Punk Ro,ck in the City· Plus A 26 Page Fall Fashion Feature
Garden Party: D.O.A.
New Wave M.usic: Back to Basics
andy Rampage is sipping from
.
R a mickey of rye on the lawn
outside the Sports Beat Inn,
blonde brush-cut arranged to
appear meticulously unat-
tended, his ensemble tarnished black
leather motorcycle jacket, torn T-shirt
and oily dungarees. Rampage is a punk
rocker; he plays bass with D.O.A. (Dead
On Arrival), Vancouver's premier punk-
rock band. But the punk rock business
here is not a lucrative one. Tonight, there
is a gong show at the Sports Beat Inn; top
prize is two hundred dollars and D.O.A.
needs it. Joey Shithead (not his real
name), lead vocalist and front-man for the
group, allows that he is worried about get-
ting the band onstage. The problem is that
By Les Wiseman
drummer, Hungry Chuck Biscuits
(likewise not his real name), is only fif-
teen, not yet legally old enough to enter a
public drinking establishment.
Joey, at 22 the oldest member of the
group, has been part of Vancouver's mus-
ical scene longer than the others and
knows something about musical sub-
tleties and performing stratagems. "We're
gonna play so f***ing loud that they won't
be able to gong us," he says, grinning at
Chuck. Chuck just sniffles and looks anx-
ious. To dispel their worries, they drink
and talk about the music business, about
how their E.P. (Extended Play record) is
being distributed at a loss. The record
contains four selections - Disco Sucks,
Nazi Training Camp, Royal Police and
band members and
musicians from other
ever-changing punk
bands show their lighter
side in the Burnaby
backyard ofD.O.A.
lead singer Joey
Shithead (second from
left).
Woke Up Screaming - and cost two dol-
lars apiece to make, yet D.O.A. is selling
it to retailers for anywhere from $1.50 to
$1.69 for the retailer to mark up to bet-
ween $2 and $2.98. They think that maybe
120have been sold from their production
of 500. Rampage announces that he
coerced his mother into buying six copies.
Chuck Biscuits is allowed into the bar,
and the management tells the boys that
they may play only one number. The band
huddles and decides that it will play two
songs without any break between. While
two young long-haired chanteuses merrily
sing California Dreamin' arid a bouncy
overweight businessman jigs through the
paces of Tie A Yellow Ribbon' Round The
Old Oak Tree, D.O.A. debates whether to
 -= ,'0 ongs off the/E.P. or to go with
=- '* ed Up Baby and My Old Man's A
Sports Beat Inn's clientele looks
_ _~g and healthy, with evidence of
:; =~ .' of pocket-money. Joey, inordi-
pale for mid-summer, spiky punk
bing out every which way, looks
y out of place, a buoy of degener-
a sea of suntans, blow-dried hair
a shell necklaces. Bar drinks are
fhis range, but he can taste the beer
--,,' - e S200 first prize will buy.
movement while a couple of jocks in the
crowd throw crushed cigarette packs and
other effluvium at those on the dance
floor. Young women at a table huddle to-
gether and hold their noses, and one
junior Cheryl Tiegs makes motions about
the acne surrounding Rampage's mouth
before collapsing in inaudible spasms of
laughter. The music kicks on, and an as-
tute fellow in an Adidas T-shirt asks his
girlfriend if she thinks that D.O.A. is do-
ing this for a joke. She shrugs and turns
back to her banana daiquiri
Lukewarm applause greets the end of
the set as the anonymous celebrity judges
take up magic-markers and jot down their
ratings: an eight, another eight and a ten.
Twenty-six points for D.O.A. Another act
has already done better, so the $200 is out,
but there is still a chance at the $50 or $25
second and third prizes.
First prize is bagged by the last act of
the evening, a punk-rock band called The
Spikes. Noone has ever heard ofthem be-
fore. They seem to have been formed in
order to win the prize money. "I'm glad
they won," says Joey. "They beat us at
our own game. I'm happy they won."
Joey is less pleased, though, as a folk
singer and an ersatz Tony Orlando receive
the smaller awards. His girlfriend looks
sad; she has been nursing the same drink
all evening. There will be no party tonight.
Joey puts out his last two dollars for a bot-
tle of cider, but seems unable to drink it.
Sweaty and quiet, the band packs up its
instruments and heads to the parking lot
only to find that Rampage's car has been
towed away. Inside the Sports Beat, the
house band, a mainstream commercial
rock group, has the dance-floor packed
with smiling, well-groomed hopes for
Canada's future.
Top: Rabid band members await arrival
of drummer Zippy Pinhead as punk fans
dance or enjoy an obligatory tussle on the
floor. D.O.A. musicians Brad Kent and
,Randy Rampage flank Sub-humans' lead
singer Wimpy, center, while local punk
rocker emeritus Joey Shithead belts out
Woke Up Screaming at left. Punk's distaff
side is represented by Deedee and the
Dishrags, farleft. Fans, right, mug for the
camera outside the Quadra Club on
Homer.
 the
n recent decade of creating, us-

Lamb's Navy Rum.

I ing and passing on to the "next big
thing" in music, our ·consumer ·soci-
ety has given witness to psychedelia,
heavy metal, glitter, Sonny and
Cher, disco, etc. Now, in the waning
Seventies, it has tripped over the mangy,
unwashed, foul-mouthed body of punk-
When you mix it, rock. Beginning late in 1975, the appeila-
tion "punk" came to be applied to a new
you don't lose it. form of rock and roll music emerging from
the streets of London, England. Marked
Lamb's full distinctive by a renewed interest in simplicity of mus-
ical format and lyrical composition, punk
flavour comes smoothly had its roots in the working-class youths
through your mixer. who, due to Britain's faltering economy,
In fact, Lamb's unique aimlessly cluttered the streets unable to
find jobs. To counter the always stylish
quality has made it known British middle-class, new styles of dress,
round the world for more hair and behavior were created and
adopted. Punk became the antithesis of
than 100years. the Sixties' peace and love ideals. Op-
timism gave way to nihilism, concern to
apathy, long hair to unwashed spiky
brush-cuts, aristocratic cool to revolt.
From the torpor of the welfare life rose
a subculture whose disdain for the more
affluent became so fixed that it could no
longer condone music from The Rolling
Stones, Rod Stewart and the various Bea-
tIes, etc. Those artists had lost sight of
their rebellious beginnings, according to
punk philosophy, and were becoming
rich, fat, middle-aged, complacent and
boring. In response, an angry punk van-
guard tore their clothes apart, stuck them
back together with safety-pins, cut their
hair in the style favored by guerilla sol-
diers, and formed a band called the Sex
Pistols. Front-page headlines followed
such sensationalist Pistol antics as vomit-
ing in airports, spitting at people and using
obscene language on television inter-
views, and these, plus their manic stage
performances, made the Pistols guiding
lights of the punk subculture. American
magazines, such as Creem and Rolling
Stone, by enthusiastically reporting the
stunts, created the first punk superstar:
Pistols' lead singer, Johnny Rotten. Sud-
denly, rock cognoscenti were sniggering
at the latest gossip about punk rock.
Meanwhile, aside from music magazine
readers, Vancouver slept quietly through
the birth of punk-rock. The commercial
airwaves remained unsullied.
Elsewhere it was different. Although
New York lacked the Dickensian class
system against which British punks were
revolting, it did have the unwashed poor,
the ghettoes and the hostilities of various
ethnic factions. Too, the Big Apple had
been the home of The Velvet Under-
ground, a band that many considered to
be the predecessor of punk before it
burned out in a blaze of white noise years
before the word punk had anything to do
with music. Within a month of the birth of
punk in London, New York caught the
fever, and punk bands erupted in pimply
profusion. Characteristically, New York
claimed to have invented the new musical
genre.
 Here in Vancouver, records by the
Ramones, the Damned, Talking Heads,
the Jam and Eddie and the Hot Rods
filtered into some esoteric record stores,
although one saw fit to erect a sign that
read: We regret to inform you that this
section is devoted to punk-rock! Slickly
commercial Boz Scaggs, the Eagles,
Fleetwood Mac, etc. continued to domi-
nate air play and album sales. Rock
music, that had preached revolution dur-
ing the Sixties, had become big business,
acceptable everywhere. "Mellow" was
the keyword of the times, and rock and
roll began to assume the predictability and
blandness of processed cheese. Even the
teenybopper market had surrendered to
the clean-cut, parentally-approved likes
of Shaun Cassidy and the Bay City Rol-
lers.
Punk music, meanwhile, was ex-
pected to stay in London and New York
where it belonged, where one could read
about it, wrinkle one's nose and turn the
page. But in early 1977,the oozing threat
spilled over into Vancouver in the form of
The Furies. Short-haired, dirty and
leather-jacketed, The Furies spewed the
vitriol of their music into audiences view-
ing art at Pump's Gallery and drinking
beer at the Blue Horizon on talent night.
They were alternately detested or merely
disliked by all but a handful. The more
outrageous and avant-garde students at
the Vancouver School of Art adopted
punk attire and formed the core of The
Furies' fans - and punk became intellec-
tualized.
A young man who was to become the
prime spokesman for the punk movement
also liked The Furies. Sickened by what
he calls "the sick, boring, decadent city of
Vancouver," and "the sick, boring, deca-
dent and wimpy state of music," Joey cut
his shoulder-length hair, assumed the
name Shithead, and with three other
kindred souls, formed The Skulls, a band
that, in turn, gave rise to Victorian Pork
when it needed a back-up act for one of its
performances. The Skulls went to Toron-
to, hated it, and broke up. Some of them
formed D.O.A., another went to The
Negatives, which group became The
Sub-humans, and so on. Punks argue a
lot.
Today, there are maybe thirty to forty
punk musicians in Vancouver. Audiences
have never reached commercial sizes,
and the punks do not make much money.
They produce their own dances in any av-
ailable snakepit they can afford. Their re-
cords are all independently produced and
distributed, profits being seldom if ever
realized. The actual music is, in general,
copied from London and New York.
Loud and basic, it sets people to acting
primitively. With no defined revolution to
be fought here, except against expensive
and boring forms of entertainment, local
punk rockers admit that the music will
never have the impact it did in London.
Yet they believe that basic rock and roll
can change things for the better. So they
play it.
uly I, Canada Day. All over
J Vancouver, special events
have been planned. For a week
or so, telephone poles and con-
struction fences have been or-
namented with stark black-and-white
Anarchy In Canada? posters announcing
a free, anarchist-sponsored punk rock
concert and Anti-Canada Day celebration
to be held at Lumberman's Arch at one
o'Clock in the afternoon. Arriving fans
gather that something is wrong, though:
the crowd is full of matching Bermuda-
shorts outfits; tourists are snapping
photos of the trees and each other; and, up
on the brightly garlanded stage, children
are performing ethnic dances. Amidst the
crowd, an occasional fan in punk regalia
can be seen nervously dodging baby strol-
lers.
The word soon circulates that the loca-
tion has been changed to Prospect Point.
Punks and joggers hurry side-by-side
along the seawall.
Prospect Point is a place of contrasts
on this sunny holiday afternoon. At one
end of the field, the Vancouver First
Christian Reformed Church is enjoying a
picnic and a softball game. At the other
end, the scene appears to have fallen from
the pages of Petronius' Satyricon. On a
parked flatbed truck which is to serve as
the stage, Chuck Biscuits is trying, unsuc-
cessfully, to wheedle a drink out of Randy
Rampage's large bottle of white wine. At
their feet, sitting on the grass, a deathly
pale, chromium-haired vampire woman in
a black satin, slashed-to-the navel blouse
pokes a cigarette into her ruby red lips.
She chats with a young lady whose
henna-red hair is cut in the macho-punk
style and whose face is adorned with a
purposefully tacky pair of cheap plastic
sunglasses. One couple pairs an abso-
lutely normal-looking young woman with
a cadaverous boyfriend who has pierced
his brand-new $200 leather jacket with
safety pins to form a swastika.
One figure stands out, eclipsing all this
youthfully exuberant decadence and cos-
tuming. He sits, all 250 pounds of him,
immobile, staring straight ahead, his long,
dirty brown hair falling over the shoulders
of his lumberjack shirt. One eye is co-
vered with a black leather patch while
hanging through his nose is an immense
brass ring the diameter of a pencil. He
looks like a human gargoyle door-
knocker. No one sits very near to him. VILAS
Then the anachronistic clatter of
hooves against the beat of large motorcy- GALLERY
cle engines is heard. The constabulary has Complete Vilas Collections
arrived, causing diverse reactions in punk
ranks: audience members shout and act Be sure to visit our new bedroom store
particularly tough, but the members ofthe
bands seem polite and cooperative. The
police appear to believe that something is
wrong but cannot explain just what the
problem is. They call for someone with
more authority. Sergeant Foyle arrives in
an appropriate leisure suit, flashes his
badge and asks to speak to the leader of
this anarchist-sponsored gathering.
Punks, anarchists and Sergeant Foyle
discuss the matter calmly and coopera-
tively with a great show of diplomacy, and
it is learned that the punks and anarchists
have no Park Board permit for their plan-
ned event. Sergeant Foyle will not ,i'fI
confirm the spreading rumor that the First ~ p~
Christian Reformed Church picnickers
have phoned in a complaint, but he allows
that that may have been the case.
~.
~
f.:. Records are ff
A few members of the crowd are start-
ing to get restless. "What are you talking
S like a fine wine... ~
to those assholes for? What happened to ~ If they aren't ;;
the anarchist spirit? Go ahead without the ~ pressed properly, ~
bloody permit!" But no one wants any
trouble. If the sound truck gets towed t~ they'll sound sour. ~;
away, the anarchists lose a lot of money. ~ ~
If the police decide to get nasty, nobody ~
~~ ~
~'
The energy-saving fireplace
gets to hear the music. A compromise is ~~ Come to a gourmet ~~
that draws air
reached: the bands will be allowed to play
directly from the outside ~ record store and enjoy ~
at six o'clock when the church group has ~ an amazing array of i¥
finished with the park. Until then, how- and into your home
ever, the flatbed must be removed. as warm fresh air. ~ vinyl delicacies. .~
Everyone agrees without argument, and
one is struck with the realization that the
1:.. Stereo at its finest. ~;
SHAW ~ ~
punk rockers are first and foremost musi-
cians who want their music to be heard.
Being tough and punky means nothing FIREPLACES ~
~ Quintessence Records. ~
*
when separated from the music.
D.O.A. and entourage retire to the ivy f~ ..~_ _j
covered sanctuary of the Sylvia Hotel ~~'l5iQL:P,~~
 Lounge. At six, some 150observers have
gathered at Prospect Point. The human
door-knocker has not moved. All about
him, though, the crowd has livened up,
having had a couple of hours in which to
alter its states of consciousness. The con-
versation is mainly various distorted ve'r-
sions ofthe earlier run-in with Authority.
A constant game of punk one-
upmanship goes on. The girl in the Garbo
hat and the safety pin through her cheek
explains to the gay fellow with fluorescent
orange and silver hair that Wimpy, for-
merly of the Bloated Cows, is now singing
for the newly reformed Sub-humans,
who, when they were called The Nega-
tives, featured Dimwit from the Skulls on
drums and Jerry Useless on bass. Conjec-
ture is rife as to whether Joey will urinate
into the crowd as he has done on previous
occasions. This is also D.O.A.'s first ap-
pearance with their new guitarist Brad
Kent (who has predictably changed his
surname slightly), formerly of Victorian
Pork, and the fans wonder how he will fit
in. They also wonder what Joey will do
with both hands free.
While the equipment is being set up,
Joey holds court with various media
types. He puts on his World War II army
helmet embossed with the slogan "Ra-
cism Sucks" , and sticks a cigarette up his
right nostril. He is the spokesman for the
whole Vancouver punk movement. When
asked why he is the only figure to emerge
as a leader, he replies that every move-
ment needs a leader, and he is that leader
quite simply because he is the best.
As D.O.A. starts off the evening's en-
tertainment with Waiting to Drink Your
Wretched Blood, it becomes obvious that
sound quality is going to be ignored in
favor of volume. The band is overdriving
its amps and the P.A. (Public Address sys-
tem), and the music takes on the tone of an
abused 40-year-old 78 r.p.m. record.
Punk fans are not the most discerning au-
diences in the world, though, and they be-
gin to leap into the air, heads shaking, hips
gyrating. The lyrics are incomprehensi-
· Someone told her you may put off ble, and Joey's voice is a gruff auditory
blur. Freed from the confinement of play-

coming to the Orient foranotfieryeac ing guitar, Joey spits at the audience and
picks his nose. He throws off his army
helmet, revealing a grey Beatie wig, and
"Maybe next year we'll go to the Orient." r - - - - - - - - - - -,-- - - - - - - - - . puts the whole microphone in his mouth,
How many years has it been since you first I simultaneously bellowing as loudly as
said that? I
I
We never forget possible. Behind him, the band churns out
And every year since, it's been the same I how important you are. pure pandemonium at maximum volume.
old story. Next year, never this year. I
JAPAN AIR LINES
Kyoto's Golden Pavilionwillstill be' there I Mysteriously, Joey's pants seem to be fal-
next year, of course. Hong Kong's harbour I 777 Hornby Street, ling open to a near obscene degree, reveal-
will still swarm with sampans, and the sun I !'~) Vancouver, B.C. V6Z 154 ing a Beluga-like expanse of white belly.
I \~:;i A fan throws a T-shirt onstage, the shirt
willstillrise over Bangkok's gilded temples. I
Butthere's an old Japanese proverb which I Please send me information on JAL.:s Orient Tours. has the slogan Destroy written across it
says, "The day you decide to do a thing is II Name _ above a swastika. Joey flicks his Bic and
the best day to do it." the shirt bursts into flame. The band ap-
I
This year, before you decide to wait until I Address _ proaches its climax, and, in a mock fit,
next year, ask your travelagent about JAL:s Joey stumbles backward to land on his
: City Prov. _
HappiHolidaystours,or send us this coupon. back where he flails his arms and legs in
For every good reason you have to wait II Postal Code Tel. No. _
till next year,we'lloffer a thousand glorious frenzied excitement.
reasons to board the next plane. I My travel agent is _ When the band has finished, the
anarchists take over the stage and set ab-
out burning the Canadian flag, the black
Anarchist flag and what is thought to be a
Canadian Constitution. The audience re-
turns to sipping wine and rolling joints,
and generally ignores the speeches issuing
from the flatbed stage ... until they start
burning money. Burning money! Aghast,
the punk devotees watch as the anarchists
ask for money to burn, and are even more
aghast when they get it. Twenties, tens,
fives and ones are thrown up on stage and
ignited before the hungry eyes of the
crowd. Rampage and Joey look at each
other in disbelief. "This is stupid," gasps
Joey as he makes an unsuccessful grope
for a fiver.
"Give the money to the bands," shout
several audience members, to no avail.
The anarchists, after all, have their point
to make.
A band called Private School follows
the anarchists, much to the relief of those
who refused to believe their eyes as cash
literally went up in smoke. Private
School, too, assaults the audience with a
belch of electric noise, yet the musicians
seem upset about it. Completely lacking
in the aggression and riveting stage pre-
sence of D.O. A., they complain that they
cannot hear themselves because of mal-
functioning monitors. The long-haired fel-
low in the Boogie 'Til Ya Puke T-shirt is
the first to leave, and, as Private School
continues to play, half of the audience fol-
lows his lead. There is nothing worse than
an unpunky punk band.
Two other bands follow. First, there is
The Sub-humans: Jerry Useless, Dimwit,
Mike Normal and Wimpy. Wimpy grew
up with Joey and has his knowledge of
how to hold an audience's attention. For
instance, at the climax of the act, Wimpy
pulls down his pants, points his posterior
at the audience and spreads his cheeks.
Boz Scaggs he isn't.
The crowd has thinned considerably
but the Sub-humans, the only band with
enough sense not to overdrive the P.A.,
inject a bit of adrenalin into those who re-
main. Bottles of Rush and Locker Room,
two commercially available inhalables
with an effect similar to amyl nitrate, pass
under adolescent nostrils, effectively
simulating heart seizures.
Sergeant Nick Penis is next. This band
consists of all the members of D.O.A.
playing different instruments, with the
exception of Joey who stays in the crowd
eyeing his fellows nervously. The band is
Brown Cow
ripping the fabric of the air when a Kahlua and Milk
mounted Vancouver city policeman
comes on the scene. The generator dies.
The evening is over. Wimpy organizes the Kahlua.
punks into garbage detail, and the field is
cleared of debris.

ndy Warhol once said that

The International Uqueut
A everyone should be famous
for fifteen minutes, and
there are those who believe
that punk rock did only last
about that long. Others claim that punk
never existed at all in any appreciable
sense. And then there are those who feel

reatscotch
sathingof
he past ...
and Pinch is proud of its past,
because Haig of Scotland, the
oldest name in Scotch, has
devoted centuries to perfecting
its great flavour and aroma.
Each fine 12-year-old whisky
destined to be blended in today's
Pinch has a notable past.
Pinch-its past assures
its future. And makes
it a great present!
that punk is breaking new ground and will
achieve acceptance and integration when
the shock value wears off. Fans who
heralded punk as the "next big thing", and
critics who wrote paeans to the revitaliza-
tion of rock and roll music have now pro-
nounced punk dead, as dead as glitter, as
dead as psychedelia, as dead as a door-
nail. Meanwhile, in London, prestigious
clubs such as the Marquee have changed
their decor to punk and pack in kids with
safety pins through their faces.
Bruce Allen, Vancouver's most suc-
cessful talent promoter and rock
businessman (responsible for B.T.G. and
Trooper), says bluntly that" Punk is
dead." He cites the fact that, while many
of the major record companies formed
special "punk" divisions when the style
seemed to hold commercial promise, they
are being abandoned today. According to
Allen, the music lacks originality as well.
"It's recycled early fifties music with bet-
ter amplifiers," is his assessment. Allen
cites the amount of hype given to some
punk acts and the relatively low level of
commercial success achieved.
Directly concerned with the commer-
cial potential of punk is Quintessence Re-
cord store, the most comprehensive retail
dealer of punk records in the city, where
Ron Sizer counters Bruce Allen with the
claim that punk has undergone an
evolutionary process. Those bands with-
out real talent have fallen by the wayside,
says Sizer, while those able to make fresh
and vital music are gaining respect. These
bands are breaking away from the label
"punk" and are being called "new wave"
(now there is a less brash form of new
wave known as "power pop"), and their
album sales are climbing steadily with no
end in sight. The negative reaction to new
wave music, says Sizer, comes from the
desire of over-thirties for "laid-back", re-
laxing music. "New wave is not relaxing
music. You can't be relaxed all the time.
People who put down the new wave seem
to have forgotten their roots. It's rock and
roll, and it's becoming more refined. It's
also being accepted by more and more
people, and is being absorbed into the
mainstream of music."
Joey Shithead, meanwhile, is sitting at
his kitchen table, folding record covers
and sealing records in bags. Some will go
to Los Angeles where Disco Sucks is get-
ting some play on new wave stations. Joey
will take the records down in a car and
pound the pavement personally distribut-
ing the E.P. to any interested record
shops. There is no doubt, he says, that
D.G.A. will be a headlining act in a year.
Almost inaudibly, he adds something ab-
out getting a job when he returns from
L.A.
Then he folds another paper cover,
drops in the seven-inch record and seals
the clear plastic bag around the record
that cost $2 to make and which he will sell
for$I.50. •