was unsure about a lot of things those days.  I was entering an entirely new social realm - a fairly chaotic one.  Some of the uneasiness went away when I smoked pot with strangers in the crowd.  For a while I though everything would be groovy, and that the rumors about the rowdy LA Punk scene were just that.  But when the music started, things changed.   The easy-going camaraderie turned to frenzied chaos. - people flew and pushed and collided - and it was nonstop, and hot, and sweaty, and completely out of control.  I wasn't just a witness, I was right in the fray, which made me more uneasy - uneasy, unsure and stoned!   But being in the fray meant there was nothing to do but adapt and, eventually, I bounced and collided, and flew without control.   There was no other choice; I was forced to assimilate. By the end of the show,  I was sweaty and exhausted, overwhelmed but not uneasy.   It was so long ago, nearly thirty years, but some of the images remain.